maybe u shouldn’t write if u genuinely think there’s no harm to using ai every so often 😀 if everybody in the world holds that mindset then it still adds up negatively. i really liked ur works but once i saw ur ai stance i had to take a step back. there are so many other tools you could use.
i respect your choice to step back and i wish you the best. however, i think a lot of people misunderstand my stance on AI, which changes as more information comes out on the technology and its effects. generative AI models, like chatGPT and deepseek are harmful for the environment and use up our water. i had completely cut my use of both applications or any other applications that have a harmful effect. large ai models are having a wide scale harmful effect - which is why i no longer use them. and i never used them in my writing in the first place.
the suggestion that i "shouldn't write" because i supposedly think there's "no harm" in using ai every so often is a little bit silly to me. firstly, no one gets to make the decision on whether i write or not. to think you have that authority is genuinely ridiculous. thanks for the suggestion but i don't think i'll take it 😭.
secondly, my opinion, like anyone else's on the planet, adjusts as i learn more about something. i don't use chatGPT to generate ANY of my work and i never have. i've never used ANY form of generative AI to do this. in the past, i have used grammarly pro (which gives suggestions on your writing) and other grammar software to smooth out my work or help me settle into my flow. at this point, because i have been unsure, instead, i have a trusted friend peer review my work.
like i said, i respect your choice to step back. completely and wholly. do as you wish. but i'd rather you did so with a full understanding than taking something i said months ago and running with it. human beings adapt and change as time goes on - namely in their opinions. my opinion has developed and changed.
i agree that everybody with the mindset in question can accumulate a negative effect. we see that everywhere, not just in the AI conversation, but in even more environmental issues, in political issues, and in healthcare issues. i encourage us all to make changes based on what we think is right. i also agree that the use of generative AI is harmful. i think that nobody should be using generative AI to form ideas that their brain is perfectly capable of forming itself. i don't owe anybody anything for my own mistakes - but you misunderstand my mistakes. mostly because they're not yours.
to finish, i just want to say that its extremely negative to tell someone to stop doing something they like because you don't agree with something they said. in the future, i'd recommend you actually ask that person to have a conversation with you about their opinion. if you had done that, if you had ASKED me if anything had changed or if i was open to a conversation that could change my mind, we both would've benefitted. instead, you chose to tell me that maybe i shouldn't continue my hobbies because of something i said months ago, which no longer even applies to how i do things 😃. very negative mindset and kind of rude, if you ask me.
anywho, i hope this post clears things up for anyone else that feels the same way.
thank you SO much to everyone who has encouraged me!! i plan to have some more pieces out for you guys in the future :)
i just wanted to tell you how much i love your writing, i’ve discovered you today and i wont lie and say i havent read everything stranger things fic you have wrote and cried at each and every single one.
you are so talented and im so glad that we get to experience your work and expression throughout your writing. i may have only found your page today but holy moly me oh my does it mean a lot and i can tell you know that i will probably be rereading these stories for a long time.
you may not see this but i just wanted to say thank you <3
lots of love xx
i actually love you. you are so sweet and encouraging 🩷 i appreciate that so much.
pairing: steve harrington x reader
summary: steve takes some random girl to prom. billy hargrove takes steve's ex to prom. billy's an ass. steve just can't let this opportunity go.
themes & warnings: civil exes, tension, things get SPICY (slight nsfw), fluff, reconnection
Steve smiled through all the pictures. There probably wasn't a picture on the planet that Steve wasn't smiling in. But still. In his prom photos with Tricia L., he was smiling like he was the happiest man that had ever attended a prom.
In reality, he would've rather taken a ragdoll to prom. A ragdoll talks less. Tricia L never stopped to take a breath.
He couldn't complain. He'd chosen to take her. She was pretty, in a position of medium popularity, and his parents knew hers. He needed a prom date because last year's was you, and you, unfortunately, due to Steve's ignorance, were not an option this year. He needed a body to go to prom with. And Tricia L seemed to be the best option.
Tricia L was currently yapping in his front seat about how many Chia Pets she had. And he was over-analyzing why he'd chosen to take her in the first place.
He didn't even look good in red. She'd refused to wear any other color. He missed junior prom. You'd chosen to wear royal blue, and included Steve in that decision.
He remembered it so well, as if it was burned into the back of his eyelids.
He'd shown up at your front door to see you in the deep ocean-blue dress, and he'd actually forgotten how to speak for a solid five seconds. You laughed at him, your easy, unguarded laugh that he spent so much time earning, and told him to 'close his mouth, he'd catch flies.' He hadn't closed it. He stood there, stupid and smitten, while you smoothed his jacket down.
You danced with him all night. You let him hold you close and pressed your cheek against him, arms draped around his neck. Your eyes, soft and wondering.
He'd been too young and stupid to see it for what it was.
Now, a year later, he was pulling up to the prom in his BMW with Tricia. Tricia L, in her aggressively red dress and long fake nails. Who was, by the way, still talking about her Chia Pet collection. Steve fought the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose.
"The shepherd one is my favorite! But the terrier sheds everywhere, its such a mess, and-"
Steve nodded along, making appropriately timed noises of acknowledgement, but his attention had already left the conversation and settled onto something much more interesting.
You.
You, of course, looked jaw-droppingly good. An emerald green gown clung to your sides, the V-neck at the top exposing just the right amount of skin. You wore a bejeweled necklace, traveling down between your breasts and elegantly twinkling. You wore heels - black ones that wrapped around your ankle. Steve could see them through the slit that exposed your right leg, long and smooth to the touch, he'd bet. Your hair was in a half-up, half-down style, impeccably curled. You barely needed makeup, but your lashes were done, and you had a light swipe of lip gloss.
Steve's mouth quite literally dried up like the Sahara.
He'd seen you dressed up before. But this? This was something else entirely. He wasn't sure if something had changed or if it just made you that much prettier that you weren't his anymore.
You shifted your weight, laughing at something your friend said, and Steve wanted to cry. You looked so fucking good.
"And then, get this, my mom said I couldn't keep it in the house, so it lives in the garage now! Can you believe that?"
Steve's eyes, though it was painful, snapped away from you. Tricia was still in his passenger seat. Still wearing that red dress that looked like a fire truck next to a forest fire.
"Yeah," he nodded, fighting an eye roll. "That's insane."
He couldn't look away from you. He didn't even want to.
However, when your date sauntered over, it ruined the entire fantasy. He'd known you would be bringing one. You never would've gone without one, just because the pictures wouldn't have been complete. But he didn't expect Billy Hargrove to be the one at your side.
Something twisted in Steve's gut so hard he almost gagged.
He wore a stupid leather jacket, even though it was May and the temperatures were warming up. His stupid smirk, his stupid blonde hair, his stupid swagger with the ridiculous sunglasses on his stupid head. He leaned down and murmured something in your ear, lips close to your skin, fingers splayed against your dress to pose for a photo your friends were taking.
You stood tall, but your smile was artificial. You just wanted your last prom to be memorable.
"If the garage is good enough for the Cruiser, it's good enough for a Chia Pet. Right?"
Steve blinked.
"Right," he said automatically, perking up falsely. "Totally."
He quickly got out, going around to Tricia's side to escort her out of his BMW.
The gym was familiarly prom-ish. Streamers lined in the school colors, a disco ball scattering light across the floor, a punch bowl with very bright liquid in it (and probably vodka), and a DJ playing the appropriate mix of songs. Steve went through the motions, posing for photos, brought his date punch, danced for one dance that felt like 30 minutes.
All while you did the same with Billy. He wanted to throw up.
Billy spun you around on the dance floor, clearly enjoying the group of eyes on him. He was a talented dancer for someone so gruff and unenthusiastic. He dipped you, hand on your waist, scanning the room like he owned it. He smiled that stupidly cocky smile in all of the photos. But in time, the fun was over.
Steve watched from behind Tricia's shoulder as they slow-danced. Your date was now across the gym, talking to one of the redheads on the cheerleading squad. You sat at a table, watching your friends dance with the boys they'd been dreaming of going to prom with, an excited smile on your face for their happiness. But you hadn't truly found yours. You didn't mind, though. Billy Hargrove had asked you, and you said yes, but you knew how the night would end. You just did it for the photos.
Tricia was saying something about the punch, but Steve was hardly listening. He was watching you sit alone, beautiful and isolated, and he wanted to cross the gym and talk to you so bad his teeth were grinding.
"I think there's alcohol in it, because Karen is already in the bathroom crying, and- Steve? Are you even listening to me?"
He dragged his gaze back to her face. "Sorry, what?"
Tricia followed his line of sight to you, then back to him. Surprisingly, she wasn't angry. In fact, her face flickered into something teasing.
"You've got it bad, Harrington."
Steve stuttered, his fingers twitching against the fabric of her frilly red dress.
"What? I-I don't-"
Tricia tsked, rolling her eyes.
"Steve. Everyone in the town of Hawkins knows who's got you all wrapped up."
Steve's mouth opened and closed like a fish dying for water. The King, reduced to a stammering mess.
"I'm serious," he finally got out. "We're just old friends!"
Tricia's eyebrow arched so high it nearly disappeared beneath her bangs. "Old friends." She repeated the words like they were a punchline. "You've been gone for this girl since you met her and like I said, everyone knows. Besides her."
Steve stared at her, eyes wide and mouth speechless.
She snorted. "I'm not mad. I knew what I was signing up for. I just thought you'd fake it well enough to get through the night," she gestured to his face. "But you've done a super shitty job. Now go."
Steve blinked, still processing. "Go?"
"Go!" She made shooing motions with her hands, long nails clacking. "Go get her before Billy Hargrove actually remembers he brought a date and goes back for some elaborate scene from Dirty Dancing. She deserves better than a dog."
"But-"
"Steve. I've been eyeing someone else at this prom anyway." She admits, jerking her head towards one of the football players. "More of a football girl. Not basketball. Now go."
Steve looked at the guy in question - tall and laughing with his friends near the punch bowl. He caught Tricia looking and immediately straightened up, running a hand through his messy hair.
"Mark," she added, a smirk on her lips. "He's been making eyes at me all night. Way better built than you, no offense."
"None taken." Steve blurted.
There was a little offense taken.
"Good. Now, seriously." She gave him a firm push. "Go. I've got this. You've got that. Game time."
Steve hesitated. "Tricia.. thank you. Really."
"Thank me by not fucking this up." She fixed him with a look. "If you do, I'll find you. And I'll talk about Chia Pets for hours. I know the history of the brand! My mom and I watched a documentary on VHS."
Steve grinned, already backing away. "Noted."
He turned and walked toward you, weaving through the crowd until he reached your table. His heart was pounding, palms sweating, and he felt like he was walking toward a battle in war.
You were at your table, watching your friends dance. You didn't look sad, luckily. Just bored. Before he could convince himself not to, he slid into the seat across from you, a humble smile on his lips.
You looked up, and in a split second, an unavoidable smile curled onto your lips. Even with how things had ended, you were fond of Steve. You'd always been sweet to him in passing, which is why he'd found it so hard to let you go.
"Steve. Hey."
"Hey," he responded, suddenly forgetting the rest of the English language.
You tilted your head, the smile still on your lips. "Where's your date? I thought you'd be dancing. You always liked it."
"Tricia is.. occupied." He gestured her direction, where she was now practically in Mark's lap, laughing at something he'd said. "Apparently, I've been replaced by someone with a 'better build.'" He said, the words still slightly offensive.
You laughed. A real laugh, the one that made his chest hurt.
"She works fast."
"Terrifyingly." He leaned forward, resting his suited arms on the table. "She also talks non-stop about Chia Pets. Watched a documentary. I'm not sure I want to know what else she's got."
Another laugh, warmer this time. "Wow. You really know how to pick them."
Your laugh faded into a softer noise, one of acknowledgement. You looked at Steve like you could really see him, which had always made his heart stutter in his chest. You looked as if you were trying to figure out if the boy who'd broken your heart last year was still in there somewhere, or if this was someone different.
"She's sweet," you offered, only because it seemed right. "Tricia. Very.. enthusiastic."
Steve snorted, giving you a grin. "That's definitely one word for it."
Silence settled between you again. Comfortable, though. Around you, the music shifted into something slower and couples filtered onto the floor.
Your eyes flickered over his shoulder, and Steve watched your expression turn amused. He didn't need to turn around to know what you were looking at. Or who.
"Billy's been gone a while," Steve said nonchalantly. Too nonchalant. The intention behind it wasn't hidden well.
You shrugged, indifferent. "Billy does what Billy wants. I knew that coming in."
"He's an asshole."
You laughed again, genuine and bright. "Yeah, I know."
"...Then why'd you say yes?"
You looked back at Billy again, but then your e/c eyes returned to Steve's face. Something filtered through your eyes. Vulnerability, maybe, which wasn't rare with you. You were the type that wore your emotions outward, never afraid to reflect how you felt.
"Because I didn't want to sit at home for senior prom," you admitted. "Everyone else had someone to go with, and I didn't want to be the only one alone in the photos. Plus," you shrugged, "he asked. Not sure why it was me he asked, but I didn't think too much about it."
Steve laughed incredulously. Not sure why it was me he asked. As if you weren't the most drop-dead gorgeous person to walk into the gym tonight. As if Billy - as awful as he was - hadn't somehow stumbled onto the best possible girl in Hawkins to take to prom.
"You're kidding, right?" The words slipped, but Steve didn't regret it.
You blinked up at him. "Huh?"
Steve leaned forward, forearms still solid on the table, expression genuinely bewildered. "You're seriously sitting here telling me you don't know why Hargrove asked you?"
"I mean," you cleared your throat. "I guess I just assumed-"
"Assumed what? That he randomly picked you out of a hat at the douchebag convention one day?" Steve shook his head, chuckling still. "Come on. Look at yourself."
You glanced down, then back up at him, still not catching on.
"Steve, what are you talking about?"
He gestured at you - all of you, the complete picture. Your hair, your face, the dress. "This! You. You look-" He stopped himself, shaking his head, searching for the words. He was always at a loss for them around you. "You look like that. And you're wondering why someone would want you to be their date?"
You began to blush, Steve watching the color spread with satisfaction. Good. You should know. Someone should be telling you this shit.
"That's different."
"How?" He asked, genuinely thrown for a loop.
"Because!" You huffed, frustrated now. "You're my ex. You're required to say that. It's like, a rule or something."
"It's a rule that I have to say you're beautiful?"
"Yeah. Your ex is supposed to say nice things about you. It makes them look less at fault for whatever happened."
Steve rolled his eyes, exasperated. "I'm not trying to look like anything. I'm just being honest. You were wondering why Billy asked you. I'm telling you it's obvious why."
You held his gaze for a long moment, your eyes softening. Then, you asked. "Is that why you asked me? Last year?"
The question landed hard, like a punch to the gut.
Steve nodded weakly. "Yeah. Part of it." He refused to look away from your eyes, though, even when every instinct in his body told him to retreat. "You were the prettiest girl in our class. Still are. But that's not why I stayed. And it's not why I-" He cut himself off.
"What?"
It's not why I still think about you. Or kick myself when I think about last year. Or why no one else compares. Or why I've spent the last year watching every girl fall short.
"Why I'm glad Tricia ditched me for Mark Simpson," he finished instead, boyish smile tugging at his lips.
Heat spread across your cheeks again as you shook your head, the genuine, real smile curling onto your lips again.
"You're ridiculous."
"Yeah." Steve responded, shrugging. "But you don't mind."
You looked at him then. Really, really looked. There was something in your eyes that reminded him of prom last year. Fondness, attraction, maybe even love. Vulnerability. Softness. Hunger. He looked back. His throat wanted to close up, strangle him. But he forced himself to relax.
Then, you asked a question that tingled his spine, making a hot feeling travel down his back and through his chest.
"Wanna get out of here for a sec?"
Steve's brain failed him. For 3 or 4 seconds. He stared at you, mouth open a little bit, absolutely no thoughts behind his puppy dog eyes. Static. White noise. TV screen type shit.
Those words. Coming from you. While you looked at him like you wanted to eat him alive.
"Uh," he said, not smoothly. Not at all.
You giggled. "Is that a yes?"
"I-" He swallowed. "Yeah. Yes. Absolutely. Let's go." He stood up quickly, nearly knocking his long legs against the table. "Yeah. Get out of here for a second. Or longer. Whatever. My schedule's flexible."
You bit your lip, fighting amusement, and stood far more gracefully than Steve had managed.
He didn't think to ask where. He didn't give a shit. He just followed you without question, watching your dress swish around your legs, his throat dry. A lost puppy.
You didn't head for the doors. You walked toward the back of the gym, past the bleachers, to a dimly lit doorway Steve had never noticed before. Unmarked and tucked away in the corner.
"What's this?" He asked, watching you push it open.
"Band room," you said quietly over your shoulder. "Kinda. Storage room attached to the band room. My friend Leslie is in the marching band and showed me last year. We smoked a very adventurous cigarette in here." You snorted.
Steve followed you into the darkness.
The room was small, full of band gear, and stacks of folders. A single light was on, casting the room in dim, failing bulb light. It smelled like wood polish and book must, but Steve genuinely couldn't have cared less.
You turned to face him, and the size of the room seemed to reduce.
"So," you laughed breathlessly. "Hi."
Steve laughed a little. "Hi yourself."
"Not really sure what I'm doing," you admitted. "I just.. You look really good." Your voice was hushed.
Four super simple words that he'd heard a million times from a million girls. But coming from you? The most valuable words that had ever blessed his ears. Hard hitting and relentless.
"Yeah?" His voice came out rougher than he intended.
You nodded, not breaking away from his eyes. "Yeah. You always clean up well, but.." You trailed off, your gaze inspecting him. Fitted suit, loosened tie, hair that looked put together but still like an effortless mess. His smell too. Cologne and aftershave. "Tonight, you look like I want to make stupid decisions in band equipment rooms. And like I want to forgive you for everything you did and pretend it never happened."
His chest almost caved in. He wanted to reach down and pinch himself to make sure this wasn't a dream. The same dream he'd been having since last year.
"I'd never do it again," He rushed out, his hands coming towards you on autopilot, resting on your waist and feeling the warm skin beneath the satin green. "I was an idiot. Regretted it for-"
You shushed him, pushing yourself closer.
"'S fine. Don't care. You wanna fool around in a band equipment room or not?"
It was like you'd just asked if he wanted to go grab a slice of pizza after prom. Not like you'd just detonated a bomb inside of his chest. His brain officially flatlined.
You waited one second. Two. Three.
"Hello? Steve Harrington?"
He blinked. "I.. Yes. Fooling around. Absolutely." He nodded, too quickly probably.
Your grin turned wicked.
"Yeah?"
"One hundred percent. I'm so on board with this plan. Probably the best you've ever had."
"You're such an idiot."
"An idiot that might cream himself."
You laughed out loud. "Ridiculous!"
"Ridiculously into you." His rebuttal came quickly. Pun intended.
But it made you pause, your smile softening into something vulnerable, an expression you wore so openly that it hurt.
"I mean it," he said, quieter now, "I know I didn't say it enough before. But I'm really into you. All of you. Clothes on and off. Everything about you."
You looked at him for a moment, your breath catching. "Steve.."
"I'm not trying to make things weird," the self deprecating tone bleeding into his earnestness. "I thought you should know, though. You're not just a hookup to me. Never were."
You stared at him, your eyes warming up and the shock slipping away. Then, you smiled.
"I know," you said. "That's why I brought you back here. I trust you. Something's different, more real about you."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. You're a good guy, Steve. Even with your screw-ups. You're good. And I missed you."
Steve wanted to fist pump the air.
"I've missed you too. So fucking much."
You tilted your head, smirking. "So show me."
His mouth crashed into yours, differently than before, more charged. Every slide of lips, brush of tongues, wet noises. It all said something that words couldn't describe.
Steve's hand slid down, pressing you against him with desperation. Your hands tangled in his hair, messing his beauty technique up, but holding him closer than you ever had. They slid from his hair to his shoulders, pushing his jacket off. He was ready for it, shrugging out of the black coat without breaking the kiss. It fell with a small metal noise, his keys in his pocket. Your fingers went to his tie next, loosening it and letting it hang open around his neck.
"Excited?" He observed, smiling against your smeared lipgloss.
"Shut up."
"Nah. I like it," he squeezed your hips. "You want me. Been waiting for you to want me."
"Never stopped." You admitted.
His kiss broke from your lips, trailing down to where he knew was your favorite spot. Between your ear and your collar bone, a slight scrape of teeth. Not enough to hurt, but just enough to sting.
"Remembered," he whispered, proud of himself.
"Showing off."
"Absolutely."
His teeth bit down harder slightly and you moaned - fully, completely - your fingers gripping into his dress shirt. Steve was going to lose it. His hands roamed again, finding the bare skin of your thigh through the slit in your dress. Soft, just like he'd thought earlier when he saw you in the parking lot. With Hargrove. As soon as his fingers touched the inner part of your thigh, you made a noise that went straight to his head.
"Steve, it's-"
"It's what, Y/n?"
"More."
Who was he to deny you?
His fingers pushed higher, finding the lace of your underwear. He snapped it against your skin, making you gasp against his mouth. He found exactly what he was looking for, the soaked fabric telling him how much you wanted it. Your hips bucked and your legs nearly buckled.
"Fuck," you whimpered.
"That's the idea, honey."
You attempted a laugh, but it was a very broken sound. His fingers worked you gently, drawing out every reaction and coaxing it from your lips. He swallowed every noise like it was water and he was dried out.
Steve let his other hand reach around to your back, tracing the edge of the zipper of your dress. He began to pull it down and-
A crash.
You both froze.
From somewhere outside the door, voices echoed. Laughter. Footsteps. The unmistakable sound of a group headed towards the door of the band room.
"-then Eric said he'd bet anyone twenty bucks he could chug an entire-"
"Shut up! No one cares what Eric said-"
"-is this the right room? My cousin said they keep beer in here sometimes-"
Steve's hand hurriedly withdrew from you. You stared at each other with wide eyes, frozen in place with hearts pounding. Your dress was rumpled. His shirt was untucked, jacket on the floor. Your lip gloss was all over his face and yours.
The doorknob rattled.
Steve moved on instinct, grabbing your hand and yanking you from the door. You ducked behind a stack of instrument cases in the corner as the door swung open, letting cool air in and pushing the dust out into the hallway.
"Told you, just storage. Band kids are weirdos, keep everything locked up-"
"-smells like must in here-"
"-you smell like shit, maybe it's you-"
Steve pressed himself against the cases, pulling you close and clamping a hand over his own mouth to stifle a laugh. You shook against him, holding your own laughter tightly inside of you. The voices moved around the room, footsteps close. A case was open. Something clattered to the concrete floor.
The door slammed shut and the footsteps faded.
Silence. You both released the breaths you held.
Then, when your eyes met, you lost your shit.
Quiet, uncontrollable laughter shook your body. You leaned against Steve, trying to stifle it into his shoulder to keep from being detected hiding in the fucking band equipment room.
"Oh my God," you whispered, a wheeze leaving your throat. "We almost got caught in here!"
Steve's eyes were watering, laughter making him feel like he was going to pull a muscle in his chest. "My hand was in your dress, you were almost-"
"Don't, Steve," you pressed your forehead harder into him, trying to regain your breath. "Don't say it, I can't!"
"My fingers-"
"Steve!"
You both lost it again, a fresh wave of hysterical laughter overtaking you. Steve's arms wrapped around you, pulling you close to him again. You let the laughter calm into occasional poorly held giggles. His face was flushed, eyes joyful, lips curved into a stupidly gorgeous smile.
"I can't believe that just happened," you sighed.
"I can." He grinned. "This is exactly the kind of thing that would happen to me. My life is a comedy. Poorly-timed."
"Your life is a mess."
"Yeah, but you keep ending up in it." He tucked a strand of curled hair behind your ear. "Maybe I have Dustin Henderson to thank this time. He convinced me to come to prom."
You blinked up at him. "Dustin? The one in 8th grade?"
"Yep." He popped the 'p', a sheepish smile on his face. "Kid's got opinions. Strong ones. Surprisingly good ones, too."
You snorted. "And what did Dustin Henderson have to say?"
Steve's expression shifted into an impression of Dustin, voice pitch getting higher than you thought possible. "'Steve! You're a moron. A complete and utter moron. You've been moping about Y/N for a year and now you're going to let prom pass you by without even TRYING? This violates our partnership!'"
Your laughter bounced off the walls. "Partnership?"
"A close one. With an air-tight contract."
You raised an eyebrow, questioning him.
"I swear on my life." Steve held up a hand. "He drafted it and everything. Had me sign it. There were clauses, Y/n. Clauses."
"What kind of clauses?"
"Let's see," he thought, counting on his fingers as he rifled through them. "Clause one was that I had to stop calling him 'kid' because we're 'equals.' Clause two required me to provide transportation to and from all party meetings. D&D, if you were wondering. And clause three said I had to order a pizza for the kids once a week. Fourth said we're allowed to make friendship-based interventions for each other," he explained. "That's the one I'm most afraid of."
"And you signed it?"
"... Yep." Steve winced.
You smiled, shaking your head.
"Well. Now, you're here with me. Because Dustin Henderson made you sign a contract."
He laughed. "Most romantic story ever told."
"The best." You said, kissing him softly. "Thank Dustin for me."
"I will." He kissed you back gently. "You'll have to thank him yourself eventually. He'll want to interrogate you."
You raised an eyebrow, then smoothed your dress out and stood up fully.
"Oh, well. I owe him one anyway. Now, let's go dance, Harrington."
No matter how incredibly chaotic his life was, he couldn't have been happier with it.
i hope editing ur work and "finding ur flow" is worth contributing to the worlds water shortage. genuinely.
i hope you know that you dont have to read my stuff 😭 comments like these are 3/4 of the reason i no longer write. i havent been posting fics, therefore havent been editing my work, therefore havent been using AI. my RARE use of AI (once or twice a month, mind you) is not the world's leading reason for water shortage. maybe focus your attention to the companies that create AI technology or those that advertise/promote it. not small writers on tumblr.
whether i use AI or not, those whose work literally REVOLVES around AI are going to use it. use logic and attack the source.
broooo what happened to masterfully collegiate the dustin x munson!reader one i loved that one where'd it goooo
people kept leaving hate in my inbox about supposed “use of ai!” i got two separate messages from two users claiming that i use ai in my writing and calling my work “ai slop.”
i have actually been meaning to address this.
firstly, if you don’t like my writing or deem it unfit for yourself, don’t read it. no one is holding you hostage forcing you to read my work. if you find my style of writing offensive to you or think it’s “ai slop,” you are NOT required to read a single word of it. leaving hateful comments is a good way to push a writer off from a platform.
secondly, i have my own stances on ai. i have used ai to grammatically correct and edit my work. i have used ai to help me find a better flow. but never have i used ai to write an entire story or as more than just a tool to EDIT and POLISH my OWN ideas and writing. i should not have had to clarify this. but i will go the extra step because i am not fond of the hateful comments coming through my inbox.
some universities, including the one i attend, promote ai as a tool in writing - that’s what it is. a tool. for people to use. do i think writers should use it to generate an entire story and sell it to people as their own? no. do i think writers have the right to use it as an editing tool as it’s being permitted by ACCREDITED UNIVERSITIES? if they wish to.
that’s my personal opinion and you can do with it as you wish. read my stuff or don’t. you have the liberty to make that choice.
that’s why i deleted my last story. a crazy amount of hate came through my inbox and i won’t stand for that shit. i’m doing this as a hobby in my free time for enjoyment. i don’t need that crap.
for those that enjoy my writing and were sad to see the fic go, i apologize. there will hopefully be more to come!
pairing: eddie munson x reader
summary: you and eddie find yourself rethinking the choices that lead here. also, he ruins your date!
themes & warnings: continued angst, eddie being an ass, you being dumb, slow burn resolution, a good screaming match, SPICY but not smut, resolution to the angst :D
part 2 to: the storm (1)
When you woke up on Eddie's uncomfortable couch, much later than you'd anticipated, you sat up in a rush. The clock on the wall read 8:47 AM.
Your head ached from the night you'd spent crying (Eddie had eventually retreated into his bedroom, throwing the old tattered blanket you'd always loved over you), and you felt overwhelmingly out of place in the trailer that you used to call your second home. Your clothes, clearly washed and dried, sat folded in front of you. And in the kitchen, Wayne silently made a cup of coffee. He hadn't realized you were awake yet.
Eddie was nowhere to be seen.
The stale, quiet air of the trailer pressed in on you, thick with the ghosts of last night’s screaming match and the scent of Wayne’s cheap coffee. You pushed the familiar blanket -- the one with the frayed edge you used to worry between your fingers during scary movies -- off your legs. It felt like a betrayal, its comfort now tainted.
Moving stiffly, you gathered the neatly folded stack of your clothes. They smelled faintly of generic laundry soap, not of Eddie. The consideration of it, washing and drying them, felt like another kind of arrow to the chest. It was a practical kindness that spoke of a closure you hadn't agreed to.
You slipped into the bathroom to change. In the clean, cold daylight, the small room felt like a museum of a past life. You avoided looking in the mirror.
When you emerged, dressed in your own skin again, Wayne was standing by the small formica table, sipping his coffee. He looked over, his face its usual landscape of weary lines, but his eyes were soft.
“Mornin’,” he grunted.
“Morning, Wayne.” Your voice was raspy from disuse and spent tears. “I, uh… thanks for the…” You gestured vaguely at your clothes.
He nodded once, a sharp dip of his chin. He set his mug down and walked to the hook by the door, snagging a set of keys. He tossed them to you underhand. They landed with a soft jingle in your hands.
You stared at them. Your car keys.
“Fixed ‘er,” he said, as if commenting on the weather. “Was just the alternator cable. Corroded clean through. Re-spliced it. Should get you home.”
Tears, stupid and hot, pricked at your eyes again. This man, who had every reason to resent you, had been out in the freezing dawn fixing the car you’d used to flee his nephew. The kindness was almost worse than Eddie’s anger.
“Wayne, I… you didn’t have to…”
“Car wasn’t gonna fix itself,” he interrupted, his tone leaving no room for argument. He studied you for a long moment, his gaze knowing and sad. “He’s gone. Needed to lick his wounds, I reckon.”
He didn’t offer excuses for Eddie. He didn’t ask for yours. He just stated a fact.
Then, to your utter shock, Wayne Munson closed the distance between you. He didn't say a word. He just opened his arms in a gruff, unmistakable invitation.
A sob fell through your lips before you could stop it. You stepped into the hug, burying your face in the flannel of his shirt. He smelled of motor oil, coffee, and a steadfast, unshakeable decency. His arms came around you, strong and solid, patting your back twice in that awkward, perfect Wayne way. It was the first real comfort you’d felt since your world had collapsed months ago, and it undid you completely. You held onto him for a long moment, letting the silent understanding seep into your battered soul.
When you pulled back, wiping your eyes, he just gave you another nod.
“Drive safe,” he said, the same two words he’d always sent you off with.
“I will. Thank you, Wayne. For… everything.”
You didn't look toward the hallway leading to Eddie’s room. You didn't let yourself glance at the photo over the sink. You just turned, opened the door to the bright, cold, snow-blanketed morning, and walked out.
The drive home in a now-functioning Daphne was a silent, blurry tunnel. The storm had passed, leaving Hawkins hushed and glittering under a pale sun. But inside the car, the quiet felt heavy, full of Wayne’s hug, the memory of Eddie’s devastated eyes, and the crushing weight of a prison sentence you’d imposed on yourself -- one that, after last night, felt like it had no release date.
It seemed pointless to act like you were over him. But you'd at least been able to pretend.. before the stupid fucking storm and your stupid fucking car threw you right back into the war path. You'd been doing okay. The first month, you'd hidden all of the pictures in an old shoe box and shoved it under your bed. You sent him all of his clothes in the mail and paid him back for almost everything he'd ever paid for. The second, third, and fourth, you settled for avoiding him like the plague. You got a new job in a different town and threw yourself into it, not allowing much time to gruel over everything that had gone wrong.
It was helping. Was it, though?
You knew the truth. You were putting a bandaid over a crack in a glass. It wasn't the right type of repair, and it wouldn't heal anything. But you weren't sure what else could be done.
When you got home, you showered again, trying to scrub the past night's events off from you. You used your expensive, new shampoo, your rich body wash, you shaved every inch. But you felt no cleaner. You quickly dried yourself off, throwing your dripping hair into a towel, before changing into some fresh clothes.
Some clothes Eddie had never seen or touched.
You were supposed to be at work at 12:00. You got there at 11:30.
Sitting behind your computer, you sighed. The normalcy was a kind of relief you'd been begging for since you'd first set foot in the Munson home. You worked diligently in your cubicle for a while, forcing yourself into tunnel vision.
The familiar, mind-numbing rhythm of data entry was a balm. Click, type, tab, enter. The sterile office air, the hum of fluorescent lights, the distant chatter of coworkers about weekend plans -- it was a world away from the emotional carnage of the trailer and the humid, charged silence of Wayne’s hug. For two solid hours, you disappeared into the spreadsheet, letting the numbers erase the memory of Eddie’s voice cracking.
Then, you jolted. A hand gently touched your shoulder, bringing you out of your data-based trance.
Thomas. The new intern. He'd been brought into the office the same time you had. He was conventionally attractive, nice enough, and did his job without any problems.
"Sorry," he winced, lifting his hand. "I didn't mean to scare you."
You laughed breathlessly, turning around in your chair. "It's okay. I'm just jumpy," you admitted. "I had a long day yesterday."
He frowned, leaning against your desk. There was genuine concern on his face.
"Something going on? I'm a good listener."
He was charming. That much was hard to ignore. He was exactly the kind of distraction you were supposed to want. Safe. Stable. Uncomplicated. A guy whose biggest rebellion was probably using the office printer for personal stuff.
"Just... car trouble," you said, forcing a smile. "In the storm last night. All sorted now."
"Ah, the great blizzard of '86," he joked, his eyes warm. "My roommate's Datsun still won't start. You're lucky you got yours going." He paused, seeming to gather a bit of courage. "Listen, I know it's last minute, but a bunch of us from the accounting floor are grabbing drinks after work at The Hideout. Drown our spreadsheet sorrows. You should come."
The Hideout. The name was a punch to the gut. It was their bar. The place where Eddie had played his first gig with Corroded Coffin, where you’d cheered so loud you lost your voice, where he’d kissed you for the first time -- slow and sweet and tasting of cheap beer -- in the sticky, dark hallway by the bathrooms.
Thomas noticed your hesitation. "Or, you know, if that's not your scene, we could just... get a coffee? Just us?"
The offer was clear. A date. A step forward. A chance to prove to yourself that you could be interested in someone who didn't come with a built-in tornado warning.
You were about to say no. Your mouth was forming the polite refusal. But then you saw it -- in your mind’s eye -- Eddie’s wounded, furious face as he spat “You just… walk away from.” You heard Wayne’s quiet keys jingling. You felt the ghost of that hug.
A reckless, furious energy surged through you. Yes. You would go. You would have a nice, normal time with a nice, normal guy. You would prove you could move on. You were moving on.
"Actually," you said, your voice sounding strangely bright to your own ears. "A drink sounds great."
Thomas's face lit up. "Yeah! Yeah, awesome. Can I pick you up?"
The question hung in the air. It was the natural, gentlemanly next step. It also felt like crossing a line you weren't entirely sure you wanted to cross. A pick-up implied a real date, a definite end to the night together. It felt… binding.
Your hesitation must have shown on your face, because Thomas’s bright smile faltered just a fraction. "Or," he added quickly, "we can just meet there. Whichever is easier."
The out was handed to you, polite and easy. And a small, cowardly part of you wanted to take it. To keep this experiment at arm’s length, to have your own escape route parked right outside.
But that was the old you. The one who planned exits before she even entered the room. The one who left notes instead of having fights.
"No," you said, firming your voice. "Picking me up is fine. It’s… nice." You forced a smile, scribbling your address on a sticky note from your desk. "Seven?"
"Seven," he confirmed, taking the note, his smile returning full force. He looked genuinely pleased, and a pang of guilt twisted in your stomach. He wasn't a pawn in your game with Eddie. He was a person. A nice one.
The rest of the workday was a blur of restless energy. At 5:30, you were the first one out the door, the ghost of your own decisiveness propelling you home. You showered again, as if you could wash away the lingering scent of the trailer and the memory of Eddie's furious eyes. You stood in your closet for a full ten minutes, rejecting every item of clothing. Too somber. Too yours. Too his.
It was a dive bar. The place you went when you wanted to wear something skimpy or cover your skin in glitter. You'd dress for the setting.
You decided on a black skirt, a simple one that hit mid-thigh, and a silky, emerald green top that you knew brought out your eyes. You added your favorite pair of boots -- the ones with just enough of a heel to make you feel powerful -- and a swipe of dark lip gloss. You stared at your reflection. This wasn't the girl Eddie remembered. This was someone sharper, a little more polished, someone who went on dates with accountants in nice sweaters. The pang of guilt returned, sharper this time. You were constructing an entire facade, and Thomas was just the audience.
The knock came at 7:02. Not 7:00 on the dot, but fashionably late enough to feel casual. You took a deep breath, grabbed your coat, and opened the door.
Thomas’s eyes widened appreciatively. “Wow. You look… incredible.”
“Thank you,” you said, the words feeling automatic. You let him help you into your coat, his fingers brushing the nape of your neck. You didn't flinch, but you didn't feel a spark either. Just the polite, expected contact.
The drive was pleasant. The conversation was easy. He was charming, telling a self-deprecating story about a client meeting gone wrong. You laughed in all the right places. But your mind was elsewhere, tracing the familiar route to The Hideout, anticipating the turn into the gravel lot with a mix of dread and a sick, undeniable pull.
When you pulled in, the dread won. The Hideout’s neon sign buzzed like an angry insect against the darkening sky. It looked smaller, dingier than in your memory, or maybe you’d just grown accustomed to cleaner, brighter places in your attempt to move on.
“Cool,” Thomas said, his tone carefully neutral as he held the heavy door open for you.
The wall of sound and smell hit you like a returning heartbeat. It wasn’t quaint. It was alive. And it still felt like yours.
You spotted his coworkers in a booth near the back. You recognized a few faces from the accounting floor -- polite smiles, curious glances at you and Thomas. You slid in, the vinyl seat sticking slightly to your tights.
“So this is the infamous new girl from marketing,” one of the women, Lisa, said with a friendly grin. “Thomas hasn’t stopped talking about you.”
Thomas flushed, chuckling. “Lisa, come on.”
You smiled, taking the beer Thomas handed you. “All good things, I hope.”
The group laughed, and the next twenty minutes were a blur of introductions, office gossip, and a shared basket of soggy fries. You were playing your part perfectly. Engaged. Charming. A great catch for a guy like Thomas.
Then, the door opened.
You didn't see him. You felt him. A shift in the room's energy, a sudden, magnetic pull that tightened your chest. Your eyes, of their own volition, cut through the haze of cigarette smoke and chatter towards the entrance.
There he was. Eddie.
Fuck. Why had you been so stupid? Why had you come here?
He wasn't just coming in; he was making an entrance, shrugging off his jacket to reveal a faded Black Sabbath tee, his laugh ringing out over the jukebox music as he clapped Gareth on the back. He was a burst of vibrant, chaotic color in the dim bar. He looked… good. Better than good. He looked like home, and the realization was a physical ache.
His gaze, sharp and scanning for his friends, swept across the room. It passed over your booth, did a double-take, and locked onto you.
The smile vanished from his face. The lively light in his eyes guttered out, replaced by an icy, flat stillness. He stared, his expression unreadable from this distance, but you could feel the shock, the hurt, and then, simmering beneath it, a dark, gathering storm.
Jeff, following his gaze, paled and grabbed Eddie’s arm, saying something urgent. Eddie shook him off, his eyes never leaving yours.
He started walking.
“Oh, god,” you whispered, the words lost in the chatter of your table.
Thomas, mid-sentence about a new tax software, followed your line of sight. “Everything okay?”
You nodded hurriedly, moving to get up, but before you even had the chance to slide out of the booth in your panic, two ringed hands slapped themselves down onto the table. The impact was sharp, final. Eddie leaned down, his body blocking out the rest of the bar, his face inches from yours. Up close, you could see the flecks of amber in his brown eyes, the faint, tired shadows beneath them, the tight set of his jaw.
“Well, well,” he drawled, his voice a low, intimate thrum that vibrated in your bones. “Look what the cat dragged in. And she brought a friend.” His gaze flicked to Thomas, a dismissive, scathing once-over that took in the sweater, the careful haircut, the whole safe, tidy package. "Who's this, sweetheart?" Eddie's voice was sugar-coated venom, his eyes never leaving Thomas's face as he spoke to you. "Introduce me to your... accountant."
Thomas stiffened, his jaw tightening. "Thomas," he said, his voice holding a note of forced calm. "And you are?"
Eddie finally dragged his gaze away from you, a slow, predatory smirk spreading across his face as he fully turned his attention to your date. "Eddie," he said, his tone conversational, almost pleasant. "The man she was with for almost four years." He jerked his thumb towards you without looking. "You're sitting in my seat, by the way."
The air in the booth vanished. Lisa’s mouth had formed a perfect, silent ‘O’. The other coworkers stared into their drinks as if they could divine an escape route in the foam.
Thomas’s forced calm cracked. A flush crept up from his collar, and his knuckles went white where they gripped the edge of the table. “I wasn’t aware we were keeping seats warm for past residents,” he said, the words clipped.
"That's funny," Eddie snorted, drumming his fingers on the glass of the booth's table, "considering the fact that this lovely woman spent the night at my house.. last night, was it?"
The gasp from Lisa was audible this time. The rest of the booth went preternaturally still. Thomas’s face, previously flushed with anger, drained of all color. He looked from Eddie’s triumphant, cruel smirk to your horrified expression, and the pieces clicked into place with a nearly audible sound.
Your car trouble. Your jumpiness. Your long day.
It wasn’t just a past relationship. It was current. It was last night.
“You…” Thomas’s voice was a dry rasp. He looked at you, his eyes wide with a hurt that was rapidly solidifying into something colder. “Is that true?”
“Because my car broke down,” you blurted out, the explanation feeble and pathetic against the weight of Eddie’s loaded statement. “In the storm. Right by his trailer. I had to wait it out. That’s all.”
“Oh, is that all?” Eddie purred, his eyes glittering with malicious satisfaction. He leaned his hip against the table, fully committing to the performance now, playing to his captive audience. “Just a little sleepover for old times’ sake. Very platonic. Very… chaste.” He let the word hang, dripping with implication. “You should’ve seen her, Thomas. Cozy as anything in my clothes. Looked right at home.”
This was beyond humiliation. This was annihilation. He was systematically dismantling not just your date, but your character, your integrity, in front of your new colleagues. He was painting you as a liar, a tease, someone who hopped between beds during snowstorms.
Tears of pure, impotent rage burned behind your eyes. You stood up, shaking. “You are vile,” you said, your voice shaking with a intensity that made even Eddie’s smirk falter for a second.
“I’m honest,” he shot back, but the bravado seemed thinner now, stretched over a core of something desperate and ugly. “Which is more than you’re being with him right now.”
You turned to Thomas, pulling enough money to cover your drinks out of your wallet and tossing it in front of him. "I am so sorry. I'll explain another time."
Then, you turned back around, centimeters from Eddie's chest. He towered over you, intense brown eyes burning through your skin. You leered up at him, hot, angry tears flowing down your face.
"Fuck. You." You gritted out.
He burst into laughter, his gaze heating up even more with the vulgar words leaving your lips. Tilting his head, hummed.
"You have. Many times. Or did you forget?"
The sentence burned your stomach. Of course you hadn't forgotten.
The sleepless nights because you couldn't get enough of each other, the nails in his back, the sting of his teeth on the delicate skin of your neck. You remembered every moment of it. He knew that, too. But drawing your attention to it in a room full of people? In front of your date?
Before you could even think about it, a crack sounded through the air. Eddie's head whipped to the side. You were on autopilot, the anger, yearning, and arousal warring inside of your brain.
You'd slapped him. The right side of his face was red. It was like the bar was paralyzed behind him -- all you could see was Eddie. He slowly turned his head back to face you, a dangerous glint in his eye. Predatory. Intense. Slightly pissed.
A slow, deliberate smile spread across his face, the one that didn't reach his eyes. He touched his fingertips to his reddening cheek, testing the sting. The sound in the bar danced around you, but your mind was silent.
"Well," he said, his voice an intimate rasp that seemed to vibrate in the space between you. "There she is. You let her out."
Your hand throbbed. Your entire body was trembling -- with rage, with shock, with the electrifying realization of what you’d just done. He stared at you with his unrelenting eyes, his ringed fingers still touching his cheek. You couldn't bare it anymore.
You shoved past him, leaving the bar.
You frantically waved a taxi down, the only taxi in Hawkins which a creepy old man drove. The type you wouldn't trust driving a taxi. He attempted small talk. You barely responded, having used up any ability to talk for the rest of the night. When you finally got to your house, you paid the man, climbed out, and tore your dumb, fancy clothes off.
You put a pair of old, tattered pajamas on. Cried a little. Ate a grilled cheese sandwich, which you cried into. You collapsed onto your sofa, watching reruns of a stupid rom-com. You cried so much that you soaked the decorative pillow beside your head.
You weren't even sure what had happened. You weren't sure how everything had been ruined so quickly. Your new job was tainted now (you wouldn't be able to look four of your coworkers in the eye ever again), your car had proven it couldn't be trusted (which you already knew, but now she was choosing the roads to break down on), and your ex-boyfriend was intent on ruining any chance of getting over him. The four months you'd disciplined yourself into being done with him were now wasted. Crumbled and discarded.
What was it all for, anyways? Why had you done this to begin with?
It was for your mother. For your friends. They hadn't even bothered to get to know Eddie, forming an opinion based on what the town whispered about him: that he was a lost cause. Unreliable. A boy that was too lazy to graduate high school until he made the choice to do it. A freak from a bad family. Mean, scary, with bad intentions. Your friend had said that "your life will go nowhere if you marry a bad egg." The worst part? You started to believe them. The pressure cracked you.
They were wrong. All of them. They didn't know Eddie.
Eddie Munson was a diamond under layers of rock -- the best person you'd ever met. He could be mean. He was scary, sometimes. But he deserved to be. The world had dealt him shitty cards since he was born. It was cruel to him. Despite how cruel the world was, he never chose to be. He didn't let it sour him up. He was a cornered dog that never bit anyone, a tortured soul that persevered to stay soft.
He wasn't a lost cause. He worked hard. Every day. As soon as he graduated, he got a job at the record store. A job he loved, which you couldn't blame him for, and a job that he never relented from. He worked every single day, from open to close. He poured his heart into the things that he loved, like you once, his band, the group of kids that he'd left when he graduated Hawkins High School. They looked up to him. They looked up to his strength in adversity, because in reality, adversity was all he seemed to face until you'd come into his life.
The miserable irony was that if anyone who spoke ill of him actually tried to get to know him, they would love him immediately. But they were terrified of the rumors. Terrified of Eddie's exterior. The wild, black hair. The intense brown eyes. The chains and skull-shaped rings, the black boots and towering height. The loudness. The rebellious aura.
The thought was a barbed hook in your chest, reeling you back through time. To the first time you’d really seen him.
It wasn’t in a class, or at the grocery store. It was in the woods behind the school, a place you weren’t supposed to be. You were smoking a secret cigarette, relieving the stress of the day. You’d heard shouting, a cacophony of cruel, laughing voices. You’d crept closer, heart in your throat, expecting to see the monster the town warned about.
Instead, you saw Eddie Munson, standing between three older, bigger guys from the basketball team and a scrawny freshman -- Jeff, you’d learn later -- who was clutching a torn-up D&D manual. Eddie’s back was to you, his hands up in a placating gesture, but his voice was a low, steady rumble that carried.
“C’mon, guys. The kid’s just trying to get home. You’ve had your fun. His handbook’s toast. Call it a win.”
One of them shoved him. “What’re you gonna do about it, freak?”
Eddie didn’t shove back. He just… absorbed it. Steadied himself. A strange, sharp smile cut across his face, all teeth and no warmth. “Me? Nothing. But I’m recording this little display of masculine insecurity for posterity.” He tapped the side of his head. “Got a real good memory. And I’m real chatty with Chief Hopper. Wouldn’t want him to get the wrong idea about the varsity squad’s after-school activities, would we?”
It was a bluff. A brilliant, stupid bluff. But it worked. The bullies muttered, threw one last insult, and slunk away. As soon as they were gone, the sharp smile vanished from Eddie’s face. He turned to the trembling kid, his posture softening instantly. He knelt, picking up the scattered, muddy pages of the manual.
“Hey, no harm, no foul. They’re just pages. We can tape ‘em. Hell, we can redraw the diagrams. Might even improve on ‘em.” His voice was different now -- softer, encouraging. “Let's go. Let’s get you cleaned up. You did good. You didn’t cry. That’s the first rule.”
That was Eddie. The cornered dog who put himself between the teeth and someone weaker. The boy the town called lazy, spending his Friday night painstakingly taping a kid’s rulebook back together. The "freak" whose first instinct was to protect.
A fresh wave of sobs wracked you, not just of loss, but of shame. You’d abandoned him. You’d chosen the easy path, the one paved with your mother’s approval and your friends’ relieved smiles. You’d broken his heart to soothe your own social anxiety, and in doing so, you’d proven every one of his deepest fears correct: that he was unworthy, that he would always be left behind.
You ran away from him. You believed the monster stories, the stories of him being a waste. And now, it was too late.
You curled into the side of the couch and cried yourself to sleep.
The light stung your eyes when you woke up. Your head pounded. You ran to the toilet and threw up your dinner from the night before, and all the alcohol you'd had at the bar. When you trudged back out into the living room, you frowned.
This house was suffocating. You needed air.
You quickly dressed yourself in a jacket and jeans, yanking boots on. You brushed your teeth and tossed your messy hair into a bun. You grabbed a bottle of water and your keys. Then, you went outside into the chilly breeze and walked down to the Quarry. It was a comfort spot for you. Silent, gentle. You could escape whatever had happened. Every single time something broke your heart, that was where you ran to pick up the pieces.
You trudged through the mud until you reached the water. It was half frozen, but it still lapped at the edges. The horizon was grey, but still peaceful. You sat down on a log, staring up into the sky. Crows flew from the trees, stark black marks on a white sky. Minutes passed. Sometimes, more hot tears came down your face. The water bottle calmed your dry throat and aching stomach. But everything still felt wrong.
Then, you heard familiar boots trudging on the ground behind you. You shuddered, the idea of seeing his face right now almost lethal. But.. of course he'd come. He knew this is where you went when shit hit the fan. He was the only one that knew your spot.
You didn't turn around. You kept your eyes fixed on the half-frozen water, on the crows carving their dark paths across the clouds. The crunch of gravel and frozen earth under his boots was a familiar cadence, a heartbeat you'd tried to silence for months.
He didn't sit beside you on the log. He stopped a few feet away, a respectful distance that somehow felt more intimate than if he'd crowded you. The silence stretched, filled only by the whisper of the wind through the bare trees and the faint, rhythmic lap of water.
"You look like hell," he said. Always so charming. His voice was soft, but flat. Tired. Contrasting the cruelty it held the night before.
You laughed humorlessly at his words, sniffling.
"Thank you."
“Anytime,” he replied, the ghost of his old smirk touching his lips before fading. He shifted his weight, the leather of his jacket creaking. “Place hasn’t changed.”
“No,” you whispered. “It doesn’t.”
More silence. It wasn’t the comfortable quiet you used to share, where words were unnecessary. This was a chasm, and every second stretched it wider.
He filled it again.
"Did you call Thomas back? Reschedule for a night I can't fuck up?"
He spat the name like it burned his tongue. The question was a direct hit, laced with the self-deprecating poison he knew so well how to brew. It hung in the cold air between you, a challenge wrapped in a shield of assumed rejection. You finally turned to look at him fully. The morning light was cruel, highlighting the exhaustion in his face, the tension in his shoulders. He looked like a man braced for a verdict.
"No," you said, your voice quiet but firm in the still air. "I didn't call him. And you didn't fuck it up."
He scoffed, a dry, brittle sound. "Right. Because public humiliation is a great second-date foundation."
"You know that's not what I mean," you said, a flicker of the previous night's frustration reigniting. "You didn't ruin a good thing, Eddie. You ended a bad one."
He shrugged, as if it couldn't have been more obvious to him that your choice was a stupid one.
"He dressed business casual to go to a dive bar. You don't even like sweaters. Or blondes."
A laugh burst out of you -- sharp, surprised, and utterly genuine. It echoed oddly across the frozen quarry, shattering the heavy tension. Eddie’s eyes widened slightly, the perpetual defensive scrum on his face cracking to reveal a glimpse of the boy you fell for.
“You’re an idiot,” you said, the affection thick in your voice.
“Yeah, well, I’m all yours,” he shot back automatically, the old refrain slipping out before he could stop it. He froze, the words hanging between you, a relic from a time before the fracture. His cheeks flushed, and he looked away, suddenly fascinated by a crack in the frozen mud.
The simple phrase did more to dismantle your walls than any grand apology could have. It was a piece of your shared language, a secret handshake from a club you’d both resigned from.
“Are you?” you asked softly, the laughter gone, replaced by a vulnerable ache. “Still mine?”
He didn’t look at you. His shoulders were up around his ears, a tense line against the grey sky. “Don’t ask me that,” he muttered, his voice thick. “Not fair.”
“Why not?”
“Because!” He whirled to face you, his eyes blazing with a frustrated, helpless pain. “Because the answer’s always gonna be yes. So you asking… it’s just you checking if the toy you threw away is still on the shelf, waiting. It fucking is. And it pisses me off.”
The raw honesty was a sucker punch. It left you breathless. He was laid bare, no sarcasm, no armor, just the humiliating, unwavering truth of his constancy.
“I didn’t throw you away,” you whispered, tears welling again. “I got scared and I ran. There’s a difference.”
“Feels the same from this side of the shelf.” He kicked a chunk of ice, sending it skittering into the water.
Another tear dropped.
"Then you show up to our place with some corporate dumbfuck. You force me to be an ass. To make you cry. And you know I hate doing that," he ranted, his voice raw. "You left but you won't stay away. And now here I am, chasing you, like an idiot."
He got closer. You smelled him. Weed, patchouli, sharp cologne.
"I am an idiot. But you cried and I had to make sure you stopped. I hate when you cry. So stop it." He whispered, a cold finger reaching forward to wipe the warm tears coming down your face.
His touch, the rough pad of his finger brushing away your tears, was the final crack in the dam. Not for more tears, but for the truth you’d been clinging to like a life raft.
“I can’t,” you whispered, your voice breaking. “I can’t stop it.”
"Why not?" He asked, his voice low and heavy.
"Because I messed up so bad. I can't fix it. You hate me and you're still here trying to take care of me."
The raw admission hung between you, more vulnerable than any slap. His hand stilled against your cheek. For a moment, the only sounds were the wind and the ragged pull of your own breath. He didn't move away. His thumb brushed once more over the path of a tear, then his hand slid down to cradle your jaw, his touch firm, anchoring.
"Yeah," he said, the word a low rumble in his chest. "You messed up. Spectacularly. You broke my fucking heart. Stomped on it, actually."
You flinched, the directness a fresh wound.
"But," he continued, his voice dropping even lower, forcing you to lean in to hear. "Do I look like I'm here to collect a debt? To punish you?" He shook his head slowly, his intense eyes holding yours prisoner. "You think this," he gestured between the two of you, at the frozen quarry, at the whole miserable, beautiful situation, "is about hate?"
You couldn't speak. You just stared, lost in the storm of his gaze.
"It's the opposite," he whispered, his breath a warm cloud in the cold air. "I'm here because I can't not be. You cry, it's like a fucking alarm in my head I can't shut off. You're in pain, and even if I'm the cause, even if you're the cause, my first instinct is still to make it stop. That's not hate. That's the problem."
You fought the urge to cry some more. He was so good. So gentle. So loving. And you'd hurt him beyond measure.
"'M sorry," your voice cracked, your eyes blurring. "You can go. You shouldn't be here."
Your words were a flimsy wall, and he saw right through it. He didn't let go of your jaw. If anything, his grip gentled, his thumb stroking the frantic pulse at the side of your throat.
"See, that's the thing," he murmured, his voice so quiet it was almost stolen by the wind. "You don't get to decide where I should be. Not anymore. You gave up that right when you walked away."
It was the truth, and it burned. You tried to look down, but he held your gaze, unwavering.
"But," he continued, leaning in so close his lips almost brushed yours with each word, "you asking me to go? That just proves you still don't get it. You think you're doing me a favor. Setting me free from the mess you made. But you're not." His eyes were dark pools of conviction. "This is me free. Choosing to be here. Choosing you, even after everything. Even though it's stupid. Especially because it's stupid."
A tear escaped, tracing a hot path down your chilled cheek. He caught it with his thumb.
"I'm not going anywhere," he stated, the words final, absolute. "Unless you tell me, right now, looking me in the eye, that you don't love me. That you don't want this. And you have to mean it."
He fell silent, giving you the space he thought you wanted. The space to send him away for good. The air grew colder, the silence heavier, pressing in on you. The silence stretched, thin and taut as a wire. His gaze held you, unflinching, a challenge and a plea all at once. The wind seemed to still, the world narrowing to this frozen patch of ground, the feel of his hand on your face, and the terrifying, beautiful ultimatum hanging between you.
He was offering you the clean break you’d pretended to want. The easy out you’d tried to create with Thomas. All you had to do was lie. To say the words that would sever the tether for good, that would let him walk away and finally, truly hate you. It would be the kindest cruelty you could offer him.
Your lips parted. The words -- I don’t love you -- felt like shards of glass in your throat, impossible to force out. Because you loved him with a desperation that terrified you. You loved the stubborn set of his jaw, the unexpected gentleness of his hands, the fierce loyalty he wore like armor. You loved the mess and the noise and the glorious, difficult truth of him.
You loved him so much it had scared you into leaving.
And he saw it. He saw the war in your eyes, the way your breath hitched not in preparation for a lie, but because the truth was a living, painful thing clawing its way up. The hard line of his mouth softened, just a fraction.
“You can’t,” he said, his voice a low, certain vibration. It wasn’t a question. “You can’t say it. Because it’s not true.”
A sob broke free, the last of your defenses crumbling. You shook your head, a frantic, tiny motion. “No,” you choked out. “It’s not true.”
The admission seemed to unlock something in him. The last vestige of his defensive stance melted away. His shoulders dropped, and he let out a long, shuddering breath, his eyes closing for a second as if in prayer.
“Thank Christ,” he whispered, the words rough with emotion. When his eyes opened, they were bright, vulnerable. “For a minute there, I thought you were actually gonna make me leave.”
He pulled you into him then, not with the desperate force from before, but with a deep, enveloping relief. You buried your face in the cold leather of his jacket, your hands fisting in the back of it, holding on as if he were the only solid thing in a spinning world. He held you just as tightly, his face pressed into your hair.
“I love you,” you mumbled into his chest, the words muffled but fervent. “I’m so sorry. I’m sorry.”
“Shhh,” he soothed, one hand coming up to cradle the back of your head. “I know. I know, baby. Me too. All of it.”
You stood there for a long time, wrapped in each other, the frozen world around you forgotten. The only warmth was the shared heat of your bodies, the only sound the steady, synced beating of your hearts. Finally, he stirred, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “Alright,” he said, his voice still thick but laced with a new, gentle determination. “We’re done with the quarry. We’re done with the past. Starting right now.”
He pulled back just enough to look at you, his hands coming up to frame your face again. His thumbs brushed away the remnants of your tears. “Clean slate. But this time, together. No more solo missions. Deal?”
You nodded, your vision blurry but your heart clearer than it had been in months. “Together.”
A real, slow smile spread across his face, the one that reached his eyes and lit them from within. It was the smile you’d fallen in love with, the one he saved for rare, unguarded moments. It felt like coming home.
“Good.” He took your hand, lacing his fingers tightly with yours. “Now, let’s get in the fucking van. I’m freezing, you’re shivering, and I have a sudden, intense craving for the world’s greasiest diner food. My treat. We can start our new, improved, communication-heavy relationship by arguing about whether hash browns should be crispy or soggy.”
A wet laugh escaped you. It felt like the first real breath you’d taken in weeks. “They should be crispy.”
“Wrong,” he said, tugging you gently toward the path. “But we’ll work on it.”
pairing: dustin henderson x reader
summary: your best friend dustin has been a frigid asshole to you lately. when things boil over, you realize there's a little more to the reason why.
themes & warnings: romantic confessions in the rain, angst with resolution, dustin being an ass but hes GRIEVING guys, making out, jealous!dustin, slight yearning, hurt comfort, dustin getting the support he needed following losing eddie, season 5 dustin is so hot WEFHEFO, doesnt follow the plot much its SELF INDULGENT, fem!reader, dustin fics are rare and i love him so we had to show him some love
In the aftermath of it all, you were just trying to move on.
While the very fabric of Hawkins seemed permanently frayed, you’d made a conscious, deliberate choice: you were going to have a normal year. Or the closest approximation possible in a town with a permanent, weeping scar to another dimension running through its center. You applied to colleges far from Indiana, threw yourself into the mindless rhythm of volleyball practice, and buried your nose in textbooks. You attended the somber, emergency Party meetings at the renovated Surfer Boy Pizza (now unofficially dubbed "The Squawk"), but your contributions were polite, minimal. You were a satellite, orbiting the core of trauma that bound Mike, Lucas, Dustin, and El together. You wanted to remain unblemished. You wanted to survive.
And it was Dustin Henderson himself who had made sure of it.
Since the third grade, when you’d defended his careful, scientific explanation of a tadpole’s lifecycle against Tommy H.’s ridicule, Dustin had been your best friend. He was the brilliant, fast-talking nucleus of your world. You’d weathered his lisp, his awkward growth spurts, and his obsession with Hammer of Dawn together. He’d been fiercely protective, your personal knight in a baseball cap, using his wit as both a sword and a shield for you. When the weirdness started, he’d been the one to insist, with uncharacteristic severity, “You stay out of it. It’s not like a D&D campaign. The monsters are real, and I… I can’t have you on the board.” He’d code-named you “CIVILIAN” in his walkie-talkie logs. It had stung, but you understood. He was trying to keep a part of his world safe, clean, normal. During sleepovers in Mike's basement, he shared a sleeping bag with you, holding your hand when nightmares of demo-dogs and red-clouded skies plagued you. He was soft with you. Careful.
But that was before Eddie.
The Dustin who came back from the Battle of Hawkins wasn’t just grieving. He was fundamentally rearranged. The quick, gleaming smile was now a rare, brittle artifact. The endless stream of theories had dried up, replaced by a simmering, acidic silence. His humor had curdled into sarcasm, and his protectiveness had warped into something colder: dismissal.
Even now, sitting at the table in the cafeteria with your friends, you felt the sting of Dustin's complete indifference. But.. you had to persevere. He wouldn't let you be involved, so you had to find other ways to progress in your life. You were moving on. Being kept at arms length tended to force a person.
Turning to Will and Mike, you smiled.
“Guess what, guys?” you said, the forced excitement in your voice a little too bright.
Will smiled politely back, always kind, while Mike looked up from pushing his peas around his tray, his expression one of mild, distracted curiosity.
You took a steadying breath, your eyes deliberately skipping over Dustin, who was methodically dissecting a chicken patty as if it were a specimen. “I have a date,” you announced, the words hanging in the air. “This Friday. With Liam.”
Mike’s eyebrows shot up. “Liam? From the baseball team?” He sounded more surprised than judgmental. Will’s smile widened into something more genuine.
“That’s great, (Y/N)! He seems really nice.”
“Yeah,” you pressed on, the script you’d rehearsed tumbling out. “He asked me after chem. We’re just going to the movies. Back to the Future, which, you know, is supposedly safe from other-dimensional interference.” You attempted a light laugh. It fell flat.
The table’s atmosphere shifted. Lucas, sitting next to Dustin, froze mid-bite, his eyes darting between you and his best friend. But the reaction you were painfully, secretly tuned to came from your left.
Dustin’s hands stilled. He didn’t look up. He carefully set his plastic fork down on the tray. The action was too controlled, too quiet. It was the silence before the capacitor discharge.
When he finally spoke, his voice was a low, flat monotone that somehow cut through the cafeteria noise. “Liam Dunlap. His idea of a profound thought is whether to order curly fries or regular.”
He finally lifted his gaze. It wasn’t the cold dismissal you’d grown used to. This was hotter, sharper. A focused, analytical contempt. “He’s the poster boy of mediocrity. But sure. The movies. A classic, boring approach to getting what he wants from you and never speaking again. Fitting.”
Your face flushed hot. "You don't know anything about him!"
Dustin gave a one-shouldered shrug, a gesture so deliberately casual it was an insult in itself. "I know his type. He's a simple script." His eyes flicked over you, and for a split second, the contempt wavered, revealing something raw and pained beneath. "But I guess that's what you're looking for now, right? Something simple. Something safe."
The implication -- that you were choosing mediocrity on purpose, that you were running toward something bland just to get away from him and his complicated, grief-stricken world -- hit its mark.
Will's smile had vanished entirely, replaced by worried discomfort. "Dustin, maybe just... don't," he murmured.
But Dustin wasn't listening. He was locked on you, a storm of bitterness and something else -- something perilously close to jealousy -- brewing behind his eyes. "Have fun on your totally normal, monster-free date, CIVILIAN," he said, spitting the old codename like a curse. He pushed his tray away, the screech of plastic on laminate grating in the sudden silence. "I'm sure it'll be exactly what you wanted."
He stood up, chair legs scraping loudly, and walked away without another word, leaving his half-dissected lunch and the heavy, choking tension behind.
Lucas let out a long, slow breath. "Wow," he said softly. "He's... really not okay."
Mike shook his head, looking from you to Dustin's retreating back. "No," he agreed, his voice grim. "He's not."
You sat there, your own appetite gone, the excitement of your announcement completely shattered. The victory of moving on felt hollow and ash-tasting. Because Dustin's cruel, precise words had done the one thing he was always brilliant at: they'd found the fault line in your logic, the secret fear you hadn't even voiced to yourself.
And he'd hammered it wide open.
Without another word, your face burning hot, you scrambled up from your seat and left.
You'd called your mom and got yourself excused for the rest of the day. You had last period with Dustin, and you weren't sure you could stomach another flaying. He'd been more of an asshole lately, but he'd never gone in that hard on you. It made you want to disappear into the floor and burn into the core of the earth. You'd been patient with him, accepting, and supportive. You knew losing Eddie was hard for him, especially in the manner he'd been taken. It changed Dustin. But grief, in your opinion, was a process, and you didn't think he'd be this way forever.
But then again.. you'd also never thought he'd direct the rage towards you either.
In your room, you considered cancelling the date. You considered letting it go, letting things cool down and pretending they were normal. But the idea of it burned your stomach. You were taught to be yourself, to lead your life the way you wanted to. You couldn't let Dustin direct the rest of your choices just because the ones you made upset him. So, you got ready for Liam to pick you up at 8PM.
You curled your hair. You put on a little bit of makeup, inky black mascara and sticky pink lip gloss. You put a dress on and your most un-scuffed Mary Janes.
The doorbell rang at 8:03 PM, its cheerful chime a sharp contrast to the turmoil in your stomach. You took one last look in the mirror -- a girl playing at normalcy in her pretty dress and shiny shoes -- and went downstairs.
Liam stood on the porch, a bouquet of grocery store daisies in hand. “Wow, you look pretty,” he said, his smile easy and uncomplicated.
“Thanks,” you said, forcing a smile of your own. The words tasted like sawdust.
The date was a perfectly curated slice of the normal life you’d been chasing. He was polite, held doors, made light conversation about school and sports. At the movies, he laughed in all the right places. It was pleasant. It was fine.
It was agony.
Every second felt like a performance. Your mind, traitorously, kept drifting. During a lull in the film, you found yourself staring at the empty seat beside you and imagining Dustin there. He’d have whispered running commentary, dissecting the time-travel paradoxes with passionate indignation, his arm warm and solid against yours in the shared armrest. With Liam, there was just a polite, careful space between you.
The “nice”ness of it all began to feel like a suffocating blanket. When Liam’s hand accidentally brushed yours reaching for popcorn, you didn’t feel a spark -- you felt a vague, embarrassed jolt, like touching a static-filled doorknob. His conversation was a flat, featureless plain after the treacherous, fascinating mountains of Dustin’s mind.
Dustin’s cruel, precise words from the cafeteria echoed in your head, not as an insult now, but as a bleak diagnosis you were confirming with every passing minute. Poster boy of mediocrity. A simple script. You were living it.
“That was really fun,” Liam said as he pulled up to your house later, the engine idling. The rain had started, a light mist that blurred the streetlights. “Maybe we could go to the arcade next weekend? I’m pretty good at Dig Dug.”
You looked at his kind, hopeful face, and a wave of profound guilt washed over you. He was nice. He didn’t deserve to be someone’s rebound from a complicated, grieving genius. He didn’t deserve to be a prop in your failed attempt to outrun your own heart.
You had to lie, though.
"Sure. We'll have to figure out a plan." You smiled falsely. Then, you climbed out of his car as quickly as you could. Before he could awkwardly kiss you or something.
“See you Monday!” Liam called after you, his voice tinged with a hopeful confusion you couldn’t bear to examine.
You gave a weak wave without looking back, your wet Mary Janes slapping against the pavement as you hurried to your front door. The moment you were inside, the polite façade crumbled. You sagged against the closed door, the silence of the house a stark contrast to the riot in your head. The rain hit the roof loudly, sheets of it pouring down.
You’d done it. You’d gone on the date. You’d been perfectly, painfully normal. And it had been a complete and total farce.
The guilt was a physical weight, heavy and sour in your stomach. Liam was nice. He was fine. And you had just used him -- as a test, as a distraction, as a blunt instrument to try and prove a point to a boy who wasn’t even there. Dustin’s voice echoed, not in scorn now, but in tragic accuracy: A classic, boring approach.
Being normal, erasing the past year of your life, was wounding you more than it was healing anything.
As you gathered yourself enough to walk away from the door, you heard a knock. More like a slam. Heavy, aggressive, and demanding attention.
Your heart, already pounding from the frantic escape from Liam’s car, now slammed against your ribs like a trapped bird. Through the distorted fisheye lens of the peephole, the world was a warped, rain-blurred nightmare.
And there he was.
Dustin. He wasn't standing calmly. He was leaning into the door, one fist still raised from the pounding, his shoulders heaving. Rain streamed from his hair, plastering it to his forehead, and poured down the neck of his jacket. This wasn't the cold, dismissive strategist from the cafeteria. This was raw, unfiltered, electrical storm. You fumbled with the lock, your fingers clumsy, and pulled the door open.
The storm rushed in with him. A gust of wind-driven rain and the scent of wet pavement and ozone. He didn't step inside politely. He surged across the threshold, water pooling instantly on the entryway tile.
“You went,” he said, the words not a question but an accusation, ragged and breathless. He was vibrating with a frantic energy. “You actually fucking went.”
“Dustin, you’re soaked--” you started, but he cut you off.
“Did he kiss you?” The question was sharp, desperate. His eyes searched your face, your lips, as if looking for evidence. “At the door? In the car? A stupid, normal, goodnight kiss?”
“No! No, I didn’t--” you stammered, taking a step back from the force of him.
“Why?” he demanded, following you, closing the distance. The controlled monotone was utterly gone, replaced by a voice cracking under the strain. “Why would you do that? After everything I said -- after I showed you -- you still went with Liam Dunlap to watch a movie you’ve seen a hundred times? What is wrong with you?”
You were so confused. And so hurt. It should have made you angry. Instead, it cracked something open inside you. This wasn't scorn. This was panic. This was a system in catastrophic meltdown.
"Why does it matter, Dustin? It's just a stupid date! Friends don't shit on each other for going on dates, they're supposed to support each other!" Your words were pleading for understanding, your voice cracking.
His eyes impossibly darkened, his body heat fighting through the rain-soaked layers of his clothing to seep into you. He smelled like fresh rain, the scent of the cologne he'd borrowed from Eddie a year ago, and the mint gum he always chewed. Your senses were overloaded by him in a different way than they'd ever been.
"Friends," he repeated, the word tasting like ash on his tongue. He let out a short, harsh laugh that held no humor, only self-loathing, and tore his baseball cap from his head, throwing it onto the floor with a slap. "You think this is about friendship?"
He took another step, so close now that you had to tilt your head back to meet his gaze. The storm outside was a distant echo compared to the one raging in his eyes.
“Do friends,” he began, his voice a low, tortured rasp, “spend three hours researching the migratory patterns of swallowtail butterflies because you mentioned once, once, that you thought they were pretty? Do friends have an entire folder of theories about the Upside Down that they never showed anyone, because the first page has your handwriting on it and a stupid, sappy quote from a Hammer of Dawn lore book?”
Your breath caught. You remembered that. You’d said it offhand in seventh grade.
He saw the recognition in your eyes and a fresh wave of agony washed over his face. “Do friends,” he pressed on, his voice gaining a desperate, shaky momentum, “lie awake after a nightmare and calculate the exact decibel level of your scream, not to diagnose you, but to know how loud they’d have to yell to drown it out for you? Or hold your hand so it stops shaking?"
His voice cracked on the last word, the memory of those shared, silent horrors in Mike's basement hanging between you, more intimate than any touch. The admission was so specific, so Dustin, it bypassed all your defenses.
"All I wanted was to protect you. It's all I've ever wanted," his voice was low, almost a whisper, almost ashamed to admit his faults. "I watched my friend die right in front of me, I-I held him while he bled out," Dustin shuddered, as if the memory was physically hurting him. "If the filth on the other side of these walls ever touched you, I--"
He had to stop, squeezing his eyes shut.
When he opened them again, they were red-rimmed and lost. "It would kill me. Fuck Vecna.. losing you would kill me quicker. I couldn't survive it. So I thought if I was mean enough, if I made you hate me enough, you'd stay safe. You'd stay over here, in the normal world, where you belong."
He shook his head, a tear finally breaking free and tracing a clean line through the rain on his cheek. "But then you started to actually go. You're going, because of me, and I don't know how to make you stay."
His raw, broken plea hung in the air, heavier than the storm outside. The last piece of the terrible puzzle clicked into place. He wasn't just pushing you away. He was trying to build a moat of anger around you, thinking it would keep the real monsters out. But the only monster you'd been facing was his own grief, wearing a mask of cruelty.
"You can't," you whispered, your own voice trembling. "You can't protect me by hurting me, Dustin. That's not how this works."
"I know!" he cried out, the sound ragged. "I know that now. But it was the only plan I had left. It was a stupid, terrible plan, and it's blowing up in my face. Just like everything else I touch."
He looked down at his hands, as if they were covered in Eddie's blood, in the ash of his own failed schemes. The genius was gone. In his place stood a seventeen-year-old boy who'd seen too much death and was terrified of seeing more. The silence filled the room again. You didn't know how to fix this, you didn't know what he wanted or how to help him. The boy in front of you was broken beyond what you'd even known -- he refused to let you in to see.
As if he'd sobered up, he sniffled, wiping his face.
"I'm sorry for coming here. I'm fucking dumb." He said, his voice hoarse and devastated.
Before you could stop him, he ripped your front door open and walked off the porch, the storm swallowing him up like a wave. The wind and rain fell onto him, soaking through his clothes and drenching his curls even worse than before. The slam of the door echoed in the sudden stillness of your foyer, a final, brutal punctuation to his confession. For a moment, you were frozen, staring at the empty space where he’d stood, the cold, wet imprint of his sneakers the only proof he’d been there at all.
He was leaving. Again. Running back into the storm, carrying all that broken weight with him. The thought was unbearable.
“Dustin!” The cry was torn from your throat. You didn’t stop to grab a coat or shoes. You ran.
You burst out onto the porch, the rain immediately needling your skin, soaking through your socks. He was already halfway down the walk, a dark, hunched silhouette against the rain-smeared glow of the streetlights.
“Dustin!”
He didn’t turn, just kept walking with a terrible, determined purpose, as if he could outpace his own pain.
You sprinted after him, the cold pavement biting your feet. You caught up to him at the edge of your yard, your hand shooting out to grab his sodden sleeve. “Stop! Please!”
He turned around, his face confused and dripping with anguish.
"What the hell are you doing? You're gonna get--"
Before he could finish his sentence, you thrust yourself into his arms, pressing your head to his chest in attempt to cement him to your own body. You shook violently -- both from the cold and the devastation you felt when you thought about him walking away again.
Finally, your own tears poured, blending in with the rain but making your face hot.
"Please," you sobbed. "Don't leave. You can be mean. You can yell and take it all out on me. But I don't want to be alone anymore."
The raw need in your voice finally cleaved through the last of his resolve. The angry, determined mask he’d worn to walk away shattered completely.
His arms, which had hung stiffly at his sides, came around you in a convulsive grip, pulling you so tightly against him you could feel the frantic hammering of his heart even through his soaked jacket. He buried his face in the crook of your neck. His arms, hugging you so tightly, broke the dam you'd built when he'd first started shutting you out.
You cried, loudly and wholly, gripping his clothes like they were your only life line. Your ribs popped with heavy sobs.
He held you through it. He didn’t shush you or tell you it was okay. He just held on, his own silent tears joining the rain soaking your shoulder, his hands moving in slow, shaky circles on your back. He was rocking you, just slightly, a wordless rhythm against the storm.
When the worst of the sobs subsided into shuddering gasps, he finally spoke, his voice a wrecked, tender rasp against your ear.
“I’m here,” he whispered. “I’m not going anywhere. You’re not alone. You’re not.”
He said it over and over, a quiet litany against your hair, until the words began to sink past the cold and the hurt, warming something deep and frozen inside you. Slowly, he pulled back, just enough to see your face. His own was pale and streaked, his eyes swollen, but his gaze was steady. He framed your face with his cold, wet hands, his thumbs stroking your cheekbones with a reverence that made you want to cry all over again. Then, he reached down to thread your fingers into his and lead you back to the front door. Back to the warmth and dryness inside.
The transition from the chaotic, soaking chill of the storm to the quiet, still warmth of your foyer was jarring. You stood dripping on the mat, the only sound the heavy plink of water from your clothes onto the tile and the distant drum of rain on the roof. Shivers wracked both of you uncontrollably.
Dustin still hadn’t let go of your hand. He looked down at your joined fingers, then at the puddle forming around your bare feet. His practical mind seemed to flicker back online, cutting through the emotional haze.
“You need to get dry,” he said, his voice rough but purposeful. “Right now. Hypothermia will only make us more miserable.”
He led you, not into the living room, but straight to the downstairs bathroom He knew your house better than his own at times. He grabbed a thick stack of towels from the linen closet, his movements efficient. Wordlessly, he wrapped one around your shoulders like a cape, its fluffy warmth a shock against your icy skin. He used another to gently blot at your hair, his touch surprisingly careful.
“Arms up,” he instructed softly, and you complied, still trembling. He peeled your soaked sweatshirt over your head, leaving you in a damp t-shirt. He did the same with his own jacket and hoodie, discarding the sodden layers in a heap on the floor. He was down to a t-shirt too, and you could see the goosebumps racing over his skin.
He knelt in front of you, taking your foot in his hand. “Socks are a lost cause,” he muttered, peeling the ruined fabric from your feet one at a time. He grabbed a fresh, smaller towel and began to briskly rub your feet, his warm hands chasing away the deep, aching cold. The simple, domestic care of it was more intimate than any kiss could have been in that moment.
Once you were both as dry as he could manage with towels, he led you to the living room couch. He pulled the afghan from the back and wrapped it tightly around you, tucking the edges in. Then he sat beside you, pulling another blanket over himself.
For a long time, you just sat there in silence, side by side, listening to the storm fade to a gentle patter. The shivering slowly subsided, replaced by a heavy, exhausted warmth. The emotional avalanche had passed, leaving a strange, quiet peace in its wake.
The ache in your chest pushed you to speak.
"What did you mean? When you said.. this wasn't about friendship?" You said, your voice quiet and ashamed to break the peaceful silence.
The quiet in the room seemed to deepen, growing heavier with the weight of your question. Dustin didn't answer right away. He kept his gaze fixed on the dark window, his profile stark in the dim light. You could see the muscles in his jaw working.
Finally, he let out a long, slow breath, a cloud of warmth in the cool air.
"When you had that nightmare at Mike's.. you could've gone to anybody. You could've gone to El. Her bed was right next to yours," he said, his voice still hoarse from crying. "Or Lucas. He was to the left of you. But you came all the way across the room. You had to jump over Max's sleeping bag and you tripped four times. But you came to me. You got in my bed and you fell asleep holding my hand."
There was a fondness in his eyes, a refreshing fondness that was so rare lately. The line of his lips was softer, its usual frown nearly gone.
"It was the most loved I'd ever felt. I felt so special and so.. needed." His voice softened, the raw edge of confession smoothing into something more wistful, more tender. "I didn't sleep the rest of that night. Not a wink. I just... laid there. Listening to you breathe. Feeling your fingers twitch in mine. And I thought... this is it. This is my place. Right here. Being the one you reach for in the dark."
He looked down at his hands, as if he could still feel yours in them. The fondness faded, replaced by a quiet, profound sorrow. "And then Eddie died. And the dark wasn't just in our heads anymore. It was everywhere. And my place... it didn't feel safe anymore. It felt like a target. I thought if I was the one you reached for, I'd just get you killed too."
His eyes moved from his hands onto you, soft but mournful.
"I was scared. But even then.. I was so sickeningly in love with you. I am." He whispered into the air, as if he didn't want you to hear it. "I have been since third grade."
His confession hung in the air, so quiet it was almost stolen by the soft patter of rain on the roof. I have been since third grade. It wasn't a dramatic declaration. It was a simple, devastating fact, laid bare after years of being buried under layers of friendship, shared trauma, and his own stubborn fear.
The words settled in the space between you, warm and heavy. You didn't move, barely breathed, afraid to break the spell. He had finally said it -- the truth that had been the silent bedrock of your entire relationship.
"Why third grade?"
A faint, rueful smile touched his lips, though his eyes remained closed. "Tommy H. was making fun of my tadpole speech. You stepped in front of me, hands on your hips, and told him off." He let out a shaky breath that was almost a laugh. "You were so mad. Your face was all red. I just remember thinking that you were so cool.
You couldn't help the soft, tearful laugh that escaped you. "I called him a butthead. I don't think that qualifies."
“It did to me,” he said, his voice impossibly soft. He finally opened his eyes, and they held yours with a gravity that stole the breath from your lungs. “You were my first. Before the Party, before any of this… it was you. Standing between me and the world.”
He shifted on the couch, turning his body fully toward you. The blanket slipped from his shoulders, but he didn’t seem to notice. “And then you just… stayed. Through everything. Through my toothless lisp, through my weird growth spurts, through the demogorgons and the Mind Flayer and… and all of it. You stayed.”
He reached out, his fingers gently tracing the line of your jaw, a touch so reverent it made your heart ache.
"After Eddie…” His throat worked as he swallowed hard. “After Eddie, the only thing that felt more real than the grief was how much I loved you. And it terrified me. Because loving something that much, in a world with monsters… something was going to take you away. So I tried to push you away so it couldn't.”
A tear, silent and perfect, rolled down his cheek. He didn’t brush it away. “But you’re not safe anywhere else. And I’m not safe without you. I see that now. I’m sorry it took me so long. I’m sorry I was so cruel. I'm a dumbass.”
He nudged closer to you. The scent of him enveloped you.
"I'm an idiot. I was too scared to tell you the truth. Eddie even told me to. While he was fucking dying."
The new confession hit like a physical blow. The air rushed from your lungs. Eddie even told me to. While he was fucking dying.
You could see it. The tragic, bloody scene you'd only heard about in vague, hushed terms from the others. Eddie, his life bleeding out into the Upside Down's poisoned soil, and Dustin, holding him, broken. And in those final moments, amidst the chaos and the fear, Eddie had used his last breath not for himself, but to push the boy he saw as a little brother towards a future. Towards you.
And Dustin had carried that final wish like a curse, letting it fester into something cruel.
"Dustin," you breathed, the word barely a whisper. Your heart cracked wide open for him all over again. For the boy who’d lost his hero, who’d been given a final, loving command he felt he’d failed before he even began.
He was crying in earnest now, silent tears tracking through the earlier streaks on his face, his shoulders shaking with the force of a grief so profound it had twisted his love into something unrecognizable. "He said... he said, 'Don't be a fucking coward, Henderson. Tell her.'" A ragged sob tore from him. "And I was. I was a coward. I let him down. I let you down. I'm so, so sorry."
You knew the apology wasn't just for you. He was calling out for his friend, hoping he'd hear. Your heart wrenched. You didn't try to shush him. You didn't offer empty platitudes. Instead, you shifted, pulling him with you until you were both lying down on the couch, facing each other in the dim light. You kept your arms around him, holding him close, letting him cry it out against your shoulder -- the grief for Eddie, the guilt over his words, the sheer, exhausting relief of finally telling the truth.
After a long while, the violent shaking subsided into occasional hiccuping shudders. He was spent, hollowed out. You gently wiped his face with the edge of the afghan, your touch as soft as you could make it.
"He would be so proud of you," you said quietly, your voice certain in the stillness.
Dustin sniffled, his eyes searching yours, wanting to believe. "For what? For being an asshole for a year and half?"
"No. For being brave." You said simply.
Dustin's eyes softened further. He leaned into your touch, the feeling of him coming closer almost suffocating. Pleasantly so. The cool steel of the rings on his fingers met your skin as he placed a hand on the side of your face. The touch of the metal against your cheek was a shock of sensation, grounding and electric all at once. It was a distinctly Eddie detail on Dustin's hand, a piece of the friend he carried with him, now offered to you as part of himself. His thumb stroked your cheekbone with a tenderness that made your breath catch.
"You're the brave one," he whispered, his voice rough but clear. "You called me on my bullshit. You ran into the rain in your socks." A faint, wobbly smile touched his lips. "That was maybe the most grit I've ever seen. And I've seen El throw cars with her mind."
You let out a soft, watery laugh. "It got your attention, didn't it?"
"Yeah," he breathed, his smile growing just a fraction more sure. "Yeah, it did." His gaze dropped to your lips, then back to your eyes, a silent question hanging in the space between you. There was a string of tension between the two of you, tightened by Dustin's gentle hand and his intense stare.
His thumb stilled its gentle stroking, resting against the curve of your cheekbone as if holding himself back by that single point of contact.
He swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing. The faint, wobbly smile had vanished, replaced by a look of raw, unguarded need. "I want to kiss you," he breathed, the words barely audible, more a confession of a desperate state than a request. "If it's okay. I know I'm not a Steve or a Lucas, but I--"
You didn't let him finish the self-deprecating comparison. You leaned in and closed the distance, silencing him with the softest press of your lips to his.
It was just a whisper of a kiss, but it was enough to make him freeze, a sharp intake of breath the only sound he made. When you pulled back, just an inch, his eyes were wide, stunned, his lips slightly parted.
"You're not Steve or Lucas," you whispered, your breath mingling with his. "You're Dustin. That's all I've ever wanted."
That was all the permission, the roadmap, he needed.
A sound escaped him -- relief -- and then his mouth was on yours. The hesitancy was gone, burned away by the certainty of your words. This kiss wasn't gentle or questioning. It was deep, and hungry, and full of a year's worth of suppressed longing. It was the kiss he'd been too scared to give, the one he'd imagined in a thousand quiet moments. His hands came up to cradle your face, his rings cool against your skin, anchoring you to him as he kissed you with a focused, passionate intensity that left you dizzy.
His hands moved to your hips, lifting you onto his lap so that he could feel you closer, so he could cover himself with you.
The world narrowed to the points of contact: his hands firm on your hips, the solid weight of his thighs beneath you, the desperate, searching pressure of his mouth. He kissed you like a man discovering water after a long drought -- with a grateful, consuming intensity that stole the breath from your lungs and the thoughts from your head. Every place your bodies met felt electric, charged with the pent-up longing of years.
One of his hands slid up your back, fingers splaying between your shoulder blades to press you even closer, until there was no space left between you. The other hand remained on your hip, his thumb making slow, possessive circles on the fabric of your sweatpants. He broke the kiss only to drag his lips along your jaw, down the column of your throat. You wondered how he was so good. To your knowledge, he'd never actually kissed a girl.
When you finally came up for air, both of you panting, your foreheads resting together, his eyes were dark and blazing with a possessive wonder you’d never seen in them before. Yours were blown with shock and hazed with love.
"Where the hell did you learn that?" You laughed breathlessly.
A slow, smug, utterly Dustin smirk spread across his kiss-swollen lips. The rawness in his eyes shifted into something more familiar --mischievous intelligence.
“Research,” he said, his voice a low, pleased rumble against your mouth. He kissed you again, quick and soft. “Extensive theoretical research.”
You pulled back just enough to raise a skeptical eyebrow. “Theoretical?”
He shrugged, the motion making you sway gently in his lap. His hands stayed firmly on your hips, anchoring you. “I read a lot. Watched movies. Analyzed the data.” His smirk softened into something more sincere, more vulnerable. “And I’ve had a lot of time to think about it. About you. The practical application was just… waiting for the right variables to align.”
You laughed again, kissing his cheek, then his jaw, then his neck.
"You're a nerd. More than that. A geek."
He tipped his head back with a soft sigh, giving you better access to his neck, a shudder running through him at the press of your lips against his skin. "Your geek," he corrected, his voice thick with pleasure. His hands slid from your hips to your lower back, pressing you even more firmly against him. "And you love it. Admit it. You love that I overanalyzed kissing you for, like, a huge portion of my adolescence."
You nipped lightly at the juncture of his neck and shoulder, feeling him jump beneath you. "I love you," you murmured against his skin, the words vibrating through him. "The overanalysis is just a… charming bonus."
He let out a laugh, his fingers tightening in the fabric of your shirt. "Charming. See? You're already adapting to the parameters." He guided your face back up to his, his eyes sparkling. "This is going to be the most well-documented, peer-reviewed relationship in the history of Hawkins."
"Shut up, dork." You smirked.
“Make me,” he challenged, his voice dropping to a low, playful growl, his eyes dancing with the dare.
You didn’t need to be told twice. You captured his mouth with yours, kissing him with a fervor that was all the answer he needed. He met you with equal passion, his hands moving to cradle your face, his thumbs stroking your cheeks as he kissed you back, deep and sure. The laughter faded into something richer, hotter, a shared current of joy and desire that hummed between you.
All it took was some soaked socks and a kiss to bring back the Dustin you'd known and loved for years.
pairing: eddie munson x reader
summary: your car breaks down in a storm -- conveniently (not so conveniently) right down the road from your ex boyfriend's trailer. you're forced to wait the night out with him. a series!!themes & warnings: TENSION, ANGST, arguing, eddie being eddie, youre obv still in love w each other so its yearny
part 2: the storm (2)
You could barely see. Your sight was never impeccable to begin with, but the mixture of snow and rain flying at your windshield in the 40 mile-per-hour winds definitely didn't help.
You tried not to push your car (which you'd named Daphne) too hard, just easing her through the slush at a gentle speed, trying to ignore what road you were on. You weren't on it for the reasons you used to be. You were just on it now because it was a short-cut from work to home, and you needed the fastest route possible to avoid the storm.
Obviously, that hadn't worked.
"Fucking shit." You muttered to yourself as you hit a particularly wet patch of slush, your tail end swerving just slightly. You corrected yourself with shaky, panicked hands, somehow managing to keep yourself on the road.
Daphne was an old girl, a fixer-upper. But you knew how to handle her wheel.
The headlights of your old sedan cut twin, wavering tunnels through the horizontal sleet. The wipers groaned on their highest setting, fighting a losing battle. You were gripping the steering wheel so hard your knuckles ached, every muscle in your body tensed against the skid and sway of the tires.
You knew this road, sadly. Every pothole, every leaning fence post, every mailbox with a dent from a long-ago baseball. You’d memorized it in sunshine, in twilight, in the deep, comfortable dark of summer nights. You’d ridden down it with your heart full and your hand in his, music blaring from his shitty speakers.
Now, you drove it with your heart in your throat and your eyes straining to see five feet ahead. You just had to get past it. Past him.
The familiar, ramshackle outline of the Munson trailer came into view, a darker smudge against the storm-grey sky. A single, yellow porch light was on, a lonely beacon in the maelstrom. Your foot instinctively eased off the gas, as if slowing down could make you less visible. You held your breath, a stupid, superstitious gesture, as you passed the driveway.
You’d made it maybe two hundred yards past when Daphne gave a violent, shuddering cough. The engine spluttered -- a wet, guttural sound of pure protest. The lights on the dashboard flickered crazily. Then, with a final, dying wheeze, the engine cut out completely. The headlights died, plunging you into near-total darkness, save for the sickly green glow of the radio display.
Silence, except for the hammering of ice and rain on the roof.
“No. No, no, no, come on,” you pleaded, turning the key in the ignition. The starter gave a weak, clicking whirr. Nothing. You tried again. Click-click-click. Despair, cold and sharp, joined the chill already seeping into the car.
You were stranded. In a storm. On this road. Approximately a one-minute walk from the one place in Hawkins you’d said you’d never set foot in again.
You laid your forehead against the freezing steering wheel. A hysterical laugh bubbled up, but it died in your throat. You were well and truly screwed.
Outside, the wind howled like it was laughing at you.
You would not be approaching his door. You knew Daphne was old and at times unreliable, so you kept emergency gear in the backseat. A blanket, a heavy winter jacket, a few bottles of water. A blunt and a lighter for stress. Huffing, you pushed your seat back just enough so that you could climb into the back.
You'd wait the storm out until the morning. Then, you'd walk down the road to the gas station, which opened at 5AM, and call your brother. Or your dad. Or a fucking tow truck. Whoever you thought of first.
The backseat was cramped and smelled of old vinyl and the faint, lingering scent of the pine tree air freshener you’d bought last winter. You wrestled the blanket around your shoulders, then pulled the puffy jacket on over it, creating a sad, bulky nest. The cold was insidious, creeping up through the floorboards, seeping in through the window seals. You could see your breath, little ghostly puffs in the greenish dark.
This was fine. This was manageable. You’d been through worse. A little cold, a little storm. You were tough.
You fumbled for the pre-rolled joint and the lighter in the side pocket of the door. Your fingers were stiff and clumsy with cold. It took three tries to get the flame to catch in the howling draft whistling through the window frame. Finally, the end glowed orange. You took a deep drag, holding the smoke in your lungs, willing it to burn away the panic, the humiliation, the sheer, cosmic unfairness of it all.
The familiar, earthy warmth spread through your chest, taking the sharpest edges off your anxiety. You slumped against the door, watching the sleet paint icy patterns on the window. You were a statue in a glass coffin, waiting for the storm to pass.
You lost track of time. The joint became a stub you carefully extinguished and tucked away. The cold deepened, becoming a tangible, aching presence. You pulled your knees to your chest, tucking your hands under your armpits. The blanket was thin. The jacket helped, but your legs were freezing in your jeans. You started to shiver, a fine, constant tremor you couldn’t control.
This is stupid. This is prideful and stupid. You’re going to get hypothermia over a boy.
But it wasn't just any boy. It was Eddie. And the wound of your ending was still too fresh, too raw, to face the possibility of his pity, or worse, his indifference.
You'd be fine. You weren't freezing to death, you were maintaining body heat. Just a few more hours and you would--
A sharp knock on the window made you yelp.
No. No, no no. It's not who I think it is.
Your heart slammed against your ribs, a trapped bird. Through the ice-fogged glass, distorted by the rivulets of sleet, a dark shape loomed. A familiar silhouette, backlit by the distant, buzzing porch light.
It is. It’s exactly who you think it is.
You stayed perfectly still, a rabbit hoping the predator will lose interest. Maybe if you didn’t move, he’d think you were asleep. Or dead. God, maybe dead is better.
The knock came again, sharper this time. Insistent. Accompanied by a voice, muffled but unmistakably his, cutting through the wind’s howl.
“Open the door, Y/N. I can see you shivering from here.”
The command, the use of your full name -- it brooked no argument. It was the same tone he’d used when you’d tried to walk home from a party in the rain two summers ago, when he’d scooped you up with an exasperated, “Don’t be an idiot,” and driven you home despite your protests.
Defeated, you unlocked the door and pushed it open.
The storm rushed in, but so did he. Eddie filled the cramped space of the open door, dressed in a thick flannel over his t-shirt, a beanie pulled low over his curls. He was holding a massive, industrial-looking flashlight. His eyes swept over your pathetic nest -- the blanket, the jacket, the discarded joint stub on the floor mat -- and a smirk bloomed onto his face.
“What the hell are you doing?” he asked, his voice low, but it wasn't a question. It was an amused accusation.
“Waiting out the storm,” you said, your own voice thin and reedy from cold and disuse. “My car died.”
“I know she died. I heard Daphne cough her last breath. I’ve been watching your sorry ass freeze for the last twenty minutes from my window.” He shook his head, a mixture of disbelief and humor flashing in his eyes. “Get out of the car.”
The smirk. The absolute, insufferable smirk. It ignited a fire in your chest that had nothing to do with warmth. All the cold, all the fear, condensed into a single, white-hot point of pure indignation.
“I’m fine here,” you snapped, your voice gaining strength from the fury.
He leaned further into the car, the flashlight beam highlighting the amusement dancing in his eyes. “Oh, you’re more than fine. You’re a picture of survivalist elegance. The blanket really ties the ‘soon-to-be-icicle’ look together. But see, here’s the thing -- Wayne’s on night shift, and I have a strict policy against letting girls freeze to death within spitting distance of my home. Bad for my rep. So, for the last time: out.”
“My well-being is no longer your concern, Munson,” you shot back, wrapping the pathetic blanket tighter around your shoulders as if it were armor.
“It becomes my concern when you’re littering my view with your old ass car,” he countered, his tone light but his eyes holding yours with an unnerving intensity. “Now, I can do this the easy way, where you walk your proud, stubborn self into the warm trailer like a rational human being. Or I can do it the hard way, which involves me, this flashlight -- which is heavier than it looks -- and a very undignified extraction. Your choice, sweetheart.”
The old pet name, used now as a weapon, stole the breath from your lungs. You stared at him, this infuriating, beautiful, impossible man, standing in a storm offering you shelter you didn't want to need from him.
Another bone-deep shiver rattled through you, betraying your bravado. You saw his smirk soften, just for a second, into something that looked suspiciously like concern before the mask of amused detachment slid back into place.
With a sound of pure, exasperated defeat, you kicked the blanket off your legs. “Fine.”
You climbed out of the car, the wind immediately whipping your hair across your face. You didn't look at him as you slammed the door shut harder than necessary and started stomping through the slush toward the trailer. He fell into step beside you, his longer strides easily keeping pace with your furious march.
“You know,” he said conversationally, as if commenting on the weather, “most people, when their car breaks down in a storm, go to the nearest house. They don’t stage a one-woman Arctic expedition in their backseat.”
“Most people don’t have to worry about the emotional fallout of seeing their ex,” you muttered, staring straight ahead at the glowing porch light.
He snorted, as if it didn't mean much. As if you hadn't been the center of his life for three and a half years.
"I don't bite. Unless you ask me to. You've known me long enough to know that, haven't you?"
The casual, suggestive barb hit its mark, a different kind of chill skittering down your spine. You stopped on the bottom step, looking up to face him. The porch light cast harsh shadows on his face, but his eyes were bright, challenging.
“I know you,” you said, your voice low and steady despite the tremor in your limbs. “That’s the problem. I know exactly what your ‘not biting’ looks like. It looks like… this.” You gestured vaguely between you, at the storm, the trailer, the unbearable tension. “It’s never simple with you, Eddie. It’s a whole production.”
He leaned against the doorframe, blocking the entrance, his arms crossed over his chest. The flannel sleeves were pushed up, revealing the familiar tattoos on his forearms. “And sitting in your car until you got frostbite was the simpler option? Come on. Even you’re not that stupid.”
“It was the safer option!” The words burst out of you, raw and honest. “In there, the only thing I had to fight was the cold. Out here? With you?” You shook your head, a helpless gesture. “It’s much worse.”
The smirk finally vanished. His expression shifted into something unreadable, intense. He studied you -- your wet hair plastered to your forehead, your jacket soaked through, the defiant, fearful light in your eyes. The wind howled around you both, but on this small, lit porch, the world had narrowed to this standoff.
“You’re shaking,” he observed, his voice dropping, losing its edge.
“I’m cold.”
“Yeah.” He pushed off the doorframe and reached to open the door. Warm air, carrying the scent of him and home, rushed out to meet you. “Get inside. Before you really do turn into an icicle. We can argue about the meteorological properties of my personality when you’re not at risk of hypothermia.”
It wasn't an invitation. It was a command, but it was also a retreat. A concession. He was giving you the out, focusing on the practical, immediate danger instead of the emotional minefield.
You hesitated for one more second, then stepped across the threshold into the past. He followed, closing the door firmly on the roaring night, leaving the two of you in the sudden, overwhelming quiet of the trailer, with only the drumming of sleet on the roof and the heavy weight of everything left unsaid between you.
The smell of him was everywhere -- clean laundry, weed, curl product, and the delicious cologne you'd never figured out how he could afford. The memories you'd fought to avoid for about four months now closed in around you. You blinked in surprise at the photo of you two, from when Eddie finally graduated high school, still hung above the kitchen sink. He hadn't taken down the photos. The sight was a physical blow. It was a candid shot -- you were laughing, your head thrown back, and Eddie had his arm slung around your shoulders, grinning at the camera like he’d just won the lottery. It was perched right where it had always been, in the spot of honor where Wayne could see it while he washed dishes. The fact that it was still there felt more intimate, more revealing, than if he’d torn it down in a fit of rage.
You opted to pretend you didn't notice. Anything to avoid a tense conversation. You quickly averted your eyes, focusing on peeling off your soaked jacket. Your fingers were numb and clumsy. The zipper stuck.
“Here,” Eddie’s voice came from behind you, closer than you expected. Before you could protest, his hands were there, brushing yours aside. His touch was efficient, impersonal, as he worked the frozen zipper free. The back of his knuckles grazed the wet fabric of your sweater, and you stiffened.
The jacket came off. You were left standing there in your damp sweater and jeans, feeling more exposed than ever. The trailer’s heat was beginning to penetrate your clothes, a painful thaw that made your skin prickle.
“Bathroom’s the same,” he said, his voice carefully neutral. He pointed a thumb over his shoulder. “There’s towels in the cupboard. You can wear something of mine for the night. It won't hurt you." He asserted, looking at you with an expression that left no room for argument. "You're not wearing the wet shit."
The command in his voice, the sharp practicality of it, was a lifeline in the sea of awkwardness. It gave you a directive, something to do instead of just standing there marinating in regret and residual attraction.
“Fine,” you muttered, not meeting his eyes. You snatched up your purse and made a beeline for the bathroom, needing the space.
The small room was exactly as you remembered. The same slightly-mildewy shower curtain, the same chipped tile, the same half-empty bottle of your shampoo on the edge of the tub. He hadn’t thrown it out. The observation sent a fresh, complicated pang through you. You ignored it, focusing on the task at hand.
Stripping off the wet, icy clothes was a relief. The hot water in the quick shower you took made you feel like you were falling off the bone. You towelled off quickly, the rough fabric bringing you back to reality. Wrapped in the towel, you hesitated. The idea of putting on his clothes… it felt like a surrender. An intimacy you’d forfeited.
A knock at the door made you jump. “It’s on the hook,” Eddie’s voice came through the wood, muffled but clear. “Don’t overthink it. They’re just clothes.” The teasing air to his tone infuriated you.
You unlocked the door and cracked it open. Hanging on the outside hook was a faded, soft-looking gray hoodie and a pair of plaid flannel pajama pants. They were clean. They smelled like his laundry detergent, not like him. It was a small, considerate distinction that somehow made it worse.
You pulled them on. The hoodie was huge, the sleeves swallowing your hands. The pants were too long, pooling around your ankles. You rolled the waistband and cuffed the legs. Looking in the foggy mirror, you saw a ghost -- a version of yourself from years ago, when you’d steal his clothes just because you could, because you loved being surrounded by him.
When you emerged from the bathroom, scrubbed clean and drowning in his clothes, you found him in the kitchenette. He’d put the kettle on and was leaning against the counter, a smirk already playing on his lips as he took you in.
“Well, look at that,” he drawled, his eyes doing a slow, appreciative sweep from your rolled cuffs to the hood swallowing half your face. “The lost princess of Hawkins, slumming it in peasant garb. It’s a good look. A little… derelicte, but it works.”
You scowled, tugging at the too-long sleeve. “Shut up. You’re built like a scarecrow.”
“A scarecrow with impeccable taste in loungewear, thank you very much.” He gestured to the kettle with his chin. “Tea? Or I think Wayne might have some of that horrific instant cocoa you used to love. The kind that’s mostly sugar and artificial flavor.”
The mention of your old preference, the specific memory of you curling on this same couch with a mug of too-sweet cocoa, was a tiny landmine. You ignored it. “Tea’s fine.”
He busied himself with mugs, his back to you. “So,” he said, his voice deliberately light. “What’s the verdict? Is the storm outside still worse than the storm of my terrible personality in here?”
“It’s a tie,” you shot back, settling onto the far end of the couch, tucking your feet under you. “The sleet is less predictable, but you’re louder.”
He barked a laugh, a genuine sound that felt like a shockwave in the small space. “Fair. I’ll take it.” He brought over two mugs, handing you one. His fingers brushed yours. Neither of you flinched. He sat on the opposite end of the couch, leaving a respectable, cavernous gap between you. He took a sip, watching you over the rim. “You know, for a minute there, I thought you were really gonna try to wait it out. I had a whole running commentary planned. ‘Hour one: the princess develops a slight shiver. Hour two: regret sets in. Hour three: a single, frozen tear…’”
“You were watching me?” You tried to sound annoyed, but it came out strangely breathless.
“Entertainment’s slim during an ice apocalypse,” he shrugged, but his eyes were sharp on yours. “Besides, it was like a nature documentary. The Tragic Pride of the North American Ex-Girlfriend.”
“You’re an asshole.”
“And yet you’ve come right back to me.” He grinned, unrepentant. “Seems like we’re both dealing with unfortunate realities tonight. Daphne threw you to the dogs.”
You rolled your eyes, glaring at him.
"Don't talk shit about Daphne."
He snorted back, tilting his head back to glance out the window at said object.
"I knew as soon as I met Daphne that she'd screw you over one day. Wayne said he'd get you something new," he shrugged. "But nooo. You loved the death-trap too much."
The barb landed differently this time. It wasn't just about the car; it was about your stubbornness, your sentimentality, your refusal to let go of things -- people -- even when they were bad for you. It was a mirror held up to your own choices, and the reflection stung.
“I don’t just throw things away because they’re old or unreliable,” you shot back, your voice tight. “Some things are worth fixing.”
The moment the words left your mouth, you realized your mistake. The air in the trailer seemed to freeze solid, thicker than the ice on the windows.
Eddie’s grin vanished. His eyes, which had been sparkling with mischievous challenge, went flat and dark. He leaned forward slowly, placing his mug on the coffee table with exaggerated care. The click of ceramic on wood was deafening in the silence.
“Is that so?” he asked, his voice dangerously quiet. All traces of teasing were gone, replaced by a cold, simmering anger. “Things worth fixing, huh? That’s a fascinating philosophy.” He tilted his head, his gaze boring into you. “Tell me, then. Where’s the line? At what point does something become so fucking broken it’s not worth the effort anymore? When it leaves you stranded in the cold? Or is it before that? Maybe when it makes you feel so shitty you have to lie to get away from it?”
Each question was a lash. He wasn't talking about Daphne anymore. He was talking about you. About him. About you and him.
You flinched, pulling the oversized hoodie tighter around yourself as if it could shield you. “Eddie, that’s not what I meant--”
“Isn’t it?” he interrupted, standing up in one fluid, angry motion. He began to pace the small length of the living room, his movements restless, charged. “Because from where I’m sitting, it sounds exactly like what you meant. You’ll nurse along a shitbox car because it’s familiar. You’ll fight for it. But a relationship? A person? Nah. That you just… walk away from. No repairs. No fixing. Just a clean break and a bullshit excuse about ‘different paths.’ Or 'going nowhere.'” He stopped pacing and turned to face you, his chest heaving. “So forgive me if I’m a little fucking confused about your automotive morals.”
The raw pain in his voice, the accusation that cut straight to the heart of your own guilt, was too much. The tears you’d been fighting since you arrived sprang to your eyes, hot and immediate.
“You think it was easy?” you choked out, surging to your feet to face him. The blanket pooled at your feet. “You think I just woke up one day and decided to ‘throw you away’? I was terrified! I loved you so much it felt like I was drowning, and everyone was telling me you were a lost cause! I didn’t know how to fix us because I didn’t even know what was broken!”
“You could have talked to me!” he roared, the sound raw and startling in the small space. He took a step toward you, his hands clenched at his sides. “You could have fought with me! Instead, you just… left. You handed me a note written in fucking platitudes and disappeared. That’s not fixing something, Y/N. That’s scrapping it for parts.”
You were both shouting now, four months of suppressed hurt and anger erupting in the warm, claustrophobic space. The storm outside was nothing compared to the tempest in the room.
“I was trying to save myself!” you cried, the confession ripped from you.
“FROM WHAT?” he yelled back, throwing his hands up. “FROM ME?”
The question echoed, brutal and final. You stared at each other, breathing heavily, the truth of his words hanging between you like a guillotine.
From me.
In your darkest moments, yes. From the chaos, from the uncertainty, from the sheer, overwhelming force of loving Eddie Munson. You’d been trying to save yourself from the very thing you’d missed every single day since.
The fight drained out of you as quickly as it had come, leaving you hollow and shaking. You looked at him -- really looked at him -- seeing not the infuriating, teasing boy from the porch, but the man whose heart you’d shattered with your fear. The man who still had your picture on his wall.
“Yeah,” you whispered, the admission a surrender. A single tear traced a path down your cheek. “From you.”
He recoiled as if you’d struck him physically. All the anger bled from his face, replaced by a wounded, devastating comprehension. He took a step back, then another, until his back hit the wall. He slid down it slowly until he was sitting on the floor, his head in his hands.
You stood frozen, the weight of what you’d just said crushing you. A moment passed.
You glanced at him, hearing movement. He was looking the other direction, his profile painful to see. The flickering light of the lamp caught the silver in his rings, the curve of his lower lip. He was still so beautiful it hurt.
The silence fell upon you. Tense. Pregnant with too many emotions to name. You looked away, but you could feel him turn to you, his gaze heating up your skin. His sight was always so perceptive, so thoughtful and warm. You were afraid of him watching you, afraid of his intelligent brown eyes deducing things that you didn't want deduced.
You fought the urge to get up and hide from his eyes. In the bathroom. The spare bedroom, hiding under the covers.
"You cut your hair."
The statement was simple, but heavy. You could hear the suppressed anger in his tone. The hurt. The ache. The holding back of tears, the holding back of a rage fit. His voice was a broken rasp, a quiet devastation that was worse than any shout. It wasn't just an observation. It was an accusation of a change he hadn't been part of, a loss he'd had to witness from a distance. You cut your hair. You changed. You moved on without me.
Your hand flew self-consciously to the ends, now resting just above your shoulders. "Yeah," you whispered, your own voice trembling. "A while ago."
He didn't look at you. He kept his gaze fixed on some distant point on the wall, his jaw working. "I liked it long."
Three words. They held a universe of grief. I liked it. I liked you. I liked us.
A sob caught in your throat. This was agony. This quiet, raw aftermath was worse than the screaming. It was the autopsy of your relationship, performed in the cold, clear light of shared pain.
"I did it after," you admitted, the words tumbling out in a rush. "I thought... I thought if I looked different, I'd feel different. But I just felt... bald. And sad."
He hummed.
"Had to erase anything I touched, huh? I was that bad?"
You shuddered, looking up at the ceiling.
"Stop it, Eddie. Fucking stop it."
He laughed humorlessly, his eyes finally locking back onto yours. The predatory fire was back, the ruthless analyzing.
"Stop what? What part of this is what you didn't want? You chose it," he said, his voice raw.
"Stop, Eddie!" You cried out.
He was never a good listener. Especially not when he was hurt. Especially not when the armor of sarcasm had been stripped away, leaving only the raw, pulsing nerve of his own perceived worthlessness.
He surged to his feet, a sudden, violent motion that made you flinch back against the couch cushions. He loomed over you, his hands clenched into fists at his sides, but he didn't move closer. The threat wasn't physical; it was emotional, and it was crushing.
"You want me to stop?" he demanded, his voice a low, dangerous snarl. "You want me to pretend like you didn't look at our life together and decide it was a fucking prison sentence? Fine. Let's play pretend. Let's pretend you're just a girl whose car broke down. Let's pretend I'm just a guy being hospitable. Let's pretend the last three years never happened. Is that easier for you? Is that safer?"
He was breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling in sharp bursts. Every word was a jab, designed to hurt because he was hurting, and he wanted you to feel it, to own it. You couldn't take it anymore.
You stood, grabbing your wet jacket and clothes.
"What are you doing?" He snapped.
"Leaving," you said, your voice surprisingly steady as you shoved your arms into the damp, cold sleeves of your jacket. The fabric felt like a slab of ice against your skin, a shocking contrast to the warmth of the trailer. "You win, Eddie. Always."
He crossed the distance in three steps, grabbing ahold of the jacket. Quickly and efficiently, he yanked it off from you, tossing it to the floor.
"You're not."
His voice was final. It wasn't a plea this time; it was a decree, forged in the fire of his own panic. The sight of you actually leaving, of you choosing the literal storm over his emotional one, had short-circuited his anger, replacing it with something more primal: possession.
You stood frozen, the sudden absence of the jacket leaving you exposed in the thin, borrowed hoodie. You could see the wild, frantic beat of his pulse in his throat. His hands, which had just stripped the jacket from you, hovered in the air between you, as if he wanted to grab onto something else -- your arms, your shoulders, you -- but was holding himself back by a thread.
"You're not leaving," he repeated, quieter now, his eyes locked on yours. "You walk out that door, you'll freeze. And I… I can't…" He swallowed hard, the sentence dying in his throat.
The raw, unspoken terror in his eyes undid you. The proud, furious exit was forgotten. You were both trapped -- by the weather, by history, by this devastating, inescapable connection that neither rage nor distance could sever.
A shuddering breath escaped you. "Then what do you want from me, Eddie?" Your voice was a broken whisper. "You want me to stand here and let you flay me alive? Because I can't do that either."
The fight seemed to leave him in a rush. His shoulders slumped, and he took a step back, running both hands over his face. When he looked at you again, he just looked exhausted. Defeated.
"I don't know," he admitted, the confession hollow. "I don't know what I want. I just know I can't watch you walk into that."
The silence stretched, thick and painful. The wind howled a reminder of the impossible choice: stay in the emotional warzone, or flee into the physical one.
Finally, he gestured vaguely toward the couch. "Just… sit down. Please. I'll… I'll shut up. We don't have to talk. We don't have to do anything. Just… exist. Until morning."
It was the barest minimum. A ceasefire with no terms, no resolution. Just a mutual agreement not to destroy each other -- or yourselves -- for the next few hours.
Slowly, feeling numb, you walked back to the couch and sat on the very edge, as far from his side as possible. He didn't sit next to you. He sank into the armchair opposite, putting the width of the coffee table between you. He picked up his cold mug of tea, stared into it, and said nothing.
A/N: there IS a part 2 to this if you guys liked it. PLEASE lmk :)) i wanted some heartbreaking eddie angst bc i love hurting myself
pairing: eddie munson x reader
summary: steve harrington's sister falls for eddie "the freak" munson -- and he falls harder.
themes & warnings: harrington!reader, fluff, slow burn somewhat, i love eddie munson and i miss him so much </3 we are gonna pretend my husband is alive and well, shy!harrington reader, experienced older guy eddie, he loves a shy girl, teasing, flirting, protective!steve
Eddie wasn't even sure why he was here. Truly and honestly.
To him, these things were pointless. It was the worst possible place for a Munson man to be -- he didn't fit in. He didn't cheer. He didn't so much as smile for the first half of this torture.
Yes, he was being dramatic. A basketball game wasn't really torture. But it definitely wasn't his scene.
In truth, Dustin had dragged him there in hopes that he'd somewhat enjoy himself (that and Dustin didn't want to be alone with Mike and Lucas, who would just sit there and drool over multiple girls on the team, and Will who was silent). Steve sat across the gym, occasionally exchanging looks with Dustin about how the game was going. Dustin didn't really like sports either -- none of them did. But they all compromised with Steve, who wanted his best friends in the stands.
Plus, Steve's sister was on the court. That in itself had its own list of demands from Steve, who adored her.
"She needs more fans!" He'd exclaimed to the party.
Dustin hadn't been given much of a choice, not that he minded. He liked you anyways. That didn't mean that the rest of the party, however, had the chance to miss out on it either.
It was the Hawkins High Tigers versus the visiting team from Clint, and the energy in the gym was a thick, humid soup of popcorn grease, teenage sweat, and deafening squeaks of sneakers on polished wood. Eddie Munson felt like a black-clad inkblot on a page of beige and orange. He slumped in the bleachers, his denim vest adorned with patches of bands no one here had heard of, his expression one of profound, theatrical suffering.
Dustin, to his left, was explaining the finer points of a zone defense, which to Eddie sounded about as interesting as watching paint dry, but with more sweating. Mike and Lucas, a few rows down, were indeed engaged in their whispered, critical analysis of the cheerleading squad’s “aerodynamics.” Will just looked politely trapped.
Across the court, on the home team’s bench, sat Steve Harrington. King Steve. Former King Steve. Whatever. He was the assistant coach.. sort of.. More like after his game, he refused to leave the court because you'd be on it. Plus, the sports department loved him. He was out of his letterman jacket now, but he wore the posture of a captain still, leaning forward, elbows on his knees, his eyes laser-focused on the court. Not on the game, exactly, but on one player in particular.
Number 11. His twin sister.
The relationship between Steve and Y/N Harrington was Hawkins legend, a quieter, sweeter counterpart to the drama of Steve’s romantic escapades. Their parents were the classic ‘80s absentee type --successful, traveling, leaving their kids in a big, empty house with a pool and a stocked fridge. That emptiness had forged a bond between brother and sister that was unshakeable.
Steve, for all his past douchebaggery, had always been fiercely protective of you. He’d taught you to swim, to drive, to throw a punch (“Aim for the nose, it makes their eyes water, then you run like hell to me”). He’d scared off your first would-be boyfriend in seventh grade with nothing more than a slow, silent stare from across the cafeteria. He was your first call, your best friend, your unwavering defender.
And you, in turn, were his anchor. You’d seen through the “King” facade to the surprisingly dorky, deeply loyal guy underneath. You were the one who’d handed him ice packs after his fights with Jonathan Byers, who’d listened without judgment when he cried over Nancy, who’d helped him study for tests he was doomed to fail. You were smart, sharp-tongued in a way that could flay people but chose not to, and possessed a calm, steady kindness that was the exact opposite of Steve’s loud, performative charm.
On the court, you were a study in controlled motion. Basketball wasn't your passion, not like it had been Steve's, but you had a natural, fluid talent for it. Where Steve had played with a grinning, hair-flipping bravado, you played with a quiet, unsettling efficiency. You were the point guard, the team's strategist on the floor. You didn't waste energy on flashy crossovers or trash talk. You saw the play three steps ahead, your passes crisp and timely, your shots a high-arching, almost serene swish through the net. You led not by shouting, but by a sharp glance, a pointed finger, a nod that your teammates instinctively followed.
Steve didn't cheer. He observed. His jaw was tight, his body coiled as if he were on the court with you. When you got fouled hard by a Clint player a good foot taller, Steve was halfway out of his seat before the whistle even blew, a shout of "Hey!" escaping him. You just picked yourself up, brushed off your shorts, shot your brother a look that clearly said I'm fine, sit down, and calmly sank both free throws. Steve sank back, running a hand through his hair, the tension easing only slightly.
Eddie watched this whole exchange from his slouched position, his theatrical boredom momentarily forgotten. The protective ferocity from the brother was one thing -- predictable, almost primal. But your reaction… that was fascinating. The calm. The silent communication. The utter lack of fear or frustration. You’d taken the hit, assessed the situation, and converted it into points. It was… metal, in a weird, normie-sports kind of way. A silent, efficient vengeance.
Halftime buzzed. The teams filed off. Steve was instantly on his feet, maneuvering down the bleachers like a man on a mission. He met you at the sideline, handing you a water bottle. He was talking fast, gesturing at the Clint player who’d fouled you, his face animated with protective anger.
You listened, taking a long drink. Then you said something short. Steve paused, his bluster deflating. He scrubbed a hand over his face, nodded, and then -- in a gesture so brotherly it made something in Eddie’s chest twinge -- he reached out and carefully adjusted the sweaty, wayward strands of hair stuck to your temple. You offered him a small, tired smile and punched his arm lightly before turning back to your team.
“See?” Dustin said, as if this little drama proved his point. “He’s like a mother hen. It’s kinda sweet, in a terrifying way.”
“Hmm,” Eddie hummed noncommittally, his eyes tracking you as you walked away. He’d expected a Harrington through and through: polished, popular, probably a little bit vapid. But you… you had your brother’s fire, but it was banked, controlled. You had a stillness to you amidst the storm of the game and Steve’s hovering. It was compelling in a way Eddie couldn't explain, mostly because he was actively trying not to find a normie jock compelling.
It helped, at least, that you didn't look exactly like Steve. You had his eyes and his hair color, but you were gorgeous on your own. Put together, hair curled into ringlets that were pulled back into a neat ponytail. Your body had gentle curves and he could see how smooth your skin was from the bleachers. He felt like a creep. But he wasn't oogling. Just.. observing.
"Steve will kill you." Dustin snorted, eyeing Eddie's quiet staring.
Eddie jerked his gaze away, a scowl snapping onto his face to cover the heat he felt creeping up his neck. "Shut up, Henderson. I'm observing the socio-cultural rituals of the normie herd. It's anthropology."
"Right," Dustin drawled, not buying it for a second. "You're 'observing' her sweat patterns. Very scientific."
"I'm observing the fact that your babysitter has the emotional regulation of a startled badger," Eddie shot back, gesturing to where Steve was now pacing the sidelines, glaring at the Clint players as they warmed up for the second half. "One wrong move and he's gonna storm the court."
"Protective," Dustin corrected, but he was grinning. He’d seen the way Eddie’s eyes had followed you. This was more interesting than any zone defense.
"Pig-headed." Eddie muttered to himself.
The second half was unremarkable (besides your performance, of course). Your team swiftly and efficiently buried Clint in the dust, establishing a 30 point lead by the end of the game. As the final buzzer rang, Eddie grabbed his discarded jacket and started for the exit.
He felt his sleeve being pulled.
"Where the hell are you going? We have to tell her good game." Dustin said, as if it was completely obvious.
Eddie froze, a deer in the headlights of Dustin’s relentless social obligation. “No. No, we absolutely do not have to do that. The social contract states that we attended, we observed, we suffered. The obligation is fulfilled. Good game sentiments are for… for people in the same tax bracket.”
Dustin rolled his eyes so hard Eddie feared they’d get stuck. “It’s called being nice, Eddie. She’s Steve’s sister. She’s cool. It’s two words. ‘Good’ and ‘game’. You can manage it. I’ve heard you form more complex sentences when describing a gelatinous cube.”
“That’s different! That’s art!” Eddie protested, but he was already being towed through the thinning crowd by the determined fourteen-year-old, a human shield/liability.
They arrived at the edge of the court just as Steve was finishing his proud-brother recap. Eddie hovered awkwardly behind Dustin, wishing fervently that he was anywhere else -- preferably somewhere with more darkness and fewer fluorescent lights.
He saw you wipe your face with a towel, your expression one of amused tolerance for Steve’s theatrics. Then your eyes shifted. Past Steve. Past Dustin. They landed on him.
It was like being struck by a soft, quiet lightning bolt. Your gaze was so direct, so utterly lacking in the pretense or pity he was used to. It was just… acknowledgement. Soft, humane, and strangely calming.
"You were awesome! And I don't even like sports that much, but still." Dustin grinned, his face full of child-like excitement. He clearly looked up to you, just as he did Steve. It was clear for anyone to see.
You smiled back at him, a genuine, warm smile that transformed your face, making something in Eddie's stomach flip without his permission. You acknowledged Mike, Lucas, Will with a kindness that seemed effortless. Then, you turned back to respond to Dustin.
"It's just ball. But.. thank you." You said humbly, patting Dustin's shoulder.
"It's not just ball. You're the best on the team. Easily." Steve, ever your biggest fan, continued to gas you up just as he had before the other boys arrived.
You rolled your eyes, but the fondness was undeniable. “You’re biased.”
“I’m objective!” Steve insisted, slinging an arm around your sweaty shoulders, ignoring your half-hearted squawk of protest. “It’s a scientific fact. Anyone with eyes can see it.”
It was then, with Steve’s arm around you, that your gaze drifted back past his shoulder to Eddie. You were still smiling, that warm, post-game glow softening your features, but your eyes held a different question now. They flickered between Steve’s proud, oblivious face and Eddie’s carefully neutral one, as if you were observing a fascinating, unspoken dynamic.
And then you spoke. Not to deflect, not to dismiss. You saw him. “Iron Maiden. Nice.”
Three words. That was all it took. Three words, and the carefully constructed wall between Eddie Munson and the world of Steve Harrington developed a hairline crack. He stared, his clever retorts dying on his tongue. You knew the band. You’d not only seen the patch, you’d recognized it. It was a tiny, inconsequential thing, but in the social ecosystem of Hawkins High, it felt like a secret handshake.
He managed to recover, his voice dropping into a tone of mock-appraisal. “You know your metal, Harrington?”
You smiled, a small blush dusting your cheeks. You were shy too. How fun.
"Sometimes." A simple, humble word that left everything open to interpretation. Sometimes I listen. Sometimes I like it. Sometimes I notice things.
His hand came up to rub the bottom of his chin, a small smirk curving onto his lips. He couldn't help it. The smirk was automatic, a way to channel the sudden, disorienting rush of triumph and vulnerability into something he knew how to wear.
"Sometimes," he repeated, letting the word roll around in his mouth like a new flavor. "Dangerous word, 'sometimes.' Leaves a guy guessing."
His eyes held yours, the playful challenge in them belying the frantic beat of his heart. He saw your blush deepen, just a shade, and it was the most thrilling thing he'd witnessed all night -- more than any three-pointer, more than any victory buzzer. He'd made the unflappable Y/N Harrington blush.
Steve, whose radar for any interaction involving his sister was finely tuned to a paranoid frequency, immediately picked up on the shift. The easy, proud-brother vibe hardened into something more alert. He stepped forward, his body subtly inserting itself into the space between your line of sight and Eddie.
"Alright," Steve said, his tone light but with a steel underneath. He put a guiding hand on your back. "You're still sweaty. Let's move out."
You allowed yourself to be steered, but not before you shot one last look over your shoulder. It wasn't the smile from before. It was a quick, bright glance, your eyes meeting Eddie's with a spark of curiosity, shyness, and interest. And then you were gone, swallowed by the hallway leading to the locker rooms.
He'd never felt so satisfied.
He'd expected you to have the same cocky bravado that your brother did, maybe even some of his goofy inability to shut up. But you were so different. You were quiet, humble, shy. A Harrington? Shy? Was it even possible for that to happen? It was the shyness that got him. That was the hook, sunk deep past his defenses. Steve Harrington was a lighthouse -- loud, obvious, impossible to miss. You were a carefully banked fire, warmth you had to get close to feel.
The following Monday, he saw you in the hallway. You were at your locker, head down as you swapped out books. Eddie, leaning against the lockers a dozen feet away with Gareth, pretended to be engrossed in a debate about the merits of a new dice set. But his eyes were on you.
He saw a guy from the basketball team -- a junior, broad-shouldered and grinning -- approach you. “Great game Friday, Harrington. You really showed ‘em.” The guy’s tone was friendly, but his posture was all swagger, leaning into your space.
You looked up, offered a small, polite smile that didn't reach your eyes. “Thanks, Mark.” Your voice was quiet. You turned back to your locker, a clear dismissal.
The guy, Mark, either didn't get the hint or chose to ignore it. He leaned closer. “A bunch of us are going to get pizza after practice tomorrow. You should come. Be nice to have the star player there.”
You stiffened, just a fraction. Your fingers tightened on the spine of your history book. Eddie saw it -- the subtle discomfort, the way you shrank ever so slightly. You weren't afraid; you were just… unwilling. And you didn't seem to have Steve’s loud, easy way of brushing people off.
Before Eddie could even think about moving, a voice cut through the hall.
“She’s got plans.”
Steve materialized from the crowd, his presence like a thunderclap. He didn't shove Mark, but he stepped smoothly between him and you, his smile wide and utterly devoid of warmth. “Family thing. Sorry, man.”
Mark backed off immediately, hands up in a ‘no problem’ gesture, his confidence evaporating under Steve’s pointed stare. “No worries, Harrington. Another time.”
Steve waited until Mark was gone before turning to you. His expression softened. “You okay?”
You nodded, that small, private smile returning. “I had plans?” you asked, a hint of amusement in your voice.
“You do now,” Steve said firmly, but he was smiling too. “My treat. I’m thinking… waffles.”
You laughed softly, and the tension left your shoulders. “Steve. I get out of practice at six. Waffles?”
“So? Waffles are a state of mind.” He slung an arm around you and steered you down the hall, throwing one last, sweeping glare around as if daring anyone else to try.
Eddie watched the whole scene, his blood humming. He’d been right. The shyness wasn't weakness. It was a preference for quiet. And you had a dragon for a brother, ready to breathe fire at the slightest hint of a threat. But you’d also handled it yourself, in your own quiet way, before Steve had even arrived. You’d been about to shut it down. Politely, firmly.
He wanted to hear you do it. He wanted to be the one you didn’t shut down. But he knew he couldn't do it the way Mark did. He had to sneak up on you, make you comfortable with his presence. Fond of him. Nudge you into a conversation rather than a full on push. And preferably without Steve punching him in the nose.
That afternoon, he skipped his usual haunt behind the bleachers. He went to the library. He found you at a corner table, head bent over a copy of The Catcher in the Rye, a highlighter in your hand. You were alone.
He slid into the chair across from you without a word.
You looked up, startled. Your eyes widened, and the blush -- god, that blush -- spread across your cheeks instantly. You glanced around, as if checking for Steve, then back at him.
“This is a study zone,” you whispered, your voice barely audible.
“I’m studying,” Eddie whispered back, leaning forward. He plucked the book from your hands, ignoring your gasp of protest. He glanced at the page. “Holden Caulfield. Phony-hating, melancholic rich kid. Overrated.”
You stared at him, shocked into silence for a moment. Then, a spark ignited in your eyes. Interest. “You’ve read it?”
“Everyone’s read it,” he said, handing it back. “It’s a rite of passage for disaffected youth. But if you want a real story about alienation and screaming into the void, you read Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. Or listen to Ride the Lightning.”
A soft smile that you tried to push down formed onto your face as you refocused onto the book.
"Maybe." Your attempt at dismissal was clear. A closed-ended response, intending to cut the conversation short.
Eddie didn't push. He saw the dismissal for what it was: not a rejection, but a test. A shy person’s wall, erected to see if he’d try to climb it clumsily or respect its boundaries. He chose the latter.
“Maybe,” he echoed, his tone thoughtful, as if considering the word itself. He leaned back in his chair, putting a little more space between them, a gesture of non-threat. “The patron saint of ‘maybe.’ That’s you, Harrington.” He tapped his own temple. “Keeps a guy on his toes, just like 'sometimes'. I respect it.”
He didn’t wait for a response. Instead, he reached into the inner pocket of his canvas bag and pulled out a battered, dog-eared paperback. He slid it across the table toward you. The cover was a psychedelic explosion of colors, the title in loud, drippy letters: Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas by Hunter S. Thompson.
“A counter-offer,” he said, his voice still low. “No pressure. No due date. Consider it… supplementary material. A different perspective on the great American freak-out.”
You stared at the book, then at him, your earlier attempt at closure clearly thrown. Your fingers hovered over the cover, not touching it. “I…"
You didn't know what to say. Usually, boys didn't get this far with you. He could see it. The slight widening of your eyes, the way your breath hitched just a fraction. You were thrown. Off-balance. Most guys, he guessed, either backed off at your quiet maybe or tried to bulldoze through it with louder compliments, bigger gestures. He’d done neither. He’d offered a book. A piece of his own weird, wonderful chaos, handed over without demand.
It was the perfect move.
He gave you a lazy, knowing smile, the kind that said I see you, and it's okay. "It's not gonna bite," he said, nodding at the book. "Well. The prose might. It's a little rabid. But in a fun way."
He pushed his chair back and stood up, the movement slow and deliberate. He didn't loom over you. He just gathered his bag, letting the moment stretch, letting you sit with the choice he'd laid in front of you.
"I'll be seeing you, Harrington," he said, his voice a low murmur meant just for you. He didn't say around. It was a promise, or a prediction, or maybe both. Then he turned and ambled out of the library, the chains on his boots making the softest chink-chink sound against the quiet.
He replayed the interaction in his mind a few times before the excitement wore off.
About a week later, he caught up to you, just like he said he would. Outside Dustin's house. The party was meeting up to hang out. Usually, if it didn't involve D&D, Eddie didn't come. But.. he had new motivation. He had parked his van down the road on the curb, walking up to the front lawn. Steve's car was in the driveway, so he knew you'd both be there.
With Max and El, you sat in a lawn chair, reclined into the sun. It was a warm day in October, so your sleeves were rolled up and you wore shorts, exposing skin that hadn't yet paled from its summer tan. The sight of you stopped him in his tracks for a moment. You were bathed in the golden, late-afternoon light, looking relaxed in a way he’d never seen you at school. You were laughing at something Max said, your head thrown back slightly, the line of your throat elegant and exposed. The sun caught your hair, turning it golden brown. You looked soft. Approachable. Real.
It was dangerous.
He shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his vest and forced his feet to move, the gravel of the Henderson driveway crunching under his boots. Dustin, who was trying to explain the rules of some complicated board game to a bewildered Will, spotted him first.
“Munson! You made it!” Dustin crowed, as if Eddie’s presence was a personal victory. Which, in a way, it was.
The chatter on the lawn paused. Mike and Lucas looked up from where they were attempting to fix Lucas’s bike chain. Steve, who had been leaning against his car with a Coke, straightened up, his smile remaining shockingly easy. Eddie was sure it wouldn't stay that way -- the more he tried to woo the unsuspecting man's sister.
And you. You stopped laughing. Your eyes found him, and that familiar, faint blush painted its way across your cheeks and the bridge of your nose. You sat up a little straighter in the lawn chair, pulling your knees to your chest -- a subtle, self-conscious gesture that sent a bolt of pure, possessive warmth straight through Eddie’s core. He knew it was because of him.
“Figured I’d see what the plebeians do for fun when they’re not rolling for initiative,” Eddie said, his voice carrying across the lawn with practiced nonchalance. He nodded at Steve. “Harrington.”
“Munson,” Steve replied, his tone neutral. The unspoken what are you doing here? hung in the air.
Eddie ignored it. His gaze slid back to you. “Harrington,” he said again, this time softer, the word just for you.
“Eddie,” you replied, your voice quiet but steady. You didn't look away.
Max, sharp as a tack, glanced between you and Steve, a slow, knowing grin spreading across her face. El just watched with serene curiosity.
“So, are you playing or what?” Dustin demanded, holding up a fistful of colorful game money.
“In a minute, Henderson. Let a man soak in the ambience.” Eddie’s eyes stayed on you. He took a few steps closer, stopping a polite distance away, leaning against the trunk of a large oak tree. “Burning the midnight oil with Thompson again, or have you recovered?”
You smiled, a small, private thing. “I’m recovering. I think I needed the sunshine.”
“Sunshine is overrated,” Eddie said, but he was smiling too. “All that… cheer. It’s suspicious.”
You actually laughed, a soft puff of air. “Suspicious?”
“Absolutely. Hides all the interesting shadows.” He let his gaze drift meaningfully around the sunny, suburban yard before bringing it back to you. “But I’ll allow it. For today.”
He was almost giddy at the genuine smile he'd managed to coax out of you. But he had to reign it in. He wasn't trying to get flattened by your brother today, especially not in front of you. It would be terribly embarrassing and detrimental to the metal brand. He saw the exact moment Steve decided to intervene. It was a subtle shift in the older Harrington’s posture -- the shoulders squaring, the easy slouch disappearing. Eddie felt the impending storm like a change in barometric pressure. He was skating on very thin ice over a lake of pure, protective, hairspray-scented rage.
Time for a tactical retreat.
“Well,” Eddie said, pushing off from the tree with a sigh that was only half-feigned. “Duty calls. Henderson’s about to bankrupt himself with poor property management, and someone’s gotta witness the carnage.” He gave you a small, conspiratorial wink. “Save the rest of the review for me, yeah? I want the director’s cut.”
When he turned around, he grinned at your brother.
"Easy, tiger. Just asking about a book. That's all. We both read."
Steve’s eyes narrowed, but the brotherly aggression bled out of his stance, replaced by skepticism. “You.. Read?”
“Shocking, I know,” Eddie said, spreading his hands in a gesture of mock innocence. “Words on pages. Sometimes they even have pictures. It’s wild.” He kept his tone light, teasing, but he made sure to meet Steve’s gaze head-on. No guilt. No backing down. Just two guys having a weird, tense standoff about literature in a backyard.
Steve glanced past him to where you were sitting with a mixture of apprehension and what looked like… salty amusement.
“Just keeping the intellectual currents flowing in this town, Harrington,” Eddie continued, slinging his thumbs through his belt loops. “Someone’s gotta do it. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a date with Monopoly-induced despair.”
He gave Steve a final, easy nod -- a peace offering that was also a declaration of I’m not scared of you -- and sauntered over to the game board. He threw himself down on the grass next to Dustin, immediately launching into a dramatic critique of Mike’s decision to buy Baltic Avenue.
“A bold strategy, Wheeler! Let’s see how it plays out for you when I park a hotel on Boardwalk!”
For the rest of the afternoon, he was the loud, chaotic, perfectly normal Eddie Munson. But his awareness was split. One part was on the game, harassing the kids. The other part was a high-frequency sensor tuned exclusively to you. He noted when you sat back down with Max and El, when you got up to get a drink, the soft sound of your voice when you spoke. He didn't look over often, but he didn't need to. He could feel your presence like a low, warm hum in the background of everything.
When the gathering broke up, he walked back to his van, the cool October air doing nothing to dampen the fire in his chest. He was so close. So close to breaking completely into your walls. He got closer every time. Sitting in the driver’s seat, he finally let the full, triumphant grin break free. He cranked the engine and slammed in a tape. The opening riff of “Run to the Hills” exploded through the speakers, a perfect, pounding anthem for his victory.
But.. not everything proved to be so peachy.
That next Tuesday night, as he did every Tuesday night, he sauntered into the local diner to secure his favorite. A beer he wasn't ID'd for and a slice of blackberry pie. The familiar scent of grease, french fries, and pastries flooded into his nose as he pushed the door open. It was usually empty around this time. During the day, the jocks were there for their after-practice pizza or cheeseburger, which is why he only came at night. But the surprise he felt when he came upon you sitting in a booth, alone and all dolled up, could've caved his chest in.
Your hair was curled, gorgeous as usual. You wore a light but unfamiliar dusting of makeup (that your naturally lovely face didn't need), with a thin layer of pink gloss on your lips. You were clearly dressed for a date -- a cute little skirt, a floral top, and pretty buckled up shoes. What really alarmed him, though, was the fact that mascara blackened tears steadily traveled down your cheeks.
It was bad enough that you'd come here for a date that wasn't with him. But it was even worse that, clearly and evidently, you'd been stood up. How or why someone would stand you up, he wasn't sure. But it had happened.
Every instinct in Eddie’s body screamed to march over to that booth, to slide in across from you, to demand a name so he could go find the guy and introduce his face to the business end of a wrench. But the raw, vulnerable devastation on your face -- the kind that came from a quiet, private humiliation -- stopped him cold. This wasn't a scene for his usual brand of chaotic intervention.
He stood frozen just inside the door, the bell above it giving a final, pathetic ting. You didn't look up. You were staring into a milkshake you hadn't touched, a single, fat tear plopping into the whipped cream.
Eddie’s heart did a painful, complicated twist. It wasn't just jealousy, though that was a hot, green coil in his gut. It was a fierce, protective rage on your behalf, mixed with a crushing wave of empathy. He knew what it was like to be the one left waiting. To be deemed not good enough, too much, too other. But for you? For you to be treated like this? It was an obscenity. He was sure Steve was probably out plotting a murder, even though the explanation for you being stood up may have been that he'd already committed one.
He took a slow, deep breath. The Eddie who would make a scene, who would crack a joke to deflect, who would play the loud, uncaring freak, retreated. Someone else stepped forward.
He walked to the counter, not to his usual stool, but to where Marge, the perpetually tired waitress, was refilling the ketchup bottles. “Hey, Marge,” he said, his voice low. “Two slices of the blackberry pie. Two forks. And two coffees. Put it on my tab.”
Marge gave him a knowing look, her eyes flicking to your hunched form in the booth, then back to him. She nodded once. “Comin’ up, hon.”
Eddie didn't go straight to your booth. He went to the jukebox in the corner, fed it a few quarters, and made a selection. Not Iron Maiden. Not something loud. He chose something slow, something old -- a melancholy, bluesy track that wouldn't intrude, just sit in the background like a sympathetic hum.
Then, carrying the two plates of pie and two mugs of coffee balanced precariously, he approached. He didn't ask if he could sit. He just slid into the booth opposite you, setting the desserts and coffee down with a soft clink.
You looked up, startled. Your eyes, red-rimmed and swimming, widened in surprise and a flicker of embarrassment. You quickly swiped at your cheeks. “Eddie. You don’t have to--”
“I know I don’t have to,” he interrupted, his voice gentle, a tone he rarely used. He nudged one of the pie plates and a fork toward you. “Blackberry. Best in town And the coffee’s fresh. Might as well not let a good outfit go to waste.”
You stared at the pie, then back at him. A fresh tear escaped, but a wobbly, incredulous smile touched your lips. “You’re not going to ask?”
“Nope,” he said, picking up his own fork. He took a bite, chewed thoughtfully. “Guy’s an idiot. That’s all the context I need. The ‘why’ is irrelevant. The facts are: you look beautiful, and he’s missing out on pie. His loss is my gain.”
He said it so matter-of-factly, with such complete, unwavering certainty, that it seemed to cut through the fog of your hurt. You let out a shaky breath, a sound halfway between a sob and a laugh, and picked up your own fork.
You didn't talk about the date. He didn't let you. He talked about the pie. He talked about Marge’s mysterious, possibly mob-connected husband. He talked about the time Gareth tried to use the diner’s grease trap in a questionable science experiment. He made you smile, then actually laugh -- a small, real one -- when he described Dustin’s attempt to order “the most protein-rich item on the menu” to fuel his brain.
He made the world small and safe, contained within the cracked vinyl of the booth. The jukebox played its sad, sweet song. The coffee steamed. The pie disappeared bite by bite.
When the tears had fully dried and your smile was a little steadier, he leaned back, studying you. “Feel like getting some air that doesn’t smell like fry oil?”
You nodded, looking relieved. “Yeah.”
He paid the tab, leaving a tip that made Marge raise her eyebrows. He held the door open for you, and you stepped out into the crisp night. He didn't try to take your hand. He just walked beside you, his hands in his pockets. Your skirt swished around your thighs, Mary Jane platforms crunching the gravel. You looked up at the moon, the light casting shadows. There was still mascara stuck to your cheeks, inky black.
He halted you for a moment, the touch on your wrist causing electricity to bolt up your arm. But the touch wasn't done yet.
Before he could stop himself, his hands came up to your face. Brown eyes bored into yours, a warm liquid sensation traveling down your spine, as he gently wiped the coal-colored makeup from your cheeks. The sensation was foreign, but not unpleasant. In fact, you were sure it was the most pleasant touch you'd ever felt. Eddie's fingers were rough from guitar strings, but gentle and soft in their ministrations.
He didn't just wipe; he cradled your face, his gaze locked on yours with an intensity that stole the breath from your lungs.
The world shrank to the space between his palms. The distant hum of traffic, the rustle of the autumn leaves, the chill in the air -- it all faded into a blur. All that existed was the warmth of his hands, the quiet shush of his thumbs against your skin, and the dark, bottomless pools of his eyes watching you, watching for any sign of protest or pain.
"There," he murmured, his voice a low rasp that vibrated in the quiet space between you. He didn't pull his hands away immediately. They lingered, his thumbs making one final, sweeping pass along your cheekbones, as if committing the clean lines of your face to memory. "No more evidence that you were even sad about that asshole."
You couldn't speak. You could only stare, your heart pounding a frantic rhythm against your ribs. The electricity from his initial touch had settled into a deep, resonant hum, a current that seemed to connect his skin to yours, buzzing with unspoken things.
Finally, slowly, he let his hands fall away, dropping back to his sides as if the action took great effort. The night air felt ten degrees colder where his touch had been. You missed it immediately. The loss was a physical ache. You stood there on the quiet street, the imprint of his hands still burning on your skin like a brand. You wanted to reach out, to pull them back, to feel that rough gentleness again. But you were frozen, held in place by the aftermath of his touch and the raw vulnerability still humming in your veins.
He saw it -- the want, the hesitation. A slow, understanding smile touched his lips, not smug, but profoundly tender.
"Steve would break my face right now." He said quietly.
The statement hung in the air, a stark, honest truth that somehow broke the tension without shattering the moment. It wasn't a complaint. It was an acknowledgment of the dangerous, delicious line they were walking.
A surprised, watery laugh escaped you. It was a small sound, but it felt like a release. "He would," you agreed, your voice still a little thick. "He'd use that nail bat he keeps in his trunk."
Eddie’s grin widened, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "See? You get it. The constant, looming threat of blunt force trauma. It's the foundation of any good courtship."
Courtship. The old-fashioned word, coming from him, sent another shiver through you. It felt deliberate. Chivalrous, even.
Eddie was a vision in the moonlight. Dark curls with almost a purple hue. Warm brown eyes, features pronounced in the shadows. The rings on his decorated hands glinted silver, chain bracelets hanging from a wrist. Since you'd first seen him, you'd acknowledged that no matter how odd people seemed to find him, no one could ever call him ugly. He was easy on the eyes, very much so. And it turned out that you didn't find him odd at all.
In fact, the yearning in your chest to kiss him was physically tangible. You'd never felt that way about a boy before. You'd hated most. But since Eddie had forced himself into your attention, you'd had thoughts of close to nothing but. The only thing that stopped you was hesitancy. Not even the threat of Steve. You could keep him at bay.
You felt Eddie coming closer now. You smelled his sharp, dark cologne, leather, and cigarettes. His intense stare mingled with yours.
"You okay?" He whispered.
His whisper was a soft vibration in the scant space between you. It wasn't just a question about the tears, or the diner, or the idiot who stood you up. It was a question about this. About him being this close, about the unspoken thing crackling in the air like static before a storm. It was a check-in, a last chance to retreat.
"Eddie?" You whispered, finally utilizing your voice.
"Hm?" He hummed, towering over you.
"Can I.. Can you.." You attempted, almost unable to get the question out. Your whisper quivered.
He understood. He saw the struggle in your eyes, the way your lips parted around a question you couldn't quite form. The yearning wasn't just in your chest; it was a live wire strung taut between you, vibrating with a need so palpable he could feel it in his own bones.
He didn't make you finish. He didn't tease. He simply bowed his head, bringing his face even closer, until his breath fanned warm against your lips. His voice dropped to a husk, a raw, intimate sound meant for you alone.
"Ask me," he murmured, his eyes holding yours captive. "Just ask me, sweetheart. I'm right here."
The permission, the gentle encouragement, was your undoing. It gave you the courage to voice the soft, burning words.
"Kiss me."
It wasn't a question by the end. It was a plea. A command. A revelation.
A slow, devastatingly tender smile touched his lips -- the last thing you saw before his eyes fluttered shut. "God, yes," he breathed, the words a prayer against your mouth.
And then he did.
His kiss was everything you'd dreamed and nothing you could have imagined. It was soft, at first -- a reverent press of his lips to yours, a silent thank you for asking, for wanting. Then it deepened, as his arms slid around you, pulling you flush against him. One hand splayed wide on your back, anchoring you; the other cradled the base of your skull, his fingers tangling gently in your hair.
He kissed you like he was learning you, like you were a map to a treasure he'd spent his whole life searching for. There was hunger there, a pent-up intensity that made your head spin, but it was tempered by a breathtaking sweetness, a care that left you utterly disarmed.
You melted into him, your own hands finding purchase on his shoulders, then sliding up to cup his jaw, feeling the frantic pulse beneath his skin. The world ceased to exist. There was only the scent of him, the taste of coffee and night, the solid warmth of his body against yours, and the exquisite, consuming rightness of his mouth on yours.
When you finally broke apart, gasping for air, you were trembling. He was too. He rested his forehead against yours, his breathing ragged, his eyes still closed.
"Okay," he whispered again, but this time it was a dazed, wondrous sound. He opened his eyes, and the look in them -- full of awe and a fierce, blazing joy -- made your knees weak. "Yeah. Now Steve's definitely gonna kill me."
You laughed, the sound bright and clear in the quiet night. You slid your hand from his cheek to the back of his neck, your fingers tangling in the soft curls at his nape. "Worth it," you murmured.
Then, you ran to his van with the promise of Eddie driving you home.
The drive to your house was a blur of murmured nothings and stolen glances, the silence between you now a comfortable, charged hum instead of an awkward void. Eddie’s hand found yours on the gearshift, his fingers lacing through yours, the cool metal of his rings pressing against your skin -- a tangible reminder of the ring already warming on your thumb. He didn’t let go until he had to put the van in park in front of your darkened house.
He killed the engine, and the sudden quiet felt immense. The only light came from the porch lamp and the faint glow of the dashboard, painting his profile in soft gold and deep shadow.
"Saturday," he said, his voice firm now, a vow. "It's a date. A real one. No shadows, unless they're on a movie screen. Just you and me."
"Just you and me," you echoed, the words a promise.
He kissed you once more, quick and sweet, a seal on the agreement. Then, with obvious reluctance, he took a step back, putting space between you again. The cold air rushed in, but you didn't feel it. You were burning from the inside out.
"Get inside," he said, his voice rough with emotion. "Before I do something really stupid, like kiss you again and forget about your brother entirely."
You smiled, a real, full, unreserved smile that lit up your whole face. "Goodnight, Eddie."
"Goodnight, Y/N."
You turned and walked into your house, your steps light. You didn't look back, but you knew he was watching until the door closed. Leaning against it, you touched your lips, still tingling from his kiss.
The hesitation was gone.
All that was left was a scolding from your twin brother (whom you'd quickly neutralized), chapped lips from kissing, and a very, very hopeful future.
pairing: steve harrington x byers!reader
summary: the three times steve tried to take things further, and the one time you let him.
themes & warnings: fluff, reader is hesitant to let herself fall in love, byers!reader, pt two to cherry slushies, friends to lovers, steve is persistent af, YEARNING, slow burn kinda if u squint, will is cute and ships it, kind of angsty if u squint
part 2 to: cherry slushies (1)
You were completely thriving.
Letting go of all of your emotional baggage had more benefits than it did the harm you'd thought it would do. In fact, you felt completely and utterly free. And in a wild twist of fate, you'd gained a new best friend (behind your brothers, of course). Steve Harrington was by your side whenever he could manage.
It started with the slushies. Then it became a ritual. Every Tuesday, after his shift at the video store and before you closed up the garage, Steve would appear in your bay, two cherry slushies in hand. No excuses about brake pads or squeaks. Just the slushies, and Steve, leaning against your workbench, filling you in on the latest Hawkins drama.
It was a friendship forged in the quiet aftermath of a war. He’d tell you about Robin’s latest conspiracy theory about the mall manager. You’d complain about old man Murdoch’s ancient diagnostic computer. He’d help you hold a heavy transmission in place; you’d help him brainstorm ways to impress a girl he was never going to ask out (his attempts were painfully transparent, and you took great joy in pointing out every flaw in his plans).
You became a unit. The kids noticed first, of course. Dustin started calling you “Steve’s other half” until you threatened to revoke his arcade fund. Will just smiled that knowing little smile and would casually mention you in conversations with Steve, watching with satisfaction as his friend’s face would light up.
You were the person Steve called when his dad was being particularly shitty, and he’d just sit in silence on the other end of the line while you clanked tools in the background. You were the person he drove to the 24-hour diner at 2 AM after a nightmare about demo-dogs, and you’d share a plate of greasy fries without talking about it.
You were his emergency contact. You were the first person he thought to call when he found a stray, matted cat behind Family Video (you helped him bathe it, and now it ruled his house, named ‘Y/N Jr’ at your suggestion).
It was easy. Shockingly, stupidly easy. He fit into the cracks of your life like he’d always been there, filling spaces you hadn’t realized were empty. The fierce, protective love you had for your family… it extended to him now, too. He was one of yours. Your stupid, loyal, fluffy-haired friend who brought you terrible gas station drinks and made you laugh until your ribs ached.
Being your best friend was great, it really was. Steve never wanted to seem ungrateful for it. But.. there was always that nagging thing at the back of his head, screaming that he wanted more. He'd wanted more since over a year ago. He tried to ignore it, tried to suppress it so that he didn't scare you off or make you hate his guts again. But sometimes it pushed so far forward that you’d started to catch him looking at you sometimes -- during a lull in conversation, while you were bent over an engine, when you laughed at one of his jokes -- with a look that was no longer just friendly awe. It was deeper. Hungrier. A look that promised he was just waiting for the signal to be all-in on something else entirely.
Despite all of the picture-perfect girls in Hawkins, with perfectly rolled hair and glossy, manicured nails, he couldn't even spare them a passing glance anymore. It scared him -- mostly because those were the type of girls he'd go wild about in high school. Now, there was only you. There had only been you since you ruthlessly defended your brother at the expense of Steve's ribs. The wild-haired, deep eyed Byers with a soul-rewarding smile when he finally cracked you up, and a foundational love for everyone you cared about.
After a while though, it pushed so far forward that it was impossible to ignore. He couldn't do it.
The first incident was at the quarry. You were all there -- the Party, Steve, you, Robin -- for a D&D meet that was really just an excuse to skip stones and soak up the last of the summer sun. You were sitting on the hood of Steve’s BMW, listening to Dustin explain something impossibly complex about wizards, or trolls, or some shit.
While the Party nerded out, you, Steve, and Robin went swimming. Robin swam towards the rocks, dawdling about on her own accord, while you and Steve took the more childish approach. Splashing water at each other.
"You look like a drowned rat, Harrington!" You cackled, throwing another wave of quarry water at Steve's face. He wiped it off quickly, a wide, playful grin spreading across his face.
"Oh yeah?"
You heard the challenge in his response, gearing yourself up to be drowned.
He launched himself through the water towards you, not to splash, but to gently dunk you under the surface. It was a move born of pure, boyish impulse. You came up sputtering, laughing, shoving his shoulders. He was close, so close in the cool water, your bodies brushing with each small wave, the sounds of the kids fading to a distant buzz.
His laughter died in his throat. Your laughter faded too. You were treading water, faces inches apart, breath mingling. Droplets clung to his lashes, to the curve of your lips. The playful energy evaporated, replaced by something dense and potent. His gaze dropped to your mouth, then snapped back up to your eyes, wide and searching.
This was it. The moment. The water held you both suspended, the perfect, isolated excuse. He could close the distance. He could kiss you, and it could be written off as a crazy, spontaneous quarry thing. A mistake born of sunlight and splashing.
He leaned in, just a fraction. His nose brushed yours. You didn't pull away. Your breath hitched, your eyes fluttering shut for a heartbeat. So close, so close, so close, so--
You pulled away. The relaxed haze in your eyes turned into a startled fear, a realization. You swam backwards with a frantic, uncoordinated kick, putting several feet of cold, clear water between you. The air that had felt charged and sweet a second ago now felt thin.
"Sorry," you blurted out, the word too loud, too harsh. You weren't even sure what you were apologizing for. For almost letting it happen? For pulling away? "I... I think I swallowed some water."
It was the lamest excuse in the history of excuses. Steve just stared at you, the hope in his eyes crumbling into raw perception. He'd seen it -- the moment you'd shut down, the walls slamming back into place. It was a rejection out of fear to allow yourself to feel something.
"Yeah," he said, his voice flat. "The quarry water's... gross."
He turned and swam for the shore, leaving you treading water alone, the ghost of his near-kiss clinging to your lips more persistently than the water. You'd rejected the possibility, and in doing so, you'd confirmed its existence. The line wasn't just tapped anymore; it was glowing neon.
The ride home was silent. Steve didn't try to make small talk about Robin or the weather. He just drove, sensing that you needed your space. When he pulled up to your house, you couldn't even manage a "see you Tuesday." You just muttered a thanks and fled inside.
It was weird for a week or two. But then, you slowly went back to pretending it never happened. You, luckily, resumed being the wild friends with lots of chemistry. It was better for Steve than things being weird. But still unsatisfactory.
The second slip-up was a collective one.
You were sick. Very sick. The product of your cough was yellow, you could barely breath out of your nose, and you had a fever and chills that wracked your body. And to add to the rest of it, your throat was raw from vomiting.
Steve hadn't seen you in a week. He was suffering withdrawals. You weren't at work on Tuesday, so two cherry slushies went to waste. With confusion in his tone, he'd called the Byers landline to figure out where you were. He'd gotten ahold of Joyce at first, who's voice crackled through the phone with worry.
"She's come down with something. It's bad, Steve, but she just won't go to the hospital."
Steve released a sigh, but it was a knowing one, not one of shock.
"If you could stop by, that would be great! You're probably the only one she'll listen to," your mother had said eagerly. Steve wanted to tell her she was wrong, that you would, in fact, not listen. But he felt awful about how concerned your household was for you. And he missed you.
Steve was at your house in under ten minutes. He didn't even knock; he just pushed the front door open with the casual authority of someone who belonged there, a bag from the drugstore in one hand. He found you on the couch, buried under a mountain of blankets, looking tragically small and pale. Your hair was a wild, sweat-damp nest, and your eyes were glassy with fever.
“Harrington,” you croaked, your voice a ruined thing. “No slushies. Contagion zone.”
“Shut up,” he said softly, but there was no bite in it. He dropped the bag on the coffee table and knelt beside the couch. His cool hand came up to press against your forehead, his brows furrowing. “Jesus, you’re burning up.”
“I’m fine,” you mumbled, trying to shove his hand away, but you had the strength of a wet noodle.
“You’re an idiot,” he corrected, his voice tender. He pulled out a bottle of Gatorade, some pills, and a box of tissues. “Joyce said you won’t go to the hospital.”
“Hate hospitals,” you rasped, a shiver wracking your frame.
Steve didn’t argue. He just got to work. He made you sip the Gatorade. He timed your fever meds. He piled more blankets on you when you shook, and peeled them back when you got clammy. He sat on the floor next to the couch, reading aloud from a trashy magazine he found, his voice a low, steady rumble that seemed to vibrate through the floorboards and into your fever-addled bones.
At some point, you must have dozed off. You woke to the feeling of a cool, damp cloth being dabbed gently on your neck, your temples. Steve’s face was close, his expression focused, utterly absorbed in the simple task of tending to you. In the quiet, dim living room, with the world shut out, it felt profoundly intimate.
Your hazy, sick-brain bypassed all your usual defenses. Your hand, weak and trembling, came up from under the blankets. Your fingers brushed against his wrist, where his sleeve was rolled up.
“Steve,” you whispered.
He froze, the cloth stilling on your skin. “Yeah?”
“Stay. 'M so cold.”
It wasn't a request born of romantic feeling. It was the raw, desperate plea of a sick person who didn't want to be alone in the dark with a fever. But in the charged silence of the room, it felt like so much more.
To his shock, you shifted and lifted the blankets. He actually was tempted to check to see if it was still you and not an alien in your skin. The last time he had been that close to you, you jumped away like he'd bite you. But this was different. You were sick, vulnerable, and you were asking. Not for a kiss, but for warmth. For presence. It was a trust fall of the highest order.
Hesitantly, as if moving through a dream, Steve set the cloth aside. He didn't climb under the blankets fully. That felt like too much, a breach of the fragile trust you were offering. Instead, he carefully sat on the edge of the couch, his back against the cushions, and lifted his legs to rest on the coffee table. Then, he gently pulled the edge of the quilt over his legs, creating a shared tent of warmth.
You immediately shifted, not away, but toward. Your fever-hot body curled into his side, your head finding a resting place against his shoulder with a tired sigh. He froze again, every muscle taut, afraid a single wrong move would shatter the moment.
Then, slowly, he let himself relax. He brought his arm up, not daring to wrap it around you, but letting it rest along the back of the couch, a loose barrier. Your hair tickled his chin. He could feel the dry heat of your skin through his t-shirt, the faint, ragged rhythm of your breathing.
This was it. Closer than he’d ever been, in a way that was terrifyingly intimate and completely chaste. He was a furnace for your chills, a solid wall for your weakness. He stayed perfectly still, listening to your breathing even out again into sleep, committing every second to memory -- the weight of you against him, the scent of sweat and sickness and your shampoo, the absolute, quiet trust of it.
He didn't sleep. He didn't move. He just stayed, as asked, a sentinel in the dark, guarding the fragile, feverish girl who had, for one night, let down her final guard. It was a gift he’d never dared to hope for. And as dawn light began to filter through the curtains, painting the room in soft grays, Steve Harrington knew, with a certainty that settled deep in his bones, that he was utterly, completely ruined for anyone else. You had broken into his ribs with a kick, and now you were breaking his heart with a blanket and a whisper. And he would let you do it every single time.
But when you awoke, Steve wasn't there. You were alone with the realization that you'd almost ruined things yet again. But your fever had receded slightly, your nose was a bit more breathable. Yet your guts felt like they'd been slammed with an anvil. You were an idiot, succumbing to desires that you had no business wanting.
Clearly Steve thought the same, you'd assumed. But you were wrong. He'd simply left so that you couldn't realize this wasn't actually what you wanted and push him away again, making his chest ache.
Once again, after your full recovery, you pretended this never happened.
The third time you'd yanked yourselves away from each other was when Steve had a date. Steve had a date. He'd come into the garage this Tuesday with two slushies and the crushing news that when he'd literally cuddled you to sleep in your house, it meant nothing. He hadn't exactly said that, but he basically had when he told you he had a date with Tammy Thompson on game night, so he wouldn't be there.
You tried not to let it sour you up. You didn't deserve to. You'd done enough pushing him away that you'd look like a huge, asshole hypocrite if you got upset. But you couldn't help it. As much as you fought it, you felt the resentment and jealousy pour into your veins like a wave from the ocean.
You worked under a Civic, silently listening to Steve talk about his stupid fucking date, squeezing the ratchet in your hand with painful force.
"--and then we're gonna go get ice cream. Too cheesy?" He questioned.
The ratchet slipped, banging loudly against the frame of the car. You swore, more from the jolt of fury than the pain.
“Y/N? You okay under there?” Steve’s voice was tinged with concern.
“Fine,” you gritted out, your voice tight. “Just… tight bolt.”
Silence. Then you heard the scrape of his stool as he moved closer. “You sure? You’ve been quiet.”
“I’m working,” you snapped, the words sharper than intended.
He didn’t respond for a moment. You could feel his gaze on you, even from under the car. “Right. Sorry.” His voice had lost its earlier, nervous excitement. It was flat. Careful.
You couldn’t stand it. The fake cheer, the careful distance, the fact that he was going to be smiling at Tammy Thompson while you were sitting at home on game night, pretending you didn’t care. The jealousy was a live wire, burning through your carefully constructed indifference.
Taking a deep breath, you restored the careful wall you had up, hiding your anger and jealousy. Now, there was only indifference. You slid out from under the car, your face blank, not wanting to reveal yourself.
"Not too cheesy. It'll be fine." You said coolly, wiping your hands with a rag.
The coolness in your voice, the blankness of your face -- it was a weapon you’d used on him before, but this time, it landed differently. It didn't push him away. It made him stop.
He studied you, his own casual posture stiffening. The forced smile he’d been wearing faltered and died. He saw right through the indifference. He’d become an expert in your tells, and the rigid set of your shoulders, the too-careful wiping of your hands, screamed anything but 'fine'.
“Will you be there?” he asked, his voice quiet, dropping the pretense of the date entirely. “At game night? If I… if I don’t go?”
The question hung in the oily air, a direct challenge to your wall. He wasn’t asking about D&D. He was asking if you wanted him there. If you’d choose his presence over your own pride.
You kept your eyes on the rag, twisting it in your hands. “It’s game night. Everyone’s there.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
You finally looked at him. The carefully constructed indifference was cracking, revealing the hurt and jealousy simmering beneath. “Why does it matter, Steve? You have a date. With Tammy. Go have your stupid ice cream and get out of my garage.”
Steve frowned at your harsh behavior.
"Why are you acting like that?"
You turned towards him, your eyes now blazing.
"Like what?" You snapped venomously, daring him to continue. But he'd never been scared of you. Not even when he should've been.
"Like you did when you hated me." He responded, his voice low.
The words were a bucket of ice water. They stopped your venomous tirade cold. Like you did when you hated me.
You stared at him, the anger draining from your face, leaving behind a cold, sick horror. That’s exactly what you were doing. You were rebuilding the fortress, brick by furious brick, because it was easier than admitting the terrifying truth: you didn’t hate him at all. You were in love with him, and the thought of him with someone else felt like a physical wound. But it didn't matter. You weren't someone who ever got what they wanted. You were a Byers, and a Byers never got the happy ending.
"I don't-- Just go, Steve." You said, deflated.
You were tired of fighting your feelings in the face of disappointment. If things were ever going to work between you and Steve, he wouldn't have arranged a date with a woman who was nowhere similar to you.
"Y/n--"
"Go." You bit out, your anger beginning to reignite.
Without another word, Steve grabbed his keys and left the garage. You ignored how hurt his face looked. You ignored how his eyes seemed to shimmer, as if holding tears back. You ignored everything and slid back under the Civic, working with gritted teeth.
Things had officially met their climax. And at their climax, you thought, they'd met their end. Your inability to contain your jealousy had ruined one of the only good things you had.
Grunting, you slid out from under the car, throwing your wrench at the wall with frustration. It made a loud sound, a clang assaulting your ears.
A tear dripped from your eye as you packed up to leave.
The fourth and final time, the time that your walls finally collapsed, was in the aftermath.
Game night was cancelled for Steve's date, as if that could make it any worse. You sat in your living room with a gallon of ice cream, a murderous expression on your face, eating it aggressively and watching some dumb soap opera on the crackly TV. Jonathan sat in the recliner across from you, Will curled up beside you, and your mom sat in the kitchen doing a crossword puzzle. They all knew what the problem was. It was easy to tell.
The silence in the living room was broken only by the melodramatic whispers from the TV and the angry scrape of your spoon against the cardboard ice cream tub. You were demolishing a gallon of "Midnight Marshmallow Madness," a neon blue atrocity you’d chosen specifically for its aggressive, synthetic cheerfulness.
Jonathan glanced over the top of his photography magazine, his expression a mix of sympathy and exasperation. “You know, eating your feelings is technically a form of emotional processing. But I think you’re trying to hurt your ice cream.”
“Shut up,” you mumbled around a mouthful of blue goo.
Will, nestled under your arm, patted your leg. “He’s just worried you’re gonna get a stomachache, sissy.”
“I’m fine,” you said, the words dripping with a bitterness that contradicted them entirely. His sweet, innocent brotherly nickname that he usually weaponized to get you to be nice failed miserably.
From the kitchen, the sound of a pencil tapping impatiently on the Formica table cut through the soap opera’s swelling music. “Honey,” Joyce called, her voice carrying that particular motherly tone that was both gentle and unyielding. “You’ve been ‘fine’ for two hours and two-thirds of that tub. The ice cream didn’t do anything to you.”
“It’s keeping me company,” you shot back, digging your spoon in with renewed vigor.
Jonathan set his magazine down. “Look. We get it. Steve’s an idiot. We all know he fucked up," he asserted.
"Language, Jonathan!" Your mother scolded from the kitchen.
"But sitting here poisoning yourself with artificial dye isn’t gonna change that.” He finished.
“I’m not trying to change anything!” you snapped, finally looking at him. “I’m just… sitting here. Watching TV. Is that a crime now?”
“It is when you’re using the spoon like a weapon,” Will observed quietly, wisely ducking his head as you glared at him.
Joyce appeared in the doorway, her arms crossed. She looked tired, but her eyes were sharp. “You’re hurting, sweetie. And that’s okay. What’s not okay is letting that hurt turn you back into the girl who assaults people in alleys and gets arrested.”
The words hit their mark. You deflated, the fight going out of you. You stared down at the half-melted blue sludge in the tub. “I just… I finally let the wall down. And he just… walked right through it and out the other side to get ice cream with Tammy Thompson.” The name tasted like ash. You looked down at the ice cream in your lap like it was an accomplice in Steve's crime, then slammed another spoon full.
“Did he?” Jonathan asked, his voice deceptively calm.
“He said he had a date!”
“So what if he does?” Joyce murmured, exchanging a knowing look with Jonathan. “Steve does stupid things when he’s scared.”
“Scared of what?” you grumbled, but the question lacked its earlier heat.
Before anyone could answer, a familiar, tentative knock sounded at the front door.
Four pairs of Byers eyes snapped to the sound.
You froze, spoon hovering midway to your mouth.
Joyce raised an eyebrow at you. “Well? Are you going to answer it, or are you going to make him stand out there all night? I don’t think the ice cream’s going to help you with this one, baby.”
The gallon tub suddenly felt like a lead weight in your hands. The walls you’d spent the evening feverishly reconstructing felt paper-thin. The climax had passed, leaving you in the wreckage. And Steve Harrington was knocking on the door, ready or not.
You scrambled up, slamming the ice cream down on the coffee table, and went to answer the door.
Steve Harrington stood outside the front door. He looked like hell. His hair was a mess, as if he’d been running his hands through it for hours. His eyes were red-rimmed. In his hands, he held not a cherry slushie, but a sad, slightly melted single-serving cup of vanilla ice cream from the Gas-N-Sip. The cheap kind.
You stared at him, then at the pathetic little cup, then back at his face. The anger, the hurt, the blue-dye-induced nausea -- it all coalesced into a single, stunned thought: He looks worse than I feel.
“You’re supposed to be on a date,” you said, your voice hollow.
“I was,” he said, the words rough. “For about twenty minutes. At the diner. Then she started talking about her vocal exercises for regionals, and all I could think about was how you’d make that face -- the one where you try not to laugh but your nose scrunches up anyway.” He took a shaky breath. “And then I just… left. I told her I had an emergency. I think she cried. I’m probably an asshole.”
You stepped outside into the summer air, closing the door behind you. Your socked feet could feel every pebble beneath you on the doorstep.
He held up the little cup of ice cream. “I got this. For you. It’s not cherry, and it’s not a slushy, but… you like ice cream. I thought maybe… Peace offering?” He questioned, his confidence faltering under your gaze.
From the living room, there was a sudden, exaggerated scrape of chairs and the sound of the TV clicking off. “Well!” Joyce’s voice carried, bright and false. “Will, Jonathan, help me with the dishes! In the kitchen. Right now.”
You didn’t turn around. You heard the hurried shuffle of your family retreating, granting you privacy. The front porch light buzzed softly, painting Steve in a sickly yellow glow.
“Why?” you asked, the word barely a whisper.
“Because I’m an idiot,” he said, stepping closer, forcing you to either step back or let him in. You held your ground. “Because I got scared. Because you let me hold you when you were sick, and it was the best thing that’s ever happened to me, and then you looked at me like a stranger the next day, so I knew it was the right choice to leave before you woke up. And I thought… I thought if I tried to move on, if I proved I could, then maybe it wouldn’t hurt so much that you didn’t want me.”
You frowned. “I never said I didn’t want you, Steve.”
His eyes widened, a flicker of desperate hope in the storm. “Then what do you want, Y/N? Because I’m going crazy here. The quarry, the couch… every time I get close, you run. And I get it. I do. I’m Steve ‘The Hair’ Harrington. I was a dick. I have a history. But that’s not who I am with you. You have to know that.”
Tears pricked your eyes, blurring his anxious face. “I know that,” you choked out. “It’s not you I’m scared of, Steve. It’s me. It’s this.” You gestured weakly between the two of you. “Byers don’t get… this. We get monsters and moving vans and broken taillights. We don’t get… cherry slushies and stupid, perfect boys who hold us when we’re sick. It doesn’t work out. It can’t. Something always goes wrong.”
He dropped the Gas-N-Sip ice cream on the small table by the door. It landed with a soft thud. Both of his hands hurriedly came up, cradling your face, his thumbs brushing away the tears that were now falling in earnest. The closest you'd ever let him get to you. His touch was warm, calloused from basketball and stupid, chivalrous fights, and so unbearably gentle.
“Then let it go wrong,” he pleaded, his voice cracking. “Let the world end. Let the Upside Down break through again. I don’t care. I want you. I have since I looked up and realized you whooped my ass. Please. Just… let me in. All the way in.”
It was the rawest thing anyone had ever said to you. It wasn’t a smooth line. It wasn’t a promise of forever. It was a plea to face the inevitable disaster together. It was so perfectly, terribly Steve. The last of your walls, built from years of protecting a family that had seen too much, crumbled into dust. They didn’t fall with a dramatic crash, but with a quiet, final sigh.
You leaned into his hands, closing your eyes for a second, letting the feel of him anchor you. When you opened them, you saw only him -- his hurting, beautiful face, his ridiculous hair, his heart right there in his eyes, offered to you without conditions.
“Okay,” you whispered.
His breath hitched. “Okay?”
You nodded, a fresh tear tracing a path his thumb had already cleared. “Okay. But you’re explaining to the kids. Including my brothers.”
A laugh burst out of him, a ragged, relieved sound that was half-sob. “Deal.”
He didn’t kiss you then. Not yet. Instead, he pulled you into his chest, wrapping his arms around you so tightly it almost hurt. You buried your face in the familiar soft cotton of his t-shirt, breathing in the scent of him -- laundry detergent, cheap cologne, and Steve. Your arms wound around his waist, holding on just as tight.
You stood there on the porch, tangled together in the buzzing yellow light, for a long time. From the kitchen window, three pairs of Byers eyes discreetly looked away, smiles on their faces.
Finally, he leaned back, just enough to look at you. His eyes were clear now, shining. He brushed a stray strand of hair from your forehead. “So… you're my girl now, right? So you can't punch me anymore?”
You smiled, a real one, for the first time all day. It felt like the sun coming out. “Shut up, Harrington.”
And then, because the waiting was over, and the walls were down, and you were finally, finally done being scared, you kissed him.
It wasn’t a quarry kiss, born of impulse and water. It was a porch kiss, born of melted ice cream and tear-stained admissions and a long, hard road. It was soft, and a little salty, and so right it made your bones ache. His hands slid into your hair, and yours fisted in the back of his shirt, pulling him closer.
When you finally broke apart, foreheads resting together, he was grinning that lopsided, heart-stopping grin.
“Maybe only once a month then,” he corrected, his voice a low hum against your lips. "But make it gentle."
You laughed, the sound light and free, echoing in the quiet Hawkins night. “Yeah,” you agreed, stealing one more quick kiss. “Alright.”
When Will got together with his friends the next day, he couldn't shut up about it.
“And then they kissed,” Will finished, triumphantly, as if delivering the final, winning piece of evidence. “And Mom made us all stay in the kitchen and pretend to wash already-clean dishes for like, twenty minutes after. But I saw through the crack in the door. They just held each other for forever.”
Max, who had been quietly listening while sharpening the edge of a skateboard with a file, finally spoke up, a small, rare smile on her lips. “Took them long enough. The sexual tension was giving me a migraine.”
“Ew, Max!” Mike groaned, while the others laughed.
Will just beamed, hugging a throw pillow to his chest. He felt a proprietary sort of joy about the whole thing. He’d seen it first. He’d known before anyone, maybe even before Steve and his sister themselves. He’d watched the story unfold from the couch, a front-row seat to the best kind of monster-less adventure.
“So,” Dustin said, leaning forward, his scientific curiosity piqued. “What’s the protocol now? Does this mean Steve officially becomes, like, a Byers? Does he get a Christmas stocking at your house?”
Will grinned. “Mom’s already talking about adding more leaves to the table for Thanksgiving.”
The basement erupted into a fresh wave of discussion -- debates on couple nicknames (vehemently vetoed by Will), predictions on how long it would take for Steve to try and fix something at the Byers house only to make it worse (Lucas gave it a week), and whether this meant they could guilt-trip Steve into more free rentals at Family Video (Dustin’s primary concern).
But Will tuned most of it out, still lost in the perfect memory of the night before: his fierce, stubborn sister, finally choosing something soft. And Steve Harrington, the former king of Hawkins High, looking at her like she’d hung the moon, holding a cup of crappy ice cream like it was a holy offering.
He had the best sister ever. He really did. And she was finally happy.
pairing: steve harrington x byers!reader
summary: you kick the shit out of steve harrington for messing with your brother -- from that moment on, he's sickeningly infatuated with you.
themes & warnings: byers! twin reader, intro takes place around the time that jonathan beats steve up but instead of jonathan its reader!!, switches time periods after intro, slow burn, not accurate to plot necessarily, reader is kind of mean, lovesick steve, descriptions of violence, enemies to ALMOST lovers
The Byers' family women had always been fierce.
You defended your brothers in more than one way -- in all of the ways that your mother couldn't be there for. You'd joined forces to make sure that your brothers' sensitive souls were always protected. Jonathan, your twin, was gentle, quiet, and never one to snap. Will was the same.
That couldn't be said for you or your mom.
You'd socked more bullies in the face than you could count when you were in middle school. When things were their worst for Jonathan, no one could so much as look at him without you kicking them in their knees with your sparkly pink sneakers, promptly ensuring that no one would ever touch him again or get the chance to say something that he'd think about for days after.
Will, your younger brother, knew you extended the same type of protection to him. But instead of putting your hands on people, you terrified the little shits by chasing them in your Sedan, honking loudly. You'd yank the window down and yell something in warning, then drive away satisfied.
You were the spitting image of Joyce.
You were a storm in a hand-me-down flannel. The spitfire second child, born ten minutes after Jonathan and inheriting all the fight he seemed to have been born without. Where Jonathan observed the world through a camera lens, absorbing its pain and beauty quietly, you met it head-on, fists up and teeth bared. You were your mother’s daughter through and through -- the same wild curls, the same wide, expressive eyes that could flash from warmth to warning in a heartbeat, the same stubborn set to your jaw that said try me.
Joyce fought monsters you couldn’t see, battles with bills and bad wiring and a world that felt constantly tilted against her. You fought the monsters you could. The ones with names like Troy and James, who shoved Will into lockers and called Jonathan a freak. Your weapon of choice evolved with age: the sparkly pink sneakers of middle school gave way to a terrifying competence with your father’s old wrench, the one he'd left when he did, and finally, to a reputation. A reputation that said, mess with a Byers, and you answer to her.
Jonathan never asked you to fight his battles. He’d just give you a small, irritated frown when you came home with scraped knuckles, wordlessly cleaning you up at the kitchen sink. Will would look at you with a mixture of awe and worry, knowing his big sister was a force of nature, one he was secretly grateful was on his side.
The Byers family was a fortress, and you were its most volatile, loyal guard. You loved fiercely, protected violently, and held a grudge like it was a cherished heirloom. You didn’t start fights, but you sure as hell finished them.
When Will went missing, it wracked you and your brother's souls -- and destroyed your mother's. She was spiraling out of control, and you two were desperately trying to hold her together in any way you could. Caught between missing and grieving Will and making sure your mother would survive, it definitely made things tense.
The world had gone silent in the worst way. Will’s absence wasn't just an empty chair at dinner; it was a scream that had sucked all the sound out of the house, leaving only the frantic, scraping noise of your mother’s fear. You watched her tape up Christmas lights, her hands trembling, her eyes seeing things you couldn't. The fortress was cracking, and you and Jonathan stood in the breach, holding up the crumbling walls with your bare hands.
You took the night shifts, patrolling the quiet, oppressive dark of the house with Lonnie’s old wrench held tight, your knuckles white. Jonathan took the days, following your mother on her desperate errands, a silent, anxious shadow. You communicated in looks, in sighs, in the way you’d wordlessly make a pot of coffee at 3 AM for the other. The twin bond, usually a quiet understanding, had become a taut wire of shared dread.
School was a forgotten concept. The bullies, the whispers, the petty high school dramas -- they were echoes from another life. Steve Harrington and his court were irrelevant, just background noise in a town that was eating your family alive.
Until they weren’t.
The aroma of the corner store made you cringe -- all of the smells combined themselves into a raunchy odor. Pizza, cleaning supplies, medication and plastic. You'd only gone in to buy Jonathan something to eat. In fact, you were forcing it on him, just like you had to force your mother sometimes.
Fingering a 5 dollar bill out of your back pocket, you paid for the slice of pizza and the bottle of soda quickly, giving the clerk a polite smile before getting out of there as quickly as you could.
The street was empty. Jonathan and Nancy were nowhere to be seen.
Furrowing your eyebrows, you took a few steps forward before you heard the commotion. Scuffling, yelling, Nancy's cries of "stop!" You turned into the direction you'd heard it, your steps increasing in speed until you reached a jog. This was the sound of danger. This was a sound you were familiar with -- your brother being fucked with.
As you rounded the corner, the scene unfolded in front of you.
"BYERS IS A PERV" spray painted onto a garage door in red ink, glaring into your face brightly.
Steve Harrington, the infamous douchebag king of Hawkins High, had an iron tight grip on your brother, close to wrestling him to the ground. Without another word, you stalked forward, shoving the brown paper bag of Jonathan's lunch into Nancy's arms when you finally reached her, and threaded yourself quickly between the two men.
Your shoulder connected hard with Steve's chest, shoving him back a step, breaking his grip on Jonathan. Then, you curled your nimble hands into Steve's shirt, shoving him further, watching him stumble back.
"You wanna fight someone? Fight someone who's good at it!" You hissed.
Before Steve could regain his footing, there was a crack in the air. A groan followed soon after, but immediately, another crack sounded. After years of fighting for your brother, you'd learned how to do it effectively, not giving Steve time to respond before decking him yet again in his face.
"Where'd all that confidence go now, Harrington? Huh?" You taunted, watching him fall, jeans soaked in a puddle on the pavement, bleeding on the ground.
"Y/N, stop it--" Jonathan attempted, but you were beyond that.
Reeling your leg back, you sent it straight into Steve's gut.
Once.
"Don't you ever fucking touch--"
Again.
"--my brother again, you brainless--"
The final time, releasing all of the power in your lean, trembling body.
"--douchebag!"
The final kick was a punctuation mark of pure, unadulterated fury. Steve folded around the impact with a sickening wheeze, curling into a fetal position on the wet asphalt. The alley fell into a shocked, heavy silence, broken only by Steve's ragged, pained gasps.
You stood over him, chest heaving, the adrenaline a deafening roar in your ears. You’d done it. You’d put the king in the mud. It should have felt like victory. It just felt like another terrible thing in a week of terrible things.
Nancy was staring at you with wide, horrified eyes, the brown paper bag crumpled forgotten in her arms. Jonathan looked pale, his own anger drained away, replaced by a deep, unsettling worry. He wasn't looking at Steve; he was looking at you.
And Steve… Steve was looking at you too.
Slowly, agonizingly, he pushed himself up onto his elbows. Blood and dirty water streaked his face, his expensive jacket was ruined, and he was holding his stomach where your foot had connected. But his eyes, one already swelling shut, were locked on you with an intensity that felt like a physical touch.
He didn't look angry. He didn't look humiliated.
He looked… transfixed.
A slow, pained look of shock spread across his bloody face. "Holy shit," he breathed, the words a pained rasp of pure wonder.
In the midst of your confusion, there were police in the alley. To add bullshit to bullshit, you were being arrested.
The cold, impersonal grip of the officer’s hand on your bicep was a jarring slap back to reality. The adrenaline haze evaporated, leaving you shivering in your damp clothes, the metallic taste of fury still on your tongue. You didn’t resist as you were pulled away from Steve, who was still staring at you from the ground with that dazed, bloody smile.
“You’re under arrest for assault,” the officer was saying, his voice a flat monotone as he recited your rights.
Assault. The word seemed ridiculous. You’d been defending your brother from the guy who’d just spray-painted a lie about him for the whole town to see. You looked over at Jonathan, who was being questioned by another cop, his face pale and pinched. Nancy was crying quietly, her arms wrapped around herself.
As you were led toward the waiting patrol car, you heard a groan and a scramble of movement.
When you looked back, Steve, Tommy, and Carol were all gone. Groaning, you allowed yourself to be tucked into the squad car.
The ride to the police station was a blur of gray streets and the officer's low, crackling radio. Your knuckles throbbed in time with your heartbeat. The quiet in the car was oppressive, broken only by the occasional staticky transmission.
It gave you too much time to think. To replay the scene. The red spray paint. Jonathan's terrified face. The solid, sickening impact of your fists and feet connecting with Steve Harrington. And that look on his face... that wasn't right. People didn't look at you like that after you beat them senseless. They cowered. They swore revenge. They didn't stare like you'd just performed a miracle.
The processing at the station was a numb, bureaucratic nightmare. Mugshot. Fingerprints. The cold metal of the holding cell bench seeping through your damp jeans. You sat, arms wrapped around yourself, staring at the scuffed floor. They'd let Jonathan and Nancy go after taking their statements. You were the one who'd thrown the punches. Well, and the kicks.
You didn't know how long you'd been there when the heavy door clanged open. There stood Hopper, gesturing for you to come out.
"You're being released. Your family has been through enough without this," Hopper remarked. "Your mother's here. No more assaulting people."
Hopper’s voice, a familiar gravelly mix of authority and exhausted compassion, cut through the fog. You looked up, meeting his tired eyes. He gave you a brief, almost imperceptible nod. It wasn’t approval, but it was understanding. He knew what it was to fight for family.
You stood, your joints protesting, and followed him out of the cell. The fluorescent lights of the station lobby were blinding. And there was Joyce, a small, frantic silhouette against the harsh light. She looked like she’d been carved from pure anxiety, but when she saw you, she surged forward, pulling you into a hug so tight it hurt your bruised ribs. You didn’t mind.
“Oh, honey,” she murmured, her voice cracking. Her hands fluttered over your back, your arms, as if checking for broken pieces.
“I’m okay, Mom,” you mumbled into her shoulder.
She pulled back, her eyes scanning your face, landing on your raw knuckles. A flicker of that old, fierce pride shone through the worry before it was swallowed by fresh fear. “We’re going home.”
Hopper cleared his throat. “I’ll drive you. Your car’s still back there, and you,” he pointed a thick finger at you, “are in no state.”
You didn’t argue. The thought of getting behind the wheel made your hands shake. You just nodded.
-
When the worst was over, it seemed that everyone's perspective on Steve changed. Aside from yours, of course.
Will had returned home, tentatively healthy. Your mom was doting over him more than ever. Jonathan was now transfixed on Nancy Wheeler. And you were back in your element -- working at the automotive shop in town. There were three of them; you just happened to work at the one that Steve and family took his BMW to.
He knew it was weird. He knew it was completely off center and extremely to the left that ever since you'd kicked the dog shit out of him, he was completely enamored by you. But he couldn't help it. And he saw you a few times a week -- after all, he chaperoned your little brother and his friends wherever they went. When he picked Will up and he clambered his way into Steve's backseat to sit next to Mike, he always looked up into the window. And he always caught your look of distaste.
He'd helped your family. He'd protected the kids. He'd swung nail covered bats at alien creatures with 200 teeth to defend Jonathan. But you still hated him. It should've driven him away.
But.. Steve Harrington had a problem.
It wasn't the usual kind. Not failing grades, or a fight with his dad, or even the lingering, bone-deep terror from facing down inter-dimensional monsters. No, his problem had your wild, furious eyes, your fists that hit like a freight train, and a grudge you held that was colder and harder than the wrench you’d once threatened him with.
You. Your name was a constant hum in the back of his mind, a background noise to every other thought. It had been months. Months since the alley, since the spray paint and the blood and the blinding, life-altering moment you’d looked down at him, a vengeful angel in a hand-me-down flannel, and he’d realized he’d never seen anything more beautiful.
Everyone else had moved on. Hell, he’d moved on, in every practical sense. He’d ditched the asshole crown. He’d apologized to Jonathan (who’d accepted it with a quiet, wary nod). He’d become the kids’ glorified babysitter, a role that was somehow more exhausting and more rewarding than being King Steve had ever been. He’d fought actual monsters. He was trying to be a better guy.
But it all felt… secondary. Like he was just killing time between sightings of you.
He saw you at the shop, grease smudged on your cheek, wielding tools with a competence that made his mouth go dry. He saw you dropping Will off, your expression softening for a millisecond for your little brother before hardening again when you spotted him. He saw you everywhere, and every time, it was like a punch to the solar plexus, a jolt of something electric and painful and addicting.
He knew it was pathetic. Tommy would have laughed himself sick. Nancy, in the brief, awkward moments they still had to interact, looked at him with a sort of pitying confusion. He didn’t care.
Because the thing was, Steve had been liked his whole life. For his hair, his car, his family’s money, his position on the team. It had been easy, surface-level. What he felt for you was the exact opposite of easy. It was a bruise that wouldn’t fade. An obsession born not from getting what he wanted, but from being thoroughly, decisively destroyed by it.
You hated him. He could see it in every line of your body when he was near, in the way your eyes would sweep over him like he was something unpleasant you’d stepped in. You held that grudge like it was a precious thing, and he was weirdly, desperately proud of you for it. Of course you wouldn’t forgive him. He didn’t deserve it. You had standards. You had fire.
He wanted to stand in that fire forever.
So he drove the kids to the arcade, he picked up parts from the shop even when he didn’t need to, he made sure Will got home safe, and he stole every single glance of you he could get. He was a lovesick idiot, pining after you, who’d probably rather set his car on fire than speak to him. And the worst part -- the truly, wonderfully, sickeningly worst part -- was that he wouldn’t have it any other way. The kick had broken something in him, and all the king's horses and all the king's men couldn't put Steve Harrington back together again. He didn't want them to. He just wanted you to look at him one more time, even if it was with pure, unadulterated hate.
The scent of motor oil and old rubber was a familiar comfort, a welcome replacement for the cloying smells of antiseptic and fear that had haunted the house for weeks. You were back where you belonged: under a car, the solid weight of an engine above you, a problem you could actually solve in your hands.
You were replacing the alternator on a sleek BMW. You knew whose car it was. Of course you did. It was an unwelcome, persistent fact, like a pebble in your shoe. Steve Harrington’s shiny, expensive toy. The shop owner, old man Murdoch, had handed you the work order with a grunt, and you’d taken it without a word, because a job was a job, and you were damn good at this one.
But it didn’t mean you had to like it.
As you tightened a bolt, your knuckles -- the same ones that had split open on his jaw months ago -- ached faintly with the memory. You could still see the red spray paint. You could still hear Nancy’s cry, and feel the sickening give of his ribs under your foot. The violence didn't haunt you; you’d done what needed doing. What haunted you was the aftermath. The way he’d looked at you. Not with anger, but with a dazed, bloody wonder. It had been confusing then, and it was infuriating now.
Because now, he was everywhere. A permanent, unwanted fixture. He’d wormed his way into your family’s new, fragile peace. Will spoke of him with a hesitant admiration. Your mom mentioned him in passing, a tone of weary gratitude in her voice. Jonathan… Jonathan had forgiven him. Or at least, he’d accepted his help, which in your brother’s book was close enough.
It made your blood boil. They’d all forgotten. Forgotten the years of whispers, the casual cruelty, the way he and his friends had made your brothers feel small. They saw the redeemed hero, the monster-fighting babysitter. You saw the entitled king who’d only changed his tune because the world had literally gone to hell, and even then, it had taken you beating it into him first.
Your forgiveness wasn’t for sale. Not for apologies, not for nail bats, not for driving your brother home. That grudge was yours. You’d polished it, honed it, held it close. It was the last line of defense for the people you loved, a reminder that not everyone got a clean slate just because they decided to stop being the worst version of themselves.
Hearing steps crackle on the garage cement, you slid out from under the car, anticipating a customer or your boss coming to see how the work was going. Wiping your hands quickly on a rag, you turned to face them, a professional look on your oil blemished face.
Immediately, your jaw set.
Harrington.
He stood in the open bay doorway, backlit by the sinking sun like some misplaced golden boy statue. He had his hands shoved in the pockets of his jeans, his shoulders slightly hunched, as if trying to make himself smaller. The confident swagger he’d worn like a second skin in the halls of Hawkins High was gone, replaced by a nervous, watchful energy that was almost worse.
“Hey,” he said, his voice a little too casual, like he’d practiced the tone in the mirror.
You didn’t say anything. You just stared at him, the rag twisting tight in your grip.
He cleared his throat, his eyes darting from your face to the BMW and back again. “Is it, uh… is it ready?”
You bit your cheek, your eyes analyzing him like a snake did its prey. "No. It'll take a couple more minutes. Feel free to wait." You said shortly.
Steve fought the urge to shiver. The frigidness of your demeanor was enough to cool down the entire garage. But something about it was just so intriguing, he couldn't get enough.
The corner of his mouth twitched, not quite a smile, more like a reflex to the verbal slap. "Okay," he said, his voice softer now. "I'll wait."
He didn't go back to the waiting area with the stained magazines and the lukewarm coffee. He just... hovered. Leaning against the tool cabinet a careful distance away, watching you as you slid back under the car. He knew he shouldn't. He knew it made you bristle, that it probably violated some unspoken rule. But he was a moth to a particularly dangerous, grease-stained flame.
The sounds from under the car were efficient, professional: the clink of metal, the ratcheting of a wrench, the soft thud of something being set aside. You worked with a focused silence that was somehow louder than any tantrum.
He cleared his throat again. "What made you choose cars?"
You stilled. "What?"
He faltered slightly, but persevered. "What, um.. What made you choose working on cars? As a line of work."
Your wrench clattered against the concrete floor with a loud, jarring ring. The sudden noise made Steve jump.
For a long moment, there was only the fading echo of metal on concrete. You didn't move from under the car. He could see the tense line of your legs, frozen in place.
When you finally spoke, your voice was dangerously quiet, each word measured and sharp. "Why do you care, Harrington?"
He swallowed, his throat dry. This was it. This was the crack he'd been prying at, and it was about to split wide open, maybe right in his face. "I just... I don't know. I see you here, you're... you're really good at it. Seems like more than just a job. I was curious."
You slid out from under the car slowly, like a predator emerging from its den. You didn't stand up. You stayed on the creeper, looking up at him from the floor, grease smeared across your cheekbone, your eyes blazing. The position should have made you seem vulnerable. It didn't. It made him feel like he was the one being inspected from a disadvantage.
"You want to know what made me choose cars?" you repeated, your voice low. "Lonnie."
The name hung in the oily air. Steve knew that name. Everyone in Hawkins knew the story of Lonnie Byers, the deadbeat dad who took off.
"He left a lot of things when he walked out," you continued, your gaze never leaving his. "Bills. A broken family. A lot of bad memories." You picked up the wrench you'd dropped, your grip tightening on the handle. "And a toolbox. A really nice, professional-grade toolbox."
You pushed yourself to your feet in one smooth motion, the wrench held loosely at your side. "My mom was drowning. Jonathan was... Jonathan. Will was a baby. The bills kept coming. So I opened the toolbox." You took a step toward him, and he couldn't have moved if he wanted to. "I figured out how to fix the sink. Then the wiring in the wall that was making the lights flicker. Then the neighbors' lawnmower for twenty bucks. Then Mr. Perkins' pickup when it wouldn't start, for fifty."
You were close enough now that he could see the flecks of gold in your furious eyes, smell the sharp, clean scent of the industrial soap you used under the grease. "It was the one thing he left that wasn't completely useless. The one thing I could turn into something that actually helped my family. So I got good at it. Really good. Because when the world is falling apart, being able to fix something, anything, makes you feel like you're not completely powerless."
You stopped, your chest rising and falling slightly. The raw honesty of the confession seemed to hang between you, stark and uncomfortable. You'd just shown him a piece of your backbone, the gritty, unglamorous reason for your competence, and you looked like you regretted every word.
"So that's why, Steve," you finished, your voice dropping back to its usual icy chill. "Not because it's fun. Not because I like getting dirty. Because it pays the bills he left behind. Now, are we done with the heartfelt interviews, or do you need to know my favorite color next?"
He just stared at you, his heart hammering. He’d asked for a glimpse behind the wall, and you’d handed him a blueprint of your soul, etched in hardship and resilience. It was the most incredible, devastating thing he’d ever heard. He’d never wanted to kiss someone and apologize to them so badly in his entire life.
"Blue," he heard himself say, his voice hoarse.
Your brow furrowed. "What?"
"Your favorite color. It's blue. Will told me."
You stared for a moment, your eyes mixing shock with the leftover hatred from moments ago. Then, as if snapping back into yourself, you laughed bitterly.
"Obviously me spraining your ribs with my size 6 taught you nothing." You hissed. "I don't like you, Harrington."
The laugh, bitter and sharp, was the final straw. Something snapped inside Steve. The awe, the infatuation, the desperate hope -- it all coalesced into a stubborn, white-hot defiance. He was done just taking it.
He took a step forward, closing the distance you’d just created. He didn't tower over you, but his presence was suddenly solid, immovable. The playful, nervous energy was gone, replaced by a quiet intensity that mirrored your own.
“I know you don’t like me,” he said, his voice low and steady, cutting through the garage’s hum. “Trust me, the feeling’s been made crystal clear.”
You stared right up into his face, not moved at all by his change in behavior. But it didn't surprise him, nor did it scare him.
"I hate you. You and your fuck-face friends terrorized Jonathan for years. You broke his camera, which I don't know if you realized, but was his entire world," you growled. "And we aren't made of money like the Harrington family. If Nancy didn't feel bad, that would've taken over a year to replace."
Instead of cutting in, instead of a rebuttal, Steve just listened.
"Tommy used to knock his books out of his hands and shove him into lockers until I put a stop to it," You continued, jabbing a finger into Steve's chest. He could feel the warmth of your touch seep through his sweater. "I know your kind. You're all self-centered, shallow, day-dreaming morons. You think you have all the answers, or that your magical charm is gonna forge a relationship between us? You're delusional. I don't know what your problem is, or why you stare at me all the time, ask my brothers questions about me, why you're so obsessed, but you're gonna get a rerun of the ass kicking from months ago if you don't use your brain a little bit!" You finished, breathing hard.
Steve didn't flinch. He didn't step back. He absorbed every word like a blow, letting them land, letting them settle. The truth of them was a bitter pill, but he swallowed it. He’d earned every single accusation.
When you finished, chest heaving, finger still pressed against his sternum, he was quiet for a long moment. The garage felt charged, the air thick with the history you’d just thrown in his face.
Finally, he spoke, his voice rough but calm. "You're right."
You dropped the hand that was pressing a harsh fingertip against his chest.
"About all of it," he continued, his gaze unwavering. "I was a self-centered, shallow moron. Tommy and Carol... they were my friends, and I let it happen. I didn't start it, but I didn't stop it. I'm sorry about his camera. I'm sorry about the spray paint. I'm sorry for what I said about your family. I'm sorry for every single day Jonathan felt small because of me or anyone near me."
He took a slow breath, your touch still burning a hole through his sweater. "But I'm not asking for a relationship. I don't have any charm, not with you. It doesn't work. All I've got is this." He gestured between the two of you, at the scant inches of charged space. "This... whatever it is. This thing where you want to murder me and I can't stop thinking about you. I don't understand it either. But I'm not going to pretend I'm not obsessed. I am. I'm completely obsessed with you, Y/N Byers."
He saw the shock flash in your eyes, the way your anger momentarily faltered, replaced by sheer disbelief.
"And you're right about another thing," he said, his voice dropping even lower, almost a whisper. "I am delusional. Because I think, somewhere under all that justified hate, you see that I'm trying. You see that I'm not that guy anymore. And that pisses you off even more, because it’s easier to hate a cartoon villain than a real person who’s actually sorry."
You felt your throat close up.
"So go ahead," he murmured, his eyes holding yours, dark and serious. "Give me that rerun. Kick my ass again. I'll probably thank you for it. But it won't change anything. I'm not going anywhere. I'm going to keep driving your brother around. I'm going to keep picking up my car from this shop. And I'm going to keep being pathetically obsessed with you until you look at me and see something other than an asshole in a varsity jersey."
The silence that followed was absolute. The hum of the fluorescent lights seemed to grow louder, the scent of oil and metal suddenly overwhelming. Your hand, which had been jabbing his chest, now hung limply at your side, tingling with the phantom echo of his heartbeat.
He’d stripped it all bare. No defenses, no excuses, just the raw, ugly, bewildering truth. An obsession. He’d named it, claimed it, and laid it at your feet like a challenge.
You wanted to hit him. The urge was a physical pulse in your tightened fists. You wanted to wipe that intense, earnest look off his face, to prove that nothing he said could penetrate the fortress of your resentment.
But you couldn’t move.
Because he was right. It was easier to hate the caricature. The King Steve who sneered from the yearbook, the one-dimensional bully. This Steve -- the one with shadows under his eyes from babysitting monsters, the one who spoke in a ragged whisper about being sorry, the one who looked at you like you were a complicated, terrifying puzzle he was willing to spend a lifetime solving -- this Steve was infinitely more dangerous.
He wasn’t asking for forgiveness. He wasn’t asking for anything. He was just… stating facts. Uncomfortable, insane facts that shifted the ground beneath your feet.
Your voice, when it finally came, was a dry rasp. “You need help.”
A smile touched his lips. “Probably.”
You turned away, unable to hold his gaze any longer. You focused on the BMW, on the job you’d finished, on the mundane reality of a repair invoice. You snatched the keys off the bench and thrust them toward him without looking. “$285.40. Then get out.”
You heard the rustle of fabric as he pulled out his wallet, the soft shuffle of bills being counted. He placed the cash on the counter next to you, his fingers careful not to brush yours.
“Thanks,” he said quietly. Not for the car. You knew what he meant.
Then he was gone. The sound of his engine starting was too smooth, too perfect -- a testament to your skill. You stood rigid, staring at the greasy imprint your fingertip had left on his dark sweater, now slowly fading from view.
The anger was still there, a familiar, comforting furnace in your chest. But it was banked now, smothered under the weight of his confession. Obsessed. The word echoed, disturbing and potent.
As much as you wanted to, you had the sinking, terrifying feeling that simply hating him wasn’t going to be enough to make him disappear this time.
-
Your keys jingled in the lock, alerting Will to the fact that you were home. A weak smile crossed your lips as you heard his footsteps, leaving his room and coming to the kitchen to welcome you home.
Will padded into the kitchen, a comic book dangling from one hand. "Hey," he said, his voice still soft, a permanent reminder of everything he’d been through. His eyes, so much like your mother’s, scanned your face with an empathy that always unnerved you a little. "Long day?"
"You could say that," you mumbled, dropping your keys on the counter with a clatter that felt too loud in the quiet house. You moved to the fridge, more to have something to do than out of any real hunger. "Mom still at work?"
"Late shift," Will confirmed, hovering near the doorway. He was watching you, that quiet observation you’d inherited from Jonathan. "Steve brought me home."
Your hand stilled on the refrigerator door handle. Of course he had. "Yeah?"
"Yep." Will responded. His tone allowed you to realize that he knew the situation between you and the man in question.
You shut the fridge door a little harder than necessary. “Great,” you said, the word flat.
Will bit his lip, his comic book forgotten. “He… he asked the best way to get you to talk. Without yelling.”
The air left your lungs. So it wasn’t just general, creepy interest. It was specific. He’d left the garage, driven your brother home, and immediately asked about your state of mind. The intimacy of it, the concern, felt like a violation.
“What did you tell him?” Your voice was tighter now.
Will shifted his weight, looking down at his sneakers. “I told him… I told him you like it when people are honest. Even if it’s bad honesty. And that you hate small talk. And that you really like the cherry slushies from the Gas-N-Sip.”
You stared at your brother. He’d just given Steve Harrington a tactical manual. Honesty. No small talk. Cherry slushies. Three data points to be used against you. The betrayal was quiet but profound.
“Will,” you said, your voice dangerously calm. “Why would you tell him that?”
He looked up, his eyes wide and earnest. “Because he seemed… lost. And he’s trying. Really trying. And… I don’t know. Maybe if he stops being such an idiot about it, you could at least not hate him so much. It’s exhausting just watching it.”
The blunt truth from your usually gentle brother hit you like a physical blow. It’s exhausting just watching it. You were so busy guarding the fortress, you hadn’t considered how the siege looked to those inside with you.
You turned away, gripping the edge of the counter until your knuckles turned white. The image of Steve, with his “lost” expression, grilling your little brother for tips on how to handle you, was too much. It was pathetic. It was infuriating.
And yet, a tiny, traitorous part of you recognized the strategy. It was smart. Going to the source. Seeking intel. It showed a level of thought and effort that the old Steve Harrington would never have possessed. The old Steve would have just bought you a meaningless gift or tried to flash a smile. Turning back towards him, you rolled your eyes at the younger boy in front of you. Always doing what he could to help. Always meaning well.
"If Steve Harrington shows up here with a slushy and a page of notes on what to say to me, I'm hiding all your D&D figures."
Will cracked a small smile.
"You won't. You always say that."
A comfortable silence filled the room as Will settled into the living room couch next to you, covering himself with his favorite blanket.
"What is it that you kids love about Steve so much anyways?"
The question felt foreign to your lips. Never in your life had you allowed yourself to express any interest in the fluffy-haired rich prick. You wanted to curse yourself for allowing today to change anything.
Will didn't answer right away. He pulled the blanket up to his chin, his gaze fixed on the static-snow of the turned-off TV, as if the answer were written there in the fuzz.
"It's not one thing," he said finally, his voice thoughtful. "It's... a bunch of little things. He always shows up when he says he will. He doesn't treat us like we're dumb kids, even when we're being dumb kids. He listens. Like, really listens. He remembered that Lucas is allergic to peanuts, and he checks candy bags before he hands them out."
You stayed silent, your own fingers tracing a seam in the couch cushion.
"And..." Will hesitated, his voice dropping. "After everything that happened... with me... he never looked at me like I was broken. Or weird. Everyone else does, a little. Even Mike sometimes. But Steve just... he treated me the same. Maybe even tougher, because he knew I could handle it."
You felt a sharp pang in your chest. You'd been so focused on the past Steve had with Jonathan, you hadn't fully considered the present he had with Will. The Steve who had been in the trenches, who had seen the unspeakable and come out the other side trying to be a decent human being. A guardian, not a king.
"He's just... there," Will concluded simply. "Solid. You can count on him. And I think... I think he's lonely. And we're kind of all he's got now."
Lonely. The word landed with a soft, surprising weight. You'd never considered Steve Harrington as lonely. He was supposed to be surrounded by people, by adoration. But the court was gone. Nancy was gone. The easy, shallow life was gone. All he had was a beat-up nail bat, a BMW, and a bunch of nerdy kids who relied on him.
You hummed.
"Lonely? What about.. Nancy? I thought they were a thing."
Will shook his head, burrowing deeper into the blanket. “Not for a while. They broke up after… you know, everything. It wasn't messy. Mike said Nancy didn't even cry. Steve doesn’t really talk about it. Its just another thing to him.”
You absorbed this. The perfect King Steve and Princess Nancy fairytale had shattered. Another casualty of the upside-down chaos. It made sense, in a way. The things they’d seen would either bind people together with unbreakable glue or tear them apart with the sheer weight of it all.
“So he’s just… what? A free agent with a bunch of middle-schoolers as his social circle?” The words came out, but the old edge was gone. Now it just sounded like a genuine, bewildered question.
Will gave a small shrug. “Pretty much. He hangs out with that girl Robin sometimes. She’s cool. But mostly… it’s us. And he doesn’t seem to mind. He acts like it’s the most important job in the world.”
The most important job in the world. The phrase echoed, reshaping the Steve in your mind from a pathetic hanger-on to something else entirely. Someone who had found purpose in the rubble of his old life. It was a kind of strength you understood -- the kind forged in necessity and duty.
"Huh. Different than I would've thought. Not that I cared much." You disguised your shock with disinterest.
Will snorted.
"You spent so long hating him that you didn't even realize what you were hating changed. Even Jonathan doesn't mind him much now."
The observation, delivered with the brutal, unvarnished clarity only a little brother could muster, felt like a bucket of cold water. It doused the last flickering embers of your performative disinterest.
You stared at Will, who was now completely absorbed in his comic again, as if he hadn’t just dropped a truth bomb that shattered the entire foundation of your worldview.
Even Jonathan doesn’t mind him much now.
Jonathan. Your twin. Your gentle, wounded mirror. The primary victim of Steve Harrington’s reign. If he could move past it… what did that make you? You felt like everything was crumbling beneath you -- all of the resentment, the anger, the grudges. The things you'd held on to in an attempt to block of the softness of yourself.
Your eyes welled up. You realized who you needed. Even just for a moment. The person that knew you inside and out. Getting up gently, you walked to Jonathan's room and hesitantly knocked.
The door opened almost immediately, as if he’d been expecting you. Jonathan stood there, camera in hand as usual, his expression shifting from mild curiosity to instant concern when he saw your face. He knew your every micro-expression, the way your jaw tightened when you were angry, the way your eyes shimmered just before you cried.
“Hey,” he said softly, stepping aside to let you in. His room was a familiar sanctuary of developing photographs, band posters, and the faint chemical smell of fixer. “What’s up?”
Without another word, you curled yourself into his chest.
Jonathan didn't hesitate. He wrapped his arms around you, his camera pressing gently into your back. He didn't ask questions. He just held you, his chin resting on the top of your head, the familiar, steady rhythm of his heart a calming metronome against your ear.
You didn't cry. Not fully. But you trembled, the dam of your own stubbornness finally cracking under the weight of Will's observation and your own exhausting solitude. You clung to your brother, the one person who had shared every scar, every silent battle, every moment of defending your tiny, fragile kingdom.
After a long while, when your breathing had evened out, he spoke, his voice a quiet rumble in his chest.
"This is about Steve." He acknowledged.
You released a watery laugh, tears finally spilling over.
"Unfortunately."
Jonathan’s arms tightened around you for a second, a silent acknowledgment of the absurd, painful truth. “Yeah,” he sighed. “Figured.”
He guided you to sit on the edge of his bed, keeping an arm around your shoulders. You wiped your face with the heel of your hand, leaving a faint smudge of grease and tears.
“It’s just… everyone else has moved on,” you whispered, the confession torn from a raw place. “But it feels like betraying you if I do.. And he won't leave me alone. He keeps finding ways to reach me.”
Jonathan nodded slowly, staring at a photograph of a lonely-looking tree on his wall. “He’s hard to ignore when he’s trying that hard,” he said, a hint of dry amusement in his tone. “The guy’s like a golden retriever that got hit by a car but still wants to be your friend.”
The analogy was so unexpectedly accurate it startled another wet laugh from you. “A really annoying, formerly evil golden retriever.”
“With a blowout haircut,” Jonathan added, finally cracking a real smile. It faded as he turned to face you fully. “Listen to me. You moving on, you letting this go… that’s not a betrayal of me. It’s the opposite. It’s you finally letting me be okay. Because I am okay. I’ve made my peace. You holding onto this… it feels like you’re still fighting a battle I’ve already walked away from. It hurts to watch.”
His words were a gentle, precise incision, cutting straight to the heart of your guilt. You weren’t protecting him. He no longer needed it.
“He’s reaching you because you’re the only one still in the ring with him,” Jonathan continued. “Will’s team Steve. Mom’s grateful to him. I’m… neutral territory. But you? You’re the final boss. And he’s weirdly into it.” He made a vague, frustrated gesture. “He’s not going to leave you alone until you either knock him out for good or step out of the ring.”
You sniffed, the options laid bare. Permanent violence or surrender.
“There’s a third option,” Jonathan said, as if reading your mind again. “You stop seeing it as a ring. You stop seeing him as an opponent. You just… see him as Steve. The slightly pathetic, overly persistent guy who got beat up by a girl.”
You leaned back, staring at the water stain on his ceiling. “How?”
“Next time he looks at you, don’t think ‘there’s the guy who broke Jonathan’s camera.’ Think, ‘there’s the guy who keeps Will safe when we can't.’ It’s harder to hate him that way.”
The reframing was a mental sucker-punch. Simple. Brutally effective.
The guy who keeps Will safe.
You’d been so fixated on the past -- the broken camera, the spray-painted lies, the locker shoves -- you’d deliberately blinded yourself to the present. The present where Steve Harrington was the one in the driver’s seat when your little brother needed a ride. The one who had stood between Will and things far worse than high school bullies. The one who, by all accounts, took that job seriously.
Your anger, once a roaring fire, guttered and sank into embers. It wasn't gone, but its fuel had been cut off.
"Yeah," you breathed out, the word carrying the weight of a thousand released tensions. "Okay."
Jonathan nodded, satisfied. "Good. Now, unless you want to help me mix developing chemicals, I need you to vacate. Your emotional crises are bad for the exposure."
You managed a weak smile and shoved yourself off his bed. "You're a real comfort, you know that?"
"The best," he said flatly, already turning back to his trays of chemicals.
You left his room, the hallway feeling different. Lighter. The blueprint of your soul you'd accidentally shown Steve in the garage -- the one built on Lonnie's toolbox and sheer necessity -- had a new line on it now. A line that connected, however tenuously, to him. Not as an enemy, but as a fellow guardian. A terribly flawed, deeply annoying, but undeniably present one.
You walked back into the living room. Will was asleep on the couch, comic book splayed on his chest. You gently pulled the blanket up over his shoulders, your heart doing that familiar, fierce squeeze. The guy who keeps Will safe.
-
You sat on the bench in your bay of the garage, picking at a piece of pizza. You peeled the greasy pepperoni off, tossing it into the garbage behind you, before turning back to the food your stomach felt too unsettled to consume.
The scent of pepperoni and motor oil was a familiar, oddly comforting combination. You were on your lunch break, but your appetite had vanished somewhere between Jonathan's talk and the seismic shift in your own head. You were just going through the motions, peeling toppings off as if fixing the pizza would fix the weird, hollow feeling in your gut.
The familiar, smooth purr of a BMW engine cut through the garage's usual cacophony. You didn't need to look up. You knew the sound, the way it idled, the specific timbre of its door closing.
Footsteps approached, hesitant at first, then more decisive. They stopped at the entrance to your bay. You took a deliberate bite of your now-bare-cheese pizza, chewed slowly, and finally looked up.
Steve Harrington stood there, holding two gas station cups. He looked nervous, his free hand shoved in his pocket, but there was a new determination in his stance, a lack of that cowering deference. He met your gaze head-on.
He walked forward and placed one of the cups on the workbench beside you. Condensation beaded on the red plastic. A cherry slushie.
"Harrington." You acknowledged, now attempting to keep the bitterness out of your tone. It was easier than it had been before. But it felt so odd to you. Your constant objective of icing Steve Harrington out had been stripped bare, so now it only left him.
Now that you had no reason to hate his guts, you were forced to see the appeal in him in the first place.
He was easy on the eyes, as much as you'd previously hated to admit it. His face was handsome in a clean way, chiseled lines with a boyish smile. His hair, which must've taken time, looked effortless. And he smelled good. The scent of an impeccably picked cologne flooded the bay -- not assaulting you, but seeping in quietly. He even dressed well.
You caught yourself staring, scolding yourself with disgust inwardly.
He saw you looking. A faint flush crept up his neck, but he didn't look away. He just stood there, holding his own cup, letting you look. There was no smugness in his expression, just a quiet, hopeful vulnerability that was somehow more disarming than any confident smirk.
"The, uh... the kid said you liked these," he repeated, his voice a little softer this time. "Peace offering. From the Gas-N-Sip."
The simple, honest statement cut through the last of your internal noise. Nothing grand or dramatic. Just a peace offering, sourced from intel provided by your own brother. It was disarmingly straightforward.
You looked from the slushie to his face. The vulnerability was still there, but it was grounded now. This wasn’t the desperate, bloody awe from the alley. This was a conscious choice. He was here, trying, with a cherry-flavored token.
Your fingers curled around the cold cup. “He’s got a big mouth,” you said, but there was no real heat behind it.
A small, genuine smile touched Steve’s lips. “He’s a good kid. Worries about you.”
That did it. The last brick in the wall wobbled. Will, your sweet, observant brother, was worried about you in this stupid standoff. And here was Steve, not just acknowledging it, but showing he’d listened.
You lifted the slushie and took a long pull. The sugar was a shock, the cold a relief. You swallowed and met his eyes. “It’s mediocre.”
The smile on his face widened, transforming it. The boyish charm you’d been reluctantly cataloging became fully, devastatingly operational. “Yeah,” he agreed, his voice warm. “The cherry’s always kinda fake-tasting. But it’s the principle.”
“The principle of bribery?”
“The principle of showing up,” he corrected softly.
You hummed, unwanted warmth spreading through your chest.
"You're not afraid I'll kick your ass? Paint your windshield with slushy?"
The question, laced with a hint of amusement, made his smile turn wry, almost fond. He shook his head, his eyes never leaving yours.
“Nah,” he said, his voice low and sure. “The ass-kicking’s already happened. And it was… informative.” He rubbed his jaw absently, a gesture that was both an acknowledgment of the past and a dismissal of its threat. “And you can paint my windshield if you want. I’ll just bring it back here for you to fix. Seems like a waste of a good slushie, though.”
The logic was circular, stubborn, and utterly Steve. He wasn't afraid because he'd already faced the worst you could do, and he'd not only survived it but somehow decided he liked the view from the floor. And he’d found a way to loop even your potential vandalism back into another interaction with you.
It was maddening. It was also, you realized with a sinking feeling, kind of impressive. The guy had resilience. A stupid, baffling, unkillable resilience. And it was somewhat.. attractive, which was a truth, but also a betrayal to who you'd been since you were in 8th grade.
You took another sip of the mediocre slushie, using the cold to ground yourself. “You’re a real piece of work, Harrington.”
“I’ve been told,” he repeated, but this time there was a lightness to it, a shared acknowledgment of the absurdity. "You kicking the shit out of me in an alley turned into me having a huge crush on you. Anyone else would've pressed charges for assault."
The words hung in the oily air, stark and breathtakingly honest. He’d said ‘obsessed’ before, in the heat of the garage confrontation. But this… ‘huge crush’. It was simpler. More human. More terrifying.
The slushy felt suddenly too cold in your hand. You set it down with a soft clack on the workbench.
“Anyone else wouldn’t have deserved it in the first place,” you replied, your voice quieter than you intended. It wasn’t an excuse. It was just… context. The context he’d finally, fully acknowledged.
He nodded, accepting that too. “True.” He took a half-step closer, the space between you humming with the weight of all the unsaid things. “But it’s not about deserving it. It’s about… what happened after. I looked up from the pavement, saw you standing over me looking like some pissed-off avenging angel, and something in my brain just… clicked. Or broke. Not sure which," He admitted. "Plus, I wondered where all the strength came from. You're tiny and almost knocked me out.”
The observation, delivered with such bewildered admiration, was the final straw. The last vestige of your defensive posture crumbled into dust. An incredulous laugh escaped you, shaking your shoulders.
"Comes from Joyce. She would've handed it to you too if she walked into that alley instead of me."
"Yeah," he said, his voice so quiet it was almost lost in the garage hum. "I believe that. I met her, when Will was... you know. She's... she's badass." He shook his head, a flicker of genuine awe in his eyes. "You come by it honestly, then. The fierceness."
He wasn't just complimenting you. He was acknowledging your lineage, your roots. Seeing the connection between you and your mother not as a weakness, but as a source of power. It was a level of perception you hadn't thought him capable of.
A genuine smile finally formed onto your lips.
"She likes you. Will does too." You admitted.
The admission felt like unlocking a door you’d kept deadbolted for years. It wasn’t about you. It was about them. About the people you loved most giving their stamp of approval to the person you’d dedicated so much energy to despising.
"Will tells me every time he sees me that he has the best sister in the world. And I'm not just being a kiss ass." Steve responded, stuffing his hands in his pockets, a mannerism of his that you'd seen countless times. "You're his world. Literally."
You looked away, suddenly unable to hold his gaze. Your eyes stung. You focused on a greasy smudge on the floor, blinking rapidly. He wasn't trying to flatter you. He was stating a fact he'd observed, a truth he'd been trusted with. You're his world. It was the highest compliment, the heaviest responsibility, and the one thing that could instantly dissolve the last of your icy resolve.
When you finally looked back, your vision was slightly blurred, but your voice was steady. "He's mine too."
Steve nodded, his expression solemn, understanding the weight of that simple exchange. It was a pact acknowledged. He saw the heart of you, the protector, and he respected it. More than that, he was telling you he valued it.
The air between you changed again. The last of the combat zone evaporated. This wasn't a battlefield anymore; it was common ground, hallowed by shared love for a kid who'd been through hell.
"So," Steve said, his voice regaining a bit of its normal cadence, though it was still softer than you'd ever heard it. "I figure if I'm gonna be hanging around... I should probably be on the good side of his world. Seems like a smart play."
Another laugh escaped you. "I wouldn't worry about smart plays anymore. I don't think you've ever made one."
The insult, delivered without malice, with almost fond exasperation, made him laugh.
“You’re probably right,” he admitted, still chuckling. “But hey, I’m here, aren’t I? In your garage. You’re talking to me. You haven’t threatened bodily harm in…” He made a show of checking an invisible watch on his wrist. “...at least ten minutes. I’d call that progress. Maybe my first smart play was just being too stupid to quit.”
He had a point. His strategy -- if it could even be called that -- had been sheer, dogged persistence. A stubborn refusal to be vanquished. And against your fortified walls of anger, it had somehow, miraculously, worked.
You looked at him, this former king, standing in your domain with grease on his designer shoes and hope in his eyes. He was a mess. A beautiful, confusing, resilient mess.
“Just don’t break anything on purpose anymore,” you said, the warning lacking any real threat. It was practically an invitation.
His smile softened, turning sincere. “No sabotage. Scout’s honor.” He took a step backward toward the exit. “I'll see you tomorrow. Maybe with another slushy. Maybe with flowers if I can get Will to tell me which ones you like."
He didn’t wait for a response. He just turned and walked out, leaving you with the echo of his words.
You watched him go, the sound of his BMW fading into the Hawkins afternoon. The bay was quiet again, but the silence was different. It wasn't empty. It was full of the echo of his laugh, the ghost of his cologne, and the terrifying, exhilarating realization that Steve Harrington wasn't just a problem you'd solved or a war you'd ended.
He was a possibility. A messy, complicated, stubbornly present possibility who bought cherry slushies for research and talked to your brother about how to get a chance with you.
You finished your shift in a daze. The world had tipped on its axis, and everything looked new. Grease was just grease. Tools were just tools. But the air felt charged, like the calm before a storm, except this storm smelled like synthetic cherry and expensive aftershave.
When you got home, Will was in the living room, a knowing look on his face. "So?"
"So, what?" you grumbled, hanging up your keys.
"Steve. Did he... you know. Do the thing?"
"What thing?"
"The cherry slushy. The weird stare where he acts like you invented gravity. They're his signature moves."
You stared at your little brother, this suddenly wise, observant creature. "Since when are you an expert on Steve Harrington's signature moves?"
Will shrugged, a mischievous glint in his eye. "I pay attention. He asked about flowers, by the way. I told him you like dandelions because they're weeds and they piss off the neighbors."
A laugh burst out of you, loud and surprised. "You did not."
"I did. He wrote it down. In a little notebook." Will was grinning now, delighted with himself. "He said, 'Weeds. Got it. Makes sense.'"
You stood there, stunned. Steve Harrington was keeping a notebook. About you. And your brother was his chief informant.
The world hadn't just tipped. It had somersaulted.
That night, as you lay in bed, you didn't think about spray paint or broken cameras. You thought about a notebook entry that spoke about your favorite flowers. You thought about shared looks over a slushie, and a truce built on common ground named Will.
The war was over. The peace was strange, and it came with a side of floral research and potential dandelions. And as you drifted to sleep, you realized you weren't just okay with it.
You were, against all odds, kind of excited to see what weed-related nonsense tomorrow would bring.
pairing: eddie munson x reader
summary: eddie's girlfriend still has nightmares about her time in the upside down -- the fear, anxiety, and dread has its own medicine, though. eddie.
themes & warnings: fluff, angst if you squint, eddie being an amazing boyfriend, ugh EDDIE i miss him sm </3, comforting, descriptions of gore and the upside down, protective eddie, eddie NEVER DIES in this okay idc if its not plot accurate. ITS SELF INDULGENT guys like all my writing typically is lmao
You could still smell it.
It had its own unique smell. Something you knew you'd never smelled before you were thrust into it, but a smell that permanently imprinted itself into your mind and couldn't be scrubbed out. It liked to show up at random times, making you feel like you were still trapped.
Raw meat, as if a slaughtered pig was flopped down into every corner of the vast terrain. A distinct stink of rot, a sweet aroma that caused its own wave of panic to rush through you. When you remembered the smell, or when you smelled anything similar, tremors quickly evolved beneath your skin and shivered through your muscles.
It had been two months since you were there. But realistically speaking, two months wasn't much recovery for something so violently traumatic.
The world on the other side was a wound.
You hadn’t fallen through a rift, you’d stupidly walked -- a cruel, confusing abduction from the familiar softness of your own bedsheets into a freezing, breathing darkness. Hawkins was there, but it was a corpse of Hawkins. The trees weren't trees; they were petrified veins, throbbing with a sick, purple-black sap. The air wasn't air; it was a sludge you had to push through, thick with floating spores that glimmered with a malevolent life of their own. And the sounds… God, the sounds. A low, tectonic groaning from deep within the earth, punctuated by wet, skittering clicks and distant, inhuman shrieks that echoed not in your ears, but in the hollow of your ribs.
Your time there was measured not in hours, but in heartbeats; each one a frantic, painful hammer against your sternum. You’d hidden, a mouse in the ruins of your own home, while things with too many joints and peeling, grey skin shuffled past. You’d seen the vines, not as plants, but as living, pulsating intestines carpeting the ground, constricting buildings, tasting the air with their thorny, questing tips. You’d pressed your back into the crumbling wallpaper of your upside-down bedroom, your own choked sobs the most dangerous sound in the universe, as something heavy and wet dragged itself across the ceiling above you.
You were rescued. Pulled back through a glowing, fleshy gate by Steve Harrington’s strong arms, Dustin’s frantic voice guiding you, Robin’s hands patting you down as if checking you were all there. The physical wounds were minor: scratches from thorns, a deep bruise on your shoulder from where you’d slammed into a demodog-haunted countertop, a pervasive chill that took days to leave your bones.
Then, you were immediately ripped from Robin's arms back into Eddie's, who crushed you into his chest with the heaving sobs of someone who thought they'd never see you again.
He held you like you were the only solid thing in a universe that had just dissolved into static and panic. His arms, usually so expressive and flailing, were now iron bands around you, trembling with a force that had nothing to do with weakness. He was shaking, great, heaving shudders that wracked his entire frame, and the sound he made against your shoulder was a raw, broken thing -- a sob torn from a place deeper than his lungs.
“You’re here, you’re here, you’re here,” he chanted into the grimy fabric of your shirt, his voice a wrecked, wet whisper against your skin. His fingers clutched at your back, fisting the material as if he could physically stitch you back into this dimension through sheer will. The familiar scents of his leather jacket and cigarettes were overwhelmed by the sharp, coppery tang of Upside Down grime. His tears were hot against your neck.
You could feel his heart slamming against your own bruised chest, a wild, frantic drum solo of terror and relief. In that moment, Eddie Munson, the loudest person in any room, was utterly silent except for those ragged breaths and choked cries. The performance was over. The mask of the fearless freak, the chaotic Dungeon Master, was gone. What was left was a twenty-year-old boy who had just spent the worst hours of his life believing the girl he loved had been erased from the world by the same unspeakable evil that had been hunting him.
He didn’t ask if you were okay. He didn’t bombard you with questions. He just held on, his face buried in the curve of your neck, his entire being focused on the simple, miraculous fact of your existence: the beat of your pulse under his lips, the rise and fall of your breath, the solid, real weight of you in his arms.
Over his shaking shoulder, you saw Steve and Robin exchange a look -- not of annoyance, but of profound understanding. They gave you space, turning their attention to Dustin and the others, creating a small, protective buffer around the two of you in the chaotic aftermath of the gate room.
Finally, his grip loosened, just enough for him to pull back and look at you. His eyes, usually so bright with mischief, were red-rimmed and swimming, his face pale beneath the grime and tear tracks. He cradled your face in his hands, his thumbs sweeping over your cheeks, wiping away dirt and his own tears with a tenderness that made your breath catch.
“Don’t you ever,” he started, his voice hoarse and cracking. He swallowed hard, trying to wrestle it under control. “Don’t you ever do that again. You hear me? I swear to god, if you get taken by some… some inter-dimensional fuckery again, I’m coming in after you. I don’t care about the bats, or the demo-whatevers, or the fucking… Vecna. I’m coming. I’ll be the most metal goddamn rescue party you’ve ever seen.”
It was a threat, a promise, and a prayer all in one. It was so quintessentially Eddie -- melodramatic, loyal to a fault, and underpinned by a terrifying sincerity. He was pledging himself as your knight in shredded denim, your paladin in a battle jacket.
He didn’t let go of your face. His gaze searched yours, looking for injuries, for signs that you were more than just physically present. “Are you… are you in there? All of you?”
You managed a nod, your own tears starting to fall now in response to the sheer, unguarded worry in his eyes. “Yeah,” you whispered. “I’m here. I’m all here.”
A fresh wave of emotion crossed his face. He pulled you back into his chest, this time his embrace less frantic, more anchoring. He rested his chin on top of your head, his breath slowly beginning to even out as he just held you. “Okay,” he murmured into your hair. “Okay. That’s… that’s my girl. That’s my brave, stupid, perfect girl.”
In the days that followed, that moment in the gate room became the unspoken bedrock of everything. Eddie’s near-catatonic fear for you had stripped him bare in front of everyone, and he made no attempt to rebuild the walls when it came to you. He was attuned. He watched you with a hyper-vigilance that was both touching and, at times, overwhelming. He’d notice the slight pause in your step before entering a dark room, the way your eyes would dart to the ceiling when a pipe clanged. He’d see you absently rub your shoulder where the bruise was fading to a sickly yellow-green.
And he didn’t just notice. He acted.
He started leaving every light on in the trailer when you were over, claiming he “hated the gloom.” He swapped his black-out curtains for thinner ones, letting in as much daylight as possible. He’d “randomly” start playing a tape -- usually something fast and thrashy, like Metallica’s Kill ‘Em All -- the moment the house fell into a silence he deemed too heavy. He’d cook ridiculous feasts, filling the trailer with the smells of frying oil and spices, loudly declaring he was “starving” even when he wasn’t.
It was his own version of sensory overwrite. He was building a new world for you inside his world, one of light, noise, and pungent, human smells, desperately trying to drown out the silent, rotting, breathing darkness he knew still lived in your head.
It worked.. except when it didn't. You couldn't blame Eddie, he was trying his best. But some things just couldn't be erased so soon. \
The storm tonight wracked your house. The wind caused the walls to creak, branches thumped against the siding as they were cracked off from trees. The sky was gloomy and dark, just like it always was in that awful place. But you'd offered Eddie a day of rest. A day to go hang out with the kids, a day to go play D&D and pretend that nothing had even happened.
He needed these days too. He couldn't always be a protector. He was still Eddie and still had his own passions.
You were home alone, your parents had opted to go stay in a cabin for the weekend. "Alone time," they called it. It was really just an alcohol fueled party session, one that they refused to let you see, no matter how old you got.
A warm mug of tea sat in your hand as you studied for a test on Monday. You inhaled, the smell of your vanilla bean candle reminding you that you were in your room, where the light was warm, the door was locked, and the Upside Down was far from you.
Except that it wasn't. No matter how much you tried to delude yourself, it really wasn't. It was right on the other side of your wall whenever it chose to be.
The dread began to seep into your chest, but you pushed it back, rerouting yourself into your physics book and copying down the essential things you read.
A jagged fork of lightning lit up your room in a sudden, stark, blue-white flash. For a fraction of a second, the friendly shadows behind your desk and dresser became deep, cavernous voids. Your pen stilled.
The thunder that followed wasn't a grumble. It was a crack so loud it seemed to split the sky directly above your roof. The house shuddered. The light on your desk flickered -- once, twice -- and died with a soft pop, plunging you into a grey, storm-lit gloom.
Your heart gave a single, hard thump against your ribs.
It's just a storm. Hawkins has storms. This is normal.
But in the Upside Down, the sky had been a perpetual, churning storm. The lightning there hadn't been white, but a sickly, pulsating red, like an exposed nerve in the sky. The thunder had been the groaning of the earth itself. You sat frozen in your chair, the mug of tea cooling forgotten in your hand. The vanilla candle, now the only source of light, cast frantic, leaping shadows that seemed to move with a life of their own.
Another flash. Another world-ending crack of thunder. The wind howled like a dying thing, and the thumping of the branch against the siding wasn't random anymore. It was a rhythm. A slow, deliberate thump… thump… thump… like the footfall of something massive and patient.
Your breath started coming in short, sharp gasps. The physics book in front of you blurred. The equations swam, the numbers twisting into the strange, spiraling patterns of the vines that had covered the floors. The smell of the candle wax turned cloying, too sweet. It mixed with the damp, earthy smell wafting in through the window you’d cracked earlier, and the combination -- sweet decay, wet soil -- was horrifyingly familiar.
No. No, no, no.
You pushed back from the desk, the chair legs screeching against the floor. You needed light. Real light. You stumbled to the wall, fumbling for the light switch. You flicked it up. Down. Up again. Nothing. The power was out.
Panic, cold and slick, poured down your spine. The darkness in the hallway outside your bedroom door was absolute. It was a living darkness, the kind that pulsed. You could hear the house settling, every creak a footstep, every moan of the wind a whisper. The thump-thump-thump of the branch was right outside your window now. It wasn't a branch. It was a hand. A claw. Tapping. Testing.
Your legs gave out. You sank to the floor, your back against your bedroom door, knees pulled to your chest. The rational part of your brain was screaming -- It's a storm, you idiot, just a storm! -- but it was a tiny, distant voice, drowned out by the primal terror roaring in your blood. You were back in the upside-down bedroom, hiding, making yourself small, praying not to be seen. The air grew thick, harder to pull into your lungs. You were breathing the spore-filled sludge again.
You squeezed your eyes shut, but that was worse. Behind your eyelids, you saw the pulsing red light, the veined walls, the shadow of the thing on the ceiling. A whimper escaped you, and you slapped a hand over your mouth, just like you had there. Silence was survival.
But you weren't there. You were here. And here, you had a lifeline.
With trembling hands that felt numb and alien, you crawled across the carpet, away from the terrifying dark of the hallway door, toward your bedside table. You pulled the cord of your bedside lamp. Nothing. The phone. The old, corded landline. You fumbled the receiver to your ear.
Silence. Dead air. The storm must have taken the lines out, too.
The sob that broke from you this time was one of pure despair. You were alone. Truly, utterly alone with it. The monster wasn't under the bed. It was in the storm. It was in the dark. It was in the very air, and it had found you again.
Curled into a tight ball on the floor, you did the only thing left to do. You wrapped your arms around yourself and screamed. Guttural, fearful, making your throat ache. Everywhere your panicked eyes settled was grey, upside down and crooked, just like the hole you'd walked into two months ago.
The sound tore through the storm-hum, raw and ragged, and it seemed to startle even the house into a moment of stillness. In the echo of your own scream, the panic crystallized into a cold, sharp dread. You were adrift. No light. No voice on the line. No anchor.
You don't know how long you stayed there, a shivering knot on the floor, listening to the storm and the frantic, rabbit-pulse in your ears. Time in the dark stretched and warped. It could have been minutes. It could have been an hour.
Then, a new sound cut through the din.
Not thunder. Not creaking wood.
A voice, a real human voice, outside of your bedroom door. You weren't sure how you'd missed the sound of the front opening or the footsteps coming up the stairs. But you were paralyzed, the fear swallowing you whole, almost equal to when you'd first stepped foot into that awful place. It wouldn't let you move. It wouldn't let you open up.
"Y/n! Sweetheart, I need you to open this damn door so I can help you." Eddie shouted, his voice full of concern.
The hallucinations, though, overcame any sort of comfort. In your eyes, you were still surrounded by twinkling spores, the demogorgon outside of your window hungry and fierce.
That voice. Eddie’s voice. It was a lifeline thrown into the churning black sea of your terror. But the current was too strong. The part of your brain screaming REAL, HE’S REAL was a tiny, guttering candle in a hurricane of sensory memory. The hallucination wasn't just visual; it was a full-body possession.
The carpet under your knees wasn't your soft, beige bedroom carpet. It was the coarse, fibrous give of the Upside Down’s vine-matted ground, damp and sticky. The air you gasped tasted of spores, sweet and cloying, coating your tongue. The shape looming beyond your door wasn't Eddie; it was a distortion, a shadow that mimicked a human form, a trick of that place to lure you out into the open. The demogorgon’s shriek outside your window wasn't the wind -- it was a hunting cry, close, so close.
"Open the fucking door before I come through it! And I will, you know I'm dumb enough, so don't make me!"
Still silence. At that point, Eddie knew you probably weren't even listening. He knew you were curled into the corner of your room, whispering to yourself, seeing things that weren't real. It made his chest ache.
Breaking down the door was his only option, unfortunately. He had to get to you.
"Alright!" He shouted. "You've got three seconds, babycakes!"
He braced himself, backing up a few feet.
"Three!"
"Two! Fucking christ."
"One!"
The word was a battle cry, a promise, and the last shred of his patience snapping all at once.
He charged the door, shoulder-first. It wasn't a movie-perfect splintering of wood. It was a brutal, ugly, shuddering THUD that shook the frame and sent a jarring pain lancing through his collarbone. The door partially held. Of course it did. It was a solid, middle-class-Hawkins door. But he'd dented it.
You flinched at the impact, a sharp, animal sound escaping you. The demogorgon at the window was forgotten; this was a new, immediate, terrifying violence. The shadow at the door wasn't mimicking Eddie anymore -- it was breaking in.
"Goddammit!" he snarled from the other side, more at the door than at you. You heard him back up again, his boots scuffing on the hallway runner. He was going to do it again.
The second charge was fiercer, more desperate. The impact was a sickening crack of wood and a metallic groan from the latch. The door didn't fly open, but it buckled inward, the frame splintering around the deadbolt.
From your corner, through the haze of terror, you saw it: the solid, dark line of the door was now broken by a sliver of deeper black. He’d created a crack. And through that crack, a beam of light from his flashlight sliced into your dark room, cutting through the illusory spores like a scalpel.
In that beam, you saw real dust motes dancing. Not spores. Dust.
And then, an eye. One wide, frantic, familiar brown eye, peering through the shattered gap in the door.
"See?" his voice came, ragged with pain and effort, but softer now. "It's just me. All the way through, sweetheart. It's just your idiot boyfriend who's probably gonna need Wayne to fix this door."
The eye in the light. The voice attached to it. The realness of the destruction -- the splintered wood, the broken lock, a physical, human-made chaos that was nothing like the organic, creeping horror of the Upside Down. It was the final, undeniable proof.
The hallucination didn't fade gently. It shattered.
The taste of spores vanished from your tongue, replaced by the dry, stale taste of fear. The vine-textured carpet resolved into its normal, flat pile. The shrieking outside was just the wind, the thumping just the branch. The shadow at the door was just a broken door, with Eddie Munson on the other side of it.
A sob, deep and cleansing, tore from your chest. "Eddie."
He didn't charge again. He worked at the broken door with his hands, grunting, pulling at the fractured wood around the latch until, with a final screech of protesting metal, it gave way. The door swung open, broken and hanging crooked on its hinges.
He stood in the doorway, framed by the flashlight beam from the hall, panting slightly. He was a mess. His hair was wild, his face pale, his left shoulder visibly favoring. But his eyes were only for you, scanning you, checking for injuries the hallucination might have hidden.
He didn't rush to you. He knew better now. He took a slow, deliberate step into the room, then another, giving you time to see him, to process.
"It's over," he said, his voice a low, steady vow. "The trip's over. You're back. I'm here."
That was all it took. You stumbled forward, your legs barely holding you, and collapsed into him. He caught you, his arms wrapping around you with a careful strength, mindful of his own aching shoulder. He was cold and wet, and he smelled of rain, sweat, and the faint, sharp scent of pine from the broken doorframe.
He sank down to the floor, pulling you with him, cradling you in his lap against the wall, well away from the broken door and the storm-dark window. He rocked you gently, his lips against your hair, whispering nothings that weren't words, just sounds of comfort.
"You broke my door," you finally mumbled into his soaked shirt, the absurdity of it hitting you.
He barked a laugh, a short, relieved sound. "Yeah, well. You were in here with a monster. Seemed like a fair trade." He pulled back just enough to look at you, his thumb wiping a tear from your cheek. "A real one or not, doesn't matter. No monster gets to have you. Not on my watch."
He’d broken the door. He’d literally broken through the barrier between your nightmare and his reality. And as you sat there in the wreckage, wrapped in the safety of his arms, the storm outside finally began to sound like just a storm. Because the loudest, most chaotic, most real thing in your world was holding you, and he had just proved, beyond any doubt, that there was no door he wouldn't break down to get to you.
"I love you." You whispered, shuddery but certain.
The words, soft and raw against the damp fabric of his shirt, hit him like a physical force.
All the frantic energy, the desperate, charging-the-door bravado, the sharp worry -- it all drained out of him in a single, quiet rush. His arms, which had been holding you with a protective firmness, loosened their grip just enough to become something else entirely: a shelter, a haven.
For a moment, he didn't move. He just breathed, his cheek resting against the top of your head, listening to the echo of your words in the quiet space the storm had finally left in its wake. They weren't just words. They were a key turning in a lock he hadn't even fully admitted was there. After everything, the running, the hiding, the fear of being the town freak, the terror of almost losing you -- to hear that, here, in the middle of the wreckage he'd made… it unmoored him.
He pulled back slowly, his hands coming up to cradle your face again. His thumbs traced the paths of your tears, his own eyes shining with an emotion too vast and complicated for any of his usual theatrics. There was no witty retort, no metal lyric, no D&D metaphor. For once, Eddie Munson was completely, utterly sincere.
"I love you."
He said it like he was discovering the words for the first time, his voice a rough, awed whisper. It wasn't a echo. It was an answer, a vow, a foundation.
"I love you so much it feels like my heart's gonna fucking explode out of my chest." A shaky grin touched his lips, the Eddie-flair trying to reassert itself through the profound emotion.
He leaned his forehead against yours, his eyes closing for a second. "You're my sanctuary," he murmured, the words just for you. "You know that, right? When the world's upside down and fucking crazy, you're the right-side-up. I could've died right there thinking you were gone forever."
He didn't open his eyes. He kept his forehead pressed to yours, as if the contact was the only thing tethering him to this moment, to the reality that you were here, alive, in his arms.
"It wasn't the bats," he whispered, his voice cracking. "It wasn't the fucked-up sky or the lake of fire. It was that. The silence where you were supposed to be. That's what would've killed me."
A single, hot tear escaped from beneath his closed lid, tracing a clean path through the grime on his cheek. You felt it against your skin. The sight of it, this vulnerability from the boy who wore his loudness like armor, undid you completely.
"Eddie," you breathed, your own tears starting again.
He finally opened his eyes. They were dark pools, full of a haunted love. "When I saw you, when Steve pulled you through and you were just... there... it was like my heart started beating again. And I swore, right then, I swore I would never let that silence happen again. If there was a- a monster, I'd fight it. If you had a bad dream, I'd be there. If you needed a goddamn nightlight, I'd learn how to wire one myself."
He let out a shaky breath, his thumbs stroking your cheeks. "This... this thing, it's not just love. It's... it's a vow, okay? It's the most important goddamn thing I'll ever do. Keeping you in the light. Keeping you here. With me. There's no fucked up, nuclear-waste, made-from-a-lab shit that could ever take you from me again."
He was baring his soul, not with poetry, but with the gritty, unvarnished truth of his fear and his devotion. The Dungeon Master was gone. The metalhead was gone. This was just Eddie. Your Eddie. Terrified, tender, and utterly, unshakably yours.
"You don't have to fight my monsters," you whispered, lifting a hand to cover his where it cupped your face.
"The hell I don't," he said, but there was no anger in it, only fierce, unbreakable certainty. "That's the deal, sweetheart. You're my right-side-up. So I'm your... your fucked-up, noisy, door-breaking shield. Package deal."
He kissed you again, softer this time, a seal on the promise. When he pulled back, he managed a wobbly, real smile. "Now, about that door... we're gonna tell your parents a demodog did it. I'll draw up some fake claw marks. I'm an artist, they'll buy it."
And just like that, with a joke and a plan, he began to rebuild the normal world around you both, brick by silly brick. Because that was his magic. He couldn't erase the darkness, but he could always, always build a brighter, louder, more beautiful world right beside it, with you safe at its center.
pairing: steve harrington x reader
summary: after a messy breakup, you and steve are constantly at each other's throats. the party is tired of it.
themes & warnings: steve being a douche, reader being petty, screaming matches LOL, emotional angst, jealousy ugh protective STEVEEEE we love, eventual resolution
since the new season has been approaching ive been on a steve kick so bad guys
steve had never been so bored.
right now, he was sitting in the parking lot of the mall, his shitty AC blowing insufficiently cold air onto his body while robin sat in the passenger seat, flipping through static-ridden radio stations. after the past year of his life, he'd have thought he'd at least be doing something entertaining with his free time.
but no. he was babysitting. again.
well, not technically. the kids were all inside the arcade, old enough now to not need a constant supervisor. but he was the ride. always the ride. and right now, he was waiting on you. you were inside with the kids, having a particularly strong bond with max and will, playing games with them on your off time. plus, you supplied the quarters.
you'd dumped him three months ago in a blaze of shouted heartbreak and slammed doors. now, thanks to the tangled web of friendships in hawkins and the love you had for the kids, he was constantly, unavoidably forced to be around you.
"can you at least try to be civil today?" robin asked, finally settling on a crackly pop station. "my ears are still ringing from the last time you two went at it in the scoops ahoy break room."
"i'm always civil," steve snapped, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. "she's the one who starts it."
"she asked you to pass the salt and you told her she was 'seasoned enough with bitterness.'"
"it was a joke!"
"it was a declaration of war, steve."
the arcade doors slid open and you walked out, a vision in your summer dress, a small, victorious smile on your face. still as infuriatingly gorgeous as you'd always been. dustin was trailing behind you, chattering excitedly, no doubt about some high score you’d just helped him achieve. the sight sent a familiar, unwelcome pang through steve’s chest. you looked happy. you looked free.
you spotted the car and your smile tightened into a polite, distant line. the war mask was on. you slid into the backseat, the air in the BMW instantly turning frigid despite the struggling AC.
“took you long enough,” steve muttered, putting the car in reverse.
“some of us were actually having fun, steve,” you said sweetly, buckling your seatbelt. “it’s a novel concept, i know.”
the kids clambered in on either side of you, max having to sit in your lap due to the cramped back seat. you shifted to allow her some space as she looked down at you with pleading blue eyes. they screamed 'not again.'
the silent plea in max's eyes was a gut punch. she, more than any of them, knew what real fighting sounded like, and the last thing she needed was to be trapped in a metal box with another one. you gave her a small, reassuring squeeze, a silent promise to try.
the promise lasted all of five minutes.
the drive was a tense, silent standoff. steve would adjust the rearview mirror, and you’d be staring out the window, pointedly ignoring him. you’d lean forward to ask dustin a question, and steve would crank the radio just a little too loud.
it came to a head at the stoplight by the town square.
“so,” dustin said, his voice unnaturally high, “mike’s having a D&D session tomorrow. you guys in?”
“wouldn’t miss it,” you said at the exact same time steve said, “i’m busy.”
you locked eyes in the mirror. a challenge.
“doing what?” you asked, your voice dripping with fake curiosity. “scooping ice cream and realizing you peaked in high school?”
steve’s knuckles turned white on the wheel. “no. i have a date.”
the words hung in the air, heavy and poisonous. robin visibly flinched. dustin sank lower in his seat, lucas pretended to not notice his surroundings, and will frowned. max went rigid in your lap.
you, however, just smiled, a sharp, brittle thing. “oh? anyone we know?”
“tammy thompson,” steve said, the name feeling like ash in his mouth. it was a lie. a stupid, petty lie.
you let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “tammy thompson? the one who cries when she sings? wow, steve. raising the bar, i see.”
“at least she can carry a tune,” he shot back, the words out before he could stop them. he was referring to your tone-deaf rendition of “total eclipse of the heart” you’d sung together, drunk and happy, in this very car a lifetime ago.
the light turned green. the car didn't move.
the air was so thick with hostility you could taste it.
“you’re an asshole,” you whispered, the hurt finally breaking through the icy facade.
“takes one to know one,” he retorted, his heart hammering against his ribs. He hated this. He hated every second of it.
a horn blared behind them. steve slammed his foot on the gas, lurching the car forward.
in your lap, max let out a tiny, involuntary gasp at the sudden movement, her hands flying to grip your shoulders. the sound was small, but it cut through the anger like a knife.
you looked down at her wide, anxious eyes, then up at the back of steve’s head. this wasn't just about you and him anymore.
the rest of the drive was a silence so profound it was deafening. when he finally pulled up to your house, you were out of the car before it had fully stopped, the door slamming shut behind you. you didn't look back.
steve watched you go, a hollow ache spreading through his chest. in the rearview mirror, he saw max staring out the window, her expression closed off and weary.
“tammy thompson?” robin finally said, her voice flat. “really?”
steve just rested his forehead against the steering wheel, defeated. “i know.”
dustin piped up, his voice matter-of-fact.
"all you two do is fight. and never about the actual issue."
the car was silent for a beat, the truth of dustin's words hanging in the air, sharper and more accurate than any insult you or steve had thrown. steve lifted his head from the wheel, his eyes meeting dustin's in the rearview mirror.
"what's that supposed to mean?"
dustin shrugged, but his expression was uncharacteristically serious. "it means you're not fighting about tammy thompson, or who can carry a tune. you're fighting about how you broke up. you're fighting about who was right and who was wrong. but you're just.. poking each other with sticks instead of actually talking about it."
will nodded slowly, looking down at his clasped hands. lucas mumbled, "he's not wrong."
max, still sitting stiffly, added, "it's getting really old."
steve felt a hot flush of shame creep up his neck. he looked at robin for backup, but she just raised her eyebrows in confirmation of the kids' statements.
he was being schooled by a bunch of teenagers. and the worst part was, they were right.
the "actual issue" was a tangled mess of miscommunication, stress, bruised egos, and one stupid, heated argument that had spiraled into a nuclear winter between the two of you. he missed you. he was pretty sure, underneath all the venom and ice you had on the surface, you missed him too. but all you did was lob grenades at each other, and the kids were stuck in the crossfire.
he sighed, the fight draining out of him completely, leaving only exhaustion and the same hollow ache he'd felt for three whole months.
"okay," he said, his voice quiet. "point taken."
he pulled away from your house, the silence in the car now contemplative rather than hostile.
robin glanced at him. “what are you gonna do about it, hair?”
steve kept his eyes on the road.
"i don't know."
you wiped your tears, sticky and black with mascara, and checked your reflection in the mirror of your vanity. groaning, you smudged it off the corners of your eyes. behind you, max, who had skated to your house shortly after steve dropped her off, frowned. sniffling, you tried to muster a half-assed smile in her direction.
"don't worry about me, mayfield. i'm tough."
max didn't buy it for a second. she crossed her arms, leaning against your headboard. "you're not tough. you're sad. and he's an idiot."
a wet laugh escaped you. "he is an idiot." you grabbed a tissue and wiped the remaining smudges from your face, your reflection looking raw and tired. "a massive one."
"but you still like him," max stated, not a question. she knew these things.
you sighed, dropping the tissue into the trash. "it doesn't matter. it's too messy. we're just.. we can't be in the same room without trying to murder each other with our eyes."
"because you're both too stubborn to say sorry," she said, her voice blunt. "its easier to be mad than to be hurt."
her words, wise beyond her years, hit a little too close to home. you sat down next to her, the mattress dipping.
"it's not that simple, max."
"isn't it?" she asked, picking at a loose thread on your comforter. "you guys used to be so happy. and cool. you made him less of a douche. now he's just.. a douche again. and you're.. not you. you're sad."
you looked at her, at the genuine concern in her blue eyes, and felt a fresh wave of tears. the kids weren't just bystanders, they were casualties. they'd lost the easy dynamic, the fun group outings, the two people who used to be a unit now acting like rival generals in a nasty war.
"i don't know how to fix this."
max shrugged.
"just stop breaking it more."
the words were so simple. but they meant so much. the reality of it made your chest ache, forcing you to confront the truth. you were the problem too, not just steve. your desire to fight with him was just to keep a connection.
maybe the solution was to let the connection go? the thought made you genuinely sick, but maybe it was the best choice for you and the kids. and steve.
it wouldn't be easy. but then again.. nothing about this was.
parties weren't really steve's scene anymore. especially since he'd graduated high school and didn't even want to see half of the people he used to be inseparable from. but here he was, one of the only nights that he wasn't being the babysitter, holding a half full cup of warm beer and talking to tommy.
tommy was home from college, so naturally, it meant he was throwing the biggest party of the year. the guy talked his ear off, prattling on about college, the women, the sports. but all steve could think about, usually, predictably, was you.
it had been a month. you'd been avoiding him.
not like before, when you only saw him around the kids. this time, you even avoided the kids for the most part, too.
it was a clean break. a quiet, devastating ceasefire. there were no more arguments in the video store, no more sniping in the car. the kids had stopped trying to get you both in the same room, their hopeful attempts dying out one by one in the face of your polite, distant refusals.
it was what he’d thought he wanted, wasn’t it? peace. quiet.
it was hell.
he hadn't even noticed tommy was still talking until the subject changed.
"--so honestly, they could've won if they just-- yo. isn't that your girl?" tommy said, jaw dropped straight to the floor.
steve raised an eyebrow, looking in the direction of tommy's pointed finger. the bass of the music vibrated the beer in his stomach, making him physically ill at the sight before him.
there you were. he could tell you were drunk from where he was standing, thirty feet away. your eyes were hazy, lips stretched out in a lazy grin. you were dancing on the fucking table, slowly inching your shirt up, slowly, slowly, slowly, until the hem was just below your ribs. the crowd around you was whooping and cheering, a sea of faces he mostly despised, all looking at you. at the skin you were revealing.
"oh jesus christ." steve hissed, the plastic cup in his hand cracking, soaking his sleeve with warm beer. he didn't even notice. he was already on the move.
he was across the room in seconds, shoving people out of his way without a word of apology. the music was a distant thrum, the only sound he could focus on was the pounding of his own blood in his ears.
he reached the table just as you laughed, a loose, carefree sound that felt like a personal insult, and went to pull the shirt higher.
his hands closed around your waist. not gently.
you yelped as he hauled you off the table, your feet stumbling as they hit the floor. the crowd groaned in disappointment.
"hey, man, what's your problem?" some guy slurred.
steve ignored him, his grip firm on your arms as he steadied you. your hazy eyes struggled to focus on his face.
"steve?" you mumbled, your grin fading into confusion. "what're you... i was dancing."
"you were making a spectacle of yourself," he snarled, his voice low and vicious, meant for your ears only. the horrified feeling was a live wire under his skin. "what the hell is wrong with you?"
your confusion sharpened into defiance. "i'm having fun. something you wouldn't know anything about anymore." you tried to pull away, but he held fast. "let go of me."
"not a chance," he bit out, his eyes scanning the leering faces around you. "you're drunk and you're coming with me. now."
"i'm not going anywhere with you!" you shouted, your voice rising above the music. the fight was back, bright and ugly in your gaze. "you don't get to tell me what to do! you lost that right!"
the words hit their mark, but he was too far gone to care. he started pulling you toward the door, your heels digging into the carpet.
"steve, stop it! get off me!"
he didn't stop. he couldn't. all he could see was you on that table, all he could feel was the need to get you away, to get you safe, to make you stop. the quiet ceasefire was over. this was all-out war.
he finally managed to manhandle you out the front door and into the cool night air. you wrenched your arm free, stumbling back a few steps on the lawn.
"what is your problem?" you shrieked, your chest heaving.
"you are my problem!" he roared back, gesturing wildly toward the house. "dancing on a table? for them? letting them all... look at you like that?"
you laughed bitterly, drunkenly stumbling into the opposite direction. getting as far away as possible.
"now you decide you give a shit. well guess what? it's too late!" you shouted.
steve didn't have time for this. you were drunk, he was irritated, and it was very possible that you wouldn't even remember this conversation in the morning. he needed to get some water into you and get you home.
dragging you back toward the house, he sat you down and filled a glass of water from tommy's sink, stalking back outside.
"you're going to drink this," steve said, his voice tight as he thrust the glass of water toward you. you were slumped on the curb, head in your hands. "now."
you looked up, your eyes glazed with tears and alcohol. "go to hell."
he crouched in front of you, shoving the glass into your hand. "drink. it. or i'll pour it down your throat myself."
a fresh wave of anger surged through you. you took the glass, but instead of drinking, you threw the contents directly into his face.
the cold water was a shock, dripping from his hair and nose onto his shirt. he froze for a second, water plastering his bangs to his forehead, before he slowly wiped his face with his sleeve. the look in his eyes was dangerously calm.
"feel better?" he asked, his voice dangerously quiet.
"no," you spat, the fight draining out of you as quickly as it came, leaving you shivering and miserable.
"get in the car," he commanded, standing up and turning away from you, his shoulders rigid.
you did what he asked. you slid into the passenger side of his car, crossing your arms and leaning your head back, the spinning dizziness making you nothing short of sick. the ride was silent for about five minutes before, inevitably, your slurring voice could be heard again. angry. resentful. drunk.
"i hate you, steve. y'know that?" you slurred out, your lips and tongue not quite matching your vocal chords. you were so drunk that you were barely awake. but the words still had the effect they were meant to.
the words, slurred and heavy with alcohol, hit him with the force of a physical blow. his grip on the steering wheel tightened until his knuckles were bone-white. he didn't look at you. he couldn't.
"i know," he said, his voice flat and empty. it was the only defense he had left.
"you don't," you insisted, your head lolling against the window. "you don't know. you broke… you broke everything. and now you… you just get to drive me home. like you're… like you're some kinda hero." a bitter, wet laugh escaped you. "you're not a hero. you're just… a boy. a stupid, mean boy."
each word was a shard of glass. he focused on the yellow lines of the road, counting them as they passed, a desperate attempt to anchor himself.
"and i hate that i… that i miss you," you whispered, the anger dissolving into a heartbreaking confession you'd never make sober. "it's so stupid. i'm so stupid."
steve felt his own eyes burn. he blinked rapidly, staring straight ahead, trying to make the tears disappear. he'd never let them drop in front of you. he knew they'd come back later.
"just go to sleep, Y/N," he managed to rasp out. "we're almost there."
you didn't say anything else. a few moments later, a soft snore told him you'd finally passed out.
the rest of the drive was a special kind of torture, trapped in a metal box with the ghost of everything he'd ruined. when he pulled into your driveway, the silence was absolute.
he carried you inside, your body limp and heavy in his arms. he laid you in your bed, taking off your shoes and pulling the comforter over you just as he had time and time before, but this time, he didn't get to join you. he didn't get to hold you. in the dim light from the hallway, he could see the tear tracks dried on your cheeks.
he stood there for a long time, just watching you sleep, the echo of your words -- i hate you... i miss you -- playing on a loop in his mind.
he stood in the doorway for a long moment, watching the steady rise and fall of your chest. the anger was gone, leaving behind a vast, empty ache. you were right. he wasn't a hero. he was just a boy who had been too stupid to hold onto the one good thing in his life.
then, he drove home in a daze, the silence in his car now a heavy, accusing presence. in his driveway, he punched the steering wheel until his knuckles were raw. the sharp pain was a relief, a physical distraction from the emotional maelstorm inside him. he sat there in the dark, the only sound his ragged breathing and the faint, metallic ring fading from the steering wheel.
he didn't even make it to his bed. he sank onto the couch in his dark living room, head in his hands.
and then, finally, alone in the dark where no one could see, the tears came. silent, shuddering sobs that wracked his entire body. they weren't just about tonight. they were for every stupid comment, every missed chance, every moment of the last three months he'd spent pushing you away when all he'd ever wanted was to pull you closer.
he cried for the "stupid, mean boy" he'd been, and for the man he was too scared to become without you.
for now, all he could do was sit in the dark and feel the weight of it all. the silence wasn't peaceful anymore. it was just heavy. he wasn't sure he'd ever truly wanted it in the first place.
the vile taste of tequila and regret created a film on the inside of your mouth. a pounding headache rocked your temples, making you want to rip your head from your shoulders and throw it in an ice bath.
sunlight stabbed through your eyelids like a hot knife. you groaned, burying your face deeper into your pillow, but the movement sent a fresh wave of nausea rolling through you. fragments of the night came back to you in a nauseating kaleidoscope. the bass of the music. the feeling of the table under your shoes. the whooping crowd. then… steve.
steve’s furious face. steve’s hands on your waist, hauling you down. the cold water hitting his face. the silent, tense car ride. your own voice, slurred and venomous.
i hate you, steve.
i hate that i miss you.
a fresh wave of humiliation, hot and sharp, washed over you, worse than the hangover. you’d said that. you’d actually said that out loud. to him.
you dragged yourself out of bed, your body protesting every movement, and stumbled toward the kitchen for water and aspirin. as you passed the living room, you froze.
there, on the coffee table, was an empty glass of water. next to it sat two aspirin, and a note, written on a ripped piece of notebook paper in a familiar, slanted handwriting.
Drank the water. Take these. There’s Gatorade in the fridge.
- S
no “love,” no “xoxo.” just his initial. it was so simple, so practical, and it somehow made everything a thousand times worse. he’d been in your house after you’d passed out. he’d seen you at your most vulnerable, your most pathetic, and his response wasn’t anger or a lecture. it was… caretaking. the one thing he’d always been good at, even when he was being a world-class jerk.
it was a peace offering you didn’t deserve and didn’t know how to accept. you picked up the aspirin, dry-swallowing them with a wince, the gesture feeling like a surrender you weren't ready to make. the war was over, but the aftermath was a minefield, and you were standing right in the middle of it, hungover and heartbroken.
as you were dissociating, your phone rang, worsening your headache. muttering a curse, you stumbled to the wall it was on, answering it begrudgingly.
"hello?"
will's voice crackled through on the other end, soft and hesitant as it always was. at least it wasn't someone annoying.
"hi, y/n. it's will," he said. "i was just wondering.. well, max told me to call and ask.. if you're still planning on coming to dustin's birthday party today? we really want you to come. we haven't seen you in forever."
the question felt like a physical blow. dustin’s birthday. you’d completely forgotten. of course steve would be there. he was the official party chauffeur, the defacto older brother. the thought of facing him, sober and raw, after last night made your stomach churn.
“i, uh…” you stammered, your mind racing for an excuse. a work emergency. sudden illness. a spontaneous trip to antarctica.
“please?” will’s voice was small, and you could picture his earnest, worried face. “it hasn’t been the same without you. everyone keeps arguing about the campaign rules and steve just… mopes. it’s not fun.”
steve just mopes.
the image was so pathetic, so unlike the loud, boisterous king steve of old, that it pierced through your own self-pity. the kids were suffering. they were caught in the crossfire of a war they didn't start, missing the easy dynamic that used to exist.
you looked back at the note on the coffee table. s. a simple initial that held so much weight. he’d taken care of you, even after you’d thrown water in his face and called him names. he was trying, in his own, messed-up way.
taking a deep, shaky breath, you made a decision. it wasn't a surrender. it was a ceasefire for a higher cause.
“yeah, will,” you said, your voice softer. “i’ll be there. what time?”
“four o’clock!” will said, his relief palpable even through the phone line. “at mike's. thanks, y/n!”
you hung up the phone, your heart hammering. you were going to have to see steve. sober. in broad daylight. and you were going to have to find a way to be in the same room without vomiting.
mike's basement was decorated with streamers. a banner read "happy birthday, dustin!" courtesy of joyce byers, who had a particular eye for these things. after the parents let the kids know that they couldn't go on random, spontaneous trips through the woods or accidentally on purpose set the basement aflame, they were cut loose. it wasn't too long after that that steve showed up.
the air was thick with the smell of pizza and the sound of bickering over the D&D board. steve ran a hand through his hair, desperately trying to keep the peace between lucas and mike.
"look, who cares what color the wizard's robe is? is it significant to the story line?" he sighed tiredly.
lucas glared at him, crossing his arms.
“it establishes his alignment!” lucas shot back, his voice cracking with teenage indignation.
“it’s a robe, sinclair! it’s not that deep!”
max bounced her leg restlessly from her spot on the couch next to el, staring at the basement stairs. she missed you. steve knew it. she hadn't seen you in a while since the argument about tammy thompson, when you'd obviously decided that being around steve was too much.
"when's y/n gonna be here? did you tell her it was at 4?" max questioned will.
will, who was carefully arranging dustin's new dice by color, looked up nervously. "yeah, i told her. she said she was coming."
the unspoken i hope hung in the air. steve, who had been pretending to be deeply invested in the pizza box design, felt his stomach clench. he hadn't known you were invited. he hadn't allowed himself to even consider the possibility. the fragile, silent truce from the last party felt like it had happened a lifetime ago.
the creak of the basement door opening cut through the bickering.
all heads, including steve's, swiveled toward the stairs.
you appeared, looking hesitant, holding a clumsily wrapped present. your eyes immediately found Max, and a genuine, relieved smile broke across your face. "hey, mayfield."
max practically launched herself off the couch, skirting the D&D board to wrap you in a quick, tight hug. "you're here."
"wouldn't miss it," you said, your voice soft. you handed dustin the present. "happy birthday, dude."
as dustin tore into the gift (a ridiculously advanced model rocket), your gaze inevitably drifted across the room, colliding with steve's. it was like two magnets, repelling and attracting at once. the air grew thick. the kids, sensing the shift, went unnaturally quiet.
steve gave you the same small, cautious nod he had before. an acknowledgment. a white flag held aloft. you returned it with a tight, almost imperceptible dip of your chin. a reluctant acceptance of the ceasefire.
then, you deliberately turned your back to him, focusing all your attention on max and el.
steve felt the dismissal like a physical blow. he shoved his hands in his pockets and turned back to the pizza, the cardboard box suddenly the most interesting thing in the world. the party continued, the noise level slowly rising again, but a new, unspoken rule had been established. you and steve existed in the same space, a careful, orbiting distance between you. for the kids, it was enough. for steve, it was a special kind of agony.
and for el and max, it was annoying.
they sat on the couch, doing their teenage girl thing, analyzing with their eyes and whispering to each other. the occasional giggle, the occasional annoyed groan, and the formation of a plan bubbled from their lips.
you, of course, were oblivious due to the nature of the party. you listened to the boys rant and rave about D&D like you had for hours, curled into a recliner next to will, who sometimes glanced at you dozing off and smiled in amusement.
steve was too busy staring at you to notice either. it was pitiful, if you asked max.
with one final exchanged, deciding glance between blue and brown eyes, max and el clambered up from the couch and walked up to the chair you and will shared. they tried to look innocent (max mostly struggled) as el spoke.
"help." she simply said, gesturing to the upstairs.
you raised an eyebrow, sitting up.
"with what?"
"closet. need supplies."
groaning, suspecting no foul play, you sat up and followed the girls.
you followed max and el up the basement stairs, the noise of the party fading behind you. they led you to the closet they spoke of. when the door opened, your eyebrows furrowed. it was karen wheeler's cleaning supplies, full of pine sol, mops, and buckets.
"what do you--"
without another word, you were shoved in. the door shut behind you and clicked, the sound of a lock.
"what the fuck? jane hopper! maxine mayfield!" you seethed, pounding on the door.
you heard a giggle before you heard, "we will go get more help. don't worry."
they sprinted downstairs, now quickly approaching where steve sat, completely dissociating and sprawled across the couch they'd just been sitting on. he'd come over to claim their spot.
"help. y/n is stuck in the closet!" el said excitedly, grabbing steve's hand and attempting to yank him up.
steve matched your look of confusion, sitting up slightly.
"stuck? what are you talking about?"
"stuck," max confirmed, her face a mask of exaggerated urgency. "the door locked behind her. she can't get out."
a flicker of genuine concern crossed steve's face before it was replaced by deep suspicion. he looked from max's poorly concealed smirk to el's wide, "innocent" eyes. this had "ambush" written all over it.
but the thought of you, trapped and probably furious, was enough to get him moving. he sighed, heaving himself off the couch. "fine. show me."
they led him back upstairs, practically vibrating with suppressed glee. he could already hear you on the other side of the door.
"--so help me god, when i get out of here, i am telling joyce you've been using your powers to cheat at monopoly!" you were yelling, your voice muffled by the wood.
steve almost smiled. almost.
"stand back," he said, his voice firm. "i'm gonna try the door."
he heard a huff from the other side, but the pounding stopped. he grabbed the doorknob. it opened without an issue. there you were, face red, surrounded by cleaning materials. he smirked, turning back around to look at the girls.
"really? that was-- jesus christ!" he exclaimed.
el shoved him into the same closet, slamming the door behind him before he could get his hands on it. the lock clicked again. steve groaned, trying the knob, but it was damn near cemented. el using her powers.
"talk." el simply said from the outside, crossing her arms.
"without yelling." max added. "for twenty minutes."
crossing their arms, the girls turned and walked away.
"goddammit," he muttered, leaning his forehead against the cool wood of the door.
on the other side, you stood frozen, your own anger momentarily eclipsed by sheer disbelief. you were locked in a broom closet. with steve harrington. by two fourteen-year-old girls.
the space was suddenly, unbearably small. the sharp scent of pine-sol filled your lungs, mixed with the scent of steve's aftershave and the mint gum in his mouth. you could feel the heat radiating from his body just inches away.
"this is ridiculous," you whispered into the cramped darkness.
"you think?" steve's voice was a low, frustrated rumble right next to your ear. he shifted, his shoulder brushing against yours, and you both flinched away, pressing yourselves against opposite walls. it was a futile effort; the closet was barely big enough for the two of you and karen wheeler's cleaning arsenal.
silence descended, thick and heavy. you could hear his breathing, a little too fast, and the frantic thumping of your own heart. twenty minutes. it felt like a lifetime.
you knew that if you didn't address what had happened the other night, you'd look weak. and you'd also explode. neither were good options, and if you and steve kept ignoring what was happening between each other, things would only get broken worse.
"thank you." you whispered, crossing your arms.
the two words, soft and unexpected, seemed to suck all the air out of the cramped closet.
steve went completely still. "for what?" he asked, his voice cautious, confused.
"for the other night," you clarified, your voice barely audible. you stared straight ahead at a bottle of bleach, unable to look at him. "for... getting me home. for the water and the aspirin. i was... i was a mess. and you didn't have to do that."
there was a long pause. you could almost hear him processing, the gears turning in his head.
"i did have to," he said finally, his voice low and earnest. "Y/N, i will always have to. even if you hate me. even if you never want to see me again. if you're in trouble, i'm... i'm there. that's never going to change."
the raw, unvarnished truth in his words was a battering ram against the walls you'd built. it wasn't a grand romantic declaration. it was something deeper, more fundamental. a promise of loyalty that transcended their broken relationship.
a sob caught in your throat, and you pressed the back of your hand to your mouth to stifle it. the sound was small, but he heard it.
"hey," he said softly, his tone shifting from defensive to concerned. "don't... don't cry. please."
"i'm not crying," you lied, your voice trembling.
you felt him shift beside you, his arm hesitantly brushing against yours again, but this time, neither of you pulled away. he tried to turn your body towards his.
"look at me," he whispered.
you shook your head, still facing the bleach bottle as if it held the secrets of the universe.
"please, baby."
the pet name simultaneously shot sparks down your spine and poured cold water over your head. slowly, reluctantly, you turned your head. your eyes had adjusted to the dim light, and you could see his face, all sharp angles and shadows, his expression open and unbearably sad.
"i'm sorry," he said again, his gaze holding yours. "for all of it. for being a stupid, mean boy. for not being the man you needed me to be."
the tears you'd been holding back finally spilled over, tracing hot paths down your cheeks. you didn't wipe them away.
"i miss you," you whispered, the admission feeling like both a failure and a liberation. "and I hate it."
a shuddering breath escaped him. he lifted his hand, his fingers hovering near your cheek before he gently wiped a tear away with his thumb. the touch was so familiar, so achingly gentle, it made you want to scream and lean into it all at once.
"i know," he murmured, his thumb stroking your cheekbone. "i miss you too. and i hate that you hate it."
you stood there, trapped in a closet, crying while steve harrington wiped your tears, and for the first time in months, it didn't feel like a battle. It just felt sad, and real, and like maybe, just maybe, a beginning.
you could feel him getting closer, his smell, the heat of his body, until you were breathing it all in. his nose brushed yours gently. two days ago, you would've never dreamed he'd be this close to you ever again. it felt like you were floating, an out of body experience.
his lips were a breath away from yours. you could feel the warmth of them, the ghost of a touch you’d ached for and resented in equal measure. your eyes fluttered shut, the world narrowing to the space between your mouths. jt would be so easy to close it. to fall back into the familiar warmth, to let the anger and the hurt dissolve into this. but you couldn't move.
steve could. this was all he'd ever wanted for months.
"i promise you," he whispered, his scent fanning over your face. "i swear on everything i love. i will never hurt you again."
the words were a balm and a brand all at once. a promise you desperately wanted to believe, seared into the air by the heat of his proximity. your resolve, already cracking, began to crumble.
that was all the invitation he needed.
he closed the infinitesimal distance, his lips meeting yours.
it wasn't like the frantic, desperate kisses from before the breakup. it wasn't like the angry, bruising clash you'd shared in the middle of your worst fights. this was slow. reverent. a silent apology and a desperate question all in one.
a sob escaped you, muffled against his mouth, but you didn't pull away. your hands, which had been braced against his chest, unclenched. your fingers curled into the soft fabric of his t-shirt, holding on as if he were the only solid thing in a spinning world.
he kissed you like he was memorizing you, like he was trying to pour every unsaid "i'm sorry" and "i miss you" and "i love you" directly from his soul into yours. one of his hands cradled the back of your head, his fingers tangling in your hair, while the other splayed across the small of your back, pulling you flush against him until not even a whisper could fit between you.
the world outside -- the party, the kids, the months of pain -- ceased to exist. there was only the dark, the scent of pine-sol and his cologne, and the devastatingly gentle pressure of his lips on yours.
when you finally broke apart, you were both breathing heavily, foreheads resting together again in the dark.
the lock clicked.
the door swung open. max and el stood there, their eyes wide.
max’s mouth dropped open. "whoa."
el just smiled, a small, knowing smile.
steve didn't jump back. he kept his forehead against yours for a second longer, his eyes still closed, as if savoring the moment before the real world intruded. then he slowly straightened up, his hand sliding from your back to find yours, lacing your fingers together.
he looked at the girls, a new, quiet confidence in his gaze. "we're good," he said, his voice low but firm.
it wasn't entirely true. the hurt wasn't gone. the trust wasn't magically rebuilt. but the war was over. the peace talks had ended with a treaty sealed with a kiss.
you looked down at your joined hands, then back up at him, and gave his fingers a slight squeeze. it was an answer.
pairing: steve harrington x reader
summary: steve harrington thinks that dustin's older sister (and billy hargrove's on and off girlfriend) deserves better than what she has.
themes & warnings: steve harrington head over heels, henderson!reader, billy hargrove being a dickmunch, fighting/violence, swearing, angst if u squint, resolution!! we love steve he's such a good man UGH love him
he wasn't sure what it was that made you so hard to stop thinking about. well, in that way.
he knew it was dustin's mouth that constantly kept you in the loop in steve's mind. you were his older sister, his idol and best friend, and there was mention of you in every conversation that he had with dustin nowadays. before now, though, steve had never thought of you romantically. for as long as he'd known you and as long as he'd known dustin, you were strictly off limits and he never looked at you as anything more than that.
you were drop dead gorgeous, of course. curls like dustin's, expressive e/c eyes, plush lips, and a commanding attitude just like your brother's. he knew a lot of pretty girls, though, so he was certain that your looks weren't what made you so attractive to steve. after all, nancy wheeler was pretty, but he only thought about her when she was right in front of him.
you had something else.
something he saw in the way that you loved and cared for your brother, always making sure he had someone that would listen to him and spend time with him. playing video games with dustin (and steve himself on occasion), taking him for car rides and stopping to get ice cream, going frog hunting with him at 11 o'clock at night because he wanted to study them for some nerd shit he was doing.
your love for dustin had no bounds. your compassion for other people had no bounds. all around, you were just an incredible woman.
"steve." dustin interrupted again, rolling his eyes. "could you stop staring at my sister and pull out of the driveway? we're gonna be late to--"
"i know, i know." steve shook his head, tearing his eyes away from where you were standing on the porch, waving dustin off. he put the car in reverse and pulled out onto the street, leaving you behind.
"you've been doing that a lot lately," dustin commented, buckling his seatbelt.
"doing what?"
"staring. at my sister. it's weird, man."
"its not weird," steve defended, a little too quickly and eagerly for dustin's liking. "i was just making sure she got inside safe."
"right. because the big bad squirrels are gonna get her between the car and the front door." dustin snorted. "you know she can handle herself. she dated a guy for six months who tried to teach her how to throw a punch."
steve's grip on the steering wheel tightened. he knew exactly who dustin was talking about. billy. the mention of that name was like a splash of cold water, killing his fantasies and instantly souring his mood. he'd seen the way billy talked to you, the possessive grip on your arm in the school hallway, the way your smile would dim sometimes when he rolled his eyes at something you said.
"yeah, well, maybe she shouldn't have to."
dustin was quiet for a moment, studying his friend's profile. "you like her."
"it's not that simple, henderson."
"it is! you stare, you sigh, you ask weird, probing questions about her weekend plans. it's textbook. even mike noticed, and he's emotionally stunted."
steve sighed, running a hand through his perfectly coiffed hair. "she's with billy."
"on and off," dustin corrected. "mostly off lately, from what i hear of it. and he's a dickmunch."
a laugh burst out of steve, unexpected and sharp. "a what?"
"a dickmunch. you know, a muncher of--"
"i get it, i get it." steve shook his head, smile fading. "he is. and she deserves..." he trailed off, because the list was endless. you deserved someone who looked at you like you'd hung the moon, not like you were a prize he'd won. you deserved someone who made you laugh until you snorted, not flinch when he raised his voice. you deserved someone who saw the brilliant, stubborn, kind hearted person you were, not just a pretty face on his arm.
you deserved better.
in steve's opinion, you deserved him. he would treasure you.
"alright, asshole. stop daydreaming about my sister and drive."
the bluntness of dustin's command, paired with the sheer, terrifying truth that had just crystallized in his own mind, snapped steve back to reality. a faint blush crawled up his neck.
"right. driving." he cleared his throat, focusing intently on the road ahead.
but the thought was out there now, fully formed and undeniable, playing on a loop in his head to the rhythm of the turning tires. and when steve got a thought in his head, it wouldn't budge until something was done about it.
she deserves better. she deserves me.
sighing, he reached and turned the radio up.
for as long as you could remember, dustin had been your best friend. it was as easy as breathing.
he was your younger brother, yes, but you were sure that the little shit was some form of soulmate for you. he understood you completely and in return, you understood him in ways that nobody else would. his nerdy habits, the way he didn't quite feel right going into high school, oddly out of place everywhere he went. you accepted him no matter what.
when he was 5 and you were 8, he started having nightmares. he'd come padding into your room, his little face pale in the moonlight, clutching his favorite blanket. without a word, you'd lift your covers and he'd scramble in, his small, cold feet pressing against your legs.
"tell me about the stars," he'd whisper, his voice trembling. even at that age, he had an interest in all of the things he couldn't yet understand.
you'd tell him. you'd teach him about constellations, making up names and stories for them. you'd talk about how they were giant balls of gas, millions of miles away, but how their light still reached all the way to hawkins, indiana, just to make the night a little less dark. you'd talk until his grip on your t-shirt loosened in sleep and his panicked breathing evened out.
you were his first call for everything. the triumphs, like the first time he successfully built a radio from scratch. the heartbreaks, like when the kids at the park wouldn't let him play because he talked about "nerd stuff." you were his defender, his cheerleader, his safe place.
tonight, dustin had a school dance. you also had a party the same night, something for older kids, one thing that dustin couldn't join you for. but you still wanted to see him off.
you stood in the doorway of his room, watching him fumble with his tie. his brow was furrowed in concentration, a perfect mirror of the expression he wore when tackling something complex. the most difficult things were easy for him, and the most simple stumped him. it was a dustin thing. steve sat at his desk, smoothing the thighs of his jeans out. mike and lucas were sprawled out on dustin's bed, crumpling his sheets and their suits. will checked his reflection in the mirror.
sensing dustin's stress, you and steve moved at the same time to help. but of course, you were quicker.
you were at his side in an instant, your fingers brushing his away. "let me."
you worked quickly, efficiently, looping and tightening the fabric into a respectable knot. the whole room had gone quiet, watching you. you could feel steve's gaze, a warm, steady pressure.
"thanks," dustin mumbled, his shoulders slumping in relief.
"anytime, dusty," you said softly, smoothing the tie against his dress shirt. you gave his shoulders a squeeze. "you look handsome."
the honk of a car horn from outside broke the moment. mrs. henderson was ready to go.
"alright, let's move it, lover boys!" steve clapped his hands together, rising from the desk chair. "your chariot, -- by chariot, i mean your mom's station wagon -- awaits."
the kids scrambled off the bed, grumbling and straightening their suits. as they filed out, you nudged dustin.
"be confident. smile. make the first move. everything will work itself out." you smiled softly at the nervous fifteen year old. dustin took a deep breath, puffing his chest out a little.
"right. confident. i can do confident."
he marched out with a new determination.
"love you! have fun!" you shouted down the hall.
a muffled "love you too!" floated back, followed by the sound of the front door slamming shut.
silence descended upon the house, thick and sudden. the absence of the kids' chaotic energy was always a little jarring. you stood there for a moment in dustin's doorway. you really wished him good luck, but part of you was anxious about how it would go.
"he'll be okay." steve said warmly from behind you.
you turned, not realizing he'd lingered. he was leaning against the door frame, jacket slung over his shoulder and shirt stained with hair gel from his help styling dustin. he looked at ease, but his eyes were intently focused on you.
"how do you know?' you asked, the worry for your brother making your voice softer than usual.
"because he's a henderson," he shrugged, pushing off the frame to come closer. "and henderson's are stubborn, and smart, and way more charming than they have any right to be." a small, knowing smile played on his lips. "sound familiar?"
your breath hitched, but you disguised it. he was standing close enough now that you could smell his cologne, something clean and sharp, cutting through the familiar scent of dustin's model glue and comic books.
"looks like you're laying the charm on thick tonight, too, harrington." you teased, ignoring the way his easy smile gnawed at your chest.
he grinned again, shoving his hands into his pockets.
"so. you're headed to that party tonight? at tommy's?"
you nodded, shrugging.
"why not? dustin's out of the house tonight and mom's chaperoning. i might as well find something to do too," you hummed. "plus.. billy. he doesn't like going anywhere without a plus one."
the moment billy's name left your lips, you saw it. a subtle shift in steve's posture. the grin didn't vanish completely, but it tightened at the edges. the warmth in his eyes cooled into something sharper, more assessing.
"right. billy," he said, the name bitter on his tongue. he looked away, his gaze sweeping over dustin's cluttered room as if searching for something. "he's a real.. social butterfly, that one."
you heard the unspoken critique layered beneath the casual words. you'd heard it from others (mom, your friends) but coming from steve, it felt different. it didn't feel like a judgement of your choices. it felt like genuine concern.
"he can be," you conceded, your own defensiveness rising out of habit. "when he wants to be."
steve's eyes snapped back to yours, the deep intensity pinning you in place. "and what about what you want?"
the question, so direct and unexpected, stole the air from your lungs. you opened your mouth to reply with another deflection, another 'it's fine', but the words died in your throat. because standing there in the quiet of your brother's room, with steve harrington looking at you like he could see every crack in your armor, "fine" felt like the biggest lie you'd ever told.
you thought of billy's possessive grip on your waist in crowded rooms. the way he'd scoff if you suggested a movie he didn't like. the slow, steady erosion of your own voice to keep the peace.
steve took a half-step closer, his voice dropping, sincere and rough around the edges. "you know, you don't need a plus-one to be somebody, henderson. you're already somebody. all on your own."
his words landed like a physical touch, a gentle hand steadying you. he wasn't telling you what to do. he was reminding you that you had a choice. that you were whole, with or without billy hargrove on your arm.
the front door slammed again downstairs, followed by the distant sound of mrs. henderson calling, "steve? the kids are getting restless!" he was still expected to give a couple of the kids a ride. your mom only had so much room in the station wagon.
he held your gaze for a moment longer, a silent question hanging in the space between you. then he gave a small, almost imperceptible nod, as if he'd said all he needed to say.
"have a good night," he said softly, and then he turned and walked out of the room, his footsteps echoing down the stairs.
sighing, trying to erase the feeling in your chest that had just invaded your entire being, you left dustin's room and went into your own. you opened your closet, pulling your outfit for the party out and got ready.
you were going to be with your boyfriend in an hour and a half. so why couldn't you stop thinking about steve harrington?
the party was loud. obnoxiously so.
the bass from the speakers thrummed through the floor, vibrating up through the soles of your shoes and into your bones. you nursed a drink, one that billy had made (far too strong for your taste). his arm was tight around your waist and he pulled you wherever he went. you talked to all kinds of people, smiling in their faces like he wanted you to do, but not saying much. you wanted to get drunk. you wouldn't. billy would get hammered and need a ride home.
every time you tried to shift away, his grip tightened, pulling you back against his side. a silent command. stay put.
you nodded at something carol said, but you didn't hear a word. your mind was still miles away, trapped in the quiet of dustin's bedroom and scent of steve's cologne.
"you're already somebody. all on your own."
steve's voice, cutting clear through the noise in your mind, echoed in your head. you could still see the way he'd looked at you -- not with possession, not with lust, but with quiet reverence and respect. like you were a person. not a prize. and to be honest, it had rocked you through your core. truly shaken you up into a confused mess.
billy leaned down, his breath hot and smelling of beer against your ear. "smile, baby. you look like you're at a funeral."
you glanced up to meet his eyes, forcing a smile.
"sorry."
within an hour, billy was drunk. not too drunk, but not sober enough to be intelligent.
he was leaning on you, his words hot into your hair as he tried to whisper something that was probably meant to be seductive but just came out sloppy. the weight of him, the smell of cheap beer and cologne, was suffocating. this was it. this was the whole night, and every night with him, stretching out in front of you -- a life of being an anchor for a sinking ship.
your eyes scanned the hazy, crowded room, landing on the front door. freedom was twenty feet away.
"billy," you said, your voice firm as you tried to peel his hands from your waist. "i think you've had enough. let's get you some water."
"don' need water," he mumbled, his grip on you tightening. "need my girl. let's find a bathroom."
your jaw dropped.
"billy, no, we--"
"yes. let's go, sugar tits."
you glared at him, but part of you knew better than to do this. he was going to get what he wanted anyways. he always did. by being mean.
"i don't want to sleep with you."
his blue eyes went from drunk and hazy to sharp immediately.
the shift was instantaneous and terrifying. his grip on your waist went from heavy to bruising, like you were a dog trying to run away from the house again.
"what did you just say to me?" his voice was low, a dangerous whisper that cut through the party's noise.
you swallowed, your heart hammering against your ribs. every instinct screamed to back down, to placate him, to give him the smile and apology that would smooth things over. it was the same song and dance every time you fell back into him.
but then, your mind echoed again.
you're already somebody. all on your own.
the words weren't a gentle memory this time. they were a battle cry.
"i said," you repeated, your voice gaining strength, laced with a defiance that made billy's eyes narrow, "i don't want to sleep with you. not now. not ever again. you're an asshole."
the silence that fell between you was louder than the music. billy's face twisted, ugly with rage and wounded pride.
"you don't get to say that to me," he snarled, pulling you closer, his face inches from yours. "you better fuckin' behave before i--"
you shoved against his chest with all your might. "let go of me, billy!"
the scene had drawn attention. people were staring. all the sudden, you saw steve's face, meeting your eyes from across the room. you hadn't even known he was at the party, not thinking these things were his scene anymore.
he took in the situation in a single, sweeping glance -- your panicked expression, billy's aggressive stance, the bruising grip on your arm.
he was moving before you could even process it. he didn't shout. he didn't make a scene. he moved through the crowd like a shark through water, silent and deadly fast. in the space of a single heartbeat, he was there.
steve's hand clamped down on billy's wrist, the one that was digging into your arm. his grip wasn't just firm; it was brutal.
"hey!" billy yelped, his head whipping around, his drunken rage redirected.
"let go of her. now."
billy gritted his teeth, turning closer to steve. you knew nothing about this was going to work out well. billy never backed down, and steve had just caused him to boil over.
"steve, its okay." you cut in, wanting to make peace.
"it's not okay," steve said, his voice cutting through your plea without even taking his eyes off billy. his tone wasn't harsh with you, but it was final. this was not up for negotiation. "none of this is okay. it's not gonna fucking happen."
billy let out a low, ugly laugh. "you hear her? better listen to her. she knows her place. maybe you should learn yours." that was the final word. billy swung, a wild throw. steve, expecting it, dodged easily. but he didn't retaliate. billy was shocked, embarrassed, enraged.
"outside." he hissed, forging a burning hot path to the front door, pushing whoever was in the way to the side.
your eyes were wide and panicked as you glanced at steve. you grabbed his arm, reaching for anything you could grab to keep him from doing this. this wasn't what you wanted.
"steve. please. i'm begging you not to do this. billy is--"
once again you were cut off.
"--not going to touch you ever again."
steve's voice was quiet, but the certainty made the hair on your arms stand up. he finally looked at you, and the raw determination in his eyes stole the air from your lungs. this wasn't about pride or a stupid high school rivalry. this was about you. protecting your honor, protecting you.
he gently pried your hand from his arm, giving your fingers a reassuring squeeze before letting go. then, he walked towards the front door.
biting your lip, anxiousness making you jittery, you followed him as fast as you could, swinging the door open and running out into the yard. the porch light cast a sickly yellow scene in the front yard. billy was pacing, a caged animal, rolling his shoulders and cracking his neck.
"changed your mind? gonna hide behind my woman's skirt?" billy taunted.
steve didn't answer the taunt. he simply swung.
the punch wasn't wild or telegraphed. it was short, brutal, and connected with billy's jaw with a sickening crack. it was the answer to every sneer, every insult, every time billy'd laid an unkind hand on you.
billy staggered back, more out of shock than pain at first. he touched his jaw, his eyes wide with disbelief, before they narrowed into slits of pure venom.
"you're fucking dead, harrington."
then it was chaos.
they came together in a storm of fists and grunts. it was ugly, raw, devoid of any technique. steve got a few good shots in -- billy's nose poured blood, his eyebrow was split -- but billy was bigger, meaner, and drunk on beer and rage. he took the hits and gave them back worse. steve was gasping for air and coated in blood. billy wiped his face on his jacket, blood from his eyebrow seeping down into his vision.
finally, when it seemed steve couldn't continue and billy had lost track of how many times he'd hit the man, you screamed.
"GET OFF HIM, BILLY!"
tears ran down your face as you sniffled, your throat hurting from how loud you'd projected your voice. you were terrified, disgusted, and pissed.
"please, billy! just stop it. i'm begging you."
the raw plea in your voice did what your anger could not. it cut through the drunken haze and the rage. billy froze, his fist hovering in the air. he looked from steve, bloody and beaten on the ground, to you, your face a mess of tears and despair. for a single second, you saw something flicker in his blue eyes. not regret. comprehension. he saw your sorrow, he saw what he'd become to you. you'd gone from two teenagers in love to a man tormenting a woman who deserved more than him.
his arm dropped to his side. he took a stumbling step back, his chest heaving.
without another word, he spat blood onto the ground next to steve's body, a snide reminder to steve of who'd won. then, he spared you one last glance before disappearing from the area.
with hot tears continuing to pour down, you sprinted to steve. the wounded man used the moment to push himself up onto his elbows, coughing, spitting a glob of blood onto the grass. he didn't try to get up. he just looked at you, his one good eye full of a pained, unwavering devotion.
you fell to your knees beside him, reaching for his face, making your touch as gentle as you could.
"steve," you sniffled, your thumb wiping blood and dirt from his cheek. "i told you i didn't want this. i asked you not to and now you're--"
he caught your wrist, his grip surprisingly firm. he turned his head just enough to press a kiss to your palm, leaving a faint, bloody smudge on your skin.
"don't," he rasped, his voice a raw scrape. "'s okay. i promise."
a sob caught in your throat. "but you're--"
"i'm fine," he insisted, his voice intense. "he could have hit me a hundred more times. it would've been worth it." he tried to shift, to sit up more, but a sharp hiss of pain escaped his lips. you reached around his back, holding him steady.
"worth it?" you whispered, incredulous. "you're bleeding from.. everywhere. you can't even sit up. because of me." you sniffled.
"not because of you," he gritted out, the eye that wasn't swollen locking onto yours with a ferocity that made you flinch. "for you. there's a.. a world of difference. trust me."
he groaned, using your shoulder for leverage to finally, painfully sit up all the way. his breath came in ragged pants, but he didn't look away. "just bruises and cuts. they'll go away in a while."
he reached up, his hand trembling slightly, and cupped your cheek. his thumb stroked away a tear, his touch infinitely gentle despite the blood caked on his knuckles. you leaned into him, the last of your resistance crumbling. he was right. the fight had been horrible, but it had been a line in the sand. a bloody declaration that billy couldn't continue to run your life anymore.
"okay," you whispered, your voice finally steady. you slipped your arm all the way around him. "okay. let's get you cleaned up."
he leaned on you heavily as you helped him get to his feet and to his car. every step was a shared effort, a silent promise. as you opened the passenger door, he paused, looking at you with a mixture of exhaustion and utter devotion.
"hey," he said softly. "for the record.. you were the strongest one here."
as you drove away from the chaos, the boy who had fought for you slept fitfully in the seat beside you.
the rest of that night was long. you cleaned steve's wounds, apologizing softly when he hissed, and foraged his kitchen for something to ice his bruises. when you felt you'd successfully doctored him up, you helped him up the stairs to his bed.
his room smelled of cedar and aftershave. exactly like you'd imagined it.
helping him into bed, you tucked the blankets over him and said goodnight, racing down the stairs in disbelief that any of this had even happened.
you drove home, crawled into your own bed, and cried a little. then, you fell asleep thinking about steve harrington. not billy hargrove.
the morning came too quickly. before you were ready, you heard your brother come into your room, plopping into bed beside you. the mattress dipped, startling you from a sleep filled with fractured images of blood and unwavering brown eyes. you blinked, the morning light stinging, to find dustin staring at you, his face far too close and etched with dramatic concern.
"you're alive," he stated, as if he'd expected otherwise.
"barely," you groaned, pulling the covers over your head. the events of last night came rushing back -- the screaming, the blood, steve's broken body leaning on yours. your heart gave a painful lurch.
"i heard," dustin said, his voice uncharacteristically quiet. you peeked out from under the duvet. he was fiddling with a loose thread on your comforter. "about the fight. at tommy's. the whole school's talking about it."
you sat up slowly, your body aching with a phantom sympathy for steve's injuries. "what are they saying?"
"that king steve got his ass kicked defending you from your asshole boyfriend," dustin said, a hint of awe in his voice. then his brow furrowed. "is it true? did he really tell billy to fuck off and then just... take the beating?"
the memory of steve's voice, raw and certain, echoed in your mind. he could have hit me a hundred more times. it would've been worth it.
"yeah," you whispered, your throat tight. "it's true. and watch your language."
dustin was silent for a long moment, ignoring your scolding. "he likes you. like, really likes you." he said it with the grave seriousness of a scientist stating a proven fact.
a fresh wave of tears pricked your eyes, but this time, they weren't from fear or guilt. they were from a overwhelming, terrifying sense of hope. "i know."
"good," dustin declared, nodding once. "because billy's a dickmunch and i wish i could fight him. and steve... he's got the good hair." he patted your leg through the blanket. "now, get up. we're going to family video."
you started to sniffle again, more tears falling.
dustin sighed, opening his arms.
the simple, open gesture was your undoing. a sob broke free from your chest, and you launched yourself into your brother's arms, burying your face in his shoulder. he held you tightly, his small frame surprisingly sturdy, and let you cry it all out -- the fear, the relief, the dizzying hope.
"it's okay," he mumbled, patting your back awkwardly. "he's gonna be okay. steve's tough. he fought a demogor-- i mean, he's really tough."
you pulled back, wiping your eyes with the heel of your hand. "i know he is."
"and if billy ever shows his face again," dustin continued, his expression turning fierce, "we'll set mews on him."
a wet laugh escaped you. "mews is a cat, dustin."
"a very strategic cat," he insisted, his seriousness making you laugh harder, the sound mingling with your fading tears. he grinned, seeing he'd achieved his goal. "now, seriously. get dressed. we have a mission."
twenty minutes later, you were pulling up outside the familiar strip mall, the family video logo a beacon of normalcy. your stomach was a knot of nerves. what would you even say to him?
dustin, of course, had no such reservations. he marched right in, the bell above the door jingling cheerfully.
"harrington!" he bellowed, making both you and steve's coworker, who was behind the counter, jump.
steve emerged from the back room, and your breath caught. he looked... rough. one eye was a spectacular palette of purple and black, swollen nearly shut. a butterfly bandage held together a cut on his eyebrow, and his lip was split. but he was clean, and he was standing, and when his good eye found you, it lit up with a warmth that made your knees feel weak.
"hey, henderson," steve said, his voice a little hoarse. his gaze flickered to you. "hey."
dustin, completely oblivious to the charged silence, slapped a VHS tape on the counter. "we brought you a get-well-soon gift. the thing. it's about a shapeshifting alien that assimilates other life forms. i figured you could relate to feeling like your face is trying to kill you. and they don't have this tape here, so its new for you. and you look like shit because you got beat up for my sister. so i thought a gift was in order."
a laugh burst out of you, sharp and surprised, cutting through the last of your nerves. steve’s good eye widened in mock offense, but a real smile tugged at his split lip.
“you’re a little shit, you know that?” steve said, but there was no heat in it. he picked up the tape. “but… thanks, man. i think.”
“you’re welcome,” dustin said, beaming with pride. he then turned to you, his expression turning business-like. “okay, my work here is done. i’m going to go see if they have the new issue of dragon magazine. try not to do anything gross while I’m gone.” he scurried off toward the magazine rack.
the silence he left behind was different now -- softer, charged with a new understanding. you looked back at steve, at the brutal map of devotion painted across his face.
"he's not wrong," you said softly, your gaze tracing the purple bruise around his eye. "you do look like shit."
steve shrugged, his hand still resting on the vhs tape. "worth it."
that phrase again.
"you keep saying that." you said softly, taking a step closer to the counter.
he held your gaze, unwavering. "because its true." he came out from around the counter, walking up to you slowly. he limped a little, making you wince. the scent of his aftershave, familiar and comforting, mixed with the faint, clean smell of antiseptic from his cuts, fell over you. "seeing you walk in here, looking for me. definitely worth it."
from the back, steve's coworker cleared his throat loudly. "just so you two know, public displays of affection are against store policy. it disturbs the other customers." he gestured to the completely empty store.
steve didn't respond. he just kept looking at you, a slow, genuine smile spreading across his face. "wanna talk in the break room really quick?"
your heart gave a single, hard thump against your ribs. steve's gaze was an open question, full of hope and vulnerability.
"yeah," you breathed, your voice barely a whisper. "okay."
steve’s smile widened, and he turned, gesturing for you to follow him with a slight tilt of his head. He led you past his coworker, who was now very pointedly studying the label on a can of film cleaner, and through a door marked ‘STAFF ONLY’.
the break room was a tiny, windowless space that smelled like stale coffee and old microwave popcorn. a rickety table and two chairs were shoved against one wall. It was the least romantic place on earth, but with steve closing the door softly behind you, it felt like a sanctuary.
he turned to face you, leaning back against the door, his hands shoved in his pockets. the bravado he’d shown out front seemed to have evaporated, leaving behind a raw, nervous energy.
"look, about last night..." he started, then stopped, shaking his head. "no. not about the fight. about... before the fight." he took a deep breath, his good eye searching your face. "when i said you deserved better. i wasn't just talking about billy."
your breath hitched. "what were you talking about, steve?"
"me," he said, the word simple and stark. "i was talking about me. or... the guy i used to be. the king steve asshole who would've probably been friends with a guy like billy." he gestured vaguely to his own battered face. "i'm not that guy anymore. i haven't been for a long time. but you... you make me want to be even better. you make me want to be the guy who deserves to be the better man for you."
"you are," you whispered, closing the small distance between you. you reached up, your fingers gently tracing the line of the butterfly bandage on his brow. "you're that guy, steve. i've never been prouder to say it."
he let out a shaky breath, his shoulders slumping as if a great weight had been lifted. he brought his hands up to cradle your face, his touch impossibly gentle.
"can i..?" he whispered, his gaze dropping to your lips.
in answer, you rose up on your toes and closed the final, breathless inch between you.
the kiss was nothing like you'd imagined. it wasn't wild or desperate. it was soft. a little hesitant. a silent conversation of apology and promise, of past pain and future hope. you could taste the faint, metallic tang of blood from his split lip, a stark reminder of everything he'd endured, and it made the tenderness of the kiss all the more profound.
when you finally pulled apart, you rested your forehead against his, both of you breathing a little raggedly.
"you're sure i'm what you want?" steve asked softly, his thumb stroking your cheekbone. you nodded, laughing breathlessly.
"no one's ever asked me that before, but yes. i've never been more sure. you are exactly what i want."
the words seemed to unlock something in him. the last vestige of tension drained from his shoulders, and the smile that spread across his face was so bright, so unguarded, it made your heart ache. it was a smile untouched by the bruises, a glimpse of the man he was underneath all the bravado and the pain.
"good," he breathed, his voice thick with emotion. he leaned in and pressed another, firmer kiss to your lips, this one full of a quiet, certain joy. "because you're stuck with me now, henderson."
From the other side of the door, Dustin's voice echoed, loud and impatient. "GET OUT OF THERE! TIME'S UP, HARRINGTON, AND THERE BETTER BE NO HICKEYS!"
steve threw his head back and laughed, a real, full-bodied sound that made him wince and clutch his ribs, but he didn't stop. he was still chuckling as he pressed one last, quick kiss to your forehead.
"come on," he said, his voice warm with amusement. he kept a firm arm around your shoulders, tucking you into his side as he opened the break room door. "duty calls."
you emerged back into the store to find dustin standing with his arms crossed, tapping his foot dramatically. steve's coworker, jon, was leaning on the counter, smirking.
"good." dustin announced to the empty store. "no hickeys. i'm both relieved and feeling respected."
steve rolled his good eye, but the smile never left his face. "what do you want next, henderson? a written report on the horror of premarital touching?"
"yes, actually. in triplicate." dustin pointed a finger at him. "but for now, you can start by explaining the thematic parallels between the thing and your current physical state."
as steve launched into a mock-serious, pain-filled analysis for your brother, you leaned against the counter next to jon.
he nudged you with his elbow, his voice a low whisper. "so. you and king steve. officially a thing?"
you watched steve, who was now letting dustin "examine" his black eye with a scientific intensity, patiently answering his ridiculous questions. your heart felt so full you thought it might burst.
"yeah," you said, a slow, sure smile spreading across your face. "we're a thing."
it wasn't a perfect, storybook ending. there were still bruises to heal and conversations to be had. but right there, in the fluorescent glow of family video, surrounded by your two favorite guys, it was better than perfect. it was real. and it was yours.
pairing: jack wilder x reader
summary: you and jack were a classic example of toxic exes -- people who couldn't stay together but couldn't stay away. one way or another, you always ended up back in his arms, and then on a flight back to where you belonged the next morning. today is different though. jack walks in on a dinner date in your apartment. and of course, he's totally jack about it.
themes & warnings: JACK WILDER is a warning in his own bc youll end up pregnant over the internet, jealousy, slight yearning, argument and swearing, jack being an ass, toxic exes is like my fav trope, spice but not quite smut, angst if u squint with resolution!!!
you knew deep down that this would be a fruitless attempt.
your date was cute, yes. he had exactly what you would've looked for years ago. blonde hair, blue eyes, a sharp jawline and muscular arms. he was respectful (he'd agreed for your first date to be at your apartment because of your hesitancy), he made you laugh, he did everything right. and he wanted you. you could tell. it was obvious in the way that he gravitated towards you, made you his priority in every time he was in your presence. in reality, he was perfect.
too perfect, unfortunately. this wasn't the first time you'd tried this. and every time, your mind flicked straight back to jack.
you envisioned the dark curls instead of the blonde. the deep brown eyes instead of blue. and jack definitely wasn't perfect, so perfect rubbed you the wrong way, as much as you wished it didn't. jack wore a watch with a black leather strap. bradley's (your date's) was all silver. jack smelled like cedar and something dark, mysterious, and pleasant. bradley smelled like clean linen and citrus. regardless, you tried to smile in his face and act like you weren't comparing him to your ex boyfriend in every waking moment.
for your date, you wore a strapless dress and minimal silver jewelry, something bradley had bought you and gifted you before he'd even asked you out. you worked with him at your corporate desk job, the job you'd decided to take after leaving the horsemen behind (and attempting and failing to leave jack behind). he didn't know jack wilder existed beyond the magic shows he heard about that he never attended.
bradley didn't like magic. he preferred realism.
and here he was, wrapping his arms around you from behind as you prepared him a plate of what you'd cooked together. his citrus cologne hit you hard, and his skin was cool. to be honest, it felt wrong. but you tried to flourish.
"y'know, you'll make someone a really good wife someday." he murmured in your ear, a grin on his dimpled face.
you scoffed inwardly. forcing a smile, you gave him a side glance.
"i hope i'm more than that." you chuckled, handing him his plate.
bradley just laughed, a smooth, easy sound that should have been charming. "of course you are! i just mean.. this. you're so put-together. a great job, this amazing apartment, and you can cook? you're a total package." he said it like he was reading from a checklist of desirable traits, his blue eyes sparkling with approval that felt more like an assessment than adoration.
you led the way to your dining table, the candles that had been lit flickering and casting soft shadows. it was a scene from a movie, one you'd tried to direct a couple of times now. the elegant dinner, the handsome suitor, the promise of a normal, stable life. a life without heists, police sirens, or the heart-pounding thrill of watching jack wilder perfectly execute a trick that stole from thousands.
a life without him in general.
"so," bradley began, cutting neatly into his chicken. "the quarterly reports are finally done. thank god. i was starting to see spreadsheets in my sleep."
you nodded, taking a sip of wine. "tell me about it. my eyes are still crossed."
this was it, the conversation of the life you were supposed to want. it was safe, clean, predictable. and with every word about corporate synergy and weekend golf plans, a little piece of your soul chipped. you were completely and utterly bored. you missed chaotic, nonsensical arguments about the best way to palm a stolen keycard, whispered debates in the back of a van. but you didn't miss it when it was happening. so, you suffered. did you even really know what you wanted?
"you're quiet tonight," he noted, tilting his head. "everything okay?"
"just tired," you lied smoothly, another skill you'd honed before you'd ever met him. "it's been a long week."
he reached across the table, his hand covering yours. his skin was smooth, grip firm and certain. "well, i'm glad i'm here to help you unwind." his thumb stroked your knuckle. it was a gentle gesture, but it felt misplaced. like he was stamping his clean-linen-and-citrus reality onto you. the reality was suddenly incredibly heavy. but then again, you'd asked for this.
you forced another smile, your heart a trapped bird beating agains the cage of your ribs. "me too," you said, the words tasting like ash.
as bradley took another breath to speak some more corporate words, you heard a rattling. it chilled your spine, like ice cold water being thrown over you in a bucket. you knew this sound. it was the sound of a torsion wrench and a pick, moving with a practiced, impatient rhythm. the sound of jack wilder picking a lock. breaking in, like he had time and time before. Just never into your apartment before now.
what the fuck?
"uh--" bradley began, standing from his chair, his brow furrowed in confusion. "is that... your door?"
before you could form a lie, a denial, or a plan, the deadbolt clicked over with a final, deafening thunk. the knob turned, and the door swung open as if he owned the place.
and there he was.
jack wilder stood in your doorway, silhouetted by the hallway light. He was dressed in his usual uniform of a dark henley and a leather jacket, his hair a mess of dark curls, his expression a carefully constructed mask of casual arrogance that didn't quite reach his eyes. those deep brown eyes scanned the room in a split second -- the candlelit table, the two plates of food, Bradley standing there in his crisp button-down -- and a slow, dangerous smirk spread across his face.
you cursed over and over in your head. of course. of course he'd pick now to come barreling back into your life. right when you just started (poorly and miserably) figuring things out.
"hey, sweetheart," he said, his voice a low drawl aimed straight towards your chest. he completely ignored the other man in the room. "door was sticking. you should really get that looked at." he stepped inside, closing the door behind him with a soft click. his presence instantly made the spacious apartment feel claustrophobic.
bradley puffed out his chest, the picture of affronted normality. "excuse me? who the hell are you? and how did you even get in here?"
jack finally deigned to look at him, gaze flicking from his blonde hair to his leather shoes with utter disinterest. "i'm jack," he said, as if that explained everything. a light smirk crossed over his face again. a smirk of mischief.
walking over to you, as if it was nothing, as if he hadn't just not seen you for six months, he lifted your hand by your wrist. he stroked a finger along the back of it, pointing out a fact to bradley. the heat of his touch burned. old memories, an ache in your chest blooming. you tried to loose your wrist from his grip, but he kept you there.
an intricate tattoo was what he intended to show the corporate man. a playing card -- a jack of hearts, the suit cleverly woven into the design of his signature flourish. your shared little secret, inked into your skin -- possessive, reverent. you hadn't paid to get it removed yet. you weren't even sure that you wanted to. you thought it might erase the memory of him.
a cocky air surrounded him, his lip curving even deeper into his signature smirk. "see? jack."
bradley stared, his face a comical mix of confusion and dawning outrage. "what is that supposed to mean?"
"it means," jack said, his voice dropping, losing its playful edge and turning into something low and possessive, "that i was here long before you were," he hummed, his thumb brushing over the tattoo in a gesture that was far too intimate for the setting, "and now i'm back."
he finally released your wrist, but the ghost of his touch remained, a brand. he looked from the tattoo on your hand back to your face, his eyes searching yours, the smirk gone, replaced by a raw, unguarded intensity that stole the air from your lungs.
"you gonna introduce me to your friend?" he asked, the question a challenge, his gaze daring you to lie, to pretend he was nothing.
you glared at him, e/c eyes hot and fiery. you could've burned a hole straight through him if it were possible. the ache in your chest worsened the anger. the audacity of him just threw gasoline all over the flame.
"this," you gestured towards the confused, irritated man before the two of you, "is bradley. my date. which you are currently interrupting."
jack's eyes flicked back to bradley, giving him another once-over that was somehow more insulting than the first. "bradley," he repeated, letting the name sit in the air like it was a joke. "i'm jack. y/n's fiance." he said smoothly, extending a hand to the man. bradley, obviously, declined to shake.
"fiance?" bradley bit out, his gaze turning to you.
"ex fiance!" you hissed. you wanted to strangle jack, to wipe that smug, ignorant smirk right off his face. "we are not engaged."
"semantics, honey," jack said with a dismissive wave of his hand, as if the distinction between being engaged to someone and having been engaged to them was trivial. "we had a little disagreement over the wedding planning. she wanted a big church, i wanted to elope in macau after a high-stakes baccarat game. you know how it is. women."
bradley looked like his brain was short-circuiting. "macau? baccarat? what the hell are you talking about?!"
jack could've glowed. he was so far under bradley's skin that this couldn't possibly be working better. glancing at his watch, he looked back up at the man.
"look, bradley, it's getting late. don't you think you ought to be going? it was great to meet you though."
the last part was definitely a lie. on the inside, jack was seething.
bradley's face flushed a deep, mottled red. he looked from jack's infuriatingly calm face to your furious, conflicted one. the perfect, predictable script of his evening had been torn to shreds. "i'm not going anywhere. y/n, are you going to let him talk to me like this? to just barge in here? he literally broke and entered. that's against the law."
you opened your mouth, but no sound came out. this was the moment of truth. the moment to side with the safe, stable, normal life you'd been trying to build. the life jack didn't want. to finally shut the door on wilder, heists, and dirty money for good.
but jack saw your hesitation. he pounced on it like the predator he was.
he didn't say a word to bradley. instead, he turned to you, voice dropping, losing all its mocking edge and becoming low, intimate, and devastatingly honest.
"tell him to leave, y/n," he murmured, his eyes holding yours, refusing to let you part with them. "or tell me to stay. one of the two."
the challenge hung in the air, thick and heavy as candle smoke. it was the simplest, yet most impossible, choice you'd ever been faced with. or maybe not. the choice to leave jack in the first place rivaled it. bradley stood there, a monument to everything good you should've wanted. and jack was beautiful and destructive -- you were so, so tired of fighting the burn, taming his fire.
your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic, trapped bird. you looked at bradley's hurt, confused expression, then back at jack's raw, waiting one.
the words left your lips before you could stop them, like vomit.
"bradley," you whispered, unable to look at him. "i think you should go."
bradley scoffed, sputtering.
"are you fucking kidding me?"
the words were a whip-crack in the tense silence. he stared at you, his face a canvas of disbelief and wounded pride. "after all this? the dinner, the jewelry, the.. this?" he gestured wildly at the set up, now rendered a pathetic farce. "you're choosing a criminal who just broke and entered your aparment, then harassed me?"
jack didn't even flinch. a slow, victorious smile spread across his face, his eyes never leaving yours. you wanted to slap it off him.
"i'll call you. just please leave."
"no she won't." jack intercepted, the infuriating smile still pasted to his face.
"unbelievable." he snapped harshly. he grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair and stormed out, slamming the door so hard the pictures on the wall rattled.
the sound of the door slamming seemed to hang in the air, a period at the end of your attempt at a normal sentence.
the second the latch clicked, the smile dropped from jack's face. the victory was gone, replaced by something darker. the raw need you'd seen flickered in his eyes, unchecked.
"you're not gonna call him. what were you even trying to accomplish?" the question was quiet, deadly.
"you don't get to ask me that," you fired back, the anger you'd been suppressing finally boiling over. "you don't get to barge in here, ruin my life, then act like you have any right--"
he crossed the space between you in two swift strides. "i have every right!" he snapped, his voice rough, his hands coming up to grip your arms, not hard, but firm enough to stop you from pulling away. "that tattoo on your hand gives me the right. every night we spent together, even after you left gives me the right. the fact that you just sent mr. perfect packing for me gives me the right."
"you're impossible," you seethed, but you didn't even try to pull away. his touch was like a brand, burning into your skin and awakening every nerve ending. "why are you back here, jack?! what did you come for, huh? after SIX fucking months!"
the question hung between you, a raw, bleeding thing. all the bravado, the smirk, the conman's cool -- it all shattered. his grip on your arms loosened, his hands sliding down until he finally let go of you, opting to run a hand through his messy hair.
"because i can't breathe without you!" the confession exploded out of him, raw and ragged, his voice cracking on the words. "is that what you want to hear? that i'm a fucking mess? that everything is empty, every win is bullshit, because you're not there to see it?" he belted out, eyes desperate and intense. "that i tried -- god, i fucking tried, to be what you wanted, to be normal, but i can't. i'm not. and you won't just ACCEPT ME!"
the silence that followed was louder than his shouting. his chest heaved, the admission hanging in the air like gunpowder smoke. this wasn't the smooth talking thief. it was the boy from the foster system, the boy who felt he didn't belong anywhere, the one who was so terrified of being ordinary that he became a talented legend, and was now terrified that the one person who mattered saw him as a monster.
your anger simmered, borderline dissolved, washed away by a tidal wave of painful understanding. the six months of silence wasn't him moving on. it was him trying and failing to become someone else, someone you'd approve of. and failing miserably.
"jack.." you started, your voice soft.
"don't," he cut you off, his voice a broken whisper. he wouldn't look at you now, staring at a spot on the floor as if it held all the answers. "just.. don't. tell me to leave. tell me to go fuck myself, i don't know. but don't pity me. i can't stand it."
you exhaled shakily, staring at his slumped figure, his head in his hands at your kitchen table where bradley had been sitting 15 minutes ago. "i don't pity you," you whispered, the words firm and clear. "i see you. i've always seen you. you're brilliant, you're wild, and you're so much more than that if someone looks deeper. but you can't change yourself. you can't try to be anything other than who you are."
he looked up, his eyes dark pools of pure, unadulterated torment. "so tell me, y/n. what do you want me to do? because i can't do another six months. i can't do six fucking days more of this. i don't want to sleep together and get back on a plane tomorrow morning because you think i'm a mistake." he huffed, eyes beginning to gloss over. your chest ached. you wouldn't be able to handle it if he cried. "so either you tell me to walk out that door and never come back, and i'll spend every day of my life trying to forget you, or.. or you let me stay."
he was laid bare before you, no tricks, no lies. just jack. the hungry, broken, impossibly brilliant boy he was, and always would be. your greatest addiction and the only place you'd confidently called home. a tear dripped from the gathering moisture in his eye, trailing down his cheek. it felt like a personal, isolated hit to your heart.
you crossed the space between you, the world narrowing to the sound of his ragged breathing and the sight of that single, devastating tear. you didn't speak. words had failed you both for far too long. instead, you knelt in front of him, your hands coming up to cradle his face.
your thumbs gently wiped the moisture from his cheeks. his eyes, wide and shocked, searched yours, his breath catching in his throat. you leaned in and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to his forehead, a seal of forgiveness and acceptance that you never thought you'd reach. the two of you were too stubborn.
then, you pressed another kiss to his damp cheek, a promise. finally, you brought your lips to his, not with the frantic heat of your past, but with a slow, deep certainty that felt more binding than any failed vow. when you pulled back, your forehead rested against his.
"stay," you breathed, a final surrender and a new beginning all at once. one you'd been begging for in other men, corporate jargon, leather shoes and new york department stores. "no more planes, unless we're both on them. no more goodbyes. just stay."
a shuddering sob escaped him, and he collapsed against you, his arms wrapping around your waist and face buried into your chest. he held onto you like a man clinging to a lifeline in a stormy sea.
"okay," he rasped, his voice muffled against your skin, grip tightening. "okay. thank god."
as you held him, surrounded by the ruins of what you thought you wanted but truly never did, you knew you'd chosen right. you weren't taming him. you were standing next to him, giving him the love and respect he'd never gotten before you, and receiving his endless, fiery love back.
two weeks later
the city air was a crisp, welcome change from the stuffy, recycled air of the various venues you and jack had been haunting. your hand was tucked securely in his, his thumb tracing absent-minded circles over your knuckles. more specifically, over the substantial, art-deco inspired diamond now sitting back on your ring finger. it felt less like a piece of jewelry and more like a reclaimed piece of your soul.
"told you that italian place was overrated," jack mused, a smirk in his voice. "the chef was palming pre-grated parmesan. amateur."
you laughed, shaking your head. "shut up, wilder."
"make me," he countered, pulling your hand up to press a quick kiss to the jack of hearts tattoo, his eyes glinting with possessive warmth.
and that's when you saw him. bradley. he was standing outside a coffee shop, phone to his ear, looking every bit the part of the life you’d almost condemned yourself to. jack's steps faltered for a fraction of a second, his entire posture shifting. the relaxed, post-lunch contentment evaporated, replaced by the coiled-spring energy of a predator spotting easy prey. a slow, wicked grin spread across his face.
"oh, look. its brad," he said, his voice dripping with cheer.
"jack, no," you groaned, but it was too late. he was already steering you directly into bradley's path with a fervor.
bradley looked up from his phone call, his eyes widening as they landed on you, then on the nightmare jack wilder was, and finally, inevitably, on the glittering rock on your left hand. his jaw went slack.
"well, hey there, bentley! long time no see," jack said, his tone impossibly bright. the misname made it even more insulting. he didn't stop walking, forcing bradley to take a step back or be bowled over. as he passed, jack's free hand shot out with the speed of a striking snake. it wasn't an aggressive shove, but a deft, practiced flick of the wrist.
bradley fumbled, his coffee cup popping out of its sleeve and splattering liquid all down the front of his pristine, light-gray pants.
"whoops! clumsy me," jack said without breaking stride, not even looking back. he leaned in close to your ear, his whisper a hot, triumphant caress. "looks like he's got a little excitement in his life now, after all."
you glanced over your shoulder briefly. bradley was staring down at the massive stain on his pants, phone forgotten about, a picture of utter, flustered humiliation. as you turned back to jack, you watched him open a sleek, black wallet in his hand. not his. bradley's license photo glared at you grumpily.
you stopped dead, your eyes widening. "jack. when did you--"
"about two seconds before the coffee decided to take a walk." he said with a wicked grin, flipping through the cash compartment. he made a show of pulling out the bills. "let's call it a dry-cleaning fee. a very, very small one." he then snapped the wallet shut and, without another pause in an incredibly quick motion, sent it sailing sideways into a nearby city trash can without even looking at it. the thunk was barely audible over the street noise.
he tucked the cash into his pocket and laced his fingers back through yours, the cool metal of your engagement ring pressing between them. "our dessert is on bradley tonight. and, you know.. his coffee is on him too."
he was the worst. he was a criminal. a menace.
and as he pulled you into a searing, messy kiss, tasting of victory, italian food, and stolen cash, you knew you wouldn't want him any other way.
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