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A MATTER OF TIME ⸝⸝ part two

summary: After the party, avoiding Steve Harrington should have made everything easier. Instead, it made campus feel smaller, your roommate’s new happiness feel louder, and every rumor about him feel personally designed to prove you right. You kept telling yourself you were fine. Steve kept trying not to make things worse.

Neither of you are very successful.

pairing: frat boy au!steve harrington x reader

content warnings: alcohol mentions & consumption, hangovers, severe emotional avoidance, extreme self-sabotage, anxious & avoidant attachment patterns, intense miscommunication, jealousy & insecurity, emotional distress & exhaustion, fear of vulnerability, fear of abandonment, public gossip & misunderstandings, party/mixer environment, sick characters, confrontations, heavy romantic tension, slow burn, angst, pre/situationship angst, lmk if I missed anything!

— amazing support banners used are from @moonstoneandmoonlight !

w/c: 9.8k

a/n: okay so this chapter really puts these two through the meat grinder 😭 I love Robin/Lena and you better too 😌 I hope you guys are ready for the slow burn to get a little extra painful before it gets better, let me know your thoughts on this chapter!!

The next morning should have embarrassed you enough to kill whatever fragile thing had started on the porch.

For a while, you convinced yourself it had.

You spent Saturday in bed with the curtains half-drawn, one sock on, one sock lost somewhere between your sheets and the floor. Your mouth tasted like old sugar and regret. The heat radiator hissed too loudly, and somewhere in the apartment, Lena was humming while making coffee, which meant Robin had either called already or existed in a way worth humming about.

Lena was the one calming constant variable.

You had known Lena since freshman orientation, when she dropped an entire stack of registration forms in front of the dean and then laughed so hard at herself that three people helped her pick them up. She had been impossible not to like after that. Warm without being simple. Pretty in a way she never knew what to do with. Quick to fall into things; classes, friendships, crushes, and then twice as quick to panic once they started looking back at her.

By noon, she had come into your room three times.

The first time, she held out toast.

You stared at it from under your blanket. “Absolutely not.”

She shrugged. “It’s dry.”

“That’s really not a selling point.”

“Steve said toast helps.” You scowled at her words and pulled the blanket over your head.

Lena laughed at you freely. “So he called.”

Your voice grumbled under your warm covers. “Unfortunately.”

“And?”

“And he recommended hydration.”

“That’s all?”

You stayed still beneath the blanket, breathing in warm cotton and the faint smell of your shampoo from your pillowcase.

Lena sat on the edge of your bed then. The mattress dipped, and you hated that she was gentle about it.

“He got you home,” she brought up, clearly more at ease than she'd been about the topic last night.

“I got myself home. He walked nearby.”

“Sure.”

You detested her agreement. “Do not use that tone.”

“What tone?”

That was when you let your head peek out from under the covers, your eyes squinting slightly to readjust in the bright light. “The one where you act like I’m a wet cat you found in an alley.”

She poked your shoulder through the blanket with a pout. “You are a wet cat I found in an alley.”

You kicked at her weakly, and Lena caught your ankle and squeezed once before letting go. Her next words came all too casual. “Robin said he was worried.”

Your whole body went still.

There it was. His worry, passed around like evidence. His concern, made public. His goodness, sitting heavy in your room next to your hangover and your shame. The thought already grated on your day even more.

You pulled the blanket down just enough to glare. “Robin should worry about her own romantic crisis.”

“She is. We’re getting coffee tomorrow.”

You blinked flatly for a moment, and Lena tried to look nonchalant. She failed immediately.

“Coffee,” you repeated hesitantly.

“Just coffee.”

“Coffee with Robin?” The clarification was more for effect than knowledge.

Lena seemed far too interested in your linens now. “Yup.”

“At The Hideout?”

“No, Melvald’s.”

“Melvald’s has terrible coffee.”

A shrug. “She suggested it.”

Your voice turned gentler as you looked at your friends, taking in their obvious energy. “Then she’s either nervous or cheap.”

“Both, probably.”

You let the blanket fall back. Despite yourself, your mouth softened. Lena saw it and smiled too, small and completely terrified.

You were good at this part. Other people’s feelings were easier when they didn’t involve you. You could hold Lena’s panic in both hands, turn it over, and make sense of it. You could tell her what earrings to wear and what not to overthink. You could remind her that Robin’s sarcasm was a pressure valve, not disinterest. You could be useful.

Useful was safe.

So you sat up, ignored the headache spearing behind your eyes, and told Lena not to wear the green sweater because she kept pulling at the sleeves when she was nervous.

She stared at you with a frown on her cherry-tinted lips. “You noticed that?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re scary.”

“I’m helpful.”

“You’re both.”

You accepted that.

For the rest of the weekend, you occupied yourself with Lena.

You helped her choose shirts. You listened to her rehearse three different ways to say hi, all of which sounded exactly like hi. You sat at the kitchen table with your chin in your hand while she spiraled over whether coffee counted as a date if neither person used the word date.

“It counts if both of you spend too long thinking about lip gloss beforehand,” you couldn't help the words from slipping out as you looked at her panic pointedly.

Lena froze with the tube halfway to her mouth. “I hate you.”

Your response came back sang. “No, you don’t.”

“I do right now.”

“You’ll thank me when you’re married to the radio station gremlin.”

Lena’s face went pink but didn't deny it. “Don’t call her that.”

You made a noise and let your mouth tilt sideways. “Oh, we’re defensive now.”

She threw a dish towel at you and pretended like she didn't continue to fuss over her appearance.

It was easy to laugh with her. Easy to feel normal for a few minutes at a time.

Then the phone would ring, or footsteps would pass outside your apartment, or Lena would say Steve’s name in a sentence about Robin, and your stomach would clench before you could stop it.

You didn't call him.

You didn't thank him properly.

And you did not mention the stairs, the water, the jacket, the porch, or the god-awful small confession you had left between you like a dropped glass nobody wanted to clean up.

On Monday morning, you saw him outside the library and crossed the street before he could lift his hand.

That was when avoidance stopped feeling like a choice and started becoming a schedule.

Steve had promised himself he would not chase you.

It lasted almost nine full hours.

By Monday afternoon, he had already walked past your usual table in the dining hall twice, slowed outside the bookstore when he saw a sweater that might have been yours, and stopped himself from calling your apartment so many times Robin threatened to unplug his phone and beat him with the cord.

“You said you’d leave her alone,” Robin reminded him, and the reminder had him groaning.

Steve sat backward in the desk chair in his room, arms folded over the top rail, chin resting there like a sulking child. “I am.”

“You asked me if Lena mentioned her four times.”

“That’s different.”

“How?”

“I asked you.”

Robin stared at him from the floor, where she was surrounded by cassette tapes and half-written notes for her radio shift. “You understand how information travels between people, right?”

“I didn’t call her.”

“Gold star.”

Steve groaned and dropped his forehead against the chair. His fingers twitched against his forearms restlessly. “She crossed the street.”

Robin’s expression shifted; he knew because he didn't look at her, but he felt it anyway. There it was, the sympathy. The carefulness. He hated carefulness when it was aimed at him. It made him want to stand up straighter and pretend he was fine.

“She was probably overwhelmed,” Robin’s voice came low and left no room for panic. Steve made some anyway.

He frowned at the memory. “She didn’t look overwhelmed. She looked like she saw a gas leak.”

“That might be her being overwhelmed.”

Steve lifted his head, and begrudgingly he finally exhaled. “Do you think she regrets it?”

Robin’s mouth pressed together, and it only made his hands scrub over his face harder. Steve looked away before she answered.

That was the thing nobody told you about trying not to be the old version of yourself. It didn't make you new overnight; instead it only made you aware, constantly, of all the ways you could still get it wrong.

In high school, Steve would have taken your distance personally and covered the bruise with attention from someone easier. He knew that about himself. He could see the path clearly enough to really hate it. Some girl would smile at him at a party, and he would lean into it because being wanted was simpler than being understood. He had done it before. He had been good at it.

Now, he did not want easy.

He wanted to know whether you had eaten breakfast. He wanted to know if your headaches had gone away. He wanted to know if you remembered saying you hated toast and if that meant crackers had been the right answer or the wrong one.

He wanted to know if you had meant any of it sober.

That was the worst part.

Because if he asked, he might corner you.

And if he didn’t, he might lose you by being decent too late.

Robin flicked a cassette case at his knee. Her sigh came out exasperated. “Stop making that face.”

“Which face is this one now?”

“The face where you decide to ruin your own life for sport.”

“I don’t have that face.”

“You have several.” Steve could only sigh.

Robin softened, though only slightly. Her kindness always wore elbows. “Look, she’s not Lena.”

His brows scrunched together at the random comparison. “I know that.”

“No, I mean—Lena panics outward. She talks. She asks questions. She calls me and then hangs up and then calls back pretending it was an accident.”

Steve’s brows lifted, and a small smile stretched over his lips at his best friend's detailed account. “She does?”

Robin went red on principle and sharpened her voice. “Not the point.”

His tone turned teasing before it could have been helped. “I don't know, it feels point-adjacent.”

“Steve.”

“Sorry.”

Robin picked at the frayed hem of her jacket. “Your girl seems to panic inwardly.”

The correction came almost embarrassingly solemnly. “She’s not my girl.”

Robin gave him a look so flat he deserved it. He looked down quickly.

“She’ll bolt if she thinks you’re trying to get something from her,” Robin shrugged, then continued. “Even an answer.”

Steve rubbed at his jaw. Every word seemed to do little to ease his tension. “So I do nothing?”

“Maybe you do normal.”

His voice was exasperated now as he looked at her. “I don’t know what normal is here.”

“I don't think anyone could be normal in this situation.” Her words certainly aren't helpful, but they were true.

That was how he ended up trying.

Not grandly. There are no speeches, no waiting outside your classes with flowers like some idiot in a John Hughes movie. Just normal. A nod if he saw you. Space if you looked away. No chasing across the quad. No calling your apartment again. No asking Lena for updates, even when Robin came back from coffee looking dazed enough to walk into a doorframe.

He tried. He really did.

But trying not to look for you did not stop him from seeing you everywhere.

You became very good at almost missing Steve.

Not actually missing him, since that would have required less precision. You got good at the lesser injury: seeing him from a distance, noticing him before he noticed you, and making yourself disappear.

Campus helped at first. There were alternate routes to almost everything if you were willing to be inconvenient. You cut behind the old science building even though the sidewalk flooded after rain. You started getting coffee fifteen minutes earlier. You took the side stairs in the library. You sat in the back of your American Lit lecture, even though you hated the draft from the window and the girl in front of you chewed gum with her mouth open.

The girl’s name was Tessa Morgan.

You knew her because she knew everyone. Or wanted to. Tessa had feathered blonde hair, glossy pink nails, and a laugh she released in careful little bursts after looking around to make sure there was an audience for it. She wore perfume strong enough to survive lecture halls and cigarette smoke. She was not cruel, exactly. That would have made your feelings cleaner. She was friendly in the way girls became when they had learned friendliness was a kind of currency.

On Wednesday, she sat sideways in her chair before class, talking to two girls behind her.

“I’m serious,” she spoke animatedly, lowering her voice just enough to make sure it carried. “He picked me up from work. In the Beemer.”

Your pen stopped moving with a disturbing quickness. It did little to freeze the moment. One of the girls gasped beside her. “Steve?”

Tessa smiled down at her notebook, pretending to be modest. Or maybe, she truly was. You had a feeling that you couldn't be an unbiased narrator in the moment. “Who else has that car?”

Your stomach dropped with such sharpness that you thought, for one stupid second, you might actually be sick.

The room continued around you. Coats rustling. Fluorescent lights buzzing against your eyes. Someone tapping a pencil against a desk in sets of three. Outside, bare branches scraped against the window whenever the wind pushed them hard enough.

“He’s so sweet when he wants to be,” Tessa continued on like you weren't actively prepared to feel repulsed by the words on impact.

You stared at the blank margin of your notes.

Sweet.

The word sat in your throat like spoiled milk.

You had no right to feel anything. You repeated that uselessly while Tessa described how Steve had waited outside the hardware store after her shift because her car wouldn’t start. You repeated it when she said he drove her back to the dorms. You repeated it when one girl asked if they kissed and Tessa laughed instead of answering.

The grip became useless with how tight you held it.

You were the one who had crossed the street.

You were the one who had told him not to make it something.

And you were the one who had made every exit obvious enough for even Steve Harrington to finally take one.

Still, your body reacted like betrayal had happened without your permission. You pressed your pen too hard into the page until the tip tore through the paper.

When class started, you took notes without understanding a word.

Afterward, Tessa caught up beside you in the hallway. You were sure life just enjoyed making ironic jokes.

“You’re in Professor Allen’s section too, right?” she asked brightly and you stayed still for a moments lull.

You looked at her, and up close, she had a tiny smudge of mascara beneath one eye. It was utterly human. Annoyingly human.

“Yeah,” you nodded your head because what else could you do?

“I always see you writing everything down. You’re so good! I get distracted.”

“I noticed.”

She blinked, then laughed, unsure whether to take offense. You weren't sure what you'd wanted either. “Anyway, do you have last week’s notes? I missed part of the lecture.”

Because Steve Harrington drove you home, you thought.

Out loud, you settled for, “I can bring them Friday.”

“Oh my God, thank you.” She touched your arm lightly. The action had your face scrunching slightly in its unearned familiarity. “You’re a lifesaver.”

You looked at her hand until she removed it. She smiled again, a little less confidently, then headed down the hall.

You stood there with your books held against your chest and hated yourself more than you hated her.

The feeling came with more familiarity than her touch.

That night, Lena came home from studying with Robin and found you cleaning the kitchen.

Not casually. And certainly not normally. There really couldn't be anything normal considered for the situation. The counters had been wiped twice, the stove burners were soaking, and you were on your knees scrubbing a stain near the baseboards that had probably been there since 1974.

Lena paused in the doorway, with one hand gripping her keys. Her expression came confused as she came nearer. “Should I be scared?”

Your voice came flat. “Nope.”

“You’re cleaning grout.”

“It’s dirty.”

“We rent.” True, you only kept scrubbing.

She put her bag down carefully in the kitchen island near the fruit bowl. “What happened?”

“Nothing.”

She wasn't convinced, and you felt stupid to expect her to have been. “Okay…”

You heard her move around the kitchen, opening the fridge, closing it, and taking out the orange juice. She did not try to push immediately. That was the annoying part of loving someone who knew you well. They had learned where not to press first.

After a minute, she cleared her throat in a way that already set you on edge, “Robin asked about you.”

Your hand stilled and the feeling that flashed through you must have crossed your face because her voice came quickly once more.

“Not in a scary way,” Lena added. “Just asked if you were okay.”

“Tell her to ask Steve.” The words came out before you could stop them. They were stupid and childish, and you hated that on principle. Lena went quiet and you resumed scrubbing, harder than necessary.

“Oh,” she said.

“No.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You said oh.”

“It was a small ‘oh’!”

“It had meaning.”

“Most sounds do.” You dropped the sponge into the bucket and sat back on your heels. The kitchen smelled like bleach and old linoleum. Your knees ached from the floor.

Lena leaned against the counter, glass of orange juice in hand, watching you with careful eyes.

You hated careful eyes.

“I heard he’s seeing Tessa Morgan,” you decided to say, your voice was lower now and unnaturally small.

Lena’s brow furrowed and she sipped at her glass. “Who told you that?”

“Tessa Morgan, basically.”

Her face scrunched up at the words. “What does basically mean?”

“It means she talked about him picking her up from work in class.”

Lena’s face shifted through confusion, realization, and then something like annoyance. “That doesn’t mean they’re seeing each other.”

You scoffed because her words seemed fruitless. “Girls don’t talk about Steve Harrington driving them home unless they want people to think there’s something to talk about.”

“Maybe she wants people to think that.”

“That’s not better.”

“It’s not worse.”

You gave her a look and she only sighed and set down her glass. “You could ask him.”

You laughed once, then paused when you realized she in fact, wasn't kidding. “Absolutely not.”

“Why?”

You sputtered at her implication. “Because I’m not insane.”

“No, you’re just scrubbing invisible dirt because a girl with frosted lipstick mentioned his car. Totally fine. ”

You stood too fast and got lightheaded. Faint corners of black twisted at your edges before clearing back up. “I am fine.”

“You’re not.”

“I am.”

“No, you're not. You’re doing the annoying thing where you decide wanting something is humiliating and then punish yourself for it.” The room went still even more because Lena looked like she regretted saying it, but not enough to take it back.

You swallowed.

“Congratulations,” you rolled your eyes at her. “Robin taught you therapy words.”

“That wasn’t Robin.”

“No?”

“No,” Lena shook her head softly. “That was me living with you.”

You looked away first because that was too accurate of a response.

The kitchen light buzzed overhead. Outside, rain tapped against the window above the sink. Somewhere in the apartment below, a television played too loudly, canned laughter rising through the floorboards.

Lena came closer, but not too close.

“I’m not saying you have to do anything,” her tone told you the opposite, but you let out go. “I’m not even saying Steve deserves anything. I just don’t think pretending you don’t care is making you care less.”

Your throat tightened and you could only reach for the bucket once more in the still.

Lena let you.

Steve didn't pick Tessa Morgan up because he wanted a date.

He picked her up because she worked closing shifts with a guy from his fraternity, and her car had coughed twice in the parking lot before dying with the dramatic finality of a machine that had given up on life. Steve had been there buying duct tape and light bulbs because the house was falling apart in several preventable ways and no one else seemed particularly worried. Tessa had looked near tears, and the parking lot had been dark, and he had a car.

So, he drove her home.

That was all.

He knew it would become less than nothing in his mind and more than something in someone else’s mouth. He really should have known better. Hawkins had trained him better than that. Campus gossip was only town gossip with better shoes.

By Thursday, two girls had asked him whether he and Tessa were “a thing.”

By Thursday night, Robin found him in the kitchen of the fraternity house stabbing a fork into cold leftover pasta with unnecessary force.

“You heard?” she asked with a tone that told him hell was coming quickly after.

Steve looked up. “Heard what?”

“That Tessa Morgan is apparently bearing your children.”

He dropped the fork and coughed up a storm. “Jesus, Robin!”

“Ah, so you did hear.”

Steve's brows shot up and repeated his actions. “I gave her a ride home.”

“Obviously.”

His face scrunched up at the word. “Obviously?”

Robin opened the fridge, sniffed a carton of milk, made a face, and put it back. He winced alongside her because he knew the grocery list also seemed to be the last thing on everyone's mind unless it was for a party. “You’re being a wounded golden retriever again. That usually means you performed basic decency and got accused of seduction.”

Steve leaned back against the counter. His words came true but sighed. “People think what they want.”

Robin looked at him pointedly and he looked away on impact.

The kitchen was a complete disaster. Beer cans on the counter. A sticky note on the fridge reading BUY PAPER TOWELS OR DIE. Someone had left a jacket over a chair, and the sleeves dragged on the floor. The house smelled of reheated sauce, cigarette smoke, and the old wood beneath everything.

“She probably heard,” Robin noted casually and Steve could only rub his hands over his face in true defeat.

There was no need to ask who.

“I didn’t do anything,” he let his palm rest over his eyes for a moment before he spoke.

Robin’s words came with an understanding nod. “I know.”

“No, I mean—” Steve stopped, frustrated. “I didn’t call her. I didn’t corner her. I tried to leave space. She crossed the street, Rob.”

Robin’s expression softened in that brutal way again.

“Yeah, I know,” the way she said it had him scrub a hand over his hair again.

“What am I supposed to do? Follow her around telling her every rumor isn’t true? That’s exactly the thing she probably doesn’t want.”

“Probably not.”

Steve leaned back now, hands crossed against his chest, and glared at the kitchen island. “So I do nothing.”

“You are very bad at doing nothing.”

“I’m learning.” poorly, he was aware of that at least.

“You’re pacing while eating pasta.”

Steve looked down and threw his head up in resignation. He was pacing.

He quickly stopped as if that proved his stability.

Robin leaned against the counter beside him. “For what it’s worth, Lena says she’s been weird.”

Steve turned with wide eyes, immediately leaning over at the new information. “Lena said that?”

Robin winced and it was a sight Steve knew all too well. “I wasn’t supposed to say.”

“Robin.”

She gave a conflicted noise, averting her eyeline from his before giving in. “Not details. Just—cleaning, I guess. Quiet. Meaner than usual, but in a sad way.”

Steve’s chest tightened unexpectedly. The words landed all wrong on his heart immediately.

He hated that. Not the mean part. The sad part.

“What did Lena say about Tessa?” he asked, quicker now since he'd gotten some part of the ruined information.

Robin gave him a look and Steve held up both hands in apology. “Sorry.”

“You’re doing it.”

His voice came low and defeated. “I know.”

“You can’t get Lena to translate her for you.”

“I know.”

“And I can’t translate Lena translating her for me.”

“I know Robin”

Robin studied him for a long second. Then she finally said, “There’s a mixer Saturday.”

Steve groaned and shook his head just as quick as he heard. “No.”

“I didn’t invite you to a mixer.”

He scoffed and gave her a look, his hand coming up in a gesture. “It’s my house. I’m already implicated.”

“Lena wants to go.”

He narrowed his eyes, “you mean you want Lena to go.”

“Two things can be true.”

“And she’ll bring—”

“Maybe.”

Steve’s heart did something embarrassing.

Robin pointed at him and made a loud noise of defeat. “Do not make that face.”

“I didn’t!”

He did. “You did. Put it away.”

He looked down at the cold pasta when Robin sighed. “If she comes, don’t corner her.”

Steve’s next words came out lower, but no less truthful. “I wasn’t going to.”

“Don’t make a speech.”

“Wasn’t planning one.”

“Don’t overcorrect and act like she’s invisible.”

Steve paused because he knew exactly what she meant, and immediately hated it.

Robin nodded slowly, her hair swinging back against her ears. “There it is.”

The fork was in his hand again, poking at the plate helplessly. He hadn't taken another bite, his appetite had hit an all time low. “I really hate this.”

“Yeah,” Robin sighed with one hand pushing back at her bangs. “It sucks liking people who don’t come with instructions.”

Saturday arrived with cold rain and Lena standing in your doorway holding two shirts against her chest.

“Which one says casual but available?”

You looked up from your textbook with a furrow in your brows and curiosity in your tone. “Available for what?”

“Conversation. Romance. Emotional ruin.”

You scoffed but answered nonetheless. “The blue one.”

She looked down at it in her hold. “Really?”

“The black one says you’re trying to look like you didn’t try, which means you tried too hard. The blue one says you own a mirror but didn’t negotiate with it.”

Lena stared at you and it made you regret the overexplanation. “That was both helpful and upsetting.”

You could only shrug. “You’re welcome?”

She lingered, but your attention had already gone away. You looked back at your book without reading. And when her voice hit your ears once more, your eyes shut instinctively.

“There’s a mixer tonight,” Lena cleared her throat in a way that told you she was trying to be subtle and ended up being anything but.

“I know.”

“Robin asked if I was going.”

“I would hope so.”

“You could come.”

“Hell no.”

“You said that fast.”

You made a face. “I meant it fast.”

Lena fully stepped into the room then. Your bedroom was dim despite the desk lamp, the window streaked with rain. The air smelled faintly of coffee gone cold and the cinnamon gum you had been chewing to keep from biting your nails.

“You haven’t gone out all week,” she immediately dropped her hesitancy and frustration took over.

You pointed at her in correction. “I went to class.”

“That doesn’t count.”

One of your eyebrows ticked up in a way you knew irritated her. “It counted for attendance.”

She sat at the end of your bed, and finally she sighed. “You don’t have to talk to him.”

The words had you incredulous. “That’s not true.”

“It can be.”

“No,” you scoffed, sharper than you meant and regretted it immediately. “It can’t. Because even not talking to him becomes a thing. Looking away becomes a thing. Standing near him becomes a thing. Everyone makes everything a thing.”

Lena was quiet, which only drove the silence to be more exposing. You pressed your fingers against the page until the paper bent.

After a moment, she tried again, “Tessa might be there.”

Your laugh came out flat, and you rolled your eyes at the page you'd been attempting to read for the past 5 minutes. “Oh great pitch.”

“I’m not saying that to hurt you.”

Your exhale came out entirely exasperated alongside your words. “Then why even say it?”

Lena only shrugged at your flat look. “Because if you stay here picturing it, it might be worse than seeing whatever it actually is.”

You looked at her and she kept your gaze.

You hated when she was right in a way that offered no comfort.

“I don’t want to care,” your tongue poked out to lick at the corner of your mouth.

Lena’s face softened and you regretted speaking. She reached out and touched your ankle through the blanket. “I know.”

The tenderness made you want to snap at her, but you were tired of being cruel to the people close enough to let you. So, you only looked back at your textbook and just repeated, “Blue shirt.”

Lena stood after a moment.

At the door, she paused in a way that made you want to burrow deeper into your bed. “I’ll wait twenty minutes before leaving.”

The words came out quickly. “I’m not coming.”

“Okay.”

She left the door open.

You lasted about seventeen minutes.

The mixer was less chaotic than the party and somehow even more uncomfortable.

The fraternity house had been cleaned just enough to reveal how badly it needed cleaning. Someone had mopped the entryway, but the lemon chemical smell fought with old beer in the corners. Lamps wore scarves over their shades for softer light. Music played from the living room stereo at a volume that allowed conversation but still made people lean in closer than necessary. There were bowls of chips on the tables, a stack of plastic cups, a deck of cards abandoned mid-game.

You regretted coming before Lena finished knocking.

Thankfully, Robin had been the one who opened the door.

For one second, she looked only at Lena. It was so obvious you smiled and then forced it back in because it felt intrusive to the moment.

Then Robin’s blue eyes finally flicked to you and widened. The surprise was evident. “Oh. Hey. Hi. You came.”

You lifted one hand in a weak wave, then immediately retracted it with a displeased scrunch of your face. “Observant.”

Robin nodded too many times. It only made you regret everything all the more. “Cool—Good. Not cool like surprising. I mean cool like fine. Normal. Very normal.”

Lena bit her lip at the formation of the girl's words and you looked between them. Your lips pressed against each other and you felt the weird tension just as quickly as it was dished out. “Well, this is painful.”

Robin pointed inside quickly, as if your verbalization of the situation broke her out of the stupor she was in. “Do you want—there’s punch. It might be nonalcoholic. I mean, I think there are two bowls. One is definitely suspicious.”

“Lead with that last part next time,” you exhaled with a numb nod.

You followed them inside because turning around now would have been theatrical, and you really did not have the energy to make your exit interesting.

At first, it was fine.

Not pleasant. Fine.

You really needed the clarification.

You stayed near the bookshelf in the living room, the one full of outdated encyclopedias, a broken camera, and somebody’s abandoned economics textbook. Lena and Robin stood a few feet away, talking in the halting rhythm of people trying not to scare each other off. You made yourself useful by pretending not to listen.

Steve was not in the room.

That helped.

And then, he was.

He came in from the kitchen carrying a trash bag in one hand and a roll of paper towels in the other, talking over his shoulder to someone behind him. His hair was damp from the rain, darker at the edges. He wore a navy sweater with the sleeves pushed up to his forearms, denim jeans, and white socks visible above old sneakers. He looked too domestic for a fraternity house, which was unfair and completely unnecessary.

He saw you.

Everything in his face paused.

Not dramatically. Not enough for anyone else to catch, but you caught it, because your body had become traitorous about him.

He didn't come over.

He only nodded once.

Your chest hurt with an instinctive response that repulsed you.

You looked away first.

“That was mature,” Lena murmured and your glare pressed at her from your side.

“I’ll leave.”

“I said mature!”

Another hurried whisper. “I heard the judgment.”

“You hear what you want.”

Robin glanced between you and Steve, then seemed to decide she valued her ignorance and turned back to Lena.

For half an hour, Steve kept his distance.

You hated how much you noticed.

He moved through the house with the careful restraint of someone trying not to spook a stray animal. He laughed with his friends, but he did not get loud. He passed near the bookshelf once to throw something away and didn't look directly at you until you looked first. Then he looked away, too, and that somehow made you feel worse.

You had wanted space and he was giving you space.

It also, strangely, felt like abandonment.

That made you angry enough to drink from the wrong bowl.

The punch was terrible. Sweet, red, and strong enough to make your throat tighten. You took only one cup, then another half because Tessa Morgan arrived and the night became sharply worse to your sanity.

She came in with two girls from your class, shaking rain from her hair, cheeks pink from the cold. She was wearing a cream sweater and fitted jeans tucked into boots. She looked effortless in the way that probably required effort and then restraint about showing it.

Steve saw her and smiled.

Not the smile you had been storing against your will. Not the small, careful one from the porch. A normal smile. Friendly. Familiar enough to make your stomach sink in that familiar pit.

Tessa crossed the room and touched his arm.

“Hey, stranger,” she grinned up with vibrancy.

You heard it because you were close enough and because your attention had become humiliatingly selective.

Steve answered something you couldn’t hear over the music. But you could hear how Tessa laughed. She lifted one hand to push damp hair from her face, and Steve gestured toward the kitchen, probably offering a drink, because of course he did. Of course he was attentive. Of course his basic decency looked romantic when aimed at someone prettier, easier, and less likely to turn affection into a weapon and point it at herself.

You looked down into your cup.

Red punch trembled near the rim.

Lena appeared beside you with a look that had you wanting to run off just so you didn't have to face it. “Don’t.”

You took a drink because it was your only escape from the endless chatter in your mind.

She sighed and murmured with her face puffed up. “That was extremely don’t-adjacent.”

“I’m fine.”

“You keep saying that before doing something unwise.”

You mirror her sigh, the sickly sweet mixture hit your tongue all wrong. “You’re busy. Go flirt.”

“I can multitask, I'm a big girl.”

You looked at Robin, who was standing awkwardly near the couch, pretending to read the back of a record sleeve while very clearly watching Lena. “She’s waiting.”

Lena hesitated and it made you feel conflicted with the guilt you felt.

“Go,” you pushed again, but softer this time.

Her eyes searched your face.

You gave her the version of yourself she needed; steady enough, dry enough, and still capable of being useful.

So she went, and you were glad for her.

The night stretched.

You still didn't talk to Steve.

Steve still didn't talk to you.

Tessa did.

That felt almost funny, in a cruel little ironic way.

She found you near the bookshelf after class notes became her excuse. “Oh! I meant to thank you,” she beamed up at you, touching your elbow before seeming to remember you didn’t enjoy that. Her hand dropped quickly. “For the notes. Professor Allen is impossible.”

You nodded slowly, because your movements slowed but not your head. “He’s fine if you ignore every third sentence.”

She laughed, the noise was pretty. That was another annoyance. “I should try that.”

You nodded again, because what else could you do?

She glanced across the room toward Steve, then back at you. Her smile shifted into something conspiratorial. “You know Steve, right?”

Every muscle in your body went unpleasantly alert for its previous lull.

“Everyone knows Steve,” you let your eyes find a spot to focus on ahead of her.

“True.” She looked down, smiling into her cup. “He’s been really sweet lately.”

You stared at her and your brows scrunched together at the repetition of her words. She did not seem to notice the danger.

“My car is such a piece of junk, and he’s driven me twice now. He said he knows a guy who can look at it. Isn’t that cute?”

Cute.

You could feel your pulse in your wrist, your throat, the thin skin under your jaw.

“That’s Steve,” that was the only thing that your tongue let you respond with.

You had meant it to sound neutral.

It surely did not.

Tessa looked up, and for the first time, her face sharpened with awareness. Not malice, that would have actually been welcomed, but with curiosity.

“Are you two friends?” she asked, and even the question was light.

“Nope.” The answer came too fast.

Across the room, Steve looked over.

Of course he did. He seemed to have a skill for catching you at your worst. Or was it pushing you to act your worst? You couldn't decide.

Tessa followed your gaze.

A little understanding moved over her face. The sight of it made heat rise behind your ears.

“Oh,” she made a small confused noise.

You hated that sound now. Oh. Everyone’s favorite little blade.

“No,” you said to her, probably sharper than it warranted.

“I didn’t—”

“I’m getting air.”

You set your cup down on the bookshelf without checking whether there was space for it and walked out before the conversation could become something you would have to survive.

The rain had stopped thankfully, but the porch was wet and cold enough to bite through the soles of your shoes. You stood near the railing, gripping the damp wood until your fingers went numb. The street beyond the house shone under the lamps, puddles holding broken bits of yellow light. Cars lined the curb. Somewhere down the block, people shouted and laughed on another porch, their voices carrying strangely in the wet air.

You breathed in the cold and tried to make your body behave.

It was not jealousy.

It was not.

It was disgust, you told yourself. Disgust at yourself for caring. Disgust at the ease with which Steve could become important to someone else. Disgust at knowing you'd pushed him away and still somehow expected him to remain exactly where you left him, waiting in the shape of your indecision.

You gripped the railing harder.

The door opened behind you.

You didn't turn because the irony was cruel when Steve stepped onto the porch and let the door close softly.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

You could feel him standing a few feet away. Not too close. Not far enough.

“You okay?” he asked and you didn't realize how some part of you seemed to have missed his voice. The thought came unwelcomed and left rudely.

You laughed under your breath, nothing was really funny. “You need new material.”

He only exhaled. “Yeah.”

The porch light continued to buzz above you. A drop of water fell from the gutter and hit the step below with a steady, irritating rhythm.

You stared at the street spreading into the horizon. “Tessa seems nice.”

Steve was quiet.

Too quiet.

Your stomach twisted.

“She is,” he said carefully.

You nodded.

The motion felt mechanical.

Steve stepped closer, then stopped himself. “It’s not—”

“Don’t.” The word cut through the cold.

He stopped mid sentence. You closed your eyes briefly. “Don’t explain.”

“I think maybe I should.”

“No,” you repeated firmer. “You shouldn’t.”

“Why?”

Because you would believe him.

Because you wanted to believe him.

Because if he said there was nothing going on with Tessa, you would have to confront the fact that the sick feeling in your stomach had not been proof of anything except your own fear.

You opened your eyes.

“Because I didn’t ask.” Steve’s face tightened as soon as you spoke.

The hurt was quick, but you saw it. You hated yourself for seeing it, and even worse, for causing it.

“Right,” he seemed like he wanted to stay more, but stopped himself.

You turned then, leaning back against the railing. The wood was cold and damp against your palms. “You don’t owe me explanations.”

“I know that.”

“Good.”

Steve opened his mouth then closed it, his restless hands found comfort in rubbing at the shorter pieces of his hair resting on his neck. “But you’re mad.”

The word instantly had you reeling at how it simplified you into something so childish. “I’m not mad.”

“You’re something.”

“Don’t analyze me, Harrington.”

He looked away at the name. Not because he hated it. Because he liked it, and you both knew enough now for that to be painful.

Inside, someone laughed too loudly. The sound pushed through the door and vanished into the wet night. Steve looked tired when he faced you again. “I’m trying to do what you asked.”

“I didn’t ask for anything.”

“You asked me not to make it something.”

Your throat tightened and you gave a few hard blinks at the railing. “I asked you not to act like it already was.”

He nodded slowly. “Okay.”

The patience in his voice made you want to be worse.

“So what is this?” you asked because it seemed the most mature reckless thing available to you.

His brows drew together. “What?”

“This.” You gestured toward the house, toward Tessa, toward the space between you that neither of you seemed able to name without damaging it. “You leaving me alone until you think I’m upset, then coming outside to do the concerned thing.”

Steve’s jaw shifted, you could see a million thoughts probably running at full speed in his dark eyes.

“I came outside because you left upset,” he decided to say after a moment.

You made a displeased face again at the same result the word left in you. “I left annoyed at most.”

“You left because Tessa asked if we were friends.”

Your face went hot.

Damn him.

Damn him for noticing.

Still, you could only scoff and turn your head to glare at whatever was in your direction. “That’s not why.”

“No?”

“No.”

He got quieter when you wanted him louder. “What was it then?”

You had nothing.

Steve only waited.

The silence stretched until it became unbearable. You pushed off the railing. “I’m going home.”

His words came immediately and he pushed out of place to mirror you. “Let me walk you.”

The refusal came immediately. “No.”

“It’s late.”

“I’ve walked places after dark before you personally discovered concern.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“I know what you meant.”

“I don’t think you do.”

You turned on him, finally facing him for more than a total of a few seconds. “Then say what you mean.”

Steve looked at you, and for one second, you thought he might. His face changed with the effort of holding something back. His hands flexed at his sides. The porch light caught the scrape near his knuckle again, half-healed now.

Then, the door opened.

Tessa stepped out, holding his jacket. You hated how quick you registered it in her hold.

“There you are,” she reached out to him, but then stopped when she saw you.

The moment froze in a way that would have been funny if it belonged to anyone else.

Tessa looked between you and Steve. Steve looked like he wanted the porch to collapse beneath him. You looked at the jacket in her hands.

His jacket.

The same one he had put around your shoulders.

Your stomach dropped so deep it went numb.

Tessa’s smile faltered flat. “You forgot this inside.”

Steve stared at the jacket as if he had never seen it before. “Right. Thanks.”

She held it out and he took it slowly.

You looked away before his fingers touched hers.

It was nothing. A jacket. A normal exchange. An object moving from one hand to another.

Your body did not care.

“Well,” you spoke up finally, voice flat enough to frighten yourself. “Goodnight.”

Steve stepped forward almost urgently now, “Wait—”

You were already down the porch steps and he followed to the top step. “Please.”

The please nearly stopped you.

Nearly.

But Tessa was still on the porch, silent now, and the whole house was behind her, and you could already imagine the story forming in someone else’s mouth. You and Steve outside. You upset. Tessa with his jacket. Something embarrassing and public and impossible to correct without admitting there was something to correct.

So, you kept walking.

Steve didn't follow.

That hurt too.

By Monday, you had turned the whole thing into something hard enough to hold.

Tessa had his jacket. Steve liked Tessa. Steve had been kind because Steve was kind to everyone, which meant none of it mattered. The stairs had been alcohol. The porch had been exhaustion. The phone call had been guilt. You had misread basic decency because it had been pointed at you during a weak moment, and now you were paying for it with the full-body humiliation of having wanted more.

Fine.

That was more survivable.

You had survived worse than wanting someone who belonged easily to other people.

You went to class. You copied notes. You returned Tessa’s borrowed pages and accepted her distracted thank-you without looking at her mouth, her sweater, her hands, anything that might make her real enough to be unfair to hate.

Lena watched you carefully all week.

Robin came over twice.

That, was new.

The first time, she stood in your kitchen holding a grocery bag and talking too fast.

“I brought soup because Lena said you both forget food exists when midterms happen, which is deranged, honestly, because food is one of maybe five good things about being alive, and before you ask, yes, I paid for it, no, Steve did not send it, and no, this is not a weird emotional bribe.”

You looked at Lena immediately at the condensed version of words and Lena looked at the ceiling which caused Robin to stop to an abrupt halt. “That was too much.”

“A little,” you gave a little nod but didn't hold any real judgement. Not for her anyways.

“Great.”

But she still stayed.

She and Lena made soup badly, somehow burning the bottom while leaving the middle lukewarm. You sat at the table with your textbook open, pretending not to enjoy the sound of them moving around each other. Robin talked when nervous. Lena grew quieter, smiling into tasks. They bumped elbows twice. Apologized both times. Neither moved away quickly enough.

You were happy for them.

You truly were.

It just sat beside everything else.

Watching them become brave in tiny increments made your own cowardice louder. Lena had spent years swallowing pieces of herself in public, and now she was reaching for something anyway. Robin lived with fear tucked under every joke, and she still showed up at your kitchen with soup and shaking hands.

You, meanwhile, had crossed streets and fled porches because Steve Harrington might have the power to disappoint you.

It made you crueler to yourself than you were to anyone else.

By Thursday night, you had stopped sleeping properly.

Your room took on the stale quality of a place occupied by someone refusing to leave and refusing to rest. Coffee cups gathered on the crate beside your bed. Your notes spread across the floor in neat, useless piles. The radio played low most nights, static swelling between songs from stations too far away. You kept waiting for your mind to tire itself out.

It never did.

On Friday, Professor Allen assigned partners for the final paper.

You got Tessa Morgan because fate was cruel, but professors were crueler.

She turned around in her seat with a bright smile that faded slightly when she saw your face.

“Hi,” she tried brightly.

“Hi.”

“This’ll be fun.”

“Sure.”

She laughed weakly, seeming uncomfortable with your lack of give. You couldn't blame her, you weren't the biggest fan either. “Or productive.”

“That’s more likely.”

You met at the library after class, at a table near the windows where rain trailed crooked paths down the glass. Tessa arrived five minutes late, smelling faintly of hairspray and cold air, carrying a folder pressed to her chest.

“Sorry,” she apologized when she came into view, breathless. “My ride took forever.”

You looked down at your notebook.

Her ride.

She sat across from you and began unpacking colored pens, index cards, a pack of gum, three library books, and a small tin of mints.

You watched the items appear one by one, ordinary and harmless. Then she said, “I feel like you don’t like me.”

You looked up after your face did a weird expression at the abrupt turn of conversation and Tessa’s face had gone pink, but she held your gaze.

You were so surprised that you said nothing.

She twisted one of her rings around her finger. “It’s okay if you don’t. I know I can be a lot.”

The honesty disarmed you in a way you resented.

“I don’t dislike you,” you gave a strained little clear of your throat, your words might’ve been awkward, but they remained true. .

Her mouth tilted up like she hadn't been expecting to find this humorous. “That sounded very rehearsed.”

“It wasn’t.”

“Okay.”

Silence settled between you, interrupted by a cough from the next table and the scratch of someone’s pencil across paper.

Tessa looked down at her notes. “Is it because of Steve?”

Your pulse jumped humiliatingly on the mention of his name. “No.”

She gave you a look that was almost kind. You hated that too.

“I’m not dating him,” she said then, causing your pen to freeze over a loop.

Tessa looked embarrassed now, but determined. “I don’t know what people are saying. I mean, I kind of do, because people are obvious and bored. But he gave me rides because my car is awful. That’s it.”

You stared at the table instead of her. The wood grain blurred slightly.

“I didn’t ask,” you only found yourself able to say.

“I know.”

“Then why are you telling me?”

“Because you look sick every time someone says his name.” That landed so sharply you almost stood up.

Tessa winced because she wasn't blind. “Sorry. That was too direct.”

“No,” you spoke up, but your voice sounded far away. “It’s fine.”

“It wasn’t.”

You pressed your palm flat to the page in front of you.

There it was. The explanation you had refused from Steve, delivered anyway by the girl you had made into evidence. The relief should have been clean. Instead, it arrived tangled with shame. You had been unfair to her. Unfair to him. Unfair to yourself in the most familiar way possible, hurting first and calling it protection.

Tessa opened her notebook slowly. “For what it’s worth, he talks about you.”

You looked up before you could stop yourself and quickly disliked how her mouth softened. “Not in a gross way. Just… he asks if you were in class when he sees me. Or if Professor Allen is still assigning too much reading. Stuff like that.”

You swallowed and went back to the grain on the table.

“Anyway,” she cleared her throat quickly, looking down at the table as well. “Thesis statements?”

You nodded because speech had become unsafe.

For the next hour, you worked.

Tessa turned out to be smart when she stopped performing being charming. She had good instincts about the novel and terrible comma habits. You corrected one, and she rolled her eyes but wrote it down. By the time you left the library, the rain had stopped and the pavement outside shone under a pale evening sky.

You stood at the entrance with your books in your arms.

Tessa hesitated beside you.

“I really don’t like him that way,” she became quieter, but no less determined.

You looked at her with furrowed brows and she gave a small, awkward smile. “He’s nice. But he spends half his time looking around rooms for someone who isn’t me.”

Your chest tightened. You didn’t know what to do with kindness from the person you had been quietly resenting for a week.

So, you only nodded.

“Thanks,” you exhaled. It sounded insufficient because it was. Tessa accepted it anyway.

Steve found out from Tessa, which was not how he wanted to find out anything.

He was outside the Hardware store again, this time actually helping her jump-start her car, when she leaned against the driver’s side door and spoke v up, “Your girl is really intense.”

Steve hit his head lightly on the open hood from how he jumped at the words.

“Ow.” He straightened, rubbing the back of his head. Steve quickly cleared his throat. “She’s not my girl.”

Tessa gave him a look. He was really getting tired of that look from everyone.

“She’s not,” he insisted, though the insistence really just pricked at his skin more than relieved him.

“Okay.”

“She isn’t.”

“I heard you.”

He focused on the jumper cables because machines were easier than people, even when he barely knew what he was doing. Finally, after a begrudging moment, he spoke up again. “What does intense mean?”

“It means she hates me less now, I think.”

Steve looked over,.surprised by the words. “What?”

Tessa shrugged, suddenly self-conscious. “I told her we weren’t dating.”

He stared blankly and Tessa’s eyes widened. “Was I not supposed to?”

“No, I just—” Steve stopped, turning away from the car. His own eyes widened quickly after. “She thought we were?”

Tessa’s expression shifted into something regretful.

The parking lot was cold and gray, the store sign buzzed above the entrance. Cars passed on the road beyond, tires hissing over wet asphalt. Steve could smell gasoline, rain, and the metallic dust from the engine. His hands were dirty.

He thought of you on the porch, eyes fixed on his jacket in Tessa’s hands, and he felt stupid enough to deserve the headache forming behind his eyes.

“She wouldn’t let me explain,” he looked down at the engine once more because that was an easier target.

“Did you try again?”

He looked at her, a bit caught off guard, and Tessa lifted both hands up at once. “Sorry. None of my business.”

“No,” Steve shook his head a bit. “It’s okay.”

But it was not okay.

Nothing about this was okay in the way it could have been if either of you knew how to ask for what you needed without making it sound like an accusation.

Tessa’s car finally started with a miserable cough.

She cheered and even Steve managed a smile and unhooked the cables.

On the drive back to campus, he thought about going to your apartment. He thought about calling. He thought about leaving a note. Every option felt either too much or not enough. Robin would tell him not to Steve it. Lena would probably tell him to be honest. You would probably look at him like honesty was a trap.

He parked outside the fraternity house and sat in the car after turning off the engine.

The quiet suddenly felt huge.

His hands rested on the steering wheel. He stared at the dim reflection of himself in the windshield, his hair flattened from the rain, face tired, and shirt collar slightly crooked.

He wanted to be the kind of person who knew how to stay.

He was afraid you only knew how to leave first.

The next time you and Steve ended up in the same room, neither of you chose it.

Lena chose it, technically, by getting sick.

Not badly. Just enough fever and congestion to turn her dramatic and useless on the couch. Robin came over with more soup and a stack of tapes and Steve drove her because it was raining again and because Robin didn't have a car and because the universe enjoyed putting you through small, specifically ironic trials.

You opened the door expecting Robin. Steve stood behind her, holding a paper bag from Melvald’s.

For one second, all four of you froze in the narrow doorway.

Lena croaked from the couch, “If that’s soup, everyone lives.”

Robin recovered first. “It’s soup, cough drops, and the magazine you asked for with Rob Lowe on the cover, which I’m choosing not to take personally.”

Lena lifted one weak hand, her face turning sheepish with its flush. “For medical reasons.”

Steve looked at you, but you couldn't find it in you to meet his eyelids as strongly. Instead, you stepped back from the door.

Nobody said anything about the fact that you let him in.

The apartment felt too small immediately.

Robin went to Lena. Lena, despite looking half-dead under a blanket, brightened so visibly it softened the room. Robin sat on the floor beside the couch and began unpacking the bag with the focused care of someone who needed tasks to manage terror.

That left Steve standing near the kitchen entrance with wet hair and uncertainty.

You busied yourself with mugs instead of the sight.

“Tea?” you asked the room.

Lena nodded her head weakly. “Yes.”

Robin spoke up, “If it’s not a hassle.”

Steve said nothing.

You filled the kettle and set it on the stove. The metal clanged too loudly. Your fingers felt clumsy.

Steve came to stand near the kitchen table, but not close enough to crowd you.

“I can go,” he delivered it quietly.

You kept your back to him, busying yourself with the water kettle. “You just got here.”

“I know.”

The kettle sat cold on the burner. You turned the knob, watched the blue flame catch beneath it.

“Do you want to?” you asked. The question came out sharper than intended.

Steve was quiet for a second.

“No,” he decided on saying.

Your throat tightened.

You reached for four mugs instead of three.

The small action sat between you.

Steve noticed, of course.

For a while, the evening became almost normal.

Robin played a tape too low to bother Lena’s headache. Lena made terrible jokes through congestion. Steve fixed the wobbly kitchen chair without being asked, tightening a screw with a butter knife because none of you knew where the actual tools were. You pretended not to watch him crouched beside the chair, sleeves pushed up, and with his brow furrowed in concentration over something so ordinary it made your chest ache.

He caught you looking once. You looked away immediately and hated yourself for acting incriminating

He didn't smile.

That was worse than the actual evidence.

Later, Robin took Lena’s temperature and announced she was not dying, only disgusting. Lena called her cruel. Robin said cruelty was part of her healing practice. Their hands touched over the thermometer, and Lena did not pull away.

You saw Steve see it.

His face softened, proud and quiet.

For the first time all night, you remembered why this had started.

Not because he wanted to hurt you.

Not because he wanted Lena.

But because he loved Robin enough to panic badly.

You went into the kitchen to rinse mugs that did not need rinsing.

A minute later, Steve followed.

The living room noise covered the first few seconds of silence. Water ran warm over your hands. The sink smelled faintly of dish soap and metal. Rain ticked against the window.

“I’m not dating Tessa,” he told you once again, softer than the first time.

You shut off the water.

Your hands stayed in the sink. Steve stood behind and to the side of you, far enough away that you could leave if you wanted.

“I know,” you bit at the inside of your cheek and have a hesitant, but sturdy nod.

He let out a quiet breath and his own head nodded. “Okay.”

“Tessa told me.”

“Yeah. She told me she told you.” You dried your hands on a towel, buying time you didn't know how to use.

“I didn’t ask her,” you felt the clarification was useless, but your stupid pride needed it.

“I know.”

“I didn’t ask you either.”

“I know that too.” You turned around then.

Steve’s face was open in a way that made you want to look anywhere else. He seemed tired, but not angry. That almost made it stranger. Anger would have given you something familiar to push against.

“I wasn’t mad,” you reached for one last time.

His mouth twitched sadly at the corners. “You keep saying that.”

“Because I wasn’t.”

“Okay.”

A frown made its way into your face before you could've steered it away. “You don’t believe me.”

“I think you were hurt.” The words were too direct for your liking.

You looked toward the living room. Robin was laughing softly at something Lena said, their heads close together over the magazine.

Steve followed your gaze, then looked back at you. “I’m not trying to trap you into admitting anything.”

“Then stop saying things that require answers.”

He nodded once.

That should have ended it.

But you were tired. Tired from not sleeping, tired from avoiding routes, and tired from turning every feeling into proof you were stupid for having it.

So, you decided to be uncharacteristically vulnerable, “I thought you moved on.”

Steve stared at you with such intensity it had you wanting to leave your own home.

The words hung there, ugly and bare.

You folded your arms, immediately defensive against your own honesty. “Not that you had anything to move on from.”

Steve's jaw shifted slightly, and you knew he was restraining himself.

“Right,” he nodded again, smaller this time.

You hated that answer.

You had built him a hallway and then punished him for walking through it. You knew that. Knowing didn't make you less afraid, though.

Steve rubbed a hand over his mouth, then dropped it. He looked at the back of his hand because if not, he'd look at you and say things that would only scare you further. “I don’t know what you want from me.”

The sentence wasn't necessarily cruel.

It still hit like it was.

You looked down at the floor.

“I don’t either,” your brows furrowed in their displeased, familiar confusion.

The living room went quiet for half a second, then Robin sneezed loudly enough to make Lena laugh herself into a cough.

Neither of you moved.

Steve’s voice lowered, and it seemed to have cost him effort. “I can leave you alone if that’s what you want.”

There it was again.

The offer.

The knife.

You closed your eyes for a momentary escape.

Part of you wanted to say yes because yes was clean. Yes meant no more waiting for him in rooms. No more Tessa-shaped panic. No more watching his hands flex while he tried not to reach for you. No more feeling seen and wanting to punish him for it.

Another part of you wanted to say no so badly it felt humiliating.

Instead, you opened your eyes and chose the worst possible middle.

“I don’t want to do this in my kitchen.”

Steve nodded slowly. His face had gone careful again.

“Okay,” he settled for carefully.

You hated the carefulness.

You hated yourself more for needing it.

In the living room, Lena called weakly, “Is the tea dead?”

You stepped away first. Steve stayed in the kitchen for a moment before following.

The rest of the night passed in pieces.

Tea. Soup. Robin pretending not to panic when Lena fell asleep against her shoulder. Steve washing dishes because his hands needed something to do. You handing him a towel without looking at him. His quiet thank-you. Your quieter acknowledgement.

When Robin finally woke Lena enough to say goodbye, the rain had eased into mist. Steve stood by the door, jacket on, keys in hand. Robin hovered beside him, still watching Lena with a face she probably thought was subtle.

You opened the door.

Cold air entered the apartment and Steve paused on the threshold.

For one second, it was just the two of you again, with everyone else distracted behind him.

“I’m not going to disappear,” Steve spoke up quietly into the quiet night air.

Your hand tightened on the door. He looked at you, then away, like he was making himself give you room even in the sentence.

“But I’ll stop standing in front of the exit,” he added and you did not answer.

You couldn’t.

Steve nodded again once, accepting the silence even though it clearly hurt him, and then stepped out onto the porch.

Robin followed after giving Lena one last awkward wave.

You shut the door and made no movement to move away from the frame.

Lena, still half-asleep on the couch, opened one eye. “You’re both idiots.”

You leaned your forehead against the door. The wood panel felt cold against your skin.

“I know,” your words were barely above a whisper.

Outside, Steve walked Robin to the car.

Neither of them spoke until they reached it. Robin got into the passenger seat, then waited while Steve stood in the mist with his hand on the roof of the BMW, looking back at your apartment.

“You okay?” she asked, throwing him a careful look from his side.

He laughed once, all weak and breathless. “That obvious?”

Robin smiled faintly. “Yeah.”

Steve slid into the driver’s seat and shut the door. The car smelled faintly of old leather, rain, and the paper bag from Melvald’s. He put the keys in the ignition but didn't turn them just yet.

“She thought I moved on,” his fingers tapped against the unmoving wheel in front of him.

Robin’s face softened when he continued.

“And I think part of her wanted that,” he continued, and Steve's head went tipped back. “So she could be right.”

Robin looked out the windshield at the wet street, the porch light glowing behind them.

“Maybe,” she only decided to say and Steve rested his head back against the seat a bit harder this time.

The wipers sat still against the glass. Mist gathered in tiny beads until the streetlights blurred.

Then, quieter, “I told her I wouldn’t disappear.”

Robin nodded appreciatively. “That’s good.”

“I also told her I’d stop standing in front of the exit.”

Robin turned to him, and her softened blue eyes made him want to groan. “That’s better.”

He closed his eyes for a second.

“It feels like leaving,” Steve murmured and his face turned displeased at the unwelcome thought.

“It’s not.”

“How do you know?”

Robin was quiet long enough that he opened his eyes. She was twisting one of her rings, thoughtful and nervous and, for once, not reaching for a joke first.

“Because leaving is about you being done,” she then decided to settle for. “This is about giving her a choice.”

Steve swallowed and sighed when Robin patted his shoulder, he started the car quickly after that.

Across the street, your apartment window glowed warm through the mist.

He let himself look once, then he drove away.

Inside, you stood in your room with the lights off, watching his taillights disappear through the rain-blurred glass.

Lena had gone back to sleep on the couch. The apartment was quiet except for the radiator and Robin’s forgotten tape still playing low, some soft, crackling song from the other room. Your reflection hovered faintly in the window, tired and indistinct.

Steve’s words stayed with you.

I’m not going to disappear.

But I’ll stop standing in front of the exit.

You hated how much that sounded like care.

You hated that it also sounded like he was learning how to love someone better than you were learning how to let him.

On your desk, your American Lit notes sat open to a page where your pen had torn through the margin days ago. Beside them was a mug of cold tea Steve had washed and placed upside down on a towel before leaving.

You stared at it until your vision blurred. Then you turned away, crawled into bed fully clothed, and pulled the blanket over your head.

In the dark, you told yourself this was what you wanted.

Space.

Quiet.

No pressure.

No Steve Harrington standing too close with careful hands and a patient voice.

For the first time all week, nobody called. Nobody knocked. Nobody chased you across a porch or caught you at the sink or asked whether you were okay in that maddening, sincere way.

You had finally gotten what you kept asking for.

It felt awful.

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