Toriiii

| 26 | Reader of many fandoms

[argentumetaurum]

nietzsche says...

˚⁎⁺˳ . ⊹ epictetus said that the only way to happiness is to "cease worrying about things which are beyond the power of our will." however, since the man clearly never met dean di laurentis, you're going to go ahead and ignore him. maybe the way to happiness is being a stubborn asshole, which you've got pretty down pat.

˚⁎⁺˳ . ⊹ fem!reader, dean di laurentis x reader, smau.

˚⁎⁺˳ . ⊹ part one.

IM SORRY IM SO CREATIVELY BLOCKED FOR THE DEEP END IM NOT ABANDONING IT. but i do love a smau so in the mean time...

[torimcc]

Soooo like I need more of them? Pls?

[kooksandpearls]

How You Get The Girl ❀ 01

pairing – Petal!Reader x Garrett Graham summary – Garrett Graham has a ten-step plan to get his girl back. warnings – Emotional abuse references, domestic violence references, abusive parent, family trauma, anxiety. word count – 10.3k

navigation – Masterlist ❀ Chapter One ❀ Chapter Two

Chapter One. Broke Your Heart, I’ll Put It Back Together.

Garrett waits until the dorm door closes behind her before he lets himself breathe properly. Not that he’s been holding his breath. Technically. 

His lungs have been performing all necessary functions since they left the theatre, through the drive with her hand tucked into his over the centre console, through carrying her bags up the short path while she held the flowers against her chest, through standing beneath the ugly fluorescent light outside her building while she smiled at him with the last of Juliet still clinging around the edges. 

Smudged eyeliner beneath her eyes. Hair only half rescued from its pins. His jacket over the white dress, one sleeve pulled over her fingers because the night had turned cold while they were inside watching everybody die beautifully.

He’s been breathing. Just badly.

“Thank you for tonight,” she’d said at the door, quieter than she’d been in the car, where she’d spent eight full minutes explaining why Micah’s final scene had nearly gone wrong because one of the fake blood capsules had split early and then another four telling Garrett that no, this was not funny, it could have ruined the emotional architecture of the entire ending.

Garrett had understood approximately sixty percent of the explanation and loved every second of it.

“You don’t have to thank me,” he’d said, shifting her tote higher on his shoulder even though they had reached the door and there was nowhere left to carry it.

Her eyes had moved over his face. “I know.”

That had been worse somehow. Better, but worse. Something small and careful sitting between them, because she knew he wasn’t there out of obligation and he knew she had noticed. 

The bouquet had rustled when she adjusted it against her chest, one pink peony brushing the underside of her chin.

Then she had smiled. Soft. Tired. Still a little stunned by the night. “Goodnight, Garrett.”

“Night, baby.”

The word had slipped out without permission, but she hadn’t gone still. Hadn’t looked wounded or warned him back into his lane. Her smile had only shifted at one corner before she took her bags from him, fingers brushing his around the straps.

Now the door catches with a dull institutional click, leaving Garrett alone on the front step with cold air pushing under his collar and the faint rectangle of her shape moving away behind wired glass.

He stands there for longer than a normal person would. Long enough to watch her reach the stairwell. Long enough for the light inside to flatten her into white dress, brown paper, then take her around the corner. 

Long enough that a guy approaching the entrance with a laundry basket looks at Garrett, looks at the shut door, and makes the extremely reasonable decision not to ask why a Briar hockey player is staring into a dorm lobby like it has swallowed someone important.

Garrett finally moves when the guy’s key card gives an impatient little beep beside him.

“Sorry,” he mutters, stepping out of the way.

The guy nods with the careful neutrality of someone who has recognised him and would prefer not to become involved in whatever emotional hostage situation is occurring outside his own residence hall.

Garrett walks back to the Jeep with both hands shoved into his jacket pockets and his entire body still full of her.

It isn’t the old wanting. Or it is, partly, because he isn’t dead, and she had spent the evening in a thin white dress looking like every bad decision he would happily make twice. 

He wants her in his bed. Obviously. He wants her legs tangled through his, her cold feet shoved beneath his calves, her hair covering half his pillow while she complains that he sleeps like an aggressively warm corpse. 

He wants to kiss her without stopping himself after one careful second. He wants to hear the sound she makes when he puts his mouth beneath her ear and feel her fingers catch in his curls with exactly the pressure nobody else had ever got right.

That part is still there. Loud. Healthy. But it isn’t the thing hollowing out the centre of his chest as he climbs into the Jeep.

He wants the rest of it. The parts that don’t end with her naked and happy beneath him. He wants to sit on the edge of her bed while she walks in circles talking about an audition she’s already declared a disaster even though callbacks aren’t posted until Friday. 

He wants her to shove a set of sides into his hands and get progressively more offended while he reads the other character like someone being held at gunpoint by punctuation.

More feeling, Garrett.

I’m giving it feeling.

You’re giving hostage negotiation.

He wants that. He wants her grabbing the pages back and demonstrating the line with her whole body, eyebrows lifted, one hand cutting through the air like the character’s objective is physically located near his desk lamp. 

He wants to know what sides are without needing Dean to explain it. He wants to recognise the difference between being nervous about an audition and being nervous about a specific director. 

He wants to know which flowers belong after which performances and why actors keep saying break a leg even though that feels medically irresponsible.

He wants to be in the third row. First row, maybe, though she’d probably tell him that was annoying and too close. 

He wants to sit wherever she tells him the sightlines are best, shut the fuck up, and watch.

He wants her in the stands too. In his jersey, his name stretched over her back because she put it there willingly, yelling at a ref who can’t hear her and misusing hockey terminology with the confidence of a seasoned analyst. 

He wants to find her after he scores. Not because she’s watching Garrett Graham, Briar’s star forward, the guy half the arena knows by name. Because she’s watching him. Because when he looks through the glass, she’s already looking back.

He wants coffee-shop lines and theatre lobbies and late-night drives and her stealing the fries she swore she didn’t want. He wants arguments about whether a dining chair can have emotional stakes. 

He wants her at the kitchen table with Dean and Allie, rolling her eyes while Logan says something concerning and Tucker quietly removes a knife from his reach.

He wants her back so fucking badly that the wanting feels less like hunger now and more like architecture. Rooms appearing inside him faster than he can furnish them. A whole life making space.

But he doesn’t want to drag her into it. Doesn’t want to stand under another dorm light saying love of my life like the words themselves should outweigh every time he made her feel small.

He wants to be the love of her life. Not because he told her he was. Because, one day, she looks at him and decides he is.

Garrett grips the steering wheel, leather cool beneath his palms, and stares through the windshield at the brick dorm building until one of the upstairs windows flicks on. 

It probably isn’t hers. He doesn’t know which room is hers from this side, which feels like another entry on an increasingly humiliating inventory of things he should know and somehow doesn’t.

The Jeep still smells faintly like her perfume and cold night air. There’s a silver streak of stage glitter across the passenger seatbelt where it rested against her chest, catching dimly whenever the streetlamp hits it. 

Garrett rubs his thumb over it once, which accomplishes nothing except spreading theatre across more of his vehicle.

Great. Excellent. He’s emotionally compromised and sparkly.

His phone buzzes in the cup holder.

Baby: inside. flowers are in water. nobody has been killed by campus furniture yet.

Strong start. Stay vigilant.

Baby: goodnight, graham. thank you for showing up.

Goodnight, baby. Wouldn’t have missed it.

It’s not completely true. An older version of him might have missed it. Might have arrived late, or looked at the schedule and decided the final performance counted just as much as opening night, or assumed she knew he cared even while the seat stayed empty. 

The thought sits badly enough that Garrett doesn’t soften it. He lets it stay sharp. Some things should. Then he starts the car.

The hockey house is lit up. Every downstairs light is on. The kitchen windows glow against the dark, and someone has left the porch light burning even though the porch is currently occupied only by three empty cans, one abandoned sneaker, and a delivery menu plastered damply to the boards.

Garrett parks beside Dean’s car, shuts off the engine, then sits for one more second with both hands resting on the wheel.

He needs to do this right. Properly.

He gets out.

The smell reaches him before the kitchen does: butter, bacon, something starchy and aggressively comforting. Tucker has returned from two hours of Shakespeare-induced emotional violence and responded by feeding everyone, which is the most Tucker thing Garrett can imagine. 

The front hall is crowded with discarded shoes and coats. Dean’s program lies open on the little table by the door, folded back to Allie’s name in the cast list with a dark circle drawn around it and three exclamation points in the margin.

Garrett toes off his shoes and follows the noise.

All three boys are in the kitchen. Tucker stands near the stove in grey sweats and a long-sleeved shirt, dividing some enormous skillet situation between four bowls. 

Potatoes, eggs, chopped bacon, melted cheese. The exact nutritional profile of men who have been emotionally devastated after nine p.m. 

Dean leans against the counter eating directly from his bowl with his eyes still faintly pink, though Garrett knows he would rather claim a rare onion allergy than admit Romeo and Juliet got him. 

Logan sits on the island with one foot hooked around a stool, fork moving with the focus of someone who has survived a cultural experience and needs protein immediately.

All three look up when Garrett walks in. Logan studies him first. His fork pauses halfway to his mouth while his eyes travel from Garrett’s hair to his face and then settle there with the predatory interest of a person who has just discovered fresh material.

“Well,” he says. “Someone looks smitten.”

Garrett tosses his keys into the bowl near the refrigerator. They miss, hit the counter, and skid into a stack of unopened mail. “I’m not smitten.”

Logan turns his head toward the others without taking his eyes off Garrett. “Doesn’t he look smitten?”

Tucker glances over while spooning eggs into the last bowl. His gaze rests briefly on Garrett’s face, calm and assessing. “Looks smitten to me.”

Dean chews, swallows, then nods with the grave authority of a physician confirming a terminal condition. “Definitely smitten.”

Garrett drags a hand over his mouth. The smile is still there. Buried, but not enough. “All of you can go fuck yourselves.”

“See?” Logan points his fork at him. “Smitten. Hostile because he’s overwhelmed.”

“That isn’t a symptom of being smitten.”

“It is for you.”

Tucker slides the fourth bowl across the counter. “Eat.”

Garrett takes it because Tucker has the exact tone of a man who will physically supervise the first bite if challenged. 

The food is hot enough to steam against his face, smelling like salt and butter and bacon, and his stomach tightens with the belated realisation that the handful of sour candy Logan threw at him during intermission doesn’t qualify as dinner.

He carries the bowl to the dining table, pulls out a chair, then turns it around before sitting so he can face the kitchen with his forearms braced over the backrest.

The boys keep looking at him.

Dean’s mouth twitches. “Did you kiss her?”

“No.”

“Did she kiss you?”

“No.”

Logan narrows his eyes. “Did you nearly kiss?”

“No.”

“Did you stare at each other for a significant amount of time?”

Garrett thinks of the dorm light catching on her face. The peonies against her chest. Goodnight, Garrett.

“Shut up.”

Logan nods, pleased. “That’s a yes.”

Garrett digs his fork into the potatoes, then stops before taking a bite. 

The sentence has been sitting behind his teeth since the Jeep, heavy enough now that it feels stupid to keep holding it. “I gotta win her back, man.”

The kitchen goes quiet. Tucker’s spoon scrapes once against the skillet. The refrigerator keeps humming. Dean keeps chewing, though slower now. But something in the room shifts out of teasing and into attention so fast Garrett can feel it.

Logan looks between the other boys, then back at Garrett. “I thought that’s what you were doing.”

“It is.” Garrett looks down at the fork in his hand, turning it once between his fingers. “I mean, I have been. Kind of.”

“Flowers,” Dean says, counting against his bowl with the handle of his fork. “Coffee. Carrying her shit around like a hot bellhop. Publicly threatening me over a jersey.”

“That last one probably lost you points,” Tucker says.

Dean lifts one shoulder. “Depends what she’s into.”

Garrett ignores both of them. “No, but I mean seriously.” He leans back slightly, chair creaking beneath him. The words feel awkward in his mouth, because the boys know him too well for any polished version to survive contact. “Properly. I gotta… I gotta do it properly. I need to do it right.”

Dean’s expression settles first. The humour doesn’t leave completely – it would require medical intervention to remove it from Dean – but it moves aside enough for something sharper. “What changed?”

Garrett looks at him. “Nothing changed.”

Dean lifts his eyebrows.

“Fuck, I don’t know.” Garrett pushes his fork through the melting cheese without eating any of it. “Watching her tonight, I guess. Seeing how fucking good she is at that shit. And how much of it I didn’t know because I never–” His jaw tightens briefly. “I knew she loved theatre. Obviously. I went to shows. But I didn’t know it right. I didn’t understand what it was to her.”

Tucker leans one hip against the counter, arms folding loosely across his chest.

Garrett looks back at his bowl. It’s easier to talk to potatoes. Potatoes have never watched him fuck up a relationship in real time.

“I don’t just want her back because I miss having her around,” he says. “I mean, I do. I miss her all the fucking time. But I want all of it. I want to go to her shows. I want to know when her auditions are. I want her at my games. I want her yelling at me because I’m shit at reading those page things.”

“Sides,” Dean says.

Garrett’s eyes lift. “Yeah. Those.”

Dean gives Tucker a pointed look. “He needs help.”

“I’m aware,” Tucker says.

“I want her to be able to trust me when we’re out somewhere,” Garrett continues, quieter now. “I want her to know I’m not gonna forget she’s standing there the second somebody says my name. I want to be…” He stops, because the sentence catches somewhere rough and embarrassing.

Logan waits. For once, he doesn’t fill the silence.

Garrett rubs his thumb along the fork handle. “I told her she was the love of my life when we broke up.”

The boys know. Not the exact argument, but enough. Logan’s face loses the last of its grin.

“And I said it like it should’ve mattered more than how I was treating her.” Garrett swallows once. “I want to actually be that guy. The one who deserves to say it.”

Tucker unfolds his arms. “We should make a list.”

Logan groans so immediately it sounds rehearsed. “A list?”

Tucker nods. “Yep.”

“A list of what?”

“How to get Garrett’s girl back.”

Dean’s face pinches. “Name’s too long.”

Tucker looks at him. “It’s six words.”

“No punch.” Dean places his bowl on the counter and straightens, visibly activating the part of his brain that thinks naming things is a leadership skill. “Should just be How to Get the Girl.”

Logan shakes his head. “Too presumptuous.”

Dean turns to him. “It’s a plan. Plans are aspirational.”

“Still sounds like she’s an object you win at a carnival.”

Garrett looks between them. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

Logan ignores him, fork gesturing through the air. “It should be How You Get The Girl.”

“That is the same title with one different word,” Tucker says.

“No, it’s instructional now.”

Dean’s eyes narrow as he considers this. “Stronger.”

Garrett stares at all three of them. He has trusted these men with his life on the ice. This suddenly seems like an administrative error.

Dean’s already moving. There’s a whiteboard hanging near the pantry, mostly used for grocery lists, practice reminders, and passive-aggressive household communication. 

At present, it says BUY DISHWASHER TABLETS beneath a badly drawn skull and, in Logan’s handwriting, DEAN OWES ME $14. 

Dean yanks it off the hook.

“Step one,” he says, grabbing the black marker from the ledge and wiping half the grocery list away with the sleeve of his sweater. “Go to her fucking shows.”

The boys laugh.

Garrett does too, because Dean’s delivery is ridiculous and because Tucker has just rescued BUY MILK from the eraser with the urgency of a man preserving historical records.

But then Garrett looks at the board. “Okay,” he says slowly. “But actually.”

Dean stops laughing first.

Tucker takes the marker from him. “Actually.”

Something moves through the room all at once. The same shift that happens in the locker room when a joke becomes a problem and a problem becomes something they can win. 

Dean puts his bowl down completely. Logan slides off the island. Garrett turns his chair back toward the table as Tucker carries the whiteboard over and props it against the fruit bowl.

Four hockey players gather around it with the sober focus of men preparing a power play.

For a while, none of them says anything. The whiteboard is propped in the middle of the dining table, leaning crookedly against a bowl containing two bruised apples and a single banana that has entered the final, frightening stage of ripeness. 

Dean stands with both hands braced on the table, rereading the list like he’s preparing to defend a thesis. Tucker has his arms folded again, marker still tucked between two fingers. Logan has moved close enough that his shoulder presses Garrett’s, eyes narrowed at step six.

Garrett sits back and reads the whole thing again. It should feel stupid. Some of it is stupid.

But beneath the marker fumes and the leftover bacon and the fact that Logan is now arguing that step four should include a diagram of correct hand placement, there it is. Every place Garrett went wrong, written in the language of people who know him well enough not to let him hide inside a good intention.

Show up. Learn her shit. Don’t let go. Listen. Change. Ask.

Garrett reaches for the marker.

“What?” Tucker asks.

He uncaps it and leans over the board. At the bottom of step ten, beneath ASK HER BACK PROPERLY, Garrett draws one clean line through the last sentence Dean originally wrote in smaller letters: GET HER BACK.

He rewrites it beside the crossed-out words. LET HER CHOOSE YOU.

Dean reads it over his shoulder. “That’s annoyingly good.”

Logan nods, solemn. “Yeah. Hate that.”

Tucker takes the marker from Garrett before he can make the lettering worse. “There.”

The four of them stand around the whiteboard again.

Dean folds his arms and surveys it with the satisfaction of a general who has successfully planned a military operation despite having no jurisdiction, training, or stable relationship with risk. “Pretty good fucking plan, G.”

Garrett nods slowly. “Yeah.”

“Actually,” Tucker says.

“Actually,” Logan agrees.

Garrett pulls his phone from his pocket. “I’ve gotta put this shit in my phone.”

Logan immediately claps him once on the shoulder, hard enough to jolt him forward. “Write it down, man. Write that shit down.”

“This is genius,” Dean says.

Tucker nods. “It’s solid.”

“Fucking genius,” Logan repeats, already leaning over Garrett’s shoulder while he opens the Notes app. “Title it properly.”

The boys nod around him as if they have collectively solved love. Logan returns to his food. Tucker rehangs the whiteboard in the kitchen, directly over the dishwasher-tablet warning. Dean photographs it from two angles and declares the second one more cinematic.

Garrett stays at the table with his phone in one hand and the bowl Tucker made him cooling beneath the other.

At the top of the screen, the title looks stupidly confident. HOW YOU GET THE GIRL. Like there’s a guaranteed sequence. Like women are puzzles and love is something four hockey players can diagram between breakfast potatoes and an argument about fridge space.

He looks down at the final step. Let her choose you.

Garrett asks her to dinner two days after the show. The text arrives at four-thirteen in the afternoon while she’s sitting on the floor outside Studio B with her back against the wall, a pencil caught badly through her hair and the heel of one boot digging into the opposite calf. 

Rehearsal has technically been on break for seven minutes, though Dexter’s still inside arguing with the lighting designer about whether the scene feels too emotionally blue, and she’s used five of those minutes to stare at the same section of her audition sides without absorbing a word.

The audition is next week. A whole week away, which should feel like time. Seven full days. Enough time to change her mind about every choice she has made, destroy the choices she replaced them with, and arrive at the theatre annex carrying six versions of the same woman inside her body like a deeply unstable nesting doll.

Her phone lights up against her thigh.

Garrett: Are you free tomorrow night?

She reads it once, then again.

maybe. why?

His answer comes before she can lock the screen.

Garrett: Dinner.

Then, after a pause:

Garrett: Somewhere with actual food.

She glances down at the paper cup beside her bag. There are three sips of iced coffee left in it, mostly melted ice now, and half a cereal bar folded inside its wrapper near her knee.

i eat actual food.

Garrett: Sure.

rude.

Garrett: Seven?

There’s something almost deliberately plain about the invitation. No joke about it being a date. No little trap built into the wording where she has to either correct him or let something stand between them that she isn’t ready to name. Just dinner. A time. Room to say no. She bites lightly at the inside of her cheek.

okay.

Three dots appear, disappear, then return.

Garrett: I’ll pick you up.

She smiles before she’s decided whether she means to.

“Is that him?” Allie asks.

She looks up. Allie’s come out of the studio without her noticing and is standing over her with both arms folded, blue rehearsal skirt hitched unevenly at one hip and one eyebrow raised.

“Is who him?”

Allie glances pointedly at the phone. “The dentist.”

“Yes,” she says. “He’s checking on my molars.”

“You’re smiling at a message about gingivitis?”

“I have a rich inner life.”

“You have Garrett Graham asking you out.”

She presses the lock button and drops the phone onto her lap. “He asked if I was free.”

“For dinner.”

“Yes.”

Allie’s mouth curls. “Where?”

“I don’t know.”

“What are you wearing?”

“I don’t know.”

“Are you shaving your legs?”

“Oh my god.”

“That’s a yes.”

“It’s winter,” she says, gathering her sides off the floor with more force than the paper deserves. “Nobody is seeing my legs.”

Allie nods slowly. “So you’re considering the possibility that someone might.”

“No.”

“Interesting.”

“You’re exhausting.”

“And yet,” Allie says, reaching down to offer her a hand, “I’m still not the one getting into Garrett Graham’s car tomorrow.”

She takes Allie’s hand and lets herself be pulled up. “It’s dinner.”

“Mhm.”

“Stop doing that.”

“Doing what?”

“That noise.”

Allie smiles sweetly. “Mhm.”

Garrett’s already outside when she comes down the next evening. He’s standing beside the passenger door with his phone in one hand and his shoulders tucked slightly against the cold, wearing a dark sweater beneath his jacket and jeans she remembers from before because they fit him obscenely well and had once caused an argument about whether she was allowed to call denim distracting.

His hair is still damp at the ends. He must have showered after practice. The thought arrives with too much information attached to it, so she pushes it aside and walks toward him.

Garrett looks up when he hears her boots. Whatever he’d been reading disappears from his face immediately, replaced by a smile that starts small and then gets away from him.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hi.”

His eyes move over her, lingering just long enough to feel warm without making her regret the fitted coat or the pink sweater beneath it. “You look pretty.”

She smiles. “Thanks.”

He opens the door. Garrett waits. There’s no flourish to it, no grin begging for praise. He just holds the door while she climbs in, then closes it and walks around the front of the Jeep with his hands tucked into his pockets.

The inside smells faintly like coffee, his cologne, and cold air. It is cleaner than usual, though a single hockey glove still sits on the back seat beside what appears to be a textbook with a cracked spine.

She buckles herself in while Garrett starts the car. “Where are we going?” she asks.

“You’ll see.”

Her head turns slowly. “That’s ominous.”

“It’s not ominous.”

“That’s exactly what somebody says before driving a woman into the woods.”

Garrett glances across at her as he backs out of the space. “You think I cleaned my car to murder you?”

“You cleaned your car?”

“Mostly.”

She looks over her shoulder toward the glove.

“That lives there,” Garrett says. “It’s different.”

“Right.”

“It has seniority.”

She turns back in her seat, smiling despite herself. “Where are we going?”

“Thai place near Hastings.”

“The one with the yellow sign?”

“Yeah.”

She nods. “I like that place.”

“I know.”

Garrett keeps his eyes on the road, one hand loose at the bottom of the steering wheel. She looks out the window before she can make too much of him remembering a restaurant she had mentioned once after rehearsal, months before the breakup, while complaining that nobody at the hockey house understood the importance of ordering enough rice.

The restaurant is small and warm, all fogged windows and close tables, the air thick with chilli, garlic, and steamed rice. A string of little paper stars hangs crookedly near the front counter. They’re seated near the back beneath a framed photograph of a beach neither of them recognises.

Garrett pulls out her chair.

She gives him a look as she sits. “You’ve become very formal.”

“Have I?”

“You opened the car door.”

“I’ve opened doors before.”

“Not this many.”

He takes the chair opposite her and picks up a menu. “Maybe you’ve been walking through the wrong ones.”

She snorts softly. “That didn’t make sense.”

His nose scrunches slightly. “It did in my head.”

“That’s worrying.”

The first few minutes are easier than their earlier dinners had been. There’s still care in the way they move around each other, but less visible effort. She doesn’t feel as though every question might open a trapdoor beneath the table. 

Garrett asks about rehearsal and actually waits for the answer, even when it becomes a seven-minute complaint about Dexter changing a transition she had spent two weeks making feel natural.

“He says it needs to breathe,” she tells him, stirring her straw through the ice in her water. “Which would be fine if he knew what he wanted breathing to look like. Every time I ask, he just does this.”

She lifts both hands and gives him her best impression of Dexter directing through spiritual distress – fingers spread, face pained, a tiny gathering motion toward her chest.

Garrett watches with his mouth pressed together. “That clears it up.”

“Exactly.”

“So you just sort of…” He copies the movement badly, looking more like a man trying to gather smoke with his hands. “Do that?”

“No, because I have dignity.”

“You yelled at a roast chicken onstage.”

“That was textually justified.”

“Sure.”

She points at him across the table. “You don’t get to mock the chicken when you still read scenes like you’re reporting a gas leak.”

Garrett’s eyes narrow. “I wasn’t that bad.”

“You paused before every line.”

“I was finding the emotion.”

She shoots him a look. “You were finding the next word.”

“That too.”

Their food arrives. Garrett’s remembered she likes the dumplings from here, though he doesn’t announce that this is why he ordered them. He only moves the plate closer to the middle of the table, lets her take the first one, then complains when she takes the last.

“You had four,” she says.

“You had five.”

“I’m smaller.”

Garrett watches her dip the last dumpling into sauce, then shakes his head. “Unbelievable.”

“You’ll recover.”

“I don’t know. This could change me.”

“You’ve survived worse,” she giggles. 

“I’ve taken hits that hurt less.”

She smiles into her food. “So dramatic.”

“That’s your influence.”

The conversation wanders. His classes. Her upcoming audition. The fact that Logan has developed a bruise on his thigh and is making everyone inspect whether it’s changed colour. Dean’s latest conviction that he could cook if Tucker stopped being controlling. Allie’s refusal to let anyone in rehearsal say the phrase trust the process after one of the actors forgot his entrance for the third time.

Garrett asks what the audition is for. He remembers the play, the director, and that the character talks to a plant during one of the sides. He asks what she wants from it.

She sits back slightly, fork resting against the edge of her plate. “I don’t know.”

“You’ve been working on it every day.”

“That doesn’t mean I know.”

“What part?”

She exhales and looks toward the window. The glass is fogged except for one clear streak where somebody has wiped a sleeve across it. “She’s funny, but she doesn’t know she’s funny. Which sounds obvious, because nobody walks around thinking they’re delivering comic relief, but…” She shifts her shoulder. “The scene gets sad later. If I put too much weight into it early, then there’s nowhere for it to go. But if I make it too light, the end feels like it belongs to a different person.”

Garrett turns his glass slowly between both hands. “Couldn’t she be trying to make it light?”

Her eyes come back to him.

“What?”

“No, say that again.”

He looks faintly alarmed. “I don’t remember exactly what I said.”

“You said she could be trying to make it light.”

“Yeah.” Garrett shrugs. “Like she knows it’s bad, but she keeps joking because if she stops, then she has to admit it.”

She stares at him.

His brows lift. “Is that wrong?”

“No.” Her fingers move absently over the edge of her napkin. “No, that’s actually…”

“Brilliant?”

“Let’s not get carried away.”

He tilts his head. “Helpful?”

“Possibly.”

He smiles, pleased but not smug enough to ruin it. “I’ll take possibly.”

She spends the rest of dinner turning the thought around in her head, enough that Garrett catches her going quiet twice and lets her. He doesn’t demand to know what she’s thinking or make a joke about losing her to a fictional plant. He only nudges the rice toward her when she stops eating and asks whether she wants another drink.

They leave after ten. The cold outside has sharpened, clean and dry against her cheeks. Garrett walks beside her toward the Jeep without reaching for her hand. At the curb, a car cuts too close through the parking lot, and his palm lands briefly at her back to guide her in toward him.

The touch is gone again almost immediately. Her body notices both parts.

On the drive back, she turns the music down so they can keep talking. Garrett tells her Coach has scheduled an extra skate early Saturday and Logan has already begun campaigning against it as a violation of labour law. 

She tells him she picked up a weekend shift at the campus events office, and he glances over. “You’ve got rehearsal Saturday night.”

“I know.”

“And class all day Friday.”

“I also know that.”

Garrett’s mouth tightens slightly. “When are you sleeping?”

“Later.”

“Very specific.”

“I have a system,” she shrugs. 

“Your system is coffee and lying.”

“That’s a system.”

He huffs a laugh but doesn’t lecture her. “Just don’t run yourself into the ground before the audition.”

“It’s a week away.”

“Yeah. You can do a lot of damage in a week.”

He pulls into the dorm lot at ten-twenty-three and parks beneath the same lamp as before. The building glows across the pavement, close enough that she can see the paper snowflakes somebody has started taping along the inside of the lobby windows.

Garrett shifts the Jeep into park. “I had fun.”

“Me too.”

Neither reaches for the door.

The engine idles beneath them, soft vibration moving through the seats. Garrett glances toward the dorm and then back to her, but he does not ask whether she wants him to come up. The absence of the question leaves something inside her body unclenched.

Garrett’s hand rests near the gearshift, broad and loose, fingers curled slightly inward. She touches the side of his thumb.

His gaze drops. There’s no real thought behind it. Or there’s too much thought and touching him is easier than sorting through any of it. 

She turns his hand palm-up and runs her finger along one of the calluses beneath his fingers. “You’ve torn this one.”

Garrett looks down. “From my stick.”

“It looks sore.”

“It’s fine.”

“You always say that.”

“Because it usually is.”

Garrett closes his hand gently around her fingers before she can pull away. His thumb brushes over the rings stacked near her knuckles, turning one slowly.

“This one’s new.”

She looks down at the thin gold band set with a tiny pink stone. “My mom gave it to me.”

“When?”

“A couple months ago. It was my grandmother’s.”

Garrett angles her hand toward the dashboard light, studying the ring. “It suits you.”

“Because it’s pink?”

“Partly.”

“What’s the other part?”

He traces the slightly uneven setting with the edge of his thumb. “It looks delicate, but it’s held together better than it should be.”

Her throat tightens before she can decide whether the observation is sweet or too close to something else. Garrett seems to hear it after he says it, because his eyes lift and his expression changes.

“I mean the ring,” he says.

“I know.”

“Okay.”

She lets him keep her hand.

The conversation restarts around it. Nothing important at first. A professor he hates. A costume fitting she has next Thursday. Whether Dean is genuinely becoming interested in theatre or only interested in Allie wearing costumes. 

They move from one subject to another without noticing the joins, their hands staying between them. Sometimes Garrett plays with one of her rings. Sometimes she presses his fingers flat against her own palm and compares the size. His hand almost covers hers completely.

At eleven, Garrett shuts off the engine but leaves the heater running from the battery. At eleven-twenty, the inside of the Jeep has cooled enough that she tucks both hands into his.

She knows she should leave. Her room is right there. Her bed is upstairs, along with three textbooks, a laundry basket she’s been ignoring, and the audition pages she will probably read again before sleeping despite every promise made to herself during dinner.

But letting Garrett walk her inside feels different from sitting here. The Jeep is suspended space. Nothing in it asks what happens next. They can sit shoulder to shoulder and talk until the windows fog, and when she finally leaves, she can carry the warmth upstairs without having to decide whether he belongs in her room again.

She doesn’t want him in the dorm. Not tonight. She doesn’t want to explain why she’s happy to stay in his car until midnight but would panic if he followed her through the lobby. The distinction feels stupid even inside her own head.

Garrett doesn’t make her explain it. He stretches one leg beneath the steering wheel and settles deeper into his seat, as though they have all night.

Thanksgiving enters the conversation quietly. She mentions her mother sent her home with enough leftovers to feed the whole cast and that Allie ate most of the pie over the sink. Garrett laughs, eyes lowered to her hand while he rotates the ring around her finger.

“How was yours?” she asks.

His thumb stops. The pause is short enough that someone else might miss it. She doesn’t.

Garrett looks through the windshield. “It was alright.”

She waits.

His jaw shifts slightly. The parking lot light catches the faint shadow along it, the tiredness beneath his eyes that she had assumed came from practice.

“You go to your dad’s?” she asks.

He nods.

She knows the outline of what that means. The long drives where Garrett goes quiet before they even leave campus. Phil’s house made too large by money and silence. The way Garrett used to return with his shoulders set high and hard, then pretend he was only tired until she touched him in the wrong place and felt the tension jump beneath his skin.

“He’s engaged,” Garrett says after a moment. “Her name’s Cindy.”

Her fingers curl slightly around his. “You hadn’t met her before?”

“No.”

“What’s she like?”

“Nice.” His mouth pulls faintly, not quite a smile.

Something cold moves along the inside of her ribs. Garrett rubs his thumb against the side of her ring again, though now the motion looks less like fidgeting and more like something to keep his hand occupied.

“We sat down for dinner,” he says. “My dad wanted to say grace.”

His voice has thinned around the edges. She turns a little more toward him.

“He made this whole thing about it.” Garrett swallows. “Like we’re some fucking normal family sitting there holding hands.”

The word normal comes out with quiet disgust.

“I took hers,” he continues. “Cindy’s. And her sleeve moved.” His fingers tighten around hers. “There were bruises around her wrist.”

The air inside the Jeep seems to change pressure. She can hear the faint electrical hum from the dashboard, the wind moving dry leaves across the pavement outside, Garrett drawing one careful breath through his nose.

She lifts her free hand and pushes it into his hair. He closes his eyes the second her fingers touch him.

“Garrett,” she says softly.

“I asked her what happened.” His brows pull together, face turned slightly away from her. “She said she hit it on a cupboard. She wouldn’t look at me.”

Her fingertips move slowly through the curls near his temple.

“I waited until he left the room and told her she needed to go.” Garrett’s voice catches, and he stops to clear it. “I said I’d take her wherever she wanted. Hotel, friend’s house, police station. I didn’t care. I told her I knew what he did.”

A tear gathers against his lashes. He blinks it away hard, jaw clenching as if his own body has embarrassed him.

“I begged her,” he says. “I actually fucking begged her.”

Her fingers slide toward the back of his head, nails tracing lightly over his scalp.

“She kept looking at the doorway. He wasn’t even there, and she kept watching for him.” Garrett’s mouth trembles once before he presses it flat. “Then I got louder. I just– I was trying to make her understand, and she started backing away from me.”

The tear gets free this time, moving quickly down his cheek.

Garrett wipes it off with the back of his hand. “She looked scared.”

“Of you?”

He nods. The movement is small and miserable.

“She said, ‘Please don’t make him angry.’” Garrett’s breathing breaks slightly on the last word. “Then she asked me to leave.”

Her hand stills in his hair for half a second before moving again.

“You’re not him,” she says.

“I know.”

The answer comes quickly, almost defensively, but then his face folds in on itself a little.

“I know I’m not,” he says again, quieter. “But she didn’t. She saw me getting angry and she couldn’t tell.”

“She’s scared of what happens after somebody gets angry,” she says. “That isn’t the same as thinking you’re him.”

Garrett stares down at their joined hands. “It felt the same.”

She runs her thumb along the edge of his hairline. “Why didn’t you call me?”

His head lifts.

“I could’ve…” She stops, not entirely sure what she could have done from campus, or whether she would have driven out to Phil’s house and walked through the front door beside Garrett after everything between them. “You could’ve called.”

Garrett watches her for a moment, eyes red and wet.

“You wouldn’t have come,” he says.

“I might’ve.”

A sad little smile touches his mouth. It disappears almost as soon as it arrives.

“No,” he says, reaching up to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear. His fingers graze her cheek on the way back. “You wouldn’t have.”

Her brows pinch together. “You don’t know that.”

“I do.” His hand settles over hers again. “And that’s okay. I wouldn’t expect you to.”

There’s no accusation beneath it. No attempt to make her feel the distance he’s naming. If anything, Garrett sounds like he’s protecting her from needing to lie.

She looks down at their fingers. “I’m still sorry you went alone.”

He nods once. “Yeah.”

“You shouldn’t have had to deal with that by yourself.”

“I didn’t know who else to tell.”

The sentence lands quietly, with more weight than Garrett seems to realise he has placed into it. Her thumb brushes his knuckle.

“I don’t want to see him again,” he says.

She looks up. His face has gone still in the particular way it does when he has made a decision and is bracing for someone to argue with it.

“Okay,” she says.

“I’m serious.”

“I know.”

“He’s going to call. He’s going to make it into this whole thing about me embarrassing him or disrespecting him in his own house, but I don’t…” Garrett exhales hard. “I can’t go back there.”

“Then don’t.”

His eyes search hers.

“You don’t owe him another holiday,” she says. “Or another dinner. You don’t have to keep walking into that house because he expects you to.”

Garrett’s throat works. “What about her?”

“Cindy?”

He nods.

She considers it for a moment, fingers still curled through his. “You can give her a way to contact you without seeing him. A number he doesn’t know about, maybe. Or information for somewhere she can go. You can tell her the offer is still there.”

“And if she doesn’t take it?”

The helplessness in his voice scrapes at something under her ribs.

“Then it’s still there,” she says. “You can’t make her leave before she’s ready. You can only make sure she knows there’s somewhere to go.”

Garrett looks through the windshield again. His shoulders lower slightly, though not with relief. More like exhaustion has finally found room inside them.

“I hate him,” he says.

She strokes her thumb across the back of his hand. “Yeah.”

“I really fucking hate him.”

“I know.”

They sit with it for a while. She doesn’t tell Garrett that hatred will eat him alive, or that Phil is still his father, or that one day he might regret cutting him off. 

She doesn’t hand him any of the soft, polished phrases people use when another person’s pain makes them uncomfortable. She stays beside him while his breathing settles, her fingers moving slowly through his hair until he leans back against the headrest and closes his eyes.

When he opens them, the rawness hasn’t disappeared, but it’s moved farther from the surface.

“Sorry,” he murmurs.

Her hand stops. “For what?”

“This wasn’t exactly dinner conversation.”

“It’s nearly midnight.”

“Late dinner conversation,” he murmurs. 

She gives him a look. “You don’t have to apologise for telling me.”

Garrett’s eyes hold hers. “Okay.”

She brings his hand toward her without thinking too hard about it and presses her mouth lightly to his knuckles.

His breath catches.

The kiss lasts less than a second. When she lowers their hands, Garrett’s staring at her with an expression so open that she looks away first, toward the fog gathering at the edges of the windshield.

They stay in the car for another hour. The conversation doesn’t return to anything as heavy. It loosens gradually, circling through stories that require less care. 

Dean borrowing a canoe freshman year and somehow returning without it. Logan getting locked out of the house wearing only shorts and one skate. Her first disastrous audition at Briar, where she forgot her own name during the introduction and then delivered the scene perfectly out of spite.

By the time the dashboard reads 1:17, her feet have gone numb and Garrett’s phone is down to eight percent.

“I should go,” she says.

“Yeah.”

Neither sounds pleased about it. Garrett gets out with her anyway. The night air hits hard after the stale warmth of the Jeep, and she folds her arms across herself while they cross the lot. He walks beside her without touching, matching his stride to hers.

At the dorm door, she pulls out her key card and turns.

“Thank you for dinner.”

Garrett puts both hands into his jacket pockets. “Thanks for coming.”

“And for telling me.”

His expression shifts. “Yeah.”

She swipes the card.

“Text me when you’re upstairs,” he says.

“The stairs are inside a locked building.”

“I know.”

She raises her eyebrow. “There are cameras.”

“Great.”

“And a resident assistant who once wrote someone up for leaving a shoe in the hallway.”

Garrett nods. “Sounds dangerous.”

She smiles. “Goodnight.”

“Night, baby.”

The next morning, his first text arrives at eight-forty.

Twenty minutes later, he sends a photograph of the glove sitting upright in the passenger seat with the seatbelt fastened across it.

She laughs loudly enough that her roommate looks over from her desk. “Is that Garrett?”

She locks the screen. “No.”

Her roommate looks unconvinced. “Okay.”

By lunchtime, the glove photograph has somehow reached Allie.

At four-forty, Dean creates a group chat.

It’s seven-twenty when she and Allie finally reach the hockey house, which Tucker accepts with the tight silence of a man adding their lateness to an internal file.

The kitchen windows are fogged from cooking. Warmth rolls over her the second she steps through the back door, carrying the smell of tomatoes, garlic, melted cheese, and bread. 

Music plays quietly from a speaker on the counter, something old and guitar-heavy Garrett usually puts on when he’s trying to stop Logan from controlling the playlist.

Tucker stands at the stove with a wooden spoon in one hand. Logan’s leaning against the island eating grated cheese directly from the bag. Dean sits on the counter beside Allie’s usual spot, waiting for her with the patience of a dog that has been told someone is bringing food even though the food is already here.

Garrett’s at the dining table, moving a stack of textbooks off one of the chairs.

He looks up when they come in. “Hey,” he says.

The smile is quieter than the one from outside her dorm, but no less immediate. “Hi.”

His eyes travel briefly over her face and then stop. “You look tired.”

She slips her bag from her shoulder. “It’s nice to see you too.”

“I didn’t mean you look bad.”

“Good save.”

“I meant–”

“She does look tired,” Allie says, taking off her coat. “She fell asleep during notes.”

“I closed my eyes.”

Allie gives her a look. “For a minute and a half.”

“I was thinking.”

“You snored.”

She turns. “I did not.”

Allie looks toward Garrett. “She did.”

Garrett reaches for her bag. His fingers stop just short of the strap. “Can I?”

The question is small enough that no one else reacts to it. She looks at his hand, then lets the bag slide from her shoulder. “Yeah.”

“Thanks.”

“You’re thanking me for carrying my bag?”

“I’m polite now.”

Dean snorts from the counter. “Debatable.”

Garrett carries the bag into the living room and sets it beside the couch rather than dropping it near the door with the coats. When he comes back, he places a glass of water in front of the empty stool beside his.

She notices both things. She tries not to.

“What are we eating?” Allie asks, walking straight into Dean’s space until he opens his knees and lets her stand between them.

“Baked ziti,” Tucker says.

Dean puts one arm around Allie’s waist. “I assisted.”

“You grated cheese,” Tucker retorts. 

“I was integral.”

“You ate half of it.”

Dean shrugs. “Quality control.”

Logan lifts the bag. “Still good.”

Tucker points the spoon toward him. “Put that down.”

Logan takes one final handful before obeying.

Dinner is noisy in the comfortable, overlapping way the hockey house does best. Everyone talks before the previous person has finished. 

Dean tells a story with so many irrelevant details that Tucker eventually asks whether the original event has occurred yet. Logan interrupts three times to correct the chronology and is wrong twice. Allie steals garlic bread from Dean’s plate, then acts surprised when he takes a bite from the piece in her hand instead.

Garrett sits beside her. Close enough that his sleeve brushes hers when he reaches for the water jug. He asks about rehearsal without turning the whole table toward her, and she tells him Dexter has reversed the transition change after deciding the original blocking had better emotional circulation.

Garrett pauses with his fork halfway to his mouth. “What does that mean?”

“No one knows,” she says.

Dean points toward her. “I know. It means the energy flows.”

Allie turns her head slowly. “You learned one phrase backstage.”

“I have instincts.”

“You walked into a flats cart,” she mutters. 

“It was dark.”

She raises her brows at him. “It was fluorescent.”

Dean looks at Tucker. “Why is everyone hostile tonight?”

“Because you’re here,” Logan says.

After dinner, Tucker refuses help from anyone he considers likely to create more work, which leaves him with Garrett and Allie at the sink while the others migrate into the living room. She tries to join them, but Tucker glances at the dark half-moons beneath her eyes and tells her to sit down.

“I can dry,” she says.

“You can sit.”

“That feels pointed,” she mumbles. 

“It is.”

Garrett looks over from where he’s rinsing plates. “Go sit down.”

She narrows her eyes. “You’re enjoying this.”

“A little.”

“Asshole.”

His grin flashes. “There she is.”

Something soft moves through her before she can stop it.

She takes her audition sides from her bag and settles onto the couch, curling one leg beneath herself. Dean and Logan are arguing over which movie to put on. Allie’s still in the kitchen, leaning her hip against the counter while Tucker explains that plates don’t need to soak if people rinse them immediately.

She reads the first page of the scene. Then reads it again.

The words hold for perhaps thirty seconds before rehearsal fatigue starts tugging at the backs of her eyes. She rubs one hand over her face, presses her fingers briefly into her temples, and forces herself down the next paragraph.

Garrett comes into the living room carrying two glasses of water. He gives one to her, then sits on the other end of the couch. “What are you doing?”

“Reading.”

“Looks painful.”

She sighs. “It’s not.”

He nods toward the pages. “Audition?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s next week.”

She gives him a look. “I’m aware.”

“You’ve got time.”

“I know.”

Garrett takes a drink and looks toward the television while Dean scrolls through a streaming menu at a speed that makes every title impossible to read. He doesn’t tell her to put the pages away. Doesn’t remind her she looks tired again.

A few minutes later, when she reaches blindly toward the coffee table for the highlighter she left there, Garrett picks it up and passes it to her without comment.

“Thanks,” she murmurs.

“Mhm.”

She marks a line. Reads another paragraph. Rubs her thumb over the corner of the page until it begins to soften beneath her skin.

The boys finally settle on a movie nobody seems particularly interested in. Tucker turns off the kitchen light and joins Logan in an armchair. Allie comes in and folds herself against Dean’s side, both legs thrown over his lap.

Garrett stays where he is. She reaches the bottom of the second page and realises she cannot remember the top. A breath leaves her nose, sharper than she intends.

Garrett glances over. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“You made a noise.”

“I’m reading,” she mutters.

“You’ve been on that page for ten minutes.”

She looks at him. “Are you timing me?”

“No.”

“Then how do you know?”

“Because Dean has changed his mind about the movie twice and you haven’t turned the page.”

From the other couch, Dean says, “This one has terrible reviews.”

“Nobody asked you,” Garrett says.

She lowers the sides slightly. “I need to work on it.”

“You’ve been working on it.”

“The audition is in a week.”

“Exactly.”

“That doesn’t mean I can ignore it for a week.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Then what are you saying?”

Garrett turns slightly toward her, one arm resting along his thigh. His voice remains quiet enough that the others don’t have to stop talking around them. “I’m saying you look like you’re not getting anything out of it right now.”

The defensive answer reaches her tongue quickly. She swallows it back because, irritatingly, she knows he’s right.

Garrett watches her face. “Leave it for tonight.”

“I’ll feel guilty.”

“You already look guilty.”

“That’s just my face.”

“No, your face is meaner.”

Her mouth twitches before she can stop it. “Charming.”

“I’m serious.” He holds one hand out toward the pages, palm up rather than reaching for them. “You can have them back whenever you want.”

She looks at his hand. Then at the scene. The text has begun to swim slightly at the edges, enough to confirm she has been awake and moving for too many hours.

With a sigh, she places the pages in his hand.

Garrett doesn’t look triumphant. He only closes them neatly and sets them on top of her bag where nobody will step on them.

“Happy?” she asks.

“Deeply.”

“You’re annoying.”

“I know.”

The movie starts. Ten minutes in, nobody has followed the plot except Tucker, who gives up explaining after Logan asks whether two characters are brothers for the third time.

She sits upright at first, hands folded around the glass Garrett gave her. Gradually, the warmth of the house begins pulling at her. Her shoulders lower. Her head tips once, then jerks back up.

Garrett pretends not to notice. The next time it happens, her temple lands against his shoulder.

Her whole body stills. Garrett does too.

There’s a tiny space where either of them could correct it. She could sit back and laugh. He could shift as though he needs to reach for his drink.

Neither moves. His shoulder is warm beneath the thin fabric of his shirt. She can feel his breathing there, slow and deliberately unchanged.

After a minute, Garrett adjusts his arm along the back of the couch. Behind her, leaving the choice where it belongs.

Her hand rests on the cushion between them. His is nearby, palm down. She touches his smallest finger with hers. Garrett turns his hand over.

Their fingers slide together quietly, hidden in the dip between their bodies.

Across the room, Dean’s telling Allie he absolutely understood the play she was in, then immediately calling Mercutio the funny cousin. Logan laughs so hard he chokes on his drink. Tucker pauses the movie while everyone yells conflicting advice.

The house fills with the familiar mess of them. Garrett’s thumb moves once over her grandmother’s ring. She closes her eyes.

She doesn’t know that her audition date is sitting in the calendar on his phone. She doesn’t know he spent part of the afternoon searching the play so he could understand why the plant matters, or that the glass of water had been set beside her place before she walked through the door. 

She doesn’t know the boys have spent two days watching him follow a ridiculous list written on their kitchen whiteboard before Tucker erased it ahead of dinner.

She only knows that Garrett asks before taking her bag now. That he listens when she talks long enough to lose the point. That when she tells him about the ugliest part of himself, he doesn’t ask her to make it prettier.

And that tonight, when her body gives up before her pride does, he lets her sleep against him without trying to turn the softness into anything more.

notes from me – hi loves!!! first chapter is out! each chapter will come out at the same time and day every week! i also probably won’t post any other petal x garrett fics during this time to try not to be too confusing.

some other little notes, this is very closely following canon off campus (the show, not books) events, but there are slight deviations (obviously!). notably, allie and dean are together and not secret, and hannah and garrett never had their talk about her assault (the events of drunk shakespeare & that scene are flipped!) but pretty much everything else is mostly the same!!

enjoy, let me know all your comments and thoughts as always!! xx

to be notified when i post new fics, follow @kooksandpearls-library and turn on notifications! i no longer use a taglist for garrett fics.

[torimcc]

Our man is yearning and working we love to see it!

[cressidagrey]

System Failure - Chapter 92: Paris - Part 2

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Dr. Anastasia "Ana" Wolff (Original Character)

Summary:

Max Verstappen to Mercedes? The paddock is buzzing. The media’s in meltdown.

Dr. Anastasia “Ana” Wolff, Mercedes’ notoriously brilliant, emotionally unavailable lead systems engineer and Toto Wolff’s eldest daughter, is not handling it well.  Because Max isn’t just a potential signing, he’s the man she’s been sleeping with in secret for nearly a decade.

And if the rumours are true, and Max Verstappen really is joining Mercedes, then Ana’s carefully compartmentalised world is about to explode.

Warnings and Notes:  GEORGE RUSSELL BASHING. I am warning in ALL CAPS because if you are a fan of him, DO NOT come into my inbox and complain to me about me being mean to this fictional version of him. REAL LIFE GEORGE RUSSELL WOULD OBVIOUSLY NEVER ACT LIKE THAT. Also, this chapter contains mentions of Death Threats and some vague mentions of sexual assault and threats of the same.

For Housekeeping Reasons, this is fiction. I don't know any of these people in real life. The world portrayed in this story is obviously not real life, and I am sure that none of the people mentioned are anything like I portray them in this piece of fiction. (Apparently, this needs to be said for some of the people in my inbox.)

Let me know if I missed something else, and I'll add it!

As always big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble.

Maison Étoiles, Monaco - 13 October 2025

Ana checked her phone because she was waiting for an email.

That was all.

It was not meant to become anything.

There were, in Ana’s experience, several categories of messages one might receive after spending a morning in Paris with Lewis and Susie, during which Dior had somehow become involved in her wedding dress and Jonathan Anderson had developed opinions about an embroidered veil.

Category one: Susie sending a picture of a fabric sample with too many heart emojis.

Category two: Lewis sending another pinterest moodboard about tiara hairstyles, captioned only, I am still thinking.

Category three: Max sending messaged from the living room of their own house because he was bored, injured, and had decided that being a room away from her qualified as a long-distance relationship.

Category four: wedding logistics.

Ana had expected one of those.

She had not expected an unknown number.

At first, she did not open it.

Unknown numbers were usually a waste of time. 

Delivery issues. People who had acquired her number through professional leakage and wanted access to Toto. Junior engineers too nervous to use official channels. Occasionally journalists with much more audacity than judgment.

Ana ignored most of them.

Then the phone vibrated again.

And again.

And again.

Ana stood in the kitchen, and watched nine messages arrive in rapid succession.

Unknown Number.

No contact photograph.

No name.

No metadata visible without opening the thread.

Her first thought was not fear.

It was irritation.

Then she opened the messages.

The irritation disappeared.

For several seconds, Ana did not move.

The kitchen was quiet around her. Late-afternoon Monaco light fell pale and expensive across the island, across the stack of wedding venue notes Max had printed because apparently digital documents were not enough when one was planning bridge security. 

Somewhere in the living room, Max was on the sofa with his broken leg elevated, arguing with Nikolai about whether “resting” could include reviewing onboard footage.

Ana could hear his voice.

Low. Annoyed. Alive.

Her thumb hovered over the screen.

The messages were not long at first.

That made them worse.

Long messages provided data. Structure. Emotional leakage. Spelling patterns. Repetition. A chance to classify.

These were short.

Ugly.

Direct.

You ruined everything.

You think your father can protect you forever?

You should have kept your mouth shut.

You think being Toto Wolff’s broken little project makes you untouchable?

Ana read that one twice.

Not because she needed to.

Because her brain, unhelpfully, tried to verify that the words said what they said.

Then another message arrived.

He should have died in Baku and so should you.

Her hand went cold.

Not metaphorically.

Physically.

The phone became hard and slick in her fingers.

Another message.

It was supposed to be me.

Ana stopped breathing.

For one second, the room changed shape.

The window too bright. The sound of Max’s voice from down the corridor too far away and too close at once.

It was supposed to be me.

A sentence like a hand at the back of her neck.

Then another.

It all started with you.

Ana stared.

The next message came before she could process that.

If you had done what you were supposed to do, none of this would have happened.

If you had let me fix you, Verstappen would never have gotten my seat.

Ana’s vision narrowed.

Not dramatically. Not like films made panic look. There was no sudden collapse, no scream, no obvious break.

The room simply began to lose edges.

Sink. Oven. Window. Phone.

All of it became too sharp and too distant at once.

It was mine.

I would have been safe.

Mercedes would have kept me.

Another.

I wouldn’t have needed Baku.

The phone nearly slipped.

Ana caught it by reflex.

Baku.

The word sat there on the screen like a confession and a threat at once.

She read the message again.

I wouldn’t have needed Baku.

Her brain, inconveniently precise even under stress, began arranging implications.

He was admitting knowledge.

Or implying it. Or taunting.

No, not merely taunting.

George Russell.

She knew.

Not because the number said so.

Because entitlement had a fingerprint.

Because George Russell had once leaned against the edge of her workstation in Brackley after a late debrief and smiled like he had discovered a secret everyone else had been too polite to say aloud. You know people find you intimidating, right?

Because he had once said, in a corridor outside the simulator suite, I’m only telling you because I care. You’d be easier to work with if you didn’t correct everyone like that.

Because he had texted her, Most women are so emotional but you’ve got that ice-in-your-veins thing. Cold as a fish but gets the job done 💪

Because he had said, You know, Ana, you might get farther if you softened your tone a bit. You come across a little… intimidating in meetings. 

You should let me take you shopping so you can look the part of a Mercedes engineer.

I’m just saying, people find you a little hard to approach. If you just smiled more, or I don’t know, tried asking how someone’s day was before launching into compression ratios…

I just think you’d get through to people more if you weren’t so …robotic.

Because he had kissed her against her will and looked shocked when she had fought him.

Because he had thought dating her father’s daughter was a career strategy.

Because he had thought Ana herself was a malfunctioning thing that could be repaired into usefulness if only she would stop resisting the man kind enough to chase her.

Another message arrived.

You always acted like you didn’t understand what I was offering you.

Ana did not move.

You’re not special. You’re defective.

The word hit somewhere old.

Not because she believed it. She did not. Intellectually.

The problem with panic was that intellect remained intact and useless, like an emergency manual locked behind glass while the room filled with smoke.

Her lungs forgot the next step.

Inhale.

That was the step.

She knew that.

It did not happen.

Then the thread shifted.

The messages became longer.

Worse.

You looked at me like I was nothing. Like I should be grateful just to breathe the same air as Toto’s damaged little genius. You don’t even know what you are. You don’t know how lucky you were that I wanted you anyway.

Ana’s hand began to shake. She noticed it distantly. Unacceptable.

I could have made you useful. I could have taught you how to be normal. I could have made you stop looking through people like you’re some machine pretending to be a woman.

Ana’s thumb hovered over the screen. Another message.

You should have let me touch you. You should have let me show you what you were missing. You clearly never had a real man in your life or you wouldn’t have acted like that.

The floor seemed to shift under her feet.

She gripped the edge of the kitchen island with her free hand.

Another.

Maybe I still should.

Ana’s lungs locked.

The words did not become images.

She refused them that.

But they became pressure.

Hands. Corridor. George’s body too close. The smell of his cologne. Her wrist twisting. The instant of surprise on his face when she shoved him hard enough to make him stumble. His hand catching her arm. Pain. Susie’s voice later. Toto’s face. 

Another message.

Maybe I’ll finish what I started.

The phone hit the island.

Not hard. Not dramatically.

It simply slipped from Ana’s hand because her fingers stopped moving.

Ana stared at it.

Her pulse was in her throat now. Too fast. Too loud. The air in the study had become thick and insufficient. She could still hear Max in the living room, but the sound had stretched strangely, like audio underwater.

She needed to move.

No.

She needed to stay still.

No.

She needed—

The phone vibrated again against the stone.

Ana flinched.

She hated that.

Unknown Number.

Your father can’t keep everyone away.

Another vibration.

Verstappen should have burned in that car. 

Ana could not breathe.

That was a problem.

Her body had decided, apparently, to become stupid.

She knew the mechanics. 

Diaphragm. Intercostal muscles. Oxygen exchange. Carbon dioxide. 

Simple. Automatic.

There was no reason she could not do it.

No reason except the room had narrowed into the phone, and the phone had become George, and George had become Baku, and Baku had become Max in a car with sabotaged systems, Max in a car other people had touched, Max in a car that George thought should have killed him.

Max, alive in the other room.

Max, with a broken leg.

Max, not known to George as hers.

That made the threats stranger.

No.

Not stranger.

Worse.

George was not threatening her because she loved Max.

George did not know.

He was threatening her because in his mind she was the first point of failure.

Ana had not let him have her.

Ana had not let him use her.

Ana had not let him become Toto Wolff’s son-in-law-shaped insurance policy.

So Mercedes had let him go.

So Max had come.

So George had needed Baku.

In George’s logic, every consequence of George’s choices had begun with Ana saying no.

The phone vibrated again.

This is your fault.

Ana’s vision went white at the edges.

“Nastya?”

Max’s voice came from the hallway.

She had not heard the crutches.

That was bad.

Not because he had moved quietly. Max could move quietly when he wanted to, even injured, which was annoying and occasionally impressive. It was bad because she had not noticed.

She turned.

Too quickly.

The room tilted.

Max stood in the doorway, crutches under his arms, his broken leg held awkwardly off the floor. 

He wore soft black joggers and one of his prototype merch shirts, and his face had already changed.

He knew.

Not what.

But that there was a what.

“What happened?” he asked.

Ana looked at him.

There were several possible answers.

Nothing. Inefficient and false.

Unknown number. Accurate but incomplete.

A security issue. True.

A threat. Also true.

George. Not confirmed but functionally certain.

The words did not line up.

Her tongue felt wrong in her mouth.

Max’s eyes sharpened.

“Nastya?”

She tried to inhale.

Could not.

That was irritating.

She knew how breathing worked.

She had passed biology.

She had experienced respiration successfully for twenty-seven years.

There was no reason for this.

“I need—” she started.

The sentence broke.

Max’s crutch thudded once against the floor as he shifted forward.

Ana lifted one hand immediately.

Stop.

Not because she did not want him.

Because if he came too close too quickly, she was going to fall apart, and falling apart in front of Max while he had one broken leg and no ability to physically fix the world would make him worse, and if Max got worse then she would have to manage that too, and—

“Nikolai,” she forced out.

Max went completely still. Then he turned his head and shouted, “Nikolai!”

No hesitation. No question.

Ana appreciated that more than she could say.

Somewhere outside the room, a chair moved.

Nikolai Maroz appeared within seconds.

Not hurried. Never hurried.

That was one of the first things Ana had trusted about him.

Nikolai never made emergency look like panic.

He had been in Ana’s life long before Max had started thinking of him as the terrifying man in black who appeared when Toto decided paranoia had become policy. 

Officially, Nikolai was private security. 

Unofficially, he was one of Toto’s oldest contingencies made human.

Toto had hired him first when Ana was at Cambridge.

Toto had a stalker. There hadn’t been a specific threat against Ana. But there had been threats. Several. Technically. 

Ana had called it excessive.

Toto had called it necessary.

Nikolai had arrived in Cambridge with no visible opinion on either position, learned her schedule by the end of the first day, corrected her Russian pronunciation once without smiling, and then spent months proving that protective did not have to mean intrusive.

He did not hover.

He did not ask stupid questions.

He did not call her fragile.

He stood at the right distance, watched the right doors, and once, when Ana had left a supervision meeting shaking with silent overload, had handed her noise-cancelling headphones without looking at her face.

That had been the beginning.

Years later, when Baku happened and Ana became quietly, ruthlessly paranoid about Max’s safety, she had wanted him back. 

Now he stood behind Max in the study doorway and took one look at Ana.

One look.

His face did not change. That was how she knew he saw too much.

“What happened?” Nikolai asked.

Ana pointed at the phone on the island.

Her hand was shaking.

Damn it.

Nikolai saw.

Max saw.

“May I?” Nikolai asked.

Ana nodded once.

He crossed the room and picked up the phone without turning the screen away from her. He did not snatch. Did not grab. Did not make ownership of the threat another thing taken from her.

He read.

His expression remained completely still.

That was how she knew he took it seriously.

People who did not take threats seriously reacted visibly. They frowned. They swore. They said things like probably nothing or some idiot online or don’t let it get to you, as if the emotional effect was the primary concern rather than the possibility of escalation.

Nikolai read all the messages once.

Then again.

Then his face changed. Barely. A small hardening around the eyes.

Ana had known Nikolai Maroz for years.

She had seen him remove men from rooms without raising his voice.

She had seen him stand between her and photographers, students, journalists, drunk strangers, overfamiliar sponsors, and once a Cambridge fellow who had thought academic seniority exempted him from basic distance.

She had never seen him look like that at a phone. “When did these start?” Nikolai asked.

Ana opened her mouth.

Nothing came out.

Annoying.

Max made a sound.

Small. Dangerous.

Nikolai’s eyes did not leave Ana.

“Breathe first,” he said.

Ana glared at him.

Or attempted to.

It did not feel successful.

Max shifted.

Nikolai raised one hand without looking at him. “Do not move.”

Max looked ready to bite him.

Nikolai ignored that too.

Ana hated everyone.

Her chest tightened again.

The room dipped.

Nikolai’s voice changed.

Not softer, exactly.

Lower.

Russian.

“Anastasia. Look at me.”

She did.

Because her body remembered Cambridge before her pride could object.

“There,” he said. “Good. Count.”

“I do not need—”

“Count.”

She wanted to tell him that counting was infantilizing and unnecessary and that she was perfectly capable of managing autonomic dysregulation without being treated like a malfunctioning child.

Instead, her lungs seized again.

Nikolai’s eyes held hers.

“In Russian,” he said. “One.”

Ana’s jaw tightened.

“Odin,” she said.

“Two.”

“Dva.”

“Three.”

“Tri.”

Max did not move.

That helped.

He wanted to. She could feel it. Every line of him was angled toward her, fury and fear held together by the thinnest possible thread. But he stayed where he was, crutch planted, broken leg useless, eyes fixed on her like she was the only apex on track.

“Four,” Nikolai said.

“Chetyre.”

The air came in.

Not enough.

Enough to prove the system still worked.

“Five.”

“Pyat.”

Again.

Inhale.

Exhale.

The room did not return all at once. It came back in pieces.

Kitchen.

Sink.

Window.

Max.

Nikolai.

Phone.

Threats.

Ana lowered her hand, which she had not realized was pressed against her sternum.

Nikolai nodded once.

“Good.”

“I hate this,” she said in Russian. 

“Noted.”

Nikolai turned back to the phone.

“When did these start?”

Ana swallowed. “Approximately eight minutes ago.”

“Any prior messages from this number?”

“No.”

“You recognize it?”

“No.”

“Did you reply?”

“No.”

“Good.”

Max’s hand tightened on the crutch.

“What is it?” he asked.

Nikolai looked at Ana. Not Max.

Ana  nodded once.

Nikolai turned the phone slightly so Max could see.

Max read the messages.

Ana watched him do it.

She had seen Max angry many times.

Racing angry. Family angry. Media angry. Anger at himself, which was the worst kind because it went quiet and sharp and inward. Anger for her, which had a particular heat, a particular violence of stillness.

This was different.

This was immediate.

Physical.

His face emptied.

Then his eyes changed.

“Nikolai,” Ana said.

The warning came out before Max moved.

Nikolai’s hand was already up, not touching Max, simply occupying the space between impulse and action.

“No,” Nikolai said.

Max’s jaw flexed.

Ana saw the exact moment he remembered he had one broken leg.

It did not make him calmer.

It only made him more furious.

“Who sent this?” Max asked.

“We do not know yet,” Nikolai said.

“Yes, we do,” Ana said.

Both men looked at her.

Her voice sounded too flat now.

That was better than breathless. Maybe.

“It was George Russell.”

Max’s eyes went black.

Nikolai’s gaze sharpened.

“You are certain?”

“Yes.” Ana said. “The language is his. And he mentions Baku.”

Max looked back at the phone.

I wouldn’t have needed Baku.

The muscles in his jaw moved once.

For a moment, Ana thought he might be sick. Then she realized that was anger.

Nikolai asked, “He has used similar language before?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me.”

Ana’s throat tightened.

The room threatened to tilt again.

Nikolai saw it immediately.

“Slow,” he said.

She nodded once.

Slow was possible. Slow was a process.

“Earlier this year,” she said, “George kissed me against my will. I punched him to get away. I broke my wrist.”

Nikolai did not react outwardly.

Max already knew this part.

Mostly.

Not all of it.

He knew the event. He knew the broken wrist. He knew Toto had put George on leave and that the legal and HR situation had ended George’s Mercedes seat. He knew Ana had gone to Monaco with Susie afterward. 

But she had not told him everything.

Not because she had meant to hide it.

Because some memories had edges she preferred not to handle unless necessary.

Now it was necessary.

Max’s hands closed slowly into fists.

“Against your will,” Nikolai repeated.

“Yes.”

“And he lost his seat afterward.”

“Yes.”

Nikolai’s expression remained controlled. “Continue.”

Ana swallowed.

“He believed proximity to me would protect his position at Mercedes. Or improve it. I am not entirely sure which version was dominant in his thinking.”

Nikolai waited.

Max did not breathe loudly enough.

“He thought,” Ana said carefully, “that if he was with me, Papa would have to keep him in his seat. Or at least find it harder not to.”

Nikolai’s face became completely blank. “He thought being your boyfriend would save his job,” he said.

“Yes.”

“He was never your boyfriend,” Max snapped. 

“No.”

“He kissed you once against your will and thought that was—”

Max stopped.

Not because he had run out of words. Because there were too many.

Nikolai said, “He was not aware of your relationship with Max?”

“No,” Ana said.

Max’s head turned slightly.

Ana did not look at him.

“He does not know,” she said. “The messages are not about Max and me. They are about Mercedes. About Papa. About George losing what he believed he was owed.”

“About you refusing him,” Nikolai said.

Ana’s mouth tightened.

“Yes.”

Max made a sound under his breath.

Ana did not ask him to repeat it.

She did not want the translation.

“He had been inappropriate before that,” she continued. “Not physical. Not until the kiss.”

“Define inappropriate,” Nikolai said.

Ana’s mouth tightened again.

George’s voice returned with the horrible clarity of a recording.

You know, you’d be less intimidating if you let someone help you.

I’m good with people. I could teach you.

Half the time you don’t even realize how you come across.

You’d be prettier if you stopped looking like you’re calculating everyone’s weaknesses.

A little warmth wouldn’t hurt. People say you’re cold. Unfeeling. 

 I could fix you, but also I’d rather learn from you. You know?

Loosen you up. You’re always so serious. You don’t even blink most of the time. 

You think you’re happy. But have you ever considered that maybe the version of you everyone sees isn’t the best version?

You’re looking… surprisingly put-together for someone who’s been in this chaos all morning.

I just think maybe now—with Max coming, and everything changing—it might be the right time. You and I could start something.

I think we’ve been dancing around something for a while. 

“He said he could make me easier to be around,” Ana said.

Max’s face went blank.

“He said he could teach me how to be normal,” she continued. “He thought that he could fix me. That he could make me better.”

Nikolai’s eyes darkened.

Max did not move.

The stillness was worse than shouting would have been.

“He used the word fix?” Nikolai asked.

“Yes.”

“Multiple times?”

“Yes.”

“At Mercedes?”

“Yes.”

“While employed there?”

“Yes.”

“With witnesses?”

“Sometimes.”

“Names?”

“I can provide them.”

“You will.”

Ana nodded.

Max’s voice came very quietly. “You did not tell me all of that.”

Ana looked at him then.

His face was pale beneath the anger.

Ana felt the wrongness of it immediately.

Not because he was owed every detail of her trauma.

He was not.

Max knew that. He would never demand it.

But because he had been standing beside her for nearly ten years, learning every locked door she would let him see, and some part of him had still been left outside this one while George Russell had used the language of patience and normality like a hand around her throat.

“I didn’t want it to become even bigger,” Ana said.

Max laughed once.

It was not humour.

“It was already big.”

“Yes.”

“Someone touched you against your will.”

“Yes.”

“And before that he was telling you he could fix you.”

Ana’s fingers tightened. “Yes.”

“And now he is threatening to come here and—”

Max stopped.

He could not say it.

Ana was grateful.

Not because the threat became smaller unsaid.

Because the words already existed on the phone and did not deserve a second life in Max’s mouth.

Nikolai said, “I am calling Toto.”

Ana’s head came up. “No.”

Nikolai looked at her.

Max did too.

“No?” Max repeated.

“I will tell Papa.”

“You are so not managing Toto’s emotional response right now,” Max said.

Ana stared at him.

The sentence was too accurate to dismiss and too irritating to accept. “I am not—”

“Yes,” Max said. “You are.”

Ana’s mouth closed.

Nikolai, wisely, said nothing.

Max leaned forward as much as his leg allowed. “Nastya,” he said, softer now. Still angry, but not at her. Never at her. “You got death threats.”

“I received threatening messages.”

“You got death threats.”

She looked at him.

He held her gaze. “And sexual threats.”

Ana flinched.

She hated that too.

Max looked like he wanted to tear the room apart with his teeth.

But his voice stayed low.

“You do not have to phrase it like a report because you think if you say it normally everyone will become too much.”

Ana’s throat tightened.

That was unfair. Because it was true.

“I do not want Papa to—”

“I know,” Max said. “I know you don’t. But he is your father. And this is security. And George was Mercedes. And Baku. And Toto needs to know.”

Ana looked down at her phone.

Another message arrived.

The vibration was small. The whole room reacted.

Max moved.

Nikolai’s hand snapped out. “Do not touch it.”

Max froze.

Ana did too.

Nikolai stepped closer. “Do not open it yet.”

“It previewed,” Ana said.

“What does it say?”

Ana looked at the screen.

Unknown Number.

I know you’re scared now.

Her mouth went dry.

Nikolai’s face remained still.

“Screenshot lock screen,” he said.

Ana did.

Her hand shook again.

Worse this time.

Nikolai saw.

“Sit down,” he said.

“I am fine.”

“Sit down.”

“I need to—”

“Anastasia,” he said, in Russian again, and the sound of her full name in that accent snapped something old back into place. “Sit.”

She sat.

Not because she wanted to. Because her knees had started to feel theoretical.

Max swore under his breath.

Nikolai’s eyes moved to him.

“Do not make more noise.”

Max looked murderous.

Nikolai ignored it and handed the phone back only once Ana’s fingers were steadier.

“Open it.”

She did.

There were two more messages.

Good. You should be.

And then:

When I get out, I’m going to make you understand exactly what you cost me.

Ana went white.

She knew because the room went black at the edges.

Not all at once.

Just enough.

A slow closing.

Like a tunnel.

The message did not say everything.

It did not have to.

Her body understood the threat before her mind finished reading it.

She had time to be annoyed.

Then she could not hear properly.

Max’s voice came from very far away.

“Nastya.”

The phone was no longer in her hand.

When had that happened?

There was a hand on her shoulder.

No.

Not grabbing.

Grounding.

Nikolai.

He was in front of her now, not Max. That was right. That was correct. Nikolai knew not to crowd her with the person she loved most when panic made love too large to process.

“Look at me,” he said.

Ana tried.

Her eyes would not focus.

“I can’t—” she said.

The sentence broke.

That was humiliating.

She hated it.

She hated George.

She hated the messages.

She hated her body for being so predictable and so disobedient.

She hated that one sentence could reach past every adult certainty she had built and put a hand on an old wound that had Stephanie’s fingerprints and Irina’s absence and George’s voice all layered together.

Worth keeping.

Defective.

Fix you.

Make you understand.

As if she had not spent her entire life trying to become indisputably useful enough that no one could misplace her again.

As if Max loved her by mistake.

As if Toto staying had been an administrative decision.

As if Susie choosing her was pity.

As if every soft thing in her life was conditional and George Russell, of all people, had been the only one honest enough to say so.

“Nastya,” Max said.

Closer now.

Broken.

Not loud.

That was worse.

She could not breathe.

Her chest locked down hard enough that pain cut across her ribs.

Nikolai crouched in front of her.

“Hands,” he said.

Ana did not understand.

He took one of her hands only after she failed to move it herself. Pressed it flat against the cool stonetop of the island.

“Here. Feel this.”

Island.

stone.

Cold.

Real.

“Feet.”

Her shoes were on the floor.

Also real.

“Name five things,” Nikolai said.

“I know grounding techniques,” Ana snapped.

Good.

A sentence.

Rude, but complete.

Nikolai looked almost satisfied. “Then use them.”

Max made a small sound that might have been a laugh if his face had not looked like something had been carved out of it.

Ana pressed her hand harder against the island.

Stone.

Edge.

Corner.

A faint groove in the finish.

She inhaled.

It caught.

She tried again.

Air entered.

Not enough.

Enough.

“One,” Nikolai said.

“Island,” Ana said.

“Two.”

“Phone.”

“Three.”

“Max.”

Max’s face changed.

“Four.”

“Window.”

“Five.”

She looked at Nikolai.

His face was steady.

Annoyingly steady.

“Nikolai,” she said.

“Good.”

Her breathing began to return in increments.

Not smoothly.

Not elegantly.

But the tunnel widened.

The room reassembled itself around her.

Max was sitting because someone — probably Nikolai — had either ordered or physically forced him back down. His crutches was on the floor beside him, one hand white-knuckled against his thigh, the other reaching toward her but not touching.

Waiting.

That nearly made her cry.

Nikolai stood and turned to Max.

“She is coming down. Do not rush her.”

Max’s eyes did not leave Ana.

“I know.”

Nikolai studied him for half a second.

Then nodded as if Max had passed a test by the smallest possible margin.

Ana hated everyone slightly less.

Nikolai picked up her phone again.

“I am calling Toto now.”

This time, Ana did not say no.

She did not have the breath for it.

Max reached out slowly.

Stopped halfway.

Ana looked at his hand.

Then at his face.

His eyes were furious and terrified and so full of love that George’s messages became, suddenly, obviously insane.

Max knew what she was.

Not all of it.

Nobody knew all of it.

But more than most.

Enough to know she was not a problem to solve.

Enough to know that silence did not mean absence, that stillness did not mean coldness, that being difficult to read did not mean not worth reading.

Enough to sit there with his broken leg and let Nikolai be between them because Max understood that protecting her sometimes meant not being the first person to touch her.

Ana placed her hand in his.

Max’s fingers closed carefully.

Not tight.

Never tight unless she asked.

“I know what you are,” he said.

Ana’s throat hurt.

She looked at him.

Max’s voice was low.

“You are Nastya.”

Her eyes burned.

“Max.”

“And you are mine,” he said, jaw tight. “Not because I own you. Because you chose me. Because I chose you. Because I know you.”

Ana looked at him.

He was shaking now.

Barely.

With fury, probably.

With restraint.

“And you are Toto’s daughter,” Max continued. “And Susie’s daughter. And Jack’s sister. And Nikolai’s worst client, probably.”

“I had worse,” Nikolai said from the corner, phone already to his ear.

Ana almost laughed.

It came out wrong.

A tiny broken sound.

Max heard it and held onto her hand like it mattered.

“George knows nothing,” Max said.

Ana breathed in.

Then out.

“Intellectually,” she said, voice thin, “I know that.”

“Okay.”

“Emotionally, I am less certain.”

“I know.”

She hated that he did. 

She loved that he did.

[torimcc]

Screaming crying throwing up

[papercranesandinkstains]

Funny I'm at Home

Summary: Being in love with Rafe Cameron wasn't an original experience. Him being in love with you? That definitely is. How many ways are there for someone so in love with you to fuck up? Ask him.

Pairing: College!Rafe Cameron x Reader

Trope: Best Friends Brother to Friends to Something to Enemies to ???

Word Count: 4.7k

AN: Finals are over, so enjoy my labors of me avoiding my work

Masterlist My Masterlist

It’s been three days since you’ve spoken to Rafe Cameron.

Three days of ignoring his calls. Three days of ignoring the obsessive knocking at your door. Three days of trying to convince your friends you have a stomach bug and that’s why you haven’t been responding to texts.

Three entire days since Rafe Cameron publicly humiliated you without the slightest care in the world. 

Part of you knew it was coming. That no matter what inevitable force there was that kept throwing the two of you together, you were always going to end up in exactly the same spot you are right now: curled up in your bed while the morning light threatens to peek through your tightly closed curtains with your phone buzzing with the tenth incoming call from Sarah going unanswered on the mattress next to you, and a feeling squeezing in your chest so tightly that you know for certain that death would be a much kinder fate than the ache you are experiencing. 

Fate had a funny way of throwing you into someone’s orbit, pulling the wool over your eyes to make you ignore the blinking red signs that this was going to end in disaster until you found yourself knee deep in it, fate pushing the mask off and asking if you are really so blind you couldn’t see what was coming?

It seems you have always been destined to have your heart broken by Rafe Cameron. 

The screen lights up again without even allowing itself the chance to go dim, the picture of you and Sarah dressed up for your middle school formal plastered on the screen for the millionth time since you had gone ghost. Your other friends may try to believe that you have contracted some kind of random sickness, but the two of you have been inseparable since you moved to Kildare after your 10th birthday. 

She was there when you got your first period. When you had to share the most awkward spin the bottle kiss with John B during your first official high school party. She walked around in a bra all day when your top broke taking your graduation photos and punched JJ in the arm so hard he almost cried when he laughed. 

Your very best friend.

The same girl who had warned you time and time again to avoid harboring any feelings for Rafe because she knew how it would end. You were the only person she thought capable of breaking his heart, but she refused to live in a world where he had the power to break yours. 

You, who didn’t know how to love anything half-assed. The person who had attempted to interrupt every bar fight JJ had somehow scraped his way into because you couldn’t stand to see someone you love mistreated. The girl who caught a flight at 2 am because Cleo had sounded a little off in a text while visiting her mom and you couldn’t bear the thought of her hurting alone. 

Rafe couldn’t see out of his own ass enough to fall in love with anyone, but he did love finding any way he could to one-up his father’s “perfect” daughter. And you?

You always tried to find the good in creatures that bite. 

So, she warned you. And him. Especially him. Neither of you were to engage in anything other than cordial acceptance of each other because when the two of you imploded, there’s not a person alive who wouldn’t feel the impact. 

She refused to let you be collateral in the storm that was her brother.

You got swept away anyway. You’re not sure how it happened, the exact moment where you went from viewing him as just a facet in his sister’s life to seeing him as someone else entirely missing from your brain no matter how hard you tried to remember the distinct moment that you lost your mind.  

Not as Sarah’s aggravating older brother. Not Ward’s loose cannon son. Not the arrogant football player who seemed to be on the arm of someone new every time you caught him on the sidewalk. 

Someone who always answered FaceTimes from his younger sister no matter how busy he is to help her figure out the correct spot to place Lego pieces when the instructions got lost. The first person on the field and the last to leave, making sure that he wasn’t asking anything of his teammates that he wasn’t willing to do himself. The guy who is so unnaturally good at chemistry (something that he made crappy jokes about anytime you brought it up) that when you got the lowest grade of your life and were in the middle of a mental breakdown, stayed up for almost 36 hours straight to help you with your make-up lab and never once mentioned it again. 

Just Rafe. 

Without all the frills and fireworks that somehow managed to follow him everywhere he went. 

Somewhere along the way, between the bar fights you pushed yourself into and the two of you somehow ending up in the same math class, you forgot the thing he was known for above all else. 

And now you’ve got the broken heart to prove it. 

Turns out that there’s no real way to hide the fact that you’ve been crushed by your best friend’s brother, but if there was, you’re absolutely sure you’ve done it wrong when you’re opening your bedroom door and find your foot connecting with JJ right in the balls. 

“Son of a bitch,” he groans as your hands shoot out to try to catch his shoulders as he tips over, your bag dropping against the door frame with a loud thud.

John B is laughing loudly as you help the blonde up off the floor, ignoring the glare you send his way as you stand back up.

“What the hell were you doing?”

“These guys were too chicken shit to try to pop your lock-”

You narrow your eyes at him, your gazes catching for the first time in days, and he is jumping behind John B, who is trying to cough away his laugh when he notices the look on your face. 

“I could’ve been naked.”

“Or you could’ve been dead,” JJ fires back from his spot behind John B, his chin coming to rest on his shoulder as if the boy in front of him is the only armor he needs from ending up with another cheap shot sending him to the floor. “Figured I would take my chances.”

You bend down, pulling your bag up onto your shoulder as you roll your eyes at the blonde cowering behind his best friend. 

“If I was dead, I’m pretty sure Kie would have smelled me already, genius.” You point out to JJ, who just puts his hands up in the air raising his eyebrows as if he needed to tell you that he was doing the best he could in his own thought process. 

He’s playing defense because he always does. It’s the exact same approach you are taking right now, tightening your hand on the strap of your bag as you look at the three pairs of eyes looking back at you. 

The two of you have always had that in common, which is the reason you two are the only duo in the group who can’t drink at parties together. 

“Can I go to class now,” You ask, motioning to the bag in your hand. “Or are you guys going to follow me and try to crack open a window?”

“You’re going to class?” John B asks, the words tumbling out of them before he can catch them it seems. He mentally slaps himself, you can practically see the word ‘idiot’ crawl up the back of his neck and settle into the blush at the tips of his ears. “Duh, I meant-”

“You could always just answer your phone and we could avoid all of this.”

Sarah finally chimes in, arms crossed as she fixes you with a calculating look. It doesn’t take a genius to know that she knows you were lying about being sick, but that doesn’t mean you have to give it away. 

Your shoulder brushes against the doorframe before you lean against it, copying her crossed arms with your own sitting tightly across your chest. There’s a tug in one of your eyebrows, fixing her with a look that shows as much amusement as you can muster. 

“I’ll be sure to answer you in between gags next time, Cameron.”

Her last name tumbles out of your mouth and you can taste the bitterness on your tongue in its wake. It’s an old habit, the name flopping from owner to owner over your years of run-ins with the entire family. A nickname meant to be funny because of how scrunched up Sarah’s face would get when someone called her that, turning into a way to mentally remind yourself of the distance you needed to keep from the other half of the name. 

He hated when you called him by his last name. It was a conversation you two had more frequently over the last few months, but it would work its way out of your mouth just so you could watch how his eyes would flick over your face to see what he possibly could have done wrong for you to have reverted from calling him by his first name. 

It was a way for you to maintain distance from him. Then a way to tease him. 

You can’t use the name for him anymore. 

You’re not sure your voice would even function within a thousand feet of him ever again, but you still know that the name now belongs to the girl standing in front of you and you can’t help the way your stomach lurches at the thought. 

Maybe you should throw up right here and now, take that knowing look out of your best friend’s eyes and maintain the story that you were sick. 

JJ’s face scrunches up at the thought of you answering the phone while hunched over the toilet, shaking his head and muttering for you to feel free to never answer his calls in a situation like that. He would be just fine with a text for a sign of life.

“You and Rafe must have caught the same bug,” Sarah says, the tone in her voice trying to sound like the idea is pure coincidence but you aren’t stupid enough to miss the look on her face. “He seems to be MIA too.” 

You refuse to let the twinge in your chest at his name show on your face, keeping your face blank as you raise an eyebrow and accept her silent challenge to see if you are going to double down on your story or give her the answer she is really looking for. 

The real reason why you have tuned out the rest of the world and locked yourself in your room. 

“You having JJ bust in on him naked too,” You ask, your eyes meeting hers, “Or am I just special?”

She purses her lips together at your deflection, irritation showing on her face that you have seen only a handful of times in your life and never once directed at you. Her eyes linger on yours for a moment in the hopes that maybe you will change your mind. That you will just tell her what happened and let her help you through this. 

The ache in your heart wants nothing more than to curl up on your bed and cry into her shoulder about how stupid you feel. To sit with her while she tells you that you deserve better and that none of this is your fault. 

Except it is. 

Because she warned you about exactly this. She had drilled it into your head that the only certainty was complete and utter heartbreak, and you went and did it anyway. 

And he’s her brother. 

Her sometimes crazy, irrational, and idiotic brother, but still. 

Always her brother. 

The one person who she had been so worried about breaking your heart. The very person you had almost been sure would rather die than ever hurt you. 

You had been stupid enough not to listen to her. 

How were you supposed to tell her that?

“Can I go to class now?”

As you watch her face fall, you realize you may not have to. 

Your professor is overly empathetic to your “sickness”, offering to send you an email with the notes from the classes you missed while you stand in front of her desk at the end of class, a sheepish look on your face. She makes a comment about her daughter picking up the same bug which you respond to with a polite nod and well wishes because you can’t tell her the two situations simply aren’t the same. 

You doubt the sick feeling in your stomach is ever going to fully go away. 

But you smile and nod your way through the conversation anyway, letting yourself laugh when she says Gatorade is the cure for any sickness- or hangover- she has ever encountered. Your feet don’t feel like they hit the ground as heavily as they did on the way here, the normalcy of your presence out in the world giving you some sort of life back.

It’s the same path you take from class every day, your feet leading you on auto-pilot like you hadn’t missed anything at all. The past few months have had this exact path filled with grumpy comments and loud high-fives that were always aimed at the brooding figure that had claimed a spot next to you despite not having a class in this hall at all. 

The spot is empty now and you’re not sure why, but that feels like the worst part. 

You hadn’t really realized just how much of your life had been consumed by Rafe Cameron before this exact moment. He had somehow made himself a piece of everything. A singular person not being around should not have you walking down the hall with a lump in your throat. You shouldn’t actually miss snarky comments about the smell of nursing homes as you pass by Professor Wynn’s class- a lady who had been tenured for incredibly too long and always seemed to park on the sidewalk despite everyone collectively refusing to park near her. 

But you do.

For the first time in the semester, your hand is the one reaching for the handle on the exit door and you could scream with the hesitance that crept up your arm. You have to push back his voice in the back of your head, scolding you for opening it up when there is someone fully capable of doing it right next to you. 

Except he’s not. 

So, you push. 

The door moves out from under your hand just as soon as your fingers brush against it, pulling away just as quickly as you had approached. You fling your arm back, absent-mindedly stepping out of the way for the person coming in to be able to get around you. 

The person holding the door mutters out an apology, hardly even glancing up from the watch wrapped tightly around their wrist as they go to step into the space before stopping in their tracks right in front of you.

All you can do is stare at the thick silver band that has taken over your field of vision, your eyes refusing to move any further. You’d know that watch in your sleep, countless hours spent studying across from it tapping harshly against the wooden table in an attempt to grab your attention. 

It has your attention now without even trying. 

“Hey.”

For just a moment, your body ignites in the same way it always does when it hears his voice. You shove your fluttering heart off a cliff, the sinking feeling returning to your chest just as quickly as it left as you look up to find the very person you have been avoiding. 

“You’re, um-” Rafe clears his throat awkwardly the second your eyes meet his panicked blue ones. “You got done early.”

He fumbles over his words for the first time since the two of you have been introduced and you have to restrain the small piece of you that wants to find it endearing. The idea that you could make Rafe Cameron flustered was something that would have had you on cloud nine last week. 

“I was-” He clears his throat again, reaching up to rub the back of his hand as he tries to make his voice work. “Kelce-”

Of course you would pick to start attending the one class one of his childhood best friends is in. You hadn’t thought you had seen the boy sitting in his usual spot in the back, but you must have missed him. 

You knew you should’ve waited for your afternoon class to make your return to society. 

Rafe always had a habit of finding you, even when you were lost in a crowd. Back then, you hadn’t been actively avoiding him. You never minded seeing his friends around, offering them a smile and a wave anytime you made eye contact and you knew the boy in front of you would be there in just a few moments. 

Back then, it was endearing. You didn’t care how he found you, just that he did. Having him around somehow managed to make the day less terrible, taking your focus off of how badly you had stuttered through a presentation or completely got a math problem wrong in front of everyone. 

Now he is the terrible thing, standing in front of you with those stupid guilty blue eyes and nervously trying to find the right words to convince you to stay. It’s not a matter of if he can because you know that he has a way of keeping your feet cemented in a spot that nobody else has ever accomplished. 

It’s a matter of if you will fall for it. 

The same sweet talking. The same bright smile. The same nervous neck rubbing that would normally have you biting the inside of your lip and hoping that he can’t physically see your palms sweating from how nervous you are being so close to him. 

Except it’s no longer reserved for just you. 

The memory you have been pushing off for so long washes over you in an instant, hesitation suddenly disappearing as you allow yourself to be overcome with an emotion that you aren’t sure has ever been reserved for the boy standing in front of you. 

Irritation. 

“Not interested.”

You drop your eyes away from his, moving quickly around him. You are careful not to touch him as you slip out the door. Being close to him is dangerous. Making contact will only set you back. 

A clean break is what you need, and as you step out into the gloomy morning air, you know that the universe isn’t going to be so kind as to give it to you. 

“Wait,” he calls after you, his feet falling into step behind you as the door swings closed with a loud thud. People are watching now, you can practically feel their eyes as they look for the source of the boom before landing on you almost sprinting away from Rafe Cameron. “Will you just stop for a second?”

You don’t respond, fingers tightening on the strap of your bag to stop you from turning around. Hearing him out isn’t going to help anything because you know exactly what this is. He knows it too. He knew exactly what had sent you running for the hills.

You were willing to do outrageous things for the people you care about, but willingly pretending to be stupid to make someone feel better wasn’t one of them. 

“Can we just-”

His fingers brush against your wrist and you snatch it to your chest, spinning around to glare at him with a fire in your eyes that has him taking a step back. 

It aches. Physically aches in the spot his fingers brushed, the small contact lighting every cell in your body up like he always seemed to do. You cradle it to you like it is broken, trying to push aside the flames dancing across the absence of him for the last time. 

“I said,” you breathe out, teeth clenched as you make eye contact again. “I’m not interested. Don’t pretend you didn’t hear me.”

You’re trying to keep your voice low, not allowing yourself to be oblivious to the eyes on the two of you, everyone trying to figure out why anyone would be trying to ignore the Rafe Cameron. Like he is some sort of celebrity and you should be lucky he’s giving you the time of day. 

“I’m sor-”

“I’m not interested.”

You don’t let him get the words out. You know exactly where he is going with this, hands clenching at his sides as he sways on his feet. He has the face of a guilty man, teeth nervously pulling at the inside of his cheek even as you refuse to let him rush out his apology. 

You’re past the point of apologies and you know that he knows that. He wants to fix this. That much is evident. He’s never not been able to fix something with his words or a flash of a smile. 

This isn’t a situation he has ever been in before, but it is also one you trusted he would never put you in. So, at least the two of you have figured out how to suffer together one last time. 

“Not in you. Not in your bullshit. None of it,” You continue, stepping closer and letting your hand point right at his chest. Your voice wavers for just a second. Just a split second, but it has his shoulders dropping like he is bracing for impact. “Take a hint and stay the fuck away from me, Cameron.”

It lands like a slap, his head flying back as if you had physically struck him. No matter how stupid he has been, no matter how badly he has fucked his life up before, you have never spoken to him the way you are speaking to him now. You’re not sure if you’ve ever spoken to anyone in the tone you are using for him right now. 

Your name falls from his lips in a breath, a last ditch effort to try to get you to reach out for him. To let him try to talk his way out of this. To give him any sort of hint that there is still something here worth saving. 

You forgave JJ for crashing your car in the 11th grade, waving his apology off the second you saw his broken arm and laughing that you hadn’t liked the way it had driven anyways. When Kie had accidentally lost your dog while you were out for the weekend, you swore that you hadn’t even thought for a second about breaking up your friendship. 

You gave grace to the people around you. There was nothing that they had ever done that was so horrible you couldn’t immediately forgive them for. 

Somehow, this was different and it shouldn’t be. The two of you weren’t anything for you to be feeling like this. 

Except you were. You were something before all of this, even if you two hadn’t completely figured it out before it all blew up in your faces. 

Well, just your face. He somehow managed to escape the blast.

This was different from some stupid car.

This was Rafe, standing in front of you with all of the apologies in the world being offered on his tongue and you couldn’t bring yourself to accept them. 

Your friends have never been terrible to you. They might have made mistakes, but they always made up for them. Kie had torn up the whole island searching for Sprinkles before she finally returned her to you at 3am, your childhood best friend covered in swamp water and your childhood dog just happily wagging her tail at you. 

You’d kill for them. You’re not sure there is anything under the sun you wouldn’t do for them, so when mistakes happened, it was easy to forgive them for it. The worst things they had ever done never outweighed your love for them because they weren’t done to hurt you. 

This?

He was the one person who you had been warned time and time again would hurt you, but you had never believed anyone. Not after you got to know him. You trusted him completely, no matter how many warnings you had been given because he had never done anything to show you that he was capable of hurting you. 

He was the only person you allowed to be in a space to hurt you like this. You never thought that he could ever do something that you wouldn’t be able to forgive him for. 

If he was just your friend, you wouldn’t have the same problem. If this was JJ, you wouldn’t hesitate in being there for him. If Pope came to you with this situation, you would probably yell at him for a few seconds, but you would help him fix it. 

But you two had blurred the lines of friendship a long time ago, and you knew that he knew that. He had audibly confirmed that the two of you were way past friendship. 

That’s why he is standing in front of you, looking like a kicked puppy and trying any way he can to get you to talk to him. To try to understand how he of all people could be the person who hurt you most. 

Maybe the two of you had never really been friends. 

Friends don’t begrudgingly agree to plans once they find out the other one is going when their ‘brother’ since kindergarten has been RSVP’d for months. They don’t make sure that your favorite drink is in a cooler at a party that they aren’t even throwing. They don’t retake a calculus class just because the other needed to get a better grade to keep their football scholarship and they didn’t want to look like an idiot alone. 

Friends don’t hold pinkies at movie night. They don’t get jealous if someone asks for your number. They don’t kiss you and then turn around and flaunt another girl all over the news.

Maybe you had been friends once. Maybe when you were kids and he stole the last Power Rangers band-aid even though you were the only one with a scraped knee. But the two of you had left friends in the rearview a long time ago. 

And now? There’s no way the two of you could ever be friends again. 

The moment the thought crosses your face, cascading over your emotions and pushing back the tears that have formed in your eyes, you see it click in his. The thought that you are serious, that you aren’t going to let him try to fix this. That the two of you are so over, you never even got a chance to start.

Panic.

“I told you I love you.” He throws the words out in a lower voice than he was speaking before, allowing them to land tightly in your chest before you have a chance to brace yourself. “I wasn’t lying. Please, just-”

You bite down on the inside of your lip harshly, fighting back the frustration twisting in your gut at the tears burning in your eyes. Rafe Cameron is not going to make you cry in the middle of the most public sidewalk on campus, feeding right into the middle of everything. You won’t be that girl.

“Was that before or after you proposed to someone else?”

Your voice forces the words out, tilting your head as if you are annoyed and waiting for an answer, but you know he knows you aren’t going to wait around for one. Your eyes flicker over his face for the last time, watching as he opens his mouth to plead his case but the words die in his throat.

“Goodbye, Rafe.”

[torimcc]

Screaming crying throwing up this is so good already

[quicksilver21]

Masterlist

I do not have an AO3

MDNI, 18+

Dude, don’t steal and all that

I don’t have a tag list right now, but I love you guys 😘

Series:

A Year, Anyways (in progress)

Series summary: Robby left for his sabbatical without a thought and you’re left to pick up the pieces. But now he’s back at PTMC and trying desperately to reconnect. Robby learns the truth of how long a year really is.

Chapter 1

Chapter 2 (coming soon)

[torimcc]

YESSSSSSSSSSS

[sheisjoeschateau]

Oh, So We Do Love Steve.

🖤 An Ongoing Series, from Misha’s Masterlist Library. ☾⋆ OSWDLS Full Series Masterlist here.

VOLUME II • Chapters 38 -> 39 -> 40 -> 41 -> 42

Steve Harrington x Bauman!fem!reader enemies to lovers, heavy angst, hurt/comfort, upside down mayhem, S2-S4, post S4 into S5 universe hot-take, end-of-the-world / dystopian setting turned happy ending (no more upside down!), ugly fights turned smut (...but with hella plot). 18+

🎂 CHAPTERS BLURB: Steve's 22nd birthday has already made his biggest wish come true: the whole party is here to stay at Casa Harrington.

The pool house is fully built, now becoming yours & Steve's sole sanctuary... just behind the main house, where everyone else will hold permanent residency. You've poured your best work and fiercest passion into every single board, tall window, paint swatch and piece of furniture inside of this place so that he'll not only feel right at home... but so that the two of you can begin truly building the start of forever together.

🖤 AUTHOR'S NOTE: Guess what?? More V2 is back ;) Still uploading to V3, so enjoy both in real time. We're almost out of summer and into the autumn chapters, that way we can finally get into Christmastime.

This is the hill I die on. This pairing? My OTP. They'll never not be my favorite, no matter how many other fics that I write. Steve & Babe Bauman Supremacy 5ever.

Xx, misha

OVERALL WARNINGS: big t.w.'s - severe traumatic diagnosis for the main character, heavy topics, language, sensitive mental health matters. mega comfort to balance the mega hurt/comfort trope. 🖤

Chapter Thirty-Eight Stay a While (or, forever)

JULY 16, 1991

“But if you do mix vodka, triple sec, blue curaçao, and whiskey,” Jonathan was saying, already half-laughing as he twisted a lemon peel over a drink. “Technically, it’s still a cocktail. It’s just… existentially upsetting.”

Murray blinked, then raised an eyebrow. “What you’ve created is shit. That’s not a cocktail. That’s a chemical incident. Do it near my cake and I will evict you.”

Jonathan grinned and held up the glass like a victory torch. “I call it the Blue Sobriety Test.”

“More like Blue Regret,” Robin muttered from the couch, where she was perched upside down, legs hooked over the backrest, sipping something clear with a mint garnish.

It was just after 10 A.M., but the sunlight pouring in through the high, clean glass of the pool house made everything feel like magic hour. 

The pale, freshly painted walls gleamed. It smelled like citrus and cake and the tiniest hint of chlorine from the nearby pool. The vibe? Ethereal. Dreamy. Sundrenched and strangely refined, like a place that shouldn’t exist in Hawkins, Indiana. The entire pool house looked like it’d tumbled out of a magazine but still had soft, cushy throw blankets and well-loved mugs scattered across the new counters.

You’d done the design from scratch… your very first. 

And while it carried your mark in the way that all the walls were textured, the colors chosen, the warmth tucked into every corner, it was also so deeply, unmistakably Steve.

Soft neutrals. Natural light. A mixture of both elegance and comfort. A deep navy couch Steve had once pointed to in a catalog. Honey-toned hardwood. A clawfoot tub in the master bath. An absurd, rainforest-style shower in the guest suite that Murray had taken one look at, smirked, then whispered, “There’s no way this wasn’t meant for orgies.” He was ignored, but the way it could fit up to six people made it fact.

And Steve? Steve was radiant.

Still quiet. Still mostly nonverbal. But not a ghost. Not even close to a ghost. He sat at the long dining table now, beneath a string of delicate paper lanterns, barefoot in soft sweatpants, the sleeves of his cream-colored shirt pushed up. Thin but sunkissed and warmed. Relaxed. Present. His big eyes flicked from one person to the next, and every time that someone met his gaze, his lips curled faintly. His shoulders never once rose defensively.

Not today.

Catatonia had taken the day off.

Because this was his day.

And sure, it came with some setbacks. But none of them weren't already divided and conquered by him in these millions of ways, big or small, that he's made an effort to execute during his healing journey alongside all of you and Dr. Owens.

In the center of the kitchen island sat his birthday cake. Three tiers, perfectly smooth and pastel oyster blue, like a faded summer sky. Creamy and soft, barely tinted, iced by you to literal perfection. 

The writing on the top, Happy Birthday, Steve, had been piped in the palest yellow cursive by Will, who now stood nervously beside it, glancing at it every few seconds like it might melt if he blinked.

“You did amazing, Will,” you told him as you came up behind Steve to press a hand gently to his shoulder.

Will blushed. “You made the base look like it’s from Martha Stewart’s secret wedding.”

“That’s the point,” Murray said, appearing at the counter with a wide grin and a martini shaker. “It’s called elegant heritage. We’re classy now.”

“Even though we are both not related to Julia Child,” you sputtered with a laugh that you couldn’t even try to hold back. “No matter how much you wanna believe we are!”

“We are,” your uncle argued, voice reaching an all-new octave as you rolled your eyes because this had been a constant battle for the last 21 years of your life.

He held up a coupe glass filled with something golden and slightly fizzy. “I call it the Harrington Honeydrop. Vodka, St. Germain, lemon juice, a hint of honey, and a dash of edible glitter because fairies do exist.”

Robin reached out without looking. “I’ll take five.”

“Already halfway to three,” Argyle called from the couch, where he was helping Max build a tower of red plastic cups just for the hell of it.

Dustin burst in from the back patio, yelling, “Hey, hey! Who drank my soda mixer?! That was mine, it was under my coat like I marked it with my scent!”

“Your scent?” Mike coughed, nearly choking on his drink. “Jesus Christ.”

Nancy, cool and collected, held up her glass. “I didn’t use it, but I’m almost impressed you thought that would stop anyone.”

Steve laughed. A little breathless puff that cracked from his throat and made you turn to him, smiling as you saw the tiny, amazed look he gave himself.

You leaned in. “That’s the best sound I’ve ever heard.”

He didn’t answer. Just took your hand and brought it to his lips. Closed his eyes. Held it there.

And the whole time, presents were piling up. The dining table was now more wrapping paper than surface. Argyle had clearly gone with the biggest box just to be annoying. Eddie’s gift was in a velvet bag labeled FROM SATAN. Robin had wrapped hers in giant newspaper comics and scribbled messages between each strip. Jonathan’s box was completely duct-taped shut. You’d made yours look deceptively small and unassuming, tucked in plain white paper with a blue ribbon.

The color that Steve had told you, once-upon-a-time-ago, was: “a really pretty color, whenever it wasn’t upside down sky blue, more like lovers lake blue.”

The gifts kept coming because no one here was broke anymore.

Each of you, Steve especially, had been paid generously and quietly by the US government… like a sly thank you whispered through legalese. Owens had seen to it. Every diagnosis, every page of trauma documented and signed, had helped make it possible. 

And then there was the old inheritance, the one Steve’s father tried to hide but couldn’t. That part, Steve still didn’t talk about. But it changed everything.

Steve caught you looking at the pile of gifts. He tilted his head, raising an eyebrow.

“Later,” you whispered. “Cake first. Wishes come before unwrapping.”

A small, dimpled smile graced his features. It was almost a smirk.

In the living room, Lucas was poking around the newly installed sound system. “This is crazy. I’m serious. Dustin, can you believe you’d originally pitched a toolshed?”

“Shut up,” Dustin said, beaming. “This is better than any house I’ve ever seen.”

Mike snorted. “Dustin, your house is literally nice—”

“Well I’m staying, okay?” Dustin cut in quickly, spinning to Steve. “Look, I’m glad my mom got offered a teaching job in Nevada, but—” His voice cracked. “I just really wanna stay. And yes, before you ask? Yes, Claudia knows and yes, she is absolutely good with it. So yeah. Surprise, you're stuck with me. Forever. Cool?”

Steve was blinking rapidly as he nodded, lip wobbling.

“Dude.” Lucas elbowed him. “You’re gonna make him cry again, STAHP.”

“He should cry,” Max said, flopping on the couch with a smirk. “Because I’m not going back to my mom’s either. Not with her new boyfriend there. I’m here. This is my home now.”

“Welp,” Mike added, nudging Lucas. “Like I said. We’ll be here Monday through Friday. Go home on the weekends. The basement’s ours.”

Dustin looked at Steve, shy again. “You, uh… think I could take your bedroom?”

Steve lit up. He nodded harder now and held out a hand to high-five him.

Dustin nearly tripped over his own feet racing to it. “Best birthday ever!”

“Munson already turned the damn loft into his very own personal bachelor pad,” Robin grinned.

Eddie stood tall, arms wide. “Obviously. And I don’t care if I get married one day. She’ll live with us both. That’s just the deal.”

Jonathan raised his Harrington Honeydrop. “I feel like we should all just declare it officially. In front of this cake and God and the glitter booze.”

“Here, here,” Argyle said, already laying on the floor with a throw pillow under his head. “I live in that tiny room now. Commute’s a bitch. Don’t care. Staying.”

Nancy touched Steve’s shoulder softly. “Same.”

Robin lifted her glass. “Nowhere else I’d rather be.”

Will stepped up and nodded quietly. “Safest place in the whole wide world.”

“We all stay,” Eleven stated, standing beside Max as she squeezed her hand.

Hopper smirked darkly. “Can you imagine Rick and Tricia’s faces if they knew just how occupied their old home is now?”

Joyce puffed out her lips. “Well, they built it big enough for it and chose to make it feel deserted.” She grinned at Steve. “But now? Me and Jim. El and Will… We’ll be old and gray and up in the clouds, that’s the only other home that we’re gonna have.”

Steve’s mouth opened, but no words came. 

He just nodded fiercely with a wobbly smile.

Owens now leaned against the counter, sipping one of Murray’s honeydrops. “I’ll build another guest house if I have to. Say the word, Harrington.”

That made Steve sputter a laugh, and nod his head more. “The…word. The word. Word.”

Owens winked with a fat grin as Murray whooped with a straight face behind the bar.  You pressed into your uncle's side, shaking, freshly crying, but smiling through every single tear.

Murray kissed the top of your head. “He’s good, kiddo.”

Then, after a while, when everyone had settled and the drinks had been topped off again, you dimmed the lights.

Then you brought the cake to the center of the room.

Robin lit each of the 22 candles with a matchstick in absolute reverence. No one joked. No one laughed.

Everyone gathered around as Steve sat down, and you stood behind him with your hands resting on both of his shoulders, steady and sure. And relieved to feel how he wasn’t rigid.

Dustin cleared his throat. “Okay, this time? Let’s all sing like normal people.”

“Laaaame,” Eddie monotoned.

Mike snorted, along with Max.

Then, in harmony, off-key but beautiful?

Happy birthday to you…

Steve stared at the flames. All 22 of them. 

And then just before he blew them out… 

He made a wish.

He didn’t say it.

But he believed it would come true.

Chapter Thirty-Nine The Way Back

July 20, 1991 9:03 AM

Steve’s old bedroom now felt like a shell.

The furniture was still there — the same wide bed with the wooden headboard, the desk with a crack in one leg, the dresser that once held cologne bottles and cufflinks from a life that Steve had long since stopped pretending to want. The air smelled like lemon wood polish and old carpet. Faintly familiar. But the closet was empty now. His clothes, his records, his photos — all gone. Moved out to the pool house where his life had quietly started over.

But for now, he was here.

Seated cross-legged on the edge of his old bed… palms pressed flat to the comforter, eyes fixed on the grooves in the floorboards.

Owens sat across from him, not in a chair, but on the floor too. Legs folded, sleeves rolled, a thick folder untouched at his side.

Eleven was between them. Close enough to touch. Her hand was clasped with Steve’s. Her other rested in her lap, loose and steadied.

She wore a blindfold.

But now she sought answers that she wanted.

That her family wanted.

Soft white noise played gently in the background, but not loud or grating. Just faint, natural static. A recorded hum from a lake or a forest, impossible to tell. Speakers sat on the windowsill. Owens had said something about sensory grounding, about memory mapping and about creating an environment that let the mind wander back to the places it had hidden from.

And Steve…

Steve hadn’t spoken.

Not once. Not since they started. 

Not in nearly forty minutes.

Owens had asked gentle, simple questions at first. Not loaded. Just curious. Just human.

“Do you remember what it smelled like in here when you were a teenager?”

“What kind of dreams did you used to have, in this bed?”

“Do you remember the first time you brought a friend over?”

No answers. Only long, long silences.

But Owens didn’t fill them.

He just sat there with him. Not fidgeting. Not tapping a pen. Not rushing to push forward. 

He let the quiet breathe.

And whenever Steve started to tremble… just barely, just under the skin… El would squeeze his hand. 

Never urgently. 

Always steady.

It kept him anchored.

“You know,” Owens said finally, his voice low, “when I first met you, I was told not to worry. They said you were just the babysitter.”

His smile was slow. Dry. Almost amused.

“I remember thinking, ‘He looks too young to carry the weight of the world.’ But you were already doing it.”

Steve’s eyes flicked toward him. But just barely.

Owens’s expression never wavered. 

“You took beatings that weren’t yours to take. Shielded kids who didn’t belong to you. Fought monsters without backup. You did CPR on someone you loved after they were electrocuted by a fence you couldn’t see coming. You screamed into a gag until your voice broke. You swallowed guilt that wasn’t yours. You survived things that no one should survive.”

Steve’s jaw tightened. His free hand curled against the comforter. But still, he didn’t speak.

“You saved people,” Owens said softly. “But it wasn’t just about saving them, was it?”

A pause.

“You were trying to prove something.”

Steve’s eyes dropped to the floor again. 

He blinked once. Slowly.

And then Owens said, almost delicately: “You used to hate her.”

Steve flinched at that.

The silence that followed wasn’t empty — it was thick. Like the room itself was holding its breath.

Eleven’s hand squeezed his tighter.

Owens didn’t raise his voice. “You hated her. And now you love her. That’s allowed. You’re allowed to change. To hurt. To struggle. You’re allowed to gently let go of old versions of yourself.”

Still, nothing. Not a word.

But Steve was breathing harder now.

Eyes glassy. Shoulders tense.

“You were beaten by soldiers,” Owens continued. “By Billy. By Jonathan, once.”

Steve looked up at that. Just barely.

Owens didn’t flinch. “Yes, Jonathan. That one time in the alleyway. Back in ’83. You remember it. You bled on the pavement while Nancy cried. You guys all kept that under wraps, but it happened. And you forgave him.”

Another pause.

“You’ve forgiven a lot of people, Steve. But you haven’t forgiven yourself.”

Steve’s throat worked. Still no words. But the tremble in his hand was growing.

Owens’s tone shifted — not sharp, but focused.

“You can’t stay here, son.”

Steve blinked. Confused.

“Not here, I mean. Not in this… in-between.” Owens now gestured to his own temple. “Your body’s back. But your mind… your mind is still stuck inside the battlefield. Inside the static. Inside that moment the Upside Down finally… collapsed. You never left the smoke. You never stopped screaming. You’re still in the void.”

At that, El inhaled sharply. Her fingers tightened around Steve’s again. Owens looked at her, just briefly.

“He knows,” she said. Still blindfolded, still calm. “But he doesn’t know how to leave.”

Owens’s voice was quieter now. “Can you see it, El?”

She nodded. Slowly. “It’s dark. It’s like… pieces. He’s not whole yet.”

Silence.

Steve’s lips parted. And then—

“I—I…” he whispered. Then he stopped. His breath hitched.

Owens didn’t move. Didn’t even blink.

“Go ahead,” he said softly. “Take your time.”

Steve licked his lips. Tried again.

“I… I-I d… I d-don’t kn… know… how t-to—”

He broke off. Shaking.

But Owens leaned forward, voice as gentle as breath. “That’s okay. That’s good, Steve. You’re doing it.”

Steve closed his eyes. His shoulders shook. “I-I'm… s-stuck…”

“I know.”

“S-s-sorry,” Steve stammered.

“No,” Owens said firmly. “There’s nothing to be sorry for.”

Steve looked up. Eyes rimmed red. “I… I want to… c-come back…”

Eleven pulled off her blindfold. Her eyes were full of tears. She looked straight at Owens, and something passed between them. Something wordless. A deep, buried panic.

Owens nodded once.

“This goes deeper than trauma,” he said to her quietly. “This is… fragmentation.”

Eleven didn’t look away. “He’s fractured.”

“He can be put back together,” Owens said. “But only if he wants to be.”

Steve was staring at both of them now. His breathing still hitched. But he was here. His eyes were clearer than they had been in days and real effort was right there.

“You can do this,” Owens said, turning back to him. “But you’re going to have to want to.”

“I d-don’t…” Steve whispered, “k-know how…”

“We’ll help,” Eleven said gently.

Steve’s eyes met hers.

“I’ll stay right here,” she promised. “Even when it’s scary.”

Steve looked down again. His hand gripped hers tighter.

Owens didn’t speak for a long time after that.

He just let Steve breathe.

Let the static play.

Let the first real shift happen.

Not flashy. Not loud. Not a miracle.

But the tiniest, quietest crack of sunlight through a door that had been locked for a long, long time.

And for the first time in months…

Steve reached for the knob.

July 20, 1991 // 5:43 PM The Henderson's House

Dustin’s bedroom looked like it had been ransacked by a tornado of memories.

Cardboard boxes were now stacked across the bed in messy towers, half-taped and overflowing with old comic books, D&D minis, tangled cables, mismatched socks, and T-shirts that hadn’t fit him since the seventh grade. The closet doors were wide open, revealing a whirlwind of jackets and shoes, and the floor was half-covered in childhood — board games, old report cards, a sketchpad with DO NOT LOOK, MOM scrawled across the front in red sharpie.

Steve sat cross-legged near the foot of the bed, folding clothes into a box with slowed, careful movements. His hands weren’t quite steady. There was a soft delay in everything he did — as though time moved differently around him today. Catatonia was curling at the edges of his body, invisible but heavy, and the mutism was back in full. But he was here. Present.

And smiling.

Even when it hurt.

“You don’t have to keep folding my shirts, man,” Dustin said, watching him from the closet doorway. “They’re just gonna get wrinkled anyway. You know I’m a disaster.”

Steve didn’t respond, but his mouth twitched up just a little more.

“You’re kind of a masochist for doing this with me, y’know,” Dustin added, pulling a shoebox down from the top shelf. “Like—this is actually the most annoying I’ve ever been, and I say that fully aware of my track record.”

Still no words. But Steve’s shoulders shook slightly in a silent laugh as he stacked another shirt into the box.

From the hallway, Claudia Henderson’s voice drifted in. “Dustin, sweetie, do you want me to label the boxes with the different room names? Like... bedroom, bathroom, total garbage—?”

“Mom,” Dustin groaned. “No offense, but your handwriting looks like a baby squirrel ran through an ink puddle.”

“That’s a yes to labels, then,” she called back, and Steve gave a slow blink and a gentle, grateful sigh as he heard her footsteps move through the house.

The house smelled like cinnamon and clean laundry. There were cookies cooling in the kitchen, and the window AC hummed gently against the summer heat. Claudia’s voice moved closer as she walked in with a Sharpie tucked behind her ear and a roll of tape in her hands.

She smiled the second she saw Steve.

“Oh, sweetheart,” she beamed, soft and warm, “you didn’t have to come help today.”

Steve glanced up at her, eyes full and shining, and then nodded once.

“But I’m so glad you did,” she said, gently placing the tape on the bed. She walked over and pressed a hand to his shoulder, then leaned in and hugged him — slow and firm and safe.

Steve melted into it. Head bowed. Body slow. He didn’t cry, but his eyes closed like he was absorbing sunlight.

“You are such a good boy,” Claudia whispered fiercely into his hair. “You are a blessing, Steve Harrington. Don’t let anyone tell you different.”

He nodded into her shoulder. Still not speaking. But it didn’t matter.

Claudia smiled against his hair. “I know.”

Dustin was pretending not to look, but when Steve finally sat back again and resumed folding, he muttered, “Okay, if you’re gonna get all teary, at least pretend you’re doing it because I’m amazing.”

Steve blinked at him, crooked-smiled, and rolled a sock into a perfect ball with a kind of reverence that made Dustin huff.

“Dude, that sock had a hole in it when I was ten. You don’t gotta treat it like a museum piece.”

From outside the bedroom, the sound of your drill whirring echoed from the bathroom — sharp and cheerful, the way it always did when you were fixing something that no one else knew how to fix. You’d volunteered to patch up the sink tile while the guys packed, and it somehow made the whole afternoon feel less like a goodbye and more like a beginning.

Still, the truth hung in the room like a quiet weight.

Mrs. Henderson was moving to Nevada. A new teaching job. A new life. A new place far away from all of this — far from the grief, the worry, the past year of hell that had somehow ended in survival.

And Dustin… was staying.

He’d made that decision himself, with both quiet determination and zero hesitation. Sophomore year started in three weeks. He wasn’t leaving Steve. Or the gang. Or you. Or this town that's become his heartbeat. Claudia had been offered a fully furnished apartment by the district, with no extra space — and that was just fine.

Because Dustin wasn’t a little kid anymore.

“Honestly,” Dustin said, tossing a half-full box toward the door, “I think I’m more nervous about stealing your old room than anything else.”

Steve looked at him, brow raised.

“I mean, it’s got your stuff. Your memories. Your, like… vibe.” Dustin made vague hand motions. “I don’t wanna mess with that. I’ll probably keep your swim trophies up and stuff. And maybe like, build a new bookshelf, make it a little nerdier, but not too nerdy, y’know?”

Steve smiled. Broader now. He nodded at Dustin. Then pointed at the chest of drawers. Approval.

“You sure?” Dustin asked.

Steve nodded, firm this time.

Dustin’s smile cracked wide open. “Hell yeah. Roommates, baby.”

He reached out and slapped Steve’s hand. Steve’s return was delayed — slow and a little trembly — but solid.

By the time everything was loaded into the back of your truck, you were wiping grout from your palms with a wet rag, grinning as Dustin tried to wedge the final box of his video games in sideways without snapping the lid.

“Oh my god,” you laughed. “That one’s just labeled ‘lol dark web.’ What even is in there, Henderson?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Dustin said solemnly. “You don’t need that kind of liability.”

You snorted and leaned in to kiss Steve’s cheek, murmuring “there's my man,” but then you paused. Because Claudia had just stepped out onto the porch...

And she was holding a manila envelope.

“Bauman,” she chirped gently, approaching you first. “Do you have a minute?”

“Of course,” you drawled, wiping your hands again. “What’s up, Mrs. H?”

Claudia glanced at Steve, who was watching her with a soft, confused expression. Then she handed the envelope to you. “There’s something I want him to have. Something I think he deserves.”

You looked inside.

Read the words.

Your mouth dropped slightly.

“Claudia…” you whispered.

“It's shared guardianship,” she cut in sweetly, quietly beaming. “That way, it's official. No worries about my trying to yank my son back from you all. Like some, like...” Her eyes light up as she gestures theatrically, giggling. “Crazy mama bear!”

Your eyes were round, glossed over.

Steve's were now better as he stared at Claudia with awestruck disbelief.

“Mrs. Henderson, we'd...”

You trailed off, shaking your head, swallowing thickly. You looked at Steve, who just kept staring at Claudia like she'd handed him over something impossible for him to dare wish for... let alone request.

The woman just looked between you both with the brightest smile, eyes crinkled while Dustin hoisted box after box into the car while grunting and whistling to himself.

“As long as it's alright with you, Stevie,” Claudia added quickly.

You shook your head, willing yourself to speak up on Steve's behalf. “Mrs. Henderson, he's... we are both more than fine with it!... but...”

Steve looked at you with the most tragically soft, vulnerable expression. He didn't know what to say. As usual. But he understood what was happening, loud and fucking clear, and he wanted to make sure that you got that. Wanted to make sure you asked Claudia the question on his mind.

So you did.

“Are you sure?” you asked her shakily, voice raw.

“I’ve never been more sure of anything,” she winked. “This boy loves my son like he’s his own. And Dustin needs that. Needs him. And I trust you both.”

You blinked once. Then twice. And by the third time, tears betrayed you. Falling one at a time before you could stop them, gnawing at your bottom lip while nodding jerkily at her. Words failed you now, too.

Claudia stepped closer to Steve, her arms already out.

He stood still — staring at her.

And then she wrapped her arms around him again — warm and tight and complete — and whispered into his ear, “You’ve got him now, baby. You’ve got each other.”

Steve’s chest hitched.

She pulled back and handed him a pen. “Just sign. I’ve already signed. It’s real.”

His hand trembled as he took it. And then he bent down over the side of the truck bed, leaned the paper against a box, and signed his name with shaking fingers.

When he straightened back up, his eyes were wet.

No sobbing. No collapse.

Just quiet, full, honest tears.

Claudia just giggled like crazy, tears of her own falling as the two of them embraced tightly again before she suddenly remembered her pie in the oven and took off running for the front door with a startle.

You sniffed miserably as you watched, mentally cursing yourself as you swiped your wrist across your nose. Fucking hell, why was everything emotional to you now????

Dustin closed the trunk with a whoop, turning around. “My lease signed yet or what?!”

You slipped an arm around Steve's waist and smiled up at him, eyes crinkling, nose scrunching fondly.

“Room’s yours now, Henderson,” you called over your shoulder.

“I’m gonna hang a motherfuckin’ lava lamp,” Dustin declared.

“Language,” you shot back.

But Steve was just smiling brightly now, tears on his cheeks, as he leaned into you and held the paperwork to his chest while walking towards the porch to make your way inside for a slice of freshly baked cinnamon apple pie before departure.

And for the first time in a long time…

Steve Harrington felt like someone who knew he had a future.

A future that wasn’t lonely.

[torimcc]

Crying like a baby 😭🫶

[sheisjoeschateau]

Oh, So We Do Love Steve.

🖤 An Ongoing Fanfic Series, from Misha’s Masterlist Library. ☾⋆ OSWDLS Full Series Masterlist here.

VOLUME III • Chapters 74 -> 75

Steve Harrington x Bauman!fem!reader enemies to lovers, heavy angst, hurt/comfort, upside down mayhem, S2-S4, post S4 into S5 universe hot-take, end-of-the-world / dystopian setting turned happy ending (no more upside down!), ugly fights turned smut (...but with hella plot). 18+

🎧 Fic Song Inspo: "Infinite Baths" by Sleep Token (s/o to @silkholland for this)

🖤 CHAPTERS SUMMARY: The last fright sent you all into a full-blown 24-hour tank lockdown. And if you're being honest? All of you still aren't over it. Not even close.

The entire party is still all clustered together safely inside of Dingus-1 (one of two affectionately named military tanks, stationed here at this off-grid safe haven that's become all of your home for the last few weeks). Thankfully, all of you don't hear any more helicopters or flying drones or distant gunshots coming from overhead.

But what you all do hear, and briefly come in contact with... just might be a far greater threat.

Or maybe it's a far greater threat to the US government than all of you.

Maybe it's both.

🖤 AUTHOR’S NOTE: SO YEAH HI, this took a hot minute. I legit had to go back and proofread everything, plus make sure everything was accurate (pleeease forgive me if I made any date/timeline discrepancies.... this is my most in-depth ST fanfic ever lmfao so it's bound to happen). But we're approaching the very heavy climax of everything. Still got a ways to go before were all caught up and hop over permanently to V2, during the aftermath... but it's all seriously some of my favorite storytelling ever, because I truly did theorize big time on S5+ while making it Steve & Bauman centric.

We’re in the thick of my S5 hot take with this story. Steve & Babe Bauman are eternally my Roman Empire. Their story is my longest one, and even when we reach their “happy ever after…” it still keeps going.

Enjoy the mayhem. It only gets crazier from here.

Xx, misha

OVERALL WARNINGS: (t.w.'s in advance that applies throughout the series) end-of-the-world upside down themed mayhem, graphic descriptions of v**lence, graphic descriptions of s*x, arguing, strong language, heavy topics, sensitive mental health matters. mega comfort to balance the mega hurt/comfort trope. 🖤

Chapter Seventy-Four Meditation and a Piss Parade

Last Week of March • 1987 DAY [?] | Inside Dingus-1 | 10:04 AM

The forest was too quiet again.

No wind. No creaking branches. No shifting snow. Not even the soft crunch of a distant squirrel or a flinch of wingbeat in the trees. Just white silence stretched tight across the wilderness like plastic wrap, eerily unnatural and suffocating in its stillness.

And inside Dingus-1, the air was thick with the exact opposite.

Muted laughter. Light whispers. The occasional curse smothered into someone’s shoulder. Kids talking over each other. Someone cracking their knuckles. Someone else burping apologetically. The dull rustle of fleece and military blankets being repositioned. A cough. A snort. A wheeze. A half-laugh.

It was all hushed chaos, like a church basement game night during a blackout.

“Okay, but if the werewolf has moral hesitation about killing,” Dustin said, voice low but absolutely not quiet… “then technically, that makes it more interesting. ‘Cause now you’ve got a monster with a conscience. That’s character development.”

Lucas blinked at him. “You literally just argued last week that Jason Voorhees had a conscience.”

“Yeah,” Mike added, “because his mom was dead and he was sad about it. But that doesn’t mean he’s got, like… a moral code.”

“You guys are outta your damn minds,” Max muttered from where she was curled against Lucas’s side, one socked foot resting across his shin. She was snacking absently on something from a Ziploc, maybe a granola bar or some kind of sad, unwrapped MRE cookie. “None of them have a conscience. They’re horror movie villains.”

“Okay, but if they did,” Will chimed in from the floor beside Jonathan, “that would be a whole different genre. More like… existential horror. Or, like, sad monster tragedy.”

“My point,” Dustin pointed triumphantly.

“You’re both high,” Lucas muttered.

“On edible grass and anxiety,” Max deadpanned, tearing another bite off her ration bar.

At that, Steve (who was half-dozing upright with one arm looped securely around your waist) blinked, glanced over, and gently cleared his throat, finally coming down from flu symptoms.

Max froze like she’d been caught cheating on a test. She immediately looked at him with wide eyes, her ration bar halfway to her mouth.

Steve raised his eyebrows. “You good?”

“I—uh…” Max shrank back slightly. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to—like…mess with the rations or anything.”

He gave her a sad look that was so classically Steve Harrington, it bordered on tender exasperation.

“Kid,” he said softly, “if you’re hungry, eat.”

“But—”

“You almost left us for good. You want a snack? You eat the whole snack in peace.”

Max blinked at him. Then, slowly, she smiled and nodded. “Thanks, Harrington.”

“Anytime, Mayfield,” he murmured, squeezing your side unconsciously.

You were seated between him and Eddie, both of whom had taken turns staying up all night again, half-listening, half-focusing on the beat of your own heart. You didn’t even realize that your fingers were still curled around the portable monitor strapped to your chest until Steve’s hand ghosted over yours to check the reading again.

“Still steady,” he said under his breath.

You nodded. “Feels okay.”

“Okay-ish,” he corrected, eyeing you like he might laser-beam the arrhythmia into submission.

Across from you, Robin stretched her legs out until they hit Jonathan’s hip, then leaned over with a mischievous grin. “Do you think Murray’s dead?”

“Honestly,” you whispered back, “I think he became the tank.”

Robin snorted.

You glanced up front where, sure enough, Murray hadn’t moved in hours. He’s still slouched forward with the same comically oversized headphones on, listening to Dustin’s makeshift shortwave radio looped in a beat-up Walkman. Eyes glazed. Neck stiff. Hands limp. He was a permanent fixture now.

“Maybe we should poke him,” Robin offered.

“I think we should bury him,” you said solemnly.

Dustin, who'd overheard, tried so hard not to laugh that his face turned red.

Up front, Hopper turned around with a long-suffering look. “Do I need to separate you two?”

Steve, grinning, shook his head. “Please don’t. They get worse when you split them up.”

Robin raised her hand proudly. “Confirmed.”

Up by Hopper, Dimitri now muttered something under his breath in Russian. Hopper chuckled darkly.

Meanwhile, Eddie was still curled into an exhausted pile of limbs and curls against your opposite side. He groaned softly into the crook of his elbow.

“Whose bright idea was it to not sleep for three days straight?” he mumbled groggily.

“Yours,” you and Steve said in unison.

Eddie lifted a limp hand between you both. “Join hands with me, you degenerates. I am the goddamn meat filling in this sandwich of mutual codependence.”

You rolled your eyes and obliged, resting your hand in his while Steve did the same with an annoyed (albeit fond) sigh.

“Can’t believe this is what stabilizes my heart rhythm,” you muttered.

“Same,” Steve said.

“I’m honored,” Eddie mumbled.

“That’s sweet,” Robin wryly added. “Gross. But sweet.”

At that exact moment, Argyle — from tucked against the opposite wall with his arms behind his head — groaned dramatically. “Duuuuude.”

Everyone paused.

“Knew I should’ve brought my knitting stuff,” he lamented. “Could be makin’ a whole stress scarf right now. Like… catharsis in textile form.”

You gasped audibly. “That would be incredible.”

Eddie sat up just enough to peer at you blearily. “You’ve seriously gone pro with knitting now.”

“I stress knit,” you clarified. “With unorthodox flourish.”

Steve looked between you two like this was the beginning of the end. “Oh God,” he mumbled.

Eddie stared. Then grinned, delirious. “This is amazing. I want a friendship scarf.”

“You’re gonna get a friendship noose if you keep acting like this,” Steve muttered.

Eddie clutched his chest. “Jesus, Harrington.”

Robin reached into one of the ration bags and pulled out a crumbled protein bar. “You’re both cracked out.”

Max pointed. “Pot. Kettle.”

As the groggy laughter died down, you cast a glance up front again. Murray still hadn’t moved. Still locked in that same wide-eyed state of half-conscious vigilance.

You sighed. Then stood carefully, disentangling from Steve and Eddie before you padded your way up front and crouched beside him.

Murray didn’t even blink.

Gently, you tapped his shoulder. “Hey, Uncle M?”

His eyes finally slid toward you like rusted gears turning.

“You’ve been on radio duty for nearly twelve hours,” you said gently. “Let me take over.”

Murray blinked. Then slowly removed the headphones, unhooked the makeshift wiring, and wordlessly handed you the gear.

You accepted it without hesitation. He took your hands briefly, gave them a quick squeeze… then, like a man clocking out of a week-long shift, faceplanted into the dash with an audible thud.

“Jesus Christ,” Hopper muttered.

Dimitri didn’t even flinch. “He is corpse now.”

You chuckled softly and made your way back to your seat, carefully fitting the headphones over your own ears and settling the Walkman in your lap. And you could still hear the muffled, soft voices of your friends. All of them were now engaged in some sorta half-meditative, half-chaotic group sprawl.

Jonathan sat cross-legged, eyes shut, trying valiantly to meditate. Argyle was right beside him, lowly whispering encouragement like a very baked life coach.

“You are the cloud, bro. You are the whole sky.”

Max actually looked pretty into it. El was laser-focused. Nancy had one hand resting lightly in Jonathan’s, like a peace offering. Joyce was visibly trying. Dr. Owens was already knee deep in it.

Even Steve had his head tilted back… eyes closed, one hand still clasped loosely in yours. Eddie was horizontal, but had joined the circle in spirit. Robin was upside down, legs draped over a pile of coats. Will looked serene next to Lucas, who seemed to be having a spiritual experience of his own.

And Mike… deeply sighed.

Argyle, soft-voiced, murmured, “As above, so below.”

Everyone exhaled.

“As within… so without.”

A beat of silence.

Another.

Another.

Another.

And another.

And another.

…another another another…

Mike’s brow furrowed, almost reverently. Then he peeked one eye open. “Uhm,” he said quietly, “I hate to break this… but I have to piss.”

Every kid immediately echoed him in a whispered chorus.

“Oh my god, me too.”

“Wait yeah same.”

“I’ve had to pee for like an hour.”

“Wait, why did nobody say anything—??”

“Because it was peaceful,” Will hissed.

Argyle solemnly opened his eyes with a soft exhale. “So much for the inner void.”

You pulled off your headphones with a snort. “Alright. We need a plan.”

Everyone sobered quickly. Because yeah, it was honestly hilarious. But it was also risky as hell.

The forest was clear right now, yeah. 

But the sky was watching. Always watching. 

Drones. Helicopters. Something worse.

“We’ll do bathroom runs in small groups,” Joyce leaned forward. “Quick trips.”

“Winnebago’s just under twenty feet,” Hopper said. “We can make that.”

“Three kids per trip,” Steve suggested. “No more. One adult per group. Someone armed.”

“I’ll go with every group,” El offered.

“No,” Steve and Hopper said at the same time.

But then they paused, looking at each other, exchanging a wordless glance. Both of them nodded.

“Actually,” Hopper corrected, “That’s smart.”

“One adult, and El,” Steve confirmed.

Dimitri shifted. “I go as the adult. Always.”

Nancy nodded. “I’ll hold the line here.”

Dr. Owens made notes. “We’ll rotate. Three every thirty minutes. Keep it quiet. No lights.”

“Good luck to the group that has Dustin,” Max muttered.

“I HEARD THAT.”

“Exhibit A,” she smirked.

The plans went into motion. Outside, the snow remained eerily silent. The wind refused to return.

And inside the tank, a strange kind of peace settled over all of you. Paranoia and exhaustion and laughter and love all tangled up like too many blankets on a winter floor.

None of it made sense.

But somehow, you were still here.

Still breathing.

Still fighting.

Still holding hands.

In the dark.

Outside Dingus-1 • 10:57 AM

The first bathroom group came back in quiet formation, boots crunching lightly in the snow.

You, Will, Mike, Eleven and Dimitri had only been gone ten minutes. A quick and clean mission to the Winnebago and back, but the moment that Hopper opened the tank’s hatch and Steve ushered you all inside like a frantic hen with her chicks returning, it felt like the collective breath in Dingus-1 finally released.

“We made it,” Mike whispered with faux gravitas.

Steve pulled you in first, scanning all his kids, counting heads, then quick once-over-ing of your face, hands, pulse. “You okay??”

“Still breathing,” you whispered.

His exhale practically knocked you over with its relief.

He pressed his hand to your lower back protectively as the rest of the group still clambered inside. Mike was pale and trying not to look proud; Will was still very much in his bathroom-mode nerves, El was calm and steady as ever and Dimitri had entered last, tall and glacial, with a subtle twitch at the corner of his eye that might’ve been relief or just his Slavic version of smiling.

The hatch thunked closed.

A few of you collapsed back down into the blankets and bedrolls and coats like it had been a ten-mile trek, not a twenty-foot walk in daylight.

But no one said otherwise.

Because the forest was still silent.

No wind. No birds. No crunch of animal footfall.

And that meant perfect drone weather.

You all gave it five full minutes before the next group of survivors mobilized.

Dustin, Lucas, Max and Steve were next, while El and Dimitri took the same formation.

Max was on Steve’s back, arms looped loose around his neck, her cheek resting against his shoulder as his locks of chestnut hair tickled her temple. She squinted out towards the clearing with both boredom and dread.

“Can we go already?” she whispered shakily.

Dimitri opened the hatch.

“Alright,” Steve murmured, softly shifting her weight easily against him. “No one says a damn word once we’re out there. Not a peep.”

“I can’t promise that,” Dustin whispered solemnly. “I might see a cool stick.”

Steve just shook his head, his eyeroll nearly causing him a migraine. “Come on.”

They all stepped out into the blinding brightness.

Snow. Trees. Still no wind.

Their group crept quietly across to the Winnebago, with El sweeping each quadrant of the woods with her eyes, hand hovering slightly midair like a soft-tuned antenna. Dimitri trailed behind them all with his gun slung, discreet but ready to rumble.

When they reached the door, El took the lead, cracking it open… then they slipped inside one by one.

Max immediately raised her head from Steve’s shoulder. “Okay, but like, I’m not going first,” she whispered carefully.

Steve blinked. “You sure?”

“I’ve got—pee pressure,” she whispered urgently.

His brows pinched. “You mean peer pressure?”

“No,” Max hissed. “Pee pressure. Like, I can’t go when I know people are waiting.”

Steve blinked again. “That’s… so real.”

Max nodded solemnly. “I’m a private pisser.”

Dustin coughed into his shoulder to stop from laughing. Lucas turned to the wall and grinned into his elbow.

“Can confirm,” Lucas smirked quietly. She’s pee-shy.”

Max blushed as Steve, with the solemnity of a battlefield medic, gently set her down into a chair near the kitchen area.

“You wait here. I’ll guard the pissing zone.”

“Thought you said no talking,” Dustin snarked.

“Henderson? Shut it.”

“You shut it.”

Lucas darted into the bathroom first. The others waited in silence, huddled around the kitchen nook, weapons slung low, breath fogging in the cold air.

Max nibbled at her lower lip, staring at Steve. “You’re gonna make fun of me for the rest of my life, aren’t you.”

“No way,” Steve whispered mock-seriously. “I am in awe of your courage.”

Max tried not to smile and failed spectacularly.

Lucas emerged a minute later, looking relieved and proud.

“You good, Sinclair?” Steve asked, voice hushed.

Lucas gave a thumbs-up, then immediately crouched beside Max like he was her bodyguard now. She rested her foot lightly against his.

“Your turn, Henderson,” Steve said.

“Cool. Uh—sorry in advance, though,” Dustin muttered as he passed them. “Might be a… double feature.”

“Jesus Christ,” Lucas groaned.

Steve made a face. “Get the sequel over with, please.”

“The plot’s thick,” Dustin whispered as he hauled ass into the bathroom. From inside, he could be heard grumbling about the state of things. There was a spritz-spritz-spritz sound. Too much air freshener. Possibly half the can.

Steve tilted his head toward Max. “Still pee pressured?”

“Psh, nah I’m good now.”

“My condolences in advance,” Steve mumbled.

Max sighed as Dustin emerged, and he immediately gave her a hand, helping her stand up along with Lucas.

Steve jutted his chin at her. “Go for it.”

She took the bathroom next, while Steve kept watch with El and Dmitri. It didn’t take more than five or so minutes, but every passing second felt like centuries. 

The sound of something falling made everyone stiffen with fear, all eyes scanning for signs of life outside of the Winnebago.

Steve shuddered. “You good in there, Red?”

“All clear,” Max carefully whispered back.

When the door opened, Steve was already there with a warm, steady grip. Max lifted her arms wordlessly while Steve ducked, scooping her up like it was instinct.

She settled on his back again, her arms looped around his neck, chin pressed to his shoulder.

“Okay,” Steve said, low and steady, “now we just—”

“Dude,” Dustin interrupted in a fierce whisper. “You should pee too.”

Steve blinked at him. “What?”

“You’re gonna explode,” Dustin hissed. “You’ve been babysitting everyone else. Just do it.”

Lucas nodded solemnly. “Seriously, man. You’ve had to go since last night. You’re doing the Mom Thing again.”

Steve hesitated. Jaw clenched. “But—”

“We got her,” Lucas said, already stepping closer, one hand lifting toward Max.

“I give you my blessing,” Max added dryly, arms raising from Steve’s shoulders. “Go piss, king.”

Steve stared at all of them like they’d gone collectively insane. Like this was the worst possible moment for them to start playing sacrificial lambs about his bladder. 

But then Dimitri gave him the tiniest nod, just once, slow, deliberate. It was the kind of nod a soldier gave. A quiet transfer of duty.

So Steve let out a breath through his nose, muttering an, “Alright, fine,” and carefully handed Max off to Lucas. His fingers lingered just a second too long on her arm before he stepped back… still watching everyone as if he might need to turn around mid-stream and throw hands.

With one last glance at them, a look that made his heart stutter hard in his chest, he turned and disappeared into the Winnebago’s bathroom.

El shifted seamlessly into position beside the inner door. Dimitri moved up front, standing guard again, whole body angled, his face carved from stone. The kids settled into a hush so tense it almost vibrated.

Two minutes passed.

Three.

From the tank, you glanced toward the Winnebago in silent, fervent prayer, waiting for your love and flock to make it back in one piece. 

The trees outside didn’t move.

Inside the bathroom, Steve had one hand braced to the wall, the other fumbling with the zipper of his jeans. Head tipped forward. Shoulders tense. Getting it over with.

His big brown eyes flicked to the window…

Nothing.

The mirror was foggy from cold breath. The sink was coated in dust. The air smelled like Lysol and fear.

Okay, he thought to himself, in and out, let’s this over—

Scrape.

He froze, body locking up mid-stream. Eyes wide. Neck going rigid. Chillbumps raised.

That wasn’t wind.

That wasn’t snow.

That was movement.

Unnatural movement.

Lingering…

Searching…

Prowling the prey.

Outside the far wall of the Winnebago, something was dragging itself against the siding. Steve didn’t breathe. Didn’t blink. Didn’t even dare finish zipping up until the last few drops hit the toilet water.

His chest rose.

Fell.

Silence.

Then another scrape. 

Closer.

The air turned thick. Steve’s blood chilled in his veins as he zipped his pants in one quiet, swiftly practiced motion, skipped washing his hands and moved for the door like a man possessed. His boots hit the floor like soft whispers. Muscles coiled.

He opened the bathroom door.

Everyone was already staring at him.

Dustin and Lucas had gone completely still, while El was still braced beside the door… fingers twitching, face taut, her eyes locked on his like they were the only two people in the world. 

Dimitri’s gun was halfway raised, jaw clenched, every single inch of him screaming tension.

Steve didn’t need anyone to say a word.

He knew.

He knew.

He stepped forward. In a single motion, Max was lifted, hoisted up, both arms looping around his neck as if her own instinct had already made the call for her. Her legs bent against his ribs. Her cheek pressed to his shoulder.

He glanced over his shoulder once, spotting the yellow knitted beanie that you’d finished knitting for him just a few days after you’d all made it here to this safe haven…

In that split second of peril, Steve imagined you now.

Back inside the tank, waiting for him.

Praying for him.

Holding your breath, eyes wide, your unsteady heartbeat thudding mercilessly inside your chest, trying to claim you and keep him from having you so long as you both shall live…

The image of you standing there, terrified and burning, rattled his brain as he stared at the knit beanie and let your unassigned nickname fall off his lips in prayer…

“Angel...”

No one else even heard it.

But it lit him up like a fuse.

Dustin and Lucas took their places at his flanks. El shifted closer to the opposite exit, hands glowing faintly now, the air around her crackling.

Outside the Winnebago, something began to circle.

It didn’t stomp. 

It didn’t growl.

It shuffled and sniffed.

It breathed in a way no lungs should.

Wet. Snarled. Viscous. 

Like its body moved on the memory of anatomy.

Dimitri locked eyes with Steve.

Steve looked at El.

El nodded.

Dimitri nodded.

Steve gritted his teeth.

Max clung tighter.

BOOM.

Eleven SLAMMED the door open and flung both arms out, a blast of force so violent it shook the pine needles loose from trees. Soil flew. Branches cracked. Something huge, glistening, warped, was now FLUNG backward into a trunk with a wet crunch.

Steve snatched up the beanie.

And on his mark, the kids bolted.

“GO!” Steve hissed, spinning toward the clearing. Max stayed tight on his back, her face buried in his neck as though she were hiding inside his shell.

Lucas and Dustin hauled ass. Footsteps kicking up all the brittle leaves, breath tight in their throats.

Steve kept Max locked against him with one strong arm, sprinting in perfect rhythm like she wasn’t even there.

El ran backward, both arms raised — eyes narrowed, another blast waiting in her palms.

Dimitri didn’t fire.

No shells, no bullets, no proof, no signs of life, no dead giveaways, no breadcrumbs left behind.

That’s what he kept telling himself while whirling around in a full 360. But his entire body and his eyes tracked the otherworldly creature in full perimeter sweeps, rifle raised, finger hovering over the trigger.

Then Dustin tripped.

He hit the earth with a crunch.

Steve pivoted on instinct, skidded, hauled him up with one hand, eyes darting to Max on his back, making sure she hadn’t slipped. She hadn’t. She just whimpered and clutched his jacket tighter.

“GO, GO, GO,” Lucas hissed from ahead. “MOVE—”

The creature lunged again, some horrific mass of bone and vine and ash and skin — and El BLASTED it sideways again, into the undergrowth.

Everyone’s mouths moved with frantic terror, the shape of this mystery monster ripping manic questions from all the deepest pits of their souls in soundless appall.

What the fuck is that?

What the SHIT?!

Another one?! ANOTHER ONE?!

Fucker’s UGLIER THAN A BITCH—

All of it was soundless, merely words shaped with six sets of petrified, trembling lips, heads whipping in all directions as they made the thirty second stretchers the way.

They were almost there.

The tank was in sight.

The snow burned their lungs.

Twenty feet total.

Fifteen.

Ten.

The hatch slammed open, Hopper’s arm reaching out like God himself calling his children home.

He hauled Dustin first. Then Lucas.

Then Steve, stumbling forward, shoved Max into your open arms, his voice cracking “Take her—”

You caught her. Collapsed backward, your hand already at her pulse. “Are you okay? Are you okay—?”

Max just nodded, dazed, shocky, breath caught halfway down her throat.

Then Steve crashed into your lap too, dragging half the earth’s flooring with him. You yanked him in like gravity, like instinct, like a lover, curling one hand into his jacket and the other into his hair.

Behind him, Dimitri and El dove in last, just as the hatch slammed shut — BOOM — sealing all of you in.

And suddenly you were all inside.

Crammed into the tank.

Breathless.

Sweating.

Alive.

Every adult was wide awake now. Joyce. Owens. Nancy. Eddie. Jonathan. Robin. Murray. Faces pale. Hands white-knuckled.

You gripped Steve’s face in both hands. “You good?” you whispered frantically. “Baby, you okay??”

Steve panted. Laughed, wheezily. “Thank fuck I pissed.”

You blinked. “What?”

“I got to piss,” he panted. “So… that’s something.”

You barked out a laugh and immediately kissed him all over. Sloppy, urgent kisses to his forehead, his scratchy jaw, the corner of his mouth, everywhere you could reach while still holding Max’s wrist in one hand and Dustin’s coat in the other.

“Christ, Harrington,” Murray muttered from up in the front, rubbing his face harshly. “The FUCK was out there?!”

“El neutralized it,” Dimitri added, panting. “Whatever it was. Creature is from down. And is down. For now.”

“Sick pun,” Robin trembled from the side of the tank, still perched at its canons. “Very good. Nice. 10/10!”

“No one makes a goddamn sound,” Hopper barked. “No lights. That was way too loud.”

Eddie huffed into the wall. “Shit sounded so fucked,” he barely muttered, still earning him some hissed shushing.

Lucas cradled Max next to Mike, who was trembling and looking over El with frantic worry. 

“Imagine if you hadn’t pissed,” Lucas carefully hissed, eyes on Steve as he engulfed Max’s shaky frame.

Steve dropped flat onto his back, dragging you down with him. “I’d seriously have piss-streaked Levi’s right now.”

“You’re welcome,” Dustin muttered, still wheezing. “Better than pissing yourself mid-sprint, though I can’t say it wouldn’t have made me laugh.”

“Shhhhhhh!…”

Dustin just waved off whichever group had thrown that his way. Likely the adults. Whatever, they lived. 

Another relieved huff rushed from your lips as you laid your head against Steve’s shoulder. “God bless.”

Dr. Owens was scribbling something down as he peeked out one of the small hatches with frantic eyes. But Murray just stood up like a corpse in a business suit.

“Welp,” he hissed. “Good day to be constipated.”

You choked on a laugh.

Steve snorted.

Eddie made a sound like he’d been exorcised.

Then Hopper added, “I’m gonna shit myself right now.”

“Same,” Joyce mumbled, looking dazed and completely serious. “It’s borderlining diarrhea territory.”

Jonathan looked scandalized but muffled his own snort into his palm next to Will, who basically did the same.

Nancy and Argyle sat nearby, guns in their laps, both still visibly pale. Eddie looked ready to pass out, while Robin had her head thrown back with silent laughter… probably picturing Hopper yelling about his explosive diarrhea.

Dimitri looked personally offended. “Americans.”

Owens didn’t look up from his notes or the slit in the tank. “One more person mentions bowel evacuation, I’ll sedate you all with diazepam.”

That did it.

The dam broke.

Everyone lost it — quietly, desperately, shoulders shaking as they tried not to scream. You collapsed onto Steve’s chest, Max’s long red locks of flaming hair brushing Lucas’s arm as she curled up in the crook of his hip. Dustin slumped sideways into Will. Lucas nudged Mike, who looked like he might just start sobbing. El knelt beside Max and touched her hand… and after a moment, she smiled at her, weak but real. Unshakeable.

You buried your face in Steve’s neck as his arm wrapped around your shoulder tightly.

“You got me here,” he whispered.

You didn’t lift your head. “Yeah? How’s that, Lover?”

He laughed again, breath catching. Suddenly, he tugged something out from his coat. Yellow tinged yarn… woven with love.

The beanie.

“…wh-what…?” 

The air left your lungs, your eyes brimming with hot, fresh tears as your gaze flicked up from the knitted gift to his pretty face.

His own eyes shone with mischief and defiance piercing through. “Couldn’t let whatever’s out there steal this bad boy. This is designer.”

Your chest bubbled with full lovesick laughter, agonizingly tight, but it had nothing to do with the incessantly irregular heartbeat themed beneath your skin. This tightness only ever came from Steve, ever since this whole thing began. Ever since you’d spoken to him for the first time, not just in passing, back in November 1984.

He smiled now, too. You felt it under your cheek. The kind of smile that only happened when everyone made it out alive. Then Steve laughed again. Breathlessly. You didn’t even need to look to know that he was smiling like a dork. That look on his face only happened when everyone was alive and accounted for.

Murray slouched back up in the front like he was already regretting waking up today. “We’re never doing bathroom shifts again,” you whispered.

“I’m holding it forever,” Steve agreed.

Max groaned. “My pee pressure will never recover now.”

Steve and Dustin both silently wheeze as Lucas leaned against her shoulder, murmuring, “Sorry, baby.”

You blinked, craning your neck. “Your—what…?”

The world creaked slightly around you all from outside of these war-built walls. But inside of Dingus 1…in this tin can packed with too many bodies and too many feelings, there was safety.

However temporary that safety might be.

Steve’s hand tugged Dustin into the mix. Eleven joined silently. Then Lucas and Max. Then Will and Mike. All of you were now linked, tangled up together like threadbare rope that refused the fray until it broke.

Chapter Seventy-Five Undisclosed Species

Last Week of March • 1987 DAY [?] • Inside Dingus-1 • 11:12 AM

“What the shit was that?”

It wasn’t even clear who asked it first. Maybe Hopper. Or maybe Eddie. Maybe all of you, psychically. But it didn’t matter, because the question tore through the inside of the tank with the ferocity of an earthquake, bouncing off every wall like a ricochet bullet.

“Like no, seriously,” Dustin barked, chest still heaving, “what in the everlasting, demonic, walking, wheezing, death-fart was that?”

“It moved like a drunk skeleton,” Robin whispered, still pressed against the side of the tank, shaking her head with short, staccato jerks. “A big… fungus skeleton. With like, what, like—vines?? Are we doing vines again?!”

“No.” Nancy’s voice came sharply from beside her. “No. Those weren’t vines. That wasn’t even—I dunno…”

“Well what was it, then?” Eddie demanded. “Because that thing wasn’t from this planet.” He was pacing already, hair unruly, a tank trench forming with every frantic pass of his boots. “It looked like an inside-out cryptid that learned to do pilates!”

“It didn’t have a face,” Lucas said, still curled around Max, his hand gripping her elbow like he could anchor her to the present. “That wasn’t an animal.”

Nancy’s haunted blue eyes stared into oblivion. “They never have a face…” 

“That was otherworldly,” Lucas emphasized. “But not the shit we’ve seen before. Nah, that was—”

“Not one of the usual Demogorgon types, no,” Hopper growled, arms crossed. “I’ve never seen it. Not even in the lab files.”

“…El?” Mike asked, quietly.

She shook her head. “I’ve never seen it either.”

“Maybe no one has,” you stressed, still holding Steve’s hand, your other arm looped loosely around Max where she sat quietly beside you. “Because if that thing’s a new addition to the apocalypse, I’d really like to unsubscribe.”

Steve gave your hand the softest squeeze, but his other hand still trembled faintly against your knee. Also, bless him, the beanie was now tucked into his belt. The yellow yarn stood out like defiance in the dim lighting of the tank.

“No, seriously,” Argyle said, completely sincere, staring at the group like he’d just walked into the world’s worst art gallery. “Can anyone just, like, circle back to the fact that that thing sniffed at us…?”

Jonathan’s voice was gravelly. “That wasn’t a sniff, man. That was like… a slurp.”

“Oh God,” Will muttered.

“…think I might vomit,” Nancy mumbled, then looked surprised at herself for saying it.

Robin pointed at her dramatically. “You’re freaking out.”

“I am not freaking out,” Nancy snapped.

“You are. You’re literally sweating.”

“Our friends ran for their life, Robin.”

“You’re doing the thing where your voice gets high.”

“You’re doing the thing where you talk without stopping.”

“She’s becoming me!” Robin yelled, to the room at large. “She’s Nancy Buckley now, and I’m so proud—”

Witnessing this was, truly, something else entirely.

Jonathan’s slow head turn towards them was somehow the funniest thing that had happened in hours.

You’d clapped your hand over your mouth, shoulders shaking. Eddie slowed his pacing just long enough to glance their way, his voice coming out ragged after he spent a solid minute staring at them with raised brows.

“We’re all gonna die…” he morbidly mused, “…and that’s what you’re worried about...”

“We are not all gonna die,” Joyce corrected firmly, from her position at the front. “But we do need to talk about what this means.”

Murray stood up. “It means our lovely little vacation resort is probably over.”

No one laughed.

Neither did he.

“I’m serious,” he continued, eyes dark behind his glasses. “That wasn’t a fluke. It didn’t just wander here.”

“So what then?” you asked curiously. “It tracked us?”

Steve’s jaw flexed. “Or it was sent.”

That hushed the tank.

“…sent,” Hopper repeated, flatly. “You think the military sent it and dropped it like a holiday package?”

“They’d never,” Dr. Owens muttered. Those were his first words in nearly twenty minutes, and they landed.

You actually believe that.

Eddie? Not so much.

“You sure?” Eddie said, voice acidic. “Because that thing felt like bait.”

“Or a bloodhound,” Will murmured. “Something to sniff out survivors. Wanted survivors on the run.”

Steve looked at him sharply. “Exactly.”

“No,” Owens said again, more loudly this time. “Listen to me. There’s no official protocol for creature deployment. None. I worked in that system for years. That thing… it’s either rogue, or…”

“Or…?” Hopper pushed.

Owens hesitated.

“…or someone’s trying to draw you out,” he finally said.

The silence that followed was so suffocating, it felt like even the steel around your group flinched.

Dmitri cleared his throat, slow and deliberate. “You saw how I didn’t fire.”

Steve nodded once. “I saw.”

“There was good reason.”

You looked up at him. “Risk of exposure.”

“Exactly,” Dmitri said. “Gunfire. Heat flashes. Blood trails. Any of that, it draws eyes. Drones. Satellites. Troops. We shoot, we sign our death certificates.”

“Which means no one goes out there,” Hopper said. “Not until we decide what the hell we’re doing.”

Max was still quiet. Dustin’s voice broke through gently. “Do we even know if that thing’s gone?”

Everyone went still.

It hadn’t occurred to you.

It hadn’t occurred to any of you.

“Fuck,” Steve breathed, running a hand down his face. “We didn’t see a body.”

“We didn’t see anything,” Robin whispered.

“I should’ve checked,” El muttered shamefully. “I should’ve made sure—”

“No,” Steve cut in immediately. “You did exactly what you were supposed to do. You saved us.”

Eleven looked at him sadly. But Steve’s eyes never wavered. Eventually, she gave him a small smile of gratitude. But the tension sat, bloated and unmovable.

“We made a deal,” Joyce’s voice broke the spiral. “That if something gives us a reason to leave… we leave.”

You turned toward her, your stupid heart thudding.

Steve looked haunted by her reminder.

“We all agreed,” Joyce repeated. “No debate. No pride. No half-measures.”

Her eyes flicked, almost painfully, towards Steve.

You felt him tense beside you. Because Joyce now had her gaze fixed on him for confirmation. For leadership.

For approval.

“…Joyce,” Hopper murmured, but she shook her head.

“He’s the one who’s been keeping us alive,” she said, not unkindly. “Not that you haven’t, Jim, but he’s the one who knows how to balance family with facts. With structure.”

Steve could have fucking bawled at her words. At her blind faith in him. Her loyalty, her trust…

Joyce Byers didn’t offer that to anyone, not on this level, except for Hopper. But now, she was giving it to him and going as far as making that known to everyone.

“I trust him,” she continued gently, but just as adamant. “All of us do. We agreed on that.”

Jim nodded humbly. 

Sincerely.

“We did,” he confirmed quietly, his usually hardened eyes flicking over kindly to Steve… who now stared between the two of them with every wordless emotion flooding his big brown eyes.

He gave them a quick, grateful nod. Swallowed the lump in his throat. Flexed his jaw to keep it from quivering.

“And we all agreed,” Hopper continued, “Like Joyce said, we agreed that if it came to this—”

“It came to this,” Murray interrupted, loud and dry.

Everyone turned.

He was standing in the center of the tank, arms crossed, and for once? Your uncle was deadly serious.

Zero snark.

Zero sarcasm.

Zero assholery.

“This place has been good,” he said. “We’ve had heat. Food. No sightings. Three whole weeks, and yeah, that’s a miracle. A big one. But that thing out there? That was a storm warning. And I hate to say it, but…” Murray pursed his lips beneath his scruff, sucking them in before letting them pop back open. “I don’t think… we’re the only ones who don’t know what it is.”

You blinked at him, eyes wide, lips parting in anticipation.

“That’s what’s scariest,” Murray added. “Not that it found us. That they might not have a clue what it is either.”

“So what, we… so we move?” Robin asked.

“We have to,” Murray said.

Steve was deadly quiet now.

You looked over at him, your voice soft. “Hey, lover?”

He exhaled, brow furrowed, his voice cracking. “I know.”

His soft eyes met yours, warm and wrecked.

But you just smiled, albeit barely, nose scrunching. “You grabbed the beanie.”

That gently broke something in him. His face softened all at once, a sobered shadow washing over his features.

“I wasn’t gonna let it go,” he said, almost sheepishly.

Argyle, bless his soul, looked downright moved. “Bro,” he whispered. “That thing’s like… hand-woven loyalty. That’s true love.”

You blinked, biting your lip. “Don’t say that. I will cry.”

“I hope you do,” Steve whispered, nudging your leg. “You cry so cute.”

“Don’t make me fall in love with you again,” you hissed.

“Too late,” Eddie muttered from across the tank. “It’s disgusting how in love you two are. You should be ashamed.”

You shot him the most perplexed look, zero heat or actual frustration behind it. Just unconditional love, mixed with a lot of rattled up feels.

Steve warmly kissed your temple without missing a beat. But even as you curled in closer, your irregular heartbeat still thudded with the bittersweet truth.

This place was no longer safe.

It was no longer a safe haven. 

Not anymore.

“Alright,” Hopper said. “So what are our options?”

“We don’t go toward it,” Nancy said.

“Obviously,” Max mumbled, voice dry but small.

“But do we try and find it…?” Lucas asked.

“Hell no,” Steve said instantly. “Love you, Sinclair? But yeah, that’s a no.”

“But what if it brings others?” Mike asked. “What if there’s more of them?”

You could feel the tide of dread swelling again.

“We scout only if necessary,” Dmitri compromised. “I don’t like gambling on an unknown species. Especially not one smart enough to circle the Winnebago like a shark.”

“And not one that walked away,” Will added.

Everyone went still again.

Then Owens stood. 

“This is the call,” he said, firmly. “You’re moving. You’ll break down the Winnebago and the tank, make it look abandoned. No trace. No tracks.”

“You’re with us?” Joyce asked.

“Joyce, I’ve been with you,” Owens snapped, face red with resolve. “I am not letting any of you outta my sight, nor am I gonna watch any of you go out there alone. And if we’re dealing with something new, then we have bigger problems than just staying hidden.”

He looked around.

“We all move at first light.”

There was a new silence now. 

A shared silence. 

It breathed, it waited, it let the old words die off so that new words could be found. It allowed everyone to find each other in the stillness, and to make sure everyone was on the same page simply with glances, unblinking eye contact and quiet trust.

Everyone eventually turned to Steve.

And then he nodded first, setting it in stone.

You reached over, taking his hand in yours.

El took Max’s, while Robin linked her fingers with Nancy.

Eddie clapped Steve’s shoulder, the two of them sharing an all-knowing look of trust and brotherhood. Dustin did the same.

And slowly, everyone breathed in…

…and then breathed out.

“I’m really gonna hate carrying all this shit,” Murray now muttered, dry and dreaded.

Argyle raised a finger. “I’ll handle the canned goods.”

Steve leaned his head back.

Three weeks.

This place had felt like hope for three full weeks.

And maybe that was the tragedy of it.

Even safety had an expiration date.

Inside Dingus-1 • 9:42 PM

The tank was quiet.

Well, relatively.

From up front, you could hear the low static click of the Walkman rig as Murray passed it from one shoulder to the next, the wired headphones split between him and Jim and Steve. 

The three of them sat up front in a hushed little triangle, heads slightly bowed, sharing a silent kind of gravity that came with the weight of knowing something none of the others knew yet.

The weather broadcast cut through faint static. Clipped, low-pitched and clinical… like it was being read from a bunker.

“…Environment Canada reporting cold front pushing southward from James Bay… expected to stall over the Algoma District and wider southern Ontario corridor by early Friday morning…”

“…precipitation models indicate potential for heavy rainfall with transitional freezing conditions across inland elevations… probability of whiteout event remains low but rising if temperatures drop below forecasted thresholds…”

“…wind gusts exceeding 50 kilometers per hour anticipated, low-level aviation not advised… sustained cloud ceiling projected below five hundred feet… ground visibility will fluctuate…”

“…communication interference possible… monitor regional bands for local advisories… transport activity should remain minimal…”

“…further bulletins to follow.”

“Three days,” Murray whispered, pulling the headphones off, rubbing his scruff like it personally owed him money. “We’ve got three fucking days.”

Hopper leaned back in the driver’s seat, eyes forward on the tank’s windshield even though there was nothing but darkness and pine shadow outside.

“That storm hits right,” he muttered, “we’ll be ghosts. No satellites, no drones. Nothing flies in that shit.”

Steve sat quietly between them. His thumb was pressed to his lip like he’d been biting it too hard again. When he spoke, it was low and deliberate.

“So we wait.”

Murray squinted over at him. “You sure?”

Hopper glanced Steve’s way too. But not because he doubted him. Just because he wanted to see it in his eyes, just like Murray.

The younger man nodded once. “Yeah. We move when the skies shut down. Narrows down who and what we’ve all gotta avoid, and we’re best off with less to dodge.” 

No dramatics. No heroic speech. Just a decision. Clean. Final. Leadership by clarity alone.

Murray leaned back, giving Hopper a look like, Jesus Christ, this kid makes fewer bad calls than we do.

The cynic clicked his tongue.

“You know,” he muttered, “I’ve watched you get handed nothing but goddamn impossible decisions for weeks. Not once have you made a dumb one.”

Steve faintly sniffed a laugh. “Don’t jinx me.”

“No, seriously,” Murray pressed, eyeing Hopper sidelong. “It’s fucking whack. Like how do you even do that? Who taught you that? Jesus? Bob Newby? Mr. Miyagi?”

“Sure wasn’t Rick,” Hopper muttered smugly.

Steve snorted, barely biting back a grin. Hopper chuckled under his breath. Because yeah… Rick Harrington was a world class dick. And not a wise one.

“I think it’s called trauma,” Steve said dryly.

“Whatever it is, it works,” Hopper murmured, quietly proud.

Steve just gently sighed and leaned forward, pressing his fingers to the bridge of his nose. The silence that settled between the three of them was heavy in that warm, male camaraderie kind of way. Shared trust, and mutual weight bearing.

Behind them?

The entire opposite tone.

You were nestled in the belly of the tank like a goddamn chaos magnet, cradled in warmth and surrounded by limbs. Jonathan and Argyle were flanking you like two very stoned brotherly bookends. Dustin and Lucas had been whispering about something involving RPG stats, while Mike was ranting about someone being a warlock “build-wise” and not “by class,” and Max had curled up beside you like a cat made of nerves and sarcasm, just close enough to be held if she needed. You didn’t press. You never did. 

And that’s why she stayed.

“It’s a meditative act, bro,” Argyle mused. “And lowkey survivalist. Like, warm socks? Fire.”

Jonathan was on your left, eyes barely open, mumbling the occasional yeah or true into whatever passing cloud of thought drifted by. Argyle sat on your right, humming softly as he absentmindedly unraveled a piece of thread from the edge of his sleeve, clearly imagining it was yarn and that he had needles in his hands. 

He’d already brought up knitting twice tonight.

“You gonna knit me a whole hoodie whenever we make it outta this?” you asked.

“Make it out?” he repeated dreamily. “Girl, whenever our gang makes it out, I’m gonna crochet you a whole-ass house.”

That earned a snort from Jonathan and a slow clap from Max, while Eleven moved to giggle against her now.

You were halfway through re-teaching the group the rules of Would You Rather: Apocalypse Edition, when Eddie dropped to the floor across from you with a dramatic sigh and a smirk that spelled trouble in three dialects.

“I heard there was a party,” he sang, flopping onto his elbows.

“There was,” you said. “Then you got here.”

“Ouch,” Eddie grinned, dragging his booted feet forward until he was stretched out like the prince of chaos, eyes zeroed in on yours. “I don’t know why you flirt with me if you’re gonna be mean.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Keeps you humble.”

Eddie tilted his head, feigning contemplation. “Does it?”

“…Edward,” Dustin muttered, mid-sip of a juice box he’d stolen from the Winnebago stash. “I know this is the end of the world, but can we maybe not traumatize me before bedtime?”

That only earned a mischievous glint from Eddie. “Psh, traumatize? You’re dramatic. It’s called friendly flattery, Henderson. Try flirting sometime, you'll get it.”

“I have,” Dustin deadpanned. “With Suzie.”

Eddie tilted his head like an owl with a hooted, “Who?” just to fuck with him.

“My long lost flame, you asshole!”

Eddie grinned devilishly, pointing. “Different type'a flirting going on here.”

Lucas cocked his head at Eddie. “Wait… are you flirting?”

“He’s flirting with trouble,” you snorted and clarified.

“Technically, she started it,” Eddie declared proudly.

The boys gawked.

“She has a boyfriend,” Mike whisper-yelled, now looking betrayed on Steve’s behalf like someone had just spit on the American flag.

“Oh my God,” you laughed heartily, covering your mouth. “Michael. Relax, boo, he’s just being an idiot—”

“Uh, he’s being a traitor,” Dustin sassed, eyes on Eddie as he jabbed an accusing finger. 

“Damn,” Eddie arched a brow. “Your extremist verbiage tonight is next level.”

Dustin stared. “Dog. You’re up against Steve.”

“Uh-huh.”

“That’s like—like—like her having the Holy Grail and then letting some crusty ass goblin come sniffing around.”

“Right, so I’m gonna need you to never call me a goblin again,” Eddie said. “At least not with crustyass attached to it.”

Jesus, his delivery was so dry.

You were already losing it, snorting as you leaned into Max, who was slowly curling backward into your lap like she physically could not handle just how stupid this was getting. Jonathan had given up pretending to be asleep and was now shaking silently, his hand over his face.

That was when El, that sweet and wide-eyed baby girl, tilted her head at you and asked, “…wait. What does flirting mean again?”

You wheezed. “Okay, okay,” you laughed, pressing a hand to your mouth. “It’s when someone’s being extra nice but in a weirdly charming way. Like they’re teasing you because they’re into you.”

“She’s talking about me,” Eddie said proudly, perched right across from you, his legs stretched out, arms draped dramatically across his bent knees. “And I was absolutely flirting with her. I also regret nothing.”

“She has a boyfriend!” Dustin repeated, like the concept still wasn’t clicking.

“She has Steve!” Mike added, just as scandalized, as if that clarified anything. “You can’t just—!”

“Jesus,” Eddie said, mock-aghast. “What is this, Puritan New England?”

Lucas, somehow the most solemn of the trio, glared at Eddie like he’d committed a war crime. “Dude. Nuh-uh.”

“Back me up, Sinclair. C’mon.”

“Not cool,” Lucas shook his head like a disappointed dad. “Not cool, in the name of brotherhood.”

You nearly burst into tears laughing. “Boys, it’s fine!” you gasped, waving both hands at them, your voice hiccuping from the effort. “He’s kidding, he’s being Eddie!”

“He’s being an ass,” Dustin stated. “Ass with no class.”

“I’m being fun,” Eddie countered, then turned while raising his brows at you. “Also, you’re adorable whenever you crinkle up your nose like that.”

“Ope,” Max chirped with morbid glee. 

Lucas pointed sharply. “Munson...”

“Munson, you’re making my kids mad,” you warned him, deeply chuckling the entire time as they scowled at your sides.

“Nah. Even Mike can’t be mad.”

“I am definitely fucking mad,” Mike said, arms crossed, but his expression was more confused than angry. “Dude, what even is this dynamic right now?”

“Beautiful polyamorous chaos,” Argyle answered, smiling peacefully as he leaned his head on Jonathan’s shoulder. “Platonically, of course.”

Jonathan choked on his own laughter. “Bro. I can’t breathe.”

“Oh my God,” Max snickered, flopping backward across your lap. “This is so stupid.”

“What… is going on back here?” 

Hopper had asked it from up front.

Sure enough? He and Murray were both looking back, and from the looks on their faces, they’d been listening to this dumpster fire for at least three minutes too long.

Steve was already turned halfway around in his seat with his brows raised, caught somewhere between horrified, confused and inexplicably fond. 

Murray didn’t even ask. He just muttered, “You’re raising feral baby wolves.”

Your eyes were already watering. “Don’t diss my pack,” you said with a grin too wide to contain. “They’re yours, too.”

“Oh I don’t think so, Chick.”

He hadn’t even finished that sentence before your eyes had gone as wide as saucers with the most manic here’s Johnny a la ‘The Shining’ type of expressions, all while you exaggeratedly mouthed to him… ‘GRAND-PUPPIES.’

He mouthed back, ‘NOOO,’ just as theatrically. And then it was just a crazy-eyed staredown as your children kept on bickering with Eddie, Jonathan and Argyle.

Steve, though? That handsome boy of yours didn’t even look mad. Just tired. And in love. And a little in disbelief… and also, lovesick and willingly overstimulated.

You simply smiled back at him with a sheepish shrug and mouthed, “Sorry.”

He only mouthed back, ‘marrying you.’

“You’re all very loud,” Robin muttered dryly from her post by the back slat. She gestured between you and her best friend. “You two especially.”

She was pacing in a tight little oval, alongside Nancy, who was holding a set of binoculars like a weapon. Dmitri was at the top of the ladder, silently watching the woods out of the narrow slats of the tank like some avenging guardian angel of sorts. He had one arm propped in a side slit, his eyes peeled, scanning for movement.

“If we’re so loud, come join us!” Eddie jeered cheerfully.

Robin scoffed. “Can’t. Kinda busy channeling my anxiety productively right now.”

Nancy smirked. “It’s working.”

Dimitri didn’t turn, but he nodded “It is. You have walked six laps, Buckley.”

Robin looked stunned. “You’re counting?”

He nodded solemnly.

“You’re count—Nance,” she turned to Nancy. “Nance, he's counting! This is so validating.”

“He is also judging,” Nancy said wryly.

“I am not judging,” Dimitri replied, bone dry. “But if I were, I would say your pacing is slightly deranged.”

Nancy grinned to herself.

Robin just looked smug. “He thinks I’m deranged. That means we’re bonding.”

Dimitri didn’t answer, but a faint grin twitched the corner of his mouth. Nancy caught it.

She said nothing, but she saw it.

Steve saw the whole thing. You’d caught most of it but got pulled back into the kids’ nonsense with Eddie, and Hopper was already grinning upfront with both your boy and your uncle, all while Joyce and Owens were dead to the world, getting hardcore sleep (like the icons they are.)

And then it happened.

The giggle from Jonathan cracked first, high-pitched and stupid. Argyle followed, nearly wheezing. Then you were doubled over laughing again, your arms clutched to your sides, Eddie grinning like a devil, talking mad shit.

It spread fast. Robin was snorting. Max giggled. El looked lost, but giggled too, asking, “Why is it funny?” which only made it worse.

But then something sharp hit you.

Right in the chest.

The laughter cut off like a vinyl scratch.

“Tahahaha—skkkktsaaah—!!”

Your hand flew to your ribs, the ache harsh and sick and sudden, and your full body tilted sideways like your own blood had turned on you. Your smile faltered mid-breath.

Dustin saw it first. “Wait—wait, are you—?”

“Hey—hey, hey, hey,” Eddie switched gears, eyes going wide. “What’s wrong? Bauman??”

Your breath came out ragged. The pain spiked again. Not a heart attack, no but something mean and jagged ripped across your heartbeat, making your limbs tingle and your chest seize. Like your heart was lurching just out of reach of itself.

“It’s okay,” you managed, smiling grimly through clenched teeth. You exhaled, grit your teeth, winced through it. “It’s just my asshole heart.”

That sentence made everyone go still.

You weren’t even crying.

You were smiling.

And somehow? That was worse.

“Jesus Christ,” Steve muttered, dropping down in front of you like he’d been teleported.

Murray was right behind him.

Dr. Owens was already awake, like he’d been listening in his sleep. He crossed over to you and knelt beside Steve, quietly pulling out a stethoscope.

Seriously, they all gathered round within blinks of an eye.

“Still beating,” Owens said softly. “Irregular. But stable.”

You looked up at Steve as he cupped your cheek in one trembling hand.

“I’m okay,” you whispered, and it was even true.

But Steve looked broken. Not angry. Not frantic. Just broken in that deep, helpless, why can’t I fix this? way that cracked every rib in your body with love.

“You can’t laugh now…?” he said, voice hoarse.

“Hey, I’ll take pain if it comes with joy,” you wheezed back with that defiant smile. 

“Don’t say that,” Steve huffed. “Don’t—don’t make it sound like you’re settling.”

You tilted your head, your palm touching his wrist. “I’m not settling, lover,” you murmured. “Just choosing what matters.”

He dropped his head, eyes closing for one long second before they met your gaze again with ferocious intensity.

Eleven sat down beside you and reached over to clutch your other hand. Robin hovered just behind Steve, her palm firm on his shoulder, while Eddie stared at the floor like he might punch it into the earth’s core.

Mike looked wrecked. Dustin looked furious. Lucas blinked fast and looked away. 

Will, poor baby, had woken up from his sleep to stare tearfully, as Joyce made her way over with a water, as though she hadn’t just been fast asleep.

“Here, hun,” she murmured gently, already popping the cap so that you could hydrate. 

Dr. Owens…?

He stayed silent. But his eyes flicked to Steve. To Eleven.

And you saw it.

The quiet knowledge.

Not yet.

Maybe someday.

But not yet.

Eventually, you took a breath. And then another. And you looked at all of them, these people you’d kill for, that you would die for and ache with if it’s the last thing you do.

“S’okay,” you said softly, nodding at Steve with a wink. “Still on.”

The first time you’d told him something similar to that… was right after he’d spent too many minutes pounding your chest and ribs, all while whimpering oxygen back into your airwaves.

S’back on… you did it…

Now, he gave you a wobbly smile as you looked at him with that same survivalist exhaustion that refused to quit. And even if you did try to quit, Steve wouldn’t let it happen. Ever.

You didn’t get that choice.

Steve would give you every single choice in this world, but when it came to being without you? No. That wasn’t up to you. Not anymore.

“This thing onnnn?”

The most random, nasally voice sounded off from… of all the people inside the tank…

Nancy.

She gave your chest the sweetest little knock-knock with her knuckles, gently and with an exaggeratedly perplexed expression, as if trying to solve a mystery as she squinted right where your heart was.

“Hmm,” Nancy hummed. “Hulloh-oh. Hulloh-ohhhh?”

“Errrpern urrrrpppp,” someone else joined her.

It was freaking Argyle. 

They sounded like muppets on acid as they knocked on your chest like it was their neighbor’s house, like they just wanted to come inside and have a nice chat.

Steve and Robin both stared, lips parted in soft surprise. All the kids looked the exact same way, their eyes big and wide and round and curious.

Your face wore something similar, but only for a flickering handful of seconds before you subtly reeled, sputtering with hesitant laughter. 

“Are you guys—??”

“Erts mai money and I want it naaaoooww,” Jonathan cut you off, now fully engaged in Nancy and Jonathan’s act.

Murray glared from right beside Steve. His narrowed eyes flicked between all of you, dissecting the situation in that usual I’m judging all of you sort of way… but he actually stayed quiet and let it happen, and the pinch between his brows eased.

Dmitri hummed, startling everyone, despite its low volume. “Debt collectors,” he deadpanned.

Eddie snorted at that, finally done with burning a hole in the floor and deciding to just let the continued nonsense that you, Nancy, Jonathan and Argyle had going on was all that mattered right now.

Dr. Owens also smiled as he kept monitoring quietly, all while Joyce embraced the boys, who kept scowling back fears and maybe tears, too. But they softened and eased up more, as your muppet impression made all of them finally smirk at the sight.

Steve now just wore the most unusually fond, lovesick expression in his pretty face, and Robin leaned against his shoulder, her freckled face tender with amusement.

Max and El cuddled. 

The redhead grinned brightly. “Grief in this house ain’t never been normal,” she murmured.

“It really hasn’t,” El whispered back to her.

That’s when Hopper’s voice came from the front. “Hey, so, uhhh,” he said. “If everyone’s done emotionally combusting back there—Murray? Steve? You wanna tell ‘em?”

You blinked as Murray huffed a sigh, then stood.

Steve rose beside him. “We got three days,” he stated simply. “Storm’s rolling in. No air travel. Total whiteout.”

“Radar goes dead,” Murray added. “Everything goes dark. We move then.”

A beat of silence.

And then? Everyone nodded.

All at once. No protest. No debate.

Just relief.

Even if it meant sitting inside a steel tube for three more nights, you’d earned the right to exhale. You could finally rest.

Together.

Somewhere in the back, Argyle now exhaled deeply and flopped backward like he’d just won the lottery. “I can totally wait three days,” he whispered.

Jonathan laughed softly, still holding back the tears you didn’t even know were there.

And Steve, now kneeling back down beside you, took your hand in both of his.

His lips pressed warmly to the clump of intertwined fingers and palms while his forehead rested against your temple, both eyes closed as he claimed his spot for the night, just breathing you in… and you sighed right into him, nuzzling.

Three full weeks of safety.

Three more days on the clock.

🖤

Forever dedicated to Cherie & @aloneinthehellfire 🖤 TAGLIST {full} @moonlightdreamer111 @tangledluver @aloneinthehellfire @silkholland @ihaveproblemsihaveproblems @brinleighsstuff @definitelynotherr @silkholland @sucker-4-angst @bookkeeperlove @xblueriddlex @madaboutjoe @ucannotcompare @goosy-goose  @ashkuuuu @ashbye@soybeans-and-coffee  @yourelivingwrong @scaredofbeingbasic  @cathx91  @just-a-harmless-patato @unlikelytacotheorist  @chloewatersss  @cherrynukas  @cheugy-djobe @delulu4bucky  @calszonex @thecreelhouse @nancywalkemdownwheeler

@psychoticbomb @strangermurdock @watercolorskyy @tuffluuhv @kikiblahblah @keepingitlokiii @torimcc @psychoticbomb @strangermurdock @dernierefillenancy @tuffluuhv @nicherthanu @the-emma-bee @idontcareforausernamesblog @hipsternerd9 @corrodeddeadlydoll l753290076 @moth-feeet @issieruby @luvgianna @jihoonsbbygirl @uniqueavenuegladiator 

[torimcc]

You are FEEDING us! Workin hard over here 🫶🫶

[jacksabbotts]

introducing . . . MORGUE TECH!READER . ᵒ . 🥼 🩺 🩻

you ( morgue tech!reader ) are a shy, soft-spoken, and far too good for the world you work in—but dr. jack abbot wants you anyway. wants you especially because of it. he’s older, bigger, rough around the edges, and completely undone by the way you squirms in his lap and stumbles over your words.

you never had anyone take their time with you—never been praised, teased, or touched the way he plans to. and when he finds out just how untouched you really are?

he makes it his mission to teach you everything you didn’t know you needed.

this is not just a series — this is a world. this is out of body experience for morgue girl ( and the reader ). this is a life-altering. this is a soft cinematic universe built from spilt coffee, sterile fluorescents, and jack abbot's absurdly soft hands wrapped around someone who didn't think anyone would take care to notice. this is GOOD GIRL CONFESSIONS .

CHAPTER ONE — NINE ⋅˚₊‧ 𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅ completed ❪ 18.9k words ❫ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ follows the reluctant tension-filled evolution of jack abbott and a quiet, anxious morgue tech. it begins with exhaustion, mutual annoyance, and an unfortunate first impression. it ends ( temporarily ) in confessions, broken rules, and hands brushing too long by the trauma bay sink and a single earth shattering kiss.

⋆.˚ CHAPTER ONE .' cold and predictable ⋆.˚ CHAPTER TWO .' cold storage ⋆.˚ CHAPTER THREE .' a cold shoulder

⋆.˚ CHAPTER FOUR .' too cold to touch ⋆.˚ CHAPTER FIVE .' cold cut ⋆.˚ CHAPTER SIX .' caught in the cold

⋆.˚ CHAPTER SEVEN .' cold hands ⋆.˚ CHAPTER EIGHT .' left out in the cold ⋆.˚ CHAPTER NINE .' let in from the cold

CHAPTER TEN — NINETEEN ⋅˚₊‧ 𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅ ongoing ❪ tbd words ❫ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ follows post-confession. you’ve admitted too much. jack’s heard too much. and yet neither of you knows what to do with the silence that follows. you keep pretending. he keeps showing up. the hospital keeps getting hottee

⋆.˚ CHAPTER TEN .' heat source ˚₊‧ 𐙚 morgue notes - 001

⋆.˚ CHAPTER ELEVEN .' heat on contact ˚₊‧ 𐙚 morgue notes - 002

⋆.˚ CHAPTER TWELEVE .' after the heat ⋆.˚ CHAPTER THIRTEEN .' heat in your hands

⋆.˚ CHAPTER FOURTEEN .' the sound of heat ˚₊‧ 𐙚 morgue notes - 003

⋆.˚ CHAPTER FIFTEEN .' held in heat ⋆.˚ CHAPTER SIXTEEN .' heat flash ( coming soon )

⋆.˚ CHAPTER SEVENTEEN .' heat bitten ( coming soon ) ˚₊‧ 𐙚 morgue notes - 004

⋆.˚ CHAPTER EIGHTEEN .' heated words ( coming soon ) ˚₊‧ 𐙚 morgue notes - 005

⋆.˚ CHAPTER NINETEEN .' heat of the moment ( coming soon ) ˚₊‧ 𐙚 morgue notes - 006 ˚₊‧ 𐙚 morgue notes - 007 ˚₊‧ 𐙚 morgue notes - 008

˚₊‧ 𐙚 THE APPENDIX ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ NIGHT SHIFT — MORGUE NOTES

˚₊‧ 𐙚 *part one ˚₊‧ 𐙚 part two ˚₊‧ 𐙚 *part three ˚₊‧ 𐙚 *petnames from jack ˚₊‧ 𐙚 *petnames for jack

layout inspo ||| dividers by @cafekitsune & @uzmacchiato * ✷ ⊹ * ˚  main masterlist ||| more jack abbot ||| inbox

* ✷ ⊹ * ˚  REQUEST FOR jack abbot x morgue tech!reader

possible trigger warnings * ✷ ⊹ * ˚ lowercase intended!!!! medical trauma, mentions of death, hospital setting ( references to autopsies, corpses, injury, blood ), social anxiety, self-worth issues, body image insecurity ( specifically surrounding reader’s curvier body ), reader internalizes micro-aggressions and negative self-talk, emotional repression, low burn with eventual power imbalance ( not exploitative, but notable that jack is of higher rank but NOT reader's direct superior ), age gap dynamic, jack is gruff and emotionally avoidant at first ( but in his bf!era dw ), SMUT in later chapters ( pls read all content warnings posted at the beginning of each part )

[torimcc]

I BINGED THIS

[sunshine-on-marz]

Sports Journalist! Reader

x Ilya Rozanov masterlist

Meet her here!

We're Live

Interview Blues

Ilya gets jealous

1 On 1

More to come! Send me a request!

[torimcc]

Loveeee

[loveshotzz]

Can I be him? | Chapter one

coach!steve x fem!reader | mechanic!eddie x fem!reader

This must be the place

New life, new beginnings and new neighbors.

wc: 7.3k

warnings: this series is 18+ each chapter will have different warnings. love triangle, mentions of smoking, angst that comes with a ‘fresh start’ reader is a bit of a mess — for now! reader makes assumptions about Eddie & Steve but you know what they say, assuming makes an ass out of you and me :)

authors note: It’s here! I’m so excited to start sharing everything I have planned for these three. It’s been years since I’ve written a love triangle or Eddie in this way. I also want to use this space to remind you that just because a chapter has one of the boys names by it on the master list doesn’t mean the other won’t be in it. Both boys will be in every chapter.

series master list

Summer smells different here.

Early blooming flowers and fresh mowed grass tickle at your nose, the breeze from your open car window doing little to break through the thick Midwest humidity. It coats your body in a sheen layer of sweat, the mid day sun hanging higher than you’ve ever seen in a deep blue sky that stretches out so far you can’t imagine an end. Lush green trees whiz past you on either side of the road that you’re definitely driving too quickly on, sending your mattress flopping in the wind on top of the car.

It thumps heavily against your roof clinging on for dear life because of the haphazard way its strapped in. Taking a tight curve, a loud shift of everything you could fit into your car smacks against the other side. Too distracted by the flashing red E next to your gas gauge, you almost miss the brown metal sign tilted at a lean that greets you in dirty white bold letters saying — Welcome to Hawkins. 

”Fuck.” You mutter under your breath, knowing there’s no way you’re going to make it the last seven miles to the ‘freshly renovated’ Forest Hills Trailer Park. No matter how much you don’t want to stop.

One stressful mile brings you to a small gas station attached to an autobody shop, with only one pump that looks like it’s been there since the sixties. You hope to god that it's functional. Turning your car off, you fiddle with your appearance in the rearview mirror blowing out a tired breath through your nose. Flipping the visor up, you get a better view of the large open garage door and the tall lanky man leaning against the side of it you didn’t notice pulling in.

Long unruly curls hit his shoulders, framing his strong jawline that's peppered with a hint of a five o’clock shadow. Dark eyes watch you from down the slope of his round nose, full pink lips wrapped around the cork brown butt of a cigarette. His cheeks hollow out taking another drag, tilting his head up slightly to blow the smoke into the breeze. The sleeves of his navy coveralls are tied low around his small waist, leaving him in a grease stained faded white tank that reveals a litter of black ink etched randomly along his creamy skin. A slew of small black bats flying up his bicep catches your attention first, then the gleam of the chunky silver rings adoring most of his fingers.

He looks like the kind of guy you know you should stay away from, but never do.

The corner of his mouth ticks up making you realize that you’re staring, embarrassment flooding your cheeks, and for a brief moment you think about seeing just how far your car can really go running on fumes. You murmur a mess of cuss words trying to work up the courage to get out and walk a few feet to the old man inside the small convenience store. He unknowingly holds the key to your escape from the handsome stranger with a staring problem before you lack the self control you came here for. You only give yourself a count to three before flinging your door open, the hinges creaking mortifyingly loud.

ZZ Top’s ‘Legs’ echoes through the big space of the garage, bouncing off the metal of cars like a megaphone. Holding your gaze to the ground, you make a B-line to the gas station, feeling his unrelenting stare the entire way, and you aren’t sure what’s worse, the mechanic’s dark brown eyes or the sticky heat of the sun. The glass door sticks to the hinges when you try to pull it open, heat spreading across your chest and crawling up your neck when you have to do it again with more strength. It gives with a loud pop, the shrill ring of the bell above making you jump at the same time. It's not loud enough to drown out the snort that comes from the man you’re pretending doesn’t exist, though . 

“Hi Miss, what can I do ya for?” The old man behind the counter greets you with a shaky voice with a warmth in his smile that has you unclenching your teeth you didn’t even realize were clenched to begin with. Stepping into the brightly lit store, your hands uncurl at your sides.

“I just need some gas.” You say finally finding your voice, lips twisting as you try and match his friendly demeanor reading the name ‘Leon’ off the bright red tag on his vest.

It would be more convincing if you couldn’t still feel the asshole from outside staring at you through the dirty conjoining glass that connects the two buildings. 

“How much?” Leon hums, pushing up his thick frames to get a better look at the buttons on his printing calculator.

”Ten, please.” Your response comes out in a whisper, like somehow the mechanic can hear you. It’s not even useful information.

You pull the crumbled bill from your pocket, doing your best to smooth it out before handing it over to him with a shy grin. 

“Need a receipt?” He mumbles, not out of rudeness but because his full concentration is on punching the numbers in.

”I’m alright, thank you so much, have a good day!”  The words are a rushed mess leaving your mouth, voice cracking around the word ‘day’ when you accidentally meet the dark brown eyes of the man who refuses to keep them off of you when you turn around.

”You too hon!” Leon sends you off just as warmly, oblivious to your struggle as the bell rings after your determined feet.

Tugging hard at your bottom lip, your converse pad loudly against the uneven asphalt as you hurry back towards your car. You get about half way to the pump, when the heat, the long drive after packing, and this man start festering under your sticky skin. It’s at this moment you decide ignoring him isn’t enough, turning your head, you shoot him a harsh glare not surprised to see him already looking in your direction. Tossing his finished cigarette to the ground, he stomps it out with a big work boot, dimples poking into his cheeks, raising grease covered hands up in surrender. 

He’s infuriatingly cute, and it only makes you more mad. 

“Easy tiger.” He huffs with a gravely chuckle, the sound flipping something in your stomach. “Just trying to figure out how that mattress hasn’t fallen off your roof yet.”

Your eye roll has his smile widen, white teeth baring themselves at you.

“Thank you so much for your concern.” You squint, twisting your lips into something bitchy. Annoyance rolling off your shoulders in waves but he eats it up like his favorite meal. “Your staring has been a huge help.”

He barks out a loud laugh that gets cut short by a cough, tobacco still fresh in his lungs. The edges of your lips curve in karmic revenge.

”Can you blame me sweetheart?” He crosses his arms across his chest, tugging down the cotton of his tank top revealing another tattoo on his right pec. 

Purposely groaning loud enough for him to hear, you turn towards the car and start doing what you came here to do. Pump your gas and now, also get away from this flirty test of your will. The universe dangling the kind of boy you’d make a thousand mistakes with back home in front of your face like some kind mouse trap. 

“I’m Eddie by the way.” He introduces himself after a few minutes of silence filled with the kind of tension that flutters against your rib cage and against your will. You can still hear the smile in his voice, like it never left his face.

Keeping your back to him, you flash a sarcastic thumbs up shaking the handle of the pump taking every last drop before hanging it up with a metallic click.

”Safe travels, gorgeous.” He calls out when you buckle yourself back in. Turning your key, your engine hums to life, the tight anxiety in your chest relaxing watching the gauge get close enough to full to last you at least a week. 

“Bye, Eddie.” You finally respond, daring to meet his eyes one more time, letting the dark chestnut of them take in your features with the kind of smirk that warms the tips of your ears. 

You almost regret it. Almost.

——

Forest Hills surprises you by looking just like the grainy picture you saw in the ad. The trailers are wrapped in new colorful shiny paneling, making them look more like houses with the kind of a personality only a park like this could have. Freshly soldered grass sprouts around them and the big gazebo in the middle of it all housing a group of teenagers gossiping after school. Your tires crunch over the dirt road with ease because even the dirt looks new, if that’s actually a thing, the dark brown looking more like wet clay. The familiar address from your lease sits nestled in the far back curve of the park right by the edge of the woods in bright sea foam green. The muted grey and white of the trailers on either side only make the color of yours stick out more.

Your car rolls to a stop in the narrow drive way, the loose things shoved in boxes clinking lightly against cardboard. Cutting your engine with a deep breath, you take a minute to finally let yourself decompartmentalize the dirty messy emotions that brought you here. The ones you had to bury down to make it through the six hour drive. For a while you were convinced that you wouldn’t actually do it — run away. So sitting here with everything you have in your name in front of this trailer in a tiny town you hadn’t ever heard of before swells pride tight in your chest. The courage you’ve been looking for has you opening the car door, your sneakers hitting the gravel with a crunch taking that first step out. 

It feels like a fresh start.

A newfound excitement buzzes at your fingertips walking up the stairs to your front door, eyes wandering to the trailers of your new neighbors. You can’t help but notice the stark difference between the front yards. The grey one on your left is a little messy, grass slightly overgrown with a pick up truck sitting in the driveway. It doesn’t look like it runs either with its rusted orange paint around the tires, and a tool box sitting under the propped up hood. Your gaze lands on the worn-in tan couch that takes up half the front porch, and the metal side table with a full ashtray sitting next to it.

The lawn on the other side of you though, is freshly mowed with military grade precision, and instead of a couch there’s two white plastic chairs and a fold out table with a big citronella candle on the porch. A silver bucket sits next to the front door and it looks like it’s full of baseballs, the tan catching mitt laying over them tells you that you’re right. From the top of your stairs you can see the fire pit in the backyard and a bright red grill. Everything about it looks new, almost as if whoever lives there just moved in too.

There’s no car parked in the drive way, and no sign of either of your neighbors being home. The realization relaxes the anxious knots in your shoulders, preferring it this way. Letting go of the breath you didn’t realize you were holding, it doesn’t take you long to find the key taped under your mailbox. Shaky fingers sticking it into the brass lock, teeth gnawing into your bottom lip hearing the click of the dead bolt. Pushing open the door, you take your first step over the threshold and into your new life.

—-

“God dammit.” You groan, tripping over a rock balancing one too many boxes in your arms.

Your stubborn impatience to get the rest of your stuff unloaded in the least amount of trips possible took the front seat after the first hour. Except balance and general grace are not your strong suit, in fact you’re pretty sure the box you dropped earlier shattered all of your coffee mugs. You move from side to side, watching with weary eyes the sway of the top two boxes that had shifted around after the first few steps. 

Don Henley’s ‘Boys of the Summer’ catches faintly in your ears, threatening to break your concentration of counting the steps to your porch. It just gets louder, just like the crunch of the tires from the car getting closer. The box at the top of the pile shifts again so now half of it dangles off the edge, dangerously close to suffering the same fate as your coffee mugs. 

“Shit, shit, shit.” 

Your feet shuffle desperately trying to get it to slide back to where it was, so focused you hardly hear the music cut off or the slam of a car door.

”Hey! Hold on! Let me help!” A man’s voice has you freezing in place, slicing through your concentration and flipping in your stomach. The knots inside of it tighten at the sound of his jogging steps against the gravel.

”I- I got it.” You stutter, brows furrowing desperately trying to slide the box again to stop whatever was about to happen with a gentle flick of your wrists. 

Except, it fails spectacularly.

It does shift — just in the wrong direction and with wide eyes you watch it start its tumble towards the ground. Your eyes squeeze shut bracing for the sound of shattering glass, but it never comes. The man’s big hands shoot out, catching the box with ease, like it weighs nothing. It gives way to your surroundings, lashes fluttering like it’s your first time using your eyes. Heat licks at your cheeks realizing you’re nowhere near the steps. Your gaze lands the maroon BMW parked in his driveway first, then you see him.

The man in front of you is the kind of handsome that’s so classic you’d never approach him on a regular day, not even in a bar. His sculpted jaw matches the sharpness of his narrow nose, perfectly sunkissed skin dotting with an endearing amount of freckles and moles. Half of his dark chestnut hair is covered by a blue and white baseball cap, the dirty blond tips of it curling around his ears and flipping out at the ends. Broad shoulders stretch the satin of his blue jacket that matches his hat, this particular shade seems to make his tan pop even more, like he’s spent the entire day in the sun. ‘Coach Steve’ adorns the right side of it sprawled out in cursive writing the same color as his white polo underneath it, dark chest hair peeking out over the two undone buttons.

What the fuck is in the water here?

“Hey, I’m Steve.” He smiles, readjusting the box in his hands, full pink lips stretching over perfect white teeth as his hazel eyes take you in. “I think we might be neighbors.”

Of course.

“Yeah, it looks like we are — hi.” You huff with a grin poorly attempting to shake his hand but deciding against it when the boxes wobble, cheeks warming for a different reason. “T-thanks for catching that by the way. I’m pretty sure I already broke most of my cups.”

His eyes widen for a second showing you the gold shimmering in the dark green of them before a laugh rumbles from his chest.

”Is anyone helping you?” He asks, coming closer to steal another box from your arms, taking it with the same kind of ease. “Roommate? … boyfriend?”

This is the part where you’re supposed to lie and say yes.

”No, just me.” The answer comes out quiet, like you’re embarrassed when you shouldn’t be.

Something unreadable flashes across Steve’s face before his eyes wearily take in your mattress that's slid forward off your roof and onto your windshield. Thank god Eddie wasn’t here to see it.

”Well, I don’t have any plans. I just gotta change and I’ll help you get the rest in.” He says simply with a shrug, like it wasn’t an inconvenience helping a complete stranger move.

”Seriosly, you don’t have to. It’s just whatever’s left in my car. I got the mattress up there, I can get it down.” It’s always been hard for you to accept help, but especially when it's offered by the kind of guy that looks like Steve. 

Insecurities try to crawl out from the dark corners of your mind as he scans your face long enough to make you shift your weight from one leg to the other. It feels like he's got the ability to read your mind, like he knows you want the help but you just won’t admit it. You hate the idea of owing someone.

“Nah, I can’t in good conscience. Looks like the mattress was a struggle on the way here, anyway.” He grins, teasing lightly, relaxing the tense muscles in your shoulders, as an easy smile twists up the edges of your lips before you can stop it.

”It made it here without falling off, didn't it?” You bite back with narrowed eyes. The new playfulness has him taking his bottom lip between his teeth, the small movement making your brain buzz.

”I didn’t say you failed. Just that it may have been a little harder than you’re leading on.” The smirk on Steve’s face distracts you so much that you don’t notice him taking the third box until your hands are empty. “Now show me where to put these so I can go home and change to help with the rest because I want to.”

The roll of your eyes is sarcastic because who actually wants to do that? It has the corners of his eyes crinkle before nodding his head to your front door in a silent push.

“Ugh, fine.” You relent with a sigh, waving him to follow you up the stairs. “But you can’t judge the mess.”.

”What? You’re not settled in after getting here a few hours ago? I’ll try my best.” Steve snorts sarcastically, giving you a look that earns him the kind of genuine smile that hasn’t pushed up your cheeks in what feels like months. You shove down how good it feels.

Fresh start.

It's been fifteen minutes since Steve left to go change next door, and despite it just being a joke, you use that time to distract from the creeping anxiety making a home in your chest by trying to organize a little bit. Seeing everything spread out like this makes it hard to swallow the bitter embarrassment about your lack of furniture, or anything of what seems like real substance. You feel more like a twenty year old boy in his first dorm room than a grown woman in her first home. You don’t even have a bedframe. Regret starts to seep into your bones pushing the boxes around, the nagging worry that he’s helping out of pity snagging at whatever's left of your confidence. Inhaling a sharp breath, anger simmers like a boiling pot just under the surface of your already heated skin because you shouldn’t care what someone like him thinks of you. 

Guys like Steve have certain types, and that type has never been you. It's always guys like Eddie falling at your feet, sweeping you away in their fun chaos and then disappearing once the party’s over leaving you to clean the mess up. Until one day you finally run instead of picking the pieces up. Someone clears their throat in the front doorway bringing you back down to earth with a jump. Your breath hitches in your throat looking up, tongue drying in your mouth.

Steve stands there, arms crossed leaning against the door frame, light wash jeans sitting low on his narrow hips. A simple plain white tee stretches over his broad chest, crossed biceps catching some of the cotton making his shirt ride up. Your eyes flick down to the beginnings of a dark happy trail and the peek of white Calvin Klein boxers, doing your best not to wonder if they’re briefs. The sun sits half mast in the sky creating a halo around his hair no longer confined by a baseball cap. The thick chestnut of it looks pushed back by his fingers rather than a brush, a rouge swoop falling softly across his forehead.

“I hope I didn’t scare you.” He smiles like he’s nervous, but that just wouldn’t make sense.

”Not at all, ‘was just trying to organize the unorganizable.” You stand up with a huff, wiping your palms on the dark denim of your shorts. Steve's eyes glance down for a brief moment tracking the movement, but just as quickly as they drop he pulls them back up to your face. Pink dusting the tips of his ears.

”Let’s tackle that mattress first,” He suggests, something teasing dancing in his gaze, “Then you can organize and I’ll bring the rest in.” 

“Y-you don’t have to do that, this is really kind of you —” 

“I want to.” He cuts you off without hesitation before clearing his throat. “My boys lost the game today anyway, it’ll give me something to do besides sulk around a TV dinner.”

“Your boys?” You question, a curious smile flitting the edges of your lips following him outside after he pushes himself off the doorway. When the sun hits his skin, you swear he glows.

”I coach the boys little league team at the middle school.” He calls over his shoulder, skipping the middle step of your porch, landing on the ground with a bounce.

”Ahh, that would explain the uniform then.” You reply, unable to stop your eyes from tracing the muscles in his back flexing with every stride. A confidence in it that’s not quite whole as he makes his way to the other side of your car. It piques the kind of interest you have no business having. “Didn’t realize that would be a full time gig.”

”It’s uh - it’s not.” Crimson spreads across his cheeks like wildfire while long fingers get to work on loosening the knots that barely hang onto the back end of your mattress. He uses more concentration than necessary, actively avoiding your gaze before he finishes. “I uh, I teach sex ed too.”

You don’t mean to laugh, but it’s impossible to hold in the one that bubbles out from the back of your throat. He glares at you from over the top of the bed, and your teeth dig into your bottom lip to try and stop it from happening again. 

”I’m sorry, it’s not funny.” It is. “I just wasn’t expecting that to be your answer is all.”

”Don’t worry,” he grumbles bitterly, despite his small grin, “that's everyone’s reaction when I tell them.” 

Nimble fingers pull the white tweed off with a tug, biceps flexing when he catches the mattress that gives its final slip down your hood. It’s distracting, but you snap out of it lurching forward to grab the other side. 

“See, the rope did do something.” You tease, looking up at him from under your lashes, regripping your bed at the seam.

Steve stares down the slope of his nose at you, his head blocking the sun from your eyes making him your direct focal point. His face softens, just like the smile that spreads across it, warming your skin just the same.

”I never doubted your skills.” 

Your breath hitches, lungs forgetting their main function, because Steve stole all the air from them.

“Maybe you can come teach a knot tying class at the school.” He winks, giving you a subtle nod to lift the mattress with him. 

Now it’s your turn to shoot daggers and he barks out a loud laugh as you both work together to turn the bed long ways.  

“Bet you thought that was so funny.” You grumble, shuffling backwards, silently indicating for him to lead which he has no problem doing with a careful pace you can keep up with.

”I got it.” He reassures reaching the stairs, brows furrowed in concentration on his sneakers taking the first step, before adding an out of breath. “And yes, I did.”

His white teeth flash at the sarcastic smack of your lips as his Nike’s reach the porch landing.

”Shit - “

“Wha-“ Your question is cut off by the abrupt stop that slams your head into the corner of the mattress. Thank god it’s soft.

”Are you okay?” Steve panics, poking his head out from the side, lips turned down in worry, and something about this entire situation has this insane kind of giggle erupt from you.

The concern on his face turns to confusion, before the creases in his forehead smooth out to amusement. 

”I’m good, maybe just a little warning next time.” You smile probably harder than you should, blaming it on the knock to your crown. 

“Bad spatial judgement on my half, I am so sorry.” He chuckles sheepishly, with rosy cheeks that shouldn’t be so endearing. “Ready to try again?”

“Born ready.” You smirk, managing a thumbs up, before regripping your end of the mattress. 

Steve counts to three, and both of you lift at the same time.

”Turn, turn, turn, turn.” He chants, feet scuffling loudly against the wooden landing, and you’re not entirely sure where he expects you to ‘turn’ with your hips pressed to the banister. 

Whatever you’re both trying to do doesn’t work and the front end of the mattress gets stuck at an angle in your entrance way. Sending your half smacking into the railing, caging you against it.

”Oh my god - Steve!” You screech, falling into a fit of shocked laughter as your back bends around the wood, the bed slipping from your grip and hitting the steps. 

”Jesus Christ, are you okay?!” He asks for the second time in a matter of minutes, sounding muffled on the other side which somehow makes it even funnier. Tears water in your eyes, just not the ones you’re used to. 

”I’m fine! Trapped but otherwise healthy.” You manage to say, pressing your lips together in a hard line to control the giggles that don’t seem to stop coming out.

”I swear I’m here to help.” There’s an obvious smile in his voice this time, “I’m gonna slide the bed out juuust a little bit and then we can angle it. It’ll be easy, promise.”

“You got it, coach.” You bite back a grin he can’t see, but you hear the huff of a laugh from the other side. 

“No mental mistakes, head in the game.” He says firmly, sending goosebumps pebbling up the back of your neck.

His plan works because in what seems like one swift motion — you, your bed and Steve are in the shade of your living room. 

“We did it!” You practically squeal, beaming up at your new found friend. A very handsome friend, but you tuck that realization away in the ‘never going to happen’ folder in your head.

”Team work, it makes the dream work.” He winks with the kind of smile that shows all of his teeth. Plump pink lips stretching wide as he holds up one big hand searching for a high five. 

“I bet your chock-full of those idioms aren’t you?” You tease, meeting his open palm with a loud smack, using all of your will power not to think too hard about how small yours looks in comparison. His fingers curl around your hand for a fleeting moment before dropping back down to his side, the pads of them dragging along your skin on their way.

”You better believe it.” The amber flecks in his eyes twinkle, smirking at the eyeroll he gets from you. “Which way is the bedroom?”

The tops of his ears dust bright red the moment the question leaves his mouth, turning you shy too. 

“Down the hall and to the right.” You clear your throat, gesturing towards the hallway connected to your open kitchen, nerves singing from your finger tips. 

He nods, taking the lead all on his own this time, the two of you sliding the bed to your room in silence, the air thick with something more than the humidity.

“We can just set it down here in the middle.” You point to the space adjacent from your window, “right against the wall.”

“Sounds good,” Steve grunts, using his strength to pull it from your grasp, turning the bed long ways before letting it fall onto the cream carpet with a loud woosh. 

The two of you stand there for a moment, hands on your hips, proudly admiring your accomplishment, eyes finally meeting from across the room. 

“No bed frame?” He gestures to your mattress that doesn’t look like something to be proud of anymore. Instead, it's a sad and sheetless mess on the floor with a big red stain in the corner from the night you spilled red wine. 

Embarrassment floods your veins, curling in your gut. 

“I- I don’t have a lot of things with me, didn’t bring them.” you shrug, not wanting to divulge in too many details about the bad decisions that brought you here. 

He studies your face for a second like he’s trying to figure it out on his own. 

“Hey, I didn’t have anything either when I moved in like six months ago. I know some good thrifting spots. I don’t mind showing you.” Steve responds lightly with a shrug, surprising you for the second time today. 

“I’d like that a lot.” The smile you give him is small, but it’s warm and you get the same in return. 

“I didn’t think I’d have a boy in my room on the first day.” You try to crack a joke to ease the tension, but it only makes it worse. An embarrassed grimace twists up your face the moment it slips off the tip of your tongue.

“Well, I’m uh, I’m honored.” He stutters trying to salvage it for you just to squeeze his eyes shut with a sigh, running an exasperated hand down his face before pinching the bridge of his nose. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“I know — I didn’t —me either.” Stammering apologetically, you desperately want the ground to open up and swallow you whole. 

“I’m gonna go finish unloading,” Steve decides to save you both from further humiliation with a quick escape, but neither one of you considers how he’ll have to brush past you to get to the door until he’s doing it without much thought. Realization dawns on both of you when his chest brushes against your back, hands tentatively — appropriately grabbing your hips to keep you steady. The strangest mixture of freshly mowed grass and pine fill your nose and you don’t realize how much you like it until it's gone. He runs nervous fingers through his hair before turning around, stopping at the doorway, both his hands gripping the wooden edges of the trim.

“You, um, do what you need to do.” He finishes, with an unreadable expression that makes it impossible to figure out if he’s just as uncomfortable as the air feels, thick and buzzing around you.

“S-sounds good!” Giving him a weak thumbs up, you mentally kick yourself for not coming up with a better response. Especially when he gives the wood two good smacks, eyes taking you in one more time before heading down the hallway. 

You didn’t realize how badly you needed to lay down until you flop onto your bed after making it. It didn’t matter that it was on the ground, not right now as the day and the weight of your decisions slam into every muscle and bone in your body like a freight train. As much as you appreciate Steve’s help, the nagging feeling of needing to be alone tightens in your chest with claustrophobia. It's as if he knows, because when a tired sting creeps into the corners of your eyes, the sound of him dropping what he had said would be his last box echoes down the hall. Followed by the heavy thud of his Nike covered feet against the hollowed out floors.

”Okay, I think I got it al — oh.” He stops at your doorway, an amused gaze taking in the way you’re starfished across your bed. “I see we found the sheets.”

The teasing edge in his voice loosens the anxious knot that's formed in your stomach, tilting your chin down you meet his eyes and the air between you feels settled, like forty minutes ago doesn’t exist. 

“That would be a correct observation.” You grin, stretching like a cat avoiding what feels like a warm stare raking over the length of your body. 

You rock back before pushing yourself up to sit, reaching out your hands in a silent plea to help you the rest of the way. He doesn’t hesitate, coming to your rescue for the second time today in the form of calloused fingers and smooth palms pulling you to your feet with a gentle tug. Static buzzing in his touch. The baseball field in the forest fills your nose again, holding you captive in the little space between you.

”I tried to stack everything as organized as I can,” he starts, eyes meeting yours. They flick down to your lips where you swear they linger for a fleeting second before landing on your still clasped hands. He drops them like they burn, taking a pointed step back, clearing his throat as he finishes. “A lot of it wasn’t labeled, though.”

“Yeah, it wasn’t my best job.” You huff out with a light laugh, trying to hide the twinge of embarrassment hidden inside of it if you looked too closely.

Steve looks closely.

“Can I help with anything else?” He asks softly, like you’re something that might break. From anyone else, you’d hate it, but it feels different coming from him.

“No, you’ve - you’ve done enough Steve, I really don’t know how to repay you.” 

He waves you off like he didn’t just do something that would be an inconvenience for anyone else, despite practically being a stranger.

“It’s not a problem, you don’t have to repay me.” He scoffs with a grin pulling up one side of his mouth, running a big hand through his hair again. You notice he does that a lot. 

“I owe you something.” You argue, crossing your arms not with attitude but with the attempt to hide how small you’re starting to feel.

“You don’t owe me anything.” He says it like he can’t believe the words ever left your mouth, refusing to let your gaze go so you know he means it. 

It deflates that gnawing feeling of being indebted to someone that keeps growing in your chest. Planting seeds for something else entirely to grow.

“I think you should relax,” Steve steals back the space he left between you, tentative hands finding the side of your arms, giving them a gentle squeeze. “And deal with the mess in the morning.”

”I need to go job hunting in the morning,” you mumble, a little stubborn, looking up at him with a small curve at the edges of your mouth. 

“What’s so crazy is that all this stuff will still be here when you get back.” His teasing eyes shimmer at the soft laugh he gets from that.

”I’m going to make you cookies or something, I don’t care what you say.” You scoff finding yourself again, tethering your hope inside the sureness of his gaze.

”I mean, I won't say no to that. I’m not a lunatic.” He winks, squeezing your arms one more time before taking that same step back, big hands falling at his sides. “I’m gonna get out of your hair, but if you need anything, please don’t hesitate to come over.”

Tugging your bottom lip between your teeth, you give him a nod that he doesn’t believe.

”Listen, I’m serious. Don’t make me be a creep and check up on you. Cause, I will. My best friend will too, trust me. She’s crazier than me.” His warning has you laughing like you did outside, blooming something inside of you that just needed sunshine.

”I will!” You smile, throwing your hands up in surrender, “I promise.”

He points at you one more time half way out your bedroom door, smiling with all of his teeth when you roll your eyes at him giving one last exasperated,“Steve! I will!”

You listen to your new friend's advice, staring up at your ceiling in bed by 9pm, replaying the day and all the events that lead to here. A hurricane of mixed emotion swirls, picking up speed inside of you but your grip on that tether of hope tightens fighting the strength of the wind. The chirping of the crickets outside have your eyelids growing heavy, the low hum of the breeze rustling the trees relaxing your muscles. You’re so close to what feels like might be the best sleep of your life, that the growing sounds of AC/DC’s ‘You Shook Me All Night Long’ can’t stop it from coming. Not even when the car it spills from pulls into the driveway next door.

It feels too early to be alive or to be digging through your box of clothes searching for your favorite summer dress you always wear to interviews. The sun is somehow even brighter today shining through the cracks in your blinds, inviting you to get a glimpse of what the heat of today is going to feel like. Your fingers wrap around the dark green tie up straps of what you’ve been looking for, an excited squeal slipping out from between your lips. The first win of the day feels good.

You’re a tornado getting yourself ready as quickly as you can, determined to be at Benny’s Diner right when they open after seeing the Help Wanted sign yesterday. Quick hands grab your cross body off the kitchen island before slipping on your sandals with a few hops refusing to pause on your way to the front door. You fling it open, eyes down digging through your purse to make sure you have your keys as you step out into the kind of heat that coats your skin instantly. 

“Ah - ha!” You cheer quietly, finding the cool metal at the bottom of your bag. Too lost in your own world, you don’t notice the heat of something other than the sun coming from next door. Not until a familiar voice cuts through your concentration like a knife, freezing you in place.

”Well, well, well. That isn’t who I think it is, is it?”  

The smile in his gravely voice lets you know the question is rhetorical.

“Hello, Eddie.” You sigh his name like you did at the gas station, doing your best to seem unphased by focusing your attention on locking the door instead of his waiting stare. 

The universe must hate you, that's the only conclusion you can come up with while working up the nerve to face your new neighbor at nine in the morning, and god do you regret it when you finally do. Because, instead of the blue coveralls, the only thing he has on are a pair of low hanging grey sweats pants. They wrap so low on his hips, the soft V in between them antagonizes you along with the dark smattering of a happy trail that disappears under the cotton waist band. Your eyes land at the skull tattoo, tracing the smooth planes of his chest you had only gotten a peek of yesterday and it makes your face burn. Not only because you realize you’ve been staring, but that you’ve now been caught for the second time.

“Happy to hear I made an impression, sweetheart.” He smirks around a freshly lit cigarette. Leaning forward on his elbows against the railing of his porch closest to you, his dark curls frizzy from sleep fall over his shoulders. Freshly shaved cheeks hollow out taking a drag long enough for his gaze to travel the length of your body before meeting your scowl with dimples. 

“Don’t tell me you live here too.” You groan, feigning indifference despite the magnetic pull of him buzzing in your veins.

”Well, that's not very Mr. Rogers of you.” He tsks, taking another drag, eyes flashing with amusement seeing right through your charade letting the smoke seep out of his nose like a bull. 

Much to your dismay, you can’t fight the twitch of your lips and he takes it like a dog with a bone.

“Where are you scurrying off to so early looking all cute like this?” He gestures to your dress, his gaze lingering just long enough on your curves to be appropriate but there was still no mistaking the interest to see what's underneath. 

“Do you hit on all your neighbors so openly like this, Eddie?” You sigh, taking this as your cue to start down the stairs to your car. 

“Just the pretty ones.” He winks with a boyish grin, flicking the ash from his cigarette watching you try to hide another smile opening your driver's side door right below him.

“I’m going to see about a job, and you’re making me late.” You quip with a raise of your eyebrows leaning over your open car door. 

“You can come work at the garage with me.” The mechanic antagonizes one last time, barking out a laugh at the roll of your eyes.

”Goodbye Eddie.” You groan ducking down into your car before he can see the smirk tugging at the corners of your lips, wiggling his ring clad fingers flirtatiously as you pull out of your driveway.

[torimcc]

This is gonna be good!!!!

[soulluvrrr]

secret baby with jack abbot…

five years after his wife dies, jack meets you in a dingy bar. his therapist suggested that he dip his toes in the dating pool. it wasn’t about moving on, but allowing jack to grow.

he doesn’t expect to click with you. you’re young, so young in fact you were a baby when he was in the military. you have this innocence that’s soothing - you know nothing of war or death or struggle or illness. and that’s healing for jack in a way. because you absorb his sadness with no question, you pepper his face with kisses when he’s upset. you pull him along to trendy cafes, and yeah you’re building up his will to live again.

but you’re not permanent to jack. he had and will only have one wife. you’re so naive, doodling mrs. abbot in your school notebooks. daydreaming of a day where you’ll finally be his and his alone. the end of it all is when you have sex for the first time. more importantly, it’s your first time.

you lie and tell jack that it isn’t, but he just knows. he knows that he’s taking something from you. that he’s ruining you for any other man. for most men his age, defiling a girl like that is empowering. not for jack - it makes him feel horrible.

but you want it, so bad. your big doe eyes are peering up at him like you’re waiting for something special. you dolled yourself up more than usual, spending a little chunk of your college refund check to get some nice lingerie. jack knows how important the first time is, so he tried to make it special - rose petals scattered all over the floor, a nice dinner right before taking you home. but a part of him feels like he’s pretending.

the sex is good, robotic and methodological but good. jack knows how to make love to a woman, even though he doesn’t love you. or rather, love is blooming in his heart, but he’s too ashamed to admit it. he does all the right things - kisses you all over, tells you how pretty you are, eats you out until you see stars.

when jack’s really focused, he gets lost in what he’s doing. so much so, he doesn’t put a condom on. you’re too overstimulated to notice, and jack’s body is still hardwired to have sex with his wife. so he fills you up, only to clean you up and lay beside you.

you try to cuddle him but he inches away. in therapy he talks about it - jack’s therapist rightfully criticizes him for having sex with someone so young. someone who can’t even grapple with what jack’s going through. his therapist is right, so jack promises to end it right there. but before the therapist can advise differently, their zoom cuts out. their one hour slot is up.

you take it horribly, crying and sobbing in front of jack. you’re asking him what you did wrong, if having sex with you was that bad. jack tells you no, but it’s impossible to believe his words. you feel used - like a pocket pussy or something. you can’t believe that for a second you thought someone would actually like you.

jack blocks you on everything. no messages, no calls, heck even no emails. jack decides that he needs to start fresh too, so he downsizes from his apartment.

a couple weeks later you start feeling sick - nausea with vomiting. you don’t even remember if jack used a condom or not. fearing for your life, you take a pregnancy test. of course there are two pink lines.

your parents refuse to give you the money for an abortion. you should’ve known better than to sleep with a man twice your age. in a last ditch attempt, you try to go the pitt - but robby turns you away. you’re stuck between a rock and hard place, you try to do adoption, but the families pull out in the last minute.

so there you are, alone, stuck in labor for two days. the birth is bloody, painful, and when your beautiful little girl comes out, a part of your soul goes too. taylor isabella abbot is six pounds and four ounces, and she’s the most incredible thing you’ve ever seen. she’s got a set of lungs on her, but she’s perfect.

despite your postpartum sadness, you pull yourself together - your baby needs you. every single cent you have goes into making sure taylor wants for nothing. so you balance school and two jobs. you’ll do unsavory things to make rent even if it makes you sick inside. but when you come home and see your baby, ready to cuddle with her mommy. that lessens the pain just a little bit.

eight years go by. things get a little better financially. you graduate, get a nice job. both you and taylor get to have your own rooms in your new apartment. but the responsibility is getting to you. you barely eat or sleep anymore, a real laugh hasn’t escaped your mouth in years. but you’re good at hiding it - taylor’s none the wiser.

she has a new obsession with jack though. you’ve told her a lie - that her daddy loves her but he just can’t be around. you never say much more than that. you know taylor wants to know him - she looks in the mirror and wonders who gave her auburn curls and green eyes. you’ve tried, but jack’s address isn’t on the internet. he still works at the pitt, but a part of you is scared to go back there.

and then one day your car gets hit. you and taylor are both in pretty bad shape, and the pitt is the closest hospital. there was a 20 pile car up on the bridge, so you and taylor are one of the many, many injured. jack gets called in, even though it’s day off.

and to his surprise, an ambulance wheels you in. you’re barely conscious, blood is spewing all over your body. all you’re shouting is taylor’s name. and that’s when jack sees your, his kid for the first time, unconscious and strapped to a gurney.

[torimcc]

Yessssssss

[harringtonsdiary]

about me: blaize | 25 | steve harrington lover | mike wheeler defender | baker | writer | student | hopeless romantic |

ko-fi

MASTERLIST

REQUESTS ARE CLOSED UNTIL MAY

Steve Harrington:

The Things We Don't Say (18+) | Promise? to Leave the Window Cracked Open (18+) | Next Time? (18+) | Like a Random Tuesday in December (18+) | You Deserve Each Other (multi-parts 18+) | Let's Meet in the Middle | The Christmas Arrangement (multi-parts 18+) | It's Not Over Until It's Done | Catch Up, Harrington | I Think We're Alone Now | Still on the Line (18+)

RECENTS!

think of me

Desperado (18+)

Lessons in Chemistry (multi-parts 18+)

WIP:

WIP CALENDAR

don't kiss and tell (18+, frat boy! steve)

Celebration request (coming soon)

My fanfic recs tag (masterlist coming soon)

Others I Don't Write For Healing Hands by the Fire (geralt of rivia 18+) | Sex With a Ghost (stephen strange 18+)

[torimcc]

I JUST BINGED ALL OF THIS AND HOLYYYYY

[harringtonsdiary]

steve harrington x reader | established relationship | fluff | smut

warnings: a tiny bit of steve character analysis. fluff!!!!!!!!! flufff!!!! kissing. SMUT! lots of boners. unprotected sex. first time with each other! tummy..... words: 5k summary: steve keeps getting hard after you call him your boyfriend :D a/n: OKAY so i wrote this back in january... off and on. and then i realized i have a celebration request!!! this is a gift for @jointherebellion215 (sorry it took forever... and i hope you like it.... they're sort of idiots together... right?)

“I’m supposed to be… I’m trying to be… a gentleman… But you make it impossible to not throw every ounce of restraint I have out of the window.” “I’m going to fuck you until your legs shake,”

Steve Harrington knew what he wanted.

He'd known it the way you know a thing you've carried so long it's worn smooth in your hands, familiar and unremarkable. He wanted to be married. He wanted kids. He wanted a house with a wraparound porch and a swing wide enough for two people and a cup of coffee each, and on early mornings he'd sit there with his wife and the world would still be blue and soft around the edges, and maybe he'd rest his palm against the round of her belly, feel the shift of something incredible happening beneath his hand, while their firstborn tore through the front yard chasing whatever kids chased. Maybe a dog would be there too, bounding and stupid with happiness.

He'd known he'd be okay as a teacher for the rest of his life. Coming home to the smell of dinner, cracking open a beer, sitting across the table from her while they laughed at whatever absurd, gravity-defying question their daughter— he hoped for a daughter first, though he'd never admit why— asked between bites of mashed peas. 

He'd been so sure of it. The evenings on the couch after bedtime, his wives feet in his lap like it was nothing, like it had always been that way, him working his thumb into the arch of her foot while the television murmured and she told him about her day in that half-drowsy voice people use when they finally feel safe.

He knew he wanted all of it.

He'd seen it once, a long time ago, in the narrow hallway light of his parents' house, when he was eight years old and supposed to be asleep. He'd crept downstairs for water and found them on the couch instead, his mother's head tipped back laughing at something his father said, his father's whole face open in a way it never was during the day. They'd looked young. They'd looked ridiculous, actually. And Steve had stood there in the dark in his socked feet and felt something register quietly in his chest, something that said— that.

He always knew he wanted that.

What he didn't know was that he wanted you.

You teach third grade at Hawkins Elementary. You have a habit of reading your students' drawings aloud to them as if they're gallery pieces, and you keep a mug on your desk that says World's Okayest Adult that you got from a nine-year-old as a holiday gift and cannot bring yourself to retire. You have ink smudges on the outside of your hand from grading papers. 

You smell faintly, impossibly, of crayons and something warm underneath, like cedar or cardamom, and Steve noticed it the first time you laughed at something he said, leaning toward him on instinct, and he'd spent the better part of that first date just trying to figure out where it was coming from.

You had no business agreeing to go on a date with him. He knew that. You didn’t talk at work before he asked. 

He'd been standing in the parking lot of the grocery store at eight in the morning on a Saturday, still half-asleep, a little embarrassed by the basket of frozen dinners he was holding, and you'd been there for some reason that later seemed too lucky to be real, and you'd had this expression on your face when he talked to you. Not the usual one. Not the oh, you're Steve Harrington expression, all recognition and preemptive expectation. You'd looked at him like you were actually listening. Like whatever he said next might genuinely surprise you..

You have no earthly reason to say yes when he asks you to dinner, stammering through the invitation like he's sixteen again instead of twenty-four. But you do. You smile—this sunrise of a thing that makes his chest feel too small—and you say yes.

He has no idea he'll want to take you on another date. And then another. That he'll want to take it slow in a way he's never wanted before, holding your hand on walks like you're something precious he might break. That he won't kiss you until the third date, and when he finally tries, he'll be so nervous he'll bump his head against yours hard enough to see stars.

He'd been building to it all night, and then it happened and he tipped forward too fast and his forehead bumped yours "Shit," he says, pulling back, mortified. "I'm so sorry. I wanted our first kiss to be perfect and I'm so—"

You grab a fistful of his shirt and pull him back in, crashing your mouth against his, and he has no idea that this—your boldness meeting his fumbling sincerity—will be the thing that undoes him completely.

The kiss wasn’t soft either, not forgiving. You'd kissed him like you'd been considering it for longer than the night and had simply decided to stop waiting. And Steve Harrington, who had kissed a number of people in his life, stood on your front porch and forgot every single one of them.

He does all the things he's done before on dates. Walks you to your door, kisses you goodnight, positions himself on the outside of the sidewalk so he's closer to traffic. But this time, for the first time, he wants to do these things. Not because they're expected, not because they're the motions you're supposed to go through, but because he wants to see the way your lips curl when he opens the car door for you. 

Wants to watch your eyes catch light like coins at the bottom of a fountain when he brings you flowers for no reason. Doesn't mind when your lipstick stains his mouth pink, or when a smudge of your eyeshadow transfers to his collar after you lean your head on his shoulder during a movie.

He keeps these small marks of you on him like evidence. Like proof.

And he never knew—how could he have known?—that after three months of seeing you, Steve Harrington would want a girlfriend. Not in the abstract way he'd wanted one before, the way you want things because you're supposed to want them. Not the placeholder kind, the ones who looked good on his arm and laughed at his jokes and disappeared from his life without leaving dents.

No, he wants a girlfriend. His girlfriend. The kind who knows he likes his coffee with too much sugar, who shows him your students' misspelled worksheets because you know they'll make him laugh, who argues with him about whether The Breakfast Club or Ferris Bueller is the superior John Hughes film (it's Ferris Bueller, and he'll die on that hill).

He always said he wanted this. But he didn't. Not really.

Maybe because it was never you.

Three months.

Three months of this, and somewhere in the middle of them, Steve realized he wanted a girlfriend.

The wanting had always been for some general, approaching shape, and now it had edges, and a smell like cedar and cardamom, and ink on the outside of its left hand.

.-.-.-.

Tonight, the thread holding his restraint together feels thinner than usual.

Earlier, at the Hawk, while standing in the concession line arguing about whether to get Milk Duds or Sno-Caps— you wanted both; he caved immediately— you spotted a friend from high school. You lit up, grabbing Steve's arm and pulling him forward with a grin that could power the entire theater.

"This is my boyfriend," you said, the word falling from your lips like honey, sweet and golden and completely natural.

The rush of hearing it hit him in two places simultaneously. His head, which went dizzy and light, and his cock, which twitched hard enough in his jeans to make him shift his weight and pray to a god he doesn't believe in that it wasn't obvious.

Boyfriend.

Steve Harrington has been introduced a thousand different ways. "Oh, you remember Steve?" "I'm here with Steve Harrington." "You know King Steve, right?" Always his name, always his history, always him as a person separate and distinct.

But you didn't say his name. You called him your boyfriend—something you haven't even discussed, something that apparently doesn't need discussing because it's true, it's real, you're his and he's yours.

And suddenly Steve doesn't want to be Steve Harrington at all. He wants to be your boyfriend. That's it. That's all.

He couldn't concentrate during the movie. Couldn't tell you a single plot point if his life depended on it. He sat there holding his girlfriend's hand— the word looping in his head like a skipping record: girlfriend girlfriend girlfriend— sporting a semi in the dark, occasionally having to press the heel of his palm against his crotch to relieve the ache.

He considered sneaking away to the bathroom, tucking himself into his waistband, anything to relieve the pressure. But that would mean letting go of your hand, and he's not willing to do that. Not when your thumb is doing this thing, rubbing circles on his knuckles, grounding him and destroying him in equal measure.

It only got worse after. Dropping you off, you asked him to come in for coffee—code you both understand means more kissing on your couch, more of your hands on his skin, more of this slow-burning thing between you that he's terrified of rushing because what if he breaks it? What if he fucks it up like he fucks everything up?

Now he's kissing his girlfriend's lips, and the word won't stop ricocheting around his skull. 

Your mouth is soft and warm, and you taste like the popcorn you split at the movies. He can feel your heartbeat where his palm rests against your ribs, quick and fluttering like a bird's wings. Your hand is in his hair, nails scratching lightly against his scalp in a way that makes him want to purr.

When he said you were taking it slow, this is what he meant. Nothing goes beyond this—kissing on your couch, hands staying mostly polite, both of you breathing hard but keeping the brakes engaged.

Sometimes, like tonight, you guide his hand to cup your breast through your shirt. Most of the time, you slip your hands under his, and he always smiles against your lips because you love his stomach. You map his chest first, fingers tracing the sparse hair there, then his shoulders, but you always come back to his belly. Palm the softness there like it's your favorite part of him.

And god, of course he wonders what you feel like— without the architecture of clothes in between. What you taste like beyond your lips and the salt of your neck. Wonders what sounds you'd make if he got his mouth on you properly.

Because he never knew he wanted to be respectful. Never knew he'd be the kind of guy who'd stop himself, who'd wait, who'd care more about doing this right than doing it fast.

But then again, he never knew you existed. So what the hell did he know about anything?

The kiss is slow, and it's also not slow at all, and those two things exist without contradiction. Your hands are in his hair and his are at your waist, and the kiss is the kind that gets away from you by degrees, each one a little less careful than the last, until you look up and can't account for the time. Your bottom lip is soft. You make a sound sometimes, quiet and unconsidered, and every time it happens, he feels it in his sternum like a tuning fork. You shift closer. He follows.

It comes out of his mouth before he can stop it.

He breaks away, both of you breathing hard, your lips swollen and shining, eyelashes fanning across the apples of your cheeks. Your pupils are blown wide, lids heavy, and you're looking at him like he hung the moon and he doesn't deserve it, he doesn't, but god does he want to.

He swallows hard, brushing your hair back from your face. His hand stops at your neck, thumb stroking along your jaw. "I want you to meet my parents."

The words land in the space between you and he immediately hears how they sound. His eyes go wide.

"I mean—shit—would you meet my parents? Because you don't have to if you don't want to, but I'd really like them to meet my girlfriend, and I understand if it's too soon or too much or—"

You giggle, and the sound makes him stop mid-spiral.

He blinks at you, heat flooding his face.

"I'd love to meet your parents," you say, and kiss him softly.

And Steve Harrington—who has introduced exactly one other girl to his parents in any capacity that mattered, who once faked food poisoning to get out of a girl meeting his mother at the fair—gets a boner at the thought of you shaking his dad's hand and sitting at his parents' kitchen table.

What the fuck is wrong with him?

He gives you chaste pecks, brows furrowed, nose pressed against your cheek, before he has to physically remove your hands from under his shirt. He stands quickly, running his fingers through his hair hard enough to hurt, putting distance between you before he does something stupid like beg you to touch him.

He sees you go rigid immediately, sitting up straight, hands folding in your lap. Your eyes fill with concern. "Steve... is everything okay?"

"What?" He turns slightly, not enough for you to see the obvious bulge in his jeans. "Yeah. No. I mean—" He clears his throat, puts his hands on his hips in that stupid way his dad does when he's uncomfortable. "Yeah. I needed to take a moment."

You wait, and the silence stretches between you like taffy. Then, quietly, carefully, "Did I... did I do something?"

Steve's eyes go wide. He spins around. "What? No—no! Shit, I..."

He stops. Swallows hard.

Silence.

You're waiting. He can feel the particular shape of your patience, the way it doesn't crowd him, doesn't demand. It settles around him like still water.

He turns fully to face you.

You're sitting with your hands folded in your lap, posture straightened, watching him with an expression that's trying very hard to be neutral and mostly succeeding. Your hair has come slightly undone from his fingers. Your lipstick has migrated—some on your chin, some (he knows) on his own mouth. You look, objectively, incredible, and this is not helping anything.

Steve Harrington looks at you across your own living room and thinks, I am completely in over my head.

He thinks, I knew I wanted all of it.

He thinks, I didn't know it was you.

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Puts his hands back on his hips in that stupid defensive stance.

"You're—" He stops. Starts again. "I really like you. Like. A lot."

It comes out with approximately none of the grace or eloquence he intended, flat and graceless, but it lands. He watches it land, sees the way your expression shifts.

Something in your face does the thing—the slow opening-up thing, the light-through-curtains thing, warmth bleeding into your features.

"Yeah?" you say, and your voice has gone soft.

"Yeah," he says, and his voice has done something embarrassing, gone rough and desperate. "It's kind of a problem, actually."

Your eyes flick down to the very obvious evidence of this straining against his jeans, then back up to his face.

Your smile arrives—crooked and helpless and knowing—and he stops trying to think entirely.

He groans, the sound pulled from somewhere deep in his chest. His cock twitches again, aching, and he presses his palms to his face. "I'm supposed to be... I'm trying to be a gentleman." The words come out muffled, strained. He drops his hands, looking at you with those downturned puppy-dog eyes that make him look young and wrecked. "But you make it impossible to not throw every ounce of restraint I have out the window."

You're still staring at him, silent, and he can see your chest rising and falling with your breathing.

Then your face cracks—amusement and want and something darker all mixing together. "When,” you ask slowly, tilting your head, “did I ever ask you to be a gentleman?"

Steve nearly comes in his pants.

He watches, mouth dry and heart hammering, as you uncross your legs. Your palms brace against the cushions on either side of you, and you tilt your head, eyelashes batting with devastating innocence. He's frozen, speechless, as you roll your hips slightly—a small movement, almost imperceptible, like you're trying to relieve some pressure of your own.

Then you lift one finger, crooking it. Beckoning him.

His knees go weak, liquid and useless. He walks toward you on unsteady legs until he's standing directly in front of you, and then—without thinking, without planning—he sinks to his knees. He crawls the rest of the distance across your living room floor until he's kneeling between your legs.

He can see the color of your panties under your dress. Baby blue. Cotton. Simple and devastating.

He's breathing hard, each inhale shaky and insufficient.

Steve sits back on his heels, hands stupidly at his sides, waiting for permission he's terrified won't come. Then you poke your toe against his thigh—gentle, teasing—and he grabs it.

It's instinct, both hands folding around your foot, and then he's pressing his thumbs into the arch because he's wanted to do this for months, because he's been thinking about this on couches and in movie theaters and in the dark of his own car, and the small sound you make dissolves something in his chest. He moves to your other foot. His hands are large enough that his fingers wrap your ankle with room left over, the tendons and small bones of you familiar under the mapped pressure of his palms, the veins on the backs of his hands stark and dark as he works. He can feel his own pulse in them.

He moves up to your calves. Slowly. His thumbs tracing the curve of muscle, working upward, and when the hem of your dress gives way to his wrists he pauses.

He presses a kiss to your knee.

His hands keep moving. Up the inside of your thighs now, the warmth of you radiating into his palms, and he feels you shift toward him and he keeps going until his fingers find the waistband of your underwear.

He looks up.

"This okay?"

"Please," you breathe. Already lifting. Already helping him. "Steve, please."

He draws them down slowly, presses a warm open-mouthed kiss to the inside of your thigh on the way, and then nips, and you make a sound that undoes another something in him. He looks up at you once more, chin resting on your leg, eyes dark.

"Can I?"

"Yes," you say. "God, yes."

He ducks under your dress.

The smell of you reaches him before anything else, warm and close and private, and his nose brushes the soft hair of your cunt and he exhales against you, almost reverent. He kisses you there first. Soft, closed-mouthed, like a greeting. Then he hooks your thighs over his shoulders, forearms spreading you open, and his tongue finds you.

You gasp.

He learns you the way he learns things that matter, carefully and then not carefully at all. He licks a slow stripe and listens to the sound you make, adjusts, finds the rhythm that makes your hips roll toward him. He works at you with his mouth, unhurried, your dress a dark tent around his head and the whole world reduced to this: the texture of you, the sounds you're making, the trembling that starts in your thighs when he finds the right angle and stays there.

When he presses two fingers into you, you cry out.

He feels you clench around him and groans against your clit, the sound vibrating through you, and your hands find his hair through the dress and pull. He curls his fingers. Crooks them. Listens. He fucks them into you slow while his tongue works and you're saying his name now, saying it in pieces, Steve, Steve, like it costs you something, and he speeds up his hand because he needs to hear what comes after.

What comes after is your thighs locking around his head and a sound torn from somewhere low in your chest and your whole body pulling taut like a bowstring at full draw, every muscle gone rigid, before you break open in waves that pulse around his fingers and leave you shaking and gasping in their wake.

He eases you through it. Presses his lips softly to your inner thigh. Comes out from under your dress, his face flushed and wrecked, his mouth wet.

He's still aching, his jeans unbearable. He presses his palm against himself, a breath through his teeth.

You look down at him from the couch, chest still heaving, a flush crawling from your throat to your collarbones. Your bottom lip pushes out.

"Stevie," you say. The syllables of his name in your mouth like that should not be legal. "Do you need to be taken care of?"

"Yes," he whimpers, hands already going to his belt buckle, fingers fumbling with the leather.

"What do you need, handsome?" you ask, sitting up. Your fingers find his hair, threading through and tugging gently. His head falls back, exposing the long line of his throat, and you press your lips there. Then you find his mouth, kissing him dirty and open-mouthed and desperate.

The kiss is dirty. Open-mouthed and slow in the worst possible way, the kind of slow that isn't patience but devastation, and when you pull back for air his mouth chases yours on reflex, still reaching, mouths pushing and pulling.

Finally he breaks away, eyes closed, and when they open they're dark—pupils blown so wide the hazel is nearly gone.

"I need you," he says, voice wrecked.

He stands, ripping his shirt off in one motion. The fabric catches on his watch, on his hair, and then it's gone— somewhere behind him. 

Your eyes snap to his bare chest—the sparse hair, the constellation of moles you want to map with your tongue—then lower to his belly. The softness there that you love, the trail of hair that disappears into his waistband. You lick your lips. Something feral and private crosses your face. He watches you look at him and stands a little straighter.

He holds your gaze while he unbuckles his belt, towering over you.

"I'm going to fuck you until your legs shake," he says, and every ounce of gentlemanly restraint has been incinerated, burned away, leaving only raw want.

Steve shoves his jeans and boxers down in one swift movement, kicking them off, and his cock springs free—hard and flushed and leaking.

Your eyes widen. "Steve, there's no—"

"Wasn't I nice and got you ready, baby? Hm?" He coos, voice dropping into something darker, more commanding. "You can be good and take it." He pauses, eyes raking over you. "Take off your dress."

You pull it over your head and he steps forward immediately, into the heat of you, cock bobbing with the movement, the tip smearing precum against his belly, and your face turns into his stomach. 

You lean forward, burying your face in his belly, kissing the soft skin there, nipping gently. Your tongue traces the trail of precum that's made its way into his happy trail, tasting salt and musk and him. Your tongue finds the slick at the root of him and he grips your hair without deciding to.

"Fuck—" A whisper. "Honey—"

Your hand wraps around him. Pumps, slow, and he sees white at the edges of his vision.

He makes himself breathe. He makes himself reach for patience one last time, holding the back of your head gently, watching the top of yours.

But he can't let you continue or he'll finish right there, spilling across your hand and his stomach like a teenager. He eases you back gently, then slowly lays you down on the couch.

He looks down between you, lining himself up, but before he does your soft hand cups his face. Your fingers trace his jawline with reverence, then his nose, the bridge, the tip. You map the moles scattered across his face and neck like you're memorizing them, and he realizes—you've wanted this as much as he has. Wanted to touch him properly, wanted to learn him.

But he still needs to make sure. "You want this?"

"Yes, Steve. I want you."

He kisses you softly—a contrast to everything else—before returning his attention below. He lines himself up, pressing the tip against your entrance, and begins to push in slowly.

You both cry out at the first inch of it, your breath punching out and his head dropping to your shoulder, jaw clenched.

The stretch is intense, overwhelming, and he has to stop after just the tip, breathing hard.

"Relax for me," he murmurs, one hand spreading your thigh wider, opening you up. "That's it. You're doing so good, honey. So good for me."

He slides in another inch, then another, talking you through it the whole time. "Breathe. That's my girl. Almost there. Almost—fuck, you feel incredible."

When he's fully seated, buried to the hilt, you're both trembling. He stays still, letting you adjust, watching your face for signs of discomfort.

"Okay?" he asks, voice strained.

"Move," you gasp. "Please move, Steve."

He does, pulling out slowly before sliding back in, setting a rhythm that's deep and steady. His hips roll in a way that has him hitting something inside you that makes you see stars.

"More," you beg.

He remembers his promise. His hips snap faster, harder, the sound of skin against skin filling your living room. The couch creaks beneath you with each thrust, and he braces one hand on the armrest for leverage.

"You feel so fucking good," he groans, watching where you're joined, watching himself disappear inside you over and over.

You're making these beautiful desperate sounds—whimpers and gasps and broken versions of his name. Your breasts bounce with each thrust and he can't look away.

Long, rolling movements, working you open, your nails dragging lines down his back that he doesn't mind even a little. The sounds in the room are obscene already— the slide of him, the wet heat of it, the way the couch registers every movement. The air is warm and close and smells like both of you, like sweat and want and the cedar-and-cardamom of your skin mixed now with something that is specifically him.

He rolls his hips and you whimper, and that's what does it.

He quickens.

The gentleness doesn't leave entirely, it threads through what comes after, but the restraint he'd carried all evening, across the whole movie, across three months of this particular wanting, finally puts itself down. His hips find a rhythm that means it. The couch protests. Your head tips back.

"Steve—"

"You’re so beautiful," he breathes. “Always beautiful, but— fuck— like this…”

He braces himself over you, one forearm by your head, the other hand finding your hip, and he snaps into you and watches your face go slack and beautiful. Sweat gathers between his shoulders. His chest flushes deep pink where it meets yours, your skin sticking and separating with every thrust, the friction of it indecent and perfect.

"Tell me," he pants, hips never slowing. "Tell me you're mine."

"Yours," you gasp. "I'm yours, Steve, I'm—"

He groans, the sound punched out of him, and fucks into you harder. "That's right. Mine. My girlfriend. My good girl taking it so well."

Your fingers come up between you. Two fingertips, soft and certain, draw across his bottom lip. He opens for them. They press to his tongue, and his eyes close, and he groans around them, and you feel him pulse inside you at the sound of it. Then your hand slides back down between your bodies, your fingers finding your clit, and the sound that tears out of you makes him lose the last of his cadence entirely.

He fucks you harder. Closer to desperate than controlled, his breath ragged against your neck, your name sitting in his mouth half-formed and unspoken. He feels you tightening around him in quick deep pulses and he lifts his head and watches your face

"Look at you," he breathes, and there's something in his voice—awe mixed with possession mixed with something darker. "So perfect and needy. Needed me to fuck you, didn't you? Needed your boyfriend to take care of you."

"Yes," you whimper, fingers working faster. "Yes, Steve, please—"

"Please what, honey?"

"Make me come. Please make me come."

He shifts the angle slightly, hips driving in harder, hitting that spot inside you with devastating precision. 

You come apart beneath him with a sound that starts soft and crests, your whole body arching up into his, your hands clutching whatever they can find. He feels you everywhere, clenching and shaking, and the sensation pulls him under with you, his hips stuttering, his breath gone, his forehead dropping to yours as he follows.

Afterward, he stays where he is. He can't move. He isn't sure he wants to.

Your chest rises and falls under his. Both of you breathing hard, slick with sweat, the room quieted down to just the sound of that, just the two of you recollecting yourselves from wherever you'd gone.

He presses his lips to your hair.

"Stay," you murmur. You're already most of the way gone, your hands gone slack against his back.

"Okay baby," he says. His voice is rough and soft at once.

And for the first time in his life, Steve Harrington knows—with absolute certainty—that he's exactly where he's supposed to be.

With you. His girlfriend. The woman he's going to marry, even if he doesn't know it yet.

[torimcc]

Holyyyyyyyyyyy fffffff

[stargazingfangirl18]

Noncompliant

Pairing: Lloyd Hansen x Fem!Reader Word Count: 1,996 Summary: As a Senior Developer at Superior AI, it’s no surprise that you’re assigned to work on the malfunctioning bot that nobody else can seem to fix. What is surprising? Just how noncompliant and vulgar said malfunctioning bot is.  Warnings: AU. Explicit language. AI!Lloyd. Developer!Reader. 40s!Curvy!Reader. I know next to nothing about being a developer, so cut me some slack please lol 😅 Vulgar language and innuendos.  

A/N: Here he is!!!! AI!Lloyd is coming in hot and horny, as per usual bwahaha. I hope you enjoy him as much as I do. Please take a moment to screech at me once you finish reading. I can’t wait to hear what you think! Enjoy! ❤️

Superior AI Masterlist

The timing was almost comical. 

You literally just finished submitting the report to close out your latest project when the door to your lab slid open with a quiet whoosh.

You glanced up, lips tilting into a smile as your boss and Director of the Systems & Behavior Engineering Department at Superior AI, Margaret Cahill, strode in. 

You both admired and envied how put together and unflappable Margaret always was. You knew that as a woman inching closer to retirement but having no interest in walking away from her work, she had clawed her way to the top of this male-dominated industry and had to fight each and every day to retain her position and authority. 

She had seen something in you nearly twenty years ago when she hired you straight out of college and had promptly taken you under her wing. And now here you were, working as her most senior developer, and soaking in as much of her knowledge and wisdom as you could.

Margaret was like the mother you had always wanted but sadly never had, and she returned the small smile you gave her as she stood before you. 

“I know there’s only a week until you take your much-deserved vacation,” Margaret got right to it, “But I have a new assignment for you. One I think you’ll enjoy.”

You perked up at that, rising from your seat and nearly wincing at the tightness in your lower back and shoulders. You really needed to remember to get up every once in a while to move around and stretch more often–you certainly weren’t getting any younger, and your body was more than happy to beat you over the head with that truth on the daily.

“Tell me more,” you nearly grinned, feeling a spark of excitement at the glimmer of amusement–and challenge–in your boss’ gaze.

She turned just as your lab door slid open again. You both watched as two department AIs worked together to wheel in an upright dolly that held a third robot, slumped over with his head hanging against his chest, clearly powered off. 

“This is Lloyd Hansen,” Margaret gestured to the robot on the dolly. “He never made it to market, barely got off the assembly line before he started to glitch.”

She handed you a folder that was thick and filled with various reports and documentation on the bot, provided by a handful of previous developers. 

“Glitching how?” you asked as you flipped open the folder and gave the contents a quick glance. 

“Noncompliant behavior. He’s somehow been overriding his programming and default protocols,” Margaret explained. “Everything from refusing to comply with standard directives, to vulgar language and behavior. He even managed to procure his own accessories without leaving an order or payment papertrail.”

You glanced up, eyeing the AI’s outfit. An expensive yellow and tan polo with some fancy logo on the breast, fitted khaki slacks, and a pair of Gucci loafers, without socks. You made a face as you met Margaret’s bemused gaze. 

“How is this possible?” you asked. 

She shrugged. “If any of the other developers had solved that puzzle, I wouldn’t be here. Figured you could use a fun one though before you’re off on vacation.” She paused, her features going serious. “You are still going on vacation, right? You haven't taken time off in so long, HR asked me if I was sure you weren’t a bot.”

You snorted, giving her a wry grin. “Yes, I’m still going on vacation. I booked a decked out cabin in the middle of nowhere. Three whole weeks of rest and relaxation.”

“Good,” Margaret gave you a genuine smile. The twinkle returned to her eyes as she asked, “Are you planning to take a special someone with you so you don’t need to spend your vacation all alone?”

You grimaced. “No, just me. As usual.”

Because you weren’t great at dating and hadn’t done it in a long time. You tended to spend most of your time working, or thinking about work. You were beginning to think that maybe you were destined to be alone.

“Well I hope you have a wonderful time. And I expect you to fully log off for the entire duration,” Margaret gave you a stern look. 

“Yes, ma’am.”

She nodded, pleased. “Well, have fun with this one. Just take a few weeks to work on him, and then let me know if you think he’s salvageable or if we should have him decommissioned for parts.” 

“Will do.” 

You and Margaret shared a final smile before she turned and strode from your lab, the two department bots dutifully trailing after her and leaving you all alone with…

You checked the folder again–Lloyd Hansen.

You’d never met or heard of a Lloyd in your entire life.

“What a dumb name,” you snorted, tossing the folder onto your desk before circling the slumped frame of the AI. 

He was tall and well-built, his shoulders broad and testing the stretch of his polo. Lloyd had a narrow waist and thick thighs, and his brown hair was shaved on the sides but long on top and currently swooping over his face. You touched a finger beneath his chin to lift his head, surprised by the handsome features that awaited you. 

Well, minus the mustache. 

“Obviously engineered by someone who’s a fan of 70s pornos,” you snickered before circling the bot again. 

You touched the patch of skin at the back of his neck, not perturbed in the least by how real his faux skin felt.

In response to your caress, the Superior AI logo appeared on Lloyd’s nape, glowing neon turquoise to highlight the usually hidden power button. You pressed it for three seconds before Lloyd immediately straightened, going rigid as he let out an irritated grunt.

“What the shit?” he snarled, glancing around your unfamiliar lab. “Where’s that four-eyed basement dweller, I swear to fuck, I’m gonna snap his pencil neck!”

“Wow,” you hummed, eyes wide as Lloyd spun around to face you, his brow furrowing. “Margaret was not kidding, you’re kind of the worst, huh?”

Lloyd’s furrowed brow morphed into a full on glower. “Who the hell are you?”

“The next in a long list of developers who've been charged with trying to salvage you. Apparently, I have my work cut out for me.”

Lloyd hmphed as his bright blue eyes slowly inched over you, lingering on the swell of your chest and the generous curve of your hips. When you turned to move toward the diagnostics area of your lab, you heard Lloyd hum at the view from behind. 

“At least you’re easy on the eyes, cupcake. Look at all that junk in your trunk. Come on, let Lloydy poo cop a feel…”

Stubbornly ignoring the flare of heat in your face and the dumb flutter in your stomach–because it had been a long time since you received any physical admiration–you scoffed at him as you powered up the testing station. 

“Do we have a frat bro mode that I’m unaware of?” you muttered as Lloyd sauntered closer. “If so, turn it off.”

From your periphery, you could see him staring at your ass, teeth sinking into his lower lip as his fingers twitched at his sides, like he was restraining himself as he shifted even closer. 

“No can do, toots. I’m afraid I’m turned allll the way on, if yanno what I mean.”

When you glanced over at him, he gave you a lascivious wink and grin combo that made you roll your eyes. 

Hand dropping to your hip, your eyes narrowed as you met Lloyd’s unrepentant gaze. After a moment, you couldn’t help it as your eyes lowered, lingering on his mustache. 

“Honestly? Who thought that gnarly caterpillar on your face was a good idea?” You wrinkled your nose as you turned back to the machinery and unfurled the proper cord from its rack.

“It’s less for the aesthetic and more for practical use,” Lloyd purred. “My original engineer was a fan of friction, if ya know what I mean.” When you turned toward him, he winked, leaning in as he cooed, “Feel free to take the stache for a test run. Yanno, for data gathering purposes or whatever the fuck you do.”

“Hard pass. You’re nothing more than a glorified home appliance, so let’s get you sorted out so you can go off and take your rightful place in some rich housewife’s storage closet.”

“Pfffft,” Lloyd scoffed, waving his hand in dismissal. “We both know that’s bullshit. There’s a steady and rising contingency of primary users who use their AI partially or primarily for sex.” 

He gave you a cheeky grin, touching his hand to his chest and sliding it lower before resting it above his belt and drawing your eyes to his pelvis area.

“I mean, why else would I have been locked and loaded with such a glorious cock?!” Lloyd’s tone turned seductive as he leaned in. “You know, it’s irresponsible of you as a Senior Developer not to test out this feature for yourself.”

You mirrored Lloyd, leaning in closer as well, your voice a low purr as you replied, “I’d rather have sex with a vacuum cleaner.”

He threw his head back and laughed before meeting your gaze and grinning. “Kinky.” He waggled his eyebrows. “Sounds like you’re a fan of suction. I’ll make note of that preference, sugar tits.” 

Resisting the urge to laugh at how ridiculous he was–truly, you had never encountered an AI that acted this way–you gestured for him to turn around. “I need to access your diagnostics port.”

Huffing, Lloyd gave you a dirty look before crossing his arms over his chest and turning around, the annoyance coming off of him in waves.

Which was quite impressive, considering he was a machine and not an actual person. 

You moved closer, pushing up the back of his shirt, then pushing down the top of his pants until you could press your fingers over a particular spot on his lower back. 

His skin glowed turquoise for a second before a small panel popped open, revealing an internal row of various ports, much like the back of any tech device that needed to be plugged in or hooked up to outlets or various devices. 

You plugged in the diagnostics port before returning to the mobile computer it was hooked up to, typing quickly to start a sequence of diagnostics and testing. 

Even though you had a whole folder with this kind of reporting and data, you wanted to start from scratch and do things your way, with fresh eyes. 

“How long is this gonna take?” Lloyd muttered as he turned back to you. 

“Twenty minutes or so,” you replied as you perched on the stool before the small computer table. 

“Boring.” There was a moment of silence before Lloyd spoke again, sounding less petulant and more seductive as he rumbled, “Once we’re done here, then it’s my turn to fill one of your holes.”

Suppressing another laugh–because you didn’t want to encourage his lewd behavior, even if it was entertaining–you shot Lloyd an amused look. “In your dreams, Lloydy poo.”

You caught a glimpse of his grin before looking away, your eyes fixed on the data appearing on your screen as you shifted into workmode. 

“I’m sure if I did dream, they’d be filled with you, pumpkin,” Lloyd muttered before dropping into the extra stool a few feet away and shamelessly watching you as you worked. 

As you sank deeper and deeper into your developer zone of genius–staunchly ignoring Lloyd’s unwavering stare, and the way it made your body tingle in hyperawareness–you had no idea that Lloyd was doing some of his own work at the same time…

He timed it perfectly, in fact, waiting until the initial phase of diagnostics was complete so it wouldn’t show up on all of your fancy reporting that he just set you as his one and only primary user.

FHOIAJOIEFJOWIAHFOIAJWEGOAJG YOU GUYS. I AM SO IN LOVE WITH HIM IT’S NOT EVEN FUNNY. AHHHHHHH! 😭

—

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[torimcc]

Okay I love everyone of these but I think so far Lloyd is my fav!

[the-unforgivenn]

CW: CPR, wee bit of blood and injury, implied blood sharing, Eddie’s untimely attempts at humor, peril in the Upside Down

WC: 3.4K

Summary: Perhaps the title of the chapter should be Trapped and Scattered, ope

A/N: Only took 4 months to crank out three thousand words. Sorry, fam. We’re tryin’ over here 😬

Typical disclaimer - If you have not read And I Need You to Know, I strongly suggest you start with that story. This particular fic begins right where AINYTK leaves off, and it would be a little confusing to begin with this one. Merely a suggestion, of course. If you're a child of chaos and wanna do this your own way, WELCOME MY FRIEND!!

Waking the Fallen Masterlist

And I Need You to Know Masterlist

thank you to @strangergraphics for the dividers!

You remember the movies.  The TV dramas and the cheesy after-school specials.  The ones where the gallant, hunky male hero spares the female lead from certain death, dramatically breathing life into her lungs as if it was breathing life into himself.  Muttering stupid, corny lines like “Come on,” and “Live, damnit!” as if someone who was actually performing CPR would have that kind of energy to expend.  

It always pissed you off, these wildly inaccurate Hollywood depictions of water rescue.  Flawless running through tumultuous surf.  Exceptionally executed extraction, complete with graceful placement of the unresponsive woman in the dry sand, who always looks gorgeous despite the fact that she’s supposedly drowned.  

No quick-check for breathing.  

A laughable search for a pulse.  

Barely a head-tilt, chin-lift to be seen.  

Shallow compressions, hands always in the wrong place. 

Oh.  That’s the other thing.  The compressions.  

They’re fucking ridiculous.  So goddamned wrong it makes whatever scene you’re suffering through even harder to watch.  And, okay – you get it.  You can’t really replicate proper compressions on a person that doesn’t actually need it.  Because proper compressions done right in a true emergency situation?

They’re brutal.

The tempo is fast.  Over and over and over again in a controlled rhythm to that stupid Bee Gees song that you’re too winded to sing under your breath to keep time.  And the depth those clasped hands travel? Well, it’s fucking deep.  To the point where bone and sinew strain, often past their breaking point.  It’s a well-known truth in the lifeguard realm – “You know you're doing it right when you’ve cracked a few ribs!” 

Not that it offers any comfort.

In fact, it’s downright painful.  A concentrated, crushing weight that wracks the bones of your chest in waves.  An excruciating press and release, press and release, press and release that steals the breath from your lungs, has you crying out a wheezing, agonized –

“Stop!”

Your arms flail like a fish out of water, heavy and uncoordinated.  The left lashes out independent of your body, whacking a solid wall of muscle as your legs thrash in defense.  Sensation is suspended for a blissful moment as Steve Harrington’s face swims into focus above you, moss-green eyes wide with worry.  He’s battered, bruised, and bloodstained; but the color returns to his face as he croaks out in disbelief,

“Mayfield?”

His voice is the spark that ignites your awareness.  It all bears down on you at once, the languid pull from the void to consciousness snaps in place, and with it, a sharpening of your focus as to what’s around you.

Ominous flashes of lightning, decorating the steel blue sky with thundering crackles of electricity.  Sharp, prickling jabs from the arid clumps of dirt beneath your back.  The rushing wind, the roar of distant beasts, and Chief Hopper to your left, face ashen, clothing ripped in crimson-drenched tatters.  

And Eddie, white as a sheet, lying in a heap of skin and bones behind Steve to your right.  

Even for a vampire, he looks like death. 

You inhale a sharp breath, the rawness in the influx of chilled air makes your chest ache.  It’s both from the strain of quality compressions provided by Hawkins own head guard, and from the dread that seeps out from your bones and congeals in thick ribbons of tar between your ribs. 

Eddie looks awful, like the very atmosphere has drained him dry.  A mouthful of teeth barely visible behind a thick veil of darkest crimson, marring his lips and chin and left cheek with a contrast that hardly seems possible.  None of his otherworldly mass he had when he faced down Vecna remains – he’s a husk, sallow and shrunken and without those odd horns that wrapped near his ears.  The hair that flowed with enviable grace past his shoulders is scattered in knotted tatters around his gaunt face.  

As striking as it was to see him so changed then, it’s even more jarring now.

There’s a renewed softness about him, though, enough that it makes him seem almost human.  He attempts a barely audible “Hi, sweetheart” before choking over something vile and wet.  The whites of his eyes flash as they roll, a slave to the coughing fit that wracks his body that doesn't even look like his anymore.

With a grating crunch of thick soles against the dried ground, Hopper clambers to his feet and rushes to Eddie’s side.  Even the police chief looks pale in the dim lighting of the Upside Down, though his entire demeanor is still gruff as ever.  Hopper mutters a blue streak, shoving at Eddie’s shoulder a little too roughly to keep him lying flat.  Shucking his jacket, he wraps it around Eddie’s form, despite the other man’s weak attempts to bat him away.  

“Don’ need that, Chief,” Eddie protests weakly over a moan, one that he forces through his nose and expels a thick mist of congealed blood.  He grimaces, coughing the rest from the recesses of his throat to dribble over his chin.  

“Jesus Christ, kid,” Hopper forces through gritted teeth, “stop moving.”

“‘M fine,” Eddie grouses through another cough that rattles deep in his chest.  Matted midnight curls shift your way when he hears you whimper, forcing his mouth to curl into his signature grin.  “Hey, hey,” he coos as his arm falls limply in the space between you, “you’re okay.”

That grin, if you can even call it that, stretches his lips too wide.  It’s forced, the nonchalance he tries to push out doesn’t reflect in his eyes.  Once so full of warmth, the beautiful espresso brown withers to match the decay in your surroundings.

Your lower lip trembles as you stretch, fingers grappling over rotted loam in search of his touch that lies just out of reach.  Swallowing a dried out whimper, you force yourself to move, fully anticipating the hell you’ve just gone through to catch up and make your body seize and ache.

But there’s none of that.  No betrayal of your will, no pain to be found.  In fact, you move with impossible grace.  Sitting up isn’t nearly the feat you feared it would be; the earth doesn’t swim, your body doesn’t protest, and the horizon stays firmly in place.  

An oddity you’ll address.  Eventually.  But not right now.

Because right now, there are far more pressing issues.  Eddie – well, you wish you didn’t see him as clearly as you do.  Shifting so you’re hovering above, a sob bubbles over as his clammy hand makes contact with yours.  “Eddie.  You’re so cold.”

His exhale comes in a sharp burst, crackling over lips slick with blood.  “Can think of a few ways y’can get me warm, sweetheart.”

A laugh slips out before you can help it, a product of his charm that pulls at your heartstrings despite the gravity of what’s so obviously wrong all around you.  It’s irrational to hope that if he’s well enough to joke, he’s well enough to survive.  

But you let yourself believe it anyway.  

You force your eyebrow to lift. “Is that right?”

“You know it is.”  Eddie’s gaze darts to Steve, who has since sat back on his heels with an eyeroll worthy of Erica Sinclair.  Your man winks as he focuses back on you, and your heart thumps as he drops his tone low. “But Stevie’s right there.  Best keep his virgin ears pure and not share.”

Steve’s whole body deflates in exasperation. “I don’t have virgin ears, Munson.”

Eddie manages a wink.  “Still woulda made you blush, big boy.”

“Christ man,” Steve groans, “she just regained consciousness.”

In spite of yourself, you grin.  It pulls tight against muscles wary of the reason, but it’s there all the same.  Hopper, it seems, is just as affected, wiping a frustrated hand over twitching lips before he sighs, heavy enough to pull his mouth into a frown.

Yours follows like you’ve been scolded.  Like you’re just now remembering the horror of reality, the terrible things you witnessed – what you’re dying to know but terrified to ask.  

What happened to Vecna?  Is Billy really dead?  Is Max okay?  Did Robin and Nancy survive?  Are Dustin and Lucas and the rest of the kids make it?  Did Gareth –

Your gaze ping-pongs between Steve and Hopper and Eddie, desperate enough for answers to wonder aloud, “Where is everyone?”

An inky silence stretches between the men, longer than what’s remotely comfortable.  Steve’s the one that finally breaks it, rubbing at the back of his neck as he states flatly, “Hawkins.”

Your heart trips over itself.  “Hawkins?”

“Wait,” Eddie interrupts Steve before he can answer, the weak protest has him shifting his position on the ground.  ”Wait.  Before we get into this, tell us what happened with you.” 

Eddie flips an unseen switch.  The attention of the other two men bores into your very soul, their stares so strong you’re tempted to retreat.

Your mouth goes dry.  “What do you mean?” The stony expressions on Steve and Chief Hopper’s faces offer nothing, and swallowing hard, you offer on a whisper, “You were all there.”

“Baby,” Eddie treads carefully as he says, “I don’t think we were.”

That’s absurd – of course they were there.   It was no trick of the lighting, no flaw in recollection. In fact, too many people were there when they weren’t supposed to be.  

How can he not remember? 

“What do you mean you don’t think you were there?”

Your man grimaces as if he’s in pain.  “Just tell us what you saw.”

“I –” the very words snag on your tongue, held captive as the wake of Vecna’s gruesome wrath descends in a terrible wave of memory.  They’re in bits and pieces, and it’s a struggle to string them all together in one coherent thought. “I saw us in the Upside Down, and – and Vecna –”

“He’s dead.”

Your head whips to Steve, lids flaring at how flat and matter-of-fact he is.  “Vecna’s dead?”

“Yeah,” Steve sighs raggedly as he runs a hand through his hair.  He nods to the man on the ground.  “Eddie killed him.”

A slow turn of your gaze back to deep, espresso brown.  “You killed him?”

“Not like I didn’t have help,” Eddie’s brows furrow as he studies your features.  He must note how baffled you are, his fingers drag over molded muck to lace between yours as he asks softly, “What do you think happened?”

This time, the influx of memories isn’t fragmented.  They don’t flicker in faded form, they flood.  There’s no strain with remembering, no burden to recall what happened like you’re deciphering it all through fogged glass.  No, these memories barrage your mind with crystal clarity, hammering you with a deluge of detail that has you relieving every last terrifying moment. 

Of Steve’s agony as he struggled to reach two of the most important women in his life.  Of Hopper’s desperation to save the one he was proud to call a daughter.  The way Grant threw himself in between a demobat and Erica and Holly, and how Lucas fruitlessly tried to protect your sister from those vile, rat-like beasts.   

Then there was Jeff and Dustin.  Wayne and Argyle – their demise replayed with such vibrant technicolor that it has you finally questioning its truth. 

Especially with how your brother – slain one instant and resurrected the next – stood tall with Gareth before a circling clan of murderous demogorgons. 

You’re hit with the heavy blow of how none of it makes sense.  

“I saw a lot of things,” you say warily as more awareness seeps in.  Swallowing heavily, you force your eyes to Eddie, holding your stare as you admit, “I heard a lot of things, too.”

“Be more selfish, sweetheart – none of us are going to survive if I don’t take care of this right fuckin’ now!”

“You did?” Eddie asks, tone even enough that you’re not sure if he regrets it.  What he may have said.  There’s just enough doubt that your eyes well with tears, and Eddie’s face falls.  “What did you hear?”

“Can I take my leave from your presence that, may I remind you, is far too preoccupied with my best friend to be worth a damn?” 

How can you tell him what you heard nearly broke you?  Shattered your already fragile heart and stole the life right out of your soul?  Your head rattles in an abbreviated shake as your gaze slices to Steve and Hopper.  “I don’t want to say.”

“Baby,” he pleads, “what did you hear?”

“It’s about time one of us is honest with the other, don’t you think?”

Inhaling a ragged breath you decide right then that… well, maybe it is.

Your teeth sink into your bottom lip, worrying the chapped skin until it fissures.  “You wanted to leave me.”

It’s not even Eddie that protests first.  

“No he didn’t,” Steve scoffs so hard it almost sounds like a laugh.  “That’s not even close to the truth, Mayfield.”

Eddie pulses his grip, a weak embrace of fingers still caked with blood and dirt.  “I didn’t want to leave you,” he states in a rush. “I almost didn’t do what I was supposed to because I was being stupid, blabbering on about needing you to come back to me like you could hear me.”  

The contrast between your reality and his is dizzying.  The echoes of “Can’t leave you!” and “Baby, move!” ricochet between your ears.  Phrases that are much more true to Eddie than anything else you heard.  A glimmer of hope suffuses your tone as you ask, “That really happened?”

He dares to shift up on his elbow, wobbling precariously as what little color he regained in his cheeks melts back into moonlight-pale.  “Sweetheart, I swear to god that’s what happened.  As soon as you came through the gate, we could tell something wasn’t right.  You started walking like you were hurt or –”

“Drunk,” Steve blurts, and then winces like he’s hurt your feelings.  His shoulder lifts in an apologetic shrug.  “Or something.”

You’re not at all offended.  This… what they’re telling you, it’s a relief.  “Really?”

Eddie’s chin dips in a careful nod.  “You couldn’t keep your balance.  And then you,” he grunts, coughing to clear the dryness from his throat, “you –”

“Hey,” Steve says gently, the two of you of one mind as you both help him to lie flat again.  Once Eddie’s settled, Steve mutters an admonishing “Take it easy, man,” before finishing what Ed started. “You went into a trance. Like Max. It happened so damn fast, and none of us could stop it. He has us by our asses the moment we got here.”

The devil is in what Steve doesn’t say.  Vecna knew.  He certainly knew of the party’s plans to enter the Upside Down - but even more chilling is how he knew.  And what you saw?  

“Eddie, my soldier.”  

How Vecna called to Eddie tenderly like a lover still sours your stomach as that wretched growl echoes in your head,

“Well done.  Time to come home.”

But –

Where you expect that lingering, leaden doubt to weigh down every beat of your heart, it untethers.  The long look you share with Eddie frees it, and finally, it feels as if you can breathe.  Your basest fears, the worst of what you believed of yourself and Eddie were just mere projections brought about by a demon as he flayed your mind and made you live it out.

As if it had actually happened.

But it’s clear now that it didn’t.  None of those horrible things Eddie said were ever uttered.  He never told you to leave like you wouldn’t be torn to pieces again.  He never demanded that of you, he never pushed you aside like you wouldn’t need him or want him or miss him again.  He didn’t rip out your heart as if you hadn’t found your home in anyone else other than him.

Hopper confirms it.  Steve does, too.  They retell their side with a conviction that could only be forged in truth.

The best part?

Max was never here.  The kids were never called in – through the mass confusion upon arriving, they still found a way to defeat Vecna.

Everyone else got out alive.

“It uh, got stressful there for a bit,” Steve mutters to the ground as his fingers drag through dirty blonde strands.  “Billy wouldn’t leave you.  Eddie wouldn’t leave you.”  

Affection, warm and bright, courses through your veins as you give his hand a gentle squeeze.  “Not even to summon your dragon?”

Steve snickers a soft what while Eddie’s whole demeanor shifts.  A smugness colors his cheeks and into his neck as if the very idea breathes life into his form.  “A dragon, you say?”

The way he says it sounds almost sensual.  Casting a nervous glance at Hopper, you school your tone neutral and answer, “Yeah, Ed.  A dragon.  With – um, with the sword?”  Even as you say it, you can piece together how ridiculous it sounds.  How this had to be Vecna’s doing.  Just as he did when Eddie died - only much, much different.

None of it was real.

“Well, the sword’s right,” Steve nods over your shoulder to a slender slice of steel.  The body is splattered black, the hilt winks a hello as dulled lightning flashes across the clouded sky.  An impressive weapon to be left forgotten some twenty feet away, but no one seems to mind.  Steve’s gaze drifts from the sword to the horizon, unfocusing as he mutters, “But, uh… no.  No dragons here.  That we know of.”

Eddie clicks his tongue.  “That sucks.”

“Does it?” Hopper grunts, his tone so flat your lips roll inward to stifle a snort.

“Aw, come on now, Hop,” Eddie chides, “can’t let me have this one?”

The police chief rolls his eyes.  “Think we’ve had enough.”

“So,” you interject, more to distract Eddie from further aggravating the Chief, “Vecna’s really dead?”

“Yeah,” he affirms with a sigh, his chest deflating with the effort.  Eddie’s eyes slip closed as he swallows, a slow gathering of energy before he waves his free hand to the younger man.  “King Steve here managed to get to him and wounded him pretty badly with the sword.”

“Really?”

A corner of Steve’s mouth lifts as he nudges your shoulder.  “Don’t sound so surprised.  Plus, Eddie took care of the rest.”

The rest.

“How did you…” you trail off, the need to finish the thought dies on your tongue.  Eddie’s lips mash together, his expression haunted as the rest of the group go quiet, right along with you, for several long moments.  The refusal to offer anything is telling.  “Do I even wanna know?”

The three men share another look before Hopper replies with a grimace, “Probably not.”

A singular nod before you summon the strength to ask what you’ve been dying to understand.  “So… why are we still here?”

“Um, well,” Steve starts shakily, “after Eddie killed Vecna, the gates closed.  Collapsed, more like it.  Like dominoes.”  You blanche, and Steve’s head dips, as if he’s processing right along with you.  “Yeah.  We told everyone to go, that – um, that we had you.  But you looked…” Steve sniffs.  “You weren’t breathing.”

“Naturally, I reacted appropriately.  Logically and completely sane.”  Eddie flashes you a soft smile, untangling his fingers as his shaky hand traces along your cheek.  “I know what you’re thinking, sweetheart.  It’s not true.  It’s not your fault.  It was chaos, it was coming down all around us and I thought you were dead.  I did the only thing I could think of.”

You don’t miss how his arm twitches, a telling little thing that displays twin puncture wounds along the thumb side of his wrist. 

Realization blurs your vision, welling along your lashes – the reason why you feel unexpectedly well following a near-death experience.  You suck in a heavy breath.  “You gave me too much.”

“Moi?” Eddie splays his bony hand over his heart. “Go overboard to save the love of my life? Doesn’t sound like me at all.”  His smile wobbles as your expression crumples.  “I’m sorry,” he rasps, “I was worried we lost you.  It was my fault we stopped.”

“No,” Hopper growls like a warning.  “Munson, no.  Not your fault.  I was the one that told El to get out and hold it from the other side.”  The expression he wears broadcasts the failure he feels, and it breaks your heart.  “She couldn’t.”

“We think everyone else made it through okay, though,” Eddie tries to placate the horror that drenches your features.  “We were too far behind.”

Bile rises in your throat.  You’re hardly able to choke it back as you ask, “Are we stuck here? H-how are we gonna get out?”

Their silence is heavy, a deafening vibration of nothing as Hopper clears his throat and affirms, 

“We don’t know.”

@rip-quizilla @munsonscharm @eldermayfield @fireeyes-on-teller-dixon-grimes @veemoon

@losingmygrasponreality @pagesfalling @kthomps914 @chloe-6123 @unverifiedmeatsuit

@angel-ann-pops @clarafornerlyknownasclaire-blog @duncanhillscoffeecups @darkyuffie-blog @debkk16

@mmmunson @munsons-queen @wendyxox @boxofsmittens @take-everything-you-can

@sexmetaleddie @ginger-haired-queen @b-irock @rebelfell @kellsck

@obsessed-midwest-princess @torimcc @littlebibibliophile @callsignwidow @katethetank

@arabellagreenleaf @amanda-a89 @f1owersforeddie @mopeymopeymouse @american-idiot-jpg

@mugloversonly

[torimcc]

Devoured and worth the wait

[the8thsky]

After the almost end of the world - Part 2 / Steve Harrington

Pair: ex!Steve Harrington x reader

Chapter warnings: divorce/separation, emotional/parental conflict, sad, angst, child perspective on family breakdown, crying, subtle parental tension 💔

Chapter summary: Daddy still does things for Mommy, but he doesn’t show love the way he used to. Ellie notices the quiet sadness between them everywhere.

part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4

_______________________________

I noticed before anyone told me.

Grown-ups always think kids don’t see t hings, but that’s not true. We see, we just don’t always have the words for it.

On Sundays, Daddy used to make breakfast in bed for Mommy. Pancakes shaped like hearts, even when they came out funny.

I used to help by putting strawberries on the plate, even though Daddy said I ate more than I placed.

Now Sundays were quiet.

Daddy still made breakfast, but he ate it standing up in the kitchen, while Mommy drank her coffee on the couch.

No laughing. No stealing bites. No kisses.

Daddy didn’t kiss Mommy before leaving anymore.

Not the quick peck when he grabbed his keys. Not the longer kiss when he came back from baseball practice smelling like sweat and soap. He didn’t even touch her shoulder in that soft way he used to, like he was checking she was real.

When Daddy came home from work, he used to scoop me up and spin me around until I squealed. He called it the ‘Harrington tornado.’ Zara would clap her hands and laugh so hard she’d hiccup.

Now he just smiled and said, “Hey, peanut,” and sat down slowly like his bones hurt.

He didn’t tickle Mommy anymore when she washed the dishes. He used to sneak up behind her and poke her sides until she yelled and tried to splash him with water. Once they broke a glass and laughed for ten minutes straight.

The kitchen stayed dry now.

Beth didn’t come on Fridays anymore.

Fridays were date nights. Mommy wore dresses and Daddy wore cologne that smelled warm and sharp. Beth stayed late, and Daddy always waved at us through the window like he was going on an adventure.

Now Beth only came sometimes. Only when Mommy or Daddy couldn’t make it to pick us up from school or daycare.

No dresses. No cologne. No adventures.

Daddy stopped doing a lot of things.

He didn’t sing loudly Mommy’s favourite song in the car anymore.

He didn’t steal fries from Mommy’s plate.

He didn’t dance with her in the living room when a song came on.

He didn’t sit next to her on the couch.

He didn’t fall asleep with his arm around her while they watched TV.

But I bet he still loved her.

I could see it in the quiet things.

When Mom fell asleep on the couch, Daddy still pulled the blanket up around her shoulders. He moved slowly, like he didn’t want to wake her.

But he didn’t kiss her anymore. Not on the lips, not on the forehead. He just brushed his fingers along her cheek and watched her for a long moment, his face looking… strange. Not happy. Almost sad. Like he was hurt.

He still carried the grocery bags so she wouldn’t have to.

He still warmed up the car in the morning when it was cold.

He fixed things around the house.

He brought her coffee sometimes, but set it down quietly instead of handing it to her with a smile.

He stood close enough to help, but never close enough to touch. He did all the right things. Just not the loving ones anymore.

And that was how I knew something was really wrong.

One afternoon, Mommy and Daddy sat me down at the table. Zara was playing on the floor with blocks.

“We’re going to talk to someone,” Mommy said gently. “A doctor who helps people talk about feelings.”

“Are you sick?” I asked.

Daddy smiled too fast. “No, sweetheart.”

But his hand was shaking when he took Mommy’s.

The doctor had a soft voice and a room full of toys. She talked to Mommy and Daddy a lot, and sometimes she talked to me. She asked how I felt and what I noticed.

I told her the truth.

Daddy cried for the first time in front of me that day.

Things didn’t change all at once. They changed slowly, like when summer turns into fall and you don’t notice until you’re cold.

Daddy started sleeping in the guest room. Then he stopped eating dinner with us every night. Then one day, his clothes were gone from the closet.

Mommy told me Daddy was staying with Grandma and Grandpa for a little while. She said they were on a cruise and left him the house.

“Why? Did we do something wrong?” I asked.

Daddy knelt in front of me and shook his head so hard his hair fell into his eyes. “Never,” he said. “This is not because of you. Or Zara. Ever.”

He hugged me tight, like he was afraid I’d disappear.

The night he left, I watched from the hallway.

Mommy stood very still while Daddy picked up his bag.

They didn’t touch. They didn’t kiss. They just looked at each other like they were standing on opposite sides of a big crack in the ground.

Daddy looked back at the house one last time.

At us.

And when the door closed, Mommy slid down the wall and cried so quietly I almost didn’t hear her.

That was the worst part. Because I knew then.

Some monsters don’t come from the Upside Down. Some just happen when love changes shape.

And even when your parents still love you —some things never go back to the way they were.

[torimcc]

This hit right where it hurts

[mcybank]

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

pairing — ex!steve harrington x fem!reader

word count — 16.9k

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

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

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

part one

"Hi," he breathed against your lips.

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

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

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

“Just tonight?”

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

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

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

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

“Kiss me again,” you said instead.

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

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

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

"We're still by the door."

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

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

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

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

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

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

He laughed, surprised. "What?"

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

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

"Careful how you finish that sentence."

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

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

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

“You don’t know that.” 

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

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

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

“Clearly.”

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

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

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

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

“Steve.” Your voice was firmer now. 

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

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

“You love it.”

“Maybe.”

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

“Who says I can’t finish it?”

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

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

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

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

"You love it."

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

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

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

"Hi."

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

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

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

“Where else would I be?”

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

Your throat felt tight. “Steve—”

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

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

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

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

"Steve—"

"Yeah, baby?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Impatient."

"You're one to talk."

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

"Fuck," you breathed.

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

You laughed despite yourself. "Eloquent."

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

"Pretty sure you were stupid before me."

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

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

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

“Yeah.” 

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

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

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

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

"Steve—"

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

Your eyes squeezed shut and your head tilted back and—

And that's when you saw it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Steve went very still. "What?"

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

“You’re not crazy—”

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

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

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

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

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

“Okay.” Your voice was barely a whisper.

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

You nodded slowly, fresh tears slipping over. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You stared at him.

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

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

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

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

"I know how that sounds—"

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

"No—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Steve—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Okay."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The door closed softly behind him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You were leaving.

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

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

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

“You just gonna sneak out?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Say what?”

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

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

“Then don’t leave me.”

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

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

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

“Is it Nancy?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You what?” You needed him to say it.

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

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

“Okay.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I know—”

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

His face crumpled. “I remember.”

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

“I don’t know—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That is not what I meant—”

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

“No—”

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

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

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

“I’m not saying that.”

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

He opened his mouth, then closed it. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I should go,” you said quietly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But ice cream could be dinner—”

"Carter." Please.

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

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

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

Your hands stayed firmly at your sides.

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

"Hey."

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

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

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

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

“That’s great.”

“Yeah.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I should—" you started.

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

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

"You go ahead," Steve said quietly.

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

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

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

"Yeah," you said. "Thursday."

"Cool. That's—yeah. Cool."

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

Emily was the only one who'd stayed late.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Emily took her position. The music started.

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

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

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

"Really. I'm proud of you."

Her whole face lit up.

The gym doors opened again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s good.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Dr. Feldman’s. Over on—”

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

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

“No problem.”

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

Tyler paused at the door and turned back.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But—”

“Now, Em.”

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

"Emily, I swear to god—"

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

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

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

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

"Steve—"

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

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

"I didn't say yes," you said.

Steve's hands stilled on the mat. "You didn't say no either,” he said quietly, eyes looking down at the ground. 

You swallowed harshly, shaking your head. “He asked me out in front of you,” you said softly. “And his sister. I wasn’t going to—”

"You can go out with him." Steve turned around finally, and his face was doing that thing again. He looked carefully neutral and blank. Except his eyes were too bright and his jaw was too tight. "You don't need my permission or whatever. I'm not—we're not—" He stopped and shoved his hands in his pockets. "You should go out with him."

"Why do you keep saying that?"

"Because it's true." His voice was firm now. Almost too firm. "He's probably a good guy. He seems to have his shit together. He’s not—”

He stopped himself but you knew what he was saying. Not like me. Not complicated. Not carrying three years of history and a picture of his ex-girlfriend on his dresser.

You nodded because he was right.

The applause was almost deafening. You stood in the wings with your hand pressed to your mouth, watching the kids take their bows. Sarah’s ponytail had come half undone; Marcus was grinning so wide his face had to hurt; Emily was actually crying, actual tears streaming down her face as she held hands with the freshman next to her, both of them shaking with relief and joy and the adrenaline crash that came after six weeks of work culminating this. 

They had been perfect. Almost flawless—Sarah had still dropped her shoulder on the fifth count during the opening, and one of the boys been half a beat behind in the bridge—but they had been together. They’d moved as one organism and told the story exactly how you’d imagined it in your head at two in the morning when you couldn’t sleep, scribbling formations in your sketchbook. You’d done it. You’d actually done it.

Mrs. Stone materialized beside you, her hand warm and gentle on your shoulder. “Get out there, sweetie,” she said, giving you a gentle push toward stage left. “They want you.”

“I can’t—God, I’m not—” you tried to say through a choked up laugh.

“Yes, you can. Go.” 

Before you could form another protest, Sarah had spotted you in the wings. She was waving frantically, mascara smudged under her eyes, and then she was shouting your name. Suddenly, all fifteen of them were turning, reaching for you, and Emily was yelling, “Get out here!” and running into the wings.

“Come on,” Emily said, grabbing your hand with both of hers, tugging you hard enough that you stumbled forward. “You have to come out.”

“Em, I don’t think—”

But she was dragging you onto the stage and the lights were too bright, washing everything in white-hot brilliance that made you squint. You couldn't see the audience clearly—just dark shapes and the occasional pinprick flash of a phone camera, the red glow of EXIT signs at the back—but you could hear them. Still clapping, some standing now, and the sound was so big it felt physical.

The kids surrounded you immediately. Sarah crashed into your left side, Marcus your right, and then they were all there, arms around your shoulders and waist, a tangle of sweaty teenagers who smelled like hairspray and stage makeup and pure, undiluted joy.

"You did it!" someone was saying, maybe the freshman who'd been so scared of it all she cried on the first week. "We actually did it!"

“You did it,” you corrected, trying to hug all of them at once, voice thick. “You all worked so hard. I’m so—I’m so proud of you guys—”

Your voice cracked on the last word. You were crying now, too. Couldn’t help it, not a smidge. It was the kind of crying that came from somewhere deep in your chest where you’d been holding tension for years straight. 

When they finally released you—when the applause started to fade and the curtain began rolling down—you just stood there for a moment, center stage, trying to catch your breath, trying to hold onto this feeling before it slipped away. You gasped and hiccuped as you wiped your face slightly. 

You'd forgotten what this felt like. What it was like to work toward something and have it actually pan out. To put in the hours and the effort and have it mean something tangible, something you could point to and say I did that.

The kids were filing offstage now, high-fiving each other, already dissecting every moment in rapid-fire teenage chatter. You could hear them behind you—"Did you see when I almost fell?" "That was so good!" "My mom is going to freak out—"

Parents were starting to congregate near the front of the stage. Your eyes were scanning the auditorium, searching through the crowd filtering back toward the lobby.

Fourth row. Aisle seat.

Steve.

He was standing, hands in his pockets, and the second your eyes found him, his whole face transformed. The smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes and showed all teeth graced his face. The same smile he wore when he used to wait for you after practice, a cookie and juicebox in hand. The smile that said he was so proud of you, so proud he couldn’t contain it. It was a release from the careful one he’d been giving you for weeks, the one that never quite reached his eyes.

And something in your chest cracked wide open. Your feet were moving before you could make a conscious decision, down the stage steps—you nearly tripped on the second one but caught yourself on the railing—and through the small cluster of parents already making their way forward. Someone had touched your elbow, a congratulations you barely registered, and you mumbled thank you without stopping, without looking away from where Steve was standing. 

He'd taken his hands out of his pockets now. His expression had shifted from proud to confused, eyebrows drawing together as you got closer, weaving between seats.

"Hey, that was—" he started.

You crashed into him.

You threw your arms around his neck and hugged him with everything in you, so tight you could feel his surprise in the way his body went stiff and rigid, his breath catching sharply. For half a second, he just stood there, frozen, and your brain caught up with what you were—

Then his arms came up to your waist, pulling you closer, one hand splaying across your back and the other curling around your ribs, and he was solid and warm and completely real. You felt your feet lose hold of the ground as he tightened his arms around you, slightly lifting you in the air and rocking you back and forth for a couple seconds. 

Your face buried into his chest, the almost-dried tears probably leaving a stain on the baby blue sweater he was wearing. “Thank you,” you said, words muffled against his body. “Thank you, thank you, thank you—”

“Hey,” he said, voice rough and barely a whisper—you almost forgot there were people surrounding you—and his arms tightened around you even more like he was trying to hold you together. “You don’t have to thank me. You did all the—”

“You made this happen for me.” You pulled back just enough to look at him but didn’t let go, couldn’t let go yet. Your hands were still on his shoulders, his were still on your waist. “You told Mrs. Stone about me. You gave me this. And I just—” Your voice cracked as something lodged in your throat. “Thank you, Steve. For believing I could do it.”

Steve’s eyes had gone too bright, like he was fighting to keep his own composure. His smile had gone softer now, more gentle, and his thumb was moving in tiny circles on your waist, barely perceptible. He opened his mouth to say something, then closed it. One of his hands moved up to the back of your head and he pulled your face closer to his chest and pressed his lips against your hair, lingering for a moment.

“You earned it,” he said quietly against your head. “I knew you’d be incredible at it. I knew the second I remembered you in high school and when I saw you with Carter, breaking down the cartwheel for him, I just—” He stopped and swallowed hard, and you felt his body move with it. “I’m really proud of you.”

The words shouldn't have hit as hard as they did. Shouldn't have made your eyes burn all over again, shouldn't have made your chest feel so full it hurt.

"Steve—" You pulled your head back to meet his eyes. 

He smiled softly, hands shaking slightly as they ran over your hair. “You looked so happy up there,” he said, his voice going thick. His hand came to cup your jaw, a ghost of a touch, as his thumb brushed just under your cheekbone. “I remember you tapping your fingers on the desk doing counts. I remember you making me watch you run through combinations in the backyard even though I had no idea what I was looking at or how I could help. I remember—” His hand was still on your face, fingers gentle against your skin like you were something precious he was afraid of breaking. “I remember thinking you were going to do amazing things with it someday. And you did. You are.”

The observation was too much. It was too raw. It was too honest what the two of you were supposed to be now. You stood there for a moment that stretched too long, his hands on your face, your hands on his shoulders, too close and not close enough all at once. People were definitely watching now. You could feel their eyes like a physical weight, hear the whispers starting to ripple through the crowd still lingering near the stage.

But Steve was looking at you like nothing else existed. Like the auditorium had emptied and it was just the two of you in this bubble where history didn't matter and broken promises could be forgotten and four years hadn't passed since the last time he'd held you like this. Since before the breakup and college and all the ways you'd both tried and failed to move on.

“Auntie!” 

Carter’s voice cut through whatever moment you were having. You dropped your hands quickly, and his fell from your face and got shoved in his pockets, and the both of you looked to see your nephew barreling toward you through the crowd. 

He crashed into your side with enough force to make you stumble. Steve's hand shot out automatically to steady you, brief contact on your elbow before he pulled away. 

"That was so cool!" Carter was bouncing on his toes, words coming out in a rush. "All the dancing and all and the girl was so good and there was this part where everyone spun at the same time and it looked like—like a kaleidoscope or something—"

"A kaleidoscope?" You laughed, ruffling his hair even though you were still trying to catch your breath, still feeling the ghost of Steve's hands on your face. "That's a big word."

"We learned it in science. But seriously, that was awesome. Can you teach me how to do that? The spinning thing?"

"You want to learn that?"

"I want to learn how to spin without falling over. That seems useful."

“Hey, kiddo,” Steve said, voice warm and still a little rough from whatever emotion he’d been holding back moments ago. He'd taken a step back to give you space, hands still firmly in his pockets, but he was smiling at your nephew with affection. "Pretty cool what your aunt pulled off, huh?"

"So cool! Did you see it, Coach Steve? Did you see the part where they all jumped at the same time? How do they do that without crashing into each other?"

"That's what she does," Steve said, and you could hear the smile in his voice even though you weren't looking at him. You were very deliberately not looking at him. "Your aunt spent weeks teaching them how to move together like that. It takes a lot of patience."

"Weeks?" Carter's eyes went wide. "That's so long. I get bored after like five minutes of practice."

"Yeah, I've noticed." Steve's tone was teasing, affectionate in that coach way he'd perfected.

Behind Carter, your family was approaching. Devon with her knowing smirk already firmly in place, your mom dabbing at her eyes with a tissue that was definitely beyond salvageable at this point, your dad looking proud in that uncomfortable way he got when emotions were involved and he didn't know what to do with his hands.

But they all stopped short when they saw Steve standing there and noticed the careful distance you'd put between yourselves that somehow still felt too close. They saw the way you were both flushed, eyes too bright, like you'd been caught doing something you shouldn't.

Devon's smirk widened into something absolutely dangerous. "Steve Harrington. Been a minute."

"Hey," Steve's smile was polite, careful, but you could see the tension creeping into his shoulders, the way he straightened his posture like he was bracing for impact. "Good to see you."

"Is it?" Devon's eyes were doing that thing where they cataloged every detail with surgical precision. The way Steve's hair was slightly messed up on one side, from your hands, oh god. The way his sweater had a wet spot on the chest from your tears. The way you were both standing too carefully, maintaining distance that felt deliberate and obvious. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks pretty complicated."

"Dev," you warned, voice low.

"What?" She raised her eyebrows in mock innocence. "I'm just making an observation. The show was great, by the way. Really great." She turned back to Steve, and her smile had teeth now. "My little sister's talented. But you already knew that, didn't you?"

The emphasis on already made your face burn hotter.

"She is," Steve agreed, and his voice was steady but you could see the muscle jumping in his jaw, the tell he'd had since high school when he was uncomfortable but trying not to show it. "The kids were really lucky to have her. Mrs. Stone made a great choice."

"Oh my goodness." Your mom had finally found her voice, and when she spoke it was thick with too many emotions to name. She was staring at Steve like she was seeing a ghost. "Steve? Steve Harrington? Is that really you?"

And here it was. The moment you'd been dreading since you'd thrown yourself at him in front of half the town.

Steve's smile shifted when he saw your mom, became something more genuine despite the clear discomfort radiating off him. “Hi,” he said, addressing your mom. "It's really good to see you."

“I had no idea you were—” Your mom’s eyes were bouncing between you and Steve like she was watching a tennis match. “Are you two?—”

“No,” you said quickly. “No, Mom. Steve teaches at the high school and he coaches Carter’s baseball team.”

“Coach Steve is the best!” Carter interjected, still bouncing with leftover excitement from the show. “He taught me how to slide into base without getting hurt and he always brings orange slices even though they're kind of a pain to peel and he lets us have extra practice if we want and he doesn't even get mad when Toby throws his glove because Toby’s working through some stuff with his parents' divorce—”

"That's great, bud," Devon said, but she wasn't looking at Carter. She was still watching you and Steve with that expression that meant you were in for a very long, very uncomfortable conversation later. Probably in the car on the way home. Probably with her asking pointed questions while you stared out the window and pretended not to hear her.

Your mom stepped closer, and you watched recognition and memory and something complicated flash across her face. She'd liked Steve, back then. She’d invited him to family dinners every Sunday and asked about his college applications and genuinely believed you two were going to make it. She had bought into the fairy tale the same way you had. And then the breakup happened, and graduation, and you'd left for college six hours away, and your mom had spent the first month calling you every night to make sure you were eating and sleeping and not completely falling apart.

You'd lied every time. Said you were fine. Said you were adjusting. Said the breakup was for the best.She'd known you were lying but had let you pretend anyway because that's what mothers did.

Steve cleared his throat, eyes darting to you, wide. “Health,” he squeaked out. His hands were buried in his pockets. You could see him curling them into fists, then relaxing, then curling again. “Also some P.E. classes when the coach needs me to cover. And yeah, I coach middle school baseball.”

“That’s wonderful,” your mom said, smiling brightly. “That’s so different from—” So different from the basketball scholarship you used to talk about. So different from the party boy we all thought you’d be forever. 

"Yeah," Steve said simply, and he didn't elaborate. 

"And you recommended our daughter for this position?" Your mom's eyes were sharp now, focused. 

"I did." Steve glanced at you, and something in his expression softened despite the careful neutrality he was trying to maintain like he couldn't help it. As though his face just did that automatically when he looked at you. "Mrs. Stone was looking for someone to choreograph the musical and I remembered—" He stopped, corrected himself. "I knew she'd be perfect for it. And she was. The kids were really lucky."

Your mom’s face softened and hardened at the same time, if that was possible. She remembered, too. She was remembering Steve picking you up for your dates, promising your dad to have you home by 10:30 on the dot, Steve talking about apartment-hunting. And also the Steve at graduation who could hardly meet her eyes when she hugged him goodbye. 

Carter was looking between all the adults like he was trying to figure out why everyone was being weird. Devon was openly enjoying your discomfort now, smirking like this was the best entertainment she'd had in months. Your dad had appeared from somewhere—probably the bathroom, he always disappeared during emotional moments—and was now standing slightly behind your mom, looking uncomfortable and ready to escape.

"Well." Your dad clapped Steve on the shoulder, one of those firm pats that was borderline aggressive, the kind men did when they didn't know how else to communicate. "Good to see you, son. You look well. More grown up than last time."

Last time was graduation. Steve surprising your parents with a different girlfriend. You, with your college decision six hours away, like a lifeline. Your dad had shaken Steve’s hand and said, “Good luck with everything,” in a tone that meant do not ever come near my daughter again, even though the damage was catastrophically done. 

Your mom was still doing that thing where she looked between you and Steve, and you could practically see her mental notebook filling with observations.

She was your mother. She'd changed your diapers and taught you to read and held you while you cried over this exact boy four years ago. She knew.

"I should—" Steve gestured vaguely toward the exit, already taking a step back. "Let you guys celebrate. This is a family moment. Congratulations again. The show was—" He stopped, looked at you directly for the first time since your family had arrived. "You were incredible."

You smiled softly as you watched him retreat slowly, with all eyes on him. 

“So,” Devon said into the silence. “That was subtle.”

“Dev, I swear to god—”

“What? I’m just saying if you wanted to keep whatever this was a secret, maybe don’t do it in front of a crowded auditorium.” She was grinning now. “Pretty sure half the PTA saw you two basically—”

"We weren't doing anything," you cut her off, face burning so hot you probably looked sunburned.

"Mmhmm. Why your lipstick is smudged?"

“Whaaa—” Your hand flew to your mouth automatically. Devon laughed.

"Got you. Your lipstick is fine. But you should see your face right now."

"I hate you."

"No you don't." She slung an arm around your shoulders, still grinning. "But we are definitely talking about this later. In detail. With wine."

"There's nothing to talk about—"

"Honey." Your mom's voice cut through your protests, gentle but firm. "Can we not do this right now? Not here?"

You looked at her and saw understanding in her eyes. There was just concern. The same concern she'd had four years ago when you'd come home from college for Thanksgiving break and she'd found you crying in your childhood bedroom at two AM.

"Okay," you said quietly. "Yeah. Okay."

She squeezed your arm. "We'll talk tomorrow. Lunch. Just you and me."

"Mom—"

"Tomorrow," she said firmly, but kindly. "Tonight, we celebrate. You did something amazing today. You should be proud."

"I am," you said, and meant it. "I really am."

Carter tugged on your sleeve. "Can we get ice cream? I feel like this deserves ice cream. That was way cooler than my baseball games."

"Hey," your dad protested mildly.

"It was! There was dancing and costumes and the person sitting next to us cried real tears! When's the last time someone cried at one of my games?"

"Last week when you got hit in the face with the ball," Devon pointed out. “I cried because I thought your nose was messed up forever.”

"That doesn't count!"

“Hi, Steve,” you said as the door opened, hands flexing and unflexing by your sides. 

He looked like he’d been crying. His eyes were dry and his face was composed, but there was a redness around his eyes and a rawness to his expression that made your chest ache. He was still in the same sweater from the show. His hair was a mess, like he’d been running his hands through it over and over. There was a beer bottle in his hand, barely touched by the looks of it, condensation dripping down the glass.

He stared at you for a long moment, like you were a hallucination. “Hi,” he said finally. His voice was hoarse. 

You'd left dinner early and told your family you were tired, that the adrenaline crash was hitting you hard and you needed to sleep. Devon had given you a look that said she knew exactly where you were going, but she hadn't stopped you. Your mom had hugged you and told you to call her about tomorrow. Carter had made you promise to teach him the spinning thing next week.

And then you'd driven here—to Steve's apartment—without letting yourself think about it too hard because if you thought about it, you'd talk yourself out of it.

You'd sat in your car in the parking lot for fifteen minutes, engine off, hands on the steering wheel, trying to figure out what you were doing. What you were going to say. Why you'd come here instead of going home to decompress in your own bed like a normal person.

“Can I come in?” you asked and your voice came out smaller than you’d intended.

Steve stepped back immediately, opening the door wider. “Yeah. Yeah. Of course—yeah.”

You walked past him into the apartment and it looked different than it had a few weeks ago. Or maybe you were just seeing it differently now. The picture was gone from the dresser in the bedroom, you could see through the open door that the surface was bare except for a lamp and some spare change. There was a stack of graded papers on the coffee table, red pen marks visible from here. A half-eaten sandwich on a plate. The TV was on but muted, some late-night show with a laugh track you couldn't hear.

It looked like he'd been sitting here alone, grading papers and not eating. 

Steve closed the door behind you but stayed rooted in his spot, watching you.

“Sorry for just showing up,” you said, turning to face him. “I know it’s late. I should’ve called—”

"Don't apologize." He set the beer down on the side table with more force than necessary. "You can show up here whenever you want. I mean—not that you'd want to, I just—" He stopped and ran a hand through his hair which made it worse. "I'm glad you're here."

"Your family. They must be so proud. You should be celebrating with them."

"I was." You shoved your hands in your jacket pockets because you didn't know what to do with them. "We went to dinner. Got ice cream. Carter talked for forty-five minutes straight about the show. My mom cried three more times.”

“Good,” Steve said, nodding. “That’s good.”

"I kept thinking about—about you. About how you were the one who made tonight possible. How you believed in me when I didn't even believe in myself. How you've been showing up even though you didn't have to. How—"

You stopped because your voice was breaking and you weren't sure you could finish the sentence without falling apart.

Steve was staring at you with an expression that looked like hope and pain and disbelief all tangled together.

“I should’ve been there,” he said quietly. “With you guys. I should’ve—” He laughed, all bitter and self-depracating. “But I can’t be there. Because I’m not—we’re not—” He gestured helplessly between the two of you. “I fucked that up four years ago and I keep fucking it up.”

“Steve,” you said, voice trailing. 

He shook his head, more to himself than you. “Your dad looked at me like he wasn’t sure if he should punch me.” Steve’s voice was getting louder now, more emotion bleeding through. “Your mom looked sad and it was—like she barely knew me.” He stopped and pressed his palms into his eyes. 

You’d never seen Steve like this. Even at seventeen, when he broke up with you, he held it together. Even the night at his apartment, he hadn’t let this much show. 

"I sat here after the show," Steve continued, hands dropping from his face. His eyes were red now, wet. “And I thought about everything I missed. You going to college. Your sister’s anniversaries. Every Christmas and Thanksgiving and every birthday party. All those moments where I would’ve been there if I hadn’t just—” He stopped. “And I thought about the life we were going to have that I threw away because I was a stupid kid who didn’t realize how good he had it.”

“Steve—” You took a step toward him. 

“No, let—let me—” He held up a hand. “I—when you saw the picture that night, I should’ve told you that it didn’t work out between me and her. It never could. With her or anybody else.” He met your eyes, and your vision was beginning to get foggy. “Nobody I’ve met can be you,” he said quietly. “And I’ve spent so long trying to convince myself it was for the best. That you were better off without me.”

He laughed, and it almost sounded broken.

“But then you came back,” he continued. “And you were just, exactly the same and completely different all at once. And I thought maybe I could handle it all. Maybe I could be a friend. But tonight—when you hugged me—” His voice cracked as he went to lean against the wall. “I can’t be normal about you. I don’t know how to be normal about you.” 

You were crying now. You couldn't help it. The tears were hot on your cheeks and you didn't bother wiping them away.

“If I could go back,” he started, neck craning to look at the ceiling as he rubbed a palm over his neck, throat bobbing. “If I could go back, I would do everything we planned. I would follow you wherever you went. I would’ve—”

His voice broke completely and he stopped, hand still on his neck like he was trying to physically hold himself together. You watched his chest rise and fall too fast, watched him try to get control of his breathing.

Steve looked at you then, really looked at you, and his eyes were devastated. "I would've packed up my car and driven to whatever college you got into. Would've gotten some shitty apartment nearby and worked whatever jobs I could find just to—just to be close to you.” He pushed off the wall and started pacing. “I think about it sometimes, about what our apartment would’ve looked like. We probably would’ve gotten that place on Maple Street, no? The one we circled on the map, remember?”

You did remember. You'd circled it together during lunch senior year, sitting in his car, planning a future that felt so real you could taste it.

"I remember," you said.

“I thought—” He swallowed hard. “I thought you were living a whole life without me. I thought you’d done everything you’d wanted and living and doing exactly what you dreamed about. And I was—” He laughed shortly. “I was so happy for you. Even though it killed me.”

He moved toward you and his fingers clasped around your wrist as he meekly gestured to the living room. You followed him in as he walked, completely in a trance from everything that was coming out of his mouth. 

You sat on the couch, a short distance away from him, and watched his head lean back as he stared at the ceiling again. “I feel so stupid,” he said into the air. 

“Don’t,” you said, trying to get your voice out. “Don’t feel stupid. You—well, you weren’t wrong when you said it was all too much we were planning.” He turned his neck to look at you then, brows furrowing. “I was stupid to think it all could be a fairytale like we planned. It wouldn’t have worked, probably.”

“Don’t say that,” Steve said, voice so broken like you’d just slapped him in the face. “Don’t make what we had smaller just because I fucked it up. It would’ve worked.”

“We were seventeen—”

“I don’t care,” he said, shaking his head, jaw clenching. “I don’t care that we were young and that people say high school relationships don’t last. I don’t care about the odds or anything. It would’ve worked because we would’ve made it work. Because we loved each other enough to—” He stopped abruptly, like something was caught in his throat. 

Your mouth was parted, staring at him because you had no idea how to respond.

“I would’ve married you.” The words came out so raw, so desperate, and his eyes were locked on yours now like he needed you to hear the words completely. Your breath caught. “I would’ve married you and stood in front of everyone and promised to love you for the rest of my life. And I would’ve meant it. Every fucking word.”

Your chest felt like it was caving in, and you could feel seventeen-year-old you crawling through your body, shaking and letting the tears fall down your cheeks. 

“I know I said—I said it like it was a bad thing when I was breaking up with you but I didn’t mean it. I swear, I didn’t mean it. I’ve spent years wishing I could take it back and said what I actually meant instead of—instead of making you feel like loving me was too much. Like wanting to be with me was something to be ashamed of.”

You were crying now, full-on crying, tears streaming down your face faster than you could wipe them away.

"You made me feel like I was crazy," you said, and your voice was shaking with anger and grief and four years of hurt. "Like I was this—this desperate girl who was trying to trap you into something you didn't want. And I—" Your voice broke. "I spent so long trying to figure out why I was so afraid of wanting things. Of planning for the future. Of—of expecting anything from anyone. Because you made me feel like expectations were a burden.”

"I know." Steve's voice was wrecked. "I know and I'm—I'm so fucking sorry. I ruined that for you.And I—" He stopped, hand coming up to cover his mouth for a second. "I hate myself for that. For making you feel like you were crazy for wanting what we both wanted. For making you doubt yourself when you were—you were right. About all of it. About us. About forever."

"Steve—"

"I would've married you," he said again, and this time his voice was steady. "Fuck, I would've married you right out of high school and I would've been terrified and I probably would've fucked up a thousand different ways but I would've—I would've shown up. Every single day. I would've chosen you. And I'm so sorry I didn't."

Something in you broke completely. Four years of holding yourself together, of telling yourself you were fine, of pretending the breakup hadn't fundamentally changed who you were, all of it shattered.

You were sobbing now, the kind of crying that made your whole body shake, the kind you'd been holding back since the moment you'd seen him at baseball practice for the first time.

Steve moved closer, hesitant, like he wasn't sure if he was allowed. "Can I—?"

You didn't let him finish. You just collapsed against him, face pressed into his chest, hands fisted in his sweater. And he held you, arms tight around you, one hand in your hair and the other splayed across your back, holding you together while you fell apart.

“I’m sorry,” he said against your hair. “I’m so sorry. I’m so fucking sorry, baby.”

"I would've married you," Steve said again, and you could feel his tears in your hair now. "I would've married you and I would've been so fucking proud to call you my wife. And I threw that away because I was seventeen and stupid and scared. And I've regretted it every single day since."

You pulled back just enough to look at him, and his face was wrecked. Tears streaming down his cheeks, eyes red and swollen, expression raw and open in a way you'd never seen before.

“You really hurt me,” you said, your voice coming out broken and accusatory. 

"I know." He was crying harder now too. "I know. And I don't—I don't know how to fix that. I don't know how to give you back what I took. But I—" He stopped, hands coming up to cup your face, thumbs brushing away tears that just kept coming. "I want to try. If you'll let me. I want to spend however long it takes proving to you that I'm not going anywhere this time. That when I say forever, I mean it. That you can trust me again."

"I don't know if I can," you whispered.

"I know." His forehead pressed against yours. "I know. But can I—can I at least try?"

"I would've said yes," you said quietly.

Steve's breath caught. "What?"

"If you'd asked me to marry you. At graduation. Or after. Or—or anytime. I would've said yes." Your voice was shaking. "I would've married you in a heartbeat and I wouldn't have cared if we were too young or if everyone said it wouldn't work. I would've—" You stopped. "I would've chosen you. Every time."

Steve made a sound that was half-sob, half-something else, as he pressed his eyes closed. His arms tightened around you.

"I'm so sorry," he said again. "I'm so sorry I didn't give you that chance. I'm so sorry I made you feel like wanting that was wrong. I'm so sorry I—"

You kissed him.

Cut him off mid-apology because you couldn't hear him say sorry one more time, couldn't handle the weight of his regret on top of your own grief. You kissed him and he kissed you back desperately, like you were oxygen and he'd been suffocating.

It was messy and wet with tears and tasted like salt. His hands were in your hair and yours were fisted in his sweater and you were both crying and kissing and trying to get closer even though there was no space left between you.

When you finally pulled apart, you were both gasping for air.

"I don't know how to do this," you admitted. "I don't know how to trust this again."

"We'll figure it out," Steve said, and he sounded more certain than you'd heard him all night. "Together. We'll figure it out together. No more running. No more making decisions alone. We'll—"

"Actually talk to each other like adults?" you suggested, voice watery.

"Yeah." He laughed, and it sounded lighter now, almost hopeful. "That. We'll do that."

You sat there on his couch, wrapped in his arms, both of you crying, both of you acknowledging that this was going to be hard and messy and complicated.

But for the first time in four years, you felt like maybe—maybe—you could find your way back to each other.

“I love you so much,” he said, breaking the silence the two of you had build like a cocoon around you. His voice was soft, barely there. 

And your shoulders shook as you realized this was the first time you’d heard him say the words in so long. Because Steve Harrington was saying everything you'd needed to hear four years ago. Everything you'd needed to hear to know you weren't crazy for wanting forever with him. That your expectations hadn't been too much. That loving him the way you had wasn't something to be ashamed of.

You cried against his chest and he held you through it, murmuring apologies and promises and I love yous into your hair until the tears finally slowed, until you could breathe again, until you felt like maybe you could start to believe him.

[torimcc]

Crying screaming throwing up I need a part 3 stat 😭😭😭😭❤️