In Between 02 | Steve Harrington

The morning stretches longer than it should, suspended in that fragile, crystalline space between what was and what might be. Time feels elastic here, malleable, like you could reach out and shape it with your hands if you only knew how. The sunlight filters through your curtains in pale golden strips, dust motes dancing lazily in the beams, and you watch them drift and swirl while Steve's heartbeat thuds steady and sure beneath your ear. Eventually, inevitably, the house begins to wake around you. The creak of floorboards in the hallway, familiar and distinct—your father's heavy tread, different from your mother's lighter step. The distant sound of water running through pipes, the groan and shudder of old plumbing protesting the morning routine. Your mother's voice drifting up from the kitchen, muffled but present, calling for someone to come down for breakfast.

Steve tenses slightly against you, reality reasserting itself with all its complications and consequences. His arms tighten around you for just a second before loosening, like he's trying to hold onto this moment even as it slips away.

"I should probably go," he murmurs, though he doesn't move. His voice is rough with sleep and reluctance.

You nod against his chest, feeling the warmth of his skin through the thin fabric of his t-shirt. "Probably."

Neither of you shifts for another long moment, stretching the inevitable goodbye as far as it will go. Then he exhales slowly, deliberately, and loosens his hold. The absence of his warmth is immediate and sharp, like stepping from a heated room into winter air. He sits up carefully, the mattress dipping and creaking beneath his weight, and runs both hands through his hair in that familiar gesture that's half habit, half armor—the same motion you've watched him make a thousand times before basketball games, before tests, before any moment that requires him to be Steve Harrington instead of just Steve. You watch him locate his jacket draped over your desk chair, his shoes kicked off near the window, the pieces of himself he'd shed the night before in his desperate need to be close to you.

When he turns back to you, there's hesitation in his expression, uncertainty written in the furrow between his brows. Like he's not sure what the rules are now, what's allowed in the harsh light of morning versus the forgiving darkness of 2 AM.

"I'll call you later?" he offers, and it comes out more like a question than a statement.

"Yeah."

He crosses back to the bed, movements careful and deliberate, leaning down to press another kiss to your forehead. This one lingers a second longer, maybe two. His hand cups the side of your face with a tenderness that makes your chest ache, thumb brushing your cheekbone in a gesture so gentle it nearly undoes you.

"Thank you," he says quietly, and there's weight behind those words. "For last night. For… everything."

Your throat tightens around all the things you want to say but can't quite articulate. "Always."

That word again. It settles between you like a promise, like a vow, heavy with implication and hope.

He climbs back out through your window with more grace than he'd entered with hours ago, his movements practiced from years of sneaking in and out of places he shouldn't be. He drops to the grass below with practiced ease, landing in a crouch before straightening. You watch him jog across the lawn to where his BMW is still parked down the street where he'd left it in his haste, hands shoved deep in his pockets against the morning chill that's settled over Hawkins like a blanket.

He doesn't look back. But you see him smile to himself, small and private, just before he slides into the driver's seat. That smile stays with you long after the sound of his engine fades into the distance.

When you finally leave your room, showered and dressed in clothes that feel too normal for how different everything feels inside your chest, Nancy is already at the kitchen table. She's nursing a cup of coffee, still in her pajamas—the blue ones with the small flowers that she's had since middle school. Her hair is pulled into a messy ponytail, pieces falling loose around her face. She looks small. Tired. The kind of tired that comes from crying, that settles into your bones and makes everything feel heavier.

Your mother is at the stove, humming softly—some song from her youth that she never remembers all the words to as she flips pancakes with practiced efficiency. She glances up when you enter, her expression brightening the way it always does when she sees her children.

"Morning, sweetheart. Hungry?"

"Yeah," you manage, sliding into the chair across from Nancy, the wood cool against your legs.

Your sister doesn't look up. She traces the rim of her mug with one finger, eyes fixed on the dark liquid inside like it might offer answers to questions she hasn't figured out how to ask yet.

The silence stretches, thick and uncomfortable, filling the kitchen like smoke.

Your mother plates pancakes with a practiced hand and sets them in front of you both, the plates warm and the smell of butter and maple syrup filling the air. She kisses the top of Nancy's head absently, maternal and automatic, before moving back to the stove to finish the batch.

"You girls sleep okay?"

"Fine," Nancy says automatically, the lie smooth and practiced.

You nod, not trusting your voice, afraid of what might spill out if you try to speak.

When your mother leaves the kitchen to wake Mike and Holly, her footsteps receding up the stairs, the silence becomes unbearable. It presses against your eardrums, makes your skin feel too tight.

Nancy finally looks up. Her eyes are red rimmed but dry now, like she's cried herself empty during the long hours of the night. Like there's nothing left inside her but exhaustion.

"I know he was here," she says quietly, and her voice is flat, emotionless.

Your stomach drops, plummeting somewhere in the vicinity of your feet.

"Nancy—"

"I heard him," she continues, each word careful and measured. "Last night. Climbing through your window."

You set down your fork carefully, pulse hammering against your ribs, in your throat, behind your eyes.

She doesn't sound angry. She sounds defeated. Hollowed out. And somehow that's worse.

"I'm not mad," she adds, though the words feel hollow, like they're missing something essential. "I don't… I don't have the right to be."

You study her face, searching for the trap, for the accusation that must be coming. For the explosion of sisterly betrayal and hurt feelings. But there's nothing there except exhaustion and a resignation that makes her look years older than she is.

"I meant what I said," she whispers, and you have to lean in to hear her. "At the party. I just… I didn't mean to say it like that. In front of everyone."

"Nancy—"

"I don't love him," she says, and the confession lands heavily between you, solid and immovable as stone. "Not the way he deserves. Not the way…" She trails off, eyes flickering to yours, and in that look you see everything she's been carrying. "Not the way you do."

The acknowledgment steals your breath, leaves you gasping like you've been punched.

"I saw it," she continues, words coming faster now, like a dam breaking. "I've always seen it. Even back in middle school, the way you'd look at him. The way you'd light up when he walked into a room. I just thought… I thought maybe if I tried hard enough, I could feel what he felt. What you felt." She shakes her head, ponytail swinging. "But I can't manufacture that. I can't force myself to feel something that isn't there, no matter how much I want to."

You don't know what to say. Part of you wants to comfort her, to smooth away the pain etched into her features. Part of you is still angry that she chose him knowing how you felt, that she walked into this relationship with her eyes open. Part of you just feels sad for all three of you, caught in this messy triangle none of you asked for, hurting each other without meaning to.

"I'm sorry," she says finally, and her voice cracks on the words. "For not telling you. For not… handling it better. For being selfish."

You nod slowly, processing. "I'm sorry too."

"For what?"

"For not being honest. For letting it get this far without saying anything. For loving him when you were with him."

She offers a weak smile, barely there, just a ghost of her usual expressions. "We're a mess, aren't we?"

"Yeah," you agree softly, returning the smile with one just as fragile. "We really are."

The moment doesn't fix everything. It doesn't erase the hurt or the awkwardness or the fact that you'll be navigating this new reality under the same roof, sitting at the same dinner table, sharing the same bathroom. But it's a start. A fragile truce built on exhaustion and honesty and the stubborn love that exists between sisters even when everything else is complicated.

"Are you…" Nancy hesitates, teeth worrying at her bottom lip. "Are you going to…?"

She doesn't finish the question, but you understand what she's asking. What she needs to know.

"I don't know," you admit, and it's the truth. "We didn't… we're not rushing anything. We're just… figuring it out."

She nods, and you see relief flicker across her face like sunlight through clouds. "Good. That's… that's good. He deserves that. You both do."

The conversation ends there, unfinished but sufficient for now. You both return to your pancakes, eating in silence that feels less hostile than before, less charged. When Mike thunders down the stairs moments later demanding breakfast with all the subtlety of a stampeding elephant, the tension breaks entirely, swallowed by the ordinary chaos of Sunday morning. Holly follows in her wake, dragging her favorite stuffed rabbit, and your mother returns to orchestrate the controlled chaos that is breakfast with the Wheeler family.

But later, when you're alone in your room, door closed against the sounds of your family, the phone rings. The sound is sharp and sudden in the quiet.

You answer on the second ring, heart already knowing who it is.

"Hey."

Steve's voice is warm, slightly uncertain, like he's testing the waters.

"Hey," you echo, smiling despite yourself, despite everything.

"So," he begins, and you can hear him shifting on the other end, can picture him pacing his room. "I was thinking… do you want to do something today? Just us. Nothing fancy. Maybe just… drive around? Get out of town for a bit?"

Your heart lifts, expanding in your chest. "Yeah. I'd like that."

"Cool. I'll pick you up in an hour?"

"Okay."

There's a pause, and you can hear him breathing on the other end, the soft static of the phone line connecting you. You can feel him working up to something.

"I'm really glad I came to your window last night," he says finally, words tumbling out in a rush.

"Me too."

When he picks you up exactly an hour later—punctual in a way that's new for him, like he couldn't wait a minute longer—he's wearing the same jacket from the night before, hair still slightly damp from a shower, smelling like his cologne and laundry detergent. He opens the passenger door for you, a gesture that feels both familiar and newly significant, weighted with intention.

You drive with no destination in mind, no plan or purpose beyond being together. He takes backroads out of Hawkins, the kind of winding country roads that locals know and tourists never find, windows cracked to let in the cool autumn air that smells like dying leaves and distant woodsmoke. The radio plays low, some song you half recognize from the summer, and his hand rests on the gear shift between you, close enough that your knuckles brush every time he changes gears.

The third time it happens, he glances at you, quick and questioning.

"Can I…?"

You don't make him finish. You slide your hand into his, fingers lacing together naturally, like they were designed to fit this way.

He exhales like he'd been holding his breath, waiting for permission.

"This okay?" he asks, thumb already moving across your knuckles.

"Yeah."

He squeezes gently, thumb tracing absent patterns against your skin—circles and figure eights and shapes that might be letters if you concentrated hard enough.

You drive for miles, the landscape changing gradually from suburban sprawl to rural farmland. He tells you about the fight his parents had last week, voices carrying through the too-big house about his father's business trip and his mother's bridge club and all the ways they talk past each other instead of to each other. You tell him about the book you're reading, the one with the complicated family dynamics that hits a little too close to home right now. He complains about Tommy being an ass at practice, making comments he thought were jokes but landed like punches. You complain about your English teacher assigning another essay on symbolism when you're barely keeping up with the last one.

It's easy. Familiar. The comfortable rhythm of conversation you've built over years of friendship. But there's a new undercurrent now, something electric humming beneath the surface of every word, every glance, every touch.

Eventually, he pulls off onto a dirt road that leads to the old quarry, the path rutted and overgrown. It's deserted this time of year, too cold for swimming, too isolated for most people to bother with. The popular months are summer, when the water sparkles and teenagers come to jump from the cliffs and drink warm beer. But now, in late October, it's abandoned. He parks near the edge, engine ticking as it cools, and for a moment you both just sit there in the quiet.

For a moment, you both just sit there, hands still linked, staring out at the gray water below. It looks cold and uninviting, the surface ruffled by wind.

"I don't know how to do this," he admits quietly, and there's vulnerability in his voice that makes you turn to face him.

You turn to look at him, really look at him. "Do what?"

"This." He gestures vaguely between you with his free hand, the movement encompassing everything—the hand holding, the charged silence, the weight of possibility. "Be… real. Without the performance."

You understand immediately. Steve has spent so long crafting the version of himself that Hawkins expects—confident, charming, effortlessly cool, King Steve in his castle of popularity—that stripping it away feels like standing naked in front of a crowd. It's vulnerability without armor, honesty without protection.

"You don't have to perform for me," you say gently, squeezing his hand. "You never have."

He swallows hard, Adam's apple bobbing. "I know. That's what scares me."

"Why?"

"Because what if the real version isn't enough?" The question comes out small, almost broken. "What if you see all of me—all the messy, complicated, fucked up parts and decide it's not worth it?"

The vulnerability in that question, the raw fear behind it, nearly breaks you.

You reach up with your free hand, cupping his face and turning him to look at you fully. His skin is warm under your palm, slightly rough where he needs to shave.

"Steve," you say firmly, holding his gaze so he can see the truth in your eyes. "The real version is the only one I've ever wanted. I've been seeing the real you for years—the one who hides behind jokes when he's nervous, who cares so deeply it terrifies him, who climbs through windows at 2 AM because he can't be alone with his thoughts. That's the version I fell for."

His eyes search yours, looking for doubt, for hesitation, for any sign that you're just saying what he wants to hear. He won't find any because you mean every word.

"I don't know how to be someone's boyfriend without trying to be perfect," he confesses, and there's shame in his voice. "With Nancy, I was always… performing. Trying to be what she needed. What I thought she wanted. And it still wasn't enough."

"Then don't be perfect," you reply, thumb brushing his cheekbone. "Just be you. The you who pretends to hate horror movies but watches them anyway because you know they're my favorite. The you who cares so much it terrifies you. The you who's sitting here right now, scared and honest and real."

He closes his eyes briefly, leaning into your touch like he's starved for it, like this kind of acceptance is foreign and precious.

"What if I mess this up?" he whispers, and you can hear the fear of losing something before he's even really had it.

"Then we'll figure it out. We'll talk about it. We'll work through it."

"What if I hurt you?"

"Then we'll talk about that too. Steve, I'm not asking you to be perfect. I'm just asking you to be honest."

He opens his eyes again, and there's something raw in his expression, something stripped bare and vulnerable. Something that looks like hope.

"I don't want to lose you," he says for the second time in twelve hours, and it sounds like a prayer.

"You won't," you promise again, and you pour every ounce of certainty you have into those two words.

This time, when he leans in, it's not to kiss your forehead or your temple. He pauses just before your lips, breath mingling with yours, giving you space to pull back, to change your mind, to reconsider. You don't. You close the distance yourself, pressing your mouth to his in a kiss that feels like coming home and starting an adventure all at once.

It's soft at first. Tentative. A question being asked and answered. His hand comes up to cradle the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair with careful reverence. Your hand slides from his face to his shoulder, gripping the fabric of his jacket like an anchor. When you part your lips slightly, he makes a small sound in the back of his throat, something between relief and wonder, and deepens the kiss.

When you finally pull back, both slightly breathless and dazed, he rests his forehead against yours. You can feel his heart racing, matching the tempo of your own.

"Okay," he murmurs, and his voice is rough.

"Okay?"

"I think I can do this. With you. I think I can try."

You smile, feeling it spread across your face like sunrise. "Good."

You stay at the quarry until the sun begins to sink lower, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink and deep purple. You talk about everything and nothing—childhood memories, future dreams, fears you've never voiced to anyone else. You kiss more, learning the shape and taste of each other, the way your bodies fit together in the front seat of his BMW. When he finally drives you home, his hand finds yours again automatically, like it belongs there, like there's no other place it should be.

He walks you to the door this time instead of dropping you at the curb, another small shift in the landscape of your relationship.

"I'll see you tomorrow?" he asks, and there's still that thread of uncertainty, like he needs reassurance that this is real.

"Yeah."

He kisses you again, quick and sweet and promising, before jogging back to his car with a lightness in his step that wasn't there this morning.

You watch him drive away, hand lifted in a wave, heart full in a way it hasn't been in years. Maybe ever.

Monday morning arrives with the weight of inevitability, like a storm you can see gathering on the horizon. You know the moment you step into school, everything will shift. Hawkins High thrives on gossip the way plants thrive on sunlight, and the dissolution of Steve and Nancy's relationship—the golden couple, the king and the rising queen will be prime material. It'll spread through the hallways like wildfire, growing and changing with each retelling.

You dress carefully, not trying to make a statement but aware that people will be watching, analyzing, judging. When you arrive at your locker, Steve is already there. Waiting. The hallway hasn't filled yet—it's early, still that quiet period before the rush but there are enough people around to notice. To see. To start talking.

He's leaning against the metal door, hands in his pockets, hair perfectly styled in that way that looks effortless but you know takes time. But when he sees you, his expression softens into something genuine, something that's just for you.

"Hey," he says, and the word carries weight.

"Hey."

He doesn't reach for you. Not yet. Not here in the harsh fluorescent light with eyes already turning your direction. But his eyes hold yours a second longer than they used to, and there's a warmth there that makes your stomach flutter.

"You okay?" he asks quietly, and you know he's really asking.

"Yeah. You?"

"Getting there." He offers a small smile. "Better now."

Tommy appears at the end of the hallway, Carol at his side like always, matching letter jackets and carefully maintained popularity. They spot Steve immediately, and you see the exact moment Tommy registers that he's standing at your locker instead of Nancy's. His eyebrows rise toward his hairline. Carol whispers something behind her hand, and you don't need to hear it to know it's about you.

Steve notices too. His jaw tightens slightly, shoulders squaring, but he doesn't move away from you. Doesn't put distance between you like you half expected him to.

"Let them talk," you murmur, keeping your voice low.

He glances at you, and something grateful flickers in his expression, softening the tension around his eyes. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

Tommy reaches you both, smirk already in place like it's painted on, that particular expression he wears when he thinks he's about to get good gossip. "Harrington. Didn't expect to see you here."

Steve shrugs, the picture of casual indifference. "Why not?"

"Just figured after Saturday…" Tommy trails off meaningfully, eyes sliding to you with obvious curiosity. "Thought you'd be laying low. Licking your wounds. You know."

"I'm good," Steve says evenly, and there's a note of finality in his voice.

Carol leans in, voice dripping with false sympathy that barely masks her excitement at being in the center of drama. "We heard about you and Nancy. That's so sad. You guys were so perfect together."

You resist the urge to roll your eyes at the performance of it all.

Steve's expression doesn't change, doesn't give them anything to work with. "Yeah, well. Things happen. People change."

"They sure do," Tommy agrees, gaze flickering between you and Steve with barely concealed curiosity, trying to piece together a story from fragments. "So what's going on here?"

The bell rings, sharp and loud, saving you from further interrogation. Steve pushes off your locker, and for a brief moment, his hand brushes yours. Intentional. Grounding. A private reassurance in a public space.

"See you later," he says, and it sounds like a promise.

You nod, watching him walk away with Tommy and Carol flanking him like guards. He glances back once before turning the corner, and you catch the small smile he's trying to hide, the one that's just for you.

The day unfolds in a series of whispers and sidelong glances, like being watched through a microscope. By lunch, the rumors have multiplied exponentially, each version more elaborate than the last. You hear fragments as you move through the hallways, people not bothering to lower their voices much.

"…heard she dumped him at Tina's party…"

"…in front of everyone, can you imagine…"

"…completely humiliated…"

"…saw him talking to her sister this morning…"

"…that's kind of messed up, right? Dating your ex's sister?"

"…I heard they've been sneaking around for months…"

You keep your head down, focusing on getting through each class, on taking notes and answering questions when called on and pretending the weight of all those eyes isn't crushing. In English, Nancy sits two rows ahead of you like always. She doesn't turn around. Doesn't acknowledge you. But her shoulders are tense, posture rigid, and you can see the way her pencil grips the paper too hard, like she's holding onto control by her fingernails.

When the lunch bell rings, you make your way to the cafeteria with measured steps, not rushing but not dragging your feet either. The room is already buzzing with energy when you enter, that particular frequency of teenage social politics that's somewhere between a hive and a courtroom. You spot Steve immediately—it's become instinct, knowing where he is in any room. He's at his usual table, but the dynamic has shifted in subtle ways. Tommy is talking animatedly about something, hands gesturing wildly, but Steve looks distracted. His eyes scan the room methodically, and when they land on you, something in his expression eases, like he's been holding his breath.

He stands.

The table goes quiet. Conversations stutter and stop.

"Where are you going?" Carol asks, her voice sharp with surprise and something that might be concern.

Steve doesn't answer. He crosses the cafeteria with purpose, weaving between tables, ignoring the stares that follow him like spotlights. Conversations quiet in his wake, whispers rising like smoke. When he reaches you, he doesn't hesitate, doesn't second guess himself.

"Sit with me?" he asks, and it's not a demand. It's an invitation. A choice he's giving you.

It's not a demand. It's an invitation.

You glance past him at his table, at the social ecosystem he's inviting you into. At Tommy and Carol watching with barely concealed shock. At the empty space where Nancy used to sit, now conspicuous in its vacancy.

"You sure?" you ask quietly, giving him one last chance to reconsider.

"Yeah," he says, and there's no hesitation in his voice. "I'm sure."

So you follow him back across the cafeteria, aware of every eye tracking your movement. The cafeteria noise dims slightly as people register what's happening, the shift in social dynamics playing out in real time. Steve pulls out the chair beside him, the one Nancy used to occupy, and you slide into it, heart hammering.

Tommy recovers first, leaning back with a lazy grin that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Well, this is interesting."

"Shut up, Tommy," Steve says without heat, but there's a warning in it.

Carol's eyes narrow slightly as she studies you, calculating, measuring, trying to figure out where you fit in their carefully maintained hierarchy. "So, are you guys like… together now? Is this a thing?"

"We're figuring it out," Steve replies evenly, and you're grateful he doesn't make it sound casual or dismissive.

It's not a confirmation. Not a denial. Just honesty.

Tommy whistles low, the sound cutting through the tension. "Fast work, Harrington. Nancy dumps you on Saturday and by Monday you're with her sister? That's cold, man."

Steve's jaw tightens, and you feel his hand find yours under the table, hidden from view. He squeezes once, grounding himself, reminding himself why he's doing this. "It's not like that."

"Sure it's not."

You feel Steve's patience fraying, can sense the anger building beneath his careful composure. You speak up, keeping your voice quiet but firm. "It's really not. We've been friends for years. This isn't… we didn't plan this."

"Right," Carol says, tone suggesting she doesn't believe you, that she's already constructed her own narrative. "Friends."

The conversation moves on eventually, shifting to safer topics—basketball practice, upcoming tests, weekend plans but the tension lingers like smoke in the air. You eat in relative silence, hyper aware of every glance, every whisper from surrounding tables, every moment of scrutiny. Steve's thumb traces absent patterns against your palm under the table, a private reassurance in the midst of public scrutiny, and you focus on that sensation, on the warmth of his hand, on the fact that he chose this. Chose you. Despite everything.

When lunch ends, he walks you to your next class like it's the most natural thing in the world. In the hallway, away from Tommy and Carol's watchful eyes and the cafeteria's judgmental audience, he finally speaks.

"Sorry about that," he murmurs, and there's genuine regret in his voice.

"For what?"

"For… all of it. The questions. The looks. Tommy being an ass."

You shake your head, adjusting your books against your chest. "I knew what I was signing up for."

He stops walking, turning to face you fully, and students stream past on either side like water around a stone, but he doesn't seem to notice or care.

"I meant what I said," he tells you, and his voice is low, intense. "About not rushing. About doing this right. About taking our time."

"I know."

"But I also don't want to hide you," he continues, and there's determination in his eyes. "I don't want to act like you're not important to me. Like this isn't real. I did that before, with Nancy, always worried about what people thought, and it made everything worse. I don't want to make that mistake again."

The honesty in that statement, the rawness of it, undoes you.

"Okay," you whisper, throat tight with emotion.

He smiles, small and genuine, before continuing down the hallway. His hand brushes yours as he walks away, fingers trailing across your palm, a promise of more to come when there aren't dozens of eyes watching.

The rest of the week unfolds in a strange new rhythm, like learning to dance to unfamiliar music. Steve still shows up at your locker every morning without fail, but now he lingers longer, no longer rushing off to meet Nancy or maintain appearances. Now his goodbye includes a kiss pressed to your temple when he thinks no one is watching, and sometimes even when he knows they are. Now his hand finds yours in the hallways between classes, fingers lacing together for brief moments before you have to separate and head to different rooms.

You study together in the library after school, heads bent close over textbooks and notebooks, sharing whispered explanations and stolen glances. He drives you home most evenings, deliberately taking the long way so you have more time together, routes that add fifteen or twenty minutes to the drive but feel necessary, precious. He climbs through your window twice more that week, not because he's running from something or escaping some crisis, but because he wants to be near you, to talk in the darkness where honesty comes easier.

Nancy maintains her distance with careful precision. She's civil when necessary, passing you the salt at dinner without comment or asking to borrow a sweater with forced politeness, but the easy sisterhood you once shared feels fractured, like a bone that's broken and will heal but never quite the same. The comfortable intimacy of late night conversations and shared secrets has been replaced by careful courtesy and lots of space. You catch her watching sometimes, expression unreadable, and you wonder what she's thinking. If she regrets her honesty. If she resents you for stepping into the space she vacated. If she's hurting more than she's letting on.

One evening, nearly two weeks after Tina's party and everything that came after, she knocks on your bedroom door. The sound is soft, tentative, so different from her usual confident knock that you almost don't recognize it.

You're lying on your bed, phone cord stretched across the room like a lifeline, talking to Steve about nothing important—he's telling you about the movie he watched with Dustin Henderson earlier, something about aliens that the kid insisted he had to see. When you hear the knock, you sit up, surprise flickering through you.

"Can I come in?" Nancy asks through the door, and there's a vulnerability in her voice you haven't heard in weeks.

You cover the receiver with your palm. "Yeah."

She enters slowly, closing the door behind her with a soft click. She looks uncertain, younger somehow in her oversized sweater—one of Jonathan's, you realize—and bare feet. Her hair is loose around her shoulders, and she's wearing her glasses instead of contacts, which she only does when she's tired or stressed.

"I'll call you back," you tell Steve, reluctant but knowing this conversation needs to happen.

"Everything okay?" he asks immediately, concern sharpening his voice.

"Yeah. Nancy just needs to talk."

"Okay. Call me later?"

"Promise."

You hang up and gesture for Nancy to sit. She perches on the edge of your bed, hands folded carefully in her lap like she's at a job interview.

"I've been thinking," she begins carefully, words measured. "About everything. About what happened. About… all of it."

You wait, giving her space to find her words.

"I was wrong," she continues, and the admission seems to cost her something. "Not about breaking up with Steve. That was… that was the right thing. For both of us. But I was wrong about how I handled it. And I was wrong to act like you didn't have feelings. Like they didn't matter."

"Nancy—"

"Let me finish," she interrupts gently, looking up at you with eyes that are bright with emotion. "Please. I need to say this."

You nod, falling silent.

"I knew. I've always known." She takes a shaky breath. "About how you felt about Steve. I saw it years ago and I chose him anyway because I thought… I thought I could make it work. I thought if I tried hard enough, I could feel what I was supposed to feel. What everyone expected me to feel."

She looks up, and now there are tears threatening to spill, clinging to her lashes.

"But I couldn't. No matter how hard I tried, no matter how much I wanted to, I couldn't make myself love him the way he deserved to be loved. And that's not your fault. It's not his fault either. It's just… the truth. The unfortunate, messy truth."

You reach for her hand, squeezing gently, offering comfort even though you're not sure she wants it from you.

"I don't want to lose you," she whispers, and a tear finally escapes, trailing down her cheek. "You're my sister. My best friend. We've shared a room, shared clothes, shared secrets. And I know things are weird right now—they're so weird and uncomfortable and I don't know how to fix it—but I don't want this to break us. I can't lose you too."

"It won't," you promise, squeezing her hand tighter. "We'll figure it out. It might take time, and it might be awkward for a while, but we'll figure it out."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah. We're sisters. That's not going to change."

She nods, swiping at her eyes with her free hand, trying to regain composure. "He's good for you, you know. Steve. I see it now, the way I should have seen it before. The way he looks at you… he never looked at me like that. Not really. And I think I always knew, deep down, but I didn't want to admit it."

The admission hurts and heals simultaneously, like cleaning out a wound.

"I'm sorry," you say again, because it feels necessary, even if you're not entirely sure what you're apologizing for anymore.

"Don't be." She squeezes your hand back, harder than before. "Just… be happy. Both of you. You deserve that. After everything, you both deserve to be happy."

When she leaves, closing the door softly behind her, you sit in the quiet of your room for a long moment, processing the conversation, the forgiveness offered and accepted. Then you pick up the phone and dial Steve's number, fingers moving automatically across the familiar pattern.

He answers on the first ring, like he's been waiting.

"Hey," he says, and you can hear the concern still lingering in his voice. "Everything okay?"

"Yeah," you reply, and you're surprised to find yourself smiling despite the tears threatening to spill from your own eyes now. "Everything's okay."

"Nancy?"

"We talked. Really talked. Actually said everything that needed to be said."

"And?"

"And I think we're going to be okay. Eventually. It'll take time, but… I think we'll get there."

You hear his exhale of relief, long and shaky. "Good. That's… that's really good. I'm glad."

"Yeah."

There's a comfortable pause, the kind that only exists between people who are learning to be comfortable in silence together.

"So," he says eventually, voice dropping into something softer, more playful. "What are you wearing?"

You laugh, surprised and delighted by the sudden shift. "Steve."

"What? I'm just asking. Genuinely curious."

"You're ridiculous."

"You love it though."

And the truth is, you do. You love his terrible jokes and his unexpected vulnerability and the way he's learning to be himself without the armor he's worn for so long. You love that he still climbs through your window even though he could probably just use the front door now. You love that he holds your hand in the hallways without hesitation and that he's not afraid to be seen choosing you, consequences be damned.

"Yeah," you admit quietly, settling back against your pillows. "I really do."

The line goes quiet for a moment, weighted with everything you're both still learning to say, all the feelings that are too big for words yet.

"I'm falling for you," he confesses suddenly, and the words rush out like he's been holding them in too long. "Like… really falling. Hard. And it's terrifying and amazing and I just needed you to know. I needed to say it out loud."

Your heart expands in your chest, too full for your ribs to contain, pressing against your lungs until it's hard to breathe.

"I'm already there," you whisper back, and it's the truest thing you've ever said.

And in the darkness of your room, phone pressed to your ear, blanket pulled up to your chin, you can hear him smile. You can hear the joy and relief and wonder in the sound of his breathing, in the way he laughs softly, in the comfortable silence that follows your confession.

You talk for hours, about everything and nothing, until your mother knocks on your door to tell you it's late and you need to sleep. Even then, you're reluctant to hang up, to sever this connection.

"Tomorrow," he promises.

"Tomorrow," you agree.

And when you finally hang up and curl into your pillow, you fall asleep smiling, heart full of possibility and promise, dreaming of all the tomorrows stretching out before you.

Former Ladies’ Man | Steve Harrington

The fluorescent lights of Starcourt Mall flickered and hummed overhead as you followed your uncle Murray through the maze of service corridors, your heart hammering so violently against your ribs you thought it might bruise. Joyce Byers walked ahead of you, her shoulders rigid with tension, her movements quick and purposeful despite the fear you could see in the set of her jaw. Chief Hopper brought up the rear, his heavy footsteps echoing off the concrete walls, his hand resting on his holster in a way that made your stomach clench with dread. The narrow corridors seemed to close in around you with each step, the walls pressing closer, the air growing thicker and harder to breathe. You couldn't shake the feeling—the bone-deep certainty—that everything Murray had told you, everything that had sounded absolutely insane when he'd laid it all out in his cluttered bunker, was about to be proven horrifyingly, devastatingly true.

"Stay close," Murray muttered over his shoulder, his voice tight with anxiety, and you nodded even though he couldn't see you in the dim lighting. Your uncle had always been paranoid, conspiracy obsessed, living in that underground bunker of his surrounded by maps and newspaper clippings and red string connecting dots that no one else could see. He'd spent years being dismissed as crazy, as the family embarrassment, the uncle who showed up to holidays ranting about government cover ups and secret operations. But this time, when he'd called you in a panic at three in the morning, his voice shaking as he begged you to come to Hawkins immediately, something in his tone had been different. This time, beneath the usual paranoia and urgency, you'd heard something you'd never heard from Murray before: genuine, unadulterated terror.

The door at the end of the corridor burst open with a bang that made you jump, and suddenly you were stumbling into the harsh brightness of the food court, blinking against the fluorescent lights and the chaos unfolding before you like a scene from a nightmare. There were kids everywhere—teenagers, really, but they looked so young, their faces pale with fear and streaked with dirt and what looked disturbingly like blood. A girl with short brown hair was gesturing wildly at something you couldn't see, her words tumbling out in a frantic rush. A tall, lanky kid with dark hair and an anxious expression was trying to calm everyone down, his hands raised placatingly, though you could see his own hands were shaking.

"Murray!" A boy with wild curly hair and a baseball cap spotted your uncle first, relief flooding his features so completely that he looked like he might cry. "Thank God, we thought you weren't going to make it, we thought—"

"Where is it?" Hopper interrupted, his voice sharp and commanding, cutting through the chaos like a knife. Every head turned toward him. "Where's the gate?"

And then you saw him.

He was standing slightly apart from the group, positioned protectively between the younger kids and whatever danger lurked beyond, wearing a ridiculous sailor uniform complete with a jaunty neckerchief and a name tag that read "Steve" in cheerful red letters that seemed absurdly, almost offensively out of place given the circumstances. His hair was perfect despite everything—impossibly, inexplicably perfect, actually styled in a way that must have taken effort even though he was clearly in the middle of some kind of crisis. Even from across the food court, even through the chaos and the fear, you could see the sharp line of his jaw, the warm brown of his eyes that seemed to scan the area constantly, always watching, always protecting. He was holding a baseball bat studded with nails—an honest to God baseball bat with nails hammered through it like some kind of apocalyptic weapon which should have looked threatening or even ridiculous, but somehow just made him look fiercely protective, like he'd fight anything and everything that dared come near the kids clustered around him.

Those eyes found yours across the space between you, and something shifted in the air, something electric and undeniable that made your breath catch.

Steve Harrington had seen a lot of impossible things in the past two years. He'd fought interdimensional monsters with too many teeth and not enough regard for human life. He'd been beaten up by actual Russian soldiers in a secret underground base, which still seemed insane even having lived through it. He'd watched his entire worldview crumble and rebuild itself into something stranger and more terrifying than he'd ever imagined possible, had learned that the world was so much bigger and darker than Hawkins High School and basketball games and the petty dramas that had once seemed so important. But nothing, absolutely nothing in his experience fighting the Upside Down and its horrors had prepared him for the sight of you walking into the Starcourt food court beside Murray Bauman, looking scared and confused and so beautiful it physically hurt to look at you.

The world seemed to slow down, which was stupid and dangerous because there were literally Russian soldiers somewhere in the building and probably monsters too, and he should be focused on keeping everyone alive, on protecting the kids, on making sure Dustin and Erica and Robin made it out of this nightmare in one piece. But all he could think, all his brain could process, was that you were the most beautiful person he'd ever seen. Your hair was disheveled, falling out of whatever style you'd had it in, and your eyes were wide with fear and confusion, darting around the food court trying to make sense of everything. There was a smudge of dirt on your cheek, and your clothes were rumpled like you'd been dragged here in a hurry, but God, you were stunning. The kind of beautiful that made his chest ache and his brain short circuit, that made him forget how to form words or think coherent thoughts.

"Steve?" Robin's voice cut through his thoughts, sharp and concerned. "Steve, are you listening? This is important. Steve!"

He tore his gaze away from you with effort, feeling heat creep up his neck and spread across his cheeks. "Yeah, yeah, I'm listening. Russians. Gate. Got it."

Robin followed his line of sight, her eyes tracking across the food court until they landed on you, and her eyebrows shot up so high they nearly disappeared into her hair. "Oh no," she said, a grin spreading across her face despite the dire circumstances. "Oh, this is going to be good. This is going to be so good."

"What are you talking about?" Steve hissed, but he could feel his face getting hotter.

"You're blushing," Robin said gleefully. "Steve Harrington, former King of Hawkins High, is blushing like a middle schooler. Who is that?"

"I don't—I mean, I don't know. How would I know? I've never—" He was stammering, actually stammering, and Robin looked like Christmas had come early.

The next hour was a blur of frantic explanations and desperate planning. You learned about the Upside Down, about how it was a parallel dimension full of monsters and decay, a dark mirror of the world you knew. You learned about Eleven and her powers, about how she could move things with her mind and open gates between worlds. You learned about everything that had been happening in Hawkins while the rest of the world remained blissfully ignorant, living their normal lives with no idea that monsters were real and lurking just beneath the surface. Murray stood beside you through all of it, occasionally squeezing your shoulder as if to ground you in reality, though reality itself seemed to have become negotiable, something fluid and uncertain.

Steve kept stealing glances at you throughout the planning session. You caught him looking more than once, and each time he'd quickly look away, a flush creeping across his cheeks, his hand coming up to run through his hair in what seemed to be a nervous habit. It was endearing, actually, surprisingly endearing, the way this boy who carried himself with such casual confidence, who'd apparently been the king of his high school, seemed suddenly unsure and almost shy. Like you made him nervous in a way that Russian soldiers and monsters apparently didn't.

When Hopper finally laid out the plan—who would go where, who would do what, breaking everyone into teams with military precision, you found yourself grouped with the kids and Steve and Robin, tasked with creating a distraction on the main floor while the adults handled the more dangerous work of actually closing the gate. Steve had protested immediately and vehemently, arguing with increasing desperation that he should be the one going into danger, that he'd fought these things before, that he could help. But Hopper had shut him down with a single look, the kind of look that said the discussion was over.

"You keep them safe," Hopper had said, his voice leaving no room for argument as he gestured to the kids clustered around Steve like ducklings around their mother. And then his eyes had flickered to you, something knowing in his expression. "All of them."

Steve had nodded, his jaw tight with frustration but his resolve clear, his grip tightening on that ridiculous nail bat until his knuckles went white. You'd felt something warm and unexpected unfurl in your chest, watching him accept the responsibility without further complaint, watching him turn to the kids with determination written across his features.

The battle that followed was chaos incarnate, pure adrenaline fueled madness. You'd never been so terrified in your life, had never known that fear could be so all consuming, so physical. You'd never moved so fast or screamed so loud, your throat going raw with it. But through it all, Steve was there—pulling you out of the way when debris fell from the collapsing structure around you, his hands strong and sure on your arms, shouting your name above the noise to make sure you were okay, his voice cutting through the chaos like a lifeline, positioning himself between you and danger with an instinct that seemed bone deep, automatic, like protecting people was just something he did without thinking about it. When it was finally over, when the Mind Flayer was defeated in a way you didn't fully understand and the gate was closed once more, you'd found yourself sitting on the curb outside the burning mall, your whole body shaking with adrenaline and shock, your mind unable to fully process what you'd just experienced. Steve had sat down beside you without a word, close enough that your shoulders touched, his presence solid and grounding in a world that suddenly made no sense.

"You okay?" he'd asked, his voice rough with smoke and exhaustion, and when you'd turned to look at him, you'd seen that his face was streaked with soot and there was a cut above his eyebrow that should probably be looked at.

You'd nodded, not trusting yourself to speak without breaking down completely, and he'd smiled—a small, tired smile that made your heart skip despite everything and said, "Yeah. Me neither."

That should have been the end of it. One crazy night, one shared trauma, one impossible experience, and then you'd go back to your life in the city and he'd go back to his in Hawkins. Ships passing in the night, connected only by this one bizarre chapter in your lives. But Murray had decided to stay in Hawkins for a while, helping with the "cleanup" and the cover up, making sure all the loose ends were tied up and the story the government was spinning held together. And since your apartment lease had just ended and you were between jobs anyway, since you'd been feeling stuck and uncertain about your path forward, you'd decided to stay too. Just for a few weeks, you'd told yourself, just until things settled down and you figured out your next move. Just until you were sure Murray was okay.

Hawkins was smaller than you were used to, so much smaller than the city you'd left behind, the kind of town where everyone knew everyone else's business and strangers were noticed immediately, their presence remarked upon and discussed. You'd gotten a temporary job at the library, helping to reorganize the collection and repair damage from what the official reports called "earthquake damage," though you now knew the truth was far stranger and more sinister. You'd found a strange comfort in the quiet routine of it, in the smell of old books and the simple task of organizing shelves. Murray was staying with Joyce, the two of them spending long hours discussing things you only partially understood, strategies and contingencies and the paranoid preparations that, it turned out, weren't so paranoid after all. You'd rented a small room above the hardware store on Main Street, a tiny space with slanted ceilings and a window that looked out over the street below. It was simple, peaceful even, if you didn't think too hard about what lurked beneath the surface of this seemingly ordinary town, if you could push aside the knowledge of what you now knew existed in the shadows.

You saw Steve around town more often than you'd expected, more often than probability suggested was mere coincidence. Hawkins was small, sure, but it felt like more than chance, like the universe was conspiring to throw you together. He was at the grocery store when you were buying coffee, standing in the cereal aisle with a confused, almost comically bewildered expression as he compared two identical looking boxes, his brow furrowed in concentration. He was at the gas station when you were filling up Murray's car, fumbling with the pump at the next station over, his hands clumsy in a way that seemed unlike him. He was at the diner when you stopped in for lunch, sitting in a booth with Robin, and when you'd walked in, when the bell above the door had chimed and he'd looked up and seen you, he'd knocked over his water glass, sending ice and liquid cascading across the table in a small flood. Robin had laughed so hard she'd nearly fallen out of the booth while Steve had scrambled to clean up the mess, his face bright red.

Each time you saw him, he seemed almost startled, like he hadn't expected to run into you even though Hawkins only had so many public places. His usual easy confidence, the self assured way he'd carried himself that first night at the mall, would evaporate the moment he saw you. He'd stammer through greetings, his words getting tangled up, his cheeks flushing that endearing shade of pink. His hands would fidget with whatever he was holding—cereal boxes, the gas pump, his car keys, anything to keep them busy. It was so different from the boy you'd seen that first night, the one who'd faced down monsters with steady hands and a determined jaw, who'd protected those kids without hesitation. This Steve seemed vulnerable, uncertain, almost shy in a way that made your heart do complicated things in your chest.

"Hi," he'd said at the grocery store, then immediately dropped both cereal boxes, which bounced off his feet and rolled under the shelf. "I mean, hey. Hi. You're—you're shopping. For groceries. At the grocery store. Which is, uh, that's where you do that, so…" He'd trailed off, looking like he wanted the floor to swallow him whole.

You'd smiled, bending down to help him retrieve the runaway boxes, your fingers brushing his as you handed one back. "Looks like you are too."

"Yeah, I just—Dustin wanted me to get him this specific kind, something about the sugar content being optimal for sustained energy during their D&D sessions, but I can't remember if it was the one with the marshmallows or the one with the—anyway, it doesn't matter, you don't care about cereal." He'd run a hand through his hair, messing up that perfect style, making it stick up in odd directions. "How are you? Are you—are you staying in town? I heard you got a job at the library, which is cool, libraries are cool, books are—I'm making this worse, aren't I?"

"For a while," you'd said, answering his actual question and ignoring the adorable rambling, and his face had lit up in a way that made your stomach flip, genuine joy replacing the embarrassment. "I'm helping them reorganize after the… damage."

"That's—that's great. Really great. Not the damage part, obviously, that was bad, really bad, but you being here, that's—" He'd cleared his throat, clutching the cereal boxes like they were life preservers. "Maybe I'll see you around?"

"Maybe," you'd agreed, and he'd smiled so wide you thought your heart might burst right there in the cereal aisle of Hawkins' only grocery store.

At the gas station, he'd been even worse, more flustered and clumsy. He'd been so focused on you, so distracted by your presence, that he'd squeezed the pump handle too hard and gasoline had splashed out, getting all over his shoes and the concrete beneath his feet. He'd cursed—"Shit, shit, shit!"—and jumped back, nearly tripping over the curb in his haste to get away from the spill, his arms windmilling comically as he'd fought for balance. You'd bitten back a laugh, pressing your lips together to keep from smiling too obviously as he'd looked at you with mortified eyes, his expression that of a man who'd just humiliated himself in front of someone he desperately wanted to impress.

"Smooth," he'd muttered, more to himself than to you, shaking his head in disgust. "Real smooth, Harrington. Very cool. Very impressive."

"Happens to everyone," you'd offered kindly, even though you'd never actually seen anyone spill gas on themselves before, even though it was clearly a lie and you both knew it.

"Right. Yeah. Totally normal. Common occurrence. Happens all the time." He'd cleared his throat, straightening up and attempting to regain some dignity despite the gasoline soaking into his sneakers. "So, uh, how's the library? Is it—are you liking it? The books and the, uh, the Dewey Decimal System and all that?"

You'd been surprised he knew where you worked, pleasantly surprised that he'd apparently asked about you or paid attention to town gossip, but you tried not to let it show too obviously on your face. "It's good. Quiet. Lots of books."

"Books. Yeah. Those are—those are good. Important. Very… wordy." He'd nodded like he'd said something profound, and you'd had to look away to hide your smile, had to press your lips together to keep from laughing at how ridiculous and endearing he was being.

Steve Harrington was losing his mind, and Robin was enjoying every single second of it with the glee of someone watching their best friend spiral.

"You're a disaster," she said, sprawled across his couch in the Harrington living room while he paced back and forth like a caged animal, wearing a path in the carpet. "An absolute disaster. A trainwreck. A catastrophe of epic proportions. You've talked to hundreds of girls, Steve. Hundreds. You had a different date every weekend for like two years of high school. You were the king, remember? King Steve, who could get any girl in school with just a smile and some hair product. And now you can't even form complete sentences around Murray's niece? You spilled gasoline on yourself. Gasoline, Steve!"

"I can form sentences," Steve protested weakly, but even he knew it was a pathetic defense, knew he was lying to both of them. "I just—I don't know what's wrong with me. My brain stops working when she's around. She looks at me and I forget how to be a person."

"You like her," Robin said, like it was the simplest thing in the world, like she was commenting on the weather. "You actually, genuinely like her, and it's freaking you out because you're not used to it meaning something. You're not used to caring whether someone likes you back."

Steve stopped pacing and stared at his best friend, his expression somewhere between offended and thoughtful. "That's not—I've liked girls before. Lots of girls. I dated Nancy for over a year, remember? I cared about her."

"Have you though?" Robin sat up, her expression softening with understanding, with the kind of gentle honesty that only best friends can offer. "Or did you just like the idea of them? The way they looked at you, the way they made you feel about yourself, the validation they provided? This is different, Steve. I can see it. Anyone can see it. You look at her like she's the only person in the room, like she's the sun and you're just orbiting around her, and it scares you because what if she doesn't look back? What if this time, being Steve Harrington isn't enough?"

He sank onto the couch beside her, dropping his head into his hands with a groan, his fingers digging into his scalp. "When did you get so wise? When did you become the person who understands my feelings better than I do?"

"I've always been wise. You just never listened before. You were too busy being 'The Hair' and dating girls who didn't actually know you." She bumped her shoulder against his affectionately. "For what it's worth, I think she likes you too. I've seen the way she smiles when you make a fool of yourself. It's not pity—it's fondness. It's the smile of someone who thinks you're adorable when you're flustered."

"Great," Steve mumbled into his hands. "She thinks I'm adorable. Like a puppy. That's exactly what every guy wants."

"It's a start," Robin said cheerfully, ignoring his sulking. "And it's better than King Steve, trust me. That guy was kind of an asshole. This version of you? The one who gets nervous and knocks over water glasses? He's much better. He's real."

The next time you saw Steve was at a gathering at Joyce's house, about a week after the gas station incident. Murray had insisted you come, had practically dragged you there himself, saying something about how you were part of the group now, whether you liked it or not, and how these people needed to stick together. The house was crowded with people despite its small size—Joyce and Hopper, who were clearly together now even if they weren't explicitly saying it, their body language speaking volumes. Jonathan and Nancy, who kept exchanging loaded glances that suggested they were having entire conversations without words, the kids, who were sprawled across the living room floor arguing loudly about something involving dice and dragons and a character named Vecna, and Steve and Robin, who were standing in the kitchen helping Joyce with food preparation.

Steve saw you the moment you walked in, the moment the front door opened and Murray ushered you inside. You watched his eyes widen, watched his whole body straighten up like he'd been shocked, watched him immediately knock into the counter behind him, his hip colliding with the edge hard enough that it had to hurt. Robin said something you couldn't hear from across the room, something that made Steve's face go bright red, and you felt your own cheeks warm in response.

"You made it," Murray said, appearing at your elbow with a glass of wine that looked suspiciously like it wasn't his first. "Good. These people need more normal influences. Too much trauma, not enough regular human interaction."

"Uncle Murray, I don't think anyone here qualifies as normal anymore. Including us. We literally fought Russian soldiers and extradimensional monsters."

He grinned, his eyes twinkling with something that might have been pride. "Fair point. Go mingle. Try the dip—Joyce made it and it's surprisingly edible, though don't tell her I said 'surprisingly.'"

You made your way through the house, saying hello to everyone, marveling at how this strange collection of people—different ages, different backgrounds, thrown together by impossible circumstances had become something like a family. Dustin launched into an enthusiastic explanation of some scientific concept involving electromagnetic fields and dimensional barriers, his hands waving expressively as he talked, and you nodded along even though you couldn't quite follow all of it. Lucas and Max argued about something that had happened at the arcade earlier that day, their bickering affectionate rather than hostile. El sat quietly beside Hopper, a small, peaceful smile on her face as she watched everyone interact, and you were struck by how young she looked, how young they all looked to have been through so much, to carry such heavy knowledge.

"Hey." Steve's voice came from behind you, and you turned to find him holding two cups of punch, one extended toward you. "I thought you might want something to drink. It's not alcoholic or anything—there are kids here, obviously, and Joyce is very firm about the no alcohol around minors rule but it's good. Well, it's okay. It's mostly just juice and ginger ale and—I'm doing it again, aren't I?"

You took the cup, your fingers brushing his, and smiled up at him. "Doing what?"

"Rambling. Robin says I ramble when I'm nervous. Actually, she says I ramble when I'm nervous around you specifically, which is—" He winced, realizing what he'd just admitted. "And now I've told you I'm nervous, which is probably not the cool thing to do. Very unKing Steve of me."

"I don't mind," you said softly, meaning it completely. "I think it's sweet. I think you're sweet."

Steve looked at you like you'd just told him something profound and life-changing, his eyes searching your face like he was trying to memorize every detail. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Steve!" Dustin's voice shattered the moment like glass breaking. "Steve, come here, you have to settle this argument about—"

"Can it wait?" Steve called back without taking his eyes off you, his tone suggesting he really, really didn't want to leave this conversation.

"No! It's important! It's about the statistical probability of—"

Steve sighed deeply, his shoulders slumping in defeat, and you laughed at his obvious reluctance. "Go," you said, gesturing toward where the kids were gathered. "Settle the important argument about statistical probability."

"Will you still be here when I get back?" he asked, and there was something vulnerable in the question, something that suggested he was afraid you might disappear if he looked away.

"I'm not going anywhere," you promised.

His smile was like sunrise, warm and bright and full of promise, transforming his whole face. "Okay. Good. Don't move. Seriously, just—stand right here. Don't even shift your weight."

You watched him walk away, watched him get immediately absorbed into the chaos of teenage debate, Dustin's hands waving animatedly while Mike and Lucas chimed in with their own opinions. Steve listened patiently, asking questions, playing referee, and you felt Robin slide up beside you like a ghost, appearing at your elbow so silently you jumped.

"He's not usually like this, you know," she said conversationally, sipping her own cup of punch. "The stammering, the nervousness, the knocking things over and spilling gasoline on himself. Usually he's all hair and charm and terrible pickup lines that somehow actually worked in high school."

"I've heard about the pickup lines," you admitted, grateful for the chance to talk to someone about this confusing situation. "Murray mentioned them. He seemed to find them hilarious."

Robin laughed, a genuine sound full of affection. "They were pretty bad. 'Did it hurt when you fell from heaven?' levels of bad. 'Are you a parking ticket? Because you've got fine written all over you' type stuff. But here's the thing—those lines? They were never real. They were Steve performing the role of Steve Harrington, ladies' man, king of Hawkins High, the guy who was supposed to be smooth and confident and never show weakness. This?" She gestured to where Steve was animatedly explaining something to Dustin, his face lit up with genuine enthusiasm, completely unselfconscious in his passion for whatever point he was making. "This is real Steve. The one who drives kids around like he's their mom, who keeps that nail bat in his trunk just in case something crawls out of the Upside Down again, who can't talk to you without tripping over his own tongue because he actually cares what you think of him. Because your opinion matters in a way that none of those high school girls' opinions ever did."

Your chest felt tight, your heart beating too fast. "Robin—"

"I'm not telling you what to do," she interrupted gently, her expression serious now, sincere. "I'm not trying to pressure you or make you feel obligated or anything like that. I'm just telling you that my best friend is falling for you—has already fallen for you, honestly he's terrified, and maybe you should know that before you decide what to do about it. He's been hurt before, and he acts like it doesn't matter, but it does. So if you're not interested, if you're just being nice, it's better to know now."

She walked away before you could respond, leaving you standing there with your cup of punch and a heart that was beating far too fast, your mind racing with implications and possibilities.

The evening wore on, and you found yourself drawn into the warmth of this strange, makeshift family, this group of people who'd been through hell together and come out stronger for it. Joyce told you stories about her boys, about Jonathan's photography and Will's art, her eyes soft with fierce maternal love. Hopper grumbled good-naturedly about paperwork and government cover ups and how he was too old for this shit, but he couldn't hide his smile when El laughed at something Max said, couldn't hide the way his whole face softened when he looked at Joyce. Nancy asked about your life before Hawkins, genuinely interested, and you found yourself telling her about your job in the city, your apartment that never quite felt like home, the normal life that seemed so far away now, almost like it had happened to someone else.

And through it all, you were aware of Steve. He was always somewhere in your peripheral vision, looking after the kids with practiced ease, joking with Robin, helping Joyce carry things from the kitchen. Every so often, your eyes would meet across the room, and he'd smile—that soft, genuine smile that seemed reserved just for you, the one that made you feel like you were the only person in the world who mattered.

As the night wound down and people started to leave, parents collecting sleepy children and Murray getting into an animated discussion with Hopper about some conspiracy theory or another, you found yourself helping clean up. Joyce protested that you were a guest and shouldn't be working, but you insisted, carrying plates and cups to the kitchen while she halfheartedly tried to shoo you away. Steve was at the sink, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows as he washed dishes, soap bubbles clinging to his forearms, and you set your stack down beside him.

"You don't have to help," he said, but he looked pleased that you were there, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Seriously, you should be relaxing. You're a guest."

"I want to." You picked up a dish towel and started drying the clean plates he was setting on the rack. "Besides, many hands make light work, right? That's what my mom always said."

You fell into an easy rhythm, working side by side in comfortable silence broken only by the clink of dishes and the running water. It felt domestic, natural, like you'd done this a thousand times before instead of it being the first. Steve handed you a plate and your fingers touched, lingering longer than necessary, and neither of you pulled away as quickly as you should have. The kitchen felt warm, intimate, like you were existing in your own little bubble separate from the rest of the world.

"Can I ask you something?" Steve said suddenly, his voice quiet and hesitant. He'd stopped washing, his hands still in the soapy water, his eyes fixed on the sink. "And you can totally say no, or tell me to mind my own business, or—"

"Steve," you interrupted gently, setting down the towel and turning to face him fully. "Just ask."

He took a deep breath, his hands finally emerging from the water, dripping suds onto the floor that neither of you noticed. "Why did you stay? In Hawkins, I mean. Murray said you were just supposed to visit for a few days, help him with something, but it's been weeks now. Almost a month. Why are you still here?"

You considered the question carefully, considered all the easy answers you could give, the safe responses that wouldn't reveal too much. The job at the library, the cheap rent on your tiny room, the desire to help your uncle after everything that had happened. All of those things were true, genuinely true, but they weren't the whole truth. They weren't the real reason you kept extending your stay, kept telling yourself "just one more week" every time you thought about leaving.

"I don't know," you said finally, then corrected yourself. "No, that's not true. I do know, I'm just scared to say it out loud. At first, it was just supposed to be temporary, just until Murray didn't need me anymore. But then I started to like it here. The town, the people, the way everyone looks out for each other even though they don't talk about it. It feels like—like I'm part of something, you know? Like I matter, like my presence makes a difference. I never felt that way in the city. I was just another person in another apartment, going to another job, living another unremarkable life."

"You do matter," Steve said immediately, turning to face you fully, his wet hands dripping forgotten onto the kitchen floor. His voice was intense, fervent, like he needed you to believe him. "You matter a lot. To everyone here. To Murray, obviously, but also to Joyce and Hopper and the kids. To Robin. To—to me."

Your breath caught in your throat. "Steve—"

"I know I'm not good at this," he continued, the words tumbling out like he'd been holding them back for too long, like a dam finally breaking. "I know I get all weird and awkward around you, and I can't seem to say the right thing, and I'm probably making a complete idiot of myself right now. I spilled gasoline on my shoes because I was looking at you instead of watching what I was doing. I knocked over an entire glass of water in front of everyone because you walked into the diner. But I can't—I can't keep pretending I don't feel this way. Every time I see you, it's like everything else just disappears. The Upside Down, the monsters, the nightmares I still have about what happened—none of it matters when you're around. You're all I can think about, and it's driving me crazy because I don't know what to do about it. I'm not King Steve anymore. I'm just… me. And I don't know if that's enough."

You set down the dish towel with shaking hands, your heart pounding so hard you could hear it in your ears. The kitchen was quiet except for the sound of your breathing, the distant murmur of voices from the living room where the others were still talking. Steve stood before you, vulnerable and hopeful and so achingly sincere that you felt something crack open in your chest, something that had been locked away and protected finally breaking free.

"What do you want to do about it?" you whispered, because your voice wouldn't go any louder, because you were afraid that speaking too loudly might break whatever spell had been cast over this moment.

He stepped closer, his eyes searching yours with desperate intensity, close enough now that you could see the flecks of gold in his brown eyes, could see the faint scar above his eyebrow that was still healing. "I want to take you on a date. A real date, not just running into you at the grocery store or making an idiot of myself at the gas station. I want to take you to dinner, or a movie, or anywhere you want to go. I want to get to know you—really know you. What you like, what you dream about, what makes you laugh, what keeps you up at night. I want to know your favorite color and your least favorite food and what you wanted to be when you were a kid. I want—" He stopped, swallowing hard, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides like he didn't know what to do with them. "I want a chance. If you'll give me one. I know I'm a mess, and I know I'm not what I used to be, but I'm trying to be better. I'm trying to be someone worth knowing."

The kitchen was quiet except for the sound of your heartbeat in your ears, the blood rushing through your veins. Steve stood before you, vulnerable and hopeful and so achingly sincere that you felt something crack open in your chest, felt every wall you'd built around your heart crumbling to dust.

"I stayed because of you," you whispered, the admission falling from your lips before you could stop it. "I told myself it was for other reasons, made up excuses about the job and Murray and wanting to be useful, but really, it was because I couldn't stand the thought of leaving and never seeing you again. Every time I ran into you around town, every time you got all flustered and sweet and knocked things over, I liked you more. I kept hoping you'd actually ask me out instead of just stammering through conversations in the cereal aisle. I kept finding excuses to go places where I thought you might be, kept hoping for another 'coincidence.'"

Steve's face transformed, hope blooming into joy so pure it was almost painful to witness. "Really? You're not just saying that because I made some pathetic confession and you feel bad for me?"

"Really." You reached out and took his hand, lacing your fingers through his, marveling at how perfectly they fit together, like your hands had been made to hold each other. "So yes, Steve Harrington. I'll go on a date with you. I'll go on as many dates as you want. I'll go on dates until we're both sick of dating and have to find something else to do."

He laughed, the sound bright and disbelieving and full of relief, and then he was pulling you closer, his free hand coming up to cup your cheek with surprising gentleness. "Can I kiss you?" he asked, his voice rough with emotion. "I've been wanting to kiss you since the moment I saw you walk into that food court, and I know this is probably too fast, I know we haven't even been on a date yet, but—"

You answered by closing the distance between you, pressing your lips to his in a kiss that felt like coming home, like finding something you hadn't known you were searching for. He made a soft sound of surprise and then he was kissing you back with desperate enthusiasm, his hand sliding into your hair, his other arm wrapping around your waist to pull you flush against him like he was afraid you might disappear if he didn't hold on tight enough. He kissed you like you were precious, like you were everything he'd been waiting for, and you felt yourself melting into him, your hands fisting in his shirt to keep yourself steady, to keep yourself grounded in this moment that felt too perfect to be real.

When you finally pulled apart, both breathless and slightly dazed, Steve was grinning like he'd won the lottery, like Christmas had come early, like every good thing had happened to him all at once.

"Wow," he said eloquently. "That was—wow. I mean—just—wow."

You laughed, feeling giddy and light and happier than you'd felt in longer than you could remember. "Very eloquent. Real smooth, Harrington."

"You scramble my brain," he said, pressing his forehead to yours, his eyes closed like he was savoring the moment. "I can't think straight when you're around. Robin says it's because I actually like you, like really like you, and it scares me because I don't want to screw this up. I don't want to be the guy who ruins everything good that comes into his life."

"You won't," you promised, meaning it with everything in you. "We'll figure it out together. We'll take it slow if you want, or fast if that feels right. We'll make mistakes and fix them. But we'll do it together, okay?"

"Together," he repeated, like he was testing out the word, like he was trying to believe it could be true. "I really, really like the sound of that."

From the doorway came a loud, exaggerated cough that made you both jump apart like teenagers caught by their parents. You and Steve sprang apart to find Robin standing there with the biggest, most self satisfied grin you'd ever seen plastered across her face.

"Finally," she said, drawing out the word. "Do you know how painful it's been watching you two dance around each other for weeks? Weeks, Steve! I was about to lock you in a closet until you figured it out. I was drawing up plans. I had a whole strategy."

"How long have you been standing there?" Steve demanded, his face bright red, his hand still holding yours like he was afraid to let go.

"Long enough." She winked at you, her expression delighted. "He's a good kisser, right? He better be, with all that practice he had in high school with half the female student population."

"Robin!" Steve groaned, but he was smiling, unable to hide his happiness even as he pretended to be embarrassed by her teasing, his hand still holding yours.

"I'm just saying, all those girls, all those terrible pickup lines, all that King Steve nonsense, and you finally find the one person who makes you forget how to form sentences. It's poetic, really. Beautiful. I should write a sonnet about it." She grabbed her jacket from the back of a chair. "I'm heading out. You two kids have fun, but not too much fun—Joyce is still in the next room and she has very good hearing."

She left with a wave and a laugh, and you and Steve looked at each other and burst out laughing, the tension breaking into something warm and comfortable.

"She's never going to let me live this down," Steve said, shaking his head but still grinning. "Never. She's going to bring this up at my wedding."

"Your wedding?" you teased, raising an eyebrow. "We haven't even been on our first date yet and you're already planning a wedding?"

His face went even redder. "I didn't—I wasn't—I just meant hypothetically, in the future, if there was ever—you know what, I'm going to stop talking now before I make this worse."

"Don't stop," you said, pulling him closer again. "I like when you ramble. But she's right about one thing."

His eyes darkened with interest. "Yeah? What's that?"

"About the kissing thing. You're very good at it." You smiled up at him. "But maybe you should kiss me again, just so I can be sure. You know, for consistency."

"For consistency," he echoed, his voice dropping an octave. "Yeah, that makes sense. Very logical. Very scientific. We should probably test it multiple times, actually, just to be thorough."

"Multiple times," you agreed. "For science."

And then his lips were on yours again, and the dishes were forgotten, the cleaning abandoned, and nothing existed except the two of you in Joyce Byers' kitchen, finally, finally finding each other after weeks of awkward encounters and stolen glances and hearts that beat too fast.

Later, much later, when the kitchen was finally cleaned and everyone had left or gone to bed, Steve drove you home through the quiet streets of Hawkins. The town was dark and peaceful, no signs of the horrors that lurked beneath its surface. He held your hand the entire drive, his thumb tracing gentle circles on the back of your hand, occasionally lifting it to press a kiss to your knuckles when he stopped at red lights.

He walked you to your door like a gentleman, climbing the stairs to your room above the hardware store, and when you reached your door, he kissed you goodnight under the dim hallway light. It was soft and sweet and full of promise, full of all the dates to come and all the conversations you'd have and all the moments you'd share.

"So," he said, his thumb tracing your lower lip gently, his eyes dark and warm. "Dinner tomorrow? There's this Italian place in the next town over that's supposed to be really good. They have candles on the tables and everything. Or we could do a movie, or mini golf, or literally anything you want. I'm not picky. I just want to spend time with you. We could sit in a parking lot and count cars and I'd be happy as long as you were there."

"Dinner sounds perfect," you said, your heart feeling too big for your chest, like it might burst with happiness. "Very romantic. Very official first date."

"Yeah? Okay. Great. Amazing." He was grinning again, unable to contain his joy. "I'll pick you up at seven? Is seven okay? We could do earlier, or later, whatever works for you. Or six thirty. Or seven thirty. Really, any time that ends in a number is fine with me."

You kissed him again, just because you could, because you wanted to, because the ability to do so felt like a gift. "Seven is perfect."

You watched him walk back to his car, watched him turn and wave enthusiastically before getting in, watched him sit there for a long moment with the biggest smile on his face before starting the engine. He gave you one more wave before driving away, and you stood there in the hallway long after his taillights had disappeared, just trying to process the fact that this was real, this was happening, Steve Harrington liked you and wanted to take you on dates and had kissed you like you were the most precious thing in the world.

You'd come to Hawkins expecting danger and monsters and things that went bump in the night, expecting to help your paranoid uncle with whatever conspiracy had finally turned out to be real. You'd found all of that, sure. The Upside Down was real, monsters were real, Russian soldiers and secret bases and government cover ups were all horrifyingly real. But you'd also found something else, something you hadn't been looking for but desperately needed, something that made all the terror and confusion worthwhile.

You'd found Steve Harrington, with his perfect hair and his terrible pickup lines that he never used on you because you made him too nervous to be smooth. With his fierce protectiveness and his soft heart that had been bruised and battered but still remained open, still remained hopeful. You'd found a boy who fought monsters with a nail bat and drove kids around like a soccer mom and got so nervous around you that he forgot how to speak, who looked at you like you were the answer to every question he'd ever asked.

And somehow, impossibly, miraculously, he'd found you too.

Inside your small room above the hardware store, you got ready for bed with a smile you couldn't wipe off your face no matter how hard you tried. Tomorrow there would be a date, a real date with candles and Italian food and Steve in something other than a sailor uniform or jeans. And the day after that there would be another one, and then more days stretching out before you like a promise, like a future you were suddenly excited to step into. There would be challenges, certainly—there always were in Hawkins, a town built on top of darkness and secrets. But you'd face them together, you and Steve and this strange, wonderful family you'd stumbled into.

You fell asleep thinking about brown eyes and gentle hands and the way Steve had looked at you like you were the answer to a question he'd been asking his whole life, like you were the missing piece he hadn't known he was looking for. And in the morning, you'd wake up in Hawkins, Indiana, in this small town with its dark secrets and its fierce hearts, and you'd know with absolute certainty that you were exactly where you were supposed to be. Because sometimes the best things in life are the ones you never see coming, the ones that blindside you when you're looking the other way. Sometimes you have to walk through fire and face down monsters and watch the world turn inside out to find the person who makes you feel like home. And sometimes, if you're very lucky, very blessed, that person is a boy in a sailor uniform with a nail bat and a heart big enough to hold the whole world, big enough to hold all your hopes and dreams and fears. Sometimes, that person is Steve Harrington, with his dorky smile and his nervous rambling and his absolute inability to be cool around you no matter how hard he tries. And sometimes, if the universe is kind, he looks at you the way Steve looked at you in Joyce Byers' kitchen—like you're magic, like you're everything, like he's been waiting his whole life for you to walk through the door and turn his world upside down in the best possible way. You'd come to Hawkins for your uncle, because Murray had called you in a panic and you'd never been able to say no to family, even when they were asking you to believe in impossible things, but you'd stayed for Steve, for the way he made you feel, for the promise of something real and true and worth fighting for.

In Between | Steve Harrington

The summer before seventh grade ended in a thunderstorm that knocked the power out across half of Hawkins, and you met Steve Harrington by the flicker of emergency lights and the smell of rain rising off hot pavement. He was sitting on the low brick wall behind the middle school, shoulders hunched, one sneaker tapping anxiously against the concrete. His lip was split, bright red against skin that would later tan golden and effortless. Back then, though, he looked young. Unfinished. All elbows and uncertainty. You hadn’t meant to approach him. You had been cutting through school grounds on your way home from the library, hugging your books to your chest while the sky threatened to split open. But he glanced up when he heard your footsteps, and something about the way he tried to straighten... tried to look like he hadn’t just been knocked down, made you stop.

“Hold still,” you said, setting your books beside you and tugging the sleeve of your denim jacket over your hand. “You’re bleeding.”

“I’m fine,” he muttered, though he didn’t pull away when you dabbed gently at his lip.

“You’re not.” You tilted your head, assessing the damage with clinical seriousness. “Tommy Hagan?”

His mouth twitched despite the sting. “How’d you know?”

“Tommy thinks he’s intimidating. He’s just loud.”

A laugh slipped out of him—small, surprised. It softened his whole face.

That was the first crack in the armor he would later build so carefully.

You became friends in the slow, ordinary way that real things tend to form. You started sitting beside each other in math class. He nudged your elbow when the teacher asked a question he didn’t understand. You rolled your eyes and whispered the answer. When the other boys made comments about you being “Wheeler’s weird older sister,” he told them to shut up. When girls started whispering about how Steve Harrington was getting cute, you rolled your eyes and told him not to let it go to his head. Once, He walked you home when it rained, pretending it was "on his way."

One afternoon in eighth grade, you find him lying flat on his back on the basketball court, staring up at the sky.

“What are you doing?” you ask, shielding your eyes from the sun.

“Thinking.”

“That’s dangerous.”

He grins. “You think I could be good at something?”

“You are good at things.”

“Like what?”

You don’t hesitate. “You’re good at listening. You’re good at making people laugh. You’re good at pretending you don’t care when you actually care a lot.”

He turns his head to look at you, and for a moment the joking slips.

“You see too much,” he says.

“Somebody has to.”

He doesn’t say it then, but you feel the shift. The tether forming. You become the person he calls when his parents fight. The person who knows he hates olives and loves bad horror movies and is secretly afraid he’ll never be more than the town expects him to be.

It was a habit in eighth grade. By freshman year, it was ritual.

He changed when high school found him. He grew taller over one summer, shoulders broadening, jaw sharpening into something magazine worthy. His hair developed that deliberate messiness that made girls in the hallway whisper. Tommy and Carol gravitated back to him with renewed enthusiasm, as though they’d been waiting for him to become someone worth orbiting.

You watched it happen the way one watches a storm build over distant fields—aware it’s coming, unsure whether it will pass over or settle in. He learned to laugh louder than the joke required, head tipping back just enough for the sound to carry down the hallway. Learned to clap someone on the shoulder in passing, to make it look effortless like belonging had always been this easy. He perfected the lazy half smile that made girls glance twice and boys straighten instinctively. Learned how to hold eye contact just a second longer than necessary, long enough to feel intentional.

The way he started walking a little slower down the hall so people could fall into step beside him. The way teachers softened when he turned on that practiced charm. The way Tommy and Carol flanked him like courtiers reclaiming their throne.

He wasn’t pretending, not exactly. The confidence fit him. But sometimes, when you caught him alone before class, there was a flicker in his expression that told you he was still figuring out how to wear it without it wearing him first.

But every morning, no matter how late he’d been out or how crowded the hallway became, he still leaned against your locker before first period. Like gravity pulled him there.

You’d be mid sentence in your notes, highlighter uncapped, when his shadow fell across the metal door. You didn’t need to look up to know it was him.

“Got gum?” he’d ask, casual, like he hadn’t been scanning the hall for you.

“You don’t even like gum,” you’d reply automatically.

“Yeah,” he’d shrug, pushing off the locker just enough to stand closer. “But you always have it.”

There was something deliberate in that. Not gum... the routine.

You would slide a piece into his open palm without lifting your eyes from the page, pretending not to notice how his fingers brushed yours just slightly longer than necessary. Pretending not to notice how his voice dropped when he talked to you, softer than the version he used with everyone else.

He’d grin like you’d just handed him something rare. Like it was the best part of his morning.

Sometimes he lingered. Asked about your English essay. Complained about practice. Told you something stupid Tommy said the night before, his tone shifting, less performance, more confession.

And for those few minutes, the hallway noise faded. The version of him that belonged to everyone else receded.

It was just you and the boy from the cracked basketball court.

Then the bell would ring. Someone would call his name. He’d straighten, grin widening, shoulders squaring as he stepped back into the role waiting for him.

“See ya,” he’d say, already halfway turned away.

You’d watch him go, the crowd parting easily to let him through.

And you told yourself the fact that he always came back to your locker first before the noise, before the attention, before the performance, meant something. You held onto that like proof.

When Nancy began lingering by the phone in the evenings, you noticed. It started small. She would hover in the hallway after dinner, pretending to flip through the mail while her eyes flicked toward the kitchen clock. If it rang, she’d move too quickly—composure slipping just enough to give her away. If it didn’t, she’d drift back to the living room with a distracted hum, fingers tucking hair behind her ear in a gesture you recognized as anticipation. You noticed because you had grown up noticing her. Nancy had always been easy to read if you knew what to look for. She loved quietly but intensely. When she wanted something, it rearranged her posture. Her breathing. The cadence of her voice.

When she started asking about parties, about Tina’s, about Carol’s, about who would be there, you noticed that too.

“Do you think Steve actually likes those things?” she asked one night, sitting cross legged at the foot of your bed.

You didn’t look up from your book. “He likes feeling like he’s supposed to.”

She frowned slightly. “That’s not what I meant.”

You turned a page you hadn’t processed. “Then what did you mean?”

She hesitated, and that hesitation said everything.

“He seems different lately,” she murmured. “More… real.”

Your chest tightened at the word.

Real.

You had known the real Steve since he was twelve and bleeding behind the gym. You knew the version who hated olives and loved bad horror movies. The one who got quiet when his parents fought. The one who pretended not to care about being liked but watched carefully for signs of approval anyway.

“Yes,” you said evenly. “He is.”

She smiled faintly, like she’d been handed confirmation she was hoping for.

You noticed the new blouse she wore to school the next week. The way she straightened when she saw him at the end of the hallway. The way her laugh pitched just slightly higher when he waved.

And you noticed the way he looked at her. It wasn’t the look he gave you—familiar, unguarded, easy.

It was something sharper. Curious.

You told yourself it didn’t mean anything. You did not allow yourself to interpret.

Because interpreting would mean admitting the quiet fear beginning to take root in your stomach. It would mean acknowledging that something had shifted in the air between the three of you. And you had always been the steady one. The rational one. The one who didn’t spiral over glances and possibilities. So you folded the fear neatly and tucked it away.

The first night he climbed through her window, you were awake. The house had settled into its usual nighttime rhythm, the low hum of the refrigerator, the faint creak of cooling pipes. Your parents’ bedroom door had shut hours earlier. Nancy’s light had gone dark around eleven.

You were reading, half absorbed, when you heard it.

A dull thud against the siding.

Your heart stopped before your mind caught up.

There was a pause. Then the faint scrape of rubber soles searching for purchase against painted wood. A small grunt. The careful, deliberate slide of glass.

You sat up slowly.

Your room faced the front yard. Nancy’s faced the backyard. The sound had come from behind the house.

Your body recognized it before your thoughts did. The weight of it. The pattern. You had heard him throw pebbles at your window once in eighth grade, when he’d forgotten his house key and needed somewhere to wait. You knew the cadence of his presence.

You rose from your bed and crossed the room on unsteady legs.

When you lifted your curtain just enough to peer through, the street was quiet and dim beneath the glow of the single working lamppost. And there it was.

His BMW, parked halfway down the block. Headlights off. Engine dark. Deliberately inconspicuous.

He had never parked down the block for you. He had never needed to sneak.

Your throat tightened.

You stood there for a long moment, watching the stillness of the car as though it might disappear if you blinked. As though you might wake up and realize you’d imagined the sound.

Maybe he was dropping something off. Maybe he had come to talk to your dad. Mayb-

The faint click of Nancy’s window sliding shut drifted through the night air.

The hope collapsed quietly inside you.

You stepped back from the curtain as though the glass had burned you.

In the silence that followed, you became acutely aware of everything, the ticking clock on your nightstand, the way your pulse thudded too loudly in your ears, the hollow space opening slowly in your chest.

You told yourself it could still be coincidence. You told yourself you were being dramatic. You told yourself that even if it wasn’t, it didn’t matter.

He was allowed to like your sister. Nancy was allowed to like him. You didn’t own him. You had no claim beyond years of shared lockers and gum wrappers and inside jokes.

But that was the problem. You had built something with him that felt foundational. Something steady and quietly sacred. You had believed foolishly, maybe—that whatever else high school rearranged, that piece would remain untouched.

Now, standing in the dark with the curtain falling back into place, you realized how fragile that belief had been. Because he hadn’t come to your window. And the part of you that had always waited for him to choose you, openly, clearly, without prompting—understood, in that still Indiana night, that he hadn’t.

The next day in the cafeteria, the truth does not arrive gently. It arranges itself in fluorescent lighting and plastic trays and the hum of a hundred overlapping conversations. It sits in plain sight, unapologetic.

You’re halfway through the lunch line when you see them.

Nancy is already seated at the long table near the center of the room—the one Steve usually claims with Tommy and Carol. She isn’t across from him. She isn’t perched awkwardly at the end. She’s beside him. Close enough that her shoulder brushes his arm every time she moves. Close enough that there’s no space left to question what this is.

For a moment, your brain refuses to process the image. It feels misaligned, like someone shifted the furniture in a familiar room. Then you notice his hand. Resting at the small of her back. It isn’t accidental. It isn’t uncertain. It’s settled there like it belongs. Protective. Claiming. Intimate.

Your tray suddenly feels heavier. The clatter of dishes around you grows distant, warped, like you’re underwater. You can see Tommy laughing at something across the table. Carol leaning forward eagerly. Nancy’s hair falling over her shoulder as she tilts her head toward Steve. And Steve—He’s smiling. Not the exaggerated grin he uses for the hallway. Not the loose, easy smirk he flashes at strangers. This one is softer. Focused.

He says something near Nancy’s ear, low enough that only she can hear it. She laughs, cheeks pink, and instinctively leans into him.

The gesture is small. It shatters something anyway.

You hadn’t prepared for the physicality of it. For how naturally they fit together in that space. For how practiced it already looks. Had it been building this whole time? Had you missed it?

You shift your weight, the line inching forward, but you can’t look away. You’re cataloging details without meaning to. The way his thumb moves absently against her side. The way she doesn’t flinch from it. The way the space he used to leave open beside him. Unspoken, saved, no longer exists. Then he looks up.

And he sees you.

The moment stretches thin.

Recognition flashes across his face first, then something else. Hesitation. A flicker of something that might be guilt. Or maybe just awareness.

You hold his gaze.

You don’t let your expression change.

He lifts his hand slightly, a half wave, casual. As though this is normal. As though nothing fundamental has shifted beneath your feet.

“Hey!” he mouths across the room.

Like yesterday didn’t exist. Like the years behind the gym and at your locker and in your bedroom watching horror movies didn’t carry weight.

You manage a smile. It feels carved into place.

You lift your own hand in return, nodding once, as if to say "Of course. This is fine. I understand."

Nancy follows his gaze and spots you.

Her expression flickers—surprise, then something guarded. She straightens slightly but doesn’t move away from him. Doesn’t remove his hand.

She offers a small wave too.

You don’t know which hurts more, that she looks apologetic, or that she doesn’t look apologetic enough.

The lunch lady calls your name, snapping you back into your body. You move forward automatically, accepting your tray without really seeing what’s on it.

There’s an empty seat at their table. You see it. Right across from them.

You could walk over. You could slide into it like nothing has changed. You could force the old dynamic into place and pretend the air isn’t charged with something new and sharp.

But the thought of sitting there, of watching his hand rest against her back from two feet away makes your throat tighten.

You turn instead. There’s a smaller table near the windows, half in shadow, occupied by two juniors you barely know. One seat is open. You walk toward it before you can reconsider.

Each step feels deliberate, measured, like you’re crossing an invisible line. You sit.

The plastic chair scrapes loudly against the tile. You focus on arranging your napkin. On unwrapping your sandwich. On anything that isn’t the pull in your chest.

Across the cafeteria, laughter erupts at Steve’s table. It’s louder than usual. Or maybe you’re just listening differently now. You don’t look up again.

Not when you feel the weight of his gaze flicker toward you once more. Not when Nancy leans closer to him.

You don’t look at them again for the rest of lunch. Not because you don’t want to but because you know, with a quiet certainty, that if you let yourself watch too long, something inside you will give way in a way you won’t be able to recover from gracefully.

So you sit at the smaller table by the windows, half in shadow, and focus on details that don’t matter. The condensation sliding down the side of your milk carton. The faint crack in the laminate of the table beneath your fingertip. The hum of the fluorescent lights overhead, steady and indifferent. Across the cafeteria, Steve laughs.

It slices through the noise.

Your body reacts before your mind does. Your shoulders tense. Your breath catches for half a second.

You know that laugh. You know the exact shape of it.

It starts low in his chest, almost a hum before it spills upward, bright and unguarded. When it’s real, he ducks his head slightly, like he’s surprised by how much something amuses him. When it’s practiced, it’s louder, sharper, meant to carry.

This one is real.

You don’t need to look to know it. Because you had spent years memorizing the shape of his laugh.

You memorized it the afternoon he missed a shot on the cracked basketball court and dramatically blamed the wind. You memorized it in your living room during terrible late night horror movies when he pretended not to be scared. You memorized it in the quiet spaces between classes when it was just the two of you leaning against your locker, sharing jokes that weren’t meant for anyone else. You knew the difference between the laugh he gave the hallway and the one he gave you. And now that laugh belongs to a table you are not sitting at.

Your fingers curl slightly around your fork. You hate that this hurts. You hate even more that it makes sense. Because you had loved him since you were thirteen and had never once believed you were brave enough to reach.

You had loved him in small, practical ways by listening when he needed to vent, by defending him when Tommy pushed too far, by reminding him he was more than whatever reputation he was building. You had loved him in the spaces where no one else was looking.

But you had never said it. Never risked it.

You had told yourself it was enough to be chosen first in the mornings. Enough to be the person he came to when things felt too heavy. Enough to be the one who saw through the performance. You had believed that meant something solid. Now you’re not sure what it meant at all.

The bell rings, shrill and abrupt, and the cafeteria erupts into motion. Chairs scrape loudly against tile. Conversations fragment mid sentence. Bodies shift and surge toward the exits.

You stand slowly, steadying your tray, keeping your eyes forward.

As you step into the flow of students, you feel it... The magnetic pull of his attention flicking toward you. You don’t know if he’s actually watching or if your body is just trained to expect him.

You don’t look. You don’t trust your face.

In the hallway, the noise multiplies. Lockers slam. Someone shouts about practice. A group of sophomores rushes past, nearly knocking into you.

You reach your locker and spin the dial with practiced precision.

You wait. Out of habit. Out of muscle memory.

You expect his shadow to fall across the metal door. Expect the familiar rhythm of his voice at your shoulder. You even slide a piece of gum halfway out of the pack in anticipation. The hallway shifts around you. No shadow. No voice.

You close your locker slowly and glance down the corridor.

He’s there halfway down the hall, walking beside Nancy.

Her hand is looped easily through his arm, fingers tucked into the fabric of his jacket like she’s testing how it fits. He leans down slightly to hear her over the noise, his expression soft in a way you’ve only ever seen up close. She says something. He laughs again.

Your stomach tightens.

Jealousy does not arrive dramatically, It does not crash through your chest or demand to be named. It settles, in small, insidious ways. In the way your stomach clenches every time you see them standing too close at their lockers. In the way you stop saving him a seat in class, even though you used to leave your backpack on the chair beside you without thinking.

In the way you pretend not to notice when he begins canceling plans with you for her.

“Can’t tonight,” he says one afternoon, leaning against your locker but not quite meeting your eyes. “Nancy wanted to study.”

Study.

You nod like it’s reasonable. “Yeah. Of course.”

He lingers a second, like he expects you to say more. To tease him. To make it light.

You don’t.

He pushes off the locker with a small nod. “Rain check?”

“Sure.”

You go home and sit cross legged on your bedroom floor with the horror movie you’d planned to watch together queued up in the VCR. You let it play anyway, though you don’t absorb any of it. The empty space beside you on the carpet feels louder than the television. It becomes a pattern. He shows up later and leaves earlier.

Your conversations shrink. He still asks if you’re okay but it feels automatic now. A checkpoint rather than a pause. You tell yourself this is normal.

This is what happens when people date. This is what happens when someone finally reaches for something instead of waiting.

Nancy confronts you one evening in your room, you're reorganizing books you don’t need to reorganize for the third time that week, when she appears in the doorway. Her arms are crossed—not defensive exactly, but braced.

“You’re mad,” she says from the doorway.

You don’t turn around. “I’m not.”

“You are.”

You slide a book into place a little too precisely. “You could’ve told me.”

“I was going to,” she insists. “It just—happened.”

You close your eyes briefly.

Nothing ever just happened with Nancy. She analyzed. She calculated. She chose.

“You chose it,” you say quietly.

Her jaw tightens. “So what if I did?”

You turn then, meeting her eyes fully.

“I didn’t think you’d care,” she adds, softer now.

That lands harder than you expect.

You stare at her, trying to reconcile the version of yourself she sees with the one you actually are.

Why wouldn’t I care?

Because he was yours first, in every way that wasn’t official. Because you had been there before the hair and the parties and the version of him the school adored. Because you knew the boy underneath. Because you had loved him quietly and consistently and without asking for anything in return. Because you knew the shape of his laugh before she ever noticed it.

But you can’t say any of that.

Instead, you cross your arms and shrug lightly. “Why would I?”

Nancy studies you for a long moment, as though she’s waiting for something to crack.

When it doesn’t, she nods slowly. “Okay.”

After Nancy leaves your room, the house feels quieter than it ever has before.

You sit on the edge of your bed for a long time, staring at nothing in particular. The late afternoon light slants through your window in thin gold stripes, catching dust in the air. Down the hall, you can hear the faint sound of the television turning on. Nancy reclaiming the living room like nothing has shifted.

You chose this, you tell yourself again. You chose not to reach. But knowing that doesn’t dull the ache.

The next few days pass in a strange, suspended state. Nothing dramatic happens. No arguments. No confrontations. Just small, quiet adjustments that feel larger than they should. You stop waiting at your locker in the mornings. Not consciously, at first. You just linger less. Arrive a little later. Keep your head down a little longer when you spin the dial.

Sometimes he still shows up.

Sometimes he doesn’t.

When he does, there’s a faint awkwardness to it now. A half second delay before he speaks, like he’s recalibrating the dynamic.

“Got gum?” he asks one morning, offering you a tentative smile.

You hand him a piece without meeting his eyes.

“You okay?” he adds, more softly.

“Yeah.”

It’s automatic.

He studies you like he wants to say something else. Like he’s searching for the version of you who used to fill the silence easily. But Nancy appears at the end of the hall, and his attention shifts instinctively.

“I’ll see you,” he says.

And then he’s gone.

Jealousy continues to settle, layer by layer. It shows up in the way your stomach tightens when you see them walking shoulder to shoulder, fingers brushing like magnets. It shows up in the way you choose seats at the far end of the classroom instead of beside him. It shows up in the way you pretend not to flinch when he says, “Nancy and I were thinking—” as if the two of them are a unit now.

You become careful. Careful with your expressions. Careful with your tone. Careful not to let the bitterness slip into your voice when he talks about her.

Because the last thing you want is to become the villain in your own silence.

He notices your distance eventually. Of course he does.

You’re in the parking lot after school when it happens. The late afternoon sun is harsh, reflecting off windshields and chrome. You’re digging your keys out of your bag, focused on the small, mechanical task of unlocking your car.

“Hey.”

His voice comes from behind you, closer than you expected.

You stiffen slightly before turning.

He jogs the last few steps to catch up, hair wind tousled from practice, jacket slung over one shoulder.

“You okay?” he asks.

The question isn’t casual this time. There’s something searching in it.

You force a small smile. “Fine.”

His brows draw together. “You’ve been weird.”

You let out a quiet breath through your nose. “Have I?”

“Yeah.” He shifts his weight, studying you like he’s trying to piece something together. “You don’t hang out as much. You don’t—” He gestures vaguely. “You just feel… far.”

Far.

The word lands heavier than it should.

You turn back to your car, sliding the key into the lock. “You’re busy.”

“With Nancy,” he says, supplying the name carefully.

You glance at him then.

“Yeah.”

He exhales slowly, running a hand through his hair. For a second, the confident hallway version of him slips, replaced by the boy who used to sit beside you on the basketball court and ask if he was good at anything.

“I didn’t want it to be… weird,” he admits.

You swallow.

The truth is that it is weird. It’s strange and sharp and nothing like the steady rhythm you built together over years. But you can’t say that. Because saying it would mean admitting why.

“It’s not,” you lie smoothly.

He watches you for a long moment, like he knows you’re not telling him everything.

“You can tell me if it is,” he says quietly.

The invitation hangs between you.

You could. You could tell him that every time he says her name it feels like something scraping against your ribs. That watching him hold her hand feels like losing something you never officially had. That you’ve been trying so hard to be mature about this that it’s exhausting. Instead, you shrug.

“It’s fine, Steve.”

He looks unconvinced.

“She’s your sister,” he says after a moment, as if that explains the tension. “I just didn’t want you thinking I was, I don’t know… ditching you.”

You almost laugh at that.

Ditching.

As if this is about scheduling conflicts.

“I don’t think that,” you say carefully.

But you do feel replaced. Not erased entirely—he still seeks you out sometimes, still asks if you’re okay but shifted. Demoted. Moved from center to perimeter.

He steps a little closer.

“You know you’re still my best friend, right?”

The words should soothe you. Instead, they twist.

Best friend. The title feels heavier now. More limiting.

“Of course,” you reply, keeping your voice steady.

He studies your face, searching for cracks. For a second, you think he might press further. Might step past the surface and ask the question neither of you is brave enough to name.

But then a familiar voice calls his name from across the lot.

“Steve!”

He turns instinctively toward the sound.

You watch the shift happen in real time, the subtle straightening of his posture, the softening of his expression.

He looks back at you.

“I’ll see you later?”

“Yeah,” you say.

He hesitates, like he wants to say more. Then he jogs backward a few steps before turning fully toward her. You stand there a moment longer, hand still resting on your car door. Across the parking lot, Nancy reaches him. She smiles up at him, slipping her hand into his like it belongs there.

He smiles back.

And you realize that this is what it feels like to love someone quietly while they’re learning how to love someone else out loud.

You slide into your car and close the door gently, as if sudden movement might fracture something further. As you pull out of the parking space, you don’t look in the rearview mirror. You’re not sure you’re ready to see what you’re leaving behind.

The tension doesn’t explode all at once. It tightens first slowly, almost invisibly like a wire being pulled too taut.

By the time Tina’s party rolls around, you can feel it humming beneath everything. The house is already loud when you arrive. Music rattles the windows. Laughter spills out the front door in uneven bursts. The air smells like beer and something sweet burning in the kitchen. Someone has strung Christmas lights across the ceiling in a lazy attempt at atmosphere.

You hadn’t wanted to go. Nancy insisted.

“It’ll be fun,” she said, already halfway out the door.

You spend most of the night near the kitchen, plastic cup in hand, watching.

Steve is in his element at first. Laughing loudly. Tossing an arm around someone’s shoulder. Kissing Nancy’s temple like it’s instinct. But there’s something tight beneath it, something rehearsed. Nancy drinks more than she usually does.

You notice because you always notice.

Her cheeks flush deeper than normal. Her movements grow less measured. Her laughter comes a second too late, too sharp at the edges. Steve notices too. He hovers.

“Hey,” he says gently at one point, leaning close so he doesn’t have to shout. “Maybe slow down a little?”

“I’m fine,” she snaps, though she sways slightly when she shifts her weight.

You see the flicker of hurt cross his face.

He tries again later, softer this time. “Nance, you don’t have to—”

“Stop,” she interrupts, frustration bleeding into her voice. “Just stop acting like I can’t handle myself.”

You’re standing near the kitchen doorway now, plastic cup warm in your hand, heart beating a little too fast. You can feel it building. People start watching. Tommy is watching from across the room, smirk barely concealed. Carol whispers something to the girl beside her. You feel heat crawl up your neck.

Steve straightens slightly, jaw tightening.

“I’m not saying you can’t,” he says, trying to keep his tone even. “I just—”

“You just what?” Nancy demands, louder now. “You just want me to be perfect?”

The music feels too loud. The room too small. You step closer without meaning to.

“That’s not what I—” Steve begins.

“You think I don’t see it?” she continues, words tumbling over each other. “The way you look at me like I’m some kind of trophy?”

The accusation hangs in the air. His face goes pale.

“That’s not fair,” he says quietly.

Nancy laughs, but it’s brittle. “Fair? You want to talk about fair?”

The argument spills into the kitchen, voices rising over the music. A small crowd gathers at a careful distance, pretending not to stare. You follow. Not close enough to intervene. Close enough to hear.

“I thought you cared about me,” Steve says, and there’s no performance left in his voice now. Just confusion. “I thought this was—”

“It is,” she cuts in, then falters. “It’s just—”

“Just what?” he presses, desperation creeping in.

She shakes her head, pushing hair out of her face with unsteady hands.

“This is bullshit,” she mutters.

“Nancy.” He says her name like a plea. And then it happens.

“bullshit”

The words land hard and sharp, cutting through the music, through the murmurs, through everything. Silence follows.

Not total silence, the party doesn’t actually stop but the space around them feels vacuum sealed. Steve doesn’t move at first. It’s like the words haven’t registered. Or maybe they have, and he’s just trying to stay upright under the weight of them.

“What?” he asks finally, voice barely audible.

Nancy’s breathing is uneven. Her eyes are glassy not just from alcohol.

“were bullshit” she repeats, softer now but no less devastating.

You watch his face change. The confidence drains first. Then the defensiveness. Then whatever fragile hope he’d been clinging to. He looks younger suddenly. Smaller.

You’ve seen Steve perform a hundred emotions, charm, indifference, amusement but you’ve never seen this. Raw. Unshielded. The boy from behind the gym resurfaces in an instant.

He swallows hard. “You don’t mean that.” But there’s no conviction in it.

Nancy looks away. The silence stretches.

“I thought—” he starts, then stops. His throat works like he’s forcing down something sharp. “I thought we were… good.”

Her shoulders slump slightly, the fight draining out of her as quickly as it flared.

“I don’t know what we are,” she admits.

The crowd begins to disperse, discomfort outweighing curiosity. You remain rooted in place.

Steve nods once, stiffly. It’s the smallest movement, but it feels monumental.

“Okay,” he says.

Just that. Okay. As if he’s accepting something inevitable. He doesn’t yell. He doesn’t lash out. He just steps back.

For a brief second, his eyes flicker across the room and land on you.

It’s not intentional, maybe. Or maybe it is. But in that glance, you see it all.

Shock. Humiliation. Heartbreak.

He looks like he’s been hollowed out from the inside. You’d never seen Steve look small until that night.

He leaves without another word. The front door slams.

Nancy sinks down against the kitchen counter, sliding to the floor like her bones can’t hold her up anymore. The party noise resumes around you, distorted and distant.

You stand there, heart pounding, caught between them. Between the sister who just detonated her relationship. And the boy you’ve loved quietly for years walking out into the dark alone.

It was past midnight when you heard the familiar tap against your window.

Not Nancy’s. Yours. You had not been sleeping. You had been lying on your back staring at the ceiling, tracing the faint cracks in the plaster like constellations, replaying the party over and over in your head. The way Nancy’s voice had cut through the music. The way Steve had stood there, stunned and silent. The way he had looked at you before he walked out. The tap comes again. Softer this time. Hesitant. Your heart stumbles.

You already know who it is. There has only ever been one person in Hawkins who uses your window like a front door. You sit up slowly, pulse loud in your ears, and cross the room. When you lift the pane, cold air rushes in, biting at your cheeks. He’s standing there in the dark, hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets. His hair... usually so carefully styled is wind-tossed, flattened on one side. His eyes look darker than usual. Not angry. Empty.

“Hey,” he says softly.

It’s the same word he used at the party. It sounds different now. Smaller.

You don’t ask why he’s here. You don’t ask if he’s okay. You just step back and let him climb in. He moves slower than usual, less graceful. When his shoes hit your bedroom floor, he lingers by the window like he isn’t sure what he’s allowed to do next. You close the pane carefully. The room feels smaller with him in it. Warmer. Charged.

For a moment, neither of you speak.

The only light comes from the streetlamp outside, filtering through your curtains in pale strips that cut across his face. You can see the tightness in his jaw. The faint redness around his eyes.

He doesn’t look at you. Instead, he studies the floor.

“I didn’t know where else to go,” he admits finally.

The confession lands gently between you.

You nod. “You don’t have to explain.”

His mouth twitches like he might try to smile, but it falters before it fully forms.

“she doesn’t love me,” he says.

There’s no dramatics in his tone. No bitterness. Just disbelief.

You lean back against your desk, arms folding loosely, not defensively, just to keep yourself steady.

“She was drunk,” you offer carefully.

He shakes his head.

“No.” His voice cracks slightly. “She meant it.”

Silence stretches.

You don’t rush to fill it. You’ve learned over the years that Steve talks more when he doesn’t feel cornered.

He exhales slowly, dragging a hand through his hair.

“I keep replaying it,” he murmurs. “Trying to figure out when it changed. Or if it was ever… real.”

“It was real,” you say before you can stop yourself.

He finally looks at you.

Your chest tightens under the weight of it.

“You think so?” he asks.

You nod.

“She cared about you.”

He swallows. “But not enough.”

The words are quiet. Fractured.

You cross the room then, unable to keep the distance any longer. You stop just in front of him, close enough to see the faint freckle near his left eyebrow. Close enough to feel the heat radiating off him.

“Hey,” you say softly, echoing his earlier greeting. “This doesn’t mean there’s something wrong with you.”

A humorless breath leaves him. “Feels like it.”

You hesitate, then reach for his hand. It’s instinct. Familiar.

His fingers lace with yours automatically, like they’ve done a hundred times before during horror movies or thunderstorms or moments that required silent solidarity.

But this feels different. He squeezes tighter than usual.

“I tried,” he says. “I really tried to be what she wanted.”

You know he did.

You saw it in the way he bit back comments he would’ve once made. In the way he defended her even when it cost him socially. In the way he looked at her like she was something precious and fragile.

“I know,” you whisper.

His shoulders slump.

“I just—” He shakes his head. “I thought if I was good enough, she’d stay.”

There it is. The fear beneath the heartbreak. You step closer without thinking.

“You are good enough,” you say firmly.

His eyes flicker to yours again.

For a moment, the air changes. Something shifts.

He studies your face like he’s seeing it clearly for the first time—not as Nancy’s sister. Not as his childhood best friend. Just you.

You feel exposed under that gaze. Because you have spent years memorizing the shape of his laugh. Because you have loved him since you were thirteen and had never once believed you were brave enough to reach.

You clear your throat gently. “You can stay here tonight.”

The offer is simple. Careful.

He hesitates. “Your parents—”

“Asleep.”

“And Nancy—”

Your stomach tightens at her name, but you keep your expression steady. “She won’t come in here.”

That’s enough for him. He nods once.

You sit on the edge of your bed first, kicking off your slippers. He follows more slowly, removing his jacket and draping it over your desk chair.

He looks uncertain again when he stands beside the bed.

You pat the space next to you.

“Steve,” you say softly. “It’s me.”

That does it. He lies down stiffly at first, staring up at your ceiling like it might offer answers. You turn off the lamp, plunging the room into soft darkness broken only by the streetlight’s glow.

There’s a careful space between you.

An inch. Maybe two.

You can feel the heat of him. His breathing is uneven.

“You think I’m stupid?” he asks suddenly.

“For what?”

“For not seeing it sooner.”

You turn onto your side, facing him. “No.”

He exhales slowly.

“I didn’t want to lose her,” he admits. “I didn’t want to fail.”

“You didn’t fail,” you say again.

He’s quiet for a long moment. Then, hesitantly, he turns onto his side too.

Now you’re facing each other fully. His eyes search yours in the dim light.

“Thanks for letting me come here,” he murmurs.

“Always,” you reply without hesitation.

Something softens in his expression at that word.

Always.

He shifts slightly, and without thinking too hard about it, you close the small gap between you. Your shoulder brushes his chest. He stills. Then slowly, like he’s asking without words he lifts his arm and drapes it around you.

It is not romantic. Not overtly. It is familiar. Protective.

His hand rests between your shoulder blades, warm and steady. You can feel his heartbeat through the thin fabric of his shirt.

It’s fast at first. Gradually, it slows.

You rest your forehead lightly against his collarbone. His chin dips until it brushes the top of your head.

Neither of you comment on it. Neither of you pull away.

Outside, a car passes. The house creaks softly as it settles into the early hours of morning.

He tightens his hold just slightly.

“Don’t go anywhere,” he mumbles, half asleep already.

Your throat tightens.

“I’m right here,” you whisper.

And you stay. Wrapped up in the quiet aftermath of someone else’s ending. Listening to his breathing even out. Feeling the weight of him trust you enough to sleep.

And sometime before dawn, still tangled in each other’s warmth, you drift off too.

The Morning arrives slowly.Not with noise. Not with chaos. But with warmth.

You wake before you open your eyes. Before you fully remember where you are. There’s weight at your waist. Heat pressed firmly along your spine. A steady, even breath against the back of your neck.

For a split second, you think you’re still dreaming. Then his arm tightens instinctively around you. And you remember.

The party.

Your bedroom window.

The way he folded into you like you were something safe. Steve is behind you, one arm draped securely over your middle, his chest solid and warm against your back. Your bodies fit together in a way that feels almost accidental like you’ve done this a thousand times, even though you haven’t. Not like this.

His face is half buried in your hair. His breath is warm and steady, ghosting across your shoulder. His hand rests just below your ribs, fingers curled slightly into the fabric of your sleep shirt like even in unconsciousness he’s afraid you might disappear.

You don’t move. You don’t want to break whatever this is. You can’t remember the last time you slept that deeply. No tossing. No overthinking. No replaying moments until they turned into something sharp.

Just warmth. Just him.

He shifts slightly behind you, tightening his hold for a second before settling again. A soft exhale brushes your skin. He’s still asleep.

You study the faint morning light stretching across your room, heart beating a little too loudly in your chest.

This is dangerous, you think. Not because of him. Because of you. Because this... this quiet, unguarded version of Steve has always been yours in ways no one else ever saw.

You close your eyes again, letting yourself exist in it for one more minute.

Eventually, he stirs.

It’s subtle at first. A small inhale. A slight tightening of his fingers at your waist. His forehead shifts against the back of your head.

Then his voice—low and thick with sleep.

“…You’re still here.”

You swallow softly. “Yeah.”

There’s a pause. A quiet recalibration.

And then, slowly, he becomes aware of the position you’re in. Of his arm around you. Of the way you’re tucked against him.

He stills. For a second, you think he might pull away. He doesn’t. Instead, his hold adjusts, not loosening. Steadier. More intentional.

“Did I—” His voice is rough from sleep. “Did I keep you up?”

“No,” you say honestly. “You didn’t.”

Another pause.

“I slept,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “Like… actually slept.”

You can’t help the small smile that touches your lips. “Me too.”

The admission hangs there. It feels significant.

He shifts again, just enough to press closer, his nose brushing lightly against your hair as he inhales.

“You smell like that shampoo you’ve used since middle school,” he mumbles.

You huff a quiet laugh. “That’s not creepy at all.”

“It’s familiar,” he corrects softly.

The word does something to you.

Familiar.

He finally loosens his arm enough for you to turn carefully in his hold. It’s slow, cautious like neither of you wants to snap whatever fragile thread is holding this moment together.

When you face him, the proximity steals your breath.

He’s close. Too close.

Morning light softens his features, erases the sharp edges of last night’s heartbreak. His hair is a mess. His lashes cast faint shadows against his cheeks. He looks younger like this. Less guarded.

His eyes open fully now, meeting yours.

There’s no confusion in them. No embarrassment. Just something steady.

“You stayed,” he says quietly.

“I said I would.”

His gaze lingers on your face longer than it usually does. Not scanning. Not distracted. Seeing.

“You always do,” he murmurs.

Your throat tightens.

There’s so much you could say. So much you’ve never said.

He studies you like he’s piecing something together.

“You know,” he begins slowly, “when I figured… when i figured she didn’t love me…”

You brace yourself.

“It hurt,” he continues. “But not just because of her.”

You frown slightly. “What do you mean?”

He exhales.

“I think I’ve been trying to make something work because I thought I was supposed to. Like if I checked all the boxes—pretty girlfriend, parties, the whole thing then that meant I was doing high school right.”

You don’t interrupt.

“I kept thinking if I was good enough, she’d stay,” he says. “But last night… when I left…”

His eyes soften.

“I didn’t want to go home.”

You know.

“I wanted to come here.”

The words land carefully between you.

“Because you’re safe,” he says simply.

Safe.

You nod slowly. “You don’t have to earn that.”

He swallows, something shifting behind his eyes.

“I think I’ve been blind,” he says quietly.

Your heart stumbles.

“Blind?”

“To what’s been right in front of me.”

The air in your room feels thinner.

You try to keep your voice steady. “Steve…”

He lifts a hand slightly, brushing a loose strand of hair away from your face. The touch is gentle. Unhurried.

“I don’t know what this is yet,” he admits. “And I don’t want to mess it up by rushing it or saying the wrong thing.”

Your pulse pounds in your ears.

“But I know,” he continues, voice steadier now, “that when everything fell apart last night… you were the only person I wanted.”

Your breath catches. He doesn’t look away.

“I don’t want to lose you,” he says.

The vulnerability in that confession nearly undoes you.

“You won’t,” you whisper.

He searches your face like he’s waiting for something more.

You take a breath. You’ve spent years swallowing it. Years convincing yourself that loving him quietly was enough. But lying here, wrapped up in the best sleep you’ve had in months, with his hand still resting warm against your waist. You’re tired of being quiet.

“I’ve loved you,” you say softly.

The words are almost swallowed by the morning light.

He stills. Not recoiling. Not shocked. Just listening.

“Since we were thirteen,” you continue, voice barely above a whisper. “I just… never thought you’d see me that way.”

Silence fills the room.

It stretches long enough that doubt begins creeping in.

Then his thumb moves—absently tracing the curve of your hip like he’s grounding himself.

“You idiot,” he says gently.

Your heart drops. Then he shakes his head, a small, almost disbelieving smile touching his lips.

“Not because you loved me,” he clarifies. “Because you thought I didn’t see you.”

Your breath stutters.

“I’ve always seen you.”

He leans his forehead lightly against yours.

“I just didn’t know what I was looking at.”

The admission is soft. Honest.

“I don’t want to jump from one thing into another,” he says carefully. “And I don’t want to use you as some kind of rebound. You deserve better than that.”

You nod.

“I know.”

“But I also know,” he adds, “that whatever this is… it’s not new.”

It isn’t. It’s years of shared glances and late night phone calls. Of inside jokes and quiet loyalty. Of hands reaching for each other in the dark without thinking. It’s history.

He squeezes your waist lightly.

“Can we just… start here?” he asks. “No labels. No pressure. Just us.”

You smile softly.

“Yeah,” you breathe. “Just us.”

There’s no dramatic kiss. No sweeping declaration. Just his hand sliding up to cup your cheek. Just his thumb brushing lightly beneath your eye. Just the quiet understanding that something has shifted into place.

Down the hall, a floorboard creaks. Reality inches closer.

He exhales slowly. “We’re going to have to talk to her.”

You nod.

“I know.”

It won’t be easy. Nothing in Hawkins ever is. But for the first time in a long time, you don’t feel uncertain.

He presses a gentle kiss to your forehead. Not rushed. Not desperate. Intentional.

Then he pulls you back into him, arms wrapping securely around your waist again as if he’s not ready to let go of the quiet just yet. You let yourself sink into it. Into the warmth.

Into the steady rhythm of his breathing. Into the knowledge that this time, he didn’t come to you because he was broken. He stayed because he finally saw you.

And when you close your eyes again for just a few more minutes, tangled together in morning light, it doesn’t feel like the aftermath of something ending.