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    Summary

    You lean forward, elbows settling on your knees, spine curved, cigarette smothered out against the metal lip of the gutter with a soft hiss. The rooftop beneath you is cool and slightly damp from earlier drizzle, that particular smell of rain still clinging to the shingles. Neither of you say anything for a long while.

    But then, in that Steve Harrington voice, quiet, scratchy from smoke and worn in history, “You think that’s what love is?” he asks.

    Your stomach drops. You glance over at him, unsure if it’s a jab or something real. Sometimes Steve forgets to soften the edges of his questions; forgets how easily you bruise. His face gives you nothing. Earnest, a little furrowed, but not cruel.

     

    You come to Steve for your ritual of smoking on his roof after another attempt at a relationship implodes. You try to figure out what you need.

    Language:
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