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The hideout always looked a little worse for wear after last call, but something about December made the leftovers more noticeable.
Maybe it was the sticky tinsel dropping from the rafters. Maybe it was the dying string of red and green lights flickering like the were begging for release.
Or maybe it was the ache in your chest.
That was new.
Most of the customers had stumbled home an hour earlier, leaving only the stale tang of cheap beer, sticky tables, and the low hum of neon signs flickering lazily in the dim room.
You wiped down the bar with a damp rag, the motions slow and automatic, the faint ache in your shoulders a familiar closing-shift companion.
Eddie sprawled across one of the booths, boots up like he owned the place — not entirely untrue considering Marlene, your gravel-voiced, chain-smoking manager, trusted the two of you enough to close alone. A half-empty Coke sat in front of him, his finger tapping the glass in an absent beat.
Robin lounged backward against another booth, legs in the air like she was conducting some upside-down interrogation of the ceiling.
Jonathan leaned over his camera on the table beside her, fiddling with settings he probably didn’t need to adjust. Nancy sat beside him, half-amused, half-exasperated at all of them, nursing a lukewarm soda.
And Steve Harrington?
God.
He was leaning against the bar, Santa hat askew, following you with his eyes without actually seeing you.
Too busy rambling animatedly about some girl who came into the store every Friday to buy an overpriced cherry Coke and flirt with him like it was her part-time job.
You wiped the same spot on the bar twice just to avoid meeting Robin’s knowing stare.
“—and she laughed at EVERYTHING,” Steve said, grinning so widely it should’ve been illegal. “Even my dumb jokes. Like, full-on laughing. It was insane.”
Robin groaned from her upside-down perch. “Yes, Steve, girls occasionally laugh. Truly a Christmas miracle.”
You snorted. Quiet. Nearly silent.
But even if you’d been loud, Steve wouldn't have heard you.
He just kept talking, oblivious. “—and she gave me her number without even hesitating,” grinning like he’d won a trophy. “Super cute too. Works over at Melvalds.”
You scrubbed harder at a water ring.
Nancy raised a brow. “Do you even know her last name?”
“Uh…” Steve tapped the bar. “No? Why, does it matter?”
“Classic,” Robin muttered.
You hung the rag over your shoulder and tugged the trash bag out of the can behind the bar. Eddie hopped up immediately to grab the back door, nudging your shoulder on the way past.
“You’re awfully quiet, sweetheart,” he murmured. “And you only clean like that when you’re pissed.”
You snorted. “Eds, I’m closing the bar. I always clean. It’s my job.”
He arched his brow. “Not like this, you don’t.”
You shoved the trash bag into the dumpster outside, inhaling the cool night air like it might float the ache out of your chest.
When you came back in, Steve was sitting on a barstool, spinning it lazily, elbows propped on the bar you just finished wiping down.
“So, uh,” Steve said suddenly, turning toward you with bright eyes—except not really at you. More around you. Through you. “Are we still going to the arcade tomorrow? That’s still on, right?”
You had made those plans. He had promised he wouldn’t bail this time.
You opened your mouth to answer, but Steve snapped his fingers suddenly.
“Oh wait—shit, no. I forgot. I told Jessica I’d meet her after her shift.” He shrugged like it was nothing. A minor calendar conflict.
“You don’t mind, right? You’re cool.”
You stared at him.
He didn’t notice.
Nancy lowered her soda, eyes sharpening. Robin sat upright. Jonathan’s jaw ticked.
“Steve,” Robin warned.
“What?” he asked, genuinely confused.
Eddie’s jaw tightened; even from across the room, you could feel the shift. Protective. Sharp. Pissed.
You forced a tight smile, pushing down the sudden heat in your throat.
“It’s fine,” you lied.
Steve relaxed instantly, like you’d solved all his problems with two words. “Great! I knew you’d understand.”
“You always do.”
Robin rolled off the booth, landing on her feet with a thud. “One of these days, dingus, you’re going to realise not everyone exists to accommodate your dumbass schedule.”
Steve blinked. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Jonathan muttered under his breath, “Dude…”
You shook your head. “It’s fine,” you repeated, because anything else felt too raw.
Steve smiled at you again — soft, warm, easy.
The kind of smile that used to make your chest flutter.
Now it just hurt.
You went back to wiping the same spot on the bar again. Briefly looking up and catching Robin’s eye who gave you a look that was half sympathy, half say the word and I’ll stab him with a plastic spork.
You shook your head. Not now. Not here. But thank you.
Eddie watched you like a storm gathering. He pushed off the booth and came up behind you, voice low and meant only for you:
“He’s killin’ me, kid.”
He didn’t mean Steve was annoying him.
He meant: He’s hurting you, and I can’t stand it.
The neon signs buzzed. The jukebox clicked as it powered down. Steve kept talking, blissfully unaware, his laughter echoing in the empty bar.
And for the first time, the bar felt too crowded… even with only your friends in it.
Family Video was almost dark, lit only by the buzzing overhead fluorescents and the neon open sign flickering in the window. You slipped in quietly, pushing the door closed behind you with barely a sound.
You were just here to pick up a tape for Dustin. Like every Friday. Five minutes, in and out.
But then you heard your name.
In Robin’s voice — sharp, irritated, unmistakable.
You froze behind the comedy aisle.
“You seriously ditched them again? Steve, this is getting ridiculous.”
There was a shuffle, like Steve leaning against the counter.
Steve sounded defensive instantly. “Okay, first of all, I didn’t ditch them. I just… had plans.”
“With Jessica?” Robin huffed. “Steve, you’ve cancelled on them three times this week.”
“That’s not true,” Steve argued, then immediately backtracked. “Okay, maybe twice. But Jessica’s fun. She flirts, she laughs, she actually seems excited to see me.”
Robin made a noise that could’ve curdled milk. “And you think they’re not?”
Steve didn’t answer right away.
You gripped the movie box a little too tightly.
Robin continued, arms probably folded. “You act like they’re some— some backup option. Like they’ll always be there no matter how many times you blow them off.”
Steve exhaled sharply, frustrated. “That’s not what I’m doing.”
“Then what are you doing?”
A beat of silence.
Then Steve said, quieter but clearer:
“They’re just… different.”
Your breath caught.
Robin frowned. “Different how?”
Steve perked up a little, like this was something he actually understood.
“With Jessica, everything feels new,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “Like… unpredictable. I don’t know what she’ll say, or what’ll happen. It’s exciting. Keeps me on my toes.”
Robin nodded slowly. “Okay… and with them?”
“With them,” Steve said, exhaling, “it’s the opposite.”
He leaned back against the counter, comfortable in all the worst ways.
“It’s familiar. Comfortable. Like—I don’t have to figure anything out. I always know where I stand with them.”
Robin raised an eyebrow. “That sounds like a good thing, dingus.”
“It is,” Steve insisted, waving a hand. “It’s just different. Jessica makes me think about every little thing. They don’t.”
He shrugged, unbothered.
“Being around them is easy. Safe.”
Robin froze. “…safe.”
“Yeah,” Steve said, oblivious. “Safe.”
Robin pushed off the counter. “Steve, do you hear what you’re saying?”
“What? What’s wrong with safe?”
“Safe?” she repeated, incredulous. “SHE LITERALLY FOUGHT MONSTERS WITH YOU. You think that’s safe?”
Steve winced but didn’t back down. “That’s not what I mean. They’re… dependable. Someone you can count on. They’re like—like home.”
Robin’s face fell. “Home.”
“Yeah,” Steve said, as if it were obvious. “Someone who’s basically family. Someone you depend on but don’t—”
He hesitated.
“—not the type you fall for.”
Robin went absolutely still.
“That,” she whispered, “is the cruelest thing I’ve ever heard you say.”
Steve shook his head, defensive and clueless all at once. “It’s not cruel. It’s true. They’d agree.”
You didn’t remember pushing open the glass door.
You didn’t remember the little bell chiming above your head, sharp and cheerful and wrong in the quiet store.
You just remembered the words.
Safe. Comfortable. Not the type you fall for. They’d agree.
Your feet carried you across the parking lot in a straight, numb line, keys clenched so tightly in your fist that one dug into your palm.
You didn’t feel it.
You didn’t feel anything yet.
Snow had started to fall sometime while you’d been standing there, flakes drifting lazily under the streetlights like the world hadn’t just tilted sideways. Your breath fogged in front of you as you reached your car, hands shaking just enough that it took two tries to unlock the door.
You sat there for a second once you were inside. Engine off. Radio silent. Forehead resting against the steering wheel like maybe if you stayed still long enough, the feeling would pass.
It didn’t.
You didn’t remember driving home.
One minute you were crossing the snowy parking lot with your vision blurring at the edges, the next you were standing in the living room, coat still on, keys still in your hand, surrounded by the glow of mismatched Christmas lights your mom had insisted on putting up the second the calendar hit December.
Red. Blue. Gold. One strand blinking faster than the others, like it was trying to get your attention.
You stared at it.
The house was quiet. Dustin’s door was shut, the faint hum of his computer seeping through the walls. The TV was off. No voices. No movement. Just the soft electrical buzz of the lights and the distant wind rattling the windows.
You set your keys down on the table.
Carefully.
Like if you moved too fast, something inside you might finally break open.
You made it halfway down the hall before the weight in your chest deepened, pressing in until it was harder to breathe. You leaned your forehead against your door, steadying yourself, eyes squeezed shut.
You changed into your pjs without really registering it. Crawled into bed, staring up at the ceiling while the shadows from the Christmas lights crept along the walls like they were alive.
That night, you replayed Steve’s voice over and over again until it carved a hollow inside you.
Safe. Comfortable.
Not the type you fall for.
You wondered, distantly, when you’d taught him that you were unmovable. When you’d made yourself so easy to rely on that he never stopped to check if you were still choosing to stay.
They’d agree.
You didn’t sleep much.
The next morning, the world felt colder.
Not colder in a dramatic way. Just… flatter. Like someone had turned the saturation down on everything.
You skipped breakfast.
Dustin’s door was still shut down the hall, the faint whirr of his fan humming through the wood. Winter break habits hard to break. You were grateful for it. You didn’t have it in you to pretend yet.
Your phone buzzed on the counter while you pulled on your boots.
Steve: hey u alive? lol
You stared at the screen until it dimmed.
Another message followed before you could turn the phone face-down.
Steve: seriously tho you didn’t come by? Dustin change his plans?
You didn’t answer.
A few minutes later, Robin’s name lit up the screen.
Robin: can you please respond to Steve he will NOT leave me alone
You swallowed.
She didn’t sound worried. She sounded annoyed. Like this was a logistics problem. Something you usually handled.
You set the phone down without replying.
When Steve called, you let it ring. Watched the screen light up from across the room, the vibration rattling softly against the laminate.
You didn’t pick up.
It stopped on its own.
No voicemail. No follow-up. Just quiet settling back into the house like it belonged there.
Your mom’s car wasn’t in the driveway yet, probably still at work and the absence felt heavier than you expected. The Christmas lights blinked softly in the corner of the living room, too cheerful for the way your chest ached.
By the time evening rolled in, you were already pulling your coat on, fingers clumsier than usual as you buttoned it up.
Dustin’s door cracked open behind you.
“Where’re you going?”
You turned, forcing your mouth into something that passed for a smile. “The shop.”
“Oh,” he said, already distracted, eyes flicking back toward his room. “Cool. Bring back hot chocolate?”
You nodded. “Yeah. Sure.”
He disappeared again, door clicking shut.
You stood there a moment longer than necessary, hand still on your sleeve.
Then you grabbed your scarf and stepped back out into the cold, shutting the door quietly behind you.
The ache under your ribs pulsed as you walked down the steps, breath fogging in the air.
You told yourself you were fine.
You told yourself you always were.
The cold hit your lungs and you welcomed it.
The tree lot was louder than it had any right to be.
Christmas music crackled through tinny speakers tied to a lamppost, some warped version of Jingle Bell Rock competing with the scrape of boots on frozen gravel and the sharp scent of pine hanging thick in the air. Strings of bare bulbs swung overhead, casting everything in a warm, forgiving glow.
You stepped into it like you belonged there.
Like you always did.
Eddie was already there, breath fogging as he laughed at something one of the guys from the Hideout said, a paper cup of something steaming cradled between his hands.
He spotted you immediately and lifted his chin in greeting, eyes flicking over your face in a way that was subtle but thorough.
You gave him a small nod. I’m okay. Or at least, not falling apart in public.
“Hey,” he said when you got closer, voice warm. “Thought you’d ditched us.”
“Just ran late,” you replied easily. It wasn’t a lie. Just incomplete.
Robin waved from where she was examining a lopsided little tree like it had personally offended her. “Thank god, you’re here. I was five seconds away from letting Eddie talk me into one that looks like it lost a fight.”
“It has character,” Eddie protested. “And emotional depth.”
Nancy snorted. “It’s bald on one side.”
“Relatable,” Eddie shot back.
You smiled. It came automatically. Muscle memory.
Someone handed you a cup of hot chocolate. Someone bumped your shoulder lightly as they passed. It all felt familiar enough that, for a moment, the ache under your ribs dulled.
Then someone asked you: “Where’s Steve?”
It was Nancy, casual, like she was asking about the weather.
You didn’t answer right away. Not because you were avoiding it because your brain genuinely stalled, reaching for an answer that used to be instinct.
You shrugged instead. “Not sure.”
Robin frowned. “Didn’t he come with you?”
You shook your head. “Nope.”
“Huh,” Eddie said, glancing toward the road. “Weird.”
Weird. Not concerning. Not new.
At least not recently.
“He said he’d be here,” Robin added, pulling her coat tighter around herself. “He texted me earlier.”
You didn’t ask what he said. You didn’t want to know.
Time passed in small increments. Trees were inspected and rejected. Jokes were made. Someone knocked snow off a branch and swore loudly when it fell down their collar.
Steve still didn’t show.
Just when you’d started to relax into the idea that maybe he wasn’t coming at all, headlights swept across the lot. A familiar car crunched to a stop, door slamming a second later.
Steve jogged toward you all, hair already damp with melting snow, breath a little too fast like he’d rushed but not enough.
“Hey—hey, sorry,” he said, flashing that sheepish grin like it was a universal apology. “Sorry I’m late.”
Robin crossed her arms. “You’re late.”
“I know, I know,” he said quickly. “I just—there was a thing.”
You watched him from where you stood, hands wrapped around your hot chocolate Jonathan had got you. He didn’t look at you at first. His gaze skidded over you, like it always did, before settling somewhere just to your left.
Nancy raised an eyebrow. “A thing.”
“Yeah,” Steve said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Jessica said she might swing by, but then she got held up, and I didn’t want to just— I mean, I figured she’d show, and then she didn’t, and—” He stopped, laughing awkwardly. “You know how it is.”
No one said anything.
You felt it then. Not sharp. Not crushing.
Just… confirmation.
Eddie’s jaw tightened. Robin’s mouth thinned. Nancy looked between you and Steve like she was putting something together she didn’t like. You took a sip of your drink. It was too hot. You welcomed the burn.
“It’s fine,” you said, because it always was. Your voice came out steady. “We just got here.”
Steve finally looked at you properly then. Really looked. Not the passing glance he’d been doing all night - the automatic one - but he did pause.
A focus.
His relief faltered just enough to notice it. Your tone didn’t quite match the words.
He blinked, once. A fraction too long.
“Yeah?” he said, relief settling back into place anyway, like he’d decided not to pull at the loose thread. “Cool. I mean—thanks for waiting.”
You nodded. Of course.
For a second, it felt like he might say something else. Like he might ask the question sitting just behind his teeth.
“Steve!” someone called, loud and urgent. “Quit standing there and come help with this one!”
The moment broke cleanly. Steve’s shoulders loosened immediately, tension bleeding out of him as he turned toward the voice. “Yeah—yeah, coming!” he called back, then glanced at you again, flashing a quick, easy grin.
Relieved. Grateful. Unburdened.
Someone else called for help carrying a tree. Eddie moved immediately. Robin followed, muttering about needles in her socks. The group shifted, noise swelling again as attention scattered.
Later after you’d all said your goodbyes, Steve lingered beside you, hands shoved into his jacket pockets.
“You okay?” he asked, softer now. Automatic. Habitual.
You met his eyes. Held them.
“I’m fine.”
And the thing was — you meant it. At least for tonight.
You stepped past him toward the trees, leaving Steve standing there for half a second longer than usual, confusion flickering across his face as he watched you go.
He didn’t follow right away.
And for the first time, you didn’t wait to see if he would.
After that, things shifted. Not loudly. Not obviously. Just in the little things.
You still showed up. Just not early.
You still smiled. Just not as wide.
You stopped being the one who looked for Steve when he walked into a room. Stopped being the one who defaulted to sitting beside him.
You took the empty chair instead. Or leaned against the bar. Or drifted into conversations that didn’t orbit him.
When Steve texted, you answered hours later. Short replies. Polite ones.
When he called, you missed it. Sometimes on purpose. Sometimes not.
Dustin noticed first.
He hovered more. Asked if you wanted to watch something. If you wanted hot chocolate. If you were okay. You told him yes. Every time.
Eddie noticed next.
He stopped teasing. Started walking you to your car without comment. Started showing up where you were instead of assuming you’d be where Steve was.
Steve noticed last.
He noticed the empty seat. The way conversations didn’t automatically include him anymore. The way you smiled at him like you smiled at everyone else now.
He told himself it was nothing.
You were just tired. Busy. Independent.
Comfortable.
And you didn’t correct him.
The couch dipped beneath your weight as you curled into the corner, knees tucked up, socked feet pressed against the armrest.
The Christmas movie played on low volume, all swelling strings and artificial cheer, the kind that felt easier to ignore than turn off.
Dustin handed you a mug without asking.
Hot chocolate. Extra marshmallows. Just the way you liked it.
“Careful,” he said automatically. “It’s hot.”
You nodded. Wrapped both hands around it. Let the heat sink into your palms.
For a while, neither of you spoke.
The tree lights blinked in slow, uneven patterns across the living room, reflecting off the tinsel Dustin had insisted on hanging himself — too much, uneven, perfect.
The heater kicked on with a low groan. Somewhere outside, a car passed, tires crunching over snow.
Dustin leaned against you, shoulder warm and familiar. He always did that. Always assumed you’d be there.
You swallowed.
“You left early,” he said eventually. Not accusing. Just observant.
“Yeah,” you replied. Your voice sounded fine. That was the problem. “I was tired.”
He hummed, unconvinced but not pushing. Took a sip of his own drink, eyes fixed on the screen.
A few more minutes passed.
Then, quieter, “Steve didn’t walk you out.”
You froze.
Just for a second. Long enough for Dustin to notice.
“He didn’t have to,” you said.
“I know,” Dustin said quickly. “I just— he usually does.”
Usually.
The word settled between you, heavier than it had any right to be.
You stared down into your mug, watching a marshmallow slowly dissolve.
“I didn’t expect him to,” you said.
Dustin shifted beside you, turning just enough to look at your face. Really look this time. His brows pulled together, concern creeping in where certainty used to live.
“You okay?” he asked.
The question was small. Careful. Like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to ask.
You opened your mouth.
Closed it again.
Took a breath that didn’t quite reach your lungs.
“I didn’t expect him to feel the same,” you said finally.
Dustin blinked. “Feel the same as—”
“I just thought,” you cut in softly, because if you didn’t say it now, you never would. “I just thought he saw me.”
The words sat there, bare and fragile.
Dustin’s face crumpled in a way that made your chest ache all over again. Not dramatic. Just… hurt. Like something important had slipped through his fingers without him noticing.
“He does see you,” he said immediately. Too fast. Too sure.
You shook your head. “Not really.”
Silence stretched.
The movie kept playing. Someone onscreen laughed too loudly.
Dustin’s voice was smaller when he spoke again. “Did he say something?”
You hesitated.
Then nodded.
You didn’t repeat the words. You didn’t need to. The damage was already done.
Dustin set his mug down carefully on the coffee table, like he was afraid of spilling something. He scooted closer, shoulder pressing into yours, arms wrapping around you in a way that boxed you in without trapping you.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“For what?” you asked, throat tight.
He shrugged helplessly. “For not noticing sooner.”
That did it.
Your eyes burned, vision blurring as you pressed your forehead into his shoulder, breath hitching despite your best efforts to keep it together.
Dustin stiffened for half a second, then relaxed, arms coming around you properly this time, holding you like he had when you were kids and the world felt too big.
You didn’t cry hard.
Just quietly. Leaking. Tears slipping down your cheeks and soaking into the worn fabric of his sweatshirt.
Dustin didn’t say it’ll be okay.
He didn’t say Steve’s an idiot.
He didn’t try to fix it.
He just stayed.
Which is everything you needed and more.
After a while, when your breathing evened out and the ache dulled to something manageable, he spoke again.
“You don’t have to stop hanging out with us,” he said. “Or… with him.”
You wiped at your face with your sleeve. “I know.”
“I just—” He hesitated. “I don’t want you to disappear.”
You leaned into him, resting your head against his shoulder.
“I’m not disappearing,” you said. Honest. “I’m just… stepping back.”
Dustin nodded like he understood. Or maybe like he was trying to.
“Okay,” he said. “But I still get movie nights.”
You huffed a quiet, watery laugh. “Yeah. You do.”
He squeezed you once, gentle but firm.
Outside, the wind rattled the windows again. The tree lights blinked on. Off. On.
And for the first time since the words had lodged themselves in your chest, the hollow inside you felt a little less empty.
The snow starts as an inconvenience.
Light flakes drifting down as you step out of the library, scarf tucked up around your chin, book bag heavy against your shoulder. The sky is already low and gray, but that’s December in Hawkins. You’ve walked home in worse.
You’re halfway down the block when the wind shifts.
It doesn’t howl. It doesn’t announce itself. It just sharpens — biting cold slicing through your coat, snow suddenly coming sideways instead of down.
You slow.
Then you see her.
Mrs. Bennett is standing at the corner, hunched over her cane, the knit hat pulled low over her ears. She’s one of the librarians — the kind who remembers your name, who always slips a bookmark into your checkout pile around the holidays.
She’s also very clearly struggling.
“Are you alright?” you call, already moving toward her.
She turns, startled, and in doing so, her foot slips.
The sound she makes when she hits the ground is small. Embarrassed more than pained. But when you crouch beside her, you see the way her hands are shaking. The way she winces when she tries to stand.
“My knee,” she admits. “It’s not broken. Just… stubborn.”
The snow thickens. Visibility drops.
Somewhere in the distance, something wails — low and stretched thin by the wind. Not close enough to be sharp. Not loud enough to demand attention. It blends into the storm, indistinct, easy to mistake for nothing at all.
You don’t register it.
You look down the street then back at her.
“Okay,” you say, without really thinking about it. “We’re not staying here.”
She blinks. “Oh, sweetheart—”
“We’ll walk,” you insist, already bracing yourself to help her up. “The community centre’s only a few blocks. They’ll have heat.”
The snow erases your footprints almost immediately.
Block by block, the world disappears.
Streetlamps blur into glowing smears. Houses become vague shapes. Your fingers go numb inside your gloves. Mrs. Bennett leans heavily on you now, each step careful and slow.
Mrs. Bennett stumbles.
You catch her automatically, your arm locking around her elbow before you even think about it. The impact jars through your shoulder and down your spine.
You look ahead.
The next streetlamp is barely visible, its light smeared into a dull halo by the snow. Behind you, the path you’ve already walked has vanished. Your footprints erased almost instantly.
Going back is no longer an option.
“It’s okay,” you say, steady. “We’ll go slow.”
You mean together.
You adjust your grip, angling your body to block the worst of the wind from her. Snow works its way down your collar, melts against your skin, then refreezes in unpleasant patches.
Your fingers start to ache.
Then burn.
You flex them around her sleeve and realise you can’t really feel the fabric anymore.
That thought lands hard.
Okay, you think. That’s bad.
You don’t say anything.
Mrs. Bennett leans more heavily against you, apologising again under her breath. You shake your head and keep moving, breaking the walk into pieces — one block, then the next, then the one after that.
The storm doesn’t care.
Another sound drifts through the snow — a voice this time, tinny and distorted, carried by speakers you can’t see. Words break apart before they reach you, swallowed by the wind.
—remain indoors——if you are outside—
You don’t stop to parse it. You don’t slow down.
A gust of wind hits you broadside, stealing your balance. You stumble, knee slamming into the pavement with a sharp, blinding jolt of pain.
You bite down hard to keep from crying out.
The cold rushes in immediately, deep and invasive.
Mrs. Bennett gasps, clutching you. “Oh no— I’m so sorry—”
“It’s fine,” you say too quickly. “Just slipped.”
You don’t tell her your knee is throbbing.
You don’t tell her your ankle twisted at the same time and is now throbbing in time with your knee.
You don’t tell her your hands feel wrong — heavy, clumsy, slow.
You just get back to your feet.
For the first time, a thought slips in uninvited, sharp enough to steal your breath:
If I fall again, I don’t know if I’ll get back up.
Your stomach drops.
You don’t let the thought reach your face.
Instead, you tighten your grip and murmur, “One step. Then another.”
You don’t know who you’re reassuring.
You pass a storefront with its lights still on — warm, yellow, close. The door is right there. Shelter. Safety.
For half a second, you consider it.
You could leave Mrs. Bennett here, run ahead, get help faster. Come back with someone stronger, someone with a car.
She wouldn’t blame you.
The thought makes your chest ache.
You look at her: her shaking hands, her too-thin coat, the way she’s trusting you completely without even knowing if she should.
You shake your head once.
“No,” you say, more firmly now. “We’re almost there.”
It isn’t true.
But you keep going anyway.
Your breath starts coming too fast. Each inhale stings your lungs, shallow and unsatisfying. The cold has settled into your chest now, heavy and insistent.
Another gust nearly knocks you sideways. You brace instinctively, planting your feet wide, pain screaming through your knee.
For a moment — just a moment — fear overwhelms everything else.
Small. Unheroic. Embarrassing.
Someone should be here.
The thought arrives fully formed.
And then, just as quickly, another follows — sharp and bitter:
You shouldn’t need someone.
You swallow it down and keep moving.
Block by block.
Step by step.
You stop thinking about how far you still have to go and start counting breaths instead. Ten, then ten more. Mrs. Bennett’s weight shifts; you adjust automatically, muscle memory carrying you when your brain feels foggy.
By the time you see the vague outline of the community centre through the snow, your legs are shaking.
You don’t feel relief.
You feel disbelief.
You guide Mrs. Bennett up the final stretch, your body running on stubbornness alone. On the refusal to stop now that stopping feels dangerous - like giving up.
The doors are close enough to see.
Close enough to touch.
You take one last breath — shallow, burning — and keep walking.
The community centre smells like wet wool and burnt coffee.
Snow melts off coats in uneven puddles near the doors, the air loud with overlapping voices and the scrape of folding chairs being dragged into rows. Someone’s turned a radio on low behind the front desk — the same warning repeating over and over between bursts of static.
—remain indoors——if you are outside, proceed to the nearest shelter—
Joyce Byers stands near the entrance, rubbing warmth back into her hands, eyes scanning the room every time the doors open. Jonathan hovers close, coat half-off, camera slung uselessly around his neck.
Will sits cross-legged on one of the chairs, knees bouncing, chewing on the end of his sleeve.
“Have you seen them?” Joyce asks for the third time, already knowing the answer.
Jonathan shakes his head. “No. But they know to come here.”
They all do.
That’s the point.
The doors open again, letting in a burst of wind and snow — then slam shut behind Eddie Munson as he stomps inside, shaking ice from his hair.
“Jesus,” he mutters. “It’s getting bad out there.”
His eyes sweep the room automatically.
They don’t land where he expects.
Dustin barrels into him a second later, breathless and red-cheeked, snow still clinging to his hat.
“Eddie!”
Relief flashes across his face and then drains away just as fast.
He says your name.
Not loudly. Not to the room. Just to Eddie, like it should be enough. Like saying it is the same as finding you.
Eddie blinks. “What?”
“She came with you, right?” Dustin says, the certainty already slipping. “She was with you.”
Eddie’s stomach drops.
“No,” he says slowly. “I thought she was with you.”
Dustin’s mouth opens. Closes.
“She wasn’t home,” he says, quieter now. “I figured—”
The radio crackles again.
—do not attempt travel—
Joyce’s head snaps toward them. “What do you mean, they weren’t with you?”
“She went to the library,” Dustin says, suddenly very still. “She said she’d be back before it got bad.”
Eddie’s jaw tightens.
The doors open again. Robin and Nancy rush in together, cheeks flushed from the cold.
“Steve just texted me,” Robin says, distracted, already pulling off her gloves. “He’s stuck on Main, traffic’s a mess—”
She stops.
Takes in their faces.
“What?”
Dustin looks up at her, says your name. “Have you seen her?”
Robin opens her mouth.
Closes it.
“No,” she says. “I thought—”
Everyone thought.
That’s when it clicks.
Not all at once. Not dramatically. Just a slow, creeping realization that settles in the room like the cold seeping through the walls.
Joyce’s hand flies to her mouth.
Eddie is already moving.
“I’m going out,” he says flatly.
A heavy hand clamps down on his shoulder.
Hopper.
“Not alone, you’re not,” he says, eyes hard. “And not right now.”
The doors open again.
Steve Harrington stumbles inside, breathless, snow-dusted, eyes wild as they scan the room.
“Hey—” he starts, then stops short when he doesn't see you. “Where is she?”
No one answers him.
Eddie turns slowly. “You don’t know?”
Steve’s stomach drops. “Know what?”
“They’re not here,” Robin says quietly.
Steve laughs once — sharp, disbelieving. “That’s not funny.”
Hopper steps forward. “Son—”
“She would’ve come here,” Steve insists, voice rising. “She knows the drill.”
The radio crackles again.
—remain indoors—
Steve’s face drains of colour.
“She hates storms,” he says, quieter now. Not arguing. Remembering.
Eddie’s voice is tight. “Yeah. She does.”
Steve turns toward the doors like he might bolt.
Hopper blocks him without effort.
“You go out there now, you’re another problem I have to solve,” Hopper says. “Sit down.”
Steve doesn’t.
He physically can’t.
He stands there, frozen, staring at the doors like he can will them open — like you’ll walk through any second, annoyed and cold and fine.
But the doors stay shut.
And for the first time all night, the room feels too small to breathe in.
Hopper doesn’t give a speech.
He just grabs his coat.
“Munson,” he says, already moving. “You’re with me.”
Eddie doesn’t argue. He’s halfway to the door before the sentence finishes.
The cold hits like a wall.
Snow slashes sideways the second they step outside, wind screaming down the street hard enough to steal your breath. Hopper pulls his hat lower, squinting into the white, radio crackling uselessly at his shoulder.
“Stay close,” he barks. “Visibility’s garbage.”
Eddie nods, jaw tight, eyes already scanning — the way he does at gigs, at fights, at fires. Looking for patterns. Looking for movement. Looking for you.
They split the blocks into sections. Logical. Methodical.
Hopper checks alleyways and storefronts, boots crunching through drifts that come up to his shins. Eddie sticks to the sidewalks, calling your name into the storm, voice roughening with every unanswered shout.
Nothing answers back but the wind.
Snow piles up fast. Footprints vanish almost as soon as they’re made, erased like they were never there to begin with. Hopper kneels at one point, gloved hand brushing at the ground where something might’ve been — a scuff, a drag mark, anything.
There’s nothing.
“Dammit,” Eddie mutters, spinning in a slow circle. “She wouldn’t just—”
“I know,” Hopper cuts in. Not unkind. Just firm. “Keep moving.”
They reach the corner near the library.
Hopper’s light sweeps across the sidewalk. The doors are dark. Locked. Snow banked.
“Library was open earlier,” Eddie says. “She could’ve been here.”
“Could’ve,” Hopper agrees. “Or already gone.”
They try another block. Then another.
A bus stop. Empty.
A storefront with its lights still on, door half-buried in snow. Hopper pounds on the glass, shouting. No answer.
Eddie’s hands shake as he shoves them into his pockets, breath coming out in harsh bursts. “She hates storms,” he says again, like if he keeps saying it, it’ll change something. “She wouldn’t stay out here if she didn’t have to.”
Hopper’s radio crackles.
—all units return—conditions deteriorating—
Hopper swears under his breath.
They make it two more blocks before the wind nearly knocks Eddie off his feet. Hopper grabs his jacket, yanking him back hard.
“That’s it,” Hopper snaps. “I’m not losing you too.”
“But—”
“We can’t see five feet ahead,” Hopper says. “We go down out here, we don’t help anybody.”
Eddie turns slowly, fury and fear tangling in his chest. “So what, we just—stop?”
Hopper meets his eyes.
“We regroup,” he says. “We get heat. We coordinate. And the second this breaks, we go again.”
Eddie hates it.
But he knows Hopper’s right.
They head back toward the community centre, shapes blurring into shadows around them, the storm swallowing the sound of their boots as if they were never there at all.
Behind them, the snow keeps falling.
And somewhere between the blocks they searched and the ones they didn’t, you are still walking.
Hopper is still shaking snow out of his coat when the doors open again.
He doesn’t look up right away. He’s halfway through pulling off his gloves, jaw tight, already bracing himself for the questions he knows are coming.
Eddie steps in behind him, soaked through, face pale, eyes hollow.
The room shifts.
Dustin is on his feet instantly. “Did you—?”
Hopper exhales.
“We didn’t find her.”
The words don’t echo. They don’t ring. They just sit there, heavy and final, like a weight dropped on the floor.
Dustin stares at him, unblinking. “What do you mean you didn’t—”
“She’s not on the streets we checked,” Hopper says, steady but careful. “No sign of her. No footprints. Nothing.”
The radio crackles again, repeating the warning no one is listening to anymore.
Robin presses a hand to her mouth.
Joyce closes her eyes.
Steve hasn’t moved since Hopper came in. He’s standing near the doors, like he’s afraid to step away from them, knuckles white where his hands curl into fists.
“She hates storms,” he says again, softer now. Not arguing. Just… stating a fact. “She wouldn’t just—go missing.”
No one answers him.
The doors open.
Not with a bang. Not thrown wide.
Just… quietly.
A gust of snow slips in first, cold and sharp, scattering across the floor. Then a shape emerges from the white.
You.
Your coat is dusted with snow, hair damp and clinging to your cheeks, scarf pulled loose around your neck. One arm is braced firmly around Mrs. Bennett’s waist, the other gripping the door hard enough your knuckles are pale.
For half a second, no one moves.
The room doesn’t rush you. Doesn’t shout. Doesn’t breathe.
Dustin makes a sound that isn’t a word and crosses the space in a blur, crashing into you so hard it nearly knocks you both over.
“You’re here,” he chokes. “You’re— you’re here.”
You wrap your arms around him automatically, muscles protesting as you hold him upright.
“Hey,” you murmur, voice rough. “I’m okay.”
Eddie is there too, hands hovering like he doesn’t know where to touch, eyes shining with something sharp and angry and relieved all at once.
Hopper blinks at you.
Then at Mrs. Bennett.
“You walked,” he says.
You nod. “She fell. We couldn’t stay there.”
Mrs. Bennett squeezes your arm, voice trembling. “She didn’t leave me. Not for a second.”
Hopper swallows.
Steve hasn’t moved.
He’s staring at you like you’re something impossible — like you’ve stepped out of a story he already finished telling himself. His mouth opens, closes. He takes a step toward you without realising he’s doing it.
You don’t look at him.
Not yet.
“They told us to find shelter,” you say to Hopper, like you’re explaining a simple choice. “So we did.”
Hopper lets out a slow breath. “You should’ve waited.”
You meet his eyes then. Not defensive. Just honest.
“I didn’t think anyone was coming.”
For a second, nothing moves.
The room goes so still it feels like the storm followed you inside. Like even the heaters and the radio are waiting to see if anyone will argue with you.
The sentence hangs there, quiet and undeniable.
Then it lands — not like a fight, not like an accusation — like a crack through ice.
Steve flinches like he’s been struck.
Dustin tightens his grip on you, face buried against your shoulder now, shaking. Eddie’s jaw clenches hard enough to ache.
No one argues with you.
Because no one can.
Hopper nods once. “Alright,” he says. “Let’s get you both warm.”
People move then — blankets appear, chairs scraped closer, someone guiding Mrs. Bennett toward first aid. The room exhales, tension bleeding out in shaky breaths and whispered relief.
Steve watches it all from where he stands.
You wrapped in a blanket that isn’t his. Your hand steady on someone else’s shoulder. Your eyes tired but clear.
You didn’t wait.
You didn’t call.
You didn’t expect saving.
Useless and dry and late, Steve Harrington understands something too late to stop it hurting:
You don’t look at him. You don’t search the room for him. You don’t move toward him at all.
And standing there, with snow melting off his jacket and his hands still useless at his sides, Steve understands, too late and all at once, that whatever you needed tonight, it wasn’t him.
Steve doesn’t realise he’s shaking until Robin presses a cup of coffee into his hands and it sloshes dangerously close to the rim.
“Careful,” she says softly.
He nods. Doesn’t drink it.
He’s standing near the wall now, out of the way, watching the room reset itself around you. Blankets being draped over shoulders. First aid kits opening and closing. Low voices replacing panic as the crisis dissolves into logistics.
You don’t look at him.
Dustin is still glued to your side, one arm wrapped tight around you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish again if he lets go. He keeps touching your shoulder, your arm, your sleeve — checking, grounding, confirming that you’re really there.
“I thought you were with Eddie,” Dustin says, voice thin and unsteady. “I didn’t even know where to start looking.”
Your answer is gentle. Immediate.
“It’s okay,” you tell him. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
That’s what lands wrong.
Not because of what you say but because of how easily you say it. Like this is already something you’ve accepted. Like it never occurred to you that anyone might come looking.
Steve’s chest tightens painfully, like something inside him has been knocked loose.
You weren’t hiding.
You were assuming no one would worry.
And suddenly, he sees it.
Not as a single moment, but as a pattern.
The way you never made a fuss. The way you always filled in the gaps. The way you let plans change without complaint. The way you stayed steady and unmovable so everyone else could rely on you.
Including him.
He swallows hard, breath shallow.
Because if you never acted like you needed help…
Then he never had to ask if you were okay.
And still he assumed.
He knew you hated storms. Knew you walked faster when the wind picked up. Knew you pretended you weren’t scared because it was easier than explaining it.
And he let himself believe that meant you were fine.
Steve lowers his gaze to the untouched coffee in his hands, fingers tightening around the paper cup until the heat is almost painful.
This isn’t something he can undo tonight.
Your room is too quiet.
You sit on the edge of the bed, coat still on, boots kicked off but not put away, the blanket from the community centre folded neatly over the chair, careful and out of place.
Your phone buzzes.
Once. Twice.
You don’t look.
You don’t have to.
You know who it is.
You move it face-down on the nightstand and lie back, staring at the ceiling while the house settles around you. Pipes creak. A door closes somewhere down the hall. Dustin pads past, pauses, then keeps going.
You don’t cry.
You don’t spiral.
You just… stop reaching.
By midday, you’re still in your pjs.
Which is exactly when Eddie bursts into your room without knocking.
“Emergency,” he says. “Get dressed.”
You blink at him. “…What kind of emergency?”
“The kind where you’ve been staring at the same corner of your ceiling long enough for it to start judging you.” He points toward your closet. “Out. Now. We’re relocating your misery.”
You groan. “Eddie—”
“Nope.” He tosses your coat at you. “Coffeehouse. Live music. Hot drinks. No Harrington.”
You hesitate.
Eddie softens, just a little.
“C’mon, Henderson,” he says. “You deserve to feel good for at least five minutes.”
That’s what does it.
You get up.
He doesn’t hover. Doesn’t push. Just waits while you pull on your hoodie, movements automatic, distant. He hands you your coat like this is ordinary, like you haven’t been coming apart quietly all morning.
Outside, the air is sharp but calm. Cold enough to wake you without hurting. Eddie steers you down empty streets, away from the main road.
Not anywhere Steve might be.
The coffeehouse sits between a florist and a closed bookshop, windows glowing warm against the early dark. Inside, fairy lights hang unevenly across the ceiling. Someone tunes a guitar in the corner, soft chords filling the room.
An acoustic Christmas night.
A safe place.
Eddie leads you to a small table near the wall. You sit, shrug out of your coat, fingers stiff from the cold. The chair creaks beneath you. You let the warmth reach you slowly, like you’re not sure you’re allowed to keep it.
“I’ll grab drinks,” Eddie says, already moving.
You nod.
The music starts. Someone misses a note and laughs. Mugs clink. Conversation hums low and steady, life happening all around you without asking anything in return.
Eddie comes back with a mug and sets it in front of you.
“Peppermint hot chocolate. Extra whip. No arguments.”
“Wasn’t going to argue,” you say. Your mouth almost smiles.
He sits beside you, close but not crowding.
“Favourite Christmas song?” he asks.
You think. “The sad ones.”
He snorts. “Obviously.”
He tells you about the time he was hired to play guitar for a holiday party and nearly set the tree on fire. You laugh. It surprises you.
It feels good.
It also hurts.
But for the first time in what feels like years the hurt doesn't outweigh the good.
Eddie notices. He always does. He doesn’t ask questions. He doesn’t fill the space. He just bumps your knee lightly with his.
“You don’t owe it to anyone to be okay,” he says.
Your throat tightens. You stare into your mug until the steam blurs everything enough to hide behind. You nod once.
“Thanks.”
Eddie lets the silence stay. Lets the song finish. Lets you be exactly where you are.
When you leave later, snow drifting down soft and harmless, you don’t feel fixed.
Just steadier.
Enough to get through the night.
Movie night settles in the way it always does. Not planned. Just… inevitable.
You’re curled into the corner of your couch, blanket pulled up to your chin, the glow from the TV washing the room in soft blues and reds. Some old horror movie plays at low volume, more atmosphere than plot. Eddie’s boots are kicked off near the door. One sock is missing. Of course it is.
You’re warm. Tired in a way that finally feels earned.
Your phone vibrates on the coffee table.
You don’t look at it.
Eddie does, just a flick of his eyes, nothing obvious. He doesn’t say anything. Just reaches over and nudges the volume up a notch on the TV, like that alone might be enough to drown it out.
A knock sounds at the door.
Not loud. Not tentative. Careful. Like whoever’s on the other side is already bracing for no.
You sit up a little, tension creeping back into your shoulders.
Eddie stills.
Another knock. Softer this time.
You don’t speak. You don’t have to.
“I got it,” Eddie says, already standing.
He doesn’t ask if you want him to. He doesn’t look back for permission. He just crosses the room and opens the door far enough to step outside, closing it firmly behind him.
The cold leaks in for half a second before the latch clicks shut.
You can’t hear everything. Just fragments. Eddie’s voice low and steady. Another voice, tighter. Familiar.
You pull the blanket closer around yourself and keep your eyes on the screen, even though you aren’t watching anymore. The movie drones on, oblivious.
Outside, Eddie shifts his weight and crosses his arms.
Steve stands on the porch, breath fogging in the cold, hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets like he’s trying to keep himself contained.
“Is she okay?” Steve asks immediately.
Eddie doesn’t answer right away.
“She’s inside,” he says finally. “That’s all you get.”
Steve swallows. “I just want to talk to her.”
“No,” Eddie replies.
Not harsh. Not angry. Just final.
Steve exhales shakily. “I messed up. I know that. I just— I need to explain.”
Eddie tilts his head slightly. “Explain who that would help.”
Steve falters. “I didn’t mean—”
“I know,” Eddie says, cutting in gently. “That doesn’t get you past the door.”
Steve looks at it anyway. The door. Like he expects it to open on its own.
Inside, you shift on the couch. The blanket slips and you pull it back up, grounding yourself in the weight of it, the familiar smell of laundry detergent and popcorn.
Another beat passes.
Snow drifts down between them, soft and quiet.
“I just want her to know I was scared,” Steve says, voice breaking despite himself.
Eddie’s gaze sharpens. “She was scared first.”
Steve goes still.
Eddie steps closer. Not crowding. Just impossible to ignore. “She didn’t call anyone because she didn’t think she was allowed to need it. That didn’t start tonight.”
Steve’s eyes burn. “I never told her she couldn’t.”
“No,” Eddie agrees. “You just acted like she never would.”
Silence stretches.
Inside, the movie reaches a jump scare you don’t react to. Your heartbeat stays steady. Slow.
Steve drags a hand over his face. “Can you at least tell her I’m here?”
Eddie shakes his head. “She knows.”
“Then why—”
“Because knowing doesn’t mean wanting,” Eddie says softly. “And tonight? She wants peace.”
He reaches for the door.
Steve doesn’t stop him.
Eddie steps back inside, shutting the cold out with a determinative click. He locks the door out of habit, then pauses, listening.
You haven’t moved.
You’re still curled on the couch, eyes on the screen, breathing even.
Eddie doesn’t say a word. He just drops back onto the couch beside you, close enough to feel without touching, and grabs the remote.
“Wanna switch movies?” he asks.
You nod.
Outside, Steve stands on the porch a moment longer than necessary.
Then he turns away.
Inside, the credits roll.
Steve doesn’t sleep much after the storm.
He checks the weather compulsively, like it might change something retroactively. Like the night might take it back. He checks the radio. Checks the roads. Checks his phone.
You don’t text.
He tells himself you’re resting. Healing. As you should be.
He goes to your house once and stops halfway up the driveway, hands shoved into his jacket pockets, staring at the front door like it might open on its own.
It doesn’t.
He leaves without knocking.
He tries again the next day.
This time, he knocks.
Your mom answers. Tired. Polite. Thanks him for checking in. Says you’re sleeping. Says you’re sore. Says you’re fine.
Fine.
The word makes his chest ache.
He asks if you need anything. Groceries. A ride. Anything.
She tells him the others already took care of it. Eddie. Jonathan. Robin. Nancy. Even all the kids had taken it in turns to check up on you.
A whole net he didn’t realise he’d been replaced in.
Steve nods like that makes sense.
It doesn’t.
Two months ago, that would have been him. Should have been him.
He texts you.
just wanted to check on you
heard you got pretty banged up
you don’t have to respond if you’re tired
You don’t respond.
At Family Video, he catches himself watching the door, half-expecting you to walk in like you always used to. He startles every time it opens.
It’s never you.
Robin notices. Says nothing.
At the Hideout, he asks Eddie how you’re doing.
Casual. Too casual.
Eddie says, “She’s okay.”
Nothing else.
Steve waits for more.
There isn’t any.
He tries humour next. Leaves a dumb note under your windshield wiper. Something he knows would’ve made you laugh before.
It stays there overnight.
When he finally sees you across the room days later, wrapped in a sweater he doesn’t recognise, laughing softly at something Dustin says, relief floods him so hard it almost knocks him over.
You’re okay.
That should be enough.
He steps toward you without thinking.
You don’t move. You don’t turn. You don’t look at him.
And for the first time since the storm, the fear sharpens into something else.
Not panic. Not guilt.
Dread.
Because whatever this is — whatever he broke — checking in isn’t fixing it.
And for the first time, Steve Harrington realises he doesn’t actually know what to do next.
The ice rink is louder than Steve expects.
Music blares from the speakers, thin and tinny, layered over the scrape of skates and the sound of people laughing too hard because it’s cold and December and there is finally something different to do in Hawkins. The air smells like damp gloves and sugar.
Steve stops just inside the entrance.
He doesn’t almost turn around.
He just… pauses.
He hadn’t planned to skate. He hadn’t even planned to stay long. He told himself he was just passing by, just seeing what was going on. That he could leave whenever he wanted.
`Three weeks ago, before everything had happened, Dustin had run up to him at Family Video, practically vibrating.
They’re opening a rink in the square, he’d said. Just for a few weeks. We should go. All of us.
Steve had shrugged, busy rearranging tapes he didn’t actually need to rearrange.
Maybe, he’d said. Might be busy.
Dustin had squinted at him. Busy with what? Jessica? Mary-Beth?Then, quieter, hopeful: “You don’t have to skate. You could just watch.”
Steve hadn’t answered.
Now he stands by the boards, hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets, watching.
You’re on the ice with Eddie and Max. Dustin clings to the edge, moving in short, careful pushes, talking the whole time. Eddie skates past you with exaggerated confidence and nearly eats it, arms flailing. Max laughs and tells him to shut up.
You don’t look careful.
You don’t look fragile.
You look steady.
You look like someone moving at their own pace, sticking close to the people you trust, laughing when something goes wrong and steadying yourself when it does.
Steve exhales.
It hits him, then, with uncomfortable clarity.
It isn’t your fault he isn’t out there.
It isn’t because of the storm. Or the silence. Or the way things ended up.
It’s because, three weeks ago, he said he might be busy.
A kid stumbles near the entrance, skates tangling, panic flashing across his face. Steve steps forward automatically, steadying him, murmuring something until the kid nods and laughs it off.
When Steve looks back, you’ve drifted further across the ice.
He doesn’t follow.
He doesn’t lace up his skates. Doesn’t step closer. Doesn’t say your name.
Because if he did, it wouldn’t be for you.
It would be to soothe something tight and uncomfortable in his chest. To reclaim something he let slip without realising it mattered.
Steve stays where he is.
He watches you glide past the boards once more, close enough that he can see the way your scarf slips loose, the way Eddie reaches out instinctively when you wobble. You don’t look toward him.
That’s okay.
He turns toward the exit instead, pulling his jacket tighter as the cold hits harder outside.
Halfway across the parking lot, movement catches your eye through the glass.
You look up.
Just in time to see Steve Harrington walking away from the rink, shoulders hunched against the cold, not looking back.
You watch him go for a second longer than necessary.
Then you turn back to the ice.
The music keeps playing. Dustin shouts something triumphant. Eddie nearly falls again.
And the night goes on.
Max’s kitchen smells like sugar and something already slightly burnt.
Not in a bad way. Just… lived in.
There’s flour on the counter, a dusting on the sleeves of your sweater, and a mixing bowl that’s seen better days. The radio hums quietly from the corner, some station cycling through old Christmas songs and ads for hardware stores.
Max cracks an egg one-handed. Misses a little. Doesn’t care.
“You’re doing the stirring wrong,” she says, not looking at you.
You glance down at the spoon in your hand. “It’s stirring.”
“Yeah, but aggressively,” she replies. “Like you’re mad at it.”
You ease up, sheepish. “Sorry.”
She snorts. “Don’t apologise to the batter. It doesn’t have feelings.”
You hum, slower now, watching the mixture come together. The motion is steady. Repetitive. Nice.
Snow falls outside the window in lazy flakes, the kind that doesn’t demand anything from you. Max leans against the counter, arms crossed, watching you with that look she gets sometimes — sharp, observant, older than she should be.
She doesn’t ask how you’re doing.
She hands you a spoon instead. “Taste test.”
You do. Make a face. “Needs more sugar.”
“Obviously,” she says, dumping more in without measuring. “Life’s short.”
You laugh. It comes out easy. It doesn’t echo afterward.
That feels… new.
The oven preheats with a low click. Max slides the tray in, slams the door shut with her hip, then sits on the counter beside you, legs swinging.
There’s a silent stretch where neither of you speaks.
It’s not awkward. Just full.
“You know,” Max says eventually, staring at the window, “people always think healing is, like… dramatic.”
You glance at her.
“Crying in the rain. Big speeches. Apologies with swelling music behind them.” She shrugs. “Mostly it’s just doing stuff like this and realising you didn’t think about the bad thing for, like, ten minutes.”
You swallow.
“That doesn’t mean it didn’t matter,” she adds quickly. “Or that it didn’t hurt. Just means you’re allowed to exist without it running the show every second.”
You nod, throat tight in a way that isn’t painful.
“I keep waiting to feel… normal,” you admit quietly.
Max looks at you then. Really looks.
“Normal’s overrated,” she says.
You smile at that.
The timer goes off. Too early.
Max groans. “I always do that.”
She pulls the tray out anyway. One cookie has spread into the next. The edges are too dark. The middle is questionable.
You both stare at them.
“…We should still eat them,” you say.
“Obviously.”
You break one in half. Steam curls up between your fingers. It’s messy. Too soft. Perfectly imperfect.
You lick chocolate off your thumb without thinking.
Halfway through your second bite, it hits you.
You haven’t checked your phone.
Not once.
The thought passes through your mind gently, like a bird landing and taking off again. It doesn’t derail you. It doesn’t ache.
Max nudges your knee with hers. “You good?”
You nod. “Yeah.”
And you mean it — not forever. Not fixed. Just… right now.
Outside, the snow keeps falling.
Inside, the cookies cool.
And for the first time in a while, the warmth stays.
It happens later that night.
You’re back in your room, hair still smelling faintly like sugar and butter, sweater dusted with flour you didn’t bother brushing off. Your phone is on the bed beside you, face-up this time.
Still quiet.
You don’t feel the urge to flip it over.
You catch your reflection in the mirror when you’re halfway through changing. Messy hair. Flushed cheeks. Comfortable in your own skin in a way you haven’t been in days. You pause.
Look at yourself.
Not searching for damage. Not bracing for disappointment.
Just looking.
And the thought comes, sudden and almost funny in how clear it is.
Oh.
You sit down on the edge of the bed and laugh under your breath.
Because here’s the thing, and it’s almost embarrassing how obvious it is now. You’re not unlovable. You’re not hard to understand. You’re not too much or not enough, or whatever excuse he’s been carrying around to explain his own fear.
You’re warm. You’re steady. You show up.
You survived a storm. You kept going. You baked cookies and laughed and didn’t check your phone.
You’re doing fine.
Actually, no.
You’re doing good.
The realisation settles into you slowly, comfortably, like a jacket that fits better than the one you’ve been wearing.
If Steve Harrington couldn’t see that, couldn’t choose that, then that’s not some tragic mystery you need to solve.
That’s his loss.
Plain and simple.
You pick up your phone and scroll through your messages. His name is still there, bold and unread. It doesn’t spike your pulse the way it used to.
You don’t delete it. You don’t respond.
You lock the screen and set it down again.
Tomorrow, you decide, you’ll wear the sweater Max complimented.
You’ll go back to work. You’ll laugh when something’s funny and not apologise for it. You’ll keep your world big enough that one person’s hesitation doesn’t get to shrink it.
You stretch out on the bed, hands folded over your stomach, breathing easy.
“His loss,” you murmur to the empty room. Not angry. Not sad.
Certain.
And for the first time since everything cracked open, the thought doesn’t hurt at all.
It feels powerful.
It’s not a big moment.
That’s what gets him.
It’s just a room full of people and the low, familiar buzz of Hawkins pretending it isn’t the same town it’s always been. Someone’s music playing too loud from a tinny speaker. Someone else complaining about it. Life, ongoing.
Steve spots you across the room without meaning to.
You’re leaning against the counter, body angled easy, shoulders loose. You’re laughing at something Robin says, head tipped back slightly, eyes bright. Not forced. Not careful.
Comfortable.
Someone says something stupid. You raise an eyebrow, tilt your head.
“Oh, please,” you say lightly. “If confidence alone fixed that, half this town would be geniuses by now.”
There’s a beat.
Then laughter. Real laughter. The kind that rolls through the group because it’s true and sharp and you said it without trying to impress anyone.
Steve freezes where he is.
Because there it is.
That thing.
The quick wit. The easy charm. The way you flirt without flirting, smile without offering anything up. The way people lean in when you talk, like they’re not just listening but waiting.
Max grins at you. “God, I missed you.”
You bump her shoulder. “You missed my unparalleled wisdom.”
“Your humility,” she shoots back.
You laugh again. It’s warm. Uncomplicated.
Steve feels it then. Not panic. Not grief.
Recognition.
He always knew you were like this.
This sharp. This warm. This self-possessed.
You were like this before the storm. Before the silence. Before he let his fear convince him that steadiness meant you didn’t need tending to.
Why did he ever forget?
You turn slightly, scanning the room as you reach for your drink, and for half a second your eyes pass over him.
They don’t snag.
They don’t widen. They don’t soften.
They move on.
Steve swallows.
It stings, but not the way he expects. It doesn’t feel like rejection. It feels like consequence. Like the natural result of stepping back and discovering the world didn’t stop without you in it.
Eddie says something dramatic nearby. You roll your eyes, fond, and reply without missing a beat. Someone new laughs, clearly charmed. You flash them a grin that’s friendly, nothing more, nothing less.
Steve remembers, suddenly, standing beside you at a party months ago, watching you do this exact thing. How proud he’d felt then. How lucky.
How certain.
He had loved you like you’d always be there.
Like confidence didn’t need care. Like strength didn’t need reassurance.
He doesn’t move toward you now.
Doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t announce himself.
He just stands there, quiet, watching you exist in a space that no longer rearranges itself around him.
And for the first time since the storm, the truth settles in without drama or denial.
He didn’t lose you.
He forgot who you were.
And you didn’t wait around for him to remember.
Eddie finds Steve behind Family Video after closing.
Not by accident.
Steve’s sitting on the curb with his back against the brick wall, jacket zipped wrong, staring at the pavement like he’s waiting for it to explain something to him. There’s a cigarette between his fingers he hasn’t lit.
Eddie stops a few feet away.
“Y’know,” he says, casual, “this is a terrible place to brood. Zero ambiance. Two stars, max.”
Steve doesn’t look up. “You here to yell at me?”
Eddie considers that. Then shrugs. “Nah. If I wanted to yell, I’d have done it already.”
That gets Steve’s attention. He looks up, eyes tired. Open. Worse than guilt.
Eddie leans against the wall instead of sitting. Keeps space. Keeps control.
“You’ve been doing the right thing,” Eddie says. “Which I hate, by the way. Makes this awkward.”
Steve huffs out something like a laugh. “Not going after her?”
“Yeah,” Eddie says. “That.”
Steve nods slowly. “Didn’t feel like a choice.”
“It was,” Eddie replies. “You just finally picked the one that wasn’t about you.”
That lands. Steve looks away.
They sit in silence for a moment. Snow crunches somewhere nearby. A car passes, too loud for the empty street.
Steve clears his throat. “I don’t understand,” he says quietly. “I swear I’m not trying to make excuses. I just… I don’t get when it went so wrong.”
Eddie watches him for a long beat.
This is the line. The edge.
“You want to know why,” Eddie says slowly, “or you want to know how to fix it?”
Steve swallows. “Why.”
“Okay,” Eddie says. “Then listen. And don’t interrupt.”
Steve nods. Doesn’t move.
“She didn’t stop trusting you because of one bad night,” Eddie says. “And it wasn’t the storm. That just made it louder.”
Steve’s jaw tightens.
“You know what hurt?” Eddie continues. “Realising she didn’t call anyone. Not you. Not me. Not even her family. Because somewhere along the line, she decided needing people was asking for too much.”
Steve looks stricken. “I never—”
“I know,” Eddie cuts in gently. “That’s the problem. You didn’t say it. You just lived like she didn’t need you the way you needed her.”
Steve’s hands curl into his sleeves.
“She heard you at Family Video,” Eddie adds. Not accusatory. Just factual. “Not the whole thing. Enough.”
Steve’s breath stutters.
“I didn’t mean—”
The words are already there, crashing back into him before Eddie can stop him.
Safe, he’d said. Comfortable. Not the kind of girl you fall for.
He’d laughed when he said it. Said she would understand.
Why would she have understood that? Especially when he didn’t even know why he’d let those words form.
“I know but,” Eddie says again. “Intent doesn’t erase impact.”
The words land heavy between them.
“She heard someone she trusted talk about her like she was an obligation he might outgrow,” Eddie continues. “Like she was steady enough that you didn’t have to choose her out loud.”
Steve presses his palm to his eyes.
“She didn’t get mad,” Eddie says softly. “She got quiet. That’s worse.”
Steve nods, shoulders shaking once. “I thought… I thought giving her space was being respectful.”
“It was,” Eddie says. “At first.”
He straightens. Voice firm now.
“But you don’t get to turn space into absence and call it care. And you definitely don’t get to explain your way out of that.”
Steve looks up. “So what do I do?”
Eddie sighs. This is the part that costs him.
“You keep doing what you’re doing,” he says. “You change without expecting her to notice. You show up differently everywhere else. You let her decide if you ever get a place back in her life.”
“And if she doesn’t?” Steve asks.
Eddie meets his eyes. No flinch.
“Then you live with the fact that loving someone doesn’t entitle you to them,” he says. “It just means you should’ve treated them like they mattered while you had the chance.”
Steve nods. Once. Hard.
Eddie pushes off the wall. “For what it’s worth,” he adds, quieter, “she’s doing okay. Better than okay.”
Steve smiles weakly. “Yeah. I saw.”
“Good,” Eddie says. “Then don’t mess with that.”
He turns to leave, then pauses.
“Oh,” he says over his shoulder. “And Harrington?”
Steve looks up.
“If you hurt her again,” Eddie says calmly, “I won’t explain anything. Got it?”
Steve doesn’t hesitate. “Got it.”
Eddie nods once and walks away, boots crunching against the snow.
Steve stays where he is long after.
Not trying to fix it.
Just finally - finally - understanding what he broke.
It doesn’t happen all at once.
It’s small things. Spread out. Easy to miss if you’re not looking.
But Steve is looking now.
It starts with Robin.
She’s halfway through a rant about work, pacing the Family Video aisle, gesturing wildly with a stack of tapes. Steve’s restocking returns, nodding along. Halfway through, she stops and squints at him.
“Are you… actually listening?”
Steve blinks. “Yeah.”
She narrows her eyes. “That was a trap.”
“You’re mad because Keith scheduled you during finals week,” Steve says. “And because Nancy didn’t bring snacks. Again.”
Robin stares at him, then grins. “Okay, wow. Growth.”
He doesn’t smile. Just shrugs and hands her a tape. “You want help closing tonight?”
She pauses. “Yeah. Actually. That’d be great.”
He stays.
With Dustin, it just happens.
Steve’s pulling into the Henderson driveway, engine still ticking as it cools, when the front door flies open and Dustin barrels out, backpack half-zipped and scarf trailing behind him.
“Steve!” he says, skidding to a stop. “Did you know—”
“Yes,” Steve interrupts gently. “Whatever it is. Yes.”
Dustin grins and launches into it anyway, talking a mile a minute about something involving magnets, Christmas lights, and a theory Steve only half understands. Steve leans against the car and listens. Really listens.
Dustin pauses mid-sentence, squinting at him. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” Steve says. “I’ve got time.”
That seems to matter.
Dustin shifts his weight. “Hey, uh… the science fair thing. I didn’t know if you were gonna be busy.”
Steve winces. Not visibly. Just enough.
“I’m not,” he says. “Tell me when it is.”
Dustin’s face lights up. “Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
And this time, Steve doesn’t add a maybe.
With Max, it’s quieter.
She’s on the front steps when Steve sees her, skateboard tipped on its side, gloves abandoned beside her like she forgot they existed. She’s staring out at the street, not really watching anything.
Steve almost keeps walking.
Almost.
He stops a few feet away instead. Doesn’t announce himself.
“Hey,” he says.
Max glances up. Takes him in. Not suspicious. Just assessing.
“Hey.”
He sits on the step below her, far enough away that she doesn’t have to shift. The cold seeps through his jeans. He doesn’t mind.
They sit like that for a minute. Two. Cars pass. Somewhere nearby, someone laughs.
“You don’t have to hang out,” Max says eventually. Not unkind. Just factual.
“I know,” Steve replies. “I’m not trying to.”
That earns him a sideways look.
He adds, softer, “I just figured… company’s company.”
Max considers this. Then nudges her skateboard closer to her foot, grounding herself.
“You’re bad at hovering,” she says.
Steve huffs a quiet laugh. “Working on it.”
Another pause.
“She’s okay,” Max says suddenly, still not looking at him.
Steve doesn’t pretend he doesn’t know who she means.
“Yeah,” he says. “I know.”
Max’s jaw tightens, just a little. “Okay doesn’t mean over it.”
“I know that too.”
She studies him now, really studies him, like she’s checking for cracks or excuses. Whatever she’s looking for, she seems to find enough.
“People think being strong means you don’t notice stuff,” Max says. “It just means you notice it and keep going.”
Steve nods once. “Yeah.”
“She didn’t need someone to fix it,” Max continues. “She needed someone to notice.”
That one lands harder.
Steve swallows. “I’m noticing now.”
Max shrugs. “Good. Just… don’t make that her problem.”
“I won’t,” he says immediately. No hesitation. “I promise.”
She looks at him again, sharp and too perceptive for her age.
“Promises are cheap,” she says. Then, after a beat, “But staying quiet when it’s not about you? That helps.”
Steve absorbs that. Lets it settle.
She watches him a second longer, then adds, almost reluctantly, “Thanks for stopping.”
“Anytime,” Steve says.
And this time, he doesn’t expect it to be taken up on.
But if it was, he’d be there. No hesitation.
There are other moments too.
He shows up early. Stays late. Stops assuming “fine” means okay.
Someone jokes about you being steady, reliable, always good in a crisis.
Steve doesn’t laugh.
“She doesn’t have to be,” he says, mild but firm. “Not all the time.”
The room goes quiet for half a second.
Then life moves on.
Steve does too.
He doesn’t tell you about any of it.
He doesn’t text to say I stayed or I listened or look, I’m better now. He doesn’t catalogue the ways he’s trying to do this right.
But he doesn’t vanish either.
He still texts you.
Small things. Ordinary things. Life as it keeps moving.
Keith double-booked the returns again. I survived.
Your brother is building something illegal with magnets. Please intervene.
Roads are bad tonight. Just wanted you to know.
Nothing you don’t already have access to. Nothing that makes you feel like you owe him a response.
Sometimes you don’t reply.
Sometimes you send back a single word. An emoji. A dry comment that makes him huff a quiet laugh to himself.
He never pushes for more.
He never turns it into proof of progress or a bid for reassurance. He lets the space stay what it is, even when it costs him.
Because he doesn’t want you to think he’s forgotten you.
And he doesn’t want to pretend he hasn’t.
And most importantly, he’s done fighting for you in ways you never asked him to.
Whatever happens next, he knows it has to be something you choose.
And for now, that means showing up honestly, quietly, and only in the ways you let him.
When he gets home after another tedious closing shift, he doesn’t turn the lights on.
The house is quiet in the way that only feels loud when you’re alone with your thoughts. He drops his keys on the counter. They clatter more than necessary. He doesn’t pick them up.
He sits on the edge of the couch instead of lying down. Doesn’t reach for the TV. Doesn’t touch his phone.
He lets the silence stay.
The thing about guilt, he’s learning, is that it used to come with noise. Panic. Explanation. The urge to do something, anything, to make it stop.
This feels different.
This feels like understanding.
He thinks about you the way you looked the last time he saw you laugh. Not for him. Not because of him. Just… existing. Comfortable. Untouched by whatever apology he might’ve rehearsed in his head.
He presses his palms together.
The words come back without warning.
Safe. Comfortable. Not the kind of girl you fall for.
He hadn’t meant them to be cruel.
He’d meant them to be reassuring. Complimentary, even. Like he was saying something mature. Something grown.
What he’d actually said was: You’re inevitable. You don’t need choosing.
Steve exhales slowly.
He understands it now.
He hadn’t treated your strength like something that needed care. He’d treated it like a guarantee. Like it would hold, no matter how much weight he put on it. Like it didn’t matter if he hesitated, or drifted, or assumed you’d always be there when he figured himself out.
That wasn’t love.
That was convenience dressed up as certainty.
He leans forward, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor.
He thinks about all the moments he filled with silence because it felt easier than saying something wrong. All the times he didn’t ask what you needed because you never demanded it. All the ways he mistook your steadiness for permission.
His throat tightens, but he doesn’t cry.
There’s nothing left to defend.
If he ever speaks to you again, he knows exactly what it has to be.
Not an explanation. Not a confession. Not a plea.
Listening.
Really listening.
No shaping your words into something he can survive. No interrupting with intention. No softening the impact because it makes him uncomfortable.
Just listening.
And if you never give him that chance?
He swallows.
Then that’s the cost of learning too late.
This isn’t him giving up.
It’s him letting go of the idea that wanting something means he gets to reach for it.
If he ever speaks to you again, it will be because you invited him into the space where the truth lives.
And until then, he will keep learning how to be the kind of man who knows how to listen.
Even if no one is watching.
Even if you never do.
Eddie finds you in the kitchen, leaning against the counter with a mug you’ve reheated twice and still haven’t finished.
He doesn’t announce himself. Just shows up in the doorway like he always does, presence first, words second.
“Hey,” he says.
You glance over. “Hey.”
He studies your face for a beat, like he’s checking weather. Whatever he sees seems to settle him.
“You got a minute?” he asks. “And if not, that’s fine too.”
You nod once. “I’ve got a minute.”
He doesn’t move closer. Doesn’t sit. Keeps his hands loose at his sides, very deliberately not claiming space that isn’t his.
“I wanna be clear before I say anything,” Eddie starts. “You don’t owe him anything. Not a reaction. Not a response. Not forgiveness.” He holds your gaze. “I’m not here to convince you of anything.”
You wait.
“He knows,” Eddie says.
Your grip tightens on the mug. Eddie notices. Of course he does.
“I didn’t let him off the hook,” Eddie adds immediately. “I never will. What he said? Unacceptable. Full stop. I’ll carry that forever. He doesn’t get to outgrow it just because time passes.”
That lands. You nod, once.
“He remembers,” Eddie continues. “The exact words. The part where he treated you like something inevitable instead of someone he had to choose.”
Your throat tightens, sharp but manageable.
“I told him this already,” Eddie says. “But I’m telling you too, because it matters.” He meets your eyes. “None of that was because you weren’t enough. It was because he was scared and lazy with it. And those are his things to work out. Not yours.”
You breathe out slowly.
“He’s not asking me to speak for him,” Eddie goes on. “Didn’t ask me to set anything up. Didn’t ask me to fix it. Which, for the record, is new.”
A corner of your mouth lifts despite yourself.
Eddie softens. “Here’s the part that’s actually up to you.”
He pauses. Gives you space to interrupt. You don’t.
“If he comes to you,” Eddie says, steady, “it won’t be to explain. It’ll be to listen. That’s it. You don’t have to say anything back. You don’t have to decide anything. You don’t even have to finish the conversation.”
You look down at your mug. The surface trembles, just slightly.
“I’m not asking you to give him another chance,” Eddie says quietly. “I’m asking you to trust that if you choose to let him speak, you won’t be pressured to carry him through it.”
You look up.
“And if I don’t?” you ask.
Eddie doesn’t hesitate. “Then that’s the answer. And I’ll stand on it with you.”
Something loosens in your chest.
He shifts his weight, uncomfortable now that the important part is said. “I’m done standing in doorways,” he adds, gentler. “This part’s yours. Whatever you decide.”
You nod. “Thanks.”
Eddie gives you a small, crooked smile. “Always.”
He turns to leave, then pauses.
“Oh,” he says over his shoulder. “And just so we’re clear? If you do decide to listen and he screws it up—”
You snort.
“—I will ruin him,” Eddie finishes pleasantly. “In a loving, character-building way.”
You laugh. It slips out before you can stop it. Real. Easy.
Eddie grins, satisfied, and disappears down the hall.
You stand there for a moment longer, mug warming your hands.
You don’t feel pushed.
You don’t feel cornered.
You feel informed.
And for the first time since the storm, the next step doesn’t feel like something happening to you.
It feels like a choice.
The Christmas Market smells like cinnamon and smoke, drifting from somewhere near the food stalls where something’s always burning just a little too hot.
Stalls line the square in uneven rows, fairy lights strung overhead like constellations someone half-remembered. People move around you in scarves and wool coats, cups steaming in their hands, laughter drifting and overlapping. It’s loud enough that no one is listening too closely.
You came for roasted chestnuts.
You end up standing near the edge of the square instead, fingers wrapped around a paper cup, watching snow collect in the folds of garlands and melt just as quickly.
You don’t see Steve at first.
You feel him.
Not in a dramatic way. Just that small shift in awareness, like when a room subtly rebalances itself.
He’s a few steps away, hands in his pockets, shoulders tense but not defensive. He looks like someone waiting, not approaching. When you glance up and meet his eyes, he doesn’t smile.
He looks careful.
You take a breath.
Steve doesn’t close the distance until you nod once. Not an invitation. Just permission.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hey.”
The word settles between you without splintering.
“I was hoping I’d run into you,” he starts, then stops himself. Corrects it. “I mean—I wasn’t hoping. I just… if you were here then-”
You raise an eyebrow slightly. He notices. Adjusts.
“Can I talk to you?” he asks. “For a minute. And if not—”
“I’ve got a minute,” you say.
You surprise yourself with how steady it sounds.
You step a little to the side, just enough that the crowd becomes background noise instead of audience. Steve follows but keeps distance. He doesn’t crowd you. Doesn’t angle his body to trap the space.
He waits.
That alone tells you something has changed.
“I’m not here to explain,” he says finally. “Or justify. Or ask you to make me feel better about any of it.”
You don’t respond. You don’t need to.
“I just wanted to listen,” he adds. “If you want to talk. And if you don’t… I’ll walk away.”
The offer sits there. Clean. Unadorned.
You look past him for a moment—at a couple laughing over spilled cocoa, at a kid tugging on his mother’s mitten, at the way the world keeps happening whether you speak or not.
Then you look back at Steve.
“You made me feel,” you say slowly, choosing each word, “like something people settle for.”
Steve doesn’t flinch.
Doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t rush to soften it.
“Like I was safe. A conclusion instead of a choice,” you continue. “Like you didn’t have to pick me out loud because I’d still be there.”
His jaw tightens. His eyes stay on yours.
“I heard you,” you say. “At Family Video. I didn’t hear the whole conversation. I didn’t need to.”
Steve nods once. Small. Accepting.
“What you meant doesn’t really matter,” you say.
“You’re right,” he says quietly. “It doesn’t.”
No but. No explanation. Just the truth where you put it.
“You don’t get to call someone safe,” you go on, voice steady, “and then act surprised when they stop trusting you with the parts that aren’t.”
Steve exhales slowly, like he’s keeping himself grounded.
“I know,” he says. “And I’m sorry.”
You study him. The way he doesn’t lean toward you. The way he doesn’t reach. The way he lets the apology exist without attaching anything to it.
“I’m not asking you to forgive me,” he adds. “I don’t expect that. I just needed you to know I understand what I did. And that it wasn’t okay.”
The words land. Not as a solution. As acknowledgement.
You nod once.
“I don’t know what happens next,” you say honestly.
“I know,” Steve replies. “Neither do I.”
Snow drifts down between you, soft and unhurried.
For a moment, that’s where it ends.
Then you glance past him, toward the far corner of the square, where a familiar stall glows warmer than the others. Steam curls into the air, carrying the smell of chocolate and sugar and something faintly burnt.
Mrs. Callahan’s hot chocolate stand. Still here. Still somehow running every year.
You huff out a quiet breath. “She’s back.”
Steve follows your gaze. The corner of his mouth twitches. “Of course she is.”
“She burns it every time,” you say. “And pretends that’s the secret.”
“Tradition,” he says.
You hesitate.
Just a second.
“Do you want one?”
There’s a split second where something bright and startled crosses his face. Then he schools it, breath steadying.
“Yeah,” he says. “I’d like that.”
He doesn’t step closer until you turn and start walking.
He falls into step beside you, leaving space between your shoulders. Not touching. Not crowding.
The market noise swells again around you—laughter, music, smoke and cinnamon and voices overlapping.
For now, that’s enough.
THREE YEARS LATER
Snow falls the way it always seems to on nights that matter. Slow. Unhurried. Like it’s been told not to rush this.
You’re curled into Steve’s side on the back porch of the rental cabin, a blanket pulled up over both of your laps, the wood warm beneath you from the fire crackling just inside. Your breath fogs faintly in the cold. Steve’s arm is snug around your shoulders, thumb tracing absent-minded circles against your sleeve like it’s muscle memory now.
Inside, the house is loud.
Someone—probably Dustin—is arguing about music volume. Robin is laughing too hard at something that isn’t that funny. Nancy is trying, unsuccessfully, to restore order. Jonathan has given up entirely. Max’s voice cuts through it all, sharp and amused, calling someone an idiot with fond precision.
Eddie’s voice rises above the rest. Of course it does.
“I just want it on record,” he says loudly, “that I said this would happen.”
Steve groans softly and presses his forehead to your hair. “Here we go.”
“You PROMISED,” Eddie continues, clearly pointing at Steve now through the open doors, “that if this ever worked out, I would get to bring it up forever.”
“Once a year,” Steve calls back. “We agreed once a year.”
“It’s her wedding,” Eddie shoots back. “That’s a loophole.”
You laugh, the sound easy and unguarded, and Steve feels it against his chest. He tightens his arm just a little.
“You okay?” he murmurs, not because you look anything but happy—just because he always asks now.
You tilt your head to look up at him, snow catching in your lashes. “Yeah. I’m really okay.”
He smiles, softer than the grin he wears inside. The one he saves for this. For you.
Inside, the arguing crescendos into overlapping voices. Someone knocks over a chair. Someone cheers about it. The fire pops.
Eddie appears in the doorway, jacket half-on, drink in hand, eyes bright with mischief. He points between the two of you.
“I just want to say,” he announces, solemn as hell, “that I held a grudge. Respectfully. Lovingly. For years.”
You raise an eyebrow. “You made a speech about it.”
“And I’ll do it again,” he says proudly. “At the vow renewal.”
Steve laughs then—full and helpless—and shakes his head. “You’re unbelievable.”
Eddie grins. “You’re welcome.”
He disappears back inside, the noise swallowing him whole.
You lean back into Steve, snow settling quietly on the railing, on the steps, on the night itself. His chin rests on the top of your head.
“Funny,” you say softly. “I used to think moments like this were too quiet.”
He knows what you mean.
“Turns out,” he says, just as quietly, “they’re just… comfortable.”
You hum in agreement, fingers lacing with his under the blanket. Inside, your people laugh and argue and love each other badly and loudly and completely.
Outside, the snow keeps falling.
Steve presses a kiss to your temple—not urgent, not afraid, not assuming.
Chosen.
And this time, neither of you forgets.