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“I thought you quit.”
You glance at the open door and your coworker standing in front of it, the faint ruckus of the dining room still audible even from the parking lot. You blow out a small cloud of smoke and tap off the ashes.
“I did,” you say. “This is just an especially shitty night.”
Whitney rolls her eyes. “I meant your job. You did storm out in the middle of your last shift.”
“I did,” you echo wryly. “But you know Charlie can’t afford to let me go.”
“And none of us can afford to lose you,” she muses. She holds her hand out and smiles dryly. “Bum a smoke?”
You pull out your pack of Marlboros and offer her one, attention drifting back to the restaurant. You’re pretty sure it’s been less than ten minutes, but time really goes by quickly out here. It’s always too tempting to turn your smoke breaks into smoke sabbaticals.
“Did you pass by 239 on your way here?” you ask.
“Oh, yeah.” Whitney lights her cig, tucks the lighter back into her apron, and takes a long drag before she continues. “You should probably get over there. I think three of them are out of iced tea.”
You scoff. “That’s on purpose. The dad was very rude to me—I’m teaching him a lesson.”
Whitney shakes her head with a laugh. “If your job doesn’t get you back in there, you should know your package is here.”
You can’t catch up to your surprise quick enough. It escapes in wide eyes and slightly parted lips—still too much for someone like you. You tamp down on it just soon enough, and bite back mock annoyance just in time for Whitney to look at you.
“See, I never get why you react like that.” She shakes her head. “You’ve got a personal courier coming by every week—”
“An unwanted one,” you clarify.
“Which I think makes you even crazier.” She elbows you lightly. “You gotta get back in there anyways, before Ramona writes you up.”
“A move that famously always works.”
“Well, John said he would hold your gift at the host stand ‘til his break, then he was gonna throw it away.” Whitney looks at her wristwatch then glances at you. “You’ve got, like, seven minutes.”
You drop your cigarette and snuff out the light with your practically useless nonslip shoe, then look at her with a smile.
“Somehow, I think I’ll live.”
You hope your cover is good enough as you walk back inside. You redo your apron to distract yourself, but you’re practically bouncing up and down from a mix of nerves and excitement. It’s remarkably hard to check on your tables when your heart is beating out of your chest.
You breeze up to the host stand once you’re done. You also took a second in the side station to touch up your makeup, too, but just in case. After all—
“I was wondering where you were!”
Your heart jumps into your throat for a split second before you realize it’s just John standing at the host stand, because he is in fact the host. Your eyes dart around against your better instincts, but you don’t see him. John thrusts a bag into your hand, forcing your attention back to him.
“You were twenty seconds away from me throwing them out,” he says. “You should be more respectful of people’s time.”
You smile. “Thank you for holding onto them, John.”
He stares at you for a moment too long before he grabs his jacket from the host stand cubby. “Your sarcasm isn’t funny.”
“And I’m ever grateful for such a kind audience,” you drawl. He puts his jacket on with a scowl.
“Enjoy your cookies. I’m sure they taste like sand.”
You chuckle and lean against the wall. There’s a lull in service for the first time all night, so you finally have a moment to yourself. He always seems to know the best times to drop these off.
“They don’t taste like sand.”
You nearly jump out of your skin, worried you missed a customer—a guest, the nagging voice of your manager in your head corrects—but when you look up, you grin despite yourself.
Steve Harrington sits pretty on a barstool, bathed in warm lightning and cloaked in a navy blue sweater. His hair has the most perfect little swoop, effortless through a whole lot of effort, and you itch to tangle your fingers in his dark locks and ruin his meticulous styling.
“In case you were wondering, I mean.” Steve shoots you that killer smile and tilts his head, eyebrows rising invitingly. “It’s why I switched from sugar cookies. Much sandier than those bad boys.”
“What are you doing here?” you ask. You know you should, but you can’t stop smiling. “I thought we agreed, just drop-offs here.”
He shrugs, the image of perfect nonchalance. “That never really made sense to me. I come all this way to bring you some cookies, and I don’t even get to stay to see you?”
Some sense finally comes back into you. “You know why you can’t.”
“And who’s gonna snitch?” he asks cloyingly. “I’ll bribe all the busboys if I have to.”
You glance around to make sure none of your nosy coworkers are hanging around for some fresh gossip. Barry is about to come off break, Whitney just came in, and Ramona is busy with expo—but Jen is tending bar, very pointedly not looking at you. Which means she’s very obviously eavesdropping.
“It’s not the busboys I’m worried about,” you say, and you grab Steve’s hand.
He lets out an involuntary woah as you pull him off his stool and drag him outside into the night. You shiver when the chill air hits you—your little waitress dress doesn’t do much to defend you against the elements. Steve’s wrapping his jacket around you before you even come to a stop, and you give him a wry look.
“You didn’t give me much time to grab it before you manhandled me out of here,” he says, answering your unsaid question, “but I’m a quick thinker.”
“And I appreciate that,” you say gently. “But didn’t we agree that we wouldn’t do this anymore?”
He tuts but glances away, shifting from foot to foot under your gaze. “You said that was temporary.”
“That was before Hawkins split in half.”
“And why does that have to change anything?” Steve asks. “We’re still here, and we’re still together. Isn’t that all that matters?”
“It’s the fact that we’re still here.” You bite the inside of your cheek as you look back at the shitty diner you’ve been working at for four painful years now. “That we’re stuck here with no way out.”
When people say they feel trapped in their hometown, it’s usually an exaggeration. They feel like they don’t have any career prospects, or don’t want to start over in a whole new place, or they just don’t have the money to leave. It sucks, sure, but plenty of people have burned all their bridges and moved to a brand new city with no money to follow their dreams.
But for you and Steve and every other inhabitant of Hawkins, Indiana? You literally are trapped. The town split in two, the military rolled in, and you’ve been locked in quarantine ever since—and growing more bitter by the day.
“C’mon, babe.” Steve’s eyes soften alongside his tone. “You know that’s not true.”
“Isn’t it?” you ask, laughing mirthlessly. “We had a whole plan. We were so close, and now…”
Your voice breaks and you have to look away. A chorus of your parents’ words echo through your thoughts—a constant thrum in the back of your mind, telling you to be realistic, sweetie and think of the future and you know that boy doesn’t really love you—
Steve brings you back as he cups your cheek with his hand, and you lean into his touch.
“And now we’re taking a different path,” he says. “We’re still on track. We’re just… rerouting.”
“Rerouting,” you say wryly.
“Step one was to graduate, right?” He smiles as he traces your jawline with his thumb. “You did that. Sounds on track to me.”
“The plan was to graduate then get the hell out,” you insist. “If things didn’t go to shit, we would be in New York, or Chicago, or Nashville, or— or fucking anywhere but here!”
You pull away from Steve and wrap your arms around yourself, trying to force any kind of tears back. You already feel like a baby for letting all this loose in front of Steve—you’re not going to cry in front of him too.
But god damn it, you were so close to having it all. Unbelievably close, actually. At the very end of a life-long marathon, inches from the finish line, fingers about to brush the ribbon—
And then the universe kneecapped you.
The universe kneecapped you by literally breaking into pieces, and now you’re stuck in Hawkins under a military quarantine at your shitty serving job with a revoked scholarship and a failed dream you were stupid enough to chase, and Steve Harrington won’t stop bringing you your favorite fucking cookies even though—
Even though he knows he can’t have you. Not the way you know he wants you.
“Baby, hey—” Steve says your name as he gets in front of you, lowering his head to meet your downturned gaze. “What’s going on? Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” you say, voice thick.
“No, you’re not. You—” He pauses, inhales, then frowns. “Are you smoking again?”
Shame explodes inside you like a supernova. You take in a deep breath and it comes out in shudders, your face burning. “I need to get back inside.”
“You are!” he exclaims. “You said you quit— you said you hated how you felt when you smoked!”
“I have to get back to my tables—”
“They can wait,” Steve interrupts.
“They really can’t,” you say, starting to walk back towards the doors. “I am at work—”
Steve stops you in your tracks when he grabs your wrist, and you want to cry all over again when you see the desperation in his eyes. His thumb trails over your thundering pulse point.
“Don’t do this with me,” he pleads. “I can help you with whatever’s going on, but only if you let me in.”
“I said I was fine.” The instant you tug your wrist away, you miss Steve’s warmth. You swallow your doubt and hope your smile is convincing enough. “I’ll come over to your place after my shift is over, okay?”
Either it is convincing, or Steve knows you enough to realize he won’t get anywhere with you, because he nods. Once, then twice, stiffly reluctant.
“Okay,” he says. (You know him just as well: it’s the second option.) “Okay. I— I’ll see you later tonight, then.”
You nod. “I love you, Steve.”
“I love you too.”
They’re the easiest words Steve’s said this whole night, but his Adam’s apple bobs as he holds your attention, like he’s hoping that he can read your mind if he just tries hard enough—or make you stay.
You break first, ducking your head to avoid his fatal gaze, and hurry back inside. You feel his eyes on you all the way, even when you look over your shoulder once you’re in the side station. Steve can’t see you from here, but he’s still looking.
You feel like you’re overheating as you lean against the wall over the side station—when you look down, you realize it’s because you’re still wearing Steve’s jacket. Your face heats, but your burns with searing guilt—you almost expect to see smoke when you cough.
You shove it in a free spot in the back side station, then try to push the acrid emotions down with flat soda and one of Steve’s cookies. (They don’t taste like sand.) You smooth your uniform, plaster on a smile, and try to ignore it.
These days, it’s what you do best.
-
Steve’s heart cracks in two as he watches you walk away. He doesn’t know why he expected a kiss, or a hug, or any kind of sign that he’s not crazy for showing up tonight—and every other night. But he feels a hell of a lot colder without you near. He’s not really sure how long he stands there for, lost in thoughts of you, but he snaps out of it when someone slaps him on the shoulder.
“Harrington! What’re you doing here?”
His body jolts as he comes back into himself, and he blinks a few times to focus his vision.
“Davis,” he says. It takes him a second too long to remember, but Steve thinks he recovers well. Basketball team, sophomore year. “I was just—” He bites his tongue before the words he really wants to say can escape. “—heading out.”
“Right on,” he nods, and he glances at the rest of his group walking inside. He pats Steve again on the shoulder again. “I gotta get going, but have a good night, man.”
“You too,” Steve nods, and he sets off towards his car before any more high school memories show up and drag him into more conversations.
When he gets in, though, he just… sits there. Because he doesn’t want to go home right now—he wants to be with you.
Steve’s not blind, and contrary to popular belief, he’s not stupid. He likes to think he’s a people person, and after dating for two years and saving each other’s lives more times than he can count, he knows you best of all.
But then the gates opened, and Steve has been scrambling after the scattered pieces of his life ever since—including his relationship with you.
He doesn’t blame you for being off, honestly. You figured out a whole plan together—work like dogs to save as much money as possible before you graduate high school, then get the fuck out of Hawkins.
Okay. Laid out like that, it doesn’t sound like much of a plan, but you always were better at talking it up. It’s only been your dream since elementary school to get out.
You’re one of those small town girls who wants to escape to the big city and be a musician, and you’re doing everything you can to make that dream a reality. Hell, the first time you caught Steve’s eye, you were playing at a house party in your friend’s band. He still remembers your perfect voice, cutting through all the chaos to reach him like a beacon. Your shining eyes finding him in the middle of the room—your grin that lit up the whole room, that made him smile despite himself.
When Steve found you after your set, he thought he would end up leaving with you after a couple minutes. Instead, you talked with each other for hours, and Steve fell harder than he thought possible. He asked you out the next day at school, and you’ve been together ever since—through sickness and health, through late night songwriting sessions and early morning makeout sessions, through demogorgons and mindflayers and insane Russians.
He smiles even at the memory of it. But then his eyes flicker back to the diner, and it fades.
You’ve been together, but not… openly together. To your friends, sure; to the general Hawkins public, kinda—but to your parents? Absolutely not.
It’s a well-known fact to the teens of Hawkins that you live a double life, after all. Your parents are the wealthiest, strictest people Steve has ever met, and even though they grew up here, he has no idea what the hell they’re still doing here.
Your mom is a nurse at IU, your dad’s a lawyer, and both expect you to follow in one of their paths—but if you can practice law and medicine at the same time, they would be very amenable to it. It doesn’t help that they hate Steve’s parents because of some financial dispute years ago, and Steve’s parents hate them right back because his parents enjoy being soul-sucking monsters.
They want you to carry on the family name, but you have no interest in that—including the part about hating Harringtons. You don’t even want to go to college.
Their suffocating rule is manageable, especially when they travel every month—especially when you and Steve agree to get the fuck out of Hawkins together after you graduate.
He still remembers the night you asked him, reluctant to even bring it up. But Steve would follow you into the abyss with a smile on his face—following you to the big city so you can pursue your dreams is a pretty sweet deal in comparison.
Your parents don’t know a thing, and you preach to Steve daily to keep it that way. Your mother loves your singing voice, and your father brags about his daughter’s skill on the piano, but they just consider it a charming addition to your future as a doctor lawyer hybrid prodigy.
It’s a whole lot of bullshit, but you tell Steve all the time: I can deal with their bullshit because there’s an endpoint. Once we get out of here, I never have to see them again.
But then the world falls apart, in a much too literal way—the gates open, Hawkins is put on lockdown, and you watch your dreams die in front of you.
No matter how much money they offer, how many names they drop, how many lawsuits they threaten, your parents can’t get out of town. Luckier than most, they have more than enough savings, but you’re surprised your father hasn’t gotten the president involved yet.
Now, you have their full attention. Under your parents’ overly supervised roof, your double life ends. No more house parties, no more gigs, no more working at the diner—and no more Steve Harrington.
Steve’s hid his relationship with you before. He doesn’t particularly care for the comments of his own parents, so he keeps any mention of you out his mouth around them, and only invites you over when they’re gone.
When your parents come back home, Steve practically goes MIA. No calls (though if you get the occasional call at work, is that really his fault?), no hangouts, which doesn’t count carpooling to school, because you’re in so many classes together it just makes sense, and no touching—but if Steve just happens to meet you in the bathrooms between third and fourth period, he really can’t be responsible for what happens.
Okay, maybe not fully MIA. But it’s always been like that—sure, you’re hiding your relationship from your parents, but you’re still together.
Now, Steve’s never felt farther away from you, and he hates it with every fiber of his being. Your parents are suffocating you, but you won’t even talk to him about it. You say you’ll come over after work, but he doubts you’ll talk to him about it then. He feels you slipping away, and he’s been scrambling like hell for months to try and catch you.
Steve groans as his head flops back against the headrest. He loves you more than he can express, and since you got dragged into his whole Upside Down nonsense, Steve’s worried about losing you to any one of the thousand threats they’ve faced daily.
He never thought he would lose you like this.
-
It feels like a jackhammer is running against your skull by the time your shift is over.
You’ve been having a lot of headaches lately, a fact you keep from all your friends after last summer. They don’t need to worry over nothing when Lucas bikes to the hospital daily and Will still has episodes. This, you think, is on the edge of a migraine—you’ve just accepted stress headaches as a part of your life.
You push the door open with your back as you light a fresh cigarette, shielding the flame with your hand until it stays strong. You blow out a steady plume of smoke, and then—
“You really are smoking again.”
The cigarette slips out of your fingers as you stumble to a stop. Steve stands against the hood of his car, once again easy nonchalance—but there’s something deeper in his eyes.
“Steve,” you blurt out, nothing more than a deer in headlights. You grind the sparks into a gritty oblivion against the sidewalk. “Why are you still here?”
“Because I knew something was wrong,” he says. “And clearly, I was right.”
You’re still staring at him with wide eyes. You feel like you’re a kid again, spine ramrod straight as your father screams at you for whatever childish thing you did— you’ve been caught, and now you have to deal with whatever consequences deemed acceptable.
“I’m not mad,” Steve says, and that jogs you out of the painful memories—that’s never been part of your parents’ scripts. “I— I just want to know why you didn’t think you could tell me.”
The lighter weighs a thousand pounds in your apron. Your tongue turns to lead in your mouth. A migraine continues to rage in your skull—and suddenly, you can’t help it.
You burst into tears.
Steve jumps into action immediately. Before you know it, he’s enveloped you in a hug, pressing your body as close as possible to his, whispering soothing words in your ear that you barely process. It’s been too long since you’ve been in Steve’s arms, and you fully break down.
You’ve been holding everything in for so long. Your mother holds you to impossible standards, and you don’t think your father feels normal emotions. When you do get out of the house, the whole party is pushing themselves to the limit on every crawl, all for a whole lot of nothing.
You were so close to getting out of Hawkins, and now you’re at a breaking point.
Steve holds you more tenderly than anyone ever has, even as your body is wracked with sobs, and his warmth shields you from the night chill as he rubs a gentle hand up and down your back.
You don’t know how long you cry for, but Steve holds you through it all. When you’re finally coherent again, you slowly pull away, trying to wipe your cheeks dry.
“I’m sorry,” you rasp. “I- I’m just so tired. These crawls are never going to give up anything, my parents are never going to leave me alone, and we are never going to make it out of Hawkins—”
“Woah, woah, woah!” Steve interrupts. He holds you at shoulder length just so he can look at you like you’re crazy. “Where is all this coming from?”
“The life we live every day!” you exclaim. “I mean, come on, Steve! When’s the last time we got anything from a crawl? When’s the last time we were actually able to act like we’ve been dating for two years? When—”
“Is the last time you said something positive?” he cuts in again, and you clamp your mouth shut.
“Steve.”
“I’m serious,” he says. “Every single fucked up thing this world has thrown at us, we’ve managed to beat. Vecna is just gonna be another notch on our bedpost.”
You stare at him. “Another notch on our belt.”
“What?”
“You’re saying you want to fuck Vecna?”
“What? No!”
“Well, that’s what a notch on your bedpost means, which I figure you would know—”
“Alright,” Steve interrupts once more, but he can’t even fully sound annoyed through his smile. “Is any of this helping?”
You shrug. “Correcting you does always make me feel better.”
He shakes his head with a laugh. “I’m glad you find my pain funny.”
You crack a smile of your own, but it fades just as quick. You’re never able to outrun your thoughts.
Steve notices, because he always does. He wraps his arm around you and starts walking, making sure to pull you as close as possible. You rest your head on his shoulder.
“You said you would come over after work,” he says. “Are we still on for that?”
“…I actually need to get home.” You pause, trying to gauge Steve’s reaction in the silence. “My parents are on a date night, but my dad still called the restaurant. I was supposed to be home ten minutes ago.”
Steve huffs. “Does that man ever know how to quit?”
“Now you know where I get it from,” you say wryly.
When you get to his car, you let Steve box you in against the door. He always looks at you with such worried eyes these days—beneath the dim night sky, stars increasingly obscured by the military’s pollution, his pupils are dilated.
“Then at least let me drive you home,” he murmurs. “You know I want all the time with you I can get.”
“I drove myself here,” you say.
“Do you work tomorrow?” he asks. When you nod, he shrugs. “Then I’ll pick you up in the morning and bring you back.”
You hold Steve’s gaze for longer than you should, and to his credit, he never wavers. You submit to the itch you’ve had since he first showed up and tangle your fingers in his hair as you lean in and kiss him. Steve’s hands fall to your waist, bringing you as close as possible, and you lose yourself in his touch. By the time you pull away, breathless and lips slightly swollen and a whole lot of doubt gone from your mind, Steve looks nothing less than lovestruck.
“You don’t know how long I’ve been waiting to do that again,” he says.
“I think I have some clue,” you say, a small, sheepish smile forming. “Now take me home, loverboy.”
Steve grins. “Gladly.”
-
It’s too easy to fall into comfortable silence with Steve, your hands intertwined—except for when he has to shift gears. The Tears for Fears cassette you got him a few months ago plays quietly in the background as you stare out the window. Eventually, though, when you end up at an especially long red light, you feel his eyes on you.
“We’ve gotta face the music, honey.”
You bite your lip. “I was hoping you might forget if I didn’t say anything.”
“Unfortunately, I have better object permanence than an infant,” Steve says wryly. “What’s going on? Why are you smoking again? Why are you…”
As he struggles to find the right words, you supply, “losing it?”
“No—”
“Because I am.”
Steve sighs, and he looks back at the road as the light turns green. “You’re not losing it. You’re just going through a rough patch.”
“It feels more like I’m losing my mind.” You take a second to collect yourself before you sigh. You can’t stand to look at him. “I… didn’t plan to start again. But a few weeks ago, I had the worst shift of my life. Like, planning a murder-suicide of myself and my tables in the bathroom, type bad.”
“Geez,” Steve mutters. “I- I could get you a spot at the Squawk. Robin would love to have you—”
“You guys aren’t getting paid,” you interrupt. “I can’t afford to not get paid right now.”
“Your parents fund your life.”
“They fund the life they want me to live,” you correct. “When I get out of here, they will promptly—”
“Aha!”
Steve intercedes so suddenly that words fail you momentarily, and he laughs.
“When you get out of here!” he exclaims. “You still have hope!”
You try to respond, and still no words come out. It’s been a while since Steve has stunned you into silence.
“You’re beyond miserable because you think you’re stuck here forever,” Steve continues. “But clearly, the smart part of you knows it’s not forever. We will find Vecna, and when we do, we’ll kill him. Once he’s dead, Max wakes up, Will’s free, and Hawkins is free of the Upside Down and its military chaperones.” He looks at you with a grin. “And we get on the first train to—”
“New York?”
He perks up. “You finally decided?”
“I figure go big or go home, right?” You shrug, the movement lighter than before. You find yourself smiling just at the thought of the future life you’ve planned out a thousand times by now. “It’s like Sinatra said: if we can make it there, we can make it anywhere.”
This time, it’s Steve that goes silent. You look over to see he’s smiling—he’s always had a smile that warms you from the inside out. It’s how he caught your eye that fateful night.
“Exactly,” he says. “Once Vecna is dead and everything is fixed, we get on the first train to the Big Apple. Our dreams are still on, babe. It doesn’t matter how many interdimensional freaks I have to fight to get us there. Got it?”
“…Got it,” you say. Steve gives your hand a squeeze, and you squeeze back. “And that goes for you too. Any time you get tired of being the babysitter, you can come to me.”
“Oh, I never get tired of being the babysitter,” he says wryly. “I love when Lucas talks back to me! And it always makes my day when Dustin ignores me in public. Oh, and don’t get me started on Mike—”
“How are they doing anyway?” you interrupt. “I only really see them when we do the crawls. Will and Lucas came in for malted milkshakes the other week, but it was so busy we barely got to talk.”
“They’re… managing,” Steve says. “Mike and El are going through a rough patch, I think. Dustin’s still recovering from… y’know. Lucas puts on a brave face, but he’s hurting so much more than he lets on. And Will—” he shakes his head. “Kid won’t let me in. But he’s got Joyce shooting for him, and that’s gotta mean something.”
Your expression softens. It’s too easy to get caught up in your own issues, in the depressing turn your life has taken in so many aspects, that sometimes you forget your co-conspirators in all this madness are children.
You, Steve, Nancy, Jonathan, Robin—you’re not much older, but at least you don’t have to worry about your homework between monster-killing and interdimensional traveling. At least you had a mostly normal childhood. (Whenever you think about how young Will was when he got taken, you feel nauseous.)
“They’re lucky to have someone like you looking out for them,” you say softly. “Even if they don’t say it, they know it.”
“Someone’s gotta keep those kids in line,” Steve says. He glances at you with another smile. “You’re pretty good with them too, though. Makes me feel some kinda way.”
You scoff, but you can’t fully bite back your smile. “Control yourself, Harrington.”
“But you make it so hard to,” he drawls. You just grin and keep looking out the window.
A few minutes later, Steve comes to a stop outside your house—or three houses down, more like. It’s a habit you’ve drilled into him since you had to start hiding your relationship. But as Steve is turning the car off, you suddenly put your hand on his.
“What’s up?” he asks.
“Keep going,” you say. “Park outside my house.”
His eyebrows rise. “You sure? You said you were supposed to be home ten minutes ago.” He glances at his watch. “Around thirty, now. Your parents will—”
“They’ll see you,” you nod. “I’m counting on it, actually.”
His lips quirk up in the beginnings of a smile, but he listens to you. You motion for him to get out of the car as you unbuckle your seatbelt, and you take his hand as you get the other side. You’re a woman on a mission as you drag him with you up your family’s ridiculously long driveway, but Steve digs his heels into the ground and forces you to a stop.
“What are you doing?” he asks.
You look at him with a smile. “Rerouting.”
It takes a second to register in his brain, but his eyes widen when it does.
“We’re all in?”
“I’ve been all in for a while,” you admit sheepishly. “The drive over made me realize nothing else matters if that’s true.”
Steve laughs in ecstatic disbelief, and he runs his free hand through his hair. “You’re sure? There’s no going back after this.”
“I’ve been looking at apartments for the past few months,” you say. “I- I found one in our price range, and I know I can pay the rent every month, even when it’s slow. I also have a bunch of jewelry I can sell—”
Steve holds up his hand and stops you, but he’s smiling bigger than ever. “You wanna move in together?”
“Since Hawkins shut down, all we’ve gotten is a few hours here and there together, and it’s driving me insane.” You take his hands in yours. “I love you, Steve Harrington, and I’m tired of hiding it. As long as we’re together, we can take on the world. Hawkins can’t be that hard in comparison.”
Steve doesn’t even say anything. He just cups the back of your neck and pulls you into the most breathless kiss you’ve ever had the pleasure of experiencing. When he pulls away, cheeks flushed and pupils dilated and filled with more love for you than ever, you feel like you could melt into a puddle of pure happiness.
“I can’t think of anything more perfect,” he says. “But I’m paying for the place, not you. I’ve got a lot of tips saved from my summer at Scoops.”
“Yeah?” you laugh. “The ladies really digged Captain Steve?”
He shrugs. “You dug him. That’s all that matters.”
“You are so corny,” you say, but you don’t really mean it. Instead, you plant another kiss on Steve’s lips, then grab his hand and finally reach your front door. It takes you a second to find your key, but when you walk inside, you pause and listen for any telltale signs of your parents being there.
For once, the house is silent—except for the constant ticking of the grandfather clock they keep in the foyer. Your sigh of relief isn’t fully conscious, and you look at Steve.
“I think we’re actually in the clear.”
“What,” he says wryly, “we don’t get a dramatic confrontation with your parents?”
You raise an eyebrow. “Do you want one?”
Steve shrugs, kicking at the corner of the carpet with his shoe. “I dunno. I think I could take them.”
“I’m sure you could,” you say cloyingly. “But for now, keep watch. I need to grab a few things from my room before we officially blow this popsicle stand.”
You run for the stairs before Steve can stop you—or more realistically, before you can start doubting yourself—and take a deep breath once you get to your room.
It’s nothing less than spick and span, credit to your mother—she refuses to work at Hawkins Memorial after spending so much time away at IU (and after Nance and Jonathan nearly got killed by the mindflayer there, you’re not sure you want her to), so she has a lot more time to pester you about every part of your life.
You can’t count how many times she’s ripped your band posters off the wall (you always put them back up) or all the times she hid your guitar (you always found it again) or how many times she’s tried to force you into the same sad, square box that she’s been stuck in her whole life.
A part of you pities her. The rest of you cannot wait to finally get out of this fucking house, no matter how many doubles you have to pull at the diner.
You dig your backpack and a duffle bag out of your closet and get to packing. The essentials of your wardrobe, the essentials of everything else, and whatever material possessions you can pawn off for extra cash if it comes to it.
You throw your backpack on, toss your duffle over your shoulder, and pick up your guitar case. You take another look at your noticeably barer room for what might be the last time in a while, and then you walk away.
“Woah, babe—” Steve is at your side the second he sees you going down the stairs, taking your guitar and your duffle without giving you a chance to protest. “I could’ve helped you with all this.”
“How else could you be my knight in shining armor?” you ask wryly. “Besides, I didn’t want you to see my room. It’s a wreck right now.”
“I think I’ve seen a lot worse,” Steve says. He adjusts his grip on your guitar case, then looks around your large, ostentatious, empty depressing house. Steve stands right in front of the family portrait—your mother has dark circles beneath her eyes, and you still remember the tight grip your father had on your shoulder the whole time you stood for the portrait—how many times both of them had to tell you to smile.
“What’s that look for?” he asks, and you realize you can’t stop grinning at him.
Your parents are miserable, overbearing control freaks, and you fear becoming one of them more than anything you’ve faced in the Upside Down. But as you look at Steve—sarcastic, caring, thoughtful Steve—you know that as long as you stick together, you never will.
“Nothing,” you say, but your smile grows even wider. “I just can’t believe we’re actually doing this.”
“Well, you’re already smiling more over all this than you have in the past five months,” Steve says. “That’s how I know it’s a good idea.”
“Even if I lose my job and we can’t pay rent?” you ask. “Even after all this, we get to New York and crash and burn and realize we abandoned our trust funds and got kicked out of the will for nothing?”
“Especially then,” Steve promises. “Even though none of that’s gonna happen. You know, because you’re kinda the greatest at everything you do.”
“And you are an awful liar.”
“Which is how you know everything I’m saying is true,” he grins. “Now let’s get outta here before your parents get back and ream us both out.” He gestures at the kitchen table with his head. “Should you leave a note?”
“Nah,” you say. “I don’t really feel like leaving a trail. If they really care, they’ll track me down one way or another. And if they don’t, then it makes things a lot easier.”
Steve chuckles. “Sounds like a plan. Might wanna let Hop know first, though. That way he doesn’t give anything up if your parents come to him crying that you’ve been kidnapped or something.”
“And that’s why you’re my partner in crime,” you muse. “Could you go get the car warmed up? I just remembered I need to grab a few more things.”
Steve nods, knowing what you really mean, and soon you’re left alone. You stand between the living room and kitchen and take in a long, deep breath, then slowly let it out. Right now, you’re in limbo—you’re Schrodinger’s girl, both the dutiful daughter and the disappointing vagabond. Standing between the bubblewrapped life where you go to law school and work for the man and never worry about money again, and the life you so badly want to lead, that very much could crash and burn.
You look out the window and see Steve loading his car. He takes extra care with your guitar case, generously giving it the whole backseat. His hair blows ever so slightly in the wind. He’s talking to himself, but you can’t hear what he’s saying—or read his lips. You have the same unrealistic pipe dream as a million other people, and yet Steve has promised to follow you every step of the way.
You’re already smiling more over all this than you have in the past five months.
On your way out, you toss your pack of Marlboros in the trash.