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curiositydooropened · 2 months ago

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night terrors (steve harrington x fem!reader)

Summary: (Season 5 AU) Steve's being haunted by someone. By you. But are you one of Vecna's cronies? Or one of his victims? / Word Count: ~13k / Some angst, some fluff, some hurt/comfort

Warnings: Language; abduction & emotional abuse at the hands of Vecna; death of a grandparent; reader is Steve's age in 1986; slightest "the first shadow" spoilers and the mention of a set piece that, based on leaks, I believe is part of ST5. I apologize if Jonathan Byers is very OOC in this; I made him kind of bitchy by accident.

a/n: the Wuthering Heights-inspired Steve fic that I teased 4+ months ago on my bday is finally done! It ended up taking a different turn than I expected and is a little bit more like a Rapunzel story, almost? Sometimes the muse takes over and we just have to go where it takes us. Enjoy!

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September 1986

Haunted, or hunted?

Steve Harrington wasn’t sure which of the two was happening to him.

It started six months after they tried to kill Vecna the first time. At the time, Steve attempted to distract himself from the looming threat of that beast (and from the fact that Max was still comatose) by throwing himself into his studies.

He was a first-year student at the local community college now, same as Robin. For English class, they were assigned to read Wuthering Heights by Emily Brontë. The text was a little more complex than the fare Steve usually gravitated toward—whatever comic Dustin forced him to read—but Steve enjoyed it just fine. A story within a story, his professor had called it a “frame narrative.”

Late one September night, Steve found himself drifting off to sleep while reading about Heathcliff and Catherine’s insanely fucked-up relationship dynamic. He rubbed his eyes and shut the book, figuring he’d finish the chapter at breakfast tomorrow.

He stood from his desk chair, stretched, and crawled into bed. As for the hope of sweet dreams, Steve’s would be anything but.

He dreamed of drowning in choppy oceans, of being shot point-blank by an evil government agent, of being chased by a bloodthirsty demodog. Steve woke with a start just before his dream self was torn limb from limb.

The horror continued when he heard a scratching at his bedroom window, which caused him to flinch. The shadows of tree branches danced behind the thin white curtain, looking like claws reaching for him as they hit the glass.

“It’s the tree,” Steve mumbled to himself, in the hopes to slow his pounding heartbeat. “Just foliage. You’re afraid of foliage, you big pussy.”

He started to roll over, but the scratching got louder and louder.

Angry and scared and stressed, Steve huffed and stomped over to the window. Maybe he could use his bat to knock down those pesky branches, and—

He tore open the curtains and gasped, stumbling backward and falling on his back.

There was a woman floating behind the window.

A woman, wearing a long white nightdress, hair blowing in the wind. Her eyes and mouth were open wide, as if she was silently screaming for something. Like a banshee.

Her fingernails clawed at the glass, desperate to get inside.

Paralyzed in fear, Steve could only watch from his spot on the ground as she eased the window open and clamored into his room. She was barefoot, and Steve could now see that her legs and the bottom of her white dress were caked in mud and…was that blood?

She staggered forward a la Frankenstein’s Monster, and something flipped in Steve. He dove for the nail bat resting by his closet door and held it aloft, ready to swing.

But he hesitated, because the woman wasn’t chasing after him. She stood in the middle of the room, arms outstretched, but she was completely still.

Steve’s chest heaved as he panted, unsure of what to do. He adjusted his grip on the bat, opening his mouth to demand her explain herself, when she rasped: “He—he—help.”

“Help?” Steve repeated, lowering the bat. “You…you need help? You’re not here to kill me, or something?”

“Help,” she rasped again, still unmoving—except for a quiver in her lower lip and tears rolling down her cheeks.

When she was outside the window, her ghastly appearance gave the impression that she was much older than she really was. Now, just a few feet from Steve, she looked to be in her early 20s—just like him.

And she looked completely terrified.

Steve’s common sense blew away with the wind. He cautiously put the bat down and inched closer, justifying his possibly idiotic decision by reminding himself that maybe this was another dream. A dream-within-a-dream. His very own frame narrative.

“I can try to help,” he said gently. “Just tell me your name. And, uh, what you’re doing in my house?”

“He’s going to find me,” she whispered. “He’s going to take me back.”

Alarm bells rang out in Steve’s head.

“Who?” he demanded.

“Please, help.”

“Yeah, I know, you need help,” Steve said, frustration seeping into his tone. “But I can’t help you unless you give me some more information.”

The woman shivered from head to toe.

“Let me get you a blanket, or something,” Steve said. Against his better judgment, he turned his back to her to open his closet. He pulled a knitted blanket from the shelf and turned to give it to her—

But the woman was gone. The only sign that she had ever been there at all was the still-open window and the sound of whistling wind.

***

“I’m telling you, it was so real!”

Steve recounted the dream to Robin the next day after their English 101 class.

Well, he wasn’t fully convinced it was a dream. But he preferred thinking that than the alternative—that a woman with supernatural powers had broken into his home, and he was the dingus with no sense of self-preservation who offered her a blanket.

“Did you eat pepperoni before bed?” Robin asked as they ate lunch in the college’s dining hall. “You know that messes with your dreams.”

“No, Mom. I didn’t. But I fell asleep reading Wuthering Heights.”

“Well, that explains it!”

“Yeah.” Steve cleared his throat and shoved his sweaty palms in his jacket pockets. “I guess.”

“Okay, getting the sense you have more to say.”

“I don’t know. It’s just…it felt so real.”

“So you’ve said.”

“No, I know,” Steve said. He ran a hand through his hair, causing it to stick up in a million different directions. “But I mean, seriously, it was so lifelike. Like, scary lifelike. And all the crazy shit that goes on in this town has me wondering…what if it was? What if that woman really did visit me?”

Robin raised an eyebrow.

“Sorry, are you saying Catherine Earnshaw actually, legitimately broke into your room last night?”

“Not her, obviously. But someone else.” Steve stabbed his salad with his fork, moving olives around. “What if it’s someone who escaped the lab like Eleven? And they’ve been, like, living off the land since then?”

“What if she’s a trick from Vecna?” Robin fired back. “And engaging with her is just a way to let him inside your mind?”

Steve sighed.

“I’ve thought of that too. But when she started crying…my heart just broke for her. Even if she is evil, or part of the Upside Down, or whatever. And I know that makes me a gullible idiot and a sap.”

Robin’s expression softened.

“Sap? Yes,” she said. She gently squeezed the back of his hand. “But you are not an idiot. You have a big heart. And that’s admirable. But it’s also making your subconscious feed you dreams where scary monster women need saving, which is feeding your savior complex.”

Steve frowned.

“What savior complex?”

Robin laughed loudly, causing a few other students to look toward their table.

“Seriously?” she said through snickers. “Dude. You have a terrible habit of throwing yourself into harm’s way to protect other people.”

“Sue me for trying to keep everybody safe,” Steve grumbled. He yawned behind his fist.

“You need sleep,” Robin said. “Real sleep. Why don’t you head home and take a power nap before we visit Max tonight?”

It was Steve and Robin’s shift to be there for Max during the hospital’s visiting hours. Everyone in the party took turns so she was never alone for too long.

Steve had so much to do, but he knew Robin was right—he needed rest.

So he drove Robin home, took himself home, and took himself to bed.

Shortly after he started to drift off, even though it was still light outside, he heard the scratching on his window again.

He shot up to a sitting position as the window opened and the woman pushed her way past his curtains.

“Oh, fuck me,” Steve mumbled. He blushed at his poor choice of words and cleared his throat.

“Help me,” the woman rasped. Again, she stood in the middle of the room, leaving a wide berth of space between herself and Steve. This time, instead of her arms outstretched, she had them wrapped around herself. “Please. Help.”

Steve scrubbed his face with his hands roughly, as if trying to peel back the top layer of skin.

“You’re dreaming, Harrington. This is a dream.”

“You’re not dreaming.”

That caused Steve to snap his head up, surprise etched across his features.

“I am real,” the woman said slowly. “As real as you.”

Steve cautiously stood from bed.

“How?” he said. He crossed his arms, ignoring the alarm bells in his mind that advised him to absolutely not engage with the phantom in his room at 4 in the afternoon. “How is it that you’re real? Last night, you were, I don’t know, floating, or something—"

“He taught me how to travel here,” she said. She pointed at Steve’s nose—no, at his forehead. His mind?

The more she spoke, the less hoarse she sounded, as if she was getting used to speaking again after staying silent for a long time. “He wants me to be like him,” she continued.

Steve had a sneaking suspicion he knew who this “He” was, but he asked anyway: “Who are you talking about?”

Fear flashed across the woman’s face.

“Henry Creel.”

The name sent a spark down Steve’s spine. He shuddered involuntarily.

And he had a flash of Max laying in her hospital bed, covered in casts and hooked up to wires, and he said, “Get out.”

“Please, help me—”

“No!” Steve said, voice raised. He stepped closer to the woman and she flinched backward. Steve didn’t have it in himself to feel bad, not right now. “No. I will not help you, because you’re obviously working for Vecna.”

“I—I don’t know who that is.”

“Henry,” Steve corrected, exasperated. “You must be working for him. You’re a trick, a mirage, whatever. Meant to twist my mind and manipulate me into doing his bidding, or to kill me, or something. Well, I’m here to tell you, Cathy: it won’t work!”

The woman tilted her head slightly to the side, like a curious labrador retriever, and said, “Who is Cathy?”

“It’s a stupid reference to a stupid book that I’m not going to explain to you.”

The woman blinked slowly, her owlish eyes boring into Steve’s. He felt unsettled by that gaze. Another zap of fear trickled across his back, along with something else he didn’t fully understand.

The woman lurched forward and grabbed both of his shoulders with a vice grip. Steve yelped and tried to push her off, but she didn’t let go, her fingernails digging into his skin through his T-shirt. Her ice-cold hands sent goosebumps crawling up his arms.

“Please, you have to trust me,” she said, hurriedly. The cloudiness in her eyes and the shakiness in her voice dissipated. She seemed a lot more lucid as she said, “I know you have no reason to, but please, Steve, I—”

“How do you know my name?!” Steve shouted. “Let go of me!”

She did. She stumbled backward, looking down at her own hands as if she were ashamed.

Before Steve’s very eyes, she faded away, until Steve was alone in his room once more.

He took a few centering, calming breaths. They didn’t do shit.

“You’re losing it, man,” Steve said, shaking his head frantically as if he could knock the memory of the last five minutes loose. “Get it together. You’re sleepwalking. You must be.”

But then he glanced down at his shirtsleeve—where she had touched him.

He’d felt that touch. And it was real.

Wasn't it?

***

It went on like that for days, weeks. Every time Steve tried to sleep, at some point, he was awoken by the woman entering his room via the window. She’d beg and cry for help.

Steve tried everything. He yelled at her to leave and never come back; he listened to his Walkman to drown out her sorrowful sobs; he took melatonin to knock himself out, to no avail. Cathy was persistent, he’d give her that.

After a month straight of visits, Steve felt more like a zombie than a real person. He was bone tired all the time.

Eventually, Nancy brought Steve to the Wheelers’ basement for a surprise intervention.

He groaned when he saw Robin, Dustin, and Jonathan all seated around the room, the former two looking at him expectantly and the latter looking bored.

“Please tell me this isn’t what I think it is,” Steve said.

“Steve,” Dustin said, beginning to read aloud from a crumpled paper in his hands. “We brought you here because we love you and we’re worried about you—"

“Okay, I’m going to stop you right there,” Steve said, refusing to take a seat in the armchair Nancy offered him. “I have no idea what this is for.”

“Well, something’s keeping you from sleeping!” Robin said. “It’s downers, isn’t it? Or uppers? Or a combination of both?”

“Oh lord,” Jonathan mumbled.

Robin narrowed her eyes at him and said, “Something to share with the class, Byers?”

“Sorry,” Jonathan said. “It’s just…this is a waste of time. Steve's not an addict.”

“Thank you.”

“He’s probably just wracked with guilt,” Jonathan said. “Since, you know, you all couldn’t kill Vecna the first time.”

Well, that hurt. Steve tried not to let it show on his face, keeping a cool composure.

“Jonathan,” Nancy said, voice strained. “I believe we agreed not to say you-know-who’s name tonight?”

Jonathan held his hands up in a mock surrender.

“Right, right,” he said. “And I mean no offense, Harrington. I know Vec—uh, that guy—was way stronger than anyone expected.”

Steve didn’t respond. Simply shook his head and turned toward to leave.

He ascended a step or two, but descended back to ground level when he noticed a bulletin board on the wall to the right of the staircase.

“What’s all this?” Steve said, nodding at all the posters and newspaper clippings (and ignoring the way Robin, Nancy, and Dustin whispered to each other about their now-useless intervention letters).

Jonathan wandered over to the display and shrugged.

“Probably useless information,” he said. “But it’s a record of everyone else that went missing in Hawkins that same week that Will and Barb did. Everyone else who was taken to the Upside Down and killed by the Demogorgon.”

Steve nodded and rustled through a few of the papers pinned to the board.

“I feel like it might be useful to see if the Demogorgon had a rhyme or reason to who he took,” Jonathan continued. “That way, we might be able to predict if it directly correlates to who Vecna might try for next…hey, you good, man?”

Holding a newspaper clipping from November 1983, Steve felt his heart had stopped.

He saw a page devoted to a missing teen girl, who would now be 21 years old:

HAVE YOU SEEN ME? Y/N Y/L/N, 18 YEARS OLD

“Guys?” Jonathan said, waving the others over. “I think Steve is having a stroke.”

Nancy, Robin, and Dustin gathered around, asking Steve a million questions. He had no answers, not really. But he choked out: “Her.”

“Who?” Robin said. She read over his shoulder: “‘Y/N Y/L/N.’ I don’t think I’ve heard of her?”

“I have,” Nancy said. “She didn’t go to our school, but she was dating a Hawkins High football player before she went missing. She’s from somewhere else in Roane County. I think everyone assumed she ran away from home. Same as…um, Barb.”

“She’s the woman,” Steve said, throat tightening.

“The woman from your night terrors?” Robin asked, eyes wide.

Steve nodded. “She’s Cathy.”

“Makes sense,” Jonathan said, plucking the clipping out of Steve’s hands and pinning it back his bulletin board. “Vecna’s probably using the image of someone he thinks you might know to get in your head.”

“I don’t think Cathy, or Y/N, is from Vecna,” Steve said.

“But you said that she said she learned stuff from him?” Dustin piped up.

“Yeah, but I don’t think that was by choice. You know?” Steve said. He ran a hand through his hair. “I’ve been trying to ignore her lately, but she says things that make me think he’s holding her hostage. Making her do stuff she doesn’t want to do. Training her to be like him, I think. I don’t know exactly.”

No one knew how to respond to that. Steve, transfixed by Y/N’s photo, wasn’t sure what to think either. He had no proof that this so-called Cathy was Vecna’s victim and not his partner-in-crime. In his head, he knew it was stupid not to keep his guard up. But in his heart, Steve wanted to think the best of Cathy—or Y/N.

“Don’t you dare,” Jonathan warned.

Steve looked over to the younger boy with surprise.

“Huh?”

“I know that look,” Jonathan said. “You want to try and save her, or something.”

“No!” Steve said. “Or, well…”

Jonathan rolled his eyes.

“Goddammit, Steve,” he said.

Defensiveness creeped over Steve.

“What?!” he snapped, glowering at Jonathan.

“You can’t be this stupid,” Jonathan said. “Even if she is real, and not an illusion, you really think she needs help? She’s obviously been flayed by Vecna! They’re working together. She’s playing you, Steve.”

“If she was, she wouldn’t come to me begging for help every night,” Steve pointed out. “She would’ve killed me in my sleep, or flayed me too, or something. What point does she have to play the ‘long game’?”

“That does make sense,” Dustin said. Robin nodded.

Steve took a deep breath and decided, fuck it. He was following his heart instead of his head. Hopefully that wouldn’t massively backfire on him later.

He pointed to Y/N’s “Have You Seen Me?” poster. “Cathy is Y/N, I just know it. She needs our help. If she’s being held hostage by Vecna, we need to help her and—”

“And nothing!” Jonathan exploded. Nancy’s frown deepened as she looked between Jonathan and Steve. Jonathan added, “Sorry, but I’m not putting my family in danger because you’re falling right into Vecna’s trap.”

“Doing this might stop Vecna, the demogorgons, and the Mind Flayer once and for all!” Steve said, feeling exasperated that Jonathan wouldn’t see his side.

“Don’t act so noble,” Jonathan said. He jabbed a finger in Steve’s chest. “You, Steve Harrington, aren’t a selfless person. You’re doing this to help yourself.”

Steve’s face burned with shame. It’s true, he hadn’t always been kind or good.

Jonathan ignored his girlfriend’s protests to calm down, and the tense looks Robin and Dustin were exchanging, and continued his rant against Steve.

“And let me guess,” Jonathan taunted. “You can’t steal my girlfriend, so you decide you’re going to pursue a monster instead?!”

“Jonathan!” Nancy shouted, her face turning red as a tomato with anger.

Steve swallowed hard. More shame spread over him from head to toe.

“I know all about your little confession,” Jonathan continued. “All that bullshit about ‘six little nuggets.’ Give me a break!”

“Okay,” Robin said with an awkward laugh, trying to step in between the boys before they began to brawl. “Maybe we should all take a breath and—”

“I’m sorry,” Steve said, looking at Nancy. “I shouldn’t have said those things to you when I knew you were with him. It wasn’t right.” He turned to Jonathan and cleared his throat. “And I’m sorry to you, too.”

Surprise flashed across Jonathan’s features. He must’ve been expecting more pushback from Steve.

“You all have no reason to help me,” Steve said, now addressing the full group. “I know it’s dangerous. But I want to try and do something, because I wholly believe that Y/N needs our help. And maybe if we do help her, she’ll help us save Max and stop all this madness once and for all.”

He waited with bated breath.

After a moment, Jonathan shook his head.

“Like I said,” Jonathan said quietly. “I’m not doing anything that could harm my family.”

He stormed off without another word.

Nancy shot Steve an apologetic look and followed.

Robin squeezed Steve’s shoulder.

“I trust your judgment,” she said. “But we can’t just storm the Upside Down. We need to talk to the others.”

“I have a feeling Hopper won’t like this plan,” Dustin added.

“Promise you won’t go off on your own?” Robin said.

Steve nodded.

“Yeah,” he said flatly. “Promise.”

***

Eleven always says “Friends don’t lie.”

Steve was feeling like a shitty friend, having lied to Robin and Dustin’s faces earlier that night. But he wasn’t going to wait around. He wasn’t going to let Hopper, Murray, and Joyce dictate what he could or couldn’t do for Y/N.

He was going to save her, because if she’d been trapped in the Upside Down for three years…no one deserved to go through that. No one deserved to be left behind.

Steve pushed aside his own complicated feelings about being left behind by his parents. After the earthquakes, they relocated to the California coast. They invited him to come along, although when he refused, saying he wanted to stay with his friends, they didn’t fight too hard for him to change his mind. That stung.

Lying in bed, he ruminated on that last conversation they’d had. His train of thought was interrupted by the tell-tale scratching at the window.

Y/N made her way inside, as per usual. Before she could even speak, Steve sat up and said, “I’m going to help you.”

Her eyes widened.

“R-really?” she asked. “What changed?”

“I saw your picture,” Steve said. He stood up and pulled out his desk chair, offering it for Y/N to sit in.

She did not. After a moment, Steve took the seat instead, gesturing to the newspaper scrap he’d stolen from Jonathan’s bulletin board.

Y/N cautiously stepped closer, looking over his shoulder. She traced her finger on the photo of her younger self. Steve shivered when the sleeve of her white dress—a nightgown of some sort—brushed his wrist.

“Y/N,” she said quietly, reading the headline. “Is that me?”

Steve looked up, startled.

“Uh, yes,” he said. He looked between the photo and the real girl in front of him to confirm, but it was definitely the same face, albeit three years apart. “It’s you. Do you…not remember what you look like?”

Y/N shook her head.

“My mind is…cold,” Y/N said. She squeezed her eyes shut. “Ah. Wrong word. Sorry, that happens sometimes...”

“It’s okay,” Steve said gently. He had no way of understanding what Y/N had been through at the hands of Vecna, but he knew what it was like to struggle to express yourself. To stumble over your words, feeling rather stupid about everything as you failed to express yourself properly.

“Void,” Y/N continued. “Dark. Ahh…empty. It’s hard to remember much of before, after I’ve been away for so long.”

“Is there anything you remember?” Steve said. “Nancy said that you were, uh, you were dating this guy at our school.”

There was a flash in Y/N’s eyes. That seemed to trigger a memory.

“Oscar,” she said. “His name was Oscar. Is he all right? Did…did he get taken too?”

“Oscar DiLaurentis?” Steve prompted, remembering a classmate from years ago.

Y/N nodded frantically.

Oscar hadn’t been a victim of the Demogorgon. Steve vaguely remembered the weeks of school after their fight with the Demogorgon in 1983. Oscar had been beside himself with worry for his girlfriend from the next town over, but at the time, Steve was laser-focused on dealing with his trauma and survivor’s guilt surrounding Barb. He didn’t have the wherewithal to see if a classmate he barely knew was okay.

Teenagers can be cruel, and Steve recalled how that December, speculation spread that Oscar killed his girlfriend and buried her at the quarry.

Hopper didn’t take any of that seriously, of course. He knew the truth of what dangers lurked in town. But that didn’t stop the rumor mill from spin, spin, spinning.

Oscar retreated into himself, becoming quite depressed. As soon as he graduated spring of 1984, he left town. Steve wasn’t sure what had come of him after that.

“I’m sure he’s fine,” he said.

“And my grandpa?”

Steve shrugged.

“I’m sorry, Y/N. I don’t know…but we’ll find him after I rescue you. Uh, how exactly can I rescue you? You’re here now, right? So can’t you just…not go back?”

“I am not here,” Y/N said. She pointed a finger at Steve’s forehead, gently tapping it. “I am here.”

“In my mind?”

Y/N nodded.

“Like a projector at a movie theater,” Steve said, connecting the dots and thinking of Vecna’s mind tricks. “Not physically here?”

“Yes. You are smart.”

Steve furrowed his brow and shook his head.

“Oh, no.” He let out an awkward chuckle. “I’m really not.”

Y/N’s penetrating gaze made Steve feel a little uncomfortable. He shifted in his seat.

She gingerly reached her hand out and touched Steve’s arm.

“You are smart. And kind.”

Steve almost felt mesmerized. He was suddenly, sharply aware that Y/N—despite her initial haunting nature—was incredibly beautiful.

Steve cleared his throat, embarrassed, and stood from his chair, causing Y/N’s hand to fall. He wasn’t falling for this girl. He wasn’t. That was fucked up. Right? To have feelings for someone that needed his help? That he was trying to save?

Maybe Robin was right. Steve had a savior complex.

Maybe Jonathan was right. Steve couldn’t have Nancy, so he was going after the only woman in his vicinity giving him the time of day.

No. It was just because Steve hadn’t felt the touch of a woman in half a year. And the sleep deprivation. That was all.

“Are you all right?” Y/N asked as Steve stumbled away from her.

“Yes!” he said. “Yes. Sorry. I just—I haven’t been sleeping well, on account of…well, you. But it’s okay! I want to help. What do I need to do?”

Y/N pointed to his bookshelf.

“I am there,” she said. “Library. By the clock tower.”

That complicated things. The clock tower above the library had been badly damaged in Vecna’s earthquakes. The military was stationed right outside it to keep anyone from going in and getting into the Upside Down.

Before Steve could explain, Y/N threw another wrench into things.

“There is a room under the clock,” Y/N said. “That is where Henry keeps me. There is a tear nearby, but I cannot get through. Because bats.”

Steve assumed “tear” is what Y/N called a “gate.” The slightly faded scar around his neck and the scars on his ribs twinged with phantom pain at the mention of bats.

“I have watched you and your friends from there,” Y/N said, “the way Henry taught me after he first took me. Months ago, you entered. You exited. You can find a new way to get to me.”

Steve swallowed hard. This was going to be difficult, and he sincerely hoped Henry/Vecna wasn’t watching him now. But he wasn’t giving up yet.

“I will,” he said. “I promise.”

For the first time since she started showing up, Y/N smiled.

Steve couldn’t help but smile back. Oh, wow. Now that he knew she wasn’t a monstrous illusion or something, she looked radiant in the moonlight, and…

Oh, he was so fucked.

***

Steve knew that if he was going to go into the Upside Down alone, he needed to make a plan so airtight that nothing could go wrong.

For one thing, he needed to find a gate that wasn’t being protected by the military. Most of the four large gates were under military surveillance, but there was one sliver in a tree trunk behind the trailer park that he could (hopefully) slip through. He would have a portable heater strapped to his backpack to blast heat at demo-creatures. If any got too close anyway, he’d hit them with his nail bat.

Then, he’d make his way to the library. That’s where Y/N would be. Before she’d left the night prior, he’d told her to shimmy out her loft’s window at 12 p.m. sharp. She’d crawl down the ledge with his help, hopefully avoiding any detection from the bats. Steve would bring her to the gate in the woods, take her back to Hawkins, and then he’d face his friends and admit he lied to their faces.

They wouldn’t be mad. Right? Right. Or maybe they would. Who gives a fuck. Steve was doing it anyway.

The plan went off without a hitch—at first. He made it to the gate and into the Upside Down without breaking a metaphorical sweat. Physically, the heater was causing him to sweat profusely, but at least it was a beacon to keep demobats away.

Steve slunk through the hellish dimension, avoiding the sentient vines as much as he could. By some miracle, he made it to the library with no trouble.

One odd thing about the Upside Down was that it was trapped in November 6th, 1983. The day El opened the gate. The day the Demogorgon took Will. The day before it took Y/N and many other people in town.

But the clocktower still worked, chiming off every hour as if time was moving forward. Time didn’t make sense here. Nothing did.

Bats hung upside-down on the eaves of the clocktower, sleeping soundly. Nocturnal even when it was dark all the time.

Chime! Chime! Chime! Chime! Chime! Chime! Chime! Chime! Chime! Chime! Chime! Chime!

12 o’clock. Sure enough, the window below the clocktower creaked open. Y/N stuck her head out the window, her hair whipping in the cool wind. Her eyes were wide and fearful, until she noticed Steve standing below. Her face broke into a grin.

“It’s you,” she whispered. “You found me.”

Steve’s heart stuttered at seeing her—really seeing her—for the first time.

“I did,” Steve said. He glanced up at the sleeping bats. “Now, before those hungry beasties wake up, wanna get out of here?”

Y/N nodded frantically. She stuck one leg out the window, gingerly stepping onto the ledge. Then the other joined, but she began to lose her balance, letting out a squeak of fright.

Steve gasped, charging ahead to try and catch her. She caught herself on the sides of the open window at the last moment. Steve’s heart rate returned to normal.

“Okay,” Steve said, calling up as loud as he dared too without disturbing the creatures nearby. “I have a rope ladder that I’ll toss up to you, and—”

“No need!” Y/N said. “I can use the ivy!”

Steve sucked in a breath as she reached her hand toward desiccated plants crawling up the clocktower.

“No!” he shouted. “Don’t touch it!”

Y/N pulled her hand away, but it was too late. Her fingertips had grazed the foliage, waking the forces of the Upside Down.

An earthquake rattled the whole dimension, sending Steve sprawling to the ground. Y/N scrabbled to hold on, but this time, she pitched off the ledge and to the ground below.

“NO!” Steve yelled. He stumbled to his feet, struggling to balance as the world around him rocked.

Thankfully, a bush had broken Y/N’s fall. But tangled in the thorny branches of an Upside Down rosebush, she was a sitting duck as the demobats began to swarm. She held her hands up to shield her face as they dove at her.

Steve cranked up the heat on his heater and pointed it at the bats, causing them to squeal and chitter louder. Most of them flew away, likely to nestle somewhere cold, but three stubborn bastards kept biting and scratching at Y/N.

Steve dropped the heater at his feet and spun his nail bat, whacking one of the creatures and smacking it against the outer brick wall of the library. The second swooped him, but he was prepared, hitting it twice as hard.

The third demobat bit Y/N shoulder, causing her to howl in pain. Steve raised his bat, but there was no need.

Y/N held out a hand and let out a guttural yell. Before his own eyes, Steve watched as she tore the thing apart with telekinesis.

Steve raced over to Y/N and helped her out of the bush.

“Are you okay?” he asked, still holding her hands with his. “Let me see your shoulder.”

“No time,” Y/N said. “He knows what we’re doing.”

“Who?”

“H-Henry,” she said. She sniffled, eyes watering. “I didn’t mean to alert him. I’m so sorry, Steve. I put you in danger.”

“Save your apologies for when we’re on my side of the universe,” he said, squeezing her hands.

Y/N nodded and wiped her tears away.

Steve tore the backpack off his back and unzipped it frantically, before tossing a pair of socks at Y/N.

“Put those on,” he said. “And these.” He handed her a pair of Nikes.

“I told you,” Y/N said as she pulled the socks and shoes onto her bleeding bare feet. “You are smart.”

The compliment made Steve feel warm and fuzzy inside. He pushed those feelings aside.

Once Y/N was ready, Steve handed her the heater to carry as he held his nail bat aloft for their journey to the trailer park. They ran as fast as they could, fighting monsters along the way.

When they were mere yards away from the gate, another earthquake shook the world.

“Y/N Y/L/N!” a voice boomed like thunder through the Upside Down. “Now, where do you think you are going? You’re leaving, after all the hospitality I’ve shown you?!”

Y/N shuddered from head to toe.

“It’s him!” she hissed. “He’s not going to let us go.”

Sure enough, Steve saw the gate in the distance slowly seal itself up as vines began to choke it closed.

“Oh, no you don’t!” Steve mumbled.

He grabbed Y/N’s hand and yanked her the last few feet to their destination. In an ungentlemanly move that would make his grandmother pass out, Steve manhandled her and shoved her through the gate’s opening.

She yelped as she was pushed into a new plane of existence, landing on the inflatable raft Steve had set up on the ground next to the tree gate.

Before she could move, blink, or catch her breath, Steve dove through, landing smack on top of her.

In the nick of time, too. She watched over Steve’s shoulder as the gate zipped into nothingness, leaving the tree trunk unmarred except for a miniscule crack with sap seeping out of it.

“Sorry,” Steve said, untangling his limbs from Y/N’s. Since it was midday, the blush on his cheeks was very evident. He sat up let out a breath. “I don’t usually toss people around like that.”

Y/N sat up slowly and didn’t respond. Instead, she just looked around at the world. The real world. Not the poisoned, dark world she’d been trapped in for three years.

“Here, let me help you up,” Steve said, guiding Y/N to stand.

Tears welled up in her eyes as she spun in a circle, looking at the forest around them.

“What’s wrong?” Steve asked, panic rising. “Is it the bite on your shoulder? I have a first aid kit in the car, and—”

Y/N cut him off by throwing her arms around his neck and hugging him as tightly as she could. She cried into his shoulder, but Steve quickly found out they were happy tears.

“Thank you!” she said, hiccupping through her sobs. “Thank you, Steve! I just…I…oh, thank you so much!”

Steve, unsure of how to respond, gingerly hugged her back.

“I’ve got you,” he said, after a moment. “Welcome home.”

***

The whole drive back to the Harrington house, Y/N looked out the window, enamored at everything from the leaves to the crows to the bright blue sky. Steve had given her one of his Member’s Only jackets to wear over her nightgown and bandaged shoulder, because there was a slight nip in the mid-October air.

“The world is so colorful,” she murmured. “I…I started to forget.”

Steve wanted to relax and feel proud of himself for doing a good thing. But guilt gnawed in the back of his mind, guilt that he lied to his friends and pissed Vecna off. If Vecna lashed out and sent an army of demodogs into town, would he be responsible?

But how could he feel bad when Y/N looked so happy?

“Who are they?” she asked, pointing to the soldiers at a roadblock in the outskirts of town. A soldier holding a small stop sign directed Steve to a detour.

“The army,” Steve said. “They’re here because of Henry and the earthquakes. I’ll get you caught up on everything once we’re at my place, okay?”

As Steve drove past the bored-looking soldier directing traffic, Y/N beamed and waved at him excitedly. The soldier looked a little surprised, but smiled and waved back.

“Maybe don’t interact with them,” Steve said quickly. “They’re hunting one of my friends, so it’s best if we just…don’t draw attention to ourselves. Okay?”

“Oh, sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. Like I said, I’ll tell you everything later.”

“And then we can find my grandpa?” she asked, a hopeful edge to her voice.

“Totally!” Steve said, kicking himself for possibly giving her false hope. Finding her grandpa in the phone book should be easy enough…right?

Even if they succeeded, Steve wasn’t sure how they were going to explain to Y/N’s grandpa where she’s been the past three years. She couldn’t tell them the truth, but would they really believe that she ran away? Did they assume she was dead, “poisoned” like Barb?

Y/N didn’t pick up on Steve’s unease. She settled in the passenger seat, head on a swivel as they drove through town.

Steve saw destruction at every corner: houses crumbled by the gates. Signs for missing people and pets, or pleas for the able-bodied to donate blood, food, clothes. Protestors on street corners holding signs about D&D and devil worship making it necessary to “REPENT!”

So it was a little jarring when Y/N saw the world around all those same things and whispered, “This place is so beautiful.”

Equally awestruck by the Harrington house, Y/N inspected every room. The pool especially excited her.

“A pool in your very own backyard!” she said. “That is amazing!”

Steve didn’t have the heart to tell her that he rarely used the pool anymore. After Barb died in it, it didn’t have the same luster it used to.

“So,” Steve said, after he’d given Y/N a tour of the downstairs and upstairs. “I dug around in my mom’s closet and found some clothes you can wear. I figured you’d want to shower, and then we can have some food?”

Y/N nodded, so Steve led her to the guest room with its adjoining ensuite bathroom.

“The dial’s a little finicky,” he said, “so if the water gets too cold, just turn it all the way to the left and back again.”

Before he could exit the bathroom, Y/N reached out and squeezed his wrist.

“Thank you again, Steve,” she said.

He smiled and ducked out.

As he worked to make mac & cheese for dinner, the phone rang.

“Hello?” Steve said.

“Where the hell are you? You weren’t in English class, and I need a ride over to the meeting!”

Steve’s heart sunk as he glanced at the clock. Shit. It was almost 6 o’clock. He was supposed to take Robin to the abandoned WSQK radio station building for a party meeting. That’s where Hopper and El were hiding out, now that the government was looking for her.

During weekly meetings, their crew of so-called heroes discussed how things were going in town; if Vecna had been seen, heard, or felt; and how they could work to sever Hawkins’ connection to the Upside Down for good.

“Sorry,” Steve said. He faked a cough and rasped, “I’m feeling pretty sick. I think the lack of sleep has caught up to me. I can’t go. Can Nancy drive you?”

“You have to go!” Robin said, exasperated. “This whole meeting is so we can talk about you-know-who.”

Ah, yes. The you-know-who that was currently in Steve’s guest bathroom.

“Your nighttime friend?” Robin prompted, as if Steve had forgotten.

“Please don’t call her that,” Steve said. “And, uh, you know what? Why don’t we just save that for next week’s meeting, and…”

Steve trailed off when he heard a huff of air. There was a moment of silence, and then: “You are so dead.”

“Excuse me?”

“Dead, Steve Harrington! Dead. Hopper is going to kill you for going into the Upside Down alone and bringing someone back from there.”

“What?! No, I—”

“Don’t lie!” Robin warned. “I’m not psychic like El, but I can practically read your mind. We’ve been friends for too long.”

Steve sighed, stirring cheese sauce into noodles as he spoke, the phone cradled between his shoulder and ear.

“Okay, fine. You caught me. But trust me, Y/N is not dangerous, or working with Vecna, or whatever. She just wanted to come home. To be free of that place.”

“I want to believe you,” Robin said. “But…Steve, I don’t trust her.”

“I know,” Steve begged. “But please, please, I swear on my life that she’s good.”

Robin tutted.

“Steve Harrington, always taking in strays. Ugh, fine. I’ll try to trust her if you do. But I hope you know I’m going to have to rat you out—I’m terrible at lying to Hopper. He gets that crease between his eyes that looks like a tiny knife. It intimidates me.”

Steve assured Robin that he understood, thanked her profusely for not being too mad, and promised that he’d call her in three hours to assure that Y/N hadn’t killed him, or something.

The girl in question came into the kitchen with damp hair, wearing her borrowed clothes and shoes.

“The Bird doesn’t trust me?” she asked, settling into a bar stool.

“‘The bird’? You mean Robin?”

Y/N nodded.

“How do you…right, psychic powers.”

Y/N looked at her lap sheepishly.

“Sorry. Sometimes my mind runs away from me. I can’t always control what I see or hear. It’s not a problem when there isn’t much out there to focus on. Now, there are people around me again. So many people to see and places to explore.”

Steve served up the mac & cheese onto two plates. As they ate in silence, Steve noticed that Y/N only took a few small bites here and there. He had expected her to be voraciously hungry.

“If you don’t mind me asking,” he said, “what kind of food did you eat in the Upside Down?” When she tilted her head, a little confused, he corrected, “Uh, Henry’s dimension.”

Y/N shuddered.

“He would bring me food,” she said. “I do not know where it came from. It was mushy. Gross. Cold. He said a warm meal was an unnecessary luxury.”

“That sounds like him,” Steve mumbled. “I mean, based on what Nance said after the freaky vision he showed her.”

“Your girlfriend Nancy?” Y/N asked.

Steve almost choked again.

“N-no! She’s not my girlfriend. Not anymore.”

“Oh.”

“I’m single,” Steve added.

“Ah. I see.”

“Unattached,” he corrected. He seemed unable to stop rambling as Y/N gazed at him with a curious look. “Admittedly, it’s been a while since I had a date, but that’s by design. It’s the bachelor lifestyle.”

It wasn’t by design. And if “bachelor lifestyle” was code for “too busy worrying about the end of the world to date,” well, then, yes. Steve Harrington was a strong proponent of the bachelor lifestyle.

“I sometimes only see part of the puzzle,” Y/N said, tapping her temple. “So that’s why I thought you two were still together.”

Desperate to change the subject, Steve’s mind wandered to something he’d been worrying about for a while.

“I hope this isn’t too forward,” Steve asked quietly. “But…did Henry…hurt you?”

Y/N blanched, dropping her fork into her barely touched noodles.

“Please don’t feel like you have to answer if you don’t want to,” Steve said quickly. “I just don’t know the best way to help you. I don’t know if talking about things would make it worse, or better, but I—I want to help.”

Y/N scratched at the countertop, not making eye contact.

“It’s not what you’re thinking,” she said after a long stretch of silence, barely above a whisper. “Henry…he told me he used to have a sister.”

“Alice,” Steve supplied.

“That’s a pretty name,” Y/N said, with a faraway look in her eye. She cleared her throat. “I think he saw me as a replacement. He said Alice didn’t understand what he wanted to do. How he saw the world. Henry thought he could morph me into his perfect sister, so we could…I’m not sure. Rule together?”

Y/N shuddered. “But he’s cruel. And he kept telling me for so, so long that he would let me come home eventually and see my grandpa again. But he never let me leave. And then, when he could tell I was getting restless, he wouldn’t let me stay in his family home anymore or wander his dimension. Instead, he banished me to the clocktower. Told me I’d stay longer the more insubordinate I became.”

Y/N sniffled, a few stray tears rolling down her face. “He didn’t want a sister. He wanted a subject he could control.”

Steve frowned, and it felt like a rock was in his stomach. Y/N rubbed her eyes.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I talk too much.”

“You don’t,” Steve promised. “Thank you for talking to me about what you went through. I know it’s not easy.”

They continued to eat in silence. Y/N could tell he had another question on the tip of his tongue, but he stayed quiet.

She considered using her powers to reach into his mind, but it felt wholly invasive. She decided against it.

“You’re nice,” she said quietly.

“I’m just trying to help.”

“Why?”

Steve shrugged.

“Because…because I know what it’s like to be alone.”

She nodded.

“I know.”

Steve frowned, tilted his head.

“Henry knows,” Y/N continued. Steve felt a chill down his spine. “He keeps track of everyone in Hawkins. So he knows when they’re sad. When they’re…vulnerable.”

“Like a fucked-up Santa Claus?” Steve deadpanned.

“Yes. Like Santa.”

Steve wasn’t sure if Y/N was kidding or not. She continued, “He wants to open more gates to let his monsters through, but he’s still weak. So he psychically monitors without interfering. And when he’s all better, he’ll pounce.”

“When do you think that will be?”

“Soon.”

Steve felt a shiver down his spine.

***

That night, Y/N slept fitfully.

She tossed. She turned. She removed blankets. She added more. She was in a soft bed, not a rough cot, for the first time in years, and she was safe. But she didn’t feel like it.

Henry Creel tried to reach into her mind. She could feel his icy claws as they wrapped around all her synapses and neurons, looking for something to grasp onto.

Y/N didn’t let him. She pushed him out every time. But she knew if she let her guard down too much, he would strike and try and take her back…

Or kill her.

The next morning, Y/N tried to pay attention to what Steve was saying at breakfast: something about taking her shopping to buy new clothes.

“You don’t have to do that,” she said. “I just need to get back to my grandpa’s house. He has all my things.”

Steve avoided eye contact as he cut into some pancakes. They were burned, but he’d tried his best.

“Right,” he said. “Uh, actually, we need to talk about that…”

“I don’t remember where he lives,” Y/N admitted, poking at her own breakfast with her fork. “Some memories are still just gone. But bit by bit, things are coming back to me. I remember his name is Lawrence, but he goes by Larry. I call him Grandpop.”

She closed her eyes, envisioning the home she grew up in.

“His house is made of red brick with a red door,” she continued. “There’s a hand-painted mailbox with my handprints on the outside, and…”

She startled when she felt Steve’s hand on her arm. Y/N opened her eyes. The look on Steve’s face sent worry churning through her.

“Steve?” she said, barely above a whisper. “What’s going on?”

“My friends are on their way,” he said softly. “Uh, maybe I should wait for them to get here before I…they’re better at explaining this stuff, and—”

Y/N scowled. She shoved Steve’s hand off, the sudden movement making him flinch.

She didn’t care about being invasive anymore—Y/N narrowed her eyes at Steve and wormed her way into his mind, blood rolling out of her nose.

“Wait—”

She heard it. Clear as day. Clear as a bell. The Bird’s voice from a phone call late last night, after Y/N had gone to bed: “Nancy’s Hawkins Post connections came through. But Lawrence Banes is dead. He died almost two years ago, in January 1985.”

Y/N gasped and stumbled out of her seat.

“I should’ve told you right away,” Steve said, standing as well. “But I didn’t want to upset you. I’m sorry.”

He watched the blood roll out of Y/N’s nostril, down her lip, and onto her chin. She didn’t move to wipe it away, nor did she even blink. She just stared back at him, stone-faced.

The fear that Steve had initially felt when Y/N burst into his life washed over him tenfold. He didn’t want to be afraid of her—he knew she wasn’t like Vecna, she just wasn’t—but she was grieving, and grief and anger went hand-in-hand.

After a moment, Y/N closed her eyes and sighed.

“He wouldn’t let me go,” she mumbled. “Henry…he wouldn’t let me go.” She shook her head and paced in the kitchen back, and forth. Back, and forth. “But I should’ve—I could’ve—I should’ve fought harder. Fought more to get out of there.”

“Don’t blame yourself,” Steve said.

“Who else do I blame?” she said with a hollow laugh.

“Henry! It’s his fault any of this happened to you.”

“But why!” she yelled. She let out a frustrated scream and stabbed her fork into her stack of pancakes, causing it to stand straight up. “WHY did this happen?! Why me?!?!”

Steve didn’t have a good answer for that.

Y/N stormed off. Steve heard her footsteps stomp up the stairs and the door to the guest room slam.

***

When Nancy, Robin, Jonathan, Joyce, and Hopper arrived, Steve was surprised to see a disguised, shorter person with them. The mystery figure was wearing a baseball cap, large sunglasses, and a hoodie with a scarf wrapped around their mouth and neck.

“Hey, guys,” Steve said, eyeing the figure warily.

As soon as the door to the Harrington house was closed, Hopper went through and closed all the downstairs blinds. The figure began to remove their accessories, revealing that it was Eleven.

“Where is she?” Eleven asked, eyes narrowed.

“Upstairs,” Steve said. “But she’s pretty upset. She knows about her grandfather already.”

“How?” Joyce asked.

Steve swallowed hard. “Uh…”

“Let me guess,” Jonathan said with a sigh. “She read your mind?”

“Well, yes.”

“I was afraid of that,” Nancy said.

“I want to talk to her,” Eleven said, inclining her chin slightly.

“I’m not sure that’s such a good idea.”

Eleven huffed.

“Why not? I’m the only person who can understand her. Who has been around Henry as much as she has. All those years in the Lab…”

“El’s going to check things out,” Hopper said. “Use her powers to make sure Y/N’s intentions really are good. I told her she could do that from the radio station, but—”

“We’re sisters,” Eleven said firmly. “Sisters stick together.”

Hopper didn’t look too happy about it, but he allowed Steve to lead him and El upstairs while the others waited.

“Just so you know, Harrington,” Hopper mumbled when they were on the second step from the top. “If anything happens to anyone in our group because you went on this unsanctioned rescue mission, I will kick your ass halfway to Poughkeepsie.”

Steve gulped and nodded. But he trusted Y/N. So there was nothing to worry about. Right?

He knocked on the guest room door.

“Hey,” he called. “I have some friends here who want to meet you.”

No response, but Y/N’s quiet cries could be heard through the door. It broke Steve’s heart.

“Y/N,” Eleven said. “I want to talk to you. I’m like you. Sort of.”

Again, no response. But this time, the trio heard the door unlock. Y/N opened it a crack.

“You’re Eleven,” Y/N said. She didn’t need to see the tattoo inked on the girl’s arm to know. “Or Jane. Henry talked about you.”

If this revelation surprised Eleven, it didn’t show on her face.

“Can we come in?” Eleven asked.

Y/N opened the door a little wider and turned, sitting on the window seat and looking out over the Harrington’s backyard.

Hopper and Steve went to follow Eleven into the room, but she used her powers to close and lock the door. Hopper scowled.

“Kid!” he said, pounding on the wood. “This isn’t what we agreed to!”

Eleven ignored him, wiping a nosebleed away. She sat on the edge of the bed, watching Y/N curiously.

“I know what you’re here to do,” Y/N said, not looking up. She pointed at her temple. “You want to look in here. Make sure I’m not like Henry.”

“Yes. I want to make sure my friends are safe.”

“They aren’t,” Y/N said sharply, turning to look at Eleven. “Henry is going to regain his strength. Then, he’ll come after you all. And me.”

Eleven didn’t respond for a while. Y/N turned away again.

“Go ahead,” Y/N said with a sigh. “Do your background check.”

Eleven used her powers to turn on the TV in the corner of the room. She tuned it until she saw nothing but static, heard nothing but white noise.

She retied her scarf, his time around her eyes, and entered Y/N’s mind.

Eleven saw flashes of the past three years:

Y/N, driving home and listening to the newest Duran Duran song after a date night with her boyfriend Oscar.

Something running in front of her car, causing her to crash in the woods between Hawkins and the next town over.

Her waking up in the Upside Down version of the Creel House, scared of the beastly man lurking in the corner.

Y/N in the Upside Down version of Hawkins Lab, grimacing as Henry injects her with his blood, turning her into a super-person too.

Henry Creel promising that he’ll let her go back home, “Soon,” once she was fully trained and powerful.

Y/N exploring the Upside Down, befriending the creatures there.

Henry changing his tune, locking Y/N up under the clocktower and telling the demo-creatures to attack if she tries to escape.

Y/N unable to track her Grandpop with her powers, no matter how much she tries.

Y/N successfully using her powers when she gets the sense there are new people in the Upside Down: Steve, Nancy, Robin, and a fourth person that Eleven only knows to be Eddie based on Mike, Lucas, and Dustin’s stories.

Y/N spending the past few months honing her skills, exploring the people of Hawkins, and choosing Steve to be her rescuer.

Reaching out to Steve.

Being rescued by Steve.

Y/N and Steve’s hug in the woods.

Feeling sufficiently caught up, Eleven took off her scarf and wiped blood on her sleeve. She nodded in the direction of the TV, powering it off.

“You are like me,” Eleven said, satisfied. “Not Henry.”

“I don’t have a number,” Y/N said. She rolled up the sleeve of the shirt she borrowed from Steve, showing Eleven scabbed-over pockmarks from when Henry used needles for blood transfusions. “But yes.”

“I’m sorry he did that to you,” Eleven said. She frowned and shook her head. “I wish I had never sent him to the Upside Down.”

“It’s not your fault,” Y/N said. “Like it’s not my fault that I was trapped there and my Grandpop was out here, and he…”

“I’m sorry he’s gone.”

“Thank you. It’s okay. Or, it will be.”

With that, Eleven shot Y/N a smile before heading toward the door.

She stepped into the hall, where Steve and Hopper were waiting.

“She is good,” Eleven said. “She was Henry’s victim. She told Steve the truth.”

Steve looked to Hopper. Hopper raised an eyebrow.

“Huh. Well. Looks like I’m not kicking your ass today.”

***

Y/N ventured downstairs shortly after, surprised to see so many new faces. Steve introduced her to everyone—even the ever-cranky Jonathan, who simply grunted in greeting—but before he could stop them, the group started asking Y/N questions about Vecna’s plans.

She reiterated what she’d already told Steve and Eleven: he wanted to curse more people, open more gates, and send his armies to attack the town, but he needed to wait until he was fully ready.

“Will he send the Mind Flayer after anyone else?” Joyce asked, a crease between her brows as she remembered what the Flayer did to Will merely two years prior.

Y/N shook her head.

“No need. He has plenty of creatures at his disposal.”

“Don’t like the sound of that,” Jonathan grumbled.

Y/N had a deer-in-the-headlights kind of look, prompting Steve to say, “Well, that’s enough of that for today. Shopping?”

“Is she okay to be out and about?” Hopper said, eyes narrowed. “If Sullivan’s men find her and realize who she is, they might bring her in for questioning…”

“They won’t,” Steve said firmly. “We’ll come up with a cover story. Right?”

He gave Robin a pleading look.

“Uh, right!” she said. “We can say Y/N is actually…Sparrow. My cousin from Cincinnati. Sparrow Buckley.”

“Robin and Sparrow,” Nancy said. “That’s cute!”

So it was decided. Joyce drove Hopper and the disguised Eleven back to the radio station. Jonathan, Nancy, and Robin squeezed in the backseat of Steve’s BMW, accompanying him and Y/N to the local Belk department store.

Steve had a nagging feeling it was because his friends didn’t trust her. Especially not Jonathan, who kept shooting her suspicious looks from the backseat.

Thankfully, they didn’t have to worry about anyone seeing and recognizing Y/N. The store was practically dead. Nowadays, most Hawkins residents spent their time hiding out at home, buying up weapons from the War Zone and practicing their aim at the gun range, or praying at church for the gates in town to close. Stray demodog attacks were few and fair between, but the town was still on edge.

Y/N felt a little guilty that she didn’t have her own money to pay for the clothes she picked out, but Steve waved away her concerns.

“I’ll repay you one day,” she said. She wondered if her grandfather left her an inheritance…but if she tried to collect it, would that mean the soldier Sullivan would take her away and interrogate her about Henry and the Upside Down?

“Consider it a gift,” Steve said.

“Well, then I owe you a gift!”

Steve laughed and shook his head.

“No, no. It’s really okay.”

They shared a smile. Jonathan rolled his eyes and Nancy elbowed him.

“Agh! What was that for?”

She gave him a withering look as they group headed back to Steve’s car.

***

Y/N was trying her best to acclimate to so-called normal life again, though it wasn’t all that normal due to Hawkins’ descent into a near-apocalyptic world. However, her emotions were of rollercoaster proportions as she tried to balance mourning Grandpop and giving Steve and his friends advice on how to deal with Vecna.

It didn’t help that she felt Vecna lurking in the back of her mind from time to time, trying to take over.

She pushed him out over and over, but doing so was mentally exhausting. She also didn’t sleep soundly, haunted by what she’d witnessed in the Upside Down.

Steve felt similar pressure mounting. He knew he was at the top of Vecna’s shit list for freeing Y/N. And although he no longer had to worry about Y/N bursting through his window and disrupting his sleep, he still had nightmares constantly about all the things he’d faced. About his failures—like his failure to protect Max. To protect Lucas and Erica and Dustin and Eddie, too.

“You couldn’t be in two places at once,” Robin told him once after one of their clandestine radio station meetings, when Steve opened up about how shitty he’d been feeling lately. “And you helped me and Nancy subdue Vecna. And you saved Y/N from that creep, and now she can help us kill him once and for all. You’ve done good, Steve.”

It didn’t feel like it.

He wasn’t sleeping well, and his friends were worried about him, and that made Steve feel worse about himself. And his pounding headaches were getting to be too much to bear. And there was the occasion he felt blood pooling down his lip…

Steve wasn’t delusional. After his second nosebleed, which occurred while he was brushing his teeth one night, he knew it wasn’t a fluke or a coincidence. Nosebleeds + headaches + nightmares = Vecna’s curse.

He didn��t want to worry Y/N or any of his friends, but he knew he couldn’t face this alone. And he didn’t need to. So he promised himself he would tell them first thing tomorrow morning.

Only, Steve didn’t have until morning. As soon as his head hit the pillow, he was transported to a memory…

***

November, 1983. Steve races up the stairs of the Harrington home, heading toward his room. He’s walking on air after swimming with Nancy. She’s about to come up to his room, and if she’s interested in taking their relationship up a level, Steve’s going to make a move.

He hears Nancy and Barb speaking downstairs, and Steve’s heart drops. Wait, he’s been here before. Mind like mush, Steve runs a hand through his hair and struggles to remember: what’s about to happen? Why can’t he let Barb go outside?

He hears a roar and remembers. The Demogorgon. The first one. The one that got them into this mess.

“BARB!” Steve shouts, turning on his heel and racing back downstairs. “Barb, don’t go out to the pool!”

Too late. Steve watches in horror as Barb—and Nancy!—scream and get dragged under the teal blue water of the Harrington pool by the fearsome creature, into the Upside Down.

“NO!” he yells, before ripping off his shoes and socks and diving in after them.

He’s underwater now, weightless. At the mercy of a rip tide as he’s dragged farther down—too far down to be the bottom of his pool. Steve struggles back toward the surface—

And he’s in the middle of Lover’s Lake. Eddie, Robin, and Nancy are on a rowboat in front of him, and he grabs onto the side.

“Finally, dingus!” Robin scoffs. “I told you two he was a fuck-up.”

Steve’s heart shrinks.

“Huh?”

“You were gone forever,” Nancy groans. “So useless. If Jonathan was here, he would’ve found the gate faster.”

“Hell, even I would’ve found it faster!” Eddie quips. “And I’m high right now.”

Steve feels the tug of a demobat tail around his ankle. He gasps and holds out a hand. “Rob, help me! Pull me up!”

“Nah,” Robin says. “I’m going to let the lake monster drown you, I think. You’re kind of a waste of space.”

Waste of space. Waste of space. Steve’s heard those words hurled at him before, by his father after a particularly bad report card. And again, after a failure on the basketball court. And a third time, when Steve confided in his mother that Mr. Harrington had another trip coming up, and his secretary was coming along.

The demobat pulls Steve down, down, down, into the depths.

Steve is dragged all the way to the Upside Down, same as what happened before they fought Vecna the first time. This time, it’s not a hoard of demobats waiting to greet him. No, it’s the man himself.

Steve struggles to his feet and stands tall to address the villain. “Henry Creel.”

Vecna’s lips curl into a malicious smile, much like a wild animal baring its teeth.

“Hello, Steven. I have to say, you’re much less impressive than I thought. Based on the way Y/N thinks about you, I would’ve thought you were some kind of hero or god. But you’re just pathetic.”

“You’ve been reading Y/N’s mind?” Steve asked, though he wasn’t too surprised to hear that.

“Well of course,” Vecna drawled. “After you took her from her home, I had to keep tabs. Make sure she’s all right. Try and convince her to come back, to turn on you and your equally pathetic friends…but no. She pushed me out every time. She may be too good to rule alongside me, once I take over Hawkins and then the rest of the world. It will be a grand extinction event.”

Bile rose in Steve’s throat.

“We’ll stop you!” he said, voice wavering.

“I’m sure your friends will certainly try…but you’ll be dead before they can.”

Vecna shot a hand out. Steve turned on his heel and ran across the barren, dried-out lake, dodging Vecna’s vines.

***

Y/N awoke with a start, heart skipping a beat. Something was wrong.

An off feeling settled across the room, like humidity clinging to the air. She freed herself from a tangle of blankets and stood, looking around for the source of her apprehension.

Her powers gave her slightly heightened senses, but nothing was amiss. In fact, Y/N’s mind felt a lot less cluttered than it had for weeks, as if she was physically uneasy but mentally at peace. It was funny; ever since Steve had rescued her from Henry, she’d still felt his presence, but tonight the beast wasn’t—

Y/N bolted down the hall to Steve’s room. If Henry wasn’t in her mind anymore…it didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure who he’d go after next. The person Y/N was closest to after everything happened.

“Steve!” Y/N yelled, pounding on the door. “Wake up!”

She prayed for Steve to open his bedroom door, looking groggy and pissed that she woke him from a completely normal sleep. Because that would mean he was okay and not currently being tortured in Henry’s mindscape.

She counted out five seconds before bursting inside. She let out a gasp when she saw Steve: laying on his bed with his eyes fully open, and glazed-over white.

Y/N dove for the walkie-talkie on Steve’s bedside table. “Red alert! Red alert! Henry Creel got Steve!”

A cacophony of voices greeted Y/N as his friends began to panic over the radio waves.

“Play his favorite song!” Jonathan said. “We’ll be right over.”

Y/N pressed play on Steve’s boombox, where a Paul McCartney cassette was already loaded up. But she didn’t trust the music to work on its own, not this time. Henry wanted revenge for Steve rescuing Y/N, and there was no guarantee that he still could be defeated with a few bars of a song.

Steve was in this mess because of her, so she was going to fix it, goddammit.

“I’m going in!” Y/N said. “Back in his mind, like I had been doing. I can save him!”

“Wait!” Nancy said. “Are you sure that’s—”

Y/N didn’t want to hear the rest of Nancy’s question. She pulled Steve’s desk chair next to his bed, held his hand in hers, and focused her breathing. In seconds, she was transported to the nightmare he was trapped in.

She stood in a blood-red landscape, with pieces of wood and furniture floating all around. Henry Creel had Steve tied up with vines, one hand hovering above his victim’s face. Steve winced, eyes screwed shut.

“Say goodbye, Steven,” Henry cackled.

“Get away from him!” Y/N yelled, using her powers to throw a plank of wood at the back of Vecna’s skull. He ducked and whipped around, smirking.

“You!” the monster bellowed. “I have been waiting for you to come to your senses. Return to me, sister. And apologize for abandoning me.”

“I’m not your sister!” Y/N said. “And I’m not fucking sorry. You took me from my real family. You kept me locked away! Isolated! For three fucking years!”

More debris flew toward Henry, which he sent flying back in her direction with his powers.

“Y/N!” Steve cried out. “Look out!”

She dodged the debris, just barely. What ensued was a tennis match of supernatural proportions, with the two telekinetics trying to outmatch each other. However, Y/N didn’t use her full strength on her attacks — she used a fraction of her powers to loosen those vines around Steve, hoping he’d be able to feel it and slip out of them.

The double duty caused Y/N to get tired quickly. She didn’t duck out of the way of a piece of rock in time, causing her to fall to the ground with a groan.

“Give in,” Henry said. “Or else I will kill your dear Steven.”

He raised his hand toward Steve once more. Steve grimaced in pain as the vines Y/N had psychically loosened tightened once more.

“I know how much you care for him,” Henry taunted. “How your heart beats for him.”

If Y/N wasn’t possibly concussed, she would’ve been embarrassed at Henry from exposing her crush. Instead, she came up with a new plan. Fast.

“I do care for him,” Y/N said, mind racing, “so I’ll take your deal. If you let him go—unharmed—I’ll come back to your realm…and I won’t run away again.”

“No!” Steve begged. “Don’t do it.”

“Quiet!” Henry snapped. He turned back to Y/N, an unsettling smile spreading across his features.

“That’s the correct answer,” he said. “Once you awake to Hawkins, find the nearest gate and return to your real home. Return to me.”

“Y/N, please,” Steve said, tears welling in his eyes. “I’m not worth it.”

Y/N’s heart cracked in two, hearing Steve talk about himself like that.

“You are, Steve,” she said. “I’ll be fine.”

Henry waved his hand, and a portal opened underneath Steve. He fell into it, to regain consciousness in his bedroom once more.

“We didn’t shake,” Y/N said, before Henry could wave a hand and send her back to the Harrington house, to her physical form.

“Excuse me?”

“Shake on it,” Y/N said. She held out a hand. “You know, like people do for verbal contracts?”

Henry looked at her palm with disdain, but held out his own right hand. As soon as Y/N had a grip on it, she pulled Henry to her with all her might, turning him around so his back was to her, and trapped him in a headlock.

“LET GO OF ME!!!” Henry bellowed. Before he could use telekinesis to send Y/N flying, she screwed her eyes shut and used his biggest telepathic trick against him: she pumped his mind with his own bad memories.

Memories of Nevada. Of a dank, cold cave. Of a dank, cold alternate dimension. Of returning different. Darker. An outcast, even in his own family. And then, a murderer. All at the hands of the monstrous creature that Y/N knew he served like a knight.

When Henry finally regained some semblance of control, he didn’t use his powers on Y/N. Instead, he simply shoved and stumbled a few feet away. He glowered at her.

He seemed more shaken up than Y/N had ever seen him. She would’ve felt bad, if not for all the horrible things he’d done.

“You are pathetic,” Henry snarled, quickly recovering.

“Just doing what you taught me,” Y/N said. “Invading people’s minds, finding their most vulnerable memories. Like brother, like sister, huh?”

“Don’t bother returning to me,” Henry said coldly. “We are done. When all you hold dear is wiped from the face of the planet, don’t come crawling back to me for forgiveness.”

With that, he snapped his fingers.

***

When Steve awoke in his room with a gasp, Hopper, Jonathan, Nancy, and Robin were all standing around his bed.

“Oh thank god!” Robin said, throwing his arm around Steve’s neck. “I thought you were a goner!”

“Nope, still here,” Steve said, hugging her back. “But where is—”

His heart sunk when he saw Y/N sitting in his desk chair with her eyes closed, moving back and forth under her eyelids like the pendulum of a clock. A steady nosebleed rolled off her nose. She was in a trance. Vecna’s trance.

“Huh?” Steve said. “No, she was supposed to be awake by now.”

He stumbled out of bed and shook her shoulder.

“Hey, wake up!”

“Kid, what happened?” Hopper asked.

Steve explained how Y/N had shown up and fought Vecna, and how she’d made a deal to go back to him.

“I begged her not to,” Steve said. “And now she’s still not awake, and I bet Vecna double-crossed her, and—”

Her eyes popped open, and the whole room let out a sigh of relief. Even Jonathan, who’d never been particularly fond of Y/N.

She looked up and grinned.

“You’re okay!” Y/N said, leaping up from the chair and tackling Steve in a hug. He hugged her back, holding on tightly and not wanting to let go.

“Just shaken up,” Steve said. He pulled away and gripped her shoulders. “Listen, you can’t go back to the Upside Down.”

“Steve—”

“No, let me finish!” he said frantically. All his feelings came spilling out in a big rush. “I like you a lot, Y/N. And I want you to stay. Not just to fight Vecna, but I want you to just…I don’t know, be in my life!”

“Steve, listen—”

“Oh my god, I’m coming on too strong,” Steve said, removing his hands from Y/N’s shoulders. He opened and closed his palms at his sides, looking like a deer in the headlights.

“No, it’s fine, but let me explain—”

“I like being your friend, but maybe I think sometimes that I want to be more, but please tell me to shut the fuck up if I’m—”

“Steve!” Nancy said with a laugh. “Shut up and let her talk!”

Steve shrank away from the way his friends snickered at his flustered state. Even Hopper had a smirk on his face.

He wasn’t embarrassed for too long, because Y/N reached for his hand and gave it a gentle squeeze.

“I’m not going back to him,” Y/N said. “I gave Henry a taste of his own medicine, and he doesn’t want anything to do with me anymore. I mean, he still wants to try and take over the world and kill us all, but he’s not going to take me back to the Upside Down.”

Relieved, Steve let out a breath.

“Oh. Good.”

“And all that other stuff you said…I want you in my life too, Steve.”

She gave him a quick kiss on the cheek, and Steve blushed.

“Okay, that’s our cue to leave,” Hopper said. “Glad you two are okay. Meet us at the radio station at 0800 hours tomorrow. Y/N, I want to hear how you overpowered Vecna. It could come in handy when we make our plan of attack.”

With that, the others left, Jonathan mumbling something about, “Don’t be late” on the way out. Y/N didn’t take offense, remembering how worried Jonathan sounded when Steve was in trouble, and how slightly happy he was to see her awake. He seemed to be their friend, even if he didn’t want to admit it.

Y/N knew things weren’t going to be easy for their group the next few months. But she knew they could handle whatever Henry, and the Mind Flayer, and anything else threw their way.

And maybe, just maybe, once things settled down, she could go back to having a somewhat normal life again, alongside Steve.

Maybe. Possibly. Hopefully.

⚡️⚡️⚡️

tagging those who expressed interest in this + some of my mutuals!: @aloneinthehellfire @procrastinationprincesses @thecreelhouse @roanofarcc @sunshine-daydreams0809 @somethingnonenatural @starry-eyed-steve @scaredofbeingbasic @huffledor-able541 @curiositydooropened @crappymixtape @springautumn

#ahhhhhhhhh #tbr #amanda's favorites #amanda's fic recs #steve harrington x reader #i already know um gonna love it

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curiositydooropened · 2 months ago

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Okay I read this at the yarn store, kicking and giggling and screaming the entire time.

I love this so so so so much. I already yelled at you about it but this is sooo full of emotion and hope and the writing is beautiful and UGH I LOVE IT SO MUCH!!!

P.s. - I’m the student freaking out about his glasses.

Burning Through the Pages

Summary: Steve Harrington never planned to be a college professor, but somehow, a decade after Hawkins, he’s got tenure, too many girls in the front row, and a well-worn reputation as the guy everyone secretly signs up for. He’s charming, infuriating, and cruising comfortably through faculty meetings—until you show up. The newest hire in the Education Department. Sharp-tongued, no-nonsense, and utterly unimpressed by his smirk It’s enemies to lovers. It’s “fuck you” with feeling. It’s hot copy rooms, faculty fanfic, and a battle of wills that leaves them both undone.

Warnings: Eventual explicit smut (f/m), delayed gratification, academic banter-as-foreplay, enemies-to-lovers slow burn, emotionally repressed idiots, hallway tension, power dynamics (equal, but charged), inappropriate office behavior, emotionally competent aftercare.

Read the Epilogue Here || Read the Bonus Content Here

Steve Harrington rounds the corner of McKinley Hall, leather satchel slung over one shoulder, sunglasses low on his nose. His button-down is rolled at the sleeves, collar popped just enough to look like he didn’t try too hard.

He did. He always does.

Late morning light filters through the leaves, the kind of golden glow that makes the whole campus look like a catalog. A breeze kicks up, ruffling his hair just right—effortless, even though he’d spent seven minutes with a pomade wand this morning trying to tame the one curl that always flips too high.

Girls—and guys—part like the Red Sea when he walks through the quad. Whispers trail him like perfume.

“He’s even hotter this semester.” “Do you think he has a TA? I would literally die to grade for him.” “He wore glasses last week. Glasses. Like, please, sir, ruin me and my GPA.”

He hears every word. Doesn't acknowledge a single one.

Steve smirks but keeps walking. He doesn’t look back. He never looks back. He doesn’t need to.

What started as a happy accident—subbing in for a tenured psych professor on sabbatical—turned into tenure-track real quick once the department clocked his “natural rapport with students.” Which is code, apparently, for hot and somehow competent.

He loves it. Not the attention, per se. (Okay, yes the attention.) But the rhythm of it. The power of it. The control.

He hits the steps of the faculty building, adjusting his collar, when it happens.

You.

You walk by, nose buried in a manila folder thick with class rosters, syllabi, and a color-coded planner peeking out from between pages. Coffee in hand, the kind of cup that’s been through war—stickers, Sharpie scribbles, a small scratch near the lid like it survived a desk drop. Your cardigan sleeves are shoved to your elbows, revealing ink-stained fingers and a glimpse of a tattoo along your forarm—one of those dainty ones, maybe a phrase or constellation, hard to tell from this angle.

You're muttering to yourself like you're the only one on the planet. Something about “course shells not loading” and “students emailing at 2 a.m.” Your brow is furrowed in a way that says no time for bullshit and your shoes? Comfy. Practical. Still somehow hot.

You don’t even look at him.

Steve stops mid-step.

Your lanyard swings on your neck. A new one. Still stiff and shiny. “Faculty.”

New hire, he thinks. Probably from the Education Department. Probably earnest. Probably tired.

But then you unlock a door.

And the office it reveals?

The office is a whole goddamn vibe.

The inside glows warm like a hidden reading nook in a secret corner of a vintage bookstore. There are tiny string lights looped around a cork board. A woven throw blanket draped over the arm of a loveseat. A bookshelf with color-coded spines and one leaning stack of children's books, The Velveteen Rabbit, The Napping House, and something with a cracked spine that looks like it’s been read fifty times. There’s a lava lamp. A basket of granola bars with a handwritten note:

“Take one if your brain feels like mashed potatoes.”

A candle flickers on a high shelf. (Technically against fire code. Bold.) And music —faint music—spills into the hallway as you shut the door behind you.

Steve blinks.

Great. Someone with taste, and clearly not here to fuck around.

He lingers a second too long outside your door. The air smells like bergamot and cedar. And maybe a little vanilla. He rubs the back of his neck. Mutters something about caffeine. Heads to the lounge.

And just like that, the campus heartthrob feels—off-center.

---

The folder in your arms is a chaotic stack of color-coded syllabi, annotated department memos, a crumpled sticky note that just says “DO NOT trust Chad in IT,” and a worn planner threatening to burst at the binding. The corner keeps jabbing you in the ribcage as you try to sip your lukewarm coffee without sloshing it on your sweater.

You're muttering to yourself. Not softly.

“If one more Canvas shell ‘accidentally’ deletes itself I’m going to throw my laptop into the koi pond.”

“Why are students already asking about extra credit? The semester started yesterday.”

You pass clusters of students lounging in the sun, glowing with unearned optimism and oat milk lattes. A few wave at you—the “cool new prof” buzz is starting to catch on, but mostly, you’re flying under the radar.

You're almost at your office when the air shifts.

It’s subtle. A flicker. Like walking through a sudden sunbeam. You don’t see him at first, just feel the collective ripple across the quad. The tilt of heads. The hush of whispers. That specific brand of breathless energy reserved for only two things on campus: free pizza and someone hot enough to melt a MacBook.

You glance up, and there he is. Professor Steve Harrington. Tenure-track. Psychology.

Known around campus as “Professor Panty Dropper,” though you would never say that out loud.

He’s walking across the quad like a Calvin Klein ad and a back-to-school sale had a baby. Aviators, rolled sleeves, that stupid little smirk that says he’s fully aware of every pair of eyes tracking him like a migrating sun god.

And not just students. The woman from HR tripped over her stapler when he leaned across the printer last week.

He’s the kind of handsome that should come with a warning label. Probably smug. Probably has a signature cologne. Probably thinks the faculty lounge is his runway.

You… do not have time for that.

Your office is around the corner and the door sticks unless you hip-check it just right. You bump it open, nudging in backward with your shoulder, coffee still miraculously upright. A breeze chases in behind you, lifting the edge of your curtain.

Inside, it smells like cedar, lemon balm, and ambition.

Fairy lights blink to life as the door swings shut behind you. You toss the folder onto your couch, tap your Bluetooth speaker, something alt rock humming low, and breathe in your space.

It’s small, but alive. There’s personality here. A lava lamp burbles on the corner shelf. Your bookshelf is stacked with children’s lit and theory texts, paperbacks and worn journals. One shelf is dedicated entirely to tiny thrift store figurines of frogs and foxes. You tell people it’s a mindfulness collection. Really, they just make you happy.

You light your “cozy stormy evening” candle (yes, it has a crackling wick, yes, it’s against code, no, you don’t care).

And then for a split second you feel it. A presence outside your door. Lingering. You don’t have to look.

It’s him.

Because of course the campus Adonis can’t resist curiosity. But you don’t give him the satisfaction. You let the door click shut. Let him wonder. Let the song with the wicked guitar riff keep playing. You kick off your shoes, settle into your chair, and smirk to yourself. “Heartthrob Harrington, huh? Cute.”

But you? You’ve got lessons to write, freshmen to wrangle, and a strict no-fraternization policy—with your dignity.…Probably.

Later that week, you find yourself in the faculty lounge mid-morning, between classes. It smells like burnt coffee and academic disillusionment. Beige walls. Beige chairs. Beige energy. A sad vending machine hums in the corner like it’s dying slowly.

Steve pushes open the door to the lounge, a half-empty mug in one hand and the confident slouch of a man who never brings his own lunch. He’s already mid-text with his TA (who's begging to switch to online office hours again—coward), when he hears a laugh.

Not a polite laugh. Not a forced, colleague laugh.

A real one. Low, warm. Kind of musical.

You're standing at the coffee counter, staring down the sad excuse for a Keurig like it's personally offended you. Your sleeves are rolled, again. That same pen is tucked behind your ear. There's a new pin on your cardigan that says “Born to teach, forced to grade”

He smirks. Leans against the counter next to you. “You know the coffee’s been dead since 2012, right?”

You don’t flinch. Don’t giggle. Don’t even glance at him right away. Instead, you casually add a comical amount of powdered creamer to the cup. “Cool. I’ll embalm it, then drink it out of spite.”

He blinks.

You finally look up and your eyes don’t do that thing. That thing where they go wide and starstruck and thirsty. You clock him like he’s just… there. Present. Human. In your peripheral.

“You’re the psych guy, right? Harrington?”

He straightens a little. Not because he's flustered. (Okay. A little flustered.)

“Steve. Yeah.”

“Right.” You stir your disaster coffee. “I’m…New this semester. Education.”

You extend your hand and introduce yourself. Firm shake. Cool fingers.

“Nice to meet you, Steve.”

Not Professor Harrington. Not Oh my god, I’ve heard so much about you! Just Steve. Like he’s some adjunct in khakis and a lanyard, not the main character in every psych major’s late-night fantasy.

He watches as you lean on the counter, sipping your tragic little drink like it’s the elixir of life.

“So,” you add, eyeing him over the rim. “You always get followed by an entourage of undergrads, or is that a syllabus week thing?”

And god help him, he laughs. Actually laughs. Caught. Red-handed. Ego dented.

“It’s… a thing,” he admits. “I try not to encourage it.”

“Mm.” You raise a brow. “Try harder.”

---

You don’t mean to enjoy the way his jaw ticks when you say that.

Okay, you do.

You knew who he was, obviously. The moment you walked onto campus, students were whispering about him like he was a myth. Like he wasn’t just a thirty-something in tailored pants that were just snug enough you hesitated to question their appropriateness. With movie star hair and the smuggest dimples you’ve ever seen.

But now, standing next to him in this godforsaken excuse for a lounge, you realize something: he doesn’t know what to do with you. You’re not impressed. You’re not intimidated. And worst of all? You see right through him.

So you smile - slow, lazy, like you’ve got nowhere to be and all the time in the world to keep him guessing.

“Well,” you say, rinsing out your cup, “enjoy the groupies, Harrington. Try not to break too many hearts this semester.”

You turn to leave. Toss a wink over your shoulder. “And don’t steal my granola bars. I count them.”

He watches you go like he’s not entirely sure what just happened. You don’t even look back. You never look back. You don’t need to.

He stands there in silence for a few seconds, a little dumbfounded. Shit.

This particular Wednesday afternoon, the Campus Center conference room is packed to the gills with first-years. You’ve been “voluntold” to join a faculty mentorship panel and of course Steve’s on the panel too. He agreed because he thought it would be low stakes and high praise.

And as he will quickly find out, it is neither.

Steve drops into the conference room chair with the casual flair of a man who fully expected to be the most interesting person here. His name card is perfectly angled. His shirt fits just right. He consciously buttoned up his shirt one more than usual, for the freshman’s sake. He plants one ankle over his knee. Casual but composed. His smile’s already dialed in at 65% charm, 25% intellect, 10% effortless heat.

He’s ready.

He’s got a few solid anecdotes locked and loaded about student success, mindfulness, and how office hours are important but boundaries are sexy—he means, necessary. A story about a kid who discovered cognitive psychology through a breakup. A bonus quip about coffee dependency, if it feels right.

This is his arena.

Then you walk in.

Late—but not flustered. Smirking like you already know you’re going to own the room. You’ve got a legal pad under one arm and a novelty cup that reads “This Might Be Wine” in sparkly font. Your hair’s up, barely, in one of those messy knots that looks like it took three seconds and still somehow makes you look put together. Your cardigan sways when you move, and you’re wearing those little earrings again—pencils today. Last time? Moons.

You greet the moderator by name. Thank the admin. You nod at Steve like he’s a familiar bench on a walking trail—recognizable, comfortable, unremarkable.

And then—you sit next to him. Of course you do.

Your knee bumps his under the table. You don’t pull back. He doesn’t breathe.

“Just so I’m clear,” you murmur, eyes on the moderator, voice honey-smooth, “this is the part where we all pretend we have our shit together, right?”

He glances at you. You don’t look back.

“Speak for yourself,” he says, smile sharp.

“Oh, I am.” You sip your coffee. Cross your legs. Settle in like you own the goddamn floor.

The panel starts. It’s a blur of pleasantries and awkward icebreakers. Steve’s distracted. Normally, he loves this shit—being asked for advice, watching students lean in when he drops something inspirational, tossing in the occasional wink that leaves half the back row short-circuiting.

But today? Today, he’s watching you.

You field the first question like it’s a beach ball lobbed underhand. You're warm, relatable, but disarming in your honesty. You admit that sometimes you forget to eat lunch. That grading makes you question your life choices. That you once cried in your car over a printer jam—but you still believe teaching is the most powerful thing a person can do.

The crowd? In the palm of your hand. You speak like you're letting them in on a secret. And Steve’s left gripping his chair, trying not to visibly squirm.

Then it’s his turn.

He speaks—well, objectively. He’s charming. Polished. Drops the right buzzwords. Tells the story about the heartbroken psych major.

But something’s off. You’re too calm. Too quiet. Too still. Nodding with just enough delay to make it unclear if you’re agreeing or letting him spiral.

He speeds up. Talks more. Tries harder. And then—you do it.

A student asks a follow-up question—his question—and you jump in. Not rudely. Not competitively. Just with this smooth, practiced, lived-in ease.

“Actually, that reminds me of something that happened last semester—”

You tell a story. Quick. Funny. Undercut with a punch of emotion and just enough vulnerability to make it land. The students laugh. One of them claps.

You turn to Steve, touch his arm like punctuation. “Sorry, didn’t mean to hijack. I just get excited.”

You don’t even look sorry.

And Steve? He is losing. His. Fucking. Mind.

---

You feel him unraveling like a cassette tape in a too-hot car and it’s delicious.

You don’t say that out loud, of course. But you can feel it. That tightness behind his easy grin. The tiny pause before he responds when you raise your eyebrow. The way he’s blinking a little too fast and shifting in his seat like his shirt suddenly doesn’t fit right.

You didn’t do anything cruel. You were just you. Which, lately, is enough.

It’s not that you try to get under his skin. You’re just existing. Thriving, really. Which seems to offend the natural order of Steve Harrington’s universe.

You caught his whole vibe the second you sat down. Tthe twitch in his jaw, the way he adjusted his sleeve twice, then again. The overly casual slouch that’s now bordering on orthopedic discomfort. He smelled like cedar and expensive laundry detergent when you passed him. He smelled…nervous when you sat down.

You knew his type. You were warned about him, in the way that other professors warn you about the broken heater on the third floor or the feral raccoon that haunts the dumpsters.

“Oh, and avoid falling in love with Harrington. Everyone does eventually.”

You didn’t listen. You just didn’t care. Because what’s the fun in handing someone power they clearly expect?

So you sipped your coffee, played your part, and smiled at the students. Told them about your ugly crying in the supply closet. About how real leadership sometimes means admitting you don’t know the answer but you’ll figure it out together.

And when you touched Steve’s arm? That was for you.

Now, as the panel wraps and students swarm the edge of the room with thank-yous and questions, you catch a few lingering near him. But more than a few come to you. One asks about your playlist. Another wants to know where your cardigan’s from.

Steve’s watching. You can feel it. Burning at the edges of your awareness like a sun flare. You turn to him only once the room starts to clear.

“You okay there, Professor Harrington? You look like you just got hit by a bin full of ungraded midterms.”

His stare is sharp. Heated. His voice low, quiet, nearly clenched between teeth.

“You know you’re kind of infuriating, right?”

You smile. God, you love being right.

“Good. I’d hate to be forgettable.”

You wink - again, always just teetering on the edge of too much and walk away.

Not looking back. You don’t need to.

He’s still sitting there, in the wake of your personality, eyebrows scrunched and rubbing his temples. Jesus Christ, I’m gonna marry her or punch a wall.

It’s late, and you're tucked in the reprieve of The Resource Library for the night. It’s a quiet, dimly lit little faculty-only zone with overstuffed chairs, creaky floorboards, and the kind of hushed atmosphere that makes every pen click sound like a gunshot. You’re settled in and you smirk at the muffled commotion you hear through the heavy paned windows, students shouting at each other as they make their way to the bar for the night. Thirsty Thursday and all.

Steve enters the resource library with a stack of essays under one arm and a jawline so tight it could cut glass. He wasn’t looking for you.

Okay. He was.

He knew you sometimes graded here in the evenings. He’d seen the light under the door once—warm and flickering, like you’d lit a fireplace with your bare hands—and now it’s burned into his memory like a fever dream. He tells himself he needs the quiet. The focus. The printer…whatever.

But when he opens the door and sees you? Legs curled under you. Sweater slipping off one shoulder. A pen tucked behind your ear and something straight out of Warped Tour 2006 humming low from your phone speaker. You’re highlighting something in a copy of Pedagogy of the Oppressed and nodding along like you’re absorbing it.

And there’s only one goddamn chair left.

Of course.

You glance up. “Wow. You made it out of your leather throne and into the wild.”

He bites back a groan. “Didn’t realize this was your private lounge.”

“Oh it’s not.” You smile sweetly. “I just don’t usually have company that radiates… fragile masculinity and bergamot.” You say it without venom. Too casually. That’s the worst part.

He lowers himself into the chair across from you. The arm creaks. His knee bumps the table.

“You’ve got a sharp tongue for someone who owns a frog figurine shrine.”

“That’s sacred, actually.”

“You should label it. For when they put your office in a museum. ‘Local chaos witch with excellent taste in cardigans.’”

You don’t blink. You just keep reading.

And Steve? Steve is falling apart.

---

He’s spiraling. Again.

You instantly clock the way he fidgets. How he shifts his weight, rakes a hand through his hair like it betrayed him, clicks his pen three times before remembering to unclick it.

He’s trying so hard to seem casual. But there’s nothing casual about the way he keeps glancing up. Like he’s waiting for you to break. To crack. To swoon, or stammer, or finally lean forward and whisper something breathless like, “I get it now. You’re irresistible.”

You don’t. You won’t.

Instead, you underline a passage and speak without looking up “You know, most people who live off student adoration eventually plateau. It’s science. Diminishing returns.”

“You think that’s what this is? A cry for help?”

“I think you don’t know what to do when someone sees you coming a mile away.”

That gets him.

He exhales sharply. Leans back in his chair like it’s trying to restrain him. The air shifts. The banter slows. There's a second where neither of you says anything. And it hums. Like the bass line of a song that’s about to drop.

You finally look up. Your eyes meet.

It’s electric.

“What is it you want from me, Steve?” You say it plainly. No challenge. No flirt. Just the question, dropped between you like a lit match.

He stares. And for a second, he almost answers. But then? He smirks. Shrugs. And lies. “Just borrowing the printer.”

Coward.

The semester is full swing and it’s Friday evening - the semi-annual faculty mixer. An annual event held in the campus art gallery, it's surprisingly refined. Jazz trio in the corner, string lights overhead, mini crab cakes and charcuterie on trays. Plus…the wine is free.

You arrive fashionably late, because of course you do.

You trade your usual cardigan for a slouchy black blazer and a silk camisole, hair down for once, lips just barely tinted berry. Not to impress. Just to remind the world that yes, you can. You float through the gallery like a whispered rumor. Something light and unbothered. The kind of presence that makes people check their posture.

The Education Dean beams at you. A biology professor asks what scent you’re wearing. You flirt with the appetizer table and offer a slow, purring “thank you” when a visiting adjunct says he loved your article on emergent curriculum.

And then you feel it. Like heat behind glass. Like a summer storm rolling in on silent feet.

Steve Harrington is watching you.

Across the room. One hand in his pocket, the other holding a drink he hasn’t touched. Black button-down rolled at the elbows. Hair tousled like he tried to look like he didn’t try. The exact kind of effort you now recognize as desperate control.

He doesn’t move. So you do. You loop your arm through the adjunct’s, just casually. Just friendly. Laugh a little louder than usual at something not that funny. You don’t even look at Steve. You don’t have to.

He’s vibrating. You can feel it from twenty feet away. So when he finally approaches, posture tight, eyes slightly narrowed. You’re ready.

“Fancy seeing you out of your natural habitat,” you purr, swirling your drink.

“You mean my throne of desperation and first-year psych majors?”

“I mean your office with the tiny couch and the ego to match.”

You sip. He fakes a laugh.

“Making friends tonight?” he asks, nodding toward the adjunct, who’s since been absorbed by a conversation about fungi and academic burnout.

“Something like that.” You arch a brow. “Why? Jealous?”

“Of an adjunct named Greg who quoted Nietzsche with spinach in his teeth? Sure. Terrified.”

“Mm. Thought so.”

You let the silence stretch. Let the tension thrum. And then you lean in, voice velvet-smooth, just loud enough for him to hear “You always this easy to rile up, Harrington?”

He exhales through his nose. His jaw flexes. You can see the war happening in real time—charm battling pride, attraction strangled by ego.

“Only when someone’s doing it on purpose.”

Your smile is sweet. A weapon.

“Good. I’d hate to think all this unraveling was accidental.”

---

He is not okay.

He’s on his third glass of pinot and his fourth imagined fantasy of pulling you into the supply closet just to wipe that look off your face. Not even a sexy look.

Worse. It’s amused. It’s the look you give someone trying too hard. A toddler with jam on their face insisting they didn’t touch the jar.

He watches you flit through the mixer like it’s your stage. Like the night exists to orbit you. And goddammit it does.

Your laugh? Fucking illegal. Your hair down? Criminal. The way your blazer slides off your shoulder like it doesn’t even know it’s misbehaving? A personal attack.

He should walk away. Should retreat. Should win. Instead, he follows. Because he’s already lost. And when you look at him like you’ve already got him pegged?

You do.

“You always this easy to rile up, Harrington?”

“Only when someone’s doing it on purpose.”

“Good. I’d hate to think all this unraveling was accidental.”

He swallows hard. Wants to say something clever. Something cutting. But the truth hits him like a wine glass shattering in slow motion.

He likes this.

He likes the taunting. The chase. He likes you treating him like a puzzle instead of a prize. And that? That scares the shit out of him.

Last time you checked your watch it said 9:42 PM. The office wing is mostly dark. The desks are littered with energy drink cans and half-eaten granola bars. You don’t notice he’s there until you hear the door click shut.

You’re on the floor of your office, barefoot, cardigan tossed over your chair. There’s a half-empty box of tissues, three cold coffees, and a student portfolio spread out like battlefield debris.

You haven’t cried. Not technically. But your eyes are hot. Your neck aches. You’ve rewritten the same feedback note four times and every version feels wrong.

“Didn’t peg you for the collapse-in-the-dark type.” His voice is soft. Too soft.

You look up. Steve’s standing in your doorway, sleeves pushed to his elbows, backpack slung casually off one shoulder. There’s a half-smile on his face—but not his usual weaponized one. This one’s tired. Curious. Worried.

You roll your neck, trying to summon a quip. Nothing comes. “Didn’t peg you for the stalker-who-lingers-after-hours type,” you finally mutter.

“You’re lucky I’m hot, then,” he says. But it’s reflexive. Hollow.

He steps in, closes the door behind him. That makes it feel too real.

“What happened?” he asks, eyes sweeping the mess of your desk. Your floor. Your face.

You hesitate. Not because you don’t want to tell him, but because if you start—you might not stop.

You reach for a student essay. Hold it up. “She plagiarized her final. Her whole paper. And she’s the one who calls me ‘her safe person.’ She brings me tea. Leves notes. I was gonna write her a rec letter.”

He says nothing. You swallow. “And I don’t even care that she cheated. I just—”

Your voice catches. “I feel like I’m constantly giving everything I have to everyone else, and there’s just nothing left for me. And I keep doing it anyway, like some idiot academic martyr with a Pinterest office.”

You laugh, but it’s sharp.

Ugly.

Real.

And you hate how quiet he is.

You expect pity. Or worse—comfort. The kind that makes you feel small.

But instead—

---

He’s never seen you like this.

Not controlled. Not cocky. Not laced with irony or caffeine or your signature brand of bite me but make it witty.

You look tired. Really tired. And so fucking human. Something twists in his gut. He thought he wanted to crack your armor just to see what was underneath. Turns out? What’s underneath makes his chest hurt.

“Can I say something?” he asks.

You glance at him. You’re curled on the floor like a study break ghost, face streaked with the beginnings of not-quite-tears, fingers gripping the corner of a highlighted rubric like it wronged you personally.

“You scare the shit out of me.”

That makes your eyes flick up. That gets your attention.

“You walk into rooms like you’re already ten steps ahead of everyone. You don’t fawn. You don’t perform. You don’t need anyone to tell you you’re good—you just are.”

He kneels across from you now. Elbows on his knees. Voice low. “And I’ve spent so long being the one with the spotlight, I didn’t know what to do when you didn’t hand it to me. And now…”

He stops. Swallows.“Now I think you’re the only person I actually want to see me.”

You blink. The silence swells. Too full. Too vulnerable. So you do the only thing you can do. You break it.

“God,” you groan, dropping your head against your file cabinet. “That was disgustingly sincere.”

He barks a laugh. Real. Loud. Relieved. “Shut up. I’m evolving.”

“Into a thoughtful adult man? I liked you better when you were mad about your TA ignoring you.”

“I am still mad about that,” he mutters. “But also now I’m mad that I want to fix everything for you and I can’t.”

You look at him.

Really look.

He’s sitting cross-legged on your office rug, hair messy, face open. For once, he’s not playing a role. Not flirting. Not managing a brand.

He’s just here.

And that? That’s new

You haven’t spoken since Thursday night.

Not really. Just a clipped nod in the hall. A shared smirk during a joke about burnout. But you haven’t met his eyes. Not like that. And it’s driving Steve insane. At this point, it’s Monday afternoon and you’ve all just come from your respective division meetings. He’s trailing you down the hall. You’re not exactly avoiding him. But you’re not making it easy, either.

He keeps replaying it—the way your voice cracked, the way your hands trembled when you held that essay, the way you let him see you for one slivered second before you buried it all back under your wit and your warpaint.

Now he’s trailing behind you like a lovesick intern, watching the sway of your blazer and the curl of your fingers around your folder.

You stop by the mailroom. He catches up, heart hammering for no good reason. “You good?”

You don’t turn. “Fine.”

He clears his throat. Steps closer. Lowers his voice.“I meant… from the other night.”

You pause. Turn just enough to look at him over your shoulder. The look you give him could sharpen knives. “Oh, that?” you say lightly. “That was just a midterm meltdown. Happens to the best of us.”

You wink. And just like that—you’re back.

Unshakable. Unmoved. Fucking infuriating.

He should back off. Should let it drop. But instead he presses. “You ever let anyone help you?”

You cock your head. “Sure. All the time. They just never make it past the interview.”

He chokes on a laugh. Jesus.

You brush past him toward the copier. You don’t invite him to follow.

He does anyway.

---

You know he’s following you. You could feel it like a spark pressed against your spine. You shouldn’t bait him. You shouldn’t. But something about his presence sets your nerves buzzing in the most dangerous way.

You lean over the copier. Hit the wrong button twice on purpose. His shadow falls across your side.

“You’re hovering,” you murmur.

“I’m helping.”

“Are you?”

You turn to face him—too close now, your hip grazing the edge of the copier, his arm practically brushing yours. The air feels thick. Still. Like you’re both underwater and waiting to see who breaks the surface first.

He watches your mouth. He’s not subtle about it.

“You keep looking at me like you want something, Harrington.”

His breath catches. “And I keep waiting for you to admit it.” His eyes flicker. His soft mouth parting, chest rising, that one heartbeat away from something unforgivable.

You could kiss him.

You could ruin both of you. But instead, you lean in. Real close. Lips almost to his ear. “Go home, Steve.”

A pause. “Take care of it yourself.”

Then you walk away. Again you don’t look back. Again you don’t need to.

He stares at the ceiling. Shirt half-off. Sweat clinging to the hollow of his throat. Mouth parted like he’s still trying to catch up to what the hell just happened.

You’re all he can think about.

Your voice. Your mouth. The way you said his name like it was a weapon and a warning and a promise you had no intention of keeping tonight.

His cock is hard—throbbing in his pants—pressing against the band of his sweats like it’s angry with him for walking away.

He palms himself through the fabric, groaning quietly into the dark.

He shouldn’t. He knows he shouldn’t. But you told him to.

“Go home and take care of it, Harrington.”

And he’s never been so obedient in his goddamn life.

He pushes his sweats down, his fist already wrapping around himself like muscle memory, slicking over the head, dragging his hand down the length with a hiss that sounds like your name.

He strokes slowly at first. Controlled. Like he’s punishing himself for not staying. Like he deserves this ache. He squeezes harder.

Thinks about the way you might taste if he kissed you. Like coffee and fire and something he still hasn’t earned.

He’s imagining that you kissed him. Hard. Unapologetic. A kiss with your hands in his hair, maybe even tangled up with your thighs brushing his hips. He thinks you might grind against him. Fuck, that grind. It would be burned into his skin like a tattoo.

He jerks harder now, eyes shut tight, your voice echoing in his head.

His hips lift into his fist, thighs tensing, body coiled with tension that no fantasy can quite shake.

“Fucking hell,” he breathes. “You’ve got me so—fuck—”

His stomach tightens. He can feel it—close, fast, coming apart like a thread being pulled from the inside. “Say it again.”

“Keep going.” He commands no one at all. Your voice is everywhere. And when he comes, it’s with a sharp, breathless grunt, his whole body curling in on itself, hand clenching, back arching like the release physically hurts.

Hot, messy streaks paint across his stomach, onto his shirt. He barely notices. He just lies there, one arm flung over his eyes, breathing heavy. His cock twitching against his stomach, still half-hard, because one orgasm is not enough to get you out of his system.

It never is.

It never will be.

---

On the edge of campus, you finally shove through your front door and it clicks shut. The silence hits like a slap.

You lean back against the door, jaw clenched, fists tight at your sides.

You should feel smug. You left him clearly wanting. But you’re the one with soaked underwear and trembling thighs.

So…who really won?

You stalk to your bedroom, muttering curses under your breath. Strip your shirt. Toss it. Peel off your jeans with furious efficiency. You don’t even make it under the covers, instead you just drop back onto your bed, legs spread, chest heaving.

You drag your pan“Fucking Harrington,” you mutter. “Asshole.”

You circle your clit hard. No pretense. No warmup. It’s pure damage control—get off, get over it, and get some fucking sleep.

But your breath still stutters because you imagine the sound he might make if you bit his jaw. You imagine the way his hips would roll against you like he was already fucking you through two layers of clothing.

You rub faster.

Deeper.

Your other hand fists in the sheets. You picture him sprawled out on his bed right now—shirt half-off, pants shoved down, hand working over his cock because you told him to.

The thought makes your stomach flip.

You imagine him groaning into the dark, jerking off to the thought of your mouth, your body, your voice in his ear telling him to be a good boy and go take care of it himself.

“Yeah,” you whisper bitterly. “Me too.”

You push two fingers inside and grind your palm against your clit. It’s messy. Fast. Almost angry.

Your back arches. Your toes curl.You clench around your hand and come with a ragged gasp that you immediately swallow—because fuck him if he ever gets to know how good you just made yourself feel thinking about him.

You lie there sweating. Unsatisfied. Still fucking pissed.

You wipe your hand on the sheet and roll onto your side.

“Go take care of it, Harrington,” you mutter into the pillow. “Not the only one who did.”

You did it again. You weren’t planning on staying late, but here you are.

Tonight your grading pile was taller than usual. Your neck ached. Your playlist looped twice. And you hadn’t eaten since breakfast. So when you wandered into the café and found the lights on, you didn’t ask questions. You just slipped into the corner booth and unbuttoned the top of your blouse. Not for anyone else. For you. To breathe.

You didn’t expect him to walk in five minutes later.

Steve freezes like he didn’t expect you either. He’s in a hoodie—rare—and joggers. Hair messy. Phone forgotten in his pocket. He looks like he’s just come from a run, or like he’s been pacing his apartment all night and finally gave up.

Your mouth parts. Something behind your ribs stirs. He doesn’t say anything at first. Just walks over. Drops into the seat next to you like he’s out of lifelines. “I couldn’t sleep,” he says.

You nod. Don’t ask why.

“I keep thinking about that night. In your office.”

You glance down. Your hand tightens around your mug.

“You were real with me for, like, four minutes, and then you put the mask back on.”

You bristle—but not because he’s wrong.

“Yeah? And you’ve been real for how long, Harrington? You want a medal for not flirting for twenty minutes?”

He flinches and looks down. Suddenly you’re exhausted. Not just physically. Emotionally. You drop your voice. Let it crack. “I’m tired of holding everything together. Of pretending this job, this ego, this game doesn’t eat me alive some days.”

He looks up. Slowly. The cocky glint is gone. “Same.”

And it’s the way he says it - soft, almost broken - that makes your stomach twist.

He didn’t come here to cry.

He didn’t come here to beg.

But the moment he sees you with your hair messy, blouse loosened and exhaustion etched into the curve of your mouth, he knows he can’t keep up the act. Not tonight.

He sees the way your shoulders tense. Sees the way you don’t deflect.

Progress.

But when you shoot back—sharp, tired, true—he realizes something: You’re not untouchable. You’re just surviving. Like him. Only quieter.

He exhales. Laughs—but it’s dry. Cracked open. “You want to know something pathetic?”

You look at him. No smirk. Just waiting.

“I don’t think anyone’s ever seen me. Not really. They like the version I give them. The smart, hot, chill guy with the tragic eyes. But that night when you looked at me like I was just… a guy…I didn’t know what to do with it.”

You don’t answer. You just slide your mug to the side and rest your hand on the table. Open. Neutral.

A peace offering.

He stares at it for a beat. Then reaches out. Not a grab. Not a grope. Just a simple, grounding touch. Fingers brushing yours.

---

You let him touch you.

Just barely. Just enough.

And when you speak, your voice is hoarse.

“You keep trying to be impressive. And I keep trying to be untouchable. We’re both full of shit.”

He huffs a laugh.“So what now?”

“Now,” you say, “we stop pretending.”

The air pulses. Slow. Charged. And then, just like that, you’re kissing him.

It’s not soft. Not sweet. Not polite. It’s months of tension, sarcasm, vulnerability, almosts crashing all at once. His hands thread into your hair. Yours tug his hoodie like you’re afraid he’ll vanish if you don’t anchor him to something real.

He kisses like a man who thought about this too often, too long, too alone.

And you? You kiss like a woman who stopped trying to win and started needing.

It goes on for honestly, far too long. After some time, you find yourself a little breathless, foreheads still pressed together when you finally speak.

“I still want to ruin you,” you whisper.

He grins. Chest heaving. Hair wrecked. “You already did.”

He knocks before entering now.

Which is wild. Because before? He used to just stroll in like your space belonged to him.

Now he pauses. Waits. Adjusts the coffee tray in his hand like it’s a peace offering. Or a gift to the gods.

You look up from your laptop, glitter gel pen in your mouth, brows furrowed. Barefoot again. That little woven throw blanket around your shoulders like you’re the spirit of overworked professors past.

You nod toward the chair without speaking. He takes the cue.

Sits. Quiet. No smirk. No lines. Just the coffee.

“Got you the weird oat milk thing,” he says.

You hum in acknowledgment. Sip it without looking.

He watches you read. Watches the way your eyes move. Watches the way your lips part when you’re processing something. He should say something.

Instead, he just breathes. And something in him—something unfamiliar—settles.

He’s comfortable. Which should scare him. It should send every red flag up, every muscle in his body screaming run, asshole, this is feelings—

But instead? He closes his eyes. Lets the silence stretch.

---

He’s not saying anything.

And that, somehow, says everything.

You expected him to push. To nudge the line again, cocky and smug and desperate to reclaim ground. But he’s not. He’s just… there. And it’s unnerving.

You’ve never had to figure out what to do with a man who doesn’t demand space. Who just occupies it. He’s being warm and magnetic and so obviously trying not to make it weird.

You glance over your laptop. He’s leaned back in the chair, legs sprawled, fingers drumming on his thigh. Eyes closed like he’s finally stopped performing. Like the show’s over and he’s just Steve now.

It makes your chest feel tight.

You clear your throat. “You know you haven’t hit on me in like... twenty-four hours.”

His eyes open. He looks at you. Llazy, soft. “That a complaint?”

You smile. Small. Crooked. “Just an observation.”

“I can pick it back up if it’s part of your wellness routine.”

“Nah. I think I like this version.”

His brows raise. “This version?”

“The one who sits quietly. Doesn’t flirt. Brings oat milk like some kind of reformed frat boy.”

“Rude.”

“Accurate.”

You both smile. It's small. Safe. And under the safety, there’s tension. Not the usual brand. Not the "press me to the wall and bite my shoulder" kind. This one’s quieter. Heavier. Like a whisper brushing the back of your neck.

He leans forward, elbows on his knees. “You know I’ve never done this before, right?”

You tilt your head.“Done what?”

“This.” He gestures between you. “The… slow thing.”

“Oh. You mean restraint.”

“I mean not fucking someone the second I want them.” He says it so bluntly, so plainly, it lands like a gut punch.

You blink. The air goes still. “And how’s that working out for you?”

He stares at you. Serious. Unflinching. “It’s killing me.”

You sip your coffee. Unbothered. “Good.”

But behind your eyes? You’re soaked in want. In fear. In maybe. Because this version of him—the one who waits, who breathes in your space, who doesn’t take what isn’t freely given? He’s becoming real. And real is dangerous.

He doesn’t touch himself tonight.

He thinks about it. Of course he does. About your voice, your breath, the way you licked a little foam off your thumb without noticing.

But he doesn’t. Because this craving isn’t just physical anymore. It’s personal. And he doesn’t want to use it. He kind of wants to earn it.

You weren’t supposed to invite him in. You were supposed to take the food, say thank you, maybe touch his wrist with a lingering hand, and then shut the door like a well-behaved woman with excellent boundaries. But you’d been tired. The light was nice. And he looked so… uncomplicated with his hood up and a paper bag of Thai food clutched like a peace treaty.

So now he’s on your couch. Grading with his legs spread too wide, his hoodie half-zipped, hair a little messy. There’s a purple pen tucked behind his ear that isn’t his and chopsticks resting in his mouth like he forgot they were there. He keeps making tiny noises when a student says something smart and you hate how much you love it.

“This kid gets it,” he says, tapping the paper. “I might cry.”

“Don’t ruin my couch. It’s vintage.”

“You say that like I don’t respect antiques.”

“You say that like you’re not an antique dealer’s worst nightmare.”

He laughs. Leans his head back. Exposes his throat.

You don’t look. Except you do.

You sip your tea to distract yourself. Burn your tongue. Pretend you didn’t.

The silence grows. Stretching into something else. Something hungry.

And then your fingers brush his. Reaching for the same pen… The one behind his ear. The one that’s yours.

He doesn’t move. Neither do you. It’s such a small thing. Such a stupid, harmless little thing, but you can feel it. In the charge. In the shift. In the way the air tightens.

You look at him. He’s already looking at you.

---

He should pull away. He should. But your fingers are warm. And your gaze? Bare. Not amused. Not taunting. Just… open.

He hasn’t seen you like this since your office. And this time, you’re inches from his mouth.

He wants to touch you.

Not to fuck you. To feel you.

He wants to place his hand on the back of your neck and breathe you in. Wants to press his mouth to the place just below your ear and wait for you to say yes.

“Say it,” you whisper.

His brows knit.“Say what?”

“Whatever’s sitting behind your teeth like it’s trying to crawl out.”

He swallows.

Hard.

“You undo me,” he says. Voice gravel-soft.

“Good,” you whisper. “Maybe I’ll get to see what’s underneath.”

---

The line stretches. Taut.

You’re breathing too loud. The tea’s gone cold. And your hand? Still against his. You should move. You don’t. Instead, you say “If you kiss me now, it’ll matter.”

He flinches like you hit him. And maybe you did. “I know,” he says.

His eyes drop to your mouth. Flicker. Linger. Then—He pulls back. Not far. Just an inch. Maybe less. But enough. And it hurts.

Not because he rejected you, but because he heard you.

Because he listened. Because he meant it.

You nod - slowly - and go back to grading. Like you didn’t just almost change everything.

The faculty parking lot is deserted at this hour. It’s late and everything is rain-soaked but tonight you just finished chaperoning a student showcase together. It was cute. It was fun. It felt like a date. And now you’re standing in the blue-black quiet of night, under the buzz of a dying streetlamp. There’s no one else left. Just you. And him.

He’s soaked.

Not dramatic-romance-movie soaked. Just enough for his hoodie to cling to his chest and for his curls to frizz at the edges. He should be annoyed. But he’s not. Not really. You’re laughing with arms wrapped around yourself, raindrops beading along your jaw, and he’d stand in a goddamn hurricane if it meant seeing that smile again.

“You let a freshman tell you his poem made him cry and then gave him your umbrella,” you say, nudging him as you both head to the far corner of the lot. “You’re such a sap.”

“I’m a mentor.”

“You’re a mess.”

“You’re not wrong.”

Your laughter fades, but the warmth doesn’t. It hangs there—between you. Like fog on glass.

And he can’t do this anymore. He stops walking.

You take two more steps before realizing he’s not beside you. You turn. Brows lifted. “Harrington?”

“I can’t keep pretending this doesn’t mean something.” The words are out before he can filter them. Bare. Ugly. Real.

You blink. Caught. “Steve—”

“No. Let me—just—” He runs a hand through his wet hair.

“You’ve seen me. You’ve rattled me. And I’ve tried to play it cool. To match your pace. To act like I wasn’t spiraling every time you smiled at me like you knew. But I’m not built for this. I want more. I want you. And if that scares you—fine. If you’re not there—fine. But I had to say it. I had to give it to you.”

You’re silent. Too long. Too still, and his heart breaks before you even speak.

It’s not that you don’t want him.

God, you do.

But hearing it like this. So raw, unscripted and real knocks the wind out of you. You’ve made a career out of reading between the lines. Out of parsing subtext and maintaining distance. But now? Now he’s not leaving space for you to run.

He’s standing there in the rain, heart in his hands like an offering. And you freeze.

Because no one ever offered. You’ve always been the one earning affection. Not receiving it like a gift.

“Steve…” Your voice is barely a whisper.

He shifts. His shoulders tighten. You can feel him retreating already, pulling into himself, bracing for rejection like it’s muscle memory. You panic. “This does mean something.”

He stops. “But you’re not ready.”

You hate that he’s right. “I don’t know how to be with someone who doesn’t need me to be perfect.”

The silence between you is loud.

“Then let me be the one who doesn’t expect that,” he says softly. “Let me be the one who stays when you don’t have it all together.”

You blink, and there’s moisture in your eyes. From the rain. Maybe.

“I’m scared,” you admit.

He steps closer. Slow. Gentle. Rain trickling down his temple. Breath fogging the space between you.

“So am I.”

He reaches for your hand, and you let him. But just as your fingers brush—

“I can’t,” you whisper, stepping back. “Not yet.”

His hand hangs in the air for a beat, then drops. The look on his face? It destroys you.

He nods once. Just once. Then turns, and this time it’s him that walks away.

You almost don’t notice him.

In the midst of the bustling Campus café, mid-afternoon, you’re picking up a quick espresso between advising appointments and the line is long. The vibe is normal. Until you see him. You’re too busy scrolling through your calendar, juggling a dozen little fires, sipping the wrong drink the barista handed you because you're too tired to care.

And then—You hear it. That laugh. That laugh. The one he does when he’s flirting. Actual flirting, not the subtle, almost-affectionate banter he’s given you for weeks. It’s his signature sound: light, confident, just a little too self-aware.

You glance up.

He’s leaning across the counter, elbows braced, head tilted just so. And she—a new adjunct, you think—is giggling. A lot. Flushed. Her hands fluttery. She touches his arm and you watch him let her.

You freeze.

Something ugly blooms in your chest. Jealousy is too simple a word. This is primal. Petty. Petulant.

And what’s worse? It’s humiliating. Because you don’t get to be jealous. You were the one who pulled away. Who said not yet. Who told him this mattered. So why the fuck does it feel like he’s rubbing it in your face?

Your stomach turns.

You hate how you’re staring. Hate how your mouth goes dry when he smiles that slow, crooked, charming-as-shit smile and says something that makes her laugh so hard she leans in.

You swallow your bitterness like bile.

He hasn’t even looked your way.

---

He sees you. Of course he does.

You walked in two minutes ago. Same stride. Same coffee order. Same low hum of exhaustion wrapped around your shoulders like armor.

He feels you before he sees you. But you haven’t looked at him, so he keeps talking.

The adjunct is nice. Pretty, even. But empty. There’s no pull. No static. No fight. She laughs too easily. Blushes too quickly. There’s no sport in it. And maybe that’s the point. Maybe he’s tired of being the one who always feels like he’s waiting to be chosen.

So he leans into it. Hard. Smiles like he means it. Makes her feel like the sun. And maybe, maybe, he can pretend he doesn’t feel your gaze like a blade between his shoulder blades.

But when she touches his arm?

He hates it.

Because it’s not you.

And when he finally dares to glance toward the door—You’re already gone.

Later, in your office, you’re ripping open a granola bar like it owes you money. You don’t know what pisses you off more. The flirting? The way she touched him? Or the fact that you care. You shove the granola bar into your mouth. Stare blankly at your calendar. And think about how his eyes crinkled when he smiled. How easy it looked.

Like it never meant anything. Like you never meant anything.

“God,” you mutter, throwing the wrapper in the trash. “Get a fucking grip.”

But your pulse says otherwise. Your jaw is tight. Your chest aches. You’re not okay.

You miss him. And you hate that he made you soft enough to admit it.

All the while, Steve is right there, standing outside of your office door, hand raised to knock. He’s there. He’s ready and then…he doesn’t. He stands there for a full minute. Then walks away.

The moment you step inside and see him, you know it’s too late to turn around.

He’s standing with one hand on the copier lid, sleeves shoved to his elbows, staring down like the machine personally insulted him. There’s toner on his wrist. His jaw’s tight.

He looks up. Freezes.“Of course,” he mutters. “Because of course it’s you.”

You cross your arms, your own stack of handouts balanced on your hip. “I’m not thrilled either, Harrington.”

“Didn’t say I wasn’t.” His voice is low. Rougher than usual. Like sleep deprivation or restraint.

You nod toward the copier. “Let me guess—tray’s jammed again?”

He sighs. Moves aside just enough to let you pass. Your bodies brush. Barely, and it’s too much.

He leans against the counter. Arms crossed. Watching you. You open the tray, jiggle a few things with practiced expertise.

Silence stretches. It screams.

And then— “You saw me at the café.”

The paper you’re holding stiffens in your grip. “I saw you doing what you do best.”

“That what you think?”

“It’s what I know.”

“That’s not fair.”

You slam the tray closed harder than you mean to.“Neither was watching you turn it back on like it never meant anything.” You’re not sure if you mean the charm or you.

He flinches.“It wasn’t about her.”

You turn. Finally.“But it was about me.”

The words sit between you like broken glass.

“I don’t know what you’re doing,” you say, quieter now. “You say it’s not a game, but every time I start to believe you, you remind me what you used to be.”

His voice is rough. “You think this is me reminding you? You think I want to go back to being that guy?”

He takes a step forward. “You think I don’t know I fucked up the second I let her touch me?”

Your chest tightens. You blink too fast. “Why’d you let her, then?”

He doesn’t answer at first.“Because for a second, I needed to pretend I could be wanted without hurting.”

And that—that cuts you clean open.

You’re both quiet. Breathing too loud. The copier hums softly behind you like background noise in a dream. Then he steps closer. One more step. Close enough to touch.

“You still have me.”

You shake your head. “Don’t say that unless you mean it.”

“I’ve only ever meant it.”

Your eyes meet.

And there it is. The pull. The moment that could be something. Could be everything.

But instead, you turn. Slowly. Press the print button and whisper “Then show me.”

You don’t notice it at first.

Not really.

It starts with coffee. Again. But now it’s every Tuesday. Always exactly how you like it. No note. No fuss. Just sitting on your desk when you arrive. Still hot.

Then it’s classroom overlap. He prints extras of whatever handout he knows you’ll need. Leaves them in your box. Sometimes with post-it notes that say “Fixed the typo in paragraph three. You’re welcome.”

Then it’s your office light. You forgot to turn it off one night. You were tired. You left in a fog. And the next morning? A text. Short. Simple.

💬 Locked up for you. Light’s off. Sleep, for once.

You stare at your phone for ten full minutes before responding. You don’t thank him, but the next time you see him in the hallway, you hold his gaze for just a second longer than usual.

He notices.

---

He doesn't flirt anymore. Not really.

No lines. No games. He just shows up.

He picks up your favorite gum from the bookstore and leaves it on your chair with your notes after a staff meeting. He starts letting students out three minutes early so you can use the room next door for your class without awkward overlap. He starts reading the books on your shelf—the theory ones. The dense ones. Just to see what you see.

And he listens. Like really, fucking listens. To your rants. To your tangents. To your silences. And somewhere between all that effort he forgets how not to care.

---

“Okay but like… Professor Harrington’s been soft lately.”“Right?! Like he still looks hot but now he’s… dad hot.”“He literally told us to take care of ourselves emotionally before we try to ace exams. Who is he.”“I swear he smiled at the Ed Prof in the break room like she hung the goddamn moon.”“I think they’re dating.”“No way. She’d eat him alive.”“Exactly.”

---

You walk into your office and stop short. Because he’s there. Not waiting. Not leaning against the wall like a smoldering statue. Just sitting. Quiet. Reading something from your shelf. One of the denser volumes on pedagogical theory. The copy you’ve highlighted to hell.

He looks up. Smiles, slow and soft. “This is good,” he says, holding it up. “Hard to read. But good.”

You raise a brow. Toss your bag onto the couch. “Since when do you read anything without pictures?”

“Since you stopped looking at me like I’m a joke.”

Your heart stutters, and he sees it. He sets the book down. Stands. Doesn’t move closer. “I know I can’t fix what I broke. Not fast. Maybe not ever. But I’m here. Still.”

“Why?”

“Because I want to be the kind of person who deserves you.”

The room goes quiet. Heavy. Holy. You don’t answer, but when you walk past him, you let your fingers graze his. He exhales like he’s been holding his breath for weeks.

And maybe he has.

You shouldn’t have stayed.

You know it the second your hip bumps the edge of his kitchen island and your fingers brush the rim of the glass he just poured you.

It’s bourbon. Warm. A little sweet. The kind that burns slow. Like him.

He’s leaning against the fridge. Hoodie unzipped. White T-shirt clinging a little too nicely. Hair still damp from a shower, and God help you, it’s unfair. Unprepared, you think. You should’ve come armored. Closed off. But instead you’re here - dropped by to drop off a book he asked to borrow. It’s late and you’re both trying way too hard to pretend that means nothing.

“Didn’t expect you to actually read it,” you say, nodding toward the book you dropped off.

“Didn’t expect to like it,” he replies. “But then again, I didn’t expect to like you either.”

Your breath catches.

He watches you. There’s no smile. No smirk. Just intention.

You hold his gaze. “Careful, Harrington. That almost sounded sincere.”

“It was.”

Your pulse pounds. You take another sip. He steps closer. Not a lunge. Just a shift. One that brushes his knee against yours. One that makes your back touch cool granite and your glass feel too warm in your hand.

“You’re doing it again,” you whisper.

“What?”

“Looking at me like you’ve already got me.”

He tilts his head. Inches from your face. “I’m looking at you like I want you. Still.”

Still. After all this. After the café. After the retreat. After all the nights he didn’t knock.

“Why?”

“Because I’m not done showing you.”

He sets his glass down. Slowly. His hand brushes yours. “Can I?” he asks.

Just that.

You nod.

Once.

And then his hand is on your waist. Light. Barely there. Like he’s afraid you’ll vanish.

You don’t. You lean into it, and when his forehead drops to yours you feel the heat of his breath. Your fingers find the hem of his shirt, you whisper,“We shouldn’t.”

He whispers back, “You’re still here.”

And you kiss him.

Or maybe he kisses you.

Or maybe it doesn’t matter, because the second it happens, you both stop thinking entirely.

Your back hits the counter, his hand tangles in your hair and your name leaves his mouth like a vow, and every second of waiting, of aching, of almost-touching? Gone.

You pull back just enough to breathe. Just enough to need. “This changes everything,” you whisper.

“Good,” he says. “Let it.”

You don’t know who moved first. Maybe you blinked and his hands were on your waist. Maybe you tilted your chin and his lips were right there. Maybe none of it matters, because the second his mouth touches yours—everything breaks open.

It’s not soft. It’s not sweet. It’s starving.

He kisses like he’s drowning in you—like you’re the first breath after years underwater. Like every banter, every brush of your hand, every lecture hallway stare was foreplay to this exact second. His hand slides under your shirt, not greedy, just desperate. Fingertips dragging heat across your skin like he’s trying to memorize every inch of you, one stroke at a time. Your fingers tangle in his hair, tugging, dragging him closer until his chest is flush against yours and you’re gasping into his mouth.

You gasp into his mouth when his palm finds your ribcage. He groans—low and wrecked. His hands roam—down your waist, over your hips, gripping your thighs like he’s claiming territory. His tongue slides against yours and you moan—sharp, involuntary.

He lifts you—just lifts you like you weigh nothing—and plants you on the edge of the counter, stepping between your legs like he was built for it. Your hands dive under his hoodie, pulling it up, dragging nails along bare skin. He groans—filthy, wrecked—and yanks your shirt up in return, just high enough to mouth at your collarbone, your shoulder, your chest.

“Fuck,” he mutters, dragging his mouth down your throat. “You’re gonna kill me.”

“Then die pretty,” you breathe, raking your fingers through his hair and tugging just hard enough to make him bite.

And he does—your neck, your collarbone, the corner of your jaw. You arch against the counter. He pulls you forward by the backs of your thighs until there’s nothing between you.

His cock presses against you. Just grinding—hard, slow, desperate—against the soaked seam of your leggings and the unforgiving press of his sweats.

You cry out. Loud. Needful.

He swallows it with a kiss.

His hands slide under your ass, angling you closer, pushing right there—deliberate and devastating. You clutch at his shoulders, arch into him, rock your hips, chase the friction like your life depends on it.

You wrap your legs around his hips, and just like that—you’re both undone. His hands are everywhere. Your shirt rides up. His hoodie’s gone. You’re kissing like you forgot how not to. Like every second of restraint has finally snapped.

“You feel so fucking good,” he pants against your skin.

“Keep going.”

“Say it again.”

“Keep going.”

He grinds against you, hard and slow, and you moan before you can catch it. His hands tighten. His mouth finds yours again, all tongue and teeth and hunger.

You’re right there. On the edge. One more roll of his hips and—

You reach for his belt. He catches your wrist and you freeze.

“I want you,” he says. "So bad it hurts." He presses his forehead to yours, chest heaving. “But not like this. Not yet.”

Your whole body is buzzing. Your thighs are trembling. Your lips are swollen. But your heart? Your heart cracks wide open. Because it’s not rejection it’s reverence.

You nod. He kisses your knuckles. One by one. “Let me want you the right way.”

You let out a shaky laugh. “Steve?”

“Yeah?”

“If you don’t walk away right now, I will ruin your life.”

He grins—wrecked and wrecking. “Not if I ruin yours first.”

The next morning, his T-shirt hangs loose on your frame. A little too big. A little too soft. It smells like him—cedar, clean laundry, heat.

You’re standing in his kitchen, one hip popped against the counter, sipping coffee from a mug that says #1 Psych Professor in faded print. You slept in his bed last night, but surprisingly he moved to the sofa. Said something about not having any self restraint before tugging a pillow from the bed and kissing your cheek and walking away.

In your morning daze, you’re pretending you’re not remembering his hands under your shirt. You’re pretending you didn’t moan his name with your lips at his throat. You’re pretending you’re not thinking about the way he said not yet—like it physically pained him to stop.

He walks out of the bathroom, rubbing the back of his neck, still shirtless. Gray sweatpants hanging dangerously low on his hips.

You glance up and instantly regret it. Because your body remembers. And based on the slow grin spreading across his face…So does his.

“You drink all the good creamer?” he asks, opening the fridge like he didn’t just catch you checking him out.

“Maybe,” you say, deadpan. “I let you dry hump me against a countertop. I figured it earned me hazelnut privileges.”

He chokes on a laugh, grabs a spoon and stirs his coffee like he’s trying not to lose it all over again. “You’re evil.”

“You’re easy.”

He hums, steps in close. Doesn’t touch you. He just sets his coffee down next to yours, leans forward, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Tell me something.”

“No promises.”

“When I walked away last night…” His breath is warm. Wrecking… “Were you hoping I’d come back?”

You swallow. Hard. “You wouldn’t have made it ten more seconds in that kitchen if you had.”

He groans. Burying his face in your shoulder, biting back laughter—and something else. Then his hands are on your hips again. Casual. Familiar. Possessive. But he doesn’t pull you in. “If I kiss you again,” he murmurs, “I’m not going to stop this time.”

You’re supposed to be in your office in twenty-three minutes.

You’re hardly presentable. You were—before Steve smuggled you into bed and dragged the sheets down, pushing your legs apart with a lazy strength that said, we have time, even though you absolutely do not. Instead, your legs are trembling and his head is between your thighs.

Your hips are tipped toward him, your thighs already sore from how long they’ve been bracketing his head—his shoulders broad and solid beneath them, his mouth ruinously good.

His tongue moves with slow, indulgent precision. Not rushed. Not greedy. Like he’s tasting, not just devouring—like he wants to savor every twitch, every moan, every sharp little gasp he drags out of you.

One of his hands is flat on your stomach, holding you down as you start to arch. The other is gripping your thigh, thumb stroking absently against your skin as his mouth works. He licks you in lazy circles, lips closing around your clit and sucking softly. Just enough to make your spine curve, just enough to make your toes curl.

Your hands are buried in his hair, fingers clenched tight, and your voice is a high, choked whisper of “Steve, I swear to God—” as he drags his tongue slowly, obscenely, across you again.

“That’s not my name,” he murmurs into your skin.

You gasp. Yelp, really. “Steven. Jesus—”

He groans like you just handed him the keys to heaven. The vibration goes straight through you. Your thighs twitch around his head. He doesn’t stop. He presses in deeper, tongue dragging upward in a long, slick stroke that makes your eyes roll back. His grip tightens on your hips. He pulls you closer.

“There you go. That’s better.”

He licks again—slow, deliberate. Your thighs clamp around his shoulders.

He’s taking his time.

He loves taking his time.

He flattens his tongue, works you with long, even licks—up, down, up again—before wrapping his lips around your clit and sucking hard enough to punch the breath from your lungs.

Your entire body is flushed. A mess. Shirt wrinkled, hair twisted, one sock still on because he got distracted halfway through undressing you.

Your planner is open on the nightstand. Your to-do list, pristine and untouched. Your phone is buzzing with a department chair text. You couldn’t care less, because right now, Steve Harrington is worshiping you. Not with flowers. Not with words. With his mouth.

And God, is he good.

He’s smug about it too, that little shit. The way he flicks his tongue like he’s testing theories. Like your body is a subject he’s about to publish a groundbreaking paper on. He lets go with a filthy little pop. Looks up at you, completely gone.

“You always sound this pretty when you’re late?” he says, voice full of smug, sleepy sin.

You slap his shoulder. “You’re the reason I’m late,”

“Yeah, but you’re glowing. So technically I’m improving faculty morale.”

You collapse back into the pillow, laughing breathlessly and then he hums low in his throat—that sound, He just smiles. That lazy, post-sleep smirk. Bedhead. Swollen lips. His chin shiny with you.

And then—he goes back down. No warning. No teasing. Just mouth on you like he’s starving.

He works his tongue over your clit in tighter, faster circles now, your body jerking with every pass. Your hand flies to his hair—fisting, tugging, anchoring—and he groans into you again like he lives for it.

You’re already close. So close it’s humiliating.

“Steve—fuck—I really—class—”

“Just one more,” he growls, lips brushing your skin.

“You said that twice ago.”

“And I meant it both times.”

His hands slide under your thighs, holding you open, as his mouth descends. He sucks. He flicks. He hums.

You shatter.

You come with a sound that punches from your chest—half-cry, half-moan, full-body wreckage. Your back arches, hips grinding into his face, thighs clenching around him like he’s the only thing keeping you grounded.

He doesn’t stop.

He keeps licking—slower now, gentler—drawing out every last ripple of pleasure until you're twitching, over-sensitive, gasping for air.

When he finally pulls away, his face is flushed, lips slick, pupils blown. He looks up at you with a grin that could end empires. “Good morning to me,” he says, voice low, utterly self-satisfied.

You try to respond. You can’t. Your whole body is boneless, so you glare instead.

“We are so late.”

“Worth it.”

“I hate you.”

“You love it.”

You mutter something unintelligible. He kisses your thigh, then your knee, then flops back into bed like he didn’t just commit oral war crimes.

“You’re glowing,” he says.

“You’re a menace.”

“I told you, you love it.”

You do. And when he finally gets out of bed, pulls on sweatpants, and saunters to the kitchen still licking his lips, it really settles in that you’re going to be very, very late.

You both start clamoring around the apartment. You’re trying to find your left shoe. He’s trying to find his dignity. Neither of you succeeds.

“If I get called out for being late,” you snap, throwing your bag over your shoulder, “I’m blaming your tongue.”

“I’ll write you a note,” he grins, adjusting his shirt. “Excused tardiness: wrecked her with my face. Respectfully, Prof. S. Harrington.”

You kiss him. Quick. Possessive.“We are not telling the students.”

“No promises.”

“I swear to God.”

“What? They’ve already started whispering.”

You freeze in the doorway. “They know?”

He shrugs, smug as ever. “Only that I’m happier, wear fewer button-downs, and keep looking at you like you’re the answer to a question I forgot how to ask.”

You blink. He leans in, kisses the corner of your mouth. “Go teach.”

“You gonna behave?”

He smirks. “Absolutely not.”

Everyone’s tired, under-caffeinated, and suspiciously quiet when you walk in together to the Monday morning Faculty Meeting a few weeks later. Like, suspiciously quiet. Like maybe you should’ve come in separately. But his hand brushed yours in the parking lot and… well. You’re human. Truly, you knew it was a bad idea the moment he held the door open for you. Not because it was chivalrous, but because he smirked. That just-fucked, slept-on-your-pillow, wore-your-shampoo smirk.

And now? You’re trying to look composed while Diane from Math is squinting at your neck, and Steve is across the room pretending he didn’t absolutely tell you to call him “Professor” last night—off the clock.

You sit down, chairs a respectful, appropriate distance from one another. Except his knee bumps yours under the table.

You flinch. He does not.

You glance at him. He’s reading the agenda like he’s not tracing circles on your thigh under the table with his fucking pinky finger.

“I will end you,” you whisper.

“Promises, promises,” he murmurs back, not even glancing up.

Across the table, someone coughs. Someone else mutters, “Tension in here is wild today.”

You cough. Sip your coffee. Do not look at him again.

---

He’s not even trying to hide it. He should be. He knows that. But you’re sitting there in that blazer and those glasses and he can still feel your nails on his back from the night before and, honestly, restraint is done.

You’re both adults. Consenting. Employed. You just happen to be very recently wrecked by each other and now expected to discuss budget reallocations.

He leans back in his chair. Tilts his head and you shoot him a glare that could kill a man at twenty paces.

He grins wider.

Then your dean says “Any… questions about cross-departmental collaborations?”

And before anyone else can speak, Greg, the adjunct from two months ago—the one who tried to flirt with you at the mixer—leans forward. “Actually, yeah. Is Psych and Education… working together on something lately? Seems like there’s been a lot of overlap.”

The room goes dead silent.

Your head turns. Slowly.

Steve just smiles. Cool. Calm.“We’re exploring some deeply engaged, hands-on strategies.”

You choke on your coffee.

Half the room does too.

“Very experiential,” he adds, not missing a beat.

Your face is burning. “Well,” you cut in, voice tight, “we have been reviewing active learning outcomes. Long-term retention. Depth of field experience.”

He nearly loses it. You don’t look at him again. But his pinky? Still brushing your thigh.

Once the meeting wraps you find him in a quiet hallway, tugging him into an empty office. “You’re going to get us fired.”

He presses you against the door. Grinning like a goddamn devil.

“You’re glowing,” he says. “You should see yourself.”

“I’m glowing because I haven’t slept and you won’t let me function like a normal person.”

“Oh, no, sweetheart. You’re glowing because I made you come three times last night and moan my name into my sheets like a prayer.”

You stare at him. Your pulse pounds.“You’re an asshole.”

“You love it.”

And when he kisses you, hard and fast and deep—hand braced against the door, tongue slipping into your mouth like he owns it—You let him. Because for once? You’re not hiding and neither is he.

You’re not technically doing anything wrong. You’re walking. Talking. Drinking bad coffee from the Student Union and arguing over whether your classes should collaborate on a capstone project next semester. Totally professional.

Except you’re standing just a little too close, your laugh is just a little too soft, and he keeps nudging your elbow like he can’t help himself.

“You seriously think your students could handle a shared project with mine?” you tease. “They’re used to watching Fight Club for extra credit.”

“That happened once,” he grins. “And it was deeply psychological.”

You snort. Sip your coffee, and then—you hear it.

“Okay, wait—are you guys, like, together?”

You freeze.

Steve tenses beside you.

You both turn.

It’s one of his students. Freshman. Wide-eyed. Holding a psych textbook and a half-melted iced latte.

“I mean,” she stammers, “everyone’s been kinda wondering? You guys are always... around each other. And you’re smiling. A lot. And he’s nicer now? Which is weird?”

You open your mouth but nothing comes out, and before you can craft the neutral, chill, professional response you should give, Steve speaks. “Yeah. We’re seeing each other.”

Your head snaps toward him.

What. You blink.

“Oh. Cool. Okay. Sorry. Just—yeah. Cool.” She scurries off like she witnessed something she shouldn’t have.

You stare at him. He stares back.

“Steve—”

“What? Was I supposed to lie?”

“No, but—” You look around. Lower your voice. “You just labeled it.”

“Because that’s what it is.” His voice isn’t loud. But it’s firm. Frustrated. Exposed.

“I’m tired of pretending I don’t want to kiss you in the hallway. I’m tired of not calling this what it is because we’re scared someone might see.”

You blink, the beat of your heart hammering.

“So yeah,” he says, shrugging, voice sharper than he means it. “We’re seeing each other. Is that really so bad?”

You don’t answer.You can’t.

Because the worst part? It’s not that he said it.

It’s that a part of you needed him to.

---

💬 I didn’t mean to say it like that. 💬 But I meant it. 💬 So maybe that’s okay?

You tried.

God, you tried.

You retreated into the fortress of your work, your planner, your independent woman armor. Told yourself you didn’t need him to say it. That it was better to keep things unspoken. Safer. But it’s been two days, and nothing feels good. Not your coffee. Not your playlists. Not even the jazz that usually soothes your racing thoughts.

All you can think about is the way he said it.

We’re seeing each other. Like it wasn’t terrifying. Like it wasn’t fragile. Like it was true.

And suddenly, you’re in your car. Keys in the ignition. Your pulse screams in your throat.

You don’t knock. You should, but when he opens the door, you’re already stepping inside. Already yanking your coat off. Already done pretending.

He opens his mouth.

You grab his shirt.

And everything else disappears.

---

He’s halfway through grading when you burst in like a storm, and he knows.

He knows this is the moment you stop running.

He doesn’t ask questions. Doesn’t speak, just pulls you into him the second your hands find his collar —fisting it, dragging him down, mouths crashing like you’re angry at how long it took.

You kiss him like it’s oxygen. Like you’ve been underwater for days. Like you’re angry at your own restraint and even more furious that it’s finally broken.

Your teeth graze his lower lip. He growls.

“You want to label it?” you gasp. “Then fucking show me what it means.”

That’s all it takes. The dam breaks. Clothes hit the floor—fast, frantic. You’re already walking backward toward his bedroom as he follows, tugging at your jeans, shoving your shirt over your head, lips never leaving your skin. Your bra unclasps without a word. He groans when it falls.

There’s a trail—shirts, socks, his belt undone, your panties half-hanging from one ankle. He kicks the door shut.

He lays you back against the mattress like he’s waited years for permission. Hands framing your face, body hovering, staring down at you like he can’t believe you’re finally here.

You pull him down like you’ll never let him go. Your mouths meet again—harder now, deeper, wet and filthy and full of everything unspoken.

His hands are everywhere. Palms dragging down your sides, cupping your tits, thumbing across your nipples until your back arches off the bed.

You writhe under him—hips rolling, legs spreading, breath coming in ragged bursts. Your fingers dig into his back, nails biting down hard enough to draw blood, and he moans into your mouth like he wants you to leave marks. Like he needs to wear them.

“I want all of you,” you whisper. “No more games.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you—eyes blown wide, breath shaking.

“Then take me,” he growls, thrusting forward, finally, filling you with a groan that sounds like a man being saved.

He fills you completely. Thick. Hot. Stretching you in that perfect, devastating way.

Your mouth drops open on a gasp. Your hands clamp around his shoulders. He holds still, forehead against yours, both of you shaking from the sheer relief of it. Of finally being here.

“Holy fuck,” he pants.

“Move,” you whisper. “Don’t you dare stop.”

He fucks you like he’s learning you. Like he wants to leave something behind inside you. Not just heat, not just release—but a memory.

His rhythm is fast, deep, hungry. His hips slap against yours with delicious force, the wet sounds between you obscene and beautiful. Your legs wrap around him, ankles locking at his back. You meet him every inch of the way. Body to body. Mouth to mouth. Eye to eye.

He groans your name into your skin like a man being saved. You kiss his throat, his jaw, the hollow of his collarbone—dragging your tongue along the sweat-slick skin, biting down when the angle hits just right.

“You feel so fucking good,” he rasps.

“So do you,” you breathe. “Harder.”

He gives it to you. All of it. Every thrust hits deeper, rougher, more desperate, his hands everywhere—your waist, your ass, the back of your neck—gripping like he needs to keep you grounded, needs to know you’re here.

You’re close. So fucking close. And when he slips a hand between your bodies—fingers finding your clit with practiced, perfect pressure—it’s over. You come shaking, gasping, clinging to him like he’s your center of gravity, like letting go would destroy you completely. Your whole body pulses around him, pleasure ripping through you like a damn breaking and clinging to him like he’s your center of gravity

He follows with a whine—hips jerking, cock twitching, spilling inside you with a groan that’s half-relief, half-prayer. He buries his face in your neck and you hold him there. Both of you panting. Wrecked.

It’s hot.

It’s filthy.

It’s honest.

And when he finally lifts his head, presses his forehead to yours, lips brushing yours like a question. You already know the answer. Because there’s no going back. Not now. Not ever.

You’re both still breathing hard.

He hasn’t moved. You haven’t told him to. His chest is pressed to yours, skin tacky with sweat. Your thighs are sore, legs still wrapped around him like your body hasn't figured out how to let go yet. He shifts—just barely—and you both groan.

“Jesus,” he murmurs, voice gravel-thick. “You okay?”

You nod. Then shake your head. Then nod again.

“That was—” You laugh once, breathless. “You ruined me.”

“Good,” he whispers, kissing your jaw. “That’s what you asked for.”

He pulls out slowly, carefully, and you both hiss—too sensitive, too much, too good. You twitch as he slips free, and you feel it—him, everything—slick between your thighs, your skin flushed and trembling.

You reach for him instinctively, fingers brushing his stomach, not ready to break the contact. He catches your hand and brings it to his mouth. Kisses your knuckles like they’re holy. Then your wrist. Then the inside of your forearm, slow and reverent.

“Don’t move,” he says, already rolling off the bed, standing naked and still hard, but now focused.

You don’t. Because you can’t.

He comes back with a warm washcloth and a glass of water. Kneels at the edge of the bed like he’s about to worship again.

You spread your legs without being asked. Your thighs tremble when the cloth touches you—warm, wet, gentle. He moves slow. Careful. His eyes are locked on yours the entire time.

He wipes away the mess between your thighs, catching what he left inside you, what leaked down to the backs of your legs, what you’re still clenching around like your body can’t bear to lose it.

“That okay?” he asks, voice quiet now. Real.

You nod again. And then he leans in—mouth just above your thigh—and licks.

Just once. Just to taste it.

Your breath stutters.

“Couldn’t help it,” he says, eyes dark, lips shiny.

He climbs back into bed, slides under the blankets, and pulls you onto his chest. You melt into him—sated, spent, but still buzzing from the way he holds you like he means it. One hand slides between your legs again—not to start anything, just to rest there. Fingers lazy and warm against your pussy, palm cradling you like he wants to remind you that you’re his now.

“Still full of me,” he murmurs, voice smug and sweet at once.

You hum. Kiss his collarbone. “Still throbbing.”

“Same.” His cock twitches against your hip.

You don’t do anything about it. Not yet.

“I want more,” you whisper.

“You can have it.”

“Later.”

“Later,” he echoes, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “For now just… stay.”

You do. And when you fall asleep with his hand between your legs, his cock warm against your thigh, and his heartbeat under your cheek? Well, it’s the safest you’ve felt in years.

💬 You guys. YOU GUYS. 💬 What. 💬 I just saw them arguing over who gets the last blueberry muffin at the café and it was the most sexually charged thing I’ve ever witnessed. 💬 Was he wearing that tight henley again??? 💬 She literally called him a smug bastard and he just said, ‘You love it when I’m smug,’ and winked. I need a cold shower. 💬 Are they married yet or are we still suffering through foreplay energy? 💬 They’re disgustingly perfect. I love them. I hate them. I want them to adopt me.

It’s finally the end of the semester and you and Steve have your Joint Panel Presentation. The room’s full of students trying to pretend they’re not staring. You and Steve walk in together, completely unbothered, radiating power couple energy like it’s built into your DNA. You finish each other's sentences. Your banter is lethal.

💬 OKAY NO ONE PANIC BUT THEY JUST WALKED IN TOGETHER 💬 they always do that tho?? 💬 NO. LIKE. TOGETHER. TOGETHER. 💬 she’s wearing his hoodie. THE GRAY ONE. 💬 I saw him grab her coffee cup and drink from it without asking I am unwell. 💬 he pulled out her chair and she rolled her eyes and said “you’re not charming, you’re annoying” and he just SMILED LIKE IT WAS FOREPLAY 💬 I am filing an HR report against their sexual tension 💬 bold of you to assume HR doesn’t ship them harder than we do

You still fight.

Over coffee. Over pedagogy. Over who forgot to return the whiteboard markers to the supply closet. But now? The fights end with your back against a wall and his mouth on yours, or his smug grin wiped off with one whispered threat in the break room.

The fire never died. It just evolved.

You pass him in the hallway and he grabs your hand like he has every right to it. Like you’re the thing he reaches for without thinking. You grade together. You share playlists. You present on collaborative learning and co-teach a lecture where everyone leaves sweaty and confused about the nature of attraction.

You're not the professors they expected.

You're the professors they fantasized about but never believed were real.

You’re chaos. You’re love. You were so in love it was exhausting for everyone else around you.

You’re in his lap during planning meetings.

He keeps your nameplate on his desk.

He carries your stupid frog pin on his bag like a badge of honor and threatens students who joke about it.

He kisses you in the copy room. On the quad. Behind the lecture hall door after you give a student-teacher speech that makes him feel like he’s never known pride until you put it in words.

The students ask when you're getting married.

He doesn’t even pretend to be flustered anymore.

“Not yet,” he always says. “But she’s already mine.”

And you? You never correct him.

#amanda’s fic recs #amanda’s faves #Steve Harrington fic

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