Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Monday, January 7th 1985

Mac stared into the mirror on the inside of her locker door, fiddling with the fresh-cut bangs that stubbornly refused to sit the way she wanted them to. The fluorescent lights overhead weren’t helping, casting an unflattering glare that made the whole situation worse. She exhaled sharply, pushing the strands back, then forward again, trying to decide if Robin had actually done a decent job or if she had just let her best friend ruin her life.

They weren’t bad —not like she’d been convinced they would be when Robin first made the cut—but they were different. Not drastic enough for people to gawk, but enough that she kept catching her reflection and doing a double take.

They just didn’t feel like her yet.

"Well, that’s new."

Mac startled, her elbow knocking against the edge of her locker as she spun around. Steve Harrington stood behind her, looking far too pleased with himself.

"Jesus. Ever heard of personal space?" she muttered, rubbing her arm where it had smacked against the metal.

He ignored that. His gaze flicked back to her bangs. "So, what’s the verdict here? Some kind of New Year, New You thing?"

Mac rolled her eyes, slamming her locker shut. "Sure, let’s go with that."

Steve hummed, still eyeing her. "It’s not bad. Just... different."

She huffed, folding her arms. "That’s what people say when they don’t wanna sound like an asshole."

"I said it’s not bad!" Steve defended.

Mac narrowed her eyes at him before exhaling and brushing her bangs back. "It’s because of this," she admitted, tilting her head slightly to reveal the scar by her temple—the one she’d earned when Billy had shoved her into the coffee table at the Byers’ house.

Steve’s smirk dropped immediately. "Mac—"

She cut him off. "And before you say it, I know you already told me it’s not that bad."

He let out a breath, shaking his head. "Because it’s not."

She gave him a flat look. "Try convincing Patti that. At least the other ones I can hide."

Steve winced. "What’d you tell her?"

"That I slipped in the bathroom and hit my head on the sink."

His laugh was immediate, loud enough that a couple of freshmen down the hall glanced over. "You slipped in the bathroom ?" He grinned. "Did she actually buy that?"

 "Probably not. But she didn’t push."

"Guess that’s something,"

They fell into step together, heading toward their shared English class. Just before they reached the door, Mac dug through her backpack and pulled out a plastic cassette case, shoving it into Steve’s chest.

He caught it with a grunt, barely reacting before flipping it over to see the handwritten tracklist through the clear case. His brows lifted. "Another mixtape?"

"This time I actually made it for you," she said as she watched him scan the songs. "It’s time you expand your music taste."

Steve smirked, tapping the cassette against his palm. "What, is this gonna be a tradition now?"

"Don’t push your luck, Harrington."

"Wait, hold on," he said, glancing up at her. "Is this because of the pin?"

Mac rolled her eyes. "It’s not because of the pin."

Steve gave her a knowing look. "It’s totally because of the pin."

His look lingered, but his fingers curled around the tape a little tighter, but he didn’t say anything. Mac could tell by the way he nodded—quick and subtle, like he actually appreciated it—that he knew what this was.

Not a big deal, not some grand gesture. Just... the way they did things now.

It was kind of funny, considering neither of them had planned for it to happen. It had just started, the same way their weird brand of friendship had.

Over winter break, when Joyce threw a Christmas party that Mac had been dragged to against her will, she’d found herself standing next to Steve near the snack table. That alone wasn’t unusual—they always seemed to end up in each other’s orbit at these things now—but what was weird was that he’d shoved a tiny wrapped box into her hands with an overly casual, " By the way, I got you something. "

Inside had been a small enamel pin in the shape of a cassette tape, the same baby blue as her car. It wasn’t flashy or expensive, but it was thoughtful. And—without thinking about it too hard—she’d pinned it to her bag later that night.

Now, this was her returning the favor.

"Look," Mac said, nodding toward the mixtape still in his hands, "if anyone needs some decent music in their life, it’s you."

Steve made an exaggerated show of offense. "Hey, my music is fine."

"Sure, if you’re a forty-year-old dad driving a station wagon."

"Wow," he muttered, tucking the tape into his pocket. "That’s real nice, Mac."

She smirked. "Merry belated Christmas, Harrington."

Still shaking his head, he pushed open the classroom door, holding it for her as she stepped inside. He muttered something under his breath as they stepped into the classroom, but Mac caught him patting his jacket pocket once before heading to his seat.

She smirked to herself, shaking her head.

Yeah. Definitely a tradition now.

Friday, January 11th 1985

Eddie wasn’t studying.

Sure, he had a textbook open in front of him, a notebook flipped to a fresh page, and a pen in his hand, but his focus was on something far more important than whatever tired World History had to offer.

In bold, jagged strokes, he sketched across the lined paper, shaping a rough new logo for Corroded Coffin. The current one was fine—good, even—but he had ideas. Maybe something more twisted, something dripping, like blood or acid, the letters melting into one another. He’d been working on it for a few days now, filling the margins of his notes with designs.

Across from him, Mac sat hunched over her own notebook, flipping through pages in the textbook between scribbling down notes. Every so often, she would sigh—sharply, pointedly—and shoot him a look.

Eddie ignored her.

Another sigh.

Ignored.

A particularly dramatic huff.

He grinned. "Something on your mind, sweetheart?"

Mac didn’t look up. "Just wondering how you’ve survived this long without actually doing any schoolwork."

"Pure charisma," he answered easily, spinning his pen between his fingers. "Also, a deep and passionate hatred of authority."

Mac snorted, but when she glanced at his notebook and saw not history notes, but instead a scrawled mess of band logos, her smirk flattened.

"Eddie."

"Mac." He copied her tone exactly.

"You know we have a test later, right?"

He waved a hand dismissively. "I’ll be fine. I’m a great test-taker."

Mac arched an eyebrow. "You failed the last one."

"Yeah, well," he shrugged, "Mrs. Click hates me."

"Maybe because you never turn anything in."

Eddie sighed dramatically, throwing himself back in his chair. "Jesus, Mac, you sound like Wayne."

"Wayne’s a smart guy," she quipped, tapping her pen against the textbook. "Maybe you should listen to him."

Eddie rolled his eyes, but the teasing grin on his face faltered when she turned another page and said casually, "Besides, if you don’t graduate, what’s the plan? Just keep playing at the Hideout until you get discovered?"

He swallowed, tapping his fingers on the table before muttering, "Maybe."

Mac glanced up at him. The way she was looking at him—curious, expectant, waiting for him to brush it off with a joke—made his throat feel tight. Instead of cracking a smile, he tapped the end of his pen against his sketchpad, debating whether or not to say it.

"Actually… there’s this woman," he started.

Mac’s eyebrow shot up in that way where he knew he’d fucked up his wording. "Oh?"

"Not like that," Eddie said quickly, shaking his head. Not entirely a lie. "She’s been coming to the Hideout the past couple weeks. She really likes our stuff—really likes it. Says she works at a studio in Indy."

Mac set her pen down slowly, folding her arms. "And you believe her?"

Eddie let out a sharp breath, drumming his fingers on the table. "I mean… yeah. I don’t know. She knows her shit, Mac. That kinda thing doesn’t happen every day, especially not in Hawkins."

Mac didn’t say anything at first. Her eyes flicked over his face, like she was trying to read something in it, and Eddie suddenly felt like he’d said too much.

Finally, she leaned back, shaking her head. "Just don’t do anything stupid, okay?"

Eddie frowned. "Define stupid."

"Like, I don’t know, leaving town when you’re this close to graduating. Or quitting school altogether."

Eddie let out a short laugh—one that didn’t quite reach his chest. "Oh yeah, because I’d totally do something that insane."

Mac narrowed her eyes slightly, but she didn’t push.

"Alright," she muttered, glancing at the clock before shoving her books into her bag. "Lunch bell’s about to ring. I’m heading out."

Eddie waved lazily. "Yeah, yeah. I’ll be there in a sec."

Mac gave him a look—like she knew he probably wouldn’t be—and rolled her eyes before swinging her bag over her shoulder and heading toward the door.

Eddie watched her go.

As soon as she was out of sight, he exhaled heavily and dropped his head onto the table with a quiet thud.

"Yeah, no way I’m staying in this town," he grumbled into the crook of his arm.

Eddie hadn’t ever planned on staying in Hawkins. That had never been part of the dream.

His exit was always supposed to be dramatic—a final fuck you to this town that never gave a damn about him. A packed van, a middle finger out the window, an epic send-off complete with roaring guitar riffs and a legendary exit soundtrack.

And Mac—Mac was always supposed to be in the passenger seat.

That was the plan.

At least, that’s what he told himself every time the reality of leaving crept up on him. Because the thing was… Mac didn’t need Hawkins the way most people did. She didn’t belong here, not any more than he did. They used to joke about it, how one day they’d just go—hit the road, find a place where they weren’t just the town freaks, where they could be something more.

Eddie sighed, kicking at a loose tile as he made his way toward the lunchroom, hands stuffed in his pockets.

Now he wasn’t so sure.

The cafeteria was already full of people shoving through the line, conversations clashing over one another, the faint scent of something vaguely resembling food hanging in the air.

Mac was in the lunch line, leaning against the counter, talking to Robin with wild hand gestures and an expression that meant she was mid-rant about something (probably him). Robin, laughing, said something back, and Mac rolled her eyes before pushing off the counter, breaking away to grab napkins from the other side of the cafeteria.

Which is, of course, when he appeared.

Eddie watched as Steve came up behind Mac, his mouth moving as he said something low enough that she startled, whipping around with a glare before punching him lightly in the arm. Steve just smirked, rubbing the spot like it actually hurt.

Then he pointed at her, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a folded-up paper.

Mac took it, unfolding it quickly before saying something that made Steve chuckle, shaking his head.

And that’s when Eddie felt it. That weird, creeping familiarity. The playful banter, the easy back-and-forth, the unspoken understanding. It wasn’t the same as what he had with her—not quite—but close enough that it caught him off guard. The initial blow stung, but not for long. It wasn’t a knife to the gut, just a slow, quiet realization.

Mac had connections here. More than she used to. More than he had. And that’s why he couldn’t take her with him.

She had roots, even if she didn’t see them yet.

Eddie dragged his gaze back to Steve, watching as Mac walked off toward her table. And Steve—Steve watched her go. Not in some obvious way. But just enough that Eddie caught it. Like Steve didn’t even realize he was doing it.

“Huh.” Eddie shook his head, snapping himself out of it before plastering on his usual grin. As he passed Mac’s table, he reached down, ruffling her hair roughly.

"Hey!" she swatted at him, barely missing as he dodged back.

But as he sat down, cracking a joke with Gareth and Jeff, his mind wandered back to Harrington.

To the way he looked at Mac and to the fact that Steve probably hadn’t even figured it out yet.

And Eddie? Eddie definitely wasn’t gonna be the one to tell him.

He barely had a chance to settle at the Hellfire table before Gareth elbowed him, a shit-eating grin plastered across his face.

"So, fearless leader," Gareth drawled, drumming his fingers on the table. "You talk to that hot chick at the bar yet?"

Jeff groaned, reaching across the table to smack him upside the head. "Jesus, Gareth. You have no finesse."

Gareth yelped, rubbing the back of his head. "What? It’s a valid question!" He turned back to Eddie, waggling his eyebrows. "You have talked to her, right?"

Eddie sighed, leaning back in his chair and rubbing at his temples. "If by talk you mean that one conversation we had about music two weeks ago, then yeah. I talked to her."

Jeff, Gareth, and Dougie exchanged glances before Gareth snorted. "Dude. She’s been giving you the ‘fuck me’ eyes every time she’s there."

"Real subtle, Gareth," Dougie muttered, shaking his head.

Eddie gave them a flat look, but he knew they weren’t wrong.

The woman—Becca, he thought her name was—wasn’t like the girls he’d hooked up with before at The Hideout. Those had always been brief, messy encounters. Drunken giggles in the back of his van, half-remembered nights that were fun in the moment but never really stuck.

Becca was older. Not by a lot—maybe twenty-three—but old enough that she carried herself differently. A little more put together. She still had the rocker look—tight jeans, ripped band tees, a leather jacket that actually looked expensive—but she wore more makeup than most of the girls Eddie knew, her eyeliner sharp, her lipstick bold.

And she wasn’t subtle.

She made it very clear she was interested.

Eddie let himself consider it for a second.

It wasn’t just that she was attractive—though, yeah, she was. But that wasn’t the part that made him hesitate. It was who she was. Someone with industry connections, someone who actually knew people who could pull strings, who could get a band out of a shithole town like Hawkins.

He wasn’t stupid. He knew how this game worked. If she liked him, that was one thing—but if she liked his music ? That was another.

So maybe it was worth keeping her interested. Maybe he should at least entertain the idea of talking to her more.

But then his eyes drifted across the cafeteria to Mac’s table. She was sitting with Robin, rolling her eyes and absently peeling the crust off her sandwich as she listened.

They hadn’t hooked up in a while.

Not that it was ever just about that. It never had been. With Mac, it was always more.

It was there—woven into the way she looked at him, the way she trusted him, the way she always came over when things got too heavy. It was in the way he could breathe around her, how she never made him feel like he had to perform the way he did with everyone else.

And maybe that was the problem.

Because lately, that part of their relationship—the sexual part—had faded a bit.

They still did things occasionally, experimented with stuff he’d never been able to try with another girl. She still touched him—still flopped across his lap, still let him pull her close when they were lounging at his place—but it was different. Not in the way that meant something was wrong, but in the way that meant something was shifting.

And he didn’t know how to feel about that.

Or maybe he did, and he just didn’t want to deal with it.

Eddie clenched his jaw and shoved those thoughts aside. He wasn’t about to spiral over this, and he sure as hell wasn’t about to entertain the idea of Becca any further.

"Alright, alright, enough about my deeply fascinating love life," he drawled, shoving Gareth’s shoulder. "We got bigger things to worry about."

Gareth raised an eyebrow. "Like what?"

Eddie leaned forward, smirking. "Like Saturday’s session."

That got their attention.

Immediately, Jeff perked up. "Oh shit, you finally finished it?"

Eddie grinned, tapping his temple. "All up here, baby. And let me tell you—it’s gonna be legendary."

The table erupted into excited chatter, and just like that, Eddie had successfully redirected the conversation.

Because this ? This was what mattered.

Not some older woman at a bar. Not Mac’s shifting priorities.

Just this .

For now.

Mac had no reason to be standing in the lunch line. She’d brought her lunch—same as usual—but she was here anyway, standing beside Robin, arms crossed, fuming over her conversation with Eddie in the library.

" I’ll be fine, " she mimicked, lowering her voice into an exaggerated, lazy drawl. " I’m a great test taker. Like, sure, that’s a real bold statement from the guy who’s taken senior year twice now."

Robin snorted, shaking her head as she reached for a tray. "I mean, he’s not wrong. Click does hate him."

Mac groaned. "She hates everyone, Robin. That’s literally her thing."

Robin nodded sagely. "It’s true. I think it’s what keeps her young."

That startled a laugh out of Mac, some of the irritation from earlier starting to fade. "God, I hate that you might be right."

They moved forward in the line, Robin picking out food while Mac leaned against the counter, waiting.

"Library Eddie strikes again." Robin laughs a little to herself.

"Library Eddie is the worst Eddie," Mac said dramatically, tossing her hands in the air. "Like, I get it, he hates school, but he’s so smart. He could at least pretend to try instead of acting like he’s above it all."

Robin hummed, smirking. "But then who would annoy you so much you feel compelled to follow him around and lecture him?"

Mac groaned, rubbing her temples before stepping away from the line. "I’m gonna get napkins. I’ll be at the table in a sec."

Robin gave her a mock salute before turning back to grab a pudding cup.

Mac weaved through the cafeteria, heading for the napkin dispenser, still shaking her head at Robin’s nonsense. She reached for the stack, but before she could grab one—

"Okay, so I have something for you."

Mac flinched, spinning around just in time to see Steve. "Jesus Christ, Harrington," she scowled, lightly punching his arm. "This is the second time this week."

Steve laughed, rubbing his arm like she’d actually hurt him. "Not my fault you’re never paying attention."

Mac rolled her eyes. "Oh, sorry, I forgot to keep an eye out for the lunchroom menace."

Steve smirked, pointing to her. "You should."

Mac scoffed but before she could say anything else, Steve reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper, holding it out to her.

She frowned, taking it. "What’s this?"

"Open it and find out," Steve said, nodding toward it.

Mac shot him a look before unfolding it. Her eyes scanned the contents, and after a second, her brows shot up. It was a list—her tracklist from the mixtape she gave him earlier that week. And next to each song? Steve’s handwritten thoughts. Her lips parted slightly as she skimmed over them. 

"You actually wrote notes ?"

Steve crossed his arms, tilting his chin up slightly. "Yeah. What, you thought I wouldn’t take it seriously?"

Mac smirked. "I just thought you’d listen to the first five seconds of each song and then decide they were all terrible."

Steve scoffed. "Please. I gave them at least a minute."

"Alright, Harrington," she said, folding the paper and tucking it into her back pocket. "Consider this a victory for my superior taste."

Steve shook his head. "Yeah, yeah. You’re so cultured."

"Damn right," she shot back, grabbing her napkins. "See you later, loser."

Steve smirked. "Later, nerd."

Mac turned, heading back toward her table, her fingers brushing against the folded-up note in her pocket as she walked.

Robin was already mid-rant when she got there, gesturing wildly as she speared a piece of lettuce with her fork.

"I’m telling you, Mac, if Justin forgets his music one more time, I’m legally allowed to commit murder."

Mac snorted, dropping into her seat. "I don’t think that’s how it works."

"It should be," Robin grumbled. "Swear to God, if I have to carry the whole trumpet section again—"

Before Mac could respond, a familiar hand suddenly ruffled her hair, messing up her bangs.

"Hey!" she swatted at it, looking up just in time to see Eddie grinning down at her. And then he was gone, sauntering off to his usual table with Gareth and the others.

Mac shook her head, watching him go before turning back to Robin.

It was funny. Somehow, between Robin, Eddie, Steve, and the kids—she had this weird support system that had been patched together by circumstance. It was a new normal. A new, very weird and sometimes downright scary, normal.

Monday, January 14th 1985

Steve didn’t startle easily.

At least, that’s what he liked to tell himself.

But when Mac dropped into the chair behind him in the otherwise quiet library, her voice cutting through his thoughts, he damn near jumped out of his skin.

"Jesus!" he hissed, slapping a hand over his chest like she’d taken a year off his life. He turned to glare at her, only to be met with her smirking face, one elbow propped lazily on the back of her chair.

"Payback." she teased, reaching into her bag.

Steve exhaled sharply, rolling his eyes as he slumped back in his chair. Mac pulled out a folded-up paper—the very one he had given her last week, the tracklist with his notes on each song—and slapped it down on the desk in front of him.

"So," Mac said, drumming her fingers against the wood. "This is actually kind of amazing."

Steve arched a brow, suspicious. "Are you mocking me?"

Mac shrugged. "Only a little. But mostly? I’m impressed." She tapped a finger on the page. "I was expecting, like, one-word reviews—maybe a ‘meh’ or ‘kinda cool’ scribbled next to each one. But no, you actually put thought into this."

Steve sighed, tilting his head back. "Yeah, well… you shoved a mixtape in my hands, and I figured I should give it a real shot."

Mac’s smirk softened. "Good. Because I was ready to kill you if you half-assed it."

She nudged the paper toward him, and his own handwriting stared back at him.

Side A

1. "Cherry Bomb" – The Runaways (1976) (You need a little punk rebellion in your life.)
   Alright, I’ll admit—this one’s kinda fun. Feels like I should be in a teen movie doing something stupid.
2. "Ain’t Talkin’ ’Bout Love" – Van Halen (1978) (Try not to think about your tragic love life while this plays.)
   This one makes me wanna punch something. In a good way. Also, thanks for the love life reminder.
3. "The Killing Moon" – Echo & The Bunnymen (1984) (Moody and weird, but trust me—it’s good.)
   Weird, slow, kinda hypnotizing. I think I like it, but I’m also pretty sure it’s cursed.
4. "Rebel Yell" – Billy Idol (1983) (If this one doesn’t get stuck in your head, you have no soul.)
   Yeah, okay. Can’t even argue.

Side B

1. "Edge of Seventeen" – Stevie Nicks (1981) (It’s Stevie. You will respect her.)
   I think you’d shun me if I said anything bad here. But I like it.
2. "Hybrid Moments" – Misfits (1978) (Short. Fast. Perfect. Don't ask me to explain.)
   Two minutes of chaos.
3. "Message in a Bottle" – The Police (1979) (Not everything punk-adjacent has to be angry, Harrington.)
   I’ve heard The Police before, MacKinley.
4. "Rainbow in the Dark" – Dio (1983) (Dramatic. Loud. Exactly what you need in your life.)
   Is this what wizards in D&D listen to?

Mac leaned on her hand, watching him scan over the notes. "Alright, I have questions," she said.

Steve smirked, already knowing she was about to pick apart something he wrote. "Oh, great."

"First of all," she said, pointing at 'The Killing Moon', "why do you think this song is cursed?"

Steve crossed his arms. "I don’t know. It just gives off bad omen energy. Like, listen to that guitar and tell me it doesn’t."

Mac snorted. "Okay, fine. But second—" she tapped her finger under ‘Edge of Seventeen’, her smirk widening—"you admitted to liking Stevie. Which means I win."

Steve scoffed, rubbing a hand down his face. "Jesus, Mac, it’s just one song—"

"It’s never just one song." she said knowingly, sitting back like she’d just won a war.

Steve shook his head, but his gaze lingered on the notes longer than he meant for it to. It was weird—he hadn’t even realized how much he paid attention while listening to them. Hadn’t thought about it until now.

Before the moment could get too serious, Mac’s fingers drummed against the table again, shifting the topic with her usual ease. "So, did you at least start your paper?"

Steve blinked. "My—oh. Right. The English paper."

Mac tilted her head expectantly.

He exhaled sharply, flipping open his notebook, which, unfortunately, had barely anything written down—just a couple of notes on Pride and Prejudice, scribbled in half-assed effort.

Mac took one look at the sad, near-empty page, then looked back at him, unimpressed.

"Steve."

"I was gonna start it," he defended.

Mac rolled her eyes and pulled her own notebook out of her bag, flipping through it until she landed on a page. "Okay, fine," she said, settling in beside him. "I’m gonna explain this book to you in a way you will actually understand."

Steve smirked. "Oh yeah? And how’s that?"

Mac tapped her pen against the open page. "Through trashy romance tropes. Because trust me, this book is basically the blueprint for every enemies-to-lovers movie moment."

"Okay, so maybe I judged this book too fast," Steve muttered, flipping through the pages of Pride and Prejudice like the answer to life itself had been hidden in the margins. "I mean, this Darcy guy—he’s kind of a dick, but, like, in a repressed, tragic way?"

Mac smirked, propping her chin on her hand. "Wow, Steve. It’s almost like that’s the point."

Steve ignored the sarcasm, rubbing the back of his neck. "He gets better, right?"

"Character development." Mac said, nudging his notebook with her pen. He was watching her now, really looking at her, and Mac realized too late that she’d given herself away. "What?" 

"So what you’re saying is," he started slowly, tapping his pencil against the desk, "you actually like Jane Austen."

Mac scoffed, shoving her notebook into her bag. "Obviously. She’s, like, the blueprint for half the shit people eat up in movies today. Plus, the character development? Flawless." She tossed a glance his way. "You might even relate to Darcy, if you actually paid attention."

Steve snorted. "Please."

Mac raised an eyebrow, propping her elbow on the table. "He’s a reformed douchebag who starts out thinking he’s better than everyone, but actually, he just doesn’t know how to talk to people without sounding like a jackass. Ringing any bells?"

Steve huffed a laugh, shaking his head. But before he could fire back with something smug, his gaze softened just slightly, the way his mouth twitched—like he almost smiled—made her know she was right. The moment lingered, longer than usual, before Mac shook herself out of it and started stuffing her things into her bag.

A slightly crumpled packet slipped free from her notebook, skidding across the desk. Before she could snatch it back, Steve grabbed it first.

"Cedar Hill Community College," he read aloud, raising a brow as he flipped through the pages.

Mac sighed, snatching it back and shoving it into her bag. "It’s just a couple of art classes. Maybe."

Steve’s brows lifted. "Huh."

"What?"

"Nothing," he said, but she could tell he was thinking something.

Mac let out a slow breath. "I don’t know. I wasn’t planning on it, but… I figured I’d take some time after graduation, work, save up some money, and—maybe—hone my art skills." She shrugged, fiddling with the strap of her bag.

"You should do it."

Mac blinked. "What?"

Steve tapped the packet with the back of his hand. "You’re good at art. If it’s something you want to do, you should go for it."

Mac scoffed, shifting in her seat. "It’s not like it’s a real college. It’s just community stuff. Stupid, really."

"It’s not stupid," Steve said immediately. "It’s smart."

Mac huffed, shaking her head. "Yeah, well. We’ll see."

Steve hesitated, drumming his fingers on the desk. "I, uh—haven’t heard back from any colleges yet."

Mac snorted. "Steve, it’s January. Acceptance letters don’t usually go out this early unless you applied early decision."

Steve slouched back in his chair. "Still. Pretty sure I’m not gonna get in anywhere."

Mac tilted her head, studying him as she leaned in slightly, voice dropping to something more conspiratorial. "You know, if we could write about the actual shit we went through, we’d have the best college essays ever."

Steve chuckled, shaking his head. "Right? Imagine submitting ‘ How I Took Down a Demogorgon with a Baseball Bat’ as a personal statement."

Mac grinned. "Or ‘ How I Almost Got Mauled in an Alternate Dimension and All I Got Was This Lousy Trauma’ ."

Steve snorted. "Guaranteed acceptance. Full ride."

They laughed, something warm settling between them before Mac finally shoved her bag over her shoulder, standing up.

"C’mon," she said, jerking her head toward the door. "We’re getting out of here."

Steve groaned but dragged himself up, tucking his mostly empty notebook under his arm as they stepped into the cold January afternoon.

The pavement was still damp from last night’s rain, gray clouds pressing overhead. Their cars were parked two rows apart, and Mac stopped between them, shoving her hands in her pockets.

"So," Steve said, shifting his notebook in his hands, "you got work?"

Mac nodded. "Yep. Gotta go sling cassettes."

Steve sighed dramatically. "And I gotta write a damn paper."

Steve tilted his head, looking at her with that thoughtful expression again, the one that made Mac want to shake him. She turned, opening her car door, then glanced back at him over the roof.

"Later, Harrington."

Steve leaned against his car, crossing his arms. "Later, Mac."

And with that, she slid into her baby blue car, flipped on the radio, and peeled out of the lot.

If she noticed Steve watching her leave, well—she wasn’t gonna think about it too hard.

Sunday, January 20th 1985

Jet had seen slow Sundays before, but this was downright painful.

January was always sluggish—people too broke from Christmas to splurge on new records, too cold to leave their houses unless they had to. Even the usual weekend regulars were scarce today. Mick was in the back, doing inventory and muttering under his breath about misplaced stock numbers, Mac was at the counter bickering with Old Man Hal again, and Jet was flipping through an old magazine behind the counter, only half-paying attention to the handful of customers aimlessly flipping through the bins. 

Jet exhaled sharply, already shaking his head as he leaned against the counter, watching the exchange unfold near the register. Hal was a regular pain in the ass—one of those old-school rock guys who thought the only valid music had been made before 1975 and that any girl working in a record store had to pass a damn pop quiz just to be taken seriously.

And Mac? Well, Mac usually took it in stride. Normally, she let him talk his shit, tossed a few sarcastic jabs his way, and moved on with her life. But today, Jet could tell from the tight set of her jaw that she wasn’t in the mood.

"—saying all I’m asking is if you can name all four members of Zeppelin," Hal droned, looking far too pleased with himself.

Mac didn’t even blink. "Page, Plant, Bonham, Jones," she deadpanned, arms crossed. "You got anything harder, or are we done wasting my time?"

Hal scoffed, leaning on the counter like he had all the time in the world. "Y’know, back in my day, kids actually had to work to know their music. Didn’t have everything handed to ‘em on a silver platter. Now you’ve got girls working behind the counter, acting like experts—"

Mac cut him off before he could finish. "Okay, first of all, fuck you."

Jet stopped pretending not to listen.

Mick peeked his head out from the back, eyebrows raised.

Hal let out an incredulous laugh, shaking his head. "Jesus, girl, you don’t got any manners under all that hair, do you?"

"Oh, I’m sorry, am I supposed to just sit here and let some crusty old asshole talk down to me?" Mac shot back. "I’ve been working here for years, Hal. I’ve got more music knowledge in my pinky than you do in your whole beer gut, but you still pull this shit every time you come in. I could recite the entire goddamn discography of every band in this store, and you’d still act like I don’t belong here because I don’t have a dick. So let’s just skip the part where you try and make yourself feel big and move this along before I start charging you an asshole tax."

Jet sighed, setting his magazine down. He had let it go on this long because, frankly, he liked watching Mac verbally eviscerate people who deserved it, but she was genuinely pissed off today, and he wasn’t in the mood for a fight breaking out in his store.

He stepped around the counter, slapping a hand down on Hal’s shoulder hard enough that the old man actually startled. "Hal, buddy, why don’t we go browse, huh?" he said, steering him away before Mac decided to launch herself across the register. "You got any idea how many times you’ve lost this argument? And yet, here you are, still coming back. Almost makes me think you enjoy getting your ass handed to you by a teenage girl."

Hal muttered something under his breath but didn’t push it. He knew Jet well enough to know when he was done humoring him. With a dismissive grumble, he wandered off toward the back bins, grumbling about kids these days or some other tired bullshit.

Jet turned back to Mac, expecting a smirk, or at the very least, a flippant ‘Can you believe that guy?’

But she was bristling, hands clenched around the edge of the counter, like she wasn’t just mad at Hal—like she was mad at something bigger.

"You good, kid?" Jet asked, crossing his arms.

Mac exhaled sharply through her nose, shaking her head as she reached for a stack of records someone had left at the register. "I’m fine."

Jet snorted. "Yeah, and I’m Billy Joel."

Mac shot him a look but didn’t argue. Jet leaned on the counter, watching her carefully. "You usually brush Hal’s shit off. What’s different?"

Mac sighed, setting the stack down and rubbing a hand over her face. "It’s just gonna be like that all the time," she muttered.

Jet frowned. "What?"

"When we move to the mall," she said, voice tight. "It’s gonna be nothing but guys like Hal. Or worse, people who don’t actually give a shit about music. They’re gonna be walking in, acting like they know everything, talking down to me like I’m just some chick behind a counter and not someone who actually knows her shit. And I’ll just have to deal with it."

Jet stayed quiet, watching as she kept going, like a dam had cracked.

"And it’s gonna be—God, it’s gonna be fluorescent lights and corporate bullshit and customers who don’t even care what they’re buying, just looking for whatever’s in the Top 40. We’ll probably have to wear stupid fucking uniforms, and the place is gonna be filled with idiots just hanging around because it’s the only music store in the mall, and—"

"Kiddo," Jet cut in, firm but not unkind. "Breathe."

She exhaled sharply, looking away.

Jet sighed, raking a hand through his hair. "Look, I hate this as much as you do. Maybe more. You think I like taking orders from some corporate asshole telling me how to run the store? But here’s the thing—this isn’t forever. Yeah, it’s gonna suck for a while. But one day? We’re gonna have our own place."

Mac scoffed, shaking her head. "You mean your place."

"Look," he cut in before she could argue, "I don’t got any kids. Never wanted ‘em, and sure as hell don’t plan on it now at 43. But you?" He shrugged. "You’re the closest thing I got. And when I finally get the hell out from under this corporate shit, you think I’m gonna start over without you?"

Mac stared at him, jaw tight, eyes shining in a way that made Jet immediately regret saying anything heartfelt.

He held up a hand before she could get any ideas. "Ah, ah—save the waterworks for the closing party. We’ll all get drunk, listen to something loud, and you can sob about it then."

Mac barked out a laugh, swiping at her face before rolling her eyes. "Jesus, you suck, Jet."

"Damn right, I do." He smiled, patting her on the shoulder.

She shook her head, muttering under her breath as she grabbed the stack of records again. But there was a small smile tugging at the corner of her lips, and Jet knew she’d be alright.

Chapter Text

Friday, January 25th 1985

Nancy tapped her pen against the desk as she flipped through Mac’s sketches, her eyes tracing the clean lines and intricate details. It wasn’t surprising that the artwork was good—Mac had always had an artistic streak, even back when they were kids, before life pulled them in completely different directions. What was surprising was how… refined it was.

The concept Mac had sketched for the Valentine’s edition cover was actually usable—more than usable, really. There was none of the sarcastic, anti-love, ‘ Valentine’s is a capitalist scam’ energy that Nancy had half-expected. Instead, Mac had put together something genuinely appealing, something that could sit on the front page of a real publication without people questioning if the artist had been forced at gunpoint to draw it.

"I gotta say," Nancy mused, setting the pages down, "this is a lot less cynical than I was expecting."

Mac, lounging in the chair across from her, smirked. "What, you think I can’t be classy when I need to be?"

Nancy raised an eyebrow. "I think you once called Valentine’s Day ‘the worst holiday next to Columbus Day.’"

Mac shrugged, clearly unbothered. "It is. But, you know. I can conform if I have to."

Nancy snorted, shaking her head. "It’s actually really good. You should be proud of it."

Mac made a vague “eh” gesture with her hand. "Figured it wouldn’t hurt to have some solid work for a portfolio. Y’know, if I end up doing some art classes over at Cedar Hill."

Nancy nodded, unsurprised. "That’d be a good move for you. Have you already looked into it?"

"A little," Mac admitted. "It’s not a huge program or anything, but they’ve got some decent instructors. Plus, it’d keep me from going completely brain dead after graduation."

Nancy hummed in agreement. "I think it’s a smart choice. And a good way to keep building your work. You’ve got real talent."

Mac rolled her eyes at the compliment, but there was a flicker of something in her expression—something almost hesitant, like she was still unsure about the idea of actually pursuing it. But before Nancy could say anything else, Mac leaned forward, resting her elbow on the desk.

"Enough about me. Let’s talk about Steve’s essay. He told me you looked over it.

Nancy sighed, rubbing her forehead. "God."

Mac grinned. "That bad?"

Nancy exhaled sharply. "I mean… comparatively, it wasn’t the worst thing he’s ever written."

Mac tilted her head. "That’s a pretty low bar, Nance."

"How did you get him to care about a Jane Austen novel?" she asked suddenly, eyeing Mac curiously.

Mac grinned, propping her chin up with her hand. "Oh, that was the easy part. I made him see himself in the story."

Nancy blinked.

And, well… shit .

She hadn’t thought about it before, but now that Mac had said it out loud…

Darcy, who had to work to undo all the damage of being an arrogant, emotionally constipated idiot who only realized way too late that he actually gave a shit.
Elizabeth, who refused to let other people’s expectations dictate her life, who was always a little too blunt for her own good, who never quite fit the mold people wanted her to fit.

She glanced at Mac, who was completely unaware, clearly just amused at the idea of Steve reading a 19th-century novel and relating to anything in it.

Nancy bit her tongue.

There was no way Mac would ever see it that way, and if Nancy said anything, she would deny it so hard that the entire town would hear about it.

So instead, she just shook her head, smirking. "Well, it’s still a step up from his college essay."

Mac grinned. "Damn right it is."

Nancy chuckled, reaching for the sketches again. "Alright, let’s go over these one more time before I send them in."

Mac stretched her arms behind her head. "Sure thing, boss."

And just like that, Nancy let it go.

Tuesday, January 29th 1985

The Hideout was nearly empty—just the smell of stale beer, the hum of amp feedback still echoing faintly in the rafters, and Bev wiping down the bar with a rag that looked like it had seen the Great Depression.

The rest of Corroded Coffin had already taken off—Gareth yammering about a girl he swore made eye contact with him during the second song, Jeff bitching about his amp again, Dougie muttering something about school tomorrow. Normal stuff. But Eddie?

Eddie stayed behind, still perched on the edge of the stage under the dying glow of the red neon signs.

“Thought you said you were helping me clean up,” Bev called, not looking up.

“I am,” Eddie said automatically, which was a lie.

Because that woman was still here.

She sat at the far end of the bar, lit by the warm flicker of the jukebox lights, swirling the last bit of her drink in a glass. She looked like she didn’t belong in Hawkins—at least not this crusty dive bar version of it. Too polished. Too electric. The kind of woman who looked like she walked out of a music video with glitter still stuck in her lashes and boots made for stepping on necks.

The black leather jacket hung off one shoulder, a cascade of silver chains catching the light every time she shifted. Heavy eyeliner. Red lipstick. Mullet shag feathered perfectly over sharp cheekbones. Like Joan Jett and Debbie Harry had a niece who could kill you with her stare.

Eddie had noticed her a few shows ago. You couldn’t really not notice her.

They’d talked once—barely. A short conversation about Sabbath while he was still buzzing off post-set adrenaline, both of them leaning against the bar like neither one of them had anywhere better to be. She’d asked a few sharp questions, called his taste “aggressively masculine but not in a boring way,” and then disappeared into the night like she’d never been there at all.

But tonight, she was still here. Still watching. And Eddie was running out of excuses not to say something.

He walked over now, trying not to look like a complete idiot as he approached. He shoved his hands into his jeans pockets. “So… you didn’t hate the set?”

She looked up slowly, her eyes sharp but amused. “Did I look like I did?”

Eddie chuckled, shifting his weight. “Nah. Just figured I’d start with the safe question before I asked the real one.”

“Oh?” she tilted her head. “And what’s the real one?”

“Your name. Never caught it last time.” A lie. He heard her tell it to Drunk Sam last week.

“Becca,” she said, extending a hand with the kind of confidence that could knock a man flat. Her rings gleamed under the warm bar lights.

He shook it, trying not to overthink the softness of her palm or the way her grip lingered just a second longer than necessary. “Eddie.”

“I know.” She smirked. “You said it, like, twelve times last time we talked.”

“Guilty,” he said with a crooked grin. “Nerves or ego—jury’s still out.”

“Mm.” She leaned forward slightly, resting her elbow on the bar. “Maybe both.”

Eddie laughed, and then the moment slipped easily into what came next. Becca glanced up, slow and deliberate, a sly smile playing at the corner of her mouth. 

She laughed, low and raspy. “You’ve got something.”

Eddie blinked. “I… sorry, what?”

“You,” she said, swirling her glass again before setting it down. “You’ve got it. The whole thing—energy, presence, voice. The band’s tight, sure, but you? You’re the one they’re watching.”

Eddie froze for half a second. His first instinct was to crack a joke—make it a bit, brush it off like he always did when people got too close to complimenting anything real. But her tone wasn’t some drunk compliment. She meant it.

He cleared his throat. “That’s… uh. Wow. Thank you.”

Becca reached into her bag and pulled out a small, clean business card, setting it on the counter between them. “I work out of a studio in Indianapolis. Independent label, nothing huge, but we’ve got teeth. If you ever want to put together a real demo tape, I know people who’d take one listen to you and start making phone calls.”

“Bullshit.” Eddie whispered as he stared at the card, then back at her. “Sorry. Just, shocked? That’s—okay, hold on, uh… I should tell you I’m still in high school.”

She paused, glass mid-lift, clearly caught off guard. “Seriously?”

“I mean, yeah, but I’m eighteen,” he said quickly. “Nineteen next week. I just—didn’t want you to think I was like, sixteen or something. Not that I assumed anything, I just—”

Becca smirked. “You assumed correctly.”

He blinked again. “Oh.”

The heat crawled up the back of his neck, but he didn’t know if it was embarrassment or something else.

“I’ve got a thing with someone,” he blurted.

Her brow arched, amused. “The blonde girl who hangs by the stage sometimes?”

He nodded. “Yeah.”

Becca made a small noise—noncommittal, almost a purr—but said nothing else.

And somehow, that was worse than anything she could have said.

She reached out then, slow and deliberate, plucking the card from the counter and tucking it into the front pocket of his jeans herself. Fingers lingering just a second too long. Her perfume—smoky, citrusy—wrapped around him like static.

“Think about it,” she said, her voice dropping to a low hum. “All of it.”

Then she was gone, boots clacking on the warped wood floor as she sauntered out, hips swinging, jacket slipping back up over her shoulder.

Eddie stood there for a full ten seconds, processing.

“Jesus Christ,” Bev muttered, appearing behind the bar again. “Did she leave you her room key too, or just the promise of heartbreak and unpaid royalties?”

Eddie barked out a laugh—louder than he meant to—scratching at the back of his neck like the sound might cover how off-balance he felt. “Just her card.”

“Mm-hmm.” Bev wasn’t buying it. She leaned one elbow on the bar, narrowing her eyes. “You gonna take her up on it?”

Eddie glanced down at the sleek white rectangle peeking out from his pocket, still warm from where she’d slipped it in. He ran his thumb along the edge, feeling the raised lettering, the weight of it pressing against the idea that had been growing in the back of his mind for weeks now—maybe months.

Externally, he shrugged. “Probably not.”

Internally? He wanted it.
God, he wanted it.

Not her—not really. That part, he could take or leave. Becca was hot, sure. She was older, confident, flirtatious in a way that made him feel like he was being hunted. But that wasn’t the part that got under his skin. That wasn’t the part that made his heart pound like he was halfway through a solo.

It was the shot.
The door.
The idea that someone—someone with connections, someone outside of Hawkins—had looked at him and seen more than a burnout with a guitar and a D average.

She said he had it.
The thing he'd been convincing himself he had since he was thirteen and first picked up his dad’s beat-up pawn shop guitar and played until his fingers bled.

This feeling wasn’t about sex or Becca at all, it was about that escape he so badly craved.

Hawkins was…fine. The Hideout was fine. Playing for beer money and bored regulars was fine.

But the idea of more? Of being heard, of getting out, of walking into a real studio and laying down a track that could end up in someone’s tape deck a hundred miles from Hawkins?

That wasn’t just tempting.
That was everything .

Eddie swallowed hard, slipping the card deeper into his pocket like it might burn a hole if he held onto it too long.

“Don’t make that face,” Bev said, watching him like she already knew where his head had gone. “You get stars in your eyes too fast, Junior. That’s how people end up broke and bitter with nothing but an old demo tape and a dented van full of regrets.”

Eddie offered her a smirk, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Good thing I’m already halfway there.”

Bev rolled her eyes and tossed the rag into the sink. “Yeah, yeah. Just don’t forget who helped you clean up your first stage dive concussion when the label drops you for a prettier lead singer.”

Eddie saluted with two fingers. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

But even as she turned away, he kept one hand in his pocket, his fingers brushing the edges of that card.

Just in case.

Thursday, January 31st 1985

The clink of silverware against fine china was the only consistent sound at the dinner table.

Steve sat stiffly in his chair, chewing slower than necessary, half-listening to the hum of his mother’s voice as she described some upcoming charity gala she was co-chairing. Something for the hospital, or the arts—he wasn’t sure. She was wearing pearls and a tight smile, the kind that never quite reached her eyes anymore.

“I told Denise we could host the cocktail hour,” she said lightly, tapping the side of her wine glass. “I’ll need to get the table linens cleaned tomorrow morning. We’ll be using the ones from the Bancroft auction, and the caterer needs to drop by early for a walkthrough—David, are you even listening to me?”

Her voice sharpened just slightly.

Across the table, David Harrington didn’t look up from his plate. He took a sip of his scotch, slow and deliberate, then finally glanced at her.

“I heard you,” he said. “You’re throwing another overpriced party for a bunch of people who’ll forget it by Monday.”

Steve looked down at his plate. Steak, perfectly cooked, garnished like a magazine photo. He felt nothing about it.

His mother—Linda—didn’t respond right away. She straightened her posture a little, smoothing down the front of her cream-colored blouse with delicate fingers.

Steve didn’t need a map to know where this was going.

David turned his gaze on him next. “You hear anything back from your college applications yet?”

Steve didn’t flinch. “It’s still early.”

David narrowed his eyes. “Don’t get an attitude.”

“I’m not—” Steve stopped, bit the inside of his cheek, and nodded once. “Okay.”

His father leaned back in his chair, fork abandoned now, gaze heavy. “If you don’t get into college, you’ll need to get a job. I’m not footing the bill for you to bum around all summer with your friends. I’ll have you filing papers in my office if I have to.”

Steve swallowed hard, trying to keep the grimace from showing. Working in that soul-sucking glass box downtown, wearing a tie, listening to his dad bark at interns and pretend his secretary wasn’t the same one he’d taken to lunch three times last week? That sounded worse than hell.

“I heard the mall’s opening soon,” Steve said instead. “I might apply somewhere there.”

His father made a noncommittal noise. “At least then you’d be useful.”

Linda cut in, reaching for her wine again. “Speaking of friends… I haven’t seen Thomas or Carol around in a while.”

Steve paused mid-cut. “We’re not friends anymore.”

That should’ve been obvious. A whole year had gone by since he’d ditched that part of his life, and neither of them had noticed. Typical.

Linda blinked, surprised. “Oh. That’s a shame. They were always so polite.”

Steve fought the urge to roll his eyes. Of course she thought that.

She took another sip, then tilted her head. “And what about Nancy? I thought you two were getting serious.”

Steve felt that old burn crawl up his neck. “We broke up. A couple months ago.”

David finally looked up again, like Steve had just said something personally inconvenient to him. “So who the hell are you racking up the phone bill with every night?”

Steve stiffened. “No one.”

His dad gave him a look. Flat. Expectant.

“Just… someone from school,” Steve said.

“Which someone?”

Steve hesitated. Every part of him wanted to lie. Wanted to say some new girl or whatever neutral, unremarkable name would keep them disinterested. He could already picture it—his mom’s little smile, his dad’s thinly veiled disgust, both of them picking her apart piece by piece like they always did. Like they did with everyone.

But then, stupidly—or maybe because he was tired of pretending—he said it anyway.

“Mac.”

David blinked once. “You’re on the phone with one of your buddies at eleven o’clock at night?”

Steve didn’t answer.

His father stared a little longer, like he was trying to crack a code that wasn’t there. Then: “Better not be some queer thing.”

Steve exhaled hard through his nose, jaw tightening. “MacKinley,” he bit out, sharper than he meant. “Mary-Elizabeth MacKinley.”

That changed everything.

Linda’s head lifted just slightly. “Jack MacKinley’s daughter?” Her tone sharpened, all polite surprise edged with something colder underneath.

“Yeah,” Steve said.

And there it was—that look between them. That perfectly rehearsed glance. The one that didn’t need words to convey what they were both thinking.

David leaned back in his chair. “Hmph. Thought they moved out to that trailer park after he died.”

Linda nodded. “Such a shame. Jack was always so respectable, a pillar in the community. Terrible what happens when a family loses its structure.”

“Mmm,” David agreed. “And Patricia? Still into all that hippie shit. Strange woman. Always was, I suppose.”

“This girl—” Linda started, with that awful little pause, like she was being so gracious even bringing it up. Her brow pinched, delicate concern perfectly disguised as judgment. “Mary-Elizabeth.”

Steve didn’t answer.

“She’s…” Linda trailed off, searching for a word that wouldn’t sound as ugly as what she really meant. “Well. She’s certainly not the kind of girl we ever pictured you bringing home.”

“She’s just a friend.”

That should’ve been the end of it.

But of course, it wasn’t.

Linda’s brows lifted faintly, like she’d just heard something tragic at brunch. “Oh, Steven,” she tsked softly, “you know girls like that will only hold you back.”

Girls like that.

David hummed, low and knowing. “A trailer park girl? That’s trouble, son. No matter how pretty they are when they’re young.”

Linda nodded, her voice light, almost sympathetic. “She’s not from anywhere, really. Girls like that get sticky, Steven. They cling. They get comfortable where they’re not supposed to.”

David chuckled without humor. “You start dragging a girl like that around, next thing you know, you’re paying for everything while she plays house.”

Steve stared down at his plate like if he looked up, he wouldn’t be able to stop himself from saying something reckless. Something permanent.

Like hell Mac was comfortable anywhere. Like hell she’d ever asked him for a damn thing. If anything, she kept him at arm’s length half the time just to prove she didn’t need him.

Sticky? Clingy?

Fuck this.

They didn’t know her. They didn’t know shit about her.

They didn’t know she could wield a fire axe better than most grown men. That she’d survived things that would’ve shattered some perfect country club daughter. They didn’t know she made mixtapes like love letters she’d never say out loud. That she called herself a mess and meant it, but still showed up for every single person she cared about like it was a fucking job.

Mary-Elizabeth MacKinley would rather set herself on fire than need somebody.

But Steve?

He was starting to realize he might need her .

His chair scraped loudly against the tile as he stood, cutting through their murmuring like glass shattering.

“May I be excused?” His voice was tight. Flat.

Linda barely glanced up, still sipping her wine. “Of course, sweetheart.”

He didn’t wait.

Steve climbed the stairs two at a time, heart pounding, anger twisting low in his gut like it didn’t know where to go. His bedroom door shut with a soft, deliberate thud behind him.

The room was dark except for the faint orange glow of his bedside lamp. Safer, somehow. Quieter.

Easier to breathe.

God, it really was better when they weren’t home. No commentary. No judgment dressed up like concern. No pretending.

Downstairs, their voices carried on—soft, sharp edges masked in civility, two people who hadn't had a real conversation in years.

Steve sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the phone on his nightstand.

He didn’t even hesitate.

His fingers moved on their own, dialing without thinking. Without second-guessing.

It rang three times before he heard her voice.

"Hello?"

Her voice was clear, a little rough from disuse — like she'd been in the middle of something. Maybe calling her this early actually was weird…

Steve let his head fall back against his pillows, his grip on the phone loosening just slightly.

"Hey."

A pause. Then, skeptical: "Steve?"

"Yeah."

Another beat. Then came that faint, amused huff — the kind that always sounded like she didn’t mean to be fond of him, but was anyway.

"It’s barely dark out," she said. "Are you dying?"

He almost laughed.

"Not yet." He scrubbed a hand over his face. "Just needed a break from dinner."

Her tone shifted immediately. Still casual, but softer. More careful. "Parents home?"

"Unfortunately."

That was all he had to say. She got it. He didn’t have to explain Hawkins Country Club royalty or linen napkins or the way his mom smiled like she might bare her teeth if you looked too close.

"So," she said slowly, "was this a 'drink silently and judge each other' kind of meal or a 'pick apart your only son's life choices' kind of meal?"

He huffed a humorless laugh. "Little column A, little column B. My mom spent most of it planning a gala she thinks is going to save Hawkins, and my dad pretended to care while probably mentally undressing his secretary.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“Yeah. They, uh…” He blew out a breath. “They figured out I’ve been on the phone every night.”

There was a beat.

Then Mac snorted. “You mean to tell me they actually noticed you exist? Alert the press.”

He grinned, but it faded just as fast.

“They asked who it was.” Steve stared at the ceiling, jaw tight. “Tried to dodge it. Didn’t work. Ended up just saying your name.”

That got her attention. “You told my name to your waspy ass parents? Oh, man. Rookie move.”

Steve let out a humorless little laugh. “Yeah. They thought I was talking about a guy at first.”

He could practically hear the grin stretch across her face.

“Oh my god ,” Mac wheezed. “They thought you were phone-boning some dude named Mac?”

“Yup.”

“Bet your dad loved that.”

Steve’s smile didn’t reach his eyes.

“He said it better not be some queer thing ,” he muttered.

The line went dead silent.

Then, dry as hell: “Wow. Groundbreaking humor from David Harrington.”

“But then I said your full name.” His voice went flat. “And they asked if you were Jack MacKinley’s kid.”

Mac didn’t respond. Not right away.

Steve kept going, heat creeping up his neck, “They did that thing? Where it’s not what they say. It’s how they say it.”

Mac stayed quiet.

Like she’d heard it all before.

Like it didn’t surprise her, but still hit in that way ugly things did when they were said out loud.

Steve swallowed hard. “Said you’d drag me down.”

Mac let out a low breath — not hurt, not wounded — but sharp around the edges. Dry as hell. “Joke’s on them. You’ve been a lost cause for years.”

That did get him to grin, crooked and brief.

But then, softer: “Sorry.”

She made a scoffing sound. “Don’t apologize for them. That’s not on you.”

Still, it sat sour in the air between them. 

Steve picked at a loose thread in his comforter, the words itching behind his teeth.

“They don’t know you,” he said finally.

Mac hummed, noncommittal.

“They don’t know shit about you,” he added, fiercer than he meant to. “They just… see you and think they know the whole story.”

Mac snorted softly on the other end of the line, in that way you only got from hearing the same shit too many times in your life.

“I’m used to it,” she said finally. “Stuff like that. The way people look at me, talk about me, fill in the blanks before I even open my mouth.” Her voice dropped a little, tone turned very matter-of-fact. “It’s whatever. Been happening since Forest Hills. Since Eddie. Since... forever.”

And still she filled the silence with a dry little laugh.

“Doesn’t really matter what I do, Harrington,” she went on. “Too loud, too blunt, not pretty enough to be mysterious, not sweet enough to be harmless. So I’m either a bitch or I’m a joke. Those are the options.”

That hit harder than he was ready for because he knew exactly how true it probably felt to her.

Steve let out a slow, quiet breath.

“You’re definitely not harmless,” he said, a little softer than he meant to.

That pulled the smallest sound from her — barely a laugh, but something close. But before he could stop himself — before he could think better of it — he was already saying:

“And you’re not, like... not pretty.”

The line went completely still.

Steve winced. What the hell was he even doing? 

“I mean,” he fumbled, sitting up straighter like posture was gonna save him, “you are . Pretty, I mean. Just not the bullshit kind. Not, like... cheerleader with too much hairspray-and-gloss pretty.”

He scrubbed a hand through his hair, mortified but already committed. “You’re just... Mac pretty.”

Dead silence until, flat as hell:

“Did you just call me pretty?”

Steve groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “I’m gonna pretend I didn’t.”

Her grin was practically audible. “Too late.”

“Fine,” he muttered, leaning back hard against his pillows, hating himself but not really. “I stand by it. Don’t make it weird.”

“Thanks.” Mac let out a slow, maybe-slightly-shy huff through the receiver. “Most guys don’t say stuff like that to girls like me.”

Steve frowned. “Girls like you?”

“You know,” she said lightly, but it felt heavier than the words themselves. “Not the type you bring home to meet your parents. The type you hook up with in a car and then forget about by Monday.”

Something dark flared in his chest, a wave of protectiveness he had felt a few times before when it came to Mac. 

“I’m not most guys,” Steve said before he could think about it. It just slipped out. No bravado. No cool-guy deflection.

Mac was silent for a beat too long. “Yeah, well. That’s what they all say.”

“They don’t mean it like I do.”

He could feel her listening like she always did when things stopped being a joke. He hesitated longer than he usually would. Then, low, like it was just for her:

“Billy and Tommy… used to run their mouths about you.”

“They still do.” Mac scoffed. 

“There was this day in the locker room,” Steve added, sharper now. “Couple months back. After practice. They were saying some real disgusting shit about you. About Munson. And uh, about me.”

Mac exhaled slowly — not surprised, exactly. But something colder creeping in. “What’d you do?”

“Almost broke Billy’s nose.”

Another pause.

“But you didn’t?”

“Nah.” He leaned back into his pillows, staring at the ceiling. “Would’ve been a whole thing. Coach. Suspension. Blah blah blah. Plus look at what happened at the Byers’ place. Guy totally kicked my ass, let’s not sugarcoat it.”

His voice dropped.

“But I wanted to. Sometimes I wish I did more than tell him to shut his mouth.”

That was the honest part. The part that mattered.

“You didn’t have to.”

“Yeah,” Steve said, like it wasn’t even a question. “I kinda did.”

Because Hawkins had been chewing her up for years — and maybe it wasn’t his place, maybe she didn’t need saving — but fuck if he was gonna stand there and listen to them talk about her like that.

The line crackled softly — the sound of her shifting, probably on her bed, curling tighter into herself.

“For what it’s worth,” she said after a second — slower now, like maybe this part was harder to say — “you’re right. You're not most guys.”

And Steve let his eyes fall shut, the corner of his mouth tugging up just a little.

“What did they say anyway?” She finally asked the question he hoped she wouldn't. 

He hesitated — long enough that she noticed. He really didn’t want to answer that question.

“Lemme guess. They thought I was easy?” She pressed, all wry patience. “C’mon. If I survived gym class rumors in eighth grade, I can survive this.”

“It was that day back in November,” he admitted. “After you and me skipped. Drove around all afternoon?”

Mac hummed, waiting for him to continue.

“Tommy started running his mouth in the showers. Talking like it was fact. Like we — y’know. Like we hooked up in my car or something.”

“All we did was talk about my stupid nightmares.”

“Yeah, well. That’s not a very good locker room story.”

She snorted and Steve hesitated again.

“And then Billy said some shit. About Munson. About you. About me not, uh, being able to keep up… ” Steve winced. “with like... freaky shit. Like you’re some kinda expert or whatever.”

Mac barked a laugh, edged with disbelief. “Oh my god .”

“Yeah. He still makes comments about us sometimes. I just ignore it.”

“He really thinks I’m, like, some upside-down Kama Sutra bondage master because I’ve slept with Eddie?”

Steve risked a little grin. “That’s Hawkins for you.”

“Also, so it's on record, I'm not. A bondage master. And Eddie isn't as… wild as people think.” She exhaled a slow, flat breath, clearly uncomfortable divulging that much. “So joke’s on those douchebags. I’ve only slept with two people.”

Steve blinked.

That... was not what he’d expected.

“Seriously?” It came out before he could stop it.

“Why?” Mac challenged, sharp but not mad. “Is that shocking?”

He scratched at the back of his neck, suddenly weirdly warm. “I mean… no. Just figured you were... I don’t know.”

“What? Some groupie burnout from the Hideout?” she snorted. “Sorry to disappoint.”

He shook his head, even though she couldn’t see it. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Well, there’s Eddie. And the guy I lost it to at band camp. And there are a couple guys I've made out with and stuff, but it never actually leads anywhere.”

Steve blinked. “Band camp?”

“I was sixteen, he was first chair clarinet, and I was bored out of my mind. Don’t read too much into it.”

He huffed a small laugh, relief settling weird and low in his chest. “I wasn’t.”

“I know your number’s higher.”

That pulled a low chuckle out of him. “Yeah, well. It’s definitely not two.”

She didn’t ask him for the number, not directly, but for some reason, he said it anyway.

“Eight,” Steve told her, rubbing the back of his neck like she could see him do it. “I think. Yeah — eight. If we’re talking about, like… actual sex. Not like, messing around at a party.”

For a second, there was nothing but the quiet hum of the line between them.

Then came that same unimpressed little hum of hers:

“Huh.”

Steve frowned. “That’s it?”

She snorted. “No, I mean…it’s not shocking. Just... yeah. Makes sense.”

He felt himself grin almost sheepishly. “You sound like you’re doing math over there.”

“I am, actually.”

Of course she was. He could picture her lying there in bed, staring at the ceiling like she was crunching numbers in her head, probably pulling some sarcastic bullshit out of her ass while she was at it.

“Just trying to figure out how you had that much time between basketball, parties, and having your hair perfectly feathered every morning.”

There it is.

“Wow. You’re really gonna drag my grooming routine right now?”

“It’s impressive, Harrington,” she deadpanned. “Time management skills like that could get you into at least one community college.”

That got a real laugh out of him. It settled somewhere warmer than it probably should’ve.

“So…” Mac’s voice crackled through the line, like she was trying real hard to sound casual. “You keep track of that stuff? Like… do you have a list or something?”

“What am I, a serial killer?” Steve almost choked. “I mean, yeah, it’s not that hard to remember. Especially since it’s not like I was… proud of all of them.”

That quieted her again. The words sounded way heavier out loud than they had in his head. Not the kind of thing most guys would admit, he was sure. But it was true.

So he kept going, kind of like he had to, like if he didn’t say it now, it’d sit and rot somewhere inside him.

“I think I used to do it because it felt like… I don’t know. Proof.” His thumb traced the edge of his comforter again without really thinking about it. “Like if I could say I’d hooked up with enough girls,  it meant I wasn’t totally screwing up the rest of my life. At least I was good at something.”

Mac still didn’t say anything, but she didn’t hang up either.

“I’m not really into all that anymore,” he said after a second. “Not after Nancy.”

It wasn’t bitter. Wasn’t resentful. Just the sad truth. He had actually loved someone for the first time in his life, and now the rest seemed…unfulfilling.

Mac let out this low little sound — not quite a laugh, not quite disbelief. “Yeah, well. You turned down Lisa Harvey, so I have to say I believe you.”

Steve smiled faintly, shaking his head. “She’s not my type anymore.”

“Oh?” She dragged it out just enough to be annoying, but not fully teasing.

“Maybe girls like that never really were.”

That shut her up for a beat longer than he expected and when she finally answered, it was quieter than before.

“Maybe.”

Yeah. That sounded about right. They sat with that for a while and eventually, Mac yawned — loud enough that it crinkled the receiver.

“Shit,” she muttered, words slurring just a little. “I might actually fall asleep before midnight.”

Steve huffed a quiet laugh, softer than usual. “First time for everything.”

She sounded like she was already halfway to sleep when she mumbled, “Night, Harrington.”

“Night, Mac.”

Steve put the phone back on the receiver and got up from his bed. He yanked open the top drawer of his dresser, tugging out a tee and a pair of sweats. He changed with slow, distracted movements, the words from their call still echoing in his head.

Eight.

Why the hell had he told her that?

It wasn’t like he lied about that kind of stuff. Not really. But still—he didn’t go around broadcasting it. And with Mac, of all people? He hadn’t even thought twice. It just came out.

Steve rolled over onto his back, the sheets cool against his bare skin, the lamp casting soft golden light across the room. He blinked up at the ceiling, one arm resting behind his head, the other draped loosely across his stomach.

He hadn’t meant to tell her that much. Eight wasn’t exactly a secret number, but he didn’t usually just hand it over like that. Not without some kind of punchline or smirk. But with Mac… it came out before he could even second-guess it.

And she’d said two.

Two.

It shouldn’t have stuck with him the way it did. But it did.

It made him think about all the times Billy had talked shit behind her back. The way Tommy used to laugh like they knew something no one else did. That locker room trash talk—cruel and lazy and loud enough to echo for months.

Mac wasn’t any of the things those assholes said. She was smarter than most of the people who ever tried to get close to her, sharper too. And yeah, she was tough, but there was something else under all that armor—something real, something raw.

He hadn’t planned on calling her pretty either. After holding everything in during dinner, it was like all his words tonight had slipped out, clumsy and unpolished.

You’re not, like, not pretty…

He turned his head into the pillow and groaned, dragging a hand down his face.

But she hadn’t shut him down. She hadn’t made a joke or changed the subject. She just said thanks. And it had sounded… real. That was new.

He could still hear her voice in his head. Low and tired, a little husky from sleepiness, but warm.

So could he really be blamed for thinking about her now? For imagining how her mouth would feel on his jaw, how she might look sitting in his lap, fingers curled into his hair, wearing one of those soft worn tees she liked to sleep in?

He’d had sex. Plenty of it. Enough to know the basics, and a few things beyond. But most of it felt performative. Like he was playing a part. Expected to be the confident guy who knew exactly what he was doing. 

But with Mac? He didn’t know. He couldn’t picture her wanting the same old shit. And maybe that’s why the idea of doing anything with her felt… different.

He wasn’t even saying he wanted to. Not really. They were just friends.

Still, he thought about the way she said his name when she was trying not to fall asleep. The way she smiled when she teased him—like she was always in on a joke he hadn’t figured out yet.

He could see himself reaching out, tucking a strand behind her ear, watching her face shift when he got close. He wouldn’t do anything fast. Not with her. She wasn’t the type.

He’d have to make sure she wanted it—really wanted it. Ease into it. Maybe she’d grab his shirt first, impatient in that way she always got when she was pretending not to care.

He swallowed hard, his hand drifting lower over the waistband of his boxers.

The image sharpened— the night they danced in the school parking lot. 

Her arms wrapped around his neck, her head against his chest, the way she fit there like she was made for it. The parking lot had been cold, and her sweatshirt sleeves were too long, and she smelled like whatever cherry perfume she always wore. She’d rolled her eyes at him, of course, but she didn’t pull away.

She let him hold her.

His breath caught as the memory tugged hard at something deep in his chest. The way her fingers had curled into the hair at the nape of his neck. The way her laugh had vibrated softly against him. It hadn’t meant anything. Not officially. Not out loud.

And now—his head tipped back against the pillow—he imagined something else. A ‘what-if’ layered over the memory like a second skin.

What if instead of the dance ending when the song did, instead of him bringing her home… they spent a little more time in his car?

Her breath warm against his throat. The radio still humming something soft and stupid. Her voice low, brave in that way she got sometimes, her walls falling away for a moment.

His fingers slipped beneath the elastic.

Just for a second, he told himself. Just to see.

He exhaled slowly, eyes closing, his hips shifting as his hand moved beneath the waistband. His skin was already too hot, his breath catching as the fantasy bloomed.

Her thighs straddling him in the backseat. Her smirk just a little crooked. The windows fogged. No one around, nothing but the whisper of wind outside and the soft sound of her laughing against his neck.

He stroked himself once, slow and experimental, the weight of her imagined body anchoring the moment. He knew she’d be soft, real, solid in a way that made you want to hold on tighter. She wasn’t like other girls he’d been with. She was curvier, warmer. She took up space, and he wanted to give her more of it. Wanted her sprawled across the bench seat, hair fanned out, her hoodie pushed up to reveal flushed skin and breathless, impatient sounds.

If he were smart, he wouldn't keep going. If he were smart, he wouldn't think about her like this. Because it wasn't fair.

But the more he talked to her, the more he learned about her—the harder it was to not think about her.

Not like that .

But maybe a little like that. Clearly a little like that.

He was definitely losing his mind.

Fuck.

He wondered if she’d let him peel her top off slow, or if she’d yank it off herself, impatient like always. He’d tease her, just a little. Brush his thumbs along her ribs, just to see her squirm.

He started to move his hand, stroking himself more firmly, a low moan falling from his lips.

She’d definitely roll her eyes. Call him a sap.

But she’d kiss him like she meant it.

His hand moved faster, breath catching, hips jerking slightly as his head pressed back harder into the mattress. He imagined her voice saying his name like it was something she’d never said to anyone else.

He wanted to be good to her. Wanted her to know he’d never look at her like she was some sad memory on the edge of a crowd.

He’d kiss her shoulder. Her breasts. Her stomach. He’d make her feel seen.

His hand faltered as the fantasy caught fire—her moaning against his mouth, her fingers tugging at his hair, her legs wrapping tighter around him. She'd make that little whimper. The kind you only get out of girls when they're really worked up.

His release hit fast and hard, his whole body tightened and then he was spilling over his fingers. A soft, strangled sound fell from his lips and he gasped, his free hand curling into a fist as his release rushed through him. It was raw. Stupid. Real.

Too real.

The aftermath sank in slow and sharp. He lay there, hand slick and guilt creeping in like smoke under a door.

They were friends.

Maybe even good friends.

And he’d just jerked off thinking about fucking her in his car.

“Shit,” he whispered, staring up at the ceiling like it might offer him answers. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

He didn’t expect an answer. A minute passed, and the shame burned a little hotter. He got up, yanked an old shirt from the hamper, and wiped his hand off on the inside, tossing it back toward the hamper.

Flopping down onto the bed, he lay there for a while. This was just a one time thing.

It had been a while for him. A few months since he'd done anything with anyone. And they were just talking about sex. It wasn't his fault he'd gotten a little worked up. But even as he told himself that, the nagging voice in the back of his mind whispered:

No, that's not what this is.  

And it wasn't.

He sighed heavily and stared at the phone, half-hoping it might ring again. But the minutes passed and the room grew darker.

Eventually, he drifted off, and the phone didn't ring. 

Chapter Text

February 1985

Friday, February 1st 1985

Mac sat on one of the stiff wooden chairs in the Hawkins High library, her notebook open but untouched. Across from her, Steve slid a folded sheet of paper across the table like it might explode if she opened it wrong.

She raised an eyebrow. “What is this? A bomb threat?”

Steve didn’t smile. Not really. He just gave a quiet, lopsided shrug. “Just open it.”

She narrowed her eyes but unfolded the page.

B+.

Her eyebrows lifted.

“Harrington,” she said, impressed despite herself. “Look at you. Crushing the English lit game.”

He leaned back in his chair, trying to act casual. “Guess your weird crash course actually helped.”

“Wow,” she deadpanned, flipping her pencil between her fingers. “That’s how you thank me? After I compare an Austen character to every bad decision you've ever made?”

He gave her a half-smirk, but it didn’t quite land.

They sat there, studying as usual, but there was something off about him. Something too quiet. He was tapping his pencil rhythmically against the edge of his notebook, eyes skimming a page he definitely wasn’t reading. And every time she said something, he barely reacted.

Mac tilted her head slightly. “You okay?”

Steve didn’t look up. “Yeah. Just tired.”

“Right,” she said, dragging out the word. “Because you're totally not being cagey.”

That made him glance at her—briefly. Then back down again. “I’m not being cagey.”

“You’re literally not making eye contact.”

“I’m looking at my notes.”

“You’re staring at a blank page.”

He shut the notebook a little too quickly and muttered, “Jesus, okay. Sorry.”

That stopped her short. She leaned back, crossing her arms. “What’s your deal?”

Steve sighed and dragged a hand down his face. “Nothing.”

“Liar.”

“I’m not—” He shook his head. “I’m just trying not to be weird about stuff.”

Mac narrowed her eyes. “What stuff?”

Steve looked like he was trying to find an exit. “Last night. The... whatever. Locker room rumors. Talking about—stuff.”

She stared at him. “Is that what this is about? You’re still thinking about that?”

“I just—” He broke off, then leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. His voice dropped. “It’s not a big deal. I don’t care about that.”

“Then what do you care about?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just fiddled with the spiral of his notebook, peeling a bit of it loose. “I don’t know. I guess I just didn’t sleep great.”

Which was technically true. Just... not the whole story.

Mac’s expression softened a little. “If this is about you saying I was pretty—”

Steve cut in, “It’s not.” He hesitated, then added, “It’s not that I didn’t mean it. I did. I just… don’t want things to be weird now.”

Mac studied him. There was something behind his eyes she couldn’t quite read—something guarded, which wasn’t totally unusual for Steve, but still... different.

“You’re the one acting weird, Harrington.”

“I know.”

She tilted her head. “Why?”

He opened his mouth, then closed it. Then, finally: “Because I think I said too much.”

Mac blinked. “Last night?”

“Yeah.”

“What part?”

Steve scratched the back of his neck. “All of it? Maybe none of it? I don’t know. The part where I got way too honest about... things I don’t usually talk about. The part where I told you my body count. How I admitted I regretted some of it. The part where I—” He caught himself, jaw tightening.

Mac raised an eyebrow. “The part where you what?”

He didn’t say it.

Didn’t say: The part where I thought about you for an hour afterward with my hand down my pants.

Didn’t say: The part where I’m still thinking about it now and trying not to make things awkward.

He just shook his head. “Forget it.”

Mac let the silence stretch before saying, “Well, for the record? I didn’t think it was weird. Honest, maybe. But not weird.”

That caught him off guard. Steve felt the tension in his shoulders ease just a little.

And for a second, they just sat there, some low-level feeling settling quietly between them—too soft to call tension, too real to call nothing.

Then Mac blinked, shook her head like she was snapping herself out of it, and muttered, “Anyway. Congrats on the B+.”

“Thanks.”

They sat in silence again, until Mac yawned and reached for her bag.

“God,” she muttered. “This day’s crawling.”

“Tell me about it.”

They both stood, and Mac paused at the end of the table.

“I’m good, y’know,” she said, not looking at him. “If that’s what you were worried about. I don't feel, like, weird about anything you told me.”

Steve frowned. “I wasn’t—”

“You were. It’s okay.”

She turned toward the stacks and headed to grab some books, but not before he caught the smallest hint of a smile tugging at the edge of her mouth.

Thursday, February 7th 1985

Robin was supposed to be taking notes.

That’s what the lined pages in front of her were for, what Mrs. Click’s dry, droning voice was expecting her to do. But instead of actually focusing on whatever war they were supposed to be learning about today, Robin found herself watching—and seething—as Tammy Thompson shamelessly flirted with Steve Harrington.

It was infuriating .

Not because Steve was flirting back, exactly—he wasn’t not flirting, but he also wasn’t fully engaged. He was leaning back in his chair, tapping his pencil against the desk, nodding along while Tammy giggled, twirling her stupid, perfect hair, flipping it over her shoulder in a way that made Robin want to throw her textbook across the room.

Robin had been head over heels for Tammy Thompson since sophomore year. Not in a way that she ever admitted out loud, not to anyone except Mac, who had somehow figured it out without Robin even telling her. But watching Tammy waste her time throwing herself at some clueless, barely-listening ex-jock who didn’t even realize how stupidly lucky he was made Robin want to scream.

Steve didn’t deserve that attention. He hadn’t done anything to earn it.

He was just sitting there, not even paying attention, probably thinking about his hair or some other deeply unimportant thing, while Tammy was batting her eyelashes, hanging off his every word, wasting all that energy on a guy who didn’t even get it.

Robin didn’t even realize she was staring until Steve suddenly looked over, brow furrowed.

Shit.

Robin snapped her head back down to her notes so fast she nearly knocked over her pen. Her face burned as she scribbled something down, just for the sake of looking busy, even though she had absolutely no idea what the hell she was writing.

She could still feel him looking at her, like he was trying to figure out why the hell she’d been burning holes into the side of his head for the last several minutes.

When she finally chanced a glance back up, Tammy was still giggling at whatever he’d just said, twirling a loose strand of hair around her finger, and Steve—Steve looked bored as hell.

Robin gritted her teeth and forced herself to actually start writing down the lecture, even if her handwriting was a little more aggressive than usual.

Robin practically threw herself onto the counter the second she walked into the store, dramatically slamming her history notebook down in front of Mac, who was midway through organizing a stack of cassettes.

"Explain to me how the hell you’re friends with that guy."

Mac didn’t even look up, just tossed another cassette into the bin. "Robin, I’m friends with you. My standards aren’t high."

"Wow," Robin deadpanned, shoving herself upright and leaning on the counter. "I come here for emotional support, and this is what I get?"

Mac finally glanced at her, smirking. "Yeah, yeah. What did Steve do this time?"

Robin threw her hands up. "Okay, first of all, his answers in class are so stupid I think I actually lost brain cells sitting near him."

Mac snorted. "That bad?"

"Mac," Robin said seriously, gripping the counter. "Mrs. Click asked what year the Declaration of Independence was signed, and he hesitated."

Mac grimaced.

"Like, what is wrong with him?" Robin groaned. "He spent all of high school coasting by on his looks, and now that people don’t automatically worship him anymore, he still doesn’t have to try, because girls like Tammy Thompson are still throwing themselves at him!"

Mac raised an eyebrow, amused. "Ah. So this is about Tammy."

Robin froze, immediately backtracking. "What? No. I mean, yes, she was flirting with him, but that’s—that’s not the point. The point is that Steve Harrington is an idiot who doesn’t even appreciate it."

Mac tilted her head, still smirking. "Sounds like the point is that you’re mad Tammy is into Steve and not, y’know… someone else."

Robin groaned, letting her forehead drop onto the counter and exhaled sharply, before lifting her head just enough to glare. "You could at least pretend to make me feel better."

Mac rolled her eyes, tossing another cassette into the bin. "Tammy Thompson isn’t even all that."

Robin immediately straightened. "Yes, she is."

Mac made a face. "Robin."

"She is!"

Mac let out a dramatic sigh, setting down the tapes and leaning on the counter. "Okay, but her singing voice."

Robin stiffened. "What about it?"

Mac smirked. "It’s bad."

Robin crossed her arms. "It’s not bad."

Mac gave her a look. "Robin."

Robin held firm. "It’s not!"

Mac arched an eyebrow. "She sounds like a dying cat, and you know it."

Robin opened her mouth, ready to argue, but Mac just kept looking at her like that, and suddenly, the whole thing became so stupid that she couldn’t stop the laugh that burst out of her.

Mac laughed too, shaking her head as she leaned against the counter, and just like that, Robin felt a little better.

"God," Robin muttered, wiping at her eyes as she grabbed her notebook off the counter. "I still don’t get how you deal with him."

Mac shrugged. "You get used to it."

Robin hummed, unconvinced.

Thursday, February 14th 1985

Valentine’s Day, and Steve Harrington was sitting outside Hawkins Middle in his BMW, picking up one Dustin Henderson.

Fucking fantastic.

Around him, the parking lot was slowly draining of activity—soccer moms in station wagons, older siblings with perms and muscle cars, the occasional kid sprinting to catch their ride like their life depended on it. Steve watched the front doors like they might spontaneously burst into flames and end his suffering.

He sighed, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel. Here he was, sitting in his stupid car, while most guys his age were probably at dinner right now. Or fumbling through second base in the back of their cars. And he was waiting outside a middle school like some sad divorcee on custody day.

The passenger door creaked open.

Dustin slid into the front, giving Steve a once-over before pulling the door shut. “You look like shit.”

“Hi, nice to see you too,” Steve muttered, putting the car in gear.

“No offense,” Dustin added, already pulling off his jacket. “You just look... extra sad today. Is it the hair? Did you lose the good bottle of Farrah Fawcett spray?”

Steve gave him a flat look as he pulled away from the curb. “No. My hair’s fine.”

“Debatable.”

Steve sighed, fingers tightening around the steering wheel. “Let’s just get you home, alright?”

“Home?” Dustin looked over like he’d just been betrayed. “That’s it? Mac would take me to the arcade.”

Steve scoffed, glancing at him. “Yeah, well, Mac’s not here, is she?”

“Nope. Because she has plans. With Robin. And Eddie,” Dustin said, pointedly.

Steve felt his eye twitch. “Your point?”

“My point is: she has a social life. What do you have?” Dustin leaned forward, peering at Steve dramatically. “Don’t tell me you’re going home to sulk and quietly watch Wheel of Fortune with your mom.”

“She’s not even home tonight,” Steve grumbled.

“So you’re gonna be alone? On Valentine’s Day?” Dustin let out a noise that was way too close to pity for Steve’s liking. “Dude.”

“Dustin.”

“I’m just saying.” Dustin flopped back in the seat, kicking his feet up on the dash.

“Put your damn feet down.”

“Only if we go to the arcade.”

Steve groaned, but his hands were already turning the wheel toward the Palace. “You’re lucky I don’t have any dignity left.”

The silence between them lingered for a moment before Dustin started in again, voice just a little more casual.

“So Max and Lucas are totally dating now.”

Steve glanced at him. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. It’s fine. I’m good. I’ll bounce back. Plenty of fish in the sea, right?”

Steve snorted. “You’re twelve, You’ll be fine.”

“Thirteen,” Dustin corrected. “Which, in some cultures, is basically adulthood.”

Steve gave him a look but let him continue.

“So, what about you?” Dustin asked, propping his elbow on the window. “You seeing anyone yet?”

Steve’s brain stuttered. Was he really so far down in the social hierarchy that he was going to talk to a pre-teen about his love life?

For one brief, heart-stopping second, one face flashed across his mind. Wavy blonde hair. Dark blue eyes. A sarcastic laugh. The way she looked when she was studying, or when she got way too into a mixtape she made. He shoved the thought down as fast as it came.

“No,” he said quickly. “Just… focusing on school. And figuring out next steps.”

Dustin squinted at him. “That sounded like bullshit.”

“What, you want me to give you a detailed romantic history while you sit there with your dinosaur backpack?”

Dustin didn’t answer right away. Instead, he tilted his head and said, “You know Mac and Eddie are a thing, right?”

“Yeah, I know,” he said, too quickly, too flatly. “How is that relevant?”

Dustin shrugged. “It’s not. I just thought maybe we should all be honest here.”

Steve side-eyed him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I’m saying,” Dustin replied, totally undeterred, “you’ve been acting weird lately. And I’m pretty sure I know why.”

Steve frowned. “Okay, I don’t like that tone.”

“Dude,” Dustin said, turning in his seat to face him, his expression already halfway between smug and exasperated. “You remember the tunnels last year? With the demo-dogs?”

“Obviously.”

“Okay, and do you remember how you grabbed Mac when the swarm of them came through, and then didn’t let go of her for, like, ten minutes?”

“That's an exaggeration. And I was protecting her,” Steve said defensively. “That was literally my job.”

“Sure,” Dustin said. “But after the fight? When we got back to the Byers’? Everyone was wrecked, but you were still hovering around her like she was made of glass. While you probably had a concussion. You handed her the first aid kit before anyone.”

Steve didn’t have a comeback for that.

“And then at the Christmas party,” Dustin continued, now fully invested, “you spent the whole night talking to her by the tree.”

“That’s not true,” Steve said weakly.

“You made her a plate and walked around holding it like a waiter until she finished her hot chocolate.”

Steve groaned. “Dustin.”

“I haven’t even gotten to the phone calls.”

That made Steve tense up. “What phone calls?”

“You call her all the time,” Dustin said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Or she calls you. Usually after eleven.”

Steve’s hands tightened on the wheel. “How do you even know that?”

“She told me,” Dustin said, clearly trying not to laugh. “She said you’re a ‘weirdly good conversationalist when it’s past midnight and you’re not trying to be cool.’ Her words.”

“She’s my friend,” Steve said. “It’s what friends do.”

Dustin looked unimpressed. “Uh-huh. You call all your friends at the wee hours to talk about mixtapes and how much you hate your parents?”

Steve didn’t answer.

“Exactly,” Dustin said triumphantly.

They pulled into the gravel lot outside the Palace Arcade. Steve exhaled sharply through his nose.

“I’ll pay for your tokens if you shut up,” he muttered.

“Deal.” Dustin said brightly, already unbuckling his seatbelt.

“God help me,” Steve grumbled as they stepped out into the cold.

Chapter Text

February 1985 (Part II)

Friday, February 15th 1985

Mac sat in the passenger seat of Eddie’s van, her boot bouncing rhythmically against the dashboard, arms crossed as she watched him out of the corner of her eye.

He hadn’t said much since they left school. He was never a master of subtlety, but even for Eddie, his excuse this morning— “Thought I’d play chauffeur today, sweetheart. Gotta keep my rep as Hawkins’ favorite burnout alive somehow.” —had been especially transparent.

And she wasn’t buying it.

Not when he’d been weird all week. For a few weeks, honestly. Especially yesterday.

Their Valentine’s tradition—this year it was at the Frontier after hours, eating candy hearts and watching the usual gory horror flicks—had been... fine. But Eddie had barely touched his popcorn and spent most of the night staring blankly at the TV, only chiming in when either of them nudged him. Robin had caught Mac’s eye more than once, raising her brows in that you gonna ask him what’s up or am I? kind of way.

Now, as he pulled the van into Forest Hills and rolled to a stop in front of his trailer, Mac turned to him fully, not bothering to hide the irritation in her voice.

“Alright, seriously. What the fuck is going on with you lately?”

Eddie blinked like he hadn’t expected her to say anything. Like she’d been quiet this whole ride for the thrill of it or something.

“Mac—”

“No,” she snapped. “You’ve been distant for days, barely talking to me or Robin, then suddenly you want to play ride-or-die this morning and act like everything’s cool? What gives?”

He looked at her for a long moment, hands still on the wheel. The expression on his face wasn’t defensive or dismissive—it was something else. Conflicted. Like he wanted to argue but couldn’t find the words.

Finally, he sighed. “Can you just... come inside with me for a bit?”

She frowned. “Are you gonna tell me what’s going on?”

“I will,” he said. And he sounded solid, like he meant it. There was a sincerity in his voice that she didn’t hear often—too serious to be sarcasm, too grounded to be one of his usual deflections.

Mac hesitated, then nodded once. “Alright.”

They climbed out of the van in silence, Eddie unlocking the trailer door and holding it open for her. Wayne’s truck wasn’t in the yard—he was working late again—and the place was quiet in that slightly stale way only a lived-in space could be.

Eddie didn’t say much as they made their way down the narrow hall to his room. He pushed the door closed behind them, flipped on the lamp near his bed, and crossed to the stereo to drop the needle on whatever record was already on the player—low, moody guitar filling the space.

She sat cross-legged on his bed, fingers curled in her lap, watching him.

He was still standing, facing the stereo, shoulders tense. When he finally turned around, his eyes met hers, and it was like he was seeing her for the first time in weeks. Really looking. Not skimming the surface like he had been lately.

“Jesus, you’re not—like, dying or something, right?” she asked, half-joking, half-serious. “Or you didn’t knock some girl up and now you’re spiraling? Because that would probably lead to me slapping you and a few different conversations I really do not want to have. Or... shit, Eddie, what is it?”

That earned a soft, dry laugh from him. The kind that didn’t come from humor but from relief. He shook his head, walking toward her.

“No. None of that.”

When he reached her, he didn’t sit beside her like usual. Instead, he sank to the floor, kneeling in front of the bed and resting his hands gently over hers.

The warmth of his palms was grounding. So was the look in his eyes.

“I hate this phrase,” he said quietly. “But we need to talk.”

Mac’s pulse skipped and her fingers curled a little tighter in his. She didn’t know what he was about to say—but something about the way he was looking at her made her want to brace for it. Like whatever it was, it wasn’t small.

He hadn’t meant to keep it from her this long.

But every time he thought about bringing it up, every time he looked at her—truly looked at her—it stuck in his throat. Like the words would ruin something between them that he hadn’t figured out how to name yet. Like if he said it out loud, the decision would stop being an idea and become real.

But it was real.

Becca had been showing up at The Hideout every week since the end of January, always early enough to hear soundcheck, always staying late enough to talk logistics. She brought binders and notebooks, not just empty promises. She told him about the label—Dead Wax Records, a gritty little independent shop with a basement studio tucked beneath a secondhand vinyl store on the edge of Indianapolis. Nothing flashy. But real.

They weren’t offering a contract. Not yet. Just the chance to lay something down. Partner with local bands. Make an actual demo. A place to work. There was an open spot in the music shop upstairs where he could pick up part-time hours, help pay his way while getting studio time at a discount. They even told him he could bring his band, but Eddie knew—deep down—that they didn’t want Corroded Coffin.

They wanted him.

It twisted something in his gut. Pride and guilt all tangled together.

Becca still flirted with him sometimes, slick little comments and glances that felt more like a test than a proposition. But he hadn’t taken the bait. Not once. Not because she wasn’t hot—hell, she was—but because he didn’t trust her in that way. This was about business. He wasn’t stupid enough to mix the two. And because every time her hand lingered too long on his arm or she looked at him in that calculating way, all he could think about was how artificial it felt.

Mac sat there on his bed now, legs folded under her, watching him with those eyes that didn’t miss shit. Eddie felt his mouth go dry.

He took a breath.

“I’ve been talking to that woman. Becca. From The Hideout.”

He watched it hit her.

Mac’s eyes narrowed just slightly. Not suspicion—more like defense. Like she’d just started building a wall and didn’t even realize it.

“Oh,” she said, quick. Too quick. “Yeah. That makes sense. I mean, if you’re into her or whatever, that’s—fine. I get it.”

“Mac—”

“No, seriously,” she kept going, voice light, almost chirpy, like if she said it brightly enough it wouldn’t hurt. “She’s older, she’s cool, she does her eyeliner better than I ever could—”

“Mac.”

“I mean, I figured we weren’t—like, labeled or anything. So if you wanted to—”

“ Mac. ” His voice finally cut through, low and gentle, stopping her short. He exhaled and sat beside her, their knees bumping.

“That’s not what this is,” he said, shaking his head. “It’s not about that. I haven’t even let it get close to being about that.”

She watched him now, guarded. Waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Eddie rubbed his hands over his jeans, suddenly restless, then started again.

“She works for a label. It’s small, but legit. Called Dead Wax. They’ve got a studio down in Indy. There’s a record shop above it—Analog Alley, we’ve been there before—and they’re offering me work while I cut a demo. Real studio time, Mac. Real mics. Soundproofing. No busted amps.”

Her mouth opened slightly, brow furrowing.

“I just gotta figure out where I’m gonna live. That’s the last piece.”

Mac stared at him, something unreadable flickering across her face. “Wait… so this is like, a summer thing?”

Eddie hesitated.

“It’s a… next month thing.”

Silence.

It hit like a drop in pressure. Like the moment right before a storm hits and the air goes too still.

Mac’s lips parted, but no sound came out at first. Then, carefully: “You’re leaving next month?”

“I’d come back,” he said quickly. “Every few weeks, if I can. It’s not far. Just a few hours—”

She looked down, her voice suddenly smaller. “What about school?”

“Doesn’t matter,” he muttered. “Higgins already told me I’m a rotting apple, spreading my rot around the school. The usual bullshit. This… this is something real. I can’t just wait around for another year of detention and C-minuses.”

She nodded slowly, still not looking at him. “What about Wayne?”

“I talked to him. He said I gotta do what I gotta do. I think he’s mostly just happy I’m not some ambitionless loser like Al.”

Finally, Mac looked up at him again. And her next question cracked something in his chest.

“ …What about me? ”

She said it unguarded, barely a whisper. Not sharp or sarcastic. Not flippant like she usually was when feelings got too close.

Eddie’s heart ached.

He reached up, brushing his knuckles gently against her cheek, already preparing himself in case he had to catch a tear. Not that she’d ever let one fall easily, but he knew how she carried things until they nearly split her open.

He took her hands again and shifted to face her fully, heart pounding.

“Hey,” he said, soft. “Listen to me, alright? Really listen. Because this is one of those rare moments where I’m gonna be completely serious. No bullshit.”

Eddie took a slow, grounding breath. The kind that reached all the way down into his chest and stayed there for a second.

“When I think about leaving Hawkins,” he said quietly, eyes on her face, “you’re always in the passenger seat.”

Mac blinked.

“I mean that,” he added, because he knew she’d try to deflect it. “Every version of the future I’ve ever let myself daydream about… you’re there. Shotgunning beers and heckling my driving, telling me to turn the music up louder, screaming lyrics out the window.”

Her mouth twitched like she was trying not to smile. But she didn’t interrupt him.

“That’s the dream, Mac. It always has been.” His voice cracked a little, but he kept going. “But sometimes… sometimes dreams are just that. Dreams.”

He held her gaze, even when her brows pulled together in that way they did right before she argued. She opened her mouth to protest, but he stopped her with a look—soft but firm. The kind that said, Let me finish.

“The truth is… you’ve got roots here,” he said, quieter now. “Even if you don’t realize it.”

Mac frowned. “That’s not—”

“I know about the art classes,” he said gently, before she could deflect again.

She looked away, the blush in her cheeks almost imperceptible. “It’s just community college. Not like it’s a big deal. I could still go with you. After I graduate.”

Eddie’s smile was small, sad. “You really wanna leave Patti alone like that? You think she wouldn’t miss you every second you’re gone?”

Mac’s mouth opened, but her response was already softer. “No…”

“And Jet?” Eddie asked, his voice more careful now. “You really gonna leave him to face mall life alone?”

That made her stop. She looked down at their joined hands.

Then, almost against his own will, the next question clawed its way up his throat. The one he’d been trying not to say for weeks. Maybe months.

“…What about Henderson?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper. “Or Robin. Or…”

He hesitated, then finally said it:

“Harrington?”

Mac’s head jerked up. Her brows shot together in a tangle of disbelief and offense. “Steve?”

Eddie sighed, rubbing a hand over his mouth. “I’m not dumb, Mac.”

“I’m not...I wouldn’t— ” she started.

But he just looked at her and whatever she was going to say wilted before it left her lips.

“No no no, I’m not mad. I’m not insinuating. Truth be told, I figured you didn’t even realize it,” he said. “But I see it. The way he looks at you. The way he watches you leave, like he doesn’t think anyone else sees him.”

“He doesn’t—” she tried again, her voice catching somewhere between defensive and unsure.

Eddie cut her off gently, no heat behind the words. “I’ve had that same look on my face since I was fourteen.”

That shut her up. Her eyes went wide, her lips trembling, and he saw the first tear slide down her cheek before she could turn her face away.

“Hey, hey,” Eddie murmured, shifting closer, pulling her into his arms. “It’s okay. It’s gonna be okay.”

She didn’t sob. That wasn’t her style. But the quiet, shaky breath she let out against his chest broke something in him all the same.

“I’m not saying this is goodbye,” he said softly into her hair. “I’m just saying… maybe we gotta figure out what we want outside of each other. Just for a little while.”

She sniffed, nodding into his shirt, her arms winding around his back.

“And that’s okay,” he whispered. “Because no matter what—no matter where I am or who I’m with—you’re still my best friend. My soulmate. My twin flame. Or whatever hippie junk Patti’s on about this month.”

That earned the tiniest, wet laugh against his collarbone.

“There she is,” he said, smiling against her temple.

Mac leaned back, just enough to meet his eyes. She looked at him for a long moment and Eddie leaned in.

Carefully, like he was afraid she might flinch. Gently, like he knew exactly what this meant. His hand came up to brush a piece of hair from her cheek, and then he kissed her.

It wasn’t the way their kisses used to be—when they were tangled in bedsheets or laughing into each other’s mouths between bites of stolen time.

This kiss tasted like goodbye in a way neither of them wanted to admit, but neither tried to stop. Like sealing something in amber, preserving the feeling for when things changed.

Because they would, they both knew that. It was the ‘how’ that was still unclear.

And still—she didn’t pull away.

And he didn’t rush it.

When he finally broke the kiss, their foreheads stayed pressed together, and her hands were still curled in the fabric of his shirt like she wasn’t quite ready to let go.

Eddie kept his eyes closed for a second longer, letting the weight of it settle.

Because this?

This wasn’t just the end of something.

It was the quiet beginning of whatever came next.

For a long moment, neither of them moved.

Mac just stared at him, her heart a storm of everything—grief, relief, confusion, warmth. The kind of ache that didn’t come from pain but from knowing something good had to end before it could become something else. The kind that lived in her chest and bloomed behind her ribs and made her feel like if she didn’t speak or blink or breathe just right, she might shatter from it.

Eddie was leaving.

Not forever. But still.

And yet, right now, he was here. With her. Looking at her like she was something steady in a world that always tilted sideways. Or upside down, in her case. 

Her mouth parted, but nothing came out. She didn’t know what to say. Maybe there wasn’t anything left to say.

He smiled first.

That soft, crooked grin of his—the one that always looked like it came with a secret punchline.

“I know you detest Valentine’s Day,” he said gently, like he was afraid to break whatever spell had wrapped itself around them. “But it’s the day after. Maybe that can be our new thing. Our own anti-Valentine tradition.”

He leaned in and kissed her mid-sentence—just a brush of his mouth against hers, gentle, careful. Like punctuation.

“Not flowers and cheap candy,” another kiss, this one slower, more assured, “just this.”

Mac’s head tilted back slightly, lips parting beneath his, and somehow they were moving—gradually, unspoken. She let him guide her, let herself follow, until she was lying back on the pillows in his bed and he was above her, braced on his forearms, looking down at her like she was the only thing tethering him here.

It hit her, all at once. This wasn’t impulsive. It wasn’t just about sex. It was about holding onto something—one last time.

“Are you sure?” she asked softly, her hands resting at his waist, her voice more vulnerable than she meant it to be.

His lips brushed the slope of her neck, featherlight. “I’m sure.”

He was being so gentle. Not because he thought she’d break, but because it meant something. Because they both knew what this was.

He kissed his way along her throat, slow and languid, and then lifted his head to look at her with that teasing glint in his eyes.

“Last time we did this was behind The Hideout,” he said, his voice low, almost fond.

Mac gave him a narrow-eyed look. “Don’t.”

He grinned wider. “I’m just saying. It was hot—like, really hot—but not exactly how I wanna remember…”

She swatted at his arm, laughing despite herself.

He didn’t say ‘ our last time .’ He didn’t have to.

She understood.

“For now,” she said, her smile fading to something softer.

He nodded. “Yeah. For now.”

She swallowed hard, her gaze flicking over his face—trying to memorize it in the way you only did when you knew something was ending. 

Then, trying to make light, she said, “You’ll have plenty of chances in the city. Bet cool girls in Indy are into the whole tortured musician thing.”

It was meant to be a joke, but it tasted wrong in her mouth. Bitter and too sharp around the edges.

Eddie blinked, watching her closely, the smirk fading. And she hated that she suddenly felt… small. Like she’d just exposed something raw she didn’t mean to. Like she wanted to disappear under the covers and crawl out the other side in a different skin.

She just hated the thought of losing him in this way.

And maybe it wasn’t just about Eddie leaving.

She wasn’t the type to cling. She never had been. But there was a quiet, gnawing part of her that twisted at the idea of him being gone. Of not having him in her orbit. Because with Eddie, there’d always been this safe knowing—this certainty that someone saw her for more than the whispers and sideways glances. More than the rumors that never quite died.

And if he left, what did that mean?

That she was just what they said she was behind the locker room doors? Some girl you fooled around with when no one was looking—someone loud and brash and too much, but never enough to keep around?

Eddie’s hand came up slowly. He shifted his weight, rolling them so they were lying side by side now, facing each other.

Mac blinked, confused, but Eddie just reached out, fingers curling under her chin, his thumb grazing the hinge of her jaw with the kind of softness that made her stomach flip. His other hand came up, trailing down the side of her face, until the pad of his thumb was brushing lightly over her bottom lip.

His voice was quieter now. Rougher. Barely above a whisper.

“I swear to God, Mac,” he murmured, his thumb tracing the curve of her mouth again, “you’ve got the kind of lips that should be illegal.”

Her breath caught.

She was about to say something, anything to cut through the sudden pulse pounding in her ears, but Eddie shook his head slowly.

“Shhh.”

And then he leaned in, not kissing her yet—just hovering there, his breath warm against her cheek, the moment holding tight around them like a thread pulled taut, just before it snapped.

Eddie couldn’t look away from her.

The way her breath caught just slightly when his fingers brushed her jaw. The way her eyes softened—not with uncertainty, but with something deeper. Trust, maybe. Or whatever version of it she reserved just for him. He wasn’t sure he deserved it, but he was going to hold it like it was the most sacred thing he’d ever been given.

His thumb traced the corner of her mouth again, then swept gently across her bottom lip. She exhaled, and he felt it in his chest.

“Do you have any idea,” he murmured, “how stupidly lucky I am just to be here right now?”

He moved slowly, deliberately, the mattress dipping beneath him as he leaned into her space—not hovering, not asking with words, but with the way his fingers brushed softly down her jaw, then her collarbone, barely there.

“Can I?” he murmured, his voice low, already breathier than he meant it to be. His thumb ghosted along the hem of her shirt, just a whisper of pressure.

Mac nodded once, lips parted, chest rising a little faster than before.

He smiled—not the usual smug thing he wore when he was playing at being cocky, but something small, awed. Like the kind of smile you gave when something beautiful startled you.

Her shirt came up slow, his fingers brushing her ribs as he eased it over her head. She shivered just slightly—not from cold, but from the weight of it, the intention in every small motion. When it was off, he let it drop to the floor, his eyes not leaving her.

“Goddamn,” he breathed, reverent.

He reached up again, this time running his fingers along her sides, tracing the edge of her bra. He wasn’t in any hurry. Not tonight.

“You know I’ve never earned this, right?” he said quietly, eyes locked on hers. “You. Letting me touch you like this. I don’t think I’ve ever done a single thing good enough to deserve that.”

She opened her mouth to say something, maybe to tease him like she usually did, but his hand pressed lightly over her sternum, right above her heart.

“Let me say it,” he said, voice like gravel and silk all at once. “Just this once.”

His hands rose to her back, fingers careful and sure as he worked the clasp of her bra, pausing only when she shifted slightly to help. When the band loosened, he let it fall from her shoulders, but he didn’t move right away.

Instead, he looked at her. Just looked. Not with hunger, but with something quieter. Something deeper.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he whispered. “Like… unfairly so.”

She blushed. Mac blushed—and he swore his heart skipped. One of his hands came up to cup her cheek again, his thumb dragging gently across her bottom lip. His voice dropped, near a whisper now, like it wasn’t meant for anyone but her.

“Still can’t get over your mouth,” he said. “Swear it’s gonna haunt me.”

Her breath caught, and he smiled again, softer this time. Less smirk, more disbelief.

Then, slowly—carefully—he leaned down and kissed her again. Like they had all the time in the world, even if they didn’t.

And as the kiss deepened, his fingers began to drift lower again, brushing against her bare skin like it was something sacred.

He didn’t need to say it out loud, but the thought came anyway, loud and clear in his head:

If this is the last time, I want her to remember that I never once took it for granted.

Because God—he really, truly didn’t. Never had. He wasn't kidding when he said it. It was a privilege just to touch her. Even if no one else saw that. Even if no one else believed him. Because she deserved to be touched with reverence. With respect. And he'd be damned if he wasn't going to do everything in his power to make sure that's exactly what she felt.

He shifted so she was on her back again. Their legs tangled, but nothing was frantic. Nothing was rushed. They kissed and his fingers traced the lines of her body—her arms, her sides, the dip of her collarbones. His hand cupped the curve of her breast, his thumb teasing a slow circle over her nipple. She sighed, the sound warm and low, and Eddie felt it down to his toes.

"You're always so soft," he murmured, half-breathless, like he was awestruck. "How are you so soft?"

He kissed his way down her throat, lingering, lips dragging against her skin. Her breath hitched when he closed his mouth over the hollow of her collarbone, and he did it again, sucking lightly, just enough to earn another sigh. His hands, calloused from guitar strings, continued their exploration. Drifting down over the soft swell of her stomach, his fingertips catching in the waistband of her jeans.

He'd touched her countless times—in ways that were hurried and desperate, in ways that were slow and teasing, in ways that were downright filthy—but there was something about the way she reacted this time. A quiet kind of openness. Something raw and vulnerable and honest.

Even if he never got to touch her like this again, he wanted her to know that this was how she should be touched. She should be treated like something precious, not just something convenient. Not just a body. Not just an itch to scratch. And he hoped that whoever came after him saw that. Because if he could teach them nothing else, he could at least teach them this.

He was about to unbutton her jeans when she shifted, lifting her hips slightly, her hands tugging his shirt up. He let her pull it over his head, and her fingers found his chest, skimming over his tattoos, her touch careful.

Mac wasn't a big crier. Neither of them were. But he could tell by the way her breath caught just slightly that she felt something. And when she looked up at him again, her eyes were wet.

"I'm gonna miss you," she whispered, voice cracking a little. "I'm really, really gonna miss you."

His smile was soft, almost sad. He didn't say anything. Not because he didn't want to, but because there were no words. There was no way to describe how much she meant to him. Eddie had a wide vocabulary, storytelling was his whole brand, but no words could be strung together to adequately represent just how important she was to him

So instead, he kissed her. Hard. With every ounce of feeling in his body. Every emotion that had no words. The ones that tasted like grief and hope all at once.

Because this wasn't goodbye. Not really.

Even if things changed, they would still be them. Somehow. Maybe not the same way, but in a different way.

"I’m here now," he murmured against her mouth, his hands already busy with her jeans. "I've got you."

When he'd finished undressing her, his fingers brushed the inside of her thigh, teasing, light. She sat up a little, shifting underneath him and moving her handle to the belt buckle of his jeans. Eddie watched her, breath held, as her hands worked quickly, undoing his fly and pushing the denim down over his hips. When they were off, his boxers went next, and then they were finally, finally , skin on skin.

Eddie kissed her again, harder this time, his hand sliding between her legs. Mac gasped, soft and breathless, her thighs falling open for him. His touch was soft, slow, deliberate. Just enough pressure to draw a sigh from her, but not enough to rush it.

Her hips lifted, rocking against his hand, and Eddie grinned, teeth dragging against her earlobe. He was always good at this—knowing what she wanted, how she wanted it. How to give her the exact amount of pressure, the perfect amount of friction.

"You always look so pretty when I touch you," he murmured, his free hand trailing down her side. "So fucking pretty."

Her breath caught, her face flushed. She turned her face away, but he just smiled, kissing the underside of her jaw.

"You can pretend you're embarrassed when I say it, but I know you too well." he whispered, his fingers moving a little faster now, drawing a shaky sigh from her lips. "And I know how much you like hearing it."

She opened her mouth, maybe to deny it, maybe to tell him to fuck off, but his thumb circled her clit, and her head tilted back, a soft moan escaping her lips.

"Yeah," Eddie murmured, his mouth finding her neck again, kissing his way down her throat. "Just like that."

She was already so wet, and he felt her pulse kick beneath his lips, his tongue flicking out to taste the hollow of her collarbone. She squirmed, arching against him, and he grinned, his hand slowing, drawing a frustrated little sound from her throat.

"Shhh," he whispered, his fingers sliding lower, teasing the heat between her legs, then slipping inside. She whimpered, and he felt her grip on him tighten, her hips rocking against his hand.

"That's it," he murmured, his mouth finding her ear, his teeth grazing the shell. "Take what you want. I want you to."

She did. She arched into him, her hands coming up to grab his shoulders, her nails digging into his skin. Eddie's free hand slipped around her, pulling her closer, his fingers sliding deeper, curling just so.

Mac's breath caught, and he grinned, feeling the tension building in her muscles. Her eyes were shut, her brows drawn together, and he knew exactly how close she was.

"God," she breathed, her thighs tightening around his hand. "I'm gonna—oh, shit."

Her hips jerked, her legs shaking as the orgasm hit her, hard. He could feel it, and his chest tightened. He'd seen her like this before, a dozen times, but not with the knowledge that it could be the last.

His heart ached. His stomach twisted. And all he could think about was making sure she'd remember. Every moment of it.

Her breathing was ragged, and he could feel her pulse hammering, her skin flushed and sweaty. He pulled his hand away, letting her catch her breath, and then shifted, settling his weight between her thighs. She reached for him, her fingers trailing along his jaw, and his eyes met hers.

"Ah...one sec." He said, leaning down to fish in the bedside table for a condom. She sat up on her elbows, watching him, an expression on her face as if she was hesitating to say something.

"What is it?" He asked, sitting back and tearing open the foil.

"Nothing, I just..." she trailed off.

"What?" He repeated, a slight frown creasing his brow.

"Can we, uh...without that?" She asked, nodding at the condom in his hand.

Eddie's eyes widened slightly, and his mouth opened and closed again. "Uhh..."

"Only if you're cool with it," she said quickly, her cheeks flushing a deeper pink.

"You've never... we've never done it without one," he pointed out.

"I'm, um... I'm on the pill now." Mac muttered, averting her gaze. "For, um, health reasons. And because Patti insisted. And like, my cycle was all over the place, and it helps, so..."

Rambling. Eddie smiled, and leaned down to kiss her. "Hey, relax."

She stopped talking, and her gaze shifted back to his.

"If you're sure," he murmured, looking her right in the eyes.

"Yeah," she nodded, her fingers twining with his. "I'm sure."

Eddie set the condom down, and returned to kissing her, his hand running down her side and resting on her hip. He was still painfully hard, but he didn't rush, or even think about rushing. This was too important. He didn't want to mess this up.

Slowly, his hand slid down her thigh, and he gripped the soft flesh there, guiding her leg over his hip. She let out a soft sigh as his length brushed her inner thigh, and she bit her lip, her gaze flickering down between them.

" I've actually never, uh..." Eddie admitted, pressing a soft kiss to her jaw. "Y'know. Like this. Without a condom," he confirmed, his breath ghosting over her skin.

"Really? I mean I haven't either. Obviously."

"Yeah," he chuckled. "I'm... I'm glad it's with you, though."

Mac smiled, her fingers tangling in his hair.

"Me too," she whispered.

With that, he shifted his hips and slowly pushed into her. The sensation was unlike anything he'd ever felt, and the warmth of her nearly sent him over the edge. He bit his lip, groaning softly as he bottomed out, his hands gripping her waist.

"Fuck," he breathed, his head dropping to her shoulder.

Mac wrapped her legs around him, her hands sliding down his back and resting on his hips. She let out a breathy moan, her eyes falling closed.

"Oh, my god," he sighed. "That's..."

Eddie stayed still for a second, breathing her in, buried deep and barely holding on. Her legs were locked tight around him, her hands smoothing up and down his back like she was trying to ground him—except she was the one making him come undone.

“You okay?” he asked, breath shaky as he kissed her jaw.

She nodded, lips parted, flushed and warm beneath him. “Yeah,” she whispered. “More than okay.”

He started to move—slow and deep, every thrust drawn out like it was something sacred. Because it was. This wasn’t frantic, wasn’t fast. It was about making sure she knew—without question—how much she meant to him.

He moved again, deeper this time, slower. Not to tease, but because he wanted to feel every inch of her. He wanted her to feel every part of him. Wanted her to know this wasn’t just sex. It never had been, not with her. 

She gasped softly, her fingers sliding into his hair, pulling him down into another kiss. He rocked into her, letting the rhythm build, his hands moving from her hips to her waist, to the curve of her ribcage, like he couldn’t decide where to hold her.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he murmured against her mouth, then trailed kisses to her throat, his lips soft, lingering. “So perfect.”

She arched into him, her body meeting his with every thrust, and he could feel it—that subtle shift in her breathing, the way her thighs started to tense.

His hand slipped between them, fingers finding her again, slow and deliberate. He circled her clit the same way he had earlier, not too fast, not too much—just enough to keep her right there, hovering.

“There you go,” he whispered. “That’s it.”

She grabbed his shoulder, her grip tightening, her eyes fluttering shut for a moment before she looked up at him again—like she wanted to see him when it happened.

“I’ve got you,” he said, his voice low, steady. “Come on, sweetheart.”

That was all it took.

Her body arched beneath him, her lips parting with a soft moan, and he felt her pulse around him, felt the shudder go through her. Her thighs clenched around his waist, and she buried her face in his neck, her breath hot against his skin as she came.

He kept moving through it, slow and tender, kissing her temple, her cheek, her mouth. Whispering things he wasn’t sure he’d remember later—only that they were undeniably true.

When she finally went soft beneath him, Eddie felt his own body giving out. He buried himself one last time, groaning low and broken against her throat as he came, his whole body shaking with it.

They stayed like that for a long time, tangled together, breathing hard but slow, skin damp and warm.

Eventually, he pulled back just enough to see her face. Her eyes were still a little glassy, her hair a mess, her lips swollen and red. She looked like everything.

He brushed his fingers along her jaw, then down her neck, like he was memorizing her all over again.

“I love you,” he said, voice rough. “I really, really fucking love you.”

She smiled, soft and tired and so heartbreakingly real. “I know.”

Eddie kissed her again, and this time it wasn’t about goodbye. Not yet. Just… them.

Still them. Always them.

Saturday, February 16th 1985 

The sunlight filtered in through the slatted blinds, pale and soft, brushing across Mac’s bare shoulders. The trailer was quiet, save for the low hum of Eddie’s stereo—a half-forgotten Sabbath track crackling low on vinyl. The room still smelled faintly like weed and laundry detergent and him.

She blinked herself awake slowly, awareness crawling back one inch at a time. Eddie was warm behind her, one arm looped tight around her middle, the other curled beneath his pillow. His chest pressed against her back with every slow breath, steady and grounding. She blinked slowly, not moving, just breathing—just feeling.

They hadn’t bothered getting dressed after the first time. Or the second. Or after she fell asleep tucked into him like she was the only thing tethering him to this stupid town. And now, hours later, his lips were brushing the crown of her head, lazy and soft, like he couldn’t help himself.

“You’re awake,” she mumbled, her voice rough from sleep.

“Have been,” Eddie murmured into her hair. “Didn’t want to move. You looked… peaceful.”

She snorted faintly. “Gross.”

“Beautiful,” he corrected, pressing another kiss behind her ear. “But sure. Gross works too.”

Mac smiled despite herself. She let the silence stretch again, thinking about how warm he was, how solid. She should be used to this. Should be good at letting go. But her stomach still twisted when she remembered why she was here.

Her hand drifted to his where it rested at her waist, fingers tracing a scar on his knuckle. “You said you’ve got everything figured out for Indianapolis.”

“Pretty much,” he said against her shoulder.

“Except where you’re gonna live.”

She felt him go still, just for a second.

“Figured I’d crash in the van for a while,” he said casually, like it was no big deal.

Mac twisted around, just enough to look at him over her shoulder. “You can’t do that, Eddie.”

“Why not? It’s a deluxe apartment on wheels, baby.” He gave her a grin.

She frowned. “I’m serious. That’s not gonna cut it. Especially if you’re working and recording and trying not to die of exposure.”

He sighed, brushing her hair back from her face. “Mac—”

“Uncle Frankie has space,” she said, voice firmer now. “You said the studio’s near Analog Alley, right? He lives like ten minutes from there. You could stay with him.”

Eddie blinked. “Your uncle wouldn’t mind that?”

She shrugged, rolling fully onto her back now. “Frankie’s basically just a gayer, more organized version of you. He’ll probably try to make you vegetarian or teach you how to line dance or something, but he won’t care. He’s cool.”

Eddie raised a brow. “Did I just hear you say ‘line dancing’ and ‘cool’ in the same sentence?”

Mac rolled her eyes. “Shut up.”

Once they were both dressed and in the main room, steam curling up from mismatched mugs filled with fresh coffee, she watched him for a second, then reached for the phone on the kitchen wall. Eddie had showered, thrown on his cleanest shirt, and was currently pretending not to eavesdrop from the couch.

Mac dialed the number she knew by heart and leaned against the counter, wrapping the phone cord around her finger as the line rang twice.

“Frankie’s House of Chaos,” her uncle answered, voice bright and theatrical as ever. She could hear music in the background—something synthy and weird—along with the faint clatter of dishes.

“Hey, it’s me.”

“Mac-a-doodle! What’s up, pumpkin? Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” she said, then paused. “I, uh… I need a favor.”

A dramatic gasp came through the line. “My favourite niece, asking me for a favor? Be still my withered, little heart.”

“I’m your only niece.” She rolled her eyes, but she was smiling now. “But it’s for a friend. He needs a place to stay in the city. Just for a while.”

“Tall. Messy hair. Band tee glued to his body. Kinda looks like he's entering a Dio lookalike contest?” Frankie asked, his voice already shifting to something more conspiratorial.

Mac snorted. “Yeah. Eddie.”

“God, I like that kid,” Frankie said, suddenly sincere. “Even if his head is full of Metallica lyrics and sarcasm. Vince likes him too. Said he’s the only one of your friends who actually complimented his basil.”

Mac smiled at that. “That tracks.”

“What's going on? Everything alright with him?”

“Yeah. He just… got an opportunity with a studio in Indy. Needs a place to crash. He can help out around the house, or at the club or something. I just thought—”

“We’re already fluffing the pillows in the guest room,” Frankie cut in, no hesitation. “Does he have allergies? Vince is back on his fermented vegetable bullshit. The last guest we had over thought kimchi was a skin disease.”

Mac laughed, the tension in her shoulders loosening. “He’s not picky.”

“Well, good. Because Vince just replanted the herb boxes and he’s going to want to show off. And tell him not to worry about rent—he can help out with the soundboard or do a shift at the door when we have punk nights. We always need a tall guy to keep the college kids from setting themselves on fire.”

“Thanks,” she said, voice a little softer. “Seriously.”

“Anytime, Mac,” Frankie said, gentler now. “He’s one of the good ones. You’ve got a decent eye.”

She hesitated. “Hey, is my mom there?”

There was a pause. A rustle, like he was covering the receiver.

“Frankie.”

“She’s not here,” he said carefully.

“…Okay. Where is she?”

“She might be… on a brunch date.”

Mac froze, her mouth half-open. The words hit harder than they should have.

“Oh.”

“Mac—”

“No, it’s fine. That’s—fine.” She cleared her throat, adjusting the phone against her ear. “Just… tell her to call me later.”

“You could talk to her now, I have the number for—”

“Just tell her.”

Frankie sighed. “I probably wasn’t supposed to say anything.”

“Yeah, well. You did.”

He paused, then softened. “Just talk to her when she gets home, okay? Don’t go full MacKinley rage on her.”

“I won’t.”

“Alright,” he relented. “I love you, kid.”

“Love you too.”

They hung up. Mac stared at the receiver in her hand for a moment, her thumb brushing the hook like she couldn’t quite let go of it. Her coffee had gone cold. The realization was still sinking in—Patti was dating. That’s what all those extra city trips were. Mac had been worried something bad was happening between Frankie and Vince, but that wasn’t the case at all.

She set the phone down gently, the click of plastic loud in the quiet kitchen.

Mac scribbled Frankie’s number on a sticky note and slapped it onto the wall beside the rotary phone, her pen stroke just a little sharper than it needed to be. Eddie watched her from the couch, one leg stretched out, the other jiggling absently with leftover nerves. He still hadn’t fully exhaled.

“So?” he asked after a beat, keeping his tone light, testing.

She crossed the room and sank beside him, their shoulders barely brushing. “He’s already prepping the guest room,” she said. “Vince is probably baking something as we speak.”

Eddie let out a low whistle. “Damn. Should I send a thank-you card now or after he starts fattening me up?”

Mac didn’t laugh. Not really. Her smile was more a flicker than anything else, like a match struck but never lit. Eddie turned toward her, studying her profile.

He knew she could feel him staring, but Mac didn’t answer right away. Her gaze flicked toward the wall across from them, then down to the coffee table, then back to her hands. She exhaled slowly, and Eddie knew there was something else on her mind.

“He said my mom’s dating someone,” she said finally. 

Okay… Not what he was expecting. Patti dating was not high on his list of ‘what Mac could be upset about’, probably ever.

Eddie blinked. “Oh.”

It wasn’t the kind of news that should’ve knocked the air out of a room. But it did. Because he knew what that meant. He knew what that was for her.

He leaned back into the cushions, tilting his head to look at her more directly. She didn’t meet his gaze. Just sat there with her knees drawn up and her hands clenched in the hem of her sweatshirt, eyes trained on nothing.

In all the time he’d known her, there had only ever been Patti. Patti and Mac. A fortress of two. No boyfriends. No halfhearted flirtations. Just stories about Jack—her dad—told with the kind of reverence that made Eddie feel like he'd missed out on really knowing a legend. He didn’t even have to ask to know Mac had never seen her mom with anyone else. Not once.

This wasn’t just a new chapter. This was someone writing in the margins of a book Mac thought was finished.

Eddie shifted, reached for her hand, and pulled her gently against him until her head was tucked beneath his chin. Her body was tense at first, like she didn’t know if she wanted comfort or to bolt, but she let him hold her.

“She deserves to be happy,” he said, softly. “Jack would want that for her.”

Mac didn’t respond, but her fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt.

Eddie swallowed. This wasn’t enough. Not today. Not for her.

He took a breath and went deeper. “If my dad wasn’t a total piece of shit… if he was even half the man yours was? I’d have wanted him to find someone too. After my mom died, I mean.”

That stilled her. She tilted her face up, just enough to glance at him.

“I mean yeah, it's different than it was for you,” he said, quieter now. “I was six and didn’t understand half of what was going on. Just knew she stopped coming home from the hospital one day and everything went gray after that. Wayne took me in, and I guess… yeah. If things had been different, I’d want Al to have someone who made him laugh again. Made him feel like he still had a reason to get up in the morning that wasn’t gambling or some scheme to pay off his gambling.”

Her breath hitched slightly against his chest. Not a sob. Just a small, sharp inhale. Like something loosened.

He held her a little tighter. “I’m not saying it doesn’t suck. Just… you’re allowed to be mad and weirded out and still be glad she’s not alone.”

Mac was quiet for another long beat before she shifted away, sitting up. She didn’t say much, but her expression had changed. Still clouded, but not as unreadable. More like she was processing instead of drowning.

“I promised Dustin I’d take him to that new comic shop out in Cedar Hill,” she said, standing and reaching for her bag like she hadn’t just been on the verge of an emotional breakdown.

Eddie raised an eyebrow. “Is that today?”

She nodded, slipping on her jacket. “Yeah. Babysitter duty calls. Can’t have Harrington actually become his favorite.”

He grinned, rising from the couch and following her to the door. “Look at you. Problem solving.”

They stood there for a second. Neither quite moving.

Mac looked up at him, and her expression softened. “Thanks. For… all of that.”

He leaned in and kissed her—just once, soft and lingering. Nothing heated, nothing rushed. Just a press of meaning between them, full of things they weren’t saying.

When she pulled back, she looked steadier. Still guarded, still bracing for whatever was coming next—but more herself. She opened the door and stepped outside, pausing on the steps before heading toward her trailer across the park.

Eddie stood in the doorway for a moment, watching her go.

Then he turned back inside, plucking the sticky note with Frankie’s number off the wall. He stared at it, thumb brushing over the ink like it might change under his touch.

Indy.

It still didn’t feel real.

But it was happening.

And somehow, knowing he’d have a place there—knowing she helped him find it—made it feel a little less like leaving everything behind.

And a little more like starting something new.

The comic book shop was called Panel & Ink , tucked between a laundromat and a pizza place. It smelled like newsprint, plastic sleeves, and a little burnt coffee from the back corner where an old Mr. Coffee machine grumbled like it had a grudge.

Dustin barreled past the counter without waiting, beelining to the long boxes in the back with all the focus of a kid on a quest. Mac followed at a slower pace, letting him narrate his hunt like it was a dungeon crawl. He rattled off names and issue numbers with the kind of passion she usually reserved for horror movies or yelling at Jet over misfiled tapes.

“Mac, I swear to God, if they have it, I’m gonna lose my entire mind. That’s the one with the big throwdown. The real one, not that reprint garbage—”

“Mm-hm,” she murmured, scanning the shop half-distractedly. “Sounds life-changing.”

She wasn’t exactly paying attention. Her gaze had drifted toward the back corner of the shop where a makeshift lounge had been carved out—two battered couches, a few armchairs, a low table littered with donut boxes and sketchbooks. A small group of people sat there, maybe college-aged, maybe not. Close enough to her age that it made her stomach turn a little.

They looked like people she could know.

One girl with a buzzcut was laughing, showing off something she'd drawn. Another had charcoal all over the side of her hand, her denim vest layered with enamel pins and patches. There was a guy with a split lip and a grin, flipping through someone else’s sketchpad. And then—

Curled into one end of the couch with a coffee cup balanced on one knee, eyeliner smudged around his eyes, curls falling into his face in a way that looked like it wasn’t on purpose but somehow still worked. He was cute, in that quiet, interesting way. Artsy without being pretentious. The kind of guy who probably made zines and talked about post-punk lyrics like they were gospel.

Mac blinked.

It wasn’t about him—not really. It was about the whole scene. The way they were sprawled across the mismatched furniture, swapping pens and talking softly about light sources and ink bleeding. It looked easy and even attainable.

And for a second, she let herself want it.

Want something that didn’t revolve around Hawkins. Something that wasn’t about monsters or grief or pretending like she wasn’t constantly waiting for the other shoe to drop. She could picture it—coffee in hand, sketchbook in her lap, nodding along as someone talked about some niche comic series or local zine collective. She could see herself here. Starting over in a way that didn’t feel like erasing everything, just… building something new.

She could have this. If she let herself.

"OH HOLY SHIT!"

Dustin’s expletives shattered her thoughts like a rock through a window.

Mac jerked toward the sound, already tensing, half-expecting to see someone rolling their eyes or telling him to keep it down. Her instincts kicked in—ready to shoulder her way between him and whatever judgment was coming.

But instead?

The girl with the buzzcut grinned and raised her coffee in a toast. The charcoal artist clapped her hands once, theatrically. Someone let out a whoop from the other couch.

The artsy guy smiled and turned to the person beside him, nodding like he understood the thrill of finding what you were looking for.

Mac stood there frozen, her heart still a little elevated.

And then it started to settle.

Because no one laughed at him. No one made him feel weird or small for being excited about something he loved. They just… got it.

She looked back at Dustin, who was cradling a bagged copy of his comic like it was a sacred relic. His grin was too wide for his face.

“Come on,” she said, nudging his shoulder. “Let’s pay before you give yourself a stroke.”

“I’m not ruling it out,” he muttered, practically bouncing on his heels as they walked to the counter.

Mac smiled, her eyes drifting back one last time to the couch circle and its quiet hum of creative energy. The guy in the eyeliner had gone back to sketching, but he looked up just once—met her gaze, smiled, then turned back to his page.

She turned back to Dustin.

Maybe this little trip wasn’t just a stop for him. Maybe it was also a little push for her.

The argument started somewhere around Elm Street and was still going strong by the time Mac turned onto Dustin’s block.

"I’m just saying," Dustin insisted, gesturing wildly from the passenger seat, "Freddy’s way more dangerous than Michael Myers. He's in your dreams, Mac. Your dreams."

Mac scoffed, flipping her blinker on. "Yeah, okay, Michael doesn’t need dream magic. He’s just pure, silent murder.”

"Silent murder isn’t scary!" Dustin argued. "Dream murder is psychological warfare!"

"What do you know about psychological warfare?"

Dustin opened his mouth, probably to launch into some D&D comparison, but Mac had already pulled into the Henderson driveway—and froze.

Claudia was standing outside, hands folded nervously in front of her, wearing that polite smile that meant she was wound up tighter than a clock. Mac's stomach did a slow, uneasy flip.

Claudia worried. That was her thing. But she didn’t usually wait on the front steps like a sentry.

Dustin noticed too, immediately deflating. "Uh-oh."

He unbuckled and grabbed his comic, hopping out of the car. Claudia smiled warmly at him—too warmly—and ruffled his hair in that way moms did when they were about to drop a bomb.

"Go on inside, honey," she said. "I’ll be right there."

Mac climbed out of the driver’s seat, pulling her jacket tighter around her against the damp breeze. She figured she knew what this was—some awkward payment thing. She shoved her hands into her pockets and tried to beat Claudia to the punch.

"Hey, Mrs. Henderson, seriously, this wasn’t an official babysitting gig," she said. "I’m not expecting pay. It was just a run to the comic shop."

Claudia chuckled softly, shaking her head. "That’s not what I wanted to talk to you about."

Mac blinked, a little thrown off balance. She kicked at a loose stone in the driveway with the toe of her boot.

Claudia’s smile softened. “Mac… Dustin’s starting high school in the fall. And, well, he’s getting older. More independent. You know how he is.”

Yeah. Mac did. She knew Dustin probably better than anyone besides his mom.

"I think—" Claudia hesitated, then pressed on. "I think he’s ready to not have a babysitter anymore."

The words hit harder than Mac expected.

She knew this day would come eventually. She wasn’t stupid. Dustin was almost as old now as she’d been when she first started watching him. It wasn’t like she thought she'd be carting him to the arcade when he was seventeen or anything.

Still. It knocked something loose inside her.

She forced a smile. "Yeah. Of course. I get it."

"You’ve been so good to him," Claudia said, her voice thick with real gratitude. "More than a babysitter. You've been a big sister when he needed one. I don’t know what we would’ve done without you."

Mac looked down, scuffing her boot against the pavement to hide the sudden tightness in her chest. "Thanks," she mumbled. "He’s easy to care about."

Claudia’s face warmed. "There’s just... one more thing."

Mac looked up, brows lifting in question.

"Dustin’s going to camp in June. Camp Know Where—it's a little farther out, in Illinois."

Mac nodded slowly. That tracked. She remembered Dustin talking about some science camp with a name that sounded like it was trying too hard to be cool.

"I get really nervous with long drives," Claudia continued. "It’s silly, but I thought... maybe you could bring him? Just you two. I’d pay for gas, and it could be a fun road trip. One last adventure before high school starts."

Mac smiled, a real one this time. "Yeah. I'd love to."

"Thank you, sweetheart," Claudia said, reaching out and squeezing her hand. "I’ll make sure you’re all set with maps and directions."

They said their goodbyes, and Mac climbed back into the car, cranking the engine against the damp air.

She pulled out of the driveway just as the first fat raindrops splattered against the windshield.

It wasn’t a heavy rain yet—just a cold drizzle, the kind that blurred the edges of everything and made the world feel a little too soft around the seams.

As she drove, her mind turned over everything.

Vinyl Frontier moving locations.

Eddie leaving.

Her mom dating.

Dustin not needing her anymore.

The possibility of Cedar Hill and something new.

She gripped the steering wheel tighter, trying to blink back the sting behind her eyes. She wasn’t going to cry. She didn’t cry over stuff like this. She moved forward. She handled it.

She passed the turnoff for her trailer park without even thinking.

Instead, she kept driving.

The rain picked up, hammering softly against the roof, and before she could talk herself out of it, she was pulling up to a different curb. Killing the engine. Sitting there for a second with the keys clutched tight in her hand

There was only one person she wanted to see right now. 

She climbed out, jacket pulled over her head against the rain, and jogged up to the front porch. She stood there a second, heart hammering stupidly hard in her chest, before she knocked.

Chapter Text

February 1985 (Part III)

Saturday, February 16th 1985 (cont’d)

Mac’s head was in Robin’s lap, her legs curled toward the wall like she was trying to physically shrink from the weight of it all. Her hair was damp from the rain, frizzy at the ends, and Robin ran her fingers through it gently, like she was afraid she’d unravel something if she pulled too hard.

She wasn’t sure how long they’d been like this. The details had started to blur together around the time Mac told her about Eddie leaving. About Dustin not needing her anymore. About her mom dating.

Robin hadn’t interrupted much. Just… listened. Let Mac talk until the tears finally slowed and her voice stopped hitching on every other word. Let her go quiet when the words ran out.

Now, it was just the two of them on Robin’s twin bed, a tangle of mismatched blankets and thrifted pillows, with the faint thrum of her stereo playing something soft and weird in the background.

Mac wasn’t crying anymore, but her eyes were still red, and her voice was quieter than usual. Small, but not weak. Not Mac-like, either. It was the kind of voice you used when you didn’t have the energy to put up a fight but were still waiting for someone to try.

“So,” Robin said, finally, her voice low. “Just to recap. The Frontier is moving. Eddie’s leaving. Dustin’s growing up. Your mom’s—maybe—having a romantic awakening. And you’re thinking about art classes, but you're also spiraling about the potential of not being needed by literally everyone you care about.”

Mac let out a muffled groan into her hoodie sleeve. “God, when you say it like that…”

“I mean, you left out the part about me possibly ruining your life by giving you bangs.”

That got a faint snort out of her.

“A month ago,” Mac mumbled, “my biggest fear of change was when you came at me with kitchen scissors and a towel over my shoulders.”

Robin smirked, still stroking her hair. “And look at you now. Braver. Stronger. Marginally better hair.”

Mac made a face without looking up. “You know I have a wonky hairline.”

“Yeah, and I worked around it,” Robin shot back. “Like a true artist.”

Mac didn’t answer, but the corner of her mouth tugged upward just a little.

Robin’s smile faded slowly as she looked down at her. At the girl who had been her person since she first stepped foot into Hawkins High. Who could take down a grown man with a sharp joke and a dirtier glare, but now looked like she was barely holding it together.

She reached up with her free hand, brushing a stray strand of hair from Mac’s forehead. “Hey. I know I can’t fix everything. But I also know you. And you're the kind of person who doesn't need to be needed to be important.”

Mac blinked up at her, eyes glassy again.

“I mean it,” Robin said. “You’re not just useful. You're not just the girl who shows up for everyone else. You matter even when you’re standing still. Even when things are messy and changing and scary.”

A beat passed.

“You’ve got people, Mac,” Robin added, softer now. “Not just Eddie. Not just Dustin. You’ve got me. Patti. Jet. Hell, even Steve I guess, in those rare moments where he figures out how to stop being a dumbass.”

That earned a faint, hoarse laugh. “Massively rare.”

Robin nodded sagely. “Unmeasurably. Like the opposite of his SAT scores.”

Mac’s breath came out in a shaky exhale, but the tension in her body was easing. Just a little.

Robin nudged her knee. “Hey. Wanna stay over?”

Mac hesitated.

“We can make it an emergency movie night,” Robin said casually. “I’ve got the good popcorn, those stale pink wafer cookies you pretend to hate, and—” she wiggled her eyebrows— “we can walk to the gas station for extra Twizzlers.”

A pause. Then Mac nodded, eyes fluttering shut again as she curled tighter into Robin’s lap.

Robin smiled, reaching for the blanket folded at the foot of the bed and draping it over both of them. She didn’t know what the hell was going to happen next. Not with Eddie, or school, or Hawkins in general.

But she did know this: as long as she could offer a soft place for Mac to land, she’d be doing something right.

And if that required an insurmountable number of Twizzlers, so be it.

Monday, February 18th 1985

The second Mac walked through the front door, the smell hit her like a wave—sautéed garlic, something tomato-based, and the distinct toasty scent of garlic bread on broil.

She dropped her backpack by the trailer door, narrowed her eyes at the kitchenette, and called out, “You only make lasagna when someone’s in trouble or you’re trying to butter me up.”

Patti’s voice floated back from the stove, chipper and unapologetic. “Or when I just got back from visiting Frankie and he made me promise to stop letting you live off cereal and coffee.”

Mac kicked off her boots and made her way to the kitchen, trying not to let her guard rise just yet. Patti was still in her flowing cardigan and too-many-scarves phase, barefoot, a glass of red wine in one hand and a spatula in the other. The kitchen looked like a tornado had passed through it, but the smells were almost enough to forgive the mess.

She slid into one of the chairs at the counter. “So, how’s Frankie?”

“Good,” Patti said over her shoulder. “Busy. Vince is on a fermenting kick again, so the house smells like gym socks, but Frankie says he barely notices it anymore.”

“I heard.” Mac cracked a small smile. “Eddie’s gonna love that.”

At that, Patti turned with a knowing smile and set two plates down, lasagna steaming. “He’s actually excited. Said Eddie reminds him of himself at that age, only with longer hair and more musical talent.”

“High praise.”

They started eating and Mac twirled her fork, poking at the top layer of cheese.

“Frankie really doesn’t mind him staying?” she asked after a moment.

Patti shook her head. “Nope. He said the house has felt too quiet lately anyway. And I think he’s looking forward to someone who actually appreciates his endless obscure anecdotes.”

“Dustin would, too, but I don’t think Frankie could survive all that energy.”

Patti laughed softly. “Probably not. But speaking of Dustin…”

Mac looked up.

“I saw Claudia at the grocery store earlier and she mentioned that she talked to you about him no longer needing a babysitter.”

Mac nodded, eyes flicking down to her plate. “Yep.”

Patti smiled. “You’ve been good to him, you know.”

Mac shrugged. “He’s like my little brother. It was never just a job.”

“I know,” Patti said, gently. “But he’s growing up. And you are, too.”

That was when the silence turned heavier—not uncomfortable, but not light either. And Mac didn’t like letting silence win.

So she spoke, trying to keep her tone neutral. “So, how were your… dates?”

Patti looked up slowly, her expression unreadable for a second before she sighed and reached for her wine. “I was going to tell you tonight.”

Mac let out a dry snort. “Yeah, I figured. The food kind of gave it away.”

Patti hesitated, then leaned her arms on the table, fingers playing with the stem of her glass. “His name’s Charlie. Charlie Dobson. He’s… good people. Owns a used bookstore in the city. Divorced. One kid in college. Plays piano badly and talks through movies. But he’s kind. And patient. And he doesn’t look at me like I’m some aging hippie still clinging to fringe vests and herbal tea.”

Mac didn’t say anything. Not at first.

Patti added, quieter now, “He’s not your dad. And I’m not trying to replace him.”

That cracked something open a little.

“I know,” Mac said, her voice softer than she meant. “It’s not that.”

“Then what is it, sweetheart?”

Mac stared at the half-eaten lasagna, then pushed her plate slightly away. “I’m just used to it being… us. You and me. It’s been that way forever.”

Patti nodded, reaching across the table to squeeze her hand. “I know. And nothing’s gonna change that. No one’s taking your place. And I’m not going anywhere.”

Mac met her eyes then, and something about the look—maternal, warm, a little tired—grounded her more than she wanted to admit.

“You’ve got a lot happening right now,” Patti added gently. “Things changing, people growing. It’s okay to feel overwhelmed. You don’t have to pretend to be fine all the time.”

Mac sniffed, blinking hard to avoid the tears that threatened to soften her defenses. “I don’t do that.”

Patti raised a brow.

Mac exhaled. “Okay, maybe I do.”

“That’s my girl.” Patti smiled and patted her hand.

Mac rolled her eyes, but the tension in her shoulders finally started to ease. “Yeah, well. Somebody’s gotta keep this household from spontaneously combusting.”

Patti gasped in mock offense. “Excuse me, I have kept this place running on essential oils and raw stubbornness for years, thank you very much.”

Mac laughed, really laughed, the sound catching her off guard. “That’s not comforting, Mom. That’s terrifying.”

“You say that now, but you’ll thank me when the apocalypse hits and all you have is lavender, a flathead screwdriver, and a Costco-sized bag of brown rice.”

Oh the things she doesn’t know. 

Mac held back from mentioning that the apocalypse could have happened twice now. 

“Oh great. We’ll smell calm while we starve to death.”

Patti raised her wine glass. “To our inevitable lavender-scented doom.”

Mac clinked her water glass against it. “Cheers.”

The lasagna started disappearing faster after that—Patti picking out the burnt corner pieces like she always did, Mac stealing the garlic bread and pretending it wasn’t on purpose.  And for a moment, just a small one, it felt like nothing had changed. Like the world outside the walls of their little trailer wasn’t shifting so fast it made Mac’s stomach spin. For now, there was just lasagna and laughter, and her mom smiling at her like everything might be okay.

Friday, February 22nd 1985

The campus at Cedar Hill wasn’t big, but it felt alive in a way Hawkins never did. Maybe it was the murals along the brick walls or the fact that every third person walking by seemed to be carrying a sketchbook or guitar case. It wasn’t loud exactly, just vibrant like something was always about to happen.

Mac stuck close to Steve as their tour group moved through the quad. A few of the other students were there because they cared. A few more—like Steve—were there for the free pass out of Hawkins High.

Their tour guide, a tightly wound brunette named Marcy with a laminated name badge and too much perfume, led the way like she was giving the nuclear codes to the president.

“And here we have the student union building—home to our campus radio station, multicultural lounge, and the Student Success Resource Hub,” Marcy rattled off, gesturing sharply as they crossed a narrow path toward the art wing.

Mac leaned toward Steve. “Do you think if I asked her where the bathroom is, she’d spiral?”

Steve grinned. “She looks like she’d cry if someone did anything off whatever script she has memorized.”

Marcy whipped around suddenly, eyes sharp. “If the couple in the back could focus on the tour instead of each other, that would be great.”

“We’re not—” they said in unison, but she had already turned back around and resumed her mission.

Mac smothered a laugh. “Jesus.”

“Is that the third time someone’s called us that this month?” Steve muttered.

“Fourth,” Mac said. “You’re losing track.”

They snorted softly and followed the group into the art building. The air here smelled different—paint, plaster, something slightly burnt and vaguely like rubber cement. The guide gestured toward the wide archway leading into the studio space.

“And here’s our art department. You’ll be meeting Ryan, one of our juniors. He works with sculpture and illustration, and also helps mentor incoming students interested in portfolio building.”

Mac took one step in and froze.

Because Ryan was standing right there. And Ryan was the same guy she saw last weekend when she took Dustin to the comic shop.

Same light eyeliner smudged just barely around his green eyes, curls falling into his face like it had happened by accident. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, tattoos peeking out—clean lines and abstract ink work that looked expensive. He had a hoop in his left nostril and paint under his nails. Mac was pretty sure this guy could quote Joy Division lyrics and mean it.

He looked up, caught her staring—and smiled.

Mac felt her face go warm.

They broke off into small clusters and Steve wandered toward a row of student projects that looked like they might collapse under the weight of their own symbolism. Ryan stepped over to the table where she stood, eyeing a charcoal piece of a distorted figure.

“Your boyfriend doesn’t seem like much of an art guy,” he said, not unkindly. More amused.

Mac turned to him, blinking. “He’s not my boyfriend.”

Ryan raised a brow, half-smiling. “Cool. Good to know.”

She laughed, but it came out more like a huff. “Wow, subtle.”

He shrugged. “Not my strong suit. I’m more of a jump-in-and-regret-it-later kind of person.”

Mac’s mouth quirked. “Sounds familiar.”

There was something easy about his presence, even if her brain was actively trying to short-circuit. She shoved her hands in her coat pockets, trying to act like she wasn’t thrown off.

“I’m Mac,” she said finally.

“Ryan,” he replied, already offering a hand to shake.

His fingers were warm, a little rough from charcoal or clay or whatever medium he spent his nights messing with.

They let go, finally, but Ryan didn’t step back. Just tilted his head slightly, the way guys did when they were already halfway interested.

“So, are you an artist?” he asked, nodding toward the scattered sketchbooks on a nearby table.

Mac shrugged a shoulder. “I mean… kinda. I sketch. Pen and ink mostly. Some charcoal. Nothing too serious.”

“Just touring the program for fun?”

She shook her head. “No, I’m actually thinking about taking some art classes. Illustration track, maybe. I make flyers for local shows back in Hawkins. Bands, horror nights at the record store, that kind of thing.”

That made Ryan pause.

“Hawkins?” he repeated. “You work at Vinyl Frontier?”

Mac blinked. “Yeah…?”

His smile widened, suddenly brighter. “I’ve seen your flyers. For sure. The one with the bleeding cassette skull? That was you?”

Mac smirked, a little pride creeping into her voice. “Guilty.”

“That was badass,” Ryan said, eyes lighting up. “You’ve got a real style. Gritty, but fun. Like you don’t take shit, but you still want people to have a good time.”

Mac flushed, caught off guard by the compliment—and by how sincerely he said it.

“Thanks,” she said, meaning it more than she expected to. “You’re big into music?”

“Yeah,” he nodded, about to say more—

But before he could, a familiar voice cut through the quiet studio space.

“Hey, who’s your new friend?”

Steve nearly knocked over what might’ve been a ceramic bust of someone screaming—or yawning, maybe. Hard to tell. He caught it mid-wobble, quickly glancing around to make sure no one saw.

They didn’t. But he definitely saw something.

Mac, over near the corner table, talking to some guy. Tall. Lean. A little too effortlessly cool. He had curls, tattoos, that kind of artsy confidence that wasn’t loud but still somehow broadcast itself across a room. Steve watched the guy smile at her, tilt his head just a little, and then—

She smiled back.

Not the sarcastic smirk she gave when someone tried too hard. Not the eye-roll she reserved for dumb jokes. This was something softer, almost nervous. It made something in his gut feel stupid and tight.

He wasn’t sure why he kept watching. Maybe it was the way Mac stood—hands half in her jacket pockets like she didn’t know what to do with them, but she didn’t want to stop talking. Maybe it was how the guy was clearly interested in her. Like, really interested. And Mac didn’t seem to mind.

Steve straightened, shoved his hands into his own pockets, and walked over just as the guy was saying something that made her laugh.

“Hey,” he said, trying to sound casual. “Who’s your new friend?”

Mac looked over at him, blinking like she forgot he was even there. “Oh—Steve, this is Ryan. He’s one of the art mentors here.”

“Hey,” Ryan said, nodding. “Nice to meet you.”

“Yeah, you too,” Steve said, maybe a little too stiffly.

Ryan turned back to Mac. “I was just telling Mac I’ve seen her flyers around. That bleeding cassette one? Amazing.”

Steve nodded, lips pressing into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Yeah. She’s really talented.” He meant it. He just didn’t mean to sound like that.

They were called back to the group before the awkward could fester too long. But not before Ryan reached into his back pocket and pulled out a business card.

“If you ever want to show more of your portfolio,” Ryan said, handing her a small business card with a little smudge of graphite on the edge, “I’d be happy to take a look. You’ve clearly got something.”

Mac took it, her fingers brushing his as she smiled. “Thanks.”

Ryan Eldridge.

Steve glanced at the name printed in small block letters across the card when Mac wasn’t looking. There wasn’t anything flashy about it—just his name, a campus phone number, and the title Studio Mentor / Illustration & Design . Simple. Confident. Like the guy didn’t feel the need to prove himself.

Steve hated that it made him feel vaguely... threatened. Not because Ryan was better than him. But because Mac looked at him like she wanted to hear more. Like she was curious. Like she saw something.

They were walking back toward the rest of the group when Steve reached out and plucked the card from her fingers like it was no big deal.

He turned it over slowly, studying it like it might reveal something he hadn’t already clocked. “Ryan Eldridge,” he muttered under his breath. “One of those guys who probably has opinions about fonts.”

“I thought he was cool.”

Steve looked at her, seeing that actually meant it stung a little more than it should’ve. 

He handed the card back with a quieter voice this time. “Yeah. I guess he was.”

They rejoined the group just as Marcy launched into a monologue about scholarship tiers and GPA minimums. Steve cracked a joke under his breath about how if anyone breathed wrong, she’d short-circuit. Mac elbowed him gently and said he’d better not sneeze. They laughed. It felt easy again, like it always did.

But Steve couldn’t shake the feeling—lingering in the corners of his chest like an itch he couldn’t reach.

Maybe it was nothing. Maybe he was just reading into it. Or maybe he was starting to break under the weight of his own feelings.

Chapter Text

March 1985

Saturday, March 2nd 1985

The van was packed.

Tight, but not messy—Mac had made sure of that. She’d double-checked every bag, every amp, every tangled mess of cables like she was trying to hold it all together with sheer willpower.

Eddie stood outside the trailer, his boots kicking at the gravel, watching her circle the van again with that furrow between her brows. Her arms were crossed, but only halfway in that defensive way she did when something was bothering her.

God, he was going to miss her.

“Mac,” he said softly, just to get her to stop moving. “It’s fine. You’ve checked the checklist twice.”

She looked up, eyes sharp. “Yeah, well, maybe I don’t trust you not to leave your underwear on top of the amp again.”

Eddie grinned, his heart aching. “Only did that once.”

“Once was enough,” she muttered, but her mouth twitched at the corners.

She stepped back finally, arms dropping to her sides. Her fingers fidgeted with the edge of her sleeve. Eddie rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, feeling like if he didn’t say something soon, he never would.

“I’m gonna call you,” he said, quieter now. “Like… once a week. Minimum. Even if I’ve got nothing to say but ‘Hey, I’m alive.’ You’ll still hear it.”

Mac nodded, chewing her bottom lip.

“And this isn’t forever,” he added, stepping closer. “You know that, right? I’m not disappearing.”

“I know,” she said, but it came out thin. Barely there.

He opened his arms and she walked into them without hesitation. Wrapped her arms tight around his neck like she was trying to fuse herself there, her forehead pressed into his shoulder. Eddie held her close, one hand tangled in her hair, the other cradling her back.

“Jesus Christ, I’m gonna cry like a little bitch if you keep holding me like that,” he whispered, trying to lighten it, his voice a little too thick.

“Then cry,” she said, not moving.

He laughed, breath hitching as he lifted her off the ground just slightly. “You’re gonna give me back problems, woman.”

“Shut up,” she said, but her voice cracked with it.

He set her down slowly, gently, and when they pulled back, they just… stood there. Looking at each other. Everything had already been said, and somehow not even close.

Then Mac leaned up on her toes and kissed him, thank you and I’ll miss you and I’m proud of you all rolled into one gesture. Her fingers curled into the front of his jacket like she wasn’t quite ready to let go, and Eddie kissed her back with every piece of himself that still didn’t want to leave.

But he had to. And they both knew that.

When she pulled away, her eyes were glassy. She didn’t say anything. Neither did he.

He opened the van door, climbed in, and started the engine. It rumbled to life, stubborn and familiar.

As he pulled out of the lot, he looked to his right, to the empty passenger seat—and for a second, he saw her there. Feet on the dash, music blaring, yelling at him to take the next exit just because it had a funny name.

He blinked and she was gone.

But when he checked the rearview mirror, she was still standing in the gravel, watching him. Arms crossed. Chin high. Brave as hell, even now. He’d be alright, and so would she.

Turning the stereo up, Eddie let out a deep sigh and made his way out of Hawkins. Away from a town that never believed in him, and away from the one person who always would.

But he had one stop to make first.

He was sure she’d forgive him for it. Pretty sure. Almost definitely sure.

The stereo was low but steady, humming some moody Fleetwood Mac through the dim room like a soft heartbeat. The lights were off, curtains drawn, and Mac hadn’t bothered to change the cassette for a while. It just kept looping. Every so often, the tape would click and rewind automatically before starting again, like it was just as stuck as she was.

She hadn’t moved much since Eddie left earlier. Not really. A few shifts between lying on her stomach and curling on her side, but mostly she'd just been staring at the wall and letting the music do the talking. Her room smelled like the vanilla lotion she’d used that morning, faintly mixed with some rose incense Patti had been burning. It wasn’t bad. Just familiar. Like everything else here. Familiar in that way that made it hard to breathe sometimes.

Outside, Forest Hills sounded like it always did on a Saturday night. TVs buzzing through cracked windows, someone blasting Lynyrd Skynyrd too loud across the lot, a couple of kids playing tag barefoot, even though it was still too cold for that. Mac barely noticed. She was too deep in it—let herself fall into it, really. The ache of it all. Letting it sit heavy in her chest like she was keeping it warm. Like if she carried it right, maybe it wouldn’t hurt as bad later.

She could still smell his cologne, faint on her sweatshirt. Still see the way he smiled when she kissed him. Still hear the clunk of the van door closing. Not forever, she reminded herself. But that didn’t mean it didn’t feel like it.

The knock on the front door was muffled by the stereo, barely cutting through the layered hum of guitar. But Mac heard it. Felt it, really—just enough to jolt her from the trance she’d been in, curled on her side like something small and breakable. Patti’s voice followed a moment later, warm and polite, a particular mix of pleasant and tired she only used when she hadn’t been expecting anyone.

Mac sat up slowly, her joints stiff, body heavy from staying still too long. She tilted her head, listening harder. Another voice answered—lower, male.

Her stomach dropped.

For a second—just one wild, impossible second—her brain filled in the blanks the way she wanted them. Eddie. Maybe he’d turned around. Maybe he forgot something, or maybe he just couldn’t drive away. Maybe he’d come back to tell her something, to hold her again just once more.

Her heart skipped, traitor that it was.

But then the voice got clearer, closer. And it wasn’t Eddie. The tone was too smooth, the cadence too familiar in a different way.

Still, her pulse didn’t settle right away. Hope had already sunk its teeth in, just long enough to sting.

Footsteps came down the hall, just two sets. Then a knock, softer than the first one.

She didn’t answer right away.

Then came the voice through the door, unmistakable even before the words really landed: “I know you’re in there. I can hear Stevie Nicks. Also, your mom ratted you out.”

Mac blinked and rubbed her eyes. Her voice came out dry, scratchy from disuse. “You can come in.”

The door creaked open and light from the hallway bled in around Steve Harrington’s frame. He hovered a second before stepping inside, looking around like he expected her to be buried in debris. His silhouette was tall against the glow behind him, hands stuffed in his jacket pockets like usual.

“Okay…”  he said after a beat. “So we’re doing the moody music and staring into the void thing. Should I light a match or just quietly back out?”

Mac just stared at him. She didn’t laugh. Didn’t even roll her eyes. She just pulled her knees up closer to her chest and scooted back against the wall, silent.

Steve sighed, stepping fully inside and gently pushing the door shut behind him. The room dimmed again, the stereo still low and warbly in the background. He glanced around—at the rumpled blankets, the stack of old sketchbooks on her nightstand, the barely-touched glass of water beside her bed—and his expression softened.

“Look, I know I’m probably not the guy you wanna see right now,” he said, voice lower. “But you haven’t called in a few nights. And I know it’s not because you suddenly started sleeping like a normal person.”

Mac didn’t answer, but she shifted slightly. Made room.

Steve sat down on the edge of the bed, careful to leave space between them. Enough not to push. Enough to still be there.

She looked at him sideways. “Why are you here?”

He shrugged. “Because I’ve got a plan.”

She blinked at him, slow.

“To cheer you up,” he clarified, like that should’ve been obvious. “Also because one Eddie Munson showed up at my door this morning on his way out of town and told me to make sure you didn’t do exactly what you’re doing right now.”

Mac exhaled a soft breath—almost a laugh, but not quite. “God, of course he did.”

Steve leaned back on his hands. “Yeah. Real fun explaining to my parents why a guy with chain jewelry and a rusty van was frantically asking for me at nine in the morning.”

She smirked faintly. “Bet your dad loved that.”

“Highlight of his month, I’m sure.”

After a minute of letting that scene sink in, Steve turned to her again, voice lighter. “Get your shoes. We’re going out.”

Mac raised a brow. “Where?”

He grinned. “Party.”

There was exactly half a second of silence before Mac made a face like he’d just suggested they do math for fun.

“Absolutely not.”

Steve opened his mouth to argue, but she was already on a roll.

“No,” she said, cutting him off with a flat hand. “No parties. I swear to God, if you think I’m about to go stand in someone’s living room while half of Hawkins gets drunk and grinds on each other to a mixtape some dude made with a boombox and low self-esteem—”

“Mac—”

“—then you don’t know me at all. Do you remember the last party we were both at? Because I do. Some guy tried to talk to me about Kiss like they invented rock music. Another guy asked if I wanted to ‘see his van’s sound system.’ I said no. He asked again. Like, what is that even supposed to mean?”

Steve blinked. “So... that’s a maybe?”

She groaned loudly and stood up, running both hands through her hair. “No, that’s a hell no. And I can’t just put on shoes, Steve. Look at me. Jesus, how were you ever good with women?”

He did look at her. Her sweatshirt was oversized and faded, sleeves half-pulled over her hands, collar stretched out. Her sweatpants had a paint smudge near the knee, and her hair was a loose mess from lying around all day. She looked... soft. Quiet. Like someone who’d taken a hit and didn’t know what to do with the bruise just yet.

But as she started pacing the room, Steve noticed her eyes flicking toward the dresser. Not just once. And when she passed the laundry chair, she picked up a clean pair of jeans—then immediately tossed them aside with a mutter about not caring. Another pass of the room brought her to the closet, where her hand hesitated on the doorknob.

“You’re doing that thing,” he said lightly.

“What thing?” she shot back.

“That thing where you argue with me while still agreeing to whatever it is.”

She huffed, cheeks pink. “I’m not—this is just what my body does when it’s near a closet, Steve. It’s muscle memory. I’m still saying no.”

“Right.”

There was a pause as she turned back to the closet.

“I’m not putting on eyeliner. That’s too much work.”

“Wouldn’t dream of asking you to.”

She pulled a top from the closet and frowned at it. “And you better not try to make me dance. I will leave.”

Steve smiled to himself, leaning back on his hands. Watching her whirl around her own room with that mix of irritation and anxious energy, like she was trying to stay ahead of her own feelings—yeah. This was the Mac he was used to.

“Also,” she continued, now putting on mascara while still pretending she wasn’t going, “if anyone tries to hit on me tonight, I’m telling them I have a contagious disease.”

“That seems fair.”

“And if there’s jungle juice—”

“You’re definitely not drinking anything neon out of a trash can, I promise.”

Steve watched her from the edge of the bed as she paced her room, half-arguing and half-dressing. His elbows rested on his knees, hands loosely clasped, trying his best to seem nonchalant—even though his brain was working overtime just keeping up with her.

“I can’t believe you thought I could just throw on shoes and go to a party,” Mac grumbled, yanking her dresser drawer open. “I’ve been stewing in this hoodie all day. I probably smell like... sadness.”

Steve didn’t answer. He didn’t trust himself to. Because she was already peeling off the sweatshirt, revealing a simple black tank underneath before she tossed it toward the laundry pile and kept moving. He cleared his throat and turned his eyes toward the carpet.

“Okay, you’re not allowed to look for this part,” she said, catching the shift in his posture. “Seriously. Eyes closed. No peeking.”

He raised an eyebrow but obeyed, lifting his hands in mock surrender and turning his head fully to the side. “Fine, fine. Strict no-peek zone. Got it.”

He listened as she moved—drawers opening, boots thudding lightly against the floor, fabric swishing as she changed. He tried not to picture anything, which of course meant he was picturing everything. Not in a creepy way. Just… in a very inconvenient, very vivid sort of way.

She was the same girl who once shoved an entire bag of candy hearts in her mouth just to annoy him. Who called him "Hairspray Harrington" for a solid month last year. But she was also standing behind him, getting ready for a party, and every part of him was suddenly very aware of the space between them.

“Okay. You can look now.”

He opened his eyes and turned his head slowly, careful not to overdo it—but yeah. His breath caught for a second.

She was in her usual jeans, but they hugged her in a way he hadn’t noticed before, or maybe hadn’t let himself notice. Her top was dark and low-cut, more of a going-out shirt than anything he’d seen her in, with thin straps that showed off the slope of her shoulders, the slope of her— 

Nope. Not now. He told himself.

Instead he focused on the worn flannel that was tied around her waist like armor, grounding it all in something unmistakably her. Her boots were scuffed but solid, and her hair was up, messy in a way that looked deliberate and kind of… adorable.

He blinked. Tried to keep his face neutral. Failed.

She looked at herself in the mirror, fussed with her bangs, and rolled her eyes. “God. I hate that you’re good at this.”

“At what?” he asked, his voice a little rougher than intended.

“This,” she said, turning and gesturing between them. “Being annoying. But also... like... convincing.”

Steve grinned, the knot in his chest loosening just slightly. “So that’s a yes?”

She groaned, grabbing a bag and stuffing her wallet inside. “Only because I need to get out of my head. And if Eddie calls and I’m still in my room, I’ll never hear the end of it.”

She walked past him toward the door, and he followed, still shaking off the way her hair had curled at the base of her neck, the way her voice had gone just a little softer.

As they reached the kitchen, Patti was rinsing dishes at the sink, humming under her breath. She looked over when they entered, one brow already raised.

“Be safe, kids,” she said with a knowing smirk. “Steve, don’t let her talk you into jumping off any bridges.”

“No promises,” he said with a grin.

“Love you, Mom,” Mac called out as she grabbed her leather jacket and threw it on.

“Love you too, lovebug,” Patti said without missing a beat. Her eyes met Steve’s for a second, and something unspoken passed between them. That quiet mom thing again. A silent thanks.

The air outside was brisk, cool enough that Mac tugged her jacket tight as they walked to his car.

“I’m not going to enjoy this,” she muttered.

“Sure.”

“I’m drinking.”

“Obviously.”

She squinted at him suspiciously. “But…you can’t drink with me. You’re driving.”

He smiled as he unlocked the doors. “Good thing the party’s at my place, then.”

Mac froze mid-step. “You planned this.”

Steve gave her his best smug grin as he slid into the driver’s seat. “Not my first rodeo.”

She climbed in, shut the door harder than necessary, and smacked his arm. “You are the worst.”

“I try.”

“Do you have enough social standing left for anyone to show up?”

Steve scoffed and shook his head, almost happy to hear her normal teasing. “I have a big, empty house and booze my parents won’t miss.”

“Touché."

As they pulled out of Forest Hills and onto the road, he stole a glance at her. She was watching the trees go by, arms crossed, trying hard to look unimpressed. But her shoulders had relaxed. Her breathing had evened out. And when she caught him looking, she didn’t snap—just rolled her eyes and looked away with a ghost of something almost like a smile.

Mac wasn’t a party kind of girl, but she was a people-watching kind of girl.

Steve’s house, for all its suburban soullessness, had filled out fast. The living room was lit in the soft flicker of a few dimmed lamps and music pulsed from the stereo—not her usual taste, but enough to keep people moving. Bodies swayed near the coffee table, someone was dancing like a lunatic in the hallway, and the kitchen reeked of too many different kinds of alcohol mixed with cheap cologne and Aqua Net.

Mac stood off to the side, solo cup in hand, the tang of whatever was in it coating her tongue just enough to make the noise around her feel further away. She leaned against the wall, scanning the room like it was a battlefield. Not quite hostile, just unfamiliar. These weren’t her people. Not really. Mostly other upperclassmen and a few college kids home for the weekend. The kind of party Steve Harrington used to throw when being king of Hawkins High still meant something.

And yet… here they were.

She watched Steve across the room, flitting between guests like he’d slipped back into his old skin. Grinning, cracking jokes, refilling drinks. It wasn’t fake, exactly—but she could see the cracks. The way his eyes lingered too long on certain faces, like he was still trying to remember if he liked them or not. Or if they ever liked him.

A bottle appeared beside her line of sight.

She blinked. Steve was there, shirt a little rumpled now, bottle in one hand and that boyish grin on his face. “You’re babysitting that drink like it’s gonna give you life advice.”

She held out her cup. “Fix it, then.”

He poured generously.

Mac took a sip and winced. “Jesus.”

“Better?”

“No.”

He leaned against the wall beside her, shoulder almost brushing hers. The music thumped behind them, some synth-heavy pop song neither of them liked but both of them knew the words to.

“So,” she said, tilting her head. “Why the hell did you throw this party?”

Steve didn’t answer right away. He took a long sip from his own cup, then shrugged. “Felt like the thing to do. Y’know, before my dad loses his mind about college and cuts me off entirely.”

Mac frowned. “It’s not like they’ve sent you any rejections yet.”

“They will.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Mm,” he said, with the kind of indifference that felt way too practiced to be real.

She watched him a second longer, then bumped her shoulder into his lightly. “Well, if the whole higher education thing falls apart, you could always join a traveling circus.”

“Strong man?”

“Clown. Obviously.”

He made a mock-offended noise. “That’s a step down, even for me.”

“You could work at the Frontier. Jet needs someone to alphabetize the jazz section before it drives him into early retirement.”

“That sounds like hell.”

“Or mall Santa. You’ve got the charm. And the... weird sense of optimism.”

They were both laughing now, loose and easy, the kind of tipsy that made everything just a little warmer.

But when Mac’s body stiffened, Steve noticed it immediately. Her smile dropped, her grip tightened around her cup. She was staring across the room, shoulders locked.

Tommy Hagan. Carol Perkins. Billy fucking Hargrove.

They were standing near the front door like they owned the place. Billy in that same too-tight shirt and leather jacket, smirking already like he was about to say something disgusting. Tommy’s laugh cut through the music, Carol’s voice a low, venomous murmur.

Steve’s jaw clenched. “Are you kidding me?”

Mac didn’t say anything. Just stared.

He took one last swig of his drink and pushed off the wall. “Alright. Nope. Not tonight.”

And then he was moving—shoulders squared, expression unreadable—heading straight toward them.

Mac didn’t follow.

She just watched. Heart pounding. Fingers clenched around the cup.

Because she knew that look on Steve’s face and whatever happened next, it wasn’t going to be nothing.

The Camaro growled to a stop at the curb, bass still thumping from the tape deck. Billy killed the engine, but Tommy and Carol didn’t notice—too busy pawing at each other in the back seat like horny raccoons. He slammed his door shut and didn’t bother looking back.

The Harrington house loomed across the lawn, all mismatched windows and weird-ass architecture. It looked like it couldn’t decide if it was a ski lodge or a corporate retreat, which felt about right for the guy who lived there. Billy popped a cigarette between his lips, lighting it slow as he scanned the crowd spilling out the front door and into the yard. The party was definitely in full swing—music loud, windows lit, people already drunk enough to lose track of their names.

Tommy finally climbed out behind him, adjusting his jacket like it meant something. “What are we even doing here, man? You hate Harrington.”

Billy exhaled smoke through his nose and grinned without humor. “Just felt like having a little fun tonight. Remind the former king of Hawkins High who the throne really belongs to nowadays.”

Carol snorted behind him, blowing a bubble with her gum that popped loud in the night air. “At least his rich ass parents always have decent booze.”

Billy didn’t answer. He was already walking up the path, taking in the scene. A group of senior girls were huddled in the front hallway, laughing too loud. One of them made eye contact and smiled; he smirked back, let her look. She wasn’t bad. Most of the girls here weren’t. Too much perfume, too little personality. Just the way he liked them. But not all of them.

Because when he entered those obnoxious double doors, he saw her.

MacKinley. She was leaning against the wall with a drink in her hand, talking to Harrington like he was the only person in the room. He couldn’t stand her. The way Max would talk about her at dinner like she was some godsend. The bullshit angry girl music she got her into. That fucking blue car showing up in his driveway to take her to the arcade.

Tommy followed his gaze. “You see what I see?”

Carol snickered. “Guess King Steve’s still pulling from the freak pool.”

Billy didn’t answer. Just stubbed his cigarette into a potted plant and rolled his shoulders back.

Steve must’ve felt it. Because a second later, he was pushing off the wall and heading straight for them. Solo cup in hand, that same golden-boy swagger he always walked with—except Billy knew it for what it was now. Hollow.

“Well, well,” Steve said, stopping a few feet in front of them. “Didn’t think I sent invites out to the Dollar Store version of Cobra Kai.”

Billy’s grin was slow and sharp. “Relax, Harrington. It’s a party, right? Wouldn’t want you to lose what’s left of your social standing by throwing a tantrum.”

Tommy chimed in with something like, “Yeah, we brought the vibe,” but both of them ignored him.

For a long second, it was just the two of them. Staring each other down on the front walkway, music bleeding through the open door, crowd shifting just beyond the threshold.

Finally, Steve blinked first.

“Booze is in the kitchen,” he muttered, stepping aside just barely.

Billy clapped a hand to his shoulder as he passed.

“Atta boy.” He felt Harrington tense under the touch.

As Billy stepped further into the house, Carol close behind and Tommy already looking for something to spill, he glanced back over his shoulder just once.

Tonight could be fun.

Steve leaned against the back of the couch in the living room, solo cup loose in his hand, laughter floating somewhere behind his ears. He wasn’t totally drunk, but he was definitely headed in that direction—his limbs a little looser, his smile sticking easier than it should’ve. A couple of the JV cheerleaders—junior grade, maybe even sophomores—had found him, circling like mosquitoes in lip gloss and glitter. To them, he was probably still some sort of goal, still relevant enough to brag to their friends about.

They were nice enough. Flirty in that bright, sugar-coated way that said they’d watched too many teen movies and thought they were living in one. One of them, a brunette with braces she was trying to hide behind her beer, had her hand on his arm. Another was giggling at everything he said like it was revolutionary.

“Not to ruin the mood,” one of them said, nudging her friend. “But where’s your shadow tonight?”

Steve blinked, genuinely confused. “My what?”

“Y’know,” the first one teased. “Your little sidekick. The artsy chick.”

“Mac?” he asked, before he could stop himself. His voice gave it away. Too fast. Too familiar.

They both laughed.

“Yeah, her. You guys are always together. Thought maybe she was your girlfriend or something.”

He chuckled lightly, too forced. “Nah. We’re not that close.”

Lie.

Why did I say that?

“Good,” the second girl said, stepping a little closer. “Because you’re, like… way too hot to be off-limits.”

It didn’t sit right. The words. The way they looked at him. The way it should’ve felt like a win, but didn’t.

Still, he gave them a half-smile, the kind he used to get away with everything. “That so?”

They both nodded, practically bouncing.

“Mhm. Especially now that she’s over in the sunroom totally macking on that band guy.”

Steve froze.

His already forced smile faltered before he could catch it. “What?”

The brunette raised her brows innocently. “You didn’t know? She’s, like… all over him. Thought maybe she was getting over you or something.”

He turned his head toward the sunroom before he could stop himself. Through the wide doorway, past the soft flicker of the lamps and the shimmer of someone’s half-finished drink on the end table—

There she was.

Mac. On the couch. Her hand resting lightly on some guy’s knee. He had long hair and chipped nail polish and the kind of secondhand denim Steve had seen on every guy who hung out behind the record store. He looked like he played bass in a band with no name.

And Mac was kissing him.

He didn’t know what he felt—didn’t have a name for it—but it was sharp and sudden and absolutely not the buzz he’d been riding five minutes ago.

“Excuse me,” he muttered.

“Wait—where are you going?” one of the girls called after him, but he wasn’t listening anymore.

He cut across the room without thinking, solo cup forgotten on the table. His jaw was tight. His hands were tighter.

When he reached the sunroom, he didn’t stop to watch. He just walked straight over, the party around them fading into a dull, meaningless blur.

Mac broke off the kiss just as he reached them, blinking up at him like he’d spoken her name. Her cheeks were flushed, her lipstick smudged, her brows pinched in mild confusion. Not totally drunk. Not totally sober.

“Steve?” she asked.

He didn’t answer. Just reached down, took her wrist, and tugged her up to her feet.

“Hey—what the hell?” she said, stumbling after him as he led her through the living room, to the family room.

“Where are we—Steve, stop—what the fuck is going on?”

He pulled her into his dad’s study and shut the door behind them, hard. The music dimmed behind it.

He turned to face her, breath short. His voice came out sharper than intended.

“What the hell are you doing?”

Steve’s voice cracked against the quiet, all sharp edges and restraint. The door had barely shut behind them, and already he was looking at her like she’d committed some kind of felony.

Mac just stared at him. Disoriented. A little breathless. Still catching up to the fact that she’d just been yanked through two rooms like a delinquent shoplifter. Her back hit the edge of Steve’s dad’s desk, hard enough that she winced.

“I—what?”

“Who was that?” he asked again, slower now. “The guy.”

Mac blinked. “Some guy from the record store…?”

Steve’s mouth twisted. “Okay, fine—let me ask again. Why were you making out with some Eddie clone in the sunroom?”

That did it.

She straightened, arms crossing tight across her chest. “Are you actually serious right now?”

“Yeah, I’m serious.”

Mac scoffed. “Oh suddenly it’s your business who I kiss?”

Steve stepped forward like he couldn’t help it, hands out like he wanted to grab the air between them. “Maybe when it’s some loser I’ve never even heard you talk about, in my house.”

“Oh, okay,” she snapped. “So we’re being judgy now? You want me to list your greatest self sabotage hits? Because trust me I have a rolodex of them.”

“That’s not what I’m saying—”

“Sounds like exactly what you’re saying.”

“You didn’t even want to come to this party! You practically made me sign a list of terms and conditions!”

“Do you not know me at all by now?” Her voice was louder, like she was trying to penetrate his skull. “Of course I want to dance, and drink, and people watch, and do whatever stupid shit makes people feel good. God, forbid a girl not fit in the box you designed for them in your head!”

Steve put his hands on his hips and looked away for a second, clicking his tongue. “Don’t do that. You were heartbroken over Eddie leaving earlier, didn’t even want to leave your bed, and now you’re suddenly the makeout queen?”

“Oh that is rich coming from you,” she cut in, voice filled with vitriol. “Because you’ve been moping over Nancy for months, and I still saw you let those cheerleaders climb all over you tonight. Heartbreak didn’t seem to bother you too much then.”

“That was months ago and this was, what, a few hours?”

“Yeah, well Eddie just left town for a better life. He didn’t ditch me for being shitty and uncaring.”

That landed like a slap. She saw it in the way his face froze, eyes blinking slow. Immediately, regret coiled low in her gut. Her voice dropped.

“Steve, I didn’t mean—”

“No, it’s fine,” he muttered, scrubbing a hand over his face, hair even messier than usual. “I probably deserved that.”

“You didn’t.” She said, barely at whisper level.

The room was filled with a heavy silence until Steve finally spoke.

“I didn’t want you making some mistake you couldn’t take back.”

She laughed, dry and hollow. “Jesus, Steve. Why is this even a discussion? It was a kiss. It’s not like I was gonna sleep with the guy on your couch or something.”

“It wasn’t just a little kiss, Mac.”

Her arms dropped, and she tilted her head back like the ceiling might offer more patience than she currently had. “Okay, fine. So it was a longer-than-average kiss. So what? It didn’t mean anything.”

“You say that like it’s supposed to make it better.”

“I say that,” she snapped, stepping toward him now, “because not everything has to mean something.”

“You aren’t the kind of person who believes that.”

“No. Maybe I’m not,” she admitted, cheeks flushed now from frustration and booze and the heat between them. “But tonight? I’m trying to. I’m trying to just exist and not feel every single goddamn thing all the time.”

Her voice cracked slightly, but she kept going. Kept pushing, because once it started, there was no stopping it.

“My favorite place in Hawkins is getting shoved next to an Orange Julius. And yeah, I knew it was happening but it hit different today because…”

Steve opened his mouth to respond, but she steamrolled over him, hands gesturing wildly now.

“Because Eddie’s gone. You know that. Obviously you know that. But he was one of my people. Another thing I called home ripped from me. Just—poof. Gone to Indianapolis to chase something bigger, and I’m supposed to clap for him and pretend I’m not pissed about it.”

“I know—” Steve started, but she didn’t stop.

“No, you don’t know. You don’t know all of it.” Her voice was trembling now, even if her tone stayed sharp. “Claudia told me Dustin doesn’t need a babysitter anymore. That’s done. That part of my life is just... over.”

She took a shaky breath, like the words were getting harder to say.

“And my mom—she’s dating. Some guy in the city. I found out from Frankie. He’s nice, or whatever, but it’s not about that. And she seems happy now but... I don’t know.”

Her hands dropped to her sides and she stared at the carpet, her voice quieter now. Not defeated—just tired.

“And college? I don’t even know what I want to do next. I’ve spent two years wondering if I was even gonna survive long enough to think about the future. And now it’s here, and I’m supposed to just... figure it out.”

Steve took a half-step closer. “Mac—”

“I just wanted one night,” she said, louder again, eyes flashing. “One stupid night to be a normal girl at a normal party. To drink and laugh and kiss a guy and not have it mean anything. Even if he sucked at it. Even if it felt like a dog hunting for peanut butter.”

She was panting now, blinking hard, like the air in the room had gotten thinner. Her breath hitched once, and Steve took another step forward.

Mac shifted her weight once he was right in front of her and spoke again after a pause. “And! It probably didn’t look great, you dragging me through the whole house in front of everyone.”

He looked at her then, brow furrowed. “I didn’t think about that. I just—” He broke off. And then he moved—slow, careful—taking his thumb to wipe just below her bottom lip. “Your lipstick, it was like, smudged or whatever.”

She froze.

He was close enough now that she could smell him—clean laundry and cheap beer and that faint trace of cologne she’d started to associate with him.

His eyes flicked from her mouth to her eyes, and stayed there, and suddenly it was like they were stuck in the space between seconds, waiting for something to tip.

Mac’s heart beat too loud in her ears. This was that stretch of silence where she was supposed to move or speak or look away—but she didn’t.

Because he was right there. Staring at her like he was trying to memorize her face. Like he didn’t know whether to kiss her or stop himself. And for the first time in a long time, she didn’t know what she wanted either.

His mouth parted slightly, just a breath, and her eyes dropped to it before she could stop herself. His lips—softer looking than she remembered, like they weren’t meant for this kind of hesitation. There was a scar on his bottom lip she never noticed before, only visible if you were up this close.

She wondered what it would feel like to lean forward, to close the space between them and let herself stop thinking—stop swimming in confusion and grief and the weight of everything slipping sideways. Just feel , even if it was a bad idea. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to. Wasn’t sure if he would let her. But he didn’t step back, either. He just stayed there, eyes flicking between hers and her mouth, like he was caught in the same suspended breath she was. And in that stretch of silence with her pulse thudding in her ears, fingers twitching like they might lift of their own accord—

His hand dropped slowly from her face, and whatever had been holding the moment taut slipped loose, leaving behind a strange, aching weight that settled deep in her chest.

Instead, he pulled her in gently.

It wasn’t a rushed kind of hug. Nothing urgent. Just solid and sure and warm, the way you hold someone when you want them to believe it. His hands pressed gently to her back, one moving in slow, soothing circles, and her body stiffened for just a second before melting into him like she’d been waiting for someone to hold her like this all day.

She didn’t cry. Not really. But her breathing stuttered, and he felt her fists clench into his t-shirt.

Steve wasn’t thinking. That much was obvious.

The second Mac’s voice cracked like that—high and raw and barely held together—something in him shifted. All the noise and alcohol and tension from the night blurred into static, and suddenly she was all he could see. All he could focus on.

She was unraveling right in front of him, every piece pulled loose by a week’s worth of change and pain and trying to pretend it was all fine. He’d seen Mac angry, loud, sharp-tongued. He’d seen her bite and bark and roll her eyes. But this? This was something different.

She was scared. Tired. Vulnerable in a way she never let herself be. And she was doing that thing again—trying to outrun her own feelings by pretending she could carry them all alone.

He wanted to say something. Do something. His body moved before his brain could catch up.

But instead of kissing her—God, he’d almost kissed her—he caught himself. He stopped just short, heart in his throat, her breath still trembling from everything she’d just spilled.

It wasn’t the right moment. Not like this. Not in this room. Not with both of them half-drunk and full of ghosts.

So he reached for her the only way he knew how.

He pulled her in.

His arms wrapped around her, slow and careful, grounding her in the only way he could think of. She was tense at first, like a coiled spring, and for one horrifying second he thought she might shove him off or snap again—but then she didn’t. She leaned into him, not fully but enough. Enough for him to feel the weight she’d been carrying finally settle into something he could share.

Steve closed his eyes, chin resting lightly on her hair, one hand moving in quiet circles across her back like he’d done this a thousand times before. It felt natural. Right.

And God, he wanted to kiss her. Not because she’d said she wanted to kiss a boy tonight, and not to prove some point—but because he meant it . Because he’d wanted to for longer than he was ready to admit.

But if he kissed her now, she’d think it was just because she was spiraling. Because she needed a distraction. Because he felt sorry for her.

So instead, he held her tighter.

He didn’t know how long they stood there like that—seconds or minutes—but when the knock came at the door, it hit like a slap.

“Uh, Steve?” someone mumbled from the hallway, muffled by the heavy wood. “Dude, someone’s causing a scene in the living room.”

Mac stepped back first. Her eyes were still stormy, but she looked calmer. Like maybe the worst of it had passed. She didn’t say anything. Neither did he.

He turned toward the door. “Yeah,” he called, voice rough. “I’m coming.”

The walk from the study back into the party felt like being submerged in ice water. Every sound was too loud. Every light too bright. The moment was gone—folded up and hidden between them like something too precious to leave out in the open.

The living room came into view fast—and so did the problem.

Tommy H., drunk and staggering, stood on the coffee table waving Steve’s old homecoming crown over his head like it was a joke he’d been dying to make. The stereo was still blaring, but Tommy’s voice was louder. Smug.

“Look at this, huh? The fall of King Steve! From golden boy to... I dunno, babysitter or burnout or whatever the hell you are now!”

Laughter bubbled up in a few corners. Uneasy. Too many people pretending it was funny. Steve’s jaw tensed. Beside him, Mac stood with her arms crossed, fury radiating off her like heat.

Across the room, Billy leaned against the wall with some cheerleader on his arm, watching like it was cable television. Even Carol looked embarrassed. Her hand was already tugging at Tommy’s arm, clearly wanting him to knock it off.

Too late.

Tommy locked eyes with Steve and grinned like he’d just won something.

“Tell me, Stevie-boy,” he drawled. “This little get-together your last-ditch attempt at clawing your way back to the top? Trying to win the peasants over before your reign is officially over?”

Steve kept his voice even. “Tommy. Get down. And go home.”

But Tommy only cackled, louder now. “Oh, sure. So you can drag those cheerleaders upstairs and relive your glory days before Nancy Wheeler wrecked your ego?” He smirked. “Did she ever actually put out, by the way, or did she save it for Byers?”

He felt Mac shift beside him before he even saw it. Ready to storm across the room and level him.

Steve reached out, hand brushing her arm just lightly. Not yet.

But Tommy caught the motion. And latched onto it like a vulture. He hopped off the coffee table, stumbling just a little.

“Ohhh, my bad,” Tommy sneered. “You’re not looking for Nancy 2.0. You’re slumming it these days, huh? Bringing the trailer park slut upstairs instead?” His eyes flicked to Mac. “Bet she could show you all the shit the town freak taught her before he bailed.”

Mac flinched just slightly, as if she was too proud to admit it got to her, but Steve was moving before his brain caught up. He shoved through the crowd, grabbing Tommy by the collar and dragging him close.

Tommy’s smile was thin now, meaner. “Come on,” he whispered. “Can’t be that good, right? Even Munson took off without her.”

The shove knocked Tommy back hard, sent him stumbling into the couch. He recovered fast, grabbing a vase from the side table with that same grin.

“Think your parents care more about this than they do about you?” he slurred—and then he hurled the vase to the floor.

It shattered like gunfire.

Steve snapped.

He lunged, fist already moving. The punch landed clean—straight to Tommy’s nose. Blood burst like a pop of color across his smug face as he stumbled back, swearing.

Mac was there in seconds, her fingers gripping Steve’s shirt, yelling over the music and chaos.

“Get the fuck out! All of you!”

The party stopped. Dead.

Someone turned down the music. People started moving, grabbing their things, their drinks, their friends.

Billy chuckled as he passed. “So much for the comeback tour.”

Carol, suddenly maternal, was pressing a wad of napkins to Tommy’s face, helping him stumble toward the door while muttering about how he was an idiot.

And just like that, it was over.

The room cleared out, leaving Steve in the middle of the wreckage. A broken vase at his feet. Blood on his knuckles. Mac still beside him.

And something between them neither of them had dared to name.

Sunday, March 3rd 1985

The party had been over for an hour. The music, the people, the chaos—it had all bled out of the house like smoke through a cracked window. What was left behind felt too still. Like the walls were holding their breath.

Mac moved through the upstairs bathroom quietly, grabbing a towel off the counter. Steve was sitting on the closed toilet lid, hand outstretched, knuckles raw and bloodied. He didn’t say much. Neither did she.

This house always felt too big when it was quiet. Like it echoed even when you didn’t want it to.

She turned the faucet on, waited for the water to warm, then dampened the towel. She crouched in front of him and began cleaning the cuts with gentle pressure. The blood was mostly dried by now, the bruises starting to bloom underneath.

Steve winced once. She shot him a look.

“Don’t be dramatic.”

“I’m not,” he muttered.

She gave a small shake of her head, the barest smile tugging at her lips.

They were quiet for a few more seconds. Just the water dripping from the faucet and the occasional creak of the house settling.

“You shouldn’t have punched him,” she said finally, eyes still on his hand.

Steve snorted. “You don’t really feel that way.”

She hesitated, then sighed. “No. I don’t.”

That earned a quiet laugh. She glanced up at him, and for just a second, it was easier—like the weight of the night had shifted to the background, letting something else fill the space between them. Not quite comfort, but not the aching kind of silence either.

“I think this might be the first fight I’ve seen you in where you looked better than the other guy,” she said, tilting his hand to inspect the damage under better light.

Steve smirked. “No concussion either. Gotta be some kind of record.”

She finished cleaning the scrapes, then leaned back on her heels. The air between them still held a charge, but it was quieter now. Dimmer. Like the volume had been turned down without anyone noticing.

Mac ran a hand through her hair and glanced at the clock. “I should probably head home.”

Steve looked at her, brows furrowed. “I shouldn’t drive.”

She raised an eyebrow. “I’ll walk.”

He gave her a look. That classic Steve Harrington face—equal parts stubborn and soft, like he was about to guilt her into something under the guise of practicality.

She sighed, lips pressed together. “You’re really milking the whole ‘I punched a guy’ thing, huh?”

“We’ve both been drinking. There's a guest room across the hall,” he said, standing up. “Come on.”

She followed him out, arms loosely crossed as they passed his room. Just as he reached for the guest room door, she quirked a brow.

“So what, not actually taking the trailer park slut to your room?” she joked, too dry for her own good.

Steve didn’t laugh. Not even a smile.

Mac paused, blinking. “Kidding,” she said quickly. “Jesus. I’m joking.”

He opened the guest room door without looking at her, the faint click of the doorknob louder than it needed to be. She stepped inside, then turned toward him again, lingering just slightly in the doorway.

“I’m surprised, that’s all. Considering…” Her voice trailed off, a little uncertain now. “Considering the whole…”

Don’t say almost kiss.

“...defending my honor back there.” She finished off.

His jaw flexed, like he was trying to choose between saying something or saying nothing at all.

“Relax,” Mac rolled her eyes fondly and let out a breath of laughter. “You're a good friend.”

Something flickered across Steve’s face—an expression she couldn’t read fast enough before it was gone. Maybe even he didn’t know what it meant.

“Yeah,” he said finally, voice low. “I just… didn’t want you to feel like you were alone in it.”

Her mouth lifted into a faint smirk. “That’s dangerously close to a real compliment.”

He leaned one shoulder against the doorframe, like he needed it for balance and the moment settled into something quieter.

“Thanks for not letting me go home drunk and pissed off,” she said.

“Thanks for not letting me completely blow the whole night.”

“You did punch Tommy H.”

“And, again,” Steve lifted a brow. “You’re welcome.”

She smiled—this one real, if still tired. “Goodnight, Steve.”

“Night, Mac.”

She shut the door behind her with a soft click. The room was still, a little cooler than she liked, but clean and calm in that strange Harrington-house way. The bed was made, the lamp on the dresser gave off a quiet glow, and everything smelled like laundry detergent and whatever cologne Steve half-heartedly wore when he was pretending not to care.

She peeled off her jeans, tossed them onto the chair, and slipped under the blanket. No music. No voices. Just the faint murmur of the house settling and the comforting weight of stillness as she let herself sink into sleep.

Steve didn’t bother with pajamas.

He yanked off his shirt, kicked out of his jeans, and collapsed onto his bed in just his boxers, face-down in the mattress with a groan that might’ve been meant for the universe itself. The cotton sheets were cool, but they didn’t do much to ease the static crawling just beneath his skin.

He flipped over with a sigh, arm draped over his face like it might shield him from his own thoughts. It didn’t.

The hallway light was still on, casting a soft line of gold beneath the crack in his door. He could hear the faint hum of the guest room across the hall. It was too quiet now. No more music, no laughter, no low whir of bodies filling the space. Just the creaks of the house settling and the echo of everything that had happened.

His hand still throbbed. Dull and pulsing from the punch—though it wasn’t the worst pain he’d been in by a longshot. And honestly? He had no regrets. Tommy deserved it. If Steve really looked into it, he wished he’d done it sooner, so that moment didn’t threaten to haunt him.

No, what haunted him was the study. That look in her eyes. The way her voice cracked when she talked about losing everything that made her feel like herself. How her world was changing piece by piece and she was just trying to keep up without falling apart.

He’d seen her like that before—on the edge, armor cracking—but this time was different. This time, she let the pieces fall. Let him see the mess.

It had hit him hard, the feeling of wanting to kiss her. Right there in the middle of his dad’s office, in the haze of the party and her spiraling rant. Not because of the chaos. Not because she said she wanted to kiss someone and not have it mean anything.

Because he wanted to kiss her and have it mean everything .

Instead, he held her when it felt like she might break apart mid-sentence. She’d been burning too hot to notice the way his hands lingered or how long he looked at her mouth. And maybe that was a good thing. Because if she had noticed, she might’ve asked why.

And he wouldn’t have had the guts to answer.

Because the truth? He’d thought about it before tonight. Thought about it way too many times. During those long, late-night phone calls. During the quiet moments in study hall. When her laugh snuck up on him, or when she got that look in her eye like she was about to say something brave and didn’t.

He wasn’t supposed to. She was Mac. His friend. She was a barely-contained storm in denim and flannel. But something had shifted somewhere in the past few months where he realized just how much space she took up in his chest without even trying.

He turned his head, eyes open now, staring at the ceiling fan spinning slow above him. The air in the room felt heavy.

Across the hall, she was sleeping. Or trying to.

He wondered if she’d cried. Wondered if she knew what it meant to him just to sit in silence while she patched him up, knuckles raw and spirit frayed. Wondered if she’d even noticed the way he’d looked at her.

She probably hadn’t. And if she had? She’d written it off. “Good friend Steve.” The guy who drives you home when you're drunk and keeps a flashlight in his car and makes sure your mom doesn’t worry.

Not the guy you fall for.

And he’d agreed when she said it. Because what else was he supposed to do? Make a giant declaration in his hallway at one in the morning?

He couldn’t do that, not when he had been telling himself it was ‘nothing’ for weeks.

But lying there in the quiet dark, with the scent of her shampoo still lingering faintly on his shoulder from when she leaned in to patch him up, Steve knew the truth.

It was already something.

He just wasn’t sure what to do about it yet.

Chapter Text

March 1985 (Part II)

Tuesday, March 12th, 1985

It had been a little over a week since Eddie left town, and for Mac, somehow everything still felt... off.

Her house felt quieter. Her social life felt splintered. And school? School was like stepping into some uncanny version of Hawkins High where she didn’t quite fit anywhere.

Robin had called out sick that morning. Mac had given her a hard time about it, teasing her for getting sick from that late-night walk to 7/11 in the rain, but she missed her already. Without Robin’s yapping, everything felt even more muted.

By the time lunch rolled around, Mac was dragging. She stepped into the cafeteria, tray in hand, eyes scanning for somewhere to sit.

Things between her and Steve had been the same. Late night phone calls, banter, the usual just with a little more reassurance that he had her back. But, regardless, they didn’t sit together at lunch. They never had. That wasn’t the shape of their friendship—whatever the hell it was.

Her eyes drifted to the Hellfire table. Jeff, Gareth, and Dougie were already there, slumped in their usual seats, but noticeably more subdued than usual. Jeff was pushing tater tots around his tray like they’d personally wronged him. Gareth was halfway into a pudding cup, but even that looked half-hearted. It was weird seeing them this quiet. They hadn’t said it out loud, but Eddie’s absence lingered like smoke over the table.

Mac sighed and started walking toward them. She owed them that much. Even if it was a little awkward now without Eddie as the magnetic center holding them all in orbit.

But then—movement.

From the corner of her eye, she caught someone approaching the table before she got there. Tall. Blond. Varsity jacket. Her stomach twisted.

Jason Carver.

She didn’t know him well, and didn't want to. But she knew his type. He was the next Hawkins golden boy, the heir apparent now that Steve had abdicated the throne. He was everything wrong with Hawkins High in one smug, polished package—and more importantly, he was the kind of guy who made life hell for people like Eddie.

He stood over the Hellfire table like he was already bored, like this was just a detour between practices. His girlfriend—Chrissy Cunningham, Mac thought—stood behind him, clearly uncomfortable. Her eyes were everywhere but on Jason, arms folded like she didn’t want to be part of this.

“You guys thinking of retiring the Satanic cult act now that your fearless freak leader’s skipped town?” Jason asked, tone sugary sweet with just enough venom beneath. “Might be time to blend in. Just some friendly advice.”

Jeff’s shoulders tensed. Dougie stared at his tray. Gareth looked like he was about to stand up, but Mac beat him to it.

“Is there a problem here?” she asked coolly, stepping between Jason and the table.

Jason’s gaze slid to her like she was barely worth the trouble. “Just saying hey to the nerds. Making sure they’re adjusting to the loss of their king.”

Mac tilted her head, smiling just slightly. “Cute. I didn’t realize you were the grief counselor type.”

He tried to laugh it off. “No grief here. Just figured I’d spread the good word.”

“Maybe you should try the Bible Club,” she said, glancing pointedly at Chrissy before leveling her gaze back on him. “Pretty sure they’ve got fliers.”

The corner of Jason’s jaw twitched.

Before he could say anything else, another voice cut in.

“Everything okay over here?”

Steve was at her side before she’d even seen him coming, shoulders squared, eyes hard. Not angry, not yet—but there was something behind them Mac recognized. A low, steady warning.

Jason smiled again, but this one was sharper. “Relax, Harrington. Just checking in. Didn’t know this was your lunch table now.”

Steve didn’t flinch. “Move along, Jason.”

“Or what?” Jason leaned forward slightly. “You gonna punch me like you did to Hagan?”

Mac could feel the air shift behind her. The Hellfire guys were holding their breath. She braced herself, ready to step in if she had to—but Jason suddenly reached for Chrissy’s hand and turned.

“Let’s go,” he muttered.

Chrissy didn’t argue. She looked at Mac for half a second—guilty, grateful, maybe both—and then they were gone.

Mac exhaled slowly.

Steve glanced at her. “You alright?”

She nodded once. “Yeah.”

He looked at the empty seat beside Gareth. “You know you can sit with me, right?”

Mac smiled a little. “And give up the prestige of the nerd table?”

“Hey,” Gareth cut in. “We prefer ‘noble weirdos,’ thank you very much.”

Steve rolled his eyes, hands up in surrender. “My bad.”

With a small smile to Mac, he headed back to his usual table.

Mac sat down beside Gareth and picked up a fork like nothing had happened.

"Alright, nerds," she said, stabbing at a lukewarm tater tot. "What’s everyone been up to?"

Jeff shrugged, pushing peas around his tray. "I reorganized my cassette drawer by runtime. Shortest to longest."

Gareth let out a sound like a dying animal. “I watched the same Slayer concert tape four times in one night. I think my eyeballs are bleeding.”

“Work,” Dougie added, mumbling through a bite of bread roll.

“Dougie threw up at Dairy Queen last Friday,” Jeff added. “Not food poisoning though. Too much soft serve.”

Mac blinked. “Wow. Riveting.”

They all sort of slumped in their seats, the silence heavy in the wake of Eddie’s absence. The usual Hellfire table energy was gone—no loud debates, no dice clattering in secret, no snide jokes about jocks too close within earshot. Just the three of them, shuffling through lunch like they’d been benched for the season.

Mac exhaled through her nose and set her fork down. “Okay. Look. I know Eddie’s in Indy now, and yeah, it’s weird without him. But that doesn’t mean you guys have to act like he died or something.”

Jeff looked up, brow furrowed. “It’s not that easy, Mac. He was the guy , y’know? The Dungeon Master. Our frontman. He made it cool to care about stuff like this.”

“He was like… if Ozzy Osbourne and Mr. Rogers had a baby,” Dougie added solemnly.

Mac actually snorted at that, but her chest twinged. She got it. Eddie had made them feel seen. Like being weird wasn’t a curse.

They all sort of nodded, defeated. Gareth mumbled, “We don’t even have the Hideout gig anymore without him. Bev said she wouldn't put up with our noise if he wasn’t there to clean up tables in return.”

That hit her harder than she expected. She didn’t realize how much she’d miss those nights, even if she mostly stood in the back drinking a soda and making fun of their outfits.

She looked at them—all three hunched over their trays like someone had unplugged their purpose—and a thought sparked in her brain.

“Hey,” she said, sitting up straighter. “So this means you guys got your Tuesdays free?”

Jeff blinked at her. “Uh… yeah?”

“And Fridays,” Gareth added. “Since Hellfire’s kinda…”

“Paused?” Mac offered.

He grimaced. “Yeah.”

Mac grinned. “Well, I’m working Fridays, but Tuesdays? Tuesdays I’m free.”

They stared at her blankly.

She leaned in. “I’m just saying—I’m no Eddie, but I’ve run a few one-shots. And I’ve been playing long enough now that I think I can keep you guys from, like, dying instantly. What if we kept meeting up? Just on Tuesdays. I run the game, you nerds show up, we keep it alive.”

There was a beat.

Then Gareth squinted at her. “You got stats?”

Jeff folded his arms. “What’s your DM voice like?”

Dougie rubbed his chin. “Can you do accents?”

Mac gave them a flat look. She’d played with them before, they knew she knew her shit. But the teasing made everything feel normal again, so she let them. “I swear to god, I will make you fight a horde of sentient toilets if you don’t stop.”

They all burst out laughing—genuine, too. It made her grin.

Jeff finally nudged her arm. “Alright, alright. You’re in.”

“Let’s do it,” Gareth added.

“Tuesdays it is,” said Dougie.

The rest of lunch passed with character talk, dumb ideas for side quests, and at least three arguments about whether kobolds or goblins made better minions. Things weren’t fixed, weren't perfect—but better. And Mac could live with that.

Thursday, March 21st 1985

Mac was in Eddie’s trailer.

Only… not.

Something was off from the moment her boots touched the carpet. It wasn’t the usual worn shag she’d tripped over a hundred times—it felt damp beneath her soles. The color had drained from it entirely, matted down in uneven clumps like it had been soaked in ash. The walls pulsed faintly, a sickly gray that seemed to breathe if she stared too long. The air was too quiet. Not silent, just… hushed. Like the world was holding its breath.

That coppery undertone that always hit the back of her throat. The Upside Down.

No light. Not really. The glow from outside—what little there was—came in filtered and wrong. Like moonlight passed through sludge before it hit the windows. Her breath fogged faintly in front of her as she stepped further in, though the air didn’t feel cold. It felt stale. Dense. Like it had been trapped in here for years.

No TV hum. No soft flick of guitar strings from Eddie’s room. No random bang from Wayne dropping something in the kitchen. Just the low groan of a world stretched too thin beneath their own.

Mac turned slowly, eyes scanning the living room. The sagging couch was still there, but coated in a fine layer of what looked like dust—or maybe something more organic. She didn’t want to think about it. The coffee table bore water rings that hadn’t been there before. His D&D notebooks were stacked in the corner, half-melted into each other, ink running in veins like blood clots.

“Eddie?” she called finally, though her voice came out thin, like the air swallowed it before it had time to echo.

No answer.

She passed down the narrow hallway, each step quieter than it should’ve been. Her boots didn’t squeak like usual. Her shadow didn’t follow quite right in the warped overhead light. She reached his bedroom door—it was cracked open, hinges creaking just slightly when she pushed it further.

Empty.

The bed was untouched, still messy in the way he always left it, but no sign of him. Just the imprint of a body that wasn’t there anymore. His posters were peeling off the walls. His nightstand was overturned. One of his rings lay on the floor near the edge of the mattress. She bent to grab it—

A groan echoed through the ceiling.

Mac spun.

Back in the living room, something had changed. She took one step back down the hallway and froze.

There was a hole in the ceiling.

No. Not a hole. A tear . A break between realities.

It looked wet. Alive. Veined like something had clawed through the world from the other side and left the wound to rot. 

She knew what this was. Even if she’d never seen it before.

Nancy had described it once—in her flat, too-honest tone. The portal in the tree. The impossible tear. A rip in space and time.

She backed away slowly, breath short, body tensing.

That’s when the voice started.

It wasn’t coming from the tear. Not exactly. It was just everywhere. Inside her head. Inside the walls.

Low. Garbled. Like someone whispering through a broken radio, their mouth full of gravel.

“This is where it starts.”

Mac’s feet locked in place.

The walls shivered. Not visibly—but she felt it. Like the trailer was breathing beneath her skin. Her fingers twitched, but her legs wouldn’t move.

“You let him go.”

Her vision pulsed—twice—like the world was blinking. For a moment, she wasn’t in the trailer at all. Her bedroom flickered through in pieces. Her nightstand. Her stereo. Her jeans crumpled on the floor. The book she'd been reading half-open on her stomach.

Then back to the trailer.

“You let him go. You let him go. You let him—”

“I didn’t,” she tried to say. Her lips moved, but the words didn’t come. No sound. Just a tight, airless sob that never reached the surface.

“You should have stopped him.”

The voice didn’t grow louder—it grew closer. It wrapped around her like a fog, curling inside her chest, threading through her veins like it belonged there.

Her throat seized. Her hand trembled. Her knees buckled.

The ceiling rippled. That glowing wound above her gaped wider, viscera and shadow pooling like it might collapse the whole world through it.

And then—

RING.

The phone.

Sharp. Abrupt. Real.

It cut through everything.

The world fractured again, her room snapping into focus around the edges. Her stereo was still playing—Fleetwood Mac again, the tape slightly warped from being played too many times. Her lamp was on, casting shadows against the familiar posters on her walls. The ashtray on the windowsill hadn’t moved.

RING.

Mac jolted upright, a choked sound escaping her throat.

Sweat clung to her neck, her back. Her book had fallen to the floor and her blanket was wrapped around one leg like she’d been fighting it. The phone rang again, its shrill tone setting her teeth on edge.

She reached for it with a shaking hand, knocking over a glass of water as she fumbled the receiver to her ear.

“H-Hello?”

Steve sat on the edge of his bed, the phone still pressed to his ear. He hadn’t expected her to pick up so fast—hell, he hadn’t expected her to answer at all, even though by now this was practically a routine—but when she did, something in her voice made his stomach twist.

And then, just under her breath, he heard it—a soft, shaken “fuck”—and the scrape of something across wood. Maybe her nightstand. Maybe a book. The low clink of glass.

“Mac?” he asked, his voice going soft with the edge of worry. “What happened?”

There was a pause, and then her voice came back, a little steadier but still not right. “Spilled water. By the bed. Just trying not to let it fry the clock.”

He didn’t say anything for a second. Just let that hang there. “I meant… Why did you sound so upset when I called?”

Another pause. Longer this time. He could picture her—sitting on the edge of her mattress, legs crossed under her, probably still half tangled in a blanket. One hand gripping the phone too tightly, the other smoothing down her hair like that would somehow smooth over everything else too.

“It was a nightmare,” she said finally. Her voice was even, but he could hear the edge under it. Not a tremble. Just a little too calm. A practiced defense.

“The usual kind?” he asked gently.

“Kinda.”

That was it. That was all she gave him.

Steve rubbed a hand over his face and leaned back against the headboard, one ankle resting over his knee. He didn’t push. He’d learned that with her—when she didn’t want to talk, she didn’t. And trying to force it only made her shut down harder.

But still. The way she’d sounded…

“You want me to come over?”

That earned a reaction, at least. A snort. “Yeah, I’m sure Patti would love that. You showing up at the trailer after midnight on a Thursday. Real charming.”

“She wouldn’t shoot me,” he said. “Probably. Your mom doesn’t seem real big on gun violence.”

“She likes you. Just not enough to forgive you waking her up.”

“Well, I’m flattered.”

He could tell she was still shaken, but the edge had dulled.

Steve glanced at the clock on his nightstand—12:03 a.m.—and shifted the phone to his other ear. “So. Slight subject change. The new mall’s already putting up job flyers. Walked by the construction entrance and they’ve got listings taped to the wall.”

“Yeah?” Mac asked, sounding more like herself. “What kind of thrilling opportunities await?”

He grinned. “Let’s see. A sporting goods place. Some pizza chain—Dough Daddy’s or something equally uncomfortable to say—and an ice cream place called Scoops Ahoy.”

“Scoops Ahoy?” she repeated, deadpan.

“Yep. Nautical theme and everything. Like a sailor hat, I think.”

She laughed—finally. “Oh, my god. Please work there. Please. I’m begging.”

“Hard pass. You know how I feel about hats.”

“So… pizza guy it is?”

“Even worse. The mascot’s a mustachioed cartoon pizza slice wearing sunglasses. The uniform’s like a red polyester bowling shirt.”

Mac made a noise like she might choke. “Oh no.”

“You’re picturing it, aren’t you?”

“Unfortunately, yes. Do you think you’d have to grow a mustache for the job?”

“Not happening.”

“Because you can’t or…?”

“Very funny.”

He could practically hear the grin in her voice, and it comforted him that she was okay. Not all the way back, but okay.

“Guess that means I’m stuck with the sports store,” he said, mock-defeated.

“Can you even talk about sports?”

“Hey, I am a guy, you know,” he said. “And I play basketball.”

“You sit on the bench a lot more since Hargrove’s moved here.”

“I sit with style.”

Their laughter overlapped for a second before easing into a comfortable rhythm. Their special kind of banter that filled space without needing to mean anything. And as the minutes stretched out, Steve didn’t really care how late it was. He just kept talking, listening.

Saturday, March 30th 1985

The arcade was alive with the usual Saturday night noise. Machines beeped and teenagers yelled as a few of the neon lights looked like they were on the verge of giving up. Dustin sat at the Dragon's Lair machine, joystick gripped tightly, mouth open in concentration.

He was down to his last life and, once again, Dirk the Daring was about to be incinerated.

“Goddamn it!” Dustin cursed under his breath as the game over screen flashed red and mocking.

“Language,” Mac said, appearing beside him like some punk rock arcade goblin, a tray of nachos in hand.

He glanced up. “How the hell did you get Keith to let you near the machines with food?”

She shrugged, already munching a chip. “Keith can barely form full sentences when he talks to me. Spends more time staring at my boobs than my face. So, y’know. Perks.”

Dustin grimaced. “Gross.”

She offered the tray toward him, and he took a soggy chip. “Still gross,” he muttered, but ate it anyway.

Around them, the rest of the group was scattered—Lucas and Max were over at the Dig Dug machine, Max half-coaching, half-trashing him with affectionate insults. Will and Mike were by the pinball area, though it was mostly Will playing while Mike leaned against the wall, looking like someone had kicked his puppy.

“El’s not allowed out still,” Dustin said, nodding in Mike’s direction.

Mac followed his gaze and nodded. “Yeah.”

The undeniable vibe of the arcade swelled around them and Dustin glanced down at the scream, the flashing prompt to restart blinking expectantly.

“You've beaten this level before, like last year,” Mac said, crouching a little beside him. “What gives?”

He shrugged, eyes flicking to the others again. “Just not as fun without the group around me. I guess.”

Mac looked at him for a second, then held out the nachos again like they were some sort of peace offering. “Well. I’m here so you're not third wheeling the nerd brigade.”

Dustin gave her a generous side eye. “You don;t have to babysit me anymore, remember?”

The words came out more harsh than he had wanted them to, dangerously close to revealing that the thought actually made him sad. He hadn't looked at her when he said it, but when he finally did, she was studying him in that way she usually did, her mouth tugging into an almost grin at the corner.

“Ah,” she said with a knowing look. “So that's what this is.”

“What what is?” he said, too fast.

“That little chip on your shoulder,” she said, flicking his arm. “ You think now that Hawkins is safe and Claudia sent me into retirement, we’re just gonna stop hanging out?”

He opened his mouth and closed it quickly with a shrug.

“Okay, listen Henderson. Do you think I'd willingly spend a full day of my summer, the final summer after my high school career, taking a thirteen year old to some geek camp, if I didn't enjoy spending time with you?”

“My mom’s paying for the gas.”

“Dustin.”

Her tone was serious and he mumbled, “I guess not.”

“Exactly,” she said, voice softer now. “As much as it pains me to say it—and believe me, it does—you’re still like my little brother. Babysitter title or not.”

Dustin looked up at her then. She reached out and adjusted the brim of his trucker hat like she always did when she got too sentimental and needed to hide it behind something else.

“It’s kinda weird though,” he said after a pause, “that you’re friends with a middle schooler.”

Mac scoffed. “Okay, smart guy. Is it weird that Steve’s friends with a middle schooler? Because he never even got paid. He just… does it.”

“Steve needs me. Our friendship is basically a rehabilitation program,” Dustin smirked. “For him.”

That made her laugh, the kind that crinkled her eyes and pulled her whole body into it. She shoved him lightly with her shoulder. “You’re the worst.”

“I try.”

Mac nudged him with her boot. “Move. Show me how the hell this game even works.”

Dustin grinned, shifting over. “Prepare to die a lot.”

“I’ve survived demogorgons,” she said, cracking her knuckles. “Bring it on.”

Chapter Text

April 1985 (Part I)

Friday, April 5th 1985

The store was a little dustier and the smell of fresh marker ink filled the air, which was fitting, since half the display shelves were empty and the other half looked like they were holding on for dear life. Vinyl Frontier was in transition. Boxes were stacked in corners, handwritten signs reading “FOR SALE: Fixtures. Ask Jet.” and a scattering of flyers promoting the move to Starcourt Mall. The soul of the place clung to the walls, but it was already starting to feel like a memory to Mac.

She stood behind the counter, sharpie in hand, crouched over a piece of cardstock. Her flyer was halfway done— black background, jagged red-orange lettering like flames licking up from the bottom. “The Last Spin: One Final Night Before The Mall Eats Us Alive.” Jet had insisted she name it something dramatic and she didn't disappoint.

Across the store, Jet was trailing behind Mick, trying to look like he wasn't hovering while still micromanaging. Mick scribbled on a clipboard, and every few seconds Jet would change his mind about a price or mutter something about factoring in sentimental value. Mac smiled to herself without looking up.

It was a quiet, golden hour lull. The after school chaos had died down and the sound of scribbling markers, Mick’s exasperated sighs, and Jet’s mutters filled the space.

The bell over the door jingled but Mac didn't look up. She was trying to make the words on the page look like they were melting.

“Hey, flyer girl.”

She glanced up to see Ryan standing there. His curls were a little messier than last time, sweatshirt sleeves pushed up to his elbows. He nodded at her with a crooked smile.

Mac arched an eyebrow. “That what you're calling me now?”

“Well,” he said, stepping closer to the counter, “I’ve got to work with what I’ve got.”

She smiled despite herself and gestured to the chaos around them. “Welcome to the half-broken shell of my favorite place.”

Ryan turned in a slow circle, taking in the boxes and handwritten signs. “Finally sold out to the mall gods?”

Mac nodded. “Yeah. We’re moving to Starcourt next month. I think Jet’s still pretending he’s fine about it.”

From the other side of the store, Jet called, “I am fine. Shut up.”

Mac grinned. Ryan leaned over the counter, eyeing the flyer. “The Last Spin,” he read aloud. “Nice. Invitation only?”

“I might know a guy who can sneak you in,” she said, doodling a flame across the corner. “But only if you’re cool enough.”

“Guess I’ll have to work on my cred.”

There was a pause—not uncomfortable, just full of the excitement of a new venture.

Then Mac cleared her throat. “Oh—uh, I got my acceptance letter the other day.”

Ryan’s face lit up. “To Cedar Hill? That’s awesome. Congrats.”

She nodded, trying to keep it casual, but the corner of her mouth twitched up. “Thanks.”

“That means we’ll be seeing a lot more of each other.”

Mac didn’t know what to say to that, but something warm flickered low in her stomach.

Ryan reached over and plucked a couple of guitar picks from the jar by the register. He pulled out his wallet. “Didn’t really need anything, but I didn’t want you to think I came in just to see you.”

She tilted her head, suspicious as she cashed him out. “Did you?”

He smiled, handed over the cash, and took his bag. “Later, flyer girl.”

Mac watched him walk out the door, the bell jingling behind him.

She turned back around—and froze. Jet and Mick were both staring at her.

She scowled. “Shut up.”

Neither of them said a word. Jet just smirked and went back to pretending he wasn’t emotionally attached to a busted cassette tower.

Monday, April 15th, 1985

The second Steve walked into Hawkins High, he was hit with a blast of glitter, tape, and forced school spirit.

A half-folded banner was being wrangled over the main hallway, one senior on a ladder and another struggling to get the ends even. “Hawkins High Prom 1985: Enchanted Neon Nights!” it read—painted in a god-awful mix of hot pink and electric blue, like the entire concept of subtlety had been run over by a roller rink.

He sighed. Of course it was neon. It was always neon. God forbid they pick something that didn’t look like a fever dream in a mall food court.

Normally, this kind of thing would’ve lit him up. Prom season? That was supposed to be his time to shine. Pick the date, get the tux, charm the faculty into letting him half-ass his way through planning the afterparty. King of the school, and all that.

But now that it was here, he couldn’t bring himself to care.

He still hadn’t heard back from any colleges. Not even Cedar Hill, which was supposed to be the backup. His parents had stopped asking, but that was somehow worse like they'd already accepted he was a failure.

And after the party? After punching Tommy in the face in front of half the senior class? Yeah, his popularity wasn't just in a slump, it was on life support.

He reached his locker, spun the dial with ease and cursed under his breath as he yanked out the books he needed, slamming it shut harder than necessary,

“Jeez, Harrington,” a voice from behind him. “Are you trying to scare the locker into giving you its lunch money?”

He turned and saw Mac standing there, backpack slung over one shoulder, hair pulled up in a ponytail. She had more freckles than before spring break. Probably from the trip to Indy she mentioned— visiting Eddie, her uncle, finally meeting her mom’s boyfriend.

Steve blinked. “You got sun.”

“Uncle Frankie insisted I see ‘the real city’. Which apparently means walking ten miles a day between dive bars, record stores, and three separate places that only serve waffles.”

He gave her a look.

“Don’t knock it. But I did end up sitting in the sun for like six hours straight at one place with a patio, so... yeah.” She gestured vaguely at her face. “Freckle invasion.”

He glanced back toward the stairwell, where the two students were now arguing over if the banner was straight or not.

 Mac followed his gaze and her lip curled. “Ah, yes. Enchanted Neon Nights . Sounds like a bad synth album.”

Steve rolled his eyes. “Probably is.”

“So what,” she said with a smirk, “you gonna get your crown polished for the big night?”

He let out a soft scoff and shrugged. “Can’t break tradition.”

“Right,” she said. “Because there’s just something so magical about sweaty gym floors and lukewarm punch.”

Steve raised an eyebrow. “Wait. You’re not going?”

She stopped mid-step, like she wasn’t expecting the question to matter. “No? Why would I?”

He blinked at her, genuinely thrown. “I just... I thought you’d at least go. Even if it’s dumb.”

“You literally looked at that banner two seconds ago like you wanted to barf.”

“Yeah,” he said, scratching the back of his neck, “but I’m still going.”

She looked at him like he’d just announced he was running for president. “Why?”

“I don’t know,” he muttered. “Rite of passage or something.”

Mac made a face. “God, you can be so corny.” She shook her head and pushed the classroom door open. “Come on, golden boy. You’re gonna make us both late.”

He followed her to their desks in English Lit, slipping into the seat beside hers without thinking. Mrs. O’Donnell was already writing something dramatic on the board, probably a Gatsby quote.

Steve leaned back in his chair and let out a long breath.

He knew prom was dumb. That it really didn’t matter anymore. That nobody gave a shit about crowns or suits or songs played too loud in a room that smelled like sweat and floor wax.

But still.

Part of him—a part he usually kept buried beneath sarcasm and deflection—was a bleeding heart romantic. Even after Nancy. Even after everything.

He glanced sideways.

Mac was already scribbling something in her notebook, elbow propped on the desk, brow furrowed in concentration. Her ponytail swung slightly every time she looked back at the board. 

He could see her laughing at how ridiculous it all was, making some quip about the slow dance songs and how she should’ve just stayed home. She’d hate the theme. Call it something like “Enchanted Neon Corporate Hellscape.”

And yet, he still thought about how she might look under those cheap gym lights. The kind of beautiful you didn’t see coming.

He blinked.

“Mr. Harrington,” Mrs. O’Donnell’s voice snapped through the daydream like a slap. “Would you care to answer the question I just asked?”

He straightened up fast, heart thudding like he’d been caught doing something illegal.

“Uh… Gatsby died of… polio?”

There was a beat of stunned silence before the class burst into laughter. Even Mrs. O’Donnell cracked a smirk before shaking her head and turning back to the chalkboard.

“No,” she said dryly. “Try murder by disillusionment. Or, you know, a gun.”

Steve felt the back of his neck burn.

He looked over at Mac—who was, very pointedly, not laughing out loud. But her lips were twitching, and her eyes were bright with barely restrained amusement.

She leaned across the aisle, voice low enough just for him. “Polio? Really?”

Steve rubbed his face with both hands. “It was a long spring break.”

“Apparently.” Her grin widened. “Guess we’re starting the week off strong.”

He groaned and slumped back in his seat.

Tuesday, April 23rd 1985

The table in the drama room was still cluttered with dice, character sheets, and empty cans of Tab when the others started packing up. Jeff was recounting a dramatic near-death moment from the night’s session, all animated hand gestures and loud impressions, while Gareth mock-bowed in acknowledgment of the chaos he’d caused. Dougie just laughed, rifling through his backpack for the last of his snacks.

Mac leaned back in Eddie’s old throne, her boots hooked on the edge of the riser stage. It wasn’t hers, not really. But she’d been the one to keep it warm these past few Tuesdays. Enough that no one questioned it when she sat there now. Still, she knew it wasn’t the same. She wasn’t him.

They'd just wrapped a one-shot she had DM'd—short and chaotic, nowhere near the scope or energy of Eddie’s campaigns, but enough to make the guys show up after school and talk like they used to. It wasn’t the same, of course. No one dared sit in Eddie’s seat but her. And even that felt weird.

Eventually, the boys filtered out, tossing goodbyes over their shoulders. Jeff called out that next week he was bringing snacks, but he always said that and never did. Gareth waved, and Dougie tripped on a folding chair on his way out, swearing under his breath. Mac stayed behind.

She sank back down into the throne chair and let the silence settle around her.

Someone—probably the junior class officers—had started storing prom decorations in here, of all places. There was a giant roll of metallic fabric dumped near the back corner, a half-inflated star balloon tangled in its folds.

Prom. Jesus.

She tried to picture herself there—really there. In a dress. Wearing heels. Making awkward small talk. Probably sweating under the lights. She couldn’t decide if she’d laugh at herself or break out in hives. If Eddie were still here, would she have gone? Probably not. Even if he asked her just to cause trouble, she doubted the school would have let him through the gym doors. Someone would’ve made a stink. Someone always did.

And she didn’t care. She didn’t. She wasn’t that kind of girl. Never had been.

Still, her eyes lingered on one of the half finished banners. The stupid neon letters.

She thought of Steve, pretending not to care about this whole prom thing while absolutely caring. He’d been weird about it lately. Not pressuring her exactly, just...floating the topic more often. Playing devil’s advocate. Saying stuff like, “Yeah, prom’s dumb,” followed by, “But it’s also a right of passage.”

Mac pressed her fingers to her temples. She didn’t want to go to prom. She didn’t care about dresses or slow dances or the terrible theme they’d chosen this year, which made her want to gag. God, she hated that her mind kept drifting like this.

And yet.

She thought about December. The way they slow danced outside the high school as if it would erase all her terrible memories of previous school dances. It had been cold. Their breath visible. His hands warm on her waist.

Would he dance with her at prom? In front of people? Would she even want him to?

Mac sat up straighter in the chair and shoved them down with the force of habit. No good came from that line of thinking. Steve wasn’t... he wasn’t hers. Not like that. They were friends. Weirdly close friends with a messy past and a heavy mutual trauma, but still. Just friends.

She pushed up from the throne and grabbed her jacket from the coat rack near the door.

With one last glance back, Mac flicked the light switch off and let the door click shut behind her. The hallway was quiet as she stepped out, the kind of quiet that only happened this late after clubs and rehearsals had cleared. Her boots echoed as she walked toward the parking lot. The sky was darkening, purple bleeding into black above the gym roof. Her car sat waiting like it always did, quiet and patient.

She opened the door, dropped into the seat, and exhaled so hard it made her ribcage ache. She sat for a moment before turning the key in the ignition.

It was hard to tell what she was more afraid of—that she was changing, or that she already had.

Friday, April 26th 1985

Mac was already halfway through her grilled cheese— the only decent sandwich the school cafeteria made— when Robin came in hot to their table. She literally slid into her seat like the floor was greased.

Mac raised an eyebrow. “Jesus. You running from something, or are we just making dramatic entrances now?”

“You will not believe what i just witnessed.”

Mac blinked. “Hi Robin. How was class?”

“I’m serious,” Robin continued, ignoring her. “You are not gonna believe this. Lik— okay, just listen.”

Mac opened her mouth to say something, maybe make a guess, but Robin steamrolled ahead, eyes practically sparkling.

“Tammy Thompson asked Steve to prom.”

Mac paused, a fry halfway in her mouth. “What.”

“Right after History class,” Robin continued again as she leaned forward. “She walked right up to him by the lockers, full frontal assault style, asked if he was going, and if he had a date.”

“Okay…and?”

“He said no.”

Robin held up a finger before Mac could speak. “BUT THEN! She tried again. She did the ‘well, i just thought it'd be fun since we know each other so well’ thing, like a soft reroute—”

“Did it—”

“BUT!” Robin raised both hands now. “He said no again. Very polite, Very ‘you’re great, but…’ ”

Mac glared. “This story is giving me whiplash, Rob.”

“I know!” Robin half-whispered, half shouted, grabbing a fry like it personally attacked her. “Which means! Tammy is going to prom alone . Do you understand the magnitude of that?”

Mac took another bite of her grilled cheese, shrugging like she was waiting for Robin to elaborate.

Robin stared at her like she just insulted her. “Mac! This means we have to go to prom!”

“No.”

Robin didn't even flinch, to her credit. “Yes.”

“No.”

“Mac.”

Mac set her sandwich down and leveled with her best friend. “First of all, you don't even want to go to prom either. And second, you can go next year. After I graduate, I don’t have to go.”

“Yeah, but Tammy graduates this year too.” Robin said like it was the most obvious thing.

Mac groans, slumping in the plastic cafeteria chair. “Oh my God, Robin. I'm not spending the entire night watching you circle Tammy Thompson like you're stuck in a holding pattern. You can pine from the cafeteria like you normally do.”

Robin threw a fry at her face. It bounced off Mac’s cheek and landed on the floor. She sighed. 

“I’ll think about it.” Mac finally muttered begrudgingly.

“That’s all I’m asking.” Robin said sweetly.

There was a pause in conversation while they both ate, Robin clearly trying not to push too hard. Then, too casually, she added. “You could always just go with Steve. You know, if we wanna make sure Tammy doesn't get a third wind and wear him down eventually.”

Mac picked up a fry and chucked it straight at her face while her best friend just laughed.

The last bell rang with a dull clang that echoed down the halls, but Steve didn’t move. Not at first. He stood at his locker, flipping through a textbook he wasn’t actually reading, pretending he had something important to do. The truth was, he was stalling. His thoughts were louder than the hallway chatter.

All week, girls had been asking him to prom. A few underclassmen he barely recognized—names he fumbled through like bad guesses on a multiple choice test—had giggled and stammered through invitations in the most awkward, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it kind of way. And then there was Tammy Thompson.

He still wasn’t sure if she was serious or if it had been some cruel dare cooked up in the back row of History. Either way, she’d asked. And when he’d said no—nicely, like a gentleman, because Tammy was harmless even if she couldn’t carry a tune to save her life—she had tried again. New strategy. More confidence. He turned her down again.

He had excuses for all of them. Too busy. Didn’t want to deal with prom drama. All technically true.

But none of them were the real reason.

He shut his locker and across the hall, Mac was pulling her jacket on, stuffing her hands into the pockets like she was bracing against wind that wasn’t even there in April. Her hair was tied up in one of those quick, no-nonsense ponytails that somehow still made her look like she had a plan for everything. She didn’t see him watching. Or if she did, she didn’t let on.

He was going to ask. Nothing dramatic, nothing weird. Just a casual, “Hey, wanna go as friends?” Maybe she’d laugh. Maybe she’d say no. But he figured he’d rather risk the joke than regret not asking at all.

He took one step—and that’s when he heard it.

“Steve!”

He stopped.

A voice. Bright. Slightly sugary.

He turned, and there she was.

Stacey Miller.

She was standing a few feet away, hair perfectly curled like she didn’t just survive seven hours of Hawkins High, cheer uniform traded for a denim skirt and pastel sweater. Lip gloss, earrings, the works. She looked like someone straight out of a catalog—pretty, styled, practiced. It should’ve been flattering.

“Hey,” he said, offering a faint smile as she stepped closer.

She tilted her head, all practiced ease and charm. “Do you have a date to prom yet?”

Steve blinked. “Uh... no, actually.”

That surprised her, he could tell. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, like she was pretending to be coy. “Really? Huh. I figured... I mean, you were on the prom king list and everything.”

He scratched the back of his neck. “Yeah, well. Guess my popularity took a hit after the party punch.”

She laughed, too hard for the joke. “Tommy’s a jackass. You did everyone a favor.”

He didn’t answer that. He just glanced toward the parking lot doors again. Mac was gone now.

“I thought you were with Billy,” he said, and it came out more direct than he meant it to. “At the party, I mean.”

Stacey’s face tightened. Just for a second. Not long enough to be dramatic, but enough that Steve caught it.

“Please,” she scoffed, but the sound was a little brittle. “Billy doesn’t keep anyone around longer than a week—if that.”

Her voice was sharp, like she wanted it to sound like a joke but couldn’t quite land it. And Steve suddenly felt bad. Not in the pity way. Just... bad.

She was standing there with this glossy veneer, but underneath it, she looked a little deflated. SHe told him she’d already bought the dress. Already told people she was going. Already imagined what the night might look like.

And for a moment, he hesitated. He thought about the way Mac rolled her eyes at prom decorations. The way she said she wasn’t even planning on going.

He looked back at Stacey.

"So, would you want to go together?" She finally asked.

“Yeah,” he said. “Okay.”

Her eyes lit up. “Really?”

“Yeah,” he nodded. “Sure.”

She beamed and grabbed his hand, scribbling a number on the back in red pen from her bag. “Call me this weekend?”

“Yeah,” he said again, trying not to sound weird about it. “Sure.”

She waved, spinning on her heel with a bounce in her step that only made him feel more unsure.

Steve stood there for a second, staring at the numbers on his hand like they might tell him what the hell he’d just done. Then he looked at the door again.

He let out a slow breath and tipped his head back against the lockers, the cool metal meeting his skull with a dull thunk. The overhead lights buzzed faintly above him. A couple of freshmen darted past, laughing too loud, like nothing in the world was heavier than a backpack.

He hadn’t said anything to Mac.

He’d spent all week thinking about how he might—rehearsing it, even, like it was some kind of confession. Prom’s dumb, yeah, but it might be less dumb with you. That’s all he wanted to say. Nothing poetic. Just honest. But he’d waited too long. Hesitated.

Because Stacey Miller had asked first. Because she’d looked at him like he was still somebody worth asking, and because she already had the dress, and because he said yes without really meaning to.

Because Mac wasn’t going to prom anyway.

Because if he asked her now—after all that—what would that even mean?

So he stood there, the hallway emptying around him, and tried to shake the feeling that something had slipped through his fingers.

He looked down at his hand again, the numbers already starting to smudge.

"Yeah," he muttered to himself. "Good job, Harrington."

And then he pushed off the lockers and walked out, pretending it didn’t bother him as much as it did, just like he did with everything else.

Sunday, April 28th 1985

It was quiet in Hocus Pocus after close. Patti had flipped the sign of the front door and dimmed the front window lights, but inside the shop the racks were filled with promise. Rows of vintage prom dresses, tuxedos, and satin gloves line the store, each on with a story to be told.

Mac had been helping for a few hours, arms aching from lugging around garment bags out of the back room. It was one of her rare Sundays off from the Frontier, and Patti had pounced on the opportunity to make use of her. She didn't really mind, the shop was warm and familiar.

“These kids don't know how lucky they are,” Patti said from across the room as she sorted through a rack of powder blue suits. “Prom used to mean something. You remember I went with your dad, right?”

Mac was already mid eye roll. “Yeah you mentioned it once or twice.”

“He wore a burgundy tux,” Patti went on, undeterred. “Awful, gaudy thing. But he looked so proud of it. We danced all night. I remember thinking, ‘God, this is the rest of my life.’”

“Okay, and on that terrifying note,” Mac said quickly, “maybe let’s not go into more detail.”

Patti chuckled to herself, humming softly as she adjusted a hanger. Mac ducked her head and kept moving down the line of dresses, skimming past sequins and lace and far too much tulle.

Then she stopped.

It was tucked between two loud monstrosities from the late ‘70s, but this one was different. A deep, rich red velvet number from the ‘50s, tea-length, off-the-shoulder with a sweetheart neckline. Elegant, timeless. The kind of thing a girl wore to feel like a version of herself she didn’t even know existed.

Mac pulled it from the rack, half-intending to shove it aside, but paused. Her fingers skimmed the fabric. It was heavier than it looked. Real. Her size.

“Now that,” Patti said, appearing behind her like a specter with too many opinions, “is your color.”

Mac scoffed, but it came out weaker than she wanted it to. “It’s pretty,” she admitted. “For someone who gives a shit about prom.”

“Mm-hmm,” Patti hummed, clearly unconvinced.

Mac shoved it back onto the rack with a little more force than necessary and turned away. “I’m gonna head to Robin’s to study. Then I’ll be home.”

“Right,” Patti said, too casual. “Don’t forget your textbook there again.”

Mac shot her a look and walked out before she could say anything else.

It wasn’t until hours later, after an unproductive study session and a drive home under quiet stars, that she pushed open the door to her bedroom and stopped short.

The dress was laid out on her bed. No note. No big declaration. Just... there. Waiting.

Mac stared at it for a long moment. Long enough to hear the fridge hum in the next room. Long enough for her throat to tighten in a way she didn’t expect.

She closed the door behind her and leaned against it.

“Dammit, Patti,” she muttered, but there wasn’t any heat behind it.

She stepped forward and touched the velvet again, her fingers sinking into the fabric. She imagined slipping it on. Not to play dress-up. Not for a display.

For prom.

For one night.

Robin was going. Tammy Thompson was going. Steve—well, he hadn’t said anything solid yet, he was still flip flopping. But she figured he probably would. He used to care about this kind of thing. Maybe he still did.

And maybe that was the whole point. Maybe she could go too. Not for the spectacle. Not for the dance floor. But for the memory. For the dress.

Mac sighed and ran a hand through her hair, fingers catching in a tangle she didn’t bother fixing. She stared at the velvet again, heart thudding in a way she didn’t like.

“Fine,” she muttered to herself. “I’ll go to prom.”

Her eyes lingered on the neckline, the color, the way it looked like it belonged to someone braver than her.

“I’ll ask Steve.”

A beat passed.

“As friends.” She clarified to no one in particular, maybe just for her own peace of mind.

She stepped back and folded her arms across her chest like it might protect her from whatever this decision meant.

Chapter Text

April 1985 (Part II)

Monday, April 29th, 1985

Steve was half-asleep on the picnic table, head tilted back toward the sun, letting the warmth settle into his skin. Hawkins High was never quiet—not really—but this corner by the parking lot stayed calmer than most. Usually he spent free period zoning out with one of those dusty magazines from the library—cars, basketball, or one of those college prep pamphlets he didn’t even pretend to care about.

So yeah, he was surprised when Mac asked if he wanted to hang out.

She hadn’t even looked at him when she said it. Just flicked a hand in his general direction and muttered something like, “Don’t feel like sketching today.” But now here they were—sitting on top of the table instead of the bench, legs swinging like a couple of bored kids waiting for the bell to ring.

She kept messing with the strap on her backpack. Twisting it, untwisting it. Twisting it again.

Steve watched her out of the corner of his eye. Something was definitely up.

“You’re all fidgety,” he said, squinting sideways at her. “What gives?”

“Nothing.”

He gave her a look. “Uh-huh. Come on, just spit it out.”

She groaned, like the words were physically painful. “Don’t make me say it.”

He grinned. “Speak up, Mac. World can’t hear you.”

She shot him a glare, sharp enough to slice concrete. “I said —I’m going to prom.”

That got his attention.

He blinked, sitting up a little straighter. “You are?”

“Yeah.” Her tone was flat. Defiant. “Don’t look so shocked.”

“No, I just—” He scratched the back of his neck. “Didn’t think it was your thing.”

“It’s not.”

A beat passed.

“So who’re you going with?” he asked, trying to keep it casual.

Mac gave him a look like he’d just asked if water was wet. “No one. Obviously.”

She kicked at a rock near the edge of the table with the toe of her boot. “I figured we could go together or whatever. As friends. For, like… memories. Or something. Robin wants to go too, so maybe you two can finally meet for real.”

And just like that, Steve’s stomach flipped.mHe didn’t say anything right away. He couldn’t. Something inside him seized up—caught between this is what you wanted and you waited too long .

Mac started to shift beside him. Opened her bag, started packing like she was already halfway out of the conversation. Like she’d convinced herself it was a stupid idea before he even answered.

“I, uh—” he started, voice rougher than intended. “I’m already going with someone.”

She stopped moving. Didn’t look at him.

“Stacey Miller,” he added. “She asked me last Friday. Said she already got the dress and Billy ditched her and... I don’t know. I felt bad.”

She looked up then—but not with the usual fire. Just this quiet, blank expression that somehow hit harder than anger ever could. The kind of face someone wears when they’re trying not to feel anything at all.

“It’s alright,” she said. Quick. Too even. “No big deal.”

“Mac—”

“It’s fine. I’ll go with Robin. Like I said.” She slung her bag over one shoulder, standing up like she couldn’t get out of there fast enough.

Steve stood too, halfway to stepping in front of her, to say something better. But she cut him off again, softer this time.

“I already got the dress, too. Just…so you know.”

Then she turned and walked back toward the building.

Steve didn’t follow, because that last sentence— about the dress —somehow hurt more than any punch he’d taken in the past year.

Because that was the part that made it real.

Not the way she shrugged it off like it didn’t matter. Not the way she forced that neutral tone, that not-quite-smile. It was the dress. The fact that she’d gone out and picked one. Tried it on, maybe. Liked it enough to bring it home. That she’d made the decision to go, even after mocking it, even after saying she wouldn’t.

It meant she’d let herself imagine it. The lights, the cheap decorations, the awkward slow songs. The kind of night she’d usually call bullshit on. And she’d pictured herself there. With him.

And he missed it.

Because he said yes to someone else before he had the guts to ask her. Because he assumed she wouldn’t want to go. Because he thought just friends would be enough.

But now she was walking away, red flannel trailing behind her, and all he could think about was the dress she hadn’t even worn yet.

And how badly he wanted to be the one standing beside her when she did.

Tuesday, April 30th, 1985

Robin was leaning against the lockers outside the drama room, tapping a pencil against her leg like it might keep her from gnawing it in half. Band practice had ended ten minutes ago, and the hallway was already clearing out except for the occasional echo of a slamming locker or a stray saxophone honk in the distance.

She glanced at the door again, then back to her watch, then back to the door.

Finally, it creaked open. Mac stepped out, hoodie half-zipped, boots scuffing the tile.

Robin didn’t even pretend to ease in. “Why did Gareth just walk out of there like he was about to cry?”

Mac rolled her eyes and adjusted her backpack. “He’s fine.”

“That didn’t answer my question. Dougie and Jeff offered to buy him Dairy Queen and he said no,” Robin added, falling into step beside her. “In Gareth speak that’s, like, the universal sign of emotional devastation.”

Mac let out a humorless laugh. “He’s just being a baby. Not my fault all their characters died.”

Robin stopped walking for a beat. “Wait. What?”

Mac kept walking. “It was part of the campaign. They knew the stakes.”

Robin caught up, blinking. “Okay, I don’t even play D&D, but I’ve watched you run three of these now. You’ve never been that brutal.”

“It was a darker one,” Mac said, her voice low. “High-level stuff. The final boss had a charm effect—got inside their heads, made them think he was on their side.”

Robin looked over, curious. “What was he like?”

Mac hesitated for a beat. Then, with a shrug that didn’t quite land, she said, “He acted like he cared. Used their insecurities against them. Made them trust him first—then blamed them for what happened.”

Robin’s mouth opened slightly but she didn’t say anything. They were already out the side doors and heading toward Mac’s car. The sky was that early-spring grey-blue, clouded over in a way that felt like Hawkins had collectively decided to be grumpy.

Robin shoved her hands into her jacket pockets. “Does this have anything to do with Steve taking Stacey Miller to prom?”

Mac didn’t answer. She just opened her car door with a little more force than necessary and slid into the driver’s seat.

Robin got in the passenger side, shutting the door gently. “Okay, so—are you, like... jealous?”

Mac paused mid-turn of the ignition. Her hand stayed on the key, her eyes fixed straight ahead. “No. Jesus, Robin. I’m not jealous.”

Robin blinked. “Okay. Sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“I feel stupid,” Mac cut in. She finally turned toward Robin, her voice quiet but bitter. “I feel like every other girl who asked ‘King Steve’ to prom and got politely shot down. It’s… humiliating .”

Robin didn’t speak for a second. Mac blew her bangs out of her face, slouching low in her seat. Her hair was extra wild today, like she hadn’t bothered with a brush, or hadn’t slept well. Probably both.

Robin sighed. “Look, as much as I think Steve Harrington is a Grade A dumbass ninety percent of the time... I don’t think you’re just some girl to him.”

Mac didn’t answer, but her jaw tightened.

“You’re his friend. As weird as that is. And yeah, maybe he said yes to Stacey because he felt bad. Maybe he panicked. He’s a dumb guy . He’s great at throwing himself into things without thinking through the consequences, especially when some girl’s looking at him with those big watery eyes.”

Mac stared straight ahead, her hands tight on the steering wheel under the streetlight glow.

Robin kept going. “But he’s not gonna ignore you. You’ll both be there. You’ll still have fun. Or at the very least, you’ll make sarcastic comments and drink punch with me until your face hurts from fake smiling. Which, honestly, is kind of the dream.”

Mac let out a flat little laugh—just a breath through her nose, really. “If we told ourselves a year ago that this was even an issue, would we have believed it?”

Robin grinned, leaning her head back against the seat. “Absolutely not. I thought you were gonna bury him after the graffiti incident.”

“Still might,” Mac muttered, but her mouth curved slightly at the corners. “He deserved it.”

“He did,” Robin said with a dramatic nod. “But now you guys have, like, weird emotional chemistry or whatever.”

“Gross.”

Robin paused, then added more gently, “Look… I don’t get all of it. Whatever’s been going on between you two—it’s not exactly simple. But I do know he actually sees you. Not just the surface stuff, but like... the hard parts. The messy stuff. He doesn’t look at you like you’re too much. I think that’s rare.”

Robin let the quiet stretch for a moment before leaning forward to change the subject. “Okay. Enough feelings. You’re driving. Let’s get Dairy Queen and pretend none of this is happening.”

Mac cracked a smile, put the car in gear, and pulled out of the parking lot. “Only if you’re buying.”

“I regret everything,” Robin said immediately. “But fine. One Blizzard. No extra toppings. I have boundaries.”

Mac’s laugh this time was real. Tired, but real.

They pulled out of the school lot, the engine rattling just a little too loudly, and the silence that settled between them now wasn’t angry—it was tired, but not empty.

“Thanks,” Mac said after a beat, eyes on the road.

Robin leaned her head against the window. “For what?”

Mac didn’t answer, but Robin didn’t need her to.

Chapter Text

May 1985 (Part I)

Sunday, May 5th 1985

The new Starcourt Mall still smelled like drywall and fresh tile grout, a weirdly sterile mix that clung to Steve's clothes as he stepped through the entrance and glanced around. Most of the major construction was done, though parts of the upper level were still roped off and echoing with drills and nail guns. Some corners of the mall were sectioned off with yellow tape and laminated signs that read Caution: Wet Paint in crooked letters. But the first wave of interviews had started—Steve was on his third one today—and the place was full of hopeful teenagers in awkward outfits, pacing and sweating and pretending not to size each other up. The mall wanted to be fully operational by June, which meant Steve had roughly a month to figure out whether he was going to spend his summer handing out pizza slices or soft-serve cones.

He didn’t want to be here.

Not at Starcourt Mall, not on a Sunday, and definitely not walking toward the glowing, godawful red-trimmed sign that read Scoops Ahoy: Ice Cream Parlor like it was the hottest goddamn cruise ship on the Midwest circuit.

But here he was.

The first two interviews were nothing to write home about, some chain pizza place and a sporting goods store run by a guy who wore a sweatband even when he wasn't working out and kept saying things like ‘team synergy’.”

Scoops Ahoy was another backup to his backup. Same as the community college he didn't get into. He told Mac on the phone the other night that he’d never work there because in no way shape or form was he spending his summer in a sailor uniform.

But now?

Well. ‘Never’ had a way of bending when your options started drying up.

He walked up to the bench outside the storefront and sat down, eyeing the place, blue and white stripes on the walls, fake porthole mirrors, and the bow of a ship on the outside by the entrance. It was like someone’s nautical grandma had decorated the inside of a Baskin Robbins.

Next to him sat Randy, a junior Steve vaguely remembered from a science class the year before. The guy looked half asleep, hoodie pulled up despite the warmth in the mall, chewing on a lollipop stick like he was contemplating the existence of time itself.

Steve rubbed the back of his neck and let out a slow breath. This was his life now.

And then, there was Robin Buckley.

She came out of the back room with a clipboard tucked under one arm and that usual look on her face, like she was two seconds from telling someone off. Her eyes scanned the area automatically before landing on Steve. For a second, they just looked at each other. No smile. No wave. Just a flicker of recognition—and then she turned away, disappearing through the entrance like she hadn’t even seen him.

Right. That tracked.

She was Mac’s friend, and Steve had no doubt Mac had already told her about the prom situation—or at least the part where he said no. No to her. Not Stacey. Stacey, who had a dress. Stacey, who’d looked at him with those wide eyes like saying yes was the right thing to do.

“Steve Harrington?” someone called out.

He stood and followed the voice into the back of the shop.

The guy behind the desk was in his mid-thirties, wearing the Scoops uniform like it might strangle him at any moment. His name tag read Chuck, and he had the vibe of someone who gave up on his dreams sometime between 1980 and a third failed band rehearsal.

Chuck asked a few questions. Something about work ethic, customer service, whether Steve had ever handled a register. Steve nodded along, gave mostly honest answers. He’d scooped ice cream at family holidays, and he could definitely count change.

The whole thing took seven minutes.

When it was over, Chuck gave him a vague “we’ll be in touch” and waved him off like he had a hundred more kids to see that day, which he probably did.

Steve stepped back into the food court area, but he stopped when something caught his eye. He tilted his head and looked up toward the second floor.

Vinyl Frontier. Or... whatever version of it this was now.

Mac’s future job sat nestled between Claire’s and a nail salon, all polished glass and sharp branding. 

 The sign was sleek and sterile now, with corporate branding that tried too hard to be trendy, instead of hand-drawn posters. Inside, the shelves gleamed. The walls were clean. Too clean. Like someone had scrubbed out everything that made the place feel like a real record store. 

Steve squinted, trying to picture her up there.

Mac in her usual boots, sleeves shoved up, arms crossed as she rang someone up with barely concealed judgment. Telling some confused kid that their favorite band was trash. Smirking when Jet shouted dumb announcements through the store’s busted PA. Laughing to herself when no one was looking.

This version of the shop?

It didn’t look like her.

They hadn’t talked much since Tuesday. The usual few words at school. A joke in study hall that fell a little flat. No phone calls. He hadn't dialed, and she hadn't either. And that silence said more than anything either of them had ever put into words.

Steve leaned against a pole by the food court, arms folded, eyes still trained on the second floor. From this angle, he could see the edge of the storefront perfectly—right where Mac would be, if she were already working. He imagined her glancing down, spotting him in uniform.

He could already hear her laugh. The kind that started with a smirk and ended with her shaking her head like he was the biggest idiot on earth.

God, he didn’t want this job.

But what else was he going to do? His grades weren’t getting him into college, his parents had stopped even pretending they expected something more. And now if he got hired, he’d be stuck in that ridiculous uniform, scooping ice cream while Mac stood above him in a record store that didn’t feel like hers anymore.

He exhaled hard through his nose and pushed off the pole.

His footsteps echoed through the too-bright, too-clean mall—swallowed by tile and neon and the uncomfortable realization that this place was already starting to feel like a cage.

Thursday, May 9th 1985

“—and then Dougie knocked over the whole damn screen like it was a castle under siege,” Mac was saying, laughter in her voice as she twisted the phone cord tighter around her finger. “I swear, I’ve seen less drama at actual funerals.”

Eddie’s voice came through the receiver, muffled and amused. “You’re telling me you killed their whole party in one shot?”

“Well,” Mac stretched the word out, “technically Gareth killed half of them by charging into a mind-controlled trap, but yes. The other half failed their saves. It was very tragic. Very heroic. Lots of screaming. Dougie might still be mad.”

Eddie cackled. “My poor sheep. You’ve become the villain!”

“I prefer morally ambiguous,” Mac said, flipping onto her stomach and tucking the receiver under her chin. Her bedroom light was off, just the glow of a lamp casting weird shadows across the ceiling. “Anyway, the boys are traumatized, which means I did my job.”

“You’re doing Satan’s work. I’m proud of you.”

She smirked and adjusted her pillow. “Frontier’s move is going just how you’d expect.”

“Jet get to the freakout stage yet? ”

“Not yet, but he did tell Mick it was like seeing your favourite dive bar get turned into a chain restaurant.”

“That’s… not inaccurate.”

There was a pause, Mac reached for the chord again, tugging it gently between her fingers.

“Also… I got into Cedar Hill’s art program.”

“Yeah?” Eddie’s voice perked up instantly. “That’s huge, Mac. Holy shit. When did you find out?”

“A couple weeks ago,” she said, shrugging. “No scholarship, but it's something.”

“Thats not nothing. Thats a fucking start.”

She smiled. “Yeah.”

Another beat passed.

“Oh,” she added, too casually, “and I’m going to prom.”

There was a pause. A long one.

“You?” Eddie said finally, voice pitched somewhere between disbelief and glee. “Mary-Elizabeth MacKinley is going to a high school-sanctioned social event?”

“I knew you were gonna be a dick about this.”

“I’m not being a dick,” he said, clearly being a dick. “I’m just—shocked. Who’s dragging you there? Jeff? Gareth? Are the boys staging a nerd uprising?”

“I’m going with Robin,” she said, like it was obvious.

“Ah,” Eddie replied. “So no date-date then?”

Mac shifted. “No.”

Another pause.

“I just figured…” he trailed off.

“What?” she asked, voice tight.

“I don’t know,” he said slowly. “Kinda surprised you’re not going with, you know, Harrington.”

Mac scoffed. “That’s not even a thought.”

It was a lie. A bad one. And they both knew it.

“Right,” Eddie said, and she could hear the smirk in his voice even through the distance. “Totally not a thought.”

She rolled onto her side and stared at the wall. “Besides, he’s going with Stacey Miller.”

Eddie didn’t say anything for a moment.

“Didn’t he hook up with her in the parking lot behind the arcade last year?”

“Not helping,” Mac muttered.

“Sorry,” Eddie said, but he didn’t sound sorry. Just thoughtful. “You okay?”

“I just—” She sighed, rubbing her forehead. “I don’t know. I wanted one night to feel like I was normal. Like I could just… wear the dress and show up and not feel like an idiot.”

“You’re allowed to want that,” Eddie said gently. “You’re allowed to be excited about stupid shit like prom.”

“I’m not excited,” she said quickly.

“Mac.”

“I’m not,” she insisted. “I just—”

She didn’t finish. Didn’t need to. Because if anyone knew what it felt like to want things and hate yourself for wanting them, it was Eddie.

He let the silence stretch between them, then mercifully changed the subject. “Frankie got me to wear eyeliner to one of the club nights here.”

“No,” Mac said, sitting up. “No way. Shut up.”

“It was sparkly. Vince said I looked like ‘a punk Bowie got drunk and fell into a Macy’s cosmetic counter.’”

She snorted. “I need photographic evidence.”

“You’ll get it when I’m dead.”

“Frankie will mail it to me. I’ll hang it in the Frontier. New centerpiece.”

They laughed for a while after that, the easy kind, the kind that filled up the cracks left behind by the rest of the week. Mac curled the phone cord around her ankle and let her head fall back against her pillow.

“I wish you were here,” Mac said without thinking.

Another pause. Then, softly, “Yeah. Me too.”

She didn’t say anything else. Just listened to the hum of the line and Eddie’s breath on the other end.

They talked until she almost fell asleep, the prom dress still hanging in her closet like a secret she hadn’t decided what to do with.

Friday, May 23rd 1985

The hallways of Hawkins High looked like they were halfway through a natural disaster. It was the last day of school for the senior class. Locker doors hung open, trash bins overflowed with crumpled papers and broken pens, and the faint smell of Sharpie lingered like smoke. Seniors were everywhere—signing yearbooks, shouting over one another, making plans they probably wouldn’t follow through on. It was chaos, but the good kind.

Mac crouched in front of her locker, pulling out the last of her books and tossing a mostly-empty Trapper Keeper into the bin beside her. Her yearbook was tucked under one arm, its plastic cover already scratched. She wasn’t in many of the pictures, but it still felt like something worth keeping.

She glanced up—and there he was.

Steve was at his locker, just a few down from hers. His back was to her, but she knew that slouch anywhere. He turned, like he felt her eyes on him, and when their gazes met, he smiled.

Soft. A little hesitant. The kind of smile that tugged at something under her ribs.

They hadn’t really talked since that day in the courtyard. Just awkward hellos. A few weirdly polite exchanges between classes. Nothing late at night. Nothing real. That silence was still sitting between them, heavier than anything either of them knew how to address.

He opened his mouth like he was going to say something—but before anything could leave it, Stacey Miller appeared at his side, holding her yearbook. Mac couldn’t hear what she was saying. She didn’t need to. Stacey tilted her head and pointed to a blank page while Steve took the book from her, pen already in hand.

Mac looked away.

She grabbed the last of her stuff and shoved it into her backpack. The zipper stuck. Of course it did.

“Hey,” a voice said behind her.

She turned to find Nancy, her yearbook in hand and that familiar soft smile on her face. It was careful, but not cold. Mac straightened and returned it, something familiar between them, like muscle memory.

Nancy held out her book. “Want to trade?”

Mac blinked, then nodded. “Yeah. Sure.”

They moved a little out of the traffic of the hallway, settling into a quiet corner by the lockers. It felt weirdly natural, even after everything. Even after time and distance and all the ways high school had tried to sort them into different boxes.

Mac flipped to a blank spot and started writing, her pen catching slightly on the page.

‘Try not to let this place eat you alive next year. You’re too smart for it. — Mac’

She handed the book back and took hers from Nancy, her fingers brushing the familiar green cover.

“You gonna survive another year here?” Mac asked, quirking a brow.

Nancy laughed, a small but real sound. “Hopefully. It’ll be quieter without you though.”

Mac snorted. “You’ll have Mike and the kids here to replace my rebellion with irritation.”

Nancy rolled her eyes affectionately and her gaze shifted to the side, toward Steve’s locker. Mac didn’t want to follow it, but she did. Just in time to catch Stacey still talking, still smiling, her hand grazing Steve’s arm as he nodded along.

“You could go talk to him,” Nancy said gently.

Mac looked back at her, the corner of her mouth tugging upward like she was trying to be casual. “I’ve gotta head to Starcourt. Jet wants help with the new register system.”

Nancy didn’t press. She just gave her that look—one Mac remembered from long before the pool parties and love triangles. The one that said I see you, even if you’re pretending I don’t.

“Okay,” Nancy said.

They said goodbye, not stiff or awkward—just easy. Familiar in the way old friendships were. Even if they weren’t what they used to be.

Mac weaved through the crowd of laughing seniors and nearly-empty lockers, heading toward the exit. Her boots echoed against the tile, and her bag thudded against her side.

She didn’t open her yearbook until she was halfway to the car.

Nancy’s message was written near the bottom corner of the page in careful handwriting, the loops of her letters still marked with those tiny hearts she used to doodle in the margins of notes.

‘I know we’re not as close as we were. But I’m proud of you, Mac. For all of it. You’ve come so far—and you’re still going. Keep moving. You’ve got this. Love, Nancy.’

Mac stared at the page for a long moment.

Then she closed the book and tucked it under her arm. The sun was just starting to dip behind the school, casting the parking lot in soft gold. She didn’t feel lighter, but something inside her eased, just a little.

Saturday, May 24th 1985

Mac lay sprawled across her bed, legs kicking absently in the air behind her, chin resting on her arms as she watched Robin rifle through her closet like it held the answers to all of life’s problems.

“You do realize you’re digging through my closet,” she said flatly, “not the secret passage to Narnia.”

Robin emerged briefly, a pair of glittery suspenders in one hand and a very dubious expression on her face. “Desperate times.”

Mac smirked, eyes trailing across the small mountain of discarded clothes on her bedroom floor—flannels, band tees, ripped skirts, a velour blazer that might’ve once belonged to her mom. “You’re not gonna find anything normal in there, Buckley. You’re gonna end up looking like someone who got kicked out of a Joan Jett cover band.”

“That was kind of the goal,” Robin muttered, ducking back in.

Mac exhaled through her nose, the ghost of a laugh catching in her throat. She wasn’t thinking about her own dress. Or her hair. Or the fact that prom was in less than five hours and she still hadn’t settled on a damn thing. Because tonight wasn’t about her.

It was easier to focus on Robin. To make sure Robin had a good time. That Robin felt like herself.

Because if she thought too hard about the fact that she was going to prom at all—after years of swearing she’d never set foot in that glittery hellscape—it would hit her. The whole weird mess of it. That Steve had said no. That he was going with someone else. That part of her still didn’t know why it stung, just that it did.

That was the thing about expectations. You didn’t always realize you had them until they cracked open like an egg in your hands.

Robin popped out of the closet again holding a black dress—knee-length, kind of flowy, with mesh sleeves that looked like they belonged to an alt-rock witch at a funeral. Mac raised an eyebrow. “That’s technically part of a costume. Goth bridesmaid, I think?”

Robin held it up to her body and spun in a slow circle. “Well, consider me haunted.”

Mac chuckled. “Not bad, Buckley. You’ll traumatize all the right people.”

Robin slipped behind the closet door and changed.

When she stepped out again, barefoot, tugging at the hem and fidgeting with the neckline, something in Mac stilled. The dress didn’t scream prom. But it fit —in that offbeat, unpolished way Robin carried herself when she wasn’t pretending to be someone she wasn’t.

“I’m wearing it with my Chucks,” Robin said after a beat, examining herself in the mirror.

“Obviously.” Mac sat up slowly. “But... something’s missing.”

Robin gave her a look. “If you say glitter, I’m leaving.”

Mac didn’t answer. She crossed the room and picked up Robin’s black blazer from where it was slung over the back of the desk chair—worn-in, soft at the edges, with a few enamel pins clinging to the lapel like they’d always been there. She stepped behind Robin and gently settled it over her shoulders.

One pin was shaped like a broken heart. Another read NO THANKS in tiny, smug letters. Together, they made the whole look feel like Robin.

Robin blinked at their reflection.

Mac met her eyes in the mirror. “Now you look like you.”

Robin’s mouth curved. The tension eased out of her shoulders.

“Anyone’d be lucky to dance with you,” Mac added, softer this time. And she meant it.

Robin smiled, really smiled—bright and crooked and full of nerves—but then she ruined it in true Buckley fashion by squinting at Mac’s head like it had personally offended her.

“Okay, and what exactly is happening with your hair right now? Did you lose a fight with a wind tunnel?”

Mac groaned and flopped back onto the bed, arms out like she was being crucified. “It has texture. Some people would kill for this.”

“Some people also commit tax fraud. Doesn’t mean we should endorse them.” Robin crossed the room and grabbed a brush like a woman on a mission. “Sit up. If I’m going, you’re going, and you’re not showing up looking like a Muppet caught in a blender.”

Mac laughed despite herself and sat up. She let Robin tug her hair into some kind of manageable shape, let the quiet comfort of their banter carry her through the nerves she didn’t want to name.

She told herself—again—that tonight was about Robin. That if she could just keep her focused, keep her laughing, it would be okay. That it wouldn’t matter who was dancing with who. Or what dress Stacey Miller picked. Or whether Steve looked at her across the gym floor with that stupid smile of his.

It was just a dance.

Just one night.

Mac exhaled, eyes fluttering shut as Robin worked on her hair, and tried—really tried—not to want anything more than that.

Steve adjusted the cuffs of his blazer as he stepped out of the car, the fabric catching slightly against his wristwatch. His suit was simple—classic black, fitted just right, not too flashy. A blue tie to match Stacey’s dress. He knew how this worked. Smile for the camera. Compliment the parents. Hand over the corsage like he hadn’t grabbed it last minute that morning between ironing his shirt and trying to convince his hair to not fight him tonight.

He knocked on the door, smile already in place. Stacey answered a beat later in a sleeveless navy blue dress with sequins that caught the light like she was trying to outshine the whole gym. She looked nice. He told her so. Her parents fussed with the camera. Steve posed, grinning as Mrs. Miller told them to “look like you like each other!” and Mr. Miller asked if he played football. The corsage went on her wrist. She pinned his boutonnière with a little smile and steady hands.

He was perfect at this part.

Too perfect. Like muscle memory.

The car ride was short. Barely ten minutes to the school. The windows were cracked, spring air rushing in, thick with the scent of lilacs and someone’s grill down the street. Stacey didn’t say much until they pulled into the parking lot, easing into a space in the back near the old bleachers.

Then, wordlessly, she reached under her dress and pulled a small silver flask from a thigh strap like it was the most normal thing in the world.

Steve blinked.

She held it out to him without a word.

And just like that, he was back on Tina’s porch, October still in the air. Mac in that black Elvira costume, sitting next to him after the Halloween party blew up in smoke and Nancy told him everything she really thought. The way she’d handed him the flask with a soft tone and muttered, “Looks like you could use this more than me.”

He hadn’t thought about that night in a while.

But now it came flooding back like it never left.

Steve took the flask from Stacey’s hand and forced himself to stay here, in this moment. The bourbon was stronger than he expected—cheap and sharp and warm in his chest. He handed it back quickly, trying not to cough.

Stacey took it with a small smile, watching him carefully.

“I know you don’t wanna be here with me tonight,” she said, voice low but not unkind.

Steve blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

She unscrewed the cap again, took a sip. “It’s okay. Really.”

He fumbled for something to say. “No, I didn’t— I mean—”

“It’s not an insult,” she cut in, placing a hand on his upper arm. “You’re being sweet. You’re trying. I just… I know. I’m not the person you wanted to ask.”

He let out a slow sigh and leaned back in the seat, running a hand through his hair. “I’ve accepted that Nancy’s moved on,” he said finally, trying to sound like he believed it. “It’s whatever. Ancient history.”

Stacey gave a short, amused exhale through her nose, then shook her head. “I didn’t mean Nancy.”

That made him go still.

Before he could ask what she did mean, she opened the car door and stepped out into the warm evening, her heels clicking softly on the pavement. Steve scrambled after her, still caught somewhere between confusion and a quiet kind of panic.

She rounded the front of the car and met him there, reached up, and adjusted his tie with two practiced fingers—like she’d done it before. Maybe for other guys. Maybe just for show. Either way, it shut him up.

“We should make the best of tonight,” she said softly. “Even if it’s not the version we pictured.”

Then, with a teasing grin: “Besides. I get to walk in with the soon to be prom king.”

Steve rolled his eyes, but a laugh escaped him anyway. “Doubtful.”

He offered her his arm. She took it.

And together, they walked toward the gym, the sound of music and laughter rising ahead of them like the curtain call to a show neither of them really auditioned for.

Robin adjusted her blazer and tried not to overthink her choice of shoes. Converse. With a dress. It wasn’t revolutionary, but she’d committed. The mesh sleeves of the black dress itched a little, but it was better than most of the frilly crap she'd tried on earlier. And the blazer made it feel like maybe she didn’t look completely out of place tonight.

The car door slammed behind them as her mom waved enthusiastically from the station wagon, pulling off with a honk that made Robin wince.

“Subtle,” she muttered.

But Mac wasn’t laughing.

She stood a few steps ahead, staring up at the gym entrance like it might bite her. The prom banner hung above the doors in glittering silver script over a mess of blue and pink lights. Enchanted Neon Nights . Whoever named it should be banned from adjectives.

But Robin could tell—it wasn’t the banner Mac was looking at.

It was everything.

Her hands were clenched at her sides. Her shoulders tense. Her breath was just a little too shallow, the way it got when she was trying to keep it together but about ten seconds from bolting.

Robin knew that look.

She’d seen it on Mac before parties, before performances, before walking into school when people had been talking.

It was panic, slow and creeping, dressed up in glitter and hairspray.

So Robin put on her best friend pants and stepped in front of her, blocking her view of the banner completely.

“Hey,” she said, placing both hands squarely on Mac’s shoulders. “Deep breath. You look like you’re about to face a firing squad. I swear no one in there has a rifle. Probably.”

Mac blinked, dragging her eyes down from the banner to meet Robin’s.

Robin gave her the stupidest grin she could muster. “Okay, so. Real talk? I once threw up on my shoes at a middle school dance because I drank an entire can of Orange Slice too fast and then tried to slow dance with Kyle Edwards. He tried to kiss me. He had braces. There were witnesses. It was a dark time.”

Mac’s mouth twitched, but she didn’t look away.

“And then there was the time I tripped over a mic cord during the band concert and took out half the trumpet section. Did I ever tell you that one?”

“No,” Mac murmured.

“Oh, it was glorious. Full-on domino effect. Some of the other band kids still glare at me.”

A couple people walked past, giving them weird looks, but Robin didn’t care. She kept going. Because the tension in Mac’s shoulders was finally loosening. Because that look behind her eyes—the one that said I don’t belong here —was fading just a little.

“And for the record?” Robin added, stepping back with a sweeping gesture. “You look amazing. Like, punch-an-ex-in-the-gut amazing.”

And she did.

Mac’s hair was twisted back into soft, messy waves, pinned on one side with a little silver clip. Her makeup was minimal but sharp—dark liner, a touch of shimmer, something moody and effortless. The deep red velvet dress hugged her figure in a way that looked like it was made for her, vintage and bold without being too frilly. Following Robin’s cue, she paired it all with her usual Doc Martins.

She looked like herself. But turned up a notch.

And Robin? Robin was gonna make sure she actually enjoyed this night, even if it killed her.

“Come on,” she said finally, patting the side of her blazer. “If you’re really freaking out, there’s something special in my pocket.”

Mac raised an eyebrow. “If it’s gum, I’m gonna kill you.”

“It’s not gum,” Robin said, winking. “It’s way better. A bribe for actually going through with this. But you only get it after we survive the gym.”

Mac rolled her eyes, but the tension was gone now, replaced by reluctant amusement.

They walked through the gym doors side by side, the sound of music rising up to meet them, lights dancing over the walls like the night was daring them to have a good time.

Robin glanced over once, just to check that Mac didn’t bolt.

Mac’s boots hit the glossy gym floor with a dull thud as she and Robin stepped inside—and for a second, she almost forgot to breathe.

It wasn’t hideous.

Sure, the “ Enchanted Neon Night s” banner still made her cringe, and the silver streamers glittered like a disco themed crime scene, but someone had gone all out. A mirrorball spun slowly above the makeshift dancefloor, casting flickers of light across the bleachers and balloons. The walls were lined with neon fringe curtains. Cutouts of moons and stars hung from the ceiling. And the gym—this place she’d spent four years trying to survive—suddenly didn’t feel like the gym at all.

She tugged at the hem of her dress—not out of discomfort, more out of habit. She’d done her makeup a little bolder than usual, but her hair was still her. Even if Robin had helped tame it into some soft, half up thing. She didn't feel like a different person, she just felt dressed up.

Nancy and Jonathan were already by the punch bowl. Billy stood off to the side, predictably with Tina on his arm. Carol and Tommy H were in the middle of what looked like their third argument of the night.

And then she saw brown hair near the stage, familiar in the way a song gets stuck in your head. Just a flicker. Just enough to–

“Hey.” Robin smacked her arm, nodding toward the edge of the dance floor. “Tammy Thompson. Three o’clock.”

Mac followed her gaze. Tammy was laughing with a group of senior girls near the DJ booth. Her hair looked too perfect, her dress was something out of a prom ad, and Robin was staring like she’d just seen God.

“Are you going over?” Mac asked.

Robin made a face. “Absolutely not. We’re getting punch.”

Mac snorted and let Robin lead her. They got their drinks and found an empty table near the back, half-shielded by decorations. Mac was still glancing around, trying to spot—

She saw him.

Steve. And Stacey.

Stacey looked beautiful. The sequins on her dress caught every glint of light like she belonged on the cover of a fashion magazine. She looked effortless. And Steve...

He looked good. Stupidly good. His suit fit him perfectly, the tie matched her dress, and for a second—just one second—Mac hated how well they fit together.

Robin slid something across the table under her hand. Mac looked down and found the flask.

“What, you’re not drinking too?” she asked, half-laughing.

Robin shrugged. “If you’re the tipsy one, it gives me something to focus on so I don’t freak out about Tammy Thompson being ten feet away.”

Mac hesitated. Then she unscrewed the flask and poured a generous splash into her cup, keeping it low beneath the table.

She brought the drink to her lips just as Steve laughed at something Stacey said.

Mac drank the whole thing in three gulps.

Robin raised a brow. “Pace yourself, killer.”

Mac grabbed Robin’s punch cup and poured a second round under the table. Robin didn't stop her, just followed Mac’s line of sight and muttered something under her breath.

And Mac—Mac took another big sip and told herself it didn’t matter. That it was fine.

That tonight wasn’t about him anyway.

The night blurred by faster than Steve expected.

There’d been the usual stuff—shitty punch, bad lighting, someone already crying in the bathroom before the second song even finished. Stacey had been swept up with her friends the minute they arrived, and Steve found himself along for the ride. He smiled when he was supposed to. Laughed at jokes he barely listened to. Signed a few yearbooks and shook hands with teachers like this wasn’t the last time he’d ever have to see them.

He didn’t win prom king. Some football guy he didn’t know too well did. Tina snagged prom queen, obviously. She cried during the announcement like it meant something. Maybe it did.

For a while, Steve danced with Stacey. They weren’t bad together—she knew how to move, she smiled easily, and she looked good under the lights. But his mind wasn’t in it. Not really. It kept drifting.

And then, halfway through some synth-pop song, he saw her.

Mac.

Leaning against the far wall like she’d been there the whole time, cup in hand, boots crossed at the ankle like she couldn’t be less impressed. Some guy was talking to her. Trying, at least. She gave a half-nod, eyes scanning the room like she was looking for an escape route.

Her dress was deep red—velvet, he thought. It hugged her in a way that made his chest go tight. He’d never seen her dressed like that. Not even close. And yet she still wore those beat-up Docs like a middle finger to everything around her.

Steve smiled without meaning to.

Something in him ached.

He wished—god, he wished it was him over there. That he wasn’t standing on a dance floor making nice while she leaned against a wall pretending to be anywhere else.

“Yeah,” Stacey said, her voice gentle as she followed his eyeline. “I knew it.”

Steve blinked. “What?”

She tilted her head toward him, the lights casting soft shadows across her cheekbones. “You like her. MacKinley.”

He opened his mouth. Closed it. “I—”

“You don’t have to lie, Steve.” Her voice wasn’t mean. Just matter-of-fact. “I know what it looks like when someone wishes they were dancing with somebody else.”

He didn’t say anything.

“She’s pretty,” Stacey said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Smart. Sharp. Cooler than the rest of us put together.” She shrugged. “It’s okay. I get it.”

He looked back toward Mac again. The guy she’d been talking to was gone. She was standing alone now, sipping whatever was in her cup, the light catching in her hair.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “She is.”

They kept dancing. Just for another minute. The song shifted—something slower, softer. A love song with too much echo and not enough sincerity. Stacey smiled and stepped back.

“You should go ask her. To dance, I mean.”

Stacey’s voice was quiet, but firm. Like she wasn’t asking.

Steve didn’t answer right away. He glanced down, rubbing the back of his neck, a flicker of hesitation catching in his chest. Then he nodded, more to himself than to her.

“Yeah,” he said. “Okay.”

When he turned to look toward the wall—
She wasn’t there.

The space where she’d been standing was empty now. Just an abandoned plastic cup on the floor and a couple of underclassmen slow-dancing too far apart.

His stomach sank in that slow, sinking way he’d come to recognize too well lately. That feeling of just missing something. Like a train leaving the station the moment you finally run for it.

Steve scanned the crowd once, then again, weaving his eyes through sequins and suit jackets and strobe lights, but there was no flash of red velvet, no defiant stomp of worn-in boots. No Mac.

He muttered something under his breath and stepped off the dance floor, weaving past sticky tables and a trail of crumpled napkins. Someone called his name, but he didn’t stop. The gym felt too hot all of a sudden, too loud, like it was caving in on itself.

He just needed a second. Some air. Maybe the night could still be salvaged.

His hand reached for the doors—

And then, a tap on his shoulder.

He stopped.

Turned.

Robin Buckley was standing there, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

And Steve had a feeling whatever was about to come out of her mouth was going to change the rest of his night.

Chapter Text

May 1985 (Part II)

Saturday, May 24th 1985 (cont'd)

Robin had never been great at this, the whole… approaching someone thing.

Especially someone who she barely knew outside of sharing a class and proximity to Mac. But here she was— standing by the gym doorway, arms crossed too tight, sweat prickling at her blazer collar and her hair starting to frizz from the body heat in the gym. She watched as Steve Harrington turned to her like he hadn't been just halfway out the door in some brooding hero moment.

He opened his mouth but she beat him to it.

“No small talk,” she blurted.

Steve blinked. “Uh… what?”

“I don’t want to do the thing where you’re like, ‘Hey, Robin, right? How’s your night going?’ and I’m like, ‘Oh, fine, just standing in a corner trying not to panic over the person I like,’ and then we awkwardly circle the topic like two people who only know each other because of a shared mutual friend. So—no small talk.”

Steve just stared at her.

Robin pressed her palms against her thighs. “Listen. I wouldn’t come to you if I had literally any other option, but I don’t, okay? Nancy’s with Jonathan and I’m not gonna ruin their weird little murder-mystery romance vibe. We don’t really know anyone else with a car. My parents would kill me if Mac hurled in the backseat, and Patti’s out in the city again with her new boyfriend—”

“Wait—Mac?” Steve interrupted, his brow furrowing. “What’s wrong?”

“She’s outside. On one of the picnic tables near the parking lot,” Robin said, trying not to sound panicked. “She’s not, like, wasted , okay? Just a little… drunk. Maybe buzzed. Tipsy adjacent.”

Steve's expression shifted. “How?”

Robin patted her blazer pocket, and the faint clink of the hidden flask said the rest.

He rolled his eyes and started to say something—

“Don’t even,” she cut in, pointing a finger at him. “You are not in a position to judge, Mr. Steve Harrington. I’ve heard stories. Half this school still talks about the Halloween party two years ago where you tried to stage dive into a punch bowl.”

“That didn’t happen.”

“Tommy H says it did.”

Steve looked like he wanted to argue but didn’t have the energy. “Is she okay?”

Before Robin could answer, Stacey Miller appeared beside him like a perfectly timed movie extra, as if to remind Robin how very not-dressed-for-prom she was. “What’s going on?” Stacey asked, voice light, but her eyes were sharp.

Steve glanced between them. “Mac’s outside. Robin says she’s not feeling great.”

Robin jumped in. “And Steve’s the only one with a car that I—reluctantly—trust to get her home. And the only one she’d actually listen to if I tried to drag her into the passenger seat.”

Steve hesitated. Looked at Stacey.

Robin felt it—the weird, awkward squeeze of guilt rising up her spine. “I’m sorry,” she said, half under her breath. “I didn’t mean to—”

But Stacey waved her off before she could finish. “It’s okay,” she said. And she meant it. Her tone wasn’t bitter. If anything, it was… tired. Or maybe just knowing.

She looked at Steve. “Go.”

Robin raised an eyebrow. “Wait, really?”

Stacey nodded. “I’ll find a way home.”

Robin offered, “You can come with me. My parents are picking me up later. Or… now. Probably now.”

Stacey gave a small laugh. “Sounds good.”

They watched Steve disappear through the gym doors.

Robin turned toward Stacey, unsure of what to say next. The apology was still half-formed in her throat when Stacey cut in again.

“You don’t have to explain,” Stacey said after a pause. Then she tilted her head, eyeing Robin a little more closely. “Are you the girl who plays trumpet?”

Robin blinked, caught off guard. “Uh… yeah. That’s me.”

Stacey nodded, smiling faintly. “I remember you. From the basketball games. You always stood a little off to the side, like you didn’t really want to be there—but you were still the loudest. I used to try and figure out which part was yours.”

Robin’s eyebrows lifted. “Really?”

“Yeah. I liked it.” Stacey shrugged, glancing down at her hands. “Made the whole band thing seem less… whatever. Dorky.”

Robin gave a small laugh. “Well, don’t let the blazer fool you. Still a huge dork.”

Stacey looked up at her, the corner of her mouth twitching. “Good. This place could use more of those.”

They stood there for a second, the gym noise humming behind them, the glitter of prom lights catching in both their dresses

Then Stacey said, “She’s lucky to have someone like you looking out for her.”

They didn’t say much after that, but somehow the silence didn’t feel awkward anymore.

Eventually, they started swapping halftime horror stories as they waited—bad formations, surprise fire drills, the night the mascot tripped into the tuba section. Stacey even admitted she once fell during a cheer pyramid and tried to play it off like choreography.

It wasn’t much. But it was something.

Mac sat on top of the picnic table outside the gym— the same one Steve had been leaning on a month ago when she asked him to prom. Her boots were untied, her hair was slightly wilted from the gym's humidity, and her dress bunched awkwardly around her thighs. She didn't care. The stars were out and the music inside had dulled to a soft soundtrack. In her hands was a slightly bent joint she’d stashed in her boot before getting in Robin’s mom’s car.

Her lighter clicked once. Twice. Then nothing. Her thumb ached and she muttered a string of curses shielding the flame with her hand as she tried again.

“Seriously?”

She startled, the lighter nearly slipping from her fingers. Steve was walking toward her, tie slightly loosened. And of course he caught her mid-idiot moment. Because that was her life lately.

He plucked the joint from her fingers before she could get the flame to hold and stuffed it into the inside pocket of his coat.

“Hey!” she snapped, reaching for it instinctively.

But he gave a little wave of his hand, then tilted his chin. Behind her, two teachers were walking out of the gym, deep in conversation.

“Really? Right here?”

She groaned. “Sorry, Dad. ”

He huffed, hands landing on his hips like he wanted to be annoyed but didn’t quite have the energy. She stared back at him, letting the silence draw out.

“What do you want?”

“I’m taking you home.”

Mac snorted. “Robin’s my ride.”

“She sent me.” He paused, then added, “She said your mom’s in the city again and she didn’t want to get you sick in her parents’ car.”

“I’m not gonna hurl,” Mac said, rolling her eyes. “I’m not that drunk.”

Steve raised an eyebrow and offered a hand.

She thought about arguing just to be difficult, but the wind had picked up, and honestly? She was kind of cold. Her hand met his, a little clumsier than she meant, and he helped her down from the table without comment.

They didn’t talk as he led her toward the car, his steps steady beside hers. When she shivered, he didn’t say anything—just shrugged off his blazer and draped it over her shoulders. It smelled like his cologne. Not strong, but familiar.

She didn’t say thank you. Didn’t need to.

He opened the passenger door like it was nothing, like they hadn’t been avoiding each other for weeks. She climbed in, tugging the blazer tighter. When he reached in to buckle her seatbelt, she shot him a look.

“I’m fine.”

Steve smirked and backed off. “Just trying to help.”

She clicked it into place herself.

He shut the door and circled around to the driver’s side. Slid in. Started the engine.

Neither of them said anything as the parking lot faded behind them.

And for the first time in weeks, something in the silence just felt like them. Before everything got weird.

Mac had her head against the window, watching the town blur past in streaks of amber and neon. Her makeup was still mostly intact, but the shimmer near her eyes had started to smudge. Her lipstick had worn off in the center. She looked tired. Or maybe just done.

Steve glanced over again, trying not to make it obvious. The light from a passing streetlamp slid across her face. The red of her dress, dark like dried wine, glowed dully against his blazer still draped around her shoulders. Her boots—God, those stupid boots—were up on the edge of the seat, knees bent, like she needed to armor herself against something. Probably him.

He wanted to say something. But everything felt like too much or not enough. So he drove.

They passed the bowling alley. The gas station. The empty Shell sign with the missing “S” that now just read “HELL.” He smiled faintly.

Then her voice cut through the silence.

“Sorry I ruined your night.”

He looked over. Her gaze was still fixed out the window, but her fingers were fidgeting with the cuff of the blazer sleeve.

“You didn’t ruin it,” he said. Quiet. Honest.

She huffed. “Please. You probably could’ve had Stacey Miller in your backseat by now if you didn’t have to drive my ass home.”

He let out a short laugh, more surprised than amused. “I don’t want Stacey Miller in my backseat.”

That got her to turn. Just a little. Her eyes found his, mascara-shadowed and bloodshot in the dim light.

“She’s a cheerleader, Steve. Of course you want her in your backseat.”

He sighed, hands tightening on the wheel. “Is that really what you still think of me? After everything?”

She was quiet a beat. Then, with a shrug that tried too hard to be nonchalant: “A month’s a long time.”

He glanced at her again—and this time, she didn’t look away. Her expression had shifted. She looked less defensive now. More… hurt.

She looked like someone who’d been abandoned.

“The phone works both ways,” he said, because it was true. And unfair. And the only thing he could come up with.

“Humiliation doesn’t.”

His hands clenched around the steering wheel again as they rolled into Forest Hills. The lights were dimmer here, streetlamps flickering or burnt out altogether. He eased off the gas, heart thudding somewhere near his throat.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

She didn’t dodge it. Didn’t crack a joke or change the subject. Maybe she was too tired. Or maybe it was the buzz still humming in her veins.

“I’m just another girl who asked Steve Harrington to prom and got shut down,” she said. Blunt. Simple. Like it didn’t gut her to say it.

He felt… shocked.

She added, after a second, “I thought it would feel less shitty than a guy you like turning you down. Because we’re just friends. But it didn’t. It felt kinda… worse.”

He parked outside her trailer and for a second, neither of them moved.

He felt something swell up in him, something warm and scared and selfish. Something that said she wanted to go with you. That maybe she hadn’t figured out why yet. But he had.

And he couldn’t do anything with it. Not tonight. Not while she was like this.

She popped her door open and muttered, “Thanks for the ride.”

She was halfway to the stairs before he even realized he was moving. The door slammed behind him.

“Mac.”

She turned. Her keys were in her hand, already halfway to the lock. Her hair was a little messy now, curls loosening, one strand stuck to her cheek. She looked like a painting someone had smeared with their thumb.

“What are you doing?” she asked, one brow raised.

He shoved his hands in his pockets, then out again. “I know your dreams get worse when you drink too much.”

She stared at him and her face didn’t change. Not much. But her eyes softened. Barely. Then she turned back to the door and unlocked it.

She didn’t say anything as she stepped inside and Steve followed her into the dark, just like he would anywhere.

He kicked off his shoes by the door, wincing as they thudded against the baseboard. Mac had already made it halfway down the hall, her steps a little slow but steady, boots shrugged off without ceremony. He heard the soft click of her bedroom door opening.

"I'm getting you a glass of water," he called from the kitchen, already filling a cup.

"What a gentleman." came her voice, muffled but teasing.

He smiled in spite of himself, shaking his head as he padded down the hallway. Her room glowed faintly, warm light filtering from the string lights she’d wrapped around her curtain rod and mirror frame. She was standing in front of the mirror, just staring—still in her dress, her makeup a little smudged at the edges, her expression unreadable.

He stepped in, holding out the water.

She didn’t notice him at first, too busy picking herself apart with her eyes. The way she always did when she thought no one was watching. He cleared his throat as he approached, hand extending the glass between them.

She blinked and looked at him through the mirror. For half a second, their eyes locked in the reflection, and it felt like a window into something he wasn’t sure he should be seeing.

"You looked really pretty tonight," he said quietly, his voice low.

She turned to take the water from him, raising it to her lips with a small, scoffing sound. "Yeah, well. That’s what red velvet and push-up tape will do for a girl."

He didn’t flinch, didn’t retreat. Just tilted his head. "Still true."

She paused. Then rolled her eyes lightly, but didn’t argue.

As she sipped her water, he drifted further into her room, letting his eyes roam over the walls. Some new sketches were taped above her desk—bold lines, messy shadows, something raw and electric in all of it. There was a stack of tapes by her stereo. A photo strip pinned to the edge of her cork board. Her and Dustin, making faces. He hadn’t been here since March.

"Steve?" Her voice was hesitant.

He turned.

She was back at the mirror, both hands behind her, tugging at the zipper. “I, um—can you help me? It’s stuck.”

He blinked. Just stood there for a second too long. She looked at him through the reflection, her hair falling over one shoulder, the curve of her neck bare, skin flushed.

"Yeah," he said, his voice steadier than he felt. "Yeah, of course."

He stepped forward slowly, like the air had gotten thicker.

Carefully—so carefully—he lifted her hair and let it slip through his fingers. It was soft and smelled faintly like something floral, maybe whatever Robin had spritzed on her earlier. His fingertips brushed the back of her neck as he moved it aside, and she didn’t flinch. Didn’t move. Just let him.

The zipper was caught just beneath the clasp. He took hold of it and worked it down slowly, the velvet fabric giving way an inch at a time.

Her back was bare beneath it. Soft, pale skin that curved and dipped in a way that made his throat go dry. There were freckles scattered across her shoulders like stars, and the deeper the zipper went, the more of her he saw—her waist, the curve just above her hips, the edge of where the fabric barely clung to her.

There were no straps.

No bra.

Just Mac—her body plush, real, undeniably hers. Not runway-thin like Stacey or polished like Tammy. But full and solid and heartbreakingly soft. The kind of softness that invited touch. The kind of softness he tried so hard not to let himself think about. Until right now, when it was inches from him, and he was the one undressing her.

He had to remind himself to breathe.

The zipper gave with a quiet sound. He swallowed hard.

"Got it," he said, and it came out rougher than he meant it to.

She let out a breath, still holding the bodice in place. “God, I have no idea how this thing kept my boobs up all night.”

He huffed a laugh—too fast, too sharp. "Engineering magic."

She shot him a look that almost cracked a smile, but she didn’t press it.

She turned to face him then, the dress clutched tight to her chest, and it was worse. Because she was undone now—her hair tousled, her lipstick faded, cheeks flushed. Her arms pressed in under the fabric, making it even more obvious how much the dress had been holding together. She looked like the end of a dream, like the part where things got honest. Messy. Close.

"I'm gonna change," she said, her voice low.

"Yeah," he said quickly. "Bathroom."

He all but backed into the hallway, shutting the door behind him like he needed a barrier.

The bathroom light was too bright. The mirror showed him a version of himself he didn’t recognize—tie loose, pulse visible in his neck, cheeks still pink.

"Jesus," he muttered, gripping the sink. He turned on the cold water and splashed his face.

“She’s not sober,” he reminded himself. “Get it together, Harrington.”

But the way she looked at him in the mirror—the way she’d let him in tonight—it was more than just skin. More than soft curves and bare shoulders and the impossible tension in the air. It was trust. Familiarity. Something like… something.

The bathroom door clicked softly behind him as Steve stepped out, tie gone, collar loose, his sleeves pushed up. The house was quiet except for the low hum of Mac’s stereo in her room.

He made his way down the short hallway, not really sure what he expected to see, but whatever it was, it didn’t quite prepare him for the version of her sitting on the floor.

She’d changed into an oversized T-shirt—one of those threadbare ones— and soft pajama shorts. Her legs were curled beneath her, and she was crouched by her mirror, head bent slightly as she wiped at her makeup with a cotton pad. Her hair was braided, uneven in that way it always was when she did it herself. He watched her for a second too long.

She glanced up and caught his reflection in the mirror. “Well,” she said, voice dry, “illusion shattered.”

He didn’t laugh. He just looked at her.

Mac turned a little, tossing the used pad into the small trash can beside her dresser. “It’s okay, Harrington. You can go.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” he said.

She stood, brushing her palms against her thighs. “You don’t have to feel obligated or whatever. I’m fine.”

He moved before she could keep talking, crossing the room and stopping her with a hug.

She stiffened at first—caught off guard—but after a second, she melted. Her arms wound around his back, her face pressing against his chest. Steve exhaled slowly. She smelled like fading perfume and drugstore makeup remover. He could feel the softness of her body under the cotton of her T-shirt, warm and real.

“I’m sorry,” she said into his chest.

He shook his head. “I’m sorry.”

When she pulled back there was something in her eyes—relief, maybe, or just the weight of being tired in a way that had nothing to do with sleep. She stepped back quietly and sat at the edge of the bed, fingers fidgeting with the hem of her shirt. Steve followed without a word, lowering himself beside her, close enough to feel the comfort of it, but still giving her space.

“I thought maybe you just got tired of me,” she said, voice barely more than a whisper. “That everything just… shifted.”

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his hands folded. “It didn’t.” He glanced over at her. “I missed you. Every day.”

“Yeah. Me too.”

The stereo played on low behind them, some soft, moody track drifting through the quiet. Neither of them spoke for a long beat.

Then Mac moved, pulling back the blanket and easing under it like muscle memory. After a second of hesitation, Steve kicked off his shoes and laid beside her, on top of the covers, careful to stay on the outside edge. He folded his hands on his chest, staring up at the ceiling.

There was a comfort in the silence. But she broke it gently.

“I haven’t been sleeping well.”

He turned his head slightly. “Yeah. Same.”

“You could’ve called.”

“So could you.”

She was quiet a moment longer, then: “I thought maybe I was just another girl who asked Steve Harrington to prom and got turned down.”

His breath caught. “Mac…”

He looked over at her, taking her in. Braids against the pillow. Sleepy eyes. That familiar curve in her brows when she was trying not to let too much show.

“You’re not just some girl,” he said quietly. “Not to me.”

She didn’t look at him, but her hand crept toward his. Her fingers brushed his knuckles.

“You’re my best friend,” he said.

She turned her head then. “No way.”

He smiled, small but real. “Think about it. Who else do I talk to this much? Who else do I let drag me to midnight horror movies and make listen to me ramble about job applications?”

She gave a soft laugh. “Dustin?”

“Okay, besides Dustin.”

“Still a low bar.”

“Still counts.” He let his hand turn under hers, holding it lightly now.

She didn’t say anything right away, but her thumb moved gently against the side of his hand.

“I applied at the ice cream place at the mall, by the way,” he added, a little more casual, trying to make her smile. 

Her lips twitched. “The one with the sailor costumes?”

“I didn’t say it was a good plan.” Steve chuckled, letting the sound hang between them.

They talked a little more, quiet things. Nonsense, really. About the job flyers posted at the community board. How he almost applied to the candle kiosk but backed out because the guy running it gave him “warlock vibes.” She laughed for real at that.

Eventually, her breathing changed. Slower. Softer.

He glanced over and saw her eyes closed, her lips parted in sleep. His fingers lingered near hers for a moment before he carefully pulled away.

Quietly, slowly, Steve slipped out of the bed. He grabbed the folded throw blanket from the back of her desk chair and stepped out into the hallway.

The living room was dark, except for the sliver of moonlight from the kitchen window.

He sank onto the couch, laid the blanket over himself, and stared at the ceiling. It wasn’t how the night was supposed to go, but maybe it was how it needed to.

Sunday, May 25th 1985

She woke slowly, her body heavy under the weight of sleep that felt deeper than it had in weeks. The light leaking through the gap in her curtains was soft and angled low—midmorning, maybe closer to noon.

For a second, just a beat, she forgot what day it was.

Then her eyes flicked to the far side of the bed.

Empty.

She stretched slowly, one arm curling over her head, the other brushing the spot where Steve would’ve been. She blinked at the ceiling, then let out a breath somewhere between a sigh and a groan.

Of course he was a gentleman about it. Of course he left.

She could still hear his voice from the night before, warm and quiet—telling her she wasn’t just some girl, telling her she was his best friend. She could still feel his hand in hers. The way the air had changed when he looked at her like she was something worth staying for.

Mac stared at the ceiling a moment longer.

Then the phone rang.

She flinched slightly, rolling over and fumbling for it. “Hello?”

“Okay, good, you’re alive.”

“Robin?” Mac sat up slowly, the blankets tangling around her legs. “What time is it?”

“Almost eleven. I figured you were either dead or hungover or like... eloping.”

Mac snorted. “I’m not that drunk.”

“Were,” Robin corrected. “Past tense. You doing okay?”

Mac rubbed her eyes. “Yeah. I’m good. I mean, my feet hurt, and I’m never drinking that much fruit punch again, but... last night wasn’t terrible.”

Robin was quiet for a second. “Did Steve take you home okay?”

Mac hesitated. “Yeah. He, uh… stayed. On the couch. I think.”

She stood, wobbling just slightly, and crossed to the window. Sure enough, Steve’s car was still outside, parked a little crooked under the tree. Her stomach twisted in some weird, warm way.

“Robin?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m gonna go check on him.”

“Copy that. Call me if he says anything stupid. Or if you do.”

Mac rolled her eyes. “Bye, Robin.”

She hung up and padded out of her room, trying not to overthink the fact that she was still in her oversized sleep shirt and that her hair probably looked like a crow’s nest. She crept into the living room, and sure enough—

There he was.

Steve was on the couch, limbs too long for it, one arm slung over his head, the throw blanket bunched around his waist. His mouth was parted slightly. His hair, flattened on one side, looked objectively ridiculous.

She smiled. Couldn’t help it.

Then turned toward the kitchen.

The coffee pot was ancient, but it worked if you did it right—and she knew how. She moved on autopilot, pouring in the water, scooping the grounds. The gurgle started just as she heard him stir behind her.

A groggy voice, scratchy with sleep: “If this is hell, it smells better than I thought.”

Mac glanced over her shoulder. “You wish this was hell. That way you could blame the couch on damnation instead of poor life choices.”

Steve blinked, sitting up slowly. “Rude.”

“You slept in your dress pants. That’s your fault.”

He groaned and rubbed his face. “I was being polite.”

“You always are,” she muttered, grabbing a mug and filling it. She brought it over and handed it to him. “Don’t say I never do anything for you.”

He took it and grinned up at her. “You’re an angel.”

“Liar.”

She sat down beside him, their knees barely brushing.

For a minute, it was quiet. Just the hum of the fridge, the tick of the clock on the wall, and the sound of Steve sipping his coffee.

Then she asked, softly, “Was that real?”

Steve turned to her, eyebrows raised.

“Last night. The stuff you said. Am I really your best friend?”

He let out a small breath that was almost a laugh. “Yeah, Mac. You are.”

She didn’t say anything right away. Just stared at her chipped nail polish.

“Yeah, well,” she finally muttered, “you’re one of mine too.”

“Don’t worry.” He bumped her shoulder with his. “I’m not gonna try to steal Robin or Eddie’s spot. I’m not ready to be emotionally demolished by whatever weird traditions you guys have.”

Mac cracked a smile. “You couldn’t handle it anyway.”

They sipped their coffee in sync, both pretending the silence was about caffeine and not the kind of closeness that left you more exposed than any dress ever could.

Whatever this was between them—it wasn’t broken anymore. Maybe it never really had been.

Wednesday, May 29th 1985

Technically, Starcourt was still a construction site, despite the piped-in Muzak and the fake palm trees standing proud like they hadn’t been trucked in from Indianapolis two days ago. It smelled like drywall dust and untapped ambition. A few other workers moved in and out of the storefronts, most of them carrying clipboards or climbing ladders or hauling things wrapped in plastic. Mac weaved through them, walking behind Jet, his leather vest flapping slightly with each step like some punk Moses parting the sea of retail hell.

It was weird seeing him in a mall. He was always more alleyways than escalators.

They passed by a soon to be Gap, a fountain that wasn’t filled yet, and a beauty kiosk that had two girls in polo shirts arguing about lip gloss displays. Mac didn't belong here. And Jet definitely didn't.

Yet, here they were. Two misfit toys who just escaped the island. Unwillingly.

When they got on the escalator, he pointed with his chin. “Right there. Between the nail salon and Claire’s. Can’t miss it.”

He wasn’t wrong. Vinyl Frontier 2.1— if you could call it that— stood like some glossy reimagining of everything the old shop wasn't. Floor-to-ceiling windows, double glass doors, bold white lettering across the top in a font that felt like it was mocking her with its sterile typeface. It looked like it was trying to convince teenagers it was cool. Mac stopped a few feet away and just…stared.

“It's… a lot.”

Jet crossed his arms and gave it a once-over like he was already bored of it. “Its a lot of nothing . Mall-core bullshit.But they let me hang the bell.”

She followed his gaze and sure enough, right above the doorway was the same tarnished brass bell from the old shop, dangling from a crooked bracket. It looked absurd up there, kind of how Mac felt in this place.

Mac looked up at it, then at him. Jet shrugged. “Gotta keep something real.”

Inside, it was shinier than she expected. Clean black shelves with polished displays. Cassette walls. Neon genre signs. There were actual listening booths now—small glass-paneled pods with headphones and mood lighting, like you were stepping into a sci-fi confession box. In the back corner, a make-your-own-mixtape station sat waiting, half-covered in protective plastic.

It was cool. She could admit that.

But it wasn’t them .

Jet must’ve caught the look on her face, because he clapped a hand on her shoulder and said, “C’mon. You haven’t seen the best part yet.”

He led her through the back, past a storage room, to a little hallway that smelled faintly like paint. There was a real break room now, with a microwave and vending machine that didn’t look like it came from a junkyard. But that wasn’t what stopped her.

It was the far corner.

A desk.

Covered in stacks of blank paper, a set of new markers still in their shrink wrap, and a color copier that looked like it could launch a spaceship.

Jet leaned against the wall and crossed one boot over the other. “Told the higher-ups those flyers of yours are half the reason this place got any traffic. Said if they want us to survive in this glass fishbowl, they better let you do it your way.”

She turned to look at him, brows pulled. “You told them that?”

“Well,” he said, “I said some other shit too. But that was the nicest part.”

Mac didn’t mean to get misty-eyed. It just happened.

She crossed the room and hugged him without thinking, arms around his middle, face pressed against the soft worn leather of his vest. He made a surprised grunt and patted her back with one hand, ruffling her hair with the other like he was trying to play it cool.

“Jesus, you’re sentimental,” he muttered.

“Yeah well, maybe you’re getting soft in your old age,” she shot back, pulling away.

He smirked. “C’mon. Help me figure out this stupid new register before I throw it through the window.”

Friday, May 31st 1985

The sun was too bright for her eyes and the air smelled like grass and too much body spray, but Mac didn’t care—she’d made it. The crowd spilled out from the bleachers onto the lawn like soda fizz—parents with cameras, kids hugging, caps flying through the air. She clutched her diploma folder like it might evaporate if she let go. The black gown was already unzipped and hanging off her shoulders, revealing the ripped band tee underneath.

She scanned the crowd once and then spotted them.

“Hey!” she shouted, jogging over.

Patti was waving both arms like she was trying to flag down an airplane. Jet stood beside her in his signature all-black ensemble, holding a tiny bouquet of wildflowers that had definitely been plucked from his own garden. Robin had Dustin half in a headlock, both of them grinning like idiots.

The second Mac reached them, she was mobbed.

“Oh lovebug, I’m so proud of you!” Patti said, practically shaking her.

“You look ridiculous,” Robin added fondly. “I love it.”

Dustin jumped up to hug her, nearly knocking her off balance. “You graduated! Holy crap, you really graduated!”

Mac snorted. “Gee, thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“Yeah, we had bets,” Jet said dryly. “I lost ten bucks.”

“Jerk,” she muttered, but smiled anyway.

Patti had her camera out in seconds. “Everyone squeeze in! I want one with all my weirdos.”

They crowded together, Jet pretending not to smile while Robin grabbed Mac’s cap and shoved it crooked on her own head. Patti snapped the photo and waved the Polaroid until the image started to appear.

“Now just you two,” she said, gesturing to Robin and Mac. “Gotta document my favorite platonic life partners.”

They posed—Robin kissing her on the cheek dramatically while Mac rolled her eyes. Patti grinned behind the camera.

But as Mac stepped back, she caught a flicker of movement out of the corner of her eye.

Steve stood across the lawn, his gown still perfectly zipped, collar straight, posture stiff. His parents flanked him, dressed for dinner somewhere fancier than here. His mother was already checking her watch. His father offered a quick, obligatory clap on the back, then handed the camera off to someone else—probably a junior they barely acknowledged—who took one fast photo before they turned to leave.

Mac watched as his mom walked off without even saying goodbye. His dad muttered something and followed.

Steve just stood there, alone.

Her smile faltered.

Patti followed her gaze, then narrowed her eyes. “Unacceptable.”

“Patti—” Mac started, but it was too late.

“Steven!” Patti called, waving him over.

He glanced up, surprised. When he saw who it was, he walked over, cautious but trying to look casual.

“Hey,” he said, nodding at them all. “Congrats, Mac.”

“You too,” she said, softening.

Patti stepped between them, grinning. “I want a picture of you two together.”

Steve blinked. “Uh…”

Mac groaned. “Do we really need—”

“Yes,” Patti said, already raising the camera. “Someday you’ll thank me.”

Grumbling under their breath, they stood side by side. Steve went to sling an arm around her shoulder, then hesitated, waiting for her nod. She gave him the smallest smile and leaned in, their shoulders brushing.

Click.

“One more,” Patti said, and before either could protest, snapped another.

She handed them each a photo. “There. Memories. You’re allowed to have nice things.”

Mac stared at the picture in her hands. They didn’t look awkward. Or annoyed. They looked… like they belonged next to each other.

Robin leaned over. “Wow, you two clean up okay.”

Dustin snorted. “You look like the cover of a weird romance novel. Valedictorian of My Heart. ”

“I will push you into a bush,” Mac said, pocketing the photo.

Jet lit a cigarette with a dramatic sigh. “You all are soft now. I remember when you were cool.”

“You cried when I walked across the stage, I saw you,” Mac shot back.

“Allegedly.”

Steve looked down at his photo, thumb grazing the edge. “You, uh… still having that goodbye party at the record store tomorrow?”

Mac nodded. “Yeah. The Last Spin. Jet’s got half the amps in Hawkins crammed in there. It’s gonna be loud, chaotic, probably illegal.”

He smirked. “So, a normal Saturday?”

“Yeah,” Mac said, nudging his arm. “You better show up.”

Steve smiled, and this time it wasn’t stiff at all.

“Wouldn’t miss it.”

The sun was lower now, casting everything in that syrupy gold that made the day feel like it might never end. Mac tucked her Polaroid away, already picturing it on her wall.

Chapter Text

Saturday, June 1st 1985

Mac was balancing the phone between her shoulder and ear while rifling through her closet, one boot already on and a pile of clothes discarded across her bed.

“I don’t know, Eddie. I want to wear something that doesn’t scream ‘trying too hard,’ but still says ‘I know I look hot, thanks.’”

His voice crackled through the line. “So, in other words, something slutty but artsy.”

She rolled her eyes and tossed a flannel onto the bed. “Shut up. That Ryan guy  might show up tonight—with his college friends who probably think I’m some high school loser. I need to look cool.”

“You are a high school loser,” Eddie reminded her, laughing.

“I graduated yesterday , asshole.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Eddie said, dragging the words out with a grin she could hear. “Okay, okay—what about that little black top with the lace trim and the plaid skirt with the buttons? The one you wore the night we snuck into the Hideout’s supply closet and—”

“Eddie.”

He laughed. “What? I’m just saying, it was a great outfit. Very… motivating.”

Mac muttered something under her breath and reached for the black top. “You’re lucky you’re four hours away.”

“Trust me, I know.” There was a quiet beat before his voice softened.  “So, who’s all going? Robin?”

“Yep.”

“Dustin and the rest of the Gremlin Squad?”

“Nope. There’s gonna be beer. Jet said absolutely no gremlins.”

A beat. Then, like it wasn’t the main thing he wanted to ask: “Steve?”

Mac hesitated only slightly. “Yeah. Of course.”

Eddie hummed. “And you’re cool with that? Him being there with… Ryan maybe around?”

“I don’t see why it would be weird.”

A pause. Then a disbelieving, “Uh-huh.”

She sat on the edge of her bed, grabbing her eyeliner and leaning toward the mirror. “It’s a little weird that you can go from reminiscing about us having sex to suddenly sounding like my overprotective cousin.”

“Not that weird,” he said. “I’m a man of many talents.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“Still true. Also don’t call me your cousin. That’s… way weirder.”

Mac snorted, finishing one wing. “Anything else?”

“Nope. Just wishing I could be there. Send my love. Party hard for me, all that bullshit, okay?”

“I’ll take Polaroids,” she promised.

“You better.”

They hung up, and the silence of her room settled around her. She stood, smoothing her skirt, looking herself over in the full-length mirror. She’d added her favorite belt and sprayed her hair just right so it fell in effortless waves. One final coat of lipstick. She looked…cool. Grown. Maybe even kind of hot.

“Not bad,” she murmured, then grabbed her bag.

Out in the living room, Patti was flipping through a craft magazine on the couch. She looked up and smiled.

“Heading out?”

“Yeah,” Mac said, tucking her keys into her pocket. “I’ll be home late.”

Patti raised her eyebrows. “Just call if you need anything. And don’t let Jet talk you into crowd surfing again.”

Mac grinned. “No promises.”

She stepped out the door, the early summer air buzzing around her as she made her way to the car. The sun was still out, but the night was just beginning. And whatever came with it? Well… 

Let the last spin begin.

Robin tapped her fingers against her thigh as Steve drove. Neither of them said much. The only words they’d really exchanged in the past half hour were “I’ll drive us to the thing” and “Yeah, cool.” Which, to be fair, was probably already more than they'd said to each other before prom.

It wasn’t like they were friends. More like… accidental coworkers with a shared friendship with a very confusing girl.

They pulled up to the old Vinyl Frontier downtown. The windows still had posters in them—everything from Bowie to the Misfits—but there was a different kind of energy inside now. Loud music leaked out through the cracks, and someone had strung fairy lights across the front awning.

As they got out of the car, Steve shoved his keys in his pocket and looked vaguely like he might throw up. Robin snorted. “Relax. It’s the Frontier’s funeral. It's not your funeral.”

He didn’t respond. Just rubbed the back of his neck and followed her in.

The second they stepped inside, the noise hit them—laughter, loud music, the deep thrum of a bass amp someone probably shouldn’t have plugged in without checking the wiring. People milled around flipping through crates of clearance vinyl, drinking out of Solo cups, and lounging in beanbags dragged in from god knows where.

Robin was barely scanning the room before she saw it—Mac. And okay, yeah. She looked good.

Not “Oh, that’s a cute outfit” good. Like make-a-man-forget-his-name good. Plaid skirt, black top, boots, hair done just enough to say she cared but not enough to scream it. The kind of hot that felt accidental, which made it way worse. Or better. Depending on which side of the Steve Harrington situation you were on.

Steve saw her, and Robin could almost feel his oxygen supply cut off.

Mac spotted them, her brows lifting slightly. She made her way over through the crowd.

“You two came together?” she asked, more curious than anything.

Robin shrugged. “Orientation. Steve offered me a ride.”

Mac blinked. “Orientation?”

“At the ice cream place,” Robin clarified.

“Scoops Ahoy,” Steve finally said, and it came out like a question.

Mac raised an eyebrow. “Wow. You’re already a mall zombie.”

He gave her a half-laugh, rubbing the back of his neck again. It was almost impressive how flustered he looked. Robin, taking mercy on whatever this awkward tension was, nudged him with her elbow.

“Go get some drinks.”

Steve hesitated like he didn’t want to leave the bubble they were in, but then nodded and wandered off toward the keg station.

They both watched him fumble through the crowd, trying and failing to work the tap before finally getting it.

Mac tilted her head. “He’s being weird. He knows how to use a keg.”

Robin didn’t respond right away, just studied her face. God, she really had no idea.

“Maybe finally having a job already fried his brain,” Robin offered lightly. “New era. Steve 2.0.”

Before Mac could press further, one of the guys from that post-punk band—Dead Fox or Sad Teeth or whatever they were calling themselves this week—tapped her on the shoulder. She smiled, turned to talk shop with them, and Robin took the opportunity to slip away toward Jet.

She needed a drink. Maybe a buffer. Maybe a few more clues as to what the hell she just walked into.

Because one thing was becoming increasingly clear—Mac’s whole love triangle, square, whatever it was…?

Yeah. It was gonna get interesting.

Steve stood at the keg, holding two red cups that were half full and already starting to sweat in the heat of the room. His hand hovered near the tap, but he wasn’t really focused on it.

He was focused on her .

Mac was across the room, standing near the makeshift stage where one of the local guys was messing with an amp. She was talking to someone—one of the band members, probably—and laughing about something he’d said, her head tilted back just enough for the lights above the floor to catch in her hair.

And god, that outfit.

Steve swallowed, his grip tightening on the cups. The top clung to her just right, hugging her waist, while the skirt hit a little too high on her thighs for his brain to handle. She looked… confident. Not like she was trying to be the hottest person in the room—she just was . Without effort. Like she belonged in this chaotic, loud, too-warm space full of amps and stickers and half-drunk college kids.

She belonged here.

And maybe he didn’t.

Steve felt something pinch behind his ribs. He wasn’t even sure what it was. Just that it twisted.

He should’ve said something when she walked up earlier. Something smooth. Or normal. Or literally anything other than “Scoops Ahoy” like a goddamn moron. But his brain had just… melted. Like someone had hit pause on all his higher functions and left only the parts of him that could notice her lip gloss and the way her belt curved at her waist and how her necklace was dangling right between—

“Ahem.”

Steve jumped.

Jet was standing beside him, arms crossed, giving him a very unimpressed look, taking the second cup from him. 

Steve blinked. “Sorry. I wasn’t—uh. I mean—sorry.”

Jet snorted. “Relax, Harrington. I was young once.”

Steve wanted to crawl into the keg.

“Look,” Jet said, nudging him slightly as he watched Mac from across the room. “I’ll admit, when she first started talking about you, I figured you were some pretty boy douchebag.”

Steve blinked. “She talks about me?”

Jet glanced sideways at him. “Mostly to complain. But that’s how she does it. Pretends not to care, talks shit, then spends half a shift defending you to Mick when he calls you a trust fund burnout.”

Steve let out a soft laugh, unsure what to do with the warmth blooming in his chest.

Jet continued. “And when you scrubbed that spray paint off the loading dock in ’83? That stuck with me. Not a lot of kids your age would’ve done that. Or even owned up to it. So no, I don’t think you’re a total lost cause.”

“Thanks,” Steve said quietly. “I think.”

Jet clapped a hand on his shoulder—friendly, but with weight behind it. “But if you hurt her? I will make your life hell. Just so we’re clear.”

Steve coughed, nodding. “Crystal.”

Jet turned and shouted toward the stage, “Mick! If you play Kansas one more time, I’m cutting the power!”

Steve watched him walk off, then looked back at Mac.

She was still laughing, eyes bright, fingers wrapped around her drink like she didn’t have a care in the world.

And he wasn’t sure when it had happened, but suddenly it wasn’t just a crush, or a maybe, or a moment.

It was her.

He shifted his weight, looking down at the cup in his hand, then back at her. She hadn’t seen him yet. Maybe that was for the best. Maybe he could just enjoy it from here, quietly, where it was safe.

Mac had just launched into a story about the time Jet accidentally booked a ska band thinking it was punk when a tap on her shoulder pulled her attention away.

She turned—and grinned. “Hey, flyer girl,” Ryan said, holding out a fresh beer.

“I’m gonna start charging you royalties if you keep calling me that,” she replied, accepting the cup anyway.

Ryan smiled and slung a casual arm around her shoulder. “Come meet the crew.”

She let him guide her a few feet away to where three people were lingering near the listening booth Jet had barely managed to get functional. Ryan gestured.

“This is Destiny—don’t let the buzzcut fool you, she’s got more hair opinions than a Vogue columnist.”

Destiny grinned and offered a fist bump. “Facts.”

“This here,” Ryan said, pointing to a guy with a dozen piercings and a gravity-defying purple mohawk, “goes by Rat. Don’t ask.”

Rat gave a toothy smile. “It’s a nickname, not a lifestyle.”

Mac laughed, already charmed. Ryan continued, pointing to the last girl—tall, sharp-eyed, with dark waves and a denim jacket weighed down by enamel pins from every band imaginable.

“And this is Willow. Jacket’s heavier than my student debt.”

Willow rolled her eyes. “Don’t listen to him. I only hang out with him because he’s got decent taste in girls.”

Mac raised an eyebrow, but smiled anyway. “You all go to Cedar Hill?”

“Art program,” Ryan confirmed. “Some of us graduate soon, some of us pretend we’re too cool to.”

“I’m gonna pretend I didn’t hear that,” Destiny muttered.

They were easy to fall into step with. Mac found herself laughing as she gave a brief tour of the shop’s reworked space—telling stories about the old location, about how Jet used to ban Mick from touching the stereo, and how one of the shelving units still had a dent from when Dustin knocked into it pretending to be a Jedi.

Ryan stayed close, arm still around her as they walked. His fingers drummed lightly against her shoulder. He was comfortable in the space already, like he belonged in the haze of music and dim lights and too much eyeliner. And honestly, Mac didn’t hate that.

They were rounding back toward the front counter when Robin appeared out of the noise, a red Solo cup in one hand and mischief in her grin.

“Wow, new friends already?” she asked.

Mac lit up. “Robin, hey—this is Ryan, Destiny, Rat, and Willow. These are my people. Or well, his people. I’m borrowing them.”

Robin nodded, offering a general wave. “Nice to meet the borrowed art kids.”

“Robin’s the coolest person I know,” Mac added quickly, “even if she won’t admit it.”

“I’ll admit it,” Robin said with a wink. “Hey, uh—just a heads up, Steve’s kinda looking like he got beamed into the wrong movie.”

Mac frowned slightly, instinctively glancing across the room.

Steve was over by the wall, cup in hand, not talking to anyone. And yeah—he looked like someone’s older brother who got dragged here last-minute.

“I’m gonna go check on him,” she said, already starting to move.

Robin raised her cup. “I’ll entertain the masses.”

“Godspeed,” Mac called back, then slipped into the crowd toward the boy who, for whatever reason, looked like the only one tonight who wasn’t quite sure where he belonged.

Steve leaned against the wall. His plastic cup going warm in his hand as he watched the room shift around him. People moved in waves— talking, laughing, dancing like they didn't have to wake up the next day. The air had the kind of energy that always came right before summer really kicked off. And in the middle of it all was Mac. She looked so at home here—surrounded by kids in ripped denim and combat boots, in a room that smelled like beer and sweat and vinyl sleeves. This was her world. And he was just... orbiting.

He felt it again—that tight, unsettled pull in his chest. Admiration. Longing. Something heavier.

"Come here often, pretty boy?"

The voice caught him off guard. He turned and found Mac sliding up beside him, one brow raised and a crooked smile tugging at her mouth. She leaned against the wall like she'd been there the whole time.

He gave her a dry look. “Only for the risk of tetanus and PBR.”

She laughed, warm and close, and God, he really did love that laugh.

Mac glanced around, then back at him. “This is the first party I’ve seen you look out of place at.”

“Tables have turned,” he said. “I’m the freak now.”

“You’re not a freak.” She paused. “You’re just... mall-ified.”

Steve snorted. “You make that up?”

“Sure did.” She lifted her cup toward the group Robin was standing with. “Ryan’s here, by the way.”

Steve’s mouth twitched. “The guy from Cedar Hill?”

“Very same.”

There was a quiet moment, then Steve asked, “Do you like him?”

Mac tilted her head, considering. “I don’t know yet. He definitely likes me. I might let it play out, see what happens.”

His stomach twisted, but he just nodded. Ryan was taller. Older. He had those stupid paint-splattered jeans and artsy rings on his fingers. The kind of guy Mac should probably be with. The kind who fit into this crowd with ease. Steve knew what he looked like tonight—collar loose, sleeves rolled, not quite blending in.

Mac nudged him with her elbow and pointed. “Jet’s about to have a full-on dad argument with Hopper.”

Sure enough, Hopper, dressed down and clearly off duty, was talking to Jet in his usual annoyed-but-not-that-annoyed way. Joyce stood nearby, arms crossed and clearly waiting for him to wrap it up. From the look on Hopper’s face, he was here to play the buzzkill card about the underage drinking.

“They’re going to kill each other,” Mac muttered.

Steve grinned. “You be Jet. I’ll be Hopper.”

Mac straightened, hand on her hip. “What do you mean, liquor license?”

“You’re serving minors, you lunatic,” Steve countered in Hopper’s tired, gravelly voice.

“You think I ID at a farewell party?” she deadpanned. “C’mon, Hop. You used to pass out behind the dumpsters at these things.”

“I have a badge now,” Steve replied. “It’s got a little sticker on it and everything.”

They were still laughing when Mick wandered over, handed Hopper a beer without saying a word, and walked off. Hopper blinked, looked at Jet, and shrugged before clinking their cans together. A silent truce.

Steve chuckled. Mac wiped her eyes, still grinning.

Just then, Robin appeared at their side, Ryan and his Cedar Hill crew in tow. Ryan’s arm slung casually over Mac’s shoulder as he nodded toward the back hallway.

“Your friend told us there’s a setup on the roof,” he said. “That true?”

Mac perked up. “Oh yeah. The roof’s great. There’s a couch up there and some stolen Christmas lights.”

Ryan looked intrigued. Mac introduced the others behind him—Destiny with her buzzcut and septum ring, some guy called Rat (probably not his birth name, Steve thought) with way too many piercings and a mohawk, and a denim-jacketed girl named Willow—nodded along, visibly curious.

Robin leaned toward Steve. “You’re coming too, right?”

Before he could answer, Mac reached back and grabbed his hand. “You’re coming.”

It wasn’t a question.

Steve glanced down at their fingers. Her hand was smaller, her rings cold against his skin. She didn’t look back to see if he followed—just tugged, fully expecting he would.

And he did.

The air on the roof was warm but not stifling, the kind of night breeze that made you forget it had ever been winter. Years ago, Mac and Eddie had dragged a beat-up couch and a few folding chairs up here, arranged in a loose circle around a string of café lights that Jet had stashed in the basement. Mac settled cross-legged on a tattered cushion, nursing her beer, while Ryan claimed the couch like he owned it.

From the pocket of his jeans, Ryan pulled out a little plastic baggie and gave it a shake. “Party favor,” he said with a grin, holding up the joint inside. “Flyer girl, that cool?”

Mac glanced around—no adults, no gremlin squad, no Jet. Just Steve, Robin, Ryan, and the college crew. She nodded. “Yeah, sure.”

Ryan sparked the joint with a lazy flick of his thumb against his zippo and took the first drag, holding it between his fingers like it was part of his personality. He passed it to Willow, who accepted it with a small grin, and then to Rat—whose actual name no one had said out loud yet. It might’ve been Greg. Or Todd. Or possibly Charles. But with the triple nose piercings and the gravity-defying mohawk, Rat felt more accurate.

“Thanks, man,” Rat rasped, then offered it to Destiny, who held it a second, let the smoke curl out of her nose, and tilted her head thoughtfully.

“So, what are your post-grad plans, Robin?” she asked, already passing the joint toward Robin.

Robin blinked, mid-sip of her beer, and coughed lightly as she took it. “Oh. Uh, I’m still in high school. Senior next year.”

Willow’s brows lifted. “For real? Huh. You’ve got, like, ‘zine editor energy. Or… something with music.”

Robin grinned, more surprised than smug. “I’m in band.”

Willow looked her over and smiled. “That tracks. I like your vibe.”

Robin flushed and ducked her head, but Mac could tell it meant something. She watched the way Robin’s eyes lingered on Willow’s denim jacket, and Mac did too—there was a pink triangle pin nestled among the enamel badges. It sparked something warm in her chest. She didn’t say anything, not wanting to out Robin, but the thought settled into her ribs like hope. Maybe college wouldn’t be so lonely for her after all.

The joint made its way to Mac next. She took a drag, leaned her head back, and exhaled slowly, watching the smoke trail up into the soft summer night. It didn’t hit too hard—just enough to take the edge off. She passed it to Steve without thinking.

He took it like it was a foreign object, hesitated, and then—probably just to avoid looking like a narc—took a cautious puff before handing it off to Ryan.

“You okay there, Harrington?” Destiny asked, lips twitching.

Steve coughed, recovered, and ran a hand through his hair. “Yeah. Just… not really my thing.”

“Oh, we can tell,” Rat added, amused. “You scream ‘football scholarship.’”

“Basketball,” Steve corrected, too fast. “And, uh, no scholarship.”

“He’s spending his summer with me. Scooping ice creams for the masses at Starcourt.” Robin piped in.

Mac almost laughed—almost—but bit her lip and watched instead as the group turned to him with that gentle, sharp curiosity people like them had when someone from a different world wandered into their space.

“So you don’t do anything creative?” Willow asked. “Like… no painting, no music, nothing?”

Steve shifted. “I… played varsity. Senior year.”

Destiny tilted her head. “That’s kind of an art. Of aggression.”

There was a beat of awkward silence. Mac could see the tension in Steve’s jaw.

“Wait… Steve Harrington, right?” Rat asked, already grinning like he knew exactly what he was doing.

Steve braced. “Yeah.”

“My cousin’s at Hawkins. Said you were, like, the guy her freshman year. Like, posters-in-the-locker energy.”

Mac’s eyes narrowed slightly.

Destiny grinned. “Wasn’t there some big drama with you and that cheerleader? What was her name? Tara? No—Tori?”

Willow snapped her fingers. “Trina. I think it was Trina Burke. Blonde, kind of screechy?”

Steve furrowed his brow. “I don’t even know a Trina Burke.”

“Oh my god, yes you do,” Rat chimed in. “She cried at Donato’s Pizza that one night and told everyone you ditched her after two ‘dates’ in your beemer.”

Destiny laughed. “Wait, I heard it was Teresa—something with a T, for sure.”

Steve looked increasingly baffled. “I’ve never even been to Donato’s.”

Mac felt her stomach tighten. It wasn’t that she didn’t think Steve could handle himself—he could. But this wasn’t teasing from friends. It was the kind of layered mockery that just kept looping, never letting you breathe.

She cut in before they could reload.

“Speaking of weird rumors—did you know Eddie Munson once told the entire Hellfire Club he got mono from a Ouija board?”

It worked.

Rat blinked. “Wait, that Eddie?”

“The Satanic Panic poster boy himself,” Mac said, smirking a little.

Ryan perked up. “That’s the dude who plays, like, eight instruments and eats crayons or something?”

Mac shrugged. “More like four instruments and uncooked hot dogs. But yeah, him.”

The conversation pivoted fast, eager for new blood. Steve stayed quiet beside her, but she felt the shift—the way the air deflated slightly, the pressure easing.

She didn’t look at him.

There was a lot she couldn’t say here. Couldn’t talk about the time he fought tooth and nail to protect kids with nothing but a bat and guts. Couldn’t explain how he sat on the other end of the phone line most nights when her chest felt too heavy to sleep.

But she hoped he knew this was the only version of protection she could offer here.

He tapped her shoulder gently. “Hey. I’m gonna head out.”

She turned. “You want me to walk you—?”

He shook his head, already standing. “Nah. Stay. This is your night, okay?”

She nodded slowly, the silence stretching between them. His hand brushed her shoulder—just a second too long. Then he was gone, down the fire escape like he’d always known the exit.

Mac looked back at the group as Willow passed the joint again, jokes resuming like nothing had happened.

But her eyes flicked once more to the stairs.

Steve didn’t remember most of the drive home. Just that the road was quiet and mostly empty, the way Hawkins always felt late at night—like even the town itself had shut down. Streetlights blinked past his windows in slow rhythm, casting long shadows across the dashboard. By the time he pulled up in front of the house, he didn't move to get out.

He sat there for a while.

The porch light was off. No cars in the drive except his. He didn’t even know if his parents were home. He didn’t care enough to check.

He leaned back in the seat, one hand scrubbing across his face before reaching into the glove box and pulling out a crumpled pack of cigarettes. It wasn’t full. Wasn’t empty either. Just like everything else in his life lately—halfway to something. Or maybe halfway from it.

He cracked the window before lighting up. He hated smoking in his car. Made it smell like stale rebellion and self-loathing. But tonight? He needed something.

The cigarette flared to life with a soft hiss. He took a long drag, exhaled slow. Let it sting.

He thought about the looks on their faces—those art kids, that college guy with his arm around Mac like he belonged there. The girls with the piercings and the pins, laughing like Steve had walked into the wrong movie. Like he was background noise from a different genre.

He thought about the rumors. God, all the ones he’d heard over the years. Some were true. Some were so off-base they were laughable. All of them followed him like a smell he couldn’t wash off. Maybe that’s why no one took him seriously. Maybe that’s why people still looked at him like he peaked at seventeen and forgot to move on.

Maybe he had.

He thought about Starcourt. About Scoops Ahoy. About the dumb hat and the polyester uniform and how, for the first time in his life, he was going to be the guy behind the counter. The guy taking orders. The guy they forgot the second they walked away.

He didn’t have college plans. Didn’t have a backup. Didn’t have much of anything.

He flicked the cigarette out the window, watching the ember skid across the driveway like a firefly crashing out.

Then he looked at the house. It was big. Expensive. Cold.

Empty.

Steve sighed and finally stepped out,

shutting the car door with a dull thud. His sneakers were loud against the quiet. He let himself in without turning on a single light and climbed the stairs like he’d done a thousand times before—without a single person noticing.

In his room, he stood in front of the mirror for a long moment. Not to admire himself. Not tonight.

He just… looked. Took in the way his hair had fallen flat, the way his eyes looked too tired for someone so young. The way his shirt still smelled faintly like the rooftop—like weed smoke and someone else’s cologne. Ryan’s, probably.

He didn’t look cool. Didn’t look important. Didn’t look like someone you remembered.

Steve peeled off his clothes and let them fall where they landed. Then he flopped onto the bed, one arm slung over his eyes like that might block out the rest of the world.

It didn’t.

He laid there in the dark, listening to the house settle around him like it always did—quiet, impersonal, and entirely too big for someone who didn’t know what the hell he was doing anymore.

Chapter Text

Sunday, June 2nd 1985

Mac shuffled into the kitchen barefoot, hair a mess. The morning light was too bright, her head was too full, and she hadn’t even opened her mouth yet when she caught the smell.

Pancakes.

She narrowed her eyes at Patti who stood at the stove, flipping one onto a growing stack like this was some wholesome cartoon. She smiled too quickly.

Mac crossed her arms. “You only make my favourites when something's up.”

“That’s not true,” Patti said, way too casually. “I do it for your birthday too.”

Mac moved toward the counter and poured herself a mug of coffee. “You made pancakes before you gave me the sex talk in sixth grade. A whole-ass cherry pie the day you told me we lost the house. And lasagna months ago when you admitted you were dating Charlie.”

Patti held her spatula mid-air, clearly trying to think of a rebuttal.

Mac leaned on the counter and sipped her coffee. “Go ahead. Tell me what terrible life-altering moment these are cushioning.”

Patti finally sighed, setting the spatula down with a little clack. “Okay. Fine. Speaking of Charlie…”

Mac groaned into her cup.

“He’s coming to dinner tonight,” Patti added quickly. “Just dinner. To meet you.”

Mac blinked. “Tonight?”

“I know it’s short notice,” Patti said, turning off the stove. “But he has to come this way to pick up some books for his shop anyway. And you’re leaving tomorrow with Dustin to take him to that camp, so—” She gestured vaguely. “It felt like fate.”

Mac grabbed a plate and stabbed a pancake onto it with more force than necessary. “Fate always has terrible timing.”

Patti slid a second onto her plate like a peace offering.

They sat down at the table together, and Mac stuffed a too-large bite into her mouth as a distraction. She gave Patti a flat look as she chewed.

Patti softened. “I know it’s weird. I know it’s fast. I just… want you to try, okay? For me.”

Mac swallowed hard. “I wish Eddie were here. He’d make it feel less weird.”

Patti smiled at that—tired, but genuine. “He’d probably hit on Charlie just to freak him out.”

Mac snorted. “He did once tell that one guy who asked you on a date that he was our live in butler.”

“And then tried to sell him pot ten minutes later.”

They both laughed, and for a second, the weird weight of it all lifted just enough.

Mac reached for another pancake, shaking her head. “Fine. I’ll be nice.”

Patti raised a brow. “Nice-nice or Mac-nice?”

“No promises.” She smirked. “But I won’t threaten to call Frankie halfway through dinner. That’s gotta count for something.”

Patti smiled again, quieter this time, and passed the syrup across the table.

“I’m just saying,” Mac called from the bed, flipping through the latest issue of Fangoria , legs kicked up against the wall, “this one looks like it could actually be decent. There’s this thing with mutant slugs, and it’s directed by the guy who did The Dorm That Dripped Blood. ” She paused. “Tagline’s terrible though.”

“Not as terrible as my life choices,” Robin muttered from behind the folding screen in her room. “Who applies to work at an ice cream shop and ends up in a nautical nightmare?”

She sighed, adjusting the stiff collar. “I swear to God, if I die at sea, avenge me.”

Mac snorted. “It can’t be that bad.”

“That’s what they said about The Blob .” Robin stepped out from behind the screen in full Scoops Ahoy regalia—striped blouse, red neckerchief, blue shorts with white trim, and that cursed little vest. “And look how that ended.”

Mac turned from her upside down position and her voice pitched up immediately, like she was trying very hard not to laugh. “It’s… fine.”

Robin gave her a flat look. “You’re gonna pop like a balloon if you keep holding it in.”

Mac cracked, bursting into laughter. “Oh my god, Robin. You look like the backup dancer to a patriotic fever dream.”

“Wow, thank you.” Robin huffed and spun on her heel, stomping back behind the screen. “That’s it. No more nautical nonsense for you.”

“No, wait! Let me get a photo first,” Mac wheezed, wiping her eyes.

“If you even try, I swear I will haunt you through every photo booth in Starcourt.”

Mac kept laughing, flipping dramatically onto her back again as Robin yanked her normal clothes back on. A few moments later, Robin emerged in her usual summer attire—cutoffs, a striped tank—and flopped down beside Mac on the bed.

“Maybe there are girls into the sailor look,” Mac teased, nudging her.

Robin glared. “Name one.”

“Willow might stop by the mall,” Mac said sweetly.

Robin gave her a look that could have melted ice cream. “She’s too cool for the mall.”

“Uh-huh,” Mac grinned and went back to her magazine. “I’ll let her know you said that.”

There was a pause.

“Wait,” Mac said suddenly, peeking over the top of the magazine. “Does Steve have to wear the shorts too?”

Robin barked a laugh. “Oh yeah. Full kit.”

“The vest?”

“No vest,” Robin said, shaking her head. “He’s got a shirt that’s like… all sailor, no escape.”

Mac’s grin widened like it was Christmas morning. “Oh my god. I cannot wait to see that.”

Robin rolled onto her back, arm slung over her eyes. “At least his misery will make our summer more tolerable.”

The room filled with their laughter, the warm June air curling through the open window as Mac kept flipping through her horror magazine and Robin silently counted down the days until she could burn that damn uniform.

The sun was still hanging low and the air felt sticky in the neighborhood as Mac slung her bag over one shoulder, tossing a goodbye wave to Robin as she headed down the steps.

Robin followed behind, arms crossed, squinting into the light. “Have fun with Patti’s new man. Make sure he's not too put off by Patti’s feng shui.”

Mac smirked. “You just wanted an excuse to say ‘feng shui’.”

She popped the door to her car open and slid into the driver’s seat, twisting the key in the ignition.

Nothing.

She frowned, tried again. A sad click. Then silence.

“No. No no no no—” She slammed her palm against the steering wheel and let her forehead drop dramatically onto the horn. The sudden blare echoed through the quiet street.

Robin jumped. “Jesus, Mac!”

Mac didn’t lift her head. “It won’t start.”

Robin leaned in through the open window, eyebrows raised. “You say that like it’s new information.”

“No, you don’t get it,” Mac groaned, finally sitting back upright. “I promised Claudia I’d take Dustin to camp tomorrow. Like—eight-hour round trip. Full day of sibling bonding and gas station snacks and trying to stop him from getting car sick. I need this thing to work.”

She reached for the key again, but Robin slid her hand in through the window and gently stopped her.

“Do not make out with the horn again. My ears are still recovering.”

Mac slumped in her seat, defeated. “I can’t even call Eddie for this shit anymore. I’ll have to ask Wayne. And then beg Patti to let me borrow her car… ”

Robin’s expression shifted. “Well… ”

Mac turned to her slowly. Robin gave her a look that was way too pointed for comfort.

“No,” Mac said instantly.

“You didn’t even let me finish.”

“I know what you’re going to say.”

“All I’m saying is... the mall grind doesn’t start for us till Thursday, so he’s probably not doing anything. And he’d probably say yes.”

Mac groaned, dragging her fingers down her face like she could scrape the idea out of her brain. “No way. I am not asking Steve for a ride to Dustin’s nerd camp. That’s a whole new level of tragic.”

Robin walked around the front of the car and leaned on the hood, squinting at her like she was made of bullshit. “What’s more tragic, Mac—being stuck here with a dead car and letting down Dustin, or riding shotgun with your weird new best friend?”

Mac ignored her, climbing out and heading back toward the house.

Robin shouted after her. “Just picture it—Harrington in aviators, blasting Springsteen while you both emotionally repress your feelings for eight hours!”

Mac flipped her off without looking back.

Inside, she called Patti from the rotary phone in the kitchen. Patti picked up on the second ring.

“Mom,” Mac said without preamble. “The car died. Again.”

Patti sighed, long-suffering but not surprised. “I’ll come get you. I’ll have Wayne tow it in the morning.”

Mac hung up and sank onto Robin’s couch with a dramatic thud, burying her face in a throw pillow. Robin appeared a second later, plopping down beside her.

“You know…” she started, voice sing-songy.

Mac didn’t lift her head. “Don’t.”

“He’d probably do it just for Dustin’s sake and—”

“ Don’t. ”

Robin grinned, flopping back beside her, legs kicked up on the armrest like she lived there. “You’re gonna cave. I can feel it.”

Mac groaned into the pillow. She might cave. But not yet.

Not unless she had no other choice. And if tomorrow came fast—and it always did—she had a sinking feeling she already knew who she’d be riding shotgun with.

The Scoops Ahoy uniform lay draped across the back of his desk chair like it had been dropped there by a poltergeist. Navy blue, stiff fabric, sailor collar, little red neckerchief that looked like it belonged in a cartoon. The “AHOY” embroidery on the hat practically screamed mockery.

Steve stared at it from his bed, one arm slung behind his head, the other resting across his stomach.

This was his summer.

Slinging cones in a mall food court, melting into polyester, and trying not to murder any annoying tweens before July.

He let out a slow breath, closed his eyes.

He could already feel the sweat sticking to the back of his neck. Already hear the jingling bell of the counter and the chorus of “Excuse me? Is this low-fat?” and “My kid dropped his sherbet—can I get a new one?”

His life was a horror movie. 

He opened his eyes, confused when his phone rang. It was too early for Mac to call—she usually waited until after ten, when Patti was off doing whatever Patti did and the house was quiet. He pushed up on one elbow and reached for the receiver, pulling it to his ear.

“Harrington residence.”

A beat. Then her voice, slightly sheepish. “Hey.”

His eyebrows lifted. “Hey. What’s up? You get bored of Robin already?”

“Not possible,” she said. “But no. I’m home. Just… calling.”

He sat up slightly, balancing the receiver on his shoulder. “Everything alright?”

“Yeah. Yeah, just—” she paused. “My mom’s boyfriend came to dinner tonight.”

Steve blinked. That wasn’t what he expected. “Oh. Wow. That’s new.”

“Yeah. It was fine. He’s… kind of a dork, but, like, a chill one. He’s really into books. Like, weirdly into books.”

He smiled faintly. “That’s good, right? You love books.”

“I love certain books. He brought me a first edition of Carrie like it was a bribe.”

Steve laughed. “Was it a successful bribe?”

“I mean… yeah. Kind of. It’s in really good condition.”

There was a lull—just the hum of the line, the faint scratch of movement from her side.

He adjusted his grip on the phone. “Okay. What’s going on?”

“What?” she asked, too quick.

“You don’t call me this early to talk about your mom’s boyfriend. You’re stalling. What’s going on?”

Another pause.

“My car died.”

Steve snorted. “Not exactly breaking news.”

“No, I mean—like, for real this time. It’s dead-dead. Won’t start. Patti’s having Wayne look at it tomorrow.”

Steve leaned back against the headboard. “Okay, yeah it sucks. But you’ll live. Not exactly stalling worthy news… ”

“I promised Claudia I’d take Dustin to camp tomorrow.”

He stilled.

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

She didn’t say anything else. She didn’t have to. He could hear it in the silence—the begrudging admission, the reluctant vulnerability. Mac didn’t ask for favors. Not unless it mattered.

“So… what are we talking here?” he asked slowly. “Ride to camp? How far is it?”

“Four hours.”

“Four hours?” His head dropped back against the wall. “That’s a trip, but… doable, I guess.”

“Each way.”

He groaned. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope.”

“Eight hours? Of you? And Henderson? In a car?”

“Claudia’s paying for gas,” Mac offered, like she was bargaining with a demon. “And I promise not to play metal the entire way.”

He raised an eyebrow, even though she couldn’t see it. “Or at all.”

A beat.

She sighed. “Fine. No screaming. No growling.”

Steve pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead. He was already tired. “What time?”

“Seven,” she said. “We want to get there by noon. Gotta factor in pee breaks. Dustin has a system.”

“We won’t need that many breaks.”

“You have a small bladder.”

“Don’t talk about my bladder.”

“It’s part of the trip planning.”

“Okay well what about you? You’re always drinking something. You have, like, three different drinks in your car at all times. Soda. Water. Those gross cherry slushies from the gas station.”

“Hydration is important.”

“You’re a walking convenience store.”

“I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.” He smiled despite himself. She was probably stretched out across her bed right now, ankle over knee, twirling the phone cord while pretending she didn’t care if he said no.

“I’ll be there at seven,” he said, voice quieter now.

A pause. Then: “Thanks.”

The silence stretched, easy now.

Then Mac said, “You’re not gonna make me listen to Springsteen the whole ride, right?”

“Wow.”

“I’m just saying, there are limits.”

“One Born to Run. That’s all I ask.”

“One. And if you start singing, I’m tucking and rolling.”

“Deal.”

There was another pause before Mac spoke again, a little softer and offhand. “You know I don’t actually hate you, right?”

“Yeah,” he said. “I know.”

Chapter Text

Monday, June 3rd 1985

The morning had started early and weird.

Steve had shown up at Mac’s just after 6:45, hair already styled and sunglasses pushed up into it, wearing the kind of blank expression that meant something had gone down.

“You good?” she asked as she slid into the passenger seat, a to-go mug of Patti’s coffee in hand.

He pulled out of the trailer park with a grunt. “My parents were home this morning.”

Mac blinked. “What, like… both of them?”

“At the same time,” he confirmed, eyes on the road. “They asked why I was awake so early, so I told them I’m driving you and Dustin four hours into the woods for science camp. My dad didn’t even look up from the paper. Just told me not to get arrested.”

Mac made a face. “A+ parenting.”

“Gold star,” Steve muttered.

When they pulled up to Dustin's, Claudia Henderson, bless her entire soul, hugged her son like he was being drafted instead of just going to summer camp for a few weeks. She’d cried, then laughed, then cried again—saying things like “Call me when you get there” and "Don't forget your extra socks” , even though she had packed Dustin enough socks to clothe the whole camp.

Mac had waited by Steve's car while Dustin wrestled himself out of his moms grip like a fish escaping a net. She wasn't sure who looked more overwhelmed.

Claudia immediately turned her attention on both of them, thanking them a dozen different ways, saying things like “You’re saints, both of you ” while trying not to cry. Again.

Dustin finally broke free, hauling his duffel to the car while muttering, “She’s been up since five baking muffins. I don't know why I'm even bringing them. They’ll get smashed before we hit the highway.”

“Should we help him?” she asked Steve, watching Dustin try to wedge himself into the back seat around a cooler and a sleeping bag.

Steve tossed Dustin’s gear in the trunk and shrugged. “Nah. He’ll figure it out.”

Two hours in, the Indiana back roads had started to blur into each other—fields stretching out in sun-bleached waves, lines of pine trees casting stripes of shadow over cracked pavement. They were deep into the scenic route now, per Mac’s insistence. It added time, sure, but it also made the trip feel like something more than an errand. Like an actual road trip.

A battered mixtape hummed through the car speakers, mostly classic rock and a few punk tracks Mac had snuck in. The sound warbled slightly every time the cassette flipped sides, which only made it feel more right. The heat pressed in through the open windows, but not in an oppressive way—just enough to make everything smell like dry grass and gasoline and summer.

Dustin had been talking since mile marker twenty.

“—and it’s not just the programming course,” he was saying, bouncing slightly in his seat, “they’ve got a new electronics lab this year. Actual soldering equipment. Plus, they’re letting us do constellation mapping during Astronomy Night, and we get to check out star charts and use the good telescopes. Like, professional-grade stuff. Not those Fisher-Price ones school keeps in the science closet.”

Mac wasn’t really listening. Not all of it, anyway. She liked the sound of Dustin’s voice when he got going like this—bright and full of certainty. His excitement filled the car like music, louder than the stereo, more insistent than the wind through the cracked windows.

She had one foot up on the dashboard, something Steve hated but put up with, heel resting against the glovebox, her head leaning against the window. Her ponytail bounced lazily with every bump in the road. Her fingers toyed with the hem of her striped tank top, twisting the fabric unconsciously. The warmth through the glass was kind of perfect—just shy of uncomfortable. It smelled like cornfields. Like bugs hitting the windshield. Like June.

She caught Steve giving her a helpless look. His hands stayed on the wheel, but his face said what the hell is he even talking about.

“Are you even hearing this?” Dustin asked suddenly, leaning forward between the seats.

Steve didn’t answer. He glanced at Mac, like maybe she could provide a translation.

She didn’t look away from the window. “I think you lost him at ‘Commodore 64.’”

“I don’t even know what that means,” Steve muttered.

“It means you’re old,” Dustin called cheerfully from the backseat.

Mac smirked, stretching her legs out again. “Brutal.”

Before anyone could add to the roast, Dustin sat up straighter. “Scheduled pee break in three minutes!”

Steve blinked. “Scheduled?”

“Yeah, I charted the route last night,” Dustin said proudly. “Factored in gas mileage, elevation changes, estimated hydration levels—”

“Oh my god,” Steve groaned. “Are we on a science field trip or in a cult?”

Mac laughed and pointed. “Rest stop sign. Next exit.”

Steve took it without another word, merging off the highway and coasting into a small, sunbaked lot marked Salt Creek Travel Plaza – Est. 1977. The sign swung lazily in the breeze, one of the bolts visibly rusted. There were two vending machines outside, a handful of faded green picnic tables, and a squat brick building with a bathroom sign crooked over one door.

As soon as they came to a stop, Dustin launched himself out of the car, practically tripping over his bag as he sprinted toward the restroom like his bladder was about to explode.

Mac opened her door slower, stepping out into the warmth with a soft sigh and a stretch that pulled at her spine. The heat stuck to her skin instantly, turning every inch of her outfit clingy—shorts riding up, her striped tank top rolling slightly at the hem. She tugged her waistband higher, fixed her belt, then shut the car door with a satisfying clunk.

Across the lot, she noticed a station wagon parked beside the vending machines. A cluster of college-aged girls stood around it—cut-off shorts, sunglasses, Coke cans in hand. One of them noticed Steve getting out of the car and nudged her friend. The rest followed her gaze.

And of course, he chose that exact moment to lean against the driver’s side door, sunglasses on, arms crossed, like a goddamn Levi’s ad from a gas station calendar.

Mac groaned internally.

“Jesus Christ,” she muttered under her breath, mostly to herself.

He didn’t seem to notice the attention. Or maybe he did. With Steve, it was always hard to tell. He had that annoyingly natural way of pretending he didn’t see things he absolutely saw.

Rolling her eyes, Mac turned and walked across the lot toward the building. She made a beeline for the vending machines, already scanning for sour candy or anything that crunched.

“You know they were staring at you, right?” she said without turning around.

He scoffed. “Don’t start.”

She just smiled and dropped a few quarters into the machine.

Steve hadn’t actually noticed the girls at first.

Honestly, he was too busy pretending Mac in summer clothes wasn’t actively ruining his brain for the day. So when she walked up to the vending machines and started poking at buttons like she was defusing a bomb, he just followed.

She was already mid-selection when he joined her.

“Sour straws, Twizzlers, and Dr. Pepper?” he asked, peering over her shoulder. “You gonna chase that with a stomachache or just the regret?”

Mac glanced back at him with a smirk. “Bold words from a guy whose idea of a snack is whatever’s closest to beige.”

“Beige snacks are reliable,” he said. “They don’t betray you.”

She didn’t answer. Just pulled out her Twizzlers, unwrapped one, and smacked him lightly in the face with it before taking a bite.

Steve rubbed his jaw and rolled his eyes. “Assault by licorice. Cute.”

He stepped forward to make his own selection—salted peanuts, a bag of plain chips, and a root beer. Mac watched him the whole time like she was personally offended by his choices.

“God, you eat like a tired dad.”

“Better than eating like a twelve-year-old at a carnival.”

“I’m at peace with who I am.”

“Are you?” he asked, eyeing the sour straws hanging out of her mouth like a cartoon character.

Before she could fire back, the group of girls from the station wagon wandered over.

They were definitely counselors—same red camp shirts, cut-off shorts, and matching hair scrunchies that screamed girls trip . One of them eyed Steve like she’d just spotted a limited-edition handbag. The rest weren’t subtle about checking him out either.

Steve froze.

Mac leaned against the machine, idly chewing on her candy, watching with mild interest.

“Hey,” the one in front said, smiling a little too brightly. “You on your way to Camp Larkspur?”

Steve blinked. “Uh. No. Different camp.”

One of the other girls looked at Mac, then back to him. “Your girlfriend?”

There was a beat.

He glanced at Mac, then back to the group. And for some reason—without even thinking about it—he said, “Yeah.”

Mac’s head turned fast enough to cause whiplash. “What.”

Steve threw an arm over her shoulder like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Yep. Girlfriend.”

She stared at him, wide-eyed, but didn’t say anything—probably too stunned to form words. He gave the girls a little wave as they giggled, grabbed their snacks, and moved along.

“Dude!” came Dustin’s voice behind them. “Why are you touching Mac like that?”

The girls cracked up. Steve closed his eyes like he’d just been shot.

“Let’s go,” he muttered, grabbing Mac’s arm and steering her toward the car.

They climbed back in—Steve in the driver’s seat, Mac beside him, Dustin already halfway through a juice box in the back.

There was a long second of silence.

Then Mac said, completely deadpan, “So… girlfriend, huh?”

“I panicked,” Steve muttered, pulling out of the rest stop. “They were asking.”

Dustin leaned forward. “Since when do you panic around girls?”

“Shut up,” Steve said.

Mac just shoved another Twizzler in her mouth.

He sighed dramatically. “Next stop, I’m leaving both of you in a ditch.”

But the smile on his face didn’t quite match the threat.

They drove on, the road stretching ahead in lazy golden curves. The trip was just beginning. And Steve had the strangest feeling it was about to get a lot more complicated. 

“We’re lost.”

They were supposed to be home over an hour ago. Dropped Dustin off, with Mac pretending she was totally fine with it and definitely not emotional. And by this time they should've been back in Hawkins. 

Instead, they were somewhere… not Indiana.

Steve sighed and glanced down at the ruined map, still sticky with soda. The roads were smudged into a brown blur, and Mac had insisted she “had a sense of direction.” That had been forty-five minutes ago. Now the sun was starting to set, the cassette had warbled into silence, and the road signs were looking less and less familiar.

Especially this one.

Steve squinted as they passed a large green sign:
“Welcome to Illinois.”

“Are you kidding me?” he snapped, hitting the brakes a little too hard as he veered off into the next gas station. 

Mac had the audacity to still look smug, until she read the sign too.

“…Oh,” she muttered.

“Oh?” Steve repeated, throwing the car into park and flopping back against the seat with a groan. “We’re in another state. How does that even happen?”

“Well, maybe if you hadn’t let me hold the map,” Mac shot back, crossing her arms.

Steve gave her a look. “You spilled soda on it!”

“It was an accident!”

“And then you said, and I quote: ‘I’ve got this, I’m basically a human compass.’”

Mac opened her mouth, then shut it again. After a long beat, she sighed. “Fine. Let’s just go inside and buy a new map.”

He looked at her. “Mac… we’re still hours from Hawkins. Even if we get a map, we’re not making it back before midnight. I’m exhausted and I’m definitely not letting you drive my car. We’ll end up in Kentucky.”

Her expression shifted slightly—frustration turning to tiredness, then something quieter. “Okay. So what do you want me to do? Magically teleport us back? Sprout wings?”

He didn’t answer. He was scanning the horizon, already dreading the idea of another few hours behind the wheel, half-blind in the dark with no idea where they were going.

That’s when he saw it.

Off to the right, just across the intersection, a neon sign flickered to life—casting a pink glow over an otherwise deserted stretch of road.

“Motel 69 – Color TV! Air Conditioning! Hourly Rates!”

Steve exhaled sharply. “Look, I’ve got cash. We’ll grab a room, crash for the night, and head out first thing.”

Mac squinted in the direction he was pointing. “We are not staying at a place called Motel 69.”

"It’s just a number, you perv.” He gestured around them. “Plus, do you see any other options out here? ’Cause I don’t.”

She hesitated, then groaned. “If some hitchhiker comes to murder us, I’m using you as a human shield.”

“I’ll die with air conditioning,” Steve muttered, turning the ignition.

They drove in silence for the short stretch across the road. As they turned into the lot, both of them leaned forward instinctively—eyes narrowing at the glowing sign above the office and the series of rooms beyond it.

That’s when it hit them.

There were themed doors. Murals. Neon signs labeling rooms things like The Jungle Room and Venus' Lair. A large painted banner on the side wall read:
“Fantasy Escapes – Ask About Our Hourly Rates!”

Steve slowly put the car in park. Mac stared.

“…No way,” she said.

“Oh my god,” Steve whispered. “It’s a love motel.”

Mac turned to him, eyes wide with accusation.

“ It’s just a number! ” She mocked.

He held up his hands. “I didn’t know! I thought it was just, like… run-down!”

She pointed at a glittery pink door across the lot with a sign nailed to it. “That one says Pleasure Island, Steve.”

Steve was already rubbing a hand down his face. “I just wanna sleep, Mac.”

Mac didn’t say anything.

“Maybe they have normal rooms too,” he offered weakly.

Her glare could’ve cracked glass. But she got out of the car anyway.

He followed her toward the motel office, trying not to read the fine print on the sign about Complimentary Handcuffs Available Upon Request.

A bell jingled as Mac opened the door. She stepped inside without a word.

Steve followed her in, and the door shut behind them.

The motel office smelled like old potpourri and a dusty floor fan turned lazily in the corner, doing absolutely nothing to combat the humidity. Fake flowers drooped from a wicker basket on the counter, and behind it stood a woman who looked like she’d stepped straight out of a B-movie truck stop scene: bleached blonde hair in stiff curls, turquoise eyeliner, pink frosted lips, and a name tag that read Bernice .

Steve said nothing, probably still trying to process the glowing red sign outside. . They’d pulled in without noticing.

Bernice looked up from her Harlequin romance novel and beamed. “Well, aren’t you two just the cutest damn thing I’ve seen all day.”

Mac immediately shook her head. “We’re not—”

“Now what kind of room were y’all thinking?” Bernice cut in smoothly, flipping open a laminated binder. “We’ve got the Rodeo Room —great for cowboys, if you like rope. Or the Cosmic Suite —that one’s real popular with the freaky types.”

Steve blinked. “I’m sorry, the what room?”

“The Cosmic Suite,” she repeated with a wink. “Blacklight stars on the ceiling, rotating bed, and a—well, surprise feature I won’t spoil.”

Mac stared. “We really just need somewhere to sleep.”

Bernice looked them over like she was assessing their kinks. Her eyes landed on Mac’s shorts, the safety pins on her belt, the combat boots.

“Oooh, you’ve got a little edge, don’t you?” she said with delight. “We’ve got the Dungeonette —classy little bondage theme. Real subtle. Candlelight and everything.”

Mac’s mouth opened but no words came out.

“But you…” Bernice turned to Steve. “You look like a romantic type. Vanilla. Maybe not the chains. Something gentler, hmm?”

“Hey… ” Steve said, mildly offended.

“Oh hush,” Bernice said, already flipping pages. “I’ve got something perfect for you— Cherry Blossom Hideaway . Real tasteful. Silk sheets, heart-shaped headboard, the works.”

“Okay,” Mac said, raising a hand. “We don’t need… any of that. Just something normal. Plain. Regular.”

Bernice raised a penciled brow. “Plain? You sure?”

Steve held up his wallet. “We got lost. We’re just looking for a place to crash.”

“ Mmm-hmm .” Bernice nodded, eyes twinkling like she didn’t believe a word of it. “First time, huh?”

“No,” Steve said way too fast.

Bernice grinned, plucking a key from the wall and sliding it across the counter. “Room 4. We call it the Sunset Room . Calmest one we’ve got. Nothing too fancy.”

Mac hesitated. “Does it have two beds?”

Bernice laughed . “Oh, honey. Not here.”

Of course.

Steve paid and Mac took the key, muttering a thanks as Bernice went back to her book, clearly pleased with herself.

They stepped back out into the warm night air, the neon sign buzzing faintly overhead as they made their way toward the far end of the lot. The room was tucked beside a fake wishing well and an empty soda machine.

Steve ran a hand through his hair. “You sure we don’t want to sleep in the car?”

“Don’t tempt me,” Mac muttered, unlocking the door.

The Sunset Room was… tolerable.

That was the word Steve landed on as they stepped inside, and it wasn’t meant as an insult—just an honest assessment of a place clearly trying to sell “romance” on a budget. The wallpaper was a soft peach floral, the lighting dim and kind of golden, and there were silk roses in a vase on the nightstand that might’ve looked classy if they weren’t covered in dust.

But it wasn’t any of that that caught his attention first.

No. It was the mirror.

Directly above the bed.

Steve blinked up at it and Mac did too.

“Why,” she asked flatly, “would anyone—”

Steve immediately held up a hand, eyes still fixed on the ceiling. “Nope. Don’t. Don’t think about it. Don’t picture it. Don’t analyze it.”

She snorted and shook her head, grabbing the folded motel robe from the foot of the bed.

“I’m showering first,” she said, already heading for the bathroom.

“Be my guest.”

The door shut behind her with a soft click, and Steve—still wearing the same outfit he’d thrown on at six in the morning—finally let out a long, dragging sigh and sat on the edge of the bed. It creaked underneath him. Of course it did.

He turned on the TV mostly out of habit, flipping through channels with one hand while the other tugged off his sneakers.

And immediately, he regretted it.

Moaning.

More moaning.

A man in a pirate hat.

“Oh my god,” Steve muttered, flipping again.

Next channel—still porn. But this one had worse lighting. Were they in a barn?

The third one was a cartoon. A sexy cartoon.

“Jesus Christ.”

He landed on something that looked like a movie—finally, something normal—and then a second later, someone in a maid costume said something entirely unrepeatable and the scene escalated fast.

He scrambled to turn it off, fumbling the remote as it slipped between the pillows. “Shit—”

That’s when the bathroom door opened.

Mac stood there in the motel robe, towel twisted up in her hair, one eyebrow already raised. “Am I interrupting something?”

“No!” he practically shouted, diving for the remote. “The TV’s broken. Not broken. Just—pre-programmed. With porn.”

Mac rolled her eyes like she’d already guessed that. “Of course it is.”

“I wasn’t—watching it.”

“I didn’t ask.”

“I wasn’t.”

“I believe you.”

“You don’t sound like you do.”

“I do.” Her face was deadpan. “Totally believe you, Steve.”

He groaned and pushed off the bed. “I’m taking a shower.”

“You do that.”

By the time he stepped into the motel’s tiny shower stall, his entire body felt overheated—not just from the day, not from the awkwardness, but from the sheer volume of thoughts running wild in his brain.

He didn’t think they’d be spending the night anywhere. Definitely didn’t expect it to be here. In robes. On silk sheets. Under a mirror.

It was possibly the most bizarre, inconvenient, mentally hazardous situation he had ever experienced.

And that included demogorgons.

When he emerged, hair still damp, his motel robe tied sloppily over a pair of black briefs, he found Mac lying on the bed sideways, one knee bent, flipping between the few remaining TV channels until she finally landed on something safe—a rerun of some late-night game show that looked at least vaguely normal.

Steve crossed the room, rubbing the back of his neck, and sat carefully on the far side of the bed. There was enough space between them to fit another person. Two, maybe.

“Found something?” he asked.

“Not porn,” she replied.

“Score.”

They didn’t say anything for a moment. Just sat there. In silence. In robes. Under a sex mirror.

Steve adjusted the belt of his robe and stared at the TV without really watching.

Both of them called their houses after they settled in. Patti wasn't mad, just worried, made Mac put Steve on the phone to make sure she wasn’t kidnapped. Steve’s parents didn't answer. Mac called Claudia after and told her Dustin was at camp safe, trying and failing to dodge a million questions about their road trip mishap.

It was sometime after nine when they both gave up trying to sleep and ended up watching Jeopardy! instead.

Mac sat cross-legged on one side of the bed, robe knotted loosely around her, hair still damp around her shoulders. Steve was sprawled out on the other side, hair slightly curled from the steam of the motel shower. Between them sat a bag of microwave popcorn. They’d made a vending machine run after Steve’s shower, slipping past Bernice’s front office with nothing but motel robes and sheepish expressions. She gave them a look like she’d already planned their wedding. Mac refused to make eye contact.

“Category is—U.S. Geography,” Alex Trebek announced.

“Oh, this one’s mine,” Steve said, confidently.

“You almost failed geography,” Mac pointed out.

“Yeah, but I also didn't lead us into Illinois.”

She rolled her eyes and popped a piece of popcorn into her mouth just as the clue came up on screen. Something about the second-longest river entirely within one state. Steve blurted an answer that sounded wrong, and Mac gave him a look.

“You’re way off.”

“No, I’m right,” he insisted, pointing a greasy finger at the screen.

“You’re absolutely not. It’s the Hudson.”

“It’s the Susquehanna,” he said, smug.

“You made that up.”

“I did not.”

The answer flashed on screen.

What is the Susquehanna River?

Mac blinked. “Are you serious?”

Steve gave a triumphant little cheer, sitting up straighter. “Told you. Bow before my knowledge.”

She rolled her eyes and tossed a handful of popcorn at his face. “You just got lucky.”

He smirked, brushing the kernels from his chest. “ Honey ,” he said in a voice that was clearly mocking some sleazy movie husband, “you’re gonna get the silk sheets greasy.”

Mac gave him a flat look, then shoved his arm. “Please. These sheets have probably seen worse fluids.”

“Jesus Christ,” Steve said, scandalized, and reached for the popcorn bag. “I’m throwing this at you for even saying that.”

He flung a few pieces back at her, and just like that, it escalated. Mac yelped, batting them away and lunging to wrest the bag from him.

“Give me that!”

“You brought this on yourself!”

They grappled, laughing as popcorn flew, the crinkly bag rustling between them. Steve tried to roll away but she followed, landing half on top of him as she wrestled the bag free. Her hair was a little more wild as she straddled his legs, triumphant.

“Victory!” she announced, breathless.

He was laughing, face flushed, robe slightly rumpled. “You’re a menace.”

“Maybe,” she said, still grinning.

And then she stopped grinning.

Because she suddenly noticed the way her knees bracketed his thighs, how warm the room felt now, how close they were. Her robe had fallen open just slightly, the tie loose. Beneath it, only her bra and underwear. She could feel the press of her thighs against his, the faint rise of his chest against her hand where she’d braced herself.

And then she felt… well .

Her breath caught and her eyes flicked to his face—and he was still smiling, soft and amused, almost unaware of the shift. His eyes met hers and he tilted his head.

“What?” he asked, genuinely, that same dopey grin on his face.

That grin faded fast as something clicked behind his eyes. His face went a little red. He tried—too fast—to sit up, and they nearly collided. Mac scrambled off, heart in her throat, retreating to her side of the bed and clutching the robe tighter around herself.

Silence. Thick, awkward silence.

She cleared her throat and focused hard on the popcorn bag between them. Steve adjusted his robe and sat back against the headboard, trying too hard to look chill.

Neither of them spoke.

Outside, the motel sign buzzed faintly in the distance, but inside, the bed creaked as they each scooted a little further apart.

Jeopardy played on, Trebek and the contestants blissfully unaware.

Lucky them , Mac thought.

They hadn’t said a word in at least two commercial breaks.

Which wouldn’t be weird except… every single one felt like it was mocking him. One for chocolate-covered strawberries, another for perfume with a tagline that practically purred "unleash your desire," and then, just to really rub it in, a mattress ad featuring a couple clearly meant to be having very quiet, tasteful sex.

He sat completely still, eyes on the TV, but his brain was buzzing and his body… it had made some decisions without consulting him first.

In his defense, it wasn’t like he meant to get hard in a sleazy motel bed. He was trying not to. Really. But she looked…

She was all curves , full hips and soft skin and a chest he was very aware of even when he wasn’t trying to be. And somehow, somehow , she’d just flopped down beside him like none of that mattered, like she wasn’t crawling into bed in just a robe and underwear. It was bittersweet, the feeling of her being that comfortable with him. Like he was special and also not even an option at the same time.

Then she laughed— really laughed—and tackled him sideways, and suddenly she was on top of him, warm and flushed and straddling his lap like it didn’t mean anything.

His body didn’t get the memo.

She was heavy in the way people only were when they trusted you, soft in every way his hands weren’t allowed to explore. He felt the press of her thighs bracketing his hips, the faint give of her stomach against his torso, the bounce of her chest as she moved. The heat of her was immediate and impossible to ignore. He didn’t even have time to think before his body betrayed him.

But when she froze, everything else did too. Like someone hit pause, then fast-forward, and now here they were… pretending to watch TV, pretending they weren’t both thinking about it.

Pretending his heart wasn’t still racing from the feel of her.

He risked a glance at her now, trying not to move his head. She hadn’t shifted in a while. Eyes glued to the screen, jaw tight.

He turned away, eyes scanning his own nightstand. After 10pm. They should’ve been home hours ago. Should’ve dropped her off and gone back to their usual lives. Instead, he was in a love motel with a girl who didn’t even like to hug people unless she really trusted them—one who now probably thought he was a creep for getting hard the second she got closer to him than usual.

He grabbed the remote, clicked off the TV, brushed the popcorn crumbs off the sheets, and cleared his throat. “We should probably try to sleep. Gonna have to head out early if we want to make it back by noon.”

She gave a small nod, didn’t look at him. “Yeah.”

She clicked off her lamp and shifted under the covers. He did the same. The sheets were too warm. Everything was too warm.

They both stared up at the ceiling.

The fucking mirror.

It wasn’t like it reflected anything explicit. Just… the two of them lying side by side. His own side of the unfortunately thin blanket tented in a way he really hoped wasn’t noticeable. Their eyes met for the briefest second before she rolled to her side and slid a pillow between them.

Ouch. But also… fair.

He stared up for another moment, then exhaled sharply through his nose. 

“Just so you know,” he started, “it’s not a big deal. I mean… you were on top of me. And it’s been a while. So… totally normal, like… a reflex or whatever. It’s not about you.”

The second the words left his mouth, he regretted them.

She was quiet for a beat. “Right,” she said. Her voice was unreadable.

Shit.

“No—I didn’t mean—” He shifted onto his side, facing the pillow between them. “I just didn’t want you to think I was being… Look, you’re my friend. You’re obviously—” He waved a hand in the dark, then realized she couldn’t see it. “You’re pretty. I mean, like—you’ve got, like… curves. And, y’know. The whole… chest situation. I just—”

“Steve,” she cut in, soft. “Stop.”

He did. Her voice wasn’t angry. Just tired. Tired and a little embarrassed.

“I get it,” she added, quieter. “It’s fine.”

He stared at the pillow. His stupid, cotton barrier. The motel sheets rustled as she shifted a little farther away.

A minute passed. Then another.

He broke it first. “Normally, we’d be on the phone right now. Talking about nothing.”

She didn’t answer right away.

Then: “Normally, you wouldn’t have a boner right now.”

He groaned into his arm. “I don’t—” He stopped. Because he totally still did. 

She snorted. He heard her try to hide it, but it was there.

“Can we just…” he trailed off. “Forget it happened?”

“Sure,” she said, almost believable. “We’re good at that. We’ve probably repressed worse.”

He smiled, barely. “Best in the Midwest.”

"You still awake?"

Mac glanced up—not at him, but at the mirror. It was dark enough now that their reflections were faint, soft outlines in silver. She could just barely make out the shape of Steve on his side, back turned.

“Yeah,” she answered quietly.

“Me too.”

She didn’t respond. Her heart was still tapping out a nervous rhythm, even though it had been—what? An hour? More? Since the world’s most awkward motel moment. And still, the echo of it lingered.

Her gaze flicked back to the mirror, to that dim, ghostly outline of the two of them. The pillow between them felt more like a barricade now, but the strange part was—she didn’t really want distance. Not anymore.

It wasn’t just the embarrassment. It was the afterglow of something that never quite happened. The way her skin still buzzed faintly. The low swoop in her stomach every time she remembered how solid his chest had felt beneath her. How warm he was. How real.

“I’ve only ever shared a bed with Eddie before,” she said suddenly, her voice too loud in the hush.

There was a beat.

“And Robin,” she added, too quickly. “But I meant—like, with guys.”

Steve was quiet. Then let out a soft breath, almost a laugh. “That’s… still different. You and Eddie were, you know…”

“God. That was the least important part of whatever we were.”

She could practically feel the surprise on his end. A shift in the air.

“I mean like, we’ve always been close. Even as kids. It was never really about that. And, later, when it was…”

She shrugged, even though he couldn’t see her.

“What I’m trying to say is I’m used to ‘ boys being boys ’. I’ve slept over Eddie’s since I was fourteen. Which was when he had to explain morning wood to me, so you can imagine how mortifying that was for both of us.”

Steve groaned faintly. “Well, I’m eighteen, not fourteen. And it's night time. Which somehow makes this worse.”

“Exactly,” she teased. “Now I can hold this over you.”

Another groan. “Great.”

She let the moment hang, then softened. “I wouldn’t.”

His voice, when it came, was gentler. “Thanks.”

Despite herself, her thighs pressed together slightly under the blanket—an unconscious attempt to settle the low hum curling deep in her stomach.

She turned her body toward him. “Hey…”

“Yeah?”

“Has it really been a while? Since you’ve… y’know.”

Steve hesitated. “Yeah. Since Nancy.”

“That was like… half a year ago.”

A pause.

“Eight months,” he said.

She blinked. “Seriously?”

He rolled over slowly—like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed. His arm rested near the pillow between them, not crossing it. When his eyes met hers, they were soft. Open, but careful.

“When would I even have the time?” he said, mouth tilting into a tired half-smile. “Between monsters and middle schoolers… and talking to you every night. Schedule’s kinda packed.”

Her lips twitched. “Weirdly flattering.”

“Just facts.”

She studied him now. The way his hair curled a little more in the heat. How the dim light caught on the curve of his jaw. She’d seen Steve in all kinds of light—glaring, flickering, soaked in blood and sweat—but this was different. He looked softer. Like someone unfolding.

She wanted to say something. Anything. But her brain couldn’t find the shape of the words.

So instead, she whispered, “Okay.”

Steve smiled again—just for her. Small. Honest. Close enough to reach.

It hit her harder than it should’ve. Like standing at the edge of a stage, lights flaring behind her. A hush before the first note.

Her eyes dropped to the pillow. Her fingers toyed with the corner, fidgeting, trying to quiet the restless energy alive in her limbs.

"I haven’t been with anyone since Eddie left," she said, barely above a whisper. It came out before she could decide if it mattered. But it did. “Obviously.”

He didn’t answer right away. His brow creased, but not in a way she could read. Not jealous. Not smug. Just… something quiet.

“Are you two still… y’know, whatever you were? Even with him in Indy?”

She shook her head. “We talked about it. Before he left. Said we needed to figure out who we were outside of each other. He’s still my person, but… that part’s on pause.”

She watched his face carefully. There was something there—an almost imperceptible shift in his jaw, like he was trying not to give himself away.

“Maybe over,” she added, quieter.

He looked at her longer this time. Something flickering behind his eyes that made her stomach twist.

“If he hadn’t left,” he asked, “would it still be over?”

She hesitated. Looked up at the mirror again—their odd little motel portrait, grainy and silver. Then back at him.

“Yeah,” she said. “It was fading even before. We just didn’t want to say it out loud.”

The pause that followed was different. Weightier. The kind that knew where it was going but didn’t dare get there too fast.

“Sometimes I miss it,” she said, quietly.

Steve turned his head slightly, brows lifting just a little. “Like… being with someone?”

Mac hesitated. “No. I mean—yeah, sure, that too. But I was talking about…” She paused, cheeks warm even in the dark. “The sex part. Specifically.”

He blinked once. “Oh.”

“Yeah.” She bit her lip.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then she let out a breath—tired, almost shaky.

“I don’t usually say that part out loud. Not to anyone.”

He turned fully onto his side again, one hand tucking under his head. “Why not?”

“Because it’s different for girls. We’re not supposed to say we want it. Or that we like it. Especially not girls like me.”

She didn’t need to explain. He knew exactly what she meant.

“The rumors,” Steve said quietly.

Mac nodded, eyes still fixed somewhere near the edge of the ceiling. “I feel like even just admitting I enjoy it makes people think they were right all along. That I’m just some trailer park slut who’ll let anyone touch her.”

The words came out low and bitter, heavier than she meant them to. But they were true. That’s what scared her.

Steve didn’t say anything at first. She could feel the tension change, though—the way the air shifted slightly, like he’d drawn in a breath and was holding it.

Then, softly, “Mac. It’s just me here.”

“I know.” Her voice felt too small in the space between them. “That’s kind of the problem.”

She didn’t have to look at him to know he was confused. Could practically hear the quiet furrow of his brow.

“What do you mean?”

Mac swallowed, throat tight. Her fingers clenched in the blanket.

“I care what you think.”

There. Out loud. No taking it back now.

She could feel the silence that followed like a weight settling on her chest. He didn’t rush to respond. That was worse somehow. She tried to brace herself—for pity, for discomfort, for some attempt at reassurance that would only make her feel worse.

But when he spoke, his voice was steady. Warm.

“That doesn’t change anything. You saying that. If anything, it… I don’t know. It makes you more—” He stopped.

She turned her head slightly. “More what?”

“Real.”

Mac let out a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh. “You always talk like that when you’re trying not to freak out?”

That got a groan from him as he flopped onto his back. “I’m not freaking out.”

“Your voice got weird.”

“Because we’re talking about sex. In a motel bed. Wearing barely anything. And I’m still, unfortunately, a red-blooded male with working eyes and a heartbeat.”

That made her laugh—an actual laugh. Soft, startled. She bit down on a smile and looked away.

“Okay,” she said. “That’s fair.”

There was a pause. Something calmer now. Something easier.

She turned her gaze back up toward the ceiling, her voice barely above a whisper. “It’s kind of nice, though. Being able to say this stuff out loud. To you.”

His reply came just as quiet.

“Yeah. It is.”

They laid there. Still. Tense in places. Soft in others. The heat between them humming steady now, not spiking but simmering.

Steve was doing everything he could not to let his thoughts wander. One hand rested flat against the rise and fall of his stomach, the other tucked behind his head, elbow bent outward like it might anchor him there. The motel robe had fallen open slightly at the collar, baring the top of his chest to the hush of cool air. His situation had calmed down a while ago, but this conversation was threatening a rerun.

He could still feel the warmth of her beside him. Not touching, not even close enough for it to count, but present. Tangible. Like static.

"I miss it too," he said, not quite realizing the words were leaving his mouth until they were already hanging there.

Mac didn’t move. But she answered. "Of course you do. You just said you’re a teenage boy."

He let out a breath that was close to a laugh, but not quite. More like air trying to escape the weight pressing on his chest.

"Yeah," he said. "But I miss the... I don’t know. The closeness of it. Just touching. Not even the sex part, really. Just... that feeling. Like someone wants to be near you."

His voice dipped near the end. He didn’t mean it to.

He went quiet for a beat. Let the silence press around him, but not in a bad way. More like insulation. Familiar.

The thing was, he had always been that guy. The one who pulled girls close and tucked their feet under his on the couch. The one who kissed bare shoulders just because they were there. The one who held hands in public, and behind closed doors, and under covers.

He hadn't grown up in a house where people touched. No one ruffled his hair or hugged him just to do it. And maybe that was why he'd chased it so hard later. Because it felt good. Because it felt like something he could actually give. Something he knew how to want.

And yeah, sometimes he'd hooked up just for that. Not the sex, not really. Just the warmth. The weight of someone against him. The brief illusion that he wasn’t alone.

"A lot of the time, I think I only hooked up with girls just to feel close to someone," he said, voice low. Honest. "Even if we weren’t dating. And then, when I was dating someone, it always felt like I was too much. Like I didn’t know how to turn it off."

Mac shifted slightly. Not away. Just enough that her voice felt closer when she spoke.

"You know, it's kinda sad," she said, soft but with a small smile he could hear. "In a poetic, sitcom irony kinda way. We both care way too much what people think, but in opposite directions. You worry about being too soft, and I worry about being too..."

"Easy?" he offered gently.

She snorted. "Thanks."

"You know what I mean."

"Yeah. I do."

A pause.

Then, her voice even softer: "I could move the pillow. If you wanted. To be closer."

His chest tightened. Oh God, of course he wanted that. He wanted that so badly it ached. Just to be near her. To feel her against his side, to know she felt safe enough with him to offer. But...

His lower half was still reacting in ways that were definitely about closeness, just not the kind she meant. He was conflicted because he didn’t want to ruin this. Didn’t want to just say ‘no’ and have her feel rejected again. Not like prom. He had no choice but to be honest.

He turned his head slightly, careful. "I really, really want that," he said, voice hoarse with the effort of restraint. "But maybe not...now."

A beat. Then, when he risked a glance at her, she was blushing, clearly trying not to laugh.

He couldn’t help the soft smile that pulled at his mouth. "Stop looking so smug."

She turned her head to face him fully, eyes meeting his. And for a second—just a second—she glanced downward.

Almost unnoticeable.

Then her gaze lifted again, meeting his with something that felt like curiosity and… permission.

Steve swallowed, slow. The hand that had been resting on his stomach inched lower.

He didn’t say anything, just held her gaze.

And when she didn’t look away, didn’t flinch, didn’t move at all, his hand slipped lower.

When she spoke, her voice was softer than he’d ever heard it. A new register. Uncertain, but not timid. "Sometimes it just helps you sleep," she said.

She didn’t say what. Didn’t have to. They were far beyond the point of pretending now.

Steve’s throat was tight, but he nodded. He knew exactly what she meant.

Beneath the blanket, her hand shifted—slow, deliberate, trembling slightly as it moved lower, disappearing from view.

He turned his head a little more, voice low. Careful. "You don’t have to... if you don’t want to."

She swallowed, eyes on the ceiling. "I can’t sleep either."

She meant that. He could tell. But she meant something else too—something deeper, needier, unnamed.

He didn’t push. Didn’t question it.

He just began again, letting his hand move in time with the ache he hadn’t let himself feel all night.

"Should I still talk to you?" he asked, breath catching. "Or would that be more weird?"

There was the softest puff of a laugh from her side of the bed. Not mocking. Not embarrassed. Just... real.

"It’d be weirder if you didn’t."

He nodded once, too quickly. Let out a slow exhale. "Okay."

The quiet wrapped around them again. But this time it wasn’t awkward—it buzzed with the weight of everything unspoken.

"What do you think about?" he asked, voice rough but gentle.

Her face flushed, even in the low light.

“Hey, no it’s okay…” Before she could answer, he quickly added, "I can… tell you what I think about?"

Mac’s chest rose and fell with a shaky rhythm, her breath catching somewhere between anticipation and release. Her hand was still beneath the blanket, not moving, but every part of her felt alive—buzzing, warm, barely tethered to the bed beneath her. She could hear Steve’s breathing, could feel the weight of his eyes without looking. She didn’t know what this was.

He’d asked if he could tell her what he thinks about. And she wanted that—wanted it like a secret she didn’t know she was allowed to want until now.

“Yeah,” she said, voice hoarse, breathy. “You can do that.”

There was a beat. Then his voice, low and uncertain, like each word came with the risk of breaking something:

“Sometimes I just think about the shape of her. No specific girl. Just her sounds. The way she moves when she’s trying not to let go. I imagine kissing her, slow, not because we’re working up to something, but because I just… want to keep kissing her.”

Mac’s hand began to move again under the blanket, her thighs parting slightly. She didn’t look at him, but she listened—closely.

“I think about touching her everywhere first. Her arms, her hips. Not rushing. Just learning her. I like when it’s not about the finish. When it’s about the build. I think about how her breathing changes when I go lower. The way she arches just a little when she wants more but won’t say it yet.”

Mac let out a breath she hadn’t meant to. Her hand shifted lower, more sure now. She couldn’t help it—the words, the voice, the picture he painted—it made her ache in a new way.

She let out a tiny sound, and instantly heard Steve inhale like it hit him in the chest.

Her eyes squeezed shut. “Sorry,” she whispered, voice shaky. “Didn’t mean to…”

Steve’s voice came quick, soft, and sure. “Hey. You’re okay. You don’t have to be quiet.”

Mac’s hand stuttered slightly, her breath catching in her throat. She wasn’t sure if it was from what he said or how he said it. Maybe both.

There was silence. Then a low sound from his side of the bed—rougher now, but different this time. Barely restrained.

She blinked, throat tight. “What else?” she asked before she could stop herself, barely a whisper.

Steve’s voice was tighter now, still soft but strained. “I think about pressing her legs open, slow, just enough to fit between. I think about her eyes on mine while I make her feel good. Saying her name while she’s close, just so she knows I’m still there. That I’m not leaving.”

Her breath hitched hard. The pressure was building fast, overwhelming and deep.

Another sound slipped from her lips, louder this time. She bit down on the knuckles of her free hand.

Steve’s voice came again, just barely holding together. “You close?”

She nodded, squeezing her eyes shut. “Yeah—yeah.”

“That’s good,” he murmured, a little breathless. “Me too. You’re okay, Mac. You can…you’re okay….”

And then, somehow, the world narrowed. It wasn't like fireworks or a wave crashing. It was slow, a pull from deep inside her, and she wasn’t just thinking about some hazy fantasy—she was thinking about him, here, now, the boy who kept showing up when no one else did. Who didn't run when things got weird or dangerous.

She could feel her muscles tensing, her whole body tightening. The edge was there, not far now. But it wasn't enough. Not yet. Her breath was uneven, her body arching, desperate for something she couldn’t name.

Then, without thinking, she turned toward him. Just a shift in the air, as his eyes met hers. His pretty, warm eyes, full of something real.

That's what sent her over.

Her back arched just slightly and her mouth fell open, a silent, startled cry as the release took her, her knees pressing together. It wasn't loud, but it was honest in a way she couldn’t take back.

She looked up. Couldn’t help it.

In the mirror above, Steve was still looking. Still watching her. Like he needed to see it.

She let out a sound and her breath caught because... oh .

That was what made him tip over the edge. His head tipped back, chest rising with every pulse of his release. His hand worked himself under the blanket, his breath coming in short bursts. He spilled onto his stomach, onto the robe, not caring.

When he was done, he exhaled hard and let his hand fall back onto the bed, head tilting slightly. 

When he finally opened his eyes, they found hers in the mirror again.

They both stayed where they were, chests rising and falling, neither quite ready to speak. Mac wasn't sure what this was. How this happened. All she knew was, right now, it didn’t matter.

Because he was still looking.

The weight of what just happened sat low in Steve’s chest, warm and strange. His gaze dropped to the mess on his stomach, and he let out a quiet, slightly mortified laugh, dragging a hand down his face before letting his head fall back onto the pillow.

Of course the tissues were on her side of the nightstand. Of course.

He turned his head, voice rough. “Hey… can you—”

Mac was already reaching. She grabbed one for herself first, not looking at him, then wordlessly handed the rest over. Their fingers brushed.

Steve took them with a mumbled thanks, cleaned himself off quickly, and then, without much thought, reached across the pillow to hold his hand out for hers.

She raised an eyebrow. “I’m not giving you my—” She whispered the rest. “...cum tissue.”

He rolled his eyes and snatched the tissue out of her hand anyway, tossing them toward the trash can by the TV.

When they landed in the bin, Mac scoffed. “Of course.”

He grinned. “Three years of basketball.”

Looking down at his robe, now stained, Steve wrinkled his nose. “Okay, yeah, definitely not sleeping in that.”

He slipped it off and let it fall to the floor beside the bed, leaving him in just his briefs as he settled back against the mattress, exhaling hard. There was a second—a heartbeat—where he looked over, trying to think of something clever, something light to say.

But then he saw her face and in the sliver of light from the motel window, her profile was soft and still. Except for a few tears, sliding down her cheek.

His smile vanished. He could practically hear the thoughts she was mulling over in her head.

“Mac…” She didn’t look at him as he shifted toward her, careful not to close the space too quickly. “Hey. It’s okay. You can talk to me. You know that, right?”

Her breathing was tight and controlled, until it wasn't.

The sob that escaped her was raw, like something she’d been holding in for way too long. She wiped at her face with the sleeve of the robe, then her nose. It wasn’t cute. It wasn’t cinematic. Steve felt like his chest might split open.

“Mac…” He didn’t know what else to say. “I’m sorry. I—I don’t know if this was too much or—what do you need? Tell me what you need.”

She shook her head hard, still crying, and after a long beat she whispered, “Stupid pillow.”

His brows furrowed. “What?”

She grabbed it, the divider between them, and threw it to the ground. Steve stared at her for a second. A little surprised. But mostly—

He didn’t say it, but it was maybe the cutest thing she’d ever done.

“Come here,” he said gently, shifting, opening his arms just enough to make space for her. His voice stayed low, warm. “You can come here.”

Mac looked at him, eyes still wet, nose still red. She wiped at it again with her sleeve.

He raised an eyebrow. “Maybe without the snot robe?”

She narrowed her eyes at him, but it barely had bite. Her face was too soft, her expression too worn to be anything but open.

“I’m not gonna—” He waved a hand vaguely downward. “I’m good now. Satiated.”

She groaned. “Don’t say it like that.”

But she still slipped out of the robe and scooted closer.

She was still in her bra and underwear—plain black cotton, a little faded, maybe stretched at the waistband, the kind you wear because they’re comfortable and familiar, not because anyone’s meant to see them. The bra wasn’t lacey or delicate, just supportive and soft, the straps a little loose from years of wear. It was all so unmistakably her.

Steve hadn't seen her like this before, but he felt like maybe he wanted to more often. Because in that moment, in that light, in that space where everything was unspoken and raw, she looked like something honest. Not some ideal. Just Mac. Just her.

He looked at her with a quiet admiration as she got back in the bed. 

“I’m not facing you,” she said, voice still hoarse. “That’s weird.”

He let out a breath of a laugh. “And sweatier. I run hot.”

She gave a small nod and shifted slowly, rolling her back toward him.

Steve moved too, careful and slow, like every inch mattered. He slid closer, letting his chest press against her back as his arm slipped around her waist. She was warm, and her skin against his was soft in a way that almost undid him again.

He lowered his head, nestling his chin gently into her hair.

"Is this okay?" he whispered into her hair.

She nodded, barely.

Her hair smelled like drugstore shampoo and something sweeter underneath, the cherry spray she always used. 

His fingers flexed gently around the softness of her stomach—comfortable there, but careful. He didn’t venture higher or lower. Just rested there, like maybe if he stayed still long enough, the whole night would settle around them like dust.

“Steve?” she asked quietly, his name like a question.

“Yeah?”

She hesitated. Then, a little smaller, "Did you mean it? That I’m not easy?"

He smiled against the back of her shoulder, warm. “Mac… you're actually the most difficult girl I’ve ever met.”

She huffed, clearly rolling her eyes. Her hand smacked lightly at his.

But then she got quiet again. The tension in her voice shifted. “No, I mean it. For real.”

“Of course not,” he said. “You’re not.”

Another pause.

“Does this… change anything?” Her voice was so soft now it barely reached him. “Does it have to?”

God, it hurt . Because yeah—it changed everything.

But not in a way he could explain. Not in a way he was ready to risk. She’d just told him that her and Eddie weren’t a ‘thing’ anymore. That was probably still weird for her to navigate. And part of him knew it wasn’t the time for confessions and messy feelings. It was about relaxing, about feeling safe, about not being alone.

He told himself that over and over until he almost believed it.

But when she whispered, “Steve?” again, uncertain, he realized he hadn’t answered.

So instead of saying the things he felt, the things that ached at the edges of his chest, he pressed a kiss to her hair.

“Nothing’s different,” he whispered. “You’re still my best friend.”

And that—finally—seemed to be the right thing because her breath evened out, slowly, and soon she was asleep in his arms.

He lay there, holding her, watching the slow rise and fall of her shoulders, listening to the soft rhythm of her breath. Letting the quiet fill every space where the noise had been before. And even if he couldn’t say it out loud yet, he knew what he meant by those words.

He loved her.

Maybe not in love. Maybe not yet.

But he loved her. And he wasn’t going to risk losing her by rushing whatever this was. Not when it mattered this much. Not when he remembered the first time he said she was like a stray cat—just scared and waiting to see if the hand that fed her would hit her too.

He thought about her face earlier. The way she looked at him just before she came, eyes locked on his like they were the only two people left in the world. That wasn’t nothing. That meant something. It had to.

So no—he didn’t need to wait for her to come around.

She was already halfway there.

And when she was ready to see it, he’d still be right there with her.

Chapter Text

Tuesday, June 4th 1985

Mac woke slowly, caught in that strange place between dream and reality where everything felt a little too warm.

For a second, she thought maybe she was still dreaming. But then she felt it—the solid weight of an arm snug around her waist, warm breath at the nape of her neck, and a leg thrown haphazardly over hers. Her eyes opened properly this time, squinting against the soft morning light filtering through the slats of the blinds.

Blankets were halfway kicked off the bed, bunched near their ankles, tangled around one of his legs. Her leg.

Steve.

Her breath caught as her eyes shifted upward—mirror. Right. Still a mirror above the bed. She caught the reflection of them there: him, still asleep, completely wrapped around her like a living security blanket. His hand rested just under her ribs, fingers splayed over the curve of her stomach, gentle in a way that felt so natural coming from him.

She watched the mirror for a second too long.

He spoke last night about how he worried he was too touchy. Said it like a warning. And she realized she wasn’t really touchy at all. Not unless she really trusted someone. Not unless it was someone like Robin.

Or Eddie.

Or… now him.

She shifted a little, careful not to jolt him, just enough to turn in his arms. His hand immediately tightened around her, pulling her in closer with a sleepy murmur.

“Don’t leave,” he mumbled.

She blinked at him. He was still mostly asleep, lips barely moving, eyes shut. Her mouth twitched.

“Steve?” she whispered.

His brow furrowed slightly, but he didn’t open his eyes. “Mm?”

“You talk in your sleep.”

That got a sleepy smile out of him. His eyes cracked open just a little, squinting at her.

“I do not.”

She smirked. “You literally just said ‘don’t leave’ like you were starring in some low-budget soap opera.”

“I want a lawyer.”

“Nope. You’ve been caught.”

He made a grumbling noise, but there was the tiniest upward twitch at the corner of his mouth. She watched him shift onto his back, blinking slowly at the ceiling. His hair was a mess, his voice rough with sleep, and his briefs were…

Oh.

Her eyes flicked down, then quickly back up. She snorted softly. “Again?”

“What?” he asked, turning his head to look at her.

She gestured vaguely toward the lower half of his body.

She laughed under her breath. “It’s natural. Biology. I’m not judging.”

“I am,” Steve mumbled, scrubbing a hand over his face. “I’m absolutely judging myself.”

He sat up with a groan, dragging the blankets further off the bed as he moved.

“I’m taking a cold shower. Don’t look.”

Mac rolled onto her back, staring at the ceiling. “Wasn’t planning on it.”

He paused halfway to the bathroom like he was expecting more, then gave her a half-hearted middle finger without looking back.

“Charming,” she said dryly.

The door shut behind him with a soft click, and just like that, the room was quiet again.

Mac let out a long, slow breath.

The sheets were a mess—twisted, kicked halfway off, still faintly warm where he’d been. Her side smelled like motel detergent and cherry body spray. His side smelled like Steve.

She lay there for a second, not moving, watching the faint morning light shift across the ceiling.

She wasn’t someone who liked being held. Not usually. Not unless it meant something.

And maybe that was the part that unsettled her most.

Because now that he wasn’t wrapped around her anymore, she kind of missed it. In the shape of her spine, in the way her body still remembered where his hand had rested all night—gently, like he hadn’t wanted to let go.

It hadn’t meant nothing.

She didn’t know what it did mean. Not yet. But it hadn’t meant nothing.

So she laid there in the quiet, arms folded behind her head, eyes on the ceiling, and tried really hard not to think about how easy it had been to fall asleep like that.

Or how much harder it might be to forget it happened.

The diner was halfway to nowhere, tucked just off the highway with a flickering neon sign that read “DOT’S” and a menu laminated sometime before the moon landing. The air smelled like old coffee and syrup.

Steve stirred his Coke with a straw, watching Mac across the booth as she inhaled a plate of chocolate chip banana pancakes like she’d been raised in the wild.

He was still trying to decide if it was terrifying or kind of endearing.

Probably both.

She caught him staring somewhere between bites four and five, syrup smudged near the corner of her mouth.

“What?” she said, mouth full.

He shook his head, smiling. “Nothing. Just... really glad I went with the world’s saddest sandwich.”

He held up the depressing half of his tuna melt for emphasis. A single piece of wilted lettuce drooped out the side like it was trying to escape.

“It’s technically lunchtime,” he added, shrugging.

Mac narrowed her eyes at him like he was insane. “It’s a diner. Breakfast is always the move. What are you, some kind of rookie?”

“I didn’t know I was dealing with a pancake demon,” he muttered, taking a sip of his drink.

She shrugged unapologetically and forked another syrup-drenched bite into her mouth. “Get better instincts.”

For a few minutes, they ate in companionable silence. The kind that used to feel easy. It still did—almost.

The motel hadn’t come up. Not the bed. Not the touching or the mirror or the part where she’d cried and then crawled into his arms like it was the only place she felt safe.

He wasn’t sure if they were pretending it didn’t happen or just agreeing not to make it weird. Either way, it worked for now.

“So,” Mac said around a bite. “You ready for Thursday?”

Steve looked up. “What’s Thursday?”

“The mall’s soft opening.” She grinned. “Your big debut.”

He narrowed his eyes at her. “You sound way too excited about that.”

“I’ve seen Robin’s uniform,” she said with zero remorse. “And I’ve heard about yours.”

He groaned and slumped back against the booth. “Don’t remind me.”

Mac tilted her head, biting back a smile. “I’m sure you look very handsome in your little sailor suit. Definitely not like a giant dork at all.”

“I hate you.”

“You love me.”

He looked at her then, really looked—and it hit him all over again how much he did. But she didn’t mean it like that. 

And their banter was easy. Even after last night. Even after all the lines they might’ve crossed or not crossed. She was here, mocking his sandwich choices and licking syrup off her thumb, and he was completely, irreversibly—

“Don’t make me throw this sandwich at you,” he said flatly.

Mac grinned, leaned back, and forked more pancakes into her mouth.

They bantered their way through the rest of the meal, trading insults and side-eyes until the check came and Steve paid without argument. Just like they would have any other time.

Steve’s car rumbled up the familiar path around 2pm, the AC long since surrendered to open windows and a mutual agreement to let the wind do the work. Forest Hills looked the same—sagging porch steps, windchimes made of beer cans, that one broken-down lawn chair no one ever moved.

But then she saw it.

Parked outside her trailer, shining in the sun like a damn trophy, was her Chevelle.

Baby blue, buffed to a ridiculous gleam. Hood popped.

She blinked, leaned forward in her seat like she didn’t trust her eyes. “No way.”

Steve pulled to a stop and threw the car in park. “That looks familiar.”

She was already out of the car.

She crossed the small stretch of yard in four strides, eyes wide, mouth open. She stopped just shy of the hood, then glanced toward the open engine compartment with reverence.

“Wayne,” she called, already grinning as she stepped closer. “You beautiful genius, you—”

The hood slammed shut with a clean, final clang .

She stopped short because it wasn’t Wayne.

The figure standing on the other side of the Chevelle straightened slowly, one hand still holding a grease-streaked rag. Black tank top clinging to a sweat-slicked chest. Tattoos she could trace from memory. Messy hair pulled into a low tie at the nape of his neck. Grease smudged across one cheekbone like a signature.

It had only been three months but he looked older. Not in a bad way—just like someone who’d been away, someone who’d done something with their time. And when he looked up at her, that familiar spark lit behind his eyes.

And there it was, that same crooked smirk, full of mischief and history and something gentler just beneath the surface.

“Didn’t think you liked your men that old, sweetheart.”

Her breath left her in one exhale. “Eddie?”

Then she moved—fast, like her body had been waiting for permission. Just launched forward and wrapped her arms around him, rag and grease and all.

“Careful,” he laughed, arms winding around her instinctively. “I’m covered in—”

“These are yesterday’s clothes anyway,” she muttered, holding him tighter. “Don’t care.”

She pulled back just enough to look at him, really look at him—still Eddie. Same wild hair, same metal rings, same grease under his nails. His eyes were softer than she remembered.

“When did you—”

He cut her off gently, nodding toward the car still idling behind her.

She turned, suddenly aware of how fast her pulse was going, how loud everything felt. Steve leaned against the car door, one hand on the roof, watching with a look she couldn’t quite read. Like he was trying not to react to something.

Eddie squinted around her with a cocked brow, wiping his hands again like he was gearing up for an interrogation. “Alright, my turn. Why are you home a day late, and why are you wearing yesterday’s clothes?”

Mac opened her mouth to answer—but nothing came out.

Because suddenly it felt like too many answers.

Before she could settle on one, Steve spoke from behind her, voice even. “She got us lost. We had to stay the night at a motel.”

Eddie blinked, amused. “You got him lost?”

Mac winced a little, then nodded. “I, uh… might’ve led us into Illinois.”

Eddie threw his head back and laughed, full and honest, that same rough-edged sound that always made people turn around to look. “Of course you did.”

She laughed too, sort of. But it came out thinner than she meant it to.

Then Eddie looked at Steve. Not long—just enough. Just a flash of something behind his eyes, something knowing. His grin sharpened, just slightly, like he was in on a joke no one had told her yet.

Mac caught the look and she felt a little knot of nerves tight in her stomach. Just the feeling of being in the middle of something she didn’t have a script for.

Eddie bumped her elbow with his. “So, did you guys—”

She didn’t even let him finish. “ Don’t. ”

The smack to his shoulder wasn’t hard, but it landed with meaning.

Eddie laughed anyway, backing off with a raise of his hands. “Alright, alright. I’ll behave.”

But he was still smiling when he said it. And when she glanced back at Steve, he wasn’t smiling at all.

“Why are you back?” She asked, trying to redirect.

He shrugged. “Just the weekend. Told Jet I’d help with the grand reopening in exchange for some under-the-table cash and maybe a few tapes.” He paused, then added casually, “It was supposed to be a surprise.”

Her heart tugged.

“And maybe…” he added, voice casual but way too smug, “because I missed my favorite girl.”

He let it hang there just long enough to make her roll her eyes— right before he turned to glance at Steve.

“ Our favorite girl,” he amended with a pointed grin, like he was doing Steve a favor.

Mac snorted. “Wow.”

Eddie winked. “What can I say? I’m a sharer.”

She shoved at his shoulder. “Go get cleaned up, greaseball. Patti’s probably already making your favorite.”

Eddie saluted with the rag and wandered off toward his trailer, grease-streaked and humming something vaguely Metallica under his breath like he hadn’t just sent her emotional equilibrium straight to hell.

She turned back to Steve.

He was still standing in the same spot. Same unreadable look on his face. It made her feel…guilty? Confused? Probably both.

Mac walked over slowly, tugging her the straps of her tank into place again, suddenly aware of how she must have looked to him, running to Eddie like that.

“I didn’t know he was visiting,” she said quietly when she reached him.

Steve didn’t look at her. “Yeah,” he said, shrugging a little. “I heard.”

It was short. Not cruel, but clipped. Like he was trying not to let something slip.

She sighed, biting the inside of her cheek. “Don’t listen to him. He’s just being… Eddie.”

Still, he didn’t look up.

So she crouched slightly, leaning down until she could meet his eyes. “Steve.”

That did it.

He glanced at her, just enough. Then let out a soft breath and raked a hand through his hair, the strands sticking up messily after. “Yeah. I know.”

There was a pause.

She stood up straight again, glancing back toward her trailer like it might offer her a reason not to feel so twisted up.

“You wanna stay for dinner?” she asked, voice lighter now. “Patti’s probably already making shepherd’s pie. If you want.”

He looked at her then—really looked—and gave a small, tired smile. “I think I kinda just want my own bed for a bit.”

She nodded. “Yeah. Okay. I get that.”

Steve pushed off the car and started to open the driver’s side door.

“Hey,” he said, not looking at her. “Go. Spend time with Eddie.”

It wasn’t bitter. Wasn’t passive-aggressive. Just… honest. Like he knew she needed it, even if it didn’t make him feel great.

“I’ll call you,” she said quickly. “Tonight, or tomorrow night, if it gets late.”

He nodded once and started to get in.

And that’s when it hit her.

The way she’d run into Eddie’s arms like instinct. Like gravity. How she hadn’t even touched Steve since they left the little bubble of the motel bed. Like that closeness needed to stay there, in that moment.

But it wasn’t just a suspended moment. The other part, yeah. But him holding her? That didn’t feel like a one time thing. She didn't want it to be. Before she could talk herself out of it, she reached out and caught his hand.

He turned, surprised. Eyes a little wide, a little confused.

Then she stepped forward and wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him in close, tucking her head against his chest.

“I’ll call you,” she repeated, the words muffled against his shirt.

For a second, he just stood there. Then his arms came around her in that way only Steve could do—gentle but firm, steady and warm. Like he didn’t know how to offer comfort any way but all at once.

He pulled back slowly, hands on her arms, and gave her the softest smile.

“Have fun,” he said. “Really.”

Then he got in the car, closed the door, and pulled away without looking back.

Steve was lying on his bed, a magazine open on his chest, eyes drifting somewhere past the page. He hadn’t turned it in ten minutes. Some article about best summer road trip mixtapes, but he couldn’t even pretend to focus on it. His eyes skimmed over the words, but none of it stuck.

No one was there to greet him when he came home. No "how was your trip," no "did you eat," no noise at all except the hum of the air conditioner and the faint creak of old walls shifting in the heat.

He didn’t expect anything else. Why would he?

It wasn’t jealousy, he told himself, not the real kind. Eddie wasn’t a threat. Mac had told him it was over between them. She hadn’t flinched when she said it, hadn’t hesitated or looked away. And even if it wasn’t—if she’d lied or just didn’t know yet—it didn’t matter. She was his friend. That’s all. She didn’t owe him anything. He had no right to feel anything else.

But still, his jaw tightened as his thoughts circled back to the look Eddie gave him. That smug little glance. The grin. The pointed our favorite girl , like he was doing Steve a favor just letting him exist in her orbit.

Steve didn’t even know the guy that well—just enough to get his sense of humor. Enough to recognize the line between harmless and intentional. It was probably all bullshit, just Eddie being Eddie, but it still got under his skin.

And once that door opened, the worse thoughts slipped in.

Was she with him now? Laughing, curled up on that couch in her trailer, eating shepherd’s pie like nothing had happened between her and Steve the night before? Would he stay late? Would he sleep over? Would he sleep in her bed?

Would they—?

He exhaled sharply through his nose and sat up, rubbing the back of his neck like it might shake something loose. He hated that his brain even went there, hated the flicker of something sour that pooled in his chest at the thought. That wasn’t fair to her. She could do whatever she wanted. She didn’t owe him explanations. They were friends. Just friends.

Still, the thought wouldn’t leave.

Not the one about Eddie—but the one about Mac . About how fast she’d run to him. The way she’d thrown her arms around him like it was the most natural thing in the world. The way she hadn’t even hesitated .

He stood, started pacing across the length of his room, fingers tapping against his thigh like he was waiting for something to click into place. But nothing did. Nothing changed. He still felt that dull edge.

Eventually he gave up, headed downstairs without bothering to turn off the light in his room. He walked straight to the kitchen, pulled open the fridge, and grabbed one of the imported beers his dad kept stocked for show. The kind no one drank unless there were people to impress. He twisted the cap off and left it on the counter without thinking.

The living room was just as quiet as the rest of the house. He flopped down onto the couch and clicked on the TV, letting whatever late-afternoon movie was playing fill the silence. Something black and white, grainy around the edges. He didn’t care.

He took a long sip of the beer, leaned back against the cushions, and stared at the screen like it might explain something he didn’t understand.

They were laid out like two mismatched puzzle pieces, head to foot on Mac’s bed, their legs overlapping occasionally when one of them shifted to make a point or grab their beer from the floor. The overhead fan clicked in a lopsided rhythm. Her little boombox was playing something fuzzy and low, some cassette she hadn’t rewound all the way.

Eddie was laughing so hard his stomach hurt.

“A love motel ?” he wheezed, sitting up slightly so he could look at her upside-down. “You’re telling me Steve Harrington took you to a damn sex palace in Illinois and you didn’t bang?”

Mac groaned and kicked at his thigh with the side of her foot. “It was an accident .”

“Oh sure,” he said, rolling over so he could prop himself up on one elbow and still see her. “Just took the ol’ scenic route to horny town.”

She kicked him again, this time more directly, and he swatted at her foot like it was a fly.

“Okay but wait ,” he said, still laughing as he rolled onto his side to face her. “You're not going to give me any details on this illustrious establishment?”

Mac sighed like she knew she was about to regret it. “Bernice.”

He blinked. “Is that a code word or—”

“The woman at the front desk. Swear to god, she looked like she ran an Avon pyramid scheme and sold black market crystals out of the back of an El Camino.”

Eddie barked a laugh.

“Turquoise eyeliner, a romance novel, and opinions ,” Mac went on, eyes wide now that she’d committed. “Tried to sell us the Rodeo Room first. Then the Cosmic Suite —which apparently has a surprise feature that I didn’t ask about.”

“You should’ve asked about it,” Eddie said, scandalized. “You owe me that.”

“She landed on the Dungeonette when she saw me ,” Mac continued, gesturing to herself with her beer can. “Chains and whips… and stuff I’m assuming.”

Eddie nearly choked. “ Dungeonette?! Like some kind of travel-sized kinky starter pack?”

Mac nodded, fighting a grin. “Real subtle, apparently. Steve looked like he was gonna die. I was one second away from sleeping in the car.”

“I’m sorry,” Eddie said, sitting all the way up now. “You let Bernice, Eldritch Goddess of Motel 69, walk you through a sex-themed menu of hell and you still stayed?”