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lavendermunson · 5 months

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mistletoe - steve harrington

day 13 of leia’s christmas tree farm

cw FLUFF. mentions of steve’s mental health. henderson!reader. preestablished relationship

Steve isn’t a pretty big fan of the holidays because he doesn’t spend the night like the others. His mom pays someone to make dinner for her, she gets them out of the plastic containers and places them in expensive personalized dinnerware. His dad buys expensive whiskey and finishes the bottle in a couple of minutes along his friends.

He has grown to believe Christmas is just a holiday about showing off. Giving expensive gifts and seeing people use them for three days just to bury them at the bottom of their dressers.

That’s something his parents always did, brag about money and big houses instead of having a good time. He thought he deserved this, a life so soulless and unkind.

When he met Dustin, your mom, and you his whole world changed. He fell for you so hard, risking all for you and making sure you were always happy. You do the same for him, you always do.

You are his safe place.

It’s Christmas Eve. His family is having dinner with his dad’s colleagues and his mom’s loud best friends. He hates this, he hates that he has to put on a fake smile on his face while he feels miserable.

Steve wishes you could be by his side, but he couldn’t put you through this. His dad will ignore you and try to set him up with someone else. He knows his mom would love you but eventually side with him because that’s the way their relationship works.

Their marriage is stupid.

His parents are stupid.

This day is so stupid.

Surrounded by the stiffness of his room, looking at the pictures of him with you and the friend group. He feels like he could cry, he wants a good Christmas Eve just for once. He misses you all so much.

His head is heavy and his vision is blurry. He sits on the edge of his bed, tapping his foot against the carpeted floor and preparing himself for the night.

Then he hears a knock on his window. It’s you. Like he summoned you. His heart skips a beat when he sees your face, you are all dressed in black.

“What are you doing? My parents are here!”

“We are here to steal you, like a precious piece of art from a museum!”

He laughs, looking at you.

“I can’t, honey. I can’t leave, they are going to kill me!”

“They won’t because…” you hold your index finger in the air, waiting for your sign to escape. When you hear Steve’s mom scream you take his hand in yours, pulling him to you. “Your house is infested with cockroaches”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ll explain in a bit, let’s go”

You take a step back from the roof, Steve is impressed to see you climb his house for him knowing how difficult it is for him to get to your window. He escapes from his own room, his hands gripping the window frame as he gets out quietly.

When you get off the roof, you hold his hand in yours running with him towards your car. He opens the passenger door and sits down excited, ready to escape this hell of a house.

He did it. He is out, he is with you. The cold breeze hits his cheeks, he feels calm for the first time since he woke up.

“Dustin! Hurry” you scream at your little brother, he holds an empty box as he runs to meet you.

“Mission accomplished!”

Both of you join Steve in the car, you are quick to drive away from his house before their parents catch you. He misses his mom telling him not to come downstairs.

“You guys are crazy,” he says, anxiety slowly disappears as he rubs his abdomen. He looks back, noticing how his house disappears from his vision. “When did you come up with this plan?”

“Today” you answer, eyes focused on the road as you speed up to get to your house quickly.

“And why are you both dressed in black?”

“It’s our steal-a-museum outfit,” Dustin says, feeling Steve’s eyes glaring at him “It was her idea!”

“I couldn’t leave you there, I spent all day trying to come up with something for you to spend Christmas with me”

“Thank you, honey”

“And your parents freaked out when they saw the cockroaches, it was hilarious!” Dustin says, getting out of the car when you finally get home. Safely and with Steve by your side.

Steve holds your hand as you walk to your house, his fingers interlock with yours and he leans to the side, kissing your cheek before pushing the door open.

After opening the door, he sees a crowd of people cheering and screaming. Your mom, Robin, Eddie, Nancy, Jonathan, and all of his kids are there.

Steve smiles brightly, feeling his cheeks warm as well as his heart. Everyone comes up to him, hugs him, and welcomes him before they follow Dustin, who cannot stop laughing as he tells the story of how they got Steve here.

Your mom gets close to him, hugging him tightly.

“We are happy you are home,” she says. Steve holds back his tears, home. He finally feels like he has a home.

“Thank you, Mrs. Henderson” he smiles at her, his chest heaving up and down from the excitement. “I’m surprised you were okay with this plan”

“Oh Steve, who do you think got that box of cockroaches!” she laughs and you join her, both looking so happy that he is here. How is it possible? He feels like he is dreaming. It’s all just too good to be true. “I’ll leave you guys, you are under the mistletoe”

You look up at the branch of mistletoe that wasn’t there before you left the house. Steve looks at it too, then he wraps your waist with his arms pulling you to his chest.

“Thank you, baby”

“Don’t. It’s the least I could do, they are going home at ten but you are staying here with me”

“I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else. I love you, honey”

“I love you too, baby”

You cup his cheeks in your hands, the feeling of your soft fingertips makes Steve melt. Pressing your lips against his, he feels in heaven.

He feels you, he tastes you.

The one who saved him from one of the worst nights of his life, he owes you everything.

His head falls to the side as you tangle your fingers in his hair. It makes Steve moan softly, feeling all his body warm and bubbly.

You spend the night together. Sharing jokes, laughing at Dustin’s stories, and drinking. He only gets more excited because he gets to sleep with you, maybe thank you for what you did, and wake up on Christmas to open his presents.

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rustedhearts · 5 months

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last christmas (steve harrington x fem!reader)

summary: the return to your hometown for the holidays comes with the many ghosts of christmas pasts—including your ex-fiance, steve.

uses she/her pronouns and female anatomy.

✶ christmas carols ✶ the library

tags: angst; hurt/comfort; reader’s parents are given names (celia/john) but no physical descriptions; reader is also given a name (lucy) because I refuse to write "y/n" but it's the same thing, still no physical descriptors; reader is a smoker because it's the 90s;

"a crowded room, friends with tired eyes, i'm hiding from you and your soul of ice. my god, i thought you were someone to rely on. me? i guess i was a shoulder to cry on,"

— last christmas, wham!

hawkins, indiana, december, 1999.

You couldn't deny—the nip of cold Indiana air was a welcome feeling after all those Californian winters. To bundle in layers of warmth and heavy fabrics, to shiver in the back of your father's sedan while he sang backup for your mother's Christmas carols: it really felt like home again.

It snowed the few days prior to your arrival, and every inch of Hawkins seemed sprinkled or covered with perfect white fluff. It'd been so long since you'd seen snow.

"I've got all your favorites stocked at the house," your mother announced from the passenger seat. "Strawberry Jell-O, Scooby Snacks—"

"Mom," you laughed. "I'm not a child anymore, you didn't have to buy all that."

She twisted around in her seat to face you. "When you're back in my house, you are a child! Let me have my fun, you haven't been home in ages."

Three years was hardly ages—but, you supposed, it was long enough. The first Christmas after you moved was too difficult to stomach back in Hawkins. The second, you were too busy with work to take even the weekend for a quick plane ride here and back. And the third, well...you still just couldn't do it. You couldn't handle seeing him again.

But this year, you decided it was enough. You had to pull your big girl pants on and buck up. It wasn't fair that your friends and family kept getting caught in the crossfire.

The car jostled through the icy driveway of your childhood home. Your father parked the car and hurried to the trunk to grab your luggage, while you slid slowly out of the backseat. Like reflex, you immediately directed your attention to the inflatable snowman bobbing on the lawn next door. The lights strung from the awnings and wrapped around the pines. The last name painted on the mailbox.

The Harringtons.

"Come on, I'll make us some tea," your mother ushered, looping her arm through yours.

Your father was close behind, crunching through the salted, icy snow mounds. You kept a close watch on the driveway next door as you approached the open garage and entered the warmth.

Luckily, there was no sign of that maroon BMW anywhere.

"So, I thought we'd go shopping at Macy's tomorrow afternoon, and then have dinner with your grandparents on Wednesday, but—"

"Celia, let her settle in first," your father interrupted, sawing into his chicken.

Your mother pursed her lips at him, but her eyes remained on you. "Oh, psh. What does she need to settle in for, she's lived here all her life! What do you think, honey, Macy's? We can grab breakfast beforehand."

You smiled at your father who passed an apologetic and knowing stare, and nodded at your mother. "Sure, Mom, that sounds fun."

After dinner, your father positioned himself at the sink, scrubbing every dish with care. He handed them to you to dry, and as he did, he watched you peek through the kitchen window toward the other side of the house.

“You think you’re gonna see him?”

You swept the dish towel over a clean dinner plate. "Who?"

Your father quirked a brow down at the soapy wine glasses. "Steve."

You barely saved your mother's delicate dinnerware. It clattered against the countertop through your fumbling hands, and once steadied, you turned to shake your head at your father, who slowed the faucet down to a trickling stream.

"N-No. No, I can't."

He held out a handful of forks. "Don't you think it's been long enough?"

"Dad..."

"All I'm saying, is...maybe you owe it to him. To yourself even. It's time to close that book for good, and you can't do that if you never speak to him again."

You plucked the towel over the fork prongs and tried to block out your father's even-toned words. He was right—he was always right. It irritated you how your parents never stopped knowing what was best. How they could always read you like a book without even trying.

But you desperately wished he wasn't right. And no matter how selfish it sounded...you just couldn't face Steve.

"I'll think about it," you managed to get out.

Your father hummed, turning the tap off. "Might be good for you, kid. Just trying to help."

You placed the forks back in their drawer. Leaning up on your tiptoes, you pressed a quick and gentle kiss to your father's cheek and smiled.

"I know. Thanks, Dad."

When the dishes had been dried and put away, and your mother was already asleep with her glasses on the edge of her nose and her magazine dangling off the couch, you tip-toed up the stairs toward your bedroom. You still knew just which steps to avoid, just which carpeted areas squeaked and groaned.

But the flash of deep red in your periphery had you halting on a croaking step. You peered through the window on your left, holding the lace drapes away to get a better view. The BMW you spent high school riding to school and football games in came to a stop behind a minivan. The driver side opened and slammed closed.

Steve Harrington in the flesh.

Bundled in a heavy, brown wool coat and carefully knotted red scarf. His hair flounced in the wind and collected snowflakes with grace. He carried a pie dish and a smile on his face. Heart in your throat, you watched him stomp through snow piles toward the other side of the car.

He opened the passenger door and greeted a redheaded woman with a kiss.

She took the pie from him, cradling it close to her expensively-adorned chest. They had matching coats. She swooped a leather-gloved hand through the front of his hair to fix a tousled wave. His lips moved in words of gratitude, and you could almost hear the octave of his voice in your head again. How he cooed when he talked to you. You could tell by the softness of his eyes, the relaxed muscles of his smile—he was doing the same to her right now.

Steve wound an arm around her waist and turned them around. He flicked his head to toss away his hair, and for a moment, you swore he looked toward your window.

You hurriedly mounted the steps and slipped into your bedroom before you could find out if that were true.

"God, Mom, my arm's about to fall off."

You waddled alongside your mother down Main Street, carrying (literally) armfuls of shopping bags. She came rushing into your room at promptly seven o'clock this morning to rouse you, throwing your drapes open and ripping off your covers. She took you to get bagels and coffee, and then scrambled into shopping mode. Macy's lasted two full hours, and you immediately felt like a teenager whining for McDonald's again when one o'clock came around and you were famished.

"Oh, quit whining," your mother huffed, adjusting her own bags on her arm. "We'll stop for lunch after this."

So, you pushed your way through another store, hitting just about everyone in your vicinity with a gift-wrapped shopping bag. You were sweating through your layers, cheeks flushed hot, and your stomach was so hollow with hunger that it felt like it would cave in. The first day back home for the holidays was truly off to a great start.

"Sorry, sorry—oh! I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to—"

"So, just when the hell did you get back in town?"

Raising your eyes from the crowd of shoppers you irritated and the bags you dropped, you settled on a familiar head of shaggy raven hair and round, brown eyes.

"Eddie!"

He accepted your tackled hug with a chuckle, closing his arms carefully around your crinkling bags. The embrace lasted a beat too long before you pulled away and grinned.

"I didn't know you were comin' home this year," he said, bending to collect your abandoned bags. You strung the corded handles back over your padded arm.

"Yeah," you sighed. "Sorry, I...wasn't sure if I should..."

Eddie tucked his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket, as heavy and studded as ever. It creaked when he shrugged. "No biggie. It's awkward, I get it. Amanda would be stoked to see you, though."

"Oh, how is she? How are you—and everyone?"

The pair of you squished against a shelf of holiday candles as a bustle of angry mothers pushed through. You lost your mother somewhere in the crowd.

"She's good, everyone's...good. I mean, three years, kid...it's been a while. Don't even know where we left off."

A sheepish grin concealed a pair of warm cheeks. The tops of your ears burned under your earmuffs. God, it was embarrassing owning up to your bullshit, wasn't it? There certainly wasn't a manual for apologizing to your friends for getting lost in the crossfire of a called-off marriage.

"Yeah, I know. I just...didn't know what to say to anyone."

Eddie nodded, though his eyes avoided yours. His jacket clinked with his shifting. A ringed finger spun a candle on the shelf.

“Yeah, I get that. Well…hey, we’re all gonna be down at Deb’s on Christmas Eve for drinks. Like we used to, remember? You should come.”

A twinge of sorrow tugged in your chest. You watched Eddie teeter on the edge of hope and disappointment. He knew you’d say no. He knew you’d forget them. But how many hours over a short lifetime had you spent together as friends? How many times had Eddie picked you up when your car broke down? How many times had he come crying to you when he first met Amanda and he wasn’t sure how she felt?

How many times had you broken your friend’s heart?

Swallowing, you adjusted your bags again. “Is…is he gonna be there?”

Eddie scoffed. “Steve? Nah, he’s got…stuff.”

His eyes darted to you with wide worry, and you knew exactly just what ‘stuff’ he was referring to. The red-headed beauty with the fancy cashmere winter wear, and more grace and elegance than you ever had in your entire life. The woman who meant Steve finally moved on from you.

“Oh, right,” you mumbled. Your cheeks felt lined with sickly sweetness, stomach churning with illness. “Well…if you’re sure he won’t be there, then…maybe I’ll stop by.”

Eddie pulled off the shelf of candles and grinned.

“Yeah? Oh, man, Amanda’ll be stoked. And Robin’ll be there! She’s seein’ this girl from Indianapolis who literally drives two hours every day just to see her.” Eddie rolled his eyes, though a fond smile touched his mouth. “They’re cute, though…when they’re not mouthin’ at each other in public—nah, nah, it’ll be fine. Seriously, everyone’ll be so excited.”

You giggled, enthralled by his babbling. It was funny how much changed in three years, but how some things would always stay the same.

“I’m excited, too.” And you really were.

Sure, you made friends in L.A over the years, but none—not even your closest friend and roommate Bridget—could measure up to the ones you’d had since childhood.

The kids you grew up on the block with—the ones you suffered though puberty and high school with—could never be replaced. Being around them filled you with a certain bittersweet ache you’d never feel anywhere else.

“Alright, it’s at seven like always,” he said, tapping your arm. “See you there. And good luck with these crowds.”

You laughed at his shudder and waved your goodbye. “See you.”

As he pushed his way out, you spotted the top of your mom's head hurrying your way. She grabbed your coat sleeve and huffed when she found you.

"There you are—who was that?"

"Eddie—"

"Oh, the Munson boy! Eddie! Eddie!” She began to hop up and wave to accompany her shrill exclamation. You cringed and covered half your face to silence the stares.

“Oh, shit,” she sighed, clicking her tongue. “He’s gone. That boy was always so sweet. How’s he doing?”

You trudged after your mother as she filed through the masses, willing away the hot flash of her humiliation. “He’s good. Invited me out on Christmas Eve. Apparently they all still get together.”

Your mother fingered at a candle, assessing the vessel and smell. She hummed, glancing at you. Her basket was already half full.

“Oh…that’s nice.”

Are you going to go? lingered in her reply. You chewed on the edge of your lip and shifted your weight.

“I was thinking maybe…I’d go.”

“Oh good!“ Relief visibly flooded her. “It’s about time you spoke to him again, you know. Your father and I were just saying that the Harringtons—“

“What? Mom, no,” you huffed, jaw tightening. “Steve’s not gonna be there, I made sure of it. And you’re talking to the Harringtons? Come on, why are you always meddling?”

Your mother placed the candle back on the shelf with a heavy clunk. A mother and her young son rushed by and nudged your bags. The air in there was getting stiffer by the minute.

“They are our neighbors, Lucy, and were before you or Steve even came into the world. This hasn’t been very fair on us, you know. Did you ever think about that?”

If you thought you couldn’t breathe before, it was no match for the shallowness of your lungs now. You practically felt your color drain, the heat to your body drop to your feet.

“Well…Mom, I never said you had to stop being their friends,” you muttered, following her to another display table.

“I knew having them around would be too difficult. But I also thought that, by now, the pair of you would’ve…I don’t know…”

You plucked the lid off a candle and sniffed it absently. “Gotten back together?”

Your mother glanced at you in her periphery, pursed with hesitance. She sighed, head shaking.

“Maybe. We all thought…I mean everyone figured you were meant to be.”

You couldn’t remember the last time your chest felt this heavy. The last time your heart hurt so terribly.

Well…you could think of one.

“Yeah,” you mumbled. “I know.”

Your mother watched you a moment, twisting candle lids and plucking display glitter. She let you go on a moment longer before adjusting her shopping basket and flicking her hair out of her face.

“Alright, let’s get in line. If we’re lucky, we’ll get home by New Year’s.”

the harringtons’: christmas eve, 1994

“One more, one more!”

“No—Steve! Come on, I look terrible.”

“You look glorious, honey. C’mon, blow us a kiss.”

You threw a hand out at the camera lens, but it scarcely concealed your glowing grin. The pixelated picture of your own body blurred with Steve’s unsteady hand as he fell into laughter. He could barely keep his eye on the shutter to make sure you were in view.

“Kiss this,” you announced, and the camera panned to your denim-clad backside jutting out at him.

Steve snorted, and the whir and click of the zoom creeping in came from behind the camera. You tipped your hips from side to side to flaunt your ass, and Steve’s hand suddenly appeared to pop it. You jolted upright, whirling around to gape at him.

“Steve, we’re in your mother’s kitchen.”

“You just had your ass out!”

“I was joking—ooh, I’m telling.”

“Get that ass back here.”

Steve barely managed to place the camcorder on the kitchen counter before he tackled you. The lens caught a sliver of tangling bodies—just limbs flailing and the crackled sound of laughter. You had the hiccups. Steve was out of breath. Your sleeves were the same color—matching Christmas sweaters from Grandma Harrington, who always loved you.

When he carried you into view—arms locked tight around your middle, your legs scrunched up to your chest—the pair of you were all teeth. Just smiles and nothing else.

You were so happy.

“Hey, you two! Are we havin’ pie or what?” was a muffled call from somewhere in the house.

Steve placed you on your feet and swept two heavy palms over your tousled hair. He couldn’t take his eyes off you. Even through the grain and static of the old picture, you could see the fondness in his face. How he gazed down on you like finding sunlight for the first time.

“Yeah,” he called back, and bopped you on the nose all the same. “Be right there!”

You gnashed your teeth at him playfully, and he threw a big hand over your mouth. From the way he recoiled in amused surprise a second later, you knew you had licked him.

Pie, little did you know, was code for ring. His family had been in the living room preparing for his proposal while he distracted you with affection and baking.

And when he clicked off the camcorder and snapped the screen shut, you knew he was taking you into the other room. He’d propose in front of the tree with your entire families as witnesses. He’d give you his grandmother’s engagement ring from the 50s, polished and sized just for you. She’d give you a wink from the armchair where she was sipping tea.

His mother had wedding magazines tucked away since your first date in high school. Your father told Steve when he was fourteen years old that he “better take good care of his girl.”

You were meant to be together.

What went wrong?

“You’re positive he won’t be there?”

You fumbled with the flimsy nylon toes of your black tights, cellphone wedged between your cheek and shoulder. On the other line, Bridget munched on an egg roll noisily. You could practically picture her Chinese takeout spilled over her coffee table, the terrible movie paused on the television. It was what the pair of you would normally be doing on Christmas Eve at your shared apartment.

“That’s what Eddie said.”

“And do we trust Eddie?”

You screwed up your nose, fixing the other seam over your toes. When they were where they should be, you pressed to your feet and rushed the closet door.

“Well, yeah. He wouldn’t lie about something like that, ‘specially not since we haven’t seen each other in so long. Plus…Eddie’s not a liar.”

You pulled a black skirt from its hanger and unzipped the back. You couldn’t fit into all your old clothes left over, but a few staple pieces were squeezable. This particular black skirt was from early college days, when you and Steve were rotating parties like clockwork.

You paused as you placed it on the bed. It likely hadn’t been worn since it’s last spin on a dance floor with Steve. Or was it that date in Indianapolis, the one where he surprised you with a show at the theater?

“Hello?…Helloooo?”

Blinking out of your stupor, you looked away from the skirt and toward your mirror, picking the phone up from your shoulder. “What?”

“I said ‘people can change,’” Bridget said. “How well do you really know this Eddie nowadays?”

Fingers curling tightly around the blue plastic of your Nokia, you clenched your jaw and exhaled sharply. “I know him, Bridget. He wouldn’t do that to me.”

You wedged the phone back against your shoulder and scooped the skirt up. You wiggled it on and reached behind you to zip it. Your father was watching Die Hard on VHS in the living room at an obscene volume level. Your mother was in the kitchen rolling cookies in cinnamon and powdered sugar with her stereo on.

And here you were, primping and prepping for a night out with your old CD case splayed on your bed. It was really beginning to feel like old times, and you weren’t sure how well it settled with you.

“Well…alright. You wearin’ somethin’ hot just in case?”

You smoothed your hands over your hips in the mirror and exhaled.

“Obviously.”

You borrowed your dad’s sedan for the short trip down to Deb’s. He handed you the keys with a pointed look and a demanded promise to call if you were too drunk to drive. Your mother didn’t let you leave without a Tupperware container of freshly-baked Christmas cookies for your friends.

She looked over your outfit with curious eyes. You scurried out into the cold before she could question just why you were in your tightest black clothes for a night at the dive. The cookies sat in the passenger seat until you rolled into the parking lot, and you did your best to conceal them under your coat as you wandered inside. Nothing more pathetic than a woman bringing her own food to the bar.

The bar looked mostly the same, with little tweaks and updates that would go unnoticed by those who didn’t spend most of their youth here. But they still strung the same rainbow lights from the high beams and frosted window front. They still played a mix of tinsely Christmas tunes and whatever was most popular on the radio. Still had stale peanuts in little wooden bowls and glass ashtrays on every table.

Still kept your booth near the window where your friends used the ledge as a table.

"Hey, guys..."

"Oh my god!"

Amanda was the first to leap up and hug you, jostling the table as she sprang to her feet. Robin next, her hug much softer and tame. Though already reacquainted, you accepted Eddie's hug gratefully.

"Come sit by me, kid," he drawled, shifting down to make room.

You slid into the booth and pulled the Tupperware from your coat. "I didn't come empty handed. Courtesy of my mother, of course."

"Oh, nice," Eddie exclaimed, reaching in for a sprinkled wreath. "Mama Celia makes the best Christmas cookies."

"Bleh, don't call her that." Robin scrunched up her nose. "Oh, I'm sorry, this is my girlfriend Pam. Pam, this is our friend Lucy."

You smiled at the girl sitting beside Robin and extended your hand. "Nice to meet you."

"Lucy's visiting us from L.A," Robin continued, bringing her rum and Coke up for a sip. "For the first time in three years."

You shot her a glare, and Pam shifted a glance around the table. "Oh...that's nice."

"It's complicated," you justified.

"Not really," Robin huffed. "She was engaged to Steve for two years, kept putting off the wedding—come to find out, she leaves him at Christmas without a word to anyone. Steve's brokenhearted, Lucy's living her dream in L.A, the rest is history."

A heavy silence fell over the table. Robin slurped at her drink through a thin plastic straw. You lowered your eyes to your lap and swallowed. The radio behind the bar changed to the tooting tune of "Rockin' Around The Christmas Tree."

"Alright," Eddie interrupted, a big ringed hand coming between the table. "Can we just agree to have a good time tonight? Whatever happened...it's in the past. Can't do nothin' about it now. It's Christmas."

Flicking your eyes Robin's way, you searched for her agreement before giving yours. Pam rubbed her hand over Robin's back against the booth. Amanda kissed Eddie's cheek and squeezed his leather arm. It struck you in that moment that you were at a table full of couples.

"I'm gonna get a drink."

They served spiked eggnog in copper mugs, and you nursed one greedily to wash down the regret plaguing your every thought. You regretted what you'd done, you regretted coming out tonight, you regretted not thinking this through. Maybe you even regretted coming home for Christmas altogether.

"Is Steve really not coming?" Amanda broke the ice and uttered his name sometime around eight o'clock.

The table was littered with cookie crumbs, crumpled napkins, and empty drink glasses. Someone ordered a basket of fries and they'd been picked at savagely.

Eddie glanced at his girlfriend, and then at you. You shrugged, waving it off.

"It's fine. You can say his name."

"Uh, no." Eddie cleared his throat, adjusting his jacket that creaked with the weight. "He's...meeting Jessica's parents tonight."

Jessica. Of course. The redhead with the cashmere coat and Ann Taylor sweater. You wanted to bite off the corner of the fucking table. Everyone seemed to be waiting for your response.

And maybe it was the alcohol breathing fire into your veins, or your complete inability to stay calm and collected when you wanted to lose your shit—but you decided to bite.

"Jessica...how'd they meet?"

Amanda and Eddie winced. Eddie was the bravest of the bunch, and distracted himself with breaking a bell-shaped cookie in half as he replied.

"She's a paralegal at his dad's firm. They met last summer...it only just became serious."

Ann Taylor, cashmere, and brains. She was your worst fucking nightmare.

Swallowing tightly, you smeared a stiff smile over your mouth. "Oh. Well...that's great!"

You could only sit in the silence for a moment before you slid out of the booth and snatched at your purse on the end hook.

"I'm gonna run out and have a smoke. Be right back."

They watched you rush the front door and escape into the snow without your coat. You collapsed against the brick wall, gulping in the much-needed open air. Unlatching your purse, you scrambled through your belongings and retrieved the crumpled pack of Lucky Strikes rotting in the zippered compartment with your tampons. You hadn't touched them in weeks. An early New Year's resolution to yourself to quit smoking.

But desperate times called for desperate measures.

You lit one up with hungry need and inhaled a deep drag. It immediately soothed the itch in your lungs, but did nothing for the sting burrowing a hole in your chest.

So, he was happy. He was moving on. Did you expect him to wait for you to figure your shit out forever? Did you ever even plan on coming back to him? No. You were selfish and cruel, and you never deserved Steve anyway.

But Jessica? Really? He might as well have gone through the catalogue, closed his eyes, and pointed. She was perfect. His grandmother's engagement ring would suit her better than it ever suited you.

You were halfway through your cigarette and properly shivering when you glanced through the foggy glow of the front window toward your booth. Your stomach lurched into your throat at the sight of Steve standing over the table, pulling off Jessica's coat. She slid in beside Pam and flashed a dazzling smile.

You flung yourself back against the wall. "Fuck."

Well, you could abandon your coat inside and buy a new one. You could Irish goodbye and call your friends tomorrow. You were sure they'd understand the need for a fast getaway.

You stubbed your cigarette out on the rubber bottom of your heeled boot and flicked the butt into the snow. You straightened up and whirled around.

"Hey."

There he stood, pink-cheeked and bundled up. The handsome brown coat from the other day, a black scarf wound and knotted neatly around his neck. Flurries of snow sprinkled the top of his hair like glitter. The wind spun a whiff of his cologne toward your face. He was still so fucking pretty.

You were suddenly on the verge of tears. Standing so close to him felt like looking at the sun.

"They told me you were out here." His words came with puffs of white air. He tucked his hands into his coat pockets and pulled his shoulders back.

"Yeah," you squeaked. You cleared your throat and looked toward the snow. "Smoke break."

Steve found the cigarette sizzling in the snow and hummed. The pair of you watched it sink into a divot of white for a while. His loafers crunched over the salted sidewalk when he stepped away from the door.

"Didn't know you were home."

You licked over your lips, suddenly dry and rough from the cold. "Yeah, 'til New Year's."

"Oh," he murmured. He watched the toe of his shoes crush small balls of snow on the ground. He wouldn't move his hands from his pockets.

You pressed back against the wall again and curled your arms around yourself. You could barely feel your fingers anymore.

"She's pretty."

Steve lifted his head in your periphery. The impassive softness of his face slipped. "Don't. Don't fuckin' do that."

The anger in his words hooked inside you like a grapple. There were those tears again, pricking at your lash line. You felt like you could throw up, and out into the snow you'd spew your heart. Whole and full of punctures from the anguish in his eyes.

From all those voicemails he left on your machine that haunted your sleep. Call me back, please, baby. What did I do wrong? We can work through this, we can get through this together. Please don't leave me. Don't do this, Lucy, I love you. You're fucking crushing me.

"What, you wanted me to wait? Sit around like some lost puppy dog just waiting for you to show back up?"

He was yelling now. Tufts of white air shot from his mouth in great gusts. Every one felt like a slap.

"Fuck that. And fuck you! Who does that to a person? And after three years, you're still hiding."

You lifted your head, gazing over at him sorrowfully. "I don't know what to say, Steve."

His shoulders dropped with a sharp sigh. He pulled a hand from his pocket to wipe over his face. "Yeah, well that's a real first."

Steve kicked at the wall with the toe of his boot. Shards of snow and ice fluttered off the soles.

"Were you ever gonna marry me?"

You sniffled, rubbing at your eye to will away the tears. "You don't want me to answer that."

Steve scoffed, ripping away from the wall—and you—to step toward the street. He pushed his hair back and you watched it bounce back into place perfectly.

"Yeah, you always thought you knew what was best for me. But, you know, you never fuckin' asked...I wanted to go with you. I wanted to move, I had—you know what? Never mind."

He spun around and stomped toward the door. You pushed off the wall with another sharp sniffle.

"Steve."

He stopped. Glared at the door handle with a tight jaw.

"She really is pretty. I'm just glad you're happy."

Steve yanked the door open and tossed his head over to you. "Wanna know the best thing about her? She'll never mail me back her ring."

The bar door slammed after him. He took slow steps back toward the booth, and smiled when he saw Jessica. She received a kiss on the cheek and an arm around her shoulders.

You tore Steve Harrington apart. You'd have to live with that for the rest of your life.

Dear Steve,

In true "me" fashion, I left without saying goodbye again. You'll understand how difficult it is to sit in a house right next to yours and still function normally.

I could apologize a million times over, but it would never be enough to fix what I've done. This decision will always be the biggest regret of my entire life. But I never deserved you, Steve.

You said you wanted to move, that you had it all planned out. But I watched you wince for two years at the mention of my hope to go. I watched you cringe and pull away any time someone asked what our plans were. You never wanted to leave Hawkins, and I couldn't be the one to ask you to. I knew one day, you would've hated me for taking you away.

There are a million other things I could say, but just know this:

Any woman on the face of the Earth who's known the gift of being loved by Steve Harrington is the luckiest person in the world.

Merry Christmas, Steve.

Love,

Lucy

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