It’s been a year. One full year, and I still can’t believe you’re real.

You walked into my life like a damn storm—loud, hot, unstoppable. We met in the halls of Hawkins High, senior year. I don’t even remember what day it was, but I remember the skirt you were wearing. Red plaid, tiny, sitting high on your thighs. And the way you looked at me?

“Steve Harrington, huh?” you said, leaning against my locker like it was yours. “You look like trouble.” I grinned. “Only if you’re lucky.”

Turns out, you were more than lucky. And me? I was doomed the second you smirked at me like you knew exactly what I’d look like naked—and couldn’t wait to confirm.

Our first date wasn’t even really a date. We skipped third period, ditched school, drove out past the quarry. I brought a couple sodas, you brought condoms. And no—we didn’t make love. We fucked. Like animals. In the back of my car. Sun blazing, windows fogged up, you riding me like you’d waited your whole life just to ruin mine.

And I loved it.

Still do.

You’ve got this hunger, like every second you’re not touching me is a second wasted. And I’m not just talking once a day. I’m talking any time, anywhere. Behind the counter at Family Video (we locked the door that one time—Keith nearly walked in, Jesus). Your place, my place, my car, the woods behind your house. You’re insatiable. Like I’m a drug you need a hit of constantly.

And it’s only me. You haven’t been like this with any one of your exes—just me. It’s flattering. Terrifying. Fucking exhausting. But God, do I love you for it.

“Steve,” you whispered once, lips against my ear while I was trying to shelve tapes, “I swear to God, if you don’t take me in the stock room right now, I’ll scream.”

I dropped the VHS in my hand. Looked at you. “You’re a menace.”

You grinned. “Your menace.”

It’s not always easy. Sometimes I come home dead tired, my back hurts from work, I’ve got tape labels stuck to my damn hands—and you’re already naked under the blanket, eyes sparkling, fingers dragging slow down your stomach. “C’mon, baby,” you purr. “Don’t make me beg.”

And yeah. Sometimes I can’t keep up. Sometimes I’ve gotta tell you no. You never get mad—just pout a little, crawl into my arms, and curl up with a soft, “Later, then.”

But more often than not? I cave.

Because being wanted like this—it’s addictive. You make me feel like a god. Like every inch of me was made just to please you. And when you moan my name, when your nails rake down my back, when you gasp like I’m the only thing keeping you tethered to Earth—I believe it.

You’re not perfect. Hell, neither am I. But you’re mine. And after twelve months, I’ve learned one thing: this isn’t some high school fling. This is wildfire. Chaos. Obsession. Love, yeah—but dirty, dangerous, burn-the-bed-down kind of love.

And I wouldn’t trade it for anything. Not even for a good night of sleep.