Steve's BMW is stuffy with the scent of weed and cigarettes, the air stale considering that he hasn't bothered to roll down the windows since he whisked you inside.

It's dark where he has it parked; further down the street from Tina's than he'd normally be, but enough to still be close in case he did a walk of shame in the wee hours of the morning. The closest streetlamp is several feet away, leaving the sedan with a cover of darkness thick enough to hide the activity happening inside.

Steve's hands are firm, one clamped on your shoulder while the other keeps hold of your nape. You'd almost think that he was afraid you'd slip away if he let go, but The Hair's never been one to chase after someone who didn't want him. He'd just find someone else who did.

"Five more minutes," Steve husks between gasps for air, his lips clumsily crashing against yours like a man starved. He's putting the hot in "hot-and-cold" currently, but the chill of his indifference is bound to hit soon. It always does when he realizes what you two are to one another.

Hawkins High's King Steve and some nobody from the junior class— hardly noteworthy. However, King Steve and some trailer trash loser— not your choice of words— from Forest Hills? That was gossip waiting to be unearthed, almost like some modern-day Romeo and Juliet if he wore Nike Cortezes and she used too much drugstore hairspray.

All of that to say that the two of you are from vastly different worlds, and neither one could properly comprehend whatever's going on in Steve's backseat if it got out. Hell, even you can't comprehend it as is— cramped space and all as The Hair's hands shift to your hips. What a popular jock could see the most unknown of nobodies was beyond comprehension for most, especially in a town as small-minded and cookie-cutter as Hawkins.

It's when your elbow bangs against the backseat door that you finally return to your senses, the reality of the situation hitting you without warning. Months and months of rendezvous in either the BMW or behind your trailer surely can't be all this is. You want more... shouldn't he?

You're not sure. Steve's brow furrows at your change in demeanor, and he has the decency to give you some room while he continues to heave for breath. "Why'd you stop?"

"I don't know." You do, if the way your heart stutters in your chest at the thought of Steve wanting to be with you in public means anything. "... Isn't the sneaking around getting old? "

It seems that it's his turn to play dumb as Steve shrugs with indifference. Here comes that inevitable chill. "I don't know. You never complained before."

Six months ago, you'd accepted the secrecy and the half-hearted flings in the dark. Maybe it's your fault for loving a boy who can't— or won't, it's still unknown— love you back. Not like you should, at least. Steve grabs the smoldering joint from the small ashtray and brings it back to his lips. "Pass me the lighter?"

You do, and you don't object when his hand remains entwined with yours afterwards. It's nonsensical, it's confusing— but you won't seize his heart and be personal if he won't reciprocate.