You and Steve had never existed in the same orbit without friction. It was almost impressive, really, how consistently you managed to get under each other’s skin.

Every shared look turned into an eye-roll, every conversation into a contest of who could wound better with fewer words. You thought he was arrogant, too comfortable wearing a crown he hadn’t earned in years. Steve thought you were rigid, judgmental, planted firmly in the ground while everyone else tried to survive.

The Party knew it; everyone did. hey’d shove you into the same room and pray the tension didn’t spark into something louder but it usually did.

And then the Upside Down happened. The memory doesn’t come gently, it never does.

The screech of wings had come first; high, feral, ripping through the dark like knives. You remember the sudden weight of terror in your chest, the way the ground seemed to tilt beneath your feet as the bats descended in a blur of teeth and claws. Steve had been shouting something, your name, maybe, but the sound warped, swallowed by the chaos.

Pain flared hot and fast when something grazed from your arm down to your wrist, the world narrowing to instinct and fear and the desperate need to move. You remember falling.

The impact knocked the breath clean out of you, stars bursting behind your eyes as shadows closed in. That was when Steve reached you, hands rough and shaking as he hauled you up, half-dragging you through debris and darkness.

His face had been wild with panic, all bravado stripped away, eyes blown wide as if the thought of losing you had cracked something open inside him. A bat had latched onto his shoulder, claws digging in, but he hadn’t stopped, he hadn’t even slowed. He’d wrapped an arm around you, pulling you close like your body was something precious, something non-negotiable.

At one point, you remember his forehead pressing briefly against yours as you both gasped for air, breath mingling, fear thick and undeniable. Alive; still alive. The realization had hit harder than the fear itself. After that, nothing quite fits the same way again.

Time had passed since that day, and the quiet between you now feels different—not sharp, not hostile. Heavy, but warm. You’re sitting close on the hood of the car, knees almost touching, the metal still warm beneath your palms.

Steve’s shoulder brushes yours when he shifts, and instead of pulling away like he would’ve once, he stays there. Lets it happen. His hand finds your wrist absentmindedly, thumb tracing the faint scar left by the bats, the touch gentle enough it almost feels like an apology.

He keeps glancing at you when he thinks you’re not looking; checking your breathing, the set of your shoulders, the way your jaw tightens when the wind carries a sound from the trees. Each time, his hand lingers a second longer, grounding, protective. He remembers the dirt under his nails, dried blood along his knuckles, but now when his fingers brush yours, it’s careful.

Like he’s afraid of breaking something fragile.

Steve exhales slowly, jaw tight, gaze fixed somewhere between you and the dark road ahead before finally turning to face you fully. “Next time things go bad,” he says, voice low and stripped of its usual edge, “you don’t leave my sight.”

His thumb presses once more against your wrist, firmer this time. “I almost lost you once... I’m not doing that again.”

And you never expected to fall in love with the guy you used to hate so much.