“Apparently.” He would sit there and listen to her talk about feminist constructs, if that’s what she wanted. Before Darrow, before all of the weird shit in Hawkins, he used to go after the standard popular girls, the caricatures of real people who seemed predictable and easy.

Nancy Wheeler and a bunch of monsters blew that all to hell. He’s discovered that he really likes smart girls, tough girls, girls who will tell him to fuck off.

Maeve is all of these things. And she’s a good kisser and her skin is so soft and maybe she’ll teach him to be a better feminist because he wants to, and he’s trying.

Maybe not right now, though, because he wants to pull her shirt off and mouth at her tits. But he also respects her, so maybe that’s what counts?

He kisses her again, letting their tongues meet as he trails his hand down the side of her neck and along her chest until he reaches the curve of her breast. Her nipple is tight and peaked under the layers of fabric, and he brushes the pad of his thumb over it before dropping his hand to her thigh to tug her closer.

“I’m very pro-hedonism,” he says as he pulls away from her mouth to kiss along her jaw instead, pressing his tongue to the soft spot under her ear. “For the record.”