“Disgusting Steve Harrington, seriously?” You interrupt, sending him a look of disdain. But there’s no fire to yours words, eyes twinkling a little as you say them. Soft enough to make this hurt; melt him into a puddle of hopeless goo.

“What?” He shrugs, “It’s boobs.”

“Yeah, babe, boobs,” a voice behind you reiterates, an endearing sort of hoarse, as though sticky honey has glued her vocal chords together. Robin’s voice has always been a little croaky. You think it’s because she laughs very loudly, or perhaps because she sings pop songs off-tune. She also yells at Steve entirely too often. You like this about her; the way she never apologises for her quirks.

“Yeah, yeah,” you concede, turning toward her with a roll of your eyes. “Moving on from boobs —”

“There’s no moving on from boobs,” Steve says then, raising his eyebrows meaningfully.

“I hate to agree with Harrington,” Robin adds, fixing you a solemn look, “but…”

And then she trails off, the corners of her mouth twitching, requiring little less than a second before she’s smiling wide, unabashed. You glare. Pointedly. It’s sweet, Steve decides, as though you’re trying to be endearing. He fights the urge to lean in close, swipe his thumb under the pocket of your bottom eyelid.

“Okay, shit, we’re done,” she assures, raising her arms in playful surrender. Steve watches her search your features, the soft gleam in your eye, the bruising hue to your lips. There’s heat in your cheeks, as though someone else has touched them. Rough, calloused, with a pleasure driven carelessness. “Anyway. How was the date?”

“Date?” Steve clears his throat. Something white-hot licks the guilty crevices of his gut. “You went on a date?”

“Not exactly a date,” you correct, waving your hand in the air. But there’s a shyness to the way you say it, your voice lowered several decibels, as though the revelation is a secret kept. Steve’s eyes travel to the pillow of your palm. Someone else’s hands (not his, though he fantasises about it far more often than he’s willing to admit) have creased the skin there.

Steve tries to play it cool. He fails. “Not exactly?” He echoes, and then, he clears his throat again. “What does that even mean?”

“He was just there at the end of my shift,” you say with a shrug. “So we shared a milkshake. No big deal.”

“Yeah, after he spent the last two weeks using his little sister as an excuse to see you,” Robin adds impatiently, raising her eyebrows at you.

She hasn’t known you and Steve long enough to understand why you’re playing this down; she’s doing the opposite of diffusing the tension, and you find yourself wondering whether strangling her would shut her up. Perhaps using the superglue Keith keeps behind the desk, the industrial kind he swears he only uses on the tapes — not to fix the broken awning, the other parts of the store that are in disrepair.

“Who?” Steve asks with a frown.

“That dude that goes to Indiana State,” Robin says, brow furrowing some as she takes in his features. Her eyes fall to the iron-clad grip he has on the Fast Times’ cut out; his knuckles are blanching, and she can see the makings of a ruck within the cardboard. “Uh, Jason, I think? He was on the basketball team when he was at Hawkins’,” she adds helpfully, taking a step forward to snatch it from his grasp. “Dude, you’re fucking with the display. Relax.”

“Jason?” Steve echoes with a scoff, abandoning all attempts at cool disinterest. The fingers that had puckered cardboard Phoebe Cates’ fly to the back of his neck, freshly hand-mussed tips of hair kissing the skin there. “Seriously?”

You try not to grimace.

This is how it always goes when you’re caught up in someone new; Steve rags on them like it’s his full-time job, like you don’t deserve to play the field like he does. His behaviour used to be a source of significant bemusement, once upon a time, and you even remember questioning him about it back then.

You’d interrupted his rant about Willie Olsen the “selfish douchebag”, who “once brought a babe — and I’m talking, seriously out of his league, here, I mean — have you seen the dudes nose? It’s all messed up, and way too big for his face, and — alright, anyway, he brought this chic to Scoops!Ahoy, right? Didn’t even pay for her ice cream. Stood there while she fished around for quarters in her little purse… I mean, seriously? No way you’re going out with this guy. He’s a total dickwad —” with a drawn out sigh. The introspective kind, solemn eyes meeting his gaze with something akin to tiredness.

“Why,” you’d started, knitting your brow slightly, “do you always do this?”

And Steve had brushed his knuckles over your cheek, smooth charm that left hot static in it’s wake, saying, with entirely too much ease, “Doing what?” Saying, “I’m just being a good friend and warning you about him.” Saying, “Trust me. I’m a guy. You’re wasting your time with him.”

But what if you wanted to waste your time? What if you wanted someone with slippery intentions, wanted to tuck screaming and crying and textbook heartbreak into your repertoire?

“You didn’t hear me ragging on Nance when the two of you first started dating,” you’d grumbled then, fixing him with a look for fierce resolution.

And when he’d winced, the wound still fresh, you’d almost felt sorry for him. Almost, until you’d remembered the way he was acting; the fact that he’d been on a million dates, stolen several more kisses, and done stupid things with many, many, stupid girls.

Barring you.

“Yeah, well,” he’d answered, drawing his bottom lip between his teeth, “kind of wish you had, to be honest.”

And though you’d ended it at that, the conversation had set spark to something small — a tiny, barely there inkling that grew, and grew, and grew. Hope. Because perhaps Steve’s overprotectiveness stemmed from a deeper emotion, one that was far more unforgiving. Perhaps it was gnawing jealousy calling the shots; perhaps he didn’t like the idea of you and Willie because he was intent on the idea of you and him.

Except that, no, that couldn’t be it. Not when Steve was taking someone new to Skull Rock every other night; bragging about his many conquests, meeting you with lipstick stains on his collar, smelling of pink bubblegum, lavender and fainter musk.

So you’d given up. On trying to figure out his intentions; on attempting to decode the male psyche as a whole. He was acting this way because he was selfish, that’s all, and maybe even a little bit stubborn. He didn’t like you, nor was he in any way jealous — you couldn’t afford to think like that, entertain the idea of letting him in.

Pining for your best friend is a funny thing.

And Robin, sweet, unassuming (—infuriating, frustrating—), Robin, doesn’t quite understand it, just yet.

“Why do you care, Harrington?” She asks archly, raising an eyebrow. “Didn’t you take Stacy to that party at Bob’s last week?”

“Besides the point,” Steve dismisses. He takes a step toward you, placing his hands on either shoulder. It’s a firm, heart-squeezing pressure, juxtaposing the soft abandon in his eyes, the barely-there crease in his brow. “He sucks. We’ve been through this.”

“Steve,” you groan, though you make no move to shake him off. You fold you arms across your chest, elbow knocking the sliver of skin beneath his polo. It’s a tendril of electric touch, but it’s enough for the temperature in the room to rise several degrees. “You need to stop meddling.”

“I’m not meddling,” he argues, to which Robin says, “Uh, yeah you are.”

Steve fixes her with a pointed glare, his hold on your shoulders loosening some. He doesn’t quite slide his hands down the length of arms, but he’s close enough for the static to raise goosebumps. His touch feels like feather-light fire, and he halts at your wrists, giving them a fleeting squeeze each. You let out a tired breath. It comes out quick and terse, as though you didn’t know that you were holding it in.

“It’s nothing,” you insist, prompting Steve to look back toward you. “Just a shake. Don’t think he’s my type, anyway.”

The reassurance acts to subdue him, if only marginally, the wringing ache in his chest growing weaker, settling. “Good,” he decides, nodding his approval. “You deserve better.”

Better than Jason, better than Willie, better than a mundane, small-town existence in middle-of-nowhere, Hawkins Indiana. Better than perfectly preened hedges and the purlieus of dead end suburbia; better than a family of four, an absent husband, an American dream that doesn’t exist anymore.

Better than him.

—

Steve’s sorting through a box of returned tapes when Robin brings up the date (not date, almost date) again.

“So,” she starts, knocking a brown edge with her hip. “What do you have against this Jason kid?”

Steve fights the urge to scowl. There’s a knowing lilt to her tone, as though it’s a rhetorical question, and he knowing placating Robin is the only way he’ll be able to avoid it. “Nothing,” he answers mildly, watching her swipe a tape from the pile.

“Pretty in Pink,” she reads intently, smiling with teeth. “Ironic.”

Steve knows he shouldn’t ask. And yet, “Why?”

“Oh, you know,” Robin answers easily, turning it around to read the synopsis. “Boy has unrequited crush on girl. Boy gets angry when girl likes someone else —”

“I’m not Duckie,” Steve interrupts, scowling. “Come on. I’m Blane. I’m the blueprint of Blane.”

“King Steve is Blane,” Robin corrects. “Or, was Blane, and is now working at Family Video and babysitting a bunch of dipshits and is probably, definitely, Duckie.”

“The fact that you even know the plot of Pretty in Pink,” Robin adds thoughtfully. “Further proves that you’re Duckie.”

Steve grinds his teeth together. “Nance made me watch it,” he mutters resolutely, snatching the tape from her grasp. “I get the number of like, every second chic that walks into the store. I’m Blane.”

“Blane gets the girl,” Robin says then, unperturbed by his pained expression. She thoroughly enjoys riling him up, especially when said riling brings forth secret revelations. You know — like hopelessly smitten Steve’s big, fat crush. He’s pathetic over you. Robin can’t believe it’s taken her so long to clock it.

“You won’t,” she adds, punching a forefinger into his chest. It’s pressure enough to bruise, as if his poor heart hasn’t already been manhandled enough. As if the strings that hold it together don’t already strum a symphony every time you’re near. Steve’s long since given up on deciphering his emotions. All he knows is this — where there’s a beginning, there’s you. Where there’s an end, there’s you. And every detail in between; every thought, every feeling, every time he closes his eyes and every time he allows them to open, there’s you. “Not the way you’re going.”

Steve feels panic drum through his veins. “Get the girl?” He coughs, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. “What are you talking about?”

“Jason? Seriously?” She mimics, her voice dropping several octaves as she pinches the column of her throat. “You deserve better. Also, my hands are like really, really, sweaty and I’m acting really, really, stupid because I like you.”

She turns then, twirling her hair and sighing dramatically, voice higher like she’s pretending to be you. “Oh Steve,” she says then, practically swooning, “I had absolutely no idea, because you’re a complete and total douchebag and have never even hinted at the fact that you’re crushing on me —”

“I’m not crushing on her,” Steve lies, through his fucking teeth. “I’m just being a good friend, alright? Making sure guys don’t fuck with her.”

“What?” Robin accuses, cocking her head to one side. She looks infuriatingly smug. Steve wants to strangle her. “The same way you fucked with girls when you were in high-school?”

Steve winces, having the common sense to appear a little sheepish. “Not what I meant.”

“No,” Robin agrees. “Not what you meant, but exactly what you were thinking, huh?”

“I’m not crushing on her,” Steve repeats.

“My bad. You’re right. This is way too far gone to be just a little crush —”

“Okay, enough,” He interrupts with a scowl, muttering a fair few expletives under his breath before continuing. “I get it.”

“Do you?” Robin asks pointedly, and the light catches her eyes then, speckling deep blue with fire and mischief. “Because shitting on all the dudes she likes isn’t doing anything but pushing her away.”

Steve scoffs, shaking his head dismissively. “I’m not about to take girl advice from a girl who likes boobs. That’s dumb. It has to like, cancel out or some shit. PEMDAS.”

Robin rolls her eyes, deciding against rising to the bait. “Dude,” she sighs, plucking another tape from the heaping pile. Risky Business, this time, with a protagonist that Steve worships, a title that reads exactly as his love life does. “Use your brain.”

She pauses then, rapping her knuckles against the side of his head for good measure. “There’s one in there, right?”

“Robin,” Steve mutters through gritted teeth, sending her a warning glance. “Your point?”

“Relax, Harrington, think about it,” she answers easily, retrieving her hand. “You didn’t even know about her date.”

Steve expression falters, brow furrowing a little. “So?”

“So,” Robin presses, waving the tape in the air, “I did. Got all the deets the other day. The same ones she’s been hiding from you.”

“Hiding from me,” Steve repeats, painstakingly slow, and it’s as though you can see the cogs turning in his brain. “Fuck.”

“Fuck,” Robin agrees sagely.

Steve turns to her then, folding his arms across his chest. “How many have there been?”

“Dates?” Robin questions, to which he nods curtly, “Oh, shit, I don’t know. There was that Tommy dude that took her to the arcade last week, and Dave, too, think he asked her out when she was working? Oh, and Walter that works down at the dock gave her his number, but I don’t think that one went anywhere…”

Steve feels the first name like a knife to his chest, plunging deeper with the second, twisting back with the third. There’s a sticky sense of jealousy that coats the base of his stomach; it’s cruel and cloying, ugly enough to ache. Long, drawn out pangs of envy, as though someone is wringing out his heart until it shrivels.

“…anyway, none of them have turned into anything serious,” Robin finishes, seemingly unaware of the carnage she’s left behind. Steve is spiralling. He’s thinking about Tommy’s thumb brushing a crescent moon on your cheek, his palm caressing your jaw, his lips pressing conviction into yours. He’s thinking about arcade lights, how romantic you look in technicolor, the way your eyes shine bright and your full lips pucker. He’s thinking about Dave winning the fucking lottery, receiving the luxury of a few, uninterrupted moments in your presence. He’s thinking about stupid Walter who works at the docks, good-for-nothing, and yet, possessing a tendril more bravery than he does.

And he’s thinking about Jason fucking Carver, his stupid letterman wrapping you up tight. Your bergamot perfume, faint lavender and notes of petrichor, imprinting the cotton it’s made of. He’s thinking about the two of your sharing a straw, of the strawberry shake on your lips, the way it dampens the sheen of your lipgloss. He’s thinking about Jason pulling you close, his hands on your soft skin, chaste kisses on softer lips. The base of Steve’s throat is inflamed, angry, and he’s thinking about Jason getting to call you his, Jason asking you to settle down, Jason giving you his last name and you giving him six little nuggets.

Not Steve.

He didn’t get there in time; didn’t quite manage to get his shit together.

The revelation is panic and adrenaline, and Steve findings himself straightening on instinct. “Robin,” he says suddenly, taking the tape from her hand and throwing it back into the box. “I need to go.”

Robin raises her eyebrows, surveying Steve’s features with someone akin to mild amusement. “Where?”

“You know where.”

“I want to hear you say it, dipshit.”

Steve sends her one, last glare, pointing a stern finger in her direction before turning on his heel. “Lock up when you’re done,” he throws over his shoulder, “I’ll be the one Keith kills if you forget.”

—

No one’s home when Steve arrives at your door.

His ignition is still rumbling, car wedged right against the curb with the driver’s side door still open. It’s a haphazard park job, definitely not his best, and the noisy whir of his engine is commotion enough to cause a din.

The kind that’s sure to alert your next-door neighbour to his arrival; the grinning, fresh-faced leech that loves to annoy him.

“Steve!” Dustin calls loudly, rolling his bike toward him. His helmet sits precariously on a full head of curls, carefully decorated with DnD stickers, Hellfire Club stuff that Steve doesn’t concern himself with. “What are you doing here?”

“Looking for your neighbour, actually,” Steve returns, sending him a nod before heading back down your porch steps. He makes for his car, raising his eyebrows as Dustin’s route changes to follow him. “What are you doing?”

Dustin waits until he’s at the edge of the sidewalk, leaning his bike against the passengers side door. “I know where she is.”

Steve stares at him expectantly, gesturing for him to continue. “Where?”

“Somewhere,” Dustin supplies unhelpfully, “Out.”

“I can tell you,” he adds then, flashing Steve that infuriatingly toothy smile. “After you’ve dropped me off at the skate park.”

Steve sighs. Dustin’s grin widens.

“Fucking fine,” he mutters, opening the backseat and throwing Dustin’s bike in. It lands on top of an old cardigan of yours, one you’d left behind the last time you’d been in his car.

“Dude, don’t manhandle the Hendo machine,” Dustin admonishes, peering over Steve’s shoulder with a frown. He catches a glimpse of soft coral, peony hues, that one, ketchup stain that’s fading near the neckline.

“That’s not yours,” he notes.

“Very perceptive Sherlock Holmes, thank you,” Steve returns.

“Perceptive?” Dustin echoes, cocking his head to one side. “Big word for your vocabulary. You been studying up for something?”

“Someone?” He adds pointedly, gaze darting back to the pink cardigan.

“You’re on thin ice, Henderson,” Steve warns, decidedly ignoring his question. He rounds the back of the car tersely, wasting no time opening the driver’s side door and buckling in.

“Been on thin ice for months,” Dustin shrugs, quick to follow suit. “Happy staying here a few more.”

The drive to the skate park isn’t very long, but that doesn’t stop Dustin fiddling with the car radio incessantly. “To find the perfect tune for the occasion,” he insists when questioned, tongue pressed between his teeth as he skips through static, the news, catchy, bubblegum pop that makes Steve’s head hurt.

When he finally settles on a station, it’s to the chords of a song Steve knows entirely too well. The last time he heard it, he was parked up at Skull Rock; you had discarded of your cardigan, turned the volume dial right up.

“Oooooh, love,” you’d sang, loudly, unabashedly, voice sweetened with bubbles of soft laughter, “oooooh lover boy, what’cha doin tonight, hey boy?”

Your shoulders had knocked then, skin-on-skin like dizzying static, and you’d leaned right over the centre console, fading sunbeams softening your irises. And Steve remembers thinking, fuck if any of this makes sense, but you look so out-of-reach, almost iridescent. A live wire.

“Set my alarm,” you’d breathed out with a soft laugh, allowing your lashes to flutter shut, features twisted in mock concentration. And your hand had fallen to his shoulder, barely-there pressure that took the oxygen from his lungs, and he’d inched closer on instinct, eyes darting to your full lips, the way they moved as you sang. It was mesmerising. He wanted to feel them against his, touch you everywhere, and then, do it again. And again. Over and over, enough times to commit all of you to memory.

He’d sang, “turn on my charm,” eyes gleaming danger as he placed his hand on the dashboard. The movement corralled you in, but you felt safer here, somehow, the air a concoction of bergamot and cologne, of anticipation, unrequited love.

And then, the moment had passed. He wasn’t going to let it do so, this time around.

“Okay,” Steve says impatiently, slowing to a stop near the side of the skate park. He can see a few of the other kids in the distance, a flash of fiery auburn, a hard-to-miss bowl cut that he wishes Will would grow out. “We’re here. Spit it out.”

“Grocery store,” Dustin supplies, reaching back to grab his bike. A wheel knocks Steve’s headrest as he pulls it into the front seat, a resounding sort of thump that is oddly reminiscent of Robin’s knuckles. “Went to grab some milk.”

“Seriously?” Steve scowls, rubbing the back of his head. “Milk? So I could’ve just waited for her?”

“I guess,” Dustin nods thoughtfully, pushing open the door.

Steve pinches the bridge of his nose frustratedly, shaking his head in defeat. “You owe me,” he says, though there’s no way he means it.

Dustin knows this. He smiles with teeth. “Sure.”

And then, “I’ll be done in an hour!”

“Why the fuck are you telling me?”

“Who do you think’s gonna pick me up, genius?”

—

Steve’s hold on your cardigan is soft, gentle. It’s the first thing you notice when you open the door to him, the way his feather-light touch juxtaposes the Demogorgon-related scars on his hands, the rough callouses that surround them.

“Steve,” you greet, a hint of surprise in your voice. “What’s up?”

Steve flounders. “Uh,” he says, pressing the pink fabric into your chest, “this is yours.”

“You came to my house to give me my cardigan back?” You question bemusedly, covering your hand with his. The skin of your palm is smooth, unblemished, and Steve feels an overwhelming urge to keep it that way. No fighting creatures from the Upside Down. He’ll wield a million, spiky baseball bats if it meant keeping you out of harms way.

“Yes,” Steve falters, rocking back on his heels. Your nimble fingers slip under his, retrieving the cardigan from his grasp.

“Uh, okay?” You say then, gazing at him intently. “I’ll see you later?”

And you’re about to turn around when Steve stops you, one hand clasping your wrist, the other one the door hinge. “No,” he insists, “what are you doing tonight?”

“Oh, um,” he’s taking up all of your personal space, the inches between you amounting to a single breath of oxygen. “Nothing. Is Robin free?”

“No, I mean,” Steve winces then, his brow furrowing slightly. This close, you can count every freckle smattering his nose, and there’s a pert dimple near the corner of his mouth — has that always been there? “Just us.”

You furrow your brow. “Why?”

“Because,” Steve answers, gesticulating awkwardly. This close, his Family Video vest brushes your skin; he’s wearing a polo underneath it, and his biceps ripple as he moves his arm about. You find yourself fixating on how strong he looks, how easily he could pick you up. If he wanted to. You want him to. “I don’t know. We were friends first, weren’t we?”

“Oh,” you say with a nod, chewing your bottom lip absently. “Hanging out as friends.”

“No — shit, I —” Steve stutters, resisting the urge to grimace. This close, he can trace the outline of your full lips. Your shoulders are bare, save the spaghetti strap of your tank top, and when you swallow, the column of your throat bobs up and down a little. Goosebumps grace the space beneath your earlobe. Steve wonders how many more he could raise with sloven kisses, with teeth grazing, with hot lips and roaming hands and unwavering conviction.

“— not what I meant,” he finishes with a sigh, combing his fingers through his hair. And then, feeling brave, he adds, “Why didn’t you tell me about Jason?”

You frown. “Because I didn’t want you to rag on him.”

“I only do that because I don’t want you to get hurt,” Steve insists. “I’m just trying to look out for you —”

“Well,” you interrupt, folding your arms across your chest. “Jason was perfectly nice this afternoon.”

“Maybe,” Steve agrees reluctantly, “But — but he’s a jock. Total waste of time, not the kind of guy you wanna settle down with —”

You let out an exasperated scoff, throwing your arms in the air. “Who says I’m looking to settle down?”

“No, shit, not what I meant,” Steve flounders, pressing his hands into your forearms placatingly. “What I’m trying to say is, you could do better. Way better.”

You try to ignore the firm pressure he places, how safe it makes you feel, taken care of. And just when you’re sure you have it down, he lets his hands drop to yours, fingers brushing skin like hot waves of electricity. You feel them in your cheeks, fleeting tendrils that bloom bright, and then, uncomfortably warm.

“Better?” You hedge, brow furrowing. “Who?”

“A movie star,” Steve offers, “Tom Cruise.”

You roll your eyes then, allowing your arms to unfold. The base of your knuckles hit his chest as you do so, right where his heart sits, squeezing it’s way into his throat. “You need to stop.”

Steve frowns. “Stop what?”

“This,” you sigh, “This thing you do with the guys I like. Obviously I’m not looking to settle down right now, but I will — eventually, you know? I need to figure out what my type is if that’s gonna happen. And your lack of support is putting a serious downer on me doing so.”

That’s exactly what Steve’s afraid of.

He’s fucking terrified that you’ll figure out that your type isn’t him; that you’ll find someone better, and he’ll spend the rest of his days drowning in unrequited love.

“I want to be supportive,” Steve says softly, “I just — it’s hard, alright? It’s hard seeing you with guys that don’t deserve you.”

“Guys like Jason fucking Carver,” he adds bitterly, his mind a mess of jealousy, hopelessness, longing. “Who don’t know shit about making you laugh, couldn’t name your favourite movie, that one Queen song you always sing off-tune. Like, does Jason know that you can only stomach chicken soup when you’re on your period? Or the fact that you’re allergic to one of the ingredients in Airheads — imagine if he got you some for movie night. Imagine if he didn’t buy you sour patch kids, the extra sour kind that no one but you likes, which seriously, something has to be wrong with your tastebuds, because —”

When you cut him off with a kiss, Steve feels as though he’s been struck by lightning. He stumbles backward at first, not due to the force of the movement, but of the nerve-endings you light aflame, a heat that sears through his insides. His hands find purchase on your hips, and he pulls you close, closer still, you’re not close enough, he wants to feel you fucking melt into his skin. And the pressure of your lips on his — soft at first, firmer with encouragement, it’s dizzying, all-consuming, like he’s a drug addict getting a hit.

His large hands trail fire up your arms, your shoulders, your neck, finding home in the space where it hinges, your soft jaw. He cradles your face as though you’re delicate China, his barely-there touch making up for scraping kisses. Hard on your lips, wet as he finds your cheeks, careless and open-mouthed down your neck, the osculate of your collarbones.

When he halts, it’s to catch his breath. He realises he’s getting carried away. He isn’t sure he cares.

“You kissed me,” he murmurs, into your skin, like a prayer.

“I needed to shut you up,” you say then, wrapping your arms around his neck to pull him up to eye level.

Steve grins, bad decisions dilating his pupils. “Should shut me up like that more often.”

“Should profess your undying love for me more often,” you tease.

“Is that what I was doing?” Steve questions with a frown, brow furrowing in mock concentration, “Because I swear I was just telling you all the reasons Jason’s bad for you —”

“Insufferable, Steve Harrington, honestly,” you interrupt, shaking your head bemusedly. “You’re lucky I know how to read between the lines.”

Steve raises his eyebrows, swiping his thumb over the contour of your cheek. “What did you find?”

“That,” you say pointedly, feeling his touch like blooming warmth, heart-squeezing love. “The real reason my stupid best friend Steve Harrington doesn’t like me with other guys is because he thinks I should be with him.”

“Right,” Steve says, nodding sagely. “And what would you say in response?”

“That he should probably tell me how he feels,” you return, smile cotton-candy soft.

“Got it,” Steve answers, clearing his throat pointedly. “So. Okay. Here’s the thing. The real reason I rag on all the guys you like is probably definitely super selfish, but that’s only because I’m seriously pathetic over you — no, you don’t get it, lame enough that I’ll rag on myself if we do end up together. Because, okay, you definitely deserve better, and you’re crazy out of my league and that’s why my jealousy ends up taking over, and — can you tell I’m talking too much now? I kind of want you to shut me up like you did before —”

“Steve,” you say, giggling something sweet. “Stop.”

“What I’m trying to say,” he continues with a grin, “is that I’m in love. With you. Always have been, always will be. You know?”

—

Steve hummed contentedly, and you were sure you heard him murmur ‘angel’ before rolling out of his sheets so he could stretch an arm out to you, making animated grabbing motions with his hands. You huffed out a laugh, toeing your shoes off as you crossed the room, eyes on his bare chest and the ridiculous knitted beanie he’d jammed on top of his head. It was navy blue with snowflakes, a green pom pom on top that looked like it had been attacked by Dustin’s cat. 

“This is a new look, Harrington.” You perched yourself on the edge of his bed, one leg tucked underneath you as you smoothed your hand up and down the boy’s arm, shaking your head as he groaned happily. 

“I was really cold, but like,” Steve paused, eyes closing slightly at the comfort he found in your touch, “also absolutely fucking boiling.” He gestured to his bare chest and cotton shorts, lips downturned at his predicament. 

“Baby, it’s eighty five outside,” you told him, voice laced with humour but your eyes were crinkling with concern. You took your hand to his forehead, pushing his hair and the hat out of your way to press your palm to it. 

“Tell that to my feet,” he grumbled, sock clad toes appearing from underneath the comforter to poke at your thigh. 

You pouted for him, knowing that he was fed up of feeling unwell, sick of being alone and stuck inside. The summer outside still blazed on, Hawkins pool busier than ever and each new day brought brighter blue skies and missed opportunities for you to take a drive with your boyfriend, heading out of town and into trouble. 

“How’re you feeling today?” You murmured, sliding off his ridiculous winter hat so you could take your hands through his hair. It was soft, mussed from sleep and his choice in fashion, freshly washed and in a rare display, free from product. 

He groaned before answering, your nails scraping lightly over his scalp and you couldn’t help but smile at how his eyes softened, his lips parted for you. 

“Bit better than yesterday,” he mumbled, “still tired. Missed you,” he told you again, moving his head from his pillow to your lap, pushing at you a little until your fingers delved a little deeper, tugging lightly at the ends of his hair. 

He was practically purring. 

“I missed you too, pretty boy,” you whispered and it was true. 

It had only been two days, yesterday being taken up by overtime at work, babysitting duties and an argument with your parents that you couldn’t walk away from, but it was barely ten in the morning when you’d pushed yourself out of bed and walked over to the Harrington residence, bag of goods in hand. 

No need to ring the doorbell, or deal with the stilted, awkward conversation when Steve’s parents opened the door. The house lay empty, apart from the boy, and you’d used the spare key Steve had given you a few months into dating, a gesture that had had tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. 

“You heard from your folks?” The question was gentle, not pushy and you watched as Steve shrugged half heartedly from where he lay on you. 

“Nah, not since last week,” Steve mumbled, trying hard to sound like he didn’t care. “Mom said something ‘bout a conference in Utah, Dad said nothin’. Think they’ll be back by Thursday.”

You knew not to push it, to ask anymore questions when it came to Steve’s parents so you hummed non-committedly, pushing him gently off your lap and earning a grumble from him. 

But he soon understood as you pushed him back into his tangle of sheets, climbing in beside him and letting him settle over you, arms wrapped around your waist, hands pushing your shirt up to rub him thumbs over your skin. He pressed his face to your chest, cheek smushed against you and he hummed when your hand found his hair again. 

“M’gonna get you sick,” he mumbled forlornly but Steve made no move to get off of you. 

You tutted, making soothing noises as you stroked your fingers over his hair, his brow, the bridge of his nose. You watched his eyes flutter with it, his chest catch and release the breath that was stuttering in his chest. 

“Someone’s gotta look after you,” you murmured to him, voice soft with affection, “we can have a movie day, huh?”

You felt the boy's arms tighten around you, the press of his nose into your sternum as he dropped a kiss over your heart and he nodded. 

“Don’t deserve you,” Steve said, voice fuzzy from tiredness and the way he was still pressing himself into you, as if he couldn’t get enough, as if two days without you was far too long. “You’re too good to me, sweetheart.”

You shook your head, your chin brushing aggressively against the top of his hair and if he’d looked up at you, Steve would’ve seen the way his words made your lips pull down, sad and frustrated that he still thought that sometimes. 

“Don’t make me beat you up whilst you’re sick, Harrington,” you grumbled, your threat empty and without any heat. 

But it pulled a smile from him and he let out  an amused sound, twisting in the bed so he rolled onto his back, taking you with him and pulling you to his side. 

He brushed your hair behind your ear, pressing the bridge of his nose into the space underneath it, his lips dropping a kiss to the corner of your jaw. 

“I could still take you, gorgeous,” he told you grinning when you snorted. “You wanna have a roll around, and I’ll prove it to you?” Steve nipped at your earlobe, earning a squeal before you shoved him away, back into his nest of pillows. 

“Nice try, hot shot,” you laughed, lips twisted as you tried to hide your smile, “you’re sick, you need to rest.”

“We’ll agree to disagree,” Steve mused and you pushed yourself up, sitting on your knees as you looked down at him. 

You smiled, happy to see how his brown eyes were a little brighter than before, warmer and more awake as he gazed up at you from where he was sprawled out. His skin had more colour, a flush across his cheeks that looked healthier than the feverish pink he’d had before. 

“How about some soup?” You asked, looking at his digital clock on his nightstand, “It's almost lunch. We could eat out by the pool, dip our feet in and get you some fresh air?”

Steve’s hand found yours in the sheets, fingers twisting between yours so he could lift it to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to your palm. 

“That sounds real nice,” he agreed, eyes shifting to the bag you’d placed on the desk when you arrived and he suddenly felt starving. “What kinda soup?”

You smiled, shifting off the bed so you could gather your treats, heading for the bedroom door. You watched over your shoulder as the boy tumbled out of bed, hair sleep mussed and on end from your eager hands, a little more bounce in him than before. 

“Your favourite,” you told him and his eyes settled on the faint outline of the container label that he could see through the bag. The Little Bakery, it read, and beside it, he saw a box of cookies and cannolis. “Plus some other things to make you feel better.”

He moaned a happy sound, his hand on the small of your back as you headed to the kitchen. You couldn’t see him as you walked down the stairs but the press of his palm on your skin was warm and comforting, and as you reached the bottom step, he took the bag from your arms, saving you from carrying it anymore. 

Steve bent as he did, pressing a sweet kiss to your cheek, grazing the corner of your lips. 

“Love you,” he mumbled into your skin, before padding barefoot into the kitchen, naked bare, shorts slung low and you watched as he started pulling out pots and glasses for juice, the summer light slanting in from the window and painting him in gold and tiny rainbows.