the shire is burning, so mordor it is

"I'm serious!" Steve says, snatching the popcorn back and placing it on the coffee table before shifting on the sofa to look at you properly. "This is—this is abhorrent. Do you exclusively date selfish assholes or something?"

If you hadn't had a mouthful of popcorn, you would have probably argued with him. But instead you settle for sending him a glare as you chew what was left of the salty popcorn in your mouth.

"Do you finish when you touch yourself?"

You nearly choke on a popcorn kernel.

"Jesus Christ, Harrington!" you gasp out, your face now so hot you were surprised that steam wasn’t rising from your skin. “You can’t just ask me that—”

“—what?” Steve asks, seemingly confused why you were so taken aback by his question. “I’m trying to help—”

“—by asking me about masturbation?”

“I’m just trying to understand the situation!”

You huff because you knew deep down Steve had good intentions. You knew he wasn’t asking to be a creep—he was asking because he genuinely cared about you and wanted to help you with the situation. But talking about something so intimate with Steve made you feel a lot of things that you weren’t quite sure what to do with.

“Yes,” you say finally, determinedly not looking at Steve as you answer. “Yes, I um, I finish when I—you know—”

“—touch yourself?” Steve finishes for you and the words send heat coursing through your entire body. You shift on the couch beside him, eyes on his TV that was currently playing some sitcom you were no longer paying attention to. “C’mon, don’t be coy about it! Masturbation is normal! I do it at least three times a—”

“—Steve!” You scold him, your face somehow even hotter as you turn to glare at him. “I don’t need to know about how many times a week you jerk off—”

“—actually, I was going to say that I do it three times a day.”

You look at him and suddenly, any intelligent thought you had disappears. Because now all you could think about was Steve and what he’d look like fucking his fist with his cock. You would be lying if you said you hadn’t thought about Steve in that way before. He may be a good friend of yours but he was also stupidly attractive and wore jeans that hugged his lower half a little too well. Sometimes, if you had a chance to look at him for long enough, you could see the imprint of his thick cock over the denim. And his ass—

“You know I’m kidding right?” Steve asks you, seeming to take your lack of response as disgust—when in reality it was anything but. “I don’t—that’s just excessive. Few times a week is enough for me—”

“—okay, okay! I get it!” You interrupt, wanting him to stop talking because his words were going straight to your core and you didn’t want your traitorous eyes to shift down to his lap. “I don’t need to know your…schedule.”

Steve smiles a little before nudging you with his elbow. “It’s pretty rigorous, I’ll tell you that—”

“—Steven—”

“—sorry,” Steve grins at you before he finally looks away from you. You pray that he drops the entire conversation, that he doesn’t ask anymore questions so that you could finally take moment to relax—

“So, it’s not you—it’s just the guys that you’re seeing?”

“Steve, can’t we just—”

“—no, we can’t,” Steve says, sitting up and looking at you with a careful expression. “Listen—I know you feel awkward talking about this with me but—I just—I care about you and I care about the way guys treat you. And if they’re not making you come, not taking the time to work out what you want, then they’re not treating you right. I—I just want to make sure that you know it’s not you that’s the problem here. It’s them.”

You swallow because, god, why did he have to be so caring? Why did he know the exact right thing to say? And why did you have the sudden urge to press your thighs together?

“I dunno,” you say finally, your throat a little dry for reasons that had everything to do with the man sitting right beside you. “What if—what if guys just can’t make me come? Like I’m too complicated down there or—”

“—stop right there,” Steve interrupts, not unkindly but in a firm sort of way that shuts you up almost instantly. “What did I just say? It’s not you. You said you can make yourself come so I promise you—you’re not the problem. They are. They’re being selfish. They need to—they need to take the time to learn what your body needs. Ask you what you like, how you respond to what they’re doing to you.”

It was good advice, genuinely. But all you could think about as you listened to Steve was what he’d be like in bed. If he would take the time to learn what your body needed, if he would ask you what you liked, if he’d watch—lips parted and eyes wide—as your body writhed beneath him, as your plushy walls squeezed around his—

“I don’t know Steve,” you say quietly, worrying your bottom lip between your teeth as you try not to think too hard about the image you had of Steve’s head between your thighs, of his lips wet with your slick dripping down to his chin. “I don’t know if it’s just that. I mean—it’s not like what they’re doing is really bad because I get close, I—it’s like right before I get there—I just seize up or something.”

Steve listens carefully, his attention solely on you as you try your best to explain the issue and when you’re done, he takes a few seconds to mull over what you had just told him.

“These guys,” Steve begins, hazel eyes flickering between yours as he studies your expression. “Do you trust them?”

“What?” You ask, a little confused at the question. “I don’t know what you—”

“—do you trust them?” Steve repeats the question, not elaboration or clarification—just a small quirk of his brow as he waits for you to respond. “Do you trust them enough to let yourself go completely?”

The question takes you by surprise and you want to say yes—but the word dies on your tongue and the lack of a response was enough of an answer for Steve. He looks at you for a moment too long, hazel eyes studying you as though he was trying to look inside your brain.

“Do you trust me?”

You don’t even think as you nod—because of course you trusted Steve. You trusted him with your life. After everything that had happened in Hawkins, it was hard not to.

“Of course I—”

“—then make yourself come in front of me.”

The silence that greeted Steve’s words was deafening. You stare at him, eyes wide as you let his words truly sink in. You let yourself come to terms with the fact that you weren’t having some strange sex dream. That your good friend and guy you occasionally had inappropriate thoughts had just asked you to make yourself come in front of him.

“Why?” You ask him finally because though you were shocked—there was a large part of you that didn’t want to say no to his offer.

“I just—I think it might help,” Steve shrugs, trying to appear nonchalant but you notice the way the tips of his ears redden. “I mean sex is pretty fucking vulnerable so you might just need an experience with someone you trust who cares about you. So you know it’s okay to—to let go in front of someone.”

The way he says it—with so much care in his voice that it almost makes you forget about the whole making yourself come in front of him thing. He makes it sound so sweet that you find yourself lost for words again.

“You think it’s weird,” Steve says, shifting away an inch or so away from you on the couch—in your state of shock you had barely noticed that he had begun to inch closer to you. “I know, I know, I shouldn’t have—”

“—n-no, no, no,” you stutter out before you could stop yourself with a subtle shake of your head. “I mean—yeah, it’s weird but—as you said I-I trust you.”

Steve blinks and then—seems to realise that you weren’t completely disgusted by his proposal and sits up a little straighter on the couch. 

“Really? You—you’d want to try and—”

“—yes,” you say before he could finish his sentence because you were feeling incredibly turned on by the thought of Steve watching you touch yourself and you didn’t want to let rational thought creep in now. “It could help and if it doesn’t then—”

“—then we just forget it ever happened,” he finishes with a quick nod. “Yeah, totally. Like it never happened.”

You look at each other then, apparently both waiting for the other to back out. But when neither of you do, Steve visibly swallows as he stands up from his couch, holding out his hand out for you to take..

“You wanna—go somewhere more comfortable?”

Steve’s bedroom was surprisingly tidy considering the fact he hadn’t been expecting company. Still, there’s some clothes strewn across his bed that Steve makes quick work of tidying up.

“Sorry,” he mutters as he dumps the clothes onto his desk before gesturing towards his bed for you to sit down.

You glance down at his bed before you look back at him. Because now you felt nervous—now you were thinking about lying on his sheets and fingering yourself in front of him. And perhaps you were just starting to realise how insane that would be and—

“Hey.”

You feel one of Steve’s large hands on your arm and it pulls you back to reality. You hadn’t even realised that you had been staring blankly down at his plaid sheets, already too in your own head about what was about to happen. Steve’s gentle touch, his fingertips brushing over your skin help to ground you—remind you that this wasn’t a stranger you had met at a bar or someone you had been set up with by a mutual friend. This was Steve. Your good, totally platonic friend, Steve.

“You’re okay,” he says gently, thumb rubbing gentle circles in your skin and unknowingly turning your insides into goo. “I’m gonna put on some music, okay? Help you relax a bit. Just take a seat.”

You listen because you did not know what else to do, sitting on the very edge of his bed and watching as he walks over to his vinyl player perched on top of a chest of drawers. You continue to watch him from the back as he sorts through the small stack of vinyls he had, apparently trying to find the perfect record. 

A few moments later, the sound of Baby Now That I’ve Found You by the Foundations starts to play and you feel your shoulders visibly relax before Steve turns around to look at you.

“Really?” You ask him with a faint smile. “Is this you trying to set the mood?”

“That obvious, huh?” Steve asks you as he steps towards the bed—towards you.

You watch him, your lips parting as he stands a foot or so away from you now. The room feels five times smaller as Steve’s eyes are on you.

“What if it doesn’t work?” You ask Steve suddenly. “What if there’s something wrong if me or—”

Steve cuts you off by saying your name and the way he says it steals the air from your lungs.

“There is nothing wrong with you,” Steve says firmly, as though he believed every syllable. “Absoluetly nothing.”

You nod, choosing to believe him as you look at his face, the smooth voices of the Foundations putting you a little more at ease. “Okay so—we’re doing this. Okay. Are you just going to watch me or—”

You stop when you see Steve shaking his head. Your body suddenly feels hot, as though all the blood in your body had been replaced by fire. It was almost as though it seemed to know what Steve was going to say before he said it.

“No,” Steve says in a low voice that goes straight to your aching centre. “You’re going to show me. And I’ll show you.”

Everything became very still after that. The both of you just looked at each other—your chest heaving and his eyes flickering over your face as though trying to find any hint of uncertainty. You wanted to be the one to make the first move and you almost do, your fingers curling into the sheets beneath you as you build up the courage to do so. But before you could find the hem of your t-shirt, Steve begins to lift up his top.

The first flash of his soft stomach, of his happy trail and you seemed to forget how to breathe. God, he was gorgeous. Moles and freckles were dotted over his skin, there was a generous smattering of hair over his chest that made your thighs press together and you wanted nothing more than to run your fingers through it. In truth, you could have looked at him for hours. 

But instead, you take a deep breath before you very slowly get to your feet.

Steve is watching you carefully as you begin to lift up your own shirt. His eyes on you should have made you feel self conscious, should have made you think twice of the very unsexy bra you were wearing, should have made you think of all the parts of yourself you didn’t like. But there was something about the way he was looking at you as you let your shirt fall to the floor that made you feel the very opposite of self conscious.

And so, before you could second guess yourself—you made the next move before him.

Your fingers fiddle momentarily with the button of your jeans before you unzip them, the sound making Steve’s eyes widen slightly. And when you begin to tug your jeans down over your hips and then your thighs, leaving you in just your mismatched underwear, you watch in fascination as a faint blush creeps up Steve’s neck.

You step out of your jeans, not looking away from Steve for even a second so you didn’t miss a single facial expression. So that you didn’t miss the way the flush had crept up his cheeks and right up to the very tips of his ears, how his breathing had started to become shallow.

“You look—”

“—don’t,” you say, surprised to find that your voice was barely a whisper. 

“Why not?” He asks gently, head tilting to the side as he begins to unbuckle his belt.

You lick your lips, eyes still on his face but desperately wanting to shift lower to watch as he unzips his jeans.

“Becuase I might think that you’re just saying it to make me feel better,” you say. “Considering what we’re about to do.”

“I would never lie about how beautiful I think you are,” Steve says simply, his eyes still on you as he finally pulls his jeans down.

You barely have a moment to comprehend Steve calling you beautiful before you catch sight of him in only his boxers. He was—shit, he was perfect. You let your eyes dip down to feast on his delicious thighs, his boxers that had a large, noticeable tent in them that made your core throb.

Your throat felt dry, you didn't quite know what to do. All you knew is that Steve Harrington was hard just by looking at you. The thought sends a hot surge through your body, as though every damn nerve was suddenly burning beneath your skin. And perhaps it was that thought—the idea that you had made Steve hard without really doing anything—that you reached carefully behind you to unclip your bra.

Steve visibly swallows as your breasts spill out, finally seeing your hardened peaks as you let your bra fall to the floor alongside your t-shirt and jeans.

There was a beat and then—

He begins to tug down his boxers.

You had imagined what Steve Harrignton’s cock would look like more times than you cared to admit. But every mental image you had conjured up was nothing—nothing—compared to what was standing to attention right in front of you. His cock was long, thick and heavy, so heavy in fact it had made an audible sound when it had slapped against his soft tummy. His cock was beautiful—he was beautiful. Slightly curved in a way that you knew was made for hitting that spot inside of you just right. The ruddy tip of his cock was already leaking precum, which you shamelessly watch drool along a vein bulging along his length. Your mouth felt incredibly dry as you ogled the sheer size of him, imagining what it would be like for his thick cock to split you open—

You come to your senses just enough to discard your panties. They stick to your cunt briefly due to how fucking drenched you already were and Steve notices—his bottom lip between his teeth as he marvels at how your lips cling to the fabric before giving way, his cock twitching when he sees the damp patch your wetness had caused.

And there you both were, both finally completely bare in front of one another for the first time. Both looking shamelessly at the other’s body, both clearly desperate to touch the other but not dare to do so.

And then, without a word to each other, you sink back down onto his bed while Steve reaches blindly behind him to pull out his desk chair.

It was only now beginning to feel real, as you look at Steve’s face at the same time he looks at you.

“Still with me?” He asks you breathlessly.

You take your time to answer, spreading your legs a little wider and watching with immense satisfaction as his eyes flicker down to your soaked pussy. Another surge of something hot like molten lava surges through you as you notice the way his hand twitches towards his cock.

“Yeah,” you breathe out. “Still with you.”

You could have looked at each other for hours, days even. But your pussy was clenching around nothing and more precum dribbled out of Steve’s cock and you both knew you couldn’t wait any longer.

Steve moved first, one of his large hands wrapping around his thick cock before giving himself one, two gentle strokes. The sound of his own precum wetting his cock was obscene and it was that noise that made you trail your fingers delicately over the skin of your inner thigh before making contact with the soaked, sensitive flesh between your legs.

The relief was instant. You felt your entire body relax, your eyelids flutter for a brief moment before you made sure to look back at Steve. He was already watching you and for a moment you just smile at each other—almost shyly despite the situation—before you both focus back on pleasuring yourselves.

Your fingers glide easily through your folds, your slick allowing you to plunge two fingers inside of yourself. A breathy moan left your lips before you could stop it. You were almost embarrassed by it but then you notice the way Steve’s jaw clenches at the sound, the way he squeezes his cock a little bit tighter.

“God, you’re fucking soaked,” he grits out. “You sound—fuck—you sound fucking incredible. Please don’t stop.”

His words—his filthy fucking words—go right through you. Your cunt clenches around your fingers and you briefly wonder if you had died and gone to heaven, if Steve Harrington was really dirty talking to you right now.

“C’mon pretty girl,” Steve grits out as he pumps his dick that little bit faster, eyes not leaving yours. “Don’t hold back. Please, baby. Don’t you dare hold back on me.”

You could barely believe it, the words that were falling from his lips, the pet names he had just called you. But you didn’t question it—too busy fucking yourself with your slick fingers as you let out another soft, almost pornographic moan.

“That’s it,” Steve murmurs, the schlick, schlick, schlick of him fucking his fist filling the room as he watching your soaked fingers move in and out of your needy hole like it was the best damn thing he had ever seen. “Soak your fingers f’me. That’s so fucking hot.”

You let out a whimper at that, his words having such an impact on you that your hips buck upwards to meet your fingers, your eyes fluttering again as pleasure floods into every pore over your skin.

“Steve,” you mewl out as your fingers pump in and out of your hole, your breasts bouncing with each and every thrust. “Fuck, Steve. Feels so fucking good.”

Steve hadn’t been expecting you to dirty talk but god, had it been the most welcome surprise.

“Yeah? Gonna make yourself come for me, sweet girl?” Steve asks you, now pumping his dick frantically as he watches you roll your hips against his bed—your slick soaking his sheets. “Gonna get my bed all wet? Make me smell you on my sheets for days?”

You whimper and nod desperately as you curl your fingers, hitting that spongey spot inside of you that had you mewling out yet again. 

“Gonna touch your clit for me?” Steve asks you, breathing heavily as he tries to hold back as the sight of you pleasuring yourself on his bed was suddenly becoming too much for him. “C’mon, please. Wanna see you lose it, baby.”

It was like Steve knew exactly what you needed, almost as though he knew your body better than you did without even touching it.

Your other hand—the one that had been curled into the sheets beneath you—journeys to between your legs. And that first brush of your fingertip over your swollen, arching clit had you seeing stars. You’re pretty sure you moan out Steve’s name but it also could have been nonsense. All you could focus on was Steve’s own pleasure dancing across his face and the dual sensation of your fingers plunging in and out of your soaked cunt and the other that was circling around your clit.

Pleasure was consuming you—it was white hot and you could feel it pulsing in every nerve in your body. You could feel the blood in your veins burning as the coil in your gut was pulled tighter and tighter while you played with your swollen clit.

“That’s it,” Steve gasps out, his eyes only on you as you neared the edge. “C’mon, baby. Be a good girl and come for me. You can do it, I know you can.”

You wish that you could have held on, that you could have prolonged your pleasure by a few more seconds. But your orgasm had snuck up on you—crashing over you like a tidal wave. Your thighs shook, your toes curled and Steve’s name fell from your lips as you came all over your fingers, your juices soaking Steve’s bed.

And it was that—watching you finally trusting him enough to let yourself go completely that made Steve follow along right behind you. You watch in awe as his toes curl, as his stomach clenches and how his head tilts back against the back of the chair in ecstasy, his release spilling all over that soft tummy of his. Steve lets out a loud groan, followed by your name and you swear, you could have come for a second time from that sound alone. 

You withdraw your fingers as you catch your breath, your chest heaving and body still buzzing after the intensity of your orgasm.

Finally, after taking a moment or two to prepare yourself, you finally look at Steve’s face. He was already looking at you and smiling.

“See,” he breathes out. “Nothing’s wrong with you. It’s all about trust.”

“Steve Harrington being right for once?” You say, smiling. “It must be a miracle.”

You both laugh and though you both clean up, get dressed and promise each other nothing will change between you—deep down you both knew that after tonight? Things would never be the same again.

dividers by @starrliqhtt

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You push open the station door and step out into the damp night air, the storm immediately swallowing you whole. Instinctively wrapping your jacket tighter around yourself.

He spares you the briefest of glances when you step out, closing the door behind you. His eyes catch yours; sharp for half a second before he drops his gaze back to the cigarette between his fingers, jaw tight behind the slow curl of smoke.

You cross the narrow space between you and lean against the wall opposite him, back against damp brick. Rainwater drips steadily from the edge of the awning between you, hitting the pavement in uneven taps. 

Neither of you speak. Steve just takes another drag; choosing to focus on that and not the fact that you followed him out here.

“You know those things kill you, right?” you say eventually, voice so uneven you're not sure you sound like yourself. 

He lets out a humorless huff through his nose. “Think I’m aware.” 

The stick glows orange between his fingers. You just watch his hand. 

Swollen knuckles. Split skin. A faint smear of blood slowly drying near his wrist.

Without really thinking about it, only really to distract yourself from the way your stomach twists, you reach forward and pluck the cigarette from between his fingers.

Steve’s eyes flick to you, but he doesn’t move to stop you.

You take a drag before you can think it through, the smoke burning harsh down your throat. For a while no words pass between you. Just the cigarette.

Until eventually you realise you haven’t stopped staring at his hand.

The way his fingers keep clenching and unclenching at his side. The almost imperceptible wince every now and then that he doesn’t even realise he’s doing it.

“You should probably clean that up.” 

His jaw flexes.

“Yeah?” he says flatly. “You think?” The way he looks at you when he says it—tired, angry, something rawer underneath —makes you swallow harshly.

Steve takes the cigarette back from you, shoulders tenser than you’ve ever seen them. Then, quieter but just as sharp, he adds, “Maybe you should stop giving me reasons to punch things.”

“There it is.” You knew that was coming. The blame. Is it warranted? Probably. Do you want to hear it? No. 

You tilt your head back against the brick, forcing your voice to be lighter than you feel, forcing yourself to say your next words. “That wasn’t my fault.”

His head lifts slowly, eyes finding yours before skirting over you just as slowly. Rain-dark hair plastered messily around your face. Mud streaked across the knees of your jeans from where you hit the ground. The tiny cut near your cheekbone you hadn’t bothered cleaning.

Something sharp flashes across his face so quickly it looks physical. 

He grits his next words out. “You ran in there alone.”

Your jaw tightens instantly. “I had it handled.”

Steve actually laughs out that. Cutting. Slightly mocking. “You did, did you?” 

A flashlight beam disappearing around the corner before he could grab your hand. Your voice crackling through the radio—I’ll be fine, just cover the other side—

Then static.

You flinch. You don’t need reminding.

The floor giving out beneath your feet. Rust and concrete collapsing inward. Your shoulder slamming hard enough into the wall to make your vision spark white.

You force yourself to shrug anyway. “But I got out.”

“Because of me.” Steve steps forward as he says it, the words sharper and louder than everything else he’s said tonight before he visibly catches himself.

His voice lowers again, words scrapped raw. “You got out because I got to you in time.”

His eyes lock onto yours and don’t move. Don’t even blink. And for a second neither do you. Like you're in a trance.

Rain continues to hammer down around you. Neon red flickers across the sharp line of his jaw, catches against the lenses of his glasses, turns his soaked white t-shirt pink for half a heartbeat before fading again.

You look away first.

Your jaw aches from how hard you’re clenching it. Steve’s breathing hard now, not from exertion but from whatever ugly thing he’s been trying to hold down since you all came back up. 

“You know what I heard?” he asks.

You don’t answer. He doesn’t give you time to. 

“You telling me to shut up, a loud crash—” His voice catches suddenly, wavering around the next part like he physically hates saying it out loud. “You scream.”

His eyes lock back onto yours, he swallows, hard, before continuing. “And then nothing.”

The words hit harder than they should. 

Because, yes, you remember it too.

The static swallowing your voice mid-sentence. The sick drop in your stomach when the tunnel floor gave out beneath you. The impact. Dust choking the air so thick you could barely breathe around it.

And then silence.

Deafening. All-consuming. Terrifying. 

Steve drags a hand through his hair, frustration bleeding through every little move he makes. “Do you have any idea what that was like?”

You hate this.

Hate the way he’s looking at you. Hate remembering the panic clawing up your throat beneath all that concrete. Hate remembering how helpless you felt down there. Hate the fact he saw you like that.

So you default to the only thing you know how to do in a moment like this: deflection.

“I’m standing here, aren’t I?”

Steve’s expression hardens instantly. “That’s not the fucking point, Henderson.” 

You cross your arms tighter over your chest like a shield; voice raising to match his. “Then what is?”

For a second he just stares at you like he can’t actually believe you’re asking. As if he genuinely cannot comprehend how you don’t get this. And in your rational brain, maybe you do. A little. But understanding something and letting yourself feel it are two very different things.

He just laughs, again. This time it’s softer. Not quite so mocking anymore.

In fact it sounds a little wrecked.

Actually, it sounds completely and utterly wrecked. 

“I found you trapped under concrete,” he says, rough and low, every word a struggle for him to say. “And you were still trying to joke with me.”

Your stomach twists, you feel your hands grow clammy and shake by your side because suddenly you’re back there. 

Steve dropping to his knees beside you so hard the impact echoed through the building. Blood already running over his knuckles from the door he’d punched and kicked through to reach you. His hands shaking while he shoved broken debris away from your leg.

And you, dizzy and hurting and terrified in a way you didn’t want to name, still forcing out:

“Took you long enough, Harrington.”

Steve had looked at you like the joke physically hurt him.

And now, eyes glassy behind rain-speckled lenses, cheeks flushed, his jaw flexes the exact same way. 

“You looked at me like-like it was no big deal—“

You swallow harshly, cutting him off. “It wasn’t—”

“How can you say that?” His voice cracks this time. Barely, but you hear it.

“Jesus Christ, do you think I wanted to not be able to fucking answer Dustin when he’s screaming down the radio that you’re not answering? Cause I didn’t know why you weren’t. Cause you had decided to go off alone. Again.”

Rain rattles violently against the metal awning overhead. Steve looks away suddenly, dragging a hand over his mouth before shaking his head once.

“Do you think I wanted to be the one to tell him that you—” His voice catches hard enough that he has to stop. “That you…”

He can’t say it.

You realise with a horrible twisting ache that he physically cannot force the words out. Like saying them aloud might make them real. Might drag you right back beneath the rubble where he found you.

The storm presses in around you both, so loud now that it almost feels intrusive. Like the night itself is listening.

Steve stares out into the rain, chest rising hard beneath the damp white t-shirt, cigarette long forgotten. 

You don’t know what to do with this version of him.

Steve annoyed? Easy. Steve sarcastic? Easy. Typical. Steve looking at you like losing you would’ve broken him? That hurts. 

In a way you don't understand. In a way that makes your chest actually ache. 

“He would’ve been okay,” you say quietly, and you almost believe yourself. 

But Steve’s head snaps toward you so fast you instantly regret it. “What?”

You shrug even though the motion feels stiff. Defensive. False. “Dustin. He would’ve been okay.” You nod as you say it; like that will make it true. 

For a second Steve just stares at you. 

Then something furious flashes across his face. 

“No,” he says immediately. “No, he wouldn’t have.”

You open your mouth to say-to say—you don’t know. You don’t know what to say, what to do, where to look. 

“No.” Steve shakes his head once, sharp and disbelieving. “No.”

You look away on instinct—the look in his eyes, the rawness of his voice suddenly all too much. You try to make yourself smaller somehow. Fold inward. Retreat back behind the walls that usually keep people out before he can force his way through them.

But he won't let you. Not anymore. Not after today. 

He’s moving before you can. 

One second there’s space between you. And then the next there isn’t. 

Rain clings to his lashes. His glasses sit crooked from where he shoved a hand through his hair moments earlier. His chest rises hard beneath his soaked t-shirt as he steps into your space like he physically cannot stand this distance anymore.. 

And then before you can even blink his hand is grasping your jaw. Firm. Unwavering. His fingers curl against your skin and drag your face back up until your eyes are on him. Only on him.

No chance to run. No chance to hide from this. From him.

“Harringto—”

Your voice doesn’t sound like your own. Too thin. Too breathless. Like you’re begging for something you can’t even name. For him to stop. For him not to stop. For him not to make you stand here and let him see you like this.

“No. You’re not listening to me.” His thumb presses sharply against your jaw as frustration bleeds through every word. “You keep saying this shit like people would just get over it. Like losing you wouldn't-wouldn't mean anything.” 

Your pulse stumbles hard against your ribs.

“You think Dustin would’ve been okay?” he says incredulously.

“You think your brother wouldn’t spend the rest of his life wondering if he could’ve stopped you from running in there alone? That if he had done even the slightest thing differently that you would still be here. Going over and over and over it in his head wondering where he fucked up?”

“You keep acting like you’re expendable,” he says, voice cracking around the last word. “As if it wouldn’t matter if you didn’t come back.”

You try to pull away instinctively, discomfort clawing up your throat too fast, but Steve’s grip tightens slightly before immediately softening again when he realises it.

Not letting you go. Not letting you disappear. 

“And me?” It’s not only his voice that has broken but his expression, as he struggles to speak. “You think I would’ve been fucking okay?”

He’s staring at you like he needs you to understand this. Like it matters more than his pride. More than winning any argument. More than whatever this thing between you has become.

It's almost like he’s trying to show you something in his words, in his face, in the desperation in his voice. Something he’s been trying to show you for a long time now and you just keep refusing to see. 

If he can just make you see it—really see it—maybe he can stop you from slipping through his fingers next time.

Your breath catches painfully in your throat. Because the worst part is—

Some part of you thinks you do see it.

That maybe you always have. 

And that is infinitely more terrifying than pretending you don’t.

“Why?” you croak out before coughing lightly and trying again. “Why?”

The question seems to knock the air out of him for a second. His brows pull together hard as he almost spits out “What?”

“Why would you care?” You mean for it to sound sharp. Defensive. Detached. 

Instead it comes out small. Confused. 

Steve, for all his frustration and anger, just stares at you. 

It’s still raining heavily, wind now pushing cold mist beneath the awning, but all you can feel is the warmth of his body standing so close to yours.

Then he laughs once under his breath. But it's devoid of any humour.  

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, swiping the hand not cupping your jaw down his face and through his hair, shaking his head. “You really don’t know.”

Immediately your defenses slam back into place. “Know what?” you say quickly, trying for sarcasm mixed with anger and missing completely. “All I do is annoy you.”

Steve’s expression hardens instantly. “That’s not—”

“We fight constantly,” you cut in, words tumbling out faster now because if you stop talking you might actually have to hear what he’s trying to say—what he’s been trying to say for years now. “I drag you into insane bullshit, I nearly got myself killed tonight, I got you injured, I make your life harder basically every time I—”

Suddenly you’re cut off.

Not by more words.

But by a forceful pressure.

Specifically, Steve's mouth on yours.

He crashes into you. Moving like he's been holding this in for years—like if he doesn’t do it now, he’ll drown in the weight of it. Like he cannot stand hearing one more terrible thing leave your mouth.

It's not soft. Not careful.

It’s desperate and angry and messy, his lips pressing hard enough to bruise, his fingers digging into your jaw to keep you there.

You gasp against him, and he takes full advantage, slanting his mouth over yours again, teeth scraping, breaths mingling sharp with the almost addictive combination of nicotine and rain. 

You stumble back a step, shoulders hitting the wall, but he doesn’t let you retreat. He uses his body instead of his words to cage you in, one hand still gripping your jaw, the other braced against the wall beside your head. His glasses dig into your cheekbone, the frames cold where they press against your skin, but you don’t pull away. You are not sure you could. 

You finally snap out of the shock of it, and in that moment all you want is him closer than humanly possible. Your hands fist in the damp cotton of his shirt, dragging him closer with a desperation that surprises even you. . 

Steve lets out a ragged moan against your mouth, the sound muffled by the sharp press of teeth and lips—half frustration, half surrender—before he mutters a broken, "Fuck," against your skin. 

It’s all hands and teeth and the dizzying press of bodies. 

His hand slides from your jaw into your hair, gripping just tight enough to tilt your head back, exposing your throat to the scrape of his stubble.

You gasp at the feeling, and he fully takes the opportunity given to him to deepen the kiss, tongue hot and insistent, like he’s trying to rewrite every argument, every sharp word, every moment you’ve spent at each other’s throats. 

All in this one kiss. 

“You think I don’t care?” he murmurs against your mouth before kissing you again immediately. “Jesus Christ.”

Another kiss.

Another sharp inhale.

His lips drag against yours slower this time, but no less desperate.

“I punched through a fucking door for you,” he says hoarsely, words breaking apart between kisses. “When I heard you scream—” His voice catches roughly. “When I saw you trapped down there alone I-I couldn't breathe.” 

Your chest aches so hard it feels unbearable.

“Not till I knew you were okay.” His hands are still shaking even as they hold onto you.

Steve kisses you again before you can speak, like he already knows you’ll try to argue your way out of this too. 

He’s not wrong. 

“No,” he mutters against your lips, thumb trembling where it rests beneath your jaw. “No, you don’t get to do that anymore.”

Steve touches you like he can press the truth directly into your skin; then you might finally believe him. “You matter to me,” he breathes against your mouth.

And then, quieter. Rougher. “So fucking much.”

Another kiss, slower now, but somehow just as devastating.

“More than you’ll ever know,” he says hoarsely against your lips. “More than you ever could.”

Your throat tightens dangerously. And for the first time all night, maybe ever, you don’t call him Harrington. 

.“Steve…” 

The name leaves you like something fragile, like it physically hurts you to let him hear it. 

Hearing his name said by you, like that—soft, fractured, stripped bare—destroys whatever last shred of restraint he’d been clinging to. 

Steve’s breath stutters against your lips, his grip tightening in your hair reflexively. The sound of his name in your voice—not Harrington, not king Steve, not something thrown at him in anger or challenge–does something violent to his chest. 

He doesn’t just kiss you this time—he devours you. 

He drags you impossibly closer, his teeth catching your lower lip hard, his tongue sweeping in long before you can recover. There’s absolutely nothing gentle about it—this is Steve memorising your mouth like it's proof you’re real. 

That he didn't lose you before he ever got the chance to have you. 

“Been trying not to do this for so long,” he admits roughly against your mouth

Surprisingly, that brings a smile to your face—a real one, small and disbelieving but there—and you feel the tension in your chest loosen just enough to breathe. Maybe it’s the adrenaline still humming in your veins, or the way Steve’s hands are trembling where they’re tangled in your hair, but suddenly you can’t help it. 

You tilt your head back to break the kiss, lips brushing his as you murmur, “You’re telling me Steve Harrington, King Steve, has been pining after Henderson’s big sister? All this time?”

Steve freezes. 

For a second, he just stares at you, rain dripping from his lashes, mouth slightly parted like he can’t decide whether to strangle you or kiss you again. Then his grip tightens in your hair, tugging just enough to make you gasp. 

“You’re fucking impossible,” he grits out, but there’s no anger left in it—just exasperation, fondness, something raw and aching beneath the words.

The grin tugging at your mouth only widens. “You need to work on your moves.”

Steve blinks at you, mouth not even an inch away from yours.. “Excuse you?”

“You heard me,” you murmur, lips still brushing his. “That’s a little bit embarrassing, don’t ya think? And not for days, or weeks—years.” 

Steve lets out a disbelieving laugh.

“You made me your enemy when really you just wanted to have me.”

Steve goes absolutely, completely, still.

For one glorious second Steve Harrington actually looks completely and utterly, beautifully speechless.

The wind changes direction causing the rain to hit the both of you. Rainwater slides down the side of his face as he stares at you, jaw flexing hard—actively trying not to react to that sentence the way he wants to.

You can practically feel the moment his patience snaps—his fingers twitch, his jaw sets, and his gaze narrows. “You,” he grits out, thumb tapping your chin, voice rough, “are pushing your luck.” 

You grin up at him, tilting your head to make his grip shift. “Am I?” 

His thumb presses into the hinge of your jaw, tilting your face up further. “Yeah. You are.” 

There’s a beat of silence—then you hum, deliberately slow, eyes flicking down to his mouth and back up. “I don’t think I am.” 

Steve exhales sharply against your lips, the heat of his breath mingling with the chill of the rain still dripping down his face. His fingers twitch where they’re tangled in your hair, grip tightening just enough to make it hurt. “We shouldn’t be doing this,” he mutters, voice rough—half protest, half plea.

You meet his gaze, eyes innocent—unaffected—rainwater catching on your lashes. “Then stop.”  

His jaw flexes. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. 

His thumb drags slowly along your jawline, pressing just shy of painful when it catches on the curve of your chin. Then it traces your jawline, slow and deliberate, before his fingers drop lower. Curling into the damp fabric of your shirt, then dragging downward until they catch on the waistband of your jeans. 

His gaze locks onto yours, challenge burning behind rain-speckled lenses. "You wouldn't care?" he murmurs, voice rougher than the storm overhead. 

You tilt your head, feigning indifference even as your pulse kicks violently against your ribs. "Mm?" 

He flicks the button open, fingers hovering over the zip. "So if I just—" 

His gaze is locked onto yours, daring you to stop this. Daring you to stop him. 

The zipper rasps open under his touch, cold air biting at exposed skin as his hand slides in. His fingers trace the dip of your hipbone, rough and warm against the bite of the wind. 

"You wouldn’t care if I went back inside?" he murmurs, voice scraping low.

Your breath hitches. You should push him away. Should say something sharp, something defensive but all you can manage is a shaky exhale as his fingers dip lower, skimming the edge of your underwear. 

Steve watches you with a focus that borders on predatory. His fingers pause, testing, waiting for you to bolt or shove him back. When you don’t, his lips twitch—not quite a smirk, but something darker. Something hungrier. 

"Guess that answers that," he mutters, and then his hand is sliding fully into your pants, palm hot against your stomach.

Steve’s fingers slide beneath your underwear with a precision that shouldn’t be possible given how badly his hands were shaking moments ago. His fingers dip lower, finding you already wet—impossibly so—despite the cold, despite the argument, despite everything.

His breath hitches against your throat. “Fuck,” he mutters, half to himself, half to you.

You gasp, sharp and involuntary, your hands scrambling for purchase against his rain-damp jacket as your legs threaten to give out entirely. 

Steve doesn’t give you the chance to collapse.

His free hand slides around your hip, fingers digging into the curve of your ass, hauling you up against him like you weigh nothing. Your thigh instinctively hooks around his waist as he pins you against the brick wall.

All the while he doesn’t stop, his fingers working you with a rhythm that borders on punishing, his palm grinding against your clit with every upward stroke. 

You bite down on a moan, forehead dropping against his shoulder, nails raking down the front of his jacket, his neck—really anywhere you can reach. . 

The angle is awkward: the wall digging into you, his glasses still digging into your cheekbone, but none of it matters. Not when his thumb circles once—hard—and your vision whites out for a second, hips jerking against his hand. 

“Fuck—Steve—” The name tears out of you, ragged and broken, as his fingers curl just right, pressing deep.

Your gaze catches briefly on the split skin across his knuckles where his hand grips your hip. “Careful,” you breathe instinctively. “Your hand—”

Steve lets out a rough, disbelieving laugh against your throat, forehead dropping briefly to your shoulder like the concern physically hurts him. “Don’t care,” he mutters. 

Before sinking his teeth into the curve of your neck hard; claiming the space between your pulse and your collarbone. Then his tongue follows, slow and hot, soothing the sting in a way that makes your knees threaten to buckle again. 

All the while, his fingers don’t stop moving inside you; dragging a choked, alien noise from your lips.

“Still think I don’t care?” he mutters against your skin. His thumb circles your clit again, deliberate, relentless, and you choke on absolutely nothing. 

You don’t get a chance to answer—not that you could even form words right now—because Steve’s mouth is back on yours. Fingers working you faster, rougher, until your breath comes in sharp, uneven gasps against his mouth.

He continues, this time his breath fans your ear, “Still think I hate you?” he repeats. 

You whine–it’s high, desperate and pathetic—in the back of your throat. His palm grinds against your clit; everything is too much and not enough all at once. 

“Honey—” Steve’s voice cracks around the word, rough with something that isn’t just frustration anymore. “I could never hate you.” His fingers curl inside you, pressing deep enough to punch out another pathetic whine. 

“You annoy the absolute shit out of me,” he admits hoarsely. “You drive me insane. You never listen to me, you throw yourself into danger without a single thought about yourself, and every time you do I just wanna grab you and shake some sense into you.”

His thumb strokes your cheek almost unconsciously as he says it. The softest he has ever touched you–by far. 

“But hate you?” Steve lets out a breathless laugh, the idea utterly ridiculous to him. “Jesus Christ.” He cuts himself off with a ragged exhale, forehead dropping against yours as his thumb circles your clit in slow, deliberate strokes. 

“You walk into a room and suddenly I can’t think properly.”

Your stomach flips violently.

“You argue with me about everything.”

“I do not—”

“You’re literally about to,” he says immediately, kissing the corner of your mouth when you glare at him.

It pulls the smallest unwilling laugh from you but you still can’t help but roll your eyes.

Steve’s expression softens at the sound instantly. And then more seriously, even more sincerely:

“I know what kind of mood you’re in by how hard you slam a door. I know when you’re lying by the scrunch of your nose.” His jaw tightens slightly.

“I knew you were in trouble tonight before anyone else even realised something was wrong.”

Your chest aches.

Steve swallows hard, eyes flicking over your face like he’s trying to make you understand something impossible. “You’re not forgettable,” he says quietly.

The words hit harder than they should.

His thumb brushes your cheek almost absently, tenderness bleeding through every movement now.

“You walk into a room and people look for you when you leave it.” His voice roughens slightly. “You’re loud and difficult and stubborn as hell and somehow you still make everything feel…” He breaks off with a frustrated breathless laugh, shaking his head once. “Fuck.”

Your pulse stumbles beneath his hand.

Steve presses his forehead against yours again before finishing quietly:

“You’re everything.”

Your breath catches to the point where you think you might stop breathing. 

He closes his eyes briefly as if he didn’t mean to say that part out loud. But when he looks at you again, he doesn’t take it back. He doubles down. 

“And I need- I need you to believe that.”

“I tried not to—” He cuts himself off with another rough laugh. “I really fucking tried not to do this.”

“But then you smile at me,” he says softly, almost accusingly. “Or you say my name and suddenly I’m done for.”

You stare at him speechless.

Steve brushes his nose against yours gently before kissing you again, nowhere near as frantic this time but somehow all the more intimate for it.

“So no,” he murmurs against your lips. “I don’t hate you.”

A pause.

Then, quieter:

“I think-” he pauses, taking a deep breath, his fingers slowing, “I think-I’ve been in love with you for a really, really long time.”

You whine—high-pitched and completely broken—as Steve’s fingers thrust just right, pressing deep, and suddenly the world fractures.

Your back arches off the wall, thighs clamping tight around him, nails biting into the damp fabric of his jacket as pleasure crashes over you in waves so sharp you actually can’t breathe.

And Steve? Steve doesn’t let you ride it out in peace. His mouth finds yours again, kissing you through the aftershocks. His tongue licks into your mouth just as his thumb circles your oversensitive clit, dragging a sob from you that he swallows greedily. 

"That's it," Steve murmurs against your temple, lips brushing damp skin as your hands scramble clumsily over his shoulders. "Good girl." 

The praise sends yet another shudder through you, legs still trembling from the aftershocks. You're barely lucid, fingers twisting in his soaked shirt as you press impossibly closer with a whine—high and needy, the sound muffled against his collarbone where your mouth rests. 

"Steve—" Your voice cracks around his name, raw from earlier shouts now reduced to breathless pleading. "Please—" 

"What, baby?" His fingers stroke gently through slick heat, coaxing another weak jerk of your hips. Rainwater drips from his hair onto your flushed cheeks when he leans down. "What do you need?" 

You can't answer—not coherently at least—just rut against his hand with a broken noise, oversensitive but desperate for more after he just gave you the best orgasm of your life.

His chuckle is dark, warm against your ear as his free hand slides up to your jaw, cradling it. “Gonna need you to say it baby.” 

The words shouldn’t wreck you the way they do. They absolutely shouldn’t send heat coiling low in your stomach all over again—but they do.

They absolutely do, and Steve absolutely knows it. You can see it in the way his eyes darken behind his glasses, in the way his thumb presses just under your chin, tilting your face up slowly. 

“Say it,” he murmurs, lips brushing yours, the ghost of a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. “Tell me what you want.”

You swallow hard, your throat working around nothing, because god, this is torture. 

The way his fingers are still inside you, curled just enough to tease but not enough to give you what you need. The way his breath fans over your lips, warm and uneven, like he’s barely holding himself together. The way his glasses are fogged beyond repair, rainwater clinging to his lashes, his hair a mess from where you’ve dragged your hands through it god knows how many times. 

You hate the way you sound—whining, desperate, voice cracking around his name like some lovesick idiot—but god, you don’t care. Not now. Maybe later. 

"Steve," you murmur again, hands fisting desperately in the soaked fabric of his shirt, vying to drag him closer even though there’s not an ounce of space left between you.

He hums, considering, like he’s weighing whether to give in—and for one stupid, hopeful second, you think he will. But then he pulls his fingers out of you with a slow, deliberate drag that makes your hips jerk forward instinctively— chasing the loss, the sudden emptiness—only for his free hand to press flat against your stomach, holding you firmly against the wall. 

He lifts his fingers to his mouth, tongue curling around them in a slow, obscene lick that elicits a moan from your throat before you can stop it. 

You could kill him. You will kill him. Later. After.

His gaze locks onto yours, dark and unreadable behind rain-speckled lenses, as he cleans every last trace of you off his fingers with agonising precision. 

Your face burns, your thighs twitch, and somewhere in the back of your mind you know you should be embarrassed—should really shove him away or snap something sarcastic—but all you manage is a weak, "Fuck."

Annoyingly causing Steve’s mouth to lift into a smug little smile.

“Want you,” you whisper helplessly, forehead knocking lightly against his shoulder. “Idiot.”

"That’s not very nice, now is it, baby?" Steve murmurs, lips brushing the shell of your ear. 

You huff, fucking hell–what more does he want for you? 

His thumb presses into the delicate skin beneath your jaw, tilting your head back until you have no choice but to meet his gaze. ”Calling me an idiot," he continues, voice dropping lower, "after I just let you come?" 

His other hand slides up your side, slow and deliberate, until his palm rests over your hammering heartbeat. "You’re such a brat," he mutters against your lips, breath uneven. "Always have been."

Steve exhales sharply before he relents. His hands dropping to his belt in rough, jerky movements. The buckle clinks too loud, his fingers fumbling slightly with the button of his jeans before he finally shoves them down just far enough to free himself. 

He doesn’t give you what you want, though, not quite yet. Instead, he presses the hot, heavy length of himself against your thigh, rocking forward just enough to make you gasp at the contact, the friction maddeningly light.

"Say it," he murmurs, lips brushing yours as his fingers tighten on your hip—not guiding, not forcing, just there, holding you in place while his cock twitches against your skin. "Say you believe me."

You bite your lip hard enough to taste blood, hips jerking involuntarily against nothing, desperate for more. For him. 

Steve doesn’t let you. His forehead knocks clumsily against yours, his breath coming in ragged bursts between kisses that are more teeth than anything else..

"Say you’ll think twice next time," he growls, dragging his mouth down your jaw to nip at your pulse point. His hips roll forward again, the head of his cock catching against your clit for one devastating second before he pulls back, leaving you gasping. "Say it."

You whine, nails scraping down the skin of his neck as you try to pull him closer, but Steve resists, his grip ironclad. 

His laugh is dark, uneven, his lips curling against your throat while you buck against him fruitlessly. "Nuh-uh, sweetheart. Not until you—fuck—"

His words cut off abruptly when your teeth sink into his shoulder, his hips stuttering forward instinctively before he wrenches himself back with a muttered curse.

His grip tightens in your hair, tilting your head back until you have no choice but to meet his gaze. "You think this is a joke?" he murmurs, thumb brushing your swollen lower lip.

"You think I don’t fucking mean it when I say I can’t lose you?" 

You arch toward him instinctively, but Steve doesn’t budge. Just watches you with that same unreadable expression.

"Tell me you believe me," he whispers, voice rough with something that isn’t just want anymore. "Tell me you know how much I—" He cuts himself off abruptly, fingers flexing against your hip like he’s physically restraining himself from finishing that sentence. 

But it’s the look in his eyes that finally undoes you. 

Not the way his hands shake where they grip your hips, not the ragged edge of his voice when he says your name—no, it’s the raw, unfiltered fear behind those rain-speckled glasses. . 

Steve Harrington, who’s spent years pretending he doesn’t care about anything, looks at you like you’re the only thing left in the world that matters. 

And something inside you finally breaks.

Your hands move before you can stop them.

You grab his face hard enough to push his crooked glasses further up his nose, fingers cold and shaking against rain-damp skin as you drag him down toward you.

“Hey,” you whisper, voice cracking badly enough that Steve immediately stills. “Hey.”

Your forehead presses against his.

And for the first time tonight, you stop trying to pull away from what he’s giving you.

You let yourself feel it.

The fear. The relief. Him.

Your eyes burn suddenly, embarrassingly, and you let out one sharp, frustrated breath that sounds dangerously close to a laugh.

“I’m here,” you whisper brokenly, trying to convince the both of you.

Steve makes a wrecked sound at that. His hands tighten on your hips almost painfully. “Yeah,” he breathes instantly, nodding quickly. “Yeah, you’re here.”

Your throat tightens so hard it hurts.

And suddenly, the words are there before you can stop them. 

“I do.” 

The confession slips out in a whisper, barely audible over the storm, but Steve goes utterly still. 

His breath catches audibly, fingers twitching against your skin like he’s been shocked. For one terrifying second, you think he might pull away—might bolt like a spooked animal—but then his forehead drops against yours with a shuddering exhale. 

“Say it again,” he rasps, voice cracking. His thumb traces your lower lip, smearing rainwater. “Please.”

“I do,” you whisper again, voice cracking. His breath stutters against your temple, his fingers trembling where they grip your thighs—like he’s afraid you’ll take it back.

Then he moves.

There’s no finesse to it, just raw emotion. 

Just Steve’s hands gripping your thighs hard enough to bruise as he presses into you with a ragged groan that gets lost in the rain. The stretch burns briefly before giving way to a fullness that steals your breath. 

The sound punched from your throat is half-sob, half-laugh, the words spilling again without thought: “I do.” 

Steve’s hips jerk uncontrollably at that, his breath hitching like the confession is a physical blow, and then he’s moving in earnest. No rhythm, no ounce of control, just raw, shuddering need.  

Every snap of his hips drives the words from you again, fractured and breathless: “I do—Steve—I do—” His name cracks on a moan as he angles deeper, one hand sliding up to fist in your hair, tilting your head back to expose your throat. His teeth finding your pulse point, biting down just shy of pain as his pace turns punishing, the wet slap of skin lost beneath the storm’s roar.  

You’re babbling now, nonsensical; repeating it like a mantra between gasps, each thrust wringing the words out like he’s starving for them. 

Steve’s grip tightens, his other hand splaying over your ribs like he’s counting each ragged inhale, each stuttered “I do” that spills from your lips. 

The world fractures as pleasure crashes over you in waves so violent they steal your breath. 

Your back arches off the wall, thighs clamping around Steve’s hips, nails biting into his shoulders as you shatter with a sob he swallows greedily.

Steve follows with a groan so broken it barely sounds human, his forehead dropping against yours as his hips jerk erratically, his fingers tightening in your hair.  

For one suspended moment, there’s nothing but the ragged sound of your breathing, the rain still hammering against the awning above you, Steve’s pulse thundering beneath your lips where they rest against his throat.

Then reality rushes back in all too quickly—the cold brick against your back, the damp fabric of your clothes clinging uncomfortably to your skin, Steve’s glasses digging into your cheekbone where they’ve been knocked askew. 

He doesn’t pull away. 

Neither do you. 

Instead, his hands slide up your back, slow and unsteady, smoothing over the rumpled fabric of your jacket. “You’re okay,” he murmurs, lips brushing your temple. Whispered so quiet you know he doesn't mean for you to hear it.  

One hand rises to card through your tangled hair, fingers gentle where they work through the knots. “You’re okay.” 

The words are less a statement than a plea, repeated like a prayer as his breathing gradually slows. 

When you tilt your head back to look at him, his glasses are fogged beyond recognition, rainwater and sweat streaking down his flushed cheeks. He looks wrecked. Beautiful. 

Your fingers rise to push his glasses up his nose, clumsy with exhaustion, and Steve catches your wrist before you can.

His thumb brushes over your racing pulse, his gaze dropping to your swollen lips, then lower—to the mark blooming on your collarbone, the rumpled state of your clothes. Something dark flickers in his eyes before he exhales sharply, forehead dropping to rest against yours again.

“‘M okay,” you murmur softly, fingers brushing back his rain-damp hair where it’s plastered to his forehead. 

Steve exhales sharply—half laugh, half sob—his breath warm against your lips as his hands slide up to cradle your face. His thumbs trace the hollows beneath your eyes with a reverence that makes your chest ache. 

“You’re not,” he counters, voice cracking, glasses still crooked, but you can still see the raw fear lingering in his gaze.

His fingers tighten fractionally, like he’s physically willing you to understand. “You were under a building, you idiot.” The words crack on the last syllable, his forehead dropping to rest against yours as his breathing stutters. 

You can feel him shaking—fine tremors running through his arms where they cage you against the wall, the rapid flutter of his pulse beneath your fingertips when you touch his throat. It’s unnerving. Steve Harrington doesn’t tremble. Steve Harrington doesn’t falter. 

But he is now. 

Under your fingertips. 

His glasses slip further down his nose when he tilts his head to press a kiss to your temple—clumsy, unpracticed, achingly tender. “Christ,” he mutters against your skin, voice thick. “You scared the shit out of me.”

Your chest aches at the honesty of it. 

Steve Harrington—loud, stubborn, impossible Steve Harrington—standing here shaking in your arms because of you.

Your sworn enemy. The bane of your existence. The boy who could rile you up with nothing more than the arch of an eyebrow and one stupid smug look.

And yet here he is, holding you like losing you would’ve destroyed him.

Slowly, carefully, you reach up and straighten his glasses for him. It’s the smallest thing. Basic decency, really.

But it hits him anyway.

You see it happen in real time—the way his breath catches softly, the way his eyes lose some of that frantic edge as they search your face. As if he can’t quite believe you’re touching him so gently. 

Steve’s gaze drops briefly to your mouth before lifting back to your eyes again, softer now than you think you’ve ever seen it.

“C’mere,” he murmurs quietly.

This time when he kisses you, it isn’t desperate.

No teeth. No frantic grasping. No fear.

Just warmth.

His hands cradle your face carefully, thumbs brushing your cheeks while your fingers curl into the damp collar of his jacket. The kiss is slow enough that you can actually feel it this time—every soft press of his lips, every shaky exhale against your mouth, every lingering second of him choosing you.

Like coming home after being lost for a very long time.

And for once—

you don’t fight it.

You let yourself be held.

P.S. I do not recommend engaging in this type of behaviour after having a building collapse on you. Please seek medical attention first. Lots of love, the chef ♡

You were terrified he would find out—that one day he would catch on to how fast your heart beat around him, how shy you got when he was near. You would freeze like a deer in headlights every time he looked at you for too long, reading your thoughts like he was strategizing the best mode of attack.

You wouldn't survive Steve figuring out even half of the things you thought about when it came to him.

He could never know that he was the reason for the bags under your eyes—that the sound of his voice kept you up at night, endlessly singing a lullaby you were too in love with to fall asleep to. He couldn't know that he existed in every thought you had. There was no benefit in him knowing that you would picture him at your side everywhere you went.

This wasn't healthy anymore—your obsession. It didn't take a doctor's diagnosis for you to know your time was limited—that his eyes would be the death of you. You would die as you lived: flying too close to the sun that was Steve Harrington.

But Steve didn't know he was killing you.

Sometimes, you surmised that he did—that he consciously wielded his smile against you, a calculated attack.

But Steve wasn't cruel; he was just clueless.

Steve Harrington had ruined you and everything you were on accident. He had unintentionally destroyed your chance of ever finding happiness in anyone else. He had unknowingly shaped your heart into something new—something that fed you warmth instead of blood, life instead of survival.

So giving him the chance to break it?

That would be suicide.

You weren't sure how many drinks you had emptied tonight. Somewhere between the second glass and the club lights turning into Steve's eyes, you stopped counting. You weren't even that big of a drinker. You didn't care for the paint thinner like taste or the way it would stain your tongue, a permanent aftertaste you couldn't force out. 

But the other option was having Steve Harrington plague your sober thoughts.

And you were never much of a masochist.

Every drink felt like a way to flush him out of your system, every shot a means to detox. But Steve Harrington was turning out to be the worst virus you had the horror of contracting.

Steve was in everything around you—every drop of rain that swarmed outside the club, every bitter flavor on your tongue, and every fear coursing through your veins.

You were scared that he would never want you back. You were scared of how he would look at you if he knew the truth.

But most importantly, you were scared to death that you would never stop loving him—that even his rejection wouldn't be enough to deter your foolish heart. Every star you saw, every eyelash that fell, and every dandelion you crossed knew all about Steve Harrington by now.

The reason for your misery as well as the beating of your pulse.

You heard your name being called, ripping you out of your daydream into a new problem: Steve Harrington in the distance.

You blinked at his approaching figure. God, he had the biggest smile on his face—like a child with a crooked grin, he beamed at you, chuckling to himself.

This was in your head, right? A figment of your imagination? You figured you must have knocked yourself out a while back—

"What are you doing here?" Steve's scent invaded your senses as he joined your side at the bar. Now, your dreams with him were more lifelike than you cared to admit, but even in your most vivid dreams you had never smelled him before—his signature cologne that he would take to his grave, his hairspray that lingered in his absence. This was real. Steve Harrington. Here. Live and in person for your viewing pleasure.

You guessed you should've realized by now that the universe had a sick sense of humor.

It wasn't until you saw the tilt of his head that you realized you never responded.

“Hi!" Your voice came out louder than you had anticipated startling Steve. Since when did you sound like that?

"I'm—I’m uh, drinking,” you answered somewhat quieter. Your off-putting and awkward laughter was still doing enough to embarrass you.

Steve nodded, glancing down at your drink. “I see that,” he teased. You blushed, your eyes shifting down at your drink, a sheepish curve on your lips.

Fuck, if only he knew how shy he made you. Steve Harrington had a way of making you feel like you were back to being eight years old, getting quiet around the cute boy in your class, knowing full well he never gave you a second glance.

“You been here a while?” Steve asked. You didn't need to see him to know he was tilting his head at you. 

“Maybe,” you murmured, looking back at him. Big mistake. What were you saying again?

“I lost track of time a—a while back.”

“Yeah?” Steve glanced down at the amount of glasses you had collected. “Drowning your sorrows?” He smirked at you. You saw right through it—the blurry state of your mind wasn't enough to keep you from noticing the pinch in his eyebrows, the concern in his voice. That classic Steve Harrington attentiveness he hid under layers of charisma.

“Oh, this? No! No, I'm fine!” You sounded anything but, laughing at a nonexistent joke that may have just been yourself. “Just, um, you know... got thirsty,” you supplied shyly.

Something in your tone seemed to settle with Steve. “How about we get you home, yeah?”

Your eyebrows shot up. Jesus, were you that big of a mess? “Oh, no! No, I—I couldn't ask you to do that.”

“You're not asking,” Steve shook his head, touching your arm gently. The contact could've melted you into nothing if you weren't sitting down. “I'm offering. Come on, I'll give you a ride home.”

Your throat felt dry. You couldn't stop looking at his lips, his hair and the way it fell in his stupid, mesmerizing eyes. 

“O—Okay." You tried to get up from your seat, quickly stumbling over your feet as you stood. Since when did those get there?

“Hey, there,” Steve steadied you, his hand on your waist. “Careful now. Don't want you hurting yourself.” 

Everything in your head was static with him so close to you. “Think you can walk?” You peered down towards your feet, stepping one foot forward, only to trip on the next step. 

“Okay!” Steve immediately caught you. You whined out of embarrassment. Christ, you were pathetic. “It's okay, sweetheart, I got you.” Steve promised, supporting you at his side, his arm draped around your shoulders.

Sweetheart.

You wondered if that could count as attempted murder in a court of law.

Somewhere along the way to your place, everything had gotten a lot more amusing. The silly vocals on the radio, the people walking across the street, and you could swear there were suddenly faces on the backs of the cars. 

“Steve! I'm serious, look! That one's smiling!” You enthusiastically pointed in front of you, way too upbeat for this late at night.

Steve nodded along. “I know, sweetheart. You told me two minutes ago.”

“No, that was the mean car!"

"The one that was going to follow us and kill you when you least expect it?" Steve teased.

"It had teeth, Steve!"

Steve laughed at your vivacity. Despite your love for him feeling immeasurable, an argument could be made that you loved making him laugh even more.

You rolled your eyes. "Fine! Laugh all you want, but I'm onto something here."

Steve shook his head, unable to erase the smile you brought out in him. "I'm sure you are, sweetheart, The car's long gone, though, yeah?" Steve smiled, glancing over at you. "No one's killing you tonight. Not on my watch."

You watched the corners of Steve's mouth lift, the subtle change in his features making your heart feel tighter, your thoughts looser—

“You'd be a cute car,” you murmured.

Steve's eyebrow raised. If you weren't so out of it, you might've caught the way the car briefly shifted off-center, his grip on the wheel faltering.

“Would I, now?” Steve questioned, his voice somewhat strained by a stutter you didn't pick up.

“Yeah…” you sighed. You should really stop talking— “You have the most pretty smile.” 

Damn it.

Steve cleared his throat. The dark of the night covered up the tips of his ears turning pink. “Th—Thank you, sweetheart,” he stammered. “You—You have a pretty smile, too.”

You felt warmth quickly travel from your neck to your cheeks, the corners of your mouth curving into a shy and nervous smile as your hands fiddled with each other. “Really?”

Steve smiled again. “The prettiest," he glanced over at you, giving you a wink.

If you didn't wake up in the morning, you were sure Steve Harrington would be the prime suspect.

Right under the scary car.

“Okay, there we go. One more step.” Steve carefully guided you into the apartment, each of your steps getting looser and looser. “Just like that, you're almost there.”

With one wrong step, you collapsed to the ground before Steve could stop you. You burst out into a fit of laughter. Steve loomed over you, exasperated. “Having fun down there?”

Steve's question went one ear and out the other. You were full on cackling on the ground, tears springing in your eyes, hunching over, stomach hurting—the kind of laugh that felt like freedom. “I'm on the ground,” you wheezed, running out of breath.

You heard Steve crack up from above. "So I noticed." God, the sound of his laugh made you feel so giddy inside, as if you were the one thing that made him happy. You wanted to be the only thing he required to be happy. You prayed every night to be needed by him—to be craved for once in your life. You wanted to be the one thing Steve Harrington needed to feel alive. 

You rolled about to see him smirking over you. Looking up at him like this,—the ceiling light framing his head—you could've very well mistaken him for an angel descended from the heavens, lowered only for you to worship.

"Hi," you whispered.

Steve chuckled under his breath, "Hi, sweetheart."

The moment lingered between you the way memory foam sinks: a subtle, calming descent, luring you deeper and deeper—

"Come on," Steve sighed, extending his hand out for you to take, "Let's get you off the ground."

“No,” you whined, turning away from his hand like a petulant child. "It's cozy down here.”

“Yeah, and dirty,” Steve insisted, reaching for your hand anyway. “And I know you well enough to know you're gonna be pissed in the morning when I tell you you were rolling on the ground.”

You couldn't argue with his logic, but that didn't stop you from pouting as he pulled you up.

Steve shook his head. “Aht, don't give me that look,” he warned. His actions contradicted his father-like tone as he cupped your head in his hands with a featherlight gentleness—one you had never received from yours.

Steve turned your head side to side. “I don't see anything…” he mumbled to himself. You let him bow your head as he checked your roots. “All good, pretty girl." Steve tilted you back up to face him.

The rhythm of your heart faltered. Steve's mouth was curved in a soft smile, his lips soft and kind. You peeked at his eyes only to find them directed towards your mouth.

Time stilled in the space between you. The world continued as normal—cars honked, children slept, insects buzzed in the night—but the air the two of you shared froze, sacred between your bodies. Only when you redirected your gaze to his lips did the space blaze again.

Steve cleared his throat, taking a step back from you, as if the heat your heart emmited burned him backward. “Off to bed, yeah?” Steve sighed, wearing a tighter smile than before. 

“O—Okay.” Your euphoric nature had softened. Steve nodded, supporting you with his arm around you again. You whined as Steve attempted to guide you again. “No more steps, Steve. Please…” 

Steve huffed. “What, you want me to carry you on my back?” The mischievous gleam in your eyes—that spawned in record time—told him he had made a mistake.

“Yes!” Your excitement came back full force. “Please?”

You stepped closer to him before quickly fumbling on your feet again. Your misstep seemed to convince Steve that carrying you would be simpler than watching you continue to toddle around for another fifteen minutes. 

“Okay,” Steve relented. He couldn't shield his smile as you jumped upon his back, squealing with excitement. He settled you up higher, locking his arms around your knees securely. “Hang on tight.”

You let your chin rest on his shoulder as he carried you to your bedroom. Wrapped around his body, you felt safer than ever, encompassed in an illusion where Steve was yours—his body the solace you'd been chasing since you were little, the kind that—

“—Off you go,” Steve huffed as he rolled you onto your mattress, making you squeal again. 

You gasped upon feeling your bed under your skin again—as if the covers had secretly turned into clouds in your departure. 

“Oh my God!” You snuggled further in the softness of your pillows, your eyes shutting in bliss. “I'm never leaving you again.” 

“Not so fast,” Steve called from afar. Your eyes peeked open to see him returning from your closet. “You gotta change, sweet girl.” 

It was almost annoying that Steve remembered how much you detested wearing outside clothes on your bed. That fact didn't stop you from pouting with a brief whimper, unable to stand the idea of leaving your newfound paradise—or at least, the only one you could keep.

“I know, I know,” Steve cooed. “Just this one last thing, and then I'll let you stay in bed forever, alright?”

It wasn't long before you caved, outstretching your arms to him. Even intoxicated, you were unable to say no to Steve.

“Wrap your arms around my neck, sweetheart,” Steve muttered before he lifted your body in his arms, carrying you bridal style. 

“Where we going?” Your voice came out small as you rested in his arms.

“Bathroom,” he murmured softly to you. You hummed in acknowledgement.

The next thing you knew, Steve was setting you down on the toilet seat. He handled you with such care that it felt like you were fragile—like you were his.

“I'll go get your clothes." He disappeared out the door before you could protest.

His absence felt heavier than you expected. Like there was a weight he was carrying just for you, now abandoned on your bathroom floor.

Your eyes shut, head tilting back. This was ridiculous. Steve had been gone for only a minute, but already you felt like dying if you didn't see him again. Like an addict going through withdrawals.

“Steve?”

“Yeah?” Steve returned shortly, a change of clothes gathered in his arms. “What's wrong?” The tips of your ears turned pink from the sound of his voice, the devotion in it

“I missed you...” you confessed.

You were being too honest. You needed to leave it alone. Steve and you were friends. You wouldn't take that back for the world—not even the one you wanted. Not even the one you were looking at right now.

“Well, I'm back,” Steve grinned. “You think you can change on your own?” 

His smile burdened the weight again, lightening the atmosphere. You nodded, standing up with Steve's help.

“Alright, I'll be just outside, okay? Holler if you need me.” He winked at you, leaving the bathroom to give you your privacy. 

As you stepped out of your clothes, you couldn't stop yourself from picturing him next to you, his voice, his smile. Why did he have to be so beautiful? Didn't he know how unfair it was? To be plagued by his eyes every minute of your life? You didn't know if you would ever move on from the fantasy that was Steve Har—

Your shirt was stuck

You had tangled your arms on the way out, rendering them uselessly flailing about. You attempted to escape to no avail, making yourself laugh at the absurdity of it all.

“Steve!” You called, giggling. 

“What's wrong?” He called from the other side of the door, immediately on alert. “Are you okay?”

“I'm stuck,” you answered, once again trying with no luck.

Steve's voice paused. “Stuck?” 

“My shirt!” You started to laugh fuller. Steve opened the door. You felt his hand struggle to find your shoulder. Once he got a grip on your shirt, he carefully helped you get it off, leaving you to find his eyes shut tight.

“Got it?” You vaguely heard the swallow in his throat. 

“Yep. Thank you, Steve.”

Steve delivered you a brief nod before tentatively spinning around, trying to find his way back to the door without opening his eyes.

Once you finally got done getting ready for the night, you had enough strength to open the bathroom door without falling over. Steve was leaned back against the wall of the hallway, his eyes focused on your old shirt in his hands—the lacy fabric in his fingers. 

He quickly caught your eyes. You would have been more embarrassed if you were sober—your makeup wiped off, hair a mess, and in your old, stained pajamas—but something about the look in Steve's eyes made you feel secure, as if he would never look at you as anything other than beautiful.

“Hi,” you rocked on the soles of your feet, hands swinging about. 

“Hi,” Steve replied breathlessly. “You look beautiful.” You giggled at his compliment, taking a few wobbly steps towards him until you were leaning against his chest. He carefully cradled you in his arms once again, bringing you to bed like a husband would a wife.

In this moment, all you could think about was how much you loved him—how it felt like it could burst out of your chest, spill from your heart—you were in so deep, you could've been labeled as drowning.

“I have something to tell you,” you whispered, grinning up at him. 

Steve mirrored your expression, glancing down at you. “Yeah, what's that?”

You shook your head. “Can't tell ya. It's a secret,” you answered. 

Steve's head tilted to one side. “A secret? Since when do you hide things from me?”

You giggled again, confusing Steve further. “You're not supposed to know!”

“Why?” Steve wondered.

“It's important,” you clarified, dizzy with delight.

“Don't you think I should know, if it's so important then?” Steve asked as he set you down on your bed.

You bit your lip in thought as Steve tucked you in for bed. “Maybe…” you mumbled to yourself. Steve sat down next to you as you pondered. “Okay! But I'll only tell you if you promise me I can take it back.” 

“Wh—What do you mean take it back?”

“You know,” you waved your hand, “in case you don't like it.” You just barely caught the pinch between Steve's brows return. 

You searched his face. “I just don't want you to get upset with me,” you slurred, trying to explain to Steve that you couldn't dare to risk losing him.

He sighed before tucking back a lock of your hair that had fallen out of place. “I could never be upset with you,” he answered softly. “Okay, I promise whatever you say, you can take it back. No being upset.” Steve vowed, hand over his heart.

Your smile warmed at the gesture. So simple, and yet so Steve. It made your heart flutter.

“Go ahead, then.” Steve encouraged you, obviously eager to hear.

“I like you,” you admitted, chuckling through the sentence.

Steve nodded along, chuckling too. “I like you too, sweetheart.”

“No,” you shook your head, drawing closer. “I like you, Steve.”

Steve froze, his anticipation from before you could catch it.

“I—I like you so much it's ridiculous,” you confessed, sighing as you fell back against your sheets. “I think about you all the time... What you're doing, what you're thinking, if you're interested in me too.” Everything was pouring out of you now, a dam that was flooding too quick to patch. “But I'm so scared you'll hate me if I tell you. That I'll lose you…” You looked back at Steve, his mouth open but still. “I would rather die without telling you than live a life without you in it, Steve.”

Steve didn't move for a solid thirty seconds. The only sign he was even still alive was the delayed blinking of his eyelids, his thoughts practically audible. The silence dragged like quicksand, sinking you deeper and deeper until it becomes easier to accept your fate rather than claw out of the bed you made.

 "Steve—?"

"You should go to sleep." He moved quick, rising from the bed like it was a trap.

"Wait, no. Steve—"

"I'll sleep on the couch," he interrupted. "I'll see you in the morning, yeah? Once you sleep this off?"

Your tongue felt heavy. You wanted to tell him no. That no amount of sleep would keep you from waking up to the thought of his eyes. That he didn't need to leave and abandon you like a problem. It didn't matter if he was in the other room. Mere feet away, his departure would still cut into your heart.

You wanted to scream. To cry. To die in a ditch. But there was no other option than the one he chose for you.

"Okay."

The defeated rejection in your voice gave you deja vu, so familiar you could trace it back to every nightmare that ended this way—with your cards on the table and Steve leaving the game.

"Goodnight, Steve." You felt broken, shattered like the illusion your drunken state had fooled you into trusting. There was nothing in this world that felt as sacred as your relationship with Steve, and you had ruined it within a minute. A new record.

Steve paused in the doorway, turning off your lights with hesitant caution. "Goodnight, sweeth—" He cut himself off. "—dreams," he corrected. "Sweet dreams."

Sweetheart. That beautiful name he handed to you one day, knocking your world off balance, the one thing your worst nightmares couldn't take away from you, and he denied you from hearing it again.

All because you finally told him.

For the first time since you had met Steve, in the dark of your room, seconds away from sleep, Steve's voice wasn't singing you to sleep; the shut of your door scoring your thoughts instead.

In the empty space he had just occupied, you whispered to no one.

"I take it back."

The pounding in your head when you woke up wasn't enough to drown out the ache in your heart.

You wished you had forgotten, but within seconds, everything played back like a horror movie you couldn't get out of your head. You remembered everything—the stumbling of your feet, the symphony of Steve's laughter, the eyes that had fell on your lips—

The way Steve froze, the way he stepped back like you had hurt him, the look of betrayal you saw in his face.

You had ruined everything.

And you couldn't take it back.

The walk from your bedroom to the living room was more treacherous than the one you took last night. Each fall of your feet marching to the rhythm of your broken heart. You couldn't blame the knot in your stomach on Steve. This time, it was all on you.

You hesitantly stepped forward until you could see him. Steve was wide awake, seated on the couch. You could see the stiffness in his posture, the tightness in his shoulders. He looked anything but comfortable, silently waiting for something you knew you couldn't give him.

When he finally caught sight of you, everything between the two of you stopped again. But this time the space wasn't watching the tension unfold—it was glaring.

"You're awake." Steve's voice gave nothing away. You recognized the softness in it—the gentle tone you associated with Steve—but you recognized it was a disguise.

You nodded, standing as still as a statue.

"Sleep well?"

You didn't know whether or not to lie. You had already destroyed the way he thought of you by being honest last night.

"No," you admitted, quietly enough it could be mistaken for a breath.

Steve only nodded back, looking down at his hands. "Yeah, me neither."

Everything was burning like a forest fire. Your heart, your body, your eyes—it was all torching before you could say you didn't mean to light the match.

"I'm sorry," you whispered.

You watched as Steve sighed before facing you again. "Come here," he patted the cushion beside him.

You tentatively came to his side, unable to resist his call. Steve watched you as you moved closer, his eyes never once leaving you as you joined him on the couch. But you couldn't return his gaze—your eyes solely focused on the floor.

“Take these,” Steve handed you the pills that he had left on the table, along with a glass of water. “They'll help with the hangover.” Steve muttered.

As you drank, you wished that he was crueler— that he hadn't been kind enough to make you fall in love with him. That he hadn't let you. It wasn't fair—to make someone fall in love with you if it does nothing more than hurt. 

"Will you look at me?" Steve's voice broke you out of your prayer.

You cursed inside your head. If only you were strong enough to resist the flute that continuously charmed you into dancing.

You turned to face him, bruised and defeated. Steve's face crumbled into something sadder, something broken. He sighed under his breath, turning away from you now.

"Are you mad at me?" You finally asked, breaking your vow of silence. Steve immediately denied it, shaking his head.

"No, never. I told you that last night." You bowed your head, falling silent again. This was worse than anger; this was brutal disappointment—something you never wanted to see from Steve.

"Are you gonna take it back?"

Your head shot up at his question. Steve was looking at you now.

"What?"

"Are you gonna take it back?" Steve repeated. "Last night, you made me promise you could take it back."

The memory was as fresh as a wound and yet his reminder made the pain cut deeper.

"Steve—"

“Why?” he begged. “Why would you make me promise that?”

“Because I didn't want this to happen—”

"What, me to ask you if you meant it?" Steve interrupted again.

You scofffed. As if you could've not meant it with your entire being. "Obviously, I meant it, Steve."

"Then why would you want to take it back?"

You shut your eyes, hanging your head. You couldn't tell if your head hurt more from the hangover or the confrontation. This was the last thing you ever wanted. "Well, you're clearly not taking the news well," you pointed out.

Steve went silent. You opened your eyes again to see him looking at you with something that resembled betrayal too much for your comfort. No hangover could numb the shame that pooled behind your eyes.

"I'm leaving, then." Steve shot up from the couch—as if he had just heard his exit line.

"Wait, Steve. No," you took hold of his forearm before he could abandon you again. You didn't want to be a part of this play. You were tired of playing the fool—the pathetic side character who watched him from afar. "Please, don't leave."

The strain in your voice that only came from the shame of crying caught Steve's attention. You watched as he fought a silent battle with himself, warring between you and himself.

"I'm sorry, okay? Please, Steve—" Tears broke free from your eyes like prisoners escaping their cells. "I can't lose you. Please."

The blinding blur in your eyes combined with the steel poker in your head kept you from noticing Steve's arms forming around you, holding you close to his chest as you sobbed out broken apologies.

"I'm sorry. I'll take it back, I promise—"

Steve shushed you gently, kinder than anyone trying to break your heart should be. "It's okay, just breathe."

You couldn't stop crumbling in front of him. You had taken a wrecking ball to everything that made you feel alive. How else were you supposed to feel?

Steve ran his fingers through his hair, still attempting to soothe you. "Please, sweetheart. You're breaking my heart."

"I'm sorry—"

"Stop apologizing," he whispered desperately. "I don't want you to be sorry."

You tried to focus on Steve's heartbeat below your ear, a rhythm that was slowly getting stuck in your head.

"I just want to know why..." he confessed.

You pulled back to face him, wiping your face with the cuff of your sleeve. Steve took over for you, gently wiping away your tears. "Please?" He whispered.

The pleading in his eyes melted every wall you had so carefully built around your heart. You knew you couldn't lose him, but you also knew you couldn't lie to him.

"Is it that you're scared of me?"

His question fired at your heart. "No," you shook your head. "Not you."

Steve tilted his head. He wiped your cheek again, breaking your silence. "But you are scared?"

You exhaled before you reached out for Steve's wrist. If you were gonna do this, you were gonna feel his pulse under your skin—just to prove he was there.

"…I think about you all the time." You finally confessed. Hungover, teary-eyed, and a mess, but you didn't care. "And I want you... So much that it scares me, 'cause I know I won't be able to handle you telling me you don't want me back—"

Steve tilted your head to look at you, halting your train of thought. "What makes you think I would say that?"

You wished you could've answered him, but you were still, lips parted and clueless. "Be—Because we're supposed to be just friends."

"When have I ever looked at you like we're just friends?"

To say you were speechless would be insulting. You weren't yourself anymore. You had changed entirely in a matter of seconds.

Steve just stared at you, as if he expected you to answer any question after flipping your world upside down—some kind of alternate universe where you weren't you and Steve wasn't Steve.

"L—Last night?" You offered hesitantly, trying your best to come up with something, anything for him.

Steve smiled at you, laughing under his breath. "Sweetheart, you were drunk," he pointed out. "I can't make a move on you when you can barely stand up on your own."

You blinked, rendered completely still. Steve smirked at your silence.

"If you wanted me so badly, you could've just said so, you know." The smugness in his voice made your heart ache.

He was teasing you now. Asshole.

"Steve, it's not funny."

"I'm not trying to be funny." His smirk was gone, replaced by long, pleading eyes that asked you for the world. "I—I don't know how else I can tell you I want you."

"Then why were you trying to leave?" You finally asked.

Steve sighed. Scanning the planes of your face with a reverent smile—soft in its curve—he tucked your hair back, handling it like it was precious. Like you were precious.

"I couldn't handle you taking it back," he confessed, "I couldn't accept a confession that you were too scared to commit to."

You were sure the heartbreak Steve had faced because of Nancy Wheeler was resurfacing.

"I don't want you to be scared when it comes to wanting me," Steve whispered, drawing an intimate moment between the two of you. "...And maybe I just wanted to hear you say that you liked me when you weren't drunk off your ass."

Your subsequent laugh brightened Steve's demeanor like sunshine after a storm, casting a beautiful rainbow that lived in his smile.

Your cheeks felt tight as you grinned, ducking your head. "I like you, Steve."

Steve mirrored your expression, beaming like a dog wagging its tail. "Yeah? You like me?" You caught his smug King Steve persona coming back into play.

You rolled your eyes as he began to smirk. You shoved his shoulder. "Don't make me take it back."

Steve chuckled. "Wouldn't dream of it, baby."

You felt your heart soar in your chest, completely overshadowing your headache.

A squeal escaped you as Steve suddenly picked you up like he had last night, cradling you in his arms.

"Steve! Put me down!"

Steve shook his head, smiling as he walked. "Nope. You and I are going to spend the rest of the day in bed while you get over your hangover."

You tilted your head as he entered your room. "Oh, are we now?"

"Yep, we are" Steve declared, setting you down on your bed with a dizzying delicacy. He stood upright. "I'm gonna go find some clothes to change into."

You tilted your head, brows furrowing in confusion. "Why? Is there a dress code I didn't know about?" You teased, making Steve roll his eyes playfully.

"No," he shook his head at you, scrunching his nose, "I didn't want to get into your bed with outside clothes on."

Your heart warmed. He really was the most thoughtful man you could ever ask for. You caught his wrist before he could leave, eyes hooded as you looked up at him.

"You don't have to get changed to do that..." Steve's breath caught at the low tone of your voice, intention clear.

"Sweetheart, I—"

"Please?" You whispered, almost pouting. You may not have been able to call Steve yours before, but that didn't mean you didn't fantasize about him night and day—enough to know just how to get your way with him.

The tension in his shoulders melted away as he caved. "Fine, but just my shirt and pants, okay?" You beamed up at him, nodding eagerly.

Steve shrugged off his clothes, unable to contain his smile as you watched him excitedly. Facing you with that pretty smile you saw in everything, he joined you under the covers carefully. He wrapped his arms around you, holding you as close as two people could ever get.

You had been through a lot in your life. Heartbreak, love, loss—but nothing could have ever prepared you for the feeling of Steve Harrington's skin on yours. If your heart wasn't already racing at the speed of light, you might've died on the spot. The warmth he emitted blazed into you—a fire only he could ignite.

The moment felt like a dream. You could have been easily convinced you died of rejection last night and were transitioning into a painful death, being shown the life you lost. But the pain in your skull was enough to assure you of your consciousness. This was real, just like last night at the bar, the universe had finally acted in your favor, granting you the life you begged for where Steve Harrington was yours, to want, to need, to love.

You couldn't be happier next to him—staring at him like he hung the stars you wished upon for this very moment.

"I love you," you blurted out to Steve, catching the both of you off guard.

But Steve didn't freeze like last night. Not even a second passed before his face broke out into the most lovestruck smile—one you had never seen directed in your direction.

"I love you, too," Steve confessed, without an ounce of hesitation. He leaned closer, nudging your nose with his. "Always have, always will."

Your eyes widened before you found your eyebrows furrowing on instinct.

"Really—?"

Steve wasted no time bringing his lips to yours, capturing all of the insecurity that lived on your tongue. His kiss robbed you of your breath, as if he would rather you stop breathing than live in a world where you doubted his love for you.

You attempted to chase his lips as he pulled away to meet your eyes.

"I promise."

And for once in your life, with your lips returning to their rightful home, you believed someone wanted you to love them.

And you weren't going to take it back now.

masterlist

Steve doesn’t push it, though he makes a mental note for later. He’s a little too worked up to think clearly right now, anyway. You grind down on his pelvis, swallowing a moan that he can’t hold back. You’re patient with him as he redirects you to his thigh, and you placate him by riding it for a while.

Steve’s so kind, pressing kisses along the column of your neck. “Take what you need, honey.”

You pause. “You mean it?”

His tongue darts out to taste the salt on your skin. “Mhm.”

Gently, slowly, you pull his cock out of his underwear. It’s a shock that he even lets you.

Here’s the thing: Steve knows you’re going to break in two whenever he finally gets himself inside of you, and he’s simply not in the game of doing so. In fact, he’s always sort of diverting your attention to any part of him that isn’t his dick.

You’ve become intimately familiar with his hands, his fingers, his lips, his tongue. And he’s returned the favor — explored you all over with precision, not a spot left untouched, not a trick unlearned. He studies you, commits you to memory. He murmurs that he’s taking his time with you, that he’s in no rush.

You can’t really say the same. You’ve been with him, officially, for just over two months. He’s given you at least forty orgasms, and he’s let you give him zero in return.

Personally, you don’t think it’s very fair.

Steve’s whimpering as you stroke him, biting his lip and doing everything in his power to not bust just from a fucking hand job. It’s the first time he’s let you give him any attention, and it’s pushing him into hyper-gear. His whole body feels aflame, each tendon straining against the pleasure that every fiber of his being wants. He’s lost in you, his eyes drifting shut as you take care of him.

You manage to knock Steve out of his stupor by suddenly swiping the tip of him through your petal-soft folds. He gasps, his hands gripping your hips tightly. You both moan, ragged and rough, and it takes all of Steve’s self restraint to redirect your hips again. He opens his mouth to scold you, but you beat him to it.

“Jesus Christ, Steve, please?”

Your tone makes his cock pulse in your hand. Sweat beads at his hairline, his cheeks pink as he tries to steady his breath.

“Uh-uh,” he says. Calm. Measured. “Baby, you know I —“

“The tip, then,” you plead. “Just the tip, Steve, I swear. I know I can take it. Need it so bad.”

Your hand strokes him again and he moans, teeth piercing his lip.

“I —“

You press your lips against the shell of his ear and lower your voice just a tad.

“Steve, I can be so good for you if you’d just let me.”

His mouth falls open. His fingers flex against your hips. “But — you are so good for me.”

“Well, let me be good-er.”

He rolls his eyes, exhaling a laugh through his nose. “Got you that worked up, huh?”

You hum, kissing down his jaw. “Imagine how stupid I’ll go when you finally fuck me.”

Now it clicks.

“Is that what you meant when you said I’m too patient?”

You return to pumping him slowly, and he swallows hard.

“Mhm. Your worst quality.”

Steve forces himself to get serious. He tilts your chin up with the bridge of his nose, making you look at him, while one of his big hands covers yours to stop your movements.

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

You’re so serious. “It’s going to hurt. And that’s okay.”

He frowns and cups your jaw, shaking his head a little. “No, it’s not.”

He sees that you’re getting shy, looking away from him. It takes you a moment to find your words.

“I want to be shaped by you. I want you to make it a perfect fit.”

Somehow, it’s all at once the most blasphemous and romantic thing Steve’s ever heard.

He’s stunned by it, in fact.

“I’m sorry,” you start, but Steve cuts you off.

“The — the tip? Only?”

You smile. It endears him. “I can settle for that. I just — I want you.”

Steve shivers. You’ve positively rewired his brain chemistry with a singular phrase.

You can hardly take two fingers while he preps you for it over the next twenty minutes. Praising you, always so kind and gentle with you as he works you through it.

“Taking it so good, angel… that’s my girl, yeah?”

He eventually fishes a condom out of his nightstand. You boost his ego, watching with wide, blown pupils as he rolls it on.

“It’s pretty,” you mumble.

“Pretty?”

You move to straddle him again, the head of him knocking into your clit. You jolt, and Steve’s cock kicks.

“Yes, Steve. You’re very pretty.”

He nuzzles his nose against yours and presses another gentle kiss to your lips. “You’re prettier.”

“Stop stalling.”

He runs his hands up your thighs and settles them on your hips again. He takes a deep breath.

“Relax for me, baby.”

By the time Steve’s popped inside of you, you’re both sweating, moaning, gripping onto each other tightly as you pant into each other’s mouths. Your hot, wet cunt strangles the tip of him, begs him to go in deeper.

“Feels so good.” His voice cracks from the exertion of keeping his hips still. “You’re so g— goddamn beautiful.”

You clench around him even tighter. He lets out a strangled yelp, burying his head into the apex of your neck and shoulder. He busies himself with sucking a hickey into your skin, savoring the taste of you and trying to stave off the overwhelming need to shove every last inch of himself inside of you.

And then — cruelly — you sink down further.

Steve’s eyes and head roll back immediately. His thighs shake, a needy, desperate sound finding his way past his kiss bitten lips.

“Honey — honey —“

“Can’t stop myself,” you whimper, rocking gently, managing another half-inch. “You feel so good, Steve.”

His eyes rake down your chest, doing a double-take at your tits before setting his eyes lower. The evidence of your struggle is clear, and Steve hates what the sight does to him. You’re so stretched out around him. He knows it hurts, yet you’re a mess between the legs, even soaking the part of him that’s not inside of you with honey-sweet arousal.

“Holy shit,” he mumbles.

You take advantage of his gaze to lean back in his lap, giving him a better view. Slowly, almost meanly, you fuck yourself on his tip.

Steve doesn’t know where to look. Your thighs and stomach quiver with each movement. There’s a wet sucking noise each time he pops out and pops back in. Your eyes roll, your back arching, tits sitting prettily at eye level.

“Gorgeous,” he moans breathlessly. One hand snakes between your legs, pressing his thumb to your clit, trying to soothe the pain. “Look so fuckin’ good like this —“

“I know,” you moan, pussy tightening from the praise. The ghost of a smile sits at the corner of your lips, all smug.

“Don’t get cute,” he groans, his hands moving to grip your ass. “Still just the tip, babe.”

You lean forward, pressing your dewy forehead against his. “Help me take the rest, then.”

Just the thought makes his cock throb, and you wince at it. Still, though, you keep moving, gently taking as much as you can — hardly over an inch — and pulling needy noises out of Steve.

“F— fuck — n-next time,” he pants, strangled moans interrupting him. “Next time, I promise —“

Your hand moves downward, gently wrapping around the rest of his shaft. Steve cries out, his body shaking, his hips accidentally jutting upwards.

“Shit!” you breathe, your movements stammering.

Steve’s heart shatters.

“Hey, hey, hey,” he coos, lifting you off of him. He tenderly cups your pussy with his hand, the warmth soothing it. “I’m so sorry, honey. Let’s stop, yeah?”

You shake your head adamantly, huffing at him.

“Steve Harrington,” you pant, settling yourself over his cock again, “I am making you come tonight, and so help me God, it better be from my pussy.”

His eyes widen and his cock kicks again as you slowly sit down on him. He simply nods, too turned on to speak and even a little breathless. You have him so whipped for you.

“You’re perfect,” he strains.

You freeze. 

What the—

He must not register the utter shock on your face, because he’s already moving towards you. The silky tie snaps through the air as he rips it from his neck. God, he must really be wound up. He didn’t even take his shoes off at the door. 

“Excuse me?” You manage to choke out. 

“Don’t freak out, I just really need to try something,” he grunts, rounding the couch. “Just for a second.”

The moment his knees hit the carpet in front of you, your jaw goes slack.  

“Harrington!” You scramble back into your mountain of pillows, nearly knocking your mug off the side table. You reach out and steady it with one hand, suddenly very aware of how your tank top has ridden up with the movement. “What the hell are you—?”

“…can’t believe she said that,” he mutters, ripping back the blanket thrown over your lap. 

“Who said what?”

He doesn’t respond, eyes locked on your short sleep shorts. They’re a cute set you picked up recently at the mall. Navy blue with white flowers. Innocent-looking. Sweet. 

But he’s staring at them like he’s going to rip them off with his teeth. 

Heat rushes to your cheeks. 

While you can’t deny what that look is doing to you, there’s something else trapped in his gaze. Sadness? Not quite. Disappointment, maybe? You’ve only been roommates for six months, but you already know him well enough to know when he’s upset. 

Reaching down, you grab a fistful of his hair and tip his head back. His eyes snap to yours. 

“What did she say?” you ask again, firmer this time. 

Steve’s lips form a thin line before he sighs heavily. You drop his hair. 

“She said I was bad at sex. Specifically, bad at...this.” He gestures unhelpfully between your legs and your stomach swoops as his finger almost brushes the seam of your shorts. 

It takes you a second, but then your brows pull together. “She actually said that?”

“Not exactly,” he groans. “The date was fine. It was our third, so when she invited me upstairs, I figured…well, you know. And then we got to making out and it was hot. I guess…”

You swallow hard and gesture for him to continue, even if the thought of his lips trailing down some other girl’s neck feels like a knife in your side. 

“And then I went down on her and she said—” He cuts himself off with a miserable little huff before resuming. “She said it wasn’t doing anything for her. At all. Like it wasn’t good enough or something. Can you believe that? I could’ve lived if she said my thrust game needed work or something, if we had even gotten to that point, but this? This is, like, my thing.”

Oh. Okay. 

Yeah, you could’ve gone the rest of your lease without knowing that eating pussy is your hot roommate’s thing. 

That is not good for your little crush you have going on that you refuse to talk about. Or think about. Ever. 

You nod quickly and clear your throat. “S-so, what exactly does this have to do with me?” 

Steve just shrugs. “We’re friends, right?”

“Right.”

“Right.” He levels your gaze, brown eyes soft and playful in the lamplight. “So…”

The moment stretches between you, an invitation, an ask, and a dare all rolled into one. 

“So, because we’re such good friends, we just…give each other oral sex?”

Steve sighs. “Look. I just want a second opinion, okay? I mean, this is bad. Really bad. If Cindy didn’t like it, then what if other girls didn’t either? Then I’ve just been lied to all this time—”

Your gaze drops to his fingers digging into the couch cushion beneath you, and despite yourself, a smile creeps across your lips. “Oh my God, this really got to you, didn’t it?” 

“What?” He balks. “No! It’s just…I need to set the record straight.” He taps your knees with a knuckle, playful but firm. “Spread ‘em.”

You bark an unbelieving laugh that ends in a sound too close to a whimper when his hands come down on your thighs. 

You cannot let him do this to you. If you do, you’ll never be able to get over your secret-no-good-very-bad-crush on your roommate. 

You force yourself to breathe. “I…I don’t want thinks to get weird.”

 His eyes flick up to yours. “Weird?”

“Between us.”

Steve seems to take a second to understand what you’re saying, and you watch as an emotion you can’t place crosses his face. 

Suddenly, he moves to stand. “You’re right. Sorry. God, I’m an idiot. What am I thinking, I just—”

Panic spikes and you snatch his wrist before you even really know what you’re doing, cutting him off. “No, wait. It’s like you said. We’re…friends, right?”

He nods quickly. Too quickly. “Yeah.”

“So, we don’t let it get weird.” The words spill out of you before you can take them back. But you don’t want to. “I’ll give you an unbiased review. A one time thing.”

You watch as his lashes drop again to your legs, and his pupils widen as your knees fall apart a little on instinct. 

“You’re sure?” he asks, voice thick. 

In an effort to appear nonchalant, you shrug. But you’re salivating when his tongue darts over his bottom lip. 

 “Yes,” you breathe. 

He doesn’t waste a second dropping back down to his knees, and your legs widen immediately to give him space. 

“So, you’ll tell me the truth, right?” he rasps, eyes jumping between your face and your hips. “Be honest. I can take it.”

“Honest,” you agree, but the word comes out in a whisper as his fingers slip under your waistband. 

Your face burns as he pulls down your shorts and panties in one smooth motion, baring you to him. His hands gently ease your thighs farther apart, and you fight the urge to squirm under his gaze. 

“Steve! Stop looking at it like that,” you gasp.

“Why?” he asks without glancing up. “It’s pretty.”

Shit. 

You’re not strong enough for this. 

But when he finally looks up, you recognize the silent question in his eyes. He’s asking for permission. You could stop this right now, and he would let you easily. He’s probably never even bring it up again. No harm done. 

And you should. 

God, you should. 

But you don’t want to. 

So instead, you just nod, not trusting your voice to speak. 

As he leans in, you brace for the feeling of his tongue, but you’re surprised when he starts by just…kissing you. 

His lips are soft against your folds, and your breath catches at the tenderness there. His eyes find yours before he goes lower, and the moment his nose bumps your clit, your body jolts in his hold. 

He makes a muffled sound and his eyes drift shut, large palms moving to your hips, pinning them to the cloth couch beneath you.

 Then there’s that wet heat. 

His tongue slides over you with just enough pressure, starting slow and exploring your entrance. 

“Oh, God,” you whimper. 

His hair is so soft against your inner thighs, and when he makes a sound of encouragement against you, and his tongue swirls higher, catching the underside of your clit, your mouth drops open in a silent moan. 

He’s hardly done anything yet, but the way he’s doing it, so confident, and steady, it’s unlike anything you’ve ever felt before.

“See? Good, right?” he mutters, the words muffled and slick against your core. “I know what I’m—mmm, fuck, you taste good.”

Before you can respond, his hands wrap up and around your thighs, and he hauls you closer. Your tank top rides up even higher as you slide down into the cushions, but you don’t reach up to fix it. 

Mostly because Steve Harrington is going down on you, and that thought alone is nearly making you lose your fucking mind. 

His lashes flutter shut as he makes out with your dripping cunt, his throat bobbing as sucks gently, swallows, and goes back for more. 

You’re surprised to find there’s no performance to his actions, but more of a genuine enjoyment. 

Steve eats pussy like he wants to. 

You watch, transfixed, and you can’t help but roll your hips once against his mouth, smearing your slick all over his pretty fucking face. 

Too pretty for his own good.

A sound escapes his chest, something caught between a moan and a whine, and he nods against you, peeking up from beneath his lashes. 

The carpet whispers as rises higher on his knees, mouth traveling up your mound and over the soft, sensitive skin below your belly button. 

But you whimper at the loss, pushing his head back down. 

His throat vibrates against you with a chuckle, but he follows you obediently. “Oh, yeah? So definitely doing something for you then.”

“Shut up,” you groan, but the sound dies out harshly when his mouth latches to your clit and sucks. 

Hard. 

You gasp, back arching as your core clenches instinctively. 

Then, without warning, he pulls back. 

You look at each other, chests heaving. Suddenly, you’re afraid he’s done. That you now have to give a report based on that. 

“Is that it?” You squeak. 

“What? God, you think I would just leave you like that? No, I was just thinking—” He draws in a breath, like he needs to physically rearrange his thoughts. “Well, I haven’t even kissed you yet.”

You just stare down at him, chest heaving, bare and slick from the waist down. 

He takes one look at your face and clears his throat. “Right. Later.” He leans in again, but pauses before glancing up at you one more time. “Yes?”

“Yes, Harrington, I will kiss you, later,” you whine pitifully, canting your hips into his hands. 

He seems pleased, and wastes no time picking up where he left off. 

And this time, he doesn’t tease you. 

Your head hips back, a moan tearing from your throat as two of his fingers spear deep inside and his mouth closes over your clit.

As you threaten to fall apart beneath him, Steve just watches. 

Every little whine and whimper. Every jerk and arch of your back. Every wriggle of your hips and curl of your toes. 

He studies you like a map, surveying everything that makes you soak his face, everything that makes you clench hard around his fingers, his tongue, and finding new routes to all those destinations. 

The tension between your hips pulls tighter, and when he reaches up to palm your breast, slipping his hand underneath your tank top, you wonder if he can feel it. 

The way your heart slams against your ribs. 

A silent, helpless confession. A call for him to see that this will not, in fact, be a one-time thing. 

That you’ve been thinking about this—about him—ever since the day you moved in. 

That ache builds like a tidal wave, threatening to break, and your fingers fly to his arms for stability. He’s warm, and strong, and his muscles shift under his dress shirt. 

It’s honestly impressive how quickly he responds, how easily he reads every subconscious signal your body gives him. Because when that breathy, urgent whine starts to leave your lips, his thumb replaces his mouth on your clit, rubbing firm, perfect circles that drive you higher. And then he dips lower, tonguing your entrance, devouring you in thick, broad strokes, pushing you to the fucking brink. 

“Yeah, you gonna come for me?” He slurs against your aching cunt. “Just like that. That’s it. I’ve got you—mmhm—”

The second his tongue spears deep inside, the tidal wave breaks. 

Your moan fills your quiet apartment, and you nearly come off the couch with the intensity of it. The rush is unlike anything you’ve felt before. You have no option but to surrender fully to it as it pulls you under, shamelessly riding your orgasm out on Steve’s tongue.

Steve’s ready for it though. He goes with you easily as your hips rise and fall, strong hands holding you to his mouth, unwilling to let you slide away. 

When the pulsing eventually fades to shuttering jolts, he pulls back, but his hands stay on your hips, caressing you softly, bringing you back down to earth. 

You bite your lip, looking down at him panting between your knees. Your body aches, but in a good way. Like you need more, but somehow, it still won’t ever be enough. 

“God, Steve—” you whine, but you’re cut off by him lunging up across your body and pressing his lips to yours. 

You laugh into his mouth, tasting yourself on his tongue as he kisses you eagerly. 

“You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting to do that.” He murmurs, pulling back a little.

Something catches in your chest at his confession, and you thread your fingers through his hair, pulling him back down for another kiss. 

This one is different. 

Deeper, and softer, and…meaningful. 

He sinks back down onto his knees, squeezing your thigh, your waist, like you’re something precious. 

“So, tell me , honestly, was it good?” He urged, gazing up at you.

You blink dumbly, throughly flushed. “Yeah, uh…no notes.”

He smirks. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. Five out of five stars.”

“I don’t know, Harrington. That literally means no room for improvement.” You’re not sure his ego is ready for that. 

“Oh?” His lips tilt in a crooked smile that makes you want to kiss him again. “What would you have me do to earn that fifth star, huh?”

His lids go heavy as you tighten your hold on his hair and urge his mouth back down where you want it. 

“You could do it again.”

a/n: It's my canon that his date, Cindy, was just hung up on her ex, and Steve was the unlucky rebound that night. Plus, Steve wasn't that into it. Because he was thinking about you, obviously. Also, here is the fluffy version sister fic if you care lol

It was a month ago that you two had broken up. It had come after a pattern of Steve running late for your dates—you had been patient. Incredibly so. But you had started to become skeptical. You started to doubt his excuses. Started to assume the worst—that he was being unfaithful. Even the thought of it had left you feeling sick because you knew, deep down, that Steve would never do that to you.

But then you heard the voicemail from Nancy. The one Steve tried to shut off before you could hear. But the words ‘we need to meet up after last night’ couldn’t be unheard. They sat between as you waited for him to defend himself. He didn’t. 

It was then you had asked him if he was cheating on you. He just kept saying sorry—sorry that he couldn’t be honest with you and that you deserved better. You weren’t sure what it meant but you didn’t stick around to find out.

You hadn’t spoken to him since. You spent your nights wondering if he was with Nancy Wheeler. Wondering how long it was appropriate to remain in the throes of heartache.

Hence why tonight had been Vickie’s idea. The party you were at was some guy named James that you vaguely remember from Hawkins High who—like you and so many others who graduated in the summer of 1986—was stuck in Hawkins for the foreseeable future due to quarantine. Apparently he threw these parties on a regular basis. Vickie had thought it was the perfect opportunity for you to take your mind off Steve. To forget about the guy standing barely twenty feet away from you in those jeans that stretched over his thighs deliciously. The short sleeve t-shirt that you had bought him for his birthday that hugged his biceps. His hair that fell so perfectly it was almost like he didn’t try—even though you knew all too well the effort that went into Steve Harrington’s hair.

“Could we leave?” You ask Vickie as you tear your gaze away from your ex boyfriend. “Steve’s here and—” 

“He is?” Vicke turns around and looks not so subtly over at Steve. “Oh—Robin said he wasn’t going to be here tonight.”

You notice how Vicke’s cheeks turn a little pink—you huff and try not to roll your eyes. Your best friend and Robin Buckley’s obvious attraction to each other did not go unnoticed.

“Well, he’s here,” you say, taking a sip from your cup and determinedly not looking over at Steve. Not wanting to feel that heaviness in your chest that hadn’t left since you had walked out of Steve’s house over a month ago now.

Vickie can see it in your face—the way your eyes went a little glassy. How your grip tightened on the cup in your hands. How you were chewing on the inside of your cheek. She reaches out a sympathetic hand to gently pat your shoulder. “Do you really want to go?” She asks. “Because you—we can go. I don’t mind.”

You look back at her and know deep down she probably did mind. She had spent a ridiculous amount of time getting ready—her red hair having a subtle wave to it. You knew the dress she was wearing was new. That she spitzed her most expensive perfume. And you knew it was all because Robin was here. You couldn’t let her down—not when she had been your rock over the past month following your breakup.

And so, you just force a smile and shake your head at her question.

“No—it’s okay,” you reassure her. “I was bound to run into him at some point, right?”

Vickie smiles back at you—sensing your hesitation but knowing you weren’t going to change your mind. “Just pretend that he’s not here, yeah?”

If only it was that easy.

Because Steve Harrington was not the kind of person you could pretend didn’t exist.

His presence had always demanded to be felt. The way people flocked to him. Friends, strangers. He was all charisma, charm and something magnetic that only Steve Harrington could possess. Your eyes keep finding him through the crowd. He never looks your way. At some point, you wonder if that was on purpose.

You try to act normal. Try to have an enjoyable evening. Try to avoid every room that Steve walks into. Try to numb the ache in your chest that was suffocating at this point. Try to ignore how a certain song made you think about him. Try to ignore how you hear him laughing over the music. Try to ignore how other girls looked at you—with a mix of sympathy and intrigue as they whispered to their friends about whether you were the girl that Steve had broken up with. Vickie glares at them while you remain silent—downing whatever drink was in your hand as though it would help.

You lose Vickie part way through the evening—as Robin drags her off to dance with an apologetic smile sent your way. You wave it off as though it didn’t matter. As though you didn’t feel immensely alone without your best friend.

The party becomes insufferable after that. You last another five minutes before you need some fresh air. I Think We’re Alone Now starts to play and it’s like a dagger to your chest. A memory of Steve humming the song in his kitchen as he made you lumpy pancakes hits you hard. Your chest feels tight. The alcohol humming through your veins makes you feel more emotional than you should over a stupid song.

You start to push through the crowd, looking for an escape. Front door, back door—hell, a window would do at this point.

Just as you find the front door, you hear a loud ‘shit, watch out!’ somewhere to your right and before you could even register that they were yelling at you—you felt a warm, sticky liquid drench your side. 

You blink—something in your gut stirring. Embarrassment?  Humiliation? Most definitely a concoction of both. Your eyes flicker down to your top—the one Steve had once said made your eyes pop—and feel something fragile inside you break. You don’t even look up at the guy who was profusely apologising for spilling his beer on you.

“Don’t worry about it,” you tell the guy numbly as you try to slip away before you could burst into tears. Your body angling towards the front door where you could go outside and cry in peace. “It’s fine—”

“No, it’s not. It’s—”

He goes quiet. You know the reason why without looking up.

“Shit, (y/n), you okay?”

The sound of concern in Steve’s voice could cut you open. You hate how much you love the way he says your name. Like it was always meant to fall from his lips. You hate even more when you look up and see those big brown eyes looking at you with concern. Hate that your heart does stupid things in your chest at the mere sight of him. You try not to think how those same eyes once looked at you with so much love and now—you couldn’t read him. Not in the way you used to be able to. 

You don’t answer Steve—you simply look over at the guy who had spilled his beer on you and force a smile. “I’m fine. Don’t worry about it.” 

You pull away this time—ignoring the repeated apologies of the stranger as you head towards the front door. Not even looking back at Steve. Because you didn’t want to give him the satisfaction—to make it known how not okay you were.

But you barely make it ten feet away from the house before you hear Steve calling out your name. The sound makes you almost freeze for a sound—but you don’t stop. You keep on walking, slipping past the front gate until—

“Hey—(y/n), c’mon. Please don’t leave like this—”

“It’s just a bit of beer, Steve,” you cut across him shortly, jaw tensing and trying to avoid looking at him as he starts to walk down the street beside you. “I’ll be fi—”

“Could you stop saying you’re fine?” 

The way he snaps at you—so suddenly it makes you stop. Makes you look over at him. He’s stopped too, a few feet away from you. It’s the closest he had been since the breakup and yet the distance between you feels like miles. 

“What would you rather me say, Steve?” You ask, feeling the combination of alcohol and embarrassment mixing horribly in your stomach.

“I don’t know, I just—you’re drunk and upset and you shouldn’t go—”

You scoff, despite the fact you were both those things. But the fact Steve had noticed infuriated you. The fact that he was perfectly fine and you weren’t, annoyed you. And the fact you now smelt of cheap beer and your top was ruined was the cherry on top of all of it. “I’m not upset—”

“—you clearly are! I can see it on your face—”

“—then stop looking! Jesus, Steve! The whole point of us breaking up was so you didn’t have to worry about me anymore so stop.”

You expect Steve to back off—for him to see the anger blazing in your eyes and leave. But one look at your face and Steve knew he couldn’t.

“Just because we broke up doesn’t mean I’m ever going to stop caring about you.”

You know those words were meant to bring you comfort. Meant to ease the ache that had taken refuge in your chest. But they didn’t. They made everything hurt just a little bit more. Because despite how much you wished you didn’t—you still loved Steve. Still loved him despite how heartbroken you were. Despite how much you had cried over him. Despite how you had driven yourself insane imagining him with Nancy—you still loved him.

“Don’t—fuck—don’t say shit like that to me,” you say finally, hating how your voice breaks. Hating how weak you feel in his presence. How a month after your breakup you still hadn’t recovered. How much you wished things were different.

Steve looks at you—face falling and hands clenching as though he was stopping himself from reaching for you. “Please don’t cry. You know I hate it when you cry—”

“—then you’d hate to know it’s all I’ve been doing the past month.”

It slips out before you could stop it. You don’t mean to make him feel bad but it does—it makes him feel awful.

Steve swallows, averts his eyes. He wants to tell you everything—even though he can’t. He knows he’s doing the right thing. Protecting you. But it came at the cost of losing you. Of not being honest with you. Of letting you believe he had been unfaithful—

“I need you to know that I didn’t cheat on you,” he says the words so suddenly it takes even him by surprise.

You sniffle in response, not knowing when the tears had escaped but feeling them rush down your cheeks. The sight of them breaks something in Steve and he takes a tentative step closer. “I didn’t—I swear I didn’t. I would—there’s no one—and I mean no one for me but you.”

His words mend something—something small but significant—inside you. You knew he was telling the truth. You had known all along really that Steve loved you too much to be unfaithful. That he hadn’t ever wanted to become like his father—who Steve had watched shower his mother with gifts and vacations to make up for his indiscretions. And so, though it may be naive of you—you trusted that he hadn’t been unfaithful.

“Then—what were you hiding?” You ask finally because you knew that there was something. Something he wasn’t telling you. Something big. Something that meant unexplained late nights at the radio station. Something that meant rescheduled dates and a sinking feeling in your gut when he would turn up ten minutes late.

“I can’t—I can’t tell you.”

You were expecting it but it hurts just the same.

“Then I don’t know what else to say,” you murmur, turning away from him to wipe your eyes.

Steve watches—wanting more than anything to comfort you but knowing he didn’t have the right to anymore.

“Let me walk you home,” he says, unable to offer anything else. 

“No,” you tell him—a lump in your throat making you sound less confident. “Steve, I can’t—”

“I can’t let you walk home alone while you’re drunk—”

“—and I can’t be near you right now.”

Steve blinks. You know instantly you’ve upset him and for one moment you feel a sick sense of satisfaction. Seeing some indication that he was feeling even the ounce of hurt that you had been feeling. But that feeling expires the moment your eyes flicker up to meet his. Those big brown eyes of his had always been your weakness. You have to look away again.

“Okay,” Steve says evenly, in a voice that was suppressed with emotion. You could hear the thickness in his voice—the slight croak in his throat. “I-I understand. I really do. Y-you probably hate me—”

You almost laugh because god—he was wrong. He was so, so wrong. 

“—I could never hate you, Steve,” you tell him honestly, blinking away some fresh tears as you meet his eye again. “That’s the problem.”

You stand—two feet apart on the side of the road. The party down the street continues. The music blaring—people stumbling into waiting cars. The world goes by. But you don’t move. Neither does Steve.

“I’m sorry that I can’t be honest about what’s going on. But I—I need you to know that it’s not because I don’t trust you or don’t love you enough not to tell you. I can’t tell you because it—because I’m trying to protect you and that—that’s the most important thing to me.”

“Even if I’m miserable?” You ask.

Steve falters for a split second, looking back at you with a sad smile. “Even if we’re both miserable.”

You’re not sure why but that comment—that small admission from him that he was as affected by the break up as you tugs at something inside you. Something that had seemed to be holding you together—because one second you were fine and the next you were crying.

It wasn’t just a few little tears like before—no, it started with shuddering breaths and a loud sob that shook your body. You go to sink down onto the pavement beneath you but you never get the chance to—Steve’s arms are already there to catch you. 

You melt into them like you never left.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, holding you against him as you sobbed into his chest. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

You don’t say anything—you can’t say anything. Too busy crying in his arms while trying to memorise the way they wrap around you—the way the safest place you had ever been was in his arms. 

You don’t know how long you stand there for. All you know is at some point you run out of tears. Your body stops shaking. And yet, Steve doesn’t let go.

“You still smell the same,” you murmur against him—unable to stop yourself as that warm, musky vanilary smell that was so unmistakably Steve floods your senses.

“And you smell like beer.”

You can’t help it—you laugh and the sound is bright and fills you with warmth that you’re not sure what to do with. And when Steve laughs too, everything hurts a little less.

Your laughter eventually dies down. And then, it was just you and Steve again. Him holding you like he refused to let go—you pretending you hadn’t memorised his heartbeat.

“I don’t want to be without you, Stevie,” you quietly admit a few moments later. Steve’s arms tighten around you a little at your words. You had been the only person he had ever let call him Stevie. It always softened him. Had always soothed him in a way that only you seemed able to do. Made him feel reassured and loved.

You feel Steve exhale. Feel the way his breath tickles the hair on the back of your neck. The action feels intimate and it stirs up a feeling deep in your stomach that you had almost forgotten existed. But before you could relish in that feeling, he pulls away. You let him.

“I can’t be without you either, baby.”

And there it was. That pet name that made your stomach feel as though it was made from molten lava. The one you told him you said you hated but secretly loved. The one reserved for only you. You couldn’t stop yourself from smiling even if you tried—tears still stinging in your eyes as you looked back at him.

“You really sure you can’t tell me what’s going on?” You ask quietly, already knowing the answer.

Steve shakes his head. “No, I can’t.”

“It must be pretty big, then,” you murmur as you glance around the street—at the small reminders of the quarantine restrictions. The way the colours in Hawkins seemed to have dulled. How parts of the road still had visible cracks in it from the earthquake. The cigarette butts discarded by the military that littered the street.

“Yeah,” Steve breathes out, scratching the back of his neck. “Pretty big.”

You nod—looking back at him from a quick second before you glance down, catching a glimpse of your beer soaked top.

“I really want—want to give this—us—another go,” you tell him, your eyes meeting those big brown ones you loved so much, “and I know that’s crazy because a month ago I said I couldn’t live with you not being honest with me but I also—living without you is ten times more miserable.”

Steve looks at you—simply just looks. As though he was trying to process everything you had just said. Blinks a few times before he finds his voice.

“Are you—are you sure because—”

“Steve,” you interrupt him, taking a hesitant step closer. You were now barely a foot apart. You could see those tiny flecks of gold in his eyes. You could count the moles that littered his face and neck, the ones you used to map out with your fingers and gentle kisses. “If there’s one thing I’ve been sure of in my life—it’s you.”

Steve’s mouth twitches—swears his heart is trying to escape from his chest with how fast it was racing. He wants to be sure—to be absolutely sure that you meant it. That despite the fact that he couldn’t tell you everything—that you still wanted him. That you would choose him.

“Could say the same thing about you,” he says, reaching up to cup your face tentatively with one hand. “Been the worst month of my life without you.”

“Even worse than when you had food poisoning and the flu?”

Steve laughs and the sound is warm and brings alive a memory of him bedridden and you feeding him tomato soup for two weeks. 

“That wasn’t so bad,” Steve murmurs, thumb moving over your cheek in a reverent way. Like he was scared to pull away. “Not when you took such great care of me.”

“I’d do it again in a heartbeat,” you tell him sincerely. “Even if you did get throw up in my hair.”

Steve bites back a smile. “Won’t happen again.”

You return his small smile—eyes flickering between his as you allow yourself to hope for the first time in over a month. Hope that the two of you would work it out. That your love and trust in him transcended any information that he was withholding from you. Deep down—you knew it was. You trusted Steve more than you had trusted anybody else.

“Does this mean I can kiss you now?” Steve asks hopefully, thumb brushing the corner of your bottom lip purposefully. It makes your heart do silly things in your chest. Makes you want to bottle this moment and save it for a rainy day. 

“Take me out on date first, Harrington” you tell him with a soft smile. “Then maybe—just maybe, I’ll let you kiss me.”

“Deal,” Steve says with a smile that could have lit up the whole damn town of Hawkins. “For now—can I walk you home?”

He drops his hand from your face—holds it out for you to take. You feel giddy as you take it firmly in yours. Not missing how your fingers interlocked felt like coming home after a long trip.

“I’d like that,” you say.

And as Steve Harrington walks you home—you wonder how the hell you had ever lived without him.

dividers by @cafekitsune

The garden glowed in soft gold—strings of lights tangled through the trees, white linen moving gently in the summer air. The place smelled expensive. Roses, maybe. Something powderys, something clean. The kind of scent that tried to convince people life had settled into something gentle.

Ten years ago, none of them believed in gentleness.

Steve watched the newlyweds spin slowly on the dance floor. Everyone had grown into themselves eventually—careers, cities, apartments with actual furniture instead of milk crates. Even the world ending felt far away now. Funny how some things still made it back.

“Okay but objectively,” Robin said, stealing an olive from his drink, “a wedding song needs commitment. Narrative. Emotional payoff.”

Steve leaned against the table. “You can’t beat Can’t Help Falling In Love. That’s just facts.”

Robin pointed accusingly. “You just like it because it sounds like a song you’d slow dance badly to.”

“I slow dance great,” Steve said. “I’ve had years of practice humiliating myself.”

They kept arguing—easy, familiar, safe then Steve heard it. not loud. not dramatic.

A laugh.

It didn’t belong to the present. It belonged to parking lots, shared milkshakes, late-night calls, summer air rushing through open car windows and a version of himself he hadn’t been in years.

His chest tightened before his brain understood why.

He looked up.

Across the garden, near the lanterns and the dessert table, you stood beside your brother, saying something that made them both lean toward you. Your hair was shorter now. Your posture different—steadier, like you finally belonged wherever you choose to stand.

Time had changed you.

But recognition wasn’t logical.  It was muscle memory. Steve forgot whatever Robin was saying. Forgot the drink in his hand. Forgot how to breathe normally.

Seven years collapsed into a single moment of eye contact.

You felt it, the weight of being watched and turned. There was a flicker of confusion first.

Then you knew.

Your smile didn’t fully form. Not surprise, not happiness, not hurt—something quieter. Something older.

And suddenly Steve wasn’t twenty-eight at a wedding. He was eighteen again, convinced the two of you were large enough to outrun the future.

  ───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

Summer, 1985

You mostly knew Steve Harrington as your brother’s weird older friend.

The babysitter. The chauffeur. The guy Dustin talked about, like he personally saved the world at least twice a week.

You’d sat beside him at graduation a month ago—school banners, speeches, parents clapping. Steve had been nice. Funny, even. Easy to talk to in a way you hadn’t expected.

Then summer arrived, and Dustin disappeared to Camp-Know-Where, more science, less adult supervision. Which left Hawkins unbearably quiet. So you went where everyone went when they didn’t know what else to do.

Starcourt Mall.

Cold air-conditioning hit your face the second the doors opened, carrying the smell of popcorn, perfume samples, and fried food. Teenagers crowded every railing, music echoing from storefronts, neon lights reflecting off polished floors like the whole place was pretending to be bigger than Hawkins really was.

Your feet carried you automatically toward Scoops Ahoy. You rang the bell on the counter.

Once. Twice.

A figure popped up dramatically from behind the counter.

“Ahoy there!” Steve launched into rehearsal-perfect enthusiasm. “Would you like to set sail across this ocean of flavor? I’ll be your captain, I’m Steve Harr—”

He stopped.

Blinking.

“Oh.”

You smiled. “Hi, Steve.”

There was a very noticeable pause where Steve Harrington completely forgot how customer service worked.

His sailor hat sat slightly crooked. There was chocolate syrup on his sleeve. He looked deeply offended by his own uniform.

“Hi,” he said again, quieter this time, like the word surprised him on the way out.

Your eyes flicked over the outfit. “Cute uniform.”

Steve straightened instantly. “It’s uh…nautical.”

“Mm. Very professional.”

From somewhere behind him, you heard a snort that sounded suspiciously like Robin trying not to laugh. Steve ignored it with heroic determination. “Hello… other Henderson.”

You groaned. “Please don’t call me that.”

“What? It’s accurate.”

“It makes me sound like Dustin’s backup clone.”

Steve laughed, relaxing a little. “Okay, fair. What should I call you then?”

You shrugged. “Literally anything else.”

He hesitated just long enough to overthink it. “…Sunshine?”

You blinked. “What?”

Steve froze.

Color climbed rapidly up his neck. “I not—I didn’t mean—Dustin said you’re always, y’know, optimistic and stuff and it just—came out wrong”

You laughed before he could dig himself deeper. And something in Steve’s shoulders loosened instantly, like surviving your laughter felt important.

“Sunshine,” you repeated, amused. “Bold choice, Harrington.”

“I regret everything,” he muttered.

Robin’s voice floated from the back. “You should.”

Steve grabbed a scoop with unnecessary urgency. “So. Order. Please. Save me.”

You leaned against the counter, pretending to consider. “Three scoops vanilla. Strawberry syrup.”

“Classic,” Steve said automatically.

“You know?”

He paused mid-scoop because he did. From Dustin talking. From that graduation. From noticing things he absolutely did not need to notice.

Steve cleared his throat. “Good memory.”

The ice cream tilted dangerously as he handed it over, melting faster than either of you moved to step away.

Neither of you noticed.

You stayed at the counter longer than necessary, talking about nothing—Dustin’s camp letters, terrible mall music, summer plans that didn’t really exist yet.

Easy conversation. Effortless. Like you’d skipped past introductions without realizing.

By the time you finally waved goodbye, Steve watched you disappear into the crowd before remembering there were five impatient customers behind you.

Robin leaned beside him immediately.

“Oh,” she said knowingly.

Steve frowned. “What?”

“You’re doomed.”

He scoffed, already reaching for another cone. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

But that summer tasted like artificial strawberry syrup and melted ice cream, and Steve Harrington learned your order long before he realized he was in trouble.

Later that afternoon, the movie theater emptied around you without notice.

End credits rolled. Lights came up. Somewhere nearby, employees swept popcorn into neat piles while music played faintly through tired speakers.

You blinked awake, disoriented, neck sore from sleeping upright.

Your watch read 8:47 PM. The last bus left at eight. “…shit.”

Outside, Starcourt’s parking lot looked completely different at night — quieter, almost unreal without crowds. Store signs flickered off one by one, neon reflections stretching across asphalt still warm from the day.

You sat on the curb, hugging your bag to your chest, trying not to feel stupid.

Ten minutes passed.

Then fifteen.

A car engine started somewhere behind you. “Bye, Robin!” a familiar voice called.

You shot up instantly. “Steve!”

Steve Harrington physically jumped, nearly dropping his keys.

“Jesus Henderson!” he laughed, pressing a hand to his chest. “You trying to kill me?”

“Sorry,” you said, already embarrassed. “I—uh… missed the last bus.”

Steve glanced toward the darkened mall entrance, then back at you sitting alone on the curb.

“You’ve been out here this whole time?”

You shrugged. “Fell asleep in the cinema.”

He stared for half a second longer than necessary, concern slipping through before he covered it with humor. “Wow. Abandoned by society. Rough.”

You laughed weakly. “Could you maybe—if it’s not out of your way—give me a ride?”

Steve opened the passenger door immediately. “Yeah. Of course.” like it wasn’t even a question.

The drive started quietly.

Windows down. Warm summer air rushing through the car. The radio played something soft and familiar, barely louder than the sound of tires against pavement.

Steve tapped the steering wheel nervously before speaking.

“So… uh,” he said. “Nobody woke you?”

You shook your head, watching streetlights pass in golden flashes. “Nope.”

A beat. “I’m kinda on my own this summer,” you added lightly. “Dustin’s at camp. Jonathan’s busy with Nancy—he’s basically my only other friend.”

The words sounded casual. They didn’t feel casual. Steve frowned slightly, eyes still on the road.

“Well… that’s dumb.”

You turned toward him. “Excuse me?”

“I mean—not you,” he corrected quickly. “Just… you shouldn’t have to sit alone in parking lots.”

His grip tightened on the wheel before he forced himself to continue. “We could hang out. If you want,” he said, trying very hard to sound normal. “I’ve got Saturdays and Sundays off.”

The offer hung between you. You looked at him properly then surprised, warm.

“Really?”

Steve nodded, suddenly very invested in watching the road. “Yeah. I mean. Someone’s gotta make sure you don’t fall asleep in public places again.”

You laughed, bright and easy. “Thank you, Steve.”

You rolled the window down farther, leaning slightly into the rushing air, eyes closing as the wind caught your hair.

For a moment, you looked completely free. Steve glanced over.

And something unfamiliar settled in his chest quiet and certain.

Not dramatic.

Not overwhelming.

Just the sudden understanding that Dustin Henderson’s sister was no longer just Dustin’s sister.a nd that realization felt… dangerous.

✿　.　˚　. 　 ˚　✿.

Next Saturday, Steve picked you up exactly at six.

He’d suggested the movie over the phone the night before, promising,very seriously that if you fell asleep again, he would personally wake you before the credits rolled.

His car pulled up outside your house with music already playing softly through open windows.

You stepped outside, smiling when you saw him leaning across the passenger seat to push the door open.

“Hi, Steve.”

“Hi,” he said, trying and failing to sound casual. “Ready to risk another cinematic coma?”

You laughed as you got in. “It was one time.”

“One time too many,” he said, pulling away from the curb. “I almost had to rescue you from mall security.”

“You literally found me sitting outside.”

“Emotionally rescued,” Steve corrected.

The drive to Starcourt felt easier this time. Familiar already. Like something the two of you had done for years instead of once.

Inside the theater, Steve bought popcorn without asking what size you wanted.

He shrugged. “You look like a large popcorn person.”

“That’s not a personality trait.”

“It absolutely is.”

Halfway through the movie, your head tilted slightly toward his shoulder.

Steve noticed immediately. He sat perfectly still for the next twenty minutes, afraid even breathing wrong might wake you.

You didn’t fall asleep but neither of you moved away.

✿　.　˚　. 　 ˚　✿.

Somehow, most of your plans ended in parking lots.

After movies that neither of you paid full attention to.

After late milkshake runs where Steve insisted fries tasted better dipped in vanilla ice cream and you strongly disagreed every single time.

After drives that had no destination at all—just long loops around Hawkins roads neither of you were ready to leave yet.

That night, Steve parked beneath a flickering streetlight near the edge of Starcourt’s empty lot. The mall had already closed, neon signs shutting off one by one until only the glow from his dashboard lit the car.

The radio played softly, something slow and familiar.

Neither of you moved to get out.

Your milkshake sat forgotten between you, condensation dripping onto the console as warm summer air fogged the windows.

“You ever think about leaving Hawkins?” you asked suddenly, tracing absent circles into the window with your fingertip.

Steve leaned back in his seat.

“All the time,” he admitted after a moment. “Just… don’t know where I’d even go.”

You nodded, watching your reflection blur against the window.

“I sent out college applications,” you said, almost casually. “Mostly places far away.”

Steve turned slightly toward you. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You smiled faintly. “I think I belong somewhere bigger. Somewhere people don’t already know every embarrassing thing I’ve done since third grade.”

Steve laughed under his breath. “That eliminates Hawkins immediately.”

You bumped his shoulder lightly.

“What about you?” you asked.

Steve hesitated.

His fingers tapped against the steering wheel, searching for the safest version of the truth.

“I don’t know,” he said finally. “School’s… not really my thing.”

“That doesn’t mean anything.”

“My report card disagrees,” he joked, though it landed softer than usual. “Pretty sure colleges are legally allowed to reject me on sight.”

You turned toward him fully then.

“It’s not a race, everyone has their own pace,” you said gently. “People just figure things out at different times.”

Steve blinked. “That rhymed,” he said.

You groaned instantly. “I was trying to be supportive.”

“No, no,” he grinned. “That was good. Inspirational. You should put that on a poster.”

You laughed, the sound filling the quiet car. and then the laughter faded into something easier. Comfortable silence settled between you not awkward, not heavy. Just calm.

Outside, cicadas hummed in the distance. Somewhere across the lot, a shopping cart rolled slightly in the breeze.

Steve turned off the engine neither of you moved.

You glanced toward your house down the street, then back at him like you’d forgotten something.

“Oh—I never told you what happened at work today,” Steve said suddenly.

You smiled, settling back into your seat again.

“Yeah?”

And just like that, the night continued.

Somewhere between the streetlight flickering overhead and another story neither of you needed to tell, Steve realized he’d started measuring evenings by how long you stayed in the passenger seat—like going home only mattered once you were already gone.

✿　.　˚　. 　 ˚　✿.

The phone calls started accidentally.

Steve called one night to ask if Dustin had mentioned when camp ended—something about a letter, or a schedule, or maybe nothing important at all.

You talked for forty-five minutes.

Mostly complaining about how you miss Dustin and how Starcourt played the same five songs on repeat until they permanently lived in your brain.

The next night, he called again.

Then again.

Soon, it stopped feeling accidental.

Around nine-thirty every evening, your phone would ring. You started bringing it into your room before dinner ended, pretending you weren’t waiting.

“Hello?” you’d answer, already smiling.

“Hey,” Steve would say casual, like dialing your number hadn’t become the last thing he did every night.

Sometimes you talked about nothing.

Robin’s dramatic workplace complaints. Movies you both secretly liked but pretended were terrible. Stories from childhood that slipped out easier in the dark than they ever did during the day.

Other nights stretched quieter.

You lay on your bedroom floor, phone cord looped lazily around your finger, staring at glow-in-the-dark stars you’d never taken down.

Steve sprawled across his bed miles away, one arm behind his head, listening more than talking.

Through the receiver came small sounds pages turning, your laughter drifting away from the phone when something distracted you, the faint hum of your house settling for the night.

“You ever get scared,” Steve asked once, voice softer than usual, “that everyone else knows what they’re doing except you?”

You didn’t even hesitate. “All the time.”

Silence followed not awkward, just honest.

“I don’t think you’re lost,” you added quietly. “I think you’re just… early in figuring things out.”

Steve swallowed. no one had ever said it like that before.

“I admire that about you, Steve” you said casually. 

He didn’t answer right away. He just listened to your breathing.

Calls meant to last ten minutes stretched into hours.

Midnight arrived unnoticed. One a.m. followed.

Sometimes conversation faded until only shared silence remained neither of you wanting to admit you were tired first.

More than once, Steve realized you’d fallen asleep mid-sentence. Your breathing evened out through the line.

He’d smile into the darkness. “Goodnight,” he’d whisper anyway. And he never hung up first.

✿　.　˚　. 　 ˚　✿.

By July, you learn how to let people into your life.

One afternoon, Steve mentioned, too casually that his parents were out of town.

“They’re always out of town,” he added quickly. “But, uh… I was thinking of having few people over. Pool thing. Nothing big.”

A pause.

“You should come,” he said, trying to sound like it didn’t matter either way.

It was 7:40 when the house finally went quiet.

Empty cups crowded the counter. Someone had forgotten a towel near the sliding door, still dripping pool water onto the tile. Outside, the backyard lights reflected softly against the pool, turning everything blue and slow.

You’d had enough beer to feel warm, lightheaded, but steady enough to help.

They had already left.

You stayed.

Steve stood across from you, gathering plates while music played faintly from a speaker no one remembered turning off.

“You don’t have to help,” he said for the third time.

“And let you clean alone after inviting me?” you replied, wiping down the counter. “Absolutely not.”

He smiled to himself at that.

You reached forward to stack cups just as Steve stepped in behind you, stretching one arm upward to place something in the cupboard.

You turned, and suddenly there was nowhere to go.

Steve stood close. Closer than he’d ever been before without laughing it off.

His arm rested beside your head, fingers still curled around the cabinet handle. The faint scent of chlorine and sunscreen clung to him. A drop of water slid slowly from his damp hair down the side of his neck.

You noticed everything all at once.

The movement of his throat when he swallowed.

The small moles near his jaw.

How unfairly soft his eyelashes looked this close.

Then his eyes met yours.

And neither of you moved. Heat rushed to your face maybe from the beer, maybe from realizing that Steve Harrington was looking at you like he’d forgotten what he meant to do next.

His gaze flickered downward.

Your breath caught when you realized where.

Steve exhaled slowly, almost shaky.

“This…” he murmured, voice low, “…would be a bad idea.”

“The worst,” you agreed, though you didn’t step away.

He laughed quietly under his breath, disbelief mixing with nerves.

“It would complicate things.”

“Definitely.”

“We’d regret it.”

You tilted your head slightly. “Probably.”

Another pause.

Too long.

Too charged.

Steve’s hand slipped from the cupboard, landing beside your other shoulder now not trapping you, just… there. Giving you time to move but you didn’t.

His voice dropped to a whisper. “Tell me to stop.”

You opened your mouth and didn’t. Steve searched your face one last time, like he was memorizing the chance to change his mind.

“Fuck it,” he breathed.

Then he kissed you, soft at first. Careful. Like testing something fragile.

And when you kissed him back, hesitation disappeared completely—weeks of late-night calls, parking lot conversations, and almost-moments collapsing into one undeniable truth.

Somewhere outside, pool water rippled quietly. Inside, Steve forgot entirely what a bad idea was supposed to feel like.

Steve's lips claim yours again in a rush of warmth that chases away the lingering haze from the beers, his mouth soft and insistent, drawing you into a kiss that's anything but hurried. 

He starts gentle, lips brushing yours with a tenderness that makes your knees weaken, his breath warm against your skin as he tilts his head to fit perfectly against you. The counter presses into your lower back, but it's his body—solid and close—that grounds you, his arms framing you like a promise he won't break.

He pulls back just a fraction, his forehead resting against yours, breath mingling in the quiet kitchen air.

 “God, I've thought about this,” he murmurs, voice low and sincere, his thumb tracing the curve of your jaw. 

“Ever since that day at Scoops Ahoy. You walked up to the counter, smiling like the sun broke through the clouds just for me, and I couldn't stop staring. Your laugh when you ordered that double scoop... it stuck with me.” 

 His eyes lock onto yours, warm and adoring, before he leans in again, capturing your lower lip between his, sucking gently, then releasing it with a soft sigh.

The kiss builds like a slow-burning fire, his tongue tracing the seam of your lips until you part them, inviting him in. He doesn't rush; instead, he savors, his tongue sliding against yours in lazy strokes that send shivers down your spine. 

One hand cups the back of your neck, fingers threading through your hair, holding you steady as if you're something precious he doesn't want to let go. “You're beautiful,” he whispers against your mouth, breaking away to pepper soft kisses along your cheek, down to the sensitive spot just below your ear.

 “Every part of you. The way your eyes light up, the freckles on your nose... I could kiss you forever and it wouldn't be enough.”

You tilt your head, giving him more access, and he takes it, his lips trailing a path of worship along your neck, nipping lightly before soothing with his tongue. 

The counter digs into your back, but you don't care his body is a solid anchor, arms caging you in the best way, protective and intimate.

He worships you with his mouth, trailing kisses from the corner of your lips to your jaw, then down the column of your throat, each one light and reverent. 

“Your neck,” he whispers, lips lingering on your pulse point, feeling it flutter under his touch. “So elegant, like it was made for this.” He nips softly, then soothes with a flat press of his tongue, drawing a quiet moan from deep in your chest.

 His hands roam your sides, not demanding, but tracing the curve of your waist, the dip of your spine, as if committing every inch to memory. “And your eyes... they pull me in every time. I see worlds in them.”

The heat builds in languid waves, your bodies shifting closer until there's no space left, his chest rising and falling in sync with yours. Another moan slips out as his lips return to yours, deeper now, tongues tangling in a rhythm that's unhurried but electric. He pulls back just enough to speak, his forehead against yours, eyes dark with affection. 

“Use your words, sunshine. As much as I love hearing you moan, I want you to use your words.”

Your breath catches, the endearment warming you from the inside out. “I want you too, Steve,” you confess, voice barely above a whisper, vulnerability spilling out with the words. “When you pick up my brother, I always take a look from my bedroom window to see you. When you come over to hang out with him, I go downstairs more.” The confession hangs in the air, raw and honest, and his expression softens, a smile breaking through the intensity.

“God, that means everything,” he breathes, sealing your words with another kiss, this one full of gratitude and longing. His hands slide to your hips, lifting you slightly off the counter to guide you away, never breaking the connection of your mouths. 

He leads you through the house, his fingers intertwined, the path to his bedroom feeling as natural as anything. The door clicks shut behind you, and he backs you toward the bed, easing you down onto the soft comforter without a rush.

Time blurs as you lose yourselves in each other, his hands roaming gently stroking your arms, your sides always returning to hold your face as if to memorize every expression. 

The kisses grow more intense in their tenderness, lips swollen from the friction, but he never pushes; it's all about the connection, the slow unraveling of restraint in the safety of his room. He pauses to gaze at you, thumb brushing your bottom lip. 

“Stay with me tonight,” he says softly, sealing the words with another kiss that promises more of this endless, sweet intimacy.

✿　.　˚　. 　 ˚　✿.

Dustin Henderson returned from camp louder than ever.

Steve heard him before he saw him—his voice echoing across Starcourt Mall as he argued with you about how no one appreciated the scientific importance of his Cerebro upgrades.

By the time he burst into Scoops Ahoy, sunburned, taller somehow, and carrying too many bags, Steve nearly dropped an ice cream scoop.

“HENDERSON!” Steve yelled.

“STEVE!” Dustin yelled back, already running toward the counter like a returning war hero.

Steve laughed despite himself, wiping his hands on his uniform as Dustin pulled him into a tight hug that smelled like sunscreen and grass.

“Okay, okay— personal space,” you groaned.

“Nope. I survived camp food. I deserve affection.”

Ten minutes later, the three of you sat crammed into a booth during Steve break, melting sundaes untouched between you.

Dustin squinted hard. Back and forth between you and Steve.

Steve suddenly found the napkin dispenser fascinating. You focused very intensely on your spoon.

Dustin leaned back slowly.

“So,” he said, dragging the word out. “What do the two of you want to tell me?”

You and Steve spoke at the exact same time. “We’re dating.”

Your eyes squeezed shut immediately. Steve’s went impossibly wide.

Silence. You prepared for yelling. Betrayal. Scientific lectures about friendship boundaries.

Instead—“That’s WONDERFUL!”

Your eyes snapped open. Steve blinked. Once. Twice.

Dustin grinned like he’d just solved world hunger.

“I knew it!” he said, pointing between you both. “ The weird eye contact? Steve suddenly caring about his hair before coming over? Obvious.”

Steve choked. “I always care about my hair!”

“Not emotionally,” Dustin shot back.

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding. “Oh my god. Thank you.”

“Since when?” Dustin asked, already vibrating with excitement.

You glanced at Steve, unable to stop smiling. “Two weeks.”

“Two weeks?!” Dustin gasped. “Lot happened when I was gone, huh? Wow. Betrayal.”

Steve laughed nervously, his hand sliding under the table until his fingers found yours. Warm. Steady. Familiar already.

“So when’s the wedding?” Dustin continued. “Because honestly, I’d love Steve as my brother-in-law.”

“Okay— whoa, slow down,” Steve said, laughing, nearly knocking over his drink. “Let us survive dating first.”

Dustin pointed his spoon at him. “Harrington, if you hurt my sister—”

“I won’t,” Steve said immediately.

No jokes. No hesitation. Just certainty. Your thumb brushed against his hand under the table.

✿　.　˚　. 　 ˚　✿.

Dating Steve Harrington was not something you ever imagined happening.

Not really.

It wasn’t grand gestures or movie-perfect moments—though Steve tried, sometimes disastrously. It was smaller than that. Quieter.

It was late-night drives with the windows down. Shared fries after shifts. Falling asleep halfway through movies because his shoulder was too comfortable.

It was knowing someone would show up.

Every time.

With Steve, the future didn’t feel terrifying anymore. It felt… possible. Like whatever came next, you wouldn’t have to face it alone.

The living room smelled faintly like popcorn and Steve’s cologne.

A movie played quietly on the TV something neither of you were actually watching. Your legs were stretched across Steve’s lap while he absentmindedly traced shapes against your ankle, attention drifting between the screen and you.

Comfort had come easily with him. Dangerously easily.

“You’re cheating,” you accused, grabbing another handful of popcorn.

“I’m strategizing,” Steve corrected. “There’s a difference.”

“You picked the movie.”

“Yeah, but you keep talking through it.”

“That’s because it’s boring.”

Steve gasped like you’d personally offended cinema itself. “This is a classic.”

“You say that about everything made before 1985.”

He opened his mouth to argue—then noticed the envelope on the coffee table. It sat half-hidden beneath a magazine.

Official. Thick. Important.  Steve reached for it without thinking.

“Sunshine,” he called, turning the envelope over. “This looks important.”

You barely glanced over, then you saw the university seal. Your stomach dropped. Steve’s smile faded as realization hit him at the same time it hit you.

“…Is this the one?” he asked softly.

“I—I don’t know.” That was a lie. You knew exactly what it was. You just hadn’t opened it.

Steve didn’t push it toward you right away. He held it carefully, like it might break.

“Hey,” he said softer. “You don’t have to open it now.”

But you were already reaching for it. Your fingers brushed his as you took the envelope. They were warmer than yours. Steadier. You stared at your name for a long moment.

“What if I didn’t get in?” you whispered.

Steve frowned. “Then they’re idiots.”

A weak laugh escaped you. “And if I did?”

The question hung heavier because getting in meant leaving.

Leaving Hawkins.

Leaving Dustin and your mom.

Leaving him.

Steve understood immediately—you saw it in the way his shoulders shifted, the way his smile turned smaller but never disappeared.

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Well,” he said quietly, “then I guess I start bragging that my girlfriend’s too smart for this town.”

You searched his face. “You wouldn’t be… mad?”

“Why would I be mad?”

“Because it’s far,” you admitted. “Because things change.”

Steve nodded once, honest. “Yeah,” he said. “They do.”

Silence stretched between you. The movie kept playing. Someone laughed on-screen, neither of you did.

Finally, you tore the envelope open. Paper slid free, hands shaking as your eyes scanned the words. You stopped breathing. Steve watched your expression instead of the letter.

“…Well?” he asked carefully.

You looked up, eyes wide. “I got in.”

For half a second, everything froze. Then Steve broke into the brightest smile you’d ever seen. He pulled you into him so fast you laughed in surprise.

“That’s amazing!” he said, voice muffled against your hair. “I knew it. Of course you did.”

You hugged him back tight, but when you pulled away, the reality settled in again.

“I’d have to leave in the fall.”

Steve nodded. His hand found yours again automatically.

“Okay.” Just okay. No guilt. No hesitation. Just support.

Your voice came smaller. “What happens to us?”

Steve looked at you for a long moment, really looked.

Then he squeezed your hand. “We figure it out,” he said simply. “People who want each other usually do.”

He smiled, softer now. “I’m not letting distance scare me away from something good.”

Emotion caught in your throat because somehow, Steve Harrington—former king of bad decisions—was the calmest part of your future.

He nudged your shoulder lightly. “So,” he added, grin returning, “does this mean I get to say I’m dating a college girl now?”

You laughed through the tears.

“Shut up, Harrington.”

“Never.”

✿　.　˚　. 　 ˚　✿.

Fall arrived faster than either of you were ready for.

Suitcases lined the hallway. Cardboard boxes labeled in your mother’s careful handwriting sat by the door, waiting to be loaded into the car. The house felt unfamiliar, already like it knew you were leaving.

Steve Harrington had shown up at eight in the morning sharp, hair still damp, holding two coffees and looking strangely nervous for someone who wasn’t the one moving away.

He’d practically begged your mom the week before.

“Mrs. Henderson, please. I’ll drive her. I’m great at directions. I can carry stuff. I—I just wanna help.”

Your mom agreed almost immediately, smiling in that knowing way mothers did. “Well,” she’d said, grabbing her keys and toss it to Steve, “sounds like the perfect excuse for a road trip.”

Dustin made exaggerated gagging noises the entire morning.

“This is disgusting,” he announced as Steve loaded another suitcase. “I leave for camp and suddenly my sister steals my babysitter.”

Steve pointed at him. “I was never your babysitter.”

“You literally packed my lunches.”

You laughed, pulling Dustin into a tight hug before he could argue again. “I’m gonna miss you, you know.”

He hugged back just as hard, voice muffled against your shoulder. “You better call. And don’t become one of those people who forgets Hawkins exists.”

“Impossible,” you said softly.

Your eyes drifted to Steve standing by the car. Somehow, saying goodbye to Dustin felt easier.

The road trip turned into something neither of you expected.

Windows rolled down. Maps spread across Steve’s lap because he refused to trust highway signs alone. Music blasted loud enough to drown out nerves neither of you wanted to name.

You stopped at diners shaped like trains.

Took blurry photos beside welcome signs of states you’d never thought you’d see.

Shared milkshakes at gas stations past midnight.

One night, when all the motels nearby were full, Steve convinced everyone to camp just off the road. You sat wrapped in blankets while he struggled dramatically to start a small fire.

“I swear this worked in movies,” he muttered.

“You’re gonna burn down this place before I even start college.”

“Relax,” he said proudly as the flame finally caught. “I’m outdoorsy now.”

You laughed so hard your stomach hurt.

Later, making uneven s’mores under unfamiliar stars, Steve bumped his shoulder into yours.

“See?” he said quietly. “Leaving Hawkins isn’t so bad.”

And for a moment with the road behind you and the future still miles ahead iIt really didn’t feel scary.

✿　.　˚　. 　 ˚　✿.

After three days, the university finally appeared.

Huge buildings. Crowds of strangers. Cars unloading everywhere.

Your stomach twisted.

Steve parked and immediately got out, already grabbing your bags before you could stop him.

“I got it,” he insisted when you mom protested.

Trip after trip, he carried boxes up to your dorm room like motion alone could delay the inevitable.

You unlocked the door first. Empty. Two beds. Two desks. A window overlooking campus life already in motion.

Your new life.

Steve set your suitcase down carefully. “Well,” he said, forcing a smile, “not haunted. Good start.”

You laughed faintly and began unpacking, needing something to do with your hands.

Clothes into drawers.

Books stacked neatly.

Then came the small things, You placed a framed photo of you, Dustin, and your mom on the bedside table.

Next—the chaotic picture from Steve’s pool party. Robin mid-laugh, Jonathan blinking at the camera, Nancy half-smiling while Steve made a ridiculous face beside you.

And finally—the photo of just you and Steve.

Taken late that summer.

Sunset behind you. His arm around your shoulders. Both of you smiling like nothing in the world could change. You adjusted the frame carefully.

behind you, Steve had gone quiet. he was looking around the room at your things settling into a place that wasn’t Hawkins. A place that wasn’t automatically his.

“…Looks good,” he said softly. But his hand found yours anyway.like instinct.like habit.like something neither of you quite knew how to let go of yet.

Steve lingered near the door longer than necessary.Keys already in his hand.Bag slung over his shoulder.Leaving posture.

Neither of you said it out loud. He was going back to Hawkins. You were staying.

“Well,” he started, voice uneven, “guess I should—”you nodded.

Neither of you moved. The goodbye hung between you, unfinished.

Then somehow he was closer.

Maybe you stepped forward. Maybe he did. Later, neither of you would remember who broke first only that suddenly his hands were on your waist and his mouth found yours like he’d been holding his breath all day.

His hands slide under your shirt, palms warm and calloused against your skin, pushing the fabric up as he kisses you harder, tongues sliding together in a wet, urgent tangle. You arch into him, fingers digging into his hair, pulling him closer because letting go feels impossible.

 The bed creaks under your combined weight as he shifts, settling between your legs, his hips pressing down just enough to let you feel the hard line of his manhood through his jeans, grinding slowly against your core.

Steve breaks the kiss to trail his mouth down your jaw, nipping at the sensitive skin below your ear before moving lower.”sunshine,” he murmurs again, voice rough with need, lips brushing your collarbone.

 He tugs your shirt higher, exposing your bra, and his fingers hook under the edge, pulling it down to bare one breast. His breath hitches at the sight, eyes darkening as he leans in, mouth closing over your nipple in a hot, sucking pull that sends sparks straight to your pussy.

You gasp, back bowing off the mattress, the sensation sharp and sweet as his tongue flicks over the hardened peak, circling it before drawing it deeper into his mouth. He sucks harder, teeth grazing just enough to make you whimper, his free hand kneading your other breast through the fabric, thumb rolling the nipple until it's aching.

 “So perfect,” he whispers against your skin, switching sides, laving attention on the neglected breast with the same devoted hunger. His cock throbs against your thigh as he grinds again, the friction building heat between your legs, your panties growing damp.

The room's newness fades under the haze of touch—his mouth worshiping your breasts, leaving them slick and sensitive, nipples pebbled from his attention, marking you. He pulls back slightly, eyes locked on yours, filled with that desperate love that makes your heart clench. 

“I need to taste you,please,” he begs, voice low and fervent, hands already working at your jeans, unbuttoning and sliding them down your hips along with your underwear. You lift to help, kicking them off, and he settles lower, pushing your thighs apart with gentle insistence.

Steve's gaze drops to your exposed womanhood, folds glistening with arousal, and he groans softly, like it's the most beautiful thing he's ever seen. “God, sunshine, you're so pretty, so wet for me.”

 His fingers part you gently, thumb brushing over your clit in a light circle that makes you jolt, before he lowers his head. His tongue flattens against your slit, licking a slow, broad stroke from entrance to clit, savoring your taste with a hum that vibrates through you.

He eats you out like he's starving, mouth sealing over your pussy, tongue delving inside to thrust shallowly before retreating to lap at your clit. Suction pulls at the sensitive nub, his lips working it with precise, hungry pulls while two fingers slide into you, curling to stroke that spot that makes stars burst behind your eyelids. 

“Steve…don’t stop.” you moan his name, hips bucking up, but he pins you with one hand on your hip, holding you steady as he devours you—tongue flicking, fingers pumping in a rhythm that builds pressure low in your belly.

The coil tightens fast under his relentless attention, his free hand reaching up to pinch your nipple again, twisting just right to push you closer. “Come for me, sunshine,” he urges between licks, voice muffled against your skin. 

“Let me feel you, one last time.” The words tip you over, pleasure crashing through you in waves, pussy clenching around his fingers as you cry out, thighs trembling around his head.

He doesn't stop until you're spent, lapping gently to ease you through the aftershocks, then kisses his way back up your body, capturing your mouth so you taste yourself on his tongue. The kiss is messy, full of shared breath and lingering heat, his body aligned with yours again.

 “I need you,” he pants, fumbling for his wallet on the nightstand, pulling out a condom with shaking hands. You help him strip off his clothes—shirt tossed aside, jeans shoved down, cock springing free, thick and hard, tip leaking pre-cum.

He rolls the condom on quickly, positioning himself at your entrance, eyes searching yours for permission, “you ready f’me?” you nod, wrapping your legs around his waist, and he pushes in slowly, inch by inch, stretching you with a burn that turns to fullness. Both of you groan at the connection, his hips flush against yours as he bottoms out, pausing to let you adjust, forehead pressed to yours.

“So good, gonna miss this” he whispers, starting to move—deep, measured thrusts that hit every sensitive spot, his mouth finding yours in sloppy kisses between breaths. He sucks on your lower lip, then moves to your breasts again, latching onto a nipple as he rocks into you, pace building from tender to urgent. 

Your nails rake down his back, urging him faster, the slap of skin on skin filling the room alongside your shared moans. “Faster, please…god”

Steve's hand slips between you, thumb circling your clit to match his thrusts, driving you toward another peak. “From now one, when I say sunshine it means i love you”' he state in a broken whisper, burying his face in your neck, hips snapping harder now, chasing release. 

“Sunshine…” one slow thrust. 

“Sunshine” then it became fast, desperate. 

“Sunshine…fuck” 

The words unravel you, orgasm ripping through as your pussy tightens around his cock, milking him until he follows with a guttural moan, spilling into the condom with shuddering thrusts.

He collapses gently onto you, both panting, bodies slick with sweat. After a moment, he lifts his head, kissing you softly, sweetly, like the desperation has ebbed into something solid. 

“Stay with me a little longer,” he murmurs, even though he knows he has to go. You hold him tighter, wishing the same, the dorm's quiet wrapping around your tangled forms like a temporary shield against the goodbye waiting outside.

✿　.　˚　. 　 ˚　✿.

Midterms finally ended, leaving campus buzzing with relief.

Music drifted through open dorm windows. Someone down the hall shouted about cheap drinks. Doors slammed, laughter echoing like freedom itself.

Your roommate stood in front of the mirror, reapplying lipstick for the third time. “You coming or not?” she asked, already halfway into her jacket. “Everyone’s going to the club on the block. Midterms survival celebration.”

You glanced at the clock.

9:28.

Right on time, your phone rang. You smiled instantly. “Nope. I’m good.”

She groaned dramatically. “You are unbelievable. Long-distance boyfriend wins again.” You only laughed, answering the phone before the second ring.

“Hi.”

“Hey, sunshine.”

Steve’s voice settled something restless inside you. You tucked yourself onto your bed, legs crossed, listening as your roommate grabbed her bag.

“You seriously staying in?” she asked one last time.

You covered the receiver slightly. “Yeah. I’d rather talk to my boyfriend.”

She shook her head, amused. “You’re insane,” she said, before disappearing out the door.

The room fell quiet. On the other end of the line, Steve didn’t speak.

You frowned slightly. “Steve?”

A beat passed. “…Yeah. I’m here.”

“You okay?”

“Yeah, yeah,” he said quickly. “Just heard what she said.”

You smiled, not noticing the shift yet. “What? That I have excellent priorities?”

A small laugh came through, but it didn’t quite reach you. “You should’ve gone,” Steve said after a moment. “You just finished midterms. You deserve to celebrate.”

“I am celebrating,” you said easily. “I’m talking to you.”

Silence again, longer this time. You traced patterns into your blanket. “Steve, you still there?”

“Uh—yeah,” he cleared his throat. “Robin and I actually got new jobs.”

Your face lit up. “Wait, really? That’s amazing!”

“Yeah. Video store. Nothing fancy.”

“I’m proud of you,” you said, almost squeaking with excitement. “See? Things are working out.”

Another pause. You could hear background noise now—a television somewhere, cars passing, Hawkins sounds you suddenly missed.

Steve leaned back against his bedroom wall, staring at the ceiling. He pictured you alone in your dorm.

Missing parties.

Missing people.

Missing life.

Because of him.

“Do you… go out much?” he asked carefully.

“Sometimes,” you said, though both of you knew that wasn’t true. “Classes are just busy.”

“You don’t have to stay in every night for me.”

“I’m not doing it for you,” you said quickly. “I want to talk to you.”

And that was the problem. Steve swallowed.

Back in Hawkins, his world looked exactly the same. Same streets. Same job hunts. Same nights.

But yours—your world was expanding without him in it. Louder. Bigger. Full of possibilities he couldn’t follow.

“You should go next time,” he said quietly.

You laughed. “You trying to get rid of me, Harrington?”

“No,” he said immediately.

Too fast.

“…Just don’t want you missing stuff.”

You didn’t notice how heavy his voice sounded. Didn’t notice how he stared at the phone like it was proof of something slipping through his hands.

“I’m not missing anything,” you said softly.

Across state lines, Steve closed his eyes, because he suddenly realized—maybe you were.

You noticed it at 9:32. not consciously at first.

Just a small awareness sitting in your chest while you reread the same paragraph for the third time. Your phone stayed silent on your desk.

Usually by now it would’ve rung already right between brushing your teeth and pretending to study. Steve was predictable like that. Nine-thirty sharp, almost every night.

9:35.

You told yourself he was busy. Maybe closing late. Maybe stuck talking to Robin.

9:41.

You flipped your phone over just to make sure it was plug on.

It was.

Outside, laughter echoed from the hallway. Someone knocked on another door, music spilling into the corridor as people gathered for another spontaneous weekday party.

You sat cross-legged on your bed, textbook open but unread.

9:52.

Your stomach tightened.

He probably just forgot. The thought felt unreasonable the moment it appeared. Steve never forgot. You waited anyway.

Ten o’clock passed.

Then eleven.

Eventually, exhaustion won. You changed into pajamas, placing the phone beside your pillow instead of the nightstand—just in case.

The room stayed silent.

Morning sunlight woke you. and immediately—your phone rang. You grabbed it before the second ring.

“Steve?”

“Sunshine—hey. I’m so sorry.”

His voice sounded rough. Tired in a way you hadn’t heard before.

“I knocked out last night,” he continued quickly. “Work was insane. We had inventory and this guy yelled at me for twenty minutes because we didn’t have some movie rewound and I swear I sat down for one second and—”

You exhaled, relief flooding faster than disappointment could settle.

“It’s okay,” you said softly. “You sounded exhausted.”

“I hate that I missed calling you,” he said. And you could hear the genuine guilt threading every word. “I woke up and realized and felt like absolute crap.”

You smiled into your pillow. “You’re forgiven.”

A pause.“…You waited, didn’t you?” You hesitated just long enough for him to know.

Steve groaned quietly. “God, I’m the worst.”

“No,” you laughed gently. “You’re human.”

He let out a breath, calmer now. “I’ll call tonight. Promise.”

“I know.”

and you meant it.

After class, you told your roommate about it while digging through your closet. “He fell asleep?” she repeated.

“Yeah. He called first thing this morning to apologize.”

She hummed, not convinced. You glanced over. “What?”

She shrugged. “Nothing. Just… long-distance thing.”

“What about it?”

She sat on her bed, choosing her words carefully. “I’ve seen this before,” she said. “First it’s one missed call. Then schedules get weird. Then someone’s too tired. Then suddenly… the calls stop happening every night.”

You rolled your eyes immediately. “That’s not us.”

She raised her hands defensively. “Hey, I’m just saying. People don’t mean for it to happen.”

You shoved a sweater into your drawer harder than necessary. “Steve’s not like that.”

“I didn’t say he was bad,” she said gently. “Just… life gets bigger.”

You didn’t answer.

Because you knew Steve.

Because he always called.

Because last night was just an accident.

Still—later, while walking to class, her words followed quietly behind you.

First it’s one missed call.

You shook the thought away. That night at 9:29, you found yourself watching your phone again. Just in case.

✿　.　˚　. 　 ˚　✿.

Finals swallowed you whole.

Days blurred into fluorescent library lights, half-finished coffees, highlighted textbooks, and deadlines stacked so high breathing itself felt scheduled.

You warned Steve beforehand. “I might disappear this week,” you told him over the phone, exhaustion thick in your voice. “If I don’t call, it’s not because I don’t want to.”

He laughed softly. “Sunshine, go pass your exams. I’ll still be here.”

And he meant it.

The first night you missed his call, guilt sat heavy in your stomach. You reread his letters between study sessions.

Wishing the brightest star in my life a successful score! Though miles may separate us, my love for you only grows stronger. Miss you tons! Don’t stress too much, okay? Call me when you can. I love you so much. 

You called back at two in the morning. He was already asleep.

The next night, he missed yours.

Then another.

Sometimes you connected only to fall asleep within minutes, phones still pressed against pillows, breathing replacing conversation.

Eventually, apologies stopped.

Not intentionally.

Just… quietly.

Like both of you understood exhaustion without needing explanation. The calls grew shorter. Less laughter. More updates than stories.

You stopped noticing when the rhythm changed. Until silence no longer felt temporary. It felt normal.

Your roommate noticed before you did. She leaned against her desk one night while you stared at your untouched phone.

“He still calling every night?”

“Mostly,” you said defensively.

She hummed. “That’s usually how it starts.”

You frowned. “Starts what?”

“Distance,” she said plainly. “Guys back home don’t just sit around waiting forever.”

Your stomach tightened. “He’s not like that.”

She shrugged. “Maybe. Or maybe he’s out there meeting people who are actually there. Parties. Coworkers. Girls who don’t live three states away.”

You scoffed, turning back to your notes but her words lingered.

Ugly.

Persistent.

People cheat.

You hated her for saying it. Hated yourself more for wondering, because you trust Steve. 

✿　.　˚　. 　 ˚　✿.

When finals finally ended, relief hit like survival. You packed overnight.

No warning.

No call.

You wanted to see their faces when you walked through the door.

Wanted Steve’s arms around you before distance could speak again.

Hawkins looked exactly the same. Your mom nearly dropped a plate when you walked in. Dustin shouted so loud the neighbors probably heard.

“You should’ve called!” your mom scolded between hugs.

“That ruins the surprise,” you laughed.

Dinner felt warm. Familiar. Safe. For the first time in months, you weren’t rushing somewhere else.

Casually, you asked, “How’s Steve?” Dustin froze for half a second. Then reached for more potatoes.

“So…uh—finals hard?”

Your smile faltered. Later, you grabbed your jacket.

“I’m gonna see him.”

Steve’s house lights were on but Robin opened the door instead. Her face fell the moment she saw you.

“…Oh. Shit.”

Before you could ask, she pulled you into a tight hug. “You’re back.”

“Yeah,” you laughed nervously. “Where’s Steve?” Robin hesitated.

“He’s… out. With some people from work.” Something uneasy curled in your chest.

“It’s fine,” you said quickly. “I’ll surprise him.”

Robin didn’t stop you. That should’ve been your first warning.

You smiled the entire drive. Not the small polite kind — the uncontrollable one that kept returning no matter how many times you tried to calm yourself down.

Your hands tightened around the steering wheel as Hawkins passed by in familiar flashes of streetlights and quiet houses dusted in early snow. Every turn felt smaller than you remembered, softer somehow, like the town had been waiting patiently for you to come back.

You imagined it over and over. Steve is opening the door. The confusion first. Then recognition.

That crooked grin was spreading slowly across his face before he pulled you into him so hard your feet barely touched the ground.

You could already hear his laugh. Sunshine? What the hell are you doing here?

You rehearsed it aloud once. “Surprise.”

Too casual. Again.

“Miss me?” You groaned at yourself, laughing nervously.

By the time you parked outside the billiard club, your cheeks hurt from smiling.

Music vibrated faintly through the building walls, bass humming beneath your ribs. Yellow light spilled onto the snow-covered pavement, voices overlapping inside — laughter, shouting, glasses clinking.

You smoothed your jacket.

Checked your reflection in the car mirror. God, he was going to lose his mind when he saw you.

You pushed the door open. Warm air rushed over you immediately beer, smoke, cheap cologne, familiar noise. Conversations blurred together as you stepped inside, scanning automatically for him.

And then—your world stopped moving.

Steve was across the room. Sprawled lazily on a worn couch like he belonged there, head tipped back, eyes closed in careless laughter. One arm stretched along the cushions, relaxed in a way you hadn’t seen in months.

Comfortable.

At ease.

Home.

For one fragile second, relief flooded you.

There he is.

But then you saw her. A girl sat on his lap, angled easily toward him, her fingers resting against his chest like it was the most natural place in the world. She leaned down to say something near his ear, laughing softly, and Steve smiled—sleepy, loose, unaware.

The kind of smile that used to belong only to you. Something inside your chest folded inward. Your brain refused to understand what your eyes were seeing. It searched desperately for explanation, misunderstanding, coincidence, anything.

Maybe she just sat down, and he’s drunk.Maybe he didn’t notice. Maybe—Your voice barely existed when it escaped.

“…Steve.”

It sounded small.

Lost.

His eyes opened slowly, a confusion flickered first.Then recognition struck. And the color drained from his face so fast it felt violent. He shoved the girl off his lap immediately, nearly stumbling as he stood.

“Sunshine—?”

The nickname hit you harder than the scene itself. Your vision blurred before you realized tears were already falling. He looked terrified. Not guilty.

Terrified.

“It’s not what it looks like,” he said quickly, words tripping over panic. “I swear—I didn’t—”

A laugh broke out of you. Sharp. Wrong. Almost hysterical.

“Oh,” you said, shaking your head as tears kept coming, “it is exactly what it looks like.”

People were staring now. You couldn’t breathe. You turned before he could watch your face collapse completely.

The cold outside felt brutal. Snow soaked instantly through your shoes as air burned your lungs. You walked blindly toward the parking lot, vision swimming, heartbeat loud enough to drown everything else out.

“Wait!”

His footsteps pounded behind you. A hand caught your arm, spinning you around. Steve looked wrecked—hair messy, eyesbags are visible, breath uneven, no jacket against the freezing night.

“Please,” he said, voice breaking. “Just let me explain.”

Your chest rose and fell violently.

Explain what? Explain how easily someone else fit where you used to belong?

“There’s nothing to explain,” you whispered.

“Sunshine—”

“Don’t.”

The word snapped out of you. Your voice shattered halfway through. “Don’t call me that.”

He froze like you’d physically struck him. You wiped your cheeks angrily, furious that you were crying in front of him, furious that you still wanted him to fix this somehow.

“Call me Henderson,” you said hoarsely. “Harrington.”

The distance in the names hurt more than shouting ever could.

Snow drifted between you. Your hands trembled.

“Just—” your voice cracked completely, “just be honest with me. Please. Just this once.” You looked at him like your entire world depended on the answer.

“…Do you not love me anymore?”

Silence swallowed everything. Steve’s face crumpled almost imperceptibly.

Because the truth was unbearable. He loved you so much it hurt to breathe. He loved you enough to notice every missed opportunity, every night you stayed in, every dream you postponed just to stay connected to a boy stuck in Hawkins.

He saw your future growing and he dont want you still tying yourself because of him.  So he chose the only thing he believed would free you.

“I cheated.”

He said it quietly. Like a confession meant to end something sacred. He never met your eyes.

The slap echoed sharply through the empty street. His head turned with the impact, but he didn’t move afterward. Didn’t defend himself. Didn’t argue.

He accepted it. “You just… weren’t here,” he added weakly.

The words twisted deep in your stomach. “Bullshit,” you whispered.

Your voice broke entirely now. You stepped back like standing near him physically hurt. Every instinct screamed to stay.

To fight.

To beg him to take it back.

But pride, heartbreak, survival—won. You turned and ran to your car. 

Hawkins blurred past through tears and red traffic lights. Every street carried him.

The diner.

The movie theater.

The turns he used to take with one hand on the wheel while the other held yours.

Your chest ached so badly you thought something inside you might actually give out. Without thinking, you drove to the parking lot.

Your parking lot.

The place where futures once felt endless.

The engine idled as memories crashed in relentlessly—milkshakes melting between conversations, laughter echoing through open windows, late-night promises whispered like distance could never touch you.

You gripped the steering wheel until your knuckles hurt, and finall you broke. Sobs tore out of you, ugly and uncontrollable, grief pouring out faster than you could contain it.

Every call.

Every goodbye.

Every sunshine.

That night, something irreversible happened. Steve Harrington didn’t just break your heart. He became a memory you would spend years pretending no longer mattered. And in that freezing parking lot, you began learning how to live without the person who once felt like home.

  ───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

Summer ‘96

You almost don’t check the mail. It sits untouched on the small kitchen table of your apartment—- neat, quiet, predictable. Bills stacked like routine. Like proof that your life is stable now. yours.

You drop your keys into the ceramic bowl by the door and sigh, kicking off your shoes.

“Bills… advertisement… more bills,” you mutter, flipping through envelopes. Then a cream paper. Thicker than the rest. Your name written in familiar handwriting.

You pause. Your stomach tightens before you even open it.

Nancy Wheeler and Jonathan Byers request the honor of your presence—

You laugh softly. Of course they made it. After everything Hawkins survived, of course they did. Your smile lingers… until realization settles in slowly, heavily.

Hawkins.

You haven’t said the town’s name out loud in ten years. You told your mother it was for work opportunities. Told your brother you needed independence.

But the truth? Hawkins held too many ghosts.

One ghost, specifically.

You built a life far away from him. You cut your hair shorter. Learned new streets. New cafés where nobody knew your history. You worked exhausting part-time jobs while studying architecture, surviving on cheap noodles and ambition.

You learned how to go out again.  How to laugh loudly.  How not to wait for nightly phone calls that never came. You convinced yourself you healed.

Mostly.

And somehow, weeks later, you’re standing at the wedding reception garden, champagne sweating in your hand while fairy lights glow overhead.

Dustin talks beside you—older now, confident, rambling about Hawkins’ new infrastructure improvements. You laugh at the right moments. You nod.

But your eyes keep scanning the crowd against your will. You hate that part of yourself.

You moved on. You did. Right? Then your breath stops, across the garden. He’s there standing beside Robin. 

Steve Harrington.

Older. Broader shoulders. Lines at the corners of his eyes. His hair lighter now, almost blonde under the lights.

For a terrifying second, nothing changes. You’re eighteen again. Waiting by the phone.

Your chest twists painfully. You force a smile into your glass instead. It doesn’t reach anywhere real.

You avoid him all evening or try to but awareness follows you, the unmistakable feeling of being watched by someone who once knew every version of you.

Eventually the music grows louder indoors, guests drifting toward the dance floor. You stay outside.

Safer.

The garden smells like roses and summer heat. You focus on the flowers, tracing petals with your eyes like architecture lines—structure, control, symmetry.

Footsteps behind you. You know before he speaks.

“It’s good to see you, sunsh—” He stops himself.

“…Henderson.”

Your jaw tightens. You don’t turn. “Last time I checked,” you say evenly, “we’re not on nickname terms, Harrington.”

Silence stretches between you. “I’m sorry.” The words land uselessly at your feet.

You laugh once. Humorless. “You’re about ten years late,” you say. “And I don’t need it.”

Your fingers tighten around the champagne glass. “The damage is done, Steve.”

Another pause. You hear him inhale shakily behind you. “I didn’t cheat on you.”

Your body freezes. Slowly,painfully, you turn.

“What?”

His eyes look terrified. Like he’s been carrying something too heavy for too long. “I lied,” he says. “I wanted you to think I did.”

The world tilts. “I thought…” his voice breaks slightly, “I thought if you hated me enough, you’d stop choosing me over everything else.”

Your heartbeat pounds in your ears.

“You stopped going out. You skipped opportunities. You stayed in every night just to talk to me.” He swallows. “You had this huge future ahead of you, and I felt like you were shrinking it just to fit me inside.”

Your hands begin to tremble.

“So you destroyed me?” you whisper.

“I loved you,” Steve says desperately. “I still do. And loving you meant letting you go.”

Tears burn behind your eyes but refuse to fall. You laugh instead—sharp, broken. “You don’t get to call that love.”

Your voice rises despite yourself.  “And now youre saying that now? Like nothing happened between us? I spent years hating you, i spent years never going back here because Hawkins reminds me of you, I spent years healing myself believing that i was never enough, that i was never worth of anything. I spent years blaming myself and my dreams.I thought loving me became a mistake you regretted!”” 

Each word feels ripped out of your chest.

“I left Hawkins because everywhere I looked reminded me of you choosing someone else,” you choke. “I rebuilt my entire life believing I was disposable.”

Steve says nothing because there’s nothing he can say.

“I healed,” you continue, voice shaking. “Do you understand that? I fought so hard to heal from something that wasn’t even real.”

His eyes shine now. “I thought it would hurt less this way,” he whispers.

You shake your head slowly. “But you made it permanent.”

Your voice cracks completely. “You didn’t just break my heart, Steve.”

A tear finally slips down. “You rewrote my entire life.”

Silence settles between you—heavy, irreversible, and for the first time in ten years. It hurts exactly the same.

You walk away and Steve lets you, not because he wants to, because he finally understands he lost the right to stop you a long time ago.

The garden lights blur as your figure disappears past the reception doors, swallowed by music and laughter that feels cruelly misplaced.

A wedding.

People promising forever.

While his ended twice.

Steve doesn’t realize he’s moving until his legs give out near the empty chairs lining the garden. He sinks down hard, elbows on his knees, hands covering his face.

For a moment, nothing comes. Just ringing silence. Then it hits.

Ten years. Ten years of letting you believe he betrayed you. Ten years of watching you walk through life carrying a wound he put there on purpose.

A broken sound escapes him before he can stop it.

His shoulders shake.

He laughs once, breathless, miserable—because God, he really thought he was doing the right thing back then.

Footsteps rush toward him.

“Steve?” Robin’s voice.

Dustin right behind her. They stop when they see him.

Steve Harrington—crying openly under wedding lights like something inside him finally cracked beyond repair.

Robin kneels immediately. “Hey— hey, what happened?”

Steve drags a hand across his face, trying and failing to steady himself. His eyes are red.

“I told her,” he says hoarsely.

Robin frowns. “Told her what?”

He swallows. “The truth.”

Dustin exhales sharply beside them. “…Well,” Dustin mutters, rubbing the back of his neck, “shit.”

Steve lets out another hollow laugh, staring at the grass. “She thought I stopped loving her,” he whispers. “All this time… she thought I chose someone else.”

Robin’s expression softens into something almost angry with sympathy. “Because you told her you did,” she says gently.

“I know.” His voice breaks. “I know.”

The music from inside swells— people cheering, glasses clinking.

Life moving forward.

Steve feels painfully stuck in the past.

“I thought letting her hate me would make it easier,” he admits. “She had this whole future ahead of her and I didn’t wanna be the reason she stayed small.”

He laughs again, shaking his head. “All I did was make sure she suffered without me anyway.”

Silence settles between them. Dustin sits beside him. “You never moved on,” Dustin says quietly. Not a question.

Steve doesn’t answer right away. Images flash instead: Blind dates that ended politely but empty. Conversations that never felt right. Smiles that weren’t yours.

He spent years convincing himself loving you quietly was enough. That wanting your happiness from afar counted as closure.

Then tonight one look across the garden and every buried feeling came roaring back like no time had passed at all.

“I tried,” Steve finally says. “God, I tried.”

His voice drops. “But it was always her.”

Robin squeezes his shoulder. “And now what are you going to do?”

Steve looks toward the reception doors where you disappeared. Hope hurts more than regret now.

“Now,” he says softly, “I fix what I broke.”

A beat. “…If she lets me.”

The camera of the moment lingers there Steve Harrington sitting under wedding lights, realizing love didn’t end ten years ago. It just waited, and forgiveness might be the hardest fight he’s ever had.

Steve shot her an annoyed look, but you just smirked, leaning against the shelf with your arms crossed. “He’s not worth the energy,” you said, jerking your chin toward him. “I’d rather put my effort into alphabetizing the horror section for the third time this week.”

“Hey!” Steve pointed at you, his grin widening. “That’s because you have no taste. You keep shoving Gremlins into the comedy section.”

“It is a comedy,” you retorted, the hint of a challenge in your voice. “You’re the one who insists on putting it in horror.”

“Technically it’s a Christmas movie.” Robin interjected but you two were too into your usual banter to acknowledge her comment.

“It’s literally about monsters terrorizing a town,” he shot back, standing now, clearly ready for this argument.

“And it has a montage set to Christmas music,” you countered, stepping closer, refusing to back down. “Face it, Harrington. It’s a comedy, and your taste is basic.”

Robin watched the exchange with barely concealed amusement, resting her chin on the end of the broom handle. “This is how wars start, you know. One second it’s Gremlins, next thing you know, someone’s annexing the drama section.”

Steve ignored her, crossing his arms as he stared you down, his brown eyes sparkling with exasperation. “Oh, I’m basic? Says the girl who has a Misfits patch on her backpack like every other kid trying too hard to look edgy.”

You scoffed, stepping closer until you were almost nose to nose. “You wouldn’t know edgy if it bit you in the ass, Harrington.”

For a second, the room felt charged, like something was about to snap. Then Robin cleared her throat dramatically, cutting through the tension. “Okay, you two, this isn’t a cage match. Save it for the Halloween crowd this weekend.”

You stepped back, rolling your eyes as you returned to your cart of tapes. “Fine. I’ll let him live another day.”

Steve plopped back onto his stool, muttering under his breath but loud enough for you to hear, “You wish you could take me.”

“Oh, please,” you shot back, already halfway down the aisle. “It wouldn’t even be a contest.”

“You know, for someone who spends most of her time glaring at customers, you’ve got a lot to say.”

“Somebody has to keep you on your toes,” you shot back, brushing your hands off and making your way toward the front. You flicked a stray strand of hair out of your face as you passed him. “Besides, someone’s gotta make sure you don’t charm every poor soul who comes in here. It’s starting to get embarrassing.”

“Embarrassing?” Steve feigned offense, placing a hand on his chest. “I’ll have you know, plenty of customers appreciate a little charisma. You could try it sometime.”

“Charisma doesn’t mean flirting with everyone who rents ‘Sixteen Candles,’ Harrington.”

Robin let out a dramatic sigh, looking between the two of you. “I can’t decide if this is banter or foreplay, but either way, it’s exhausting.”

“Foreplay?” Steve sputtered, his cheeks flushing.

“God, no,” you said at the same time, shooting Robin a glare.

Robin laughed, leaning against the counter as Steve sighed, shaking his head with a reluctant smile. Somewhere behind the banter, in the dim light and popcorn butter air, the faintest trace of something real hung between the two of you—something neither of you was ready to admit, least of all to each other.

---

The last few hours of your shift crawled along, with Robin having said her goodbyes twenty minutes earlier and left you and Steve to close up. A post-dinner rush had left the place in chaos, with empty shelves and a mountain of returns now sitting on the counter. Steve, standing at the rewinder machine, was absently humming to himself as you finished putting away the last of your cart.

“Finally done,” you muttered to yourself, dusting your hands off. Just as you started to roll the empty cart back toward the counter, Steve sauntered over with a fresh pile of tapes, all rewound and stacked precariously.

“Perfect timing,” he said, grinning as he plopped them onto the top of your cart. “More work for you.”

Your eyes narrowed, jaw tightening as you stared at the offending pile. “You’re kidding me.”

“What? That’s the system!” he said defensively, his hands going to his hips. It was a classic Harrington move—half annoyed, half clueless.

“Your system sucks,” you shot back, pulling the tapes off the top and setting them on the counter. “And you’re helping.”

“I am helping,” he argued, gesturing to the now-empty rewinder. “I rewound the tapes. That’s like, ninety percent of the job.”

You snorted, grabbing the cart handle with more force than necessary and turning it toward the aisles. “Whatever. I’ll do it myself.”

Halfway to the shelves, you paused, an idea sparking as you glanced back at Steve, who was still standing there with his hands on his hips. “Actually…” you said, setting the cart brake and turning to face him fully.

Steve tilted his head, suspicious. “What?”

“You’re an athlete, right?” you said, your tone dripping with exaggerated innocence. “Former Mr. Cool Guy?”

He frowned. “I don’t like where this is going.”

You grinned, hoisting yourself onto the cart and sitting cross-legged on its flat surface, tapping the metal sides. “Put those skills to use and make this less boring. You push, I steer. I’ll call out the titles; you take me to the aisles.”

Steve’s mouth fell open, his brow furrowing. “Are you serious?”

“Completely.”

“This is dumb,” he said, shaking his head. “What if someone comes in?”

You leaned back, gesturing toward the door with a dramatic flourish. “Steve, it’s Wednesday. It’s 7 p.m. The only person walking through that door is someone too embarrassed to rent their adult movie during daylight hours. And if that happens, do you really want to help them?”

Steve opened his mouth, closed it, then sighed, throwing his hands up. “Fine. But if you fall off, I’m not taking you to the hospital.”

“Noted,” you said, grinning victoriously. “ I always wanted to bleed out in the comedy section anyway.”

With a reluctant groan, Steve walked around the cart and grabbed the handle. “What’s first?”

You picked up the first tape from the stack beside you, holding it up to squint at the title. “Raiders of the Lost Ark. Action-adventure, aisle three.”

“Roger that,” Steve said, his voice dripping with sarcasm as he started to push the cart. It wobbled slightly, and you leaned forward to steady yourself, already laughing as he picked up speed.

“Faster, Harrington!” you called, pointing toward the aisle like you were commanding a ship. “Aisle three awaits!”

“This was a mistake,” he muttered, though there was a hint of amusement in his voice. He slowed as you neared the correct aisle, and you held the tape out dramatically, like a torch.

“Here we are!” you declared. “Place the artifact on its rightful throne.”

Steve grabbed the tape from your hand, muttering something about your flair for the dramatic as he slid it onto the shelf. When he turned back to you, you were already holding up the next tape.

“Ready for the next one?” you asked, wiggling the VHS case.

Steve let out a long-suffering sigh but grabbed the cart handle again, a reluctant grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “This is going to be the longest close ever.”

“Yeah, but you’re having fun,” you teased.

He didn’t respond, but the way his lips twitched into a full smile as he started pushing again gave you all the answer you needed.

Steve pushed the cart into the Drama aisle, his grip on the handle loose as he rolled his eyes at your smug expression. You waved The Breakfast Club over your head like a trophy, already looking triumphant.

“Drama section, as requested,” he said, stopping with a slight flourish. “But I’m just saying… it could also go in Romance.”

You nearly fell off the cart from how hard you laughed. “Romance? That’s what you got out of it? You think it’s about Claire and Bender hooking up?”

Steve raised a brow, his hands moving to his hips in that classic, I’m about to defend myself stance. “What? No, that’s not all it’s about. But it is a part of it. Opposites attract, right?”

You tilted your head, grinning like you’d just been handed the perfect opportunity to roast him. “Oh, sure. Opposites attract. That’s definitely a trope worth rooting for,” you said, your voice dripping with sarcasm. “Especially when it’s just code for ‘the weird girl has to completely change herself to be worth the jock’s attention.’”

Steve frowned, clearly thrown off. “You’re talking about the makeover thing?”

“Obviously,” you said, flopping dramatically against the back of the cart, the metal sides rattling under your weight. “She was perfectly fine as she was—better, even. Then suddenly she gets some preppy glow-up, and boom, Emilio Estevez notices her. It’s such crap.”

He was quiet for a beat, like he was actually chewing on your words. His lips pressed into a line, and then, unexpectedly, he nodded. “I mean… I agree with you. She looked out of place like that. It wasn’t really her.”

You blinked, caught off guard by his response. “Wait… you agree with me?”

“Yeah,” Steve said, shrugging. “I mean, she didn’t need all that. She was cooler before.”

Something about the way he said it made your stomach flip. His tone wasn’t teasing or defensive—it was sincere. He looked at you with this genuine expression, like he actually cared about what you thought. The space between you suddenly felt smaller, the air heavier.

For a moment, neither of you said anything, and the quiet made your skin prickle in a way you weren’t used to.

Then Steve broke the tension with a smirk, shifting back to lean casually against the handle of the cart. “So, what I’m hearing is… you must hate Grease too, huh? Sandy changes everything for Danny at the end. That must drive you nuts.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, sitting up straighter and gripping the sides of the cart like you were preparing for battle. “Oh, don’t get me started on Grease, Harrington.”

His grin widened, and he gestured with one hand for you to continue, clearly enjoying this way too much. “By all means, let it out. This should be good.”

You took a deep breath, ready to launch into a full tirade about the crime that was Sandy’s transformation, while Steve leaned against the cart, laughing softly under his breath before you’d even said a word.

---

Steve jiggled the lock on the front doors, pulling them to test if they were secure before flipping off the outside lights. The neon "OPEN" sign fizzled out with a soft hum, leaving the store bathed in the sterile glow of its overhead fluorescents. He sighed as he turned the "CLOSED" sign around and shot a glance your way.

You were standing at the counter, finishing up the register deposit you’d started early since the rush had ended hours ago. You hummed quietly to yourself, seemingly in a good mood, which was rare for a late-night shift.

“Got any costume ideas for Halloween?” you asked as you counted the last stack of bills. “Since we get to dress up here and all.”

Steve leaned against the counter, crossing his arms. “Robin and I are going as pirates,” he said, his voice flat. “Her idea.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “Let me guess. She’s all excited, and you’re just going along with it because you have no spine?”

“Pretty much,” he admitted, though there was a small grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “She’s got this whole ‘Captain Robin and First Mate Dingus’ bit planned. It’s exhausting.”

You snorted, finishing the deposit and closing the register drawer. “Well, I’m going as a devil. Simple, classic, but I gotta tone it down a little so Keith doesn’t spend the entire shift staring at my chest.”

Steve went stiff for a moment, muttering something under his breath that you didn’t quite catch.

“What?” you asked, glancing up at him.

“Nothing,” he said quickly, straightening. “So, uh, are you done with that?”

“Just about,” you said, locking the deposit bag and setting it aside for the morning shift. Your eyes drifted to the cart in the middle of the store, still loaded with a few stray tapes. “Looks like we’re not done with that, though.”

Steve followed your gaze and sighed. “Oh, great. More cart rides.”

You grinned, hopping back onto the cart and gesturing for him to take the handle. “You’re the one who insisted on delegating, remember? Now push.”

With another sigh—this one more dramatic than the first—Steve complied, wheeling you toward the horror section. You rifled through the tapes on the cart, calling out titles as he brought you to the correct spots. It went smoothly until you reached for the next tape and froze, reading the title aloud before you could stop yourself.

“Blondes in Heat?” you said, eyebrows shooting up. Your gaze darted to the rest of the tapes on the cart. “Oh, no.”

Steve groaned, already knowing what was coming. “Yeah, I’ll take care of those.”

You shook your head, holding up the tape with a smirk. “It’s fine, I can do it.”

“Seriously,” Steve said, his tone a little sharper. “I’ll handle it.”

“Don’t worry about it,” you said, shrugging. “I’ve seen porn before, Steve.”

His eyes widened, and he stumbled over his words for a second before recovering. “What—you—you’ve—okay, I mean—”

“Relax, Harrington,” you said, clearly amused at his reaction. “You’re not the only person in Hawkins with a VHS player and curiosity.”

Steve rubbed the back of his neck, his face slightly pink. “I wasn’t—okay, fine. Just—don’t make it weird.”

You laughed, waving him off. “It’s not weird. Now push the cart.”

Grumbling something under his breath, Steve resumed pushing, steering you toward the back corner of the store where the beaded curtain waited. The clinking of the beads was just faint enough to make you second-guess the idea, but you straightened your shoulders and braced yourself. The cart rattled slightly as Steve slowed, and you gave him a look over your shoulder.

“C’mon, Harrington. It’s just tapes.”

The dim lighting of the ‘adult’ section made the whole thing feel way more awkward than it should have been. You broke the silence once more as Steve pushed the cart, and you, to one of the corners and had you hand him the tapes.

“You know, a place called ‘Family Video’ having a section for porn is a little weird.” You say as he shelves Blondes in Heat.

“Can you stop saying porn?” he sighs over his shoulder before walking back to you.

"Oh, I'm sorry. What would you rather me call it? The erotic arts? Adult features?"

"Just shut up," Steve says, but you can hear the smile in his voice.

You hand him the next tape, which you had been staring at with an amused smirk. "How to Satisfy a Woman in Six Minutes or Less? Really?"

Steve groaned. "God, you're such a pain."

"I'm just saying. Unrealistic. Also why the rush?"

"Oh, my God. Shut up!" Steve says, trying not to laugh.

"What? I'm being serious! Six minutes is a lot to ask. That's barely any time for foreplay, and I don't think anyone wants a half-assed—"

"I am not talking about sex with you!" he says, a little too loudly.

You bite back a laugh. "Why not? It's not weird. I'm sure it's not even the most awkward conversation you've had this week."

He turns, an eyebrow raised. "Oh, really?"

"Uh-huh. Remember when Robin told you and Dustin the difference between tampons and pads?"

Steve visibly winced at the memory. "Okay, fair point."

"See? Not weird," you said, handing him the next tape. 

"Yeah, sure," Steve said, rolling his eyes as he took the tape and glanced at the cover. Then his eyes went wide, and his whole body seemed to freeze.

"What? What's wrong?" you asked, trying to peek at the case. "Don't tell me it's worse than the last one. Oh, is it—"

"It's nothing," Steve said quickly, cutting you off as he turned away.

"Uh-uh," you said, jumping off the cart and walking around so you could see the front. "I want to see."

"No, no way."

"If it's really nothing, then why can't I see it?" you challenged, crossing your arms.

"Because I said so!" Steve shot back, his voice high and panicked.

"Fine. Hand it over," you demanded, holding out your hand.

"No."

"Yes."

"No, really, I—"

"Steven Harrington," you snapped, your patience running thin. "If you don't give me that tape right now, I will—"

"Alright, fine! Just stop yelling," Steve sighed, relenting as he shoved the tape into your hand. You stared at him, surprised.

"I yelled once."

"Still."

"Whatever."

You glanced down, and immediately, you felt your own body freeze. In a flash, the situation felt way too real.

Because staring up at you from the tape cover was an image of a girl who could've been you, if her hair was a different color. A girl, sprawled out on her back, naked. The camera angle was positioned above her, the lens angled to give the viewer a full view of her body—her face, her breasts, her legs spread wide.

Your face was on fire, your mouth suddenly dry. Beside you, Steve shifted nervously, and it occurred to you that you were both just staring silently at a porno tape that was clearly made for a specific audience.

"Uh... this is awkward," you finally managed, your voice a little hoarse.

Steve made a sound that was half laugh, half strangled cry. "Yeah, I could've done without the reminder, honestly."

You shot him a confused look. "Reminder?"

He waved his hands in front of him, clearly flustered. "No, that's not what I meant. I just meant—forget it. Forget I said anything. Can we please move on?"

"Not yet," you said, narrowing your eyes. "What do you mean, reminder? Is there a girl in pornos who looks like me or something?"

"Uh... maybe," Steve said, wincing. "But it's not weird, or whatever. It's totally normal. I just... happened watch this one. I wasn't trying to... or anything. I didn't realize..."

He was rambling, and it was kind of adorable. But there was also something about his nervous energy that made your skin prickle in the best way.

"So, if I look like this girl..." you said, letting the words hang as you tilted your head and met his gaze, which was locked onto yours.

"Yeah?" he breathed, swallowing thickly.

You stepped closer, holding his gaze. "Does that mean you've thought about me like that?"

"What?" Steve said, his voice cracking. "No. No way. Of course not. Why would I—"

"Liar."

Your tone was gentle, playful. It was a challenge, not an accusation. Steve's lips parted slightly, but he didn't respond, his eyes still locked on yours. You tried to keep a straight face, but you couldn't help the laugh that escaped you.

"You know- just give me that." Steve said, snatching the tape back. You watched him shove it onto the shelf, the movement quick and jerky.

"Hey, I'm just teasing! It's not that serious." You say, hands up in mock defense as you walk backwards and hop back up to sit on the cart.

"Shut up," he muttered, his cheeks flushed.

You bit your lip, unable to stop grinning. "Sorry. Couldn't help myself."

"Yeah, well, it's not funny."

You tilted your head, watching him as he fiddled with the shelf, his eyes not meeting yours. There was a vulnerability there, and a hint of shame. He looked almost hurt.

"Okay, seriously," you said, leaning forward and catching his gaze. "I didn't mean to actually upset you."

You hand him the next tape, attempting to make a joke about the absurd cover, but he just gives a noncommittal shrug. You frown.

"Steve, come on," you say, trying again. "I was just playing around. If it's really bothering you, I'll stop."

"It's not that," he said, shaking his head.

"Then what is it?"

He looked away, his jaw tight. You waited, giving him the space to say what he needed to. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, his words heavy with frustration.

"It's stupid," he said, still not meeting your gaze. "I just... we never talk about this stuff, okay? And then, the first time we do, it's because you think I'm some perv who gets off on looking at girls who look like you."

You blinked, caught off guard. "I... did not think that."

"Well, you should have," he snapped, turning to face you fully, his eyes burning. "Because that's how everyone thinks of me, isn't it? Steve Harrington, the former king of Hawkins High, screwing anything that moves."

You swallowed, not knowing what to say. Naturally, you went with humor to deflect.

"I mean if it helps, I've seen your luck with women lately, so I definitely don't think that..."

"Stop. Just—stop," Steve sighed, sounding exasperated. "This is exactly what I'm talking about. This is all we ever do. We can't have a serious conversation without joking about it, and it drives me insane."

You uncrossed your legs on the cart and let them dangle, leaning back against the wall of tapes, taken aback by his sudden honesty. His shoulders were tense, his jaw clenched. You had known each other through school, been friendly since he started at the store in July, but this was the first time he had ever really opened up. It was new, and a little scary, and definitely not something you knew how to deal with.

"I'm sorry," you said quietly, and you meant it. "I didn't know you felt that way."

"Yeah, well," Steve sighed, running a hand through his hair. "I'm not the best at sharing. Ask anyone."

"Hey, I've got no room to talk," you said, smiling a little. "I've kept my walls pretty high too, I think."

"You're not wrong."

The air hung heavy between you. Steve shifted, his eyes darting from the cart to the shelves, clearly feeling just as awkward as you were.

"You know that the person you were in high school doesn't, like, define you right?" you offered, your voice quiet. "Like, I don't think of you as 'King Steve' or anything."

"Really?" he asked, his brow furrowing skeptically.

"Yeah," you said, nodding. "I mean, we work together. I get to see all of you. The Steve who's actually really good at his job, and a surprisingly good teacher when you're helping Robin study, and an actual nerd about movies. Plus, y'know, the dingus pirate."

Steve rolled his eyes but grinned a little.

"And I mean, maybe you'd have better luck if you were that guy when you tried to uh, pick up women. The fake charm kinda just... doesn't work with this version of you."

"Gee, thanks," he said, feigning annoyance.

"No, I mean it in a good way," you assured him. "I think you're more real like this."

He was quiet for a moment, chewing his lip. Then, unexpectedly, he reached for the next tape and you went to grab it from the dwindling stack. You handed him the tape, your fingertips brushing his palm, and a rush of heat flooded your cheeks.

Get it together, you told yourself. You're not suddenly crushing on the guy because he showed a little vulnerability are you?

Steve, oblivious, flipped the case over, studying the cover. "Okay, so this one is... not great," he said, shaking his head. "I've had the misfortune of having to put away more than one."

"Oh, boy," you said, laughing. "I'm ready."

"Okay, here goes," he said, turning the case toward you. "Blonde Bimbo Gets Banged."

"Jesus Christ," you snorted. "Is there any way this can get worse?"

"Let's find out," Steve said, flipping the case back and reading the synopsis. "She's blonde. She's a bimbo. And she knows it. She likes to flaunt her blonde beauty. Her boyfriend knows she's a whore, and that's just the way he likes her. They get wild and hot together, and soon the whole gang is banging the blonde bimbo."

"Jesus Christ how many times do they have to say 'blonde' in one synopsis. Does the target audience have the memory of a goldfish? Does this company need a new marketing team?"

Steve laughed, shaking his head. "Oh, it gets worse. The reviews call this a 'stand-out-of-the-pack classic.'"

"Please don't make me read the rest," you said, waving you hand in front of your face while laughing. "I'm already scarred."

"You wanted to know," Steve said, his lips pressed into a line to keep from laughing.

"You're right. I did. I shouldn't have."

You two fell back into a comfortable silence, and you found yourself studying Steve as he went about his task, staocking the last of the tapes neatly on the shelf. He had always been attractive, but he was starting to feel realer. You could see the details of him now, the cracks and rough edges and the parts of him he'd rather not share. It was a dangerous thought, and you knew it. He was still your coworker, after all. And, maybe, your friend?

You watched him finish shelving the last tape, the muscles in his arms flexing slightly with the movement, and your stomach did a somersault.

Oh no.

Steve turned and noticed you staring. He raised an eyebrow. "What?"

You shook your head. "Nothing. I was just zoned out, I guess."

"Right," he said, clearly unconvinced. But he didn't push it.

"Last one," you say as your got to hand it to him. "And the survey says... oh. Wow."

"What is it?" he asked, tilting his head.

"Oh, no, it's just this is the first time we've actually stocked something decent," you say, turning the case toward him. "Like, this one doesn't make me want to scrub my brain out with soap."

Steve studied the case, a smirk tugging at his lips. "Oh, yeah. I've seen this one."

"Really?" you asked, surprised.

"Yeah, it's actually pretty good," he admitted. "There's, like, a plot and everything."

"You don't say," you said, smirking. "Maybe we should put this in the Romance section."

Steve rolled his eyes, shelving the movie. "Okay, wiseass."

"I'm just saying. Plot, characters, and actual sex? That's practically a Jackie Collins novel."

"Very funny," Steve said, walking back toward the cart. You were still sitting on the edge, the wheels of the cart rattling slightly.

"Huh. We actually got through the whole cart," you said, grinning a little. "Go us."

"Yeah," Steve agreed, leaning his hands against the cart and looking over at the shelf. "That was surprisingly easy."

"We're a pretty good team," you pointed out.

"Yeah, we are."

You leaned back a little, balancing yourself on your hands and studying Steve. He seemed to be doing the same, his gaze locked on yours. The air felt thick, heavy, and somehow electric. You could practically feel the sparks.

"We should, um," Steve swallowed thickly, glancing over at the beaded curtain that led out to the main sales floor. "We should probably get to the front."

"Yeah," you agreed, though neither of you moved.

You held his gaze, and he held yours, the tension between you was overwhelming, and intoxicating, and you could barely breathe.

"You got a deposit to finish..." he whispered, his voice low.

"Yeah, the main lights are still on," you said, your throat dry.

Neither of you moved. You could feel the pull, the urge to close the space, the electricity between you threatening to overload. Your pulse was racing, your skin tingling. You wondered if he could hear the thunder of your heart, if he could feel the warmth of your breath on his lips.

"This is dumb," he murmured.

"So dumb," you breathed.

"We're not gonna..."

"Yeah, we're not..."

And then his lips were on yours, and everything else faded away. His hand cupped your cheek, his touch gentle but firm, and the world seemed to stop. His mouth was soft, the kiss slow, lingering. You melted into him, letting him guide the pace, savoring every second. He tasted like coffee and popcorn and something sweet, and the scent of his cologne surrounded you, enveloping you.

When you finally pulled apart, your lips felt swollen, and you were breathless. Your eyes fluttered open, and you stared at each other, the air crackling around you.

"We are so fucking dumb," he whispered, leaning his forehead against yours, a small, amused smile pulling at the corner of his lips.

You laughed, feeling giddy. "The dumbest. We should probably stop."

"Probably," he murmured. But his lips found yours again, his hand drifting into your hair, his fingers curling. You grabbed a fistful of his uniform vest, pulling him closer. He pressed into you, the pressure of him against your chest, between your legs, made your body ache. You moaned softly as he deepened the kiss, his tongue darting along your lower lip. You could feel his smirk as your lips parted, giving him access to the rest of your mouth. His tongue grazed yours, teasing, exploring. His free hand ran up the outside of your leg, his palm hot on your thigh even through the denim of your jeans. You arched against him, craving the friction, the feel of his weight, and he pushed back.

You tugged on his vest, and without breaking the kiss, he clumsily shed it and tossed it aside, his arms then circling your waist. Your hands slid under the hem of his shirt, and you shivered at the contact with his bare skin. He sucked on your lower lip, making you gasp. Your fingertips dug into the muscle of his back, and he pressed harder into you. His body was solid, but soft, and he still held you so carefully. You wanted more of him, all of him, everything.

One of his hands moved to you shoulder to take the same hideous Family Video vest off of you. He broke the kiss only to make sure that he didn't rip it or pop one of your many pins off while doing so, putting it on the bottom of the cart. The careful action made you giggle. He smiled down at you before capturing your mouth in another heated kiss. You pressed your tongue into his mouth this time, running it along his bottom lip. He moaned softly, pulling you even tighter against him.

Your fingers raked down his back, nails grazing the smooth skin, and he moaned into your mouth, grinding his hips into you. The friction of him between your legs sent a shiver of pleasure through your whole body, and you groaned. His hands gripped your thighs, spreading your legs so that he could fit himself perfectly against you. He pressed hard, his body hot between your thighs, his chest pressed to your chest, his mouth on your mouth.

He rocked his hips into you, the slow friction driving you wild, and you wrapped your arms around him, holding on as he pressed his full weight against you, pinning you on the cart between him and the shelves. Your fingers gripped his shoulders as he moved again, his hands moving down to grip your hips. You could feel his arousal growing, and you shifted to match his pace, his hips rolling into you as yours rocked up to meet them, creating the perfect amount of friction, the pressure building with every thrust. You whimpered against his mouth as his fingers dug into your thighs.

"God, I want you," he breathed between kisses, his voice husky, sending a fresh wave of heat through your core.

"We—we have to—" you gasped, your words catching in your throat as he ground against you again, his fingers digging into your skin.

"Yeah," he breathed, nodding. His hands moved to your waist, pushing your shirt up and running his palms up the exposed skin, his thumbs grazing the soft skin of your stomach that that swelled gently over the waistband of your jeans, his touch reverent as he let his thumbs trace lazy circles there. You pulled away at the contact, suddenly feeling self concious with his hands on your exposed skin.

"Woah.. is this okay?" he asked, his voice a little strained. "If you're not—"

"It's not you, it's just..." you swallowed, suddenly feeling vulnerable. "I've never been with someone... like you before. Someone who... has expectations..."

His hands slid out from under your shirt as he took a step back, confusion on his face. "Wait, what?"

"I mean," you continued, struggling to find the right words, "You're so attractive, and I'm..." You gestured to your body with an open palm, not even able to find the words to express how self-concious you were about your body compared to the girls that usually got his attention. "You know," you finally added. "Me. So... I mean, I just want you to be sure, because..."

Steve's eyebrows pulled together in concern, his voice suddenly very serious. "What are you talking about?"

"You know what I mean."

"No," he shook his head. "No, I really don't."

You stared at him for a moment, surprised, and then your eyes dropped to your hands, which were clasped in front of you. Your nails had been painted black with silver glitter, and the edges of your fingertips were rough, worn down from anxiously picking at them for so many years. Your thighs, while sat on the cart, pressed together, the soft curve of them spilling slightly over the edge, a reminder of how you never felt like you fit the mold of what guys like Steve usually went for. You thought about the way your jeans pinched at your waist or how you always avoided certain angles in photos because they made your arms look bigger than you liked. Your stomach churned at the idea of him seeing all of you—every mark, every curve, every imperfection that you’d tried so hard to ignore but couldn’t help cataloging in moments like this.

“I just…” you started again, your voice quieter now, “I don’t want you to feel like this is a mistake. Like maybe the weird girl is hot when you're at work, but in the real world...” You trailed off, biting your lip hard to keep it from trembling.

Steve crouched slightly to meet your gaze, his hands gentle as they rested on your thighs, grounding you. “Hey,” he said softly, his voice steady but insistent. “Look at me.”

When your eyes finally met his, the warmth in his expression nearly unraveled you. “You think I’m going to change my mind just because we take our clothes off? I'm rock hard in the middle of an adult section that smells like stale popcorn, and you think that's going to go away when your clothes are off? Really?" He asked incredulously, pausing to laugh at his own words. "That's pretty bold of you to assume."

Your breath hitched at the words. At his touch. The way his voice softened around your name. "Steve..."

"Seriously," he said, leaning a little closer. His voice was quiet now, almost a whisper, and his eyes darted between your eyes and your lips, his hands still gently kneading your thighs. "It's you that should be careful. I mean... I can barely focus on anything when you're just standing around in these jeans," he admitted, his eyes moving to your legs, his palms slowly moving up the curve of them. You bit your lip, heat flaring low in your stomach. "But naked?" His eyes returned to yours, his voice suddenly rough. "I wouldn't stand a chance."

Before you could even respond, he closed the distance, pressing his mouth to yours in a slow, deliberate kiss, his hands gently kneading the tops of your thighs. You moaned softly at his touch, your arms sliding over his shoulders and tangling in his hair as you melted against him. He wrapped one arm around you, pulling you to him, the other hand sliding up your waist.

"Now," he whispered against your lips as he went to lift your shirt a little again. "Can I continue where I left off, please?"

You smiled, kissing him in reply. You parted your lips, deepening the kiss. He moaned against your lips, his hand slowly trailing up your waist again, lifting your shirt up more this time. Your body tingled in anticipation of his hands on your skin, his fingertips warm on your bare stomach, slowly trailing up to your ribs, then higher still, his thumb brushing the edge of the cup of your bra.

Your head tipped back as he broke the kiss to trace his tongue over your collar bone, then dipped lower, his breath hot on the exposed skin as his thumb gently brushed your nipple through your bra, your back arching slightly at the sensation. He pressed another kiss to your throat, and you moaned as his hand dipped under your bra, cupping your breast and kneading the soft skin.

You slid a hand under his shirt, trailing your fingertips across his waist, tracing the trail of hair that lead lower, the muscles in his stomach contracting at your touch. His hand on your waist tugged at the hem of your shirt, and you took the hint, reluctantly pulling away for a moment to peel the fabric over your head. Steve let out a low groan at the sight of you in your bra, and you smiled shyly, letting him take a moment to appreciate your newly exposed skin. His hand went to the back of your neck, his touch firm, grounding as he leaned in to kiss you again. His free hand found its way to your other breast, palming it and gently tugging your bra strap down.

You were both panting now, his fingers on you and your fingers on him, and your whole body throbbing for more. You ran your palm along the front of his jeans, feeling the outline of him straining against the denim. His mouth left yours and moved to the skin above your bra as his hand left your chest and fumbled for the clasp at your back. You ran your nails over the front of his jeans, your own pulse racing. You had to touch him, you had to see him. Your fingers found his belt, but it was difficult to work with his hands on you and your mind a haze of arousal and nerves.

He seemed to be having the same problem, because after a few more attempts he stopped trying to work your bra clasp and tugged impatiently at the fabric, his voice husky.

"This—can you take this off? Or should we move? Because I can't—"

"Here," you gasped, shifting slightly and turning so your back was to him. "Try again."

Steve hummed softly in acknowledgement, his breath tickling your shoulder as he worked to free you from the offending fabric, his touch feather light and torturously slow. You leaned forward a little, letting your hair fall in a curtain over your face so he wouldn't see how much his teasing was affecting you. But you could feel the wetness between your legs, the ache of anticipation making your knees weak. Finally, with a quiet, satisfied noise, he freed you from your bra, and you sat back against the self again, letting your hair swing back to frame your face again as you watched his reaction to your body.

Steve's mouth dropped open at the sight of you, the slow grin tugging at his lips doing nothing to ease the ache.

"Well, this isn't fair," he breathed, standing straighter with one hand on his hip and the other running through his hair, as if to calm himself down. He looked over you as you leaned back, braced against your elbows. He then let out a long, deep exhale, his hands moving back to take his own shirt off. He paused about halfway through the motion to peer down at you, looking a little ridiculous with the collar halfway up his face, one arm free.

"Oh shit, sorry, did you want my shirt off too, or did you want me to leave it on, or—"

"Shirt. Off. Please," you said quickly. Steve grinned and finished the motion, tugging the tshirt off and letting it hit the floor. Your eyes darted to his torso, his skin flushed and his chest heaving slightly from the anticipation. He had a nice, lean build, with broad shoulders and a surprisingly strong-looking core. His chest hair was a light dusting that trailed across his pecs and tapered into a faint line down the center of his stomach, disappearing into the waistband of his jeans. It added to his charm, giving him an effortlessly masculine edge. Your fingers twitched with the urge to touch him, to feel the softness of his skin under your palms, to trace the faint lines of his muscles beneath.

He definitely noticed you staring because he started grinning again, and when you noticed, he laughed a little. "What? Never seen a guy naked before?" he asked teasingly, making a joke of it to cover up the fact that he was suddenly a little self conscious under your scrutiny.

"You're beautiful." It spilled out of your mouth before you could stop it, and he looked surprised by the sincerity. His hands froze in mid-air and his eyes darted to yours. He opened his mouth to respond but nothing came out, so instead he cleared his throat and grinned shyly at the ground.

"Okay," he said, clearly trying to collect himself, and you realized that he'd been flustered. By you. A wave of pride flooded your stomach, and you bit your lip as your smile grew wider. You weren't usually so forward, and it had surprised you too, but you were glad it came out. "Okay. Let me just, uh, find my brain."

"You left it over there, on the floor. With your shirt." You smirked at him and his eyes narrowed at the playful teasing. He bent down to place both his hands on either side of you on the cart, caging you in as he leaned closer to you and pressed his forehead to yours. He gave a slight push of his hips against you, just to make you aware of how much you were affecting him, before cupping one of your breasts in his hand and letting out a breath. He took your nipple in his fingers and rolled it gently. You moaned at his touch, your thighs spreading a little wider.

The sound was affirmation enough for him to take your other nipple in his mouth, and you leaned into his touch as he circled his tongue around you. His teeth grazed over it, biting just slightly and making you whimper with need. You could feel him smirk against your skin, and he slid his free hand down to your stomach, then lower. His fingers grazed over your jeans and pressed firmly against you through the thick denim.

He paused with his hand right above your waistband and he lifted his head to look into your eyes. He was clearly trying to make sure that he wasn't overstepping any boundaries and was silently asking for permission to keep going.

"You can always say no." His voice was barely more than a whisper as his fingers played with the button of your pants, not wanting to rush you.

You didn't hesitate, just leaned into him and whispered, "Please touch me. Please."

He gave a low groan, pressing a hard kiss to your lips and biting down on your lower lip, before breaking away and dropping his gaze to your jeans. You watched, biting your lip as he flicked open the button, pulling down the zipper, and slipping his fingers underneath the fabric of both your jeans and your underwear. He dragged a single finger over the slick, swollen heat between your legs, and you let out a shaky breath. He sucked in a breath, clearly affected, and then dipped his finger lower to stroke along your entrance. You shivered, letting out a low moan and trying to pull him closer.

You felt his breath hot on your shoulder as his other hand moved to tug the rest of your pants off, giving him easier access to you.

"So wet already," he breathed, and the feel of his lips moving against the soft skin of your shoulder made your thighs twitch, the tension of anticipation nearly overwhelming. He traced circles around your entrance with one finger before pushing in slowly. His movements were cautious at first, gauging your reaction as he worked up a slow pace. But it wasn't enough, not when you'd been craving the release for what felt like forever. You spread your thighs, trying to pull him closer.

"More," you breathed, gripping his wrist to guide him deeper, faster, harder. Steve gave a low moan as his finger curled inside you, finding that one spot that made your whole body ache with pleasure. He added a second finger, pushing deep and pumping into you again and again as you ground your hips up to meet him, chasing the feeling, desperate for more. You looked up to find him watching you, his lips parted and his pupils blown wide.

He leaned down to kiss you again, and the change in angle sent a new wave of heat through your core, a whimper escaping you. His free hand moved to the back of your neck, pulling you into him and holding you steady as he pressed his thumb to your clit. You cried out at the new sensation, and Steve broke the kiss to let you breathe, his lips still pressed against yours, your breath mingling in the space between. His eyes locked on yours, he curled his fingers again and began working them in earnest, the heel of his palm pressed hard against you as his fingers pushed deeper and deeper with every thrust.

The pleasure was building, every nerve on fire as your orgasm neared, every stroke of his hand, every graze of his thumb making the tension build higher. His fingers moved faster, and you moaned his name, clinging to his shoulder, his arm, your hips rising to meet his hand.

"You're like...way too good at this..." You breathed between whimpers. Steve grinned, slowing his movements and teasing you.

"Well, I do have a pretty decent reputation..."

You gave a frustrated growl at the sudden slow down.

"Steve," you whined.

He chuckled softly. "Mm-mm," he hummed against your ear, nipping at it as he slowly slid his fingers out. "Not so fast."

"Are you... you're really doing this? Now?" you panted, incredulous. You needed more of him, more of his touch, more of the release you had been so close to, but now he was denying you? You opened your eyes, watching as he grinned down at you while he began to unbutton his jeans, still wearing a smug expression as he slowly pushed them down over his hips and down his legs. Your eyes darted from his face to the obvious bulge in his boxers as you swallowed.

"You want to keep complaining?" He asked, pulling down the boxers a little before taking himself in his hand and slowly pumping once, twice. His eyes never left yours, the grin you were used to seeing every day coming back "Because we can stop."

You couldn't even pretend to be angry as your gaze flicked between his face and his cock.

"Oh. You are... that's..." you stammered, taking a second to drink in the sight of him, so close but still so far from where you needed him. The smug grin turned genuine at your reaction and he pumped himself a few more times as if he was putting on a show for you. He let go of himself to slide his boxers all the way down and then stepped out of them to kick them to the side. He put his hands on sides of the cart and gave it a small shove, testing its durability, which illicited a small laugh from you.

"What's wrong? Not confident that we can stay in one piece for a few more minutes?" You teased. He scoffed in mock offense, giving you a quick kiss that lingered as he pressed his lips to the corner of your mouth.

"It's just precaution. Don't want you complaining if I get too excited and end up breaking this thing." He pulled away slowly, looking at the cart for a moment, thinking. "Actually, maybe I can—"

You wrapped a leg around his waist before he could finish his thought, pulling him to you so he was nestled perfectly against your hips. "You could also start with taking these off me," you suggested, grabbing the sides of your panties and tugging at the fabric. Steve let out a breath, his hands immediately moving to help you, though his mind was clearly distracted by what he wanted to do next. You watched as he pulled down the fabric over your hips, then your thighs, before dropping it on top of your jeans. His eyes trailed over the newly exposed skin, a look of pure desire on his face, his gaze hungry.

"God," he breathed. "You are..."

But you never found out what he was going to say, because your impatient hands had found him again, and you were pumping him slowly, watching him shiver in anticipation. His fingers dug into your hips, his mouth dropping open slightly, his gaze locked on yours as you moved, letting the feeling of your touch overwhelm him for a moment before he pulled your hand away with a small chuckle.

"Fuck. I almost forgot..." He bent to find his jeans and fished around in his back pocket. When he pulled his wallet free, your eyes went wide as you realized what he was getting. He held the square, foil wrapper in front of him.

You raised an eyebrow at him as he went to open the wrapper with his teeth.

"You brought a condom to work with you? Why would you ever think you'd need it here? In Family Video?" You questioned as he opened the packet, spitting the excess foil to the side, before looking at you with a lopsided smile.

"What, you think I put it there just in case we ran out of videos to restock? I had it there for after work one day, just in case," he explained as if it was the most obvious thing. You rolled your eyes, smiling and giving a slight laugh. "I mean, not with you. Not like... I had it there just in case I went on a date." He paused to wince a little. "Wait, no, that doesn't sound any better, does it?"

"I get what you're trying to say," you reassured him as you laughed a little harder, before the conversation took a slightly serious turn.

You glanced between the condom he was holding in his hand, and him. He was hard, aching even, and he looked desperate for your touch. You felt a small wave of pride that you could turn him on so much, and that you had the opportunity to be with him like this. To touch him and be touched.

You licked your lips, then said, "Put it on."

You felt like a teenager again, waiting with bated breath while he carefully slipped on the condom, his own breath shuddering as his fingers moved along his cock. When he finished, he leaned over you, caging you against the shelf once again with his arms on either side of your waist.

"For the record, I was hoping to take you on a date before… this happened. After work some time. Y'know, really take you out. Watch a movie with you, get dinner, go back to my car," He whispered the last bit into your ear, before kissing it gently and adding, "maybe get you in the backseat. But we can save that for another night."

You were too caught up in the feel of him against you to fully process what he just implied. A second night. This wouldn't just be a one time thing, you'd get to do this again... and maybe more?

Before you could react to that, you felt Steve line up at your entrance and your brain seemed to go on autopilot, your focus shifting to how you were about to get exactly what you needed. Your legs parted a little more, your heels resting against the lower shelves for leverage, your back arching slightly so your chest pressed against his. He paused there, looking down at you for a moment. Your breath caught at his expression—he was watching you intently, his gaze fixed on your face, his lips parted, his cheeks flushed.

"You want this, right?" The genuine question took you aback. The vulnerability was back in his eyes, and it suddenly became clear to you how nervous he was. "I just want to be sure this isn't—"

"Steve," you said, cupping his face in your hand. "Yes. I want this."

His breath left him in a rush as his lips curled into a smile, his relief clear. Then he gave a slight push of his hips and began to slide into you. His cock started to stretch you out, his length filling you inch by inch, and you whimpered at the feeling, the sensation of him inside you so overwhelming after having gone so long without being with anyone yourself. Steve stopped, his head falling to your shoulder as he groaned.

"Oh, god... you feel... Jesus, you're—" he was breathing hard, his chest pressed to yours, his hands gripping the shelf. His cock pulsed inside you, and you were trembling from the tension of it, the sweet ache of being filled, the need to have him buried in you fully. You slid your hands up his back and wrapped your arms around him, holding him as close to you as possible. He let out a ragged breath, then pressed a soft kiss to the curve of your neck, just below your jaw.

"Are you okay? Is it too much? We can stop—"

"I'm okay, just please—"

"What? Anything, just say—"

"Please keep going. Please," you whimpered. Your thighs twitched around him and you tried to pull him deeper, your body aching for him, for release. The angle was different and new, and it felt incredible. "I need more... please, I want you, all of you... "

Your words spurred him on. His mouth found your neck, sucking lightly at the spot just below your ear as he slowly thrust deeper, and deeper, until he was buried inside you. You felt your inner muscles stretch to accommodate his size, the pressure making you gasp as your legs quivered and your body flushed. Steve groaned, his breathing ragged, his body taut as he waited for you to adjust, every muscle in his back tense.

"God, I don't know how long I can hold out," he whispered.

"Then don't," you said. Your nails dug into his skin and you clenched around his cock. Steve bit down on your shoulder as he began to thrust in long, hard strokes, the friction making your legs tremble as you tried to keep up.

He pressed you to him, his arm looped under your waist, pulling you down on his length, the slow slide making you see stars. His hand snaked down between you, finding your clit and stroking you as he began to pick up the pace, the pressure building with every thrust. His moans were quieter now, more breathy as he drove into you over and over, the rhythm steady as he fucked you in time to the thud of the shelf against the wall.

You could feel yourself approaching the edge, every nerve tingling, every inch of you burning for release. The pressure of his body on yours, the way he moved, his moans, his scent, his hands—everything was pushing you higher, faster. His cock twitched inside you and you moaned, your own orgasm building with every stroke, every thrust, every touch. His pace became more erratic as you moved against him, your legs spread, your back arched, the angle deep and intense.

"I'm... fuck, I'm going to..." he managed between pants. "I want you... to come first..."

The way his voice shook, his hips stuttering with the effort of holding himself back, made your chest swell. He wanted you to finish before him, he wanted you to feel good. And it did, it felt good—so good, too good. Your heart hammered in your chest, the pressure of it making you feel like it might burst. He pushed harder, his fingers moving faster on your clit.

"Steve—" His name escaped your lips, breathy, as your body started to unravel. The tension in your core built higher, your hips jerking, the shelf hitting the wall harder. Your vision blurred as a wave of pleasure rolled through you, and you gasped his name again as you came around him, your body shuddering. Your muscles clamped down hard, making his pace stutter as he tried to push through. Steve groaned, his forehead resting on yours, his fingers digging into your side. He kept his pace even, thrusting through the aftershocks and holding you through your release, his mouth hovering near yours as he panted and moaned. You slid your arms to his back and raked your nails down, dragging your hands across the planes of his body, reveling in how his muscles twitched as your touch moved along his spine and to his ass, and you pulled him in deeper.

The angle was different now, the pressure intense as his pace sped up and he started chasing his own orgasm, his cock filling you up completely and sliding against every inch of you, sending another wave of pleasure through you. He looked so beautiful above you, his hair disheveled and falling in front of his face, his expression pinched as his pace increased. You wrapped your arms around his waist to pull him closer and pressed a soft kiss to his neck. The tender touch made him shiver, and he pushed in hard and fast, his whole body going tense as his cock pulsed, the waves of his own release flooding through him. He moaned softly and your name tumbled from his lips.

For a moment you stayed there, his arms around you, his face pressed into your shoulder. Then, as the aftershocks ebbed away, he pulled out, giving you one last slow stroke as he did so. The loss of his touch made you whimper. You felt so empty now, aching for him, and you couldn't help but feel a little vulnerable at the thought of him pulling away from you. Steve stayed close for a moment longer, kissing you softly, tenderly, and you could feel your heart clench. He wasn't rushing off, he wasn't pushing you away. He was taking care of you.

Your body hummed with the lingering buzz of pleasure as Steve pulled off the condom, knotted the end, and threw it into the wastebasket in the corner, grinning proudly when it landed in the trash.

"Nice," he said, nodding as if impressed with himself. "And with my left hand, no less. Maybe I should have tried for pro basketball."

He was being a dingus again. A post-sex dingus, but still, a dingus. And it was such a relief.

"Mmhmm," you hummed, watching him carefully as he found his discarded clothing on the ground and began getting dressed. You had no idea what would come after, what the dynamic of things would be. What were the rules here? The guys you'd been with in the past didn't stick around to help you get dressed. You just put on your clothes, left the guys to clean up their mess, and went home.

"So," you said, taking your time to gather your own clothes from the bottom of the cart, putting your underwear on first. "Now what?"

He gave you a small grin, buttoning his pants as you grabbed your bra. "Now..." he trailed off, as if in thought. You slipped your bra over your arms, reaching back to do the clasps as best you could with limited reach. Steve noticed you struggling, and stepped towards you. He reached a hand up, motioning for you to turn around so that he could help you.

You did as he instructed, turning so that he had easy access to the hooks. His fingers grazed along the skin on your back as he slowly clasped each of them together. Once he finished, his hands slid up to your shoulders and he turned you around to face him again. You smiled up at him as you continued to put on your bra, adjusting yourself slightly. He didn't pull back right away. He kept his hands on you, running his thumbs across the fabric on your shoulders, a content smile on his face as he stared at you.

"What is it?" you asked, noticing that he seemed to be stuck in his head. He didn't answer you right away. His smile widened and he leaned down, kissing you gently. It was so soft and slow, that you forgot what you had asked him to begin with. All you could think about was his mouth on yours, and his hands on your waist, and the smell of his cologne and sweat, and the way his hair was completely messed up. He pulled away after a moment and you blinked, dazed.

"Nothing," he answered after what seemed like forever. "Just... this."

"This?" you asked. You could feel your heart racing again. He was still smiling, and he kissed you once more before pulling away and reaching down to pick up his shirt.

"This. You and me," he said, as if the answer was obvious. He pulled his shirt over his head and cocked his head at you as you began to put your jeans on, not answering. "Unless you didn't... I mean, I kind of assumed... unless you just wanted to forget this happened? That's not really my thing, but I mean, it's okay, we could pretend if—"

"I like you." It just blurted out of you and he froze, looking surprised. You realized you were holding your breath. He blinked.

"Really?"

"Really. But I mean... I know you like to take girls out, so maybe this was just a—"

"You really don't know me that well, do you?" he laughed. Your heart was hammering.

"What do you mean?" you asked cautiously. You'd said too much. He was going to take it back now. You knew he would.

"I mean..." he scratched the back of his neck awkwardly, but he didn't look like he wanted to back down. "I'm not just gonna... y'know, get with you at work and then bail on you. I like you, I like... being around you. A lot. I wanna keep doing it. Just in other places. Like outside of this shithole. And definitely without my uniform on. I mean, unless you're into that. I could probably bring my uniform home."

Your mind was going in about twenty directions at once, and it took you a second to process what he'd just said. He'd never... he liked being around you. And he wanted to take you out. You realized your mouth was open slightly and you closed it, biting your lip and feeling a wave of relief.

"You like me?" you repeated. "Not... you actually want to be around me?"

Steve stared at you for a second, a mix of disbelief and concern on his face, like you were the biggest idiot in the world for doubting him. Then his eyes narrowed, like he'd suddenly understood. He grabbed your waist again and pulled you back into him, a mischievous grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"Are you telling me I'm so bad at flirting you didn't realize I've had a crush on you for the past four months? Are you kidding me?" He laughed a little at that. "You're actually insane. I thought it was so obvious..."

"I... what?" you stammered. "No! I had no idea."

"I mean," Steve started, pulling away slightly as he began to run through the list of times he'd been blatantly obvious in his interest for you, "I'm always trying to spend more time with you, asking you about yourself, finding stupid ways to make you smile or laugh or just... you know... pay attention to you... and like, the way I talk about you. Robin constantly call me out on it." He ran a hand through his hair, messing it up a little more, which somehow only added to how endearing he looked.

"Well..." you mumbled, feeling your cheeks redden, "I just thought it was, y'know. Steve Harrington being Steve Harrington. Being a flirt."

Steve stared at you in silence for a moment, looking slightly disappointed that you were that clueless.

"Wait... do you really not know? About—" he looked up to the ceiling, and let out a short huff of air, before he looked back at you with his eyebrows raised. "The flirting, the winking, the talking about my parents not being home? Like... is it actually not obvious?"

Your face fell as you thought back on all the interactions the two of you had over the past few months, trying to pick up on clues. Had you really missed every hint that he had been dropping? You wanted to bury your head in your hands. You wanted the ground to swallow you up. But... he was still here. Still smiling. Still standing close and looking at you with the same interest that he'd had the whole night, since you had walked through the front door.

"You argue with me about everything, though," you said with a laugh, thinking of the many debates that the two of you had over what was a good movie, what was a bad one, which character in a movie was the hottest, if the latest rom com was really that good (spoiler: it wasn't), or even over the smallest, dumbest things that didn't even matter. "If I hadn't known you, I'd think that we just didn't like each other."

"That's just the chemistry," Steve shrugged, "You think I argue with all my coworkers about every little thing? Please." He chuckled as you blushed and shook your head, before he took another step closer to you, closing the distance between the two of you. "I like getting a rise out of you. You get so annoyed when you're trying to argue your point but can't think of the words. It's really cute."

You playfully nudged him with your elbow, before you finally put on the last of your clothes. Steve did the same, and when you looked down, you were both fully dressed. There was no trace that either of you had just fucked each other senseless a few moments ago. You glanced back up at him as he adjusted his vest.

"Lets go finish that deposit and then get the hell out of here."

You followed him back to the register, and he took the deposit bag and signed it, passing it to you. He waited patiently as you double checked to make sure that the deposit slip and the money matched. Once everything was correct, he gave a nod.

"Looks good. Ready to lock up?" he asked.

You nodded, and you both went to the breakroom to punch out. He opened the door for you, and you punched out on your time clock and gathered your things. You put your vest in your locker and closed it, turning around to see that Steve had already waited for you, patiently leaning against the wall with his hands in his pockets. You walked past him and out of the door, flipping the light switch as you walked out.

Whe you were outside the store, Steve locked the doors, then took the key and tossed it up and caught it. He turned and started walking backwards in the direction of the parking lot, as you headed to the bike rack to unlock your bike. Steve turned around, thinking you were right behind him and when he saw you at the bike rack, he spoke again.

"What are you doing? Are you riding that?"

"Um. Yes?" you raised an eyebrow, giving him a strange look as if to question what his problem was. "That's the plan. It's how I usually get home from work."

"It's freezing and it's late and I'm not letting you ride that back." He was being insistent. "No."

"Um. Yeah? It's really not that bad. I have a coat."

"Get in the car, leave your bike chained up. I have a morning shift tomorrow, I'll make sure it's there" he insisted, "Please? It's already past ten."

"Steve."

"C'mon. Just get in." he shrugged, his keys jingling in his hands. He wasn't going to budge and you were starting to get annoyed.

"It's really not—"

"Get in the damn car already." He rolled his eyes at you, clearly not buying the argument that you could get home by yourself and in one piece. It was dark outside, and a bit chilly, but that wasn't exactly uncommon for Hawkins. You sighed. You knew you wouldn't win this battle and it wasn't worth it to continue to argue.

"Fine. But just for the record, it's not that cold and I would have been fine. You know that."

"Mhm. Sure." Steve grinned, leading the way to the parking lot. When you got there, you stopped and glanced at all the empty cars and he frowned, before he gave a laugh of relief when he saw his BMW in the back corner. He unlocked the doors, you both climbed inside and he started the engine. He drove out of the parking lot, turning right onto the main street. You leaned your head on the window, your mind still spinning with the events of the last hour. Steve Harrington wanted you. You wanted Steve Harrington. This wasn't a one time thing, you could do this again. It was really happening.

As your eyes closed, you thought about the conversation you'd just had and something clicked. Steve's comment about him having a crush on you for months finally sank in. Your head whipped towards Steve in the driver's seat and you stared at him, as if you hadn't seen him in this light before. You couldn't help but stare. He was... perfect. He was absolutely, flawlessly beautiful and you just couldn't believe that someone like him could be so infatuated with someone like you. You leaned back in your seat, watching him carefully as he drove. You felt like you were going to burst, or pass out. You'd never been more attracted to someone before, but there was something else there. It felt more intense, more intense than it had felt before with anyone else. You felt your face turn a few shades of pink again as you thought of him.

The ride to your house wasn't a long one. Hawkins wasn't exactly known for being large, after all, and you didn't live too far from the store. Before you knew it, you were parked on the side of the road right in front of your driveway. You smiled at the sight of the familiar streetlight flickering every now and then. Home.

"Thanks," you mumbled quietly, as Steve put the car in park. "I... I mean... um, yeah, just... thanks." You fidgeted a little with the seatbelt strap and he nodded at you. He didn't move to take his hand off the wheel.

"Yeah... so," Steve gave a slight sigh as he leaned back, finally looking away from the windshield and meeting your eyes again. "Can we go back to talking about the whole you having no clue thing, because... I gotta be honest with you. I don't think I've ever been this embarrassed in my life. You thought I was just..."

You stared at him for a second, watching the way he spoke, watching how animated he was as he explained his side of the story, as if it had actually been some huge deal that you didn't notice him pining over you. The thought of it was... sweet, and it was such a contrast from what you thought you knew about him before. He really cared about how you felt.

"You know that I would never use you, right?" Steve continued. "Like I really like you. I think I made that pretty clear at the store, but like, if I made you uncomfortable or—"

You reached forward and took his hand in yours. You took it gently at first, testing to see his reaction, before he took your hand in return. He glanced down at where your fingers laced together, as his thumb moved over your skin.

"Steve," you interrupted softly, and his head tilted up to look back at you again. He had been rambling.

"Hm?" He asked, clearly unsure of how to react to what you just said. He watched as you brought his hand up to your mouth and pressed a soft kiss to the top of his hand. When your gaze met his again, you smiled, feeling the warmth of your breath on his hand, your nose brushing against him.

"Take me out." It was a request, a gentle demand, as if he didn't know that you would follow him anywhere at this point.

He grinned at that. The idea was definitely appealing. You saw the wheels turning in his head, imagining all the places that you could go on a date. What movies you could see, which ones would be worth sitting through for two hours with you, and which ones wouldn't. You were certain he had the entire month mapped out already.

"Can I pick you up at five on Saturday? There's this drive in theatre down the next town over." Steve offered, his eyes lit up with excitement.

"Yeah, I'm off on Saturday."

"I know. I've been staring at that calendar in the breakroom all week. I know all the dates you have off." Steve explained, as you looked at him in awe, with your mouth hanging open in surprise. "What? I wasn't lying back there. I had been planning to ask you out."

He didn't seem ashamed to admit it either, as he reached out to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, then brushed his fingers over your cheek, as if to check that you were really there. You leaned into the touch and he smiled, letting out a content sigh. He took your hand and pulled you towards him, pressing his lips to your temple.

"I should get inside, my parents are probably wondering why I'm home from work so late." You whispered, looking up at Steve, whose face fell. He pulled you a little closer to him, leaning his head down to meet you, as if he didn't want you to leave.

"Saturday." He said it more to remind himself than to remind you. "I'll pick you up here."

"I'll be ready. Promise." you grinned, and he nodded in confirmation. With that, he gave you one final kiss, pressing his lips gently to yours for what felt like an eternity, but ended up only being about three seconds, before letting you go. He sat back up, putting the car back into drive, as you reached for the door handle.

"Have a good night."

"Yeah. You too." Steve smiled as he put the car back in drive.

---

extra lil bonus scene for the platonic!Stobin lovers:

The next morning at Family Video, Steve leaned lazily against the counter, flipping through a stack of tapes with all the enthusiasm of a kid forced to do summer homework. Robin, meanwhile, was loading the last of the returns into a cart, muttering about how she always got the worst tasks.

“You could at least pretend to help,” Robin said, giving him a pointed look as she pushed the cart toward the back.

“I’m on very important rewinder duty,” Steve replied, smirking as he leaned back against the counter.

Robin rolled her eyes. “You’re on very important doing nothing duty.”

She disappeared into the aisles, her voice carrying back to him as she headed toward the adult section. “Why do I always get stuck with the beaded curtain of doom? I didn’t sign up to alphabetize Hawkins’ finest porn collection !”

“Because you’re the captain, and I’m just a humble first mate,” Steve called after her, grinning to himself.

A moment later, Robin’s horrified yell shattered the calm.

“STEVE!”

Steve’s heart leapt into his throat as he sprinted toward the back, shoving through the beads to find Robin standing stock-still, staring at the trash can with a look of utter disgust.

“What? What’s wrong?” he asked, panting slightly.

Robin pointed at the trash can like it was radioactive. “There is a used condom in the trash can!”

Steve froze, his stomach dropping. “Uh…”

Robin turned to him, her expression a mix of shock and dawning realization. “Wait. Wait. Harrington. No. Tell me you didn’t—”

“I—it’s not what it looks like!” Steve stammered, raising his hands in defense. “I mean, technically, it is what it looks like, but it’s not like that!”

Robin’s jaw dropped. “Oh my God. Oh my God, you and—wait— you and her?! In the adult section?!”

“No! Well… yes. But it wasn’t—it was after close!” Steve groaned, running a hand through his hair, clearly panicking. “And it wasn’t planned ! It just… happened!”

Robin stared at him, blinking slowly. Then, she tilted her head. “So let me get this straight. You, Steve Harrington, had sex here, surrounded by titles like Butt Bandits 3 and Debbie Does Dallas? ”

Steve’s face turned bright red as he buried his face in his hands. “Please don’t say it like that.”

Robin then let out a bark of laughter. “Steve, do you have any idea how lucky you are that I found this and not Keith? Can you even imagine? He’d have a field day!”

Steve groaned again, his face still buried in his hands. “Please, don’t even joke about that.”

“I’m not joking!” Robin said, laughing harder now. “You’d never live it down. He’d probably give you some gross high-five and call you ‘stud’ every time he saw you.”

“God, please stop. I’m already dying of embarrassment.”

Robin folded her arms, a wicked grin on her face. “Oh, I’m not letting you off the hook that easily. Who even does this? At work, Steve? In the adult section? What, were you inspired by the ambiance?”

“It wasn’t planned!” Steve repeated, throwing his head back. “It just… happened!”

Robin smirked. “Oh, I’m sure it just happened. ”

“Robin,” Steve said, glaring at her. “Please. I’m begging you. Just pretend this didn’t happen.”

Robin pretended to consider it, then shrugged. “Fine. But you’re taking the trash out.”

“What? No way!”

“Oh, yes way,” she said, shoving the trash can toward him. “You made this mess. Literally. Now deal with it.”

Steve sighed dramatically, grabbing the trash can and stomping toward the back door as Robin’s laughter echoed behind him.

As he reached the exit, Robin called after him, her voice dripping with amusement. “Oh, and for the record? Since she clearly likes you back, maybe next time, take her somewhere that doesn’t smell like old popcorn and desperation!”

Steve froze mid-step, turning to glare at her. “Robin!”

She just grinned, wiggling her fingers in a wave. “Have fun with the trash, lover boy!”