dela

You glance over. He has good hair, the kind that looks effortless, and a nice sweater layered over a collared shirt. Jeans that probably cost more than yours, clean sneakers. The kind of guy who says “ma’am” to waitresses and holds doors for old ladies.

You, on the other hand, tried to look like the kind of person who could get approved for an apartment. Your usual band tee is swapped for a black long-sleeve top tucked into a plaid skirt, your usual leather jacket replaced with a plain denim one. You even brushed out the streak of color in your hair, though a bit still lingers near the ends. You figured you looked normal enough, but the way he gives you that slow once-over says he can still tell you’re a little offbeat.

“Are you here to show the apartment?” he asks, polite but already impatient.

You blink. “No. I’m here to rent it.”

He glances down at a folded sheet of paper in his hand, the listing printed in neat type. “I thought the showing was at nine thirty.”

“It is. For me,” you say, checking your watch.

His eyebrows draw together. “Mrs. Shaw told me nine thirty.”

“No. She told me nine thirty.”

“So one of us is wrong.”

“Yeah,” you say, crossing your arms. “You.”

He looks down at his note again, mouth twisting when he sees the small “9 AM” written in his own messy handwriting.

“Oh,” he says quietly. “Shit. Guess that’s on me.”

“Guess so.”

He looks like he’s about to argue anyway, but the bakery door swings open before he can. The smell of cinnamon and sugar rushes out, warm against the morning air.

Dorothea Shaw stands there with flour dusted across her apron, cheeks flushed from the ovens. She’s in her late sixties, with silver hair pinned up in a bun that always comes a little loose by midday and soft pink lipstick that never quite stays on the edges. There’s a kindness in her eyes that makes everyone call her “Mrs. Shaw,” even though she always insists on Dorothea.

“Oh, you must be the two I spoke to on the phone,” she says cheerfully. “I didn’t realize it would be a couple.”

You and the guy both start to talk, overlapping. “Oh, we’re not—” “No, we just—”

Dorothea laughs, waving a hand like she’s already made up her mind. “You young folks don’t have to explain yourselves to me. Come in, come in, let me show you the place.”

She ushers you through the side door of the bakery and up a narrow staircase that smells like sugar and yeast. The steps creak underfoot, the paint along the banister chipped from years of use. She keeps talking as she climbs, her voice bright over the hum of ovens below. “I’ve known Steven since he was knee-high,” she says with a fond glance at him over her shoulder. “Never thought I’d see the day he settled down.”

You raise an eyebrow. The guy (Steven, apparently) flushes pink and gives you a helpless look. “It’s, uh, not exactly like that,” he mumbles.

Dorothea just smiles knowingly. “Sure, sure. I’ve heard that before.”

The apartment opens into a cozy living room where morning light spills across faded floral wallpaper and lace curtains move with the draft. A corduroy couch sits against one wall, a crocheted blanket draped neatly over the back. There’s a short wooden shelf lined with old cookbooks and a square television with a crooked antenna. Everything feels a little worn but loved, the kind of place that’s been lived in quietly for years.

Dorothea gestures toward a small archway. “Kitchen’s through there. Gas stove still works if you’re patient with her. I left the table too, it fits right under the window.”

You peek inside. The kitchen is narrow, tiled in pale yellow, with a single sink and a fridge humming softly. 

She continues down the hallway, showing two small empty bedrooms across from each other and a bathroom at the end. The fixtures are old porcelain, the mirror spotted, but everything smells like soap and lemon polish.

“There’s even a second bedroom,” she says warmly. “Perfect for when the baby comes.”

Steven coughs, nearly choking on air.

You glance at him, deadpan. “Children aren’t part of the plan yet.”

Dorothea chuckles, eyes twinkling. “Still in the honeymoon phase, then. That’s sweet. Plenty of time for that down the line.”

His head snaps up. “Please—”

She waves him off, smiling. “Oh, hush. I’m only teasing.”

Then she names the rent. The number sounds unreal, the kind of price you’d only hear from someone who values good tenants over money. You and Steve both pause, sharing your first real look of agreement.

You clear your throat. “Would it be all right if we talk about it for a minute?”

“Of course, dear,” Dorothea says, folding her flour-dusted hands. “Take your time. I’ll be downstairs if you need me.”

You both step out onto the landing. The air smells like fresh bread cooling below and a hint of rain outside. You can hear the old radio from the bakery drifting through the floorboards. Steven sticks his hands in his pockets, shifting awkwardly, still a little pink from the “settling down” comment. He looks over at you, sheepish.

You stay quiet for a second, both of you standing there with the soft hum of the bakery radio beneath your feet. The landing is narrow, lined with worn wallpaper and a window that looks out over Main Street. The sun is climbing higher now, catching the edges of the guy’s hair and the faint blush that still hasn’t left his face.

“So,” you say finally. “Steven.”

He looks up fast. “Just Steve.”

You nod. “Okay, ‘Just Steve’.” You give him your name, offering a quick, polite smile.

He repeats it softly, like he’s trying it out. Then he clears his throat. “So, uh, about the apartment.”

You glance back at the door. “Yeah. The price is… kind of hard to ignore.”

He nods. “It’s a good deal. Way better than anything else I’ve seen. I mean, I work at Family Video, so it’s not like I’m swimming in cash.”

You huff a small laugh. “Record store on Main. Same situation. I can pay, but it’d be easier to split it.”

Steve leans against the wall, crossing his arms. He looks thoughtful, not cautious, just measuring the idea. “There are two bedrooms. If you wanted, we could…” He hesitates, searching for the right phrasing. “We split the rent, utilities, all that.”

You tilt your head, he sounded like he had thought of this long before he messed up the showing time. “Did you already have a roommate in mind?”

He rubs the back of his neck. “Sort of. I figured Robin might move in, but she’s still living at home. Doubt she’d care either way. She’ll probably be around a lot, though.”

You nod, finding it funny, the way he says the name like you should already know her. There’s a familiarity in his tone, easy and fond, the kind people use when they talk about someone who means something. You can’t help but wonder if she’s his girlfriend. You push the thought aside, keeping your tone even. “That’s fine. I’ve got friends who’ll probably hang around sometimes, too. Nothing crazy.”

He smiles, a little relieved. “So, no wild parties. Got it.”

“Same goes for you,” you say. “I’m not cleaning up after any keggers.”

He holds up both hands, mock-offended. “I’ve retired from that life. Promise.”

You talk through the practical stuff. Who’d take which bedroom. How to split the bills. That you’ll both try not to steal each other’s laundry quarters or leave dishes in the sink.

Maybe it’s the warmth from the bakery below or the way Steve’s voice softens when he agrees with you, but for a minute, it doesn’t feel like a bad idea.

When the terms are settled, you knock lightly on the doorframe and call for Dorothea.

“So?” she asks.

You glance at Steve, and he nods. “We’ll take it,” you both say at once.

Dorothea’s face brightens. “Oh, that’s just wonderful. I can have the paperwork ready this afternoon.”

She walks you through a few more details, pointing out where the spare key will hang and reminding you about the mail slot downstairs. Before she leaves, she pauses in the doorway, eyes soft. “And you two should come down for dinner sometime. Once a month, maybe. I get a little lonely in the evenings. It’d be nice to have company again.”

You start to say something, but Steve beats you to it, his smile smooth and easy. “That sounds lovely, Mrs. Shaw. We’d like that.”

Dorothea beams. “Good. I miss cooking for someone.”

When she’s gone, the apartment is quiet again, filled only with the muffled clatter of baking trays below. You and Steve stand there in the center of the living room, both realizing at the same time that you’ve just agreed to more than a lease.

He scratches the back of his neck, looking a little dazed but not unhappy. “So, guess we’re roommates,” he says finally.

You glance toward the window, then back at him. “Yeah. Guess we are.”

Sharing space takes some getting used to.

The first few weeks are a mix of small arguments and quiet adjustments. Your makeup and hair stuff slowly take over the bathroom counter, spreading across the sink like a virus. Steve leaves coffee mugs everywhere. On the counter, on the windowsill, once on top of the toilet. You tell him you’re not his maid, and he tells you he didn’t realize a person could own that many lip liners.

You meet in the middle. He keeps the mugs to one a day, and you start keeping your things in a little basket.

Dorothea still thinks you’re a couple. Every time you run into her downstairs she calls you “sweethearts.” Sometimes she sends you home with bread or pie and tells you how nice it is to have young love in the building again. You play along.

Steve’s good at it, annoyingly so, smiling and slipping an arm around your shoulder when she’s looking. The first time he calls you “babe” in front of her, you nearly choke on your croissant.

Your respective friends find the whole thing hilarious. They know it’s fake, and they don’t let either of you forget it.

Robin comes over a lot and makes herself at home, sitting cross-legged on the couch while she tells you stories about Family Video. It’s her who lets it slip that she isn’t Steve’s girlfriend, or any guy. She says it casually one night while the three of you are eating takeout, and you realize how easy she is to be around.

After that, she starts siding with you on all the roommate debates, insisting it’s weird and unsanitary for Steve to drink his coffee in the bathroom in the first place.

Your friend Eddie, who is at the record store so often you’re surprised he doesn’t work there too, drops by sometimes.

He acts like it’s the strangest thing in the world that you live with Steve Harrington of all people. You tell him you didn’t even know who that was supposed to be, and he spends half an hour filling you in on Hawkins High lore. It becomes a running joke, him calling you “Mrs. Harrington” just to watch you roll your eyes.

There are little gestures you both fall into when Dorothea’s around. Hand-holding when she’s looking. A light touch to his arm when she makes a comment about how happy you seem.

Once, she hugs you both goodbye and you kiss him on the cheek without thinking. The warmth of it lingers, and you both pretend it didn’t happen. You don’t really talk for the rest of the day.

By the end of the first month, you’ve fallen into a rhythm. He makes breakfast most mornings. You leave notes reminding him to pick up milk. Robin and Eddie still tease, Dorothea still thinks you’re in love, and neither of you has bothered to correct her. It’s easier this way.

By January, you’ve settled into a rhythm.

You and Steve move around each other like people who have lived together for years. He makes coffee in the mornings, you open the windows to let the cold air in while you get ready. You take turns doing dishes, and somehow it’s never been a fight.

He’s realized by now that the way you looked the day you met was a toned-down version. You don’t bother hiding it anymore. The pins are back on your jacket, your eyeliner a little heavier, your hair streaked again. You catch him humming along to your records sometimes, quiet and half out of tune, like he doesn’t even notice he’s doing it. He brings home movies from Family Video on Fridays. Horror for you, action for him, something in the middle when you compromise.

You don’t bring anyone home, and neither does he. It’s easier that way. Keeps the story with Dorothea simple, and it makes the apartment feel like yours, even if you both keep pretending it’s temporary.

You’ve had a few dinners with Dorothea since moving in, each one warm and easy. She always sends you home with something wrapped in foil and a compliment about how you remind her of herself at your age. Tonight’s dinner is at her house, a small place on Cherry Street, just past Melvald’s, where the neighborhood dips into quiet. Her living room smells like pine, and there’s a small fire crackling in the hearth.

The table is already set when you arrive, three plates, mismatched silverware, a vase of fake flowers in the middle. She insists you sit side by side, saying something about “young love keeping her warm.” Steve just smiles and thanks her for the invitation.

Dinner is cozy. Roast chicken, scalloped potatoes, something green she swears will make your skin glow. The conversation drifts from the bakery to her garden to her late husband, William. She tells stories about him, how he used to bring her pastries even though she made them herself, how he’d leave her little notes in the kitchen every morning.

“Love is all habits,” she says, folding her napkin in her lap. “You find someone who makes your life quieter, easier, and you keep them around.”

You smile without thinking. The way Steve brings you coffee at work. How he picks up horror movies without asking. How he lets you talk over the opening credits.

When you look up, he’s already watching you. Not staring, exactly, just aware. You glance away, pretending to focus on your plate, but the heat creeps up your neck.

Dorothea notices, of course. “You two are sweet,” she says softly. “Reminds me of us.”

Steve laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. “We try.”

She nods, satisfied, and launches into another story about the bakery’s first year, about waking up before sunrise to bake pies for customers. You listen, caught between the rhythm of her voice and the quiet sound of Steve’s fork tapping his plate beside you.

When dessert comes, the conversation softens. The fire pops, snow starts against the window, and you think about what she said about habits, about quiet. You don’t look at Steve this time, but you know he’s thinking the same thing.

Dorothea insists on pouring you both another glass of wine before you leave. You try to decline, but she waves it off, saying it keeps you young. The bottle is nearly gone by the time you finally manage to put your coats on, cheeks flushed and stomach warm.

Steve carries the leftovers in a small paper bag tied with twine. You’re walking back toward the bakery, breath fogging in the cold air. The snow isn’t heavy, just a flurry that catches in your hair and settles on his shoulders. The streetlights glow soft against the snow, and everything feels quieter than usual.

You walk side by side, boots crunching on the pavement. The air smells faintly like wood smoke and sugar.

“Dorothea really likes you,” Steve says after a while.

You smile a little. “Pretty sure she likes you more. You’re her golden boy.”

He laughs, shaking his head. “She’s just known me too long to be impressed.”

“Still. You’re the favorite.”

He grins, tipping his head toward you. “You jealous?”

“Not even a little.”

You keep walking, the silence between you not uncomfortable, just warm. The kind that hums quietly under the sound of your steps.

Then you say it. “So, my very real boyfriend…” you tease lightly, glancing up at him.

He snorts. “Yes, my very real girlfriend?”

You both laugh, the words sounding strange but not unwelcome. It’s the kind of thing that would normally end there, just another shared joke, but something about the wine keeps you talking.

You nudge him with your elbow. “I feel kind of bad, actually. If you ever want to bring someone home, we can figure it out. You know, so you can have an actual very real girlfriend.”

He glances at you, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Thanks for the offer. I’ve been on a few dates, but nothing worth introducing to Mrs. Shaw. Or risking your wrath over.”

“Risking my wrath?” you ask, smiling.

“Yeah. You seem like you’d have rules about that kind of thing.”

“Only the important ones. No weirdos. No one who wears too much perfume.”

He laughs. “I’ll keep that in mind. Not that I’ve had much luck anyway. I definitely don’t have the appeal I did back in school.”

You raise an eyebrow. “That so?”

He shrugs, the bag shifting in his hand. “Apparently.”

You can’t help laughing. “Maybe someone out there’s into that stupid Family Video vest you have to wear.”

“Please,” he says, grinning. “Trust me, no one’s ever been into the vest.”

You laugh again, shaking your head. “Well, any dates I’ve been on weren’t exactly thrilling either. Mostly at their place. Which probably says a lot.”

He’s quiet for a second, then says softly, “Yeah. It’s weird, right? Talking about this stuff.”

“Kind of,” you say.

He looks over at you, eyes soft in the streetlight.

Home comes into view, the windows dark except for the glow of the sign in the front. He unlocks the door and holds it open for you. The smell of baked goods drifts through, familiar and warm.

You head upstairs together, the floorboards creaking under your feet, both of you still smiling like you’re not sure why.

Inside, everything feels softer. The bakery below is quiet for the night, and the only sound is the hum of the radiator and the faint wind against the windowpanes. You kick your shoes off near the door and hand him your coat without thinking. He takes it, hangs it on the hook by the door with his own, and toes off his shoes before heading toward the kitchen.

It is automatic by now. You go to the couch. He goes to find something to put on. The small rituals you have built over months slot neatly into place.

“You want another glass of wine?” he calls from the kitchen.

You blink. “We have wine?”

He laughs, the sound muffled by the clinking of glasses. “Debatably good wine. From the corner store. Classy stuff.”

You grin. “Pour me some, then.”

He comes back with two mismatched glasses and sits beside you. The movie starts up, something he must have grabbed from work. The title rolls across the screen, half horror, half comedy, a compromise you both pretend not to notice.

You sink deeper into the couch, the wine warm in your hand. It is cheap, but it is red, and you realize he must have remembered that you like it better than white. He never says anything about those little things, but you notice them. The red wine. The coasters he finally started using. The way he lets you pick the music when you clean.

For a while you both watch in comfortable silence, the kind that fills the room instead of empties it.

After a while, you speak. “You know,” you say, voice low, “I really think she buys it. Dorothea. The whole couple thing. I kind of feel bad lying to her.” You take a sip of your wine. “But it’s nice that she believes it.”

He doesn’t answer right away. The light from the television flickers against his face. He takes his own sip before setting the glass on the table. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “Sometimes I almost do too.”

You turn your head to look at him. The thought catches in your chest.

He’s leaning back, relaxed from the wine and the warmth, hair falling into his eyes. The yellow cable knit sweater he changed into before dinner looks soft, worn at the cuffs. There’s a faint crease at the corner of his mouth, the start of a smile he never quite lets out. He looks content, peaceful in a way that makes it hard to look away.

You have always thought of him as clean-cut, too put together for you. But sitting here now, you see something else. The faint tiredness in his eyes. The curve of his shoulders. The kind of quiet that feels steady.

You tell yourself to look back at the screen, but you don’t. The movie keeps playing, forgotten. The air between you shifts, something warm and unspoken threading through it.

Steve is the one who breaks the silence.

“What?” he says, catching you looking at him. “Do I have, like, wine mouth or something?”

You blink. “Wine mouth?”

“Yeah,” he says, rubbing his thumb across his lower lip, like he’s trying to wipe away the color. “Like when kids get that ring of juice stain around their mouth, but for adults.”

You laugh quietly, shaking your head. The motion draws your eyes right back to his mouth. The faint red tint from the wine. The way his thumb drags over his lip. You look away, smiling a little.

“No,” you say softly. “Just… nothing.”

He leans back, still watching you. “You sure?”

You glance at him again, teasing now, trying to cover the flutter in your chest. “What? Am I not allowed to look at my very real boyfriend?”

He pauses. The joke should land easily, but his voice comes out quieter. “Not like that.”

You turn toward him a little, the air suddenly thicker. “Like what?”

He hesitates, then looks at you the way people do when they decide something. “Like I actually am your very real boyfriend.”

It’s quiet after that. His arm is along the back of the couch, close enough that you can feel the warmth of him behind you. You don’t remember when he put it there. Your glasses sit on the table, half-finished.

You tilt your head, the corner of your mouth lifting. “If you were my very real boyfriend,” you say, voice lighter now, “what would you be doing right now?”

He grins, eyes still on yours. “I don’t know. Maybe I’d put my arm around you.”

You glance at his arm already stretched along the back of the couch. “Guess that one’s covered.”

He laughs softly. “Then maybe I’d tell you something sweet.”

“Like what?” you ask.

He pretends to think, his smile crooked. “Maybe that you look really pretty tonight.”

You huff a laugh, your cheeks warm. “That’s a good one. I’d probably tell you your sweater looks soft.”

He raises an eyebrow, playful. “You could always check.”

You bite your lip, pulse skipping as you press your hand lightly against his chest. The fabric is warm, softer than you expected. You can feel the steady thump of his heart beneath your palm.

“Yeah,” you murmur. “Soft.”

The air shifts. His laughter fades into something quieter. He covers your hand with his, fingers curling gently over yours. The space between you disappears inch by inch, breath mingling, eyes caught on each other.

“What now?” you whisper, still teasing but softer this time.

He smiles, almost shy. “Now I think your very real boyfriend would probably kiss you.”

You let out a soft laugh, the sound catching somewhere in your throat. “Oh yeah? Is that part of the job description?”

“Pretty sure,” he says. “You’d know if you read the fine print.”

You lean in a little, teasing. “Guess I missed that part.”

“Guess I’ll have to remind you,” he says, voice low but still smiling.

You’re both still grinning, still pretending it’s just a joke, but the space between you keeps getting smaller. The kind of slow drift that feels inevitable.

“Wouldn’t want to ruin our very real relationship,” you whisper, eyes flicking down to his mouth.

He laughs quietly, breath warm against your skin. “Yeah, that’d be a shame.”

Neither of you moves for a second, just the steady sound of the movie in the background, the faint ticking of the clock on the wall.

Then he leans in just a little more.

And you don’t stop him.

It’s slow, hesitant at first, the kind of kiss that starts with laughter still in your chests and ends with all the air gone from the room. The wine lingers between you, sweet and warm, and the world outside the window fades into the hush of snow and steady heat.

His hand comes up to your cheek, thumb brushing along your skin like he’s been itching to touch your face.

You didn’t even realize your fingers had curled into his sweater, gripping onto the fabric like it might keep you tethered to the moment. 

He pulls back just enough to search your face, his hand still cupped at your jaw. “Is this okay?”

You nod once. “Yeah. This is… yeah.”

He kisses you again, and this time there’s nothing hesitant about it. It’s slow but sure, like he knows exactly how to pull you into it. His mouth moves with quiet confidence, patient and present. The kind of kiss that says he’s not rushing anything, not asking for more than you’ll give, but also not holding back.

When his tongue traces the seam of your lips, you part them without even thinking, letting him in. There’s wine and warmth and something deeper you don’t name.

He tastes like everything he is:

Familiar.

Surprising.

Better than you expected.

You shouldn’t be surprised though, not after everything you’ve heard about from Eddie about Steve Harrington and the way he used to kiss girls behind the gym or in parked cars at Skull Rock. But this is nothing like that.

He’s not a teenage boy anymore. He’s grounded, even more sure of himself without putting on some bullshit act.

When he finally pulls away, both of you still breathless, he doesn’t let go of your hand. He lifts it from his chest like he’s realizing just now that you’d been holding him there. His eyes are soft and searching again, and the silence between you shifts.

Your voice comes out quieter than you mean it to and you sit back a little, needing space to breathe. “It’s late.”

Steve blinks like he’s coming back to earth. “Yeah...”

“I… have work in the morning.”

He gives you a crooked smile. “No, you don’t. You have Thursdays off.”

You look at him. He says it so casually, like it’s just a fact in the universe.

“You know my schedule?”

He shrugs. “Yeah. It’s our cleaning day. You sweep, I vacuum. We fight about which records get played. You always win.”

You laugh under your breath, rubbing your palm against your thigh. “Still. Sleep. Sleep is good.”

“Definitely,” he says, eyes still on you.

Eventually you move. He stands first and offers his hand to pull you up from the couch. You both walk slowly toward the hallway, the apartment dim and quiet around you. The bedrooms are across from each other, same as always, but tonight it feels different.

You both hesitate for a second, then wordlessly disappear into your own rooms.

You change into your usual sleep clothes, a big t-shirt and your favorite worn-in shorts, the kind that make you feel like yourself. Your mind keeps replaying the kiss, the way his fingers felt against your cheek, the way his mouth lingered like he didn’t want to stop at just a kiss.

You open your door at the same time he opens his. He’s in sweatpants and a white undershirt. You’re both heading toward the bathroom.

You stop in the doorway. “Sorry. I just—”

“I just need to—”

You both gesture toward the sink.

“I’ll be quick,” you say.

He leans against the doorframe instead, watching you for a second too long. Then something in his expression shifts.

Something like “fuck it.”

He steps forward, brushing your hair back before kissing you hard.

There’s no question this time. It’s not soft. Not teasing. It’s heat and need and the leftover as his hands find your waist. Yours slide up to his shoulders. The taste of wine mixes on your tongues and you don’t even care.

All you can think is that this is happening. Really happening.

And you don’t want it to stop.

You don’t know how long you’re kissing him before you both come up for air, chests rising and falling like you’ve just sprinted across Main Street. His hands stay firm on your waist, holding you there against the bathroom doorframe, and he’s watching you like he’s trying to decide if this is real.

It is.

You glance between your bedroom door and his. “My room’s… um, it’s a mess.”

Steve laughs, the kind that’s low and breathless. “Yeah. It’s always a mess.”

You start to protest, already ready to defend yourself. “Okay, no, I clean sometimes, I’m not—”

But he kisses you again before you can finish, stealing the rest of the sentence straight from your mouth. One hand slips around your back and the other finds your wrist, guiding you with him as he moves.

You barely register the few steps it takes before you’re inside his room. He doesn’t stop kissing you. He doesn’t even pause when he kicks the door shut behind you with the heel of his foot.

You feel the edge of the bed press against the backs of your knees. He gives you the smallest push and you tumble backward with a quiet laugh. The mattress creaks beneath you, protesting like it hasn’t been used for much more than sleep.

“Shit,” Steve mutters, crawling in after you. “I didn’t realize it was that loud.”

You grin up at him. “You haven’t tested it out?”

His mouth quirks. “Not like this.”

He leans over you, arms braced on either side as you settle against his pillows, and just looks for a second. Your shirt’s rumpled from where his hands touched you, your hair messy in the way that only happens when it’s been in someone else’s fingers.

His hair’s even more of a disaster than usual. You can tell he’s been running his hand through it, nervous, like he does when he’s thinking too hard.

But right now he’s not thinking. He’s just there, above you, eyes on your mouth again.

He kisses you.

Then again, slower this time, lips dragging across your cheek and down your jaw.

When his mouth brushes against your neck, your breath catches. He lingers there, warm and careful, his  strong jaw against your skin in a way that sends a shiver through you. Your hands slide from his shoulders to his hair, curling your fingers into the soft mess at the nape of his neck.

“You okay?” he murmurs against your skin.

“Yeah,” you breathe. “Don’t stop.”

He smiles, a small curve of his lips against your throat before he continues, his kisses light, deliberate, exploring. He’s mapping you out. Learning the shapes of you. The space behind your ear, the sensitive spot just above the hollow of your throat.

His hands move too, one sliding under your shirt to rest flat against the small of your back, the other tracing patterns along your ribs through the thin fabric of your t-shirt. His touch isn’t rushed. It’s like he’s savoring the moment, memorizing the feel of your skin, the sound of your breath catching when he finds a place you like.

“No bra?" He says against your skin, a question that isn't really a question.

You huff a quiet laugh, pulling back enough to look at him. “I was expecting sleep...”

“Yeah,” he whispers, sliding a hand higher to cup your breast. The weight of his palm against you, the warmth of his palm makes your breath hitch. “Maybe later.” He leans in and kisses the corner of your mouth, his thumb brushing over your nipple. It stiffens instantly, a shock of pleasure.

You let out a soft gasp, arching into his touch. He’s watching you again, that same focused look, his eyes tracing your face like he’s searching for some kind of permission in your expression to take your shirt off.

“Yeah?” He doesn't stop, just continues his slow, deliberate movements under the fabric. His thumb circles your nipple, each pass sending a jolt straight through you. You can feel the heat building between your legs, a low, persistent ache that’s been there since that first kiss on the couch.

Instead of answering, you tug at the hem of your shirt, pulling it over your head in one fluid motion. It’s not exactly graceful, but it’s efficient, and the cool air hits your skin, sending goosebumps everywhere. But it’s the look on his face that truly makes your breath catch. It’s not hungry, not exactly, but… reverent. Like he’s looking at something beautiful, something worth savoring.

“Wow,” he breathes, his gaze moving from your face down your body, taking you in. There’s no hesitation, no sense of him being overwhelmed. He looks like you’re the only thing in the room. "I always kind of wondered..."

"You've thought about my boobs?" You're aiming for sarcastic, but your voice comes out softer than intended, a little breathless.

His eyes snap back to yours, and he grins, a real, genuine grin that crinkles the corners of his eyes. "Not just your boobs." He leans down, pressing a kiss to your sternum, his lips soft and warm. "I thought about the way you'd laugh if I said something stupid." Another kiss, a little lower, between your breasts. "I thought about the way your eyes get all intense when you're arguing with me about the best way to load a dishwasher."

His mouth travels lower, skimming across your ribs. "And yeah," he admits against your skin, "I thought about your boobs too."

You let out a huff of laughter that turns into a sharp gasp as his tongue traces the underside of your breast. He doesn’t go straight for your nipple, he’s taking his time, tasting you, mapping your skin. His hand that was resting on your back slides up, cradling the back of your head, fingers tangling in your hair as his mouth finally, finally closes over your nipple.

"Fuck," you whisper, arching into him. The sensation is a jolt, hot and sweet, and your fingers tighten in his hair. He applies gentle suction, his tongue flicking against the hardened peak, and his other hand palming your other breast, thumb rolling over that nipple, providing a friction that is almost too much.

"To be fair..." He says, switching over to give the other breast the same attention, voice a low rumble against your skin that makes you shiver. "It's a really great pair of boobs."

You want to laugh, you want to make a witty comeback, but all that comes out is a breathy moan as his teeth scrape lightly against your sensitive skin. He's listening to you, to every sound you make, and responding, adjusting his pressure, his pace, learning what makes you gasp and what makes you squirm. He's not just doing this for himself; he’s doing this for you.

The praise, the way he's looking up at you with his lips wrapped around your nipple, has heat pooling low in your belly, an insistent warmth.

"'Boobs' is such an unsexy word..." you breathe out, more of a reflex than a real complaint. It’s the only defense you have against the way he’s making your hips roll.

He pulls back for a second, his mouth hovering just above your skin, his breath warm against you. "Yeah?" he says, a small, smug smile playing on his lips. "You want me to find a better one? Tits?  Breasts?" He pauses, tracing your other nipple with a finger. His eyes meet yours, dark and serious. "Or how about... beautiful." He kisses the spot between your breasts, right over your heart. "Perfect."

The last word is whispered right before he dives back in, licking a broad stripe between your breasts and up to the hollow of your throat.

This is the most turned on you've been in a while. Your usual sarcasm feels flimsy, useless against his sincerity. It's easier to just let go.

Your hands are restless now, roving over his back, feeling the muscles shift under his thin t-shirt. It's in the way. You want to feel his skin. With a frustrated tug, you start pulling it up, he gets the message immediately, lifting his head and pulling back just enough to yank the shirt over his head in one quick motion.

He tosses it aside. It lands somewhere on the floor, probably on that pile of clean clothes he never puts away.

And there he is. Steve Harrington. Shirtless in his bedroom.

He's not what you were expecting, and you have to force yourself not to stare too openly. It's not bulky muscle. It's the kind that comes from doing things. From lugging around inventory at work and probably playing basketball in his driveway at home. He’s broad in the shoulders, with a light trail of dark hair that starts at his pecs and disappears into the waistband of his sweatpants.

A thin, silvery scar runs diagonally across his ribs. You trace it with your fingertip, a small frown pulling at your lips. "What's this from?"

He looks down, then back at you, a hint of something complicated in his eyes. "Just... from a while ago."

He doesn't elaborate, and the way his gaze shifts just slightly tells you it's not a story for tonight. You can respect that.

You don't ask, you just lean in and press a soft, lingering kiss against the scar. Your lips are warm against his skin. He closes his eyes, and when you pull back, you see his jaw is tight.

You trail your eyes down his body, and the smile that finds you is different. Softer. "Well," you murmur, your voice low. "It's a nice view from here."

He grins, the tension breaking. "Yeah?"

"Mhmm."

He shifts above you, settling his weight more comfortably. He's careful, not crushing you. He nudges his nose against yours, his breath warm. "The view's not bad from here either," he whispers. His eyes travel from your face, down your neck, across your chest and stomach.

He’s slow as he lowers his mouth, kissing the curve of your belly, soft and open-mouthed, and you feel yourself relaxing into his touch. His fingers trace the waistband of your shorts, teasing, and you instinctively lift your hips as he pulls them down.

They get caught on your ankle, a tangle of cotton. You both let out a breath of laughter, the spell of quiet intensity broken for a second as he works the fabric over your feet and tosses them aside.

“Okay,” he grins up at you from where he's kneeling between your legs. “Got it.”

And then his eyes go back to you. To you completely bare. On his bed. The smile fades.

You're used to being looked at. You're not shy. But this is different. He's not just looking; he's seeing, making you feel quiet inside.

"Impressive form," you murmur. You can't help it. It's your shield. "A little clunky, but you got there."

He chuckles, his eyes still fixed on the spot where your thighs meet. The sound is warm, and it vibrates right through you. "Oh, don't worry," he says, his hands braced on your thighs. "My form gets better."

Before you can fire back a reply, he gently spreads your legs apart.

And then he dips his head and kisses the inside of your knee.

It's a soft, deliberate kiss. And he continues from there. He mouths a path up your inner thigh, and his hands follow, warm and slightly calloused from work, gripping you gently. It's the slowest possible version of what this could be. He's not rushing toward the main event; he's taking the scenic route.

Your breath hitches when his mouth ghosts over the crease of your thigh. So close.

He hovers for a beat, and you can feel his warm breath against your pussy, already slick with arousal. The anticipation is unbearable.

"Steve," you whisper. It's half a plea, half a warning. Your bravado is evaporating under the focused heat of his attention.

He looks up at you, his mouth impossibly close, his eyes dark with something that looks like awe. "You're so pretty," he says, his voice a low murmur against your skin. It’s not a question. It's a revelation.

And then his tongue is on you.

A long, slow lick from your entrance to your clit. It's not tentative. It's knowing. The groan he lets out is for your taste. The sound vibrates through your whole body.

"Fuck," you breathe, your head falling back against his pillows.

It was very clear to you earlier that Steve really liked kissing, and that is very obviously a skillset that translates. There’s no aimless exploration. He finds your clit easily, circling it with his tongue, testing the pressure until your hips buck off the bed. He slides two fingers into you, curling them instantly against that sensitive spot inside you that makes your thighs tremble.

"God, right there," you manage to choke out, your hands fisting in his duvet.

He hums in response, a sound of deep satisfaction, and redoubles his efforts. His mouth is a perfect, relentless pressure. His fingers move in a steady, maddening rhythm. He’s watching you from between your thighs, cataloging every shudder, every hitch in your breath, and adjusting his technique accordingly.

He seems… proud. Proud that he can do this to you.

"Look at me," he says, his voice thick and muffled by you.

You force your eyes open. You’re so lost in it you had completely forgotten to be embarrassed or worried you weren't being "cool" about any of this. The sight of him, head tipped up, your wetness glistening on his chin, his pupils blown wide with desire, is the final straw.

"You're so-- fuck, you’re so intentional," you hear yourself say. It's an observation, barely a whisper, stripped of its usual bite. It's an offering.

"Yeah?" he grins, a real, genuine grin before his tongue flicks out for another taste, his fingers never ceasing their movement. "'Cause I want to get it right."

And that does it. That thought of him wanting to get something so right for you, while his mouth is wrapped around your clit, sends a bolt of pure, unadulterated heat through your center. Your back arches, a long, shuddering moan tearing from your throat as your orgasm crashes over you. It's not a quiet, polite thing; it's a full-body wave that leaves you breathless, your hand fisted in the duvet, your toes curled tight.

He doesn't stop. He works you through it, his mouth gentle now, his fingers slowing, drawing out every last spasm until you’re left twitching and boneless on his bed. When he finally lifts his head, his expression is pure, unadulterated pride.

"Jesus, Steve," you manage, your voice wrecked.

He crawls back up your body, settling his weight beside you. His grin is soft, satisfied, and when he leans in to kiss you, you can taste yourself on his tongue. You meet him with equal fervor, your hands wrapping around his neck, pulling him closer, pouring everything you can’t say into the kiss.

It’s you who deepens it, your tongue slick against his, one of your hands almost clumsy as it trails down to the waistband of his sweatpants. You’re not thinking. Not about anything but how you want to give him that same focus, that same careful consideration.

Your fingers find the line of him, hard and straining against the soft cotton. You're met with a soft gasp in your mouth, a sharp intake of breath. He freezes for just a second, surprised, before his hips press into your touch, a silent plea.

His reactions are better than words.

It’s your turn to explore. You slide your hand under the elastic of his pants and boxers, gasping softly into his mouth as your fingers wrap around him, hot and impossibly hard. You’ve spent hours next to this man, and you've never once thought about him like this, not with this intensity. He’s bigger than you expected, thick in your palm, a bead of slick already gathering at the tip. The weight of him feels like a confession, his need a tangible thing in your hand.

“Jesus,” he breathes against your lips, and then your name comes out like a genuine prayer. His body is taut, the muscles in his back bunching under your free hand.

You move your hand in a slow, steady grip, feeling him twitch in your palm. You’re not trying to get him off; you’re exploring, learning his shape, the texture of him.

When you let go he actually whimpers. It's so quiet you wouldn't have heard it if your mouths weren't so close.

He scrambles off you and pushes both layers down. His movements are a little clumsy as he kicks the last of the fabric away. You watch him, propped up on your elbows.

He doesn’t hide. He just hovers over you for a second, completely bare and more vulnerable than you’ve ever seen him, letting you look your fill. 

"Can you... lay on your back?" You whisper, "I just... I want to see you."

Steve blinks. For a second you think you've gone too far, asked for too much. But then his Adam's apple bobs in a slow swallow. He shifts, rolling onto his back beside you, stretching his long body out against the blue sheets of his bed. One arm goes behind his head, his other hand coming to rest on his stomach, just above where his erection lies hard and heavy against him.

The posture is casual. Open. It’s a surrender, and you feel a strange sort of power bloom in your chest. He was just in control, his head between your thighs, but now… now he’s letting you lead.

You shift, kneeling between his legs, and his eyes track your every move, dark and expectant. You lean over, places kisses on each beauty mark that dots his torso until you reach the cluster of them by his navel, where you look up.

“Is this okay?” you murmur, lips pressed lightly against the mole just under his belly button.

“Yeah,” he breathes, the word coming out strained. “More than okay.”

In response, you press an open-mouthed kiss to the base of his cock.

“Fuck.” His whole body tenses, the hand on his stomach clenching into a fist as you take him in your hand, stroking him slowly from base to tip, his pre-come smearing over your palm. The feeling of him in your hand, hot and alive and yours for the taking, is intoxicating.

You don't waste any more time. You wrap your lips around the head of his cock, and the sound he makes is a beautiful, broken thing.

Your hand settle on on his hip, the other wrapped around his shaft as you start to move.

He’s trying so, so hard to be quiet at first, the sounds catching in his throat. And sure, you remember everything that Eddie has said about the guy he used to be, the cocky jock whose voice was a loud, obnoxious thing at parties. But this is not that guy. This guy is trembling under you. This guy smells like soap and cheap wine and happiness and the heat of his own skin.

And this guy falls apart in minutes under your mouth.

His hips start to rock, small, helpless movements. His hand, previously clenched on his stomach, now comes to rest at the back of your head. He's not guiding you, not demanding, just resting it there, his fingers gently tangled in your hair as you work your tongue along the underside of his cock. He's learned, already, that you don't need to be told what to do.

Then his hips start to rock just that little bit more. That's all the permission you need.

You go lower, taking him deeper. His breath hitches as his cock hits the back of your throat and he tries, he really tries, to stop from babbling. A string of nonsense ends with a deep moan of your name as he loses the battle.

"So good... holy shit, you're so..." He breaks off into a guttural sound when you cup his balls, rolling them gently in your palm. "Fuck, don't stop, please don't..." It’s the first time he’s sounded truly desperate.

You don't intend to stop. You pull back for air before taking him deep again, faster this time, more confident. The hand in your hair tightens, not painfully, just... holding on.

"Look at you," he breathes out.

You glance up at him through your lashes. The look on his face is wrecked. All that former-cool-kid confidence completely gone, replaced with this raw, open-need. He’s watching your lips stretch around him, watching you take him, and the sight alone is enough to push him closer to the edge.

"I'm... I'm close," he manages to get out, his voice ragged. "You should... I'm gonna..." He's trying to be a gentleman. He's trying to warn you.

Instead of pulling back, you take him as deep as you can, your hand stroking what your mouth can't reach, and look him dead in the eye as you do. The silent permission, the greedy acceptance, is his undoing.

His whole body goes rigid. He calls out your name, one last, sharp, breathless cry, as he spills in your mouth. His hips stutter, his hand in your hair holding you there as you swallow him down, the taste of him salty and warm and utterly Steve.

After, you let him fall from your lips, pressing a soft, final kiss to his still-sensitive tip. You look up at him from your position between his thighs. He’s sprawled on the bed, his chest heaving, his eyes closed. He looks completely undone. A state of him you've absolutely never seen and you are the cause of it.

You feel a surge of something that's equal parts satisfaction and affection as you crawl back up his body. He gathers you into his arms the second you're in reach, pulling you flush against his side. His mouth finds yours instantly, a hungry, messy kiss that doesn't care where your mouth just was.

"You..." He breathes out as he pulls back, but he doesn't seem to have any other words. He just shakes his head, a slow, amazed movement. He buries his face in your neck, his breath hot and damp against your skin. "You're..."

You trail your fingers through his hair, damp with sweat at the temples. "I think the word you're looking for is 'intentional'," you whisper, a ghost of a smile on your lips. He chuckles, his breath warm against you.

"No," he says. "The word is perfect."

His hand starts to move again, tracing slow circles on your hip. He kisses your shoulder, your collarbone, your neck. His mouth is lazy and sweet, the both of you pushed to a soft, warm exhaustion. You could stay like this all night, a tangle of limbs and warm skin. But the hand on your hip moves.

It trails down, back to the place he already wrecked. His fingers slide through your wetness, exploring your slick, oversensitive folds. You twitch, a soft sigh escaping your lips as he gently pushes two fingers back inside you.

It's a feeling of coming home. He curls his fingers, finding that same spot as before. Not enough to make you come again, not yet. Just a promise. A reminder. He moves in and out of you with a slow, deliberate rhythm. His thumb finds your clit, circling it in time with the slide of his fingers.

"You feel so good," he whispers against your ear, and his voice is soft, not heated. It's like he's not even trying to get this to lead to anything more. He just wants to feel you. His touch is confident and caring in a way you've never experienced.

You turn your head to kiss him. It's slow and sweet.

His fingers work you, slow and sweet till you cum again. It's not the sharp, bright crash of your first orgasm, it's deeper, softer. A gentle wave of pleasure rolls through you, and you let out a soft, breathy moan into his mouth. Your body shudders against his.

When it's over, you slump bonelessly against him.

He holds you while the tremors run their course, his other hand tracing soothing patterns on your back. It's as close to perfect as you can imagine. He brings his fingers to his lips to taste you, and in his eyes, you see a flicker of the same awe from before. You also see a hint of something else. Something you’ve only ever seen hints of. Pride. Pride in you and pride in the fact that you are in his bed.

You pull back a little, looking down at him. His face is bathed in the soft, moonlit glow from the window. His hair is a mess on the pillow, his lips are kiss swollen, and he has a soft, contented look on his face.

"What?" he asks, a slow smile spreading across his face.

"Nothing. Can we... can we sleep? Like this?" You ask, already feeling a wave of sleepiness crash over you.

"I was hoping you'd say that." He pulls the duvet over the both of you, tucking it around your shoulders.

He pulls you into his arms again, and you rest your head on his chest. He’s warm and solid under you, and you can feel the steady, even beat of his heart against your cheek. It's a rhythm that's already starting to feel familiar, comforting.

Steve’s not a stranger anymore. He’s Steve.

Your very real Steve.

Your eyes drift closed. The last thing you hear is the quiet hum of his breathing.

You wake slowly, your mind piecing things together one at a time.

The sheets are softer than yours. The light is coming from the wrong side of the room. There is an arm draped over your waist, heavy and warm. It takes a second before it clicks. This isn’t your room.

You breathe out quietly and look around. The window is cracked just enough to let in a thin line of sunlight, catching on the framed car poster near the closet and the pile of clothes on the chair. It smells like sex and laundry detergent.

Carefully, you lift his arm from your waist. He doesn’t move. He’s out cold, flat on his stomach, hair a complete disaster, face half-buried in the pillow. You gather your oversized t-shirt from the floor and pull it over your head. Your shorts are nowhere in immediate sight, so you don’t bother looking long.

You pause at the edge of the bed and glance back at him. His back rises and falls in a steady rhythm, mouth slightly open, a small frown between his eyebrows like he’s dreaming about something frustrating. You feel something tug in your chest, and you’re not sure if it’s regret or something much worse.

The apartment is quiet when you step into the hall. The wood floors are cool under your feet. You head to the kitchen, pulling your hair out of your face with one hand while the other starts the coffee maker. The smell fills the room fast. It steadies you a little.

You pour a cup and lean against the counter, drinking it over the sink while looking out the window. Hawkins is already awake. A couple of kids are walking their bikes down Main, Joyce Byers is sweeping the front steps of Melvad’s, and a thin layer of snow dusts the street. The kind that won’t last long once the sun hits it.

The coffee burns a little going down, but it feels good. You’re trying not to think about the night before, but it keeps replaying anyway. His hands, his focus, the way he said your name like it meant something.

You don’t hear him right away, but then there’s a low, sleepy voice behind you.

“Morning.”

You turn just slightly, enough to see him out of the corner of your eye. His hair is sticking up everywhere, and he’s just in his boxers. He walks past you to the coffee pot, yawning, and pours himself a cup.

“Morning,” you say quietly.

He leans against the counter next to you, shoulders brushing as he takes a sip. For a moment, neither of you speaks. The silence isn’t exactly uncomfortable, but it’s heavier than it should be.

You glance at him. “I’m sorry if this ruined our dynamic as roommates.”

He looks at you over the rim of his mug, a small smile tugging at his mouth. “Yeah, it definitely ruins the roommate dynamic.”

You blink, unsure if you should laugh. “Oh.”

He sees your expression change and shakes his head quickly. “No, no, I mean—” He sets his mug down and turns to face you fully. “It definitely ruins the fake dating thing too.”

That doesn’t help. You look down into your coffee, your stomach sinking a little. “Right.”

He groans softly, rubbing a hand through his hair. “That came out wrong. I meant… it’s not fake anymore.”

You look up. His eyes are clear now, not sleepy, not joking. “I just… I figured this meant we went from ‘very real’ to actually… very real,” he says quietly.

For a second, you can’t find words. 

You meet his eyes again, and the small, nervous smile that follows is enough to make your heart trip over itself.

You take a slow breath. “Oh,” you say again, but this time it’s different. Softer.

He takes a small step closer. “So… is this— us. Are we okay?”

You lean your hip against the counter, considering him. “I don’t think I’d call us ruined.”

A quiet laugh escapes him, and he steps forward until he’s right in front of you. “I'd disagree. I feel pretty ruined from that mouth of yours--"

"Shut your mouth about my mouth." You groan, cheeks warming.

He grins wider now. "No. I don't think I will."

His smile softens again. It’s disarming, the way he can swing from teasing to sincere without missing a beat.

He reaches past you for your coffee mug, taking it from your hand and setting it on the counter beside his. Then he snakes his hands around your waist. But instead of pulling you in, he steps behind you, wrapping his arms around your front and resting his chin on your shoulder. It’s a comfortable position, intimate in a way that feels new. You can feel his warm breath against your ear. You cover his hands with your own, leaning your head back against his shoulder. 

“I’m really hoping you’re not going to go back to your room and pretend this didn’t happen,” he says, his voice low against your ear.

“No,” you say. “I really don’t want that.”

You don’t. The thought of going back to the carefully constructed farce you had between you feels impossible now.

"Good..." he murmurs. "But just to make sure..."

His hands move under your big shirt and settle on your hips and he nudges your thighs open with his knee, pressing himself against you. There’s no mistaking his intent, but it’s gentle, a question more than a demand.

You can feel him, half hard already, pressing against the thin fabric of his boxers. And this time, you push back, grinding your ass against him in a slow, deliberate movement.

He makes a soft, choked sound. "Okay, so... same page?" he manages, his breath hitching.

"Mhmm," you hum, turning your head to kiss his jaw. He tilts his head down to meet your mouth.

"Lean over the sink," he says, his voice low. "Please."

The 'please' is a key detail. A signpost.

You grip the edges of the counter. You can see the two of you in the small window above the sink: you, in your oversized black t-shirt; him, shirtless and strong behind you. It’s a raw, unfiltered image. You watch as he slowly, deliberately pulls down his boxers just enough, and you watch his face in the reflection.

He lines himself up. Instead of just pushing in, he traces the tip of his cock along your slick folds, back and forth, letting you feel the weight of him without rushing. He’s watching your face in the reflection, his own expression tight with control.

“Are you on…” he starts, trailing off.

You nod against the cool metal of the faucet. “Yeah.”

“Yeah,” he breathes out in relief. “Good.”

He notches the head of his cock at your entrance, and for a long moment, he just stays there, a hot, firm pressure. He’s pushing in so slowly, inch by torturous inch, your knuckles are white on the counter. The stretch is immense, a deep, fulfilling ache.

He watches the whole thing in the reflection.

You don't just feel watched, you feel worshipped. It’s unnerving, it’s intoxicating. He watches his cock disappear into you like it’s the most beautiful thing he has ever seen, his breath caught in his throat.

"You okay?" he grunts out once he's fully inside you, his hands gripping your hips, his chest pressed against your back.

You can only nod again, a choked sound in your throat. Words are useless. You feel incredibly full, more connected to him than even last night. And all he’s doing is breathing.

His first withdrawal is slow too. A long, steady drag that leaves you feeling empty before he pushes back in, a deep, smooth thrust that makes your eyes roll back in your head. You feel every inch of him.

“Shit,” you whisper, pushing back to meet him.

He lets out a low groan. “Yeah?”

“Mhmm.”

“Let’s make this official, then,” he murmurs. He wraps one arm securely around your waist, pulling you back against him while his other hand slides down to find your clit. His movements are deliberate and assured.

“You feel so good around me,” he says, voice raspy and loving. "Could feel like this every day." His fingers begin to circle your clit. He starts to find his rhythm, a steady, deep rocking motion that has you bracing yourself against the counter.

You watch him in the window. The way his jaw clenches with effort, the way his biceps flex as he holds you. You watch your own face, lips parted, eyes hazy with pleasure.

The pace builds slowly. Each thrust a little harder, a little deeper, and the drag of him inside you is sending sparks of electricity up your spine. His fingers on your clit move in time, relentless, as your orgasm starts to build.

"Could be my very real girlfriend..." he whispers in your ear as his hips piston a little harder. "Could do this whenever you want..."

His voice, the raw need, the permission to have this, it's all too much. "Steve..." you manage, your voice cracking. You reach back, a hand finding his hip, nails digging into his skin as you try to hold on, to ground yourself, but he won't let you.

“Take you on dates, real ones,” he pants. “Not just fake ones for Dorothea.” His thumb presses harder, circles faster. “Go to the movies and hold your hand in the dark. Come home and do this."

Your orgasm crashes through you. It's a white-hot wave that steals your breath and makes your vision blur. You're crying out his name, a long, ragged sound that echoes in the quiet kitchen. Your legs tremble, your body going weak as the pleasure overwhelms you. The hand braced on the counter almost slips.

He holds you steady through it. He doesn't stop. His hips keep pistoning, drawing out your orgasm, milking you for every last shudder.

"You sound... so pretty when you do that," he groans, his voice thick with desire. He's close, so close. You can feel it in the erratic rhythm of his thrusts, the way his breath hitches. His grip on you tightens, his fingers digging into your flesh.

His rhythm stutters. He buries his face in your neck, his mouth hot against your skin as he lets out a string of curses. His hips jerk forward, and he’s coming with a final, deep thrust, spilling into you with a shudder. He presses his forehead between your shoulder blades and breathes you in for a minute. His body is hot and heavy against yours, a dead weight that is one of the best things you have ever felt.

Neither of you speaks. There is just the sound of your breathing, the distant hum of the city, and the quiet aftermath of it all. It’s not awkward. It’s more. It’s heavy in the best way.

Finally, he straightens up, slowly, carefully. He presses a soft kiss to your shoulder before pulling out gently, leaving you feeling suddenly empty. You stay leaning against the counter for a second, trying to find your legs.

"Hey," he says softly, his voice still a little rough. "You okay?"

You turn around to face him fully and he's reaching to grab a clean dishcloth from the drawer, hand going around you to wet it in the sink, the other hand on your hip keeping you steady. He’s gentle as he cleans you up. He’s done this before. But this is not a rehearsed performance. It's an act of reverence that makes your throat tighten.

You finally look up and meet his eyes. He looks as wrecked as you feel. "Yeah," you say, and your voice is hoarse. "I'm really okay."

He looks a little shy, as you watch him clean himself up a little with the cloth before pulling up his boxers.

"I'm going to make some more coffee," he says, clearing his throat a little. "And then... then I think I'm going to do something incredibly uncool and make you pancakes."

You laugh, surprised by the sudden domesticity of it all. "Pancakes?"

"Yeah," he says, a slow grin spreading across his face. "Pancakes. From your hopefully very real boyfriend..."

He trails off, and you decide to help him out. You step forward and wrap your arms around his bare torso, pressing your cheek against his chest. You can feel his heart beating under your ear.

"I think I'm going to be incredibly uncool too," you mumble into his skin. "And let your very real girlfriend have some."

He hugs you back, and you just stand there for a moment, wrapped around each other in the brightening kitchen. This is new territory, but it doesn't feel scary. It feels right.

He pulls back after a minute, and you can't help but admire him again. He's relaxed in a way he hasn't been before, with an easy smile on his face.

"I'm going to be really honest, though." He says, looking sheepish. "I'm not actually that good at making pancakes."

You snort, and start rummaging through a drawer, eventually pulling out a wooden spoon and a mixing bowl. "Shut up. You are not getting out of this."

He laughs, reaching for his coffee mug again. "Okay, okay. But no laughing when they're a little... lumpy."

You watch him for a minute, a real smile finally breaking through your usual guarded expression. This is it, then. The thing you’ve been dancing around for months. It's not a performance for Dorothea or a convenient solution to awkward landlord encounters. It's just Steve. You. A kitchen that smells like sex and brewing coffee. And a coming promise of slightly lumpy pancakes.

"Wouldn't dream of it, Steve," you say softly, leaning your hip against the counter and watching him gather ingredients. "Wouldn't dream of it."