echambieee

Across from you, Dustin is locked in a heated debate about the optimal way to rewire a walkie-talkie for "extended range, not for illegal surveillance, Steve, god."

Steve’s been half-listening, throwing in the occasional dry, "That sounds like a one-way ticket to getting your house raided by the Feds, Henderson."

You’re tucked into Steve’s side, but you’ve gone quiet. Not sad. Just… full. The noise is a buzzing hive in your ears, the movement a blur at the edges of your vision. Words feel heavy and far away.

So you retreat to one of your favourite places: Steve’s hands.

He’s got one arm around you, his fingers drawing idle patterns on your shoulder. His other hand rests in his own lap, palm up, relaxed. It’s an open invitation.

You take it. Gently, you slip your hand into his. You trace the lines of his palm with your thumb, following the life line, the heart line, as if reading a map written just for you. You fiddle with his fingers, bending them slightly at the knuckle, then straightening them.

He feels like his heart is going to melt right out of his chest. His focus drifts away from the kids and to you instead. His world is contained within the circle of his arms and your gentle, fidgeting hands.

Steve starts to reciprocate the quiet attention. His thumb begins to move, stroking slow, rhythmic arcs across the back of your hand held in his lap.

When Dustin’s voice reaches a particularly piercing peak, Steve feels the tiniest flinch in your fingers. He reacts instantly, his head coming up. His voice is calm but carries a gentle, firm authority that cuts through the noise.

“Hey. Volume, Henderson. Dial it back a notch.”

Dustin pauses, mid-rant, and looks over. “Oh. Right. Sorry,” he says, his voice dropping several decibels.

Steve nods, his attention already returning to you. He leans down again, his lips near your ear. “Too much?” he murmurs, the words barely audible.

You shake your head, finally looking up at him. Your eyes are a little wide, but full of a trust so profound it makes his breath catch. You offer him a small, shy smile.

That’s all he needs. The sun could have exploded outside, and in this moment, Steve Harrington would only have eyes for that smile.

He smiles back, his whole face transforming with a warmth that has nothing to do with the basement’s heat. He lifts your joined hands and presses a lingering kiss to your knuckles.

“Are we boring you?” Mike’s voice, laced with familiar teenage exasperation, cuts through the moment.

Steve doesn’t pull away from you, he just turns his head, cheek resting on top of your hair. “Yeah, Wheeler. You are. My beautiful girlfriend is right here, and you're talking about resistors. It’s not even a contest.”

Lucas lets out a short, sharp laugh. “He’s gone. Fully checked out.”

“Seriously, Steve?” Dustin groans, though he’s smiling. “This is crucial communications infrastructure! You’re telling me that doesn’t hold a candle to… to what, exactly? What is she even doing?”

“Nothing that concerns you, man,” Steve says, his voice a low, contented rumble. He’s not looking at them. He’s looking at the way your thumb has started tracing slow circles on his wrist, right over his pulse. He can feel his heartbeat under your touch, steady and sure for you. It’s almost too much.

From her spot in the corner with El, Max cocks her head. “He’s got that look on his face.”

“What look?” Mike grumbles, finally looking up from the disemboweled walkie-talkie on the carpet.

“The one he gets when he’s about to start crying."

Steve huffs a soft laugh, but it’s shaky. He’s not denying it. He feels raw, peeled open by the sheer, quiet force of your affection.

You feel the tremble in his hands. You look up at him, your shy smile fading into soft concern. You squeeze his fingers gently, a silent question, cocking your head just a little.

He shakes his head, pressing another quick kiss to your knuckles, as if to reassure you. “I’m okay. I’m just… really okay.” He clears his throat. “C’mon. Let’s blow this popsicle stand.”

Steve stands, pulling you up with him, but doesn’t let go of your hand. As he leads you toward the stairs, the kids launch into their usual commentary.

“There he goes!” Dustin announces, as if narrating a wildlife documentary. “The male, once dominant and alert, has been completely disarmed by a display of simple tactile affection. His higher brain functions are shutting down. All that remains is the urge to provide snacks and soft blankets.”

“We get it, you have a girlfriend who likes you,” Mike mutters, though it lacks its usual venom.

"Yeah, one who hasn't dumped your ass," Max teases Mike.

El stifles a laugh.

Mike’s head snaps up, his face flushing instantly. “Shut up, Max! That was— it was mutual!”

“Yeah, right,” Lucas snickers, nudging Will. “Super mutual. I remember the mutual crying.”

“The mutual moping,” Will adds, grinning.

Mike throws his hands up. “You guys are the worst! Steve, are you hearing this? Defend me!”

Steve pauses at the foot of the stairs, one hand on the railing, the other still holding yours. “Defend you?” Steve echoes, a slow, shit-eating grin spreading across his face. “Wheeler, look at this. Look at what I’ve got. I’m in the middle of a… a personal victory here. You’re on your own, kid.”

Mike groans, sinking further into the couch. “Traitor.”

Steve’s grin softens just a fraction, turning more fond than teasing. “Get your girlfriend back, then we’ll talk.” He flashes a wink at El who smiles shyly before giving your fingers a gentle squeeze, his gaze returning to you, the softness flooding back in. “Ready, angel?”

You nod, a little overwhelmed by the intense focus of his attention.

As you reach the top of the stairs, Dustin starts again. “And thus, the hierarchy is established. Harrington, smug and emotionally compromised, remains at the top. Wheeler, tragically single and roasted, remains at the bottom. The natural order is preserved.”

Steve shakes his head, a quiet laugh escaping him as he leads you out of the house, towards his car.

He opens the passenger door for you, jogs around to the driver’s side and gets in, but he doesn’t start the engine yet. He just turns in his seat to face you, the interior light casting soft shadows on his face.

“You were worried about me down there,” he murmurs.

“You were shaking,” you whisper, looking down at your lap where your hands are now folded. “I didn’t like it.”

The raw concern in your tone, the admission that you were watching him so closely, seems to undo him all over again. He reaches out, his fingers gently tilting your chin up so you have to look at him.

“It was a good kind of shaking,” he promises, his thumb stroking your jaw. “It's just... no one’s ever… paid that much attention to me. Not like that. Not just to… to me. Steve.”

You reach up, covering his hand on your cheek with your own. “I like Steve,” you say, the words simple and true.

A choked sound escapes him. A tear finally spills over, tracing a path down his cheek. He doesn’t wipe it away. “Yeah?” he whispers, his voice cracking. “You like this mess?”

You nod, leaning forward to press a soft, shy kiss to the tear track on his cheek. Then another to his other cheek. “I like this mess,” you murmur against his skin. “A lot.”

That does it. He lets out a soft, broken sob and pulls you into a hug across the centre console, his arms wrapping tightly around you, his face buried in your neck.

“My sweet, shy girl,” he mumbles into your skin, his voice muffled and wet. “You’re gonna kill me with how good you are. I don’t know what I did to deserve you.”

You just hold him back, one hand stroking his hair, the other rubbing slow circles on his back. You don’t have the words to tell him he deserves everything. So you show him, in the only language you feel truly confident in—the silent, steady language of touch.

Eventually, his breathing steadies. He pulls back just enough to look at you, his face blotchy and beautiful. He gives you a watery, radiant smile. You know, completely, that he'd do anything for you.

“Okay,” he breathes, wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand, laughing a little at himself. “Okay. Let’s get you home. I think I need to look at you somewhere that isn’t Mike Wheeler’s driveway.”

He starts the car, and as he pulls onto the quiet street, he immediately reaches for your hand again, lacing his fingers through yours and resting them on his thigh.

El has passed out with her head in Robin’s lap, the older girl gently stroking El’s hair not unlike one might pet a cat while she’s engaged in some lively debate with Dustin about…well, Steve’s not entirely sure; he hasn’t been paying much attention. Lucas snuck off with Max a little while ago after receiving a very stern glare from Steve that promised pain if the shit-head didn’t keep everything above board, leaving Will and Mike to sit together with their heads bowed as they discuss their current campaign.

And then there’s you.

Steve spent most of the early evening keeping the strictest of eyes on you and Robin; he may not have protected his frontal lobe while it was developing, but he knows better than to leave the two of you unsupervised for an extended period of time, even more so when there’s alcohol involved. 

But as the night drags on, you’ve gone soft and pliant in your seat beside him, leaning heavily into his side as you play with his hand that you’ve trapped within your grip. You’re so still, so calm, that the only reason he knows you’re still awake is by the way your fingers trace the creases of his one hand while he nurses a warm, nearly flat beer with his other. 

He’s about to ask you how you’re feeling, if you need anything, if you’re almost ready to leave, when you – his sweet, lovely girlfriend – ask him a question. 

“Steve?”

Your head never strays from his shoulder, as though lifting your head is an impossible feat, to peek up at him through your lashes only to find him already looking down at you. 

“Yeah?”

“I was wondering if you’d please be my boyfriend,” you continue, very polite in your request. 

A funny smile takes over Steve’s face as he tries not to laugh at you lest the night devolve into wounded tears. He’s been your boyfriend for almost two years now.

“You’d like me to be your boyfriend?” He clarifies, earning him a hum of agreement from you. 

He squints and purses his lips, pretending to consider it. “Well, I don’t know…what would I get out of it?”

And, God love you, you actually take a minute to consider that. What could Steve Harrington possibly get out of being the sweetest, prettiest, funniest, loveliest girl’s boyfriend? 

Beats me, he thinks sarcastically, happier than he’s ever been with you hanging off his arm.

You’ve turned your attention back to his hand, manipulating his fingers and wrist this way and that way though your grip never grows mean. In fact, you’re impossibly gentle with him, so tender that he feels it like a solid weight in his chest. Whatever response you manage to come up with, you mutter it at his hand.

“Hm? What’s that?” Steve encourages, nudging you with his elbow which sees you craning your neck to lay your head back against the couch; he thinks it might almost be time to get you home to bed.

“I d’know what you’d get,” you admit with a sigh, blinks heavy as though your lashes hold a new weight. “Just thought it’d be nice to do this more.”

“Do what?” Steve asks, thoroughly delighted. “Do this?”

You hum in agreement when he squeezes your hand. “It’s nice to cuddle, isn’t it?”

“The nicest,” he agrees. “Do I not cuddle you enough, sweetheart? Is that what all this is about?” 

Your answering hum is noncommittal at best, wary at worst. Steve hates the thought that he’s somehow left you wanting, though he already fields insults from Robin who calls him a velcro-boyfriend. He’s not sure how much cuddlier he can get, but he can try. 

“S’just that I think you’d be a very good boyfriend.”

Well, isn’t that just the best compliment a boyfriend could get. “Yeah? Thank you, baby. I’d love to be your boyfriend.”

Your grin is a sticky, gooey thing; drawn out and intentional as you peek up at him again. Between the speed (or lack thereof) of your blinks and your smile, Steve isn’t expecting the surge of movement that finds you clumsily clamoring into his lap.

He quickly abandons his room-temp beer, freeing his hand to provide you the leverage needed to maneuver yourself while the other settles over his lap, protecting his crotch from any errant elbows or knees. 

“Jesus, easy, easy; watch the goods,” he hisses as you settle heavily on top of him, eliciting a breathless oof from the both of you. “Better?”

“Th’best,” you hum in appreciation, nuzzling your cheek into his shoulder and reclaiming the same hand of his you’d been fiddling with before, tracing the creases in his palm.

Steve grins, looking up to find Robin smirking at him from across the room with a knowing look on her face. 

He shrugs his shoulders and gestures towards you, making a face as though saying can you believe this girl? 

Robin mouths something that looks an awful lot like velcro. Steve flips her off with the hand behind your back; you remain none the wiser to anything that isn’t Steve’s love line. 

And to top it all off, you were his best friend's older sister. A feisty full-blown Henderson, a bad-tempered smartass, someone capable of pushing his buttons and turning his world upside down. Sometimes he thought you were even more annoying than Dustin, and that was an understatement.

But he loved you, to the core. You were so fearless, the best sister and friend, always humble, kind-hearted, and selfless.

He told himself it was stupid. He was stupid.

You barely tolerated him.

The first few days of your unlikely and emerging friendship you hardly glanced at him, only greeting him out of politeness.

Then, the first few months had been quite rough, more for him than for you. Because there were days, moments when he would try his heart out to catch your attention, to make you laugh, to at least have you smile at him, just for him.

Because Steve Harrington had always been the kind of boy who was used to being liked. Effortlessly. Girls smiled at him in the hallways, teachers forgave him things they never should have, and life had a funny way of opening doors for him without him even knocking. All his life, everything had been laid out for him on a silver platter; he didn't even have to put in much effort in order to get what he wanted.

But you?

You were a locked door.

You didn't like Steve Harrington.

And yet, you always felt that icy, crushing sense of jealousy creep over you whenever you saw Steve draw closer to Nancy, choose her above others, and compete with Jonathan for her attention and appreciation.

“You know Nancy has a boyfriend, right?” you asked him once, your expression too grim to match the humor in your voice. He had spent most of the afternoon competing with Jonathan over who had killed more monsters from the Upside Down—something completely ridiculous. “And that's Jon?”

Steve huffs at the way you pronounce that nickname, closing the passenger door of your Jeep and settling into the seat. “I was just saying facts. I did kill more shit down there last year. Jonathan wasn't even there.”

“He was in California. What the hell did you want him to do from California, Steve?” you retort in an overly defensive tone, determined to defend the honor of your childhood best friend.

Because of course you would leap to Jonathan's defense. That aggravated Steve even more.

He raises his eyebrows, smirking with triumphant mockery, “Exactly.”

“Can you two stop arguing like an old married couple?” Dustin chimes in, popping up between the two front seats from the back and glaring at you both with a sour look on his face. “And maybe drive? I'm going to be late.”

Steve leans back in his seat, arms crossed, jaw tight.

Jonathan Byers.

It was always Jonathan Byers.

Steve had never said it out loud—because admitting it would make him sound small, petty, exactly the kind of guy he was trying not to be anymore—but the jealousy had been there from the very beginning. From the way Jonathan knew you before he ever did. From the way you laughed more freely around him, softer, unguarded, safe. From the way you touched Jonathan's arm when you talked, a casual familiarity Steve would have killed for.

He hated that Jonathan didn't even have to try.

That he got your trust without earning it.

“So,” Steve mutters, staring out the window, “you and Byers hang out a lot now.”

You had already dropped Dustin off at Mike's house, so the two of you were all alone now, which was a rare occurrence lately. 

You glance at him for a fraction of a second, catching the stiffness in his shoulders and jaw, and the way he averts eye contact entirely. He looks like a grumpy little boy, it's kind of funny and cute. “We've been friends since we were kids. We've always hung out.”

“Yeah. I know,” he says quickly, as if the words were venom on his tongue. “Just saying.”

There it is. He's such a passive-aggressive jerk when it comes to Jonathan.

“You're always just saying things about him,” you shoot back. "What's your problem, Harrington?”

That finally makes him look at you.

“Problem? My problem?” he laughs, sharp and humorless. He looks awkward now, a little self-conscious. “Nothing. Why would I have a problem?”

Probably because Jonathan is your best friend.

Because when you're scared, you reach for him first.

Because he knows things about you Steve doesn't—and maybe never will.

You sigh, exhausted, shaking your head disapprovingly. “You act like he's done some evil thing to you.”

Steve swallows. “He hasn't.”

That's the worst part.

Because Jonathan Byers had never been really cruel to him. Sure, he disliked him as much as Steve disliked him, and he kind of stole Nancy from him when they were still together, but he had never been intentionally rude. 

Jonathan was just... there. Steady. Familiar. Important. Close.

Everything Steve wanted to be.

He also knew that you weren't exactly his type.

Because the truth was, you never had been.

You were better.

You were someone who saw meaning in shadows, who believed stories could save people, who challenged him without trying to change him. You saw him as he really was. You see him.

Jonathan was your person. Your best friend.

But, no matter what, Steve had always been special enough.

It made no sense, and you hated that the feeling existed at all.

Because you didn't want Steve Harrington.

You didn't like his stupid hair, or the way he pretended not to care when things hurt him, or how he filled silence with silly jokes. You definitely didn't like how easily people forgave him, how quickly Nancy Wheeler smiled at him, how natural it seemed for her to fit at his side.

So why did your stomach twist every time you caught him looking at her?

You told yourself it was protectiveness. That you were just being a good sister. A good friend. Dustin adored Steve, and maybe—maybe—you were just afraid he'd get hurt again.

But that lie got harder to swallow the longer it went on.

Because Steve had a bad habit of showing up when things fell apart. When your mom was working late and you kept having nightmares, Steve was right there, answering your three-in-the-morning phone call without hesitation. When the world went to hell—literally—Steve never ran. He stayed. Bloody, shaking, terrified, but still standing between danger and the people he loved.

Between danger and you.

And you hated how safe he made you feel.

There were nights when you sat across from him on the floor of your room, knees almost touching, sharing a blanket and a silence that felt too heavy to be accidental, a long-forgotten movie was playing on your television screen. You might not have paid attention to it, nor did you appreciate its corny jokes, but his laughter was all it took to make your day and night. His laughter was softer around you, more careful.

Falling for Steve Harrington felt like stepping off a cliff without knowing if there was ground below.

It had started innocently enough, in one of those impromptu gatherings that somehow always ended up at Steve's big house because his parents were never home and because, for some reason, he never said no when someone needed a place.

You remember that night very clearly.

Robin had shown up first, already halfway through a stolen bottle of something that tasted like regret and cough syrup. And Nancy and Jon showed up together a few minutes later, swearing they wouldn't get all lovey-dovey with booze in their system.

And then there was you.

Sitting cross-legged on the living room floor, back against the couch, laughing harder than you meant to as Robin—dramatically as ever— was telling you about the times at Scoops Ahoy, and how Steve kept blowing his flirting attempts with pretty girls.

At some point, with the sun already setting on the horizon of an uncharacteristically quiet Hawkins, the alcohol softened the edges of the room.

So, someone suggested the pool like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Robin was the first one in, cannonballing without warning and shrieking at the cold water. Nancy followed shortly after, already in their swimsuits, laughter bright and careless, Jonathan close behind her. 

You stayed seated on the edge, feet dangling just above the water, denim already warm from the sunset, watching them with an amused smile.

“Come on, Henderson,” Robin calls, eyes glinting with trouble. “Live a little.”

“I didn't bring a swimsuit,” you protest, pointing down at yourself. “Unlike you degenerates.”

“And? That's never stopped anyone before,” she chirps too cheerfully, creeping dangerously close to you.

You don't even have time to register her next movement.

One second Robin is grinning at you, the next her hands are on you, and then—

You scream.

Cold water swallows you whole, clothes and all, the shock ripping the air from your lungs. When you resurface, sputtering and furious, the sound of laughter echoes around the backyard of Steve's big mansion.

“Buckley!” you whine out, hair plastered to your face, shirt clinging uncomfortably to your skin. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“I regret nothing!” she shouts back, already retreating as Nancy splashed her in retaliation, laughing heartily.

Steve hadn't laughed.

He was already at the edge of the pool, crouched down, concern etched into his face as he reached out instinctively, his absurdly overpriced beer bottle abandoned on the ground, and his sunglasses — totally unnecessary since it was late afternoon — propped up in his hair. 

“Hey—hey, you okay?”

You nod, still catching your breath, suddenly very aware of how soaked you were. How cold. How exposed.

“Yeah,” you respond, sulking. “I'm gonna fucking kill her in her sleep.”

Steve snorts softly, relief washing over him. “Yeah, That's the bare minimum we expect from you.”

He hesitates just for half a second before standing up and helps you out of the pool, hands tightly holding yours, one of them sliding down to your waist, with an awkward, hesitant touch.

His chocolate-brown eyes are glowing every time they shift from your chest to your face and back again, taking in how see-through the damp fabric of your shirt is now. “Uh... you can borrow something of mine— I mean, if you want. So you don't freeze.”

You blink at him, hugging yourself and feeling a little self-conscious. “You sure?”

It's strange to say the least. You'd had a few tough weeks, you had grown a little distant from each other since that thing on your car. Out of some silly jealousy, that's why.

And still, Steve is treating you with the same decency and care as in your glory days as friends. Just like always.

He shrugs, pretending it was no big deal. “Yeah. I've got like... a million hoodies.”

That is an understatement.

You follow him back inside his house, dripping quietly through the empty halls, covering yourself with a towel that he had handed you, the noise from outside muffling behind you. Steve leads you upstairs, steps careful, like he is afraid to scare you off.

“My room's—uh—here,” he says, pushing the door open.

Even though you had been to his house several times, for whatever reason, you had never been in his room before. So this was a new experience for you. One that, even though you didn't want to admit it, you found particularly intriguing.

And it is... nothing like you expected.

Not messy. Not careless. But warm. Thoughtful.

Your eyes wander before you could stop them.

A stack of vinyl records sat neatly by his turntable—records you recognize immediately. Your favorites. The ones you'd mentioned once, offhandedly, during a late-night conversation you hadn't thought he remembered.

There are movies too. VHS tapes lined carefully along a shelf—old horror, indie films, that one foreign movie you loved and had insisted was misunderstood. A couple of well-worn books lay stacked on his nightstand, spines cracked, margins dog-eared.

You pick one up slowly.

“This is... mine,” you say softly. “I mean—this is my favorite.”

Steve is frozen in place, turning to face you from within his open closet doors, previously very involved in a search for a pair of shorts that are preferably smaller than the ones he usually wears and a hoodie, for you.

“Oh. Yeah. You said you liked it,” he replies, too casually, spectacularly downplaying the significance of the situation.

You turn to him, eyes landing on the broad expanse of his back as he went back into digging through his clothes. “Steve... you don't— you don't even read.”

He laughs nervously, still not looking at you. “I do, sugar. N-now.”

The nickname slips out casually, he says it so sweetly. It's the first time you've heard him call you that in days. And it brings a cute little smile to your face.

There are photos pinned crookedly to a corkboard near his desk. Not trophies. Not popularity. Not reminders of who he used to be. Just moments.

Dustin missing a teeth. Robin mid-laugh. One of you, sitting on the floor back at your house, unaware, smiling at something just out of frame. Probably Steve.

You stare at that picture longer than you mean to.

It's candid. Soft. You're younger there, unguarded in a way you rarely allow yourself to be. It makes something tight coil low in your chest.

“Why do you have that?” you ask quietly.

Steve doesn't answer right away, he flicks a glance at you and then his eyes move down to the photo you're holding in your hands.

And when he does, his voice is low, stripped of bravado. “Because you look happy.”

And cute. And pretty. Like, the most gorgeous sight he's ever seen.

He digs a little more through his closet and finally, hands you a pair of Nike shorts and a hoodie—one of his favorites, judging by how worn the cuffs are. 

The hoodie swallows you whole, warm and smelling like him. Soap. Shampoo. His perfume that is so masculine and yet, soft. So Steve.

You don't miss the way his eyes linger on you as he enters back into is room, once you let him know that you had already changed.

“Okay,” you start, crossing your arms, suddenly very aware of the way your heart is misbehaving. “So. You collect my favorite records. You read my books. You keep pictures of me like some sort of—”

“Please don't say serial killer,” he interrupts weakly and extremely embarrassed.

You snort, sitting down on the edge of his bed, slightly dizzy from the alcohol. “—like some sort of sentimental idiot.”

That gets a smile out of him. Real. Soft. A little sad. Like, drunk sad.

“Look,” he says, gesturing dramatically with his hands and walking towards you wearing an embarrassed little smile, “you don't have to make it weird—”

You're smart and quick enough to cut him off, of course. “You already did that, Harrington.”

“Fair.” He exhales, blushing so much both out of embarrassment and out of the quantity of beer consumed in the evening, “I just... I like knowing what matters to you. I'm trying to keep up,” his voice keep lowering gently as he continues, “I just— I just like you a lot—,” suddenly he is just a babbling mess of rushed words, “I like being with you, like, your company,” he shrugs, making an effort to appear casual, “so, you know, I-I care.”

I like you.

Not loved. Not needed. Just—there. Honest. Low. Patient.

You smile softly, shaking your head as you look up at him with eyes gleaming with longing and drunkenness. “You're drunk, Harrington.”

“Yeah,” he agrees easily, smiling too, “and so are you, sugar.”

“Yeah but, I get you, I like you too, Stevie.”

The way you pronounce his nickname rings like sweet music to Steve's ears. You almost never say it. And he absolutely hates that nickname, but coming from you, it's different. He loves it. He'd listen to you say it all day if he could.

You smile back at him. God, you smile at him so easily when you let yourself. Or like now, when you're not sober.

You're smiling a lot.

Steve takes a seat on his bed next to you very cautiously, making sure he is holding your gaze. He sits so close that your shoulders brush against each other. But you don't pull away. And neither does he.

“And—” he says suddenly holds back for a moment, unsure whether to continue speaking or not, but then decides to go ahead anyway, “Jonathan.”

“Jonathan...” you repeat, slurring out the name.

Steve swallows. “Is it—” he stops, shakes his head once. “Is there something I'm not seeing?”

You frown slightly, not quite understanding exactly what he's getting at. “Meaning...?”

He forces himself to look at you now, brown eyes searching your face, not accusatory—just honest, curious and vulnerable all over.

Sober, you're the smartest person Steve knows. However, as soon as a drop of alcohol hits your system, your brain seems to go into stand-by mode, as if it were on vacation. Or maybe you're just playing dumb.

“Are you in love with him?”

The question lands softly.

That's what makes it hurt.

You blink, caught off guard by how gentle he sounds, regardless of the heavy topic he is bringing up. And in spite of that, he doesn't look or sound as defensive as he always is when it comes to Jonathan Byers.

“I—” You hesitate, then sigh, leaning back on your hands, sighing heavily and frowning, blinking really slow. “Jonathan's my best friend. He always has been.”

“I know,” Steve says quickly, looking down at you. “I'm not— I'm not saying it like it's a bad thing.”

“Well, you sound like it,” you smile a little, a kind of silly, carefree smile that you hardly ever show.

Steve opens and closes his mouth, stammering words out, “So... you've never—?”

“No,” you answer, shaking your head and wincing in disgust, “Ew, dude. That's sick to even think about. He's like a brother to me.”

Relief flickers across his face before he can stop it.

You notice.

“Good, that's good,” he breathes out the air he had been holding in his lungs, casting his gaze away from you toward the floor, blushing.

You tilt your head, studying him with narrowed eyes. “You care an awful lot for someone who claims he doesn't have a problem with Byers.”

Steve huffs out a laugh, shaking his head, suddenly on the defensive again. His lips twist into a grimace before he speaks. “Well, you've been spending a lot of time with him lately. It does seem a little suspicious.” He shrugs his shoulders dismissively. “Nancy and I thought for a moment that you two were onto something.”

“There it is,” you whisper, rolling your eyes. “This is what you do. You get weird and defensive and then act like I'm the problem.”

“I'm not saying you are,” he snaps back, sharper than before. The alcohol makes his edges rougher, his honesty more reckless. “I just don't get why you're always going out with him lately, always choosing him.”

That makes you sit up straighter, now you're a tiny bit more on the defensive. “I don't choose him.”

“You do,” Steve insists, finally looking at you again, eyes dark and earnest. “Every time. When something's wrong. When you need someone. When you—” he cuts off his own words as he gestures vaguely, frustrated. “You don't even notice you do it.”

You swallow, anger softening into something more complicated. “You don't get to be jealous, Steve. You don't get to act like this when you're still—” you hesitate, the bitterness of jealousy stinging your tongue. “When you're still half in love with Nancy”

He stands abruptly, raising his hands in offense. He looks very offended. “I am not—"

“You so are!” you fire back, standing too. “Everyone can see it. You look at her like she hung the damn stars, and then you turn around and accuse me of being in love with my best friend?”

Your eyes are brimming with tears of anger, frustration, and disappointment, but your words speak a completely different story. They are full of resentment: “And then you get angry out of nowhere and drift away from me and accuse me of something I haven’t even done, and suddenly I feel like I’m the problem!” Steve keeps quiet, gazing at you with the same anguish reflected in your eyes. “Why are you keep doing this? Why are you pushing me away?”

“Because I love you!”

The room goes quiet, awfully quiet.

The ringing in your ears from the rage suddenly vanishes, replaced by that deafening, heavy silence. 

Steve is breathing hard, his chest heaving as if he's just run a marathon, his hands still raised in that defensive gesture that now looks more like he's trying to catch the words he just threw into the air.

“W-what?” you manage, the word barely catching on your vocal cords.

Steve looks like he wants the floor to swallow him whole, but he doesn't look away. Not this time. 

“You heard me,” he says, his voice losing its edge, turning raw and shaky. “I'm not in love with Nancy, okay? I haven't been for a long time. It's always been about trying to find... I don't know— maybe, a way to make you look at me the way you look at Jonathan. To be that important to you.”

He takes a step closer, pressing into this kind of invisible void that always kept you two apart, a protective barrier you had built around yourself, now trembling on the verge of collapse.

“It's you. It's always been you.” Steve continues, very much at odds with the dismissive expression on your face, lost for words. “Since that night at Tina's. You were so mean to me, and all I could think was, 'God, I hope she never stops talking to me.'”

He laughs, a low, self-deprecating sound that makes your heart ache in your chest.

“I read those stupid books because I wanted to understand why you liked them. I bought those records because I wanted my house to sound like a place you'd actually want to stay,” he brushes his fingers through his hair, voicing every thought that crosses his mind, his eyes filling with tearful emotion that overwhelms his heart, capitalizing on your uncharacteristic quietness. “I'm an idiot— I know. I'm a sentimental, clueless idiot because you— you are all I see. I see you when I try to imagine my future. With me. In a big house, with a dog and a cat and a couple of little kids who look just like you, with your beautiful smile and your big eyes and your brilliance. You are my future, my dream.”

You shake your head, blinking away a few tears. “I should go.”

You barely take two steps before his hand closes around your wrist.

“Don't— I'm sorry, honey,” he whispers barely, voice really low. “Please.”

You stop, turning around to look at him. “Steve—”

And he just leans in.

It's not rushed. Not desperate.

It's careful—like he's giving you time to pull away.

You don't.

Your lips find his, warm and hesitant at first, then deeper, fuller, as everything you've both been holding back spills into that single moment. His hand loosens around your wrist, sliding up to cup your cheek instead, thumb brushing softly through your skin.

His other hand swings up and closes the door behind you, leaning against it, pressing you between the wooden surface and his body.

You break away from him just enough to catch your breath before kissing him again, more passionately, more feverishly.

Steve's kiss is everything you hadn't allowed yourself to imagine: desperate, yet incredibly tender, as if he were trying to memorize the texture of your lips.

His hands, usually so confident, tremble slightly as they move from your face to your waist, bunching the fabric of his own oversized hoodie that you are wearing.

“So smart, yet such a brat sometimes,” he mumbles hot against your mouth, his voice a jagged wreck of its usual charm. “Always got something to snarl back. Always slipping away from me.”

“Just shut the fuck up, Harrington,” you breathe out, your hands winding into the thick hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer. “You knew what you were getting into.”

Steve groans, a low vibration you feel in your own throat, and shifts his weight. He pressed his hips firmly against yours, pinning you to the door. The friction sends a jolt of electricity straight to your core, turning your knees into jelly.

He begins to trail kisses down the column of your neck, his warm tongue grazing your sensitive skin. You tilt your head back, a shaky gasp escaping you as his teeth caught on the spot where your shoulder met your neck. 

“You have no idea,” he whispers, his breath hot against your collarbone, “how many times I've sat in this room, listening to those records, just wishing you were here. Having you just like this...”

He pulls back just enough to look you in the eye, his gaze dark and heavy with a possessiveness that made your heart hammer against your ribs. He reaches down, his fingers hooking under the hem of the hoodie, slowly sliding the soft fabric upward.

“Is this okay?” he asks softly, in contrast to the wild, dark desire that burned in his eyes.

You don't answer with words. Instead, you reach for the hem of his own shirt, tugging it upward in a silent invitation.

Steve don't need to be told twice. He pulls his shirt over his head and toss it blindly into the shadows of his room. When he presses back against you, the contact is electric. 

He lifts you effortlessly, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist as he carries you the few short steps toward the bed, the party downstairs sounding like it belongs to a completely different world now.

The springs of the mattress squeaks under the weight of both of you as Steve lowers you down, his body a heavy, welcome heat following you closely. He doesn't break the connection for a second, his mouth finding yours again with a frantic hunger that tastes like expensive beer and desperate longing.

The soft fabric of his own hoodie is bunched around your ribs, and Steve's large hands are everywhere—mapping the skin he'd only ever dream of touching like this. 

When his palms slid up your sides, grazing the undersides of your breasts, you let out a sharp, needy sound that was lost in his mouth.

“Steve,” you gasp, your back arching off the bed as he finds a particularly sensitive spot behind your ear. 

Your hands are busy, too, wandering over the firm muscles of his broad back, feeling the way he tenses and shudders under your touch. 

“You're so fucking pretty,” he coos, breaking away to trail a line of biting kisses down to your jaw. “You drive me crazy”

He seats up slightly, straddling your hips, his chest heaving as he gazes in awe down at you. The moonlight from the window catch the sweat glistening on his skin and the sheer, unadulterated devotion in his eyes. Without a word, he reaches down and pulls the hoodie over your head finally, tossing it to the floor to join his shirt.

You feel a momentary flash of shyness, but it vanishes the second Steve's eyes darkens, his breath hitching. 

“God, you're beautiful,” he whispers, his voice thick with desire and adoration. “It's not even close to what I had imagined.”

“Did you imagine it?” you manage to ask, sheepishly battling your lashes at him, biting your lower lip.

Steve lets out a huff, running his hand along the curve of your waist and leaning back down toward you, his eyes sparking with nothing but pure adoration, teasing your lips for a kiss, “Every goddamn day.”

As he speaks, you reach up to unhook your bra, and Steve licks his lips as he takes in the sight of your pretty tits laid bare for him.

His hands comes down your body, cupping a breast with a reverence that made your blood boil. He leans down, his tongue swirling around one nipple before taking the tit into his mouth, his suction firm and demanding. 

You moan out, your fingers digging into his shoulders, your hips instinctively bucking against his.

Steve groans against your skin, his hand sliding down, past the waistband of his own shorts on you, his fingers seeking the heat he knew was waiting so patiently for him. When he finds it, already slick and aching for him, your eyes roll back in your head.

“You want this?” he asks, his voice a low growl of a challenge, his thumb rhythmically grazing your wet folds. “You want me? I need words, baby”

“I want you, Steve,” you whine, your voice breaking with emotion. “Please—”

That is the breaking point. The patience he'd spent months cultivating snaps. He moves with a new, feral urgency, shedding the rest of your clothes until there is nothing left to obstruct his way onto you.

And then, he eats your pussy like it is his very last meal, lapping and drinking in everything you have to offer, every bit of wetness from you.

His tongue feels so familiar against you, as if it had known you all its life, as if its sole purpose is to consume you. It traces its way between your folds, all the way up to your clit and back down again, sliding in just deep enough to knock the air out of your lungs.

Steve, Steve, Steve...

You moan out his name like a prayer.

“You taste so good,” he marvels in awe, “so sweet, sweetheart”

Steve pulls back for just a second, his face flush and his hair a wild, beautiful mess, but he doesn't go far. He looks up at you from between your thighs, his eyes dark with a mix of hunger and a raw, vulnerable worship that makes your heart ache even more than your body. 

He watches your face as his thumb continues the job to swirl against your clit, circling with a agonizingly perfect pressure that has you gripping the sheets until your knuckles turns white.

“I've spent every night for months wondering what you'd sound like,” he coaxes, his voice vibrating against your inner thigh. “Thinking about you cumming for me...”

He doesn't give you a chance to retort with some smartass comment. 

He dives back into your cunt, his tongue moving with a relentles, purposefully pace that push you right to the edge. 

You are crying out his name now, your head tossing back against the pillow as the first waves of a massive climax begin to roll through you. 

Steve doesn't slow down; he drinks you, his hands holding your thighs firmly so you can't escape the pleasure, grounding you as the world shatters into a thousand bright sparks.

“Cum for me, baby.” he coos, already too pussy drunk to even form a rational thought more than to please you, “Cum on my tongue, yeah, just like that”

“Holy shit, Stevie—” you hiccup, feeling tears blur your vision, a wave of pleasure unleashing from deep in your belly. “I'm cumming—hmph!”

Steve gulps down all you give him like it is some kind of holy water.

You open your eyes, blurred with tears and lust, and see him. His chin and mouth are dripping with your essence, his dark, piercing eyes in awe of how your pussy is clenching around his fingers.

He doesn't pull away. He hovers there, hands trembling as they gripped your thighs, watching the way your chest heaved and your eyes struggle to focus on him.

“You okay?” he whispers, his voice cracking. He reaches up, using the back of his hand to gently wipe a stray tear from your cheek, his touch surprisingly light for someone so clearly on the edge. “I didn't... I wasn't too rough? You're good?”

You can't even find an answer. Your body is still humming, the aftershocks of the orgasm making your muscles twitch. 

So you just nod, “I'm perfect, Steve. P-please keep going, I need more.”

He moves right up, crawling over your pretty body, ready for him, his skin feels hot and slick against yours.

He moves closer to you and kiss your mouth, making you savor your own taste through him, his hands appreciatively caressing your thighs, palming the fat of your ass.

“Tell me if it's too much, yeah?" Steve breathes out, his forehead dropping low to rest against yours. “I've wanted this for so long, I don't want to mess it up. I don't want to hurt you, sugar.”

“Just fuck me already, Harrington,” you hiss right back, looking up at him with eyes half-closed in ecstasy, squeezing his forearm eagerly.

Steve sucks in a breath, leaning in close to kiss you once more, “Such a little brat.”

Then, he stands up, swiftly stripping off his pants and boxers under your attentive gaze. He is a handsome boy, always has been. His physique is strong, his shoulders are broad, his biceps are muscular, his six-pack is slightly marked, and beads of sweat roll down his tanned skin. You are drooling at the mouth from the urge of wanting to sweep your tongue along it, scooping up the salty sweat.

And he's so big that it has you in a chokehold. You really can't resist letting your eyes drift down. His cock is so hard that it looks painful, with a plump head dripping with pre-cum, twitching for you.

He kicks his clothes aside without a glance and moves back over you, the mattress dipping under his weight as he settles in between your spread thighs.

He doesn't just dive in. Instead, he takes a second to look at you—really look at you—lying there, flushed and open, so ready and eager for him, your hair forming a wild halo against his pillows.

He knows he can cum right there just by seeing you like that.

Steve reaches blindly toward the nightstand, his fingers fumbling with the drawer until he pulls out a small, square foil packet.

His breathing is ragged, his eyes never leaving yours even as he starts to tear the edge with his teeth. He looks so fucking hot.

As he starts to pull the condom out, you reach up towards him, your palm flat against his heaving chest, feeling the frantic gallop of his heart.

“Steve,” you whisper, your voice thick with demanding.

“I know, baby, I know, just—one second,” he mumbles absentmindedly, his fingers shaking slightly as he tries to roll it on.

“No,” you tell him, firmer this time. You hook your fingers into his, pulling the half-open condom away. “Don't. I want to feel you. All of you. Please”

Steve freezes. He looks down at you, his pupils so blown they've nearly swallowed the chocolate-brown of his irises. “Honey... I don't— are you sure? I don't want to—”

“I'm sure,” you interrupt, your legs winding around his waist, pulling his hips flush against yours. You can feel exactly how much he wants this, how hard his cock is, rubbing against your inner thigh. “Go raw, Stevie. Please, baby.”

The condom is abandoned, fluttering to the carpeted floor, forgotten.

“Holy shit, you're going to be the death of me,” Steve breathes out tremulously, his voice dropping into a register so low it sends a fresh wave of heat through you.

He lets out a low, guttural sound—half-sob, half-growl—and finally guide himself to your entrance. He pushes his bulbous head in between your wet folds very slowly, a steady, relentless inching that makes your eyes roll back. 

Steve is so big and hot, filling every empty space you don't even know you have, even when his cock is just halfway inside your pussy. You felt your breath hitch as your body stretching to your fucking limit to accommodate around his size, the sensation so intense it was almost overwhelming.

“Oh, baby, there you go. You're doing so good, mhm. Breath for me, sugar, yeah?”

One inch, a trembling hot praise whispered against your ear, another inch, another soft praise...

And he goes like that until he is buried all the way to the hilt inside your fluttering pussy, his forehead resting against yours, both of you frozen in that perfect, overwhelming moment of connection. You are breathing the same air, your nails clawing up his back, his are gripping the bedsheets on either side of your shoulders.

Steve groans, burying his face in the crook of your neck, his body shuddering at the sheer sensation of finally being home.

“Jesus Christ, you're so tight,” he whimpers, beginning to move. “You feel perfect, you're perfect”

Each thrust is slow, deliberate, and deep—a physical manifestation of every word he'd been too scared to say. 

You lock your legs around his slim waist, pulling him even deeper, meeting every one of his thrusts with a desperate hunger of your own. The rhythmic "slap, slap, slap!" of skin against skin and the sound of your shared, ragged breathing fill the room, drowning out the distant music still sounding from the pool little party.

“Steve... please,” you whimper his name again and again, the knot growing tighter in the lower part of your belly, more intense than before.

“I got you, baby. I'm right here, hm?” he responds to your cries, leaning down to kiss each of your flushed cheeks, gently licking away a couple of stray tears that keep slipping from your pretty eyes. “I'm right here...”

He shows you. One of his hands lands on your lower belly, where the outline of his cock is clearly visible every time he fucks in and out of your messy pussy and then, Steve presses down just a little to get both of you to sigh, both feeling the pressure of his hand's weight.

And when Steve pulls out of you, he doesn't just shove back in again; he is agonizingly slow now, savoring the way your body stretched out and yielded to him, inch by excruciating inch.

Steve quickens the pace, his jaw tight, sweat dripping from his forehead onto your chest. He is relentless, pushing you higher and higher until you find that sensation of that familiar coil tightening in your gut once more. 

He leans down, capturing your mouth in a searing kiss just as you break, your body pulsing around him. He could feel you were close, he could feel it every time he slid back inside you, bullying your cervix like he’s determined to mold your pussy to the shape of his cock. Your warm, plush walls contracting all around him, taking in his entire length right down to his base.

He's buried balls deep now, his hips slamming against yours with a raw, primal rhythm. And then, Steve suddenly slow down just a fraction, his muscles trembling with a fucking Herculean effort of holding back and not bust a nut right there.

“Steve, I'm—”

He pulls back a few inches, his face flushed a deep, beautiful red, sweat dripping from his chin onto your chest as he rests weakly on your tits.

“I know, I know,” he knows, his lips grazing one of your nipples as he speaks, drooling all over your skin. “Right there with you, baby. I'm—I'm so close. I can't... I can't hold it much longer. Where do you want it?”

“Inside,” you manage to choke out, your fingers digging into his hips to pull him back down and back inside you. “Fill me up, Steve. Don't you dare pull out.”

A low, feral growl rips from his throat at your words, a sound you had never heard come from him.

Steve is a good boy and he obeys you, as always, so, he surges forward, burying himself to the absolute hilt, and gives three more devastatingly deep, fast thrusts that have you seeing stars on the ceiling of his room.

“I love you,” he cries into your neck, his voice muffled by your skin as he finally lets go, pumping hot spurts of his cum right into your welcoming womb. 

Soon, you have him reduced to nothing more than a wobbly, crying mess all over you, laying there on your chest all worn out.

You too are a fucking mess, cumming, earth-shatteringly, for the second time under the weight of his body, the suffocating sensation of his love and worship lavishing all over you and in you. 

You can swear you see the entire universe flashing right over the expanse of his shoulders, and you can feel the heat radiating from its flames burning through your fingertips. Stars twinkling on his skin, lighting up each of his freckles and moles spread across his body like a constellation.

For a long moment, neither of you move.

The world slowly crawls back around you—the distant music downstairs, the hum of the house settling, the soft night light slipping in through the window.

Steve is still inside you, breathing hard, his forehead pressing against your shoulder like he needs the contact to stay grounded. 

He presses a gentle kiss on your shoulder before leaning back just enough to look at you.

“I'm— I'm sorry,” he murmurs suddenly, panic threading his voice as he pulls back a little more. “Not sorry like I regret it, just— are you okay?”

“I'm fine,” you reply, flashing a sheepish, lazy smile.

After double-checking that you are indeed okay, with his teeth nibbling on his lower lip, he pulls out of you, carefully, delicately.

He then spends a good ten minutes cleaning you up, running a clean cloth between your legs, thighs, belly, with such care that it sometimes tickles you due to the overstimulation.

And after that, Steve collapses beside you on the bed, careful to tug a blanket over both of you, pulling you against his side. His arm wraps around you instinctively, protective, familiar—like he'd been doing this with you in another life.

You rest your head on his chest, listening to his heart slowly calm down beneath your ear.

“I meant it. What I said earlier,” he says after a little while, voice quiet now, stripped bare, gruff from all the moans and whimpers you got out of him. “I love you.”

You don't answer right away.

Not because you don't feel it—but because saying it out loud suddenly feels huge.

Steve's fingers still for half a second on your waist.

“You don't have to say it back,” he adds quickly. “I just needed you to know.”

You tilt your head up, meeting his eyes in the dim light and you lean in and kiss him—slow this time, soft, nothing desperate about it.

Steve's lips are warm, familiar already, like something you don't realize you'd been missing until it is finally there, all for you. When you pull back, his forehead rests against yours, noses brushing, both of you breathing each other in. 

“I love you too”

You carefully lie down on top of him now, on your stomach, pressing against his chest. One of his hands lingers on your lower back, affectionately caressing the curve of your ass, and the other is gently stroking strands of your hair behind your ear.

He exhales shakily, a sound that's half a laugh, half disbelief. “Okay,” he gasps. “Okay. Wow.”

You huff out a soft laugh against his chest. “Is that all you've got, Harrington?”

“Hey,” he protests weakly, palming your ass now, more playfully. “I just confessed my undying love and then had my entire soul rearranged. I need a minute.”

You sigh and nestle closer to him, your legs tangling with his under the blanket. “You're gonna be so annoying about this.”

“Oh, unbearably so,” he chirps. “I'm thinking lots of 'remember when you hated me' jokes.”

“You know,” you say casually, like you're commenting on the weather, your fingers toy lightly with the hairs on his chest, “it's actually really pathetic.”

Steve squints at you, but he is so happy he could fly. “Why do I feel like I'm about to be bullied?”

“You listened to all my favorite records,” you explain, pressing into his skin every time you name something else. “The sad ones. The pretentious ones. You watched my movies. You read my books.”

He opens his mouth. Closes it. “...okay?”

You tilt your head, holding back a teasing smile. “Like, that's loser behavior.”

Steve shrugs, completely unbothered. “I listened to your records. I read your books. I watched your sad little movies.” He pauses, then tilts his head, grin widening. He is triumphant. “But you still fucked me. So, technically? I won.”

You groan. “I take it back. I don't love you.”