you die, i die… @eunoiaflow3r - Tumblr Blog

what's love got to do with it || steve harrington x reader

authors note: heavily cinderella stories inspired (hilary, sofia). please let me know what you think!

• warning(s): angst, fluff - sort of proofread.

• word count: 10.3k

• summary: An 80’s Cinderella Story. You knew “King Steve,” but now that he’s back in your life because you’re fixing his car, can you accept him for who he is now?

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Steve Harrington could’ve kicked himself for letting it get this bad. She was his baby after all, and here she was making sounds and overheating. Steve was a lot of things, but he wasn’t a mechanic. He tried his hardest to be Mr.-Fix-It, but this was one thing he just couldn’t get the hang of. He knows cars, but he doesn't know cars. He’s been putting it off so long that he hopes there isn’t irreparable damage, but between crawls, WSQK, and just life in general, he really hasn’t had the time to give the car the maintenance she needs, and it’s definitely long overdue.

So, when he pulled into ‘Midnight Motorworks,’ he secretly wished that they’d tell him the damage wasn’t that bad and he would be on his merry way. One vehicle down wouldn’t be good for the group, and everything was for the group's good these days.

The bell above the front door jingles to note his arrival. Despite the initial smell of fresh tires and oil, he noticed the entire shop smelling very floral - like a garden in the middle of springtime. He looked around. It was a small area, a few waiting chairs with tables - magazines on top that read, “10 Steps To A Fabulous Life!” and mini gardens under the windows. He wondered how, in the middle of fall, plants were doing so well. He’s never had much of a green thumb.

“I’ll be with you in a minute!” He hears someone yell from behind the door, which he assumes leads to the garage. The feminine voice surprised him, in honesty, he was expecting a heavy-set guy with a deep voice covered in oil with a deep voice to greet him. So, when you entered two minutes later, not a fat man with dirt everywhere, he almost took a double-take. You were in a long-sleeved black t-shirt and overalls that looked two sizes too big. He notices you look at him incredulously, and has this feeling like maybe he's seen you from somewhere but can’t quite place it.

“Hey,” Steve says, casually stepping forward.

You notice how his sunglasses pushed his famous hair back, and the corduroy jacket he wore made him look like a perfume model stepped straight out of one of the many magazines in the room.

“Something's wrong with my car, think I could see the mechanic?”

You roll your eyes and step back behind the counter to grab a file.

“Well, you’re looking right at her.”

You’re used to that. Being overlooked. No one ever comes into the shop and assumes you’re the one who fixes cars. And why would they? It’s not like you expected any different when you saw Steve Harrington enter the shop. Hawkins High King, Golden Boy, Steve The Hair Harrington…no, of course he would come in here and assume you weren’t adequate to fix his precious ‘83 BMW he drove into the parking lot.

Steve blinks. “You’re the mechanic?”

“Last I checked.” You replied snarkily. You tried to smile. You did. You’re trying to be nice. But you see this kind of attitude day in and day out, and the last person you want to hear it from is the ruler of your old high school.

He shifts, hand on one hip, a crooked smile on his lips. “I just - I figured -”

“That I’d be a guy?” You ask, eyebrows quirked.

You thought some time out of high school would give this guy a reality check, but no, here he was, just as delusional as he was in high school. Except this time, he had grown more into his looks, muscles defined, fuller lips, and a glint in his eyes like he could show you the world and then some. But that was none of your business…

Steve rubs the back of his neck nervously, like he got caught sticking his hand in the cookie jar.

“No, I just thought -”

“They usually do.” You roll your eyes and shove the clipboard at him with paperwork for him to fill out. You hand him the pen as well. He notices your rigidity but doesn’t say anything. Instead, he gently takes it from you and sits down to begin to write. As he fills it out, he starts describing what’s going on with the car.

He clears his throat. “Right, so, there’s this noise.”

You lean against the doorframe and watch as he fills out the sheet. “What kind of noise?”

“Uh,” he hesitates. He didn’t want to sound stupid. “Like a ticking..? And it smells strange sometimes. And overheating..for sure, so…”

You notice how, when he writes, there are certain moments where he stops himself from using cursive, as if it were something he was trying to unlearn. You also noticed the expensive wrist watch compared to his beat-up shoes that look like they’ve been through hell and back. They almost look as bad as your boots, which you’ve had and held onto for the past five years. You could get more, but you’ve sort of grown emotionally attached to them.

“Do I know you from somewhere?” Steve asks.

This surprises you. He doesn’t recognize you? Doesn’t remember you? Typical.

“Let me see your keys.”

“What?”

“I’m gonna pull the car into the garage.”

He hands over the keys, and you hate how you notice the largeness and softness of his hands after they brushed yours. Compared to your hands, rough and dirty from the day's work, you almost feel bad accidentally touching him.

Steve watches you walk out to his car and start it. He never lets anyone drive, ever, so handing that over to you was a challenge. He watched as your hands caressed the wheel and you read the signs on the dashboard. He noticed your eyebrow quirk at the noises it started making, and your neutral expression soon turned into a frown. It’s like the car was music only you could understand. The noises were in a language only you knew. Your eyes lit up when you pressed on the gas, but your face ended up in a grimace as you drove it into the garage. He couldn’t see your face anymore.

When he finished the paperwork, he joined you outside but used the door connecting the waiting room to the garage instead of walking all the way around outside. More of the decor he noticed was flowers, an assortment, really. ‘You must really like them,’ he thought.

When he walked in, you had the hood popped, and you were looking under it like you were reading hieroglyphics from ancient times. He admired that he tried not to notice the way your overalls rode up as you bent over to check for something.

You stood back up straight and exhaled through your nose. He noticed that when you wiped your hands, a few rings adorned your fingers. He wondered where they all came from.

“You cooked it.” You say, looking at him expectantly.

His heart dropped. He’s not sure what that means, but he knows it can’t be good. His posture straightens; he didn’t even realize he was slouching.

“Excuse me?”

“Coolant’s probably leaking into the cylinders. Oils contaminated.”

Steve stares at you like you’ve grown two heads. Yeah, this is definitely not what he needed to hear right now.

“When’s the last time you replaced the water pump?” You ask.

Replace? Fix? Since when does he have time for that? He doesn't even have the time to entertain a thought about doing anything else other than babysitting, occasionally saving the world, and taking a few punches in the process. Life is way different than how he imagined - especially now.

“My what?” He’s lost in thought. How long was this going to take? How was he going to get around? “So what, it’s bad?”

“If the heads warped, we’re talking teardown. Machine shop. New gasket. New bolts. Weeks probably. Especially with the quarantine.”

“Fuck,” he sighs, running his hands through his hair. “But you can fix it, right?”

“That’s what you’re paying me for, so yeah.”

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You didn’t tell Steve your name, but he noticed it on some trophy hung up on the shelf in the garage before he left. He explained to everyone his car situation, and Murray was able to find him a truck in the meantime - but it was beat up, and nothing like his BMW.

“Robin…” They were on a commercial break at WSQK. “Do you remember a Y/N? L/N? From school?”

Robin looks like she’s searching her mind like she has a mental Rolodex of everyone she’s ever met stored up there.

“Uh, yeah. She’s my year. We took this art class together once. Why?”

Steve shifts in his chair and rolls himself back and forth with his legs.

“She’s working on my car.”

“Oh,” Robin says. “Since when has she worked on cars? I thought she used to work at that diner on Hickory Road? Actually, I think it might be closed now, so of course she wouldn’t -”

“The diner!” Steve interrupts. So that’s where he knew you from. For a while, he used to go to this diner senior year, and you were always working whenever he came in. You guys would talk until one day, you wouldn’t talk to him anymore. He wasn’t sure why then, but he was definitely thinking about it right now.

For the next hour, Robin tries to get Steve’s attention, but he’s distracted. He’s either doodling, staring off into space, or running his hand through his hair exasperatedly. Every time she tries to call his name, he doesn’t hear it the first time and then just grunts in response to whatever she asks.

After the show, Robin rushes to throw her jacket on.

“All right, Stevie boy, let’s go.”

“Uh, go where?”

“To go check on your precious car. I know that’s all you’re thinking about.”

Well, that wasn’t all he was thinking about. You couldn’t seem to leave his mind. Why had he not recognized you?

When Robin and Steve walked into the shop, someone was sitting behind the desk. She was pale, had long black hair in two braids, and her rosy cheeks flushed when she asked them what they needed. Steve noticed that Robin couldn’t take her eyes off her. Steve went searching for you after confirming with the girl that his car was indeed there and being serviced.

Steve tried to be quiet, sneak up on you while you were in your element, try to see what you looked like when you weren’t looking at him in total disgust…but that plan failed when he tripped over cans and made about five fall announcing his arrival.

“Wow. You’re about as subtle as a bull in a china shop, aren’t you?” You ask, eyebrows quirked. There was a glint in your eye, as if you were mildly amused.

“Sorry.” He smiles shyly, attempting to clean everything up. You noticed his jeans hugged him when he squatted down to arrange the cans. That, plus the sweater he had on, made you remember why he was so sought after years ago. Hell, even now.

“So, how’s my baby?” You hated how your stomach dipped at that. Your cheeks flushed, but you turned before he could notice. You would not swoon over Steve Harrington. Absolutely not.

“Gasket’s probably blown. And if you keep driving it hot, the aluminum head could be warped.”

He swallows. “Warped like…?”

“Like it doesn’t sit flat anymore.” You meet his eyes now. “Which means it doesn’t seal. Which means you lose compression. Which means you don’t have an engine for long.”

Silence settles between you. You watch the realization hit him — not just about the car. About how long he ignored it.

He exhales slowly. “I didn’t think it was that serious.”

“You don’t wait until smoke’s pouring out to take warning lights seriously,” you say evenly. “They’re there for a reason.”

His jaw tightens slightly at that.

“I had stuff going on,” he says, and there’s something defensive under it. Not arrogant. Defensive.

You shrug. “Everybody does.”

That one lands.

“Y/N, did you grab the stuff on my list from the store like I asked?”

You watch as your sister enters the shop. She didn’t even look up at you when she entered, too busy searching her purse for something, but when she finally lifted her head, she noticed you and Steve staring at her.

“Oh my God, Steve Harrington!” Your sister rushed to him and wrapped her arms around him like she had just reunited with her long-lost love. Hell, maybe she had. You turned away and focused your attention back on Steve’s car. You tried not to notice the way he talked to her - animated, like he was telling the greatest story of all time.

Your sister was one of many of Steve’s conquests. You remember how charming he was, strolling her around school and you watch as he pulls out that same charm now. He hasn’t changed. Still the same old Steve Harrington. By the time they were done, and she was done gushing over him because she had a hair appointment to get to, your sister made her way back over to you. She looked at you in disgust, like she couldn’t believe how dirty you’ve gotten.

“Don’t forget dinner tonight. Mom says she wants Chinese.” She smiles in a fake way that makes you want to hit her. But you don’t. Because you're a civilised human being.

She totally deserves it though.

Steve watched as you turned back on your…sister? He doesn’t remember Shelby having a sister when he went out with her in high school. In fact, he really doesn’t see any resemblance at all. When he makes his way over to you, he watches you take a pull from the cigarette you just lit.

“These are so bad for you, you know.” He takes it from your hands and draws from it. “I didn’t know Shelby had a sister…I didn’t know you -”

“I know.” You take the cigarette back. It comes out sharper than you meant it to.

He goes still.

You immediately regret it, but you don’t take it back.

He clears his throat. “Look, I wasn’t trying to—”

“To what?” you challenge, finally turning fully toward him. “Assume I couldn’t do my job? Or forget I existed?”

His expression shifts. The cocky edge dulls.

“I didn’t assume you couldn’t,” he says. “I just didn’t expect—”

“It’ll take at least two weeks,” you say. “Maybe three. Machine shop’s backed up.”

Steve pauses. He notices your hair is in a different style than yesterday, and notes he likes it a little better like this; he can see your eyes more, but he also sees how you’re glaring at him. You weren’t going to continue that conversation even though he really wanted you to. You’re snarky, and you’re sharp, but you intrigue him.

“Are you always this hard on your customers?” he asks quietly, taking the cig back from you. He ignores the burning coming from his fingertips when they brush yours - and it wasn't from the lit ash.

“Only the ones who think they’re indestructible.”

A beat. He huffs out something that’s almost a laugh. “Trust me. I know I’m not.” He stalks away but stops right at the door. “And for what it’s worth, I didn’t mean to forget you.”

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When you got home, you replayed your and Steve's conversations over and over again in your head. He had almost sounded hurt at the end of it. In fact, you hadn’t expected him to leave as quickly as he did. You fiddled with the necklace around your neck and rubbed it gently like you often did when you were thinking too hard about something.

The Steve Harrington spell is something you were no stranger to. You, too, had the schoolgirl crush on the “Golden boy” back in high school, but it wasn’t something you overly thought about. You hated his popularity, you hated his friends, but God, the jokes he told in class really got you through it. His laugh alone lifted your spirits when things were hard at home. Sometimes, just the daydreams - the idea of him was able to get you through the day. The idea that for once, something or someone as cool as Steve Harrington - would happen for you.

And Shelby never acknowledged you in school. So when she and Steve started dating, you weren’t even an afterthought. You weren’t jealous of her and Steve - but you did envy the life she got to so easily live. Popular, dating the hottest guy in school, every girl wants that. Wants to be noticed - wants to be seen.

And Steve did see you. Once upon a time.

You used to work at this diner down the road. It’s closed now, but it was your favorite spot a few years ago. It was a bit away from the school, so it wasn’t like one of those after-school hangout spots. While you were serving, Steve used to come in, eyes bright and shiny - hair perfect. He sat at the counter, which you didn’t expect - he seemed like a booth type of guy. Steve talked about basketball and homework. He asked you what your favorite classes were and why you liked working at the diner. He would come in, and you two would talk for hours. You two even talked about your parents and his - yours passed, and his…absent. You remember being able to empathize with one another. You had a feeling that his frequent visits were due to him escaping the silence at home.

So, like it always seems to, that schoolgirl crush became something more. You valued the friendship you seemed to have developed with him.

Right as you turned over to go to sleep, Shelby burst into your room like the hall was on fire. She had no regard for the peace and quiet you were holding on to and reached for your desk lamp to turn it on.

“So, Y/N,” she scrunches her face and says your name like it was the equivalent of moldy cheese. “When’s the next time Steve is supposed to come around?”

You scoff at her and roll over in your bed. “Get out.”

She rolls her eyes and starts pulling at things on your desks, absentmindedly shuffling papers, “accidentally,” dropping pencils and pens on the floor.

“I hope you don’t think you actually have a chance. I see the way you look at him.”

You throw a pillow at her. “Trust me, the only person in this room who wants him is you.”

She huffs like she doesn’t believe you. “Good. Because he wouldn’t want you and your grease-stained overalls anyway."

She leaves the room without another word, but her voice still echoes in your head. What does she mean by the way you look at him? You look at Steve as you would any other customer. As a means to get out. One more dollar added to the fund for being able to move out and start a new life outside of your stepfamily.

The phone rang next to you, breaking you from your thoughts.

It was Carlie. She was the second-best part about working at the auto shop. The first was that it was your father's, and you loved the work, being able to fix things, like how you wished you could fix your life, but the second was Carlie. Your best friend. She had been with you through everything. Your father's death, your stepmother and step-sisters' cruelty, hard days at work…she was there.

“Y/N! Do you remember a Robin? Buckley? She was in our class.”

You sit up straight in your bed, racking your brain, trying to remember. “Yeah, I think so, wasn’t she in band or something? Think we had a class together once, too, some kind of elective.”

“Yes! Well,” Carlie sounds exasperated through the phone, as she had just climbed two flights of stairs. That’s how she got when she was excited. “She came in with Steve today!”

“With Steve?” You ask. “What do you mean with Steve?”

You could feel yourself heating up. What was this feeling? Jealousy? No, you could not be jealous when it came to Steve.

“Uhm, like they're somehow best friends “with Steve,” and Y/N, when I tell you she got totally hot, I don’t know how I kept my composure today. I wanted to like literally jump her bones.”

Okay, right, well…no, there really was no reason to be jealous. Not that you were in the first place. All you wanted to do was close your eyes and forget about everything and everyone, especially Steve Harrington. But Robin? That seemed like an unlikely friendship to you. Not who Steve typically would hang out with. This surprised you. What happened to Tommy and Carol?

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Steve debated visiting the shop. He knows you don’t like him. And to be honest, he’s not liking you a whole lot right back. Where do you get off on telling him that he thinks he’s indestructible? When did he ever say that? In fact, he was far from it. If anything, he’s learned the past two years is that nothing is indestructible. And everything is temporary. You don’t go from fighting monsters back to totally normal. If he wasn’t already, he definitely was ready for his car to be fixed.

“You know you don’t have to come here every day.” You say rolling yourself out from under the car.

“Actually, the last time I was here was like three days ago, so not every day.” Steve snarks back, taking a bite from a granola bar. When it finally registers what he’s seeing, his eyes widen, and his granola falls from his hands.

“Is this my car? You tore it apart!”

He feels as if he could cry. His poor beemer. He saw there were multiple parts on the floor around you and tools on your waist. You were holding a small piece in your mouth as you twisted something apart. He could feel himself harden in his pants slightly at the thought of what else your mouth could do. Why was he even thinking about that? He watched as you took the piece out of your mouth and put it where it belonged.

He still felt panic in his chest.

“That’s usually how repairs work, Harrington.”

He presses his lips together. “You don’t have to be condescending.”

“You don’t have to be reckless,” you snap back.

“Reckless?” He straightens. “She’s mostly fine.”

“And you drove it..or her…overheated for who knows how long.”

He gestures vaguely. “I had things going on.”

You wipe your hands on a rag. “Oh, of course. The world revolves around you. I forgot.”

He laughs once — sharp. “You really don’t like me.”

“I hate you, actually.”

“Hate’s a strong word.”

“I have strong feelings.” You say.

“Aw, tell me about your other strong feelings for me.” He smiles. You blush at his words, but roll your eyes regardless.

You step around him to grab a tool. He doesn’t move at first, so you bump his arm with yours. Your body shudders when you feel his hand move to your hip to help you slide past him. You ignore how warm and strong his touch feels.

“Excuse you.”

“Shop’s tight,” he says mildly. “You’ll survive.”

You look up at him from under your lashes. “You enjoying hovering?”

“I’m supervising.” He makes a move to check under the engine like he was some sort of inspector making sure you were doing your job right. You’ve had plenty of men come and do that to you - didn’t completely trust you with their cars - but the way Steve did it was almost playful.

“You don’t know what you’re looking at.”

He glances at the exposed engine again. “That’s… engine stuff.”

You stare.

He lifts a brow. “See? I know cars.”

“You drive cars.”

“Same difference.”

“It’s really not.”

He folds his arms. “You know, most mechanics try not to insult the person paying them.”

“Most customers don’t argue with the person rebuilding their engine.”

He tilts his head. “You rebuilding it? Or are you gonna call in a real mechanic?”

The second it leaves his mouth, there’s a beat.

He knows he crossed the line, but he’s gauging your reaction. Seeing how hard he can push before you really snap at him. For some reason, he’s interested in your limits.

Your jaw tightens.

“I am the real mechanic.”

His sarcasm fades just slightly — but not completely. He smiles cooly, hovering above you, staring down right into you. You don’t miss how your eyes fall to your lips and back to your eyes again. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think he’d try to kiss you. Part of you wishes you didn’t hate the idea of that.

“Then prove it.”

You step closer. Not intimidated. Not flustered. Okay, well, maybe a little flustered. You two were standing really close. You could practically feel the heat radiating off his body onto yours.

“You want technical?” you ask coolly, taking a single step back. There needed to be space between the two of you. Asap. “Head’s warped at least five thousandths. I won’t know for sure until the machine shop decks it. Gasket’s blown. Coolant’s been bleeding into the cylinders, which means you’re lucky you didn’t hydrolock the whole block.”

He stares.

You continue, relentless.

“I’ll replace the head bolts because BMW uses torque-to-yield. New thermostat. Probably a water pump since you clearly don’t believe in preventative maintenance. Then I’ll flush the oil twice so you’re not running milkshake through your bearings.”

Silence. You lift your chin. “Anything else?”

He steps closer — not backing down now, but not mocking either.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “You always this intense, or am I special?”

You don’t break eye contact. “You’re not special, Harrington.”

His jaw ticks at that.

“Keep calling me that,” he says softly, “and I might start charging you for the ego damage.”

You scoff. “Pretty sure your ego’s factory-installed. Hard to dent.”

He smirks. “You’d be surprised.”

There’s something under that line. Something not sarcastic at all.

You look away first.

“Come back in a week,” you say briskly. “I’ll know more.”

He doesn’t move.

“You sure you’re not just dragging this out to see me again?” he asks.

You blink slowly. “Trust me. If I wanted to see you, I wouldn’t need your engine to explode.”

His grin falters just a little.

“Good to know,” he mutters.

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Carlie’s at the edge of your bed, wolfing down an entire bag of Doritos.

“Speaking of Steve, he’s like even more hot now, right? He’s got this rugged, ‘I’m handsome, and I know it, but emotionally complex,’ thing going on right now.”

You finish your bite of ice cream. “When were we speaking of Steve?” you ask, laughing softly.

“Since we were talking about how great Robin was.”

“We weren’t talking about that either.”

Carlie makes a face and points at her hair. Because her fingers were full of Dorito dust, she needed help putting it up in a bun. This also meant that she just wanted you to play in her hair, so before you put it up, you started on one of her mandatory scalp massages, which she forces you to do in exchange for bringing you great snacks every time she comes over.

“So what do you have against Sexy Steve H anyway?”

You blush at that, but chastise yourself for it. Why are you blushing at the thought of Steve Harrington? “Uhm, you don’t remember him thinking I couldn’t do my job because I’m a girl?”

You could feel Carlie shake her head under your fingers. It made you lose grip of her hair. “Is that what he said, or is that what you heard?”

“Well, he’s also still full of himself. Just like in high school. Why do you care so much anyway? I don’t have to like Steve just because you like Robin. Those two things aren’t mutually exclusive.”

“I just think you should give him a chance. You haven’t talked to a guy in I don’t know how long, and I don’t know this banter you have with him is the only thing I’ve seen you light up about in months.”

You thought about it. It is true that ever since Steve has been stopping by, you’ve found a certain joy in your arguments. And while yes, some of your feelings towards him are rational and justified, there is a part of you that exaggerates it just to bit to get him to react. It’s hard not to see the boy you used to have that schoolgirl crush on, because when he stares at you deep into your eyes, or touches you a second too long, you swear you could feel those feelings come right back up again.

And that’s why you can’t let yourself fall for him.

He’s still the same, and not only that, but your sister's ex - and you do not want the drama of her and her attitude. Plus, this is all hypothetical; you’re just fixing his car. That doesn't mean that he's feeling anything else towards you.

You’re not even sure why you’re still entertaining these thoughts.

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Steve’s back two days later. He knows you said a week, but something was pulling him towards you. He couldn’t seem to stay away. It’s like you were a magnet, and every time he wasn’t within five feet of you, you were all he could think about - all that was on his mind. Your quiet smile, your floral smell, the way you would curse to yourself when you messed up - the way you would banter with him like you didn’t have anything better to do…

“So…” Steve starts.

“So?” you ask. Twisting a bolt. You weren’t working on his car today; you were still waiting for the part to come in.

“This was your dad's shop, right?” He asks. He tries to be gentle - it wasn’t until he talked to Robin that he realized you used to work at this diner he used to go to sometimes. In all honesty, you were the only reason he went - he thought you were beautiful, but out of his league - and he didn’t recognize you when he came into the shop days ago. There was a big difference between the teenager you and the you now. You were still gorgeous, but the way you carried yourself with such confidence - it was ethereal. If he thought you were out of his league back then, you definitely were now.

Anyway, after remembering the tidbits you two used to talk about, he remembered you talking about your parents. It was a touchy subject for both of you - his parents chose to be absent, but yours, yours didn’t. And he remembered how awful that must have felt.

“Yeah, it was.” You say.

“And he taught you this stuff?”

You nod, trying to reach for a tool, and failing. “Make yourself useful and help, since you want to come to my place of work and be a stalker.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He says, grabbing the tool you were reaching for. You grab his hand and make him hold down a wire so that you can twist it with another.

“And what’s with the flowers? Is spring your favorite season or something?” He asks.

“You’re so nosy, Harrington.” He doesn’t know what you’re thinking, but people like talking about the things they love - and he has a sense that you don’t get to do that often. “My mother was a florist. Before she died, my house looked like a real life green house. I brought the plants here when my dad died to try to keep them both alive together.”

“Wow.” Steve clears his throat. “That’s beautiful.”

Steve could tell how heavily guarded you were. Not mean. At least, not right now. Not cold. Just… protected. Like every answer you gave had already been measured before it left your mouth. He watches your hands instead — steady, precise, confident. Nothing like the girl he remembered nervously balancing plates at the diner.

He held the flashlight where you needed it, any excuse to be close to you, really.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever.” you say.

You try to put some space between the two of you - but Steve was making it nearly impossible. And even though he wasn’t touching you, it’s like you could feel him all over you.

“You still hate when people hover?” he asks. You can tell he’s doing it on purpose now. Somehow, he knows the effect he has on you.

You glance at him. “You used to hover.”

“You used to pretend not to notice.”

“I noticed,” you say. “You ordered the same thing every time and barely ate it.”

He huffs a laugh. “I ate it.”

“You pushed it around.”

A small silence.

“You knew?” he asks.

You shrug. “You tipped twenty dollars for pancakes, Harrington. I’m not stupid.”

His ears go pink. “I thought you were out of my league.”

You pause. The wire slips slightly in your fingers before you tighten it again.

“You had a car and perfect hair,” you say flatly. “You were everyone’s league.”

“Not yours.”

You don’t look at him. Instead, you reach for electrical tape. Anything to distract.

“People like you don’t actually want girls like me,” you say quietly.

“People like me?”

“Yes, people like you - who choose people like Shelby.”

You finally are able to put some space between the two of you when you walk to the back of the shop to grab some more tools. You also go to wash your hands just to put some more space and time between the two of you.

“I came back for you, today, not Shelby.”

“Why?”

There was a pause.

“I don’t know,” he says quietly.

You blink — caught off guard — and immediately busy yourself cleaning your hands on a towel. You finally look at him again — not defensive, not sharp. Just tired. You hesitate. For the first time since he came back — really hesitate. Because this isn’t banter anymore. And you don’t know what to do with sincerity. There was something he was keeping from you. Things that have happened - things that might explain his knuckles, slightly rough - healed over more than once. The dark circles under his eyes that might not have been from partying like the old him…but more like late nights awake. It’s in his posture - how he stands ready for anything, not posed. You wonder what made him this way. Is it why he seems so changed?

·· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ··

Steve admires that even though there was so much going on, Dustin and his friends still had time for fun. Weekly, they’ll get together and play D&D, a game he still doesn’t understand - and Steve has somehow become Dustin’s designated driver. Steve wished he had time for hobbies, hell, and if he had time, what would he even do? Play basketball? Steve doesn’t even know what he likes anymore. He’s been obsessed with the idea of hanging onto the past - i.e, Nancy, that he hasn’t even had the chance to find himself again. He thinks about how passionate you are about fixing cars - he’s not sure why he’s even thinking about you right now, but at least you have something.

Steve feels like he has nothing. He’s not in school, he’s in a dumb cover-up job, Hawkins in a lockdown…this is not how he imagined his life to be.

Dustin runs out of the house, bookbag slung over his shoulders, disheveled, and forcefully pulls the truck door open.

“Damn, Steve, when are you getting your car back?” Dustin's nose turns up at the condition of the car while he throws his stuff in the backseat.

Steve starts up the truck. “Would you like to walk home?”

Dustin rolls his eyes and reaches for the unopened soda on the floor. “So, what’s up with you and this mechanic?” Somehow, he’s also found snacks he’s stuffing his face with.

“What do you mean?” Steve asks, slightly sitting straighter in his seat. “How do you know about her?”

“Robin.”

Of course. Robin was the last person to keep her mouth shut. Not that there was anything to tell, but the whole situation is just bizarre.

Steve clears his throat. “She’s just fixing my car. Not sure what you’re trying to insinuate.”

Dustin laughs. “I’m not insinuating anything - but I know you’re thinking something.”

Dustin watches as Steve's hands tense around the steering wheel. Not hard enough to where he seemed angry, but just enough to know what he was right, and a certain mechanic was on Steve’s mind.

As soon as Steve dropped Dustin off and got home, he immediately called Robin.

“What’s up, Stevie boy? It's kinda late.”

Steve rolls his eyes. “Robin, your bedtime is like 3 AM. You should be the last person worried about whether it’s late or not.”

“Whatever,” he can hear shuffling through the phone, like she was getting up to do something. “What’s so important you couldn’t wait until the station tomorrow?”

“What did you tell Dustin about Y/N?” Steve can feel his chest tighten slightly. What’s there to tell, really? You’re fixing his car? You’re driving him crazy? You make him want to pull his hair out and shut you up with a kiss all at once?

“Uhm, just the obvious sexual tension between the two of you. Plus seems like you’re spending every free moment over there.”

He’s ignoring that. “I think she hates me.”

Robin snorts through the phone. “Does she actually hate you, or is this foreplay?”

Steve pinches the bridge of his nose and squeezes his eyes shut. “Rob- what? She’s holding a grudge from high school. I don’t know. We don’t really talk about it.”

“Well, you weren’t exactly the greatest guy in school, were you, Steve?”

·· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ··

It didn’t take a lot of convincing for Steve when Robin mentioned bowling. He hadn’t been out in a really long time, and this was the perfect chance. Sure, the food sucked, and the music wasn’t great, but hanging out with Robin was always a good time, and he loved Dustin, he did, but he also liked hanging out with people the same age as him.

So when he entered the bowling alley and noticed there weren't a lot of people, he was mildly grateful. Steve was in a mood to have fun, not put on the social butterfly he usually had to put on when he ran into people he knew from Hawkins High. They still expected him to be the same - still crack the same jokes, have the same inviting energy. But he wasn’t the same, and hated acting like it.

After he paid for him and Robin, he followed her to the lanes so they could put on their shoes. What he didn’t notice until he stood up, shoes tied, was that you and your friend were in the accompanying lanes. The look of surprise that came across his face was almost embarrassing, except for the fact that his eyes couldn’t leave yours. You looked annoyed, not shocked to see him. Maybe you had a little more time to register this than he did, because he knew that if you knew he was here, you probably wouldn't have come. In the same way Robin surprised him, your friend probably surprised you, too.

This was the first time he was seeing you outside of the garage, and boy, did you clean up nice. He knew you looked good before; he’d never say that out loud in fear of being hit over the head with a wrench, but you definitely looked good now. It wasn’t even about the clothes; it was about the confidence you wore. Like the other side of you, the one that didn’t live under hoods was finally poking her head out. And if he didn’t stop his eyes from wandering down, he soon wouldn’t be able to stop the blood rushing to his groin at the sight of your ass in those jeans.

Pissed was an understatement. You could have literally tackled Carlie like a linebacker with the amount of rage you were feeling right now. She did not tell you Steve would be here. In fact, you barely wanted to come at all. You weren’t that great at bowling, and you did not like not being good at something. So you avoided it. But Carlie insisted you come - said she didn’t want to be alone, and how was she going to have fun by herself? But here was Robin - avoiding the same looks Steve was giving her as you were giving Carlie. It seems as though he was just as surprised as you were.

“Carlie, I hope you know I’m going to kill you. Very violently.”

Carlie smiles and squeezes your hand. “It’ll be okay, I promise.”

The bowling alley smells like nachos and overpriced beer. You consider buying one just to get through tonight. You hate the way he’s looking at you. Like he wants to say something, but is holding back. You try to ignore him as the game begins, but you can literally feel his eyes bore into the back of your head.

You rolled horribly. You knocked down three, which is better than nothing, but the look on Steve’s face when you turned only fueled you more. When Steve went, you watched his arms, strong, long, poised - he looked like he knew exactly what he was doing. And he did. A perfect strike. When he turned, he didn’t look smug, like you thought; he looked…relieved, like maybe he wasn’t completely sure he could do it. He looked over to you, probably to gloat, but you rolled your eyes and sat down, waiting for Carlie and Robin to go.

Even though Carlie was on your team, she had basically ditched you to talk Robins' ear off. You couldn’t be upset. You were happy for her, and they actually looked really cute together. It was so easy for them - smiling, laughing…having a good time. You wished you had joined in, but there was nothing funny about this situation. Nothing funny about Steve. The way his muscles flexed, the way his hair was perfectly styled, the way his clothes clung to him like they were especially made for his body only. Ugh.

You watched as Steve made his way over to you.

“No. Nope. Go back over there, Harrington, you’re not on my team, and I will not be fraternizing with the enemy.”

He smiles as he sits down next to you. “So that’s what we’re doing? Fraternizing?” He watches as you tuck your laces into your shoes. Anything to avoid him. “Robin and Carlie are fraternizing, and they’re on opposite teams. Why can’t we?”

You huff. “Because they actually like each other."

You didn’t look at Steve to see if it stung him. You really didn’t want to know his reaction. Soon enough, it was your turn again, and you got the same score. Three. You groaned as you walked away. I suck you thought. Steve went after you, and it wasn’t a strike, but he did manage to get all the pins down in two rolls. It wasn’t fair. Perfect Steve winning. He and Robin were beating you in points, but Carlie was just as good as Steve, so she was giving him a run for his money, and your team wasn’t far behind. You and Robin were as useless as a hockey stick in a soccer game. The game was basically between Steve and Carlie.

You’re lining up your next shot when you feel him.

“Don’t,” you say immediately. You knew what he was about to do. Charming Steve would come to be your hero and help. You couldn’t think of anything worse right now. Just what you needed. Steve being right about something, too good for you, even. That he was better than you. If it wasn’t obvious, with your step-sister rubbing it into your face, it sure was apparent now.

“I haven’t done anything.”

“You’re about to.”

A pause. Then—He steps in behind you. Not touching. Not yet. But close enough that you feel the warmth of him through the thin fabric of your shirt.

“I’m just helping,” he says lightly.

“I don’t need help.” You did. But you didn’t want to admit it. It shouldn’t have felt this good to have him this close.

You grip the bowling ball tighter.

His hand reaches past you first — adjusting your fingers in the holes. You tense up. He was so close. Close enough you could feel his breath on the back of your neck. Close enough that you could smell his cologne and forget why you were so mad in the first place. Overpowering you, nearly. He smelled like clean soap and something warm and expensive.

“Loosen up.”

Your breath catches.

“I am.”

He huffs a quiet laugh near your ear.

His other hand hovers near your hip. You feel it before he even makes contact. It felt so familiar and strange all at once. Like it was meant to be, but foreign all at once.

“You’re pulling left,” he murmurs. “Your shoulders are angled.”

“I know how shoulders work, Harrington.”

“Well, you just know everything, don’t you?” That was intentional. You could tell. And then his hand lands on your hip. Firm. Warm. Guiding. Not inappropriate, but not innocent either. Your spine straightens instantly. His chest brushes your back as he adjusts your stance.

“Feet shoulder-width,” he says softly.

“Stop bossing me around.” is all you can manage out. But you knew he wouldn’t listen. His fingers press just slightly at your hip, shifting you an inch.

“There,” he says.

His other hand comes around your forearm, lifting it slightly. You are very aware of how big his hands are compared to yours. How they felt against your body should be illegal.

“Follow through,” he murmurs, almost against your hair.

You swallow.

“If I miss, I’m blaming you.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything else.”

The weight of that lands heavier than it should.

The lane suddenly feels too narrow. Too quiet. Robin and Carlie’s laughter feels miles away. You wonder if they see what’s going on or if they’re in their own little world. His hand slides from your forearm to your wrist. Slow. Intentional.

“Okay,” he says softly. “Go.”

You step forward. Release. The ball rolls straighter than it has all night. Pins explode. Strike. You freeze and smile. You did it. That’s the first time you’ve ever done that. He’s still behind you. Still close. His hand is still lightly around your wrist. You turn your head slightly.

“Told you,” he says.

You exhale shakily.

He doesn’t move away right away. And you don’t step forward. There’s a beat where neither of you speaks. Then—

“You can let go now,” you say, quieter than before.

His thumb shifts slightly against your pulse point.

“I know.”

Another beat.

Then he steps back. You almost wish he didn’t. Steve runs a hand through his hair, suddenly looking less composed than he did five seconds ago.

He makes his way back to Carlie and Robin, but wishes he could’ve stayed by you. You were slowly corrupting his mind like some kind of virus. He could barely keep his hands to himself, and he didn’t know how to feel about it.

Robin gives him a look, but Steve shakes his head as if to say, ‘Don’t ask.’

Steve watches as Carlie pulls Robin to the concessions, and Steve looks over to you, but you refuse to look at him. After five minutes of silence and your friends’ absence, Steve suggests that the two of you go to the arcade part of the building. He watched as you decided - like it was as hard as choosing between jumping off a cliff or skydiving. Ultimately, to his surprise, you said yes.

He followed you to the neon colored area where it smelled like stale popcorn and teenage boys. Luckily, you two were the only ones there. Steve listened to the song playing over the speaker - some tune from the top 100. He gets excited when you choose air hockey. It was his favorite arcade game. You choose one side, and he walks to the other. Immediately, you shoot the puck into his goal.

Steve laughs. “Oh, that’s the only point you’ll be getting, you caught me off guard!”

“How about you stay on top of your game then?” You bite back.

Steve shakes his head, and soon enough, you two are in a steady rhythm of back and forth. He watches you get scared a couple of times - nervous the puck would hit your hands, but really, he notices how competitive you are. There's a sparkle in your eyes every time you hit the puck. He watches as you lick your lips and smile every time it flings to his side, and it almost makes it in. He gets so distracted by this that he wasn’t pulled out of his trance until he noticed you jump up and down, hands in the air, because you got another point.

Your celebration was short-lived when he took his chance to score a point while you were celebrating.

“Hey!” you shout, staring daggers at him, playfully.

“How about you stay on top of your game?” he repeats back to you.

You roll your eyes.

You end up winning.

He wins basketball, and you call him a cheater. He laughs and calls you a sore loser. You playfully shove him. He catches your wrist when you do, and pulls you close. He’s surprised when you don’t push him away.

“Why can’t it always be this easy?” He asks.

You look down at the floor instead of up at him.

“I’ve changed since high school, you know, I’m not that same Steve.” Instead of your wrist, his hand holds your waist - scared you’ll slip away. And you did. You yanked yourself away and turned around, back facing him - the same position you were in when he helped you bowl, except this time the tension was coming from a different place.

You start walking towards the back of the arcade; you’re not sure where you’re going, but you know you want to put some space between you and Steve before you do something you might regret.

He follows you, though, ruining that plan of yours.

“Y/N, stop running away and tell me what I did so I can apologize for it.”

You still don’t turn around. Can’t bear to face him.

“When I worked at the diner,” You’re not sure why you’re deciding to open up. Maybe it was him helping you, maybe it was your competitive nature, and you getting to see a different side of Steve tonight - a happier one - that made you finally just want to let everything out in the air. Maybe it would have been easier if it wasn’t all bottled up. “Anyway, when you used to come in, you weren’t Steve Harrington - the King of Hawkins High…you were kind, and you were my friend. And then Tommy and Carol came in one day, and it was like the Steve I talked to was gone. They laughed at me, gave me shitty orders, called me ‘Diner girl,’…and you just sat there. Let it happen.”

“Y/N I’m…” Steve starts.

“And Shelby, she saw it. She made sure to remind me that I was nothing more than someone who would always be working for someone else - that someone like Steve Harrington would never look twice at me.”

“I did look twice at you.” his voice sounded like a plea - like he was begging you to believe him, to trust him. “You’re the only reason I ever even went to that diner.”

You turned at this. There was heat in your face, tingling in your fingers; it was like your body was feeling so many things at once that it didn’t know what to do.

“Well, you didn’t look when it mattered.”

He winced at your words.

“I remember that day,” he says quietly. “You didn’t talk to me the next time I came in, or ever again, really. I thought if I didn’t join in with them, it was better.”

You shake your head. “Neutral isn’t kind, Steve. Neutral is choosing them.”

“I was scared of looking stupid in front of them,” he continues. “And I let you take the fall for it. I was a coward, and I’m sorry. It wasn’t until some time after that happened that I realized how horrible they were - hell, how horrible I was.”

The honesty knocks the air out of your anger for half a second — and you hate that. A long pause stretches between you. The noise of the arcade hums around you, but it feels distant.

Your throat tightens. “You’re different,” you admit before you can stop yourself. You see the scar above his eyebrow, the hollowness in his cheeks, like he might forget to eat, or maybe he’s stressed…it’s obvious that he isn’t the same.

His eyes flicker. With hope, maybe, like he was finally being seen.

“But different doesn’t erase it.”

He nods once. “I know.”

“I hated you for that,” you say quickly - like saying it would make whatever is building right now go away.

“And do you hate me now?” he asks. He finally touches you, well, crowds you. Your back was against the wall, and his body was closer - almost pressing you against it. His fingers gently caressed the side of your face.

“Yes,” you say. But your voice was quiet, distant. You were lying, and he knew it.

“I would’ve stopped it,” he says quietly. “If I could go back, I would’ve stopped it.”

Your chest tightens.

That’s it. That’s the final straw. All the anger, the history, the tension from bowling, from the shop, from the way he looked at you tonight like you mattered. You don’t decide to kiss him — your body does. One second you’re staring at his mouth, at the way he keeps saying your name like it matters, and the next your hand is in his jacket, dragging him down to you. The impact of it surprises both of you. Steve stills — just for a breath — like his brain hasn’t caught up yet.

Then he moves.

His hand slides up to your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek before he pulls you closer, and the hesitation disappears. The kiss turns urgent, uneven — all clashing angles and too-sharp inhales, years of things unsaid spilling out at once. You grab the front of his jacket, fist tightening, needing something solid to hold onto because the ground suddenly doesn’t feel steady. He exhales against your mouth — almost a sound — and his other hand finds the back of your head, fingers threading into your hair, holding you there like he’s afraid you’ll rethink this and vanish.

You should stop.

You don’t.

Your forehead bumps his, noses brushing as you both try to breathe and fail, and the kiss only deepens — less angry now, more reckless, like neither of you knows where to put all of this feeling except here. When you finally pull back, it’s only because your lungs force you to. You’re both breathing too hard, too close, neither of you stepping away.

Steve doesn’t want to pull away, but he does - and he watches you retreat into yourself.

“That was...” you start.

He doesn’t say anything. Just holds your face.

You nod to yourself, pulling back. “A mistake, yeah, I shouldn’t have done that.” You push him away and start convincing yourself that that’s true. This is all happening so quickly. What were you doing?

You watch as Steve shakes his head. “No, what? Stop.”

You look up into his eyes and hate how sincere he looks. Could he really have changed? Is he really as different as he says he is? But then you think back to his and Shelby’s flirting…his comments about being busy and having a life…no, he has to still be the same. And if he was the same, that means you would get hurt again. And you already have enough to hurt about. You didn’t need Steve Harrington entering your life just to flip everything upside down. You hated how you felt like you were retreating to your junior year self.

“I’m not your do-over, okay? Or your redemption arc - you don’t get to practice being the good guy on me because you feel bad, I’m not -”

“Y/N, I’m trying to be honest with you here, and you just -” One step forward, two steps back.

Just then, the alarm on your watch beeped, letting you know that it was 11:30. Shit. You had to go. If you weren’t home by 12 your stepmom would kill you. Not that this was a conversation you wanted to finish anyway.

Steve watched as you pushed past him and briskly walked out of the arcade, presumably to find Carlie. He followed close behind.

“So you’re just going to run away? Is this what you always do? Run when things get hard?”

You ignore him and walk faster. When he finally caught up with you, he overheard you telling Carlie you had to go home. She and Robin were both sitting, sharing soft pretzels and pizza.

“Steve can take you home, can’t ya, Steve?” Steve’s eyes widen as Robin gives him a suggestive look. He looked between Carlie and Robin - neither of them wanted to end the night this early. If Robin was a late nighter, he was sure Carlie probably was too, and even though whatever just happened between the two of you just happened, he still wanted the night to last just a little longer.

“Yup,” he says, short, irritated, but not wanting the night to end like this. He watched as you looked between the pair - probably noticing the same thing he did, and rolled your eyes.

You didn’t say anything, probably because Steve was standing right there. But he could tell you were pissed.

“Have a good night, guys,” he says. “Get home safe.” He turns to leave knowing you have no choice but to follow. The walk to the car is silent, and not the comfortable kind. The kind where every step feels like a countdown. So, when he makes it to the beat-up truck, he makes sure to clean up the seat. He didn’t care about the mess when it was Robin in the seat. He got rid of what he could and left the door open for you.

You climbed into the passenger seat without looking at him, and he closed the door gently behind you. The only speaking you did was to tell him where your address was; other than that, he watched as you turned your body completely the right, your whole body leaning away from him, leaning on the window.

Steve didnt want to say the wrong thing. So he didn’t say anything. He felt like you were just going to twist his words if he tried, but he realized, now more than ever, that he needed to fix things. That he needed you in his life. He felt like you’ve slowly become the only normal thing - the one constant, something familiar, something he wanted to protect. That even with everything happening in the town, you were still there to ground him - keep him honest.

You were so heavily guarded - and he knew you had every reason to be, but he wished you’d let down your walls long enough to just trust him.

A red light stops the car. He finally turns to look at you fully.

11:47

“I’m not trying to practice being a good guy. I’m trying to be one.” he says. You turn to him slightly, and your throat tightens.

“That doesn’t get to start with me.”

“It’s not.”

The light turns green, and he looks forward again. It’s easier when his eyes aren’t on you.

“That kiss wasn’t about proving anything,” he says quietly.

You close your eyes briefly.

“Then what was it about?”

A beat.

“You.”

That’s worse. You check your watch.

11:55.

Too close.

You lean your head back against the seat.

“You’re still reckless.”

“And you’re still running.”

You glare at him. “You don’t get to psychoanalyze me.”

“You don’t get to kiss me like that and act like it meant nothing.”

11:58.

He parks.

“You didn’t even fight for me back then; it’s like you were okay with the friendship being gone.” you say, finally looking at him and actually seeing him. His cheeks were flushed and he kept biting his lip.

“I’m fighting for you now.”

“It’s too late.”

“No, it’s not. I don’t believe that. I think it’s just easier for you to run away than to be honest about what you’re feeling.”

“And you are?”

“I mean, yeah-” he starts, a little defensive now. “At least I’m sitting here saying it. I’m not pretending this doesn’t mean something.”

Your jaw tightens.

“You think showing up a few times and saying the right things counts as fighting?” you cut in. “You didn’t fight when it mattered.”

“I was seventeen,” he snaps, then, quieter, like he regretted it, says, “I was an idiot.” He grips the steering wheel tighter. “I’m not that guy anymore.”

“But you were,” you say, voice trembling now despite your effort to steady it. “And you don’t get to decide when that stops mattering.”

He exhales sharply. “So what, that’s it? You just get to punish me forever?”

Your eyes flash.

“I’m not punishing you. I’m protecting myself.”

Silence drops heavy between you.

The streetlight outside flickers across his face. He looks tired. Frustrated. Desperate.

“I’m trying,” he says quieter now. “You think this is easy for me? You think I like knowing I screwed it up back then? I’m here because I care about you. I cared about you then too, I just—”

“Just what?” you demand.

“I didn’t know how to be brave yet.”

That almost breaks you.

Almost.

“I can’t,” you say, reaching for the door handle.

He studies your face.

“Can’t what?”

“Be the girl you figure it out with.”

He flinches slightly.

“I’m not figuring it out. I know.”

“You didn’t know before.”

“I do now.”