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⏜︵ ㅤׁㅤ Steve Harrington

ꕀ Down bad : x reader SMAU ( fluff, slowburn, idiots in love, smut )

ꕀ Director's Cut : stonathan x reader ( smut )

ꕀ What's your favorite scary movie? : x reader ( enemies-ish to lovers, smut ) soon !

⏜︵ ㅤׁㅤ Kurt Kunkle

ꕀ We'll see : x reader ( fluff, smut )

The city lights of New York City glitter like scattered diamonds against the night sky as you step out of a sleek black car. The premiere of Echoes in the Static still hums under your skin, an indie psychological thriller that left the festival crowd buzzing long after the credits rolled. You can still feel it in your bones: the flicker of the projector, the collective silence during the final hallway sequence, the way people sat frozen for half a second before applauding like they’d just woken up from a nightmare.

Your nightmare. Your film. Well, not technically yours. But your fingerprints are all over it. Every shadow, every ugly little pocket of darkness swallowing the corners of the frame. Every trembling light source. Every suffocating close-up. You spent months bleeding yourself dry over that cinematography, sleeping on editing room couches and living off cold brew and cigarettes while arguing with colorists at three in the morning.

And now your name sits there in the credits forever.

Tonight’s afterparty feels dangerous in the way success always does. Like if you let yourself enjoy it too much, something will come along and snatch it away.

The rooftop pulses with low conversation and expensive perfume. Jazz spills from a trio tucked near the far railing, all slow saxophone and lazy piano keys. String lights sway overhead in the warm spring wind, washing everyone gold and amber and beautiful enough to belong in movies themselves. Actors cluster near the bar pretending not to check whether photographers are catching their good angles. Producers laugh too loudly. Somebody from Variety is flirting with a costume designer beside a heater lamp.

You’re halfway through a glass of champagne when you spot him.

Jonathan Byers.

He’s standing near the elevator doors with his hands shoved awkwardly into his pockets, like he already regrets coming but is trying not to show it. Taller than you remember. Leaner, somehow. His hair’s longer now, curling slightly at the ends like he’s been too busy to cut it properly. Black button-down sleeves rolled to his elbows. Rings on his fingers you don’t remember him wearing before.

And Christ, he’s beautiful. Not in the polished Hollywood way everyone else here is beautiful. Jonathan looks real. Sharp edges and tired eyes and quiet intensity. The kind of man who notices things nobody else does. His eyes find yours across the terrace and immediately soften.

There it is. That shy little smile. You feel it low in your stomach before he’s even crossed the room.

“Hey,” he says once he reaches you, voice warm beneath the noise of the party. His gaze flickers over you like he’s trying not to stare and failing a little anyway. “Congratulations.”

You smile automatically, fingers tightening slightly around your champagne flute. “Thanks.”

“No, seriously.” He exhales a quiet laugh, shaking his head once. “The cinematography was insane. The hallway shots? Jesus. It felt like the walls were alive.”

You grin despite yourself. “That’s exactly what I wanted.”

“Yeah, well.” His gaze drifts over your face for half a second too long before he drags it away. “You nailed it.”

The compliment lands harder than it should. Maybe because Jonathan doesn’t bullshit people. Every word out of his mouth always sounds carefully chosen, like he means it or he wouldn’t say it at all.

“I didn’t know you’d be here,” you say, leaning one shoulder against the railing.

“Friend of a friend on lighting crew.” He rubs the back of his neck, visibly nervous now that the attention’s shifted onto him. “I wanted to see the final cut.”

“You liked it?”

“I think I’m gonna be thinking about it for weeks.”

Your laugh comes easier after that.

Conversation slips into place almost immediately, smooth and familiar. You talk lenses and lighting ratios and impossible shooting schedules. Jonathan tells you about a recent freelance photography gig shooting album covers for some post-punk band whose lead singer nearly set a couch on fire mid-shoot.

You tell him about the disaster of filming a subway sequence at four in the morning while the director had a nervous breakdown over continuity. Jonathan laughs quietly at that, eyes crinkling. God, his eyes. You notice the way they linger on your mouth when you talk. The way his fingers brush yours when he hands you a napkin. The way his voice lowers every time the conversation drifts away from work and toward something more personal.

“You look…” He pauses briefly, jaw tightening like he’s annoyed at himself for saying it out loud. “Really good tonight.”

Heat blooms through you instantly. “You clean up alright too, Jonathan.”

His ears go pink immediately. Cute. Dangerously cute.

“I’m gonna grab us another round,” he says eventually, lifting your empty champagne flute from your hand. His fingers linger for a second longer than necessary before he steps back. “Don’t disappear on me.”

“No promises.”

Jonathan gives you one last look before weaving toward the bar through the crowd.

And that’s when you notice him.

Steve Harrington.

He’s leaning against the polished bar like he owns the damn rooftop. Whiskey glass loose in one hand. Charcoal suit jacket pushed open. Tie abandoned entirely. Broad shoulders. Expensive watch. Stupidly perfect hair somehow surviving the wind. The kind of handsome that should honestly piss you off.

And the worst part? You know immediately that this is Steve. Not because you’ve met him before. You haven’t. But because Jonathan talks about him constantly.

Not in an obvious way. Jonathan would probably rather die than admit how often Steve’s name comes up in conversation. But over months of late-night phone calls and half-distracted conversations in editing suites and smoking outside bars after gigs, Steve Harrington has slowly become this weird recurring character in your life.

Steve said this. Steve did that. Steve burnt pasta again. Steve drove five hours to help him move apartments. Steve once started making dinner without asking, then left Jonathan a plate on the counter and didn’t mention it again.

Sometimes Jonathan talks about Steve like he’s infuriating. Sometimes like he’s family. Sometimes with this strange softness in his voice that always made you curious. And now here he is. Real.

Apparently it pisses Jonathan off that Steve exists tonight too, because the second Jonathan reaches the bar, Steve says something that makes Jonathan scowl immediately.

You can’t hear them from here, but their body language says enough. Steve’s grinning like an asshole. Jonathan’s glaring like he wants to throw him off the roof.

Interesting.

Steve notices you watching before Jonathan does. His eyes lock onto yours. And fuck. There’s something openly hungry in the way he looks at you. Not subtle. Not polite. Just immediate interest. Like he already knows exactly who you are.

Jonathan follows Steve’s gaze and catches you staring. He mutters something under his breath that makes Steve bark out a laugh.

Then both of them start heading back toward you.

Oh, this should be fun.

Steve reaches you first, naturally.

“Steve Harrington,” he says, extending a hand with an easy confidence that feels almost unfair. “Friend of this guy.” He jerks a thumb toward Jonathan without looking away from you.

You take his hand. Warm palm. Strong grip. “I gathered.”

“You say that like he talks about me too much.” Steve’s mouth curls into a grin immediately.

Jonathan nearly chokes on his drink. “Oh my God.”

Your eyebrows lift innocently. “Maybe a little.”

“Jesus Christ,” Jonathan mutters, rubbing a hand over his face. “Can we not do this?”

Steve looks delighted. “No, no, keep going. I’m invested now.”

You laugh into your glass while Jonathan glares at both of you like he regrets inviting himself into existence tonight.

The dynamic between them becomes obvious within minutes. They bicker constantly, but with the kind of rhythm only people deeply familiar with each other have. Steve interrupts Jonathan just to annoy him. Jonathan rolls his eyes so often it becomes almost affectionate.

And underneath it all, there’s something else. Something charged.

Steve touches Jonathan casually when he talks. Shoulder. Wrist. Lower back squeezing past him near the bar. Jonathan pretends to hate it every single time but never actually moves away.

You notice because of course you do. And judging by the way Steve catches you noticing, he knows you notice too.

The conversation loosens with every drink. Steve leans closer when he talks to you, knee brushing yours beneath the cocktail table. Jonathan gets quieter the drunker he gets, but somehow more intense too. His compliments stop sounding accidental.

“You shoot people in a way that feels intimate,” he tells you softly at one point, fingers tapping absently against the side of his glass. “Like the camera’s in love with them.”

Steve groans dramatically beside him, throwing his head back. “Jesus Christ, Byers. See? This is what I mean. You flirt like a nineteenth-century poet.”

Jonathan flips him off without missing a beat. “Eat shit Harrington.”

You laugh so hard champagne nearly comes out your nose.

And God, they’re both gorgeous. Steve all confidence and easy charm and restless hands. Jonathan all restraint and tension and eyes dark enough to drown in. The chemistry between the three of you thickens until it feels almost visible. Every glance lasts too long. Every touch lingers.

At some point Steve’s hand settles casually against the small of your back while Jonathan stands close enough that his shoulder brushes yours every few seconds. Neither of them moves away. Neither do you.

“You know,” you say eventually, tilting your head as you study them over the rim of your drink, “this is getting genuinely unfair.”

Steve smirks immediately, thumb still warm against your spine. “How so?”

“You’re both ridiculously attractive.”

Jonathan nearly chokes on his whiskey. Steve beams like he’s won something.

“I’m serious,” you continue, glancing between them. “I can’t decide which one of you I’d rather take with me.”

Silence.

Jonathan goes very still beside you. Steve’s expression changes instantly, not joking now. Something darker settling into his face.

Then slowly, casually, he says, “who says you have to choose?”

Jonathan stares at him. “Harrington.”

“What?” Steve shrugs, entirely too innocent. “I’m just saying. We’re all having a good time.”

“You are out of your fucking mind.”

“You telling me you haven’t thought about it?” Steve asks, one eyebrow lifting.

Jonathan opens his mouth. Closes it again.

Steve’s grin widens in real time. “Oh my God,” he says. “You have.”

“Shut up.”

You’re trying not to laugh now. Jonathan looks mortified. Steve looks thrilled.

Then Steve turns to you again, gaze dragging slowly over your face. “We could get outta here,” he says lightly, though his voice has gone rough around the edges. “Keep the night going somewhere less crowded.”

Your pulse skips. Jonathan watches you carefully from beside him. Not pushing. Just waiting.

“Only if you want to,” he says quietly. His voice is softer than Steve’s, steadier somehow, but it hits infinitely harder.

That does it. That careful softness in his voice. That look in Steve’s eyes. The electric tension stretching between all three of you like a wire seconds from snapping.

“Yeah,” you say.

Steve immediately pulls out his phone. “Holy shit. She said yes.”

“Don’t make it weird,” Jonathan mutters, already rubbing at his forehead.

“Dude you’re the one making it weird with this shy-nonchalant-mysteious thing going on, man.”

“Fuck you.”

“Hopefully later.”

“Harrington.”

You burst out laughing while Jonathan groans into his drink.

The ride down starts innocently enough. The rooftop elevator is almost empty this late into the night, all mirrored walls and dim golden lighting. The doors slide shut behind the three of you with a soft chime, sealing the noise of the party away instantly.

Silence settles. Heavy silence. The kind where everybody suddenly becomes hyperaware of breathing. Of hands. Of mouths.

Steve stands beside the control panel, phone still in hand after ordering the car. Jonathan’s near the back wall, whiskey-flushed and tense in a way that makes him look dangerously pretty.

And you’re standing between them. The elevator hums downward. Nobody speaks.

Steve breaks first, of course.

“Okay,” he says quietly, glancing between you and Jonathan. “I can’t do this.”

You barely have time to blink before he’s moving. One second there’s space between you. The next his hand is around your waist and his mouth crashes into yours hard enough to steal the air from your lungs. It’s not gentle. It’s heat and impatience.

You gasp against him and Steve takes advantage immediately, kissing you deeper with a rough little sound in his throat like he’s been thinking about this since the second he saw you across the rooftop. His body presses you lightly against the elevator wall. Big hands. Warm whiskey breath. The scrape of expensive suit fabric beneath your fingers.

“Fuck,” Steve murmurs against your mouth, almost laughing from disbelief. “Jesus Christ.”

You kiss him back harder. Somewhere beside you, Jonathan exhales shakily. You pull away from Steve just enough to look at him. Jonathan’s watching like he can’t decide whether to step in or lose his mind.

You make the decision for him. Your hand curls into the front of his shirt, tugging him forward.

Jonathan kisses completely differently. Slower at first. Tentative for all of half a second before restraint snaps clean in two. Then suddenly he’s kissing you like he’s starving. One hand cups your jaw carefully while the other grips your waist hard enough to wrinkle the fabric of your dress. He tastes like whiskey and nerves and something devastatingly soft underneath it all.

Steve stays pressed against your side the entire time. Watching. Breathing hard. His hand slides over your hip possessively while Jonathan kisses you deeper, and the feeling of both of them touching you at once nearly melts your fucking brain.

“Holy shit,” Steve mutters, voice low and wrecked.

Jonathan laughs quietly against your mouth, breathless. “You’re one to talk.”

Then Steve kisses you again. And somehow the three of you end up tangled together in the middle of the elevator, mouths colliding messily between laughter and heat and too much tension finally breaking loose. Steve’s hand cradles the back of your neck while Jonathan’s fingers curl around his wrist.

You feel the exact second the energy shifts. Subtle. Dangerous.

Your mouth parts from Steve’s just long enough to notice the way he’s looking at Jonathan now. Not joking. Not teasing. Something older lives there. Something buried deep. Jonathan sees it too.

The elevator keeps descending. Slowly, carefully, Steve reaches for him. Jonathan doesn’t pull away.

Their kiss starts softer than yours did. Almost hesitant. Then Steve grips Jonathan’s jaw and suddenly it turns hungry fast. Years of unresolved tension flare alive right in front of you. Jonathan makes this quiet wrecked sound into Steve’s mouth that feels almost too intimate to hear. Steve kisses him like he’s furious about how badly he wants him. Like he’s spent years pretending this didn’t exist.

Your back hits the elevator wall softly as you watch them lose themselves in each other for a few perfect seconds. Jonathan’s hand fists in Steve’s suit jacket. Steve’s thumb strokes across Jonathan’s cheekbone almost unconsciously. Beautiful. Achingly, terrifyingly beautiful.

The elevator dings.

The doors slide open with a soft mechanical whisper, spilling the three of you out into the cool marble lobby. Your lips are still tingling from the kiss, legs a little unsteady as Steve keeps one hand firm on your lower back and Jonathan stays close on your other side, his fingers brushing yours like he needs the contact to stay grounded.

The night air hits you the second you push through the glass doors onto the street.

The car Steve had already called is waiting at the curb. He doesn’t hesitate, just walks ahead like it’s the most natural thing in the world, opening the back door first and holding it there. “C’mon,” he says, glancing back at you both.

Jonathan goes in after a beat, still a little dazed, sliding into the far side of the backseat. You follow right after him, slipping into the middle, thighs pressed on either side as the space closes in around you.

Steve ducks in last, shutting the door behind him with a solid click, his hand briefly brushing your shoulder as he settles in on your other side.

The driver glances at you three through the rearview mirror. “Evening. Where to?”

Steve rattles off the address to their shared apartment in a casual tone, already leaning forward a little like he’s settling in for a chat. The car pulls smoothly into traffic.

You shift slightly in your seat, trying not to think too much about how little space there is between the three of you. That’s when your eyes catch the driver’s GPS screen. The route is already calculated. Ten minutes. It hits you almost annoyingly clearly.

Your dress has ridden up just enough that the cool leather seat kisses the backs of your thighs. Steve’s hand finds your knee immediately, innocent enough from the outside. Jonathan shoots him a warning look across you—sharp, dark brows drawn—but Steve just grins that easy, charming grin and starts talking.

“So, uh, how long you been driving nights in the city?” Steve asks the driver, voice light and conversational like he’s not currently sliding his palm higher up your thigh under the hem of your dress. “Must see some wild shit, right?”

The driver chuckles, launching into a story about a fare last week who tried to tip him in cryptocurrency. You barely hear it. Your heart is hammering against your ribs as Steve’s fingers trace slow, teasing circles on the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. He’s subtle, barely moving, keeping his arm relaxed across the seat like he’s just resting it there. But every brush sends sparks straight to your core.

You bite the inside of your cheek, trying to keep your breathing even. Jonathan’s hand settles on your other thigh, possessive but still. He’s glaring at Steve again, a silent stop it in his eyes. But then his gaze drops to your face. Your parted lips, the flush creeping up your neck, and something shifts. His fingers tighten, then start moving too, mirroring Steve’s slow exploration but pressing a little firmer, higher.

Heat floods you. You’re already wet from the elevator, aching, and their hands are so close to where you need them. You shift in the seat, pressing your thighs together instinctively, but that only traps their fingers tighter against you.

Steve keeps talking, voice perfectly steady. “Yeah? Man, that’s crazy. I once got in an Uber where the driver was playing some loud ass classical music at like two in the morning. Didn’t even ask, just… went for it. Honestly kind of respected it.”

The driver laughs again, oblivious. Your hand grips the edge of the seat. Jonathan’s fingers slip under the edge of your panties first, brushing lightly over your slick folds. You stifle a gasp, turning it into a cough. Steve notices and smirks without looking at you, his own fingers joining, parting you gently and circling your clit with maddening softness.

“Everything okay back there?” the driver asks casually.

“Yeah, she’s fine,” Steve says smoothly, teasing a finger just inside you while he keeps eye contact in the mirror. “Long night, right babe?”

You swallow hard, throat dry. “Mhm. Just… tired.”

Jonathan leans in slightly, his fingers don’t stop. Two now, pressing deeper, curling just right while Steve focuses on your clit. The dual sensation is overwhelming. Steve’s thicker fingers, rougher calluses, Jonathan’s more precise, sensual strokes. You’re soaked, the wet sounds barely masked by the low hum of the engine and Steve’s endless chatter.

Steve turns his head toward you, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Hey, what was that shot you took at the bar earlier? The one with the orange twist? You liked that, right?” His voice is teasing, deliberately pushing you while his fingers move quicker. “Tell this kind driver how much you liked it.”

Your mouth opens, but only a shaky breath comes out. Pleasure coils tight in your belly, thighs trembling. Jonathan saves you, squeezing your thigh gently. “She liked the whiskey sour better,” he says calmly, voice low and steady.

Steve chuckles softly, but he doesn’t stop. Neither does Jonathan. Their hands work in tandem now. Steve rubbing firm circles on your swollen clit while Jonathan thrusts two fingers slowly in and out, curling against that spot that makes stars burst behind your eyes. You’re fighting every moan, nails digging into the leather seat, hips rocking minutely into their touch. The city lights streak past the windows in blurs of gold and red, but all you can focus on is the building pressure, the slick heat between your legs, the way both of them are rock hard against your sides. You can feel the outline of Steve’s erection pressing into your right thigh, Jonathan’s long length on your left.

By the time the car slows to a stop outside their building, you’re right on the edge, panting quietly through your nose. Steve pays and thanks the driver with a grin, then bolts out first, nearly tripping over the curb in his haste. Jonathan helps you out more gracefully, but his hand lingers on your waist, steadying you on shaky legs.

Steve is already at the building door, fumbling with his keys. They jingle loudly as he drops them once, twice, cursing under his breath. His cheeks are flushed, pants obviously tented. “Fuck—come on—”

Jonathan laughs, a low, warm sound that cuts through the night air. “Smooth, Harrington.” He steps forward, plucks the keys from Steve’s hands, and unlocks the door in one fluid motion. “Let’s get inside before you break something.”

The apartment is dimly lit by a single lamp when you all stumble in. Cozy, with a big sectional couch dominating the living room. Steve kicks the door shut behind you and immediately crowds you against the wall, mouth crashing into yours again. Jonathan presses in from the side, lips finding your neck, hands roaming.

But then Steve pulls back, breathing hard. “Bedroom. Mine.”

Jonathan’s hands pause on your hips. “No. My bed’s bigger.”

Steve groans. “Yours has those creepy horror posters everywhere. The one with the guy’s face melting? Not exactly mood-setting, man.”

Jonathan rolls his eyes, but there’s heat in them. “Your room smells like that cologne you drown yourself in and there’s that ugly picture of a car hanging on the wall. Who the fuck would have a framed photo of a car in first place?”

You laugh breathlessly between them, hands sliding up both their chests. “Living room,” you say breathlessly, grabbing Steve’s shirt and Jonathan’s wrist. “Couch. Right fucking now.”

Neither of them argues.

Steve let out a low chuckle, already shrugging off his jacket. “Bossy. I like it.”

Clothes come off in a messy, desperate rush. Steve’s jacket hits the floor. Your dress pools at your ankles. Jonathan yanks his shirt over his head, revealing that lean, beautifully toned torso. Steve’s fingers work his buttons open, exposing the dark hair on his chest and the tempting happy trail that disappears into his pants, inviting. When their erections spring free, your mouth waters—Steve’s is thick and heavy, flushed dark, while Jonathan’s is long, slightly curved, already leaking at the tip.

You don’t wait. You wrap a hand around each of them, stroking slowly, feeling the contrast in weight and texture.

“God,” you murmur, voice low and hungry. “So fucking hard…”

Steve groans, hips twitching into your fist. “You were so wet and beautiful in the car, baby. Couldn’t help myself.”

Jonathan leans in, kissing you slow and deep, tongue sliding against yours. “You looked so perfect.” he breathes against your lips.

Steve claims your mouth next, rougher, while Jonathan drops his head to suck on your nipple, teeth grazing just enough to make you moan. Their hands are everywhere. Steve’s thick fingers push back inside your soaked pussy, curling perfectly, while Jonathan’s thumb circles your swollen clit with devastating precision.

“Fuck—yes,” you gasp, head falling back. “Just like that—don’t stop.”

You stroke them faster, twisting your wrists, swiping your thumbs over their leaking heads. The sounds they make turn you on even more.

“Keep touching us like that,” Steve mutters against your neck, voice rough. “Your hands feel so fucking good.”

You glanced down, watching their free hands find each other. Steve wrapped his big hand around Jonathan’s erection, stroking him with slow, confident pumps focusing on the base while you worked on their heads. Jonathan did the same to Steve, twisting his wrist just right. The sight made you clench hard around Steve’s fingers.

“Shit, that’s so hot,” you breathed.

Steve kissed you hungrily, then turned his head to capture Jonathan’s mouth over your shoulder in a messy, heated kiss. You kept stroking them, thumbing over their leaking tips, while their fingers worked you open.

You dropped to your knees before they could stop you. You grin, breathless. “I want you both so bad… I can’t decide who to taste first.”

You sink to your knees between them, looking up with dark, eager eyes. You take Steve into your mouth first, stretching your lips wide around his thickness, then turn to Jonathan, taking him deeper, savoring the way his length curves against your tongue. You alternate between them, then press them close together, licking and sucking both erections at once in messy, filthy strokes.

Steve’s hand slides gently into your hair. “Fuck, baby… look at you. Such a greedy, perfect girl for us.”

Jonathan’s voice is rougher than usual. “You look so beautiful like this. Jesus.”

You hum around them, the vibration making both men groan. You keep going until they’re throbbing against your tongue, until their hips start twitching.

They pull you up before either of them finishes.

Jonathan lays you down on the couch first, spreading your thighs wide. He kisses his way down your body with aching reverence—stomach, hips, inner thighs—before his mouth finally finds your pussy. His tongue is broad and slow, licking long stripes through your folds before focusing on your clit. Two fingers slide inside you, curling just right.

You moan loudly, fingers threading through his hair. “Oh my god, Jonathan—”

Steve kneels beside you, kissing you deep and filthy. “Taste so sweet, don’t you, sweetheart? Let him make you come. I want to watch you fall apart.”

The orgasm crashes into you hard. Your back arches, thighs clamping around Jonathan’s head as you cry out, pulsing around his fingers. He doesn’t stop until you’re shaking and oversensitive, whimpering.

Then he positioned himself between your legs again, lining up. He pushed in slowly, inch by inch, stretching you perfectly.

“Fuck… you’re so tight,” he groaned, forehead pressed to yours. “You okay?”

“More,” you gasped, pulling him down to kiss you. “Fuck me, Jonathan. I need it.”

He started moving, deep rolling thrusts that hit every perfect spot. You moaned into his mouth, nails digging into his back.

After a while they switched. Steve flipped you onto your hands and knees, gripping your hips as he pushed inside. The stretch was bigger, deeper.

“Shit, baby,” he grunted. “You’re gripping me so fucking tight.”

You pushed back against him. “Harder, Steve. I can take it. Please.”

He did. One hand reaching around to rub your clit. Jonathan knelt in front of you, feeding you his cock. You sucked him eagerly, moaning around his length every time Steve thrust deep.

They leaned over you, kissing each other sloppily above your back, the wet sounds mixing with skin slapping and your muffled moans.

You came again hard, clenching around Steve’s erection while Jonathan’s length twitched on your tongue.

They moved you again, laying you on your side. Jonathan spooned you from behind, sliding back in with a low groan, kissing your neck and shoulder as he thrust deep and slow.

“You feel incredible,” he whispered against your skin. “So warm and wet. Taking me so well, baby.”

Steve faced you, kissing you deeply, his thick erection sliding against your clit with every movement until he couldn’t wait anymore. He pushed back inside you when Jonathan pulled out, rougher, gripping your ass.

“Come on, sweetheart,” Steve growled. “Give us another one. Let me feel you come on my cock.”

You were shaking, overstimulated and desperate. “I’m close—fuck, I’m so close—”

Jonathan reached between you, rubbing your already hypersensitive clit. “That’s it. Come for us, beautiful.”

You shattered again, crying out their names.

Finally, they put you on your back once more. Steve slid back inside you, groaning at how wet and open you were.

“Gonna fill you up, baby,” he panted, thrusting deep. “You want that? Want my cum deep in this pretty pussy?”

“Yes,” you moaned, nails digging into his shoulders. “Fill me up, Steve. Please.”

Jonathan stroked himself faster, leaning down to kiss you messily.

Steve came first, burying himself deep with a broken moan, flooding you with hot spurts. At the same time, Jonathan groaned, painting your breasts and stomach with thick ropes of cum.

The three of you collapsed together, breathing hard.

Steve kissed your forehead, then your lips, soft and sweet. “You were fucking incredible.”

Jonathan nuzzled into your neck from the other side. “You okay? We didn’t go too hard?”

“I’m perfect,” you whispered, smiling lazily. “I’ve never felt so good in my life.”

After a moment, gentle hands take care of you. Steve grabs a warm cloth and cleans you up carefully. Jonathan brings cold water from the fridge and makes you drink. Then they pull a soft blanket over all three of you on the big couch.

A couple of minutes later, Steve sat up slightly. “I’ll get her my shirt, wait” he said quietly.

Jonathan lifted his head. “Mine's softer. She should wear mine.”

Steve raised an eyebrow, a playful smirk tugging at his lips. “Yours is all wrinkled on the floor. Mine’s a nice dress shirt. It’ll be more comfortable for her right now.”

“It’s also stiffer,” Jonathan argued softly. “She needs something actually soft on her skin right now man.”

You let out a tired, amused laugh and tugged gently on both their arms. “You two are already fighting again… I kind of love it. But seriously, either shirt is fine. I just want to feel both of you close.”

Steve grinned. “See? She wants the nice shirt.”

Jonathan rolled his eyes but smiled. “She didn’t say that, but, man, whatever, Jesus… next time I’m picking first.”

“Next time?” you teased weakly, voice sleepy.

“Yeah,” they both answered at the same time, then looked at each other and chuckled.

Steve grabbed his button-down from the floor and helped you slip it on. It was big, warm, and still carried his scent. Jonathan tucked the blanket tighter around all three of you.

“Stay right here with us tonight,” Steve murmured, thumb stroking your cheek.

Jonathan pressed a soft kiss to your shoulder. “We’ve got you, baby. Get some sleep, yeah?”

Safe between their warm bodies, you drifted off with the taste of them still on your tongue.

The morning light crept in soft and golden through Steve's bedroom. You were still half—buried in last night's clothes. The blanket had slipped low in the night, pooling at your hips.

Steve woke first.

His chest rose and fell slow against your back, bare skin warm and solid, the scatter of moles across his shoulders and down his arms catching the light like constellations. He shifted, nose brushing the nape of your neck, and let out a quiet, sleepy hum that vibrated straight through you.

You stirred a second later, eyelids heavy, the faint ache of last night's drinks still humming at the edges of your skull. His arm was draped over your waist like it belonged there, fingers loosely curled against your stomach. You felt the slow drag of his breath, the steady thump of his heart.

"Morning, baby," he murmured, voice rough and low, lips brushing the shell of your ear. He didn't move away. If anything, he pulled you closer, hips settling flush against yours. "You sleep okay?"

You nodded, still half—asleep. "Mhm. Your bed's better than mine." A small smile tugged at your mouth. "You're warm."

He chuckled, the sound rumbling through his chest and into yours. "Yeah? Good. Plan on keeping you here a while." His hand slid up under the hem of your shirt, palm flat against your skin, thumb stroking slow circles just below your ribs.

"You're still in yesterday's clothes. Looks cute, but... kinda in my way."

You huffed a laugh, turning your head just enough to catch his sleepy grin. His hair was a disaster, sticking up in every direction, and the morning stubble along his jaw made him look softer than usual. "Subtle, Harrington."

"Not trying to be subtle anymore," he admitted, pressing a lazy kiss to your shoulder. "Not after last night." His voice dropped. "Wanna feel you. All of you. That okay?"

Your pulse kicked up, heat pooling low in your belly at the way he asked, like he'd wait forever if you said no, but God, he hoped you wouldn't. You nodded again, breath catching. "Yeah. More than okay."

He didn't rush. He rolled you gently onto your back, propping himself on one elbow so he could look at you. His free hand worked your shirt up slowly, peeling it off over your head, then reaching under you to unclasp your bra. The cool air hit your skin and you shivered; he noticed, leaning down to kiss the goosebumps along your collarbone.

"Jesus, look at you," he breathed, eyes dark and reverent as they traced every inch. "So beautiful." He kissed lower, mouthing at the curve of your breast, tongue flicking over your nipple until your back arched and a soft gasp slipped out.

You reached for him in return, fingers sliding down his chest—through the light dusting of hair there, over the trail that disappeared into his pants. He was already hard, thick and heavy when you palmed him through the fabric. A low groan tore from his throat.

"Fuck—" he muttered, hips twitching forward into your touch. He shoved his unbelted jeans and boxers down just enough, kicking them off the rest of the way until he was bare. His cock sprang free, big and girthy, flushed at the tip, veins standing out along the length. Moles dotting his hips and thighs like someone had flicked paint across him. You spat in the palm of your hand and wrapped your fingers around him—barely able to circle the width—and gave one slow stroke.

Steve's head dropped to your shoulder, breath hot against your neck. "Shit, baby... yeah, just like that." His own hand slipped down your body, popping the button on your jeans and dragging them off with your panties in one lazy tug.

His fingers found you—two of them gliding through your folds, circling your clit with practiced, unhurried pressure that made your toes curl into the sheets. You felt every callus, every slow drag, the way he spread your wetness until you were slick and aching.

"God, you're so wet," he said, voice wrecked and soft. "So good, baby. So ready." At the same time his thumb kept working your clit in tight, lazy circles, two fingers sinking into you-slow, deep, curling. The stretch burned sweetly, your hips rolled up to meet him on instinct.

You kept stroking him in the same rhythm—long, firm pulls from base to tip, thumb swiping over the head. His cock twitched in your grip, the weight of it making your mouth water even now.

Steve groaned into your neck, the sound vibrating against your skin.

"Need you nice and stretched for me, yeah? You can take it, I know you can," he added a third finger, stretching you fuller, scissoring gently while his thumb never left your clit. Pleasure coiled tight and liquid in your belly, thighs trembling around his wrist.

"I know, baby. I feel you." He kissed you again, slower this time, tongue sliding against yours like he had all morning. "Wanna come with you. Together. You close?"

You nodded frantically, hand speeding up on him. His cock pulsed, thick and leaking.

He pulled his fingers free—wet and shiny—and lined himself up, pressing the blunt head of his cock against your entrance. One slow push and he was sliding in, inch by thick inch, stretching you so perfectly your eyes fluttered shut. The fullness stole your breath. He bottomed out with a broken moan that sounded like your name.

"Fuck—there—God, you take me so well," he whispered, forehead pressed to yours, hips rolling in shallow thrusts that dragged against every sensitive spot inside you. "So perfect, so warm... made for me."

You moaned low, nails digging into his shoulders.

"Steve... oh my god—fuck,"

He smiled against your mouth, kissing you slow and filthy. "Yeah? Tell me, baby. Tell me how it feels."

"So fucking good," you breathed, legs wrapping tighter around his waist, heels digging into his back to pull him even deeper. "You fuck me so good. Don't stop, Steve—please."

He groaned at your words, hips rolling in longer strokes now, pulling almost all the way out before sinking back in with a wet, deliberate grind that made your clit throb against his happy trail. The pace stayed steady, skin sliding on skin, the wet sound of him moving inside you filling the quiet room.

"God, the way you talk to me," he rasped, one hand still rubbing tight circles over your clit while the other slid up your body. His thumb brushed your lower lip. "Open up for me, baby."

Your lips parted instantly. He slipped his index finger into your mouth, resting it heavy on your tongue. You closed around it, sucking gently, swirling your tongue like you would his cock, eyes locked on his as he kept thrusting.

"Steve—" you moaned around his finger, the vibration making his hips stutter harder for a second.

"I know baby, l've got you," he panted, voice wrecked, his cock dragged slow and perfect inside you.

You whined around his finger, hips rolling up to meet every thrust, the dual sensation pushing you higher. "I'm so close—Steve, fuck—"

He cursed softly, picking up the rhythm just enough. His thumb never left your clit and the coil in your belly wound tighter and tighter.

"That's it, baby, just like that," he encouraged, forehead slick against yours. "Come on, baby. Wanna feel you come around me. Wanna come with you—please—"

You nodded frantically, moaning his name muffled and desperate. The orgasm crashed through you without warning.

Steve groaned loud and wrecked, hips stuttering as he followed right behind you—hot pulses deep inside, face buried in your neck. He kept moving through it, slow and lazy, drawing out every last wave for both of you.

For a long minute you just lay there, skin sticky and warm, hearts hammering against each other.

He stayed inside you, softening slowly, pressing lazy kisses to your throat, your jaw, the corner of your mouth, finally sliding his finger free so he could kiss you properly.

"You okay?" he whispered, voice hoarse but so gentle. "Didn't hurt you?"

You shook your head, floating, every limb heavy and sated. "Perfect. You're perfect."

He smiled against your skin—stupidly fond. "Stay right here." He eased out carefully, then disappeared for half a minute, returning with a warm washcloth from the bathroom. He cleaned you both with soft, thorough strokes, murmuring, "there we go, baby..."—before tossing the cloth aside and crawling back under the covers.

Steve pulled you into his chest again, bare skin to bare skin, one arm locked around your waist, the other hand stroking slow circles down your spine.

"Sleep more," he murmured into your hair, lips brushing your temple. "I've got you. Not going anywhere."

You felt the pull of it immediately—warm, safe.

Your eyes drifted shut again, body melting into his.

"Love you," he whispered, so soft you almost missed it.

You smiled into his skin, already slipping under. "Love you too, Steve."

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“I know you’re awake, Steve,” you said, voice still thick with sleep.

Steve’s eyes cracked open, that lazy, crooked grin already pulling at his lips before he could even pretend to be innocent. A low chuckle rumbled beneath your cheek as he tightened his arm around you. “Busted.” He laughed outright then, rolling you both so you lay half on top of him, his hands sliding down to rest on your hips. “Guilty as charged. Sue me. Besides, if I’d stayed ‘asleep,’ maybe you would’ve kept doing that little thing with your finger on my chest. Felt nice.”

You rolled your eyes, but the smile stretching across your face was impossible to hide. “Smooth. Real smooth.”

“Worked, didn’t it?” He leaned up to kiss the tip of your nose, then your mouth—soft, quick, like he was still testing the daylight version of whatever this was between you. “Morning, princess. For real this time.”

You kissed him back, slower, letting it linger. “Morning.”

The shower was quick—mostly because neither of you could stop getting distracted. Steve crowded you against the tiled wall beneath the warm spray, soapy hands gentle as he worked shampoo through your hair, thumbs pressing slow circles at the base of your skull. You retaliated by stealing the loofah and dragging it down his chest, teasing the trail of hair below his navel until he groaned and caught your wrist.

“Evil,” he muttered against your wet shoulder, laughing. “We’re supposed to be getting clean, not the opposite.”

You grinned up at him, water streaming down both your faces. “You started it with the massage thing.”

“Fair.” He kissed you once, quick and grinning, then reached for the shampoo again. “Fine. I’ll behave. For now.”

Breakfast was Steve in full domestic mode, which was unfairly attractive. He’d thrown on gray sweatpants and nothing else, hair still damp and sticking up in every direction, while you stole his favorite hoodie—the thick navy one that smelled like him and fell halfway down your thighs. You perched on the counter, legs swinging, as he moved around the kitchen like he’d done this a hundred times before.

“Coffee first,” he said, sliding a mug toward you—black, exactly how you liked it, with a splash of the hazelnut creamer he’d bought because he remembered you mentioning it once. “Then fuel. Eggs, toast, that avocado thing you pretend you don’t love but totally do.”

You took a sip and hummed, a different kind of warmth spreading through your chest. “You’re spoiling me already.”

“Get used to it.” He cracked eggs into the pan with one hand while the other reached over to squeeze your knee. “Figured after last night—and this morning—I owe you a decent meal before I drive you home like a responsible almost-boyfriend.”

The word hung in the air, light but heavy with possibility. You raised an eyebrow over the rim of your mug, playful. “Almost?”

Steve glanced over, spatula paused mid-flip, a soft laugh escaping him. “We’ll circle back to that. Eat first. I’m not proposing on an empty stomach.”

The drive to your place was easy, windows cracked, a low-key indie playlist humming through the speakers of his BMW. Steve’s hand stayed on your thigh for most of the way, thumb tracing lazy circles like he couldn’t quite stop touching you now that he was allowed.

Halfway there, you turned the volume down. “Hey. Random question, but… we should probably follow each other on our private accounts, right? Like, actually. I want to see all the things you’ve been tweeting about me.”

Steve grinned, eyes flicking from the road to you. “Only if you promise not to screenshot the embarrassing ones.”

You laughed, pulling out your phone. “Deal.”

“Deal.” He squeezed your thigh.

By the time Steve pulled up to your building, the sun was higher and Sunday morning traffic was starting to build. He killed the engine and turned toward you, one hand still on the wheel, the other reaching for yours across the console. The goodbye kiss was slow and deep, the kind that made your fingers curl into his hoodie like you could keep him there forever. When you finally pulled back, foreheads still touching, he let out a quiet breath.

“So… yeah, this,” he said, voice genuine and a little unsure around the edges in the best possible way. “Does this—everything—make us boyfriend and girlfriend? Like, officially?”

You bit back a grin, teasing. “Not sure… what do you think, Harrington?”

Steve huffed a laugh, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Oh, I think it does. But if you need me to do it the old-fashioned way—” He sat up a little straighter, took your hand in both of his, and looked at you with that stupidly earnest expression that always flipped your stomach. His voice went soft, serious, even though the corner of his mouth twitched like he was fighting a smile. “Will you be my girlfriend?”

You laughed—loud, bright, the kind that bubbled up from your chest and made your eyes water a little. “Yes,” you managed between giggles, squeezing his hands. “God, yes. Obviously.”

He grinned like you’d just handed him the moon, pulling you in for another kiss, this one quick and triumphant. “Thank God. I was sweating bullets there for a second.”

You lingered a moment longer, then finally reached for the door handle. “I should go inside before I decide to skip work tomorrow and just stay in your hoodie forever.”

Steve caught your wrist gently, eyes warm. “Rest up, okay? Tomorrow’s Monday—you’ve got that early shift. Maybe... I’ll swing by the station? Bring you coffee? Only if you want.”

“Sounds perfect,” you said, stepping out but leaning back through the open window. “Text me when you get home safe.”

“Already planning on it.” He winked.

You blew him a kiss and watched the BMW pull away, disappearing down the street with a final honk. Inside your apartment, the hoodie still smelled like him.

You flopped onto your bed, phone buzzing with a new follow notification from his private account and a text right after.

　.　　ㅤㅤㅤㅤ۫　　ㅤㅤㅤㅤ۫　　ㅤㅤㅤㅤ۫ㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤㅤ·⠀⠀⠀ 𓈒 ⠀ ⠀ㅤׂ ⠀⠀₊

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Steve climbed out the window and immediately ate shit. The heavy thud when he hit the grass made everyone inside flinch. "Fuck—" His voice cracked from the lawn. "Jesus Christ—okay—yeah, that hurt—shit—"

Dustin lost it first, wheezing so hard he had to grab the windowsill. "Oh my god—"

"I'm fine!" Steve called up, voice tight and fake—brave.

Robin went statue—still for half a second, processing, then absolutely exploded. She doubled over, tears already streaming. "No way. No way that just happened—oh my god."

Nancy tried to cut in—"Robin, don't—" but it was pointless.

Robin turned to you, eyes sparkling with pure evil delight. "This is the best idea he's ever had. C'mere, baby."

Nancy reached for your arm just in case. Robin was already scrambling up onto the sill like she had zero survival instincts and even less shame.

"ROBIN—" Dustin yelped.

She didn't even hesitate. She launched. She landed directly on Steve. A very specific, very unfortunate impact.

Steve's strangled shout cut through the night:

"OH—FUCK—okay—no—no—why—why there—"

Robin froze on top of him, then slowly lifted her head, grinning like a gremlin. "Did I... break something important?"

"Yes!" Steve wheezed, one hand slapping the grass. "Yes, you absolutely did—Jesus Christ—get off—"

"I think I hit—" She couldn't even finish. She collapsed into laughter again, shaking so hard she couldn't move.

Your own laugh punched out of you so violently your ribs hurt. The night was young, you were drunk, and everyone had officially lost their minds. You grinned at Nancy, who was already giving you the don't you dare mom look. "'Il be fine."

"Don't—"

Too late. You were already heading to the kitchen, climbing the frame. Dustin's voice cracked behind you—"Oh my god, not you too—this is not a group activity—what is wrong with all of you—"

"Don't die!" Eddie hollered after you.

You dropped. The grass rushed up. You landed clean beside the disaster pile, knees sinking into cool earth. Steve was curled slightly, one arm slung over his face, the other hand very pointedly not moving from the danger zone.

"I hate all of you," he groaned.

"No you don't," Robin singsonged, still sprawled half on top of him, staring up at the sky like she'd achieved nirvana. "You love us—specially—oh—the moon is too bright,"

Steve squinted upward, still wincing. "Wait what... Okay, yeah, no. It is being aggressive."

"Right?" Robin said, vindicated. "Suspicious behavior."

You dropped down beside them, shoulder brushing Steve's. "You're both insane."

"No, we're enlightened," Robin corrected.

"I'm in pain," Steve muttered, but when he turned his head, his eyes found yours and softened just a little. The corner of his mouth twitched. "Traitor. You jumped out the window too. You could've hurt me too, you know."

Robin cut in before you could even answer, voice dripping with wicked delight. "In your balls? I bet anything you wouldn't complain as much as you did with me."

Steve's head snapped toward her so fast you thought he'd pull something. "Robin—"

She just cackled louder, completely unrepentant.

You laughed so hard you had to lean into Steve's side. He didn't push you away. If anything, his shoulder pressed back against yours, warm and steady even through the groaning.

The front door opened like the boring, responsible adults they refused to be.

Dustin stomped out first, already in full disappointed—parent mode. "You," he pointed at Steve. "You're officially banned from making decisions. Forever."

Steve blinked up at him, dazed. "That feels targeted."

"It is targeted," Dustin said. "Also reminder: you're riding in my car later. I'm driving. You are not, under any circumstances, throwing yourself out of that too!"

"I wouldn't—" Steve started, then looked at you again for backup, eyes pleading and unfairly pretty even when he was half-dead on the grass.

"Tell him I'm being attacked."

"You did jump out a window," you reminded him sweetly.

"Allegedly."

Eddie came out next, speaker already in hand like it was a sacred relic. "If we're doing this, we're doing it right."

Jonathan trailed behind him, looking exhausted. "Don't bring that outside."

Eddie ignored him completely. "It's called ambiance, man."

"It's called getting the cops called on us at one in the morning," Jonathan snapped.

Nancy stepped out last, took one look at the three of you tangled on the grass, and just sighed like she'd aged ten years. "Well. This is happening now."

Robin waved lazily from her spot on Steve's chest. "We're bonding."

"With the grass," Steve added.

"With the universe," Robin corrected.

The speaker crackled to life. Low, warm music spilled into the yard like honey.

Chairs got dragged out, but nobody used them.

Everyone ended up on the grass anyway. Eddie pressed a cup into your hand—definitely not yours.

You held it up. "Is this mine?"

Eddie, already lighting a joint, shrugged with zero guilt. "In spirit."

You took a sip anyway.

Steve shifted beside you, finally managing to shove Robin off enough to sit up. His shoulder bumped yours again, this time on purpose. His voice dropped, just for you, low and rough from all the groaning. "You okay, though? For real?"

You turned your head. He was looking at you under the too—bright moon, hair messy, cheek smudged with grass, eyes soft. "Yeah," you said, knocking your knee against his. "I'm exactly where I wanna be."

He smiled—small, crooked, real—and didn't pull away.

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The music shifted without warning. No build—up, no transition—just that soft, hazy opening guitar drifting out into the night like it had always been there.

You froze.

"...No way," you whispered, more to yourself than anyone else.

A few feet away, Eddie and Dustin were already mid-argument about something completely incomprehensible while Nancy was actively wrestling a bottle out of Robin's hands. Jonathan stood there, visibly reconsidering walking into the ocean and never coming back.

But all of that felt... distant.

Because Fade Into You was playing.

Here. Now.

You let out a quiet, disbelieving breath, dragging a hand over your face. "You've got to be kidding me."

Beside you, Steve went very still.

"...What?" he said, too quickly.

You turned to him slowly, eyes narrowing just a little. "This song."

"Yeah," he said, nodding like it meant nothing.

"Good song. Normal song. Happens all the time."

"Steve."

"What?"

"You're being weird. Actually, you've been acting weird the whole night. You've jumped off a window."

"I'm not being weird," he said immediately. "I'm being—so normal right now. Extremely normal about this completely normal situation."

You just stared at him for a second, the alcohol making you braver than you had any right to be.

The grass was cold and slightly damp beneath you both, legs stretched out, shoulders brushing every now and then. The joint in Steve's hand burned unevenly, the tip glowing in the dark before he took another slow drag, holding it a second too long before exhaling. You could smell it on him, mixed with cheap beer and something faintly sweet.

"Fuck it, Uh—so...Why did you quote tweet me?" you finally asked.

Steve blinked. "What?"

"My tweet, you said, pointing vaguely at him.n "Yesterday. You quoted it."

Steve dragged a hand down his face. "Oh my god. It was an accident," he blurted.

You tilted your head. "An accident."

"I swear to god," he said, leaning closer on instinct, knee bumping yours. "I didn't mean to do it from my main. I was—I was on my private, and I saw your tweet, and I was gonna-say something there, and then I just—hit the wrong button and-" He stopped, jaw tightening.

You didn't let him off the hook. "...What did it say?"

Steve let out a shaky breath, looking everywhere but at you for a second, then back. "It said.." He swallowed. "It said, 'heyyyy is this about me princess... I love you.'" Of course, even wasted, he would remember every single word.

The words hung there between you.

No laughter. No deflection.

Just the quiet hum of the song wrapping around the moment.

You stared at him, something in your chest pulling tight. "...Oh," you said, softer than before.

"I know," he said immediately, voice rough, shifting closer again. "I know it sounds—stupid, or like a joke or whatever, but it wasn't—I mean, it was, but not really—"

"Steve—"

"No, wait," he cut in gently. "Just—let me—okay? Because I'm really fucking drunk, and a little high, and if I don't say it now I'm not gonna say it at all."

You went quiet.

He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling hard, then looked at you like he was bracing himself.

"I like you," he said. "Like—so much it's actually embarrassing. Like, l've been trying to be normal about it for months and I just—can't."

Your heart stuttered.

"I thought I was being subtle," he went on, huffing out a breath that almost turned into a laugh. "Like—posting stuff, or showing up places, or—l don't know—just being around you, hoping you'd—notice or something. I even thought you were—talking about someone else. I don't fucking know."

"That's literally what I thought about you," you cut in.

He blinked. "What?"

"I thought your tweets were about someone else," you said, words starting to spill faster now, the alcohol loosening everything. "Like—you were getting to know some girl or something, and I felt insane, and—" you huffed out a laugh, shaking your head, "—Dustin and Eddie even softblocked me from their privs. Like, fully. I thought that was, like, confirmation or something."

Steve snorted quietly at that, like it tracked a little too well, but he didn't comment.

"That's why I went to Eddie's show on Wednesday. I needed to stop thinking about it."

Steve just stared at you. "You—"

"And then you were there," you continued, voice softer now. "Outside. Waiting. And I didn't get it at the time, I just thought—coincidence or something, but—"

"I was there for you," he said, softer.

"I know," you said, meeting his eyes. "I know now."

There was a beat.

The joint passed between you again, your fingers brushing his, lingering a second too long.

Everything felt slow, heavy, like the world had dipped underwater.

Steve leaned closer again, close enough now that your shoulders pressed fully together.

"You know? I started learning guitar because of you," he said. "Like—properly. Because you said you liked it once and I just—latched onto it like an idiot."

You let out a small, disbelieving breath. "Steve—"

"And that playlist Jonathan made?" he kept going. "I've had it on repeat for days. Half the songs I didn't even know before, but you like them, so I was like—okay, cool, l'll learn them, I'Il get it, I'll—be someone you'd—"

"You don't have to do that," you said, turning toward him fully now. "You don't have to change anything."

"What?" he asked.

"You being you was already enough, you said, softer. "You had me months ago. You just didn't realize it."

Steve blinked.

Once. Twice.

"You—holy shit, you're killing me. That's—wait, really? Months? I'm such a dumbass."

"Yeah," you said, a little breathless. "I've been sending indirects like an idiot for weeks. Asking Robin about you constantly—she's probably sick of me."

There was a beat where he just processed that.

And then he laughed.

Not mocking—just completely, utterly stunned, a little disbelieving, like his brain had short—circuited.

"You—what?" he said, grinning now, running a hand over his face. "You've been—this whole time? Are you kidding me?"

You laughed too, a little helpless. "Yeah."

"Holy shit," he said, shaking his head, still smiling like he couldn't quite believe it. "I thought—l genuinely thought I was losing my mind."

"Same."

Another pause-softer now, warmer. His gaze dropped to your lips, then back up.

"...So why didn't you say anything?" he asked quietly.

You raised an eyebrow immediately. "Why didn't you say anything?"

He huffed out a breath, but he was still smiling, softer now.

Steve's hand came up slowly, hovering near your face, like he wasn't sure if he was allowed, the two of you still sitting there tangled on the grass.

You leaned into it.

"Can I—" he started quietly, leaning in, lips already curving into that soft, hopeful smile-

The music cut off.

"THAT'S IT!" a voice shouted from somewhere beyond the fence. "BYERS, TURN THAT SHIT OFF OR I'M CALLING THE POLICE!"

Steve groaned immediately, dropping his head back. "Are you serious right now?"

You burst out laughing.

"Yeah, call them!" Dustin yelled. "We love authority!"

"DUSTIN," Nancy snapped.

"LOVE YOU TOO!" Eddie yelled back.

"EDDIE," this time, it was Jonathan who snapped.

You were still laughing, leaning into him a little, shoulders shaking.

"This is not funny," he muttered, though he was already smiling again, looking back at you.

"It kind of is," you said.

From the porch, Robin's voice cut through, faint and miserable—"I'm gonna be sick—"

"That's our cue," Nancy said immediately.

The yard erupted back into motion—people grabbing things, moving, complaining, laughing.

He stood first, a little unsteady, then reached down for you without hesitation, pulling you up from the grass. The world tilted slightly when you got to your feet, and you instinctively leaned into him, both of you laughing under your breath.

As you started toward the house with the others, his hand stayed loosely wrapped around yours, thumb brushing absentmindedly over your knuckles.

At the bottom of the steps, he glanced at you, softer now.

"...You want a refill?" he asked, nodding toward your drink. "I'm grabbing one anyway-before everyone finishes everything inside."

You huffed a quiet laugh. "Only if you make it a double."

"Deal," he said, like that was the easiest thing in the world.

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The kitchen lights are low, just the under-cabinet strip glowing warm gold, and the whole house feels like it’s holding its breath while the others crowd into the bathroom with Robin. You hear Nancy’s calm voice directing traffic—“Tilt her head, Dustin, not like that”—and Eddie’s half-panicked “She’s fine, she’s fine, she just needs to—oh god, there it goes."

Steve’s already behind the counter pouring two generous doubles like he’s racing the clock.

He slides yours across the granite. “To being two absolute idiots,” he says, clinking his cup against yours.

You laugh into the rim. “Cheers to that. Months. We’re actually embarrassing.”

You both take a long pull. The vodka burns sweet down your throat. He sets his cup down, then reaches for the speaker on the counter—the same one Eddie abandoned earlier—and hits play. Shuffle gods are cruel tonight. The first lazy guitar notes of Crush by Ethel Cain drift out, low and aching, like the song knows exactly what’s about to happen.

Steve freezes mid-reach for the bottle. You feel it too—the air shifts, thickens. He looks at you across the open counter, the living room right there behind him, couch visible like the whole house is one big stage with no curtain. His mouth parts. Yours does the same. The tension is so heavy it feels like static.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “Let’s be real—you know damn well I want to kiss you right now, right?”

You don’t answer with words. You just round the counter, grab the front of his shirt, and pull him down.

The kiss is desperate the second your mouths meet—wet, open, months of pretending finally snapping. His hands are everywhere at once; one fisting your hair, the other sliding under your shirt to grip your waist. You taste vodka and the faint weed on his tongue and it’s so him it makes your knees weak.

He tugged you toward the couch just steps away in the open living room, stumbling together like idiots, laughing breathlessly into each other’s mouths.

You pushed him down first. Steve landed with a soft “oof,” grinning up at you. You climb on top without thinking, knees bracketing his thighs. The second you settle your weight on him he groans into your mouth, hands sliding up your back under your shirt, thumbs brushing the band of your bra. You roll your hips down against him on instinct feeling exactly how hard he already is through both your jeans. The friction drags a broken sound out of him.

“Shit—” he pants against your lips, voice wrecked. His hands drop to your ass, guiding you into a slow grind. Your fingers dig into his shoulders; his head falls back against the couch as you rock harder, chasing the pressure right where you need it. He thrusts up to meet you, messy and uncoordinated from the booze. “Been thinking about this for—fuck—forever. I love you.”

You lean down and bite his neck, sucking hard enough to leave a mark he’ll probably regret tomorrow, "I love you too, Steve" you whisper against his collarbone. He hisses, hips jerking up sharper. The song keeps playing, low and haunting, and the open kitchen means anyone could walk in any second, but neither of you cares. You’re both too drunk, too hungry, too done waiting.

You’re grinding down hard, chasing the edge, when the hallway light flips on.

Nancy’s voice cuts through like a bucket of cold water. “Oh my god.”

You and Steve freeze mid-grind. Your head snaps up. She’s standing at the edge of the living room, one hand still on the light switch, eyes wide but the corner of her mouth already twitching.

Steve’s hands are still on your ass. You’re still straddling him. The evidence is obvious.

Nancy folds her arms, trying and failing to look stern. “You two picked the absolute best possible moment to finally get your shit together..”

Steve lets out a strangled laugh, face burning. “We—uh—”

“Save it,” Nancy says, but she’s smiling now, soft and genuinely happy.

You slide off Steve’s lap, legs shaky, and tug your shirt down. “We were being subtle.”

“You were being horny,” Nancy corrects, but she steps closer and squeezes your shoulder. “I’m happy for you. Both of you. Really. But maybe don’t dryhump on my boyfriend’s couch while the rest of us are dealing with Robin’s tequila exorcism? Or at least wait until we’re not all thirty feet away.?”

Steve scrubs a hand over his face, still half-hard and trying to hide it by slouching. “Noted. Thanks, Wheeler.”

She’s about to say more when the bathroom door bangs open and the rest of the cavalry stumbles out. Robin’s in the middle, face pale but eyes clearer, hair wet at the temples. Dustin’s got one arm around her waist; Eddie’s on the other side, towel in hand. Jonathan trails behind, muttering about “never letting you people into my house again.”

“Water to the face works every time,” Eddie announces proudly. “Old Munson trick. She’s alive!”

Robin waves weakly. “I’m a new woman. The toilet and I are no longer on speaking terms, but I’m vertical.”

You and Steve exchange a quick glance—guilt and leftover heat—and both blurt at the same time:

“Sorry—”

“We’ll explain later—”

Robin squints at you two, then at Nancy’s suspiciously expression, then back. She breaks into a slow, wicked grin. “Whatever the hell just happened, I approve. Live your best lives. Party’s not over till I say so. Viva la vida.”

Dustin groans. “Can we at least get her food before she starts matchmaking? She’s still half-feral.”

Eddie and Dustin steer Robin toward the kitchen island like she’s an invalid queen, already digging through cabinets for crackers and peanut butter.

Nancy shoots you one last amused look and follows them, leaving you and Steve on the couch for half a second. He leans over, breath still ragged, and presses a quick kiss to the corner of your mouth.

You both stand up, clothes rumpled, trying to look casual as hell, and wander into the kitchen like nothing happened.

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Eddie pokes his head in and comes back out grinning. “She’s asleep. Like, fully horizontal in the tub, using a towel as a blanket. We’re never getting her out tonight.”

Dustin checks his watch for the tenth time and groans. “Okay, so—mom’s gonna murder me if I’m not home like right now. I’m calling it. Steve, you’re still riding with me, right? Car’s leaving in sixty seconds.”

Steve’s already leaning against the counter beside you, shoulder pressed warm to yours. He doesn’t even hesitate. “Yeah, but—uh—can you drop her off too?” He nods toward you, casual as anything, like he’s asking for a ride to the gas station. “She’s gonna crash at my place for a bit.”

Dustin’s eyebrows shoot straight up. He looks between the two of you, surprised but not really. “Wait. What? Since when? I thought she was—wait, you’re staying at Steve’s? Like, overnight? Now?”

You shrug. “My ride bailed earlier and it’s stupid late. Steve’s house is closer. Yeah.”

Dustin stares—the way Steve’s shirt is still rumpled and you’re both wearing matching grins—he’s putting two and two together. “Uh-huh,” he says slowly, eyes narrowing. “Totally. You guys are the worst liars on planet Earth, but whatever. Get in the car before I change my mind and leave you both here to explain yourselves.”

You all shuffle toward the front door in a loose, stumbling pack. Jonathan’s leaning against the wall, arms crossed, looking like he’s aged five years in one night. Nancy’s got one hand on his shoulder, the other still holding a water bottle she was trying to force on Robin earlier. Eddie’s trailing last, joint already relit between his fingers.

“Night, freaks,” Eddie calls. Nancy rolls her eyes but smiles anyway. “Text when you get home safe, Dustin. And you two—” She points at you and Steve, soft but pointed. “Be good. " Jonathan just gives a lazy two-finger salute. “See ya.”

You laugh, leaning into Steve’s side for half a second. “Night, guys.”

Steve bumps fists with Eddie, then Jonathan, and pulls Nancy into a quick one-armed hug.

Dustin’s already halfway out the door, keys jingling. “Let’s go, lovebirds. Clock’s ticking.”

You pile into Dustin’s car—Steve shotgun, you in the back—and the second the doors shut Dustin mutters, “I’m not asking. I’m definitely not asking. But if I wake up tomorrow and Steve’s wearing a hickey the size of Indiana, I’m claiming emotional damages.”

Steve barks out a laugh and reaches back between the seats to squeeze your knee. “Noted, Henderson. Drive.”

The ride is short and stupid—Dustin blasting some old mixtape, Steve singing off-key just to annoy him, you laughing so hard your ribs hurt again.

When Dustin finally pulls up to Steve’s dark driveway he kills the engine and gives you both one last dramatic side-eye. “Be safe. Use protection. Or don’t. I don’t want details. Text me tomorrow so I know you’re both alive.”

“Night, Dustin,” you say sweetly, already climbing out.

“Love you too, man,” Steve adds, ruffling Dustin’s hair through the open window before he can smack his hand away.

The house is quiet when you step inside—Steve’s parents gone for the weekend again, like always—and the second the door clicks shut he’s backing you against it, hands on your waist, nose brushing yours.

“Hi,” he whispers, like you didn’t spend the last twenty minutes in the same car.

“Hi,” you whisper back, grinning.

He kisses you soft and slow this time. “C’mon. Bed. Before we both pass out standing up.”

You trail him upstairs, teasing the whole way. “You gonna carry me over the threshold, Harrington? Real romantic.”

He shoulder-checks his bedroom door open, flips on the lamp, and immediately starts kicking off his shoes. You flop backward onto his bed fully clothed, arms spread like a starfish. The ceiling spins gently. The sheets smell like his cologne and laundry detergent and home.

“Steve?”

“Yeah?” He’s halfway out of his shirt, hair sticking up everywhere, looking stupidly soft in the lamplight.

“Come here.”

He crawls onto the bed beside you and pokes your side until you peek at him through your fingers. You roll into him without thinking, legs tangling, his arm sliding under your neck like it was made for that exact spot. He presses a slow kiss to your forehead, then your temple, then the corner of your mouth.

“You’re exhausted,” he murmurs against your hair.

“Am not,” you mumble, even as your eyes are already sliding shut. “Keep talking. I’m listening.”

He chuckles, the sound rumbling through his chest under your cheek. “Sure you are, princess.”

You feel him shift, probably reaching for the lamp. The last thing you register is his hand stroking down your back in slow, lazy circles and the quiet click of the light going out.

Steve watches you for a long second in the dark, the corner of his mouth curved in something stupid and fond and a little bit wrecked.

“Night,” he whispers, even though you’re already gone. Then he pulls the blanket over both of you, tucks your head under his chin, and lets himself fall asleep to the sound of your breathing.

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You hear the front door swing open. Dustin’s voice comes first, already annoyed. “I swear, if you puke in my car tonight, Harrington, I’m leaving your ass on the side of the road.”

Steve steps in behind him, hair messy from the wind, cheeks a little flushed. His eyes lock on you right away where you’re still fiddling with the projector cables.

“Hey,” he says, voice just a notch higher than usual, that nervous laugh slipping out as he scratches the back of his neck. “You started without me? I literally told you I was coming to help.”

Jonathan calls from the kitchen, smoke drifting out with the smell of weed and popcorn. “Snacks are almost done! Don’t break my shit!”

You stand up, the three shots buzzing warm in your chest, giving you just enough courage to look Steve in the eye. “The mount was being a dick. You still offering those extra hands?”

Steve’s grin softens, nerves easing a bit as he walks over. “Always. Hand me the cable.”

Your fingers brush when he takes it. He doesn’t pull away right away.

“Twist it clockwise?” he asks, leaning in close.

“Yeah, exactly like that. Tighten it more.”

“Got it,” he says, low and a little playful. “Looks good from here.”

Dustin snorts, holding the projector steady. “You two done eye-fucking the wires yet? I’m grabbing a soda before the real drinking starts.”

Steve laughs, shaking his head. “Shut up, Henderson. We’re almost done.”

You step back once the green light blinks on. “There. It’s ready.”

Steve stays close, shoulder brushing yours again. “Told you we’d nail it. Teamwork, right?”

You feel the spark under your skin but just smile. “Yeah. Teamwork.”

You pull your phone out, open the group chat, and snap a quick photo of the projector all set up.

He steps back, still grinning. “Wait—add one with me in it for proof it actually works. Watch this—”

Steve throws his arms out in a ridiculous game-show pose right next to the projector, like he’s presenting a prize. His foot snags the cable and he lurches forward, catching himself on the couch with a loud “Whoa—shit!”

He straightens up fast, cheeks bright red, laughing at himself. “Okay, that was supposed to look cool. Delete that mental image, please.”

Dustin bursts out laughing from the kitchen doorway, soda in hand. "Dumbass…" He mutters.

Jonathan’s voice cracks up from the kitchen, barely holding it together between puffs. “Dude, seriously, just—pathetic."

At 8:45 the doorbell rang, followed instantly by frantic banging.

"Hellooo? Anyone home?" Robin's voice carried through the door.

Jonathan muttered, "I'm coming, I'm coming," and yanked it open.

Robin stood grinning ear to ear, Nancy waving beside her, Eddie behind them both with arms flung wide.

"Well, well!" Eddie boomed.

Robin and Eddie slipped inside; Nancy kissed Jonathan quickly before they shut the door.

Dustin crouched on the floor. You sat cross-legged on the couch, nursing a drink that already had way too much vodka. Steve leaned over the back, then dropped casually beside you—his thigh brushing yours like it was nothing, though it definitely wasn't. Dustin glanced up, clocked it, and filed it away.

Greetings flew around. Robin ruffled your hair and shot Steve a knowing smirk. Nancy spotted the two of you, arched one eyebrow, said nothing, and perched on the armrest next to Jonathan.

Robin flopped down beside Dustin. Eddie smacked Steve's knee hard enough to earn a yelp, then claimed the other end of the couch, boots kicked up like he owned it.

Once everyone settled, Jonathan killed the lights. "Shut up. This is only a sneak peek okay—quiet. Trailer first, then we get wrecked."

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The night loosens after that. Someone connects a phone to the speakers and music starts drifting through the house. Bottles appear from somewhere in the kitchen cabinets. Cups multiply across every available surface like they're reproducing.

Dustin cracks open a neon-colored can of something aggressively caffeinated and raises it like a toast. "I will remain the responsible one tonight."

Eddie raises an eyebrow. "Since when?"

"Since all of you make terrible decisions," Dustin says, completely serious.

Jonathan lights a joint near the open window and Eddie leans over immediately to take the next hit.

Robin waits her turn, coughing the second the smoke hits her lungs and flipping everyone off while she tries to recover.

You take another sip of your drink. Steve takes one too. Neither of you mention the fact that you're unconsciously matching each other's pace.

Robin suddenly claps her hands together, startling half the room.

"Okay," she announces. "We need chaos. Never Have I Ever!"

Nancy groans into her drink. "Are we fifteen?"

"Emotionally?" Robin says. "Yes."

Eddie leans forward like someone just announced the start of a championship match. "I'm in, but we go hard. No 'never stole a pen' bullshit."

Jonathan shrugs from the couch. "I literally don't care."

Dustin raises his soda like a referee. "I'm ready to observe and judge."

Steve hesitates for the briefest second before nodding. "Uh... Yeah. Sure."

You take a long drink like it would save you. "Fine."

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Jonathan, already half-gone on the joint, voice low and deadpan: "Never have I ever kissed someone of the same sex."

Robin drank instantly with a wicked grin. Nancy drank, cheeks flaming. Eddie drank, shrugging like it was Tuesday. The room detonated. Dustin's eyes bugged out. Steve choked on his beer. You just watched, heart racing, as Nancy hid her face in Jonathan's shoulder and confessed in a mortified squeak: "Okay it was Robin. One time. Long time ago. We were wasted, it was... experimental. Her lips are really soft, whatever, shut up forever."

Robin cackled, crawled over and planted a loud fake kiss on Nancy's cheek: "Best experiment I ever ran, Wheeler. Ten out of ten, would tongue again."

Eddie howled, "I kissed a guy at a Dio show, got a little too excited, I came in my pants, next question!"

Steve was laughing so hard he had to bury his face in your shoulder, his hand landing high on your thigh and staying there.

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Eddie, rings flashing, leaning forward like a predator: "Never have I ever had a crush on someone sitting right here in this room." He quickly glanced at Steve.

Steve rolled his eyes.

Nancy drank instantly, Jonathan followed right after with a sheepish shrug because obviously they'd been together four solid years and still looked at each other like that.

You drank—slow, burning, because Steve's thigh was literally welded to yours. "I'm not drunk enough for this." You muttered.

Robin drank with a dramatic eyeroll, muttering, "It was Nancy for exactly two days freshman year, don't make it weird—I got over it the second she started dating Steve."

Steve drank hard, eyes flicking everywhere except you. He tried to play it disgustingly cool, rubbing his neck. "Obviously Nancy, we dated in high school, duh. And... uh... I had a thing for Robin before I knew she was a full-on girl lover, that's all."

The room erupted in fake outrage and knowing snorts—Nancy and Robin exchanged the quickest glance that screamed they knew the real answer was you, Jonathan smirked into his cup, Eddie raised both eyebrows like he could see straight through Steve's soul, and Dustin just whispered "bullshit" under his breath while grinning.

"Oh I have a good one." Dustin, suddenly bold as hell with his drink. "Never have I ever fucked in a car."

Steve drank. Nancy drank. Jonathan drank.

Robin drank with a filthy little moan sound.

Eddie drank twice and described the exact position.

You stayed stone still. Dustin stayed still... for half a second. Then his brain caught up.

"WAIT—ALMOST ALL OF YOU? WHAT THE FUCK." he screamed, voice cracking up three octaves. The circle lost it—Steve was red, laughing into your neck.

Robin catcalled, "Steve's got stories that would make us blush, don't ya Steve?"

He sighed while he passed his joint to Eddie. "Shut up Buckley."

Eddie started ranking everyone's car sex stories.

Dustin clutched his soda like a cross. "Steve your BMW is basically a cum mobile, Nancy and Jonathan in the station wagon like animals, Robin you said you almost broke the gear shift—I'm surrounded by degenerates..."

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Round four Steve volunteered, voice a little rough from the drinks and the tension. "Never have I ever recorded something during sex."

Only Jonathan and Nancy drank. Dead silence for one beautiful second.

Robin screamed "YOU FILMED IT?!" Nancy buried her head in her hands. "It was one time... artistic... we never watched it more than... seven times... delete it from your brains."

Jonathan just shrugged with the tiniest proud smirk. "The lighting was nice." Eddie actually fell over laughing. Dustin covered his ears.

Steve laughed but his eyes kept drifting to you, like he was filing away ideas for later, and the knowledge that everyone else knew what was simmering between you two made the air feel thick. You took a quick hit from the joint Steve passed you.

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You, liquid courage making you brave and stupid, blurting the first filthy thing that came to mind because you genuinely couldn't think of anything tamer: "Never have I ever had sex in a public space."

Every single person drank. Including Dustin. The room froze, then detonated harder than ever.

"HENDERSON—" Steve shrieked. Eddie wheezed so hard he almost puked. Nancy's jaw dropped.

Dustin turned bright red but puffed out his chest.

"There's this girl from college I met in the workshop—after classes, in the darkroom. Things… happened. We made out and then… more. I'm not sorry."

Robin screamed "TOO MUCH INFORMATION—" while you drank too, shrugging with burning cheeks.

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By round 7 the circle was a pile of limbs, everyone flushed, half the group visibly wasted.

Jonathan forgot it was his own house and offered people snacks from the wrong cabinet; Nancy and Jonathan definitely started making out in the corner at one point while everyone politely pretended not to notice; Steve laughed too loud at everything, talked too much, but his voice got softer and softer every time he turned just to you.

By the end you had stopped counting drinks entirely, the room is spinning in the best way, your head fuzzy and warm from all the vodka you've been slamming because sober you is a coward and drunk you? Drunk you wants Steve so fucking bad it hurts. You want the buzz to hit harder, want it to shut up the voice that keeps screaming just climb him like a tree already.

Steve's leaned so far into your space his breath ghosts your neck every time he laughs. His hand keeps "accidentally" brushing yours, fingers lingering at your wrist like he's counting your pulse. Every time you shift, your thigh presses harder against his and neither of you pulls away.

You catch him staring at your mouth. He catches you staring right back.

"Jesus, you two, get a room or at least stop eye-fucking in public," Robin slurs, waving her cup like a conductor.

Steve flips her off without looking away from you, but his cheeks are flushed dark and he's laughing that low, wrecked laugh that makes your stomach flip.

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The music's louder, the lights are basically nonexistent, and the living room has turned into a hazy dance floor because Robin declared "sitting is for quitters" about ten minutes ago. You're right in the middle of it, hips swaying, drink sloshing in your cup.

Steve's dancing too, but he's barely moving now.

Close enough that his chest brushes your shoulder when you turn, his hand ghosts your waist for half a second before he pulls it back like he burned himself.

You lean into it on purpose, letting your back press against his front for one dangerous beat, and you swear you hear him inhale sharp.

Neither of you says anything.

Eddie's in the middle of the floor, arms flailing, telling the most unhinged story about a raccoon that apparently broke into his van last week and stole his last clean pair of socks. "I'm telling you, man, that little shit looked me dead in the eye like 'these are mine now, Munson', and then he flipped me off! With tiny raccoon fingers!"

The whole group is cracking up, Robin wheezing so hard she's half—doubled over, Nancy trying to argue that raccoons don't have fingers, Jonathan muttering something about Eddie being too high while still swaying to the beat. You're laughing so hard your sides hurt, but your eyes keep sliding back to Steve.

Then, out of nowhere, Steve breaks away from the group. He stumbles back a step, cheeks flushed deep red, running a shaky hand through his hair. "Fuck—guys, I... I gotta—" His voice is thick, wrecked, the words tumbling out drunk and clumsy.

Dustin pauses mid—sway, blinking at him like a confused puppy. "Dude, you going to pee? You look like you're about to piss yourself."

Steve laughs, but it's strained, almost a groan.

"No, man. Just—kitchen. Need some air. Too loud. Too... everything." His eyes flick to you for a split second before he turns away.

The group keeps an eye on him from the living room, still half-dancing, half-watching.

Dustin shrugs and trails after him anyway. "Fine, but if you puke in Jonathan's sink I'm telling everyone."

Robin, already wasted and giggling, tags along too. "Ooooh, fresh air sounds elite. I'm coming too, my lungs are dying." She links her arm through Steve's like they're on a mission, both of them stumbling sideways.

Jonathan calls after them without looking up from where he's slowdancing with Nancy. "Front door always exists..."

Steve's already at the window, shoving it open way too wide and leaning out so far his torso's basically hanging over the sill. The cool night air rushes in, but he's gripping the frame like it's the only thing keeping him from bolting.

Dustin's right behind him, arms crossed. "Dude, you're gonna fall on your face. Stop messing around—use the damn door like a normal person."

Robin sways in, laughing already. "Wait, dude, what the hell are you—"

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Steve drove to Robin’s house after the game, parked right in front of her door, and honked the horn to signal her to come out. Robin slid into the passenger seat.

“Everything alright in that little head of yours? Want to talk about something specific?” Robin asked with a knowing smile.

“You know exactly what I want to talk about,” Steve replied, switching off the engine. Robin rolled her eyes and let out a mix of a sigh and a laugh.

“Steve, seriously, I know it’s easier said than done, but…” She met his gaze directly. “Just stay completely calm.”

Steve’s eyes widened in disbelief and surprise. “Calm? Robin, come on…” He ran a hand through his hair, fingers combing it nervously—a familiar habit. But then something clicked in his mind.

“Wait.” He twisted his body fully toward her. “Has she told you something? Do you know anything? I swear, Robin, if you’re holding out on me—”

Robin clapped a hand over his mouth. “Shhhhh, Steven. Breathe, kid.” Steve frowned as she pulled her hand away. “No, I don’t know a thing—and hypothetically, even if I did, I wouldn’t spill it. She’s my friend too, you know?” she said, shrugging her shoulders.

Steve rolled his eyes, gripping the steering wheel tightly. “Yeah, yeah, I get it. You’re the worst, but fine, I understand,” he said, nodding.

Robin smirked. “You know what? Why don’t we go grab a drink? Hang out, clear your mind a bit…” She finished with a gentle nudge to his arm.

Steve let out another sigh that dissolved into a chuckle. “Alright, looks like I’m not the only one who’s good at persuasion…”

Steve fired up the engine, and Robin connected her Spotify.

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You walked with Eddie and the rest of the band out onto the street. And sure enough, there he was. You hadn’t expected Steve to still be waiting outside. After all, he had only come to see the concert, right?

Eddie pointed a finger at Steve. “Dude, you’re completely fucking insane, seriously…” He pulled him into a hug.

Steve shoved him lightly while laughing. “Get off me, man. You still smell like shit.”

Your eyes met his for a moment. “Hey.” Steve greeted you awkwardly, as if the cat had got his tongue. You felt your heart start beating faster.

“Hi, Steve.” You smiled with a small shrug. “I didn’t expect to see you here. I thought you were with Robin.”

“Oh! Well, yeah. I was with her, but… let’s just say we both know what she’s like after four beers.” He laughed nervously, looking anywhere but at you. “I was planning to go to the concert, but I got caught up taking Robin home.” He ran a hand through his hair before looking at you again.

“Of course,” Eddie muttered under his breath. Steve nudged him lightly in the ribs with his elbow.

“And you still waited outside?” you asked, still trying to understand the situation. “Or were you waiting for Eddie? He told me he’s going to stay at the bar with the band for a while.”

Eddie crossed his arms, barely holding back a laugh.

“Me? Uh…” Steve glanced sideways at Eddie, searching for the right words. Then he looked back at you again. “Are you going?”

Eddie finally let out the laugh he’d been holding in, quickly disguising it with an exaggerated cough.

Your eyes widened. “Me? Well… I work tomorrow morning… you know… and I’ll probably have to deal with Robin’s hangover too.” You let out a nervous laugh.

Steve looked down at the ground. “Ah, right. Work. Those things…”

A few seconds of silence followed, stretching out endlessly.

Suddenly, Eddie threw his arms around both of you. “Welp, guys, I’m gonna head out. I need a beer. Like, right now.”

You burst out laughing. “Completely understandable. Enjoy it—the concert was amazing.”

Eddie ruffled both of your hair. Steve groaned in protest. Taking a few steps back toward his band, Eddie called out, “What about you, man? You coming?”

Steve exchanged glances between you and Eddie and sighed. “I think… I’m going to walk her home.”

Your heart skipped again.

Eddie rolled his eyes with a laugh. “Of course. You can’t let a lady walk home alone at night, right?” He turned around and headed back to his band, laughing.

Steve groaned again, rubbing the back of his neck. “Ignore that. He’s an idiot.”

You laughed. “Don’t worry, I know him. And it’s fine—my place isn’t far. I walked here.”

Steve stepped a little closer to you. “No, no, no, no, absolutely not. No way. In this cold? Uh-uh.” He wagged a finger in refusal.

You shrugged with a laugh. “Alright. Arguing with you is pointless anyway.”

The two of you walked toward his car. The drive home was calm and brief, Steve unusually quiet.

This time, he chose the music.

Just Like Heaven by The Cure.

You stepped out of the car, standing by the window and raising your hand in farewell. “Thanks for the ride. I still think it wasn’t necessary.”

Steve smiled. “Don’t worry about it. Really.”

You walked backward a few steps, still waving. “See you Friday!” you called.

“Yeah! Friday! I won’t forget!” he replied, even louder than you.

The house felt empty, but your heart felt full.

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