I WRITE FOR FANDOMS

The moment moved on the way it always did—fast, messy, swallowed by urgency. The group kept talking, hands kept moving, someone called out a new plan. The station’s hum and the static in the speakers filled the gaps until it almost felt normal again.

Because when the others drifted away—down the hall, back towards the basement, outside—Steve didn’t follow right away.

You noticed a shift in him. The way he went still. The way his jaw worked like he was chewing on something bitter, and he didn’t want to swallow. He dragged a hand down his face like he could wipe the moment joke clean off his skin, and his hair had already started falling out of place—only obeying physics until stress showed up.

Then his gaze found you. Not annoyed this time. Worried.

Steve exhaled, hard. “She’s, ya know. Robin’s just… Robin,” he ended exasperated.

You stepped closer and curled your fingers into the sleeve of his sweater. “I know.”

He swallowed, eyes flicking over you. “But—” He stopped, jaw ticking. He hated asking. You could tell.

Steve Harrington would rather take a punch than admit something got under his skin as stupid as this.

“Babe?" you prompted, softer. "What's wrong?

His voice dropped. “Have I ever—” He pursed his lips and shook his head, frustrated with his own vocabulary, and tried again. “Have I ever… hurt you? Or made you feel like I didn’t listen? Like I just didn't care… went ahead anyway?”

It was so earnestly said it stole the humor right out of the air. Not because it wasn’t funny. Because Steve had heard the joke and, instead of hearing “ha-ha,” he’d heard “careless.” He’d heard “thoughtless.”

"Selfish."

"Mean."

He’d heard something that didn’t match how hard he tried to be good to you.

You blinked at him for a second, then reached up and hooked two fingers under his chin, guiding his face toward yours the way you’d done a hundred times the past few of years—after a bad day, after a close call.

“Oh, Steve,” you frowned, coaxing his attention. “Look at me.”

His eyes lifted. Brown, warm, still a little dull from exhaustion. The same eyes that checked your seatbelt before his own. The same eyes that tracked you through a room to calm his nerves.

“No,” you answered, simple and firm. “Never.”

His shoulders didn’t fully drop. Not yet. He still looked like he was bracing the polite lie, the hidden “but.”

So you didn’t give him one.

“You ask,” you began, thumb brushing the edge of his jaw, catching on stubble. “Every time you’re not sure. You check in. You listen. Pay attention when I sound different. You stop if I ask you to stop. You care, Steve.”

He swallowed, still tense, still taking it like a problem to solve. “Yeah, but—”

“No buts,” you cut in gently, because you knew this part of him—the part that would rather worry himself sick than risk being the reason you were hurting. “I’m sorry I laughed. It was Robin being Robin, and my brain short-circuited, but that's no excuse and I’m sorry.”

Steve’s eyes flicked over your face, searching, then softened like he’d been waiting for that, too. His hands curled around your waist, thumbs rubbing absentmindedly. “It's alright."

“Listen to me when I say this, yeah?" you murmured. “I have no complaints whatsoever.”

“Okay, okay,” he relented, voice rough with relief. Then the worry tried to claw back in. His eyes flicked over your face again like he was checking for any sign you were sparing his feelings.

“I just...don’t want you thinking I’m that guy,” he murmured, quieter in case of prying ears. “The guy who doesn’t care if his girlfriend’s okay.”

You softened again, leaning up to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

“You’re not,” you told him, pecking him again. “You’re the guy who worries about being that guy. Which is exactly why you never will be.”

His forehead dropped toward yours, the last of the tension finally easing out of his shoulders.

"Okay," he whispered, holding your gaze as your words sank in, like he’d made peace with the joke. Like he’d made peace with himself.

Then his hands tightened at your waist, and he leaned in.

The kiss was brief at first, then a little deeper when you kissed him back, your fingers curling into his sweater. It grew into a kind of kiss that didn’t need more reassurance afterward, because this was the reassurance.

When he pulled away, he rested his cheek against your temple, a soft exhale brushing your hair.

“For the record,” you added shortly with a wicked smile, because you couldn’t resist finishing the thought, “If it were ever a problem with me— ”

Steve groaned, muffling it against you, bracing. “Please don’t.”

“—I'd say it and know you'd listen,” you finished anyway, smiling. “Which is why I’m still standing here by your side, sometimes walking funny but I digress, with no complaints!"

You shifted in his embrace, placing the back of your hand up to your forehead dramatically.

"Oh no, my steak is too juicy. Lobster too buttery. Dessert too rich. Boyfriend too hung! Oh no, Steve, what ever shall I do?"

His mouth opened. Closed. He tried to hold on to the tender moment, then failed with helpless laughter. It sounded like him again, and your heart sang.

“Oh my God! Don't cream your pants!"

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