dash 🍎⋆˚࿔

steve harrington had spent so much of his life believing that wanting something badly enough would eventually make it real.

when he was younger, it had been easy to imagine the rest of his life as a neat little picture painted in soft colors and warm light.

a house with a porch and a little garden that never quite stayed tidy. a kitchen that always smelled like coffee in the morning and cookies in the afternoon. noisy children running through hallways with scraped knees and bright laughter. a wife who knew him so well she could tell what kind of day he’d had just by looking at him.

a life that felt full.

a life that felt loud in the best possible way.

a life that made the silence in his parents’ house seem like a distant, ugly dream instead of the thing he had grown up inside of.

his parents had always been there, technically. they had paid for the house, the clothes, the school, the kind of life that looked good from the outside if anyone ever bothered to glance their way. but steve had never really felt raised by them so much as maintained. like something expensive that had to be kept in decent condition.

he learned early how to be easy to love in theory and impossible to know in practice. he learned how to smile when people expected it, how to be charming when it suited him, how to become the version of himself that made other people comfortable before he even knew what made him comfortable at all.

so when nancy wheeler came into his life, it had felt like a door cracking open in a locked room.

he had been young, stupid, and desperately in love with the idea of being seen.

maybe that was what made it so dangerous.

maybe that was why he had let himself believe so completely in her, in them, in the future he started building in his head before he had any real proof that it could exist.

he loved her in the loud, awkward, aching way that only teenagers can.

with all the confidence of someone who had never actually been broken before and with all the hope of someone who thought love would fix the emptiness he'd carried around for years.

and for a little while, it had almost been enough.

he imagined her in every version of his future.

the woman beside him at the kitchen counter. the mother of his kids. the person who would finally make the house feel alive. he imagined growing old with her in a way that felt almost sacred, like love was something solid and permanent if you held it tightly enough.

but then the cracks came.

then the lies, the distance, the things unsaid and the things said too late, and suddenly the dream he had been holding in both hands split apart right in front of him.

nancy had broken his heart in a way he never really admitted to anyone, not even to himself, because naming the hurt would've made it real in a way he wasn’t sure he could survive.

so, he boxed it up instead.

shoved it in the back of his mind with all the other things he had never figured out how to say.

he finished high school. barely. he took a shitty job. he let his life narrow into a shape that was easier to manage than hope.

and when the years kept moving and nothing magical happened, steve started to wonder if the dream had died with nancy.

maybe that was what life had decided for him. maybe some people were built for grand love stories and some people were built to watch them from the outside. maybe he was the kind of man who got close to happiness only to be reminded that it was never really meant for him in the first place.

by twenty one, he had learned how to pretend he was fine with it.

he stopped sneaking drinks in sweaty basements and started buying them at bars where the lights were low and the music was loud enough to drown out thoughts if he let it. he bought clothes that fit properly, nice enough to make him look like a guy who had his life together even though he absolutely didn't. he moved out of his parents’ house and into a small apartment that was barely more than four walls and a handful of bad decisions, but it was his.

that mattered more than he liked to admit.

his own furniture, his own dishes, his own front door to close behind him at the end of the day. he should've felt proud of that, and sometimes he almost did.

mostly he felt lonely.

there were nights when he’d come home, keys in hand, shoulders sore from work, and stand in the doorway for a second too long just listening to the silence settle around him.

no television in the background. no soft laughter from another room. no smell of someone else’s shampoo in the bathroom.

just the hum of the fridge, the faint traffic outside and the weight of a life that was technically his and yet still somehow felt unfinished.

-

he still told himself things at bars, of course.

tonight’s the night.

i’m gonna meet someone tonight.

i’m gonna talk to someone tonight.

he said it with enough confidence that he even almost believed it, at least until the moment came and went and he was still alone with his drink, pretending not to notice the couples at the corners of the room. pretending not to notice the girl by the jukebox smiling at some guy who clearly knew exactly what to say. pretending not to notice that he'd become very good at standing in places where something could happen and then leaving before it did.

the worst part was that he wasn’t even sure he was doing anything wrong.

he was trying, he really was.

he was just trying in the way a man tries when he's already started to assume the universe isn't on his side.

that was what made the night you came into his life feel like a mistake at first.

not because you did anything wrong, because you didn’t.

you were just there.

standing in the doorway of a bar he had almost left ten minutes earlier, the cold of the outside air still clinging to your coat, your cheeks faintly pink from the wind.

you looked around like you were deciding whether the place was worth staying in, and for one impossible second steve had the absurd thought that he knew exactly how that felt.

you were carrying a bag over one shoulder and had a look of quiet determination that made you seem like the kind of person who didn’t waste time on things that weren’t worth the trouble.

he noticed that first.

then he noticed the way you tucked a strand of hair behind your ear when you scanned the room, the small crease between your brows when the music got too loud, the way your eyes softened when the bartender pointed you toward an open seat.

it was nothing.

it was everything.

it was the sort of ordinary moment that should have passed by without making any kind of impression and yet somehow lodged itself deep under steve’s ribs before he had even told himself to look away.

he did anyway.

or tried to.

you took the stool near the bar instead of one of the crowded tables, set your bag on the empty seat beside you, and ordered something with the kind of calm confidence steve had always secretly admired in people.

he couldn’t hear what you said over the music, but the bartender smiled like you were a regular, or maybe just the sort of person that was easy to like. you took off your coat. you glanced around again. and then, for the briefest second, your eyes landed on him.

steve froze.

not dramatically, not in a way anyone else would have noticed, just enough for his fingers to tighten around his glass and for some old, painfully familiar instinct to flare up inside him.

don’t get caught staring. don’t be obvious. don’t make it weird.

he’d spent enough of his life being the pretty guy at the center of attention to know exactly how dangerous it was to be seen looking like he wanted something.

but you didn’t look away immediately.

you held his gaze for a beat, maybe two, with a kind of unreadable calm that made his stomach twist in a way he absolutely didn't appreciate.

there was no smile. no flirtation. no embarrassment. just a moment of shared awareness, as if you had both quietly registered the other one and decided, for reasons not yet explained, that the moment meant something.

then you looked back down at your drink.

steve should've left it there.

he should've gone on with his night, maybe ordered another beer, maybe pretended the strange little jolt in his chest was nothing more than boredom.

instead, he found himself watching you again and again without meaning to.

not in a creepy way, he told himself. not like that. just… noticing.

noticing the way you spoke to the bartender with your head tilted slightly to the side, the way your expression changed when the song on the jukebox shifted into something older and sadder, the way you seemed both perfectly at ease and a little far away at the same time.

there was something about you that made him think of winter mornings, of warm light, of doors being opened to places he had never quite let himself hope existed.

which was ridiculous.

steve was not the kind of man who believed in signs. not anymore. not after everything.

but there was something almost insulting about how quickly his attention kept returning to you, as if his own mind had decided to betray him on the first night of a random week in a random bar with a random stranger who had absolutely no business looking that interesting.

you stayed in your seat for a while. long enough for steve to tell himself about six different times that he wasn’t going to say anything. long enough for the bartender to slide your drink across the counter and for you to thank them with a small smile. long enough for him to take one more sip and still not decide what to do with the weird, restless feeling building under his skin.

and then the universe, apparently, got bored of watching him suffer in silence.

because someone bumped into the table behind you, and your bag slipped off the seat with a quiet thud that made your head snap down at the exact same time steve moved to catch it before it hit the floor.

his hand got there first.

yours met his over the strap.

for a second, both of you just stared.

then you looked up at him with a kind of startled politeness that made his heart do something embarrassingly stupid.

close up, you were even prettier than he'd already decided, which felt unfair.

he saw the shape of your mouth when it parted slightly in surprise, the faint shimmer of your eyes under the low lights, the little breath you took like you had just been caught off guard by a very small, very human moment.

“sorry” you said, and your voice was softer than he expected.

“no, uh, it’s fine” steve said at the same time. “you good?”

you blinked once, then looked down at the bag in his hand before looking back at him. there was the smallest ghost of a smile at the corner of your mouth, like you found his question slightly ridiculous in a way that was not unkind.

“yeah,” you said. “i think so.”

he nodded like he hadn’t just lost every coherent thought in his brain.

“cool. great. good.”

you laughed then, quietly, and it was the kind of laugh that hit him somewhere deep and unexpected.

it made him smile before he could stop himself, and suddenly the whole thing felt less like fate and more like one accidental step in the wrong direction that somehow landed on the right path anyway.

“thanks” you said, taking the bag from him.

“yeah, no problem.”

you hesitated, one hand still resting lightly on the strap, and something in your expression shifted as if you were deciding whether or not to keep talking.

steve, who had spent years convincing himself he wasn’t the kind of man to hope too quickly, found himself hoping anyway.

“are you here alone?” you asked.

the question was simple. harmless, probably.

it still made his pulse jump.

“yeah,” he said, “i mean, not like- not because i’m weird or anything. just, you know. alone.”

your smile widened a little. “i didn’t say weird.”

“right. yeah. sorry.”

you turned slightly on the stool so you could face him more fully. it was such a small movement, but it changed the air between you. made it feel less like two people near each other by accident and more like something had quietly begun.

“i’m not judging,” you said. “i just noticed.”

“good to know.”

“are you always this charming, or am i just lucky tonight?”

there it was, the opening.

the small, shimmering crack in the wall he had spent years building round himself.

steve should've taken the easy route. should have flirted back the way he had with dozens of people before, should have made some smooth comment and followed it with that lazy smile he knew worked on most people.

instead, what came out was a little more honest than that.

“i’m usually better at it” he admitted.

you gave him a look that was equal parts amused and curious. “better at what?”

he shrugged, suddenly aware of how much he wanted this conversation to keep going. “talking to people.”

“that sounded suspiciously like a lie.” your laugh came again, and this time it was easier, warmer.

he leaned his elbow on the bar and glanced at your drink. “so what are you drinking?”

you told him.

he ordered you another one before you could object.

and when you opened your mouth to protest he raised a hand and said, “please let me have this. i almost died saving your bag.”

“you did not almost die.”

“emotionally, i did.”

that got another laugh out of you, and steve had the completely unreasonable urge to keep making you do that forever.

it scared him a little, how quickly his mind was leaping ahead, how easily some part of him had started imagining a future that hadn't yet earned the right to exist.

but maybe that was the thing about loneliness.

maybe it made even a brief kind smile feel like a promise.

you introduced yourself then, and when he repeated your name under his breath, he felt something shift in him that he didn't have words for.

maybe the first real crack in all that hopelessness he had worn like armour for years.

the bartender set your drink down between you and steve found himself watching your fingers wrap around the glass.

he tried not to stare. tried not to look too eager. tried not to let the night become more than it was. but you kept talking, and he kept answering, and somehow the hours began to peel away around you both like old paint.

you were funny in a dry, unexpected way that made him catch himself smiling when you were speaking.

you asked questions and actually waited for the answers. you didn’t seem impressed by his name, his looks, his usual empty bravado, and that in itself was almost enough to fascinate him completely.

there was no performance in the way you listened. no fake interest. just steady attention, as if he were a person first and a pretty face second, and steve was so unused to that he almost didn’t know what to do with it.

he found out where you worked. he found out you were new to town, which explained why he hadn’t seen you around before. he found out you hated tequila, preferred colder weather to hot, and had a habit of collecting old books from secondhand stores if the covers looked interesting enough.

he told you about the video store. he told you about robin, making you laugh when he described her as “the most annoying genius i’ve ever met.” he told you about family christmases that felt too large and too empty at the same time, about his apartment, about the long, stupid loneliness of adult life that no one warned you about when you were younger.

you listened to all of it without making him feel pathetic for saying it.

that alone should have been enough to make him fall for you a little.

it almost was.

by the time the bar started thinning out and the music changed to something slower, steve had stopped pretending this night was just another night.

he didn’t know what you were looking for. he didn’t know if you were waiting for someone, if you had come here on a whim, if you were the kind of person who flirted with strangers just because you liked the conversation. he didn’t know if there was any chance at all that what he was feeling was mutual.

but when you looked at him, really looked at him, something in your expression told him he was not imagining the way the air seemed to pull tight between you.

and that was terrifying.

because steve had built his life around surviving disappointment.

he knew how to laugh things off. knew how to make the joke first so nobody else could hurt him with it. knew how to leave before he got attached, how to keep things light, how to turn longing into something manageable.

but you were standing there with your hand around a half finished drink, looking at him like he might actually be worth staying for, and all his old defences started to feel flimsy in the face of something he hadn't let himself want in years.

a person.

a real one.

someone kind, someone warm, someone who might sit beside him on the couch in that tiny apartment and make the silence feel less enormous. someone who might laugh at his terrible jokes and know when he was pretending to be okay. someone who might touch his shoulder in passing and make him feel, for the first time in a very long while, like he wasn't built only for being left behind.

the thought hit him so hard it almost made him angry.

not at you, at himself.

at the stupid, aching hope that had survived in him even after he had spent years trying to kill it.

you were saying something then, something about the record store downtown, and he realized he had missed the first half because he had been too busy staring at the shape of your mouth when you spoke.

he cleared his throat, cursed himself silently, and said, “sorry, what was that?”

you tilted your head. “nothing important. just wondering if you were actually listening.”

“i was listening” he said, too quickly.

you looked at him for one long second, then smiled in a way that made him think you didn't entirely believe him but were willing to let it go for now.

“good,” you said. “because i asked if you’d ever been there.”

“the record store?”

“yeah.”

“uh,” steve said, suddenly scrambling for a memory. “probably. maybe. once?”

“that is the least convincing answer possible.”

“i’m aware.”

you laughed again, and he wondered, not for the first time that night, whether you knew what you were doing to him.

whether you could see the way he kept leaning a little closer when you spoke. whether you noticed how careful he was becoming with every word, as if something in him had started to believe that this mattered.

the thing was, it did.

he didn’t know it yet. not fully. not in the way that would eventually settle deep into his bones and refuse to leave. but something about you had already begun to move through him like the first warm air after a long winter.

and maybe, just maybe, that was how it happened.

maybe love arrived like this instead. in a crowded bar on an ordinary night. with a dropped bag and a crooked smile. with a stranger who didn’t feel like a stranger for long. with a man who had spent years convinced that nothing good was ever going to stay and a person who looked at him like staying might be the most natural thing in the world.

steve didn’t know your name was going to become the first thing he thought about in the morning.

didn’t know your laugh would start living in his head like a song he couldn’t turn off.

didn’t know that one day, when he was standing in his empty apartment again, he would remember the warmth of your hand over his and feel something in his chest answer back like it had been waiting all along.

all he knew was that the night was not over.

and for the first time in a very long time, that didn't feel like a threat.

-

it happened so gradually that neither of you really noticed it at first.

one phone call became two.

two became every other night.

every other night became every night.

and suddenly steve couldn't remember what his evenings had looked like before you.

he'd get home from work exhausted, smelling faintly like dust and videotapes and whatever cheap cologne he'd sprayed on that morning, toss his keys onto the counter, kick off his shoes, and before he'd even fully settled onto the couch the phone would ring.

or he'd call you first.

sometimes neither of you had anything particularly important to say.

those ended up being his favorite conversations.

you'd spend hours talking about absolutely nothing.

books you'd found. movies you'd watched. customers that had annoyed you. customers that had made you laugh. memories from childhood. stupid theories about life. things neither of you had ever told anyone else because they seemed too insignificant to matter.

except somehow they mattered now.

steve had never realized how much loneliness could sneak up on a person until it started disappearing.

for years he'd gotten used to silence. he'd gotten used to empty apartments and eating dinner alone and nobody asking how his day was. he'd convinced himself that was adulthood, that everyone eventually stopped expecting more.

but then there was you.

calling him because you'd found a book with a ridiculous title and needed someone to laugh about it with. calling him because you'd gotten lost on the way somewhere and somehow thought steve harrington was the best person to ask for directions. calling him because your shelf was crooked. calling him because you couldn't decide what to make for dinner. calling him because apparently he was now your designated emergency contact for every minor inconvenience in your life.

and god.

he loved it.

he absolutely loved it.

it became the highlight of his day.

there was something embarrassingly satisfying about hearing your voice say his name followed by some variation of, "i need your help."

sometimes he worried it made him sound pathetic.

robin certainly would've said it did.

but steve couldn't help it.

he liked being needed. liked knowing that when something happened, good or bad or completely insignificant, he was one of the people you thought to call.

one evening he'd spent nearly forty minutes helping you assemble a bookshelf over the phone.

forty minutes.

he hadn't even been there.

you'd read the instructions out loud while he attempted to make sense of them.

"okay," you'd said. "so i've got three wooden pieces left."

"how many are there supposed to be?"

"i don't know."

"what do you mean you don't know?"

"i threw the box away."

steve had nearly choked laughing. "you threw the instructions away?"

"they were confusing."

"the instructions are literally the most important part."

"well that's your opinion."

"that's everyone's opinion."

he could still remember sitting alone in his apartment, grinning like an idiot at nothing while listening to you argue with him.

it had hit him then that he hadn't felt lonely once during that entire conversation.

and maybe that shouldn't have felt so monumental. maybe normal people experienced that kind of comfort all the time.

but steve didn't, he never had.

which was probably why he found himself asking increasingly dangerous questions, questions he wasn't sure he wanted answers to.

does love come around or does one come around to it?

he thought about that a lot, late at night mostly.

when the apartment was dark. when your voice wasn't filling the silence. when he was lying awake staring at the ceiling.

because maybe people talked about love all wrong.

maybe it wasn't lightning, maybe it wasn't destiny, maybe it wasn't some magical thing that appeared out of nowhere and knocked you off your feet.

maybe it was this.

slowly finding yourself looking forward to someone's calls. memorising the sound of their laugh without meaning to. learning their coffee order. knowing exactly what kind of mood they were in from a simple hello.

maybe love wasn't something that arrived, maybe it was something you arrived at.

and god.

if that was true.

he thought he was getting dangerously close.

there were still bad nights, of course. steve wasn't suddenly fixed. you weren't some magical cure for years of disappointment and loneliness.

there were nights when he'd sit in the dark and all those old thoughts would creep back in.

nights when he'd remember every failed date, every conversation that went nowhere, every person who'd eventually left.

there were nights when he'd think maybe he was being stupid again. maybe he was building castles out of nothing. maybe he was setting himself up for another heartbreak before anything had even started.

because really, what was this?

you weren't dating, you hadn't talked about feelings, you hadn't kissed.

hell, you hadn't even properly gone out together.

you were friends, just friends. very good friends. friends who talked every single day. friends who occasionally flirted. friends who somehow knew more about each other than people who'd been together for years.

friends.

right.

and then the next day he'd get home from work, the phone would ring, you'd tell him about some weird book you'd found or ask him for help choosing paint colors or call because you'd burned dinner and wanted sympathy.

and suddenly everything would feel okay again.

you had this strange ability to make life seem manageable.

like maybe it wasn't always working against him. like maybe happiness wasn't some exclusive club he'd never been invited into.

sometimes steve would catch himself smiling in public because he'd remembered something you'd said three days ago. sometimes he'd laugh to himself while stocking shelves because he'd thought of a joke you'd appreciate. sometimes robin would stare at him from across the store and look genuinely concerned.

"you're smiling again."

steve looked up.

"what?"

"that weird smile."

"i don't have a weird smile"

robin narrowed her eyes.

"did she call?"

steve immediately looked away which answered the question.

robin groaned.

"oh my god."

"what?"

"you are so gone."

"i am not."

"steve."

"i'm not."

"you literally just smiled at a copy of ghostbusters."

"it's a good movie."

she'd laughed so hard she'd nearly fallen over.

the problem wasn't that steve liked you, he'd accepted that part, the problem was what came next.

asking you out.

every time he considered it, he immediately talked himself out of it.

what if he made things weird? what if you'd only ever seen him as a friend? what if he ruined everything? what if he finally got lucky enough to have you in his life and then managed to lose you all by himself?

that possibility terrified him more than rejection ever could.

because right now?

he had you, maybe not exactly the way he wanted, but he had you.

he was the first person you called when something happened. the person you trusted. the person you reached for.

and selfishly, desperately, he wasn't sure he could risk that.

not yet.

so for now he settled for smaller victories.

baby steps.

movement.

he started calling first sometimes which had taken an embarrassing amount of courage.

the first time he'd done it he'd spent nearly five minutes staring at your number.

just staring.

before finally dialing.

you'd answered on the second ring.

"hello?"

and immediately every thought had vanished from his head.

"uh."

smooth, very smooth.

"steve?"

"yeah."

a pause.

then a smile in your voice.

"did you call me?"

he'd felt ridiculous. "yeah."

"everything okay?"

"yeah."

"then why are you calling?"

steve had opened and closed his mouth.

because honestly?

he hadn't had a reason, he'd just wanted to hear your voice. which sounded far too pathetic to say out loud so he'd settled on the truth adjacent version.

"i saw something funny and thought you'd laugh."

your silence lasted half a second.

then came the softest, warmest laugh.

"okay."

and somehow that had been enough.

because you hadn't questioned it, hadn't made fun of him, hadn't treated it like it was strange, you'd just stayed on the phone with him for three hours.

three whole hours.

and afterward steve had sat alone on his couch staring at the wall with the stupidest smile imaginable.

because for the first time in years, maybe ever, something in his life felt like it was moving forward.

and maybe he still didn't know how to ask you out. maybe his heart still jumped every time you laughed. maybe he still spent half his time wondering whether he was imagining the occasional flirtation between you. maybe he was still scared.

but for once the fear wasn't winning, for once hope was.

and steve had spent so many years without hope that even the smallest amount felt revolutionary.

especially when it sounded so much like your voice on the other end of the phone.

-

the first time you met steve in person outside of the bar, it was supposed to be simple. that was the lie you both told yourselves.

nothing about the two of you ever stayed simple for long.

at first it was little things, the kind that looked harmless from the outside.

he started showing up where you were with the kind of frequency that was easy to excuse. with coffee, a ride, a book he thought you’d like, a spare key he claimed he was only giving you in case of emergencies.

and then one day you went grocery shopping together, because steve had complained loudly and dramatically enough about needing to do it that you offered to come along just to keep him from whining the entire time. he accepted too quickly, which should.ve been a warning.

it was, in retrospect, one of the strangest and most perfect afternoons of his life.

the store should have been boring.

fluorescent lights, crowded aisles, a list tucked into his pocket, the usual dull tasks of adulthood that most people tolerated and nobody romanticized.

but with you beside him, it became something else entirely. you walked too close when the aisle got narrow, bumped your shoulder into his when you thought he was being too serious about brands of cereal, and laughed at him when he stared at the produce like he was personally offended by every lemon in the bin.

“why are you holding the avocado like that?” you asked.

steve glanced down. “like what?”

“like it might bite you.”

“i don’t trust it.”

you laughed so hard you had to stop walking, and he stared at you for a second too long before turning away with a grin he couldn’t hide if he tried. he hated how easy it was for you to turn a stupid errand into a memory. hated it because he loved it too much.

by the time you reached the cereal aisle, he’d already forgotten half the list. by the time you were arguing over which pasta sauce looked less depressing, he’d stopped caring about the list altogether and started caring about the way you leaned your hip against the cart like you belonged there. like you belonged beside him. like it was the most natural thing in the world.

and maybe that was the problem.

because the more time he spent with you, the more his brain betrayed him.

he stopped doing this years ago. stopped imagining girls in his future. stopped picturing dinners and holidays and apartment keys left in a bowl by the door and someone’s laugh spilling out of the bathroom while they got ready for work.

after nancy, he made a quiet little burial ground out of all those thoughts and called it moving on. he convinced himself it was easier not to hope, easier not to attach pictures to people, easier not to let his head wander into places that only ever hurt him.

but with you, the pictures came anyway.

one second you were holding a box of mismatched screws and telling him the instructions made no sense, and the next his mind had already placed you like that permanently. but instead, in his kitchen, years later, barefoot and annoyed and laughing as he tried to assemble something unnecessarily complicated.

it was so vivid it almost made him dizzy.

the first time you came over to his apartment, you took one look around and made a face.

“wow,” you said, setting your bag down. “this place needs help.”

steve blinked. “hello to you too.”

you looked around slowly, taking in the couch, the shelves, the sad little lamp in the corner, the blank walls.

“no, seriously. this place needs help.”

he crossed his arms. “i didn’t invite you here to insult my home.”

“good,” you said. “because i’m not insulting it. i’m saving it.”

“from what?”

“from looking like a single man with unresolved issues lives here.”

he stared at you. “i am a single man with unresolved issues.”

“right.”

he laughed despite himself, already shaking his head, and before he knew it you were opening cabinet doors, asking where the spare nails were, and telling him he needed better curtains.

he should have been offended. instead, he watched you pace around his apartment like you had an opinion about every corner of it and found himself impossibly, stupidly charmed.

and then you started helping.

really helping.

not the fake sort of help people offered when they wanted to feel useful. actual help. sleeves pushed up, hair tucked back, concentration pinching your brow as you tried to figure out what could go where.

you grunted when a piece of furniture refused to cooperate. you muttered under your breath when a screw dropped under the couch. you asked him for a hand without hesitation, like it was the easiest thing in the world to include him in what you were doing.

that part got him every time.

he would have carried boxes for you across town, fixed anything in your apartment, driven across state lines if you’d asked him with that same open trust in your voice. it felt good. better than good, it felt like purpose.

and the terrible thing was that you seemed to know that.

not in a manipulative way, never that, just in the way you noticed things.

in the way you handed him one end of a shelf and smiled like you were quietly offering him something he didn’t know he’d been missing.

the day stretched long and easy between the two of you.

music played low in the background. a chair got moved three times before you both agreed it looked best by the window. he found an old photograph tucked behind a drawer and made fun of himself for it. you laughed. he made you lunch in the middle of the chaos, and you told him his cooking was surprisingly good, which made his chest feel strange in the best way.

by evening, his apartment looked less empty, warmer somehow. not because of the rearrange, though that helped. because of you moving through the rooms like you belonged there.

that was the part that haunted him afterward.

the fact that you made his place feel lived in.

like a home could be made out of ordinary things if the right person was standing beside him.

and then there were the little surprises.

he’d complain offhandedly about something, barely thinking it mattered, and you would show up later with the exact thing he’d mentioned.

a rug, because he’d laughed once and said the one in his living room had a stain on it that probably counted as a permanent resident. you arrived at his door with a rolled-up rug tucked awkwardly under your arm, nearly toppled by the sheer inconvenience of carrying it, and he had to physically catch the thing before it knocked into both of you.

“are you trying to injure yourself on my behalf?” he’d asked, laughing as he helped you lower it to the ground.

you huffed. “it was on sale.”

“you bought me a rug because it was on sale?”

“because you needed a rug.”

“i didn't need a rug that badly.”

“steve, your old one looked like it had survived a war.”

he stared at you, then down at the rug, then back at you. “you spent money on this?”

you lifted your chin, unapologetic. “yes.”

“you didn’t have to do that.”

“i wanted to.”

that was worse. that was always worse.

because steve could handle kindness from strangers. he could even handle affection from people who liked giving it freely. what he didn’t know how to handle was the kind that felt thoughtful. the kind that remembered offhand comments and turned them into actions. the kind that said i listen to you, i notice you, i want your life to be a little better just because i’m in it.

it made his throat tight.

it made his heart feel too big for his ribs.

it made him think, more than once, that he was going to ruin this if he wasn’t careful.

so he kept trying to be careful.

he kept meeting you halfway, kept letting things unfold one small piece at a time, kept pretending he wasn’t completely undone by the way your smile changed when he opened the door.

he kept telling himself he wasn’t ready to ask you out, that the timing had to be right, that he couldn’t risk messing up something this good, that friendship was still better than nothing.

that he should be grateful for what he had.

and then one day, after a hard shift that left him sore and irritated and closer to snapping at a customer than he liked to admit, he came home and found your name on his answering machine.

he stood in the doorway for a second, key still in hand, just listening.

“hey, steve. it’s me. i figured i’d call and see if you were alive. if you are, call me back. if you’re not, haunt someone else. okay, bye.”

his chest ached.

he called you back before he could talk himself out of it.

you answered on the first ring this time.

“hey.”

and there it was again, that impossible steadiness in your voice. not pity. not obligation. just you.

“hey,” he said, sinking onto the couch. “you called just to check if i was dead?”

“mostly.”

he laughed, long and tired and real. “that’s kind of sweet.”

“don’t tell anyone. i have a reputation to maintain.”

he smiled at the wall, at the ceiling, at the empty room around him that no longer felt quite so empty when you were on the other end of the line. “you busy?”

“not really.”

“good.”

“good?”

“yeah,” he said, then exhaled and let himself be honest. “i kind of wanted to hear your voice.”

there was a pause.

then your voice came back even gentler. “you can always call.”

it was such a simple thing to say which was probably why it wrecked him.

you had no idea what it did to him when you said things like that. how much hope could fit inside a single sentence. how easily you could make a hard day feel survivable. how every tiny kindness from you seemed to settle into his chest and stay there.

a few nights later, you showed up at his apartment in pajamas with a paper bag in one hand and a small smile on your face.

he opened the door, looked you up and down, and frowned. “are you okay?”

you shrugged one shoulder. “you sounded bad.”

he stared at you. “i sounded bad over the phone and you decided to come over in pajamas.”

“yes.”

“with food?”

“obviously.” you walked past him and into the apartment like it was the most normal thing in the world. “you were having a rough night, and i thought you could use company.”

steve shut the door slowly behind you, heart in his throat, and for a second he couldn’t move. couldn’t think. couldn’t do anything but watch you pull takeout containers from the bag and set them on his coffee table like you belonged there, too.

“you do this on purpose” he said quietly.

you glanced up. “do what?”

“show up and act like you know exactly what i need.”

your expression shifted, just slightly. softer now. “maybe i do.”

he looked at you, really looked at you, and something in him finally cracked clean through.

because this wasn’t luck.

this was you.

showing up. staying. making him feel chosen in ways he’d never been chosen before.

and after enough days and nights of that, enough accidental dates disguised as errands and drive thrus and shared meals, enough of you reaching for him without fear and enough of him falling a little harder every single time, steve finally thought fuck it.

if he waited any longer, he was going to explode.

so he asked you out in the front seat of his car with takeout balanced between you, the engine off, the night quiet around both of you.

he had rehearsed it three different ways and forgotten all of them the second he looked at your face.

you noticed him staring. “what?”

he swallowed.

“i need to ask you something.”

you went still.

he almost panicked.

“okay” you said slowly, but you were smiling a little now, like you already knew where this was going and were trying not to scare him.

steve dragged a hand over his mouth, then let it fall to his lap. “i know this is probably going to come out badly, but i, uh..” he laughed once under his breath, nervous and disbelieving that he was really doing this. “do you want to go on an actual date with me?”

your eyes widened.

for one horrifying second he thought he’d ruined everything.

then you smiled, really smiled. the kind that made the whole world narrow down to just your face in the dim car light.

“yes” you said.

steve blinked. “yes?”

“yes.”

he let out a breath he felt like he’d been holding for years. then another. then he laughed, helpless and stunned, and had to lean back in his seat because he genuinely thought he might float out through the roof of the car if he didn’t stay put.

“oh my god.”

you laughed too, delighted now, and he covered his face with one hand like a man trying very hard not to lose his entire mind in front of you.

“that went better than i expected” he admitted.

“you expected me to say no?”

“i expected you to laugh in my face.”

you looked scandalised. “steve.”

“what?”

“i would never.”

he glanced at you through his fingers, smiling despite himself. “you definitely would if you thought i deserved it.”

you pointed at him. “okay, yes, maybe a little. but not about this.”

his heart felt absurdly full.

there were a thousand things he wanted to say after that. a thousand different ways he wanted to tell you how much this meant to him, how much you meant to him, how long he had spent wanting exactly this without daring to reach for it.

instead, because he was still steve and still at least a little terrified of sincerity, he said, “cool.”

you laughed again and nudged his shoulder with yours.

and that was that.

somehow, miraculously, that was that.

-

after that, everything got easier and harder at the same time.

easier because you were no longer pretending. harder because now he had a reason to be afraid of losing you. but mostly it was beautiful in the painfully ordinary way he had once thought only existed in daydreams.

date nights where you ordered two meals and shared because you were both annoyingly indecisive. afternoons spent browsing records, where you’d lean close enough to smell his cologne and he’d forget entire sentences. evenings where you sat on his couch in soft clothes and let the silence rest between you without it feeling empty. mornings where he woke up with your head against his shoulder and had to lie perfectly still because he didn't trust himself not to cry from happiness.

you asked for little.

just enough to let him love you in the ways that came naturally to him.

help carrying things. help with directions. help deciding what to eat. help fixing something small. help choosing between two nearly identical shirts. help with the kind of things that made him feel useful, needed, wanted.

and you asked him on purpose.

“you do that” he said, voice going strange and quiet.

you looked up from the counter. “do what?”

“ask me for things.”

your brow furrowed a little. “i mean, yeah. because i need help sometimes.”

he shook his head, smiling even though his chest hurt. “no, i know. i just.. i know you could do a lot of this stuff yourself.”

you went still, reading the look on his face with a kind of soft intelligence that always made him feel seen right through. “steve.”

he laughed once, shaky and disbelieving. “you do it because you know i like it.”

there was no point trying to hide it from you. not anymore.

you crossed the kitchen slowly and stopped in front of him. your expression had gone warm in that quiet, devastating way it always did when you were being tender. “yeah,” you said. “i do.”

his throat tightened.

“because you deserve to be needed too” you added softly.

that nearly finished him.

he stared at you for a long second, then reached out like he couldn’t help himself and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. you smiled up at him, and he thought, absurdly, that this was what a miracle must feel like.

the gentle, impossible fact of being loved by someone who understood you.

the first time you kissed him, he swears he forgot how to breathe.

it happened at the end of a date that was not technically a date anymore because by then the word didn’t even seem big enough for the way you were together.

the two of you had spent the evening sharing fries, making fun of a bad movie, and arguing over whether a joke in the restaurant had been funny or just deeply stupid.

when he walked you to your door, neither of you seemed in any hurry to say goodnight.

the air between you felt charged with something quiet and inevitable.

you smiled at him from the steps and said his name like you were already halfway to touching him.

“what?” he asked softly.

you looked at his mouth then you stepped closer, and suddenly all the fear, all the years, all the old loneliness that had once lived in him so deeply it felt permanent just fell away.

your hand touched his cheek.

he leaned into it without thinking.

and when you kissed him, it was so gentle it almost hurt. so certain it made every part of him go still.

he felt it down to the marrow of his bones, like the whole world had finally clicked into place and his body had been waiting his entire life for that exact moment.

when you pulled back, he was staring at you like you had performed actual magic.

you laughed softly. “hi.”

he let out a breath that sounded suspiciously like a laugh and a sigh at the same time. “hi.”

“was that okay?”

he stared at you in horror. “okay?”

“i mean, i just-”

he kissed you again before you could keep apologising for something so perfect.

after that, he stopped pretending he was only dipping a toe into this.

he let himself fall.

freely and completely.

and the worst part, the most beautiful part, was how easy it was.

he realised you were his first real love, and somehow you made that fact feel less like a wound and more like a gift.

you knew him in ways he'd never been known before. not because you were trying to fix him, but because you were paying attention. because you loved the parts of him he'd once thought were too much and not enough all at once. because you looked at his softness and his awkwardness and his need to be useful and his habit of filling silence with jokes, and instead of making him ashamed, you made him feel cherished.

he stopped worrying, mostly, about whether you'd leave.

not because the fear vanished entirely. he was still human. still steve. still someone who had been taught by life to brace for loss.

but because you were there.

because you kept being there.

because one night turned into a week, and a week turned into a month, and before he knew it he was waking up beside you and listening to you talk about your dreams before the sun came up, and it didn’t feel temporary. it felt like home.

that was the thing he had always wanted most.

not a perfect life, not a flawless one, just a life that felt full.

with laughter in the kitchen. with your shoes by his door. with your voice in his ear. with your hand in his. with a future that no longer felt like a blank wall he had to stare at alone.

he still thought about marriage sometimes. still thought about kids. still thought about the little house with the porch and the bright, noisy rooms and the warmth that would come from somewhere deeper than furniture or decor or good luck.

but now those thoughts didn't hurt.

now they glowed.

because he knew. he knew, with the kind of certainty that settled quietly and stayed, that he hadn't been doomed to loneliness after all.

he'd just been waiting for you.

and now that you were his, the world felt different.

steve, who had spent years thinking he was unlovable, was loved instead.

and you loved him so naturally that it rewrote everything.

he wasn't lonely anymore.

not when you were beside him talking his ear off in bed. not when you reached for him in the dark. not when you smiled at him over dinner and asked him to pass the salt.

he once thought high hopes were something that happened to other people.

now he knew better.

now he knew they were something he could have, too.

something he could build. something you had built together, one small choice at a time.

and when he looked at you, really looked at you, he felt it with painful, beautiful clarity.

you were his girl. his whole world.

that was not a dream that hurt to hold, it was real.

-

You slip out of bed, feet patting against the cold, wooden floor before you gently push the bathroom door open, almost hesitant. Your eyes land on Steve, sat beside the toilet, looking pale and all teary-eyed. His hand is clutching at his stomach, shoulders moving up and down with every heavy exhale that leaves his lips. He blinks up at you, drowsy, slow, giving you that sweet, guilty look that tells you he didn’t want you to see him like this. All vulnerable and weak, but really, you’re glad that he hasn’t even kicked you out.

A slow breath leaves your lips, eyes glancing around the bathroom like you’re assessing the situation. After a few moments of listening to the air conditioning whirring, you’re the first to speak. “How long have you been in here for?” You ask, sitting down in front of him.

He sighs, keeping his eyes on the floor. “Maybe like, 10 minutes?” He says, like he doesn’t know himself. “I have thrown up twice now. I’m actually going to die.” He mumbles dramatically.

“You didn’t wake up to tell me because?” You ask, stretching out the last word.

He stares at you blankly. “That’s a really good question. You know, I’d just love to answer that.” He says with a sarcastic smile. Seems that even through him being sick, the sarcasm still sticks no matter what.

“Hilarious.” You mumble, rolling your eyes. “I’m going to go get you a glass of water, and you’re going to rest. You’re not going to complain, and you’re going to accept my help.” You say, leaving no room for any complaint that was about to leave his mouth.

When it came to Steve being in a vulnerable situation, he did everything he could to hide it from you or play it off as something small. It never worked on you, because you knew what was really going on inside his head. He refuses to be open, about pretty much everything, he says that it’s ‘embarrassing’. The first time he tried to hide from you, you had him all figured out. Someone at some point said something to him, made him feel weak, and now he rejects help.

He groans at your words, but he’s too tired to try change your mind and argue with you. “It’s not like I can’t move around. I can sort myself out. Didn’t want you coming in here to see me looking like a weak man.” He grumbles, letting his head fall back against the wall.

Before you slip out the bathroom, you stare at him for probably a second too long. “We’ve been together for nearly 3 years, can promise you nothing is embarrassing. I’d rather you be open with me instead of shutting yourself out.” You reassure him and make a beeline for the kitchen.

Your movements are quick, almost like you’re being timed. You grab a glass from the cupboard, turning the tap on, checking the water is cool enough before running the glass under it. The tap makes a slight squeak when you turn it off, and you head back to the bathroom.

Your feet pad across the bathroom floor, passing the glass to Steve and sitting down in front of him again. “Drink up, baby.” You say, sweet and gentle. “I’m going to make you a chicken soup for tomorrow, your favourite. Should help a little with the stomach pains, and it’ll be easier to get down.”

“Tomorrow?” He asks, raising his tone. A small grin twitches at his lips as he downs the water in one go.

You huff and roll your eyes. “You know what I meant, Steve.”

He places the empty glass down beside himself, focusing his attention on you. “Should be a nurse, y’know? Think you’d be pretty good.” He suggested, slowly blinking at you, the drowsiness clearly taking over him.

“I think there’s way more to being a nurse than giving you water and planning to make you a soup, baby.” You laugh, brushing the pad of your thumb over his cheek. He leans into your touch like a puppy, his eyelashes fluttering.

“Still. You take good care of me.” He mumbles, half-asleep.

“Wish that you let me do this more, Steve. I prefer for you to let me help you instead of pushing me away and refusing help when you know that you need it.” You say, eyes flicking over his guilt-ridden face.

A quiet, slow sigh leaves his lips, like he’s mentally going over what he wants to say. He looks like he’s physically trying to hold himself back, like saying the words would make him weaker, softer. Everything would become more real if he admitted his feelings, and he just didn’t want to admit the truth, not even to himself.

“I just—” He pauses, his lips forming a straight line as he thinks. “I don’t want to seem weak or soft. I should be the one that’s taking care of you, not the other way around. Whenever you help me, I have to admit that I’m weak, and I don’t want to.” He mumbles, trailing off.

You stay completely silent as he speaks, listening to every word and taking mental notes. “You’re not weak for needing help, baby. It’s okay to be taken care of every once in a while, even every day.” You whisper reassuringly, combing your hands through his hair.

He sighs, almost in defeat, like he can’t even attempt to disagree with you. A soft hum leaves his lips, and that’s all you need to hear.

“I’m going to bring blankets and pillows in here so we can sleep. I’d rather you be in here just in case you feel the need to throw up again. Not the comfiest place, but it saves me from needing to clean up.” You whisper, pressing a sweet, gentle kiss to his forehead before standing up. A relieved sigh leaves his lips, like he’s been waiting for you to kiss him forever.

You walk back into the bedroom to pick up your pillows and some fluffy blankets to make it comfortable for Steve. The sweet scent of the lavender detergent that Steve claims to hate because it’s ‘too strong’ lingers in the room, yet he buys it anyway. You carry the pillows and blankets back into the bathroom, settling them down on the floor to make a comfortable space for him.

“I know sleeping in the bed is better, but just for tonight. Don’t need to travel far if you feel sick again.” You say gently, opening the blanket for Steve to get under. He complies without a word, laying down beside you as you get warm under the blanket.

“What if I end up getting you sick too?” He asks, genuine concern written all over his face.

“You’ve most likely already given it to me, Steve. There’s no way of me getting out of it anyway. Name one time that we’re actually apart for a long period of time.” You laugh, gently brushing your hands through his hair.

“That is a good point, baby.” He says, cheek smushed against the pillow. His hand brushes over the top of your arm, gentle, lazy. “Can’t wait for that chicken soup, actually. My mouth’s already watering.” He grins.

“Oh no. Please don’t tell me you want me to make it for you now. I’m about to fall asleep.” You dramatically whine, pulling a laugh from him.

“Don’t be surprised if I wake you up at six in the morning asking for chicken soup. You’ve promised me it now, can’t go back.” He mumbles, pressing his lips to the top of your head. He’s sick, but you can’t bring yourself to care because it was bound to spread to you at some point.

“Shouldn’t have said anything.” You laugh, shaking your head. “Let’s get some rest baby, promise you’ll really appreciate it when you wake up in the morning.” You whisper, tangling your legs with his, getting as close as physically possible to him.

“I love you, baby.” He murmurs with a yawn, letting the sleep wash over him.

You press a gentle kiss to his cheek, resting your head on the pillow. “I love you, Steve. Wake me up if you need me.” You mumble.

The next few hours are mostly quiet, Steve waking up once to tell you he needs more water. His breathing steadies, synchronizing with yours. You can see the soft look on his face, less tense than he was before. Waking up at 4 in the morning was worth it, because he’s slowly starting to open up with you. Sleep you could get back, but hearing Steve being so vulnerable was something you wouldn’t. For now, his small confession was all that was needed.

˚˖❀ ˚˖❀˚˖❀

“Come on, go.” 

“No, this is crazy!”

Steve could be such a stubborn ass sometimes. And today was no exception. After hours reading magazines and scouring phone books, you’d finally found an ASL tutor for Steve in Hawkins. Years of fighting in the Upside Down, getting thrown from left to right had left his ears in a less than ideal state. And though he insisted it was fine, “No big deal”, there were days when he could barely hear a word you said. He blamed it on an inability to focus or the TV being too loud when you couldn’t even hear it yourself, but you could tell it was starting to take a toll on him. The one time you managed to take him to the doctors, they said it was likely he would lose more hearing overtime. He’d waved it off and said they were just looking for money, though they would’ve charged for the appointment regardless of the verdict. That’s when the idea had struck you to try this. If Steve learned ASL now, then maybe it would be easier for him to accept it when his hearing got worse. And it would sure as hell make both your lives a lot easier when you needed to communicate with each other. Honestly, your throat was starting to get tired of having to raise your voice. 

Now you were standing at the bottom of your steps, as the tutor calmly unpacked in the living room. “Steve…” You slipped your hand into his, giving it a small squeeze. He squeezed back, though he wouldn’t look you in the eyes. “I’m right here with you.” His shoulders seemed to fall back a bit. He swiped his tongue over his lip once, and gave a reluctant nod. “Thank you.” You gave him a small peck on the cheek, guiding him into the kitchen. 

The first lesson went about as well as you could expect. The tutor, Jean, explained how she’d learned ASL because her own husband had a head injury that lead him to lose his hearing. Maybe that’s why when Jean asked why you wanted to learn, he had glanced to you and then, actually been honest. “I’ve, uh, had a few tumbles myself. Said my hearing’s gonna get worse.” You smiled at him encouragingly, though you weren’t sure how much help you were being. Jean was honest with Steve about how learning any new language was going to be a process. It required patience, sitting still, and having to do homework, some of Steve’s least favorite things. He murmured about how there was a reason he didn’t get into college and that elicited a small chuckle from Jean. He straightened up, a small smile overcoming his lips. Over the next hour, you could see him slowly letting loose. Not completely, but just enough that he was actually giving this a shot. You even walked away learning how to introduce yourselves. 

That night, after placing away the dishes, you headed upstairs. You were strangely exhausted from the day, and ready to speed into your bed. But as you passed the bathroom door, just slightly ajar, your eyes caught something. You took a small step back, not entering the room but peering through the small crack. There, standing at the sink, Steve was quietly practicing his words in the mirror. You made sure not to alert him of your presence, tiptoeing back into your room. You couldn’t erase the smile on your face all night. 

˚˖❀ ˚˖❀˚˖❀

You spent the next few months doing more and more lessons and though it was extremely difficult, the two of you were slowly picking up phrases. 

Steve had quickly grown excited for Jean to come over, storing away words he wanted to ask her about over the rest of the week. You adored watching him there, for once comfortable and honest about his hearing difficulties. He was allowed to make jokes about his problems and when Jean told stories about her own husband, you would both be laughing along about how that was just like Steve. He got to see that he wasn’t alone. He got to feel like it was normal. He was also growing less frustrated when he couldn’t hear you. Neither of you were quite there with full sentences but you could now sign out things you wanted him to do like “trash,” or “clean.” And what you started to notice was that you began to use those signs even when you didn’t have to. When you got into a particularly nasty argument that would only get worse when Steve struggled to keep up with your ramblings, a quiet hush would fall over you and the problems would be sealed with a closed fist running circles over your chest. “I’m sorry.” It fascinated you, how much could be said without words. Steve, too. 

And the best part?

You and Steve had your own secret language that the rest of the party couldn’t understand. If Jonathan was getting on Steve’s nerves or Nancy was being a little too bossy, the two of you could talk without the other even knowing. 

And it was one of those days that Dustin caught you. The gang was still scouring the Upside Down for Vecna and those nights were beginning to feel endless. You were all holed up in The Squawk (which was also becoming a harder job for Steve with everything), strategizing the next segment of the map you were going to take down. But you could tell from the look on Steve’s face that Nancy was talking too fast for him to keep up. You squeezed his hand to grab his attention and tried your best to translate the little words you could in your lap. You promised him that you would explain the rest later, which you know he hated, so this was your best compromise for now.

“What was that?” Dustin snapped from across the room. You both turned to him, Steve’s face immediately turning red. He was getting more comfortable with his hearing problems between the two of you, but he didn’t dare tell the rest of the group. You knew you just had to give him time. 

“What was what?” Nancy rolled her eyes, trying to focus the group’s attention back. 

But Dustin was invested. “That…” He pointed to where your hand was resting in your lap. “You were…” He waved his fingers around in imitation and Steve scowled next to you. 

“I wasn’t doing anything.” You shook your head. “Let’s get back to it.” 

Dustin scoffed. “You don’t need to lie to me, I just wanna know what it was.” “Guys we really don’t have time for this.” Jonathan interjected. 

Reluctantly, Dustin turned his attention back to the board. You kept your hands still until you were sure they weren’t looking. Everyone except Dustin. He was staring daggers between the two of you, like it was some personal offence that you wouldn’t tell him what was going on. You saw Steve shift next to you under the pressure of his friend’s gaze. It kept going. In time, none of you were even trying to pay attention to Nancy’s words, just caught in a death stare between you. Then, out of nowhere, Steve burst up. “It’s sign language, ok?!” He jumped. “I can’t understand Nance so I have to use stupid sign language.” His cheeks went red, looking down at his feet in shame. 

“Wait what?” Dustin burst out. You stayed silent, letting Steve be as open or as closed as he wanted to. But secretly relieved that he was finally saying something. 

“I have hearing…stuff, ok? And it’s getting worse, so I’m learning sign language, but I’m still fine to fight and help out, so please just…don’t make a big deal out of it.” Steve’s arms flailed around as he spoke but eventually he raised his face to meet everyone’s gaze. 

The whole room was silent for a long moment, everyone blinking at him. “Oh, honey.” Mrs Byers exhaled. You could just tell how badly Steve wanted to die hearing that. But there was one opinion he cared about the most. 

Dustin stared at Steve, mouth hanging open. What he said next sent another wave of shock through the group. “Can I…learn?” These months hadn’t been easy, with all of Dustin’s constant whining and rolling his eyes at everything. But now, you could tell he was serious about this. “What?” Steve blinked. 

“Yeah, actually, we should all learn.” Dustin nodded. “We can all communicate with Steve way easier and hey!” He jumped, an idea coming to him. “We’ve been in way too many situations where we have to talk but can’t because some monster will hear us. This could…help.” You hadn’t even thought of that. 

“Ok. I hate to do this, Steve, but we have to move soon so we need to go over the plan.” Nancy smiled sympathetically though her attention was clearly elsewhere. “Is there anything I can do to help you understand right now?” 

Steve shrunk back next to you on the table you were both sitting on. “Um, maybe… a little slower.”

“Of course.” Nancy continued with her briefing.  

Steve’s eyes widened. Really? They weren't going to tease him or anything? The mission was long, as always, and unfortunately, Vecna was nowhere to be found. 

Still, as the two of you cuddled together in bed, you couldn’t help but count the night as a huge victory. 

“I’m really proud of you, Steve.” You whispered, pressing a kiss to his forehead. 

“Thank you for making me get help.” He smiled, slipping his hand out from where it was wrapped around you. You raised your eyebrows, wondering what he was doing. He held up his hand, the pinky, index and thumb fingers stuck out — I love you. You giggled, returning the gesture. 

˚˖❀ ˚˖❀˚˖❀