Sarah Blythe

The bright warm light that bleeds through the cracks in your blinds flutters your eyes open with its ivory glow, waking you up first. Steve’s hand is still under your shirt, the long fingers that were once sprawled across your back are now balled up in a lazy fist keeping you pressed to his chest. It’s not like your position is any better though with your face pressed into the crook of his neck, cold hands buried under the warmth of his sweater, fingers curved around his rib cage, while the others are lost in the rough hair of his happy trail.

Last night comes back to you in fuzzy memories, the deep sleep you fell into still hanging heavy like a fog. Whispered secrets, wandering hands and lips that never quite give into what they want overwhelm you as it all starts to come into focus. It warms your cheeks, as the unknown starts to twist, tightening the coil in the pit of your stomach, uncertainty making your palms sweat. Your universe tilting off its access from your spot tucked away inside of Steve’s arms. 

“So beautiful.”

The words he whispered in the blue glow of midnight, come rushing back to the forefront of your mind, waking up the butterflies that flutter, stretching their wings in your chest. Glancing down at the end of your bed, the digital clock on your microwave flashes 7:06 AM in bold red numbers. You finally work up enough courage to look up at him. 

His eyes move behind closed lids, lost deep in whatever dream he’s having, long lashes kissing the tops of his cheeks. A lighter smattering of freckles reveal themselves from their camouflage in the brighter light under the faintest lines of crows feet, and it makes you wonder if you’ll ever find them all. 

The collar of his sweater is pulled down giving you a better look at the scar you noticed on the roof top, your heart thumping a few beats quicker. It looks fully healed but still fresh enough to know whatever happened wasn’t that distant of a memory. Its jagged edges are uneven with silver tips and a pale pink center that gets wider in the middle before tapering off at the ends. It’s hard to resist the urge to reach up and press your lips to it. 

He stirs slightly like he can feel the heat of your gaze, so you muster up enough will power to slowly start to untangle yourself from him as carefully as you can no matter how much your body yearns to stay.

There's a desperate need to make him coffee before he wakes up that has every anxious molecule in your body buzzing. It turns your brain into the kind of jittery mess that has you convinced that a perfectly made cup would be the security blanket you need in case he wakes up and regrets every decision that brought him here last night.

Cause coffee will do that, right?

The cold pads of your feet move quietly around the kitchen once you’re free from the warm restraints of his arms, carefully opening cabinets with both hands so they don’t slam shut. You set two travel mugs on the counter as softly as you can, just for the coffee maker to start whirring to life with a loud continuous drip hitting the bottom of the glass pot. Steam blows out from the sides in a low whistle as the water boils going through the filter. It’s loud. So loud.

You cringe, having a silent back and forth with yourself on whether or not you should turn it off, as the rich smell of the beans fills the small space of your apartment. The heat kicks on in a loud hum, and you watch Steve begin to stir in your bed. He grumbles something you can’t understand while still half asleep before turning over with a big hand that reaches across the mattress. He’s searching for you.

He pats around the empty spot where you were not that long ago with his face still buried in his pillow. His movements freeze when he’s met with nothing but the leftover warmth on the sheets, a heavy breath exhaling through his nose before he runs that same hand down his face in an attempt to rub the drowsiness off as he rolls onto his back. Stretching his long legs with a grunt, your heart rate quickens enough that you can feel it pulsing in your wrists because Steve Harrington is waking up in your bed and you almost kissed last night. 

Your stomach folds in on itself doing summersaults in preparation for the kind of unchartered territory that comes with a morning after a night like that. An unrelenting fear that after laying himself bare to you, he’d retreat back to his cave and seal it up tighter than before. Leaning against the counter trying to seem nonchalant, your canines bite into your thumb nail, the nervous anticipation of watching him slowly start to sit up bringing back a bad habit. 

He rubs the sleep from his eyes with his palms, grumbling like his bones hurt. Your fingers itch at your sides with the need to run through the kind of bed head that has his hair sticking out in almost all directions. The sheer messiness of it has the corners of your lips twisting. He blinks a few times before his eyes finally focus, finding you already staring at him from the kitchen. The blush that paints his cheeks is almost instant, a lazy smile stretching across his face. That’s a good sign.

“Good morning.” He croaks before clearing his throat, face going a deeper shade of crimson because of it. 

“Morning.” You squeak, unable to stop the rambling that follows “I’m making coffee —  you know, since I promised. I didn’t want you to wake up and not have it, I was just trying to be a good host, but I wasn’t expecting it be so loud I’m really sor —“

“Thank you,” he cuts you off, offering a life line. “You’ve been an amazing host given the circumstances. Feels like — what are those places called? A bed and, and-“

“Breakfast?”

“Yes!” he snaps, nodding with excitement pointing at you, “that!”

“I don’t have breakfast for you though, just coffee.” You pout, hearing the last few drops fill the rest of the pot. 

“Same thing.” Steve shrugs, throwing his sock covered feet over the side of your bed, finally running a hand through his hair before standing up. 

“Definitely not, but I appreciate your blind support.” You giggle, turning around to turn off the machine taking a deep breath through your nose. Why does it feel like your heart is trying to climb its way out of your throat?

You busy yourself with pouring coffee, secretly thankful to give your nervous hands something to do to distract yourself. The floor boards creak with each step he takes, slow and steady until the wood groans right behind you. Even if it wasn’t for your frozen foundations giving him away, his left over cologne would be enough to tell you that he’s close. The silence that falls between you is charged with the remnants of last night, a burning question dangling in front of you like an eye sore. 

What does this mean?

”Don’t mind me, just making sure you’re putting the right amount of sugar in there.” His voice comes out low right next to your ear.

Goosebumps pebble along your skin from the warmth of his breath that fans down the side of your neck. Gentle hands playfully grab at your hips just soft enough to feel his finger tips. It’s timid and unsure, but it's still enough for butterflies to break from the knotted cocoons of your nerves, your lips curving up in the kind of smile that you try to hide ducking your chin down. 

“Don’t worry, Steve. I’ll put in half the bag.” 

He snorts, the tip of his nose a whisper against the shell of your ear. You bite the inside of your cheek, fighting the growing urge to just turn around and do what you should have done last night. Kiss him. You don’t though, and by the time you’ve made up your mind he’s giving your hips a gentle squeeze before letting you go.

”I’m gonna go check out the damage and start digging my poor girl out.” Steve sighs, backing away with a card of his hair and you already miss the feeling of him being close. “Can’t have the boss late for work.”

”How about I pour your coffee down the sink?” You turn around with a sarcastic smile that quickly turns into a real one at the wide grin that splits his face in two. The gold in his eyes shimmering in the sunlight.

“Hmm, I think you like me too much for that.” He winks, making your face go gaze meeting the ground.

”There’s the confident guy I knew from high school.” You manage to tease through the nerves that tighten, constricting in your chest but you’re proud of the eyeroll you get in return despite it.

There’s a weird normalcy in the way he shuffles around the apartment in his wrinkled jeans searching for his shoes and coat. Like the secrets shared in the silver glow of the moon are kept hidden under the blankets of stars that disappear once the sun comes out. Everything feels different in the light of day, and the reminder of reality bounces off the blinding reflection of the snow outside.

Steve comes back in the kitchen once his coat is half way zipper up, white teeth gleaming when he sees you already holding out his tumbler for him. Nike covered feet close the distance between you in just two long strides, long fingers brushing with yours when they wrap around the warm metal of the cup. He crowds your space just enough for your back to hit the counter, the smell of leather and coffee invading your senses. 

“Thanks, honey.” He breaths, staring down the slope of his nose with a vulnerability in his eyes that feels an awful lot like testing the waters. 

Looking up at him from under your lashes, you reach up, pulling the zipper of his jacket all the way to the top.

“Anytime, handsome.” 

Maybe those secrets aren’t so hidden after all. 

———

Steve’s car creaks and groans with every turn, the plastic of the dash expanding in the heat flowing freely from his vents. The metal of his keys clink as his tires drive through the sloppily plowed roads. It all sounds so loud in the silence that’s settled between you, as words beg to come out from behind sealed lips that won’t let them. Fingers yearning to intertwine but settle for resting just close enough to feel the warmth emanating off of them. 

Your gaze wanders in his direction, nervous teeth digging into the fat of your bottom lip. His brows are furrowed, eyes staring out at the road like he’s concentrating but you know after these past few months that's not what’s happening. You wonder what kind of thoughts are racing through that complicated head of his as he runs long fingers through his hair, getting caught on a knot at the end that he works out. A deep breath pushing out through his nose. 

“I’m sorry you had to sleep in your jeans last night.” You half joke, willing your tongue to work, mouth relearning how to form sentences breaking the silence.

He looks over at you, confusion painting his features before realization dawns on him and he finally joins you back in reality with a soft laugh.

”It wasn’t so bad.” He shrugs with a lopsided grin, “I mean, am I ready to take them off and not wear pants for the next 24 hours? Yes.”

Your laugh bounces off the foggy windows, echoing in the small space of the car, the sound of it brightening his face, freckle covered cheeks pushing up high.

”Honestly, I don’t blame you.” Smirking, you try to ignore the way warmth spreads through your body at the mental image that tries to worm its way in.

”Yeah, Robin’s just gonna have to deal. I’ll let her take my turn at picking the movie tonight or something, she won’t care about anything after that.” He chuckles, shifting gears letting the tips of his fingers brush your knuckles. Electricity buzzes on every inch of your skin because of it.

”You guys have movie nights?” The idea of them having a weekly tradition swells in your chest, curling the edges of your lips. 

”Yeah, it was something we started when we worked at Family Video together a few years ago. It just kinda stuck, probably one of the only things that kept us sane during lockdown, honestly.” He explains with a pretty shade of light pink dusting the apples of his cheeks, removing another rock from his wall in the light of day. “For those two hours every night we could escape to anywhere we wanted.”

”What’s your favorite movie?” You question, trying not to make a big deal about it despite it feeling anything but. 

“Oh easy, Top Gun.” He snorts like it’s a no brainer, “Danger zone? Are you kidding? Another classic.”

”I’m going to assume that you two have very different tastes in movies as well.” You tease, giving anything to be a fly on the wall in their apartment during a fight about what to watch even though you already know he gives in every time.

“Oh god, it’s even worse with movies.” Running a hand down his face he sounds exasperated like he’s having war flash backs.

The gold in his eyes dances, shimmering with the emerald that surrounds it at the giggle he gets from you. He turns onto the main road that leads to the station, a brief moment of silence settling in the warm space of his car at the realization of the limited amount of time left with each other. It creates a desperate need that claws at the back of your throat to keep the conversation going because you aren’t sure what comes after this. 

The unmistakable intro to Take Me Home Tonight comes out muffled from his speakers, catching in your ears at the same time. Steve's head snaps in your direction, his mouth formed into an excited ‘O’.

”How can anyone hate this song?!” He argues turning it up, head bopping and fingers tapping on his steering wheel.

”They have no taste, clearly” You agree, breaking out into the kind of laughter that has your ribs sore as he starts to belt along with the song both passionately and off key.

”I see why you work the soundboard.” Narrowing your eyes playfully, you meet his gaze a little flirty from under the thickness of your lashes, baiting him.

”Pfft, this town wouldn’t be able to handle me on the mic. That’s why I work the soundboard, honey.” He winks, turning the music down, pink tongue poking out to wet his lips.

”Yep, I’m sure that’s it.” You agree sarcastically, doing your best to ignore the pang of sadness that hits your chest when his tires crunch along the winding entrance of The Squawk. “Maybe we can work in your own show this summer then.” 

His smile freezes, squinting his eyes, giving extra focus on the road.

”Well, no, don’t — don’t do that.”

“We could use the boost in listeners.” You press, getting sick pleasure out of watching him squirm biting back your laugh at the glare he sends your way. 

“Wow, that sounds like the kind of idea a station manager would have.” He counters, pulling up next to the WSQK van that blocks your practically buried car.

”Wow, are you always this annoying in the morning?” You sigh, fighting off the way the corners of your lips twitch but he sees it, letting his own curve up celebrating his win this round.

“That’s not a nice thing to say to the guy who’s about to spend the next hour digging your car out.” He chastises, turning off his engine reaching over to squeeze your thigh with a pout.

He looks at you from under his lashes, tying knots in your stomach, the warmth of his hand bleeding through the denim of your jeans. Unfortunately, just like the rest of them, you don’t know how to back down from a challenge. 

You lean forward on the arm rest, invading his space, catching the quiet hitch in his breath. He doesn’t move away, the hungry gaze returning from last night flicking down to your lips dilating his pupils. The hand on your thigh dares to move up just enough for your lashes to tickle at the tops of your cheeks.

”You’re right,” you breathe, trying to regain control. “That wasn’t very nice of me, can you forgive me, Steve?”

You swear the faint sound of a whine slip from the back of his throat, the tip of his nose nudging yours, the coffee on his breath fanning against your lips.

”I think I can, but I need something from you first.” He whispers, the hand on your thigh moving up to cup your cheek, the pad of his thumb resting at the corner of your mouth tilting your chin.

”Yeah? And what’s that?” The desperation in your voice is undeniable, every thought leaving your brain when his top lip gets dangerously close to brushing against your bottom. 

He was going to do it, he was going to kiss you.

A loud smack on the driver side window breaks you both apart so quickly that your back hits the hard plastic handle of the passenger door.

”Jesus Christ!” Steve yells whacking his knuckles on the stick shift, elbow bumping hard against the steering wheel.

He turns around to see who the culprit is, anger flaring his nostrils and the daggers in his eyes sharpening coming face to face with none other than Keith who scoffs at his glare waving him off. He signals for the boy you almost got to kiss for the second time in 24 hours to roll down his window. They stare each other down in a silent challenger before Steve begrudgingly obliges.

”What do you want, asshole? You could have broken my window just now.” The amount of venom in Steve’s question is enough to put an army down.

”Shut up, don’t be such a drama queen, Harrington.” Keith bites, and you really start to understand why he was banned from secret Santa.

”What’s up?” You cut in to relieve the tension as Steve’s lips curl in, muttering insults under his breath.

Keith scrunches his nose at the former king in a mixture of annoyance and disgust, mocking him before bringing his attention back to you.

”My cousin’s gonna be here soon, so if you don’t want any dead air, I suggest you come inside, like now. He’s the guy who plows the roads so he’s on a pretty tight schedule. ” He explains almost like it's something to brag about, and Steve’s face twists into a sarcastic sneer, butting in.

”Oh your cousin plows the roads? That checks out because I was just thinking about what a shit job it was on the drive here.” 

“I didn’t know you knew how to operate a snow plow, I’ll make sure to tell him, I know your opinion really matters to him.” Sarcasm drips from every word flipping Steve off.

”Okay! I’m going in now.” You interrupt loudly, unbuckling your seatbelt, putting an end to their bickering. The heat that was simmering just under your skin from the silk of his lips cooling down.

Steve huffs out a loud irritated breath through his nose, eyes finding yours with the kind of longing inside of them that threatens to swallow you whole because he knows the moments lost.

And it’s all Keith’s fault.

”You can go do your job now, she said she’s coming in.” Lashing out, he shoos him away with his hand like a dog.

Keith makes another face at him, flipping him off one more time for good measure before heading back up to the station. Steve watches till he disappears mumbling a sting of curse words after him.

”God, I really hate that guy.” He huffs rolling his window back up.

”Really? I couldn’t tell.” 

This gets Steve to laugh, the anger rolling off his shoulders as you zip up your coat, gearing up to venture outside. He glances at your lips one more time before finally accepting his fate, opening his car door. You want to grab his hand and drag him back and say that he can, that there’s still time, the moments not gone. It’s never going to be gone. Keith can wait. 

Instead, you follow him out into the cold.

”Thank you so much for doing this again, Steve.” You say with a small smile as you walk around to his side, trying to hide the nerves that come back like a tidal wave because outside of his car feels like a different world. “I probably would have ended up in a ditch.”

”That’s okay I would have gotten you out of it, even if you did.” He teases with a wink, rubbing his hands together to warm them up.

You finally look at your car, heart sinking when you see just how buried it really is.

”You really don’t have to dig it out if you want to go home. I mean look at it! That’s crazy. I can always do it when I get off later.” You start rambling, guilt eating you alive.

Steve grabs your hips pulling you to him with gentle strength as he leans his back against the door. Cedar and a little bit of sleep mix with his leftover cologne, calming the nerves that kick your heart rate up, as your hands slide up the cold leather of his coat hooking your arms around his neck. Steve bends down just enough to press his forehead to yours the heat of his breath fanning against your already cold bitten cheeks.

”Don’t worry about your car, I’m gonna take care of it.” He whispers, hazel eyes following the lines of your face, memorizing it for when he can’t stare at you anymore. “I want to talk about - we should talk about last night at some point.”

”Yeah, I agree.” The words are shy coming out, looking at him from under your lashes.

One of his hands leaves your waist to cup the side of your face again, pulling away just enough to tilt your head up, the pad of his thumb catching the pout of your bottom lip. He holds your gaze like he’s trying to communicate it to you without words. You know what he is trying to say because you want to say it out loud too, but you can’t. 

I like you.

Leaning forward he presses a kiss on your forehead that lingers just long enough to make you want more.

“You better go in before the village idiot throws a fit.” He rolls his eyes with a dry laugh, finally letting you go.

“He really is the worst.” You finally agree with the dread of having to see him again, inside. 

“We’ll talk soon.” He sticks his hands in his back pockets, the shyness from before coming back at the thought of confessing what you both already know is true. 

“S-sounds good.” Stuttering, the bubble the two of you have been lost in the last twenty four hours finally pops, the real world waiting for you inside the double doors. 

“Have a good shift, honey.” He smiles, giving you one last look that feels like he’s trying to take a mental image of you right here in this moment.

”I hope you throw those pants away when you get home.” You call out walking backwards, enjoying the red that paints his cheeks despite his laughter.

He waves at you one last time, watching you walk to the double doors and out of sight.

——

Christmas Eve Night

The wheels of the rolling chair squeak as you push yourself around the small space of the studio room. Billie Holiday’s album Solitude spins on the record player, the needle landing on Blue Moon. The first keys of the piano float through the speakers, soft brass mixing with her bittersweet timbre. You stare at the small Christmas tree in the corner of the common room, the colorful lights twinkling just like the ones strung up around you. The shimmering red gift bag that sits on Steve’s soundboard taunts you to over think what’s inside of it hidden under the fluffed green tissue paper.

Boredom has the feeling of self pity trying to burrow itself inside of your thoughts because this was how you were spending Christmas Eve. Alone at work. It was a joke made last week that was only meant to rile Robin up but it quickly became a reality, cause it turns out Keith really does have family out of town. Successfully giving both her and Steve another reason to hate him.

You twirl around in the chair fighting the way your mind wanders to The Wheeler’s and the fact that Nancy is most likely there sharing her grand adventures from Emerson. An even meaner part of your brain imagines Steve listening to them with that same enamored look in his eyes that swallowed you whole just a few nights ago. 

Questions you don’t dare to ask float through your brain faster than you can concentrate. Has she seen his scars? Does she have them too? Deep down you know the answers. Pushing the thought of them together out of your mind, you work hard not to dwell on the way you’re clearly trying to hurt your own feelings. She left and will leave again because she doesn’t want him, at least, not like that. 

It was Steve you weren’t too sure about. 

You hadn’t been alone with him since the car ride back to work that morning. The past few days around the station have been nothing but near misses and stolen looks with shy smiles after getting caught. Perfectly made coffee with fingers that brush handing Steve his mug. Hazel eyes holding yours like maybe if he stared hard enough the two of you could communicate telepathically. But you already know what he’s trying to say.  

We need to talk.

Yesterday he almost made it to your office with the kind of grin twisting up his full lips, like he was finally going to get what he wanted. In fact he made it so close to the doorway that your stomach flipped on itself, just for a frantic Robin to intercept him. Foiling yet another attempt to get to you.

The song reaches its last note, cutting the record off bringing you back to reality, and giving you something to do besides over-think. Gentle fingers slide Frank Sinatra’s Nice ‘N’ Easy from its cover, lifting the needle to start it from the top. That Old Feeling’s melody bursts from the speakers with deep baritone and powerful strings. A small smile playing at the edges of your mouth at the much nicer thought of Steve listening in, wondering if you’re playing it just for him. 

You were.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                             A flash of brown catches in the corner of your eye as you put the Billie Holiday album back on the shelf. Freezing, your heart thumps wildly as all the worst episodes of America’s Most Wanted you’ve ever watched come rushing back. You try to mentally count how many seconds it would take to lock the door from where you’re standing before gathering enough courage to turn around. Dramatically preparing for death, you aren’t expecting to meet the hazel eyes you haven’t stopped thinking about on the other side of the glass. 

Steve smiles, snow flakes sticking to the ends of his hair that looks like it was styled with the utmost care tonight. That big swoop curling over his forehead just begging to be pushed back, your fingers itching to do it. He’s got your favorite sweater on, the thick woven cream one with his brown leather coat on top of it. It’s paired with light washed jeans that wrap tight around the legs that were tangled with yours a few nights ago. His usual white Nike’s covering his feet. 

You can’t stop the curve of your lips, no matter how nonchalant you wish you could be, butterflies erupting when his teeth gleam just the same. Finally pushing the wild strand back, he starts to make his way towards the door with a messily wrapped present in his other hand. The round shape of it not doing his skills or the red Santa printed paper any favors.

“What? Do you just appear anytime someone plays Frank?” You tease to try and hide just how happy you are to see him when he steps inside the sound proof room, the amber of his cologne immediately hitting your nose. 

“Yeah, you didn’t know? I thought that’s why you did it.” He plays along with a straight face, earning the kind of giggle from you that has his eyes sparkle with something that makes your thighs press.

“Not that I’m not happy to see you, but what are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be at Nan— The Wheeler’s?” You try to correct, the jealousy you thought was snuffed out sneaking into your words. Steve catches it, his gaze narrowing slightly.

”I went and said hi to everyone, hung out for a little bit,”  shrugging, he sets his gift down next to yours, looking at his name scribbled in your handwriting on the tag before leaning back on the desk, holding your eyes in his. “Then I came to where I really wanted to be.”

He says it with the kind of confidence you can’t mistake for anything else.

“Besides, what’s the point of going to a secret Santa gift exchange if mine is stuck at work.” He winks, revealing that the mess of a wrap job is indeed for you.

”Well, I guess it works out.” You say a little breathless, your eyes admiring how handsome he looks in the low light, not exhausted from holding everything together for once. “Since you were mine too.”

“I didn’t want to assume when I saw the bag, thought maybe you just liked me that much, cute handwriting by the way.” His left cheek pulls up in a lopsided grin, enjoying the eye roll and fake huff he gets from you in return.

”So nosy. Way to ruin the reveal.” Your tongue pokes the side of your mouth to try and stop the way your smile won’t stop growing. “And if I remember correctly, I’m not the one who said there’s no one who works here that’s worth ten bucks.”

“You and I both know I meant Keith.” He argues, running a hand through his hair, “god, I really hate that guy. Even more after tonight.”

”You hate Keith for having a family?” You snort, watching the way the corners of his lip twitch at the sound.

”Is there something wrong with that? It’s inconveniencing me, I’m trying to you know — do something here and because of him you have to be at work.” Scoffing, he crosses his arms like it’s a completely justified reason.

”What exactly are you trying to do here, Steve?” Looking at him from under your lashes, he squirms a little under your gaze before regaining his confident charm.

”Well, you’ll have to abandon your post and follow me to the van to find out.”

“I’m not surprised that it’s you of all people asking me not to do my job.” Sarcasm rolls off every syllable, and you wonder if he notices the way all the blood rushes despite it.

”Listen, I know the boss, she really won’t care.” Steve smirks, a full bellied laugh shaking his shoulders when you flip him off in response.

“You’re lucky I just started this record.” You point asternly, before finally giving in. “We’ve got like an hour. Tops.”

—-

The van is already running when the two of you step outside, the low hum of the engine cutting through the wind. Snow crunches under your converse, thick and heavy just like the flakes that fall steadily from the dark lavender sky. The serene scene of the woods that surround the station is breathtaking, making you realize that you can’t remember the last time you had a white Christmas.

“Wait, how long have you actually been here?”

The puzzle pieces slowly begin to slot together as you cross your arms in an attempt to protect yourself from the sharp wind that hits you like knives, cursing the split second decision to not grab your coat.

”Maybe like an hour —  hour and a half?” He says from a few steps ahead of you, throwing a look over his shoulder. “Hey, do you want my jacket?” 

”What? Steve! An hour and a half!” You gasp, swatting his arm, shock painting your features, ignoring his second question because he’s already shrugging it off before you can say no. 

”Hey! It’s fine, relax!” He laughs, making a dramatic show of rubbing the spot you smacked before turning around to drape the leather over your shoulders.

It takes every ounce of will power not to press your nose into the collar when the warmth of it envelopes you. He tugs the sides of the jacket for good measure, winking at you down the slope of his nose before continuing his path to the van. A soft glow shines through the small square windows of the back doors, the yellow light shimmering in the snow. His long strides stop once you get close enough to feel the heat emanating from the engine, turning to face you with rosy cold bitten cheeks meeting your gaze down the sharp slope of his nose. He traps you in the mossy green forest of his eyes, keeping you there as the tips of your shoes brush against with a soft squeak. The pads of his fingers search for yours, tugging you closer when he finds them.

“I did this because I wanted to.” He whispers, reassuring the nervous way you tug your bottom lip between your teeth taking it all in. 

Any response is lost on the tip of your tongue, the corners of your lips curling up into something shy. You meet his gaze from under the hood of your lashes, rocking back on your heels mustering a nod. It’s enough for him, flashing you the kind of smile that threatens to buckle your knees, before opening the large metal door. The rusted hinges creak so loudly it echoes into the darkness, the view inside nearly stealing the breath from your lungs.

The golden twinkle of string lights line the roof of the van, another set swooping underneath them in a curved zig zag. They paint the space in warm citrine, relaxing the dark edges the glow of them can’t reach. Everything’s cast in shadows, even softening the ugly colors of the shag rug that covers the floor. There’s a mini Christmas tree that you saw on the clearance shelf at Bradley’s Big Buy a few days ago sitting on the small table right next to a plate of leftovers from the party. The Squawk plays on the radio, Frank Sinatra’s smooth voice crackling through the bad nearly blown out speakers. 

“Steve this is — this is so cute.” It comes out quieter than intended, your brain trying to wrap around the fact that he did this for you trying to take in the details of it all with a heart that feels so full that it might burst. 

“Yeah?” He questions with an uncertainty that you can’t believe is there. It’s enough for you to tear your eyes away from the shimmering light, your fingers tightening around his. 

“This is the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me.” You whisper, taking a step closer to look up at him. “Thank you so much, handsome.”

The endearment has his cheeks turning a pretty shade of red, perfect teeth tugging his full bottom lip into his mouth, a free hand running through his snow-covered hair.

“Let’s get inside before we lose all the heat.” He smiles, pulling your hand to his lips, placing a soft kiss on your knuckles, the warmth of his breath soothing cold skin. 

—-

You sit across from each other on the blankets he’d spread out over the rug, your legs bent slotted between his, knees knocking together every so often. Throw pillows you’re pretty sure are from his living room line the edges of the quilt on either side, while your snow covered shoes and his jacket sit discarded in the front seat to dry. 

Steve stares at you with the kind of smirk that makes you feel like your body is a livewire, the ends of his hair a little wet from the snow that melted once you got inside. The pad of his thumb swipes gently on the top of your socked foot, electricity seeping through the thick cotton, tingling against your skin. The heat pouring from the vents fogs up the windows, hiding you from the outside world. Safe again.

“So who goes first?” You question, nervous fingers fiddling with the string handle of the gift bag. 

There’s a brief moment where you swear panic flickers across his face, but he recovers quickly, clearing his throat. The notion that he’s just as nervous as you relaxes a little bit of tension in your shoulders, knocking your knee into his with flirty purpose.

“Ladies always first.” He says it like it shouldn’t even be a question, grabbing the messily wrapped present from his side handing it over to you. Electric currents running through touching finger tips.

Whatever it is feels heavy in your hand as you spin it around, examining the crazy amount of tape that’s plastered all over it. You make a show of shaking it next to your ear to stop him from hiding under the weight of his thoughts that has him staring at his hands, earning you the flash of teeth you were looking for.

“Don’t break it please.” He laughs, running that signature stressed hand through his hair, filling you with a sense of pride that you’re the cause of it this time.

“I would never!” You gasp dramatically, the pads of your fingers tugging on the edges of the paper. “Whatever is inside of this immaculate wrap job is about to be my favorite thing in the world.”

”Not all of us back down from a challenge and take the lazy way out with a gift bag.” He taunts catching your sarcasm with a grin that has you rolling your eyes, the corners of your lips curving up.

You fight to regain your focus on the task at hand and not the boy you haven’t stopped thinking about sitting across from you. The quick thumping of your heart pounds muffled in your ears as you slowly start to unwrap whatever it is, the heat of his stare making you squirm. Breaking the last little bit of tape holding it together with your index finger, the last thing you’re expecting is the candle that rolls into your palm. 

There’s no label on the glass jar holding the sea foam green wax with a long white wick that sits slightly off center sticking out of the top of it. Curiously, you lift it up to your nose and inhale only to be met with the kind of scent that takes you to a time you haven’t stopped day dreaming about all winter long. Not a specific memory but a collection of where all your favorite ones took place. It smells like 9pm sunsets and late night drives with the windows rolled down. It’s barbecues at the lake with way too much sunscreen yet somehow not enough at all. Ice cold lemonade in red solo cups with condensation from the heat dripping down the sides, sulfur stinging in your nose from Fourth of July sparklers. It smells like summer. Your perfect summer. 

”Oh my god.” You groan, taking another big huff trying to figure out how to live inside of it for the next few months. “Where did you get this?”

”You like it?” He asks wearily, cracking his knuckles, nervous eyes hyper aware of all of your reactions.

”Like it? Steve, I’m obsessed with it.” You sniff it again for good measure, and somehow it keeps being better than the last time. “Seriously, what brand is this?”

“You see — I - I uhh.“ He scratches the back of his neck, looking down at his lap like he’s struggling to find his words before meeting your gaze from under the thick hood of his lashes. “Dustin’s mom makes candles, as like, a hobby or whatever. So I forc - I mean I paid —  he helped me make you one.”

”Wait, you made this for me?” You question in whispered disbelief ignoring the subtle coercing of his younger friend. He nods, crimson deepening in his cheeks as he runs another hand through his hair.

Flowers that Steve’s started to water bloom deep in your chest threatening to crack it open. The unmistakable sting of tears wells up in the corners of your eyes, and you do your best to blink them back. Setting the candle down at your side, you sit up on your knees. He stretches his legs, laying them flat against the floor to accommodate whatever you’re doing without question as you crawl onto his lap wrapping your arms around his neck. It takes him a moment to realize what’s happening, but when he does, his arms snake around your waist tugging you even closer. Your knees land on either side of his hips as he buries his face in the crook of neck, inhaling deeply like he’s been waiting for this all his life. His hands spread wide across your back, warm palms sliding up the dip of your spine, nudging at the hinge of your jaw with the tip of his nose, a satisfied hum tickling against your skin.

“Thank you Steve, I love it.” You whisper, lips brushing against the shell of his ear as the greedy tips of your fingers curl into the soft wisps of chestnut at the nape of his neck. 

“I wish you knew how happy that makes me.” He murmurs, pulling back just enough to meet you with a heady gaze that threatens to swallow you whole with wandering hands finding a new home on the curve of your hips. 

Leaning forward, you press forehead to his tugging lightly at his baby hairs that curl around the bottoms of his ears. Your breath mingles in the little space that’s left between your begging lips, so close they could brush with the slightest tilt of your chin.

“Your turn.” You say, the corners of your mouth curving up softly, his grip on your sides tightening in response.

He runs the tip of his nose along the length of yours before pulling back enough to have you miss him, a hunger his stare that sets a fire a blaze on every inch of your skin.

“Let’s see it.” He readjusts beneath you with a grin, the hold on your hips staying iron clad, making sure there’s no misunderstanding that he’s keeping you there. 

Reaching behind to grab the gift bag, nerves make your palms sweat while the another part of you is excited to get rid of the thing that’s haunted your every waking thought since wrapping it. It crinkles loudly in your hands, the smile on his face growing wide enough to split it in two.

“Whatever it is, even if it’s just a pair of socks you got from the thrift store, I’m gonna love it.” Steve reassures with gentle palms sliding up on either side of your rib cage, tiny wings taking flight underneath his fingers.

“Well it’s definitely not that. And also that’s oddly specific. Has someone gotten you that before?" You snort a little confused, trying to distract from the slight shake of your hand as you bravely hand it over.

“Don’t worry about it.” He teases, lifting the bag up to his ear mimicking the way you shook his gift, earning the smack on his chest and roll of your eyes he was looking for.

”Steve! Stop it!”

“Okay, okay. I’m sorry!” He laughs, grabbing your wrist before you can fully pull your hand away. Holding you in the golden honey that drips warm in his eyes, he slowly brings your palm back up his mouth softly pressing a kiss to the soft skin there. “I’m gonna open it now, promise.”

The gesture sends your body buzzing, nervous teeth digging into your bottom lip as you try to remember how to breathe. Pulling the green tissue out first, he tosses it on the other side of the throw pillows in a messy ball as your heart tries to claw its way out of your throat watching him peer inside the bag. Steve’s body freezes between your thighs. The familiar itch of panic threatens to set in after a few moments of silence, with nothing but the howling wind outside and the crackle of Frank Sinatra’s voice through the speakers. 

It’s enough to have you start to squirm uncomfortably on his lap, the movement shaking him out of whatever daze he was lost in, meeting your gaze with glassy eyes from under his lashes.

“First of all, this is way more than ten dollars.” He laughs lightly, trying to break the unexpected tension, but there's no mistaking the shake inside of his voice as he pulls out a map, compass and a camera.

“For all the adventures waiting for you on the other side of Indiana state lines.” You whisper a little nervous that maybe you’ve over stepped, that what he shared with you in that car ride to your apartment wasn’t to be talked of again.

Disbelief floats around in his watery gaze like a life boat because you see him when he’s not sure he’s ever really seen himself. 

“I think I’m falling in love with you.” He breathes like he can’t hold it in anymore, searching for the answers in the lines of your face because the curves of it have become his favorite thing.

It wasn’t the response you were expecting and it sparks an avalanche of unspoken feelings that burst at the seams of your chest trying to get out. Words not dared uttered out loud but have done nothing but spin on a loop in your mind, worming their way into every thought both awake and lost in your dreams. The universe shifts at his confession, your world tilting off its axis because Steve Harrington snuck up on you in a life altering surprise. 

“I think I’m already there.” You admit, eyes casting down at your fidgeting hands because ‘falling’ is a lot different than ‘in’, but in the spirit of honesty, you lay your cards on the table too.

“Hey,”  His voice comes out soft just above a whisper, long fingers tilting your chin up to meet his gaze. “Me too, I was just saying that so I wouldn’t scare you off.”

You can’t stop the watery giggle that slips past your lips at his confession, the whites of his teeth shining at the sound.

”Wow, I didn’t even think about scaring you off until after I said it. But by then it was too late.” You grin, pressing your forehead to his again brushing the tip of his nose with your own. 

”Good thing it worked out, for you yet again huh?” He teases, bringing his hand back up to cup the side of your face.

”Mmhmm,” you hum, daring to hold his gaze as you slide your palm over the top of it leaning into the warmth of his touch. The sunbursts of color in his hazel eyes darken as he pulls you closer, making you brave enough to ask for the one thing you’ve wanted since that night under the stars. 

“Steve?” 

“Yeah, honey?” He whispers, eyebrows marrying together like he’s begging you to put him out of his misery. 

“Kiss me.”

He wastes no time closing the space that’s left, pouring all of his want into the first press of his lips, the pad of his thumb running along the heated skin of your cheek. Needy fingers find a new home, tangling themselves in the thick dampness of his hair, tugging him closer when his tongue swipes against your lower lip, begging you to let him in. It’s easy to say yes. You meet him in the middle, the muscles moving together languid and slow, savoring it. The grip he has on your hips tightens, his nose pressing into your cheek exploring your mouth with the kind of intensity that dares to get messy. A satisfied moan rumbling from his chest when your tongue starts to battle for dominance. 

You could do this for hours, you think, and never get tired of it. Never get tired of him.

“Baby.” He murmurs against your lips, the new endearment pulling you from your love drunk thoughts, sending the word ‘baby’ buzzing through your veins.

“Hmm?” You half answer, too distracted by the way he busies himself leaving open mouthed kisses down the length of your jaw, a big hand coming up so he can tilt your chin to get to your neck. 

”The music stopped.” Steve breathes against your skin, nudging the side of your face with the tip of his nose, pressing his lips to the sensitive spot behind your ear. “Dead air.”

He straightens up, pulling away from where he’d been focusing his attention and brings it to your flushed face. Pressing his forehead to yours, he squeezes his eyes shut like stopping this is the hardest thing he’s ever done. Chests rise and fall, lungs desperately trying to get the oxygen they crave, but you just want Steve. 

“Fuck the dead air.” 

You steal his lips without a second thought, and it’s your tongue that asks for permission this time. Steve smiles into the kiss granting it to you with ease, one hand coming up to the side of your face. The pad of his thumb tugs at the edge of your mouth, opening you up more for him, building a hunger that threatens to scrape teeth together, hips swiveling on their own accord. He shudders underneath you, a half choked moan escaping the back of his throat when you do it again, only this time with purpose.

Wrapping a strong arm around the small of your back, his fingers spread wide along the curve of your spine. He pulls you close to his chest before lifting you up, laying you both down on the blankets. Slotting himself between your legs that spread for him, big hands land on either side of your head, caging you in. He pulls away from your mouth like its torture, staring down at you like you’re the reason the sun rises and falls every morning. The intensity of it swells deep in your chest, fingers reaching up letting the pads of them trace the warm lines of his face. He’s always felt like sunshine to you. 

“You’re sure about this?” He whispers, the strain of maintaining self control evident in the shake of his voice.

“This is the first thing in my life that I've been absolutely certain of.” You admit with a grin, never wanting to leave whatever this little space he created tucked away from the outside world is. At least not yet. “What about you?”

Steve’s eyes flutter closed for a second, chasing your touch nuzzling his face into your palm as the pad of your thumb glides over the clutter of moles on his cheek. Your favorite constellation. Leaning further down, the tip of his nose runs along the length of yours, a slow smile spreading across his lips. 

“I don’t think I’ve ever wanted anything more.” Leaning down, the tip of his nose runs along the length of yours, a slow smile spreading across his lips. 

“Then what are we waiting for?” The question comes out quiet, wrapped in the kind of ache that's so palpable you can feel it in your bones.

He holds your gaze searching for any trace of apprehension that he’ll never find, the blacks of his irises taking over once he’s satisfied. His hand slides down the curve of your waist with more purpose as he drops his full weight onto you, the smell of cedar and bergamot all encompassing. Your spine bends, pressing your body into his yearning to get closer, the pine of his shampoo tickling your nose, driving you mad. 

“So damn pretty.” He murmurs into your mouth before collecting it with a roll of his hips, greedily swallowing the gasp that follows.

His tentative fingers fiddle with the hem of your sweater until it’s your hips that meet him this time, giving them all the permission they need. A deep groan rattles from deep in his chest when you do it again. Calloused fingers tickle the soft skin of your tummy, flitting up the contour of your ribs, the pad of his thumb sliding under the wire of your bra. Your determined hands travel down the broad expanse of his shoulders before they dip down the lean length of his chest lingering at the bottom of his thick woven turtle neck.

You pull away from his lips that chase you to come back, whispering “Can I?”

His body tenses at your question as panic starts to burrow deep in your gut, the butterflies retreating back to their cocoons at the thought of ruining this already. 

“Only if you’re comfortable,” you remind him trying to salvage it, kissing the edge of his mouth, adding softly, “I’ll want you no matter what you decide.”

The tight muscles in his shoulders relax at the soft affection in your voice, the pad of his thumb swiping under your bra again before squeezing at your side. Steve hides his face in the crook of your neck, leaving an open mouthed kiss behind your ear, doing it again relishing at the keening noise you give him.

”You first.” He murmurs quietly against your skin before lifting his head, drowning you in the rich amber of his eyes. 

”Do it for me?” You’re shy with the way you ask, meeting him under the hood of your lashes.

“Baby.” His breath fans hot against scorched skin, the tip of his nose running down the slope of yours with brows furrowed in the kind of want that steals the air from your lungs.

Steve greedily captures your lips one more time before sitting back on his haunches. He runs a hand through his now sweaty hair, a pretty shade of red creeping up his neck as he tries to regain some self control. Propping yourself up on your elbows, it's hard not to notice all the ways you affect him, especially in the tight jeans he always wears. Your cheeks burn remembering all the rumors about him in high school. A smirk tugs up one side of his mouth, making you realize that you’re staring, but you can’t bring yourself to look away.

“I swear this wasn’t some master plan to get in your pants or anything like that.” He huffs out a laugh shuffling back between your thighs, hands curving around the bend of your knees, thumbs brushing softly against the caps. 

“I know,” You try to hide your smile by biting into the fat of your bottom lip, sliding your hands up his thighs as you sit all the way up. Hooking your fingers into the belt loops of his jeans, the new position putting the center of his chest at eye level. 

“Jesus Christ.” He grumbles with a shaky breath, running his fingers through his hair again before letting them curl under your chin tilting your gaze up even more. “You’re trying to kill me.”

The giggle he earns in response makes him grin as you tug lightly on the denim. 

“Lift your arms for me, pretty girl.” His command drips with honey, the pearly whites of his teeth peeking out, sliding the pad of his thumb along your pouty bottom lip.

You do as you're told, heart racing so fast it pounds in your ears while his soft eyes follow your movements. Wetting his lips he slowly peels your sweater from over your head, tossing it to the side before really taking you in. If it wasn’t for the admiration that glimmered bright in his eyes, you would be self conscious with how he stares at you without saying a word for what feels like the longest time. 

“Come here, please.” He pleas in a whisper, urging you to your knees. 

His hands feel like they are everywhere when you meet him at eye level, greedy fingers squeezing at your soft curves before warm palms spread wide across your back pulling you in. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, littering your heated skin with the same open mouthed kisses that were your undoing just minutes ago. A needy whine slips from between your lips, your fingers finding themselves back in his hair, tugging him closer. Making his way down your neck, his eager mouth feels like it’s on the hunt, devouring all the new skin that's presented to him. He presses a kiss to your collar bone before perfect teeth nip at the swell of your breasts, expert fingers undoing the hooks of your bra with ease.

”Oh my god, Steve.” You say a little breathless, arching deeper into him searching for the kind of friction you’re not going to get like this.

He hums against your skin, before bringing his attention back to where you want him most. Cupping the side of your face with one hand, the pad of his thumb tugs at your chin, licking into your mouth. Meeting his tongue with feverish need, your teeth scrape together at the warm palm that squeezes your breast, nipples pebbling under his touch. You don’t think about it when your hands slide down to the hem of his sweater, too lost in your desperation for more until he grabs your wrists with a soft “Hey” in between kisses that finally you wake up.

”I’m - I’m sorry.” You break away trying to create some distance, embarrassed that you lost control.

”Hey, no — no, no, don’t be sorry honey.” He coos, pulling you back to him pressing his lips to the corner of your mouth for good measure, meeting your gaze with the same adoration as before. “Will you - will you just let me do it?”

“You don’t have to -“ 

“I want to.” He says it with such conviction that it leaves you little room to over think his answer, whispering ‘I want to’ one more time, nudging your nose. 

All you can do is nod shuffling back to give him space, arms wrapping around your chest out of instinct. Steve takes a deep breath, rolling his shoulders, staring intensely at the patterns on the quilt beneath you. His wrists flick at his sides with the kind of nerves that make you want to say you’ve changed your mind, that it’s okay, he doesn’t have to do this but it’s more than just that, you can tell, so you hold it in and trust him. 

He doesn’t look at you when his arms cross at his waist, fingers curling under the hem of his turtle neck slowly pulling it up.The dark hair of his happy trail reveals itself to you first, another cluster of moles dotting the side of it that you’re desperate to kiss. There's a slight shake to his hands when his sweater gets higher up his torso the same kind of jagged edges peeking out that are identical to the one wrapped around his neck. 

These ones though, are much bigger. 

They spread wide, taking up space along both sides of his rib cage like saw-toothed wings. Uneven skin pinches together pink in some parts, smooth and silver in others. The raised edges outline the mean looking bites that stop right under his chest that’s covered in an even thicker dark patch of hair. His scars unfurl like water colors that bleed into paper from too much water, beautiful and messy just like him. 

Tossing his sweater with yours, he runs both his hands through his hair before finally meeting your gaze with a vulnerability inside of them that threatens to break your heart. Dropping your arms you move slowly, coming closer holding his stare. You can feel the nerves that radiate off of him, chest rising and falling in quick succession.

“Can I touch you?” You ask quietly, like you’re trying not to spook him.

It takes him a second to answer, brows furrowing as he looks down, pink tongue poking out to lick his lips.

”Yeah - yeah.” He nods, bringing his gaze back to you, long fingers curling around your wrist, slowly guiding your hand to the one on his rib cage. 

Steve sucks a breath between his teeth feeling the warmth of your palm on skin that hasn’t been touched in months, his body shuddering when you press softly into the uneven markings. There’s a roughness to the middle of it, the raised skin on the ends more smooth and firm. The pad of your thumb brushes against it, encouraging him to bring your other hand to the one just under his chest on the other side, fully letting you in. He studies your reactions, desperately trying to read your mind, the amber of his eyes turning glassy with apprehension.

”You’re so handsome, Steve.” You say holding his stare, tentatively bending down before you lean forward slowly testing the waters. His breath comes out in nervous huff, but he doesn’t stop the press of your lips. 

Your kiss is tender against the biggest one that  almost spreads the entire expanse off his ribs, sending another shudder through his body, a whispered ‘honey’ slipping from his mouth. His palms slide over the tops of yours as you make your way down his chest, peppering more along the other side giving all of them your equal attention. You self indulgently kiss the cluster of moles next to his happy trail before working your way back up to include the one at the base of his neck. 

The warmth of your hands moves up his broad shoulders meeting his gaze with heavy eyes. His fingers glide down your arms before they tickle the dip of your spine. Hooking your wrists around his neck, you bring your soft kisses to his waiting lips, his hold tightening crushing you to him he can never be close enough. 

Your mouths move slowly against each other, finding the perfect rhythm, tongues meeting in the middle savoring the taste of each other, taking your time. It’s you who pulls him back down to the blankets, thighs spreading for him to lay between them. The rough feel of his scars against your skin sends goosebumps pebbling, your body curving up insatiable for more of him. He moans into the kiss, his hands working their way down, deft fingers unbuttoning your pants before pushing under the waist band of your soaked underwear. 

“Shit,” He breathes, breaking apart from your lips. Pressing his forehead to yours, his fingers finding the effects of his touch. ”So wet, baby.”

”Mmhm.” You whimper, hips meeting the slow circles he starts to rub on your bundle of nerves. “Want you, Steve.”

His lips curl up against the side of your warm cheek, hearing his name making him brave. The pads of his fingers slide further down letting a knuckle stretch you out. You gasp when he adds a second, pulling him back to your mouth, meeting the slow movements of his wrist with another roll of your hips. He pushes a third finger into the heat of your squeezing walls, prepping you for what’s  pressing hard against your thigh.

You find the will power to break free from the way he starts to tighten the coil deep in your gut, impatient fingers finding the button of his jeans, eager hands shoving them down his hips. He helps you, lifting them enough to kick off as the pad of his thumb threatens to become your undoing, putting just enough pressure against your clit for your jaw to go slack.

“Please,” You beg as his lips keep making their way up your jaw, your palm finding the hard length of him straining against the white material of his boxer briefs.

He moans hot against the shell of your ear, another shudder rippling through his body, hips bucking on their own accord, your touch sending him over the edge.

“Fuck, I need you. You have no idea how bad I need you.” His hushed words come out desperate, like he might go insane if he can’t have it.

His fingers curve, hitting that spot inside of you that threatens to make you see the stars that you’re convinced he hung in the sky. His name leaves your mouth like it's the only word you know, eye brows furrowing together when they pick up the pace. Their determined movements become your undoing as he sucks on the sensitive part of your neck, leaving a mark. Your world tilts off its axis at the unexpected intensity that washes over you, walls fluttering hard against his fingers, trying to push him out.  

“God, you’re so beautiful like this baby.” He groans, teeth nipping softly at the hinge of your jaw. “Always so damn pretty, wanna see it again.”

It takes you a moment to come back down, words getting lost on the tip of your tongue at his affection. His greedy lips waste no time traveling a path down your chest, his hot mouth enveloping your nipple into the wet heat of it. He sucks just hard enough to earn a gasp, fingers finding their way back to the damp softness of his hair, getting lost in the silk of it as he peppers messy kisses down your sternum stopping just at the top of your navel. 

You lift your hips, you help him push the rest of your pants down, taking your underwear with it. Laying yourself bare, his eyes that had turned into a dark shade of chestnut devour you. He sits back up on his haunches to really take it all in, pushing that infamous wild strand back.

“I’m sorry it took me so long.” He whispers, a sincerity in his gaze that shows a hint of misplaced guilt. ”I can’t believe I could’ve had you this whole time.”

”Steve,” his name comes out gentle, finding the strength to push yourself up meeting him in the middle. Your hands wrap around his hips, the pads of your thumbs brushing against the edges of his scars. “That doesn’t matter, we’re here now, and you weren’t the only one.”

His palm comes back up to envelope the side of your face in its big hold, staring down at you with the kind of affection that makes your heart skip two beats.

”Now, come here and don’t make me wait any longer.” You tease, looking up at him from under flirty lashes.

Steve’s smile stretches so wide, it splits his face in two, his white teeth shimmering in the twinkling lights. You tug at the waste band of the only piece of clothing keeping you apart, pulling him back down with hardly any effort at all. His briefs getting lost at your feet as he comes back to his favorite place between your thighs.

Hovering above you, the ends of your noses touch, lips curling into something sweet as you tangle your fingers back into the hair at the nape of his neck. The tip of him slides between your slick, his head catching on your bundle of nerves making your back arch, legs spreading wider. A deep groan escapes from the back of his throat, vibrating from his chest at the feel of you, his forehead resting against yours shuddering, doing it again. 

You kiss the sharp edge of his jaw, encouraging him to keep going with a roll of your hips, one hand leaving his damp roots to reach down to guide him to the place you need him most. His eyes pinch closed, your jaw going slack at the initial stretch that’s even bigger than you imagined. 

“Ohmygod, Steve.” It comes out in a desperate whine, your arms wrapping around his broad shoulders from under his. Tethering yourself to him, you need an anchor when he pushes the rest of the way in.

”Jesus, you’re so — god, you’re so tight.” He groans, panting against your open mouth.

Steve doesn’t move, letting you adjust to his size, his arms trembling at the fluttering of your walls. You feel so full letting him melt into your body like this, taking it over and all you want is more. You think you’ll always want more. The grind of your hips catches your sweet spot on the rough patch of hair at the end of his happy trail, blunt nails digging crescent moons into the galaxy on his back. 

He presses a kiss to the edge of your mouth before messily capturing it with a deep thrust, tongue licking into you, swallowing your moan. You meet him with eager hips, a sharp exhale leaving through his nose. Moving together slowly, you take all of him with an insatiable body that begs him to go deeper even though there's where else to go. 

“You feel so good.” You whimper against his cheek, breaking away from his hungry lips to catch your breath. “So fucking good.”

“Yeah?” He huffs, hot breath tickling your ear, his strokes becoming more pointed at the squeeze of your walls when he hits that spot. “You’re perfect, made for me. I swear.”

Resting his forehead to yours, he presses the full weight of himself on you, the dark pools of his eyes drowning you in their abyss. One of his hands travels down the soft curve of your waist, squeezing at your hip before hooking your knee over the crook of his elbow.

He opens you up more for him, driving deeper, a guttural moan escaping from the back of his throat at the feel of you. It’s loud enough to drown out the high pitch whine you give in return. The intense need to keep close has you clawing at his skin, your spine bending pressing your body further into him. 

“Never gonna get enough of you.” He pants, the heat of his breath fanning against your kiss bitten lips. “I need you to be mine.”

He sounds love drunk, his hips stuttering at the squeeze of your walls at his words. 

“I’m yours Steve, that was never a question.” Fingers weaving into his hair, you tug him close, stealing the kind of kiss that tries to convey just how much you mean it. 

He meets your mouth with the kind of intensity that sends butterflies fluttering in your chest, the familiar coil in your gut tightening again. His thrusts start to become more sporadic, like his self control is slipping, completely lost in the silk of you.

”I’m not - I’m not gonna last much longer.” He confesses pulling away, his fingers spreading across your chin tiling your face up to his so he can really see you. “Need you to cum for me again pretty girl, can you do that for me?”

All you do is nod, too intoxicated off of him to form full sentences anymore. Your jaw goes slack as he slows down to a grind, the rough thatch of hair at the base of him catching on your clit with just the right amount of pressure again. He nudges his nose with yours whispering a gentle ‘come on,’ that sends you falling over the edge for a second time, your vision going white behind eyes that close tight.

”So good, god, you’re so fucking good.” He moans, driving his hips into yours with the kind of intensity that tells you that he’s close, milking your release that becomes his demise. 

His body tenses on top of yours, the hold on your leg tightening as a shudder ripples through his body spilling into you. A loud moan rattles from his chest, burying his face in the crook of your neck. It’s almost enough for you to give in for a third time, rolling your hips, greedy walls taking him for all he’s worth. Tugging at his damp roots, you pull him close, relishing in the way he surrounds you, solid and warm. It takes him a moment for his muscles to fully relax after shocks rolling through his body until the hold on your leg finally comes loose. 

Steve’s fingers glide up your thigh, curving around your rib cage, while his other hand that was holding your chin cups the side of your face. The pad of his thumb traces the contour of your cheekbone, wet lips peppering lazy kisses where he still hides. Your fingers run through his hair, scratching at his scalp, the corners of your mouth curving up at the low hum that tickles against your skin. 

“Let’s never leave.” He grumbles, finally showing signs of life.

“Deal.” You giggle, pressing soft lips to the crown of his head, feeling the smile that spreads in against your skin. 

His nose nudges at your jaw, finally coming up to meet your eyes, rosy pink creeping across his cheeks. 

“Hey,” He greets shyly, studying the lines of your face before continuing. “I just want you to know I meant everything I said. I wasn’t just lost in the heat of the moment or something like that.”

Your hands untangle themselves from his hair, making a new home holding his face, whispering,

“Me too.”

He bends down, pressing his lips to yours with something delicate behind it. Pouring his adoration into every part of you. It’s overwhelming because you feel the same way, but you’re not sure a lifetime will be enough time to even scratch the surface.  

“Travel with me.” The words come out in a hot breath against your mouth, running the tip of his nose up the slope of yours.

”Steve -“

”No, I mean it.” He argues with a grin, a smoothness to the lines of his handsome features you haven’t seen before. “We can go where it’s summer all the time.”

”Yeah?” You whisper, a full garden blossoming in your chest.

“Absolutely, I’ve actually already planned the whole thing in my head.” He teases, earning the kind of giggle he wants to bottle up so he can listen to it whenever he wants.

”That does sound pretty nice.” 

“Who else am I going to take pictures of anyway?” The smile that spreads across his face is contagious as he bends down, stealing a kiss that you already missed.

A word you never thought you’d use for the face and hair of Hawkins High’s sports programs circa 1981 to 1985.  A jock who used to push kids in lockers, break their camera’s, the kind to stand girls up who would just turn around and beg him to do it again. The popular guy who always seemed to get what he wanted, someone you thought would have his future laid out for him on a road paved of gold. So when you had your first day at The Squawk almost three months ago, and found him not only working the sound board for WSQK’s very own ‘Rockin Robin’ aka your favorite trumpet player to skip band practice with, but that they were also best friends. Like inseparable best friends, finishing each other's sentences kind of best friends, you weren’t sure how many chapters you missed after leaving for college four years ago. 

Steve Harrington was an anomaly, and he was wearing that damn brown bomber jacket again.

It was your favorite of what seemed to be his early winter collection that had started to appear in the form of thick sweaters and fitted jackets once the sun began disappearing after four pm. Another thing you hated almost as much as not being able to put your chipped polished finger on him anymore, was that now, the word favorite is in your vocabulary when it comes to the guy who never even looked your way despite sharing the same homeroom all four years of high school. 

This particular jacket though? It was your kryptonite. The soft suede wraps around his broad shoulders like butter, tapering just enough at the bottom to give the illusion of a loose fit, like it’s tailored special just for him. Its rich earthy brown color brings out the gold flecks in his hazel eyes that you swear changed colors with the season, or maybe it was because Nancy Wheeler finally stopped coming around. 

You’d overheard a conversation between him and Robin a few weeks ago after noticing an extra broody-ness about his presence that she had finally left Hawkins to attend Emerson in Massachusetts. It was all you were able to catch without being caught eavesdropping on your way to map out the next few weeks DJ schedules in Jimmy’s abandoned office. An office you were only supposed to be an assistant too, but now somehow managed to end up being the one to do the job it was made for. It was becoming a full time one too, keeping the station running since its operating hours are no longer the allotted time slots given by the military. Which still seemed like a fresh nightmare for most of the people that decided to stay when the fences finally disappeared.

“Morning!” You greet them, stretching your neck enough to peek out of the open office door, making your presence known since your ever changing schedule keeps you at the station at random times.

Today you’d gotten here at 3am to fill the late night dead air with your own curated mix, something you do whenever Steve or Keith couldn’t. It was easy money, you didn’t even have to talk, just make sure to queue the ads you’ve been having to fight tooth and nail to get in order to keep the lights on. 

“Good Morning!” Robin waves stretching her neck to meet your gaze with her signature toothy grin that lights up the whole room. Her blonde hair is extra frizzy from the snow starting to fall outside, the cold kissing her cheeks with roses. 

All you get is Steve’s back as he continues his path to the studio, giving you a quick flick of his wrist in acknowledgment. It was 50/50 depending on the day, or even his shift if he’d stay mute or give you a short ‘Morning’. Either way, it didn’t matter because he still cared enough to pretend that he likes his coffee black in front of you. A secret that you’ve always kept close after catching him put cream and an absurd amount of sugar in his whenever he thought you weren’t looking– on multiple occasions.

”I put your coffees in there already, three creams and two sugars for Robin, and don’t worry Steve, I left yours black just how you like it.”

Your lips twist at the slight tense of his shoulders.

”Thanks boss!” Robin sings, skipping to catch up with her best friend’s long strides.

”I’m not your boss!” You call back, brows furrowing ñ at the nickname she’s been determined to make stick. They weren’t paying you a radio manager’s wage. 

“Could’ve fooled me!” Her raspy voice carries across the room, before both her and Steve’s go muffled behind the soundproof door.

5 minutes till showtime.

You can see them through the glass that encases them from the cracked window in your office. Steve looks like he’s rambling about something to her, big hands gesturing wildly before they push back his thick mane of chestnut hair, the blonde tips it used to have, long forgotten. It is his personal tell that he’s stressed, besides a thumb flick to the nose which follows shortly after. Robin’s face softens, not meeting his chaotic energy as he takes off his jacket, revealing the cream mock turtle neck sweater underneath it. You can’t hear what she’s saying, but whatever it is makes his shoulders slump, nodding in response with another card of his hair. Relaxing.

It’s unexpected when his eyes shoot across the room, meeting your gaze for the first time in a few days. Averting your stare as quickly as you can, your cheeks feel like they're being raked over coals, they burn hot as you try and refocus on the spread sheet laying on the desk. Quietly vowing to leave the station before they break for lunch as your escape plan. This way you can lock yourself in your dark apartment and sleep off the exhausting seven hours before suffering the kind of embarrassment that radiates from your fingertips and all ten of your toes.

—-

Thursday Early Morning

5:13am. The bright green numbers on your dash feel like an assault as the tires of your Oldsmobile crunch against the snow and gravel leading up the path to The Squawk. From inside, the constant vigil of the studio lights fades into a soft glow, filtering through the glass front entrance doors to cut through the last bit of night and bounce off the shimmering snowflakes that somehow continue to fall.  It’s been four days of this now, the sky alternating between flurries and heavy snowfall. It’s starting to feel like it might never stop, like the universe seems determined to deliver a white Christmas during the one year you and the rest of this town can’t seem to find the spirit. 

Your jaw stretches with a yawn as you try to will the caffeine to hit your bloodstream faster. You pull up beside what should be Keith’s Thunderbird and rub the remainder of sleep from your eyes blinking at Steve’s BMW parked next to the WSQK van.  A newfound anxiety flutters beneath your ribcage, at the memory of how his eyes caught you– like you were intruding on something personal, a secret only meant for his best friend’s ears. Everything with Steve Harrington has felt like a secret lately. An unsolvable puzzle with a missing piece always just out of reach. There’s a determination to find it. With slightly shaking hands, you arm yourself with a travel mug of homemade coffee and a deep breath to collect your courage before heading inside.

He probably won’t even say hi anyway, if you’re lucky he’ll just wave from the studio, maybe, and then you’ll both ignore each other until he leaves without saying goodbye.

Frank Sinatra’s ‘I’ve Got You Under My Skin’ spills from the speakers in the studio, the door propped open allowing the soft trumpets and piano to fill the normally quiet space. He plays a lot of Sinatra on his overnights, a taste you’ve assumed he acquired from Robin, but part of you can’t be too sure anymore. 

Christmas lights that weren’t there the night before are draped around the DJ booth, with even more hanging half hazardly above the soundboard. They twinkle in red, green, and gold, warming the room in a comforting glow. It’s not until you round the corner that you see Steve on a step stool stringing more around the common area, a small pile of multi-colored shimmering garland on the table beside him with tiny Santas and snowmen hanging off the tinsel.

Steve Harrington is decorating for Christmas. 

“You’re not Keith.” You say, finding your voice, trying to break the usual awkwardness between the two of you with some kind of joke. Butterflies waking up in the pit of your gut when you hear it. 

A laugh.

It’s so quiet that if you didn’t see the slight shake of his shoulders, you’d probably miss it. An unfamiliar desperate need to make him do it again tugs at your heart.

”Defintely not Keith.” He huffs, but you can hear the slight smile in his voice. You’d almost forgotten what he really sounds like.

His Nike covered feet step down from the stool, leaving the string of lights to dangle half way on their journey across the room. Turning around, he runs one of his big hands through his messier than usual hair, those familiar hazel eyes catching yours for the second time in one week. A record breaking streak.

He’s wearing dark washed jeans, they fit him snug like all of them do. A navy WSQK sweater stretches over his chest, the letters faded and peeling because Jimmy cheaped out on the printing company.You’re willing to bet Steve’s got three more washes till they're all completely gone. The sleeves are pushed up revealing his permanently sunkissed skin despite the warm weather hiding on the other side of the earth, and they’re dotted with more freckles than you can count. 

“He asked me to cover his shift last minute, something about a pet ferret?” His face twists in the kind of judgment that has an uncontrollable giggle slip past your lips.

The gold in his eyes seems to sparkle at the sound, the corners of his mouth twitching, fighting a smile that he doesn’t let win. 

“That explains the smell of his jacket sometimes.” Scrunching up your nose at the memory of the last time you saw Keith, Steve can’t seem to fight his grin off this time, pearly whites gleaming behind plush pink lips.

It threatens to steal the breath from your lungs, teeth digging into your bottom lip with cheeks that start to feel like the surface of the missing sun, warming your skin with something that has you looking away. Suddenly, you have a new understanding for all those girls in high school. 

“I hope you don’t mind, me uh - decorating and stuff.” He scratches the back of his neck, like talking this long to someone that’s not his best friend is hard for him, or maybe it’s just because it’s you. “Robin was complaining about how she’s not feeling very festive this year, and it’s her and vi- it’s her first Christmas dating someone so I was thinking maybe this might help.”

It almost makes you mad at how sweet of a gesture it is, and how it feels like you’ll never quite figure him out. Every time you think you’re close, he sheds another layer. Throwing off your scent.

”Not at all, honestly, I haven’t been feeling very ‘jolly’ myself.” You laugh weakly, finally meeting his softened gaze, making his shoulders relax as if there were a world where you’d actually be mad. “This job has been…a lot.”

You don’t go into anymore detail about how none of this was what you signed up for, or how your home doesn’t feel very much like one anymore, like your childhood was some figment of your imagination the military erased. You’re not sure he’d even want to hear any of it anyway. No need to test the boundaries of this new progression between you and the former king of Hawkins, anyway. 

“Well, if it means anything coming from me, I think you’re doing a great job, all things considered.” He answers with a casual shrug, like he didn’t just shatter all the assumptions you thought he had of you in one sentence.

”It- It does mean something, thanks, Steve.” It feels weird saying his name out loud, despite how many times it’s crossed your mind over the past few months. 

Pink powders the apples of his cheeks, and now it’s his turn to look away.

”Decorate all you want. I’ve got this, like, 4 foot tall Christmas tree I had in my dorm in college that I can dig out and bring into the station tomorrow.” You add, returning to the safety of the original conversation, and you can tell he’s thankful for it.

”Cool.” He grins, shoving his hands in his pockets, rocking back on his heels a little bit.

”Cool.” 

The two of you stand there, not really sure where to go from here until the music cuts off and Steve remembers the job he’s actually supposed to be doing.

”Oh shit!” He gasps, eyes looking like a deer caught in headlights. “I gotta flip the record, I’m sorry, I swear I don’t let it go silent like this normally.”

You want to tell him that you know, because his overnights are some of your favorites to listen to. But you decide it's another secret best kept to yourself instead.

”It’s fine, I’m sure the four people listening will forgive you.” Rolling your eyes playfully, you catch the small grin you get in return as he jogs to the studio room. “I’m gonna go do my job too.”

Grabbing the stack of ad proposals next to his garland, you wave them in your hand, before making your way to Jimmy’s office, the kind of smile that makes your cheeks hurt tugging up the corners of your lips when you’re sure he can’t see it.

—-

Saturday

“Secret Santa!” Robin exclaims from the doorway of Jimmy’s office, bright blue eyes staring at you with the kind of excitement that threatens to be contagious. “We need to do a Secret Santa!”

”There’s like six of us who work here.” Steve speaks up from behind her, a half eaten sandwich dwarfed in his big hand, leaning against the studio room looking far too cool in a maroon sweater and dark washed jeans.

”Okay and? That’s an even number. You couldn’t ask for a more perfect scenario actually.” She gives him a tight lipped sarcastic smirk, before bringing her attention back to you,rolling up the sleeves on her white turtle neck she’s layered with a black The Smith’s shirt on top of. “Here me out -“

”We can do it.” You say simply, closing the radio tower instruction manual that was starting to give you a headache. 

“Wait, really?” She gasps with a smile so big it shows all her teeth, practically vibrating when you nod your head yes. “Oh my god this is so exciting, I’ll get everything together, you don’t have to lift a finger. Let's say a ten dollar budget, nothing too crazy.” 

“Ten dollars?! I don’t like anyone around here enough to spend ten dollars on.” Steve scoffs, shoving the rest of his sandwich in his mouth before crossing his arms.

”Are you kidding me? You don’t like me enough to spend ten dollars on? Her?” Robin points at you, and the urge to hide is the most tempting idea you’ve ever had, especially when Steve’s eyes meet yours from across the room with something you can’t decipher. ”Dustin, Mike? Literally you just hate Keith.”

”Dustin and Mike hardly count. They are here like two hours a week but fine! You win.” He surrenders, throwing his arms up before running an annoyed hand through his hair. His plan to help her feel more festive worked a little too well. 

“I always do!” She sings, throwing a wink at you before sauntering back to the chair and mic that feel like they are made for her to deliver Hawkin’s favorite segment of the day, nudging Steve playfully on her way. ”Hurry up dingus, we’re back on in three minutes.”

”You had to walk around me, I’m already here.” He huffs, kicking off the corner and back into the studio room closing the sound proof door behind them.

You can’t seem to fight the smile that twists at the corners of your mouth as you grab your weekly planner from under the pile of work orders that you’ve been deluding yourself into thinking you can find the fixes in the manual. 

The faint sounds of Billie Holiday’s ‘I Thought About You’ catches in your ears, something shifting in the air as the heat from an unfamiliar stare warms against your skin, sending goosebumps pebbling, begging for your attention. You haven’t risked even a glance through the window of your office since the day that Steve caught you, but something was daring you to do it again.

You aren’t sure what you’re expecting when you look up but it isn’t his eyes already locked on you, holding your gaze after they meet letting you know it’s not a mistake. Butterflies stretch their wings wide as you work up the courage not to look away first. The grip on your pen tightening, teeth digging into your bottom lip watching the slight shimmer of gold around the darkness of his pupils. He studies your face like he’s looking for the answer to something hidden inside of the contours of it, and you think this must be the way you look when he catches you staring.

It’s Robin that unknowingly interrupts whatever was going on, tearing his attention away with a bob of his Adam’s apple and a shake of his head. Saying something that looks a lot like the word ‘sorry’ before switching out the sound effect 8-track for the one she clearly wanted. In the hour it takes for you to wrap up and reach the end of your day, neither of you dare to look up again, and it’s you who leaves with a quick flick of your wrist, not saying a word this time. 

What was that? 

—-

Two weeks before Christmas 

You stare at the name on the small piece of paper you’d grabbed from Robin’s Santa hat on your way out the door. The white wisps of your breath filling the freezing space of your car, too stunned to even be bothered to turn it on. You read it a few more times just to be sure that too many overnights weren’t making you delirious, but there it was, clear as day in Robin’s signature bubble writing. 

Steve

His name plays on a loop as you finally kick on the engine to your car, it finds its way in every thought, sneaking past your efforts to shut it out. ‘Steve’ lingers in the cold breaths you take on your way to the front door of the small apartment you’d rented while your parents house gets rebuilt. It warms against your skin like the hot water from the shower that rinses off yet another long day at the station, following you to bed and curling around you under your covers, meeting you again in your dreams.

—-

 Tuesday

You climb up the short ladder that leads you to the hatch door, pushing up, you give it a good shove, the rusted hinges squeaking as it flings open. The clearest night sky you’ve seen in what feels like weeks shimmers brightly above you. Suddenly it didn’t matter that it was twenty degrees, not when it looked like this. Tightening your scarf and zipping up your coat as far as it will go, you finish your climb up onto the roof.

The cold greets you with a sharp sting, sending a shiver straight to your bones.Too focused on closing the door to keep the heat trapped inside the station you don't notice you aren’t the only one admiring the view. It shuts with a loud thud at the same time someone clears their throat behind you. Jumping at the sound, you turn around with a startled scream just begging to escape and echo through the darkness until your wide eyes meet Steve’s panicked ones.

”Hey! It’s just me! It’s cool, you’re cool, we’re cool.” His hushed words come out with urgency to stop it from happening, a nervous hand running through his already wind swept hair after it seems to work.

Cool seems to be Steve’s favorite word when it comes to you. You weren’t entirely sure how you felt about that. 

”Jesus Christ, Harrington.” You gasp with a hand on your chest, your quick huffs of breath embarrassingly visible in the cold air. 

”Sorry! How was I supposed to know anyone else would come up here?” He exclaims, a slight agitation to his voice that doesn’t last long before asking “Are you okay?”

Your gaze lands on his Nike’s first, wandering up the light wash denim that covers his legs, accentuating parts of him that you’ve been trying not to think about. Tonight he wears a dark brown leather jacket that tapers at the waist just like your favorite one does. While his lack of scarf seems like a choice, it has the moles that cluster around his neck in their own constellations battling for your attention with the ones above him. 

“Yeah, I’m good. No scarf?! Aren’t you col -“ You lose your train of thought when your eyes catch the glowing ember at the end of a half smoked cigarette tucked between two long fingers. “Wait, are you up here smoking?”

His eyebrows furrow together like he’s confused, until realization dawns on him smoothing the wrinkles on his forehead.

”Yeah,” He shrugs, flicking the ash before taking another drag. “I used to in high school, well, mostly at parties when I was drunk trying to look cool. But I don’t know, I picked it back up recently, I don’t smoke all the time, mostly over nights when I’m stressed or bored.” 

“What are you now?” The question comes out before you can even filter and mark it as inappropriate, the look on his face burning your cheeks only adding to your immediate regret.

But then he does the last thing you expect, he answers it — honestly.

“Stressed.” Wind whips his hair around some more before he shrugs in a squeak of leather adding, “and a little bored.”

There’s storm clouds in his stare as he looks at you with an intensity you can feel tingling at your fingertips. Underneath it lives a nervousness that tries to hide in the dark pools of his eyes from letting you perceive him, gauging your reaction by taking another drag.

”I come up here when I’m stressed too.” You say with ease despite the wild thumping of your heart in your ears, taking a few steps closer, your boots crunch against the frozen brick.

“To my spot?” His words come out around white clouds of smoke, a small smile twisting up the corners of his lips.

”Excuse me? Your spot? I’ve never even seen you up here.” Scoffing, you dig your hands deep in your pockets, shuffling closer with chattering teeth you desperately try to hide.

As if on instinct, Steve positions his body to block you from the wind, cinnamon and amber from his cologne tickling at your nose. He was closer than you’ve ever been to him, close enough to have your palms sweat, for your softened gaze to trace the purple bags under his eyes. The pale pink of a healed scar you don’t remember from high school shows its imperfect end from the edge of his beige sweater’s collar, only to hide from you again when he lifts his cigarette towards you in an offering. 

“I’m pretty sneaky. Stealthy, if you will.”  He winks, cold bitten cheeks pushing up at the snort you give him in response.

Your fingers brush with his accepting the nicotine with a spark you blame on the emanating voltage from the tower. 

“What about you?” He asks quietly, his eyes wandering over the details of your face like he was really looking at you for the first time. Maybe he was. 

Despite yourself, you can’t help but wonder if he likes what he’s found.

”Stressed, maybe a dash of depression, maybe.” If you admit to it out loud, that might make it true, but it’s his honesty that pulls out your own.

He nods his head in response, mimicking your previous stance, shoving his cold hands in his pockets. He kicks at the small patch of ice, brows furrowing as he thinks about what he wants to say. The pad of your thumb brushes against the butt of his cigarette still a little wet from his lips, there’s an intimacy there when yours wraps around it, cheeks hollowing as you take a drag. Inhaling him. 

“Honestly, this time of year. It’s never been my favorite.” His gaze is piercing when they meet your eyes again.“The only time I really liked it was when I had a girlfriend and that was like once.”

”Nancy Wheeler.” You hum, biting at your bottom lip wondering if it was a mistake to say her name out loud.

”Yeah,” he sighs, watching you take another drag, eyes lingering just a little on your mouth when you hand it back to him. “But honestly, I’m starting to realize a big part of that was because I didn’t have to spend it alone.” 

“What do you mean?” You ask confused because he’s Steve Harrington, the boy who’s always had it all. “What about your parents?”

”They’re never home — hell, they were gone when the quarantine happened.” There’s a bitterness in his dry laugh, taking one last hit before tossing the cigarette to the ground, snuffing it out with the toe of his sneaker. “They couldn’t get back in, but I think they preferred it that way, part of me thinks I did too.”

“I’m sorry, Steve.” You don’t know what else to say, but it also doesn’t feel like he's looking for much more than that either, giving you just a peek into the closed blinds of his soul. 

The bare trees rustle and snap in the silence between you. It’s not an uncomfortable one, but one that lets you sit with the weight inside of it. Steve Harrington, the king of Hawkins, the boy who everyone adored school but always returned to a shell of a home. You can feel the wall rebuild itself around him after revealing more of his hand despite the way both you subconsciously shuffle closer to chase each other's body heat. Steve looks up at the sky, but your eyes stay trained on him. Maybe you were seeing him for the first time too. 

The moon shines bright above, casting shadows on his sharp features, revealing the slight dusting of a five o’clock shadow that covers his jaw you didn’t notice before. Steve Harrington had grown up into a man. You aren’t sure how you missed it until tonight, under a blanket of stars no one’s seen in weeks. What else haven’t you seen?

His gaze finds yours again, the wind making his hair go wild. He holds it like he did in the studio room the other day, and you swear he moves even closer, the toe of his shoe tapping against yours. You can smell the leather of his coat, the tobacco clinging to the fabrics of his sweater mixing with the spice of his cologne in a way that shouldn’t smell as good as it does. A playful smirk teases at the corners of his mouth.

”You’re always looking at me like you’re trying to figure me out.” There’s something delicate about the way he stares at you, tugging at the bundle of nerves twisting in the pit of your stomach. Loosening the knots.                                                                                                                                                                                    

“Is there something wrong with that?” You hum quietly.

”N-no.” He smiles with something timid behind it, weary even. “Just no one’s ever reall-“ He’s cut off by the crackle of the walkie talkie you didn’t know he had clipped to his back pocket 

“Radio silence again dingus!” Robin’s voice comes through the small speaker, “Trying to make moves here and you aren’t helping.”

You don’t think you’ve ever seen Steve roll his eyes any harder, a loud irritated breath escaping through his nose like a bull. He mouths sorry before bringing the walkie talkies to his lips, pressing harsh on the red button.

”I’m doing you a favor tonight if you remember, watch the tone.” He turns it off after, leaving her no room to respond, determined to get the last word.

”Another day of catching you not doing your job.” You tease with a wink, getting your own eye roll but this one comes with a smile.

”I keep getting distracted by my boss.” He wiggles his eyebrows, starting to back away towards the hatch door. 

Was Steve Harrington flirting with you?

 ”Ugh! Not you too.” You groan, crossing your arms watching him open the rusted metal with ease.

”If the shoe fits.” He shrugs, “Don’t stay out here too long, can’t have you getting sick, the station would probably burn down or something like that.”

”You and Robin ran it just fine.” You argue, with a grin that refuses to go away.

“Yeah, sure.” Steve snorts, climbing down the first few steps of the ladder stopping when all you can see is his shoulders up, “but seriously, it’s cold. I mean it.”

”Okay, Dad.” 

He visibly grimaces at the nickname.

”Yeah, pretty awful isn’t it?” You arch a brow, laughing at his glare for falling into your trap. “I’ll come back in a few minutes, promise.”

He lingers for a few seconds more looking torn, like he wasn’t ready to leave yet, and you’d be lying if you said you didn’t wish he could stay too. But he does the selfless thing you’ve noticed he always does, closing the hatch behind him with one last look catching your small wave goodbye.

—-

Friday

Robin is a ball of energy at seven in the morning, completely consumed by whatever she’s ranting to Steve about when they burst in through the front door together. You watch with an amused smirk from your spot on the lime green couch in the common area, a cup of fresh coffee you brewed for the three of you warm in your hand. She’s so distracted that she doesn’t notice you, but Steve does, almost as if he was searching for you first. The blue hidden in the gold and moss of his eyes are like sunbursts when they find your gaze. His smile is small, but it’s just for you and it’s enough for the butterflies you’ve managed to snuff out all morning with distractions to wake back up. Hiding your smile in your mug, you watch as he nods his head giving Robin a ‘yeah,’ like he’s listening, but something tells you he had stopped a while ago.

Once they get inside the soundproof room Steve peels off the same leather jacket he wore on the roof. Robin follows suit tossing her long navy blue tench coat to the side, lips still moving a mile a minute. He runs two big hands through his hair, the little bit of flurries that had stuck to the ends melting on his fingertips before pushing up the sleeves of his WSQK sweater. And just as you suspected the K at the end of it had already peeled off since last week.

Robin’s lime green polished hands fly all over the place making the people on her ‘Beam me up, this place sucks’ sweater look like they’re actually running. Crossing his arms as he leans against the door frame, Steve seems distracted, but you can tell he’s still actively trying to focus. He’s shaved since the last time you saw him, and the bags that had kissed lavender under his eyes on the rooftop were gone. Maybe that meant he’d finally gotten some sleep. 

His best friend grabs her coffee mid sentence, holding out a finger to give her a minute as she drinks what has to be at least half the cup. Your teeth dig into your bottom lip watching Steve grab his own. Suddenly you wish you’d have gone into Jimmy’s office for this moment as a new fear that maybe something that seemed like a cute idea in the middle of night actually makes you look like a weird stalker. The intrusive thought eats away at your confidence as he takes the first gulp and looks confused peering down in his cup before taking another just to be sure. 

Steve’s eyes lock on yours through the glass, something inside them shifting just like the air between you on the rooftop. A secret revealed that paints his cheeks red, a small gesture that you don’t know has never made him feel more seen as he takes another sip of his coffee made the way he actually likes it today.

—-

“Hey boss, I’m running out for lunch, but Dustin’s got the news report covered while I’m gone.” Robin pokes her head in Jimmy’s office where you’d been for the past hour lost in balancing the books.

”Not your booosssss,” You sing with an annoyed smirk, giving your eyes a break to look up at her. “Isn’t he in school?”

”Winter break!” She grins, shoving her arms into her coat like she’s in a rush, “I’ll be back in like thirty, maybe forty minutes tops!”

She’s gone in a blur of blue and blond before you have a chance to respond, and as if on cue Dustin comes strolling in not even two minutes after her departure. He waves at you with a wide grin, green braces gleaming against the low light. The ends of his long tan trench coat are stained wet, dripping on the checkered floor. Duck boots squeaking against the linoleum. He must’ve rode his bike here like a lunatic.

”Hiya boss!” He greets, turning around to face you walking backwards to the studio room completely oblivious to the angry Steve yelling behind the soundproof glass watching him drip water and salt everywhere.

”Henderson!” You groan, burying your face in your hands before resting it on your desk.

”It’s a compliment!” He argues, getting you to look back up only to see that Steve is now standing behind him with his hands firmly planted on his hips.

”Are you kidding me asshole? Look at the floors.” He huffs, with the kind of outrage a parent would have with their kid. 

“It’s just water, it’ll dry.” Dustin rolls his eyes, pushing past Steve to start setting up but not before adding. “Or you can make yourself useful and mop it up.”

”How about I kick your teeth in, instead?”

“Not the first time you’ve threatened that.” The teenager raises his eyebrows at him, looking unimpressed, letting you know they’re always empty. Of course Harrington is all bark and no bite.

Another endearing quality, unfortunately.

“Yeah, and one day it just might happen if you don’t watch your sass dickhead.” 

It takes every ounce of will power not to snort at the sight in front of you, smiling like the Cheshire Cat at all the ways you’re going to schedule them together this summer. 

If it ever comes. 

“I’ll let you know if I need, I don’t know — like, a car crash sound, or maybe a police siren, but otherwise quiet on set. I have a job to do.” Dustin closes the door to the studio before Steve even has a chance to get the last word in, something you’ve come to find as the clear indicator of who the winner is in these little spats between all of them.

Steve still flips him off through the glass, grumbling to himself about getting the mop so someone doesn’t slip and break their necks. Dustin gives you a thumbs up from behind the sound board switching the ON AIR sign ‘Red’. He taps the sheets of paper you assume is the ‘news’ loudly on the desk to add his own effects as he kicks it off with the weather. Which is snow… always more damn snow. 

You groan, rubbing your temples at the thought of having to clean off your car every day for another week and all the shoveling, so much damn shoveling.

”God, I miss summer.” You mumble, exhaling a defeated breath through your nose grabbing the calculator to finish where you’d left off.

You don’t get very far though, the familiar sound of someone clearing their throat in the doorway breaking your concentration. Heat warms your cheeks instantly, teeth digging into your bottom lip daring to look up and meet the hazel eyes you swear have changed colors again. Something new — brighter, something that feels more like Steve.

”H-hey.” He waves awkwardly, giving you a closed lip smile riddled with the kind of nerves that tighten in your chest too. 

”H-hi.” It comes out quieter than you intend, your voice cracking making you try to clear the nerves out of your throat too. 

Steve digs his hands into his pockets, leaning on the door frame with a shyness you’d never expect from him. It’s got a stubbornness about it like he’s worked himself up to do this and is vowing to see it through.

“How’s your uh, how’s your day going?” A hand that can’t help itself comes out of his pocket running through his hair. 

“It’s going,” you sigh, a little defeated tossing your calculator to the side. Suddenly the weight of the last few months makes itself known in the muscles of your shoulders, while your bed starts to sound a little too welcoming for it to only be half way through your shift. “What about y-you? How’s your day going?”

“Not too bad, I passed out on the couch and slept for like 12 hours yesterday. So I’d say feeling pretty good all things considered.” Another card of his hair.

Your eyes catch Dustin watching you both with an amused curiosity. 

“On the couch?! Rest in peace to your back.” You smile trying to crack a joke that somehow works, earning you the twitch of his lips that you were looking for.

”It’s been through worse.” He laughs softly, looking down at his feet before meeting your gaze from under his thick lashes with a shy teasing grin. “Did you switch up the coffee this morning or something? It was better than usual.”

The giggle that bubbles out of you makes Steve’s full pink lips stretch wide over his teeth that look even more brilliant in the daytime. It cracks at the awkwardness that's tried to settle between you.

”I guess you’re not as stealthy as you think you are huh?” You wink, giddy feet bouncing under the desk.

”Apparently not.” He narrows his eyes playfully, “it needed maybe one more packet of sugar though, but hey, who’s counting.”

”Steve, I put in three already.” You scoff with a smile so wide it hurts, heart skipping a beat when his grows like it can’t contain itself either. “Why did you even pretend to like your coffee black in the first place? Such a weird thing to lie about.”

“I don’t know!” He whines, embarrassment flushing his cheeks as he runs his hands down his face, “It’s like I did it once, because you know, you’re pret — “ 

Steve clears his throat catching the words that almost slipped from his mouth, but you catch them, heart thumping wildly at the idea of how that sentence almost ended. 

”I hadn’t seen you since high school, so I wanted to come off more like an adult? I don’t know, it was dumb and honestly, I don’t know what’s worse, the fact that you caught me lying or that you let me keep up with it for so long.” He groans, huffing out a laugh scratching the back of his neck.

”Don’t worry, it was pretty amusing, dare I say my favorite part of the morning. You always looked so nervous, like you were about to be caught robbing a bank or something.” You try to hide your laugh behind the back of your hand, when you earn another one of his glares.

”Ha, ha, ha.” He rolls his eyes, but the twitch at the corner of his lips gives him away.

”Steve!” Dustin’s voice interrupts you, making his shoulders tense, jaw clicking with instant annoyance.

”What Henderson? Can’t you see I’m in the middle of a conversation?” He snaps turning around to face the high schooler, broad shoulders blocking him from your view.

”I’m sorry to interrupt your flirting to ask you to do your job.” Dustin responds with a taunting smile that you don’t need to see to know is there.

“You’re really pushing me today, you little shit. I’ll be there in a minute, just give me a second.” This time Steve runs both hands though his hair before turning around to face you again, the thumb flick you were expecting hitting his nose.

”What is this, the third time now in the past few weeks?” You can’t help yourself, or the teasing smirk that spreads across your face, lashes fluttering a little too much, but the greens in his eyes sparkle because of it.

”Like I said the last time, I keep getting distracted by my boss.” He laughs at your scowl about the nickname, walking backwards towards a very impatient Dustin, like he doesn’t want to stop looking at you until he absolutely has to. 

This time you didn’t have to wonder, Steve Harrington was flirting with you.

————-

Five days before Christmas

Monday

When Dustin said to expect snow this week you didn’t realize that he meant a blizzard. Of course it’s a fucking blizzard.

Your tires spin in the foot of snow that’s already fallen since it started this morning. The smoke from your exhaust comes out in huge plumes, over working your engine until you finally give up and take your foot off the gas. You curse the day you decided to go with the cheaper car that lacked the four wheel drive needed to leave the station tonight. And god, you really wanted to crawl into your bed.

“You’re gonna flood your engine!” 

It’s muffled, but the sound of Steve’s voice is unmistakeable, the timbre of it etching into the corners of your mind lately. Cutting off your engine, you look through the fogged up passenger window to see him and Robin standing at the front entrance of the station, the low yellow light almost turning them into shadows. Robin waves excitedly with mitten covered hands like she didn’t just see you less than ten minutes ago, an oversized crocheted beanie threatening to swallow her eyes. Steve on the other hand, he looks almost as stressed as you feel with only that damn leather coat protecting him from the winter storm quite literally raging around him, Nike’s still on his feet.

Leaning over your console, you start to crank open the window, the glass sticking from the frost, groaning like it might shatter before it gives way to snow fluttering into your car. Maybe this wasn’t your best idea.

”I’m stuck!” You yell over the howling wind jutting your bottom lip out for dramatic effect despite stating the obvious. 

”Steve can drive you home!” Robin volunteers without hesitating to ask him if that's okay, but he doesn’t even flinch at the idea.

”Oh — oh no that’s okay, I live on the other side of town, maybe you guys can just help dig me out?” You suggest instead, heart rate kicking up at the thought of being inside Steve’s car.

You’ve heard a lot of stories about that BMW, most against your will.

”You’re just going to get stuck again trying to get out of here, I’ve got four wheel drive. It’s fine, I can drive you.” He waves you off, taking his first steps towards you and into the storm. He walks past his BMW parked on the other side of the WSQK van that blocked some of the snowdrifts, protecting his car from suffering the same fate. 

”How will I get to work in the morning if I don’t try and get my car out of here now?” You counter, with the kind of nerves that only seem to get worse every time he’s around. 

His steps crunch softly in the snow stopping at your half opened window bending down with a hand on the roof to meet your eyes. Robin follows close behind, tilting her head to the side to listen, a smirk twisting up the corners of her lips.

“I’ll pick you up, you’ll need help digging out your car anyway.” He shrugs like he wasn’t offering to completely inconvenience himself for the next 24 hours for solely your benefit. 

“Steve - I can’t, I- “

”Seriously it’s fine! Steve loooves doing stuff like this, it’s like a hobbie, a kink if you will.” Robin interjects, a little too pushy for you not to narrow your eyes at her. “He’s got like a white knight complex or something.”

“Okay, Robin.” Steve snaps, glaring at her from over his shoulder. ”Also, how is enjoying being helpful to my friends a kink? What the hell is wrong with you?” scoffing incrediously, he turns his back almost completely to you.

“I’m just saying!” She shrugs winking at you like you’re in on the joke, but all you can focus on is Steve insinuating that you’re his friend and why that word has a sting to it. 

Running an irritated hand through his hair, he mouths something to her you can’t hear before turning to meet your gaze again with a softness inside his eyes that doesn’t match the tone he just had. It’s the same way he looked at you under the stars that night. 

“We’ve got two options here, and they are either accept my help now, or after you make me throw out my back attempting to dig out your car in a blizzard that will inevitably still get stuck half way down the hill.” The teasing grin on his pink lips disarms you with the kind of charm only he knows how to have, the kind you remember from high school. “I’ll do whichever one you want, honey, so you tell me.” 

Honey.

The word wraps around you gooey and sweet, covering your insides in sugar, warming your bones, leaving you no choice.

”Fine!” It comes out in a playful huff, the edges of your mouth threatening to curl as you pull your keys out of the ignition. You meet his eyes from under your lashes, giving him one last chance to change his mind. “If you’re really okay with this.”

He nods, those perfect teeth of his tugging his full bottom lip between them, cheeks dusting a pretty shade of pink that’s not just from the cold.

”Oh, trust me, he is!” Robin interrupts, and you watch in real time the way the gold sparkling inside his eyes turn black before they roll in the back of his head.

“Keep running that mouth Buckley, and you’re going to get real familiar with the walk home.” He groans with another hand through his hair, the constant snow fall making the ends wet.

”Empty threats.” She scoffs, completely unphased just like Dustin. “Now let's go before we all get stuck too. No offense to you guys but I don’t want to have a sleep over at The Squawk with Keith.” 

She says his name like it leaves a bad taste in her mouth, and Steve’s face twists in disgust like he can taste it too.

“Couldn’t agree more’.” You add, amused by another display of the two of them sharing the same brain.

Leaning over to crank your window back up, you meet Steve’s gaze from up close, something swirling inside it that you can’t figure out making your heart thump a few beats quicker. He holds you there till you’re sealed inside, leaving the storm muffled just like his voice.

“I‘ll go warm up the car.” 

———-

You never thought you’d be sitting shotgun in Steve’s BMW, or that it would relax every bone in your aching body, loosening the stress knots that have made a permanent home in your shoulder blades. It’s the way the cinnamon and amber fill the small space with the musk of his cologne, and how they mix with the deep tanned leather of the seat underneath you. The heat that blows from the vents only seems to intensify it along with the man next to you. It feels like you’re surrounded by him, encased by him. 

He drives slowly down the winding road that leads into town, the tires crunch as it compacts the thick snow underneath them. It falls from the sky like it’s angry, wind sweeping the wet flakes against his headlights. His wipers squeak working overtime to keep visibility. The full moon hidden behind the deep purple clouds fights to shine its way through the storm, casting a deep lavender glow along the banks. Illuminating the snow that hangs heavy on the edges of the trees that line the bare woods surrounding you. Frank Sinatra’s ‘You Go To My Head’ plays softly from his speakers with a light crackle from years of playing his music way too loud joy riding with Tommy and Carol. 

Steve readjusts slightly in his seat to shift gears, and you catch a whiff of tobacco still clinging to the fabric of his sweater underneath his coat. Tugging your bottom lip between your teeth, you have to fight the urge to lean forward and inhale.  

“Okay, so — secret Santa. We were thinking of having it at the Wheeler’s, since their basement is practically like our second apartment anyway, on top of the fact that it’s way easier to get to than The Squawk.” Robin breaks the silence, leaning forward resting her elbows on the backs of either of your headrests. 

You don’t miss the way Steve’s grip on the steering wheel tightens enough to show the white’s of his knuckles at the name, or the anxious pit that forms in your gut at the idea of being the new face in a group of friends that are tied together by something you can’t even begin to comprehend. 

“Hey! Sit down, are you kidding me?” He scolds, glaring at her from the rearview mirror.

”Sorry, Dad.” She huffs, raising her hands in defense, flopping herself back into her seat. Your lips twitch at the familiar nickname.

”And put your seat belt on too. Jesus, I’m driving in a freaking blizzard Robin.” He only takes his hand off the steering wheel just long enough to run it through his hair.  Robin sticks her tongue out at his reflection, but you still hear the click of her seatbelt before she continues.

“Anyway, I’m thinking around 8 o'clock Christmas Eve. You can make Keith work the overnight shift since you’re the boss and all.” She grins wide when you toss her your own glare from over your shoulder.

”What if Keith wants it off?” You counter with teasing revenge.

It’s Steve that snorts next to you, bringing your attention to the curve of his lips, doing good to keep his eyes on the road.

”Keith was banned from secret Santa, per our agreement, so therefore he has to work and you have to go.” He argues siding with his best friend daring to meet your gaze before adding a little quieter. “Besides, I want you to go.”

Your stomach flips at his admission, cheeks warming enough they could fog the window next to you if you were just a few inches closer. Biting down on your bottom lip, you try to fight off the shy smile that wants to take over your face. Nervous hands pulling at the sleeves of your coat.

”I guess I’ll see what I can do.” You try to play along with a roll of your eyes and a bad attempt at an even voice, but you can tell Robin sees right through it. The heat of her stare threatens to burn a hole in the back of your head daring you to meet it.

”Perfect, then it’s decided.” She finally says, something mischievous dancing around in her tone. “Hey dingus, drop me off at our place first, I forgot I gotta wake up early to help my Mom with something.” 

It sounds casual, the way she lays the trap, but you know exactly what she’s doing and you’re almost positive Steve does too. Especially by the way he stares her down through the rear view mirror before clearing his throat.

“Sounds good.” He nods with a small smile that almost seems nervous, glancing at you from the corner of his eye to gauge a reaction you don’t give despite the wild thumping of your heart in your chest.

Robin Buckley was a menace.

Of course it doesn’t take much longer for Steve to pull into the small parking lot of what you assume is their apartment complex. It’s one of the two in Hawkins, and yours of course is on the exact opposite side of town. Guilt consumes you with the realization of how far out of his way he’s going to not only drive you home, but to also pick you up first thing in the morning as the never ending storm clouds continue to dump what seems like another foot of snow on top of you.

Robin jumps out of the car before it even fully comes to a stop.

”Drive safe, and I’ll see you on Christmas Eve!” She smiles, sticking her head in one last time, throwing Steve a wink that makes him scoff and wave her off.

”Bye. Close the damn door before the snow ruins the leather.” He scolds, trying to dismiss her very obvious ulterior motives, mouthing ‘go’ until she finally obliges. 

The wind outside isn’t loud enough to drown out her cackle after she shuts the door, and despite his annoyance he still doesn’t drive away till he sees her disappear safely into their apartment. Adding yet another quality to the long list of things Steve does that you unexpectedly find extremely endearing. 

“I’m sorry — I don’t know why she’s being so, so - she’s being weird.” He stammers nervously, slowly pulling out and back into the snow storm that’s only seemed to get worse.

”I think that’s just Robin’s general demeanor.” You say casually, like your palms weren’t sweating. 

“That is also true.” He laughs quietly, shifting gears when his tires slide, turning a corner.

“Are you seriously sure this is okay Steve? We're still not that far from the station. It’s getting bad, I can just stay there.”  

As if to prove your point, the wind kicks up, smacking loudly on the side of his car.

”You’re not sleeping at the station.” He responds seriously, shifting again before slowly hitting the gas getting back on the main road. “I would not have offered it if I didn’t want to.”

”Technically Robin offered.”

”We’re basically the same person, so.” He shrugs, a toothy grin spreading across his face that only seems to be more handsome draped in shadows and moonlight. 

Frank Sinatra’s ‘If I Had You’ fills the quiet space between you, the strings and his deep melodic voice turning the snow outside into something magical instead of treacherous. 

“You really like Sinatra don’t you?” The question makes him do a double take, a reveal that warms both your cheeks and sends butterflies soaring deep in your gut giving your cards away about listening to his overnights.

‘I could show the world how to smile. I could be glad all the while. I could change the grey skies blue, if I had you.’ 

”Checking up on me I see.” He grins, shifting again only this time the side of his hand grazes your thigh, the slightest touch sending your body buzzing.

”I mean, I’ve got to keep tabs. I’ve caught you slipping, what? Four times now?” You tease, doing your best to hide your grin. 

”Three. And all of them were your fault.” He corrects, sly eyes finding yours over the console making you giggle.

”Sounds like a deflection to me, Steve.” You sigh, relaxing even more in your seat meeting him from under your lashes. “I just never pegged you for a Frank Sinatra kind of guy.”

He huffs out a laugh, running a big hand through his hair that almost looks like a messy kind of bed head after the amount of times he’s done it throughout the day. 

“I wasn’t until Robin started judging my love for Eddie Money like it was the worst thing she’s ever heard in her life. Which is crazy cause —”

”He makes hits!” You agree, with the kind of excitement that makes a smile stretch so big across his face that it splits in two. 

”Thank you! Yes, he makes hits. But, she disagrees and decided to dedicate the first two months we worked at the station ‘expanding’ my music taste. I tried hiding the fact that I liked Frank outta spite, but apparently you aren’t the only one who listens to my overnights.” He glances over holding your stare for just long enough to make your heart skip a beat.

“You really aren’t stealthy, Steve.” You giggle before adding, “I bet she knows you’re smoking again too.”

”You’re probably right.” He groans at the possibility.

”I hear that a lot.” 

Steve snorts, flipping his blinker on to turn down the road that leads to your side of town, shifting again his knuckles brush against you for the second time sending goosebumps pebbling across your skin. 

“I was so surprised the first time I heard you play ‘My Way’, but honestly Harrington, it kinda suits you. I like it.” Your cheeks warm at your own compliment, something about saying it in his moonlit car has it feeling bigger than intended.

He stays quiet for a moment, letting the song fill the space between you charged with the new feelings that sit on the edge of both of your tongues.

’And I could leave the old days behind. Leave all my pals, I’d never mind. And I could start my life anew, if I had you.’

”Yeah?” He asks quietly, with a kind of soft vulnerability wrapped around the word that’s unmistakable.

“Mmhmm.” You whisper matching his tone turning shy, heart thumping wildly in your chest. “It’s hard not too.”

You aren’t talking about Sinatra anymore, and you think you both know it.

His gaze feels heavy as it crawls over the details of your face in the silence that follows, trying to figure out what’s going on inside your head. You hope whatever he’s looking for is hidden, just like the feelings that are starting to bloom despite how much you’ve tried not to water them. 

“What was it like?” 

The question you’ve been too scared to ask since you’ve been home slips out without warning, nervous fingers fidgeting with the sleeves of your sweater that poke out from your coat. 

“Lockdown?” He clears his throat, straightening his posture holding the steering wheel with a harsh grip.

“If you don’t want to talk about it, I understand.” You try to take it back watching the way all the muscles in his body seem to tense at the memory. 

”No, no, it’s fine.” He responds with a small smile reading you like a book from the corner of his eye. “I don’t mind, just, uh, I wasn't expecting it.”

”Sorry, I have a bad habit of just blurting out whatever pops into my mind.” You laugh nervously, tugging your bottom lip between your teeth.

“Oh, I know, I remember your conversational skills on the roof.” He teases, the whites of his teeth shining against the dashboard lights.

“Now look at us because of my lack of conversational skills.” Smirking, you dare to look over at him again, your eyes tracing the moles that dot his profile. 

Steve was always handsome, but was he always this handsome?

“Fast friends.” He chuckles softly, meeting your gaze briefly before focusing back on the road. 

There’s that word again. You guess it’s better than ‘cool.’

The snow falls so heavily outside you aren’t entirely sure how he’s even able to see through it anymore.

”Lockdown was like being trapped in a never ending loop of the worst day of your life.” He says with a low voice, his handsome features going dark at the memory.

Shifting gears again, his Beamer slowly trudges up the kind of hill that you know would have been your car's demise if you had even made it out of the station's parking lot. He leaves his hand to rest on the stick shift this time, the tips of his fingers press softly into your thigh, he doesn’t move them. 

“But at least I had a real excuse for once as to why my life turned out the way it did.” There’s a layer of self hatred sewn into what he’s saying, it’s hard to miss in the way it diminishes the light in his eyes. 

”What do you mean by that?” You whisper, too nervous to talk at full volume, but you lean your thigh further into his touch, keeping him connected to you. The rev of his struggling engine bleeds through the conversation, and you wonder if his car will even make it back.

”I mean look at me.” He laughs, like it’s obvious. 

“I am looking at you Steve.” 

You almost tell him that it’s all you seem to be doing lately.

”My Dad’s a lawyer with his own firm, and I’m a sound guy at a radio station who peaked in high school that can’t seem to get it together enough to leave.” He scoffs like you must need a reminder, running that nervous hand through his hair again, knee starting to bounce. 

“That’s not what I see.” It comes out soft just like your gaze, fingers flexing in your lap fighting the urge to wrap around his.

”Yeah?” His voice cracks a little, but he keeps his focus on the disappearing road. “What do you see?”

’I could be a king, dear, uncrowned. Humble or poor, rich or renowned. There’s nothing I couldn’t do, if I had you.’

“Someone that loves his friends so deeply that he constantly puts his needs last. You’re selfless almost to a fault Steve, and sometimes I have to fight the urge to yell at you to take care of yourself when I see how bad the bags under your eyes get some days.” 

He chuckles dryly, his grip on the steering wheel tightening as he blinks back tears that threaten to spill like he’s never heard these things about himself before. A storm raging inside of him just like the one outside.

”I see a guy who’s so kind, he’d sacrifice his own happiness for anyone that he loves. And I think that’s exactly why you’re still here. I wouldn’t call that being a failure. Not by a long shot.” 

That’s when you do it, you wrap your fingers around his and squeeze, he does it back with zero hesitation, like he was waiting for you. Keeping you there.

”I think about it all the time you know?” He whispers, the pad of his thumb brushing against your knuckles, butterflies multiplying deep in your gut.

”What?”

”Leaving.”

Frank Sinatra’s deep baritone fills the quiet that falls between you when he turns on your road, letting the weight of his confession hold the space there. A deep longing inside of it to see what lies past where the twenty feet tall fences were. 

“Why haven’t you?” The question feels loaded when it leaves your mouth, and the way his thumb stutters tells you it is.

”I just need to know they’re safe — that they get out of here first. Especially Dustin, that little shit gets under my skin but I love him like he's my kid.” He answers the question with the most selfless kind of reason you should’ve expected. Something else lingering inside of it that he doesn’t want to unpack just yet. “After everything, I just can’t, I can’t. Not yet. Part of me feels like maybe I’ll always live here.”

He pulls into your complex like he’s done it a thousand times before, wheels spinning in the snow before his car propels forward into the first spot, only letting go of your fingers to put the car in park.

”That doesn’t mean you can’t explore what’s past Hawkins, Steve.” You whisper, turning in your seat to face him, already missing the warmth of his hand. “You’re not stuck, even if you stay, you can always see what else is out there, one place at a time, one trip at a time. Bit by bit. The world is big, and it’s not going anywhere.”

His eyes shine, glassy and shimmering under the street lamp above his car. They tell you everything he can’t bring his mouth to speak, your hands flexing in your lap fighting the urge to grab onto him again. Shadows make the moles and freckles that dot his skin look like the last flick of a paint brush, the final touches to a painting and you realize — yes, Steve has always been this handsome, you just didn’t see it before. 

You see it now though.

“Thanks for taking me home.” You smile a little shy, the heaviness of the conversation hanging in the air. 

“Any time, honey.” His full lips twist into something sweet, the new nickname making your body come alive. “Want me to walk you to your door?”

He glances around your well lit parking lot like something could be lurking in the shadows, it feels silly to you, but the expression that furrows deep in the V of his brows tells you that it’s anything but to him.

“I’m already scared you’re not gonna get out of here as it is. I’m just right there.” You point to the door of your apartment, the one conveniently closest to where he’s parked and his shoulders visibly relax. You knew he was going to watch you till you got inside anyway.

”I’ll pick you up around 8?” He asks, his eyes glancing down at your hands that fidget like he missed your touch too.

The bold red numbers on his dash read: 9:38PM. Suddenly tomorrow feels like a million years away. 

“That sounds good.” It comes out in a whisper, your mind frantically searching for anything to say to keep him here even if just for a few minutes more. But it’s all static.

”I’ll see you tomorrow morning then.” He smiles, leaning back into the headrest.

”I’ll make you coffee for your troubles — with four sugars, don’t worry.” You tease, trying to ignore the nervous crack in your voice, but your joke lands earning you a snort in response and it only pushes your cheeks up higher.

“Better make it five.” Steve winks, white teeth gleaming against the dashboard lights at the eye roll he gets.

”Whatever Harrington, it's your body, your diabetes." You shrug, not expecting the genuine full belly laugh you get, quickly doing your best to try and memorize the bass and timbre of it in case you don’t hear it again.

You take one last look at him, committing this moment to memory. His eyes do the same as they trace over every curve and dip of your face, it makes you squirm a little in your seat. Your fingers grab the door handle at the same time he clears his throat leaning back into the leather. He flicks his thumb across his nose, before that big hand of his wraps around the stick shift, signaling that it’s really time to go.

”Please drive safely.” You beg, stepping out of the car and into the snow, remembering all those times he peeled out of the station’s dirt road.

”I will, I will. Don’t worry.” He waves you off with a smirk, “I’ll be thinking about that coffee the whole way home.”

He’s not talking about the coffee. 

You tug your bottom lip between your teeth, the wet snow flakes that stick to your cheeks melting from the heat emanating off of them. Shutting the door, you wave at him one last time before trudging up to your apartment, feeling the warmth of his stare on you the whole way. He waits until your keys are in your door before you hear the squeal of his gear shifting, his tires spinning loudly just like yours did at the station. It makes you turn around, and you watch him try to back out again just to get himself even more stuck in the snow that just continues to pile around him. He tugs at his hair trying one more time, finally giving up when smoke starts to come up from the burning rubber of his tires. His eyes meet yours through his windshield, apologetic and nervous, the wind kicking up a notch to add salt to the wound.

”You’re gonna flood your engine!” You tease with a grin, getting the shine of his teeth you were looking for. Bright like the sunshine you missed so much, they break through the storm clouds that threaten to hide his face. 

Steve Harrington was snowed in at your apartment.

—- 

You never thought your place was that small for a studio until Steve was standing in the middle of it, broad shoulders and long legs taking up so much space. His eyes are curious as they absorb his new surroundings, mouth slightly agape unzipping his leather jacket looking around like he’s being let in on a big secret. Nerves twist tight in your gut at the general clutter scattered around your room that doubles as a common area, especially the pair of underwear hanging half hazardly from your laundry basket.

”Sorry for the - the um, mess. I wasn’t expecting anyone, obviously.” You stutter, peeling off your coat in a rush. 

Hanging up your puffer by the front door, you scurry past him to try and clean up what you can, starting with the black lace but the deepening red in his cheeks tells you that it's too late.

”You're fine, seriously. You’re cute — I mean.” He clears his throat like it's closing up, scratching the back of his neck, “It's a cute, cute apartment.”  

You can’t stop the twist of your lips no matter how hard you try, giggling a soft thank you as you speed clean around him. He stands there awkwardly, unsure of what to do with himself either, both of you lost in uncharted territory. 

“Here, I’ll take your coat.” You huff throwing away the last of the wrappers you’ve collected, taking a deep breath at the realization that you’re being a bad host. “You can sit on the couch, and get comfortable.” 

Steve looks like a deer in headlights when you walk over to him with an open hand.                     

”Is it okay if I use your bathroom real quick?” There’s a shyness in the way that he asks, slipping his wet leather coat into your grasp, that nervous hand pushing his hair back.

There’s a brief moment of panic as you try and remember the way you left it, but since you weren’t running late today, you’re nintey nine percent sure it’s safe.

”Yeah of course, it’s on the right around the corner, not the left, that's just a closet.” 

He nods, patting himself down like maybe he’s forgetting something before turning around and disappearing into the bathroom with a soft click of the door. A shaky breath you didn’t even know you were holding slips out from between your lips as you hang up his coat. The musk of his cologne hits your nose along with the relaxing hint of amber inside of it, and this time, you give in, inhaling a little more.

You take one last look around your apartment for anything else you might’ve missed before grabbing an extra blanket from the closet you warned him about. Your heart thumps a little quicker hearing the muffled sound of the water running in the sink as the reality of Steve Harrington having to sleep on your couch just a few feet from your bed settles in.

You grab the extra pillow you usually cuddle with from its hiding place under your comforter, laying everything out for him on one side of the loveseat.  Staring down at the short piece of furniture, there's a part of you that wonders if he’s even going to fit on it, at least comfortably. Another wave of guilt hits you like a tsunami as you start to think maybe you should be the one to sleep on the couch instead.

The sound of the bathroom door opening stops you from being able to fret about it too much as he emerges from around the corner. His hazel eyes find yours instantly, the gold in them looking warm like honey. A toothy grin cracks his handsome face in two calming the anxiety that had begun tightening uncomfortably in your chest. The sleeves of his brown sweater are pushed up, and the windswept mess on the top of his head had obviously been tamed in his absence. A mental image of him fixing his hair in your small bathroom mirror has the corners of your mouth curling up. It feels like something to check off a bucket list. 

“I like the pink rugs you have in there.” He points over his shoulder with his thumb taking two long strides to the middle of the room, his gaze wandering the posters on your wall like he's trying to piece you together.

“Thanks, I bought them when I first moved back to brighten it up a little.” You sigh with a shrug, looking down before adding “this one too.”

You point to the fuzzy burnt orange throw carpet under both your sock covered feet, a proud smile pulling up your cheeks meeting his eyes from under your lashes.

”I’ve got the last little bit of my favorite summer candle. I usually light it when it snows like this. If you wanna get really crazy, we can even pretend it’s June.” The wiggle of your eyebrows earns you the kind of laugh from him that threatens to become your favorite sound. 

“What does summer smell like to you?” He questions with a soft stare, teeth tugging at his full bottom lip. The warm light from your floor lamp casting shadows across his sharp features. 

”It smells like the beach on the sunniest day of the year — salt water, sunshine, with the smallest amount of sweetness and dare I say a dash of clean linen.” You sigh at the thought of it, side stepping him to light it from where it sits on your kitchen island. 

“Take me away to cocamo or whatever the song says.” Steve huffs, finally flopping down on your couch. A low groan rumbles from his chest as his body molds into the cushions. This time he runs both hands through his hair.

“I’m just gonna change into something more comfortable really quick.” It comes out in a rush, your nerves from before jumbling the words on the tip of your tongue.

”Take your time,” He waves you off with a yawn, “do you care if I use your phone to call Robin while you’re doing that? I don’t want her thinking I’m in a ditch somewhere.”

“Go for it.” You smile, grabbing your softest pajama pants and an oversized shirt doing your best not to over think it, or the fact that you have nothing for him to sleep in.

Disappearing around the corner, you have to ward off the mental image of what Steve sprawled out across your couch in his boxers would look like.

—-

His voice sounds faint on the other side of the door and even though he's speaking in a hushed tone you can still tell he’s annoyed by whatever his best friend is saying on the other end. Judging by the way she was acting in the car, you can only imagine in the privacy of a call.

You stare at yourself in the mirror, probably the same way he did, messing with your appearance. Your mind wanders, replaying the night and how pushy Robin was all of the sudden, and it makes you wonder if she knows something you don’t. Maybe you weren’t the only one figuring out what that flutter in your stomach actually means.

Clearing your throat loudly, you give him a subtle warning of your return, fingers wrapping around the doorknob for ten extra seconds longer before finally coming out.

”You are not basically Dave Hull, you don’t host a match making show, please shut up— I gotta go, seriously? Can it— bye!”

He hangs up, running an irritated hand down his face mumbling something to himself before turning around. His eyes go wide, crimson staining his cheeks clearly oblivious to all the warnings you tried to give him.   

“Sounds like she was super worried.” You tease trying your best to hide your smile and ignore the way his gaze wanders your softer edges, the hardened shell at work hung up with your coat. 

“Yeah, sorry about that.” He snorts with an annoyed groan, “she was just being —“

”Robin.” You finish with a giggle, dragging your feet lazily to your bed, as a guilty conscience has you sizing up the couch again.

”I forget that you understand.” He laughs dryly flopping back down where he was sitting before you changed, thighs spreading wide as he head lulls against the cushions.

”Steve, I really don’t think that couch is going to be big enough for you.” Crossing your arms, you try to think of any kind of comfortable position he could possibly sleep in without his legs hanging over the arm rest. Or worse, propped up in mid air. 

“I think you should take my bed, I’ll sleep on the couch.”

”No, nope, absolutely not.” He sits up, squaring his broad shoulders in stubborn finality. 

“Seriously, I re-“

“I mean it, I'm fine, I could sleep standing up if I’m tired enough.” Steve grabs the blanket you laid out for him, leaning back and stretching out with one leg on the arm rest and the other on the floor.   

“See? Comfy.” 

He drapes the quilted comforter over himself to really drive his point home. It doesn’t look comfortable at all, but it’s obvious he’s not going to back down. 

You narrow your eyes at him, staring just long enough to get a laugh before he shoos you away to a bed that’s been calling your name since the station. This time you don’t have it in you to argue, taking one last look at him letting him win after he whispers a final ‘I’m fine, go to bed.”

———

The wind howls loudly outside, noisy gusts blowing against your windows sending in a chill that bleeds through the cracks of the poorly sealed glass. Another harsh blast against your apartment building has the flimsy foundations shake, and despite the thickness of your comforter goosebumps pebble across your skin, teeth threatening to chatter. Glancing over at your alarm clock, bright red numbers flash a harsh 12:34AM at you.

It was the sound of Steve’s light snoring that lulled you to sleep about an hour ago, but now it’s his constant shuffling and re adjusting on the couch that pulls you out of it. A long huff escapes through his nose after turning for what feels like the hundredth time, and you don’t have to see him to know he’s running a hand through his hair.

The wind kicks up again, blowing out the dim flame of your dying candle on the kitchen island, the soft yellow glow disappearing turning the room a deep blue. A shiver runs up your spine at the same time the springs of the couch squeak as he tries to readjust again.

”Steve, just get in the bed.” 

The shuffling stops, both of you holding your breath.

”It doesn’t have to be weird, you’re clearly uncomfortable.” You sit up rubbing the sleep from your eyes finding him in the kind of position that was sure to give him back problems for the next week. 

The internal battle he’s having with himself is evident on his face, and it lasts long enough for the uncomfortable weight of regret to start settling in your chest. Nerves digging your canines into the skin on the side of your thumb. 

“Fuck it.” He huffs under his breath sitting up, grabbing the pillow you gave him that had been rolled up to help support his neck in the pretzel of a position he had put himself in. 

Your shoulders relax for a split second until the realization of what this means quickens the beating of your heart. Chewing your bottom lip, you lift the comforter in a silent invitation doing your best to keep up with the ruse that this wasn’t a big deal, even if it feels like the exact opposite.

Steve stops at the side of your full size bed, running those long fingers through the already messy main on the top of his head. Purple shadows kiss the bags under his weary eyes as he takes in the small space next to you before they meet your gaze.

”Are you sure? I- I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.” He asks with a sleepy rasp in his voice that makes your chest swell.

”I’ve actually never been more sure of anything in my life, if you can believe it.” You give him a lazy reassuring grin, “besides, I’m cold and I’m willing to bet you’re like a human furnace.”

He lets out a soft laugh at the reveal of your ulterior motive, the stress in his shoulders softening as he runs a hand over his face before nodding tossing his pillow down next to yours.

”As long as it’s mutually beneficial.” Steve smiles a little shy climbing under the covers, his weight making the mattress dip in the middle daring you to come closer. 

The bed squeaks underneath him as he adjusts, your metal bed frame smacking against the wall. He settles on his side facing you with a hand tucked under his pillow. You mimic the way he lays, nerves coming out in the form of fidgeting feet, your toes brushing against his under the covers. He’s so close that you can see the smattering of freckles at the corners of his eyes, and every mole that dots along his neck. Amber and tobacco hit your nose, warming you just like the heat that radiates off his body, eyes glowing a golden evergreen in the deep blue light of your apartment.

God he was close, so close.

His gaze traces the lines of your face and you swear they linger on your lips. Even if just for a fleeting moment, catching your breath in the back of your throat.

“Bet you regret offering to take me home now huh?” You tease in a whisper, the tip of your toe catching on his shin. 

“Nah,” he scoffs with a soft grin,“I do however regret not wearing my boots, I wasn't even thinking, rookie mistake.” 

Your giggle makes his full pink lips stretch wide over perfect white teeth. Butterflies flutter in a kaleidoscope of color when he catches your feet with his own.

“I’ll help you,” you hum, as your hand not tucked away finds a new home in the space between you. “Don’t worry.”

There’s a moment of silence while his fingers follow yours, resting close enough for the tips of them to brush. His thick eyebrows marry in the middle of his forehead, thinking hard about whatever he’s wanting to say next.

“Sorry if that was a little much in the car earlier, I didn’t mean to dump all of that on you.” He looks up at you from under his lashes, insecurities swirling in the depths of his irises.

“Don’t be,” your voice comes out quiet, swallowing your apprehension as your index finger hooks with his, “I like seeing that side of you.”

His finger flexes at your response, squeezing.

“Yeah?” He questions with the kind of disbelief that cracks open your heart.

“Mmhmm.” You murmur, holding his gaze, toes digging into the top of his foot, silently saying I like you.

You don’t know when it happened, but staring at him in the incandescent light of your room. You’re sure of it now. 

Steve scoots closer, the heat of his breath fanning against your lips. Drawn to him like a magnet, you do the same, the tip of your nose brushing with his. Cinnamon from the Big Red he always chews invades your senses like the left over cologne clinging to his clothes. Another gust of wind smacks against your windows, sending a chill up your spine. Steve’s lips quirk on one side.

“Want to test out your furnace theory?” He breathes, a nervous crack in his voice, as he takes the leap of no return, first. 

Tugging your bottom lip between your teeth, all you can muster is a shy nod, your legs wrapping tighter around his. Something greedy warms every inch of your skin like it’s a need to have him as close as possible, and here he is offering it to you like it’s all he wants too. 

His big hand finds your hip before sliding to the small of your back, his palm flattening along your spine tugging you to him. It doesn’t take much to close whatever space that was left between you, legs tangling together with bodies pressed so close that you can feel every ridge and dip of him. You look up from under your lashes just to find him already staring down at you, and even with the heavy weight of his mind evident under his eyes, he’s somehow more handsome than he was an hour ago. 

Your palms flatten along his chest, the unbuttoned collar of his sweater revealing the top of a thick patch of hair that hides underneath the cotton. It makes your thighs press into his, your cheeks burning but if he notices he doesn’t show it. The pad of his thumb presses softly running along the dip of your spine, soothing your stiff muscles while his eyes trace over the contours of your face. There’s something about the way he looks at you that makes you feel like he can see everything that you’re trying to hide, and when his gaze lingers on your lips you’re sure he can. 

The hand he kept tucked under his pillow outstretches with his arm, sliding under your head to pull the rest of you in. Tucking you under his chin, you bury your face into the side of his neck, thankful for the hiding place. His skin feels just as sunkissed as it looks, and it takes everything inside of you not to nuzzle deeper into him searching for more. 

“Is this okay?” He whispers against the crown of your head, soft fingers running up and down the length of your back. 

“Mmhmm.” You mumble against his throat instead of ‘can I live here?’ curling your fists into his sweater to pull yourself closer.

For the first time all winter, you’re thankful for the snow. 

“Are you okay?” Your question comes out in a murmur, lips ghosting against his skin as you attempt to look up at him failing miserably nosing the sensitive spot behind his ear. 

”Am I — am I okay?” He snorts incredulously, pulling you close enough to feel impossible, turning his head just enough for your cheeks to brush, the heat of his breath pebbling goosebumps along the side of your neck. “Never been better, honey.”

Honey. You want to change your name to honey. Get lost in the gold of it hidden in his eyes.

All you would have to do is lift your chin up slightly, and your lips could be pressed to his. The thought of them being so close quickens your heart beat, breath hitching as the tip of his nose nudges against the side of your cheek. Testing the boundaries like the realization dawned on him too. The sound of your heavy breathing mixes with the howling of the wind outside, filling the quiet space of your apartment, neither one of you daring to speak. His chest rises and falls under your palm, his own heart matching yours, skipping a beat at the tilt of your chin. 

His fingers slide down your spine, fiddling with the hem of your shirt until he feels the slight nod of your head giving him permission. Electricity sparks goosebumps along the soft skin of your lower back the moment the tips of them touch you, a low hum escaping the back of your throat. You swear you feel his lips curve up against your cheek at the sound. Your bodies move together, seeking friction you’re not ready to give into yet, heavy breathes hot against each other's necks. 

Your hands trail down his chest, a greedy need to touch more of him taking over all logical thought. They reach the bottom of his sweater at the same time your nose presses harder into his cheek when the blunt end of his nails drag softly down the dip of your spine. Your fingers slip under the hem, the pads of them meeting the rough hair of his happy trail. His body tenses, the movements of his hand coming to halt. You immediately feel the loss when he pulls it out, long fingers grabbing a hold of your wrist. 

“Hey.” He whispers against your ear, his voice laced with something soft and scared.

You work up the courage to push past the bitter taste of rejection sneaking up on you to pull your head back just enough to meet the heavy gaze of his eyes, eclipsed dark with want, fear sparkling in the depths of them. The tips of your noses brush, and your fingers itch to smooth the lines in the middle of his forehead from the furrow of his brows despite the way your heart drops to the pit of your gut. 

Maybe you read this all wrong. 

“There’s — There’s stuff you don’t know about me.” He starts, the hand on your wrist letting you go so he can thread his fingers with yours, easing some of the anxiety that had started to build. “Things happened to me — happened to a lot of us during that time.” 

You press your forehead to his, the pad of your thumb rubbing softly over his knuckles, silently encouraging him to continue. His face twists like he’s in pain, shame shadowing his handsome features, breaking your heart before he even has a chance to finish. 

”These things, they left their mark on me. It’s — it’s a lot to explain, not really pillow talk.” huffing out a nervous laugh, he swallows avoiding your gaze, he moves his focus to your tangled hands instead before continuing, “my stomach and umm parts of my chest — I’ve got a lot of scars is what I’m trying to tell you pretty fucking badly. A lot of them, and I haven’t really shown them to anyone before. Well anyone —“

”New?” You finish, squeezing your legs around his calf a little tighter remembering the one you saw wrapped around his neck. 

Tears that you don’t let fall sting the corners of your eyes. Seeing him vulnerable like this, leaving himself bare to trust you to help pick the pieces back up has a sharp pain tightening in your chest. A vengeful rage boiling under the surface at the idea of whatever it was that caused him so much pain. The urge to apologize to him eats at you but you keep it to yourself knowing that’s the last thing he would want. Steve Harrington hated pity.  

”Yeah,” He breathes a slight sigh of relief, his eyes finally meeting yours with a worry he can’t seem to shake swimming deep in the pools of them.

”Steve.” His name comes out gentle, a softness about it that has his nose nudging against yours. “You only have to share with me whatever you’re comfortable with.”

You run the tip of your nose along the length of his, breathing him in. 

“I don’t need to see them yet, or ever if that’s what you want, I just — I just really want to touch you.”

Your eyes close, hiding from his gaze that searches for you. 

“I want that too, honey. God more than anything.” He whispers against the corner of your mouth, the silk of his lips waking up every nerve ending in your body.

He lets go of your hand, fingers lazily crawling up your hip before returning to their home on the small of your back. A shiver runs up your spine at how good it feels to be touched by him again, only a few minutes passing but they felt like a lifetime. 

You meet Steve’s stare, an intensity burning in his eyes that wasn’t there before. The kind that gives you the courage to slip your hand back up the bottom of his sweater. Tentative nails raking through his rough happy trail. The feeling of your touch sends a shudder through his body, like it’s been denied this kind of intimacy for a long time. A low groan catching in the back of his throat pressing his forehead harder against yours.

Your touch grows bolder, more curious as your fingers dare to crawl further up. The pads of them are met with uneven skin, evidence of large almost teeth-like shaped gashes lining the sides of his ribs. Despite pinching his eyes closed, he leans further into your touch. Your teeth dig into the fat of your bottom lip, holding in the cry that wants to slip out.

What happened to you?

The blunt ends of your nails find the softer patch of hair on his chest, your hips meeting his on their own accord. Steve tilts his head up, his mouth hovering just above yours as his hands spread wide across the small of your back. He pulls you to him like there’s somehow more space between you even though there isn’t. Your top lip brushes just slightly against his full bottom one, while your fingers dance slowly down the other side of his ribcage. The bumps of identical scars kissing the pads of them again. 

His nose presses into your cheek, a shaky breath tickling against your skin. The blunt end of his nails digging crescent moons into the soft skin of your back when you go over a deeper indentation.

“So handsome.” You whisper, lips ticking just under the shell of his ear as you glide your fingers over the same spot again.

He breathes out a shy laugh, nuzzling deeper into you leaving a whisper of a kiss at the hinge of your jaw. His mouth is so close to where you want it most, a fluttering tickling deep in your gut at the feel of them dragging along your skin. 

“So beautiful.” His voice comes out low against the sensitive spot in the crook of your neck. Its baritone has your body curving soaking in the warmth of him through your palms because touching Steve feels like bathing in sunshine. 

The need for more is insatiable, and he lets you take as much as you want. Your hands wander the broad expanses of his chest, tracing the dips and curves of the pinched skin of his scars until your eyelids grow too heavy to keep open. The soft caresses of his fingers against the sore muscles of your back lulling you to the deepest sleep you’ve had in what feels like months but not before you hear a quiet whispered ‘sweet dreams, honey.’

——-

Part Two ✨

He stands front row at every single one of your shows with his hair done to perfection and his most expensive cologne sprayed onto his collarbones. Always in his best pair of jeans and his new brown leather jacket that he swears he didn’t buy with the intent to impress you, explaining to Robin, “I just liked the way it fit! You have any idea how hard it is, finding a good jacket with shoulders like these?”

Steve learns every word to all of your bands songs. He even has your setlist memorized and could recite the comedic bits your lead singer uses between one verse and the next.

He’s a total groupie for you.

And when you finally notice him? God. Steve has never felt a rush of adrenaline quite like the first time you saddle up to his side at the bar, order a vodka cranberry and tell the man behind the counter your name is Harrington with a knowing smirk on your face.

Because it means that you’ve been watching him, too.

It doesn’t take long after that, truth be told. A couple more shows where you spend time at the bar talking about music or life or the state of the world. You give him a handful of backstage tours and even eventually hand him one of those all access lanyards that say crew on the badge. 

Within a matter of weeks, Steve has you in a dirty bar bathroom with one hand on your throat and the other sneaking up the short hem of your skirt. 

He tilts your head up and swipes over your lips with a teasing tongue. He licks into your mouth and gently bites into the cherry flavored gloss on your bottom lip, thinking about how he’s officially, certifiably, addicted to the fruity flavor.

Your breath comes fast and labored. Your face is flushed and your pupils are dilated. He’s got you propped up on the porcelain sink, but your hips incessantly roll towards his hand that only skates over the seam of your thigh. 

Because one thing about Steve Harrington? He loves to make you beg. 

“You’re so pretty,” he whispers. The music outside of the women’s restroom bleeds through the locked door, muffling the little whimpers you make at the back of your throat. “An’ you smell—God. You smell so fucking good, baby.”

Like cherries and red wine and vanilla perfume. Like the rest of his goddamn life.

“Touch me,” is your only response, the words all breathy and sweet. “Steve, please just touch me.”

He clicks his tongue tauntingly. “Hm. I don't know if I should. You know? Actually—I was just thinkin’ that maybe I should keep my hands to myself. Take you out on a real date. Treat you real nice.”

You wrap your legs around his waist and the heel of your tall leather boot digs into the back of his thigh when you try to pull him closer. “I don't care about dates. I just want—” 

Steve finally moves his hand beneath your skirt and slides it under the lace band of your panties. A decadent, needy sound leaves your mouth when he slides his middle finger through your folds. Already wet and messy for him, just like he’d anticipated. “Just want me to make you feel good,” Steve finishes for you. “I know, I know. It's alright. You know I will. Always do, don't I?”

He finds your swollen clit with practiced ease. Circles it with a pointed finger and smiles against your lips when he feels it pulse beneath his touch. 

Steve strums his fingers between your thighs until your spine arches. Until arousal drips down your cunt and onto the porcelain below. His name sounds so pretty in your mouth, shrouded in desire. Even better than those heavy riffs you pull from that guitar of yours. 

He’s got you almost there—so close he can taste your release, and then he slides his hand just a little lower and presses two fingers inside of you. 

Your walls clamp down around them like a vise. “Oh, fuck. Jesus, Steve—”

“Yeah, I know,” he says, voice low. And good fucking God does he know. His cock aches painfully behind the tight denim of his jeans, wanting nothing more than to take you right here. Bend you over and press your cheek to the cool glass mirror with not a trace of respect to be found in the touch of his hands. 

But the problem is Steve wants more than that from you. And he thinks if he’s patient, that maybe…just maybe, you’ll start to want more, too.

So he perseveres. Stays strong despite the raging desire that buzzes beneath his skin. Gets you off with his fingers inside you and his thumb on your clit and swallows up your moans like a man starved for it. 

He doesn’t fuck you. Not here. Not like this.

Your bass player teaches Steve how to load your equipment into the trailer and he becomes a real part of the crew after that. Sort of adopts your band members, truthfully. 

Makes sure they have water close by during every set. brings them fast food when he knows they’ll drink too much and eat too little. He even tries to keep the lead singer in line when his ego gets hurt and he tries picking fights. 

Steve only does all of this to get closer to you, of course. But he likes your bandmates well enough. They're a little…eccentric, he thinks. But they have to be in order to be entertainers, right?

You invite him to an out of town show for the first time on a Wednesday. You're talking to him on the phone, and Steve is leaning against the drywall in his kitchen with a stupid grin on his face that he can’t seem to fight off whenever you speak to him.

“In Indianapolis," you explain. “A long drive, I know. But we’re getting a hotel room and we could use an extra hand. If…if you wanna come with.”

Steve sinks his teeth into his bottom lip, trying not to laugh like some prepubescent school girl with a crush and failing miserably. He's glad you can’t see him right now. It would blow his cool guy facade right out the window. “Well, I might have to move some stuff around. You know, my busy schedule and all.”

“Busy schedule, huh?” He can hear the amusement in your voice, even through the phone. 

“Oh—yeah. Jam packed, actually. Meetings and lunches and hangouts. Parties, too.”

“Dates?”

It catches him a little off guard, truthfully. Only because you’ve never questioned him about other women. Have never even hinted at the possibility of any exclusivity between the two of you. 

But Steve swears there’s something not-so-innocent in the one word question. Swears there’s almost a little jealousy there. 

He thinks about lying. Just for a moment. Thinks about telling you that he goes on dates all the time, actually. Considers telling you there’s more for him than his pretty little guitarist when really, it will only ever be you.

But Steve doesn’t lie. He doesn’t exactly tell the truth either. Just says, “Not with anyone who matters.”

He can hear your shallow breaths, but you don’t say anything for a few seconds. And then, “So, you’ll be there. right? I mean. I…I don’t know. This is a big one for us and I guess I sorta, like…want you there.”

Steve makes this surprised sound and says, “Is that a confession? You saying you want me, sweetheart?”

“Oh, Jesus Christ. Actually, you know what? I've gotta go. Never—”

“I’m kidding,” he says through his laughter.

“You are the actual worst, Steve Harrington.”

The sigh of relief you let out just makes him laugh harder. But once his amusement dies down and he’s left with nothing but you and your almost-confession, Steve says, “Yeah. Of course I'll be there for you.”

He hopes you know just how much he really means it. 

The show is a success. There are hundreds of people at the small venue, more than you’ve ever played for. The songs ebb and flow easily and the put up and tear down of the set goes without interruption.

Steve is in the front row, just like he always is.But this time he’s not the only one singing along. Those handmade tapes you’re always handing out at the grocery store and the park and outside of every concert you go to is paying off. Word is spreading fast, and all of a sudden Steve gets this weird feeling in his chest. 

It's something akin to pride, but there’s a weird sort of melancholy with it, too, because he has so much faith in you. Steve knows you were never meant for a town like Hawkins. Knows you’ll make it big and go off to California and New York and London, baring your soul through that ruby red guitar for everyone who will listen.

He can see your name in headlines and begins to wonder if there will be any room for him left in your heart when it’s all said and done. 

He tries not to think too hard about it. Tries to enjoy the night, to lose himself in the sound and in the way your fingers move and the way you look at him from up on that platform.

Steve always gives you space right after a show. Knows people will want to talk to you and shake your hand and ask about your inspirations. He waits by the bar, knowing you’ll come to find him when you’re ready. 

And you do, but this time you’re lingering a few feet away as some guy yaps your ear off.

You’re with your drummer, who can be a little promiscuous at times. She's twirling her hair around her finger and giving the man who’s speaking those heart eyes Steve has seen in action too many times.

Steve thinks the guy is flirting with your drummer when he gives a crooked smile and leans in close to speak. He doesn’t think anything of it. 

But then he reaches a hand close to your face and strokes the back of his knuckles against your cheek, not hers. 

And he tries not to react. Really, he does. Tries not to let that swell of emotion in his chest grow too bold when he sees you rear back so fast it’s almost comedic.

The guys laughs it off. And Steve thinks that’s the end of it. 

But then he tries again. This time running a possessive hand down your arm and curling his fingers around your palm. 

You pull away, but Steve is already out of his seat at the bar and closing the space between you.

He splays his hand wide on the small of your back and the corners of his mouth tilt up when you take a step closer to him, nestling right beneath his arm. “Everything alright over here?”

The man glares at Steve, eyes narrowing into slits. “Yeah, man. We're good. So why don’t you—”

“Why don’t I what?” It comes out angrier than intended. Steve’s palms start to itch.

He comes to the stark realization that he wants this. The confrontation. He hates the idea of another man touching you, even just your cheek or your hand. It has a desire for violence singing beneath Steve's skin. 

The guy tries for your hand again, and it’s the boldest thing he could’ve done. You recoil away and turn into the arms of your drummer who’s long since lost those heart eyes, the emotion now replaced with concern. 

And Steve? Oh—Steve is thrilled. Because now he has a reason. An excuse. 

He shoves the man backwards so far he nearly stumbles to his feet. “Why don’t you take a fucking walk. Yeah? I think we’d all be better off.”

“What the fuck is your problem, dude?” 

“My problem is you,” Steve answers. “Think it’s funny, huh? Think it’s cool to grab at girls who have no interest in you? Think you can push ‘em around ‘til they do what you want?” 

Steve shoves him again, but this time the man shoves back. “Jesus Christ. Now that’s some depressing shit. You really think you’re the only guy in this bar that’s had her? You want pussy that’s been ran through so bad? Fine. All yours, loverboy.”

That does him in. Makes the situation less about protecting you and more about revenge. Because Steve would never let someone talk about you like that. 

But worse is the simple thought of it. The thought of you with another man, with someone who’s not him? It sends him into a frenzy.

Steve lunges forward.

The man swings, hand curled into a fist so tight his knuckles pale. 

Steve dodges it and takes a strike of his own. His lands true, cracking hard against the man’s jaw.

The second time he takes a swing at him, Steve moves just a little too slow and white-hot pain ricochets through his teeth.

Blood blooms across his tongue and the coppery taste of it sends him careening off whatever ledge of self restraint that remained. Steve doesn’t care much about anything now apart from hurting the man who doesn’t know how to keep his hands to himself. 

He doesn’t hear the crowd around him as they gasp and shout and make room for the brawl. He doesn’t hear your drummer beside you, urging you to stop him. 

Steve doesn’t register much besides swinging fists and thrown elbows until suddenly there’s more than one set of hands flying at him. There's two, and then three—and then he can hear your lead singer shouting and sees the familiar sight of his glinting rings flying in the mix of fists.

It's absolute chaos. His heartbeat thrums against the back of his sternum, blood flies from somewhere—his wound or someone else’s, he can’t be sure.

He doesn’t even recognize the severity of the situation when flashing blue and red lights cloud the corners of his vision. 

All Steve can think about is your name in another man’s mouth. And try as he might, he can’t seem to break free of the hold it has on him. 

Well, not until he feels the softness of your hand on his shoulder, recognizable even in all the clamor. You're saying his name but his ears are ringing. 

“Come on! It’s time to go,” you say, your voice reaching him through the haze, somehow both giggly and panicky. 

Steve lets you drag him backwards. Out of the bar and into the cool winter air that feels heavenly against his suddenly overheated skin. 

It all fades into focus then: the police outside the bar, the shouting that still rolls out like steam from the doorframe, the ache in his lungs and his jaw and his mouth. 

You’re running fast. Putting as much distance as possible between you and the flashing lights. You grab hold of Steve's hand and lace your fingers through his, weaving through the gathered crowd.

He can hear your bandmates following close behind, laughter filling up the space. But Steve watches as the passing city lights create little halos across your skin and something warm fills up his chest.

When you’re a block away, far enough that the fear of being caught subsides, your pace slows to a full stop. There's a wide grin on your face and unparalleled joy in your eyes as you turn to look at him.

Your drummer shakes Steve by the shoulders. “Good God, Harrington! That was insane! Since when did you go all rogue like that?!”

“Did you see that left hook?!”

“What even happened?”

“I have no idea! i just saw that other guy jump in and thought to myself, oh fuck no. Not our loverboy!”

Your bandmates erupt in rambunctious laughter, and Steve rolls his eyes at what he knows will likely be his alias for the rest of the foreseeable future.

But he can’t find it in him to care. Can’t find the strength to stop looking at you like you put the damn stars in the sky, either. And Steve knows this isn’t the right time, knows you’ll likely be a little embarrassed and reply with some snarky remark, but he says it anyway.

“You look so beautiful right now, baby. Do you know that?”

“Oh, get a room,” your lead singer teases, pushing past the both of you.

The rest of your bandmates follow suit, leaving the two of you with your hands still interlocked, standing in the middle of the sidewalk.

You don’t respond with a snide comment. You don’t even laugh.

Instead, you lean up and press your mouth to his in a searing kiss. Steve feels the heat of it all the way down to his toes.

He lets go of your hand only to cradle your face and deepen the kiss, delighting in the taste of your cherry lipgloss and the faintest trace of vodka on your tongue. Your lips move in tandem, fitting perfectly together, and when you pull away you leave him panting.

“Come on,” you say. “Let’s catch up.”

Steve soon finds out that you’d meant it literally when you told him you were getting a hotel room. 

Singular.

Which meant that you were sharing two queen sized beds with the rest of your band. 

Not exactly the city getaway he’d imagined, but Steve's happy wherever you are. 

It feels like pure luck when he wins at rock-paper-scissors against everyone and claims the shower first. But Steve isn’t at all surprised when you follow him into the spacious bathroom, the fluorescent lights bright overhead. 

He turns the water on and pulls a plush white towel down from the rack on the wall. 

You don’t speak right away, though he can feel your heavy gaze and knows there’s something on the tip of your tongue. Instead, you fold your arms over your chest and lean back against the sink. 

Steve reaches behind his head and pulls at the collar of his shirt, wincing at the sudden sharp pain in the muscle just below his shoulder blade.

The sound of discomfort has your brows furrowing, and you’re moving before he can really process much else, gentle hands taking him by the waist and turning him so he’s facing away from you. “Let me see.”

Steve allows you to maneuver him any way you wish, tossing his shirt onto the floor. His eyelids flutter closed when you trail your fingers up his spine, pressing gently into the muscles on either side.

When you reach the spot just below his right shoulder, Steve winces. “Sorry,” you murmur. “You probably pulled something. Got a mean left hook, Harrington."

He chuckles softly, and melts beneath your touch as you begin to massage the tender muscle. Steve loves the feeling of you on his skin. Can never get enough of it and thinks he probably never will. 

It wasn’t like him, what he did back there. The cause for so much chaos. Violent. And though he’d certainly felt violent and volatile, Steve doesn’t want you to think of him that way. So he says, “I'm…I'm sorry. For what happened. I wish you didn’t have to see that. I shouldn't have—”

“You don’t have to be sorry,” you interrupt. “You were protecting me. That's what I saw, Steve."

There’s no room for argument in your tone, the words somehow affectionate even with all their certainty. 

A few moments pass in silence, and Steve just soaks up all your attention. But then you say, “It’s not true, by the way. What he said.”

He clicks his tongue and rolls his eyes. “I don’t care about any of that,” he says honestly. “Not that I—you know. Believe it, or whatever.” He laughs. “I mean, seriously. You think I'm just going to trust some nobody in a bar when he says you’ve been with a bunch of people? Do you even like that many people?”

You giggle, massaging the tender muscle in his back.

“I mean, you barely like me. There's no way.” 

He means it as a joke, but your laughter dies in your mouth and your hands freeze on his skin the moment the words leave him.

When Steve turns to face you, mind racing, thinking maybe he did or said something to upset you—but when he finds your eyes, they’re not angry in the slightest. 

If anything, you look sort of…sad. Your brows are furrowed with a slight crease between them and your once smiling mouth is now downturned. “Is that really what you think? That I don't like you?”

He shrugs. “I know you…like me. I just think maybe…” He swallows, casting his eyes away. Finding sudden interest in the pattern on the white linoleum floor. “I just think, you know. That I like you…differently than you like me. More, maybe.”

“This is about the date.”

It's not a question. 

Steve doesn’t deny it because he can’t. 

If he wasn’t terrified of spilling his guts with your bandmates right on the other side of the door, likely eavesdropping, he would explain that yeah. It is about the date. 

Because Steve wants you and he knows you want him, too. Can feel it in the way you kiss him with hungry lips and a desperate tongue. Feels it in the way your hips always roll to press his long fingers further into you. In the way you cry out his name and beg for just a little bit more every single time. 

Steve knows you want to fuck him. 

And he wants to fuck you just as badly. 

But he also wants to come home to you every night and make you dinner. He wants to find out what your favorite flower is and go to ten different stores trying to find it. 

He wants to act all silly when you try out a new hairstyle, dramatically falling to his knees. And he wants to learn to restring your guitar and wants you on his arm at the end of every one of your shows, your biggest and most loyal fan. 

He wants to take you out on dates. 

He wants to fall in love with you. 

And for whatever reason—you’re keeping him at arms length. Close enough to touch, far enough away that he can’t reach you. 

Your voice is gentle when you ask, “You understand why, don’t you?”

His brows shoot up, and he tries his damndest to keep the frustration from his voice. “Uh—to be honest? No. No, I don't.”

“We’re not compatible, Steve,” you say, the words sharp enough to make a blow right between his ribs. “I mean, seriously. What do you think will happen? If we do this, if we go all the way—there are only two roads here. The first is the one where you come on the road with me next year. You come to every show, you follow me around the world, always off to the side. Never the center of my life, because my life is the center of yours. And ten years from now, you’ll realize you have nothing but me. No friends but my friends, no home to your name, nothing that doesn’t exist without me. And one day you’ll wake up and resent me for it.”

His stomach turns. “And road two?”

You inhale a slow breath. “Road two is that I quit music to stay here with you in Hawkins. I leave behind everything I've ever loved. I leave the family I’ve created here in my band, they have to find a new guitarist—”

“—They could never replace you—”

“And we build a life together. A house with a white picket fence and six kids, Steve. Because that’s what you want. And ten years from now, when I remember the things I've lost, I'll grow to resent you.”

He sees a little clearer now. Recalls the late night conversation you’d had on the phone where he’d confessed that all he wanted from life was a family and a full house.

The picture you paint is bleak. A lose-lose situation. 

His eyes begin to burn. 

You take his hands in yours, holding tight. “I like you, Steve Harrington. More than you think. But I like you enough that I want you to be happy, and I'm sorry but I just…I don’t know how I could give that to you.”

He wants to make an argument. Wants to tell you that this is all hypothetical, that there’s still the option of long distance. Wants to tell you you’re wrong. This isn’t doomed. It's not.

It’s not. 

But he doesn’t get a chance to before your drummer is pounding on the bathroom door. “Alright, lovebirds! Can you fuck a little faster? I would like a shower too!”

You don’t talk about it again.

Not in Indianapolis, not on the drive home, not on the phone the following day.

Because when you call, Steve doesn’t pick up.

He lays in bed in his parent’s big empty house and listens to the phone ring and ring and ring.

You stop calling after the third day of radio silence.

Steve doesn’t know why it feels like a breakup. Worse, even, because you didn’t reject him. Didn’t dump him, didn’t say your feelings have changed or that you don’t want him.

If anything, you’d shown the opposite. Casting longing glances at him the whole way back to Hawkins from the passenger seat, like there was something on the tip of your tongue you wanted to say but you just didn’t have the courage. 

He thinks it would be easier if you had rejected him. If you’d just said, ‘yeah, actually, I’m not interested. Sorry!’

When he’s tired of moping in his own bed, Steve goes to Robin’s. 

Gives her a word for word recount of the entire weekend, laid back on her mattress instead of his own. Tells her about the bar fight and running from the cops and how you’d looked like a fucking angel sent to him from God himself with those streetlights reflecting in your eyes. Tells her about the conversation in the bathroom and how it all stemmed from a stupid thing he said over a month ago.

Steve wants Robin to say he’s being crazy. Wants her to encourage him to go to you, to smooth things over. Because that’s what he wants to do.

Instead, when he’s finished, she lets out a long breath and says, “Well, that really sucks. But you can’t exactly change her mind, you know?”

His brows furrow. Steve props himself up with his elbows and asks, “So, you think I should just…let it go? Cut my losses?”

“No, I’m not saying that. I’m just saying that to me, it kinda sounds like she’s made her mind up. She only sees those two options, and I swear I don’t mean this in a bad way or anything but…she’s never really struck me as someone who could be swayed, you know?”

Steve rolls her words over in his mind for a few seconds, seeing the truth in them. You’re headstrong. Determined. Sure about what you want in a way Steve has never been until that first time he’d seen you.

Robin’s eyes are filled with this look of pity that would make him uncomfortable, if she were anyone but his very best friend.

“Do you think she’s right? Those are the only two options for us?”

She shakes her head. “Not at all,” she says, certain. It provides him with a shred of relief. “I think you guys could work things out between traveling and distance and whatever else life throws at you. But I think it would only work if you both were trying to meet each other halfway. And…” her voice softens. “You deserve that, Steve. Someone who tries. I know you like her. I do, too. But don’t lose sight of that.”

He hates that she’s right.

Still, Steve gives her a sad smile and says, “Thanks, Rob.”

They spend the day watching shitty action movies and eating nothing but microwave popcorn and milk duds. Robin conveniently puts on all the movies Steve has mentioned are his favorites, but he’s not presumptuous enough to mention it. 

It works at getting his mind off you. For a little while, anyway.

He falls asleep at some point in the middle of Top Gun and wakes up to the title screen’s music replaying and Robin snoring beside him.

As quietly as he can, he cleans up the mess of snacks and turns the VHS player off before slipping soundlessly outside, making sure to lock the front door behind him.

The sun has set and the chill of the night seeps into his bones on the drive home, even through his black hoodie.

Steve realizes, in a moment of sudden, quiet clarity, that he’s already in love with you.

It didn’t take a date for his feelings for you to evolve into something more. It’s already happened, without his knowledge. Right under his goddamn nose.

But Robin’s right. He can’t force you to change your mind. Can’t talk his way into evolving your feelings, too.

Steve will cut his losses, but he won’t cut you from his life. He doesn’t have the strength to. Not anymore.

He’ll still go to every one of your shows and sing along and he’ll still help with setup and tear down. He’ll still take care of your bandmates and defend your name when it’s said beside an insult in another man’s mouth.

He decides, tomorrow, he’ll return your calls.

But when he pulls into the driveway to his parent’s still-empty house, Steve sees he won’t have to.

Because you’re sitting there on the steps of his front porch, elbows resting on your knees.

The anxiety-inducing thought strikes him that he looks a complete fucking mess.

Wearing sweatpants and a hoodie and a backwards trucker hat because he hasn’t done his hair in days. Unkempt and disheveled. And God, even knowing he shouldn’t, Steve wants to look his best for you.

He pushes the thought aside and puts his car in park, turning off the engine. He climbs out and rounds the front and is a little comforted by the fact that you’re not wearing fishnets or a tight skirt or a low cup top like usual. Just in a pair of jeans and a Led Zeppelin t-shirt and a leather jacket.

Steve freezes when he’s close enough to see the mascara smudges down your cheeks. “What’s wrong?”

You shake your head. “Nothing’s wrong, I just came here to see if…I don’t know. To see if maybe we could talk?”

“Yeah, sweetheart. Of course we can.” He nods and moves closer, taking your hand in his, surprised by the frigidness in your fingers. “Christ,” he hisses, bringing them to his mouth to warm them with his breath. “How long have you been sitting out here?”

You laugh like it’s nothing, but he can see the slight shake in your shoulders. “Not long,” you say.

Steve tugs you to the front door and looks over his shoulder at you as he unlocks it. “How long is not long?”

“Uhm…I don’t know,” you shrug, interlocking your fingers between his. Holding tight. “Just a few hou一”

“Hours?” You don’t even get the word out before he’s clicking his tongue. “Jesus. I’m sorry. I was at Robin’s. C’mere.”

You let him pull you up the stairs and into his room. A bit messy, but lived in. Just about the only room in the house that is.

“Sit,” he instructs, nodding to his unmade bed.

You do, and Steve makes quick work of fluffing his comforter and wrapping it tight around your shoulders.

He sits beside you and takes your hands in his once more, rubbing them between his own, trying to generate heat through friction. His voice is soft but careful as he asks, “So, what was so important that you froze outside my house for several hours? Are you okay? Did something happen?”

His stomach turns with the possibilities, his mind automatically finding the worst of them. Another bar fight or a police encounter you couldn’t outrun or worse.

“No, I’m alright. Kind of. I, uhm…” You tear your eyes away from his, letting out a heavy, frustrated sigh. Your knee bounces anxiously, and Steve realizes he’s never once seen you so unsure of yourself.

He places his big hand on your thigh. “Hey,” he says, concern etched in his brow. “It’s just me. You can tell me anything.”

You take your hands from his hold and press the heel of your palms against your eyes, smearing your makeup further. Fighting whatever it is on your mind.

Steve wraps his fingers gently around your wrists and pulls your hands away. “Don’t do that,” he murmurs. “Don’t hide from me. Just…just talk, okay? And I promise I’ll listen.”

You search his face for a few moments, assessing, likely trying to find an ounce of disquiet.

But you come up empty.

And then, finally, the words come pouring out of you all at once.

“Steve…God. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Last week in Indianapolis I was being selfish. I didn’t give you a chance to even speak. I just had it all made up in my mind that this could never work out and all I could focus on was the bad things that could happen. I didn’t even think about all the ways it could work or—or even try to find a way. And I wanted to apologize as soon as I said it but thought maybe I’d just wait, you know? Until we could talk, just the two of us. But then you wouldn’t answer my calls and I started to think that you’d changed your mind and now you don’t want anything to do with me and—!”

“Okay. Breathe, baby.”

You do, taking in a shaky breath and exhaling slowly. Once, and then twice. 

“First of all, I would never not want you in my life. Do you understand? I mean you…I—I love being around you. I mean it.”

A soft smile graces your pretty face, and it grants Steve more ease than he cares to admit.

“And secondly…you were right. Both of those roads you talked about, yeah. It sucks, and I mean, like—so fucking bad. But the truth is, those are both possibilities that could happen. But they’re not the only ones.”

You nod, eyes going all watery the longer he speaks. Your voice cracks on the word as you say, “Yeah, I know. I was just scared, Steve. What I feel for you…I don’t know. It terrifies me. I don’t know how to do any of this.”

“So we figure it out,” he suggests. “We take it one day at a time. Make decisions as they come and not because of things that may or may not happen ten years from now.”

“Are you sure that’s what you want? You do know that, like, every statistic is stacked against us?”

“Fuck statistics,” Steve says, an edge in his voice. “God, I failed that class anyway. Who cares?”

You laugh, your smile reaching your eyes now. You look so beautiful that Steve’s heart pinches tight in his chest. He silently wonders if that feeling will ever go away, and secretly hopes it doesn’t.

But as your laughter fades, that sad seriousness returns. 

“What if this is all just a waste of time?”

Steve shakes his head. Reaches up to cradle your cheek in his palm and feels himself relax the moment you melt into his touch. “No second I spend with you is a waste,” he says, and means it.

You shift closer, your mouth a breath away from his as you admit, “I don’t know how it’ll work. But I’d like to一to try. With you.”

You deserve that, Steve. Someone who tries.

God.

It feels like his world tilts on its axis, the same way it had that first time he saw you up on that stage. His needs, his wants. They all become perfectly, crystal fucking clear.

Steve’s hand on your cheek moves to the back of your neck. He pulls you in and kisses you hard, kisses you like he’s starved for your affection because he is. His tongue finds yours, eager and hungry, drinking in the taste of you.

You moan softly against his lips when he bands an arm around your middle and pulls you onto his lap. Your hands find the nape of his neck, scratching lightly, fingertips pushing into the curling tendrils of his thick hair. His name leaves your lips in a breathy exhale, perfect and sultry and all his.

He pulls you closer, closing every last inch of space, your breasts pressed up against his chest.

And then you speak again, firmer this time. “Steve,” you murmur. “Steve, wait. Hang on.”

Reluctantly, he pulls his head back, admiring the misty look in your eye. The way your pupils dilate and your breath comes fast and uneven. But he can tell, even before you speak, that there’s one last thing standing in the way of you and peace. “Talk to me, sweetheart.”

Your voice is timid in a way he’s never heard before when you ask, “Do you…do you love me?”

Steve doesn’t lie. Doesn’t see the point in it. Not anymore. “Yes. I do.”

“Okay.” A shaky, long-held breath leaves your lungs, and he feels the tension bleed from your muscles. “Okay, good. Because I think I might love you, too.”

“Holy shit.” 

He doesn’t mean for it to slip out. Truly. But it does anyway, and you immediately chastise, “Steve.”

“Sorry,” he says. But the wide grin that stretches across his face sort of ruins the sincerity of his apology. “Sorry, but…holy shit. You love me?”

You scoff and say, “Actually, I changed my mind. I take it back.” But he knows you don’t mean it, because you’re wearing a mirrored smile and giggling all the while.

“You love me,” he says. Not a question. “Oh my God. This is一I mean this is just. This is fucking great.” He takes his hands off your hips and falls back into the sheets, elation making his head feel all fuzzy.

With your hands pressed to his chest, you lean forward and say, “Don’t let it inflate that ego of yours, Harrington.”

He laughs. “Oh, it is far too late for that. Everyone’s been calling me loverboy but the whole time一the whole time it was you, too! I mean, how often does a groupie get a love confession?”

“Jesus Christ,” you grumble, rolling your eyes dramatically. 

Steve is so baffled, and maybe a little starstruck, that he doesn’t even notice when you slide off his bed, and kneel on the floor between his legs. His mind is running a hundred miles an hour, trying to process, trying to regulate his excitement.

But it’s no use, because you love him.

“My girlfriend’s a fucking rockstar,” he muses, a little bit disbeliving. “And after those shows she’s gonna come find me at the bar. Me. And I’ll already have a vodka cranberry waiting for her, of course. ‘Cause, you know, I’m just chivalrous like that. And it’ll be icy cold. Just how she likes it.” Steve leans forwards suddenly, taking your jaw between his thumb and forefinger. “And you know what else?”

He watches your eyes darken and tries, very hard, not to pay attention to the way your greedy hands tug at the waistband of his sweatpants. “What else, loverboy?”

Steve smiles a wolfish sort of grin. Confidence both restored and revitalized with your confession. “When I fuck her on the sink in a bar bathroom, I’m gonna make her tell me she loves me with my dick so deep inside her she’s choking on it.”

Your lips part in surprise, and Steve takes the opportunity to slide his thumb into your mouth.

He chuckles low at the way you immediately take him, lips wrapping tight around the digit. He presses down against your tongue and you moan like it’s all you’ve ever wanted.

Steve thinks you look so pretty like this, giving up all that control you like to keep an iron grip on. His headstrong, rebel girl out there. But here, with only him?

Oh, you’re just a pretty thing. A dirty little girl who needs to be taken care of. Sweet as sweet can be.

All it takes to flip the switch in you is a couple of nasty words and the touch of his magic hands.

Steve would be happy staying just like this. And he thinks you would be, too, considering the way you moan around his thumb, sucking hard, drool beginning to collect at the corner of your mouth. 

But the throbbing ache of his cock won’t allow it.

With his free hand, he pushes his sweatpants and boxers down in one fluid movement, kicking them away. His cock bobs back against his abdomen, hard as stone, a bead of precum leaking from the tip. Your eyes snag on the movement as he takes his cock in his hand and begins to stroke it slowly.

You press your thighs together and whimper as you watch him touch himself. 

Steve laughs. “Oh, baby. It’s okay. I know. Here.” He keeps his thumb in your mouth, hooking it around the bottom of your jaw, gently leading you closer, guiding your mouth to him. “Stick out your tongue.”

You do as instructed, your breath warm as it hits his hand.

Steve taps the head of his cock on the tip of your tongue, transfixed at both the seductive sight and the wet sounds that reverberate through his room.

When you try to suck him into your mouth, Steve pulls back with a click of his tongue.

“Can’t get right to it, greedy girl. Where are your manners? You gotta kiss it first.”

You don’t hesitate. Pressing your lips to the underside of his cock, lips wet with drool, leaving spit behind as you work your way down his length with purpose. His blood sings in his veins, the feel of your mouth electrifying.

When you press one final kiss to the base of him, you flatten your tongue and drag it all the way back up to the tip, sending shivers down his spine.

“Christ,” he hisses. “Good job, baby. Now you can have what you want.” 

You anchor yourself with your hands on the middle of his thighs and take him into your mouth, slow at first.

Steve sighs at the sensation. Your tongue is warm and wet, swirling around the tip. He lets you lead, stroking your hair back away from your face. You swallow him down, hollowing out your cheeks and sucking hard. 

The inside of your mouth is velvety smooth, surrounding his cock, granting him reprieve, ratcheting his pleasure higher and higher with each slow bob of your head. When you sigh contentedly around his length, Steve feels the subtle sound at the base of his spine. 

“Look so fuckin’ cute right now,” he tells you between gasping breaths. “If I knew you wanted my dick in your mouth this bad I would’ve fed it to you weeks ago, baby.”

His tone is sweet, but there’s an underlying condescension there, too. A perfect balance of caring and cruel, a concoction made all for you. 

You’re sucking him in earnest now, trying hard to fit just one more inch behind your kiss-swollen lips. But Steve’s big—cock thick and heavy, and your eyes begin to water as you look up at him.

“You want some help, pretty girl?”

You nod in response, humming in approval. 

Steve threads his fingers through your hair, big hand splayed wide on the back of your head. He takes hold of the strands and carefully pushes your head down and rolls his hips up simultaneously, thrusting deeper into your mouth. 

It’s blinding. You feel so fucking good that darkness begins to cloud his vision. Steve does it again, groaning low, fucking into your mouth without shame. 

Drool coats his cock and leaks down your chin, allowing him to press deeper until your breath gets caught and you’re all teary eyed and gasping. But you don’t complain for even a second. You only look up at him with so much reverence and allow him to use you as he pleases. 

His perfect, filthy girl.

Steve knows he won’t last long. Not like this. You feel too good—mouth too warm, tongue too wet, lips too soft. But he can’t bring himself to stop, not until he feels release pressing at the edges of his psyche, creeping closer and closer with each thrust.

He’s one flick of your tongue away from shooting his load down your throat when he pulls your mouth away, spit stringing and making a mess in the space between you. 

“Fuck,” he hisses. “Look at you.” Steve pulls you forward and presses his lips hungrily to yours, tasting himself on the tip of your tongue.

You moan into his mouth and he can’t hold back his smile.

“Stand up,” he orders. And you obey, wordlessly, awaiting further direction. Steve thinks there’s no one in the world who could turn him on like you do. You’re so obedient. Hanging on to his every breath, seeing and feeling nothing but what he allows. 

It makes him feel like the most important thing in your life. And good fucking God, he thinks he’d be a fool if he didn’t take advantage of it—of you—while you freely hand every ounce of control over to him.

“Take off your clothes,” he says, leaning back with his elbows pressed into the mattress. 

Steve watches you with rapt attention as you follow his instruction, starting with your jacket first. You peel it from your shoulders and lay it on top of the dresser pressed up against the wall, kicking off your leather boots next.

You cross your hands over your torso, grabbing hold of the hem of your t-shirt, and pull it over your head. Beneath, you’re wearing a leopard print bra that rests perfectly against the swell of your chest, making you look every bit the seductress you are.

His cock throbs, desperate for attention, and Steve doesn’t deny himself of it. His eyes stay glued to you as he takes it in his hand, his length still slippery and slick with your spit, and strokes slowly, careful not to squeeze too hard, keeping a tight leash on his pleasure.

You push your leggings down your thighs, revealing pretty red lace, and Steve groans at the sight of you. “You’re so pretty,” he says, delighting in the easy flush that crawls up your cheeks. “Keep going.”

When you reach behind your back to unclasp your bra, your breasts fall free from their confines and Steve swallows hard. Your nipples are peaked, goosebumps rising over the soft skin, the most beautiful sight he’s ever seen. 

Or at least it was. Until you hook your thumbs into the waistband of your panties, slowly tug them down, and Steve watches as the wetness of your arousal clings to the lace, spiderwebbing until the stickiness snaps.

He feels it low in his gut. A visceral reaction to the fact that you want him, and just as badly as he wants you.

“Oh, sweetheart. It’s okay, I’m gonna take good care of you. I promise. C’mere.” Steve extends his arms out and you walk right into them like it’s second nature. He presses a tender kiss to your belly, just above your navel, and tilts his head back to look up at you through his lashes. “My perfect girl,” he whispers, hands wandering over the soft expanse of your hips, pawing at your skin. 

You push his hat off and smooth your fingers through his messy curls. “Please touch me,” you plead, voice all breathy and desperate. “I want—God, Steve. I want you so fucking bad.”

“Yeah?”

You nod in response, and whine when he sticks out his tongue and licks a line between your breasts, spine arching into him, thighs squeezed tight. “Yes.”

He wishes he could draw it out longer. Wishes he had the strength to. 

Instead, Steve gropes at the pillowy flesh of your ass and slides off the edge of the mattress, elbowing your thighs apart to make room for the broadness of his shoulders. 

Without warning, he presses a wet, open mouthed kiss right to the center of your cunt, trying to practice what he’s only just finished preaching, despite the overwhelming urge to jump right to fucking you with his tongue. Steve kisses you again, right over your clit, and this time you spread your legs of your own volition.

“God, Steve.”

He kisses you there once more, adding the smallest amount of pressure. He pulls away only long enough to lick your arousal off his lips, groaning low at the sweet and sultry taste. “You’re so wet,” he says, breath fanning across your warmed skin. “Say please, sweetheart.”

“Please.” The word is so quick and desperate in your mouth that it makes his cock twitch.

Without a moment more of restraint, Steve surges forward with his tongue out and slides it between your syrupy folds. He finds your clit with ease and stays put, rolling his tongue over it. Back and forth, back and forth, a steady rhythm that has your hands in his hair pulling tight.

“Oh, God. That’s so good, fuck.” You lean forward, using one hand on the mattress to balance yourself as you set your knee on his shoulder.

A groan rumbles in Steve’s chest as he watches you squirm, hips rolling, trying to chase the friction. He sinks his fingers into the softness of your hips and sucks your clit into his mouth, feeling it pulse beneath the tip of his tongue. 

He curls his bicep around your thigh, reaching between your legs from behind with his middle and ring finger. He flattens them and slides them through your cunt, teasing at your entrance but not pushing in.

Steve pulls away, your clit slipping from between his lips with a lewd, wet sound. He does so only to suck in a few greedy breaths and say, “Want you to come for me, baby. Just like this, okay? Want you to use me. Can you do that?”

You whine, squeezing your eyes shut. “But what if I hurt you? I don’t want—”

“Hey.” His hand on your hip softens, thumb stroking gentle circles instead. “That’s not gonna happen.”

“How do you know—?”

“I trust you,” he says with no room for discussion left in his tone. He means it. He does trust you. With this, and with his heart. Is fully aware that you might break it one day, but Steve will only feel privileged because either way it’ll be touched by you. He says again, a little softer. “I trust you.”

You look down at him, still poised between your legs, head back against the edge of the bed, eyes searching. And then you sigh and say, “Jesus Christ, Harrington. You’re going to fucking kill me one day, you know that? And I think I’d let you.”

Steve knows it's a submission of a whole new kind. More than obeying his filthy orders, more than confessing your feelings. 

It's an acceptance that yeah—he might break your heart, too.

But you would let him. 

Steve feels high on the realization that in all his obsession, in all his yearning, you’ve been secretly right beside him all along.

He kisses the inside of your thigh, hoping you can feel the love in his mouth. 

And then he pushes those two fingers inside of you and licks a long, deep stroke through your cunt. You curse lowly and he takes it as direction, sucking your clit back into his mouth, tongue laving over it. 

His fingers press against the softest spot inside of you with the kind of precision only someone finely tuned to your pleasure could.

Your hips roll, finding a shaky rhythm, pretty sounding moans cutting through the air. 

Steve flattens his tongue, giving you as much surface area to work with as he physically can, and fucks you with his fingers while you chase release. 

He knows you’re close when the soft walls of your pussy squeeze tighter with each perfectly timed thrust of his hand. You curse and whimper his name and it’s so fucking beautiful that Steve hums low in his chest, the sound vibrating through your core. 

Your pace picks up, growing sloppy as you grind your clit against his soft, wet tongue. “Steve,” you choke out. “Steve, I’m gonna—”

He doesn’t give you the chance to finish your warning before he’s pressing his face harder against you and sucking your clit into his mouth once more, fingers digging into the flesh of your ass. 

It hits you hard—vision blurring, skin tingling, ears ringing. Your brain doesn’t process much else between euphoria and him. 

He doesn’t stop. Keeps the steady rhythm of his fingers as he pumps them in and out of you, tongue wetly circling your swollen, needy bud. Steve takes your pleasure more seriously than even his own, heightening the sensation with lasered focus until your thighs begin to tremble around his head. 

You fall forward, bracing yourself against the mattress, shoulders shaking with each shallow breath.

It makes Steve laugh. He slides out from beneath you and turns, laying his cheek on the small of your back and inhaling deeply, taking in the sweet scent of your skin deep into his lungs. “I know, baby,” he soothes, hands running up your sides. “It’s okay. M’right here. Just breathe with me for a second.”

He leans back, delighting in the sight of you; hair splayed around your head, eyes closed and a sleepy, fucked-out look on your face. His perfect, angel girl.

Steve commits the shape of you to memory, knowing he’ll never see something even half as breathtaking. It would be so easy to get lost in the moment, lost in you, but Steve makes sure to keep himself grounded because he never wants to forget this moment. Wants to savor it. 

He strokes the back of your thighs and grabs at your ass with both hands, spreading you open for one last taste, sliding his tongue through your slick and chuckling low when your muscles tense up at the sensitivity. 

“Shh, m’sorry. You just taste so fucking good.” He crawls up on the bed and over top of you, hovering just long enough so you can turn over to face him fully. 

The moment your eyes meet his, a bashful smile creeps up your face and your cheeks twinge a darker shade. “Hi,” you whisper.

Steve laughs, your joy mirrored on his own face. “Hi, pretty girl.” He cradles your face between his big hands, thumbs ghosting across your cheekbones. He kisses the tip of your nose once, just basking in you for a moment. Letting himself have you the way he’s always wanted. 

You’re the one who moves first, tugging at the hem of his hoodie. 

He leans back and tugs it over his head, discarding the fabric at the end of his bed. When he comes back to you, arms braced on either side of your head, Steve positions himself so his cock slips between your legs, sliding over your clit. 

As if on instinct, you wiggle your hips to find an angle where he could just slip in. But Steve holds firm in his restraint, though the feeling of your softness against where he aches the most makes him shudder. 

He kisses your forehead sweetly. “That what you want? Hm?”

“Yes,” you answer, certainty laced between each letter. You still move your hips, eyes focused on the place you’re so nearly connected, trying so hard to take him inside. “I want—you. I want you.”

The words are like music to his ears. He drops his head against your shoulder, perseverance withering. But he wants more—wants all of you. “Say it again,” Steve urges, voice softer and more desperate sounding than he’d intended. And when he speaks again, it comes out like a plea. “Tell me you love me.”

You thread your fingers through his hair, pulling lightly, forcing him to look into your eyes. And then you say with more conviction that he’s ever heard, “I love you, Steve Harrington.”

With one careful roll of his hips, Steve presses his cock inside of you. Fills you up until you’re gasping, memorizing the look in your eye as your body adjusts to make room for him in it. 

You’re so tight around him. Hot and soft and perfect. Steve lost his virginity long ago, but you make him feel as if it’s his first time. He groans lowly, giving you time to settle, for the crease between your brows to smooth out. Gives you time to feel every thick, pulsing ridge of his cock. 

Steve nudges your jaw with his nose, kissing the hollow of your smooth throat. “I know it hurts, baby. M’sorry. Are you okay?”

You answer with a timid nod. “Yeah, I just…I feel so full, Steve. Fuck. I didn’t know if it was gonna fit.”

“Of course it fits, sweetheart. This pussy was made for me.” He grabs the back of your thighs and hikes them up over his waist before reaching a hand between you. Steve is extra careful this time when his fingers find your swollen and sensitive clit, rubbing in smooth, gentle circles, encouraging you to open up a little more. “My perfect girl. Mine. Say it.”

Steve pulls out almost all the way, and slowly pushes back inside. Deep. Touching parts of you only he ever has. “Yours,” you cry out. “God, I’m—I’m yours.”

“Yeah you are,” he taunts, voice a stark contrast to the way he touches you. Soft and sweet, laying kisses against your jaw, your mouth, your collar bones. He circles your clit and rocks his hips against yours, leaning down only long enough to swirl his tongue around one of those pretty, peaked nipples. 

You’re a moaning mess of a girl beneath the heavy weight of him. Soaking up all that pleasure, all those greedy, possessive strokes. Your DNA feels like it’s changing, unspooling at his touch. Your mind goes blank and there’s nothing before or after Steve fucking Harrington. 

He picks up his pace when he feels the muscles of your thighs relax at his sides. Fucks his cock into you a little faster, groaning all the while, trying to control his breathing and failing miserably. 

“I’m your girl,” you say, tone all shrouded in bliss. 

It’s going to be his undoing, those three words.

“Come for me, baby,” Steve urges. “Wanna feel it. Give it to me.” 

Your clit throbs beneath his fingers, and he feels the walls of your cunt pulse around him. Steve knows you're right there. Knows, too, that the moment you fall off the edge he’ll follow you. He can feel it now—sparks of electricity skittering down his spine, bliss replacing all rational thought in his brain.

You scratch lightly at the back of his neck, spine arching off the mattress.

Steve presses his mouth to yours, kissing you all slow and sloppy, murmuring between each breath. “My girl,” he says. “So pretty. So fucking sweet. I love you so much, baby.”

He thrusts into you once more, and then he feels it—the shuddering of your thighs, the shake in your shoulders, the tightness as you squeeze around his cock. 

“There you go,” he praises. “That’s it. Yeah, just like that.”

Steve fucks you through it. Holds you close and swallows up your moans like oxygen. The wetness of your arousal creates pornographic sounds with each heavy trust. His rhythm quickly grows sloppy, uncontrolled.

He pulls out of you with just enough time so slide his cock through your slick heat and spill his release onto your belly. The pressure of his body laid against yours is enough to make him ache. Sticky, white ropes of come splatter across your skin as he grinds against you. 

Once he’s finished, Steve lets out a long breath and collapses over you, his energy spent. 

Soft giggles fall from your lips, fingers moving to trail lazily up and down his spine. Neither of you speak for several moments, basking in the afterglow, simply feeling the intimacy of bared skin and bared souls. 

Steve thinks he’d fall asleep squishing you if he’s not careful, leaving you uncomfortable beneath him. That thought is the only thing that moves him. He pecks your lips and says, “Don’t move a muscle.”

No sooner than he can stand, you’re propping yourself up on an elbow and asking, “Where are you going?”

He disappears out of the room and into the hallway, finding a cloth from the linen closet and wetting it a little under the bathroom faucet. 

“Anyone ever tell you it’s rude to ignore someone, Harrington?” Your voice carries down the hall, and Steve can’t help the smile that tugs at the corners of his lips. 

“I’m coming,” he calls back, hoping this is as far from you as he’ll ever have to be again. No longer at arms length, but instead nestled right between your ribs, only a room away. 

Your voice is full of playful mirth as you ask, “Again? Jesus. Who knew you had stamina like that?”

Steve laughs and shakes his head. When he returns to his room, he sits besides you and begins to clean the mess from your skin. 

“Here I am, doing exactly as you ask just so you can go jerk one out in the bathroom,” you tease, clicking your tongue. “I mean, seriously. Who the hell even am I anymore?”

“You’re my girl,” he says. “And—you know, the tongue is a muscle too. So you’re definitely not doing what I ask. You’re moving it an awful lot, actually.”

“Didn’t hear any complaints earlier.”

Steve rolls his eyes and tosses the towel into the hamper in the corner of the room. He extends a hand to you, pulling you forward just enough to tug the comforter back. 

He climbs into the bed and you nestle up to his side like it’s right where you belong. Your fingers are cold as you wrap them around his bicep, and when you speak your voice is a lot different. Less playful and more apprehensive. “So, what now?”

“Now, we just…we figure it out together. Day by day if we have to. If that’s what it takes,” he says. And then more lightheartedly, “And I’m definitely taking you out on that date.”

You laugh, but this time there’s no argument to be had.

Several moments pass in comfortable silence. It stretches for so long that Steve thinks you might’ve fallen asleep. 

But then you say, “We go on tour in March and we won’t be back until summer. Do you think you would want to…I don’t know. Maybe…come with us?”

It’s a long time. A lot to consider.

Steve’s mind is clear enough that he knows he should take some time to mull it over. To really weigh out the pros and cons. 

But he knew what his answer would be the moment the words left your mouth.

He presses a kiss into your hair and promises, “I’ll follow you anywhere.”

“How about we have a party? It won’t be warm much longer, and you guys didn’t get much use out of the pool this summer, it was occupied. I’ll ask everyone if they want to come, and we can introduce Y/N,” Steve proposes. 

“Is that okay?” El asks you. 

You nod. “Party,” you say, pointing at a photograph of the kids at one of their nerd nights in fancy dress. 

With plans hatched to keep El happy and to occupy Steve’s mind for the evening, you pack your bags and say goodbye. 

The drive home is quiet. Steve thinks back to your successful swim in the lake and the drive there, versus the drive back. There, you’d been quiet like you are now, but on the way home you were more comfortable speaking to him despite many of the words being your own language. You must have really missed being able to swim. It’ll be great for you to get back to the pool, and Steve has decided on many more afternoons spent on the shore with you. He can take a book or a walkman if the swimming starts to bore him, so long as you get an hour doing something that you love. There’s absolute joy in you whenever you get to cut through water, whipping around, slicing over yards of it in seconds. He wonders if you could get faster given the space (and your tail and your scales), imagines there’s far more opportunity for speeding up when given distance to practice in. 

“We’ll have the party tomorrow, after I come home from work.”

“I come work?”

“Are you coming to work with me? Sure, if you want to, but you don’t have to, why’d you wanna waste your day sitting on the floor listening to the same songs when you could stay here and do whatever you want? I like working at the radio, but it’s still boring.” Not like his home life. That is actually interesting for once. 

“Boring,” you say. “See Robin, like Robin.”

“I do like Robin,” he agrees. Point to you. She is cool enough to want to go to work for. 

“We should do it early. When the sun goes down, it gets really cold.” He nudges a blinker and turns onto the road that’ll lead into Loch Nora. “Do you get cold, much? I know you have that one of El’s now, but we can go get you more clothes. Like, a jacket.”

“Is cold,” you agree, staring out the windshield with your eyebrows gently pinched. “Steve, is rain?” 

Sure enough, a couple of raindrops hit the glass. Steve flicks on the wipers. 

“We’re almost home,” he says. “Keep you nice and warm.” 

You shift uneasily in the seat. 

When Steve parks the car outside of the house, he jumps out and sprints around the hood to open your door. The rain has already gone from a splatter to a splash, wetting his arms, oddly warm. “Okay?” he asks, gesturing to your seatbelt. Struggling to get it undone, you lean back and let Steve unclip you. 

“House?”

“Gotta get the bags out the trunk. Think you can open the door?” he asks, scrambling to offer you the keys as the rain lances your backs. They’re heavy droplets, not quite a pounding. 

You take the keys with confidence and a second emotion Steve doesn’t have time to work out. He shepherds you out of your seat and down the path to the house, closing your car door for you, heavy raindrop slinking down the back of his shirt. 

He grabs the duffel and your borrowed backpack and slams the trunk shut with a wince. He can see you at the door trying to get into the house, key in the lock but no successes, so he jogs to you. 

“Hey, you got it–”

“Steve do Steve do Steve do.”

“I– yeah, but what’s wrong?” Steve asks, eyeing your shaky hands as you tuck them against your chest. 

“Open door!” you say. 

Steve does as he’s told. “It’s okay, I’ll open it– it’s just rain–”

A crack of thunder ripples from the distance, the rain lash growing stronger in response. Steve abandons the task of comforting you to get you into the house, sliding the handle up and turning the lock firmly to get you in the house. Once he’s inside, behind you, he types the code into the new internal alarm Hopper got him from the station and resets it. 

When he turns around, you are already gone. 

“Shit.” Steve calls your name up the stairs. “Hey, where’d you go?”

“In living room,” you say. It is noticeably muffled. 

Steve hurried into the living room. If his mom saw the wet sneaker prints he left through the house she’d pierce his ear. 

“Where’d you go, beautiful?” he asks quietly, looking around the living room in quiet worry. His eyes glance off of the too long dining table nobody ever uses (there’s one in the kitchen, so why have another?) the empty fireplace, the TV and the couch and the armchair. He takes a couple of steps in and finds you where he’d figured, sitting behind the couch with your face in your knees.

“Come on, let’s get you up,” he says, offering his two hands. 

“Not like.”

“I know. Come on, bub, we can go up to the bedroom and camp out there. You don’t have to sit on the floor.” 

“Steve,” you say, eyeing him over your knees. 

“Yeah, still here.”

“Not ha at you.” 

“Why not? I’m funny. People say that about me.” 

“Not like sound.”

“No, the thunder? It’s just the rain. Can’t hurt you.”

“Hurt me,” you say pointedly, a hand snaking between your legs to cover your tummy. 

Steve can see you shaking. It’s… odd. Not right, for you to be so panicked at the rain. There aren’t thunderclouds under water, but he can’t help finding your fear rather abrupt. 

You’ve had a bad week, maybe. Steve wouldn’t like the rain if all he remembered of it was a jagged cut in his side. 

“Aw, no,” he says quietly, more to himself than you as he kneels at your side and begins untangling your arms and legs. He takes your hand and puts them over his shoulders, before wrapping his arms behind you, and cupping your neck in his palm. You immediately lean into his hold. 

He remembers this feeling. Has fallen into laps of despair after the worst was over. After they took Max, Eddie and Erica to the hospital, he’d sat in a stiff-backed chair in a random hallway far from the waiting room full of friends as his heart raced out of his chest. He thought he’d probably die there, waiting for one of his friends to die, the ligature mark still burning like a coal against his throat. 

“Your heart is going fast,” he says, speaking into your ear softly, “and you don’t feel well, and you don’t know why, huh?” 

“Rain hurt me.” 

“Yeah.” The rain couldn’t hurt you, and Steve knows that you know that. It can’t be nice to have as little words as you do trying to explain and unexplainable. 

“Don’t want.” 

“No, I know.” 

“Scared I… scared I will not be okay.”

“Yeah? You don’t have to be scared.” 

“Heart,” you say. 

“I know,” —he leans back and brings you with him, rocking you gently with the movement, his arms readjusting for a better squeeze— “it’s okay. It’s just the rain.” 

The thunder claps again, closer, louder now, and Steve watches the lightning flash from over your shoulder against the fabric of the back of the couch, a white flicker that quickly fades. Your knee digs into his side as you curl up in his arms. 

“Can’t get you in here,” he says.

“What is… rain me go, rain– no outside. Steve, you are keep me inside, rain not hurt me.” 

“No outside, I promise.” 

“No El come.” 

“She can come inside, we won’t go out to the yard. It’s fine. Yeah? I promise it’s fine. Everyone can come if you want, or they can wait a day. Whatever you want. Can we get you off of the floor now?” It sort of breaks his heart, that this is where you want to hide. It’s not especially secluded, not comfortable, just dim and cold. 

You nod jerkily. 

Steve gathers you up and takes you upstairs, ignoring your bags dumped at the bottom of the stairs and the muddy mess he’s trekked onto the doormat. You shiver despite the house’s maintained heating, sitting at the edge of the bed with an unsure frown. 

Steve finds the biggest blanket they own in the linen closet and wraps it around you, head and all, leaving only your face uncovered. “Hi,” he says, nudging the fabric away from your eye.  

“Hi.”

“Still panicking? Is your heart fast?” 

“Less fast. I feel o–o–okay.” Your teeth chatter unexpectedly. 

Max gets like this when she’s anxious, too. She’ll tell you that she’s alright, but she can’t hide the shaking. The cold sweat beading on her brow, as it does on yours. 

Steve rubs both of your arms roughly. “It’ll be okay. It’s just rain.” 

“Dark?” you ask, looking at the curtains. 

Steve draws them shut tightly. “How about you get into bed and I’ll find that book, yeah? You wanted me to read to you. We can read.” 

“Yes. Okay.”

Steve tucks more blankets over you at the top of the bed, settles in. The book you’d picked together is called Watership Down. He clears his throat, a different kind of nervous as he prepares to read to you, but you settle on his arm with the occasional shiver and wait patiently. 

You don’t notice when he flubs a word or pronounces things unsurely, so Steve finds it easier, and you begin to calm down, even as rain pelts the house and wind shakes the rafters well above. 

It’s been some time since Dustin covered the seasons with you, but after a few moments you ask, “Fall, cold, and winter cold cold.”

“Winter’s colder than fall, yeah. Exactly. Do you have seasons in the water?”

“Home, season are not one and one and one. We, not me and Steve, swim place, go, swim, lots. Lots of swim.”

“Really?” he asks, a little quieter as he grabs the duffel bag from the backseat. Steve joins you at the hood. “You never stayed in place? You said your home was warm.”

“First home. Always go home, not for lots yesterday.”

“Do you want to go home?” 

You shuffle across the hood to press your hip into his. “Not now. Like home, like Steve lots, want home lots, want Steve most,” you say, turning your face to his, lifting your chin. “Okay?”

Steve can smell your toothpaste. You’ve stopped pretending you don’t know how to do it, but Steve misses holding your chin in his hand. He takes it now in a pinch. “That’s okay. I’d miss you like crazy if you went home. I need you, now. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to you being here.” 

You get used to people. You stop noticing when they’re kind, when they’re sweet, when they’re generous with you. Steve took a lot for granted   upon a time. He’s trying not to do that again any time soon. 

“Kiss me, fast, surprise me fast,” you say, goading in your teasing, sidling up to his chest. 

Steve leans down those few inches and kisses you soft, chaste but lingering, too, covering the small of your back with his hand. Prince Charming style, not that you know who he is. It’s the first of his kisses since he had you in bed to fluster you; you lean back in the curve of his arm and laugh. 

“Ready for your surprise now?”

Steve holds out his hand.

You wrap your own around his. Steve pulls the duffel onto his shoulder, and you’re away. 

The hike to Lover’s Lake is the same, rough and tumble, big tree roots down to the grassy bank. It doesn’t take you long to realise where it is you’re going. Steve theories that you can smell the water, because you sniff a little and then beam, dragging him with vigour down the last stretch to a more secluded shore of the lake. There’s more trees here, far from the houses dotted on the water’s edge in the east. 

“Swim?” you ask, eyeing the slim line of sandy gravel surrounding the water. “Swim, swim, me and you!” 

“Yeah, that’s your surprise.” 

Steve dumps the duffel bag on the ground and unzips it. Inside, he’s packed a thin blanket, two towels, and a change of clothes, including the rash guard and your breezy blue skirt. He figured it could make for a temporary coverup. Nobody will see you at the lake, but if they do, why should they care that you’re wearing a skirt in the water? You don’t have a bikini bottom. 

You strip out of your shirt startlingly quickly. Steve has to catch you by the arm before you can rip off your jeans. 

“Lovely,” he says, not sure why he says it, it’s never felt natural before now, “oh my god, can you stop? You can’t be naked in the lake, I have to put the rash guard on you.” 

“Not rash guard."

“Sorry, I didn’t bring a bikini.”

“Eugh. Whatever.”

“Whatever?” he asks, charmed. Must be a new one. El has been giving you slang lessons. 

“Rash guard on me, please, Steve.”

You hold up your arms. Steve stands in front of you to hide your chest should anyone be passing by and undoes the clasp on your bra, letting it fall to the ground in his hurry to get you into the rash guard. Your jeans come off next. You step into your blue skirt and rail at him in wriggly silence, eyebrows doing most of the talking as Steve shrugs out of his own jeans and gets his swim shorts on. He cannot wait to drive home in wet underwear, but it’s his fault for wanting to keep the surprise as long as he did. 

You practically squeal racing down the short bank, then shriek at the water around your ankles. Steve’s in your shadow as you wade out, that sweet soundless breath of yours puffing out as you tread, and tread, and then you’re using your arms to submerge yourself deep in the water, your legs rising to the surface. You kick, and then you’re gone. Under the water, quick and steady. 

It’s not like your natural swimming, but you’re far more proficient with your legs in the water than you’d been those first few days after you’d changed.

Steve goes to dive in with you, but you burst back up and turn to him, drenched, dripping from your nose as you wrap your arms around his waist and hug him, your cheek to his neck. You are so very cold, it makes him shiver. 

“Thank you, honey boy. Good surprise. Best surprise. Lots water!” 

Steve nods enthusiastically. “Way better than the pool, right?” 

“I like the pool,” you say, moving back to catch his eye. “Swim fast me.” 

“You wanna race?” he asks. 

After he’s translated the definition of race to you, you decide wholeheartedly you’d like to try. Steve doesn’t have to let you win, not even with his years on the swim team. It’s a good fight, but he can’t win ‘em all. You reach the floating dock seconds before him and hug the wooden post, grinning, breathing hard. 

“What mean?” you ask.

“What’s your prize?” Steve asks. 

“Yeah. What is my prize?” 

“Guess you’ll have to beat me back to the beach if you wanna find out.”

Your eyes go wide. “Two race!” you declare, your laugh pleased and relaxed, that natural deeper tone that makes him laugh whenever he hears it. So evil.

“Look after one, me, safe,” you say, nodding. 

“Yeah. Steve is a good kid, but if you fight, or he hurts you, or you need help, any kind of help, you ask me. Tell me.” He offers a smile. He seems quite calm despite the heavy topic. 

It is weird. This human man is weird. 

“Okay,” you say, taking another sip of horrible coffee. “Not good. Bad.”

Hopper brings his mug to his lips and drinks his own coffee, smiling smugly. Is he taunting you about the coffee? It can be fine, sometimes Steve makes you a coffee with cream and sugar and a chunk of chocolate and that’s nice, even if you prefer the chocolate by itself. 

He gets up and make you a glass of soda, and you pretend to enjoy it because he went to the trouble twice. 

The front door shutters open with a long creak. Needs oil. Steve lets El through the door first, the young girl carrying two grocery bags in the crooks of her elbows, Steve behind her with a further four. He smiles at you when he notices you looking, quick to slip out of his shoes and start the trek across the living room to set the bags down on the kitchen floor. 

“Groceries,” El says, putting her own bags in front of Hopper. 

“This looks like it’s not gonna fit in the fridge.” 

Steve rubs your shoulder briefly. It’s a soft touch, but you don’t think he’s super aware of it. “Yeah. Sorry.” 

“Steve does not say no as much as you do, Hop,” El says.

“Well, he should.” Hopper stands up and gives her a look. “Be good. I’ll be back in a couple of hours. Don’t take advantage of Steve again.”

“Take advantage,” El says, turning your way. “Means to use someone’s goodness more than is okay.”

Steve doesn’t have to explain it any further for you. “Oh. I take advantage of Steve,” you say. 

He winces. So does Hopper. “No, you don’t, you deserve all the goodness, and that doesn’t mean what you think it does.”

“El say–”

“Take advantage of someone is different to taking advantage of someone’s kindness in this context.”

“Context!” you groan, how you hate it when it comes to learning how to speak English. “Not like context.”

“You don’t like context,” Steve corrects gently.

“I don’t like you,” you say, flopping your face into your hand. 

“Don’t say that.”

Hopper snorts a laugh, kisses the top of El’s head, and says, “Be good!” again, though it’s to all of you rather than just El. 

He heads on out until you can’t hear his boots, leaving you and Steve and El to unpack the bags. El opens the cabinet above her head and tips a bag of canned foods out. You notice many of your favoured sardines —they come in rectangular tins with drawings of little fish on the upside— and other stuff not so familiar. El’s dress swishes around her ankles each time she reaches up. She said she’d wear it one last time, before the summer ends.

Steve opens the fridge, and notices you noticing El, “What are you looking at?” he asks, sliding a wrapped brown parcel onto a shelf besides a tub of chicken ‘wings’. 

“Dress.”

“You like El’s dress, huh?”

Next is a tub of cream cheese, as it expected, then a cake in a plastic container that looks rich. Chocolate? You’d like to know. 

“Nice dress.”

“We can get you a dress.”

Ah, but Steve did get you a dress. “Have.”

“Huh?”

You sidle closer to Steve and nod assuredly. “Have dress. Steve buy me. Pretty.” That sheer thing with the bows and soft fabrics. He didn’t pack it.

Steve clears his throat and shoves the sides of the bag down to unearth more cold treasures. “I did, yeah.”

“Wear when?”

Steve grabs a package from a different bag at his feet with swiftness and holds it his chest, a proud brandishing as blush climbs the sides of his neck and kisses the bare softness of his chin. “Look at this, bub.”

It is possibly the biggest piece of salmon you have ever seen. 

He must be feeling very sorry for your misunderstanding. Truth is, you don’t care about the photo. People take photos of mermaids all the time (apparently, though you had not been familiar with photographs anymore than you knew of human cars), and sometimes mermaids don’t have the time to eat their cameras or capsize their boats. Nobody ever believes them. Your friends back home laughed at the idea that there would ever be repercussions for their sloppy behaviour after the change, or your exposed lounging on the shores of whatever continent you’d chosen to linger on. You’ve had a think about it, and have decided that any photo can be denied. You very clearly don’t have a tail at the moment. The only important thing is that you don’t get caught again. 

Twice is harder to lie about. 

There are a ton of reasons why you aren’t mad at Steve. He couldn’t have known the photo was gonna get nabbed by a robber. You didn’t have to let him take it. He has brought you the biggest slice of salmon you’ve witnessed on the dry land, deboned and all for you. Oh, and he is insanely, beautifully handsome. 

You throw your arms around his neck, pressing a pleased nose to the side of his own for four quick rubs of delight, the salmon cold against your chest. 

“Gotta keep those legs, right?” he asks, his arm pressed nicely from the small of your back to between your shoulders. He laughs when you rub your noses together again, a giggly thing he immediately tamps down. “I’m still real sorry about this morning.” 

“Is okay, boy.” 

He snorts. “Boy? That’s a downgrade.”

El closes the cabinet door, and Steve eases you away from him. “It’s a good thing Hop is working,” she says, smiling, “he does not like boyfriends.”

“Steve is good boyfriend,” you argue, not bothering to refute the implication.

“How do you know what a boyfriend is?” he asks. 

“Hopper teach me. Say Steve good kid.”

“I don’t know if you know how to use a knife. I can get you one, but eggos are solid, so. They stay on the fork and you can bite them.”

“Egg?” you ask. Steve eats eggs nearly every morning for breakfast, and this is not that. 

“Eggo. It’s a waffle.” 

El has cut the waffles in half. You spear one on a fork and take a bite. It’s warm, not hot. Doesn’t taste like much, but you eat it and say thank you between bites. Humans don’t seem to put such emphasis on sharing food as mermaids do, but it’s still important to you that she’s being so kind. Feeding you, giving you a place to stay, when you’re in need and she has no obligation. None of these people do. 

“Eat and me?” you ask, offering her the fork. 

“I had breakfast.” Her eyes linger on your waffles. 

“Please?” 

She lights up and introduces something called ‘maple syrup’, which is sappy and sweet to run over the waffles. They’re far more interesting, then, like the little plates Steve offers you after dinner. You abandon the last half for her to eat. There’s a mirror at her desk, and when you catch sight of yourself in the reflection, you frown. 

“You have had a bad day,” El says. “Do you want help getting ready? Hopper lets me choose my own clothes now. He said I can’t wear two floral patterns at the same time, because then everyone will think I have grandkids.”

“Help?” you ask, smiling shyly. You would very much like some help. 

El retrieves your bag and brings it to the bed. Steve has packed you many things. ‘Panties’ and a ‘bra’, a few skirts and blouses, a pair of pajamas and your singular pair of ‘denim jeans’. 

“It’s cold today, they are worried it might rain. The jeans will be warm,” she says. “And a t-shirt. Do you have one?”

You find your smiley face t-shirt tucked under the blouses. “It is smile,” you say, showing her for approval she gives immediately. 

“It is cute. Do you have a sweater?”

You do not have what that is. El shows you a box in the back of her room that’s covered in fabric like a couch, and inside there are many different clothes. “We have different sizes for the campaigns. You can try on everything you want and see if you like them.”

You try on a few things until you find a sweater with buttons on the front that smells like soapy flowers. You’re struggling to get a sock on —they cling and wrinkle— when the bedroom door opens and Steve appears, unusually unsmiling when you meet his eyes. 

“Nice sweater,” he says. “Do you want my help?”

“Sock help?”

He kneels down in front of you. “Uh-huh. Sock help.”

They’re the one thing you need his help with that you aren’t pretending to be worse at for the sake of his delicious pitying care. You’re terrible at getting them over your toes. Steve bunches up the fabric and lets it go as he pulls it up, making easy work of a difficult task. His hand lingers on your ankle. 

“El, can we have a minute alone, please?” he asks, offering your host a little smile. 

“Yes. Not one minute, really?”

“No, a couple would be nice, if that’s okay.”

The room feels more awkward when she leaves. 

You end up hating it most, first. Clearly Steve has a better capacity for feelings that are uncomfortable. “Kiss not okay?” you ask, hating how small your voice is as it comes out of you. Worse when you don’t want to meet his eye. 

“What?”

“Kiss bad. I kiss bad?” you ask, rubbing your mouth. “Not inside love, think?”

Steve taps you under the chin once, gently. “That’s not true. Not right.” 

True is right is yes, you think. “Why…” Then, you want to say. Why, then, won’t he kiss you again? Why did he leave in the morning, when it was cold, and you’re used to being woken by his hand on your back playing shapes. “Go fast, bed, Steve and me hold first. Not hold today. Why?” you ask. 

It’s strange to be upset like this. You aren’t going to cry, though you might’ve if he told you he never wanted to kiss you again, but you feel off-kilter, like the very first time you got your legs. You can’t figure out how to move. 

“You know how someone came into the house?” Steve says, staring steadfast at the wall beside your head. “That’s my fault. I didn’t lock the door. And you know your photograph? We have the board of photos, for you to learn, my stellar idea, because I’m smart now?” His voice burns with a bitterness you can’t place in him. “Your photo, with you as yourself, with your tail? It’s gone. What that means is that somebody knows what you are, and they have proof. You’re in danger now because of me.”

His voice goes crackly at the end. You’ve never heard a human sound like that, but it makes sense. It’s a dry kind of noise. He swallows, tipping his head down to look at his hands. 

“And you still trust me to take care of you,” he says quietly. 

Is ‘trust’ like want? Or is ‘trust’ closer to something else, maybe ‘loyalty’? In the bounds of his sentence, it’s something you have to do for Steve to look after you ‘still’, which means nearly ‘always’. 

“I hate your stupid language,” you say in your native tongue, before switching back to his English. “You take care of me,” you say, carefully but pointedly. “You always are careful to me. Photograph… I not…”

“If a person out there shows your photo to other people, or if they put it somewhere to be looked at, if people learn about you and your tail, you won’t be safe,” Steve says. 

“You me safe,” you say, bordering on agitated. He said he’d keep you safe, and he has kept you safe. Why is he giving up on that now.

“I will keep you safe,” he says. 

“Why sad and me?” 

“I’m not sad with you, baby.”

You let out a breath of relief, and Steve finally meets your eyes again. His are melting warm, so brown they’re almost pink. “No hold me?” you insist. 

“I let you down. It’s not that I don’t want to hold you–”

“Why sad me if not sad me?” you ask, holding in a self-righteous harrumph. 

“I’m sorry I was mean to you.” 

“Mean what?” you ask. 

“Mean? ‘Mean’ means… I hurt you.” 

“Mean mean? What?”

“‘Mean’ has two meanings,” he says slowly. 

“Why!”

“I don’t know!” he says with a laugh, taking your wrists into his hands and raising himself on his knees to be closer to you. “Some words just have lots of meanings, okay? I’m sorry for that, too.” 

“Not want,” you say. 

“You don’t like it, huh?” he teases. 

Seeing your sticky-sweet Steve again after a frosty night and morning makes a world of difference. You turn your wrists in his grip to hold his arms, rubbing your thumb into a prominent vein turned green under the slight tan of his skin. 

“I am sorry,” he says, a strand of his hair kissing at his eyebrow. 

You sweep the rogue hair toward the rest, forcing a free hand. Steve immediately uses his to grasp your side. 

“I was not nice to you. I don’t want you to think you’re a bad kisser.” His voice goes weak, a little shy, but remarkably sweet, too, “You’re a great kisser. Best kiss of my life.” 

“Best?”

“Best means the most good.” 

You could preen again, but your scales are still ruffled at his hot-cold behaviour, and you’d like more grovelling to take place. “Not want kiss me, I not kiss you. Is okay.”

“I do want to kiss you,” he says, his chin tilted up to align your heads, like he might lean in and prove it. “More than I should, probably. I think about it all the time.”

“All the time?” you ask, feeling a hotness gathering in your chest and climbing your neck. That’s a lot of wanting. 

“Beautiful, remember?” Steve brings your hand to his neck, pressing your fingers flat to the column of it and encouraging you to rub up and down. He’s similarly warm. 

“Kiss now?” 

“I need to go back to the house for a bit to see if they took anything else, but–”

“Kiss fast, kiss now fast and you and me go house.”

Steve drags your hand to his collar. “New word? You and me, you can say ‘we’. ‘We’ will go to the house.”

You groan in annoyance and try to get out of his touches, tipping back on the bed, but he doesn’t let you get far, tugging you back by the shoulders while a fond smile takes shape on his usually nice mouth. You want it too bad, though, and now it’s only cruel. Steve brings a hand to your cheek and cups it with his thumb digging into the corner of your mouth. “Don’t do that,” he says, “or I won’t be able to kiss you, will I?” 

“Not want. Go house no me, dude.”

“Is that how it is?” he asks. 

You want to kiss every stupid mole on his face and beg him to never ice you out again, but he was the one being a jerk. “How is, yes.”

“Yeah?” His grin says he’s aware of your ploy, but Steve likes to play. “You really don’t want a kiss anymore?” His other hand comes to your face, cradling it, pulling you down to his mouth. He doesn’t kiss you, though. “I’m sorry, honey,” he says, an undercurrent in his voice that’s whiny. Beggy. 

You smile, but don’t falter as your eyes flutter closed. “Don’t want.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t want, still.”

“Still?” he asks. Your face feels not your own in the frame of his big hands. 

“Not want, and not want.”

“Never kiss again, is that it? You’re not gonna let me kiss you ever again?” You can practically feel his smile this close to your own. “…Baby, you can’t do that to me. I’ve barely kissed you, and you’d deprive me? You might as well kill me,” —he squeezes your face as you laugh, his own tone coloured with delight— “hurt me forever, ow and ow and ow.”

“Not ow you,” you deny. “Lot. Little ow.”

“Hurt me, then,” he says. “Doesn’t matter if it’s you.”

“Not want kiss?” you ask, smug as a gull snatching fish from the waves. A clean kill. 

You know you were at Eddie Munson’s trailer with Chrissy because she’d been acting weird. Because you were worried about her. Because she was your friend and she’d asked. 

He invited you both in - her with a flirty smirk, you with much the same, easy and familiar and harmless.

You looked around whilst they spoke, your eyes flicking over the interior. Messy but cozy. Lived in. Loved. 

You knew Eddie. You helped him when he struggled in a class he was meant to leave two years ago. He’d come to yours for last-minute tutoring before, but you’d never been to his place.

He looked relaxed here. More relaxed than you’d ever seen him. 

You remember thinking that. Clear as anything. 

And then -

Your mouth had opened. You remember that much. The shape of a question forming, the sound almost there. You remember turning toward Eddie, his attention still on Chrissy, still smiling, still unaware.

And then—

Nothing.

There’s a hard, hollow space where the rest should be.

Your jaw locks. Your tongue presses uselessly to the roof of your mouth. You know more happened-

Your hands had curled into fists without you noticing. Nails biting into skin.

She-

No.

You shake your head once, sharp and instinctive, like it would be possible to dislodge the memory before it finishes assembling itself.

Left foot. Right foot.

You don’t know where you’re going.

You just know that stopping feels dangerous. Like if you stop, your body will catch up to what your brain refuses to look at. Like standing still might invite the rest of it in — the sounds, the image, the way the air felt too thick in your lungs.

So you just follow the rhythm. The left foot. Right foot. 

Streetlights blur past in soft yellow and amber smears. Houses sit quiet and ordinary, curtains drawn, televisions glowing faintly between the gaps. The normalcy of it all presses in on you, obscene in how untouched it is.

Your fingers curl tighter. Your nails bite deep enough to draw blood. 

Left foot. Right foot. 

You know this route.

The corner where the pavement dips just enough to catch the toe of your boot if you’re not paying attention. The little card shop with the hand-painted sign in the window that says please don’t loiter - letters chipped, the please in bold and underlines twice.  You’ve walked it a hundred times.

To see Robin. To kill time. To- 

“Hey, Buckaroo,” you hear a voice - smug, familiar, grinning. “Got nothing better to do than hang with your sister on a Friday evenin’?”

You know the voice without looking up. It’s the same one that’s been needling you for years, always expecting you to rise to it.

Usually you do. A jab. A sigh. An eye-roll sharp enough to draw blood.

You don’t.

You keep to the rhythm; left, right. 

But your shoulders tense, unconsciously, like your body recognised the sound before your brain caught up. 

“Buckaroo,” he repeats, closer now, tone light in a way that bites. “You ignoring me on purpose or is this you brooding?”

You slow. Not because you mean to — because your feet literally misfire, rhythm breaking just enough to throw you off balance.

Left foot. Right-

You stumble.

Steve swears under his breath and reaches out automatically, fingers brushing your arm. The contact sparks too bright, too sharp, and you jerk away like you’ve been burned.

“Hey—whoa,” he says, the edge completely disappearing out of his voice. “Okay. Okay. Sorry.”

You turn on him then, your chest tight like it’s been cinched too far in. The irritation is still there - hot, defensive - but it’s fraying around the edges.

“Don’t,” you snap, you try to ignore the fact that your voice shakes. “Don’t call me that.”

Steve blinks. Taken aback by the vulnerability in your tone - not the bite. He’s used to that.  “Okay. I—fine. Sorry.”

But he doesn’t step back. If anything, he leans closer. Watching you so intently. You feel like he can see every pore, every wrinkle, every crack. He sees the way your hands won’t stop trembling. The way your eyes won’t quite focus on his, or anything for that matter. 

“Hey,” he says, tone so soft it makes you want to let him in - but you know better. “You okay?”

Your shoulders pull in, chin lifting on instinct. “I said don’t,” you bite out, the words coming too sharp. Even for you.  “I’m fine.”

You know you’re not. You’re not convincing to anyone, least of all Steve.If you can hear it. He can too.

“I just—” he exhales, his hand lifting between you, stopping short. Close enough that you feel the heat of it against your arm before he pulls back. “You looked… off. I was just—”

“What?” you cut in, heat flaring, desperate to keep it there. Anger is easier than whatever’s crawling up your throat. “You were just what, Steve? Doing your obligatory check-in for Robin? Make sure I’m behaving?

“That’s not fair,” he says, there’s a bite to it now but you don’t hear it over the ringing in your ears.

“Nothing about this is fair,” you snap, the edge cracking. “You don’t get to come up all casual and- and start poking at me like I’m a joke.”

He flinches.

“Okay,” he says, a little bit of hurt  creeping into his voice that he isn’t quick enough to hide. “I was kidding. I didn’t realise—”

“Exactly,” you shoot back. “You didn’t realise. You never do.”

Before he can respond, you cut him off. “You just say whatever comes to mind,” you snap. 

“Whatever lets you protect yourself. Protect Dustin. Protect Robin. Hell — protect everyone.”

You laugh, sharp and hollow. 

“But you’re full of shit, Steve. You can’t protect anyone.” Your voice cracks till it’s barely legible, but you don’t stop.

“It’s bullshit. All of it.”

Steve goes still. Not defensive, just stunned. Like something inside him just dislodged, his mouth opening around a response that doesn’t come. 

He knows you know about the party. About Nancy. About what she said. And he knows that no matter how ‘vicious’ your sparring can get, you would never cross that line.

But you keep going anyway.

“You couldn’t help,” you say, the words tripping over each other. “You just- you stood there.” Your voice is heavy with accusation, anger and exhaustion. 

“Hey-” Steve starts, lost. Stood where? What are you talking about? Why are you shaking like this? How do I stop you from-

“You grabbed her foot,” you rush on, barely stopping to breathe. “Like that was going to stop it.”

“You tried to get her to talk to you,” you say, the words spilling faster, messier. “Tried to understand. You told her to talk to the counsellor. You told her she’d helped you.”

“Maybe that was true,” you choke, head shaking with your words. “Maybe you just needed it to be.”

“Hey, hey,” he murmurs. “Help me understand, baby. Please.”

But you don’t hear him. Or maybe you do and it doesn’t matter.

You just continue mumbling under your breath - only the odd word being picked up by Steve. You’re just trying to make sense of it all. How this could happen. How this could happen to Chrissy. Sweet, innocent, kind Chrissy- she just- 

Your rational brain is screaming at you that there are no answers to those questions - not right now - but you won’t hear it. You need to know. You need there to be a reason for it all - for what you just saw. And you need it now. Before- 

Steve cuts through briefly, “What—” 

“Bucka-“ he cuts himself off, then continues, “you’re not- you’re not making sense.”

But you just pressed on, words tumbling out now, without restraint, without an ounce of composure. “You begged and it- it didn’t matter. None of it mattered.” 

“I don’t understand.” He murmurs, voice so soft, so sad? 

You laugh again, but it’s wrecked, dissolving as soon as it leaves you. “Exactly. You don’t.” Your chest tightens. Your thoughts start slipping, coming out jagged, unfiltered.

“You try so hard,” you continue. “You say the right things. You do the right things. And everyone pretends that means something.”

He shakes his head, frustrated, wounded. Desperate.

“And it never matters,” you whisper. Solemn. Final. The anger finally caves in on itself. “It never does.”

Silence crashes down hard.

Your breathing goes uneven. You press your lips together like that might keep the rest in, but it’s too late ‘cause the pressure's already there, swelling, choking.

“I don’t know why I’m saying this,” your voice barely there, your body starting to cave in on itself. 

Steve looks at you. Really, really looks. His confusion softening into something closer to fear.

“Talk to me,” he raises his voice, desperate to break through your jumbled thoughts. Desperate for you to let him in before you break. “Please.”

You shake your head, backing away. Your thoughts won’t line up. Nothing will slow. It’s all too much. 

“I don’t…” You swallow, your breath hitching. “I don’t-” 

You turn your face away, but he’s already there. His hands come up without thinking, warm and steady, cupping your cheeks and guiding you back to him.

“Hey, hey, whoa,” he murmurs, desperately searching your face for answers, clues as to what happened to you. Catching the tears you didn’t even realise were falling. 

It’s too much.

A sound breaks out of you, thin and ugly. You shake your head hard, fumbling to break away from his hold.  

“Steve, don’t,” you mumble. “Please.”

He stills instantly, loosening his grip but refusing to pull away. “Okay,” he says quickly. “Okay. I’m sorry. I just—“

“I’m fine,” you whisper, over and over, like if you say it enough times your body will believe you. “I’m fine. I’m fine.”

Your shoulders fold in as the lie collapses. The sound that comes out of you isn’t loud. It’s broken. Your breath stutters, vision blurring as the fight finally drains out of you.

Steve’s hands hover, even more unsure now - one brushing your jaw, the other steadying your arm. He’d never seen you cry. Not after Will. Not after Hopper. Not once.

“Hey,” he says softly. “Hey. Look at me. Breathe with me, okay?”

You shake your head again. The words keep coming anyway, tangled and unfinished.

“I didn’t mean it,” you mumble. “I don’t know why I said it. I can’t—I can’t. I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.” Your voice catches on every word. You can’t stop saying it, like if you apologise enough it might undo the damage. Might undo everything that’s happened. Everything you’ve said. 

Everything you’ve seen. 

“I didn’t mean- I didn’t- you have to know I didn’t-“ 

Steve closes the distance then. No hesitation this time.

Cutting you off with his arms. They come around you fully, solid and warm, pulling you in against his chest. One hand slides up to cradle the back of your head, fingers threading gently through your hair. The other presses firm and steady between your shoulder blades, anchoring you there as you finally allow yourself to break down in his arms..

“Hey,” he murmurs into your hair. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”

You cling to him, breath hitching hard, apologies spilling into the fabric of his shirt all while he strokes your hair slowly, over and over, like he’s afraid to break you.

“Shh,” he says, low and steady. “You don’t have to be sorry. You don’t.”

Your breathing stutters, then falters again. He adjusts his hold, tighter than you had ever been held, closer than you ever would let someone. His forehead resting against the top of your head as he murmurs, “I’m here.” 

“I’m here, baby.”

P.S. Buckley! Reader is my new obsession 🫠 so if you want more of these two let me know 🫶🏻

“You’re in my room,” the pale girl says. 

She is younger than any of Steve’s friends so far. Her cheeks are still soft with baby fat, and her eyebrows are soft-haired like fuzz at the ends, but she is not a child, either. 

“Who?” you ask. 

“I am El.”

You blink again, sniffling as another tear tips from your eye. “Hurt.”

She glances at Steve. “I do not think it is a real hurt,” she says, her voice softening in reassurance. “You are tired.”

“El let you have her bed… Joyce was sure you’d only fainted, and it’s not like I could take you to Hawkins Memorial to check, and I don’t trust that freak Murray,” —he lowers his voice when you wince— “but that’s not the point. This is the cabin. We’re gonna be safe here, okay?” Steve rubs your cheek. “How are you feeling?”

“My feeling?” you ask, head racing and pulse fit to match. 

“Yeah, how are you doing? Your legs are hurting?” 

You look down at yourself assessingly. Legs curled in and up together —you forget sometimes that they can be apart. Walking is hard because it requires constant thought and how one leg must be away from the other, after years of constant synchronisation. The other mergirls back home in the Great Lake preached that the key to a natural walk is to act more confident than you, but all that meant was falling over yourself and needing to be picked up again. It’s like a flinch-response. You remember how terrible you are at using your legs and feel too scared to try. 

“Hurt not much now,” you admit. 

Steve continues on rubbing your cheek like it’s the most natural thing in the world. You could go numb with the feeling if your head weren’t abuzz. 

“What happened?” he asks. 

You have a theory, but it doesn’t do well to talk about it in front of kids, so you nibble your lip instead. “Steve okay?” you ask. “And– and El okay?”

El smiles at you, her crop of chestnut curls bobbing lightly at her neck as she drops back onto her legs where she’d been kneeling. “We are okay,” she says, at the same time as Steve’s, “Me? You’re worried about me?”

El nods. “We were worried about you, most of all.”

You try to explain the mermaid response to fear, but it won’t make sense to them in what little words you have. “Okay. Legs hurt now, but no pool, okay tomorrow.”

“You need to be in the pool?” Steve asks. 

You start to nod vehemently, before remembering your mix up and shaking your head instead. “No. No pool, important not me in pool. In pool, my legs… tail.”

“Right,” Steve says, side-eying El as he turns his hand to hold your cheek. “Okay, if you go back in the pool now, you’ll get your tail back? Maybe you should. If you’re hurting, you don’t need to stay like this.”

“Not hurt easy tail.” 

Steve’s answering look is blank. 

El speaks up before he can voice his confusion. “It won’t hurt less to have your tail?” she asks worriedly.

“Yes, not hurt less. Hurt more, tail now.” The change is always painful to some degree, and if it were to happen now, it would be fast. The agony of a change under duress is not easily forgotten. “Stay legs, okay?” you ask Steve. 

“Why did you faint, though?” 

“Faint?” you ask. 

“You fell, and went to sleep. We couldn’t wake you up. Why did you get sick?” he asks. 

You hold your hand out, feeling at the ridges you’d bitten into his forearm with your sharp nails. He lets you nudge his hand away from your face, but it’s only so you can grab it and hold it to your tummy, right over your scar. How do you say ‘force’? in English? 

“Hand and scared, someone in house, and hand blood, and tired, my… my–” You gesture to yourself. 

“Your stomach?” Steve asks, waving his hand into your front. 

“Your body,” El says. 

“I not want, body want tail, scared. Body tail.”

“Your body tries to change you back when you’re scared,” Steve surmises slowly. “But why did you faint?”

“Not in water, not do.” 

“You couldn’t change back, so you fainted,” El says. She seems satisfied but sympathetic. “That’s scary… Are you okay now?”

“Steve, say photo?” you ask. 

Steve’s expression closes off. A shuttering you’re unused to. “Why don’t we get you something to drink?” he asks, climbing off of his knees with a barely contained groan. “Hang tight.”

El stays smiling at your side like a parrotfish. A cute parrotfish, though, not the weird looking ones. She would suit a more multicoloured scale, a deep teal blue with yellow, green, and pink hemmings to match her bright eyes. 

“You are pretty,” El says softly. 

“You are more pretty. Beautiful,” you say, beaming at her. “Beautiful pretty and pretty.”

“You’re shiny, on your eyes, and your jaw. It’s like sparkles.” El leans down, almost uncomfortably close to you. “I bet your tail was pretty, too.” 

You can’t help yourself, you preen. “Yes,” you agree, wiping the rest of your tears into her pillow. 

“Couch,” you say. You suppose some time watching the evil TV will help calm your nerves. 

Steve carries you to the living room and lays you out on the couch. From the sounds of it, his friends (and Hopper, who is Hopper?) stay in the kitchen, so when you lift your chin a little Steve actually gives pause. 

“What?” he asks quietly.

“Kiss?” you whisper.

He smiles. Actually grins, soft and then brilliant, ducking down to meet you for a kiss that’s too dry for your liking, but is overall one of the best he’s given you, mostly because it’s real. 

Steve kisses just under your eye and your forehead, propped up by a hand on the cushion behind you. “Gonna be okay?” he asks. 

“Be okay.”

“Yeah? I’m sorry, about this. Sorry you got so scared, and sorry we couldn’t…”

“Steve not be sorry,” you say. “You are…” What do you want to say here? Nothing you have the vocabulary for. You let your voice wilt. “Not sorry, please.”

He clears his throat and stands as footsteps finally do follow you both into the living room. “Let’s say I believe you about the tail thing,” a deep voice says from behind you. You can see Hopper in the reflection of the TV, leaning against the door with his arms crossing over his chest. “Which, sure, she’s a sea creature. My girl’s an X-Man. And let’s say whoever came in here knows what she is–”

“Why else would somebody come in here?” Steve asks. 

“Because you live in the golden palace?” Hopper shrugs. “Let’s also say you should’ve told me about this the day it happened, and you’re real sorry. What are you gonna do now, kid? Jonathan was right, you need to come to the cabin–”

Steve’s hand falls into your hair, but he isn’t looking at you. “There isn’t room for us both, too.”

“Sure there is. El has the floor space. I have a blow up mattress.”

“Wherever we go, if there’s someone looking for her, they follow us there and that’s a whole new mess. I’ve already dragged too many people into this.”

“We’re in it, Steve. That’s what happens when you go through what we went through.” Hopper doesn’t talk for a while, and Steve doesn’t interrupt him. “You should’ve called me,” Hopper says finally, sounding angry, but firm. Like he’s disappointed. 

“Okay,” Steve says. 

“Okay. Pack a bag for tonight. Tomorrow, we’ll work out what to do.”

Hopper treks out of the living room. Steve grimaces until he’s gone, then downright frowns, bringing his hands to his face to rub at his eyes harshly. You complain in Mermaid until he gets the hint and stops, blinking down at you with that same stupid apologeticness as before. 

“Guess we’re having a slumber party,” he says. 

“Slumber party?”

“Me and you are gonna go stay at Hopper’s house.”

“Steve, who is Hopper?” you ask. 

He kneels down in front of the couch. “Did you just say ‘is’?” The skin of his cheeks apples as he smiles at you with enough pride to make your skin prickle. “You’re such a fucking genius, when did you learn that? Dustin said you weren’t gonna use joiner words for weeks!” He grabs your cheeks and pulls you to him for another short kiss. 

“Who?” you ask. 

“Hopper?” He lets his hands fall to your shoulders, rubbing them gently, absentmindedly. “He’s the chief of police. He… when there’s trouble, he’s in charge.”

“Blow up mattress?” you ask. 

“Yeah. I’ll pack a ton of blankets, it’ll be fine.” Steve’s easy smile falters. “Probably.”

“Hold me first?”

Steve drops his face into your stomach and wraps his arms around you as best he can at the terrible angle, still rubbing those gentle lines, his fingertips digging nicely into achy muscle. “You’re gonna miss the pool,” he mumbles. 

“Miss?” you ask. 

“Want but not have. You miss things when you don’t see them for a while. It’s the same with people.”

You hum. There are a lot of things you ‘miss’, but you won’t miss the pool if Steve’s there with you at the blow up mattress, wherever that is in Hopper’s house. If it’s anything like a bed, you’ll love it. 

“Be okay?” you ask Steve. 

He hums into your tummy. “Duh. We’ll be fine… We’ll be alright.”

Steve lingers on top of you for a while, picking himself up reluctantly with a promise to return with a bagel and your packed bags in five minutes, tops. You close your eyes on the couch and pretend the TV isn’t asking you tauntingly to turn it on. The longer you lay there, the more tender you become. It’s dark out now, the day has been long. It felt like a week. All you’ve wanted to do since you knew you could was kiss Steve dizzy, or have him dizzy you, and now you’re being foisted out of the house. Do humans often get intruders in their homes, you wonder? It’s not common underwater. Fish are nosy, but other merpeople tend to leave each other alone unless explicitly invited. 

You’re wondering if Steve will carry you to the car when one of the girl’s gasps. “Oh!” she says from the kitchen, Nancy’s voice carrying down the hall. “Oh my god. Steve, what was here?”

“What?” you hear Steve ask.

There's a long silence, and actions you can’t see. You scramble up from your seat and have to stoop over the back of the couch, head pounding. 

“Fuck,” Robin says. 

“Fuck,” Steve says, sounding abruptly nervous. “Shit, what did I do?” 

“Steve?” you call, heading for the door. A bolt of agony lances down your spine.

“What happened?” Eddie asks. 

You fall onto your knees, your head going dark, a pain in each leg like stabbing urchin spines as your eyes close.

“Bud, short for buddy, which means ‘friend’.”

“Friend.”

“Yeah, friend. You know what that is, right?” 

Dustin taught you some familial words last week, but they don’t always stick. “Friend is… want happy, fun.” 

“Exactly. I want you to be happy, and to look less like you’re gonna faint. Sandwich?"

Eddie jumps out of his chair and heads for the fridge. He yanks it open, grabs veggies out of the bottom drawer (the ‘crisper’, according to Steve) and the plastic tub of cream cheese nearly empty. He piles on a yellow tub, a red bottle, and the brown jar of peanut butter. 

You immediately stand. “No peanut bubber,” you say. 

“Oh, that is adorable. It’s butter, sweetheart, with a ‘t’.” 

“What I say,” you complain. 

“Did not.” 

You grumble under your breath, nudging Eddie aside by the hip to grab two plates out of the upper cabinet. You finally know where Steve keeps his things, and though you hadn’t understood the concept of a plate at first, you can admit now that they make sense when it comes to moving around your food. Sandwiches don’t float. 

“Salmon?” you ask, looking at everything Eddie’s grabbed unhappily. 

“Oh, shit.”

Eddie doubles back for your salmon. You take the serrated knife out of the knife block, the biggest handle with blue and white flowers, and search for a bagel in the bread bin. It’s a little stale, stiff on the outside, and maybe it’s the excitement of the day or maybe you’re getting tired, but you’re not thinking right as you hold the bagel in your hand and cut toward your palm. The serrated blade slides through the bagel and the skin of your palm like a talon through sapling kelp. You drop it with a yelp.

“Ow,” you say, startled and then pained, watching in no small horror as blood begins to drip down to your wrist. “Ow! Oh, no, Eddie, Eddie? Ow.”

“What?” Eddie slams the fridge door shut. “Oh, shit.”

Eddie strides for the sink and grabs a dish towel off of the rack, but before he can tend to your wound, a familiar voice is warning the air between you, “What happened, honey?”

Steve takes the dish towel out of Eddie’s hand and wraps it around your wrist without touching it to your cut. His brows furrow in concern as he takes your hand and wraps it around the dish towel. He goes up on toes to grab a big green box from the cabinet that you hate to recognise. 

“Shit, you know how to make a man worry,” Steve mutters, flipping the top of the box open. 

“Steve mad?” you ask. 

He looks up. Blinks quick. “No–”

“He’s never mad mad, he just has a stick up his ass,” Eddie says. 

Robin edges into the doorway. “You okay?” she asks you.

“Hurt ow. Fuck,” you lament. 

“Who let the mermaid use a knife?” 

“Don’t be mean, Robin,” Steve says. 

“I’m not, I’m just saying! Eddie couldn’t have made the sandwich?"

“I was going to!” Eddie says.

Steve makes a little sound under his breath, like a hum, or a tut. It’s not very loud, but you hear it, and your shoulders relax of their own accord. “Don’t worry about it, angel,” he says, offering you a secretive sort of smile, “it’s your first time making a sandwich, and we only practised the knife on salmon, right? Different grains.” He brings a piece of gauze to your hand and begins wiping away the blood gently. “I could’ve made it for you, though.”

“Talking,” you say, wincing as he wipes the length of the cut dry. 

“I’m sorry.” 

“Hurt.”

“I know. Let’s get a bandaid on this for now. We can disinfect it later, before you go to bed.”

“I’m sorry,” you murmur, your turn to apologise. 

Steve holds your hand up lightly. “Why?” he asks. 

“You are talking. I hurt. You no talk.”

“We’re talking about keeping you safe, that’s all. It’s about looking after you, don’t feel guilty you got hurt now. This is all we’re trying to– to keep from happening.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry, kid,” says a newer voice, deep, from the doorway. Hopper stands behind Robin, gruff and scratchy looking in a thick plaid jacket. He looks tired. 

You look down at your socked feet. No shoes. They’re still on Steve’s bed. 

“Thought you said she speaks English?” 

“She does,” Steve says hotly, “but she just cut her hand and somebody broke into her house, so. Can you blame her for being quiet?” 

Your hackles rise at his tone. He smoothed a big square bandaid over the middle of your palm, rubbing his thumb gently at each edge to lay it flat, before he holds your wrist again, pulling you closer to his side. 

“Is it technically breaking in if the door isn’t locked?” Eddie asks.

“Fuck you, Munson.”

Is he smug? You take his face into both of your hands, forcing him to meet you head on. “Steve, you are funny.”

“Am I?”

You tip his head back, trying to decide where on his neck you’d like to bite him. “Funny boy…” 

“Who taught you that one?”

“You did, angel.”

“Who taught you that one?” he asks breathlessly.

“Encyclo–paedia,” you say. “Angel. Pet name, from heaven. Beautiful boy, angel boy–”

Steve makes a weak noise beneath you, like you’ve hurt him without the pain. “Oh, honey–”

You’re setting your teeth to his neck when you hear it, a twitch of sound from downstairs. You’re dead set on ignoring it, tongue already wetting the smallest slip of his throat when a louder sound comes, and Steve is taking your hips into his hands and setting you aside. The sudden vertigo would make you laugh if he hadn’t scrambled so quickly off of the bed, diving under it, and unearthed a long wooden stick full of holes. 

“Stay here.” 

You scramble after him. There’s a louder crash downstairs, and Steve’s yelling a word you don’t know as you both reach the top of the stairs. The front door slams shut. Steve sprints down the stairs, jumps the last four completely and slams out of the door behind whoever it is. 

Your heart pounds in your chest. “Steve?” you call, nearly falling. This adrenaline is different to how it felt in his lap. It’s making you shaky. Your legs aren’t at their best regardless, so the shaking makes it worse, you have to cling to the bottom bannister, stuck. “Steve?” you call again, wishing he’d left the door open. 

Why are your legs not working? 

You stumble toward the door as it blows back open. Steve jogs in and takes you by the arm without a word, or not a word to you understand in any case, frenzied cursing under his breath as he walks you to the kitchen toward the red plastic phone. His grip is kind, if a little unforgiving.

He grabs the receiver and brings it to his ear, glancing out at the garden, his arm going protectively around you as he smushes the phone against his shoulder. “Yeah, Robin? Somebody just went running out of the house. Yeah, somebody was in here. I don’t know, I didn’t see their face! Can you call Nance and see if she still has– Yeah, I’m going to! Robin, somebody was just in here! We’re fine, can you– Yeah.” 

Steve clicks something on the phone pad and types in another number. His gaze falls on you. “Okay?” he asks you, his chest heaving. 

“Who in the house?” you ask. 

“I don’t know. It’s okay, you…” His eyes fall off of you. “Hopper?” he says. 

You listen to him and catch the same words, followed by some embarrassed sounding apologies and a, “I’ll explain when you get here!”

Then Steve hangs up the phone and takes you by the shoulders. “Can you stay here so I can look around, please?” 

“People house?” 

“No, nobody’s in here, I’m just trying to be careful.” 

“Scared?”

“No!” Steve double-takes at you, his mouth falling into a frown. “Are you scared?”

You’re shaking. You went from being in his lap to foisted off, and you’ve never seen Steve look that glazed over, angry and ready to fight, the wooden stick still held in his right hand and dragging over the floor. Your teeth begin to chatter as you force out, “No, not scared– not scared–”

“Hey, hey,” he says softly, his brown eyes gone dark, “it’s okay.” 

“Don’t know what feel,” you say. 

“It’s just shock, baby.”

“Shock,” you chatter out. Your teeth won’t stop. It almost hurts, and your body feels oddly cold. “Hold me, please? Cold.”

Steve wraps you up in his arms. You can’t see it, but he’s staring out over the top of your head, shaken himself, and completely lost for words. Who was in the house, and why? 

“Kissing can be different for different people. And it can be kissing for different reasons.” Steve feels inadequate as he lays it out, but it must be lain. “Most people want to kiss, but you might like it less than you think, or more than you think. And it can be a kiss for nothing, or a deeper,” —his voice shudders with roughness— “kiss, or it can go further than that. I think I know what kind of kiss you want, but we need to talk about how to say no.”

“No?”

“If I kiss you, and you don’t like it, you can say no. You need to say no.”

You tilt your head to one side. “Okay.”

“You understand?”

“Yes. I understand… Steve say no, yes? If you not want.”

“I know how to say no, I promise.”

“Okay hold you, now?” you ask hopefully.

Steve sits back expectantly. You crawl forward until he can get his hand under your arm, half-dragging you over his lap as you use his shoulders for balance. You let your weight rest in his lap as Steve pulls you into place, not quite close enough to kiss, but enough to see you, to read your expression, to look for what you want in the face of his own desperation. 

Steve lets his feelings rise. “Do you want to know what beautiful means?” he asks after a minute, letting his hands run down your sides to rest lightly on your hips. 

“Beautiful. Yes.”

“You know what pretty means?” He squeezes your hip. “Pretty, it’s like. Almost every girl I’ve ever met is pretty. It means there’s something in your face that makes you pretty, it’s–” Steve lets his gaze wander from point to point. “Your nose… your eyes, your mouth. The pearl on your chin.” He brushes at it with his thumb, then lets his hand tumble searchingly against your upper thigh. 

“Beautiful?” you ask. 

“You are beautiful. Because you’re pretty, but you’re beautiful.” He says it with quiet weight. “It’s all of those things together. Your face, and your neck, and your hair.” He smiles to himself, squeezing at your leg. “Your legs.”

“My tail?” you ask.

He nods. “Yeah, honey. That was beautiful too. It’s not gone forever, is it? You’ll have it again?”

“Tail… I not want, tomorrow and tomorrow, but.” You hold your hand to your chest. “What word, me? Me, tail me.”

“I think that’s the only word for it. You’re you, and everything about you before you got your legs was still you… I think I thought you’d be more you now you can be back in the world, but you’re a little different, now, aren’t you?” He feels up your thigh, thumb in the crease where your leg meets your tummy, pushing with no want to go anywhere else. 

“I am happy,” you say, covering his probing hand with yours. “Ecstatic with you. With you make me happy, like. Word not know before.” 

Steve turns your hand. “Have you ever been in love?”

“In love?” you ask quietly. 

“You know what ‘in’ means, that you’re inside of things? We go in the pool, in the car, in the house. Being in love, being inside of love. It’s…” Steve pauses, taking a deep breath, the kind to fill his lungs and leave his chest aching as he empties them. “‘Love’ is want, and need, and like. It’s a big feeling.” 

“Love…”

“Do you have that at home? In the lake? People you love?”

“I love people.” You squeeze his hand absentmindedly, looking down at the sheets, at his side, somewhere in between. “People and people. Like Robin and Eddie. Like Nance and Jonathan. People know, people not know.”

“Close friends and neighbours,” he suggests, matching your quiet tone. 

“Not like me and you,” you say, looking up at him with the shyest smile he’s ever seen you wearing. 

“No? You’ve never felt it?” he asks, voice dropping still, afraid to speak too loudly and spook you. Or more, too afraid to scare himself. 

“Need you more. Need, not want. It feels like need.” 

There’s something there in your voice he’s getting more familiar with by the day. A confidence in what you’ve said, but an aching, too. Your last four words hit him like a freight train, because it’s the closest you could’ve come to telling him you love him without saying the word, and it’s the most assured you’ve ever sounded in your own voice. There’s no hesitation there. No stumble or slur. 

It feels like need.

“Do you wanna take your shoes off?” he asks, a lightness that’s impossibly similar to pressure building in his head and in his hands as he turns your foot enough to undo your shoelace. You let him untie them, loosen them, and ease out your foot. You let him do it to the second shoe on your other side, then readjust yourself in his lap to tuck your feet under your thighs. 

Steve holds your waist and drags you in, until your stomach lays against his own, and there can be no illusion of space, your hand slipping under his jaw. He grabs your elbow and holds you in place, in a middle distance now as he turns his face into your hand and kisses your palm. 

Kisses your wrist. 

Your breath comes out in a sigh as he presses his nose to your pulse and breathes against your skin, eyes closing now, too afraid to see you and make a noise that’ll distend the bubble that’s lapsed around you, his quiet room, the darkness growing outside and the hedging glow of sunlight that makes its way through, a slice of horizon glowing pink, and orange, kissing your skin and painting you in new colours. 

“Beautiful arm,” he says, nosing to your elbow, letting his lips part at the crook and closing them there in his most wanting approximation of a kiss. “Beautiful here.” He pins your shirt sleeve and kisses your upper arm, lingering there, close enough to you to feel your quickening breath ruffle his hair.

He raises his head, already missing your arm, the curve and slope of your shoulder hidden beneath thin blouse. His hand is greedy at your neck, taking hold of you, lining his thumb to your throat and pressing down gently. Your pulse capers. He can feel it jump. 

“Beautiful here,” he says, turning your head to kiss your neck, more chaste than the slow pull at your bicep, too impatient now to tease, “beautiful–”

You turn your face up so his kiss lands on your chin, rather than your jaw. “Steve?” you ask softly, looking at him through eyes half-lidded. 

“What, baby?” he asks, framing your face in his two hands. They feel bigger than usual against your skin. They look blunt over something so delicate. “What?

“Feel,” you say, bringing his hand to your chest, pinky finger nudging under your shirt. He almost can’t bear to have it moved, but he presses his palm flat to your heart within your chest and lets it batter against him. “Not know to do.” 

You sound panicked as your heart. “Yeah? You don’t know what to do?”

“Need to do, but– I need– I need–”

Your voice shudders close to tears, but Steve knows it’s not the kind that comes with fear. Fuck, if he could keep you here, away from his world and yours, if he could glue his hand to your chest to feel it trip as he rubs his thumb against your cheek, that soft skin. 

“Do you need a kiss?” he asks, holding your gaze as he tamps down a smile. It breaks through anyhow. 

“Please?” you ask. 

His hips kick as he straightens, as his thumbs line your jaw, an ache rocking through his stomach as a voice inside of him begs to turn you into the pillows and lay between your spread thighs. “Please?” he says, speaking into your mouth now as his eyes flutter closed, “So you’re polite now, yeah?” He kisses you so briefly he almost hates himself for it, worse when you make a needy sound so soft he has to hold back a sigh. “Beautiful girl, you need a kiss?” 

You part your mouth to answer and Steve leans in to take it. 

His hand slips behind your head, over hair, to the opposite ear, his arm laying across your shoulders as he turns his head to the side and opens you up. It’s a bump of a kiss, lips warm and soft and tongue warmer, such a hesitant, wanting little press of it that he makes a sound too close to pain and has to turn his head, has to move into the kiss like the tide pulling away. You push softly against him. Your hand balls tightly in the front of his shirt. 

He pulls away as quickly as he can. “Is this okay?” he asks, breathing hard in the curve of your Cupid’s bow.

“Okay, okay,” —you kiss him once, like a prompting— “please, I need–”

Steve laughs into your mouth and kisses you again. 

You frown. “Why not?”

“Because you don’t have a birth certificate.” Steve frowns back. “Do you think Hopper could get her one?”

“Sure, if he knew she existed,” Robin says.

“Like Jonathan hasn’t let it slip yet.”

Robin raises her eyebrows. “You really think Hopper wouldn’t have come barging into your house by now if he knew you had a mythological creature living with you? He’s super paranoid.” 

“Jonathan never saw her with a tail, he has no proof, and besides,” Steve says, laying his hand on your back, “what is there for him to discover? She looks totally normal.” 

“I can get you a birth certificate,” Eddie says. 

“Work with you,” you ask, hoping the right words will give you an answer you understand. 

Steve’s nearly startled when you do ask. You think he might’ve been lost in thought. “You can come with me, I guess. Split my paycheck. It’s not like I don’t spend half of it on salmon side.” 

“Salmon now?” you ask mildly. 

Steve slides out of the booth, pushing gently against the small of your back. “Let’s go look.”

You shuffle out of the booth with Steve’s wallet in your hands and follow him toward the food stalls. 

“Hey, bring us back some cheeseburgers!” Eddie calls. 

“Cheeseburgers?” you ask. 

“Cheeseburgers are sandwiches but with red meat and cheese, it’s hot. You’d like the bun, not the burger.” Steve gestures to a red and yellow store and joins the back of a human line. “But you can try it if you want to. Try a red meat burger?” 

“No, thank you. Red meat… like…” You point at your stomach. 

Steve blinks. 

Frowning, you lift the end of your blouse to show him the scar that marks your injury from the night you met. “What call, red?”

“Blood? The wet?”

“Blood. Red meat blood taste, not good.”

“Oh. Well, when I made you that steak, it was medium rare, so. They can taste a little bloody. Burgers aren’t like that. They’re cooked all the way through in places like this.” He scans the glowing squares behind the counter separating you and the vendors. “How about I get you a burger to try, and if you don’t like it, I’ll eat it?” 

Steve wants to share food in public? You almost implode on a caught breath, you’re that happy. “Yes, yes. Please, want try. Steve like burger?”

“Yeah, who doesn’t?” 

He steps forward toward the counter and begins saying hello to the vendor there. You sew your arm through his and turn to the side, looking out at all the other humans gathered in the food court eating and drinking from various sized containers. Eddie and Robin are talking at the booth where you left them, Eddie halfway out of his seat, slinked, like an octopus melding itself to fit the shape of a small cove. Behind him, a family with children eat off of skewers. Your cheek brushes Steve’s arm as you turn more, feeling the pull of his hand on yours as he takes his wallet back, but not bothering to stop your scouring. The humans are more interesting here than at the Great Lakes. All they ever did there was swim and cast their fishing lines.

At the very edge of the food court in a table that’s vaguely secluded, two people sit on one side of a booth. It’s a man and a woman. The man has tanned arms like Steve but his hair is blonde, clasped between the pale fingers of a woman as she kisses him soundly on the mouth. 

It’s not like any kind of kissing you’ve seen before. Mermaids kiss quickly, often for affection and nothing else, or to share bits of food without worrying about losing it in the water. For a moment, you think that must be what they’re doing, but it goes on for too long. The woman catches her courting partner’s face in her hands and drags him against her mouth, their faces bumping against each other up and down, like two ships on the tide, cresting into one another. Her cheeks are rife with blush, and his hand is sliding down her back as they go on, and on. Kissing and kissing, slow but with an ardency that twists the last shreds of reason in your chest. 

“What are you so interested in?” Steve asks, guiding you away from the counter. 

You point at the kissing couple. 

Steve quickly grabs your arm and puts it back at your side. “Don’t point,” he pleads, though he looks at where you’ve directed him and his expression stutters. “Oh.”

“What?” you ask.

“What’s what?”

“What word?”

Steve tucks his receipt in his wallet, refusing to look at the couple. “They’re kissing.”

You thought so. But. “Kiss?” you ask, miming a kiss at his cheek. 

“It’s more kissing,” he says, still not looking at you. “Kissing deeper.”

“Why?”

“Why are they kissing? It’s what people do when they’re together. When two people are together, as boyfriend and girlfriend, or when they’re married, they kiss. It… feels nice.”

You’d like Steve to kiss you like that, already picturing the heat of his mouth and the closeness it must bring, like when he’d kissed your cheek a few days ago and his nose had dug into yours from the side, so close you could share his exhale. Your face flushes the longer you think about it, an unfamiliar feeling coiling in your gut as Steve finally meets your eye. 

“Together, married, same word?”

“Kind of, honey. Why?” 

Like, do humans only kiss like that when they’re courting? Do you and Steve have to finish the courting cycle before you can ask for him to kiss you so heatedly? Does kissing help calm the ache you have in your tummy whenever Steve’s too soft with you, or is this sensitivity a human thing you’ll have to grow used to?

“Tummy hurt,” you tell him quietly. 

“‘Cos of the kissing?” he asks. 

You hadn’t expected him to figure it out, but you don’t lie. “Mm.”

“Oh. It’s– it’s okay. It happens, sometimes. It just means you’re, like, kind of jealous.” 

“Jealous?”

“You want what someone else has.” 

Someone else, that’s hard to break down. ‘Some’ and ‘one’. Some means multiple and one means one, but it can also mean a person, and the ‘else’ makes no sense. What do you want? You don’t want this ‘someone else’, you want Steve to do it to you. Want Steve to hold your back in his paw of a hand and steady you as he wades in. Want him to kiss you until your lips are chapped and the pale of his face is red with blush. 

“Want you…” you confess.

Steve’s already blushing. It’s starting at his jaw this time, emphasising the very pale colour under his eyes. He keeps waking up before you, maybe hours earlier, and you are no expert in humans but you’re starting to worry he needs more sleep. 

But, pale eyes or not, his cheeks are reddening now, his lips parted as he waits for you to talk. 

“You kiss me more?” you ask tentatively, worried he’ll laugh at you, and that he doesn’t accept your courting him after all, that he’s just burdened to take care of you. 

“Is that what you want?” he asks, licking his lips quickly. “You want me to kiss you like that?”

His head shoots to the side and he steps out of your reach. You realise a second later that the vendor has called his name, and he has to collect a tray of food from the counter. 

He doesn’t look at you head on when he returns to you, and you’re already starting to sulk as you begin making your way back to Robin and Eddie, but he says, “We can talk about it at home, okay? It’s something we need to talk about alone. Me and you, no Eddie or Robin. Is that okay?”

You glance at him sideways. He is miserably red. 

Right. Humans and their modesty. “Yes, more okay. I want you happy. Okay?”

Steve nods gratefully. “I want you to be happy.” 

Your smile goes shy. “Wash my face,” you lament. 

“You didn’t wash your face? That’s okay, doesn’t… it’s like, it’s good to do it every day, but one day doesn’t hurt.” 

“Teeth?”

“We’ll do it after breakfast.”

Your smile is almost too big for your face. “Okay. Please makeup me, Steve.”

He feels weird at first. Off kilter. Do men often do makeup on their partners? Not that you’re his partner, but when you sleep in the same bed every night and call one another baby, Steve doesn’t flinch at the word anymore. He doesn’t believe that you know one hundred percent what it is you’re replicating while living with him, but he certainly feels less guilty about crushing on you when you aren’t contained to a swimming pool. 

You hold still as Steve unstoppers the mascara again and brings it to your lashes. He is more careful than he knew he could be, his mouth falling open as he concentrates on catching your eyelashes with the spool of the brush. The mascara’s not very wet, probably because it’s old, but it goes on the ends well enough. He’s too scared to get close to the roots of your eyelashes and you don’t need it. Steve finishes the second eye and pulls away. 

You immediately climb on your knees to look at yourself in the vanity mirror. You blink a couple of times, smiling at him. “Okay,” you say. “More?”

Steve looks down at all the stuff you’ve found and vetoes a lot of it. His mom’s powder isn’t going to work for you. The rouge looks caked, the eyebrow pencil is missing a tip and Steve doesn’t know how to sharpen it. With a knife? But there’s a lipgloss, a lipstick, and a palette of eyeshadows. He’s scared of the eyeshadow, but the lipgloss… Nancy used to dab a little on her cheeks if they were running late, giving her the illusion of a soft blush. 

Steve figures he’s willing to try. If he makes you look silly, he’ll say sorry and wash it off. 

He unscrews the lip gloss from its tube and dabs it onto his finger. You’re still smiling as he taps it into your cheek, right over the apple of it. 

Steve pats it until it’s smudged out. It’s subtle, a kiss of colour. He does the same on your other cheek, wily hair falling into his eyes looking down at you that you stroke behind his ears with care. 

He unstoppers the gloss again and tilts your chin up. You lift it, eyes lidded, patient as he drags the applicator from one edge to the other. The give of your lips bends under his touch. He uses his thumbnail to clean the underside, then repeats the process on your top lip. 

“Now you rub them together,” he says, stomach hot and heavy as lead. “Like–” Steve demonstrates. 

You rub them together, eyes widening at the easy glide. You use him to push yourself up, your arm going around his neck with ease. Steve watches you watch yourself, how you notice the little additions he’s made, turned your pretty into a different kind. Decorated you, like your chin and eyes, that tiny impression of pearl that makes your skin glimmer.

“Look nice,” you say, popping your lips. “Yay. Thank you, Steve.”

“You look perfect,” he says, laughing as you dip down to kiss his cheek. You’re lined up wrong and end up kissing just under the corner of his eyes, leaving a sticky patch in the well of it. 

He’s still a little tired. The morning is quiet, and the silence makes the sound of your kissing all-encompassing as you plant another against his neck, then his shoulder, over the fabric of his shirt, which genuinely makes it worse. You reach his arm and kiss there too, giggling to yourself, and then your lips are parting hot breath spit wet tongue and dull teeth there and on him as you take the muscle of his bicep into your mouth and bite. 

It’s not a hard bite, but Steve sheds the last threads of sleep the second he feels your toothy impressions. He hisses on instinct, worse when you kiss the bite and wrap your arms around him tightly. “Thank you,” you say, nosing at the wet patch, “ecstatic,” as Steve tries to will away the ache that’s brewing in his lower stomach. 

Your teeth, your lips, the sticky press of lip gloss, all this early in the morning. He whites out. Doesn’t come around until you’re putting his mom’s makeup back in the bag and standing. You rake your hands through his hair, his head tipping back at the touch. 

Steve presses his face to your thigh and hip, which makes you laugh, his hair still soft and unstyled between your fingers. “Okay, baby?” you ask, your fingernails beginning their loving scratch against his scalp. 

It doesn’t help the situation, no, but he’s not about to tell you that. “Just tired.”

“Sleep more? Hold me, sleep more.” 

Steve thinks about biting your hip and goes weak. “You’re trying to make me cry, I think. Torturing me. Evil mermaid.”

“What?” You pull him away from your hip, frowning. “Steve honey, what say?”