Steve Harrington, Hawkins Golden Boy, ‘King Steve,’ Captain of the basketball team, whatever else his admirers called him— he was the complete an utter opposite of you. Where he’s outgoing, making loud jokes with the popular kids in study hall, you’re sitting alone in the back of class with your nose in a book. It never occurred to you, however, that maybe he noticed you just as often as you’d noticed him.

So, here you sit, in the back of Mrs. O’donnell’s class on a rainy afternoon in Hawkins. You had successfully made it to your senior year without having too many problems, you were a shadow, if that— invisible in your own skin. You didn’t have a problem with it, though. In fact, you liked being alone. Left to your own imagination, you had more fun than you could guess anyone had at a Steve Harrington house party. While they were underage drinking and smoking and only god knows what else, you fought dragons and explored ancient ruins in the quiet of your room. It was peaceful inside your head, until it wasn’t.

The rain patters softly against the classroom window, a nice, calming backdrop for your reading. That was, until he came barging in, soaking up all the quiet like it came easy for him. You were sure it did, but never could understand just how some people were born with the natural talent of social interaction. For you, that kind of life seemed like a nightmare, plucked straight from your worst fears— having people around you all the time, doting on you, talking your ear off like you’ll even remember them after graduation.

Your head snaps up as he struts through the classroom, damp from the rain, hair messy but somehow still perfectly styled, laughing with his friends about something you couldn’t even hear from the back of the classroom. You can practically see the girls in the front row melt at the mere sight of ‘King Steve’, and it makes your nose crinkle, the same way it always had. He was a pompous ass who just happened to look good doing it.

You turn your gaze back to your book, attempting to drown out your teacher and the annoying chattering from the popular group sitting near the front of the classroom. It was hard to focus with Steve Harrington sitting there, with the way all the girls and even some of the guys whispered about him and the stupid things he and his friends would do, but you managed. Until a balled up piece of paper hits you on the top of your head, that is. You glance up, looking for the culprit, and find Steve grinning at you like the Cheshire Cat.

As your eyes meet his from across the room, Tommy H. has to bring a hand over his mouth to stifle his laughter. You shift uncomfortably in your seat, they were making fun of you. You had seen it done to other students like yourself, but you were never really the center of their cruel jokes. Sure, they looked at you funny if they ever noticed you were there, but this was different— they were all looking at you now. You wished nothing more than to shrink down into your seat and become invisible again.

Steve leans back in his chair, one arm slung over the seat behind him like he owns the classroom—which, let’s be honest, he kinda does. That stupidly perfect grin is still plastered across his face as Tommy elbows him and snickers.

He doesn’t look away.

Even when Mrs. O’Donnell shoots them a glare for being disruptive again, Steve just winks at her and gives a little salute before casually tearing another piece of paper from his notebook.

Your heart thumps weirdly loud in your ears now. You’re not used to attention, especially not his. The new crumpled ball arcs through the air and lands softly on your desk with a quiet thump. You stare down at the little balled-up notebook paper, as if it might explode if you move suddenly. Eventually, your gaze drifts back to Steve, who threw the paper at you. He mouths two words, “Open it.”

You glance back down at the paper, sitting still in the middle of your desk like a taunt, several sets of eyes still fixed on you. Finally, you let out a huff, somewhere between annoyance and confusion, and begin to unravel it. It takes you no more than a few seconds, the lined paper crinkling with each gentle pull to open it up—completely blank. You hear the laughter from Tommy, Tammy, and whoever else you can’t remember the names of. You can still feel your heart beating in your ears, louder and more persistent as you try your hardest to school your expression. You wouldn’t let Steve Harrington and his stupid friends hurt you this much—they didn’t matter, they never did.

You spend the rest of the class trying your best to ignore them, keeping your eyes glued to your desk throughout the study period, hoping and praying that they’ll give up and leave you alone. Thankfully, they do, but there’s one set of eyes that never seems to stop trying to meet yours—Steve’s.

That afternoon, you had largely forgotten about the earlier incident, choosing to move on rather than dwell on your insecurities. As you walk, someone suddenly grabs your arm, pulling you into a mostly empty hall. You’re forcefully pulled into a hard chest, crashing into the culprit before you can pull back, meeting familiar brown eyes.

Steve steadies you by holding onto your arms, his gaze filled with an unusual sense of care. His voice, softer than you’ve ever heard it, carries genuine concern. “Are you okay?” he asks, loosening his grip on you.

“What are you— what?”

Steve’s expression flickers—something between worry and that same stupidly charming guilt he gets when he knows he messed up.

“Sorry,” he says quickly, running a hand through his damp hair. “I just… I didn’t mean to scare you.”

He doesn’t let go right away. His hands slide from your arms down to gently cup your wrists like you’re something fragile, like he might break you.

You stare at him, utterly confused. This isn't the loud, obnoxious Steve Harrington who laughs too loud in class and flirts with half the cheer squad without thinking twice.

This is… quiet Steve? Careful Steve?

The hallway is empty except for a janitor pushing a cart down the far end, and even then, they turn away after one glance at the King of Hawkins holding some random girl against the lockers.

His eyes search yours, the warm brown ones everyone loses their minds over. Steve exhales, slow and careful, like he’s choosing his words wisely for once in his life.

“I saw your face,” he says finally. “When the paper hit you. You looked… pissed.”

A tiny smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth, but it’s not mocking. It’s almost fond. Like he finds something about your anger kind of cute.

“I just… I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.” His voice drops lower, quieter, almost shy. “I wasn’t trying to be a jerk.”

He shifts slightly, one shoulder leaning against the lockers beside you now instead of crowding you completely. He reaches up and gently brushes a loose strand of hair from your forehead with two fingers. Your breath hitches before you can stop it.

“What were you trying to do?” Your voice comes out shakier than you wanted, more unstable.

Steve’s eyes soften at the sound of your voice, nervous, quiet, nothing like the confident girls he usually talks to. He swallows hard.

“I was trying… to get your attention,” he admits, no bravado now. Just honesty.

A beat passes.

Then another.

The janitor’s cart squeaks down the hall and disappears around a corner. The school feels hushed suddenly, like it's holding its breath too.

He licks his lips, nervous habit, and looks down for a second before meeting your eyes again.

“You never talk to anyone,” he says quietly. “You’re always in class alone with that book or walking by yourself between periods.” His head tilts slightly. “I’ve noticed you.”

Your stomach flips, not from fear this time, but something else entirely unfamiliar— being seen.

“You have?”

Steve nods, slow and serious—like this is the most important thing he’s said all day.

“Yeah,” he says. “For weeks.”

He leans in just a little, not enough to invade your space, but enough that you catch the faint scent of his cologne mixed with rain-soaked jacket.

“I mean… I see you,” he clarifies, voice warm now. “You’re always quiet, yeah, but you’ve got this look on your face sometimes when you read? Like… like something amazing’s happening in your head.”

A small smile forms, one of those rare ones that doesn’t show off for anyone else. One meant only for you.

“And I keep thinking… man, she probably thinks I’m an idiot.” He chuckles quietly at himself. “Which, I am, but not about this. Not about wanting to talk to you.”

Steve takes a tiny step closer, close enough that his shadow wraps around you both.

“So… I threw the paper,” he says with a half-smile. “Stupid move, probably. But I didn’t know how else to talk to you.”

He rubs the back of his neck, nervous Steve again, and for once, Hawkins High’s golden boy looks unsure. As if he actually cares if you’re mad at him.

“I just… wanted to say hi.”

A pause.

Then, quieter, “Do you hate me now?”

“No,” you reply quietly, barely above a whisper.

Steve’s whole face lights up, like someone just flipped a switch and turned on the sun. The tension in his shoulders melts away, and that bright, easy grin spreads across his face, the one that makes girls sigh at one glance their way.

“Oh thank god,” he breathes out with a soft laugh. “I thought for sure you were gonna call me an asshole.”

He leans back slightly now, more relaxed. Still close, but not crowding. Just there with you. For a moment, neither of you speaks. The silence isn’t awkward, it feels weirdly peaceful? Like maybe this is what normal conversations feel like when they’re not loud or performative or fake. He reaches into his jacket pocket, and pulls out another piece of folded notebook paper.

“You are an asshole.” Even insulting him, his face splits in half with the widest smile you think you’ve ever seen. Not only were you speaking up now, you were teasing him, and you even allowed a tiny smile to curve the edges of your lips. Steve laughs, a real, full laugh that echoes a little in the empty hallway. It’s loud and warm and so Steve, but it doesn’t feel obnoxious this time. It feels happy.

“Okay,” he says, still grinning like an idiot, “fair.”

He holds up the folded note between two fingers, then slowly extends his hand toward you again. This one isn't crumpled or thrown. This is an offering. An olive branch? A flirtation?

Who knows with Steve Harrington, but he's looking at you like you're something special now. Like your quiet sarcasm is a gift instead of something to mock.

His eyes flicker down to your mouth for half a second, just long enough for your heart to stutter, before meeting yours again with soft curiosity. You take the note, fingers gently brushing his as you do.

The second your fingers touch, Steve freezes. It’s just a brush, skin on skin for less than half a second, but his breath hitches like it was lightning.

He doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t make some dumb joke to cover the reaction. Just stares at you, eyes wide and suddenly so beautiful in the dim hallway light. Your fingers curl around the note as you take it, and he swallows hard, throat bobbing under that stupidly perfect jawline of his.

For someone who’s always so loud and confident, Steve Harrington is terrifyingly quiet right now. No smirk. No laugh with Tommy or Tammy backing him up. Just him looking at you like he's never seen anyone quite like this before—which maybe he hasn't?

You unfold the note slowly, carefully, like it might contain something fragile. Inside, in messy but still neater than you’d expected handwriting, “Will you go out with me?"

No jokes. No sarcasm. No "just kidding" written underneath.

Just that.

Simple. Direct. Heart-on-the-sleeve Steve Harrington for once in his life.

He’s not looking at you anymore, suddenly very interested in a spot on the floor near your shoes, as if he can’t bear to see your reaction yet, or maybe because he’s terrified of rejection from someone who actually matters to him.

You frown a bit at the words, this had to be too good to be true. There was no way in Hell Steve Harrington was seriously asking you out. “Are you messing with me?”

His heart stops at how dejected you sound, like that’s the only logical option for what’s happening here. Steve’s head snaps up the second he hears your voice. And when he sees your face, the frown, the doubt, that quiet hurt in your eyes, something like panic flashes across his.

“No,” he says instantly. “God, no.”

He reaches out without thinking and cups both sides of your face gently with his hands, warm palms against cool skin, and makes you look right at him.

“I’m not messing with you,” Steve says firmly. No teasing tone. No sarcasm. Just raw sincerity from a guy who doesn’t usually do serious well.

His thumbs brush lightly over your cheeks as if checking if this is real too. You glance around at either end of the hall, like you’re waiting for Tommy H. or one of his other friends to jump out and laugh at you, the weird girl who actually thought Steve Harrington of all people liked her, even for a moment.

Steve follows your gaze, left, then right, scanning the empty hallway. He sees it too. The doubt. The waiting for a punchline.

And his expression darkens, not with anger at you, but with something protective.

Before you can pull away or overthink it any longer, Steve leans in and kisses you.

It’s soft, gentle. Not like anything like his usual ones, the kind of kiss that doesn’t demand anything back right away, just gives itself quietly and sweetly on your lips.

No audience.

No laughter.

Just him, and this moment, and the way his hands stay cradling your face like you’re precious to him already.

Your eyes widen, body tensing when your brain finally catches up to what’s happening. Your hands move to his shoulders, to push him away or to hold onto him tighter, you’re not sure.

Steve feels the tension in your shoulders, the split-second hesitation, and he pulls back immediately, just enough to break the kiss, but he doesn’t let go. His hands slide down from your face to rest on your arms, thumbs gently stroking like a silent ‘I'm here.’

His eyes search yours, wide, worried now. Not hurt, but afraid he messed up.

For a heartbeat, neither of you breathe. Then, because you didn't push him away, because you're still holding onto his shoulders, a tiny hope flickers across Steve's face.

“What— what was that for?”

Steve’s lips part, and for once, the guy who always has a comeback, a joke, some smooth line, he’s speechless.

He blinks at you. Swallows. Then, in the softest voice you’ve ever heard from him, “I kissed you… because I really like you.”

No smirk. No teasing grin. Just pure honesty, vulnerable honesty, that makes your stomach flip all over again. Something terrifying occurs to you then, you don’t think he’s joking.

He licks his lips, adding quietly, “And… I was hoping that maybe… if we kissed first? You wouldn’t think it was a joke.”

A beat passes.

And suddenly Steve Harrington, the guy who dated cheerleaders and went to every party in Hawkins, looks terrified of being rejected by you.

“Oh.”

Steve stares at you, waiting for more than just ‘oh.’

His chest rises and falls quickly, nervous. Like he’s bracing for a blow.

You can see the gears turning behind his eyes: Did she hate it? Was I too fast? Did I ruin everything before it even started?

The hallway is so quiet now. Even the distant chatter from classrooms down the hall feels muffled.

And then slowly your hands, still resting on his shoulders, relax. Your fingers curl slightly into the fabric of his damp jacket. No push. No anger. Just silence, and maybe something else starting to grow beneath it.

“You can do it again,” you say so softly he would miss it if he weren’t still so close. “I mean, if you want to.”

Steve hears it.

Of course he hears it, because his whole world has narrowed to the space between your lips and his, to the quiet hush of your voice saying you can do it again. For a second, he doesn’t move. Like he’s making sure you meant that. Making sure this isn't a dream. A slow, tender smile spreads across his face. Not cocky. Not show-offy. Just happy.

Without another word, he leans in again and kisses you for real this time, soft at first, then slightly bolder when you don’t pull away. Instead, you lean further into him.

This kiss is warmer. Smoother.

Steve tilts his head just slightly, learning the shape of your mouth, how you feel against him, and one hand slides up to cradle the back of your neck, fingers threading gently into your hair. The other stays on your shoulder, anchoring you like he’s afraid you might disappear if he lets go. It’s not passionate or messy, it's sweet, careful. He wants to get this perfect, needs to. And when a quiet little sigh escapes you, unintentional but undeniably real, the sound makes Steve melt inside.

Steve deepens the kiss just a little, still gentle, still respectful, but now with more confidence. Like your soft sigh was permission to explore. His lips move against yours slowly, carefully. He doesn’t rush it like he might’ve done with other girls in the past. This is different. This is you. And Steve Harrington right now, is completely gone for you.

One of his hands slips down from your neck to rest on your waist, pulling you slightly closer, not trapping you, but inviting. Giving space if needed, taking space if allowed.

The hallway clock ticks loudly somewhere above you, the only sound besides your breathing and the quiet press of lips meeting again and again.

The bell rings out, loud and shrill, making you separate from him. You gently push him back, not enough to make him lose balance, but enough for him to get the hint and back up on his own. Any second now, the hall would be flooded with students, he wouldn’t want to be seen with you, especially not in such a compromising position.

Steve stumbles back half a step, more from surprise than force, as the bell continues to shriek through the halls. For a split second, his face falls. That soft, kissy glow gone now, replaced by reality— the end of class, students everywhere in less than 30 seconds. And yeah, maybe he’s worried about what people will say. Not because he cares if they see him with you, but because you’re quiet, reserved, and Steve knows how high school works. The gossip machine crushes anything that doesn’t fit their stupid norms and fast.

He quickly adjusts his jacket and runs a hand through his hair. His eyes dart toward the classroom doors where kids are already starting to pour out into hallways nearby, laughing, shouting over each other as usual.

Steve glances back at you, just for a second, and in that look, there’s something unspoken.

I don’t want to go.

But he can’t just stand here. Not with the halls filling, not if Tommy sees him lingering by you after kissing you like that. So instead of saying anything dumb, Steve does something simple. He grabs your hand, quick, quiet, and squeezes it once. A secret pulse of connection before reality crashes in.

Then he steps back completely, slipping into the stream of students emerging from classrooms down the hall, but not before flashing you one last small smile over his shoulder, the kind only you get to see right now. You stand there, frozen for a moment, hand still slightly warm from where his had touched yours.

The hallway is loud now, bodies everywhere. Lockers slamming. Groups of kids laughing and shoving past each other, but all you can focus on is the ghost of Steve’s kiss and the way he looked at you, like you were something special. Maybe you were.

Not just some quiet girl in the back of the class, but the one he kissed, the one that, for whatever reason, he was interested in.

Your cheeks burn as someone bumps into your shoulder, a jock with a gym bag who doesn’t even say sorry, and reality fully crashes back in— school life continues. No matter that your entire world just shifted five minutes ago in an empty hallway with the King Steve Harrington.

Later that night, while sitting in your room, your mind still occupied by the memory of Steve’s lips on yours, you hear something creaking outside your window. Moving to check what it was cautiously, you start to hear your heart racing in your ears. You pull back the curtains gently, bracing yourself for whatever may be lurking beyond them, and come face to face with none other than— “Steve?”

Steve is supporting his weight on your trellis, trying his hardest not to topple to the ground. He’s in a hoodie and jeans, no letterman jacket, just regular clothes. The second you pull the curtain back and say his name, he freezes, wide brown eyes lock onto yours through the glass. No smirk, no joke, just pure, wide-eyed hope, and maybe a little fear that you won’t let him in.

You open the window, allowing him to climb in. He does, but not before knocking over a stack of books on your desk with him, wincing at the thud they make when they crash to the floor. His eyes lock back onto yours after a moment, sensing the confusion etched onto your features. With furrowed brows, you cross your arms over your chest, “What are you doing here? And how do you even know where I live?”

Steve immediately crouches to start gathering the fallen books, “sorry, sorry,” mumbling under his breath.

“Your address,” he says, voice low and sheepish, slightly out of breath from the climb to your window. “I looked you up, in uh, in the white pages. That’s probably creepy, huh? Now that I’m saying it, it’s definitely creepy.”

He winces as he piles the books back onto your desk, The Hobbit, A Wizard of Earthsea, Dragonflight, and then straightens up.

“I shouldn’t have come,” Steve admits quietly. “But I had to.”

His eyes flicker over your face, the way you’re glaring at him with crossed arms and suspicion, and something in his chest tightens.

“I couldn’t stop thinking about today,” he says. “About kissing you. About how… how it felt like the first real thing I’ve done in forever.”

He swallows hard, suddenly looking less like Hawkins High’s golden boy and more like a guy who actually has feelings. Steve takes a small step toward you, careful, like you’re a spooked animal.

“And I didn’t want to wait,” he adds. “I kept thinking… what if she changes her mind? What if she regrets it? What if she thinks I was just messing around?”

His voice drops even lower, almost fragile now.

“I had to see you. Tonight.”

He reaches out slowly, not grabbing, not demanding, but just lifts his hand like an offer: can I hold your hand? Can we talk about this without the whole school watching? The streetlight outside casts soft light through your window onto his face.

“Well, now you see me.”

Steve exhales—half laugh, half relief, but it’s shaky. Like he wasn’t sure you’d let him in at all.

“Yeah,” he says softly. “I do.”

He stares at you for a long moment, taking in the quiet of your room— fairy lights strung around the ceiling, shelves full of books with spines cracked from rereading, a desk covered in notes and doodles.

It looks like you, peaceful, thoughtful, maybe a bit understated, nothing like his loud house parties or basketball locker room chaos. And then his eyes land back on yours, dark with something nervous and hopeful all mixed together.

“So, did you just come to talk or…?”

Steve’s breath hitches. Did you just imply what he thinks you did? His eyes dart to your lips, then back up, quickly, like he got caught doing something forbidden. A faint pink tinges his cheeks. Steve Harrington is blushing.

He licks his lips again, then takes one slow step closer. Without a word, because maybe words would ruin it, he leans in and kisses you.

This time, it’s different from the hallway kiss, softer at first, but bolder too. Like he's been thinking about this all night and now that he's here, he doesn't want to waste a second.

The kiss deepens when you bring a hand up around the back of his neck, tugging gently on the hair there.

Steve makes a quiet, breathy sound against your lips— oh— at the feel of your fingers in his hair.

It’s soft. Messy. His favorite part of himself to mess with when he's nervous. And now you're touching it? That tiny tug, that gentle pull, it sends a shiver down his spine, and suddenly Steve kisses you like he’s been starving for this all day.

He cups your face with one hand, tilting it slightly as the kiss gets deeper, warmer, hungrier but still sweet, not reckless or sloppy like makeout sessions might be at parties. This is meaningful. Like every second matters because it's you.

His other arm wraps around your waist and pulls you closer gently, until there's no space left between either of you.

He slowly backs you up into your bed, lips still locked in a passionate kiss. When the backs of your knees bump the side of your mattress, Steve gently lays you down underneath him.

Steve follows you down with careful balance, one hand braced beside your head—never putting weight on you, never rushing.

Your pink bedsheets smell like vanilla and laundry detergent. He takes a second to breathe it in, like he’s memorizing the moment.

Then his lips trail from yours, placing a soft kiss to your jaw, then lower, nipping gently at the curve of your throat before pressing an open-mouthed kiss right over your pulse point. It’s warm, wet, slightly ticklish, but in the best way possible.

And when he feels how fast your heart is racing under his mouth? Steve smiles against your skin, just a tiny curve of pride, and does it again, slower this time, savoring every shiver that runs through you beneath him.

Steve’s lips linger on your throat, kissing, nipping softly, before he trails lower, his breath warm against the delicate skin of your collarbone.

He’s being so careful. Like you’re something precious. Not rushing, not assuming anything, but when you tilt your head back slightly, a silent invitation, a quiet surrender, he takes it as permission to keep going.

Another kiss just above the dip of your shoulder, then one more beneath it, right where fabric meets skin and warmth pools between you two.

His hands stay gentle: one cradling the side of your face while the other rests lightly on his hip beside yours, not pushing for anything beyond this slow exploration yet, but wanting. Wanting so much more than a kiss in the hallway could ever could give him.

Steve’s breathing is uneven now, shallow, a little quick. He lifts his head slightly, just enough to look down at you beneath him. Your eyes are half-lidded. Your cheeks are flushed pink, the same shade as your sheets, your lips slightly swollen from kissing. Steve looks like a boy who just discovered heaven and doesn’t want to leave it ever again.

Without saying anything, he leans back in, and this time, his kiss lands softly on the corner of your mouth, slowly moving across to press one right in the middle of your lips, tender, sweet, full of everything unspoken between you two since that afternoon. Steve’s hands slide beneath the soft fabric of your hoodie, hesitant at first, fingertips barely grazing warm skin. They’re careful, respectful. Not grabbing or squeezing, just learning you.

His palms are warm against your sides, thumbs brushing over the curve of your waist as he leans into another kiss, deeper this time, more confident now that he feels you melting under him, not pulling away, not flinching.

A quiet sound escapes him, something between a hum and a sigh, as his touch grows bolder and his fingers trace small circles on your stomach underneath the thin layer of cotton. Steve’s touch grows bolder, gentle but sure now.

He lifts the edge of your hoodie slightly, just enough to press a soft kiss right above your belly button. A tiny, sweet gesture that makes his heart race. Your breath catches, eyes slightly widened as you stare down at his brown ones. Steve looks up at you from under his lashes, eyes dark with affection, maybe a little awe.

He sees the way you're watching him. The quiet surprise in your expression. The fact that you’re letting this happen, letting him be close like this, and it makes his chest swell.

Without breaking eye contact, he slowly pulls your hoodie higher, just enough to expose more of your stomach, and leans down again. This time, he kisses bare skin, right above the waistband of your shorts, a soft press of lips warm against cool flesh before gently nuzzling there for a second.

“Steve—“ The sound of his name on your lips, soft, uncertain, maybe even a little breathless, makes Steve freeze.

He lifts his head instantly. Not because he’s scared or embarrassed, but because you said his name, and it sounds so good coming from you. His eyes search yours again, warm brown pools full of concern and care now instead of just desire.

“Yeah?” he murmurs back, voice low and gentle, rougher than usual from kissing you so much. His focus is fully on you, ready to stop anything if that’s what you need right now.

“I’ve never—“ you blush, suddenly feeling small under his gaze. “Done anything… like this, you know?”

Steve’s expression shifts instantly, not with surprise or judgement, just a quiet understanding. So much softness floods his face that it almost hurts to look at. He doesn’t say anything for a second, just gently cups your cheek, thumb brushing over the warm pink of your blush like he wants to soothe you.

Then, quietly, “It’s okay.”

No teasing smirk. No “really? Never?” He just means it, it's okay. You don't have to be nervous around him, not about this, not ever if you're with him like this again later on. And then Steve does something sweet, he leans in and kisses your forehead. A slow, tender press of lips, gentle as a lullaby.

Your next words surprise him, “But I want to.”

Steve’s breath stops.

For a second, he just stares at you, eyes wide, lips slightly parted, pulse jumping. For once, the guy who always knows what to do with girls, or at least thinks he does, is completely still. Speechless. Then slowly, so carefully, a soft smile spreads across his face, not cocky or smug like usual, but pure happiness mixed with awe.

“Just… be gentle, okay?”

Steve nods, fast, like he’s taking a sacred vow. His expression is so serious, so reverent, that it doesn’t even look like the same Steve Harrington who jokes around with Tommy or flirts with everyone at parties. This version is all soft eyes and quiet devotion. Like you just handed him something fragile and precious, and he will not mess this up.

“Yeah,” he whispers, voice barely above a breath. “I’ll be gentle.”

He leans down slowly, so slow, and kisses you again— feather-light on your lips this time, patient and sweet and caring. Like every touch from here on out has to mean something because it's your first time wanting this, wanting him.

Steve’s hands hover at the edge of your waistband, fingers brushing the soft fabric, hesitant.

He kisses a slow trail down your stomach, one kiss just above your belly button, another lower, each press of his lips deliberate, tender. Like he's worshipping you without words. His breath is warm through the thin fabric of your shorts as he pauses for a second, waiting, making sure you're still okay, still wanting this.

Then, with careful fingers, so unlike his usual boldness, Steve gently hooks one finger into the elastic of your waistband and tugs, just slightly, not pulling it off yet, just testing the waters. A silent question in touch, can I go further?

You nod, breath catching in your throat as you watch with rapt attention. Steve sees your nod, hears the way your breath stutters, that tiny, nervous sound, the way you’re watching him, wide-eyed, heart pounding—it makes his own chest tighten with something huge. Responsibility. He swallows hard, lifting the fabric of your waistband just a little more and presses a kiss right to the soft skin beneath it, right above your womb, a patch of warm skin that’s never been kissed like this before.

Another pause. Another glance up at you, checking in without saying anything, making sure every inch is okay for you to go further.

Steve’s hands move with delicate precision—lifting the fabric of your shorts just enough to expose more of your skin, inch by soft inch.

He kisses each new patch as it appears: a soft press right above your hipbone, then another lower, along the curve where fabric meets flesh. His lips are warm. Gentle. Each kiss is slow, like he's memorizing you, not rushing toward anything but savoring this moment.

When his fingers finally slip under the waistband completely and hook around it properly, he waits again, eyes lifting to meet yours one last time, a silent question hanging in the air between you two.

Steve’s movements are slow, reverent, like he knows this is something sacred for you.

He pulls your shorts down over your hips, then lower, past your knees, gently off one foot, then the other. The fabric drops to the floor beside the bed with a soft sound.

Then he kisses his way up, starting at the back of your knee, soft presses of his lips, a light nip, gentle enough not to sting, another kiss on warm skin as his hands glide along your thighs. With quiet care, Steve parts them just slightly, not pushing too far yet, but making space so that if you want this, he can be close.

Steve settles between your legs, his body warm and solid, knees on either side of your hips, hands resting lightly on the bed beside you. For a moment, he just looks at you.

Not with hunger or impatience, but wonder. Like he can’t believe this is real. That you’re letting him be here like this, trusting him like this.

Then slowly, he leans down and presses a kiss to the inside of your thigh, soft as breath at first, then another slightly higher, each one careful, deliberate. His lips trail upward in feather-light kisses, not rushing toward anything specific yet, but building something quiet and tender between you two: trust, connection. A new kind of intimacy neither of you has shared together before tonight.

Steve’s breath hitches. He sees it, the faint dampness through the thin cotton of your panties. For him.

A rush of warmth floods his chest, not just pride, but something deeper— awe, affection, a quiet kind of wonder that you are reacting like this because of him.

His throat goes dry. For a moment, he doesn’t move, just stares, heart pounding in his ears louder than anything else in the world right now.

His eyes darken slightly as he stares at the spot, so soft, so private, and without a word, Steve leans down, pressing a slow kiss right over the cotton-covered heat between your thighs. His nose nudges your clit as he leaves soft kisses over the fabric, enough to make you shiver. Steve lingers there, lips moving gently over the fabric, testing.

Each kiss is warm, muffled by cotton but so intentional. Like he’s learning you through this thin barrier first, how you respond to pressure, where it feels best when he kisses, how your breath changes above him. His hands slide up your sides again, reassuring, as his mouth presses a little more firmly now, a slow drag of lips right over the center of that damp spot, waiting to see if you’ll arch into him or pull back.

Steve’s tongue flicks out, once, a teasing, wet swipe right over the damp fabric. It’s light, experimental. Not demanding, tasting. The cotton is cool from the air but warm where your body heat meets it and he can feel you through the thin material, softness, warmth, and that quiet pulse of arousal.

Another lick follows, slower this time, a long drag across the center of your panties as his nose brushes against you. He does it again with more confidence now, that same slow glide of his tongue over soaked cotton, like he's learning what feels good to you by instinct alone.

Steve feels your fingers tangle in his hair, tight, but not rough, and a quiet sound escapes him, half sigh, half moan. It sends a thrill through him.

He loves the feel of it—your hands gripping his messy brown strands like you’re anchoring yourself to him, or maybe guiding without words. And he leans into it, letting you hold on as he keeps licking slow circles over the fabric with warm, wet strokes of his tongue. Each one more deliberate than the last, the rhythm building slightly now that he knows you're responding. Your breath is getting faster, chest rising faster than before.

Steve feels the tension in your hands—the way your fingers curl tighter when he does something especially good, and it makes him bolder.

He presses his mouth more firmly against you now, lips parting slightly to kiss deeply over the damp cotton, then without warning, he gently sucks on your clit, just enough pressure to send a jolt through you, a quiet, wet suction that pulls at fabric and skin beneath. His tongue moves with it, circling slowly while he keeps gentle suction going, testing how much sensation this builds for you. And all the while, your hands are still fisted in his hair.

You let out a sharp gasp as he continues his ministrations, causing his eyes to meet yours, a small smirk playing at his lips. “You like that, huh?”

And when he sees your face, the flush, the wide eyes, the way your chest rose on that gasp, he feels something warm and proud bloom in his chest.

“Yeah?” he murmurs against you, voice low and velvety from being so close to where you’re most sensitive. Steve repeats it— another slow kiss, another gentle suction through the fabric, followed by a teasing nip of teeth over cotton-covered heat.

He brings a finger up towards your clothed heat, running it gently through fabric-covered folds, pushing in as much as he can through the barrier. “You’re so pretty.”

Steve’s voice is quiet, reverent, as he says it. It’s not a flirty line. Not something he’d say to impress someone. It’s genuine. Like the truth just spilled out because his heart couldn’t hold it in anymore.

His finger continues moving, soft, slow circles over the fabric-covered heat between your legs, pressing gently but never too hard. Testing. Learning how you respond through the thin layer. The way you arch slightly into his touch, the little hitches in your breath, they make him feel powerful, not like he's controlling anything, but like you're trusting him completely.

Steve’s mouth is on fire with focus, lips, tongue, soft suction, all working in rhythm over the damp fabric. He’s not thinking about himself. Not really. Sure, his jeans are uncomfortably tight. Sure, there's a dull throb low in his stomach, the kind that comes from wanting someone so badly it aches, but right now, you’re all that matters.

And he wants to make you feel good first.

A wave of arousal hits him and his hips jerk involuntarily against the mattress, the tiny shift of pressure barely helping to ease the tension, but he hardly registers it, too lost in kissing you like this— deliberate licks followed by gentle nips, then another warm kiss right on your clit through cotton. Every sound you make feeds him more confidence than any girl ever has before tonight.

Steve loses himself in the rhythm, kiss, lick, suck, the fabric getting damp from his mouth and your arousal mixing.

He’s breathing through it, shallow inhales when he pulls back for a second to catch air before diving right back in like he can’t stay away. Each time you gasp, each time your fingers tighten just so in his hair, it makes him bolder. Makes him want to push further, but still gently. Still patiently. His hips press down again into the mattress, subtle this time, not chasing relief just yet, just adjusting.

Steve pulls back just enough to whisper, lips still wet, voice rough with emotion and arousal. “You close, sweetheart?”

The pet name slips out, unplanned, unfiltered. Sweetheart. So unlike the loud, joking Steve Harrington everyone knows.

He looks up at you— your flushed face, your clenched thighs around his shoulders, the way your breath is coming in short little hitches, and he can tell, you’re right on the edge. His eyes are dark with affection, and something hotter, continuing his movements until you barrel over the edge.

Steve feels it, the moment you shatter. Your thighs lock around him like a vise, your back arching slightly off the bed as a quiet, breathy sound escapes you, maybe not even a full moan, but something just as powerful— pure release.

Your hands yank at his hair, not hard enough to hurt, but with desperate tension, as the wave crashes through you.

He doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t stop. Just keeps gently sucking and kissing through the fabric, softening now as he feels every tremble in your body, every pulse of pleasure rippling under his lips. Steve watches everything, the way your lashes flutter shut, the soft part of your lips. How peaceful, and overwhelmed, you look right after coming undone for him.

You catch your breath for a moment before meeting this gaze, still between your thighs. “Can I… should I, you know, help you now?”

Steve’s breath catches. “Help me?”

He blinks, surprised, touched, maybe a little overwhelmed that you’d even offer. That after all that intimacy, you’re thinking about him. For a second, he just stares at you, lips still slightly wet from kissing through your panties. His face is warm, not just from arousal now, but from the sweetness of it— you wanting to return something to him.

He shakes his head, moving upwards to hover over you again. His fingers trace gently over your jaw, “No, sweetheart. Tonight was just about you, okay?”

Steve leans down and kisses you, soft, slow, sweet, allowing you to taste yourself on his lips. He rests his forehead against yours afterward, breathing the same air as you, close enough to feel every tiny shift in your body.

“I’m good,” he murmurs with a small smile, the kind that’s pure affection. “Honestly? Seeing you like that… hearing those sounds? That was more than enough.”

“Next time then?”

Steve’s heart stops before starting again, harder, faster, like a drum in his chest. Next time?

A slow, dazed smile spreads across his face, big and genuine and so full of joy that it almost doesn’t look like the same Steve Harrington who walked into your room nervous twenty minutes ago.

“Yeah,” he says softly, voice thick with emotion. “Definitely next time.”

And then he kisses you again, not passionately or urgently like before, but sweetly. A promise sealed in lips— this isn’t just a one-time thing for him.

He wants more nights like this too.