yeah, screw you too.

“I think if you tried it, you’d really like it,” Stacy encourages from the other side of the concession stand counter. She’s twirling a straw around her ring coated fingers, elbows balanced on the tacky checkered countertop on the concession stand and her eyes sparkling behind her glasses as she pleads for you to join her at the roller rink next week.

“I don’t know,” you grumble, chewing on the straw of your soda. The thought of you on roller skates already makes your body feel sore from the inevitable ass bruises. You’d never consider yourself to be the coordinated type. “It feels like a humiliation ritual.”

Stacy’s nose wrinkles in disapproval, a pout forming as her arms cross firmly over her chest, her wrists adorned with different kinds of bracelets chime at the swift motion. You avoid her burning gaze and pretend the ice in your styrofoam cup is more interesting. You don’t have to look at her to know she’s starting to lose patience for your stubbornness.

You have to give her credit for being a real friend to you lately considering how embarrassingly unwell you handled your breakup plus Steve quitting the bowling alley on top of just disappearing from Hawkins for three months. The first thirty days were brutal. A lot of isolation, a new bad habit of drinking when you were sad, watching too many movies to attach to whatever female protagonist could inspire you for the week, looping The Cure tapes like it was your day job when you kept calling in sick to your real one; and yet, Stacy was the first to call you to have an impromptu sleepover or any type of distraction from your self-loathing phase.

Despite her personal distaste for Steve, she’s not an idiot—she knows what the infamous Harrington Curse looks like and you fell victim to it. Stacy never blamed you when you told her about everything. She definitely didn’t call you a lying whore like you prepared yourself for, but offered you a sympathetic drive home from work that day with a stop for ice cream along the way.

It’s been kind of hard having your best friend be so far away in Indianapolis. Not to mention, the last time you spoke, it didn’t really go as well as Stacy’s reaction.

“You what?” “I know, it’s crazy—“ “It’s more than crazy, it’s basically insane—“ You try to laugh off your nerves into the phone receiver but she interrupts you bluntly. “I mean, what the hell were you thinking?”

Your stomach drops and it feels like your blood runs cold. Her tone was so harsh, she’s never sounded so judgmental with you before. You shake your head with confusion despite her inability to see you, your voice cracking and trembling with new nerves. “What? You’re the one who told me to wear cute undies just in case—“

“Yeah, as a joke! I didn’t think that meant you’d open your legs and let him rip them off you at the first opportunity you had? I mean, seriously, since when did you become a slut? Overnight?”

Your teeth were digging into your quivering bottom lip almost hard enough to draw blood.

You don’t even remember how the rest of that call went. Everything felt blurry between your vision full of steaming tears to your brain that couldn’t handle more polarizing changes if it tried. You haven’t even heard from her in a record amount of days since.

Everything felt so tilted, so wrong, proving that once again that night in Steve’s bedroom created an alternate timeline where everything normal in your life would get flipped upside down. Even with the newer and more depressing adjustments to your routine, Stacy’s been a really good friend in comparison; with her natural ability to sense what you need as soon as when you start to miss Steve or your “old life” as she calls it, but that doesn’t mean struggling for balance on eight wheels while disco blares in your ears is the best idea.

Stacy’s like, “Don’t you think distracting yourself with new experiences could be a good thing for you right now?”

You snort at the idea of a therapy session as if you aren’t hearing pins getting smacked by bowling balls in between every other word. “Yeah, I could pick up experimenting with psychedelic drugs or something,” you jest with a convincing tone.

Stacy sighs as she expertly drizzles mustard on a hotdog for the uppity forty-something waiting in line as he’s currently subjected to listening to you two bicker. She doesn’t even look at him when she haphazardly slides the flimsy basket tray in his direction, it nearly gliding off the edge of the counter and onto his pristine and hideous intensely cyan polo. From the corner of your eye, you can see him scoff in offense and you have to resist the instinct to grin.

You mimic her sigh just as dramatically. “Maybe some of us find comfort in our routine and habits—like being at home and watching a movie in peace,” you retort.

Stacy has this stare that you think could turn you into one of the little ice cubes floating around in your orange soda. She’s unamused and not even pretending to entertain your creature-of-habit excuses. “All you do is rot around and complain,” she grumbles.

Ouch? You grimaced in response. “Maybe.”

“Try definitely,” she huffs. “You have the opportunity to reinvent your life and start over and you want to wallow in bed, listening to sad music and pretend that’s healthy.”

It’s kind of ironic being teased for being a homebody by Stacy, who famously hates most people and things. Maybe—no, definitely, you owed her this.

Before you understand what you’re doing, you commit to at least one full ride around the roller rink track with the exception she had to join you for an equally torturous time doing something you enjoyed.  She’s never been the type to squeal in excitement, but you can tell by the way her posture suddenly grew taller to match her growing smile, she was elated.

“Wicked.” Her lips twist into a playful sneer, her expression of pure mischief that makes you fearful for what you agreed to.

———————————————

“Shoe Girl!”

A voice bellows down the brick hallway of the employee area, right next to the bar by the arcade. The smell of cigarettes manages to linger down even the deepest hallways of the bowling alley.

You finish fiddling with your lock, routinely slinging your bag over your shoulder and looking up to catch the face with the familiar tone.

Of course, there’s a lanky boy with a dark mess of curls and baggy clothes that rustle with each bounce of his step jogging towards you. His feet come down in heavy stomps due to his size and the rhythm of his saunter reminds you of a dog happy to see his owner.

“Arcade Boy!” you yell back over the satisfying metal slam of your locker. You weren’t usually a nickname person, but reclaiming Shoe Girl to exclusively be a “Clark Thing” has really helped you make a better memory from that infamous night. Plus, it’s cute when he says it.

Clark’s expression is as warm as the sun when he finally catches up to you. His final stomp is more of a hop, feet promptly landing together in front of you in some sort of gymnast way. “Hi,” he says out of breath, all his teeth showing when he smiles this big.

Despite the obvious getting-to-know-you adjustments, it’s been pretty great having the familiarity that’s built between you two since Steve left.

One day, he just kind of started sitting next to you at the shoe booth, usually with a comically large slice of greasy pizza and a Coke, rambling to you about a kid at the arcade running up an unbeatable high score or about his drum kit he’s still working on.

It was a pretty grim afternoon at the bowling alley the first day he plops in the vinyl coated stool next to you without warning—what was Steve’s seat. Clark goes, “You know I play the drums?”

You had just gotten to the really good part of your novel where the killer had been unveiled, a dramatic twist leaving your heart hammering, so you can’t help but jump at Clark’s sudden drop-in. Your gasp is embarrassingly dramatic, nearly throwing the book from your lap, and you’re practically coughing for air as his eager eyes continue to just blankly peer into yours as he awaits your response.

“What?” you squeak out, desperately downing some leftover soda float from Stacy earlier. She had been experimenting with different combinations and the orange soda with vanilla ice cream was your latest favorite.

“I play drums,” Clark says again, his elbows now leaning back on the counter behind him as he lounges so confidently when you’re definitely meant to at least look like you’re working.

Instinctively, you look around to see if anyone, especially Rod, is watching—more or less if Clark really had no other options but to sit with you. Given the graveyard of empty lanes and most of the remaining coworkers being slim to none, you gave in to entertaining him. Best case scenario, he was Steve’s friend; he could end up dropping a few hints about any updates since Steve hadn't bothered to call you once he got to Florida. Asshole.

“Drums are… cool,” you land on, stumbling in your unsure tone.

“You should come see me play,” Clark suggests, a smile as cheesy as the slice he had nearly finished already. His thumb swipes at some leftover sauce by the corner of his lips and you try not to watch too closely, but it’s hard not to.

Clark was cute, really cute, and if you didn’t know any better, it kind of sounded like he was coming onto you—but you’re newly in recovery after playing stupid games and winning even more stupid prizes.

“I don’t know…” you trail off, your lips pursing in a way that gets his attention too. You notice and try to play it off, relaxing your shoulders in any attempt to look normal—whatever that means.

“You can invite whoever, even Stacy—“ you try not to snort at his comment as he rambles on, “It’s at The Dog & Bone downtown. You know where that’s at? My band finally got a real gig and it’s a bar, our tabs are totally gonna be open. It’s gonna be so rad, man, our biggest crowd yet probably.”

Clark’s words coming out in a blur as he speaks with so much excitement. It’s kind of infectious. He crumpled up his paper plate and expertly tosses it into the closest trash bin; even with its abnormal shape, it’s dunked with ease.

“It would be cool to look out and see you, Shoe Girl,” he sighs, dusting the crumbs from his palms onto the already decaying carpet before the remaining bits onto his light wash jeans. You notice his shirt says The Violent Femmes and it rides up a little when he stretches.

Stacy was right; new experiences are good for you and you really needed a pick-me-up. Sometimes, there are things that can really only be cured with alcohol and live music.

His infamous red Converse scuff at the same dingy carpet your eyes were trained on before you finally have the courage to meet his gaze. “I’ll be there,” you promise, already planning what to say to rope Stacy into coming with you.

That was nearly two weeks ago and here Clark stands before you, a phantom tail wagging behind him with excitement as the day of the gig is finally tomorrow.

“Hi,” you mock his tone, but he’s too psyched to notice.

“You’re for sure coming, right?” Clark’s side collides with the metal of the lockers, his posture always reading relaxed even when he’s wired like this.

Ever since that first day, he’s been talking over details and explaining his star-studded ideas to you. It’s clear this is a big deal to him. New friends or not, you’re someone who wasn’t going to let anyone feel discouraged from following their passions and Clark wanting to be the next John Bonham or Tommy Lee wasn’t any different.

“I’m so there.” You promised after all.

Clark rolls from his side and onto his back in relief against the lockers, all the metal locks that hang start clinking in response. “Thank fuck,” he mutters to himself, almost convincing you he was nervous, but then the corners of his lips extend into an infamous smirk and his eyebrows raise with intrigue. “You’re bringing Lacy Stacy?”

Without missing a beat, the back of your hand collides with the solid mass of his chest. He pretends it hurts, rubbing the area with a laugh as you shush him, hoping no one was trying to eavesdrop on two whisper-yelling degenerate bowling alley employees. “Don’t call her that! You know it pisses her off and I just got her to accept you as not a total douchebag,” you frown, adjusting your bag that’s felt heavier on your shoulder all of a sudden.

The nickname is hardly a compliment.

After you started talking to Clark regularly, even hanging out on occasion, Stacy obviously held her guard up in response. She’s made it pretty clear that she’s not interested in any of the “pod people” of Hawkins and considering Clark wasn’t exactly King of Hawkins, he was at least the Knight… or maybe the Jester.

Clark is funny, sometimes to a fault. The first time you got to see his place, it was for band practice in Clark’s basement with a couple people from work hanging out, drinking, playing games in between songs when Stacy bent over the bowling alley’s bartender, Mark, in a game of Twister. Putting right hand on red ended up putting her lacy thong peaking out of her jeans on full display—quite literally her being caught red-handed.

Stacy was notorious for having a stone cold expression, a short temper, and little tolerance for much of anything, so there was a quiet shock around the room to know she owned something that sexy. Not a lot happens in a small town, so something remotely deemed out of character for someone is enough to get them attention—unwanted or not.

Clark was the first wolf whistle, followed by other hoots and hollers in response, earning the name Lacy Stacy. Stacy vowed to never go back to Clark’s place again.

Clark rolls his eyes, “I’m not a douchebag—her standards for basic human beings are just too high.” You snort, wondering if it’s your robotic tendencies that you were once teased relentlessly for are actually what Stacy celebrates in a friendship with you. Maybe he was right, but at least you passed.

“Just don’t bring it up tomorrow night, okay? Please?” you beg, your hands woven in prayer. “She’s already making me go rollerblading or roller skating, whatever—“

“Gross,” Clark chimes in, reaching for your bag to throw over his own shoulder with ease as you both head towards the glowing neon red Exit sign. He didn’t have to, but he insisted with giving you a ride home on the days you took the bus.

“I know,” you sigh while tucking some escaped tufts of your hair behind your ear as you try to keep up with his much wider leg-span, “but I only said yes in agreement she comes to your show so, you’re welcome, actually.”

Clark throws his head back in a real laugh, the dimples deepening in his cheek as he does so. You had to squint to block the sun from your eyes whenever you had to look up at him. He was so tall and so dorky, but boyishly cute. His energy was completely different from Steve’s, despite being one of his closer friends. Clark reminded you of the familiarity you feel around a childhood crush—not that you had a crush. He just had a way of effortlessly coming across so cool, it’s hard not to admire the natural charisma and magnetic energy he has.

“I know what I’ll do, to close out the show, I can write a song called Thank You, Lacy Stacy…” he clears his throat before he’s singing like he’s Rick Springfield and the parking lot is his concert arena, “your eyes, stormy like a grey sea, red lace around your hips that make me go crazy, oh Stacy—“

You give him another playful shove, his top heavy frame compromised as he stumbles over in laughter without completely missing his footing.

“Whaaat? I’m being nice!” Clark whines before unlocking his Station Wagon.

The metal is painted this really gorgeous pastel blue color. It suits Clark. The interior reminds you of Steve’s car which used to make the rides home harder, but instead of spearmint and cotton, it smells like sticky weed and designer cologne. Plus, Clark is always blaring AC/DC and Van Halen on the way home, so the vibe is totally different. He drums on the wheel with way more enthusiasm than Steve ever did and his sound system is rigged with the most modern updates so it feels like you’re at a real rock show while in the wagon. You try to hold conversation when it comes to car stuff, but it’s kind of above your head. You do know he calls her—the car—Martha, but it’s bad enough how much he cares about his drums, Clark really doesn’t need to ramble about another love of his life.

“I talked to Steve the other day,” he says suddenly while stretching his seatbelt across his chest. You wish you had one inside your ribcage to keep your heart in place.

“Oh?” you spurt out from the surprise. It’s not like it’s been weeks since you heard from Steve. Months, actually. Since he left Indiana, really.

Clark checks his rearview mirror as he backs away from the bowling alley parking lot, he does that thing where he stretches his arm to reach your headrest. It leaves a weird warmth in your stomach despite the conversation being about Steve. “Yeah, I was telling him about tomorrow, he’s stoked for the band and said he wishes he could be there, whatever. He’s totally miserable,” he snickers, fishing for an unfinished cigarette from his last fifteen minute break. You’ve grown accompanied to the smell and expect them on your rides home—sometimes taking the offer to puff one if it’s been a really bad day. Clark calls them his “after work treats.” You could afford to pick up one of his bad habits in the time you’ve spent together.

“Miserable?” you parrot while simultaneously reaching for the lighter on your side of the dash to assist as he drives. Clark’s dimple deepens as he strains to grin, watching you carefully light the cigarette between his teeth as he navigates out of the parking lot.

“Mhm,” he mumbles with an inhale before blowing out the window like as much of a gentleman as he could be. “I don’t know how much he’s talked to you about stuff—“ Not really anything, ever. “—but his uncle is a hard ass. Old Marine type or some shit, kind of a weird guy.”

You nod, trying to follow and not focus on how loud your heartbeat feels in between your ears.

“Like whatever, man, you’re in the sunshine! We’re in this grey shithole.” Clark’s hand comes down on the steering wheel with emphasis as he barks out a laugh. You try to mimic his lighthearted energy, but something in you feels like a tire with a nail stuck in the side, air slowly deflating out but you’re convinced you can make the drive home. He takes another serious inhale before he’s blowing the smoke towards the sky, you watch it perfectly camouflage to the autumnal overcast skies of Hawkins. The temperature had already dropped significantly as the sun started to set before you’ve even had dinner. Shithole was pretty accurate.

You’re disappointed there wasn’t really much of an update and prying was just going to be dangerous to your mental health. It stung to know he was remembering to call Clark, but didn’t even consider to just pass on a “hello.”

Maybe you were really delusional. There was a chance Steve was nice to you out of pity. He saw a girl he worked with that he considered rigid and serious (robotic, he’d say), knew she could be some sort of “challenge” for his ego, maybe get her to leave her boyfriend even if he was worth the loss, have all of this build up to unfortunately mind blowing sex, then never call. It was disappointing to know Steve Harrington was the guy who is your friend, kind of, until he fucks you and realizes there isn’t space for you in his life anymore. Regardless of his role in your life over the last couple of months, it’s clear that the universe had sent you a lesson through a man with great hair and hoped you learned something.

—————————————————————

The sun was hot. So hot. Hotter than anything Steve has experienced in Bum Fuck, Indiana. It didn’t matter that this was supposed to be the time of year when the leaves are changing colors and the nights get colder, this was Florida.

His skin felt uncomfortably sticky from the sweat that beaded on him from quite literally head to toe. A drop of sweat flecks from his brow to bounce gracefully onto his dark lashes, he squints from the initial burn. Despite his best efforts to remember to wear sunscreen and maybe not drink a beer (though it’s so hard to resist a Corona and lime on ice in weather like this) before being in the Florida sun working in drained pools all goddamn day, he had just been following his uncle’s lead.

Uncle Kent was a hard working man who never wanted his share of the Harrington Hand-Outs, that much was always clear. Steve’s father always struggled in describing his brother, but seemed to always land on the same string of adjectives: “distant”, “uncooperative”, “childish”, “stubborn”, and most deservedly “estranged.”

The truth is, Uncle Kent didn’t need the help as badly as Steve needed his uncle’s help. Over the course of the summer, he’s felt motivated to really get his shit together—wonder why. Between getting kicked out of his parent’s house to hopping from one lousy job to the next without a career goal in sight, things were feeling a little bleak. He’d spent the next couple of months at a bowling alley, sweeping hideous carpet and listening to children scream and cry knowing that couldn’t be his future. It’s not that life was getting miserable, but a little mundane is fair to say. Though, he had great friendships—like Clark, for instance.

Clark helped Steve get the job at the bowling alley and off his parent’s sofa when Steve had nowhere else to go. He was also the kind of friend to keep Steve intoxicated or high, sometimes somewhere in between, to help get through these rougher adjustments. Steve never asked to grow up so fast. It’s just been a habit for as long as he could remember. As much as he really does adore his childhood nanny, there was still a lot of growing pains he handled alone.

Steve’s breath coming out in a shallow pant as he chisels away at the tile border of this gaudy pool. The design is a bright aqua with coral seashell decals and the smell of lingering chlorine could make him sick. The sun blazing on his tanning skin feels like light punishment for his recent behavior. At least he told himself that as his chest continued to rise and fall with each heave of his chisel working at the tile border. Like the tile, he’d continue to chisel away at himself until he became more levelheaded. Intentional. Stable.

Hard work was already teaching him a lot about discipline. Sharing a household with a grumpy old man who doesn’t say much other than bark an order or let Steve know dinner was on the table, always something simple like steak and potatoes. He didn’t want to end up like his Uncle Kent, but that didn’t mean he didn’t have a lot to learn from him either.

The typical Harrington vanity and arrogance that Steve wore like a badge of pride was feeling more like a genetic curse. With being so removed from everything he knew (everything he ruled over) in Hawkins felt like a fresh start. For once, Steve was being confronted with who he was, without distraction or ego boosts, and only himself to help him realize a few things.

For starters, he was really shit at communicating if he wasn’t relying on some kind of beneficial exchange,  whether that be status or sex. He was used to kind of just getting what he wanted without really needing an explanation as to why or whether or not deciding if he ever wanted it to begin with.

He had never felt like more of a cliche than the moments where he stayed alone with himself, reflecting on his past behaviors while sinking deeper in the sand and watching waves crash against the shore in the moonlight. He could have been better, in a lot of instances. Not just with you, but with everyone… everything. He would be better.

Steve knew you were pissed, though.

It’s the only reason you hadn’t been answering his calls. That first voicemail still sounded hopeful. “Hey, uh, it’s Steve! Harrington. From the bowling alley. Or not, since I quit. Anyway, I thought you should know the humidity down here is ruining my hair. I figured that’d make you laugh. Call me back so I can hear it.”

By the eleventh one, he started to lose momentum and eventually hit a wall. “You know, for someone who shows up at my door to bitch me out over not communicating enough or whatever, you have a lot of fucking nerve ignoring my calls after—you know what? Whatever, you win. Okay? I’m sorry? Is that what you wanted to hear? Did I fucking miss something? I’m sorry—for yelling now, for everything, all of it… okay? Just… call me back and tell me what I did. Bye.”

It was actually starting to feel humiliating, dialing your number on his uncle’s rotary for the eighth time in the span of two days following that and having to hear the inevitable slam of hanging it back up when you predictably don’t answer. Physical labor was a great distraction, but you were so confusing. His mind hasn’t stopped thinking about you since he left your driveway. He thought he left things with you in a good spot.

What were you so pissed about? I mean, Steve blames himself for your breakup, but he would never feel bad about it either. He fucking hated that guy. He knew you didn’t deserve to be with someone like your ex, but is he really much better? Maybe you finally resented him enough that you thought sex was like closure. Steve could reason with that, to a certain extent. There was a lot of built-up tension, teasing back and forth, it had to come up to surface eventually and there’s a chance you were disappointed or underwhelmed.

Steve chewed on the inside of his cheek as he pondered his worth to you.

“‘Scuse me, handsome?” A singsongy voice with a tilted southern drawl cuts through Steve’s mental spiral.

He whips his head up towards the direction it came from, a body made of nothing but curves blocking the sun from his squinted vision. Her skin was naturally a deep olive, dark curly hair that was pinned up in a way that still framed her face, her figure like an hourglass decorated in an animal print one-piece that left little to the imagination.

Steve’s mouth instantly went dry. He just kind of gawked at her while her ruby painted lips spread wider across her face. “You’ve been workin’ so hard on my pool, I wanted to thank you. Would you like some sweet tea? I made it myself,” the woman practically sings as her heeled sandals click against the decorative pathway, leading her directly to Steve who now rested his arms comfortably on the pool’s edge, beaming up at her.

Normally, Uncle Kent did all the talking with the clientele. However, he was out running some errands for more materials while Steve’s job was to keep his head down and work, which he had been doing a pretty good job of doing for the last month and a half, but old habits die hard.

She was definitely married, definitely at least in her late thirties, and definitely flirting—right?

“Thank you,” Steve huffs out as he impressively hoists himself up by his arms to stand beside her outside the pool. “I’ve never had sweet tea,” he confesses, flustered.

Her gasp is theatrical, placing a decorated hand over her mostly exposed chest. Steve noticed the massive diamond on her finger that glinted in the sun’s rays, the long acrylics in the same shade as the lipstick she wore. “Well, at least I know mine will be the best you’ve ever had then!”

Steve dares to look at her then. Her eyes are hidden behind a pair of sunglasses that probably cost as much as her pool renovation. Her smile grows seeing Steve’s face in full view, playfully cocking her head to the side the slightest as she extended her hand for him to shake. “Theresa,” she announces.

Steve rubs at the back of his neck with his free hand as he ignores the condensation of the glass dripping all over his other hand. “Oh, m’dirty, I wouldn’t—“

“I don’t mind,” she says so quickly that Steve can’t help but breathe out half of a laugh before taking her much softer, cleaner, hand into his newly calloused grip.

“Steve." His throat bobs as he swallows, the taste of the sweet tea coating his tongue. The flavor is something sweet and familiar like a maple candy, but more earthy from the tea leaves.

Theresa nods, glancing mischievously at how Steve’s tongue darts out to collect the sugar from his lips while he’s struggling on where he should look that still felt respectful to the customer. If word got back to his uncle that he was some kind of womanizing pool boy, it probably wouldn’t be great for the business and he’d be forced back onto a plane to Indiana before sunset if not beaten to death by the old Marine himself.

“What’d ya think?” Her chin points in the direction of the glass in his clutched grip. She’s noticing the veins in his hand that cascade up his forearm, the skin that’s been tanned from the sun and glistening with his sweat. Her eyes eventually finding his biceps and shoulders, both sculpted from hard work and she’s wondering what else Steve could work on for her. Mindlessly, her sunglasses find themselves from once resting on the bridge of her nose to the handle idly between her teeth, teasing him while simultaneously controlling her growing appetite to not devour him right there for all of the neighbors to see.

“S’good, really good.” He says, taking another sip and the dripping condensation has the audacity to mark his chest as the glass is tilted up to meet those incredibly pouty lips. Just as Steve is about to thank her for her southern hospitality, she extends another offer. “D’you want to taste something even sweeter?”

Steve peered at her over the glass of tea, they exchanged a glance he recognized before. As she undid her hair clip with a confirming shake and started walking towards the entry of her huge estate in the middle of Miami without a husband around, his eyes remained trained on her like an animal on the hunt as she lead him up to one of the bedrooms.

At the end of the day, this is where Steve thrived. Feeling needed in a way that can only be achieved through an act that forces him to feel so human. It’s not that this was all Steve was good for, but he recognized this was all he was really good at.

Sex was easy, it was fun, and most notably, it was an escape from reality—something they both seemed desperate for.

It was pathetic, but not being able to go to Clark’s gig that he told him about, mentioning you were going to support him, it was distracting him more than he’d like to admit. It was harder to get over how easily it was for you to adapt, to grow, than it was for him. You were having fun with his friends, you sounded more carefree than ever, all because he wasn’t around. He left the state of Indiana to forget about all of those feelings, that addiction to feeding his ego, but he wouldn’t let go that easily.

He would never see this woman again, but he gave her everything he had with his hand cradling her throat as his hips bucked behind her, her cries of pleasure echoing off the marble furnishings. Theresa continued to chant praises at him, beg for more, shake beneath him and tear at his back with those damned acrylics.

He wondered how a woman like Theresa could have it all—the house, the money, the cars, the looks—and still crave something Steve could give her. It made him feel good to provide something that someone so stable like her husband still couldn’t do.

This was his strength. This was his truth. His value based on performance, his charisma and experience setting him apart from the rest.

As she climaxes for the umpteenth time, Steve decidedly gives into his own pleasure. His eyes are closed so tight that it’s creating a twinkling night sky in his vision where he focuses on how she feels wrapped around him and quivering, but his memories betray him with a flash of how you looked in the shower that final day with the steam surrounding the both of you and how your mouth hung agape from the impact of each of his thrusts.

Your lips, not painted red with lipstick but swollen and pink, soft and bitten, how you tasted like apple and warmth and not of sweet tea and Avon.

Steve’s hips jolt differently at the memory, leaving the woman beneath him absolutely writhing in pleasure. His grip on her could leave bruises, trying to keep his eyes closed just as tight so he can remember you in as much detail as he can before the moment ends. Steve’s body betrays him, spilling into her and collapsing shortly after in a ragged pant. He keeps his eyes closed, ignoring the glee and delirium of giggles next to him, just trying to ride his come down while still envisioning only you.

——————————————-

“I got called Miss today. Can you believe it? I’m not even halfway to thirty and I’m getting Miss from the youth of today.” Stacy crosses her arms, falling back into the booth seat.

The corners of your lips curve upward as you try to control your sarcasm. “Hm, maybe calling kids ‘the youth of today’ isn’t really helping your cause.”

“Little shits, more like,” she quips.

“Obviously. Clark told me about some kids nearly broke one of the machines just to beat some legendary high score on Dig Dug.”

Stacy snorts. “Is it Clark’s score?”

“He wishes. Someone called MADMAX.”

Her brows rise with intrigue. “Mysterious.”

“It’s probably just a nerd with a bowl cut pretending to sound like a wrestler or something. Still more entertaining than anything that goes on at the shoe booth.”

Stacy’s nose wrinkles up, her braces catch the light as she starts to laugh. “I don’t know how you smell feet all day.”

“The smell of cigarettes and mildew really add to the ambiance,” you joke.

Her laugh picks up, “I can’t say hot dogs and pizza are much better.”

“What about vomit on space-themed carpet?” A familiar voice comes from around the corner as Clark enters in, throwing his denim jacket next to you on the booth seat while he pulls up a dining chair to sit at the front of the table. “Good to see you, ladies.”

Stacy immediately sighs.

“What?” Clark laughs, obviously aware of her distaste for him.

“Nothing, just breathing,” she mutters while avoiding his playful gaze. Your lips twist to the side to hide a smile but his grin never faltered.

“Right,” Clark notes, sounding unconvinced, but amused nonetheless. She goes back to twisting her rings around her fingers, pretending not to listen to whatever it is he has to blab about this time. “Gig tonight, you’re going,” he points to you, then shifts his body to point at Stacy, “and you’re going?”

Stacy’s face twists into confused disgust. “Oh, as if—!” she starts, but you reach for her hands across the table and start begging.

“No, please!” you’re laughing, but you hope she see your sincerity. “I promised to do roller blading—“

“Roller-skating,” she corrects you without so much missing a beat.

“Yes,” you shake your head, “of course, rollerskating!”

Clark’s eyes are busy darting between the both of you, completely transfixed on the comedy of it all, sneaking a rogue French fry or three from your table as you continue your sales pitch.

“In the case that if I go rollerskating with you—“

“When you,” she corrects again, a very small smile teasing the corners of her lips as she fights the ridiculousness of it all.

You take in a sharp inhale and try one last time, “In exchange for going to the roller rink with you, which I will be doing, do you think, for a second, if there’s any chance or possibility, you could come see the band tonight?”

There’s a shuttering silence as your hands continue to clasp hers, Clark behaving by being silent and hanging on every second with just as much anticipation as you were.

Stacy looks at you, then at Clark, then back at you before a defeated sigh pushes past her lips. “Okay—“

It didn’t matter what she said after, you and Clark had already celebrated and thanked her plenty.

Stacy tried to fight the warmth in her heart growing enough that it blossomed a blush across her face and even harder to fight the smile that followed soon after.

————————————————————————-

When the phone rings, Steve is on his feet in record time. Maybe you were finally calling to have a truce before he flies home to Indiana next weekend. Maybe word got back to you that he’d been in town soon and you’d want to clear the air.

“Get that damn phone or I’m gonna yank it off the fuckin’ wall—!” Uncle Kent yells over the incessant ringing, hardly turning his head away from Jeopardy on the TV.

It was another night of TV trays and bowls of chili-like spaghetti on the couch.

“I’ve got it!” Steve barked back at him from the kitchen before taking the call. Though he silenced the ringing, he hadn’t pressed the phone to his ear yet. Not yet, not until he takes a deep breath and prepares for the possibility it’s the conversation he’s played out in his head over the past 3 months.

Swallowing hard, he brings the phone to his ear. “Hello?”

“What took you so fuckin’ long? I thought I called the wrong number for a second,” Clark snickers into the receiver and the sound is like nails on a chalkboard at this point.

Steve sucks his teeth in disappointment, doe eyes already wandering to catch the trivia question on the small screen his uncle yells at in the background.

“S’going on, man?” Clark tries again, “are you turning into a leather couch from all the sun yet, or what?”

Admittedly, Steve can’t help but breathe out a laugh at his friend’s stupidity. Ridiculous, he thought. “Yeah, man, I’m actually a recliner now,” Steve jokes along and it earns a comforting cackle from the other end of the line.

“Ooh, keep it warm for me, baby!” Clark howls before adding, “you come home soon, right? I can throw you a housewarming party!”

Although Clark can’t see him, Steve’s broad shoulders shrug in response before he says, “Sure, whatever.”

“Whatever,” Clark mocks with a scoff. “I know we’re no Miami, but you can sound a little more excited to see your friends, dick.”

Steve hears a fake condescending tsk sound that actually makes him smile enough that his teeth gleam even in the fluorescence of his uncle’s kitchen. “Sorry,” he sighs, “just a hard work day, but I got pretty good at doing tile, so—“

“Famously popular in Indiana, by the way,” Clark chimed in sarcastically, earning another eye roll from Steve.

“Alright, well, you never know!” Steve’s voice escalating in defense. “It was a job, I needed the break.”

Clark snorts, clearly unconvinced, “Right, from the… bowling alley.”

There was a brief silence as Steve contemplated hanging up right then and there. They didn’t need to see each other to imagine their matching expressions, both of which would twist into knowing smiles and laughing off the perpetual teasing.

After the laughter subsided, Steve’s like, “How was the gig?” He didn’t actually want to know, unless it was strictly about the music. Clark has been serious about his drumming for a couple years, so it was the best friend’s role to support him in that and care about big moments like getting the first gig at an actual bar—not about who showed up.

As predicted, Steve’s inquiry sends Clark on a swirling storytelling tangent with twists and turns, energetically jumping back and forth between overlapping details of other connected stories from that night, but he doesn’t bring you up and for a second, Steve’s chest feels significantly less tight. Maybe you didn’t go. He wasn’t going to ask, anyway.

That night, Steve’s shower was hotter than usual. He needed the temperature to be scalding, to burn off the day and rinse it down the drain so it’s forgotten entirely. His forearm glides across the fogged mirror in habit, catching his reflection for the first time in days. His stubble was coming in again, lining his jaw and emphasizing the growing hollowness of his cheeks as his face transformed from a boy to a man.

He remembered the bruising he left Hawkins with, the bruise that curved across his cheek to above his brow, the strokes of purple and blue that have healed without a trace, or at least got masked by the growing tan earned by the Florida sun.

The slit in his lip, completely healed, no evidence of a scar or that night had ever happened.

Steve’s finger dragged against his skin, tugging while inspecting these minute details that felt like confirmation he was changing.

With a deep sigh, Steve forces himself to make eye contact with his reflection. He still recognized himself in his eyes, his mother’s eyes, dark and glassy—sunken in with lack of sleep. He imagined he’d probably never hear the end of it if she saw what he looked like now, so rugged in comparison to how she left him—juvenile and pristine, with a hair never out of place and skin soft like porcelain.

His father would probably tell him he looked like where he belonged, like he was from the streets. Even with water that could boil his skin, it wasn’t hot enough to erase the growing imperfections. The faint scarring over the years of reckless injuries, the callouses he’d grown with his own working hands; Steve felt a sense of pride being so unlike his parents.

There was always going to be some truth behind carrying the Harrington name, but choosing to grow in a different direction than the one designed specifically for him had given Steve a new wave of confidence. Through the tribulations of couch surfing, to dead-end jobs, to flying across the country to feel some kind of responsibility over his own life had finally started to feel rewarding. 

“People don’t change,” Uncle Kent said one night. He had been ranting about the same Harrington hierarchy politics that Steve had heard the opposing opinions of his entire life. They were on the wooden dock after a long day, a swing bench creaking in the evening breeze.

“That’s bullshit,” Steve argued, keeping his eyes forward on the water that looked like nothing more than an abyss of black ink he wished he could lose himself into, the light of the moon highlighting only the ripples from fish on the water’s surface.

Uncle Kent could have snapped at him then, connecting this conversation to a war memory or starting a fight like he was predicted to, but his eyes followed Steve’s instead. “Guess you’re right,” his voice carries just over the sound of the wind and Steve tries not to react, hiding a smirk behind the lip of his beer. Kent grunts again as he shifts his position against the wooden railing. “Thought you were gonna be like your old man, but you proved me wrong.”

Steve looks over at him then, stunned.

He doesn’t speak right away, enjoying the new and strange comfortability in the air. Uncle Kent didn’t really say much, only when he was directing or scolding. “You work hard… when you want to, that is,” Kent’s voice growing quieter towards the end, making Steve’s smirk that much harder to conceal. “S’true, you showed up at my door as a privileged little chicken shit. Sulking around, whining about the heat like a baby. A golden boy like you, never lifted a finger other than to throw a credit card on the table,” he scoffs bitterly and Steve’s posture shifts uncomfortably, remembering the version of him he was when he got here. He didn’t recognize that person anymore.

Uncle Kent’s hand came down hard on Steve’s shoulder, an affirming tight grip before he said, “You proved yourself here. M’proud to call you nephew. You come back anytime, I’ll teach you how’ta fish next.”

Kent’s smile crinkled his eyes in the same way that Steve recognized in the mirror.

The feeling in Steve’s chest was like a bloom, radiating a warmth that spread from his heart into his stomach, feeling full after years of seeming starved. He would never admit it, at least not out loud, how much it meant to him to feel a sense of belonging.

Steve swallowed another sip of beer hoping to wash down the growing lump in his throat, “I’d like that.”

There was a shared look between the two men on the dock, a comfortable camaraderie in rejecting the Harrington fame. A silent agreement in committing to denouncing the bloodline that was built on taking from others, never working for themselves. The day that Steve’s father kicked him out of the house, the day he last saw his spineless mother, was the day he was given the opportunity that his last name couldn’t give him.

A deep inhale of the humidity had felt more cleansing than suffocating now. He looked around again at his uncle’s property, a modest home and docked boat that swayed so slightly on the constant waves, overlooking the canal with tall palm trees and fireflies swirling around the marsh. This was riches. This is what it looked like to have something you built for yourself, to be a man and have a life you can be proud of.

When Steve would go back home to Hawkins, he was determined to embrace the comfortability of being estranged. He understood now more than ever that his value wasn’t based in other’s perception, but on his own hard work. He would grit and bear it, not complain or bribe someone to avoid a task he could easily do himself if he tried. He wouldn’t distract himself with indulgence and greed. He’d be different than his father, than his uncle too; he would communicate better. Most importantly, he had to stop running away like a fucking coward.

Steve hated himself for not just being honest, not confronting what scared him because admitting that was scarier than what he convinced himself was worth running away from.

There was an entire world out there that he had neglected because the right things didn’t service him at the time. There were people in his life he could have spoken to better, like Nance, like you, that he had lost in his own ignorance and ego.

Steve was more than just a handsome face with an infamous last name.

He would be different—he had to be.

———————————————————-

There he was. In the same room as you for the first time in months.

He looked so different, but still like Steve. His hair appeared lighter, probably from being sun-kissed like his glowing tan and the wash of coral across his burned cheekbones and bridge of his nose. What could arguably be the most excruciating newest detail would be his significantly larger physique. His shoulders felt broader, the biceps seemed more pronounced; the stretch of his flexing tendon distracting you as he nods to something Clark is rambling about, holding his own chin in place as his teeth gleam white against his bronze skin.

God, you were going to be sick.

The thing is, you’ve rehearsed this moment in your head more than a dozen times and you’ve practiced every counter argument you suspect he’ll try once you confront him for being an asshole—for the final time. Something feels like it’s rattling around in your chest as you’re desperate to attempt a centering breath. You’re sure that if your grip on that stupid little red plastic cup gets any tighter that you’re more likely to wear it than actually drink it.

“Can you believe Amy Kantuckiss was straddling that Neanderthal, Randy—“ Stacy’s voice cut before it dropped deeper in confusion, “and what are we staring at?” Her voice is hardly a murmur to you, competing with the fuzz in your brain and booming speakers that were vibrating the poorly hanged psychedelic posters and basketball memorabilia that decorated Clark’s basement.   

You watch her painted red lips form a perfect “O” as her eyes follow yours to Steve.

It’s a shame Clark is such a good storyteller. He’s made Steve throw his head back in a laugh that you’re glad you can’t totally hear since you just spent months trying to forget how it sounded.

“Are you going to say something?”

You turn your head away to finally look at Stacy, giving Steve the option to only view the back of your head and exposed shoulder should he even care to look in your direction tonight. “I don’t know,” you confess, your chest growing tighter with anxiety. “Probably not.”

The bottom of your cup burns all of your senses. It’s so much easier to drink than it is to deal with the huge neon elephant in this basement. The physical pain in your throat is more distracting than the gnawing pit of despair in your stomach.

Stacy sighs as her hand finds your cup, stacking it underneath her own to prevent you from another pour. In one swift movement, she’s turned your bodies away from the crowd to be more hidden in a corner, behind some dusty bookcase. Just as your brows pinch in the center and you’re prepared to protest, her painted nail collides harshly with your forehead in a swift flick. You’re too stunned to speak. She then commands your name like you would for a dog being disciplined, immediately bringing you back to earth, and you start to feel your imaginary tail between your legs the more defined her scowl becomes.

“Let me help you wake up!” Stacy snaps, first rubbing her temple with a level of impatience that washes you with more guilt. “For months, he torments you at our already-insufferable-piece-of-shit job, then he gets the bright idea to fuck with your head while you’re in a long term relationship,” she huffs angrily before continuing, “then takes advantage of you while you’re drunk and again when you’re hurting over a breakup he caused—“

“Well, I—“

“No, let me finish! I’m so tired, not of you, not of Harrington, but I’m tired of hearing your defense for him.” Stacy’s tone softens as she adds, “I know you thought your friendship or whatever with him was real, but it wasn’t. It’s clear he only had one thing in mind.”

Bile creeps up the back of your throat at the same time your eyes prick with an uncomfortable sting. “I know.”

“Friends wouldn’t lie. They also wouldn’t sleep with you and not call for literal months when they said they would.”

“I know.”

You hate how Stacy is right. Maybe there’s a black and white bias for hating Steve before she even had a personal reason to, but it doesn’t matter. This was a friend—a real friend—who heard you cry, watched you build yourself back up for weeks, and wasn’t going to let you take the backseat in your own life a second time around.

Stacy’s like, “Okay, then, get your balls back, or whatever, you’ve been telling me you planned on doing whenever you saw him again.”

Her sudden crudeness makes the corners of your lips twitch into a tiny growing smile. Her hands find your shoulders with a supportive squeeze. “This is it—your terms, not his anymore. Do this for you.”

Steve is being handed his fifth beer when he notices a flash of pink in his peripheral. It nearly knocks the wind out of his chest when his blurring vision starts to focus and the soft edges are morphing into your familiar silhouette.

He can’t see your face, not fully at least, but he knows your profile best anyways. It was his view at the shoe booth when you’d be bent over in that creaky stool to read your mystery novels, when you’d share the car rides with him and he’d sneak glances at you in his passenger seat, and when you’d ignore him from afar like the way you are now. Even though there was a time where your disinterest was the default, Steve had only started accepting your rejection towards him when you decided to never return his calls.

For months, he pretended to sound nonchalant and carefree with each new voicemail on your machine before growing increasingly insecure and eventually angry. Steve considered your inability to speak up as a message within itself.

In fact, by the time he got on the flight home, he wasn’t even thinking about you. That is, of course, disregarding how the Polaroid with you sitting so pretty at the edge of your bed in nothing but his sweatshirt fell out his wallet when he was retrieving his ID for airport security. Once the plane was in the air, however, he was committed to forgetting you again.

But now you’re in front of him and you look like a muse for the sky when it paints the sunsets. You’re dressed in various hues of pink and purple, a matching shade across your soft lips, colors that compliment the natural sheen in your skin that he can spy on your naked shoulder.

Steve wet his lips instinctively, distracting himself with his beer can before returning his attention to Clark and away from your backside.

His spine finds the grounding brick wall of the basement staircase with a soft grunt before he clumsily pulls Clark backwards by his shoulder, colliding him into Steve’s side with a mirroring “oof!”

Clark’s smile is so big that his eyes fully disappear as his elbow jabs into Steve’s ribs, his laugh louder than Steve’s protest. “You get so handsy when you’re drunk, Harrington!” Clark jests as Steve scowls, soothing his side with the flat of his palm before shoving Clark’s shoulder back into the brick. His joyous laugh halts. “Ow! Alright, now you’re just getting aggressive—“

“Why didn’t you say she’d be here?” He was really hoping he wasn’t yelling, just enunciating so he didn’t slur and feel like more of an idiot than usual.

Steve’s eyes are trained on Clark’s puzzled face, half because he’s so drunk right now that he needs to pick a feature of his to focus on if he has any intention of actually remembering this conversation, and the other half of that reason being he cannot be caught staring at you.

Steve can hardly trust his inebriated judgement right now as is, how is he supposed to look unbothered when you’re less than 10 feet away right when he got so used to you being 1,000 miles away?

Clark isn’t quite as worried about looking subtle as he does a full scan around the room. Steve cringes at the risk of being seen and pretends to find the grout in-between the brick tiles to be interesting. “Who?” Clark’s ruffling his hair in confusion, his eyes just as glazed over.

Steve’s nostrils flare with his sudden sharp inhale of breath. It felt the ultimate test of patience. His eyes narrowed before testing the waters. “Shoe Girl,” he mumbled it bitterly. He hated that Clark gave you a nickname—on principle, but also because it was stupid how much it stuck and now you two had an inside joke about it. If Steve had to hear one more story about The Adventures of Arcade Boy & Shoe Girl: Rod’s Revenge while barely surviving the heat a million miles away, he was going to test the strength of the phone cord.

Clark’s expression twists into something devious, his dimple deepening as he started to catch onto Steve’s discomfort. “Why wouldn’t she be here?” he challenges, swigging back his remaining beer while playfully holding Steve’s eye contact. It felt safer to poke the bear if the bear was also just as drunk.

Steve wants to react, but he’s not ready to get into all of this—especially, with Clark. It didn’t matter that he was your friend too, it just felt like a twisting knife every time Steve had to hear about all the ways you filled his absence by just doing what you did with him with his childhood best friend. “Fair enough,” Steve exhales on a breath he didn’t notice he had been holding.

Clark nods, smirking, knowing his friend must feel like he’s walking barefoot on lava seeing you again after you refused to call him back. Clark is convinced Steve must be a lousy lay, there’s no other reason a sweet girl like you wouldn’t at least give him a ring when you’ve been on Clark’s arm the last couple of weeks—of course, as friends.

There was the one time, where maybe it could have crossed beyond friend territory, but you were in recovery from a breakup you didn’t grieve well enough before it felt like the unofficial second one creeped up on you.

It was rare to share a closing shift with Clark, so it was only natural to celebrate with a long night of binging bad Steve Martin movies in his basement after Clark tried to convince you the entire drive to his place that The Jerk was the funniest movie of all time.

Turns out, it really is the funniest movie of all time—if you are as high as the two of you were that night. You weren’t a novice, but you weren’t a professional stoner either. You managed to avoid embarrassing coughing fits as you passed the glass apparatus between the two of you on his beat up basement couch from 1976.

Something about the high or maybe the lack of care you had left in your body at the time had possessed you with courage you’ve craved since. “Clark, can I ask you something?” your voice kind of wobbly as your mouth tries to remember how to work, forming words properly and not being as dry as a desert.

His head slowly rolls along the backside of the couch cushion. You try not to laugh at how half-lidded his eyes are, especially with the risk you look even worse.

Then there’s a moment where you’re awestruck over Clark. The orange hue from the television screen washes over him in a warm light, casting shadows to define his prominent cheekbones and little divots in his collarbone that weren’t being hidden by his baggy work polo. Clark had always been attractive, but the facade of basketball prodigy turned burnout-drummer-comedian-skeeball-extraordinare kept you distracted until now.

“What’s up, buttercup?” his voice is all gravely and crackled from turning his lungs into a chimney.

You surrender to a smile that you’re almost unaware of until he’s laughing along with you despite not being too sure as to why.

“Whaaat?” he teases.

“You can’t laugh!” You do your best to look composed, serious even.

He struggles to mirror you, already in a fit of giggles before you’re shoving his shoulder in defense. After a few attempts at catching his breath again, he goes, “Alright, I’m cool.”

Your eyebrow lifts unconvinced, but he gives a reassuring nod and lets a wandering eye catch Steve Martin yelling about cans, or something.

“I need to know if I’m a bad kisser,” you declare, louder than you thought you would. The sureness of your tone makes Clark snarl out of it, whipping his head from the TV to study your expression more seriously.

He sits up a little straighter and you ignore heat rising to the tips of your ears, scalding hot embarrassment in your body physically, but the high has warped your mental state into calm, cool, and collected. This was validating that even in your most inebriated moments, you could be fun.

“Don’t laugh!” you warn, noting that his eyes transformed from being half asleep to suddenly wide with curiosity. “I just want to know.”

“This isn’t a Steve thing, is it?” He says, sitting up more with an arm draped behind you on the couch. “I don’t think it’s very ethical of you to go from him to me to maybe Rod next? Are you working your way through the bowling alley? I gotta tell you, I don’t think that’s healthy—“

Your hands find his chest in a playful shove again, a shriek escaping your throat. “Clark! No!”

Both of your laughter subsides then, a tense pause shifts the air. You take in a deep breath. This really had to mean nothing. You were learning that. Why couldn’t you just go with the flow?

Clark was cute, funny, and your friend now. Not just Steve’s. You learned from Steve of all people that kissing your friends (or just coworkers, the line is still so blurry) is casual, normal even, and not everything has to mean something deeper.

You didn’t have feelings for Clark, but you recognized an opportunity when you saw one. Clark was just the right balance of nonchalant and charismatic to make you feel safe in a crash-dummy-scenario like this. Even with your ex, you felt like you couldn’t be vulnerable or try anything new, and there was something so intimidating about being with Steve that made you distrust his opinion of you by default on defensiveness.

You could learn to be more human if you were given the right environment to do so, you tell yourself.

You take a centering breath, pushing back all the hair from your face that suddenly felt so hot for some reason. “I trust you to tell me the truth. That’s all.”

Clark’s lips twist into a lazy half smile, his posture not changing as he just simply uses the arm draped behind you to anchor himself as he leans in closer. Then his hands cup your face before you have time to take in a breath. His lips are clumsy and hungry at first before settling into a rhythm that matches your speed.

He used more tongue than Steve, but you didn’t mind the sensation when it felt like your muscles were relaxed and your nerves felt like they’d finally taken a vacation day. His hands were huge and in other context, I’m sure the visual of Clark holding your head like it’s one of the bowling balls getting ready to be thrown down the alley for a strike would make you laugh—right now, it just felt so nice and warm.

You really didn’t know how much time had passed. It couldn’t have been long, but also the movie credits were rolling by the time you pulled away from each other.

You should feel embarrassed as you sober up, your brain becoming less foggy as you start to wake up into the new reality you’ve set for yourself where you’ve made out with Arcade Boy. Just as you’re considering grabbing your bag and running for the bus stop, Clark interrupts you first.

“Definitely not skill issue,” he laughed, though not at you, just in the same dizzying delirium kind of way you do when you realize you’ve tasted your coworker and friend for the first time.

Heat starts to bloom onto your cheeks and spreads to the tips of your ears, even between your thighs. “Okay…” you nod, remembering how you ended up like this to begin with. “Good to know.” At least you had that going for you. Nothing worse than being completely dropped from someone’s existence because he thinks you’re a bad enough kisser that he won’t communicate normally or just flies across the country to ignore you even harder.

Clark’s still smirking in a way that should make you nervous, but it’s just encouraging your newfound desire to stop caring so much and just chase what your body has craved. You wanted the rush of tongues twisting and shared breaths between lips. You needed to experiment again.

“Anything else you’re worried about not being good at?” Clark teases, his voice hinting at a joke but his eyes telling you a different story.

You didn’t sleep with him, you wouldn’t have gone that far even after enough bong rips to make you think gravity wasn’t real, but you still knew Clark more intimately than you ever expected to.

After that, it's not like it was happening all the time, but there were a few handful of times since then where Steve had called, maybe brought up your name to see how you were, and Clark could have told Steve what color your underwear was that night just to fuck with him some more, but he wouldn’t. Instead, he’d be honest, tell Steve he really wasn’t sure why you hadn’t called him back or why you wouldn’t really pry to much when Clark would try to talk about Steve first, that you were looking good and doing really well.

Steve knew how Clark was, though; knew that he was probably like a breath of fresh air in comparison to the shit he put you through. He didn’t need details, he already had assumed the worst whenever Clark talked about you coming to his band practices or house parties—somewhere Steve would have never imagined you to be if not for his invitation, clearly his own error in judgement. Steve could feel his gut wrenching, each word Clark said into the phone receiver feeling like a stones to his skull. For months in Florida, he was forced to hear how much better you’ve been and now he had evidence of it in person and Clark had evidence that it meant more to Steve than he’d lead on.

“Alright!” Clark’s hands clap together like he’s had another brilliant idea. “M’gonna go get her,” he sighs, placing his beer bottle on a stack of dirty magazines that already had plenty of ring stains on the cover.

Steve’s eyes nearly bulge out of his skull, grabbing Clark’s shoulder from behind once again and forcing his back to collide into the brick once again. He winces and shrugs Steve off him, “Ow!”

“Dude, no—“ Steve starts to say, nostrils flared, but Clark is already off the wall again and preventatively takes a larger stride forward in hopes it’s just out of Steve’s reach this time.

“Quit being a bitch,” Clark laughs, pulling up his baggy pants and smoothing his Grateful Dead shirt of wrinkles before finding you and Stacy in another corner of the room. “I’ll be right back and you two can just talk. Be normal, fuck!” His laugh trails over the louder music somehow.

Being taunted with words he’s used against you before is making Steve anxiously light up a cigarette that had been tucked behind his ear for emergencies. He wasn’t going to run, he promised himself he wouldn’t do that anymore. His cheeks hollow with a sharp inhale. We’re at the emergency cigarette hour of the night, clearly.

“Fuck’s sake,” Steve grumbles unintelligibly behind his torch, shoving the lighter in his back pocket as he watches Clark not-so-gracefully weave through the crowded bodies of the basement to find you. Each gulp of alcohol burned his throat, but not in the same comforting way that a cigarette could.

With another curse and tightened squeeze on the root of his hair in stress, he sees a smug and smirking Clark towering over the other bodies and the same shades of pink and purple he recognized from your outfit are peeking from behind him.

Steve ashes out what remains of the cigarette on the same dirty magazine before decidedly throwing the butt into Clark’s remaining drink. Served him right. Asshole.

“Harrington!” Clark bellows loud enough that a couple people turn around, forcing Steve to grin like everything is fine and there’s nothing to see here, but inside he’s dying.

There’s a sweat that’s built up on his back and he can feel a drop hit the hem of his jeans as he anticipates you coming closer, finally in view for the first time in months.

“There’s someone I want you to see!” Clark shouts again as he gets closer, but his words get a little muddled at the end, as if an elbow colliding with his ribcage might have slurred his speech a little.

Then it came crashing down on him like a cartoonish piano falling from the sky.

There you were, mostly hidden by Clark’s impressive height as you were tucked into his side in such a familiar grip that could have convinced anyone in the room that night that you had known Clark for as long as Steve did.

His jaw clenched with jealousy, teeth ground together as his smile stayed tight. “Hi.”

Is that really all he can say? He can’t call you or even approach you himself when you finally see him in person and the most he can muster up is a pathetic “Hi”?

Even with the alcohol buzzing in your brain, a definitive line of anger slices through your consciousness. Your grip on your cup gets tighter, the crunch of the plastic only audible to you and Clark.

“Hey,” you say with the same coldness, wincing inwardly.

There’s a silent exchange between Steve and Clark then, what looks like Steve who is viscerally angry at the sight of you and how Clark thought a bad idea was a safe one, like usual. Just as you’re about to give up and walk away, Clark’s lips press to the side of your head before returning the same gesture to Steve.

“You kids have a lot to catch up on, huh?!” He says excitedly as you and Steve stare at him with the same confused anger.

This was obnoxious. At least you could agree on one thing, for once. You could see Steve almost attempt to protest but Clark smacks his back, forcing the words to only come out as a huff of air from the depths of Steve’s lungs.

“I’ll find you later!” Clark calls out (to which one of you, you weren’t sure) over the music as his body starts to drift further away from the two of you.

Leaving you and Steve alone. At once. In silence.

It’s kind of nauseating how Steve exudes such a remarkable level of suaveness that even the older ladies at the diner are fawning over him.

With ease, all he had to do was bend his height down slightly to wave and greet the smaller, rounder woman with crinkles by her eyes that only deepened when she lit up at the sight of Steve. Despite his injuries, he was charming as ever, kissing her cheek in greeting like he’s known her for years and maybe he had with the way her name rolled off his tongue in the singsongy kind of way that made her giggle and lead you to what you learned was his booth.

Faint smells of cigarettes swirled with the nostalgic aroma of breakfast fill the space and your stomach actually rumbled. The cheap and tacky red vinyl that covers the bench seat squeaks awkwardly as you slide in with nervousness. The diner is basically empty with the closest patron still a good couple of feet away, but it still feels like everyone is looking at you.

Steve doesn’t seem to mind, though. He’s used to it, you think. He’s shrugging off his bomber jacket and tossing it onto the booth seat opposite from you before sliding in himself, completely unaware of the attention he gets—especially with a busted lip and dark crescent bruise framing his one eye. You see another waitress in the background gasp, touching her own cheek as if she can feel the sympathy for his injury. You wonder if when she whispers to a line cook if they’re assuming you did it, or something.

“Order whatever you want,” Steve sighs, silencing the paranoid thoughts of yours. “It’s on me.”

When you look at him, he’s only looking at the menu, turning it over a couple of times as he scours his options, but you both know he came here for the pancakes.

“I can pay for mine, don’t worry—“ you shrug, but Steve’s huffing with another crankier sigh than the one from before.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he mutters through a clenched jaw, brushing the underside of his nose with his knuckle in habit. In a quick flash, you can see his eyes dart over his menu to look at you, but they’re already back to scanning the print by the time you try to catch his gaze.

You understood his subtle warning; you’re not trying to start a fight back up again either. Your cheeks burn scarlet, your stomach filling up with flutters that were confusing your appetite.

“So,” you lower your voice to a volume hardly above the nostalgic radio playing above from the speakers. “You come here often?”

Steve snorts and hides a grin behind his hands folded in front of him, elbows propped up and shoulders shaking with a light chuckle. “Oh, my God,” his hands rub over his features, he sounds horrified as his laugh starts to subside. “What year did they program you, Geekatron? Who says that anymore?”

You join his laughter to spare your embarrassment which makes his smile grow despite his efforts of hiding behind his folded clasp. You noticed how his thumb would find its place against his lower lip, avoiding his cut and just toying with the soft plump part that you remember what it was like to nibble on. It looked just as blushed and inviting as you remember.

You clear your throat to recenter your thoughts. “I was asking because you seemed like a regular here,” your voice trailing off more distracted as you take in the sight of all the novelty art and items that lined the wooden walls—some war memorabilia, painted plates, rusty or faded tin signs of all kinds, and framed articles. Clearly, this was a historical hidden gem of Hawkins you never noticed before.

Steve’s eyes follow yours, though he has been here countless times, he still feels like he could find something new.

“Yeah, my uncle—“ he clears his throat then, his eyes squinting at some of the signage as if he’s trying to distract himself, “he, uh, did the tile in here back in the 60’s, so…” another sigh tumbles past his lips, “just came here a lot as a kid, I guess. There was a summer when I used to do the dishes when I was, like, fourteen but quit when I started school. Naturally, became a spot for where I could bring my friends to sober up after going out or parties, whatever. Been coming here forever, but it’s always looked the same. Just one of those places, I guess.” He scratches at some incoming stubble as he speaks before nervously brushing his nose with the backside of his knuckle again.

Your smile grows fondly as you imagine what Steve was like as a child, sitting at the bar of the diner by the open kitchen window and begging for more pancakes with syrup all of his cheeks and hands.

“That’s cool, I envy you. I don’t have anything like that, really. It sounds special,” you admit, catching him off guard. Steve’s eyes dragged from the hidden patterns of the wooden paneling to look at you then.

He lets his folded hands finally rest on the table and his lips part as if to speak, but you are interrupted by the same older woman from before who came sauntering in with a balanced saucer resting on her shoulder, the smell of maple and caramelized butter wafting in the air.

“Thanks, Jean,” Steve looks up at her with a toothy grin after she’s placed the plates in front of you, earning another musical giggle from her. She squeezes his shoulder and offers the two of you coffee, which you feel happily obliged to enjoy despite it being nearly 8:30PM. You bite the inside of your cheek to keep from smirking too obviously while watching Steve pour a fourth sugar packet in his mug.

“Alright, entertain me,” Steve began as he sawed carefully at his stacked pancakes, you nodded, not entirely sure where this conversation was headed after what you left behind in his apartment. “What makes you think waffles are better than pancakes?” He asks, waving the fork with his next bite at the end of it like a judge with a gavel.

A wash of relief rolls down your shoulders knowing he’s not trying to pick up where you left off right away.

You reciprocate, smearing the melted butter into the crevices of your crusted waffle. Maple syrup pools into the square shaped divots, making the ideal puddles on top for dipping. “Easy,” you say while effortlessly cutting a perfectly portioned cube of a bite, following the natural grid of the waffle. “Structure.” you answer confidently before the familiar comforting taste of warm butter and sugar envelope your tongue.

Steve snorts then. “Of course you love structure, robot,” he remarks lowly in a way that would make you embarrassed, but you immediately took notice of the playful tilt in his voice.

When your eyes leave your plate to look up at his, he’s leaned back into the booth with that smug grin that you’re used to. Steve’s arms rests on the back of the booth, fully relaxed as if he owns the place. His jaw works as he chews, drawing your attention to the hollow of his cheeks, the pinkness of his lips. You can see his exposed neck swallow his bite and your body heat rises.

His legs are much longer than yours, causing you to nearly jump out of your seat at the sudden brush of his cotton clad knees rubbing briefly against yours. It’s the kind of deliberate “playing it cool” move where it could be accidental, could be intentional, but with his smug expression, you have no choice but to assume it was his subtle way of making you nervous on purpose.

“Structure is important,” your eyebrows pinch at the center as you defend yourself while stacking your waffles to distract yourself from the energy radiating from your knee all the way through your body. Your cutting pace quickens, stacking and sliding pieces until the waffle is in bite size pieces but still maintaining its waffle integrity. There’s a satisfaction with the ridges lining up together and creating a perfect cube of deliciousness.

Steve’s smirk falters a bit but he shrugs with arched brows to play it off while continuing to haphazardly cut his pancake stack into some irregular shapes of all sizes, complete opposite to your organized bites.

“Structure sounds safe,” he murmurs.

This felt like a passive pivot that you weren’t sure if you felt ready for. His arms come down to his sides again as his posture straightens, his doe eyes lingering on you like you’re meant to read between his lines like always.

“I like stability,” you say on a heavy exhale, your chest growing tighter for some reason. “I like safe.”

His jaw ticks the slightest. You pretend to not notice, your fork poking around at some of your neatly stacked bites.

Steve’s lips purse as he nods slowly to your response, but he’s having a hard time believing you prioritize safety when your ex left his face like that.

At least he was in school for a real job, not just some cushion to get you from one place to the other like Steve’s been doing since graduation. Maybe that’s all you meant by safe… Stability, structure.

Your ex was a class act dickhead, but he was promising a stable future for you that Steve couldn’t compete with if he tried, especially since getting cut off from the Harrington Enterprise funds—a type of structure he couldn’t provide.

It was making his skin prickly with needles to think about. Steve could offer more than just financial stability. Steve had life experiences, he was able to show you things your ex wouldn’t without a guide or itinerary. There’s not even any competition anymore, but it still felt like he’s losing. His tongue pokes into the inside of his cheek before he shoves another bite of pancakes in his mouth to silence himself.

“Don’t you think—“ Steve starts, but huffs in frustration before his fork clatters against the ceramic, the noise sharpening the tension. “Don’t you think you would have a better life if you weren’t afraid all the time?” he rushes out, leaving you speechless.

A sharp twinge in your lungs spreads across your chest as you blink at him, trying to catch your breath.

You can’t see them underneath the tabletop, but Steve’s hands have balled into fists at his sides, desperately pushing whatever nails he has into his palm to create crescent shaped punishment markings for boiling over the way he promised himself he wasn’t going to.

You shake your head as you choke on a laugh, tilting it slightly as you look at him in disbelief. Was it so impossible to share a moment together that he wouldn’t sour?

“What makes you think I’m afraid?” you challenge, though you feel sick at the thought of his answer. Unfortunately, he was right. Maybe you were an over-thinker, someone who always has a Plan D—just in case.

Something about Steve perceiving you this intimately makes you want to take the butter knife from the table and force it into the flesh of your hand rather than have to hear what he had to say.

Steve’s not even done chewing as he rolls his eyes at you. “Please,” he starts, “don’t think I haven’t noticed.”

Your body stills while he continues to act natural, unfazed as usual. You wonder if he’s alluding to your crush; was it really so obvious? Maybe he just meant in general, since you are more of the anxious type and that’s not exactly a secret either. You’re already proving the point by overthinking his vague response, just as he wanted. It’s like he was dangling the bait right in front of you. How typical for him to always deflect the conversation into how something you do isn’t agreeable with him, what about Steve’s choices?

You shrug as you chew thoughtfully. “I really don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Steve makes a tsk sound before placing his utensils down quieter this time, leaning closer so even his lower register can be heard over “Do You Really Want to Hurt Me” by Culture Club which felt a little too on the nose for your liking. The universe would always find a way to remind you it had a sense of humor.

“Are you happy?” Steve asks then, his tone changing to something closer to sympathy or maybe patience. His eyes are looking up at you, his long dark lashes nearly reach his defined brow bone. A beat passes before you can begin to even process an answer. “Actually happy? Like, satisfied with your life?” he presses.

Now your turn to roll your eyes at him, suddenly feeling a loss of appetite. Steve’s pancakes are nearly gone, clearly he had no trouble multitasking being a human vacuum and an asshole.

You push your plate away from you and avoid his gaze. “No,” your voice barely a whisper. “I’m angry,” you confess.

Steve’s nodding as he slides his final bite into pools of syrup on his plate. You quietly wondered if he was desperate to clean the plate as much as possible with consideration for the current dishwasher.

“Anger’s good,” he manages before swallowing. You pretend to ignore the coil in your stomach winding tighter at the visual of him sucking the remaining syrup from the sides of his fingers. “Anger is at least a feeling.”

You can’t help but huff exasperated, “Would you knock it off? Have I not showcased enough emotion in front of you to convince you I’m not some sad, rigid, robot, control freak?” You fold your arms over your chest, trying not to let yourself grow in volume and draw more attention to this side of the diner. “Or do you need to make me cry again?”

Steve’s tight expression softens, his lips curving into the lopsided smirk that almost made you forget what you were getting upset over.

“Okay, okay—” he lifts a placating hand. “I’ll stop,” his voice sounding sincere, but his expression remaining sly.

You want to ask him why he even brings it up. What’s the point of criticizing you all the time if you can’t even ask about his own internal turmoil?

“Steve?” your voice carries across the booth sadly and it pulls him into reality like nothing else. His eyes are locked on yours, desperate to hear you say his name so softly again.

“If not because…“ you sigh, not allowing yourself to get embarrassed again by bringing up what he calls a stupid kiss, “Why’d you quit?”

Your shoulders hang low as your eyes dart between his dark irises that narrowed on you, traced with hints of copper and honey even in this ambient diner lighting.

Steve draws in a breath while a hand nervously rubs at the back of his neck before adjusting the hooded fabric. “Just felt like the right time,” he lies, fidgeting with the strings of his sweatshirt by the base of his throat.

You don’t say anything. It’s not worth a fight anymore; nothing is. You just nod and allow the bitter taste of diner coffee to help make it easier to swallow down your upset feelings.

Steve rubs his knee against yours again, more intentionally than before as he holds one of your knees between his own, and your body freezes instinctively. It feels like electricity is being passed directly from his skin into yours.

“I gotta help my uncle,” he clears his throat.

You blink, surprised by the sudden honesty. “The one who does tile?” you ask innocently as he nods slowly.

“The very one,” Steve mumbles behind the lip of his ceramic mug. You can see how long his lashes really are now as they rest against the tops of his cheeks with the long sips he takes before continuing. “M’actually flying to Florida tomorrow—to help him, I mean,” he swirls the remaining dark liquid around before taking another nonchalant sip while you continue to always feel like he’s never going to not be three steps ahead of you?

“Florida?” you ask, incredulous.

Steve’s fingers weave through his hair, a few rebellious strands still try to fall against his brow as he nods cautiously. His lips that were once pouted and bitten, probably tasting sweet like maple candy, have pressed into a tight neutral line.

Your heartbeat is quickening and you don’t know why. Freaking out to a sudden change is only going to prove his point from before. You could be cool. Steve likes cool girls.

“For how long?” you lean back into the cushion of the booth, the vinyl creaking as you do your best attempt at sounding disinterested.

He exhales through his nose, piling your plates and silverware together for Jean’s ease and his own distraction. “About three months,” Steve says under his breath. You can see his throat strain from a thick swallow.

Your hands find their place under your thighs, they’re safer there when they’re not flailing around gesticulating or balled into fists ready to slam on top of the table like the tantrum you wish you could throw. This was so unfair. Three months?

“What about your apartment?” Your brows knit together in confusion, but you try to keep your voice calm.

“What about it?” Steve shrugs, not looking to you as he’s signing the bill with a predictable scribble-like fashion. “Told you, m’dad paid me to get out of the house. He paid for the first year’s contract then cut me off. Just wanted me out that bad, I guess,” he huffs out a softer laugh, but it sounds hollow and bitter. He takes his irritation out on the receipt at the end of the table with a forceful slide using the flat of his palm.

You’re nodding like a bobblehead again, just trying to understand him even when he seems so far away. Your eyes flick to the fog on the diner windows. When did it start raining? A soft patter against the glass fills the silence between the two of you.

It’s not a breakup, so why did it feel more like one than the actual breakup you mourned last weekend?

“I’m sure the weather will be better,” you say lightly all of a sudden, hoping he can’t detect how forced your enthusiasm for him is. Inside, your stomach was turning.

It was one thing for him to not be at the bowling alley anymore, but to know that was going to be the last time in his apartment for an indefinite future was making you depressed. You didn’t want him to leave.

Steve studies your expression, his eyes flicking over rosy cheeks that rounded from your encouraging smile. Despite how badly Steve wishes for his ego to hear you beg for him to stay, he respects your distance.

There’s a tightness in his chest he can’t name when he sees you like this—smiling through your hurt, being a lot better at controlling your temper than he was. He began to realize he might not have been giving you enough credit for your strength.

“Yeah,” Steve folds his arms across the heavy ache to self soothe. “Looking forward to it,” he mutters under his breath.

You can’t help but sneak a glance at him then. His eyes completely trained on the condensation from the window, watching selected raindrops trail down slowly before colliding into another drop and creating a faster and heavier traverse. Maybe you were just a raindrop on a diner window that Steve, the bigger raindrop, just devoured one day.

Trying to return back to your normal routine without Steve sounded like paradise to you at one point, but now it feels devastating.

————————————————

Every moment from here on out felt like it needed to be savored, but there’s nothing you would miss more than the calloused warmth of his physical touch or the way his BMW smells on your rides home—a mix of spearmint, warm cotton, and the kind of light musk that just naturally smelled like him.

You tried to memorize how his hand fit around the gearstick, the veins flexing from between his fingers going up into his forearm as he shifts into a different speed. His skin was already tanned despite it being autumn, you couldn’t imagine what the Florida sun would do to him. The thought of his future inevitable tan lines left your mouth dry.

The hardest thought to relieve from your subconscious was what the women in Florida would do with a guy like Steve. The only way to remain sane was to imagine all of the retired older ladies he’s already popular with falling for him instead of a Miami Beach Barbie.

Despite your efforts, your devious thoughts are responsible for your growing smile and Steve notices without fail. He goes to tease you about it, but his teeth dig into his bottom lip instead, his jaw flexing at the motion and it’s making his profile view that much more beautiful. You hated the feeling sitting on your chest whenever you look at him.

The Beamer rumbles beneath your leather seat in a powerful purr as you go down the same familiar winding roads you know leads to your neighborhood. You’re not ready for your time with him to be cut so short and a heavy ache starts gnawing at your stomach.

Steve licks his lips as if to think for a moment before deciding to break your peaceful silence, “What would you have done, by the way? If I had answered the door not looking—you know,” he gestures vaguely by his face before turning to look at you, the bruised eye in sight again.

Your eyes drift to the roof of the car as you consider your words. The thought of being honest might spark up another defensive argument on either side, but lying didn’t feel like an option anymore. It was starting to become increasingly obvious how much Steve predicted your behavior. While you continue to always play your game of catch up, Steve could already see through you. It was hardly fair.

“I was pretty pissed,” you say sideways with a playful scowl, your lips curving up at the corners. You catch the flash of his eyes looking over at you then, assessing if you’re still mad at him or not. His grip on the wheel relaxes at the sight of your smile.

Steve nods as his free hand finds his lips again, running his fingertips over his smirk to conceal his amusement. “I knew those stomps up my stairs were pissed off stomps,” he jokes.

A giggle escaped from your throat and your cheeks flush immediately, feeling like another pathetic googly eyed girl in Steve Harrington’s passenger seat.

“I was pissed, but…” you trail off, noticing the houses out the window are only looking more familiar the closer you got to your parents’ driveway. “Then I just felt bad you got pathetically beat up by a bunch of short men in the parking lot.”

Steve laughs, a real laugh, louder than you anticipated but his eyes are crinkled the way you love when you glance over at him. He shakes his head and runs a hand up through his hair, pushing the dark curls away from his face that just fall back in line without effort.

”Fair enough,” he sighs as his chuckling softens. “Sorry again, but the way.”

Your expression changes too, your brows knitted together confusedly. “For?” you challenge, his car coming to a slow halt at the end of your driveway just as it always did every Friday after work.

It felt dramatic to end your time together with an apology. It would be more respectable if Steve was just content with being a pompous asshole who got high on messing with you, making you cry, occasionally humiliating you for your lack of experience or ability to read his mind the way he’s just managed to figure you out so predictably.

Right now, Steve doesn’t look cocky or smug like he’s going to say something that makes your eyes roll. His gaze is transfixed on the outside of your house, admiring the cookie-cutter nature of how it matches the other suburbans in the neighborhood.

Structure, he thought.

He seems far away even with only a middle console between the two of you. “It wasn’t stupid,” he says easily, the muscles in your stomach twisting together nervously. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

Your eyebrows shoot up in surprise. Steve’s head rolls against the leather headrest on the one side to face you, his eyes scanning your expression in a way that almost feels invasive with how intense his gaze can be. You can’t help but notice how the bump in his throat bobs to swallow hard, his neck craned in a position that makes the skin tighter and more exposed.

The sound of the rain growing lighter as it continues to pebble against his windshield fill the silence. A beat passes before you decide to speak.

“It’s stupid how much it affected me—my life, I mean,” you confess, sinking more into your seat. Your fingers start twisting together into your other hand, lips pursing as you consider how embarrassing it is to even have this conversation you thought you had planned better as more of an angry confrontation, not a heart-to-heart.

Steve’s brows furrowed, “Don’t say that.” He didn’t sound as stern as usual, something reminiscent of the tender way he’s spoken to you before, the tone that makes your knees wobbly if you tried to stand. “It’s not stupid at all… and you’re right,” Steve sighs, his eyes closing for a moment, “I was selfish.”

Your eyes finally lift up from your woven hands stirring in your lap to look at him. Though he can’t see, you still nod considering his words.

Having Steve admit fault and apologize to you like this just felt so finite, like you weren’t going to see him again. The thought that you used to celebrate at the idea of just makes your throat feel like it’s been wrapped with barbed wire that only tightened as he continued.

“I knew you were still with him, knowing what I knew too, I just couldn’t tell you—and I’m sorry for that too, you know? I guess I am pretty selfish.”

A sharp exhale leaves his nose before he can look at you again. Your hair still messy from work earlier, your polo streaked with the raindrops that pelted on both of you as you made a run for the car from the diner.

A warmth developed in Steve’s chest as he remembered how he had offered to bring the car up for you but you declined, calling him ridiculous this time. You shrieked together as the cold bullets falling from the dark clouds hit your skin, laughing with him the entire sprint before finally making it inside the Beamer.

The smell of fresh rain mixed with maple and vanilla filling the cabin of the car and your laughter falling into light panting as you both catch your breath. He remembered the look on your face—the rosiness that flushed across your cheeks and into your lips, wide with a smile. He wanted to be selfish again, to kiss you one last time before he got to disappear like he was planning to do, but it’s just not fair to you anymore. God, he was going to miss you.

“Steve?”

Your voice is like a soft chime, bringing his attention back to earth.

He doesn’t say anything as he half expects you to call him a bunch of names, remind him of how much he hurt you that night, then again at his apartment earlier tonight. Truthfully, Steve hates making you cry despite how good he is at it, he hates the way he can’t sleep without the pillowcase that still faintly smells of your hair from that night, and he hates the way his heart is reacting to you saying his name so gently like if you raised your volume any louder, the real bubble of reality could pop at any moment.

Steve’s looking at you—really looking at you, the same way he did when you caught him watching you admire the constellations from his stairway. His eyes, warm and glassy, search for something in your expression that makes your breathing more erratic.

Is this what he meant by challenging yourself to not be so safe all the time? Maybe this was his purpose in your life—to just be an aid to your cathartic purging of your past self. You’re still recovering from a traumatic breakup to say the least, he’s leaving the entire state of Indiana for three months, you don’t even have to see him at work anymore, and he was infamously good at this; it was kind of the perfect “one night only” scenario. The version of yourself you knew last month is not the same girl who could do what the current you has been thinking about all night.

It’s got to be now or never, you tell yourself.

“Do you want to come upstairs?”

You’re surprised by how calm you sounded, despite maybe a bit more winded than you were moments before.

Steve’s eyes switch to look out the windshield towards your house for a second, his lips parting in a way that makes you think he might protest or suggest that’s stupid, but you bravely lean forward across the console so that you can brush the pads of your fingertips over his lips, lingering over his injury.

“Let me be selfish too,” your voice hardly above a whisper and you’re being so soft, so gentle with him in a way he’s never seen from you. It physically pains him to have his heart strings pulled like this.

As he turns his chin towards you, your noses nearly brush and his eyes are trying to memorize how you look right now—pleading eyes sparkling at him, cheeks a shade of scarlet, and the wild wisps of your hair that surround your face still glistening from the rain.

When his eyes settle on your lips, you freeze completely still and hope he leans in. Your hand falls gracefully from his lips, to the stubble on his chin, to then rest carefully on his cheek—encouraging him to be selfish too.

Without so much of a real rebuttal, Steve gives into his cravings and crashes his lips against yours. The volume of your heartbeat between your ears competes with the pelts of the light rain. By just the impact of his lips on yours again, you’ve completely melted in your seat. Your hand on his cheek manages to steady his increasingly more eager kiss. Even with the cut in his lip, he doesn’t hold back the slightest.

His tongue—that tastes as sweet as you imagined after watching him lick the syrup from his fingers—skillfully swipes across your own almost immediately, both of you lightly gasping in between the languid movements of your lips molding together. There’s a warmth on your cheek from the air his nose fans onto your skin and the blood rushing to your flushed lips, you felt on fire. The way Steve kisses you makes you feel like you’re turning into the sun; glowing bright, a burning sensation so powerful across your skin that can feel like as sharp as needles, but it’s electrifying too.

Impatient and desperate to keep Steve for as long as you can before he flies across the country, your hand returns to his stubble lined jaw, tilting his chin ever so slightly with the pad of your thumb gently pushing up from underneath.

Steve’s jaw slacks from your sudden dominance, his pretty lips parting again on a soundless intake of breath as your mouth travels down his neck, placing individual delicate stamps from your soft lips onto the constellation of moles that lined his bronze skin until you reached the spot just below his ear.

“Is that a yes?” your teeth graze his earlobe, earning you a soft groan in response that sends a rush through you, your body responding to all of his noises as you desperately try and savor the moment.

Steve sounds completely wrecked as he breathes out a needy, “Yeah.”

By the time you pull away, your mouth is swollen to a pout—pretty like a rose, he thought. Steve’s pupils look blown, his chest rising and falling, craving to once again eliminate the space between you.

“Okay,” you nod, your voice coming out breathier than usual with a smile teasing him for what’s to come.

You don’t remember the last time you felt this kind of rush. Your heart was colliding against your ribs, a slight sweat reaching your palms as you hurriedly reached for the car’s door handle.

Steve’s own eagerness following your lead without hesitation as he chased you from the driveway up to your door, the rain hardly noticeable anymore despite it drenching you both again.

Barely past your front door, he’s reached for you again already. His hand, normally so warm and comforting, had turned cold from the rainwater that rinsed his skin and found itself entangled in your equally damp hair in another dizzying kiss.

His wet curls are pressed against your forehead, hardly noticing the rogue raindrops that trickle down your skin. You sigh into his kiss once more, muffling a broken cry in the slightest against his plush lips when his fingers tug at your scrunchie, seamlessly sliding it from your hair and onto his wrist in one quick motion before his grip can tighten near the roots of your hair again—earning another mewl from your throat that sends him over the edge, a low groan emitting from the deepest part of his chest while he’s pressing his center against yours as you cling onto his shoulders for support.

“Steve,” you plead, but his tongue carefully delves past your parted lips, massaging against yours, swallowing your needy whimper.

You’ve officially reached your limit of patience. You’re desperate to have more of him, to feel him without limitations.

Despite your stumbling between stolen kisses, you still manage to guide both of your soaked bodies towards your parent’s bedroom with a firm grip around his wrist, leading him into the dimly lit master bathroom.

Steve pulls from your entangled kiss and searches your eyes for a moment and something passes between the two of you—unspoken but the air had shifted into something thicker, heavier with meaning. You can audibly hear his rough swallow, his tongue you can now memorize the taste of is swiping across his bottom lip with nerves.

“Should we, uhm—?” His throat suddenly dry. He didn’t finish his question, but he didn’t have to, you knew what he was going to ask. It was the first time Steve sounded nervous around you and the blood rushed to your ears, stomach fluttering again in excitement hearing him sound like he wasn’t in charge this time.

Steve considers himself to be well-versed in being a girl's first. While he suspects you’re not a virgin, as far as he knows, this still felt out of his comfort zone. Seeing you like this, needing you in a way that almost feels primitive compared to how you deserve something more emotional, stable… he starts to doubt himself.

He's always found bubbly, bold girls to explore with, deliberately choosing girls who are capable of separating sex from feelings or at least ones who he would date briefly who knew when to accept his distance as a shortcut answer to eventually not speaking again. You weren’t one of those girls, you pitied yourself for it, but Steve was intimidated by it. You were different—this was different. Steve was usually unwilling to entangle himself in something as fragile as this. This trembling he hadn’t felt since he was a virgin himself, charged energy of his own personal restraint as well as with his burning desire for more.

Seeing Steve, normally so regal and strong like a lion, look so nervous had oddly put you at ease. Your hand that had gripped his wrist falls to his hand instead, a tender squeeze of encouragement before turning on the shower faucet.

The sound makes his posture stiffen, increasingly looking more unsure until your eyes meet his again. A mix between gaining his composure as well as confidence surges through his veins as his fingertips go to reach for the skin of your hip.

You take the lead, crossing your arms over your torso to bravely lift the edges of your damp polo over your head. The ends of your hair are still cold enough to raise goosebumps on your skin that are instantly relieved by the touch of Steve’s returning warmth in his calloused and curious palms.

“Gorgeous,” he breathes out so quietly that you almost miss it over the sound of running water. The sight of you being this bare makes his breathing falter. He reciprocates almost immediately, throwing his soaked hoodie to the tiled floors and you’re overwhelmed by his tanned skin, his broad shoulders, and the dark hair curling in a mat on his chest that leaves a trail down his stomach and into his sweatpants that are hardly disguising his excitement. With your heartbeat in your throat, you try to ignore the heat that burns on your cheeks as his fingertips explore your skin once more—his thumb tracing the underwire of your bra before his palm can rest over the mound of your breast, giving the most gentle squeeze as he matches the tenderness of his kiss.

There’s a bolt of pleasure from his carefulness that invokes another desperate cry from your lips. Steve’s movements slow before he pulls away completely, his pupils dilated and breathing haggard. He knew you could turn back now and continue as you were, but it’s not what he wanted and he prayed you felt the same. Something shifts in the dark depths of his eyes before he’s nodding, granting you permission to explore him just as you craved.

Your own prying hands tug on the hem of his sweatpants, shrugging them off his hips with ease and springing him free. You moan together in response and your kiss turns open-mouthed, heated pools of each other’s breath fanning against your skin.

A few more items of clothing are shed and even thrown over the shower’s frosted glass doors as you stumble inside to be engulfed by the hot water together. Clouds of steam envelop your bodies that press together to share the warmth, his mouth leaving a trail of sloppy kisses starting at the corner of your lips, sponging against the hollow of your throat; his tongue lapping the sweet spot of where your pulse races and you wonder if he can taste your adrenaline.

Your back collides with the colder shower tile for balance, fingers tangling themselves in his dripping curls and giving a slight tug as his kisses make their way down to your chest. The hot water beads against his muscular back, his grip on your hips could leave bruises with how determined he was to ironically remain gentle.

Steve’s mouth feels like ecstasy, his tongue swirling and lips sucking until your bud comes to a stiffened point in his mouth. His teeth graze your swollen nipple and you emit a sharp gasp that he swallows instantaneously in another kiss.

His hands that had been so deliberately holding you in place started to explore shamelessly and it felt so human to be touched like this. Steve’s nose pressing against your cheek as the kiss deepened, your back arching away from the cold tile and against his torso, the hot spray of the shower barely reaching your skin as Steve, who feels even warmer somehow, fully envelops you in his arms.

With ease, he spins you by your hips gracefully and your back fully presses into his front, he whispers a “Jesus” on impact in an octave lower than you’re used to hearing. Your spit feels thick to swallow upon feeling his erection against the small of your back, but Steve is reaching in front of you for the body wash.

Your eyes widen in surprise as you watch the soap lather between his palms before he starts smoothing it over your soft skin, his nose nudging the side of your head to relax back against his chest while he bathes the cold rainwater from your body. The steam carries the smell of lavender and musk from the soap as his hands find your breasts again, lathering a blanket of bubbles over your chest and stomach. Steve has a knowing smirk as your head feels heavier against his shoulder when his fingers graze the top of your thighs, closer to where you crave to feel him the most.

Your ex was always focused on his own enjoyment, something you thought was mandatory in foreplay. How naive, you think, as Steve hasn’t guided your hands anywhere but allowed you to simply anchor yourself to his strong shoulders for support.

Steve’s chuckle is warm near your ear, listening to your weak sounds from his expert touch.

“Shut up,” you can hardly breathe out with a clenched chest, making his amusement more apparent in another louder humming kind of chuckle.

“Does it feel good?” his lips trace the shell of your ear, pressing another kiss to the soft skin below, taking advantage of your exposed neck craned over his shoulder like this.

Pathetically, you nod, clearly not able to speak. Your teeth press into your lower lip to contain more of your noises as his hand massages soap lower, lathering the curls between your wobbly legs. The soap cascades down the curves of your body that Steve’s hands massage over.

“Steve,” you say his name like a prayer and it invites his longest finger to explore between your folds, both of you groaning in response.

He goes for another innocent touch with a second finger, circling with a precision that is nearly bringing you to nirvana. “Fuck, you’re so wet,” his voice hoarse and scratched.

Your eyes are almost in the back of your head while his movements haven’t slowed in the slightest, a breathy laugh escapes you, “Well, we are in the shower, aren’t we?”

Steve’s teeth knick your throat as punishment for your smart mouth, making you gasp as he laughs lowly, always amused with you.

“Relax,” he murmurs by your ear again before he’s pressing another one, two, six kisses along your neck. It takes so little effort on your part—just the dizzy, relieved decision to give in as you feel his arm snake around the front your waist to hold you in place, encouraging your arm to drape behind his neck behind you for better anchoring, your other hand finding comfort in clutching his forearm pressed to your middle.

His fingers continued to circle, alternating pressures before he’s carefully plunging his finger inside you. The sensation is almost too much, your body jerking in response as his middle knuckle disappears inside before easily—so easily—sliding back out and in once more. Your body responds to his touch, gripping the arm that’s working you, pressing your ass more against his swollen erection, making him hiss.

It’s an adjustment for his second finger to be added, but he’s patient with brows knitted together in concentration, panting against your wet skin, and focused entirely on understanding how you like to be touched. You’re grateful for the shower’s stream being loud enough to drown out the obscene sounds of your increasing wetness, but there’s no mercy for your moans.

As his pace quickens, you start quivering, your breathing turning into a strained gasp. Your hand tightens on the nape of his neck, gripping tight until he growls, grinding himself against your ass for his own relief. His thumb dares to sweep over your swollen clit, tightening your grip on his forearm enough that you can feel his tendons flexing as he works you. Steve’s fingers crook up and press the sponge of your inner walls that start to tremor and he starts saying your name with such a pleading tone that you could come undone right there.

Steve knows you’re close, ignoring how the water has basically run tepid with his skin burning as hot as it is. His mouth is on yours again, filthier and clumsier than before as his tongue slides across and against yours until you’re whimpering his name into his open mouth. The arm he had fastened around your waist slides up, cupping your breast again, rolling your nipple between his fingertips with a firmness you weren’t used to—almost bruising with the pinch, the tug, but your toes are curling and you’re starting to see stars.

“Steve, I’m…” you breathe out weakly, feeling him fill you again with his fingers. The treason snaps, a strained whine escapes before you’re fully shaking under his grip.

“That’s it, I got you,” he encourages as he rocks you through wave, after wave, after wave. Steve’s hot mouth and tongue mark your neck and his teeth find your shoulder, biting down on your skin, holding you through your pleasure until you’re gasping for air and your cries echo off the bathroom tile.

His own heated, breathless chuckle against your skin afterwards should make you feel embarrassed, but he didn’t sound smug, just utterly amazed by you.

Your legs are so shaky, you don’t trust yourself to stand without his arms around you. Steve spins you around to face him again and you sigh into another one of his hypnotizing kisses.

This time, you twine your arms around his neck, his erection poking your stomach in a way that sends feelings of aftershock down to your core. The tip of his tongue traces your lower lip and finds your apple-sweet taste, his deep moan vibrates against your lips. Steve says your name again, sending goosebumps up the back of your arms. His face is completely flushed and beautiful when he pulls back—his lips all red and swollen, your favorite rogue curl has escaped the rest of the hair that remained slicked back from the shower stream.

Without words, you turn off the faucet, keeping your eyes trained on his the entire time and allowing the tension between you to build thicker, impenetrable.

“Do you…” you start to say, briefly glancing between your dripping bodies to see his leaking erection and a sly smirk grows, “want to—“

“Yes,” Steve answers quickly, obediently. His eyes are intense and dark, his pupils seem dilated and his hunger wasn’t sufficed.

You’re struggling to keep your composure and not reveal a huge shit-eating grin, knowing you’re capable of making the King Steve buckle like this.

“Okay,” you whisper, briefly giving him a chaste kiss before grabbing towels and feeling his eyes trained on you the entire time.

A sense of confidence came with the control transferring into your favor. It felt empowering to feel a man like Steve follow you up the stairs to your bedroom as silently and loyally as a shadow. You bit your bottom lip to contain your bliss knowing your plan worked.

It sounds manipulative to say out loud, but your chest ached so deeply, to the point of hollowness, thinking about how long you would go without seeing him—maybe ever again. You’re not naive enough to think you actually matter, to think he won’t see this as just one last Hawkins Hoorah before he gets to fuck off to paradise for three months.

Though, it feels like a high when his hands are on your hips again once he clicks your bedroom door closed. Steve’s eye catch something familiar thrown over your desk chair, the heather gray crewneck of his from that night. He twitches beneath the towel around his waist remembering that night; how you looked with it on and how he imagined you the nights following while he stroked himself, thinking of you wearing only his stupid athletic sweatshirt and sprawled on his bed like that. His temperature starts rising as reality settles in, knowing he’s alone with you at last, without interruption or technicalities like a douchebag boyfriend.

Steve clears his throat for your attention with arched brows of amusement, a finger hooking the sleeve of the sweatshirt. When you spin around, your face immediately flushes with embarrassment.

“Oh, I—“ you stutter, a hand nervously tucking hair behind your ear. “Uhm.”

The glint in his eye sparkles, there’s a cockiness to him without saying anything at all. Steve’s delighted watching you stir like this, shifting on your feet like you have two left’s before your knees hit the back of your mattress, springs creak with your less than graceful plop. His forefinger and thumb find his bottom lip as he contains his smirk, approaching slowly like he’s careful to not scare off a rabbit.

Steve could be so intimidating without trying, though. Especially as he towers over you like this, being eye level with the happy trail that cascades into the towel. You swallow your nerves—maybe your lust, you don’t know anymore—and sit up more confidently, allowing the towel you clutched to your chest to be released, slowly undoing itself as it slides down your exposed skin. Steve’s lowering himself by the edge of your mattress like he’s about to pray.

Before you can fully process what’s happening, his damp hair brushes your inner thighs. Your breath hitches from the sudden cold droplets of water against your skin mixed with his warm breath fanning over you. You think he’s going to crawl on top of you, but he only sinks himself lower.

When his tongue licks your entrance, you nearly yelp loud enough that your neighbors should hear. Instead, your stomach caves in as you gasp, the feeling of his hot tongue sliding between you as easily as his fingers did in the shower.

“Oh— oh, my God—“ you stammer, roughly grabbing onto his hair from the root, tugging him closer until he’s burying his tongue in you.

Steve moans against you, his nose bumping your clit at the same time the stubble on his chin scratches against your most delicate skin, sending a sharp jolt through you. His lashes flutter shut as he tastes you, brows pinched together in concentration while his tongue swipes and glides to collect the honey dripping out of your center.

He leans back to sit on his heels, breathlessly admiring the sight of you while you almost sob from missing his mouth already. Your hands clenched at the blankets below you as one finger, then two, enters you at the same time his lips wrap around your clit with practiced precision.

You cry out in a way that makes him nearly leak on your duvet. “You’re so pretty,” Steve mumbles, shaking his head in disbelief, your wetness covering his chin.

The sight would normally embarrass you, but you’re so desperate to feel him as closely as possible that both of you make a noise of surprise at how quickly you’re forcefully grabbing his head to smash your lips against his, tasting yourself off his tongue.

“Fuck,” his voice breaks, muffled by your tongue sliding along his. You’ve never been more bold, reaching between the both of you to return how good he makes you feel, to feel the weight of him in your palm and Jesus, he was heavy.

Steve whispers your name on a shaky exhale as your fingers wrap around him, slowly pumping with the slick you’ve stolen from his swollen tip. He feels like warm velvet, throbbing in your palm. His pretty pouty lips are parted, panting unevenly as his nose nudges your cheekbone. Hot, wet breaths spill onto your neck, a wave of goosebumps erupt across your skin.

Steve can’t help himself, he thrusts into your hand out of desperation, hips sputtering while your pace quickens and your wrist is twisting in a tighter squeeze like he clearly wanted. His position changes to press his forehead against yours, lashes brushing his cheekbones while he remains slack-jawed over your touch.

Another strained whine erupts from his throat before he dives in for another deep kiss to which you eagerly lick at his tongue; his balance nearly faltering on top of you before he steadied himself, leaning you back fully against the bed, with his hands on either side of your head while yours remained in a tight curled fist that he thrusted into.

Steve wants to know how you learned to kiss like that, who taught you how to pull and twist on him like this, but his eyes are so transfixed on how you look with your hair spilled on the blankets when its not pulled tight in that ponytail for work and your lips so bitten and flushed. Something pricks in his chest that catches him off guard.

“Hey, uh, if this is—“ he’s not whispering, but it feels like it with how tenderly he’s talking to you. Your heart thuds heavily against your ribs as his hair tickles your forehead, still hovering above you with permission. You started feeling shy under his gaze, so you quickly wrap your arms around his neck again to stop him looking at you so sweetly.

“Steve,” you interrupt him, lips catching his in another kiss. You feel his muscles relax as his body lowers itself completely, his tongue delving deeper into your mouth while rolling his hips down onto yours.

Your ankles instinctively lock, pressing into his lower back. Steve’s lips brush your nose before he pushes himself against you, looking down at you like you hung the sun in the sky. You have an ache inside you so deep and desperate, your nails are digging into his shoulders before he gives another roll forward, aligning himself before he slowly presses himself forward.

Steve made a drawn out grunt, low and patient, like he was settling in. The stretch is a shock at first, not that it should be a surprise after the rumors you heard, but it was easily turned to pleasure as soon as he started moving his hips. He says your name again, your eyes that had squeezed shut then fluttering open to look at him longingly and he almost loses control right there.

“You…” your voice is strained, he presses an encouraging kiss by the corner of your mouth until you’re mumbling into a kiss, “Steve, you feel so good.”

His thrusts lose their tempo, jerking at your praise. He’s buries himself in the crook of your neck as his movements pick up speed, a raw soreness to your body stretching to accompany the full length of him, but the initial sting is covered by the waves of pleasure shooting through you.

As Steve got more comfortable, he’d pull himself almost fully out just to slide back inside you with ease until you felt fully adjusted. You moan so pretty for him, spreading your thighs as wide as you can so he can somehow be deeper inside you, completely swallowing him whole.

He’s shaking his head again incredulously, in complete shock this is real life as he slides a hand under the back of your neck, cradling you into another earth shattering kiss. Your lips wrap around his tongue, a slow deliberate bobbing that makes him twitch inside you before he’s growling into the kiss.

“Jesus,” he groans, corkscrewing his hips into you. The sounds are vile, wet slapping but you don’t care. You briefly catch his fingertips graze his tongue before they’re applying pressure to your clit again, perfect circles mixed with rhythmic thrusts that make you see stars.

You’re nearly choking for the air he’s breathing into your kiss, your body quivering beneath his. He cups your breast in one of his large hands, greedily kneading and squeezing for his own pleasure but it’s bringing you closer to the edge.

“I’m close,” Steve confesses in a voice so deep that you wouldn’t have guessed it was his if your eyes didn’t witness him say it. You lift your knee in any attempt to let him be inside you deeper, his palm finds the backside of your thigh as he pushes himself up taller, cockier, snapping his hips in a way that reminds you who he is. Your knee is almost against your shoulder with how he has you.

“Come on,” you encourage him, your hand finding his chest, running your fingers through the patch of hair there and letting your nails drag down his skin, feeling the muscles in his stomach flex as your nails only get lower.

A sudden surge of his hips makes you cry, somewhere between alarm and delight, because it feels like when a bruise hurts in a way that weirdly hits the spot. The bundle of nerves stirring enough that makes your legs shake, he holds you steady hooking his bicep to press into the underside of your calf muscle.

Steve’s eyes are intense, his head hung low while his curls, now more wild and unruly from your copious grips and tangling, continued to brush your skin with each thrust. The muscles on his back begin to quiver, shuddering with a deep groan as his jaw hangs open for you to bite at and kiss while he twitches inside of you.

He stills briefly before collapsing on top of you, then rolling onto his back to lay beside you; the two of you panting together while staring at your popcorn ceiling. Your bedroom fan spinning fills the sudden silence and brings immediate relief to your sweaty bodies.

You dare to turn your head towards him first, his attention pulled to you the moment you do, and a very slow, warm grin like a sunrise spreads across his lips. You’re relieved to be actually flushed so he wouldn’t notice how much your cheeks were burning.

Something about seeing Steve look so spent and out of breath, smiling at you like that, you could feel a familiar fluttering between your legs. You can actually see the red in his cheeks, the sweat on his hairline. He looks so pretty, you could cry.

Your bed creaks as Steve starts to sit up at the edge of the bed carefully before his hand finds your bare thigh with a soft pat of gratitude, making your body instantly jump from his touch. He chuckles at your sensitivity, admiring his view until you got too shy. In one swift movement, you had rolled over on your side to face oppositely from him, hiding your chest from his sight hurriedly to throw the infamous crewneck over your naked body.

Steve rolls his eyes and makes a tsk sound from behind you that makes you nervous. “That only makes it harder for me to resist, you know…” his voice coos by your ear before you shift to face him once more, immediately reminded of how gorgeous and naked he was.

He catches your upper lip between his own for one last lingering kiss, his thumb and forefinger firmly holding your jaw in place contrasting with the soft and languid movements of his lips. You could melt into him all over again—forever maybe, if he’d let you, but he’s already pulling away as soon as you start to fade.

Your eyelids heavy and brain in a fog feels like time is slowing as he starts to stand, finding his now dry clothes you nearly threw on your bedroom floor when you finally got to lead him upstairs. Your heart kind of aches to see him leave, even after all of that, as if that was supposed to magically keep him in your room for the next three months instead of Florida.

“I hope you have a good time with your uncle,” you squeak out, your throat still kind of hoarse. He’s fixing his hood around his neck again before looking down at you, standing between your legs—still spread for him.

Steve’s lopsided smirk has never been more relaxed, his large hands cup your cheeks for an innocent forehead kiss before he’s telling you goodbye.

“I’ll call you,” he says like a promise, so sincere that you felt sick. It’s mind numbing to have your brain immediately assume he’s ended every hookup like this just to lie to their faces and never see them again—like you got the old fashioned bait and switch. Regardless, you nod silently, ignoring the tight feeling in your throat and even more noticeable ache in your core.

You’re shimming on a pair of cotton briefs right as Steve finds your Polaroid on your desk. He catches a moment where you’re sat so pretty with your thighs pressed together and the sweatshirt—his sweatshirt—is just long enough to conceal you. You yelp in surprise at the sound of the camera’s flash before the pitched humming of its printing. Even if Steve had seen parts of your body that the sun itself had not seen, that moment still felt more intimate than anything else.

You’re frozen still as he’s grabbing a marker from the cup of disorganized pens that you had on your desk, extending it out to you along with the Polaroid.

“M’serious, write your number,” his crooked smile bewitching you in your fragile state while your heart tries to regulate its beating. You watched as he made sure the ink was dry before he was insane enough to put it in his wallet. Steve was so good at this. Effortlessly charming, but infuriatingly difficult to read.

“Cool,” he says, like always.

You force a smile you disguise as happily sleepy, though not quite able to reach your eyes.

“Cool,” you mimic back.

You see the flash of his smile one more time before he disappears behind your front door. You linger at your locks for a moment, hesitating on if you should swing your door back open and beg him to stay, at least for tonight, but you don’t because it’s not what he wants and it’s not going to keep him from leaving anyways; that much is clear.

The sound of his metal door clanging closed makes your head snap up before you’re bolting up your stairs in a haste, bare feet thundering up each step until you’re at your bedroom window, eyes narrowing in on your driveway.

As if on cue, Steve looks up from his window and salutes you with a small wave. You wiggle your fingers back and stare longingly as the BMW loudly roared out of your driveway. You’re unable to look away until the glow from his headlights on the slick road had disappeared, leaving you alone in your bedroom where the smell of him still lingered on your sheets and skin.

“Would you just hold still?” your voice raising with impatience.

Jim grunts in response.

He’s been hurt again and he told you it’s nothing, but blood dripping on your hardwood and possibly a faint concussion is definitely not nothing.

“M’fine,” he growls again, his heavy mitt coming to swat your hand down but you’ve dodged his slowed movements easily.

“You’re not!” you remain firm, but you can’t help but feel a little shaky raising your voice at him of all people. He was usually the one in charge, it was obvious how little he was used to getting bossed around himself.

His eyes, one swollen and bruised, manages to meet your gaze. His expression softens as he unknits his brow once he sees the genuine concern in your eyes. You both share a long understanding look before you exhale a tired sigh, dipping the warm cloth back into the now pinkish water to rinse then dab at his chest and arms again.

From the corner of your eye, you catch his mustache twitching as he winces from the injuries with each gentle press you give.

He won’t tell you what happened, he says it’s nothing you need to be involved in, that you finding out any information is detrimental to your safety, blah, blah, blah; all the same police bullshit he’s fed you before.

Whatever it was, it knew how to fight back, that’s for sure.

You’d never seen him in such bad shape. It’s a miracle he could drive well enough to nearly fall against your front door, moaning for your help, before he practically collapsed into your arms.

His back rests against your porcelain tub as you crouched over him to dress his wounds, forcing him to go to the only room in your house that could actually get blood off of the flooring.

There’s a comfortable silence between the two of you. The only sounds being the washcloth getting dunked and rung out or his occasional grunt, sometimes a sharp inhale or exhale through his nose to never actually say he’s in pain.

You can feel his eyes on you the entire time you tend to him. Jim is looking at you with a new glint in his eye that makes you feel a little embarrassed, honestly.

Your relationship wasn’t really defined or even thought of too seriously, but seeing how you take care of him like this without any other obligation makes his adoration for you stronger.

“You’re so beautiful, y’know that?” his voice hardly above a whisper, raspy with exhaustion.

You scoff immediately, your ears get hot from the sudden blushing.

“You hit your head pretty hard, Chief,” you say just as quietly.

When you finally look up into his eyes, it feels like all the air in your lungs had been deflated.

His irises were such a deep shade of blue, maybe a little more gray than you’ve noticed before or it’s just your bathroom lighting; but he really is handsome.

His rugged chest exposed to you, looking so inviting despite the bruising. You can’t help but notice the creeping hair from his waistband to his stomach.

He’s still looking at you before placing a heated calloused palm to your delicate and soft thigh.

“Not that hard,” he smirks, his bloody lip adding more to his charm.

You give in, leaning down to meet him for a tender kiss.

His lips mold against yours with ease, he hums through the pain because kissing you felt crucial to his recovery. His rough palms cup your face with tenderness, you can taste his admiration in his deepening kiss.

You can’t help but mewl into his open mouth as his grip on you changes to suddenly be on your hips to pull you on top of his nearly broken frame.

He makes a strained groan through the pain, balancing you where he needs to feel you, despite not thinking about how he is definitely not strong enough for this right now. He could be so stubborn.

You smile against his lips, your smaller palms on his chest to keep your balance as you pulled away from him slowly despite his attempts to protest; his lips just desperate enough to stay attached to yours as long as you’d allow.

“You need to heal before we even… anything,” your breathy laugh lightening the mood again as you carefully swing your leg over his middle to get off him.

Another thunderous growl emits from his chest, pure frustration at being defeated by his own body.

Your thumb softly brushes against his clenched jaw in an act of sympathy, his head leans into your touch immediately.

“Let’s go to bed and rest,” you whisper, pressing a chaste kiss to his lips in hopes he’d stop acting like such a grumpy old man.

Begrudgingly, Jim leans on you to be his literal crutch. Your arm confidently hooks around his hip while he drapes most of his weight to be nearly on your shoulders, shuffling together towards your bed.

He reminded you of a bear preparing for hibernation with the way he settled into your comforting nest of a bed. You’d pack your fluffiest pillows to support his weakest muscles so he could actually heal while he slept.

“Thank you,” he says, for maybe the tenth time this evening. Your roles had completely reversed.

Your shoulders rise and fall to mimic how he usually would respond to your predictable and ever repeating gratitude.

“It’s what I’m here for.”

For the first time tonight, he looks genuinely relaxed. His smirk growing into a knowing smile, recognizing his own words now coming from your lips.

“C’mere,” his voice so smooth and rich, like honey.

With the last of your spare blankets stuffed under his knees, he was already patting the spot next to him on the mattress.

You roll your eyes at his demanding nature, but you oblige nonetheless, cuddling up his side close and gently lying your head on his chest.

You hear his satisfied rumble, his fingers then finding your scalp, weaving through the roots of your hair, for a comforting massage as a way of thanks.

At your rawest form, this was your relationship with Jim. What lacked real definition was at least represented with action; your overall commitment to taking care of each other.

You had known for months that the Chief of Police by your side came with the obvious protection perk. You were able to take strolls at night, holding his hand, knowing you were going to be safe. Even now as your ear is pressed against his chest, his stable heartbeat provided a reassurance that you were going to be okay.

For the first time in a long time, he got to feel what it was like to be powerless. To release some level of control is already a challenge in itself for Jim, but he realized his trust in you made that feel easier.

He presses kisses to the back of your skull as your eyes got heavier from his soothing massage. He would listen to your breathing slow, allowing his own body to relax into the bedding.

You had known from the beginning that he makes you feel safe, but tonight, he would get to understand what that felt like with you on the other side.

It’s kind of nauseating how Steve exudes such a remarkable level of suaveness that even the older ladies at the diner are fawning over him.

With ease, all he had to do was bend his height down slightly to wave and greet the smaller, rounder woman with crinkles by her eyes that only deepened when she lit up at the sight of Steve. Despite his injuries, he was charming as ever, kissing her cheek in greeting like he’s known her for years and maybe he had with the way her name rolled off his tongue in the singsongy kind of way that made her giggle and lead you to what you learned was his booth.

Faint smells of cigarettes swirled with the nostalgic aroma of breakfast fill the space and your stomach actually rumbled. The cheap and tacky red vinyl that covers the bench seat squeaks awkwardly as you slide in with nervousness. The diner is basically empty with the closest patron still a good couple of feet away, but it still feels like everyone is looking at you.

Steve doesn’t seem to mind, though. He’s used to it, you think. He’s shrugging off his bomber jacket and tossing it onto the booth seat opposite from you before sliding in himself, completely unaware of the attention he gets—especially with a busted lip and dark crescent bruise framing his one eye. You see another waitress in the background gasp, touching her own cheek as if she can feel the sympathy for his injury. You wonder if when she whispers to a line cook if they’re assuming you did it, or something.

“Order whatever you want,” Steve sighs, silencing the paranoid thoughts of yours. “It’s on me.”

When you look at him, he’s only looking at the menu, turning it over a couple of times as he scours his options, but you both know he came here for the pancakes.

“I can pay for mine, don’t worry—“ you shrug, but Steve’s huffing with another crankier sigh than the one from before.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he mutters through a clenched jaw, brushing the underside of his nose with his knuckle in habit. In a quick flash, you can see his eyes dart over his menu to look at you, but they’re already back to scanning the print by the time you try to catch his gaze.

You understood his subtle warning; you’re not trying to start a fight back up again either. Your cheeks burn scarlet, your stomach filling up with flutters that were confusing your appetite.

“So,” you lower your voice to a volume hardly above the nostalgic radio playing above from the speakers. “You come here often?”

Steve snorts and hides a grin behind his hands folded in front of him, elbows propped up and shoulders shaking with a light chuckle. “Oh, my God,” his hands rub over his features, he sounds horrified as his laugh starts to subside. “What year did they program you, Geekatron? Who says that anymore?”

You join his laughter to spare your embarrassment which makes his smile grow despite his efforts of hiding behind his folded clasp. You noticed how his thumb would find its place against his lower lip, avoiding his cut and just toying with the soft plump part that you remember what it was like to nibble on. It looked just as blushed and inviting as you remember.

You clear your throat to recenter your thoughts. “I was asking because you seemed like a regular here,” your voice trailing off more distracted as you take in the sight of all the novelty art and items that lined the wooden walls—some war memorabilia, painted plates, rusty or faded tin signs of all kinds, and framed articles. Clearly, this was a historical hidden gem of Hawkins you never noticed before.

Steve’s eyes follow yours, though he has been here countless times, he still feels like he could find something new.

“Yeah, my uncle—“ he clears his throat then, his eyes squinting at some of the signage as if he’s trying to distract himself, “he, uh, did the tile in here back in the 60’s, so…” another sigh tumbles past his lips, “just came here a lot as a kid, I guess. There was a summer when I used to do the dishes when I was, like, fourteen but quit when I started school. Naturally, became a spot for where I could bring my friends to sober up after going out or parties, whatever. Been coming here forever, but it’s always looked the same. Just one of those places, I guess.” He scratches at some incoming stubble as he speaks before nervously brushing his nose with the backside of his knuckle again.

Your smile grows fondly as you imagine what Steve was like as a child, sitting at the bar of the diner by the open kitchen window and begging for more pancakes with syrup all of his cheeks and hands.

“That’s cool, I envy you. I don’t have anything like that, really. It sounds special,” you admit, catching him off guard. Steve’s eyes dragged from the hidden patterns of the wooden paneling to look at you then.

He lets his folded hands finally rest on the table and his lips part as if to speak, but you are interrupted by the same older woman from before who came sauntering in with a balanced saucer resting on her shoulder, the smell of maple and caramelized butter wafting in the air.

“Thanks, Jean,” Steve looks up at her with a toothy grin after she’s placed the plates in front of you, earning another musical giggle from her. She squeezes his shoulder and offers the two of you coffee, which you feel happily obliged to enjoy despite it being nearly 8:30PM. You bite the inside of your cheek to keep from smirking too obviously while watching Steve pour a fourth sugar packet in his mug.

“Alright, entertain me,” Steve began as he sawed carefully at his stacked pancakes, you nodded, not entirely sure where this conversation was headed after what you left behind in his apartment. “What makes you think waffles are better than pancakes?” He asks, waving the fork with his next bite at the end of it like a judge with a gavel.

A wash of relief rolls down your shoulders knowing he’s not trying to pick up where you left off right away.

You reciprocate, smearing the melted butter into the crevices of your crusted waffle. Maple syrup pools into the square shaped divots, making the ideal puddles on top for dipping. “Easy,” you say while effortlessly cutting a perfectly portioned cube of a bite, following the natural grid of the waffle. “Structure.” you answer confidently before the familiar comforting taste of warm butter and sugar envelope your tongue.

Steve snorts then. “Of course you love structure, robot,” he remarks lowly in a way that would make you embarrassed, but you immediately took notice of the playful tilt in his voice.

When your eyes leave your plate to look up at his, he’s leaned back into the booth with that smug grin that you’re used to. Steve’s arms rests on the back of the booth, fully relaxed as if he owns the place. His jaw works as he chews, drawing your attention to the hollow of his cheeks, the pinkness of his lips. You can see his exposed neck swallow his bite and your body heat rises.

His legs are much longer than yours, causing you to nearly jump out of your seat at the sudden brush of his cotton clad knees rubbing briefly against yours. It’s the kind of deliberate “playing it cool” move where it could be accidental, could be intentional, but with his smug expression, you have no choice but to assume it was his subtle way of making you nervous on purpose.

“Structure is important,” your eyebrows pinch at the center as you defend yourself while stacking your waffles to distract yourself from the energy radiating from your knee all the way through your body. Your cutting pace quickens, stacking and sliding pieces until the waffle is in bite size pieces but still maintaining its waffle integrity. There’s a satisfaction with the ridges lining up together and creating a perfect cube of deliciousness.

Steve’s smirk falters a bit but he shrugs with arched brows to play it off while continuing to haphazardly cut his pancake stack into some irregular shapes of all sizes, complete opposite to your organized bites.

“Structure sounds safe,” he murmurs.

This felt like a passive pivot that you weren’t sure if you felt ready for. His arms come down to his sides again as his posture straightens, his doe eyes lingering on you like you’re meant to read between his lines like always.

“I like stability,” you say on a heavy exhale, your chest growing tighter for some reason. “I like safe.”

His jaw ticks the slightest. You pretend to not notice, your fork poking around at some of your neatly stacked bites.

Steve’s lips purse as he nods slowly to your response, but he’s having a hard time believing you prioritize safety when your ex left his face like that.

At least he was in school for a real job, not just some cushion to get you from one place to the other like Steve’s been doing since graduation. Maybe that’s all you meant by safe… Stability, structure.

Your ex was a class act dickhead, but he was promising a stable future for you that Steve couldn’t compete with if he tried, especially since getting cut off from the Harrington Enterprise funds—a type of structure he couldn’t provide.

It was making his skin prickly with needles to think about. Steve could offer more than just financial stability. Steve had life experiences, he was able to show you things your ex wouldn’t without a guide or itinerary. There’s not even any competition anymore, but it still felt like he’s losing. His tongue pokes into the inside of his cheek before he shoves another bite of pancakes in his mouth to silence himself.

“Don’t you think—“ Steve starts, but huffs in frustration before his fork clatters against the ceramic, the noise sharpening the tension. “Don’t you think you would have a better life if you weren’t afraid all the time?” he rushes out, leaving you speechless.

A sharp twinge in your lungs spreads across your chest as you blink at him, trying to catch your breath.

You can’t see them underneath the tabletop, but Steve’s hands have balled into fists at his sides, desperately pushing whatever nails he has into his palm to create crescent shaped punishment markings for boiling over the way he promised himself he wasn’t going to.

You shake your head as you choke on a laugh, tilting it slightly as you look at him in disbelief. Was it so impossible to share a moment together that he wouldn’t sour?

“What makes you think I’m afraid?” you challenge, though you feel sick at the thought of his answer. Unfortunately, he was right. Maybe you were an over-thinker, someone who always has a Plan D—just in case.

Something about Steve perceiving you this intimately makes you want to take the butter knife from the table and force it into the flesh of your hand rather than have to hear what he had to say.

Steve’s not even done chewing as he rolls his eyes at you. “Please,” he starts, “don’t think I haven’t noticed.”

Your body stills while he continues to act natural, unfazed as usual. You wonder if he’s alluding to your crush; was it really so obvious? Maybe he just meant in general, since you are more of the anxious type and that’s not exactly a secret either. You’re already proving the point by overthinking his vague response, just as he wanted. It’s like he was dangling the bait right in front of you. How typical for him to always deflect the conversation into how something you do isn’t agreeable with him, what about Steve’s choices?

You shrug as you chew thoughtfully. “I really don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Steve makes a tsk sound before placing his utensils down quieter this time, leaning closer so even his lower register can be heard over “Do You Really Want to Hurt Me” by Culture Club which felt a little too on the nose for your liking. The universe would always find a way to remind you it had a sense of humor.

“Are you happy?” Steve asks then, his tone changing to something closer to sympathy or maybe patience. His eyes are looking up at you, his long dark lashes nearly reach his defined brow bone. A beat passes before you can begin to even process an answer. “Actually happy? Like, satisfied with your life?” he presses.

Now your turn to roll your eyes at him, suddenly feeling a loss of appetite. Steve’s pancakes are nearly gone, clearly he had no trouble multitasking being a human vacuum and an asshole.

You push your plate away from you and avoid his gaze. “No,” your voice barely a whisper. “I’m angry,” you confess.

Steve’s nodding as he slides his final bite into pools of syrup on his plate. You quietly wondered if he was desperate to clean the plate as much as possible with consideration for the current dishwasher.

“Anger’s good,” he manages before swallowing. You pretend to ignore the coil in your stomach winding tighter at the visual of him sucking the remaining syrup from the sides of his fingers. “Anger is at least a feeling.”

You can’t help but huff exasperated, “Would you knock it off? Have I not showcased enough emotion in front of you to convince you I’m not some sad, rigid, robot, control freak?” You fold your arms over your chest, trying not to let yourself grow in volume and draw more attention to this side of the diner. “Or do you need to make me cry again?”

Steve’s tight expression softens, his lips curving into the lopsided smirk that almost made you forget what you were getting upset over.

“Okay, okay—” he lifts a placating hand. “I’ll stop,” his voice sounding sincere, but his expression remaining sly.

You want to ask him why he even brings it up. What’s the point of criticizing you all the time if you can’t even ask about his own internal turmoil?

“Steve?” your voice carries across the booth sadly and it pulls him into reality like nothing else. His eyes are locked on yours, desperate to hear you say his name so softly again.

“If not because…“ you sigh, not allowing yourself to get embarrassed again by bringing up what he calls a stupid kiss, “Why’d you quit?”

Your shoulders hang low as your eyes dart between his dark irises that narrowed on you, traced with hints of copper and honey even in this ambient diner lighting.

Steve draws in a breath while a hand nervously rubs at the back of his neck before adjusting the hooded fabric. “Just felt like the right time,” he lies, fidgeting with the strings of his sweatshirt by the base of his throat.

You don’t say anything. It’s not worth a fight anymore; nothing is. You just nod and allow the bitter taste of diner coffee to help make it easier to swallow down your upset feelings.

Steve rubs his knee against yours again, more intentionally than before as he holds one of your knees between his own, and your body freezes instinctively. It feels like electricity is being passed directly from his skin into yours.

“I gotta help my uncle,” he clears his throat.

You blink, surprised by the sudden honesty. “The one who does tile?” you ask innocently as he nods slowly.

“The very one,” Steve mumbles behind the lip of his ceramic mug. You can see how long his lashes really are now as they rest against the tops of his cheeks with the long sips he takes before continuing. “M’actually flying to Florida tomorrow—to help him, I mean,” he swirls the remaining dark liquid around before taking another nonchalant sip while you continue to always feel like he’s never going to not be three steps ahead of you?

“Florida?” you ask, incredulous.

Steve’s fingers weave through his hair, a few rebellious strands still try to fall against his brow as he nods cautiously. His lips that were once pouted and bitten, probably tasting sweet like maple candy, have pressed into a tight neutral line.

Your heartbeat is quickening and you don’t know why. Freaking out to a sudden change is only going to prove his point from before. You could be cool. Steve likes cool girls.

“For how long?” you lean back into the cushion of the booth, the vinyl creaking as you do your best attempt at sounding disinterested.

He exhales through his nose, piling your plates and silverware together for Jean’s ease and his own distraction. “About three months,” Steve says under his breath. You can see his throat strain from a thick swallow.

Your hands find their place under your thighs, they’re safer there when they’re not flailing around gesticulating or balled into fists ready to slam on top of the table like the tantrum you wish you could throw. This was so unfair. Three months?

“What about your apartment?” Your brows knit together in confusion, but you try to keep your voice calm.

“What about it?” Steve shrugs, not looking to you as he’s signing the bill with a predictable scribble-like fashion. “Told you, m’dad paid me to get out of the house. He paid for the first year’s contract then cut me off. Just wanted me out that bad, I guess,” he huffs out a softer laugh, but it sounds hollow and bitter. He takes his irritation out on the receipt at the end of the table with a forceful slide using the flat of his palm.

You’re nodding like a bobblehead again, just trying to understand him even when he seems so far away. Your eyes flick to the fog on the diner windows. When did it start raining? A soft patter against the glass fills the silence between the two of you.

It’s not a breakup, so why did it feel more like one than the actual breakup you mourned last weekend?

“I’m sure the weather will be better,” you say lightly all of a sudden, hoping he can’t detect how forced your enthusiasm for him is. Inside, your stomach was turning.

It was one thing for him to not be at the bowling alley anymore, but to know that was going to be the last time in his apartment for an indefinite future was making you depressed. You didn’t want him to leave.

Steve studies your expression, his eyes flicking over rosy cheeks that rounded from your encouraging smile. Despite how badly Steve wishes for his ego to hear you beg for him to stay, he respects your distance.

There’s a tightness in his chest he can’t name when he sees you like this—smiling through your hurt, being a lot better at controlling your temper than he was. He began to realize he might not have been giving you enough credit for your strength.

“Yeah,” Steve folds his arms across the heavy ache to self soothe. “Looking forward to it,” he mutters under his breath.

You can’t help but sneak a glance at him then. His eyes completely trained on the condensation from the window, watching selected raindrops trail down slowly before colliding into another drop and creating a faster and heavier traverse. Maybe you were just a raindrop on a diner window that Steve, the bigger raindrop, just devoured one day.

Trying to return back to your normal routine without Steve sounded like paradise to you at one point, but now it feels devastating.

————————————————

Every moment from here on out felt like it needed to be savored, but there’s nothing you would miss more than the calloused warmth of his physical touch or the way his BMW smells on your rides home—a mix of spearmint, warm cotton, and the kind of light musk that just naturally smelled like him.

You tried to memorize how his hand fit around the gearstick, the veins flexing from between his fingers going up into his forearm as he shifts into a different speed. His skin was already tanned despite it being autumn, you couldn’t imagine what the Florida sun would do to him. The thought of his future inevitable tan lines left your mouth dry.

The hardest thought to relieve from your subconscious was what the women in Florida would do with a guy like Steve. The only way to remain sane was to imagine all of the retired older ladies he’s already popular with falling for him instead of a Miami Beach Barbie.

Despite your efforts, your devious thoughts are responsible for your growing smile and Steve notices without fail. He goes to tease you about it, but his teeth dig into his bottom lip instead, his jaw flexing at the motion and it’s making his profile view that much more beautiful. You hated the feeling sitting on your chest whenever you look at him.

The Beamer rumbles beneath your leather seat in a powerful purr as you go down the same familiar winding roads you know leads to your neighborhood. You’re not ready for your time with him to be cut so short and a heavy ache starts gnawing at your stomach.

Steve licks his lips as if to think for a moment before deciding to break your peaceful silence, “What would you have done, by the way? If I had answered the door not looking—you know,” he gestures vaguely by his face before turning to look at you, the bruised eye in sight again.

Your eyes drift to the roof of the car as you consider your words. The thought of being honest might spark up another defensive argument on either side, but lying didn’t feel like an option anymore. It was starting to become increasingly obvious how much Steve predicted your behavior. While you continue to always play your game of catch up, Steve could already see through you. It was hardly fair.

“I was pretty pissed,” you say sideways with a playful scowl, your lips curving up at the corners. You catch the flash of his eyes looking over at you then, assessing if you’re still mad at him or not. His grip on the wheel relaxes at the sight of your smile.

Steve nods as his free hand finds his lips again, running his fingertips over his smirk to conceal his amusement. “I knew those stomps up my stairs were pissed off stomps,” he jokes.

A giggle escaped from your throat and your cheeks flush immediately, feeling like another pathetic googly eyed girl in Steve Harrington’s passenger seat.

“I was pissed, but…” you trail off, noticing the houses out the window are only looking more familiar the closer you got to your parents’ driveway. “Then I just felt bad you got pathetically beat up by a bunch of short men in the parking lot.”

Steve laughs, a real laugh, louder than you anticipated but his eyes are crinkled the way you love when you glance over at him. He shakes his head and runs a hand up through his hair, pushing the dark curls away from his face that just fall back in line without effort.

”Fair enough,” he sighs as his chuckling softens. “Sorry again, but the way.”

Your expression changes too, your brows knitted together confusedly. “For?” you challenge, his car coming to a slow halt at the end of your driveway just as it always did every Friday after work.

It felt dramatic to end your time together with an apology. It would be more respectable if Steve was just content with being a pompous asshole who got high on messing with you, making you cry, occasionally humiliating you for your lack of experience or ability to read his mind the way he’s just managed to figure you out so predictably.

Right now, Steve doesn’t look cocky or smug like he’s going to say something that makes your eyes roll. His gaze is transfixed on the outside of your house, admiring the cookie-cutter nature of how it matches the other suburbans in the neighborhood.

Structure, he thought.

He seems far away even with only a middle console between the two of you. “It wasn’t stupid,” he says easily, the muscles in your stomach twisting together nervously. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

Your eyebrows shoot up in surprise. Steve’s head rolls against the leather headrest on the one side to face you, his eyes scanning your expression in a way that almost feels invasive with how intense his gaze can be. You can’t help but notice how the bump in his throat bobs to swallow hard, his neck craned in a position that makes the skin tighter and more exposed.

The sound of the rain growing lighter as it continues to pebble against his windshield fill the silence. A beat passes before you decide to speak.

“It’s stupid how much it affected me—my life, I mean,” you confess, sinking more into your seat. Your fingers start twisting together into your other hand, lips pursing as you consider how embarrassing it is to even have this conversation you thought you had planned better as more of an angry confrontation, not a heart-to-heart.

Steve’s brows furrowed, “Don’t say that.” He didn’t sound as stern as usual, something reminiscent of the tender way he’s spoken to you before, the tone that makes your knees wobbly if you tried to stand. “It’s not stupid at all… and you’re right,” Steve sighs, his eyes closing for a moment, “I was selfish.”

Your eyes finally lift up from your woven hands stirring in your lap to look at him. Though he can’t see, you still nod considering his words.

Having Steve admit fault and apologize to you like this just felt so finite, like you weren’t going to see him again. The thought that you used to celebrate at the idea of just makes your throat feel like it’s been wrapped with barbed wire that only tightened as he continued.

“I knew you were still with him, knowing what I knew too, I just couldn’t tell you—and I’m sorry for that too, you know? I guess I am pretty selfish.”

A sharp exhale leaves his nose before he can look at you again. Your hair still messy from work earlier, your polo streaked with the raindrops that pelted on both of you as you made a run for the car from the diner.

A warmth developed in Steve’s chest as he remembered how he had offered to bring the car up for you but you declined, calling him ridiculous this time. You shrieked together as the cold bullets falling from the dark clouds hit your skin, laughing with him the entire sprint before finally making it inside the Beamer.

The smell of fresh rain mixed with maple and vanilla filling the cabin of the car and your laughter falling into light panting as you both catch your breath. He remembered the look on your face—the rosiness that flushed across your cheeks and into your lips, wide with a smile. He wanted to be selfish again, to kiss you one last time before he got to disappear like he was planning to do, but it’s just not fair to you anymore. God, he was going to miss you.

“Steve?”

Your voice is like a soft chime, bringing his attention back to earth.

He doesn’t say anything as he half expects you to call him a bunch of names, remind him of how much he hurt you that night, then again at his apartment earlier tonight. Truthfully, Steve hates making you cry despite how good he is at it, he hates the way he can’t sleep without the pillowcase that still faintly smells of your hair from that night, and he hates the way his heart is reacting to you saying his name so gently like if you raised your volume any louder, the real bubble of reality could pop at any moment.

Steve’s looking at you—really looking at you, the same way he did when you caught him watching you admire the constellations from his stairway. His eyes, warm and glassy, search for something in your expression that makes your breathing more erratic.

Is this what he meant by challenging yourself to not be so safe all the time? Maybe this was his purpose in your life—to just be an aid to your cathartic purging of your past self. You’re still recovering from a traumatic breakup to say the least, he’s leaving the entire state of Indiana for three months, you don’t even have to see him at work anymore, and he was infamously good at this; it was kind of the perfect “one night only” scenario. The version of yourself you knew last month is not the same girl who could do what the current you has been thinking about all night.

It’s got to be now or never, you tell yourself.

“Do you want to come upstairs?”

You’re surprised by how calm you sounded, despite maybe a bit more winded than you were moments before.

Steve’s eyes switch to look out the windshield towards your house for a second, his lips parting in a way that makes you think he might protest or suggest that’s stupid, but you bravely lean forward across the console so that you can brush the pads of your fingertips over his lips, lingering over his injury.

“Let me be selfish too,” your voice hardly above a whisper and you’re being so soft, so gentle with him in a way he’s never seen from you. It physically pains him to have his heart strings pulled like this.

As he turns his chin towards you, your noses nearly brush and his eyes are trying to memorize how you look right now—pleading eyes sparkling at him, cheeks a shade of scarlet, and the wild wisps of your hair that surround your face still glistening from the rain.

When his eyes settle on your lips, you freeze completely still and hope he leans in. Your hand falls gracefully from his lips, to the stubble on his chin, to then rest carefully on his cheek—encouraging him to be selfish too.

Without so much of a real rebuttal, Steve gives into his cravings and crashes his lips against yours. The volume of your heartbeat between your ears competes with the pelts of the light rain. By just the impact of his lips on yours again, you’ve completely melted in your seat. Your hand on his cheek manages to steady his increasingly more eager kiss. Even with the cut in his lip, he doesn’t hold back the slightest.

His tongue—that tastes as sweet as you imagined after watching him lick the syrup from his fingers—skillfully swipes across your own almost immediately, both of you lightly gasping in between the languid movements of your lips molding together. There’s a warmth on your cheek from the air his nose fans onto your skin and the blood rushing to your flushed lips, you felt on fire. The way Steve kisses you makes you feel like you’re turning into the sun; glowing bright, a burning sensation so powerful across your skin that can feel like as sharp as needles, but it’s electrifying too.

Impatient and desperate to keep Steve for as long as you can before he flies across the country, your hand returns to his stubble lined jaw, tilting his chin ever so slightly with the pad of your thumb gently pushing up from underneath.

Steve’s jaw slacks from your sudden dominance, his pretty lips parting again on a soundless intake of breath as your mouth travels down his neck, placing individual delicate stamps from your soft lips onto the constellation of moles that lined his bronze skin until you reached the spot just below his ear.

“Is that a yes?” your teeth graze his earlobe, earning you a soft groan in response that sends a rush through you, your body responding to all of his noises as you desperately try and savor the moment.

Steve sounds completely wrecked as he breathes out a needy, “Yeah.”

By the time you pull away, your mouth is swollen to a pout—pretty like a rose, he thought. Steve’s pupils look blown, his chest rising and falling, craving to once again eliminate the space between you.

“Okay,” you nod, your voice coming out breathier than usual with a smile teasing him for what’s to come.

You don’t remember the last time you felt this kind of rush. Your heart was colliding against your ribs, a slight sweat reaching your palms as you hurriedly reached for the car’s door handle.

Steve’s own eagerness following your lead without hesitation as he chased you from the driveway up to your door, the rain hardly noticeable anymore despite it drenching you both again.

Barely past your front door, he’s reached for you again already. His hand, normally so warm and comforting, had turned cold from the rainwater that rinsed his skin and found itself entangled in your equally damp hair in another dizzying kiss.

His wet curls are pressed against your forehead, hardly noticing the rogue raindrops that trickle down your skin. You sigh into his kiss once more, muffling a broken cry in the slightest against his plush lips when his fingers tug at your scrunchie, seamlessly sliding it from your hair and onto his wrist in one quick motion before his grip can tighten near the roots of your hair again—earning another mewl from your throat that sends him over the edge, a low groan emitting from the deepest part of his chest while he’s pressing his center against yours as you cling onto his shoulders for support.

“Steve,” you plead, but his tongue carefully delves past your parted lips, massaging against yours, swallowing your needy whimper.

You’ve officially reached your limit of patience. You’re desperate to have more of him, to feel him without limitations.

Despite your stumbling between stolen kisses, you still manage to guide both of your soaked bodies towards your parent’s bedroom with a firm grip around his wrist, leading him into the dimly lit master bathroom.

Steve pulls from your entangled kiss and searches your eyes for a moment and something passes between the two of you—unspoken but the air had shifted into something thicker, heavier with meaning. You can audibly hear his rough swallow, his tongue you can now memorize the taste of is swiping across his bottom lip with nerves.

“Should we, uhm—?” His throat suddenly dry. He didn’t finish his question, but he didn’t have to, you knew what he was going to ask. It was the first time Steve sounded nervous around you and the blood rushed to your ears, stomach fluttering again in excitement hearing him sound like he wasn’t in charge this time.

Steve considers himself to be well-versed in being a girl's first. While he suspects you’re not a virgin, as far as he knows, this still felt out of his comfort zone. Seeing you like this, needing you in a way that almost feels primitive compared to how you deserve something more emotional, stable… he starts to doubt himself.

He's always found bubbly, bold girls to explore with, deliberately choosing girls who are capable of separating sex from feelings or at least ones who he would date briefly who knew when to accept his distance as a shortcut answer to eventually not speaking again. You weren’t one of those girls, you pitied yourself for it, but Steve was intimidated by it. You were different—this was different. Steve was usually unwilling to entangle himself in something as fragile as this. This trembling he hadn’t felt since he was a virgin himself, charged energy of his own personal restraint as well as with his burning desire for more.

Seeing Steve, normally so regal and strong like a lion, look so nervous had oddly put you at ease. Your hand that had gripped his wrist falls to his hand instead, a tender squeeze of encouragement before turning on the shower faucet.

The sound makes his posture stiffen, increasingly looking more unsure until your eyes meet his again. A mix between gaining his composure as well as confidence surges through his veins as his fingertips go to reach for the skin of your hip.

You take the lead, crossing your arms over your torso to bravely lift the edges of your damp polo over your head. The ends of your hair are still cold enough to raise goosebumps on your skin that are instantly relieved by the touch of Steve’s returning warmth in his calloused and curious palms.

“Gorgeous,” he breathes out so quietly that you almost miss it over the sound of running water. The sight of you being this bare makes his breathing falter. He reciprocates almost immediately, throwing his soaked hoodie to the tiled floors and you’re overwhelmed by his tanned skin, his broad shoulders, and the dark hair curling in a mat on his chest that leaves a trail down his stomach and into his sweatpants that are hardly disguising his excitement. With your heartbeat in your throat, you try to ignore the heat that burns on your cheeks as his fingertips explore your skin once more—his thumb tracing the underwire of your bra before his palm can rest over the mound of your breast, giving the most gentle squeeze as he matches the tenderness of his kiss.

There’s a bolt of pleasure from his carefulness that invokes another desperate cry from your lips. Steve’s movements slow before he pulls away completely, his pupils dilated and breathing haggard. He knew you could turn back now and continue as you were, but it’s not what he wanted and he prayed you felt the same. Something shifts in the dark depths of his eyes before he’s nodding, granting you permission to explore him just as you craved.

Your own prying hands tug on the hem of his sweatpants, shrugging them off his hips with ease and springing him free. You moan together in response and your kiss turns open-mouthed, heated pools of each other’s breath fanning against your skin.

A few more items of clothing are shed and even thrown over the shower’s frosted glass doors as you stumble inside to be engulfed by the hot water together. Clouds of steam envelop your bodies that press together to share the warmth, his mouth leaving a trail of sloppy kisses starting at the corner of your lips, sponging against the hollow of your throat; his tongue lapping the sweet spot of where your pulse races and you wonder if he can taste your adrenaline.

Your back collides with the colder shower tile for balance, fingers tangling themselves in his dripping curls and giving a slight tug as his kisses make their way down to your chest. The hot water beads against his muscular back, his grip on your hips could leave bruises with how determined he was to ironically remain gentle.

Steve’s mouth feels like ecstasy, his tongue swirling and lips sucking until your bud comes to a stiffened point in his mouth. His teeth graze your swollen nipple and you emit a sharp gasp that he swallows instantaneously in another kiss.

His hands that had been so deliberately holding you in place started to explore shamelessly and it felt so human to be touched like this. Steve’s nose pressing against your cheek as the kiss deepened, your back arching away from the cold tile and against his torso, the hot spray of the shower barely reaching your skin as Steve, who feels even warmer somehow, fully envelops you in his arms.

With ease, he spins you by your hips gracefully and your back fully presses into his front, he whispers a “Jesus” on impact in an octave lower than you’re used to hearing. Your spit feels thick to swallow upon feeling his erection against the small of your back, but Steve is reaching in front of you for the body wash.

Your eyes widen in surprise as you watch the soap lather between his palms before he starts smoothing it over your soft skin, his nose nudging the side of your head to relax back against his chest while he bathes the cold rainwater from your body. The steam carries the smell of lavender and musk from the soap as his hands find your breasts again, lathering a blanket of bubbles over your chest and stomach. Steve has a knowing smirk as your head feels heavier against his shoulder when his fingers graze the top of your thighs, closer to where you crave to feel him the most.

Your ex was always focused on his own enjoyment, something you thought was mandatory in foreplay. How naive, you think, as Steve hasn’t guided your hands anywhere but allowed you to simply anchor yourself to his strong shoulders for support.

Steve’s chuckle is warm near your ear, listening to your weak sounds from his expert touch.

“Shut up,” you can hardly breathe out with a clenched chest, making his amusement more apparent in another louder humming kind of chuckle.

“Does it feel good?” his lips trace the shell of your ear, pressing another kiss to the soft skin below, taking advantage of your exposed neck craned over his shoulder like this.

Pathetically, you nod, clearly not able to speak. Your teeth press into your lower lip to contain more of your noises as his hand massages soap lower, lathering the curls between your wobbly legs. The soap cascades down the curves of your body that Steve’s hands massage over.

“Steve,” you say his name like a prayer and it invites his longest finger to explore between your folds, both of you groaning in response.

He goes for another innocent touch with a second finger, circling with a precision that is nearly bringing you to nirvana. “Fuck, you’re so wet,” his voice hoarse and scratched.

Your eyes are almost in the back of your head while his movements haven’t slowed in the slightest, a breathy laugh escapes you, “Well, we are in the shower, aren’t we?”

Steve’s teeth knick your throat as punishment for your smart mouth, making you gasp as he laughs lowly, always amused with you.

“Relax,” he murmurs by your ear again before he’s pressing another one, two, six kisses along your neck. It takes so little effort on your part—just the dizzy, relieved decision to give in as you feel his arm snake around the front your waist to hold you in place, encouraging your arm to drape behind his neck behind you for better anchoring, your other hand finding comfort in clutching his forearm pressed to your middle.

His fingers continued to circle, alternating pressures before he’s carefully plunging his finger inside you. The sensation is almost too much, your body jerking in response as his middle knuckle disappears inside before easily—so easily—sliding back out and in once more. Your body responds to his touch, gripping the arm that’s working you, pressing your ass more against his swollen erection, making him hiss.

It’s an adjustment for his second finger to be added, but he’s patient with brows knitted together in concentration, panting against your wet skin, and focused entirely on understanding how you like to be touched. You’re grateful for the shower’s stream being loud enough to drown out the obscene sounds of your increasing wetness, but there’s no mercy for your moans.

As his pace quickens, you start quivering, your breathing turning into a strained gasp. Your hand tightens on the nape of his neck, gripping tight until he growls, grinding himself against your ass for his own relief. His thumb dares to sweep over your swollen clit, tightening your grip on his forearm enough that you can feel his tendons flexing as he works you. Steve’s fingers crook up and press the sponge of your inner walls that start to tremor and he starts saying your name with such a pleading tone that you could come undone right there.

Steve knows you’re close, ignoring how the water has basically run tepid with his skin burning as hot as it is. His mouth is on yours again, filthier and clumsier than before as his tongue slides across and against yours until you’re whimpering his name into his open mouth. The arm he had fastened around your waist slides up, cupping your breast again, rolling your nipple between his fingertips with a firmness you weren’t used to—almost bruising with the pinch, the tug, but your toes are curling and you’re starting to see stars.

“Steve, I’m…” you breathe out weakly, feeling him fill you again with his fingers. The treason snaps, a strained whine escapes before you’re fully shaking under his grip.

“That’s it, I got you,” he encourages as he rocks you through wave, after wave, after wave. Steve’s hot mouth and tongue mark your neck and his teeth find your shoulder, biting down on your skin, holding you through your pleasure until you’re gasping for air and your cries echo off the bathroom tile.

His own heated, breathless chuckle against your skin afterwards should make you feel embarrassed, but he didn’t sound smug, just utterly amazed by you.

Your legs are so shaky, you don’t trust yourself to stand without his arms around you. Steve spins you around to face him again and you sigh into another one of his hypnotizing kisses.

This time, you twine your arms around his neck, his erection poking your stomach in a way that sends feelings of aftershock down to your core. The tip of his tongue traces your lower lip and finds your apple-sweet taste, his deep moan vibrates against your lips. Steve says your name again, sending goosebumps up the back of your arms. His face is completely flushed and beautiful when he pulls back—his lips all red and swollen, your favorite rogue curl has escaped the rest of the hair that remained slicked back from the shower stream.

Without words, you turn off the faucet, keeping your eyes trained on his the entire time and allowing the tension between you to build thicker, impenetrable.

“Do you…” you start to say, briefly glancing between your dripping bodies to see his leaking erection and a sly smirk grows, “want to—“

“Yes,” Steve answers quickly, obediently. His eyes are intense and dark, his pupils seem dilated and his hunger wasn’t sufficed.

You’re struggling to keep your composure and not reveal a huge shit-eating grin, knowing you’re capable of making the King Steve buckle like this.

“Okay,” you whisper, briefly giving him a chaste kiss before grabbing towels and feeling his eyes trained on you the entire time.

A sense of confidence came with the control transferring into your favor. It felt empowering to feel a man like Steve follow you up the stairs to your bedroom as silently and loyally as a shadow. You bit your bottom lip to contain your bliss knowing your plan worked.

It sounds manipulative to say out loud, but your chest ached so deeply, to the point of hollowness, thinking about how long you would go without seeing him—maybe ever again. You’re not naive enough to think you actually matter, to think he won’t see this as just one last Hawkins Hoorah before he gets to fuck off to paradise for three months.

Though, it feels like a high when his hands are on your hips again once he clicks your bedroom door closed. Steve’s eye catch something familiar thrown over your desk chair, the heather gray crewneck of his from that night. He twitches beneath the towel around his waist remembering that night; how you looked with it on and how he imagined you the nights following while he stroked himself, thinking of you wearing only his stupid athletic sweatshirt and sprawled on his bed like that. His temperature starts rising as reality settles in, knowing he’s alone with you at last, without interruption or technicalities like a douchebag boyfriend.

Steve clears his throat for your attention with arched brows of amusement, a finger hooking the sleeve of the sweatshirt. When you spin around, your face immediately flushes with embarrassment.

“Oh, I—“ you stutter, a hand nervously tucking hair behind your ear. “Uhm.”

The glint in his eye sparkles, there’s a cockiness to him without saying anything at all. Steve’s delighted watching you stir like this, shifting on your feet like you have two left’s before your knees hit the back of your mattress, springs creak with your less than graceful plop. His forefinger and thumb find his bottom lip as he contains his smirk, approaching slowly like he’s careful to not scare off a rabbit.

Steve could be so intimidating without trying, though. Especially as he towers over you like this, being eye level with the happy trail that cascades into the towel. You swallow your nerves—maybe your lust, you don’t know anymore—and sit up more confidently, allowing the towel you clutched to your chest to be released, slowly undoing itself as it slides down your exposed skin. Steve’s lowering himself by the edge of your mattress like he’s about to pray.

Before you can fully process what’s happening, his damp hair brushes your inner thighs. Your breath hitches from the sudden cold droplets of water against your skin mixed with his warm breath fanning over you. You think he’s going to crawl on top of you, but he only sinks himself lower.

When his tongue licks your entrance, you nearly yelp loud enough that your neighbors should hear. Instead, your stomach caves in as you gasp, the feeling of his hot tongue sliding between you as easily as his fingers did in the shower.

“Oh— oh, my God—“ you stammer, roughly grabbing onto his hair from the root, tugging him closer until he’s burying his tongue in you.

Steve moans against you, his nose bumping your clit at the same time the stubble on his chin scratches against your most delicate skin, sending a sharp jolt through you. His lashes flutter shut as he tastes you, brows pinched together in concentration while his tongue swipes and glides to collect the honey dripping out of your center.

He leans back to sit on his heels, breathlessly admiring the sight of you while you almost sob from missing his mouth already. Your hands clenched at the blankets below you as one finger, then two, enters you at the same time his lips wrap around your clit with practiced precision.

You cry out in a way that makes him nearly leak on your duvet. “You’re so pretty,” Steve mumbles, shaking his head in disbelief, your wetness covering his chin.

The sight would normally embarrass you, but you’re so desperate to feel him as closely as possible that both of you make a noise of surprise at how quickly you’re forcefully grabbing his head to smash your lips against his, tasting yourself off his tongue.

“Fuck,” his voice breaks, muffled by your tongue sliding along his. You’ve never been more bold, reaching between the both of you to return how good he makes you feel, to feel the weight of him in your palm and Jesus, he was heavy.

Steve whispers your name on a shaky exhale as your fingers wrap around him, slowly pumping with the slick you’ve stolen from his swollen tip. He feels like warm velvet, throbbing in your palm. His pretty pouty lips are parted, panting unevenly as his nose nudges your cheekbone. Hot, wet breaths spill onto your neck, a wave of goosebumps erupt across your skin.

Steve can’t help himself, he thrusts into your hand out of desperation, hips sputtering while your pace quickens and your wrist is twisting in a tighter squeeze like he clearly wanted. His position changes to press his forehead against yours, lashes brushing his cheekbones while he remains slack-jawed over your touch.

Another strained whine erupts from his throat before he dives in for another deep kiss to which you eagerly lick at his tongue; his balance nearly faltering on top of you before he steadied himself, leaning you back fully against the bed, with his hands on either side of your head while yours remained in a tight curled fist that he thrusted into.

Steve wants to know how you learned to kiss like that, who taught you how to pull and twist on him like this, but his eyes are so transfixed on how you look with your hair spilled on the blankets when its not pulled tight in that ponytail for work and your lips so bitten and flushed. Something pricks in his chest that catches him off guard.

“Hey, uh, if this is—“ he’s not whispering, but it feels like it with how tenderly he’s talking to you. Your heart thuds heavily against your ribs as his hair tickles your forehead, still hovering above you with permission. You started feeling shy under his gaze, so you quickly wrap your arms around his neck again to stop him looking at you so sweetly.

“Steve,” you interrupt him, lips catching his in another kiss. You feel his muscles relax as his body lowers itself completely, his tongue delving deeper into your mouth while rolling his hips down onto yours.

Your ankles instinctively lock, pressing into his lower back. Steve’s lips brush your nose before he pushes himself against you, looking down at you like you hung the sun in the sky. You have an ache inside you so deep and desperate, your nails are digging into his shoulders before he gives another roll forward, aligning himself before he slowly presses himself forward.

Steve made a drawn out grunt, low and patient, like he was settling in. The stretch is a shock at first, not that it should be a surprise after the rumors you heard, but it was easily turned to pleasure as soon as he started moving his hips. He says your name again, your eyes that had squeezed shut then fluttering open to look at him longingly and he almost loses control right there.

“You…” your voice is strained, he presses an encouraging kiss by the corner of your mouth until you’re mumbling into a kiss, “Steve, you feel so good.”

His thrusts lose their tempo, jerking at your praise. He’s buries himself in the crook of your neck as his movements pick up speed, a raw soreness to your body stretching to accompany the full length of him, but the initial sting is covered by the waves of pleasure shooting through you.

As Steve got more comfortable, he’d pull himself almost fully out just to slide back inside you with ease until you felt fully adjusted. You moan so pretty for him, spreading your thighs as wide as you can so he can somehow be deeper inside you, completely swallowing him whole.

He’s shaking his head again incredulously, in complete shock this is real life as he slides a hand under the back of your neck, cradling you into another earth shattering kiss. Your lips wrap around his tongue, a slow deliberate bobbing that makes him twitch inside you before he’s growling into the kiss.

“Jesus,” he groans, corkscrewing his hips into you. The sounds are vile, wet slapping but you don’t care. You briefly catch his fingertips graze his tongue before they’re applying pressure to your clit again, perfect circles mixed with rhythmic thrusts that make you see stars.

You’re nearly choking for the air he’s breathing into your kiss, your body quivering beneath his. He cups your breast in one of his large hands, greedily kneading and squeezing for his own pleasure but it’s bringing you closer to the edge.

“I’m close,” Steve confesses in a voice so deep that you wouldn’t have guessed it was his if your eyes didn’t witness him say it. You lift your knee in any attempt to let him be inside you deeper, his palm finds the backside of your thigh as he pushes himself up taller, cockier, snapping his hips in a way that reminds you who he is. Your knee is almost against your shoulder with how he has you.

“Come on,” you encourage him, your hand finding his chest, running your fingers through the patch of hair there and letting your nails drag down his skin, feeling the muscles in his stomach flex as your nails only get lower.

A sudden surge of his hips makes you cry, somewhere between alarm and delight, because it feels like when a bruise hurts in a way that weirdly hits the spot. The bundle of nerves stirring enough that makes your legs shake, he holds you steady hooking his bicep to press into the underside of your calf muscle.

Steve’s eyes are intense, his head hung low while his curls, now more wild and unruly from your copious grips and tangling, continued to brush your skin with each thrust. The muscles on his back begin to quiver, shuddering with a deep groan as his jaw hangs open for you to bite at and kiss while he twitches inside of you.

He stills briefly before collapsing on top of you, then rolling onto his back to lay beside you; the two of you panting together while staring at your popcorn ceiling. Your bedroom fan spinning fills the sudden silence and brings immediate relief to your sweaty bodies.

You dare to turn your head towards him first, his attention pulled to you the moment you do, and a very slow, warm grin like a sunrise spreads across his lips. You’re relieved to be actually flushed so he wouldn’t notice how much your cheeks were burning.

Something about seeing Steve look so spent and out of breath, smiling at you like that, you could feel a familiar fluttering between your legs. You can actually see the red in his cheeks, the sweat on his hairline. He looks so pretty, you could cry.

Your bed creaks as Steve starts to sit up at the edge of the bed carefully before his hand finds your bare thigh with a soft pat of gratitude, making your body instantly jump from his touch. He chuckles at your sensitivity, admiring his view until you got too shy. In one swift movement, you had rolled over on your side to face oppositely from him, hiding your chest from his sight hurriedly to throw the infamous crewneck over your naked body.

Steve rolls his eyes and makes a tsk sound from behind you that makes you nervous. “That only makes it harder for me to resist, you know…” his voice coos by your ear before you shift to face him once more, immediately reminded of how gorgeous and naked he was.

He catches your upper lip between his own for one last lingering kiss, his thumb and forefinger firmly holding your jaw in place contrasting with the soft and languid movements of his lips. You could melt into him all over again—forever maybe, if he’d let you, but he’s already pulling away as soon as you start to fade.

Your eyelids heavy and brain in a fog feels like time is slowing as he starts to stand, finding his now dry clothes you nearly threw on your bedroom floor when you finally got to lead him upstairs. Your heart kind of aches to see him leave, even after all of that, as if that was supposed to magically keep him in your room for the next three months instead of Florida.

“I hope you have a good time with your uncle,” you squeak out, your throat still kind of hoarse. He’s fixing his hood around his neck again before looking down at you, standing between your legs—still spread for him.

Steve’s lopsided smirk has never been more relaxed, his large hands cup your cheeks for an innocent forehead kiss before he’s telling you goodbye.

“I’ll call you,” he says like a promise, so sincere that you felt sick. It’s mind numbing to have your brain immediately assume he’s ended every hookup like this just to lie to their faces and never see them again—like you got the old fashioned bait and switch. Regardless, you nod silently, ignoring the tight feeling in your throat and even more noticeable ache in your core.

You’re shimming on a pair of cotton briefs right as Steve finds your Polaroid on your desk. He catches a moment where you’re sat so pretty with your thighs pressed together and the sweatshirt—his sweatshirt—is just long enough to conceal you. You yelp in surprise at the sound of the camera’s flash before the pitched humming of its printing. Even if Steve had seen parts of your body that the sun itself had not seen, that moment still felt more intimate than anything else.

You’re frozen still as he’s grabbing a marker from the cup of disorganized pens that you had on your desk, extending it out to you along with the Polaroid.

“M’serious, write your number,” his crooked smile bewitching you in your fragile state while your heart tries to regulate its beating. You watched as he made sure the ink was dry before he was insane enough to put it in his wallet. Steve was so good at this. Effortlessly charming, but infuriatingly difficult to read.

“Cool,” he says, like always.

You force a smile you disguise as happily sleepy, though not quite able to reach your eyes.

“Cool,” you mimic back.

You see the flash of his smile one more time before he disappears behind your front door. You linger at your locks for a moment, hesitating on if you should swing your door back open and beg him to stay, at least for tonight, but you don’t because it’s not what he wants and it’s not going to keep him from leaving anyways; that much is clear.

The sound of his metal door clanging closed makes your head snap up before you’re bolting up your stairs in a haste, bare feet thundering up each step until you’re at your bedroom window, eyes narrowing in on your driveway.

As if on cue, Steve looks up from his window and salutes you with a small wave. You wiggle your fingers back and stare longingly as the BMW loudly roared out of your driveway. You’re unable to look away until the glow from his headlights on the slick road had disappeared, leaving you alone in your bedroom where the smell of him still lingered on your sheets and skin.

You obviously flick him off with a sarcastic smile on your way into work, pushing your weight into the swinging glass door.

God, he is so annoying.

He looked so smug leaned up against the shoe booth at this incredibly shit bowling alley where you would be forced to share his space for eight hours, three times a week, since the start of summer.

Steve Harrington arrived about six months after your hire date and has made you roll your eyes once a day since. He teased you relentlessly with useless comments on anything you did, a notorious smile across his rosy lips like he was always a step ahead of you, knowing something you didn’t.

What is there to say that isn’t already known? Of course, he’s attractive, but objectively. You could never actually admit that a part of you wishes he was at least irritating you in efforts to flirt with you in the most immature fashion, but he always made his most frustrating comments in passing, completely disinterested in what you’d even have to say in response.

Expectedly, he is also a complete and utter kiss-ass with your balding (and sexist) manager, Rod. It’s not like you’re the type to involve another adult into a feud between you and a coworker anyways, but it wouldn’t have mattered. Rod thought of you as nothing more than a pretty face who had enough of a brain to at least clean bowling balls and rent out stinky shoes to townies. There was a 30% chance he would even call you by your actual name and not just some offhand variation of it.

However, Steve can spend his time on the clock nearly laid on top of a table to flirt with customers, but God forbid you are even one minute over your fifteen minute break.

It’s as if Steve “The Hair” Harrington simply charmed whoever he needed to that would get himself out of doing any actual labor. You’re convinced a simple hand raking through his infamous mane has gotten him out of more than enough consequences. He can get away with anything, including exasperating you.

“And what are you reading? The Daily Douchebag?” you retort, shrugging on your matching uniform’s blue vest while joining him for the start of your shift at the shoe booth.

“Ha,” Steve deadpans, his half-lidded eyes finally looking at you when speaking to you.

“For your information—” his voice unamused as he goes to continue, but you’ve already been irritated enough by his presence today.

“Don’t care,” your sigh interrupts him as you gracefully situate yourself on the tattered leather stool seat, crossing a leg over the other and cracking the spine of one of the books you brought for the day to balance in your lap.

When the kids go back to school, business slows considerably during the afternoon and you definitely weren’t trying to pick Steve’s brain for the entire shift. Even if you considered the idea, you’d be done before your lunch break anyways.

The crackling sound of him harshly closing the magazine’s inked pages makes you look up, noticing a frown that’s formed between his eyebrows.

“Sometimes you can be so—“ he started, raising his hands with curled fingers of frustration that you were about to make worse.

“Enchanting?” You smile, knowing that you could crawl under his skin just as easily as he gets under yours.

Steve lets out his version of a growl in efforts to censor himself at work; he really couldn’t afford to lose another job this year, but sharing a schedule with you pushes his patience to the limit.

You hear him huff out an “alright” before dramatically stomping from behind the booth to patrol the alleys instead.

Like clockwork, you rolled your eyes at his hypocrisy, half amused by his committment to being a stubborn ass that would flee in a tantrum, wondering how he planned on busying himself with the all of the five senior citizens bowling on a Monday afternoon.

“Whatever,” you grumble hunched over your book pages, unaware at the fact he’s muttering the same to a pile of debris he sweeps from the tacky stained carpet flooring.

——————————-

In the last hour of your shift, you would be met with a wave of nausea.

It’s not like it was the less than subpar alley’s nachos you had for lunch, but it was because you had a front row view to Steve’s masterful attempts at charming women who came to harmlessly bowl with their friends and families.

You can hardly concentrate on exchanging shoes for a customer as you nearly gag in disbelief at what you are witnessing.

On the other side of the shoe booth stood a beautiful woman and then Steve, cradling one of the bowling balls in his wide palms while “demonstrating” to her the “correct way” to insert your fingers when you anchor the bowling ball.

“It really is the best technique for a perfect stroke—I mean, strike, every time,” his smooth voice just loud enough to carry over the sound of you slamming the cash register in disgust before handing the stranger their temporary clown shoes.

The shy brunette he towered over was tucking hair behind her ear and looking smitten as ever. It was baffling to see women actually be entertained by his cliche charms. She’d mindlessly giggle and nod when Steve would ask for her number, getting it written on a crinkled napkin where he’d shove it in the back of his jean pocket and inevitably lose it in his washing machine later in the week.

“What’re you lookin’ at?” He challenged as soon as he noticed you had been the one burning holes in the back of his skull. He paced back to join you in the shoe booth, chin tilted up towards you with an annoyed expression.

You simply grimace in disgust as a response.

Noticing that you were obviously not giving him the reaction of a pointless argument like he wanted, he thought invading your personal space could poke your nerves in the right places.

“Don’t be jealous,” he coos near your ear, a grin growing deeper with every second your eyes bore into his as he stays standing so close to you that he can smell your shampoo.

“Why would I be jealous?” Your brows knitted together in mock confusion, still not breaking the eye contact. “Is fingering cement supposed to turn a girl on?”

Your tone of disbelief makes the corners of his lips fall instantly, Steve’s taller frame falling back against the countertop near the arranged shoe racks. You ignore the thin strip of exposed skin you can just barely see above the hem of his jeans, revealing a pair of indents in his lower back that made your pulse skip as he reached into one of the cabinets for something.

“Trick question, Bionic Woman,” he sneers, turning on his heel to reveal a ball made of rubber bands that he began tossing between his hands. “Everyone knows robots like you can’t get horny.”

Once again, your eyes are rolling in the back of your skull in annoyance.

His teeth gleaming, a shit-eating grin and arrogant chuckle at your reaction make you wish you could get away with using him as a bowling pin.

“Oh, bite me,” you wave him off, fully surrendering to whatever rhetoric about you being some super boring robot who just doesn’t entertain his ego like seemingly everyone else.

You huff a sigh, once again turning your back to him and returning your attention to the pages of fiction that distracted you from this prison of employment.

“In your dreams, Cyborg,” Steve practically sings in a mocking tone as he wandered off again, tossing the rubber band ball in your direction, where it bounced off your book to crash into the cup of pens now spilling by the register that he’d leave you to clean up.

Your jaw clenched as you grit your teeth from frustration.

As soon as you whip around to yell at him, your parted lips close seeing he’s already halfway across the concourse, seemingly finishing someone’s unplayed turn on one of the pinball machines.

You watch his laser competitive focus turn into a celebration for a win and your shoulders fall in defeat at the predictability of Steve always coming out on top, even when he gets the last word.

Typical.

———————————

You forgot that winter in Hawkins starts as early as September, or at least that’s what it feels like by the end of the night after your agonizingly long shift.

Despite your wooly sweater, your jeans were thin enough that the evening breeze was making you shiver just the slightest.

You curse to yourself in reaction to the gust of wind while you hear the familiar creak of the back door of the building open once more as Steve finally steps out.

“You’re still here?” He asks incredulously, looking around at the empty parking lot apart from his own BMW tucked under the flickering street lamp.

“It seems that way, doesn’t it?” you snap back, still feeling irritable because of the shift and growing increasingly more upset (and colder) with each passing minute your ride is late.

From the corner of your eye, you can see Steve smirk as he shakes his head at another one of your signature defensive responses.

He sucks his teeth before he speaks.

“He’s late again, isn’t he?”

Your stomach dropped. You stared ahead.

He repeats the question, voice still just as softened as the first time, momentarily catching you off guard. What did he care for? How did he know it’s not the first time your boyfriend’s been a couple minutes late to pick you up from work?

Out of reflex, you almost mimic your first reply with a sharper tone, but you replace the idea with simply swallowing your urge to take more of your frustration out on Steve, and pathetically nod instead.

He scoffs, running a hand through his hair, and scuffs his sneaker against the sidewalk.

Another gust of wind sends goosebumps up your legs, you attempt to disguise your chill with distracted footing as you kick around a leaf that was blown up on the curb where you two now stood in silence.

Another beat goes by before he sighs, stuffs his hands in his pockets, turns away to walk towards his car.

“Come on!” he calls over his shoulder at you.

“No, really, it’s okay! He’s on his way!” You shout back, hardly even convincing yourself.

You can’t make out his expression, but you at least see him nod from a distance as he silently gets into his driver’s seat, the rumble of his engine reminding you just how quiet the streets nearby really are.

You feel exhausted leaning against the icy bricks of the building, embarrassed by your boyfriend’s carelessness but inspired to spend your time waiting for him to show up to at least practice what you were going to say whenever he arrived.

Your rough draft is already being cut short as Steve’s BMW rolls up next to the curb you’re on, the window on the side closest to you already rolled down as he comes to a stop and the most doe-like brown eyes peer up at you.

He has one arm casually resting on the wheel while the other wordlessly pats the leather of his passenger seat.

From where you stood, you could smell the comforting aroma of heat in the vents that called to you like a very cold moth to a very warm flame.

You sigh in defeat as your numb fingers find the metal of his car handle, cautiously stepping inside and accepting his act of kindness with a lingering hint of suspicion.

As soon as the door closes, he was already on the gas before you got the chance to change your mind. You’re chewing the inside of your cheek overthinking your boyfriend’s reaction to having another guy, especially Steve, be the one to bring you home.

“Seatbelt,” he reminds you, but he’s already boldly reaching for the belt to cross your chest while maintaining steering the car away from the parking lot before you’re swatting his hand away, insisting he focus on driving instead of assuming you’re incapable of buckling yourself in.

You can tell by his silent smirking that he did it just to get you out of your head, even if just for a second, and it seemed to work.

Steve’s own version of being considerate towards you, though somewhat nerve wrecking to say the least, causes a deep twinge in your stomach you weren’t sure if you recognized.

The ride home wasn’t long, but it wasn’t exactly quick especially with only the radio to break the sharp silence between the two of you.

You had just started to get comfortable admiring how his headlights would illuminate the passing trees that were changing with the season before he spoke up.

“Is it too warm in here? Here, you can mess with the temperature,” he starts, his fingers already delicately turning the different dials so you wouldn’t have to.

“Thanks,” you say sheepishly, hugging your chest to retain body heat.

He only nods in response.

You sneak a glance at him seconds after noticing he seemed to have looked away from you at the same time.

It was bizarre to share a space with Steve and you’re not just trying to outwit each other with insults or getting into a pointless argument. Seeing him be so casual with you now was making you reconsider what even the animosity you shared was for.

Another beat of silence goes by, only the sound of the leather in the wheel sliding underneath his palm as he made a turn closer towards your suburban neighborhood filled the cabin of the car.

“So,” he clears his throat and your stomach flutters nervously for some reason. “Are we going to talk about it?”

Your brows pinch together in confusion.

“About what?” you ask, genuinely.

“About how he sucks!” Steve almost yells, his tone attempting to be light but you’re already getting tense out of habit.

“Okay—“ you sound obviously offended, but he’s already talking over you desperately to defend his point.

“Oh, give me a break!” His laugh is so chilling and completely devoid of humor, you notice his grip on the wheel getting tighter as his knuckles get more white as he continues on.

“He’s short, he’s not even a nice guy, doesn’t have a job but he’s never on time to pick you up or drop you off—!”

Okay, woah? Where was this coming from?!

“He’s in school!” you raise your voice in any attempt to argue, but he’s bulldozed you again with an immediate scoff of disbelief.

“Until midnight?!” He yells before he’s shaking his head again, his eyes looking straight ahead at the road and you’re glad he can’t see your now flushed cheeks of embarrassment. “Do you even buy that?”

You can feel your eyes stinging, an uncomfortable lump growing in your throat that you can’t swallow down.

“I know you’re smart, so what are you doing dating an asshole like that? What if I wasn’t working tonight? Was he going to leave you to stand there in the dark—it’s freezing—all alone?!”

As much as it pained you to admit it, Steve was right. You could be blinded by how much you love someone that you can make excuses for a lot of the times you aren’t put on the same pedestal you put your loved ones on.

Steve’s ranting eventually faded into a high pitch buzz as you began to tune out for your own sanity.

You were so exhausted already.

After a long afternoon of trying to figure out public transportation to get you to work on time after your boyfriend couldn’t take you like he promised he would, you spend all day with Steve who makes it his personal mission to tease you and think it’s funny watching you lose your temper with your back and forth rivalry, to now being lectured by him in his car as he has to be the one to drive you home because once again, your boyfriend has let you down.

You’re so overwhelmed with feelings of disappointment and humiliation, you can’t help but let your head roll towards the fogged passenger side window and blink away a few frustrated tears.

“Oh my God, Steve!” you finally cry out desperately after he relentlessly reminded you of the other times he was apparently aware your boyfriend had failed you.

“What do you care?!” your voice cracks and you’re pissed at the betrayal your own body had against you.

The red glow of the taillights of other cars in front of you illuminates your tear stained cheeks before you hopelessly tried to look back out the window before he can notice, but it was too late.

“Hey, wait,” Steve’s voice returns to that gentle tone you heard before and it makes the knot in your stomach feel worse.

“Hey,” he begs, wishing that you’ll at least look at him, now pulling his car over to the side of the road. He shifts into park and tries to place the same hand on your knee in an attempt to comfort you, but your knees move closer towards the side door.

You can hear the air he forces out of his nose before his head also falls back against the headrest.

“I’m sorry,” his voice barely above a whisper. “Please look at me.”

You feel the hard mass in your throat feel drier and more uncomfortable as you try to swallow your nerves. Hesitantly, your damp lashes blink away forming tears before meeting his gaze.

Though it was dark, you couldn’t tell if it was the street lamps on the road or maybe the moon itself that was casting an amber glint in his eyes. He made it so hard to stay mad at him for long.

You watch as his eyes travel over different parts of your face, studying your now tearful but sullen expression.

“I just think you deserve better,” he says so tenderly that you think you entered the Twilight Zone sometime between now and the bowling alley parking lot.

When did he start humanizing you?

In an effort to break the tension, you almost get to roll your eyes and make another sarcastic remark about how he’s probably said to all the girls who have been in his passenger seat, but he predicted you’d try something like that and his thumb swiping a nearly dried tear from under your eye leaves you speechless instead.

You can feel the air getting thicker the longer the silence between you sits and he’s just staring at you like you’re this fragile bird in a cage you won’t just fly out of.

The more you considered all his sudden frustrations about your boyfriend, despite hardly knowing you personally at all, made you have a growing anger all over again. The audacity he had to voice his opinion like this as if he should have a say in what you do with your life.

“Just take me home,” you practically whisper, drained of all energy.

Steve looks like he wants to say something, but he can tell he’s already pushed it tonight. His tongue pushes against the inside of his cheek to hold back a response.

Another exhale through his nose competes with the volume of his engine starting back up, carefully steering the car back on the road to respect your wishes, for once.

———————————

“Hey, uh,” his voice gravelly, his finger swiping under his nose out of a nervous habit.

Your hand freezes on the door handle before you leave to head up your driveway.

All you can do is look at him. You really shouldn’t give him the opportunity to speak more, he’s definitely said more than enough already.

“What?” your tone impatient, probably sounding as tired as the dark circles under your mascara smeared eyes can convey.

You watch his Adam’s Apple bobble with a rough swallow, a tongue darting between his lips to soothe his nerves.

“I messed up, I shouldn’t have said all that shit back there, but—“ Steve rushes out and your grip on the handle tightens.

You can hardly look at him.

“You shouldn’t have. You’re right. You don’t even know me, Steve—“

“I know, I’m—“

“Sorry? Save it.”

You’re about to slam his car door shut with a satisfyingly loud clang before you’re halted suddenly.

He seems to have grabbed your hand before you fully stood from the car, his thumb pressing into the back of your hand holding you there.

You want to be pissed, but his hand was so warm and surprisingly big in your grip. The same flutter in your stomach returns when you finally look into his eyes again.

“I am,” Steve’s voice returning to that softer tone again, reeling you back in. “I am sorry.”

He doesn’t let go of your hand right away and you don’t shake him off either.

All you can do is nod, a quiet sign of forgiveness and it’s then he drops your hand. You missed the warmth instantly.

“Do you work tomorrow?” He asks, still leaning over the middle console to talk to you better from where you stood.

You just nod again, your arms crossing to retain warmth before you head inside.

“Cool, I’ll uh, get you a slice from concessions for lunch as an olive branch, deal?”

His smirk is so charming. He’s outstretched his arm to extend his hand to you to make the deal.

Begrudgingly, you sigh, but take the opportunity to feel his palm against yours again with a firm shake.

A blush creeps onto your cheeks that you hope isn’t visible, he would never let you live it down otherwise.

Steve’s smile actually reaches his eyes before he starts his engine again, revving loudly for all of your incredibly nosy neighbors to hear.

“You’re an idiot, Steve Harrington,” you state simply, adjusting your bag on your shoulder again before turning to walk towards your door.

“That’s what they tell me,” he says out the window while peeling out of your driveway, officially disappearing into the night and naturally driving much too fast for a residential area.

You made a mental note to scold him tomorrow. Until then, you’d try to forget the tingling sensation in your palm left by his touch. Your nails press crescent moon shapes into your flesh as you clench your fist, hoping to forget the warmth of his hands by tomorrow afternoon.

It wasn’t just your imagination—the sky was depressed too. It was that dreary kind of gray that can still illuminate the day but there’s no clouds, hardly a fuzzy outline of the hidden sun, just a blanket of eerie haze to add to your glum. After your shift at the bowling alley mercifully ended, you were bounding on foot for the bus station, splashing puddles on the bottom hem of your jeans. The absolute drama of looking out the somewhat foggy bus window before you’re stepping off in your much-too-big and clunky rain boots, careful not to slide on the literal and metaphorical thin ice covering the sidewalk pathway leading up to Steve’s apartment.

You really hadn’t thought this all the way through. What if he wasn’t even here? You might have a couple quarters in your bag to scrounge up enough for a ride home, but Steve’s apartment wasn’t even in the same zip code as your parent’s house. Your lips twitch as you grimace, considering the consequences of your actions. You look back up at the iron railing framed staircase leading to his door that you know so well. The temperature is just cold enough that you can see your huffs of air as you quickly jog up the steps, mitten gripping the iron for balance. You didn’t come all this way for nothing. Steadily, you draw in a deep inhale through your nose and try not to rush out an exhale between your nervously bitten lips. There was so much left unsaid. Your relationship with Steve was always kind of distant, rocky to say the least, but as soon as you kiss then it’s like he would do anything to erase himself from your everyday routine as if he wasn’t a part of it for the last six months.

Before you can think yourself into paranoid oblivion, your fist comes down on his door timidly at first, but more assertive by the third knock once you start to remember your anger about this entire weekend. It’s not like Steve owes you a candlelit sit down with a proper boundary defining conversation, maybe a formal rejection, but quitting the only job he had for longer than two months just because he can’t even be your coworker anymore is a bit dramatic. Your brows forming a scowl the longer you stare down his peephole before you can hear the chain of his top lock being released from the other side of the door.

After what felt like hours of anticipation between your knocking and the door easing open carefully, your speech of what you planned to say to Steve’s face was practically embedded into your memory. What you could not have prepared for was how Steve would look when you did it. Stood between his front door and the doorframe he leaned against, Steve lowers a clothed ice pack from his eye to reveal the shades of purple and red. Immediately, you forget all the anger you felt for Steve while he tries his best to force his infamous lopsided smirk despite having a split lip. “Uh-oh, Robocop is here, I must’ve left something at work, huh?” Steve’s head tilts playfully, pressing the ice pack back in place. “Or are you here to finish the job?”

The air between you shifts completely, matching the chill of the evening breeze enveloping you as you step up closer hesitantly on his doormat. Your expression is still completely frozen in shock. You don’t even care about his annoying joke, you’re too busy trying to take in the damage.

Steve’s posture shifts in the doorframe as he feels your eyes studying him so intently, straightening up and losing his usually smooth demeanor. His free hand rakes through his wild hair apprehensively as you continue inspecting his injuries. He sighs before grumbling, “You know, the other guy looks a lot worse.” No, he probably doesn’t. There’s no way it was only one other guy, either. From what you’ve seen—and pretended to not have seen—Steve was in relatively good shape. Considering his background in competitive sports, you’d like to assume he could probably handle himself in a one-on-one match. Based off what you see before you, Steve definitely got jumped.

“What happened?” your words fly out before you can reel them back. You almost dare to reach out for the slit across his cheek, hoping your touch could magically erase the crack in what you consider to be like marble beauty. One of Steve’s eyebrows raise suspiciously. “He didn’t tell you?”

He. He.

His question felt like ice water being dumped on your head. The way Steve asks you almost sounded like he was pleasantly surprised, as if you weren’t aware of a planned get together for the three of you to join hands and sing Kumbaya. Your confused expression says it all. He makes an “ah” sound before removing the ice pack once again to gesture for you to finally come inside.

This was ridiculous. You wanted to play the denial game as long as you could. After all, you came over with the original plan to confront Steve on why he had to be such a passive aggressive asshole all the time, with signals so mixed up that you felt like you got whiplash, to now hearing him tell you that he was in a fight with another man that may or may not have been your bitter ex boyfriend.

“Was it—?”

“Yeah.” His voice cuts through as sharp as the clicking of his locks, loud snaps from behind you. You squint and even flinch with almost each lock.

Your brain feels like the foggy weather outside, trying to desperately move all of the unnecessary clouds to understand the full details of what happened and why your ex would do something like this. Once you’re both settled on his well-loved sofa, Steve tells you the story from the moment he woke up until he heard “some very pissed off stomping coming up the stairs that made me nearly shit myself thinking they’d come back for round two.” From how Steve tells it, your boyfriend and his two friends from McKinney had jumped out of a car in the bowling alley parking lot early this morning before Steve could reach his Beamer and they each took a turn swinging.

Guilt settles in the deepest part of your abdomen.

“I figured you told him about the kiss, or whatever,” Steve says so nonchalantly that you could cry. You only shake your head because you don’t trust your voice to sound normal after all of this. You offer to hold the ice pack to his eye. He leans into it and closes his eyes softly before whispering, “s’fine, I wanted to do a lot worse that night, so I deserved it,” he clears his throat before adding, “since you’re his girl and all.”

Time must have stopped. His breathing remains steady while yours has faltered completely. You find the courage to clear your throat while you sit up a little straighter. “Not really, not anymore.” Your eyes fall to your lap the more you lose yourself in your own thoughts, trying to remember the guy you had dated for as long as you did somehow being the same guy guilty of beating on Steve. Your voice flattens with disinterest, “Not at all, actually.”

Steve’s eye cracks open to inspect your expression, an eyebrow raising while the corner of his bruised lip does the same. “Before or after I got my ass beat?”

You can’t help but release a breath you didn’t realize you had been holding until it’s rushing out in a small laugh. “Definitely before. It was that night. After you brought me home, I mean.”

Steve nods and tries to hide his growing smirk. “I would’ve fought back, had I known.”

Your face drops, eyes search for his then, but they’re closed again while the ice soothes his pain. From what you could tell about Steve, he wasn’t exactly an aggressive person, but he wasn’t the type to stand down either. He always won arguments even if he didn’t get the last word, but maybe physical fights were different. You just couldn’t imagine him as a pacifist.

“What do you mean?” you ask slowly, carefully. You let the ice pack stay cradled in your hand that’s now fallen into your lap as a silent protest. No answers? No ice.

Steve’s hand flies up to sweep away the air in between you, as if telling you to brush it off and not worry about it. He must’ve forgotten you’re equally as stubborn as he is.

You do your best to keep the mood light, despite your original plans, and nudge Steve’s shoulder with your own the way he did to yours that night on his balcony. The warmth of his body heat was enough to penetrate through his cotton hooded sweatshirt into your work polo. When his eyes catch yours, you can’t help but notice all the little flecks of gold in his irises that make the deep brown suddenly more caramel, just like the tousled curl that had fallen on his forehead.

Steve obviously knows no one else is in his apartment apart from you, but he still keeps his voice low for your private conversation. “I would’ve—I don’t know,” he sighs but his smile is growing as he shakes his head, clearly in disbelief that he’s even telling you this.“I didn’t want to upset you… more,” he catches himself, “upset you more than I do on a regular basis, but—“

Your chest is tightening the more he talks. You can see the veins in his neck flexing with every hard swallow he takes in between every couple of words.

“But?” you press, a soft wash of pink finding home in the apples of your cheeks and it’s making Steve lose focus.

His lips press together to contain an incredulous laugh, but to no avail as he says, “I really wanted to punt his short ass across the lot.”

You start laughing too as he mimes what you could only imagine is Steve’s foot going up your ex’s ass before he’s kicked into the next town over. With every giggle you make, he feels his muscles relax a little bit.

“For the record,” you say pointedly while your laughter finally subsides, “as much as I appreciate the consideration, I wish you would’ve hit him back. At least one of them.”

Steve knocks his shoulder into yours again and your brain is spinning. You get a waft of warm cotton mixed with the natural pine and spearmint smells that always seem to be just unmistakably Steve in their essence. “Ouch, C-3PO, no need to kick me when I’m already down.”

You wish it was morally acceptable to shove him off the sofa, but he’s already in critical condition. Your eyes famously roll and it pulls at his heart strings every time. He could mess with you for hours as long as you laughed at his stupidity, he thinks.

“Shut up,” you grumble as the pink in your cheeks deepens the longer he keeps smirking at you like that; like his black eye isn’t sore or like the split in his bottom lip isn’t at risk of opening again if he keeps smiling.

There’s a beat before you choose to speak up again.

“You know,” your teeth find your bottom lip, considering before continuing, but he’s tilted his head at you and having Steve’s attention in the palm of your hands puts you on a high. “If you ever see him, I hope you kick his ass.”

Steve huffs out his best attempt at a full body laugh despite the bruising in his ribs. “Cool,” he says, like always.

Your smile never falters as you return the ice gently back to its home on his eye and he instinctively leans into your hand once again. You nod, “Cool.”

—————————————

You’d spend the next hour or so talking to Steve about that night and what happened after he left your driveway. Of course, you’d leave out the part about having the most miserable and guilty sex of your existence. Steve would continue to surprise you. Not only was he proving himself to be an incredible listener, but he would ask questions to let you know he actually seemed to give a shit about how you’re coping with everything and that was enough to kind of seal your fate: you had feelings for Steve Harrington. Shit.

Your bodies had moved down to the carpet of his living room. Heads side by side but feet in opposite directions, like how you’d sleep at a slumber party. You’d look over and his profile was statuesque, furrowed brow in concentration as he reflected on darker parts of his love life he intimately shared with you. The way Steve talked about his past relationship with a girl you kind of recognized by name and whispers around Hawkins, made you think he hadn’t really been this honest with anyone before but especially himself. Steve would take deep sighs in between his storytelling and manage to tell you something so heart wrenching with the most unbothered cadence. He’d found a bag of Twizzlers that you’d share in between past love confessions.

From what you could tell, it seemed like Steve didn’t know Nancy—not really. While there’s room for forgiveness given the fact they were teenagers and going through their own growing pains, Steve still spoke about her as if she was just going through her own rebellious phase that required independence and he had nothing to feel guilt or shame about. It reminded you of the ex boyfriend you’d now leave behind.

Like Nancy, you were growing into a version of yourself that outgrew your boyfriend. You were also guilty of more than that, like fantasizing about the man you lay next to on the carpet, sharing movie theater candy with, who kissed you the way you’ve always dreamt about, but you can relate to the idea of dating someone without feeling like you actually understood them--feeling like they never understood you, either. You stayed with your boyfriend out of habit, not joy or anything other than for a promise of a stable and practical life. Was that something you even wanted anymore?

“You know what? I’m glad you broke up with him,” Steve says suddenly, “at least you finally did something for yourself.” You watched his jaw work as he yanked on a Twizzler vine like what he said was so casual.

Your chest felt tight as soon as he said it, like he had personally knocked all the air from your lungs with a baseball bat. You don’t know why, but the specific phrasing he chose felt passive aggressive and you could feel your heart begin to race with adrenaline.

“What do you know about doing anything?” you almost whisper, but your anger starts building before you can control yourself and it’s like he popped the cork on the thoughts you’ve kept to yourself for months. Steve looks disoriented by the sudden change in mood, but you’re tired of his criticism. “Finally did something for myself? As opposed to, what?” You ask, sitting up now. “Quitting the only job I could probably get in Hawkins after high school with no Ivy League letters in the mail, no back ups that’s not at the mall, a stupid lifeguard, or working for my insanely rich dad in Indianapolis? Because, why? I hate my coworker so much that I kiss her then run away without explaining anything?” You mock him with an incredulous laugh as his jaw twitches, staring up at you. “It doesn’t even matter. You seem fine, Steve, I should just go.”

Steve grunts as he props himself up on his elbows, not exactly pulling you back down to the carpet to keep you there but he still thinks it’s worth an argument finally. “Is that what you think? I quit because our stupid little kiss?” A disbelieving sound jolts from his chest, somewhere between a huff and a laugh.

You freeze immediately, knees still up to your chest before you even got the chance to stand up. Steve has always been so casually cruel to you. This shouldn’t shock you, but after hours of listening to him confide in you about the woes of getting over someone like Nancy Wheeler and seeming sensitive to your own heartache, he never fails to surprise you with going completely sideways and hurting you.

Your spit tastes like acid. Hearing him call the kiss that essentially ruined your reality “stupid” was making you hear circus music in between your ears.

Everything that has been building up over time has finally rushed out like a tsunami, completely out of control and beyond your containment.

“You know what, King Steve?” you taunt him, the weak man lying on his own shitty carpet with a bruising and cuts decorating his usually perfect face, “You ruined my life, my relationship, with your own selfish accord the same way you managed to ruin your own. You don’t care how you hurt people. You act so fucking cool and careless all the time, but it's like you threw me into a volcano and get to act like you’re fireproof.”

You can see the muscles in his jaw flex as he clenches in anger. His tongue poking the inside of his cheek to silence what you wish he’d just scream at you. It would’ve been easier than watching him cower or run away all the time.

You’re desperate to swallow down the lump in your throat that’s made your voice more hoarse. “You’re a ruiner, Steve, you just destroy what doesn’t service you.” you cut back, your hands visibly shaking with nerves but you didn’t care anymore.

You’re about to stand on your wobbly knees and make a run for the bus stop before the last ride of the night, but Steve’s exhale through his nostrils is loud enough to still you.

He closed his eyes for a second, a grimace forming. “Is that what you think of me? After all this time, that’s how you see me? Wow.”

Steve forces a laugh from his throat but it’s so devoid of humor that it sends a chill down your spine. He fully sits up to get closer, to really get in your face now, his tone lower and colder than before. “You think you’re so much fucking better than me?” he spat through gritted teeth, “That’s rich, like you didn’t share the same bullshit bowling alley shift with me four times a week, babe.”

Your jaw clenches at the truth and the corner of his lip tugs up smugly at your lack of counter as he continues. “You don’t get to make mistakes just to blame them on me. My family’s wealth, my grades, none of that matters—that’s not what even pisses you off, is it?” He taunts, growing closer until it feels like the space between you is nearly nonexistent. You can smell the cherry flavoring from the Twizzlers off his tongue.

“It’s because I own the choices that I’ve made and you don’t even respect yourself enough to do the same. I don’t owe you an explanation for quitting the bowling alley.” He scoffs like this should be obvious, running a hand through his hair before gesturing towards you, “if I knew you’d call a kiss life ruining then it would’ve never happened, but you kissed me that night because you wanted to and we were drunk.”

You can’t help but shake your head in disbelief. This cannot be actually happening. To deny his weirdness after that night is ridiculous, but it’s worse to make it seem like it fully existed only in your head and how he treated you after doesn’t matter.

Steve doesn’t seem to care as he continues on, “and I’m sorry that you’re bitter about not getting into some dream college you keep throwing at me like I’m supposed to give a shit, that got you stuck here with me in Hawkins and not some fussy Ivy League Horseshit in Connecticut or whatever, and now you’re going through some internal turmoil shit about cheating on your deadbeat boyfriend, when you shouldn't because he already—“ he stops abruptly then, his tongue finding itself between his teeth as he looks guilty, sending a wave of nausea through you.

Your eyes lock onto his immediately, despite how desperately he’s trying to look anywhere else. Your blood that had been boiling was suddenly freezing. “Say it.”

The pucker between his eyebrows materializing as he starts to frown. His hand rakes through his hair roughly, making a strand fall against his eyebrow. Your heart sinks at knowing he wasn’t just messing with you to get the upper hand, but he really was hiding something, something big.

“Forget it. It’s not the point anyways,” he says, serious now. He shifts in posture to pay attention to his stereo system behind you. Steve clears his throat, trying to distract himself as he starts thumbing through his cassettes like the perfect song is supposed to come on and just magically erase your memory of this entire fight.

God, he couldn’t even commit to finishing a fucking argument. “He what, Steve.”

“Don’t set me up,” he hisses sharply before his hands stop and he forces himself to look at you again.

He wants to stay pissed at you, it’s easier than the ripping feeling in his intestines as he tries to hold your gaze. “This isn’t even my shit, it’s…” he sighs then, exasperated, “I mean—fuck, I didn’t want to be the one to tell you.”

What the fuck is that supposed to mean?

Everything has shifted as anxiety starts building and the air in the room feels significantly thicker. You think you could throw up, but somehow the words force themselves past your lips with controlled restraint. “If you respect me at all, you should tell me.”

Steve pauses again and you can hear your heartbeat in your ears as his eyes that are almost always sparkling with some kind of glint of humor or flirtation when he likes to rile you up have only looked dark and sad, defeated.

“He’d been cheating on you. At that law school. With Katrina Laport.” Steve’s voice is rasped when he finally breaks the silence but to you, it just sounds like a rock colliding with a window. His brow starts to soften seeing you lose your posture and look somehow even more broken than how you arrived. He takes a deep breath, “At Clark’s party, I heard Carol tell Whitney since they’re friends with Katrina. I’m sorry.”

Your brain can’t comprehend the words he’s saying, the static in your head being louder than your thoughts. “What are you saying?” Your voice stammers while you squeeze your eyes shut like if you can’t see him, then you can’t hear him, and none of this is actually happening.

Steve nervously licks his lips a couple times, his eyes back to looking everywhere but at you. He can’t handle this either. “I don’t fucking know, it’s really not something I-“

“Steve.”

“I don’t know! That’s all I know! Alright?” he panics as he sits up more assertively than before, his volume growing in stress as his hand flies up to rake through his hair again, “Carol said Katrina met her new boyfriend at school, Whitney asked about his name, I recognized the last name and his school so—“

“Okay,” you answer evenly.

“Okay.”

Silence.

“I’m sorr—“

“You knew? That night? You knew.” You can’t hide anymore, your voice trembling.

Steve’s hand releases from his hair to slide down his face, sighing again before he replies. “Yeah,” he swallows roughly. “I’m sorry.”

“Okay.” Your lungs burning like he had personally pummeled all of the air out of them.

“Okay.” You stared blankly at the carpet as you processed everything, a headache forming in your temple that was only making matters worse. “Why didn’t you tell me then?”

“We were drunk—“

“So you thought taking advantage of me was more noble?” The words burned like acid in your mouth as soon as you said it. You know it was wrong to accuse Steve like that, but you couldn’t help it. You’re hurting and it felt good to bite back just to see if it’s worth bleeding out while you’re already wounded.

His expression immediately twists in anger on the offense. “Don’t,” he warns, “You know that’s not— Jesus, I just didn’t think you should find out from me.”

You thought Steve was going to argue with you again, then you could have taken your anger out on him more, but his voice is just laced in sadness by the end that caused you to drop your typical defenses and resort to spiraling in on yourself instead.

“Who else was going to tell me?” Your eyes desperately dart between both of his as you search for an answer. Something in his eyes should be able to ground you, but looking at the parts of him that made you get into this mess in the first place makes your stomach do another wrenching twist. His posture has changed as he listens to your cries, sulking and sad for you. “God, did you think he was going to call me and confess his sins? Or that Carol would think to come tell me herself? Bullshit.”

Everything started crumbling in real time, all of the shared memories over the years. Hot tears stream down your flushed cheeks and you’re overwhelmed with humiliation once again. This felt like the ultimate betrayal. You made excuses for your boyfriend all of the time. You defended him when everyone was just trying to passively tell you how you were always going to be caring about this relationship more than he ever did. “Everything we were, it was all bullshit.” A dry laugh sputters past your trembling lips.

Steve looks like a dog with a tail between its legs while you fall apart in front of him. He doesn’t know whether to comfort you or if you’re just going to push him away. Your bottom lip starts wobbling at how fucked up everything suddenly became. Your life had routine and it was simple, then Steve comes into your bowling alley job and knocks you down like one of the stupid pins you clean up all fucking day.

“Hey,” he says softly, the bump of his Adam’s apple shifting under the tight skin of his throat as he swallowed.

A soft, warm pressure lands on your knee, and you glance down to see his hand resting there on your kneecap. The heat from his palm is comforting even if that tingly sensation is felt even through your thick denim. Your gaze meets his, the one eye still charmingly bruised with what look like perfect brushstrokes of a paintbrush decorate the curvature of his cheekbone leading up to his brow. The shades of red of purple against his otherwise bronze skin make him look like art—more than usual, at least.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you that night.” Steve’s voice still comes out in a rasp, the volume meant just for the two of you even in the empty apartment. How much longer could the two of you play this game of abusive verbal pingpong? Why couldn't he stay this gentle with you forever? You nod silently, forgiving him even if your chest was still tight, but now it feels like an elephant holding a car sits on top of your lungs. With a pathetic sniffle, the sleeve of your jacket dabs at your teary lashes and Steve’s lopsided smile starts to return.

“D’you know what you need?” he asks with a familiar playfulness you didn’t realize you missed until it wasn’t prodding at you for an entire eight hour shift like today.

You shake your head but his smile only grows and the warmth in your stomach returns.

The way his chin is tilted towards you, the amber light from his lamp highlights the glint in his eyes you love. Ribbons of caramel and cinnamon swirled in his hair and his eyes, the rosiness of his lips looking angelic as usual despite the healing slit in the bottom corner.

“C’mon, let’s go,” Steve grunts as he comes to his feet, extending his hand for support as you do the same. “I’m taking you to breakfast.”

You snort amused, your tears already disappearing. Steve always had a way with altering the mood, whether for the better or worse.

“Steve, it’s 8PM,” your tone suspicious but intrigued nonetheless.

He’s shrugging on one of his famous bomber jackets, untucking the hood from his sweatshirt underneath to boyishly cover his messy hair and shove his keys in the pockets of his matching heather gray sweatpants with a jingle. “So?” he smirks, shoving his feet into the worn Nikes. “Pancakes fix everything,” he mutters matter-of-factly.

You return a playful smile, following his heavy steps out of his apartment. “I prefer waffles,” you sigh, inhaling the chill of the foggy autumn air again.

You catch Steve rolling his eyes with a strained groan. “Always something to fight about with you,” he mumbles under his breath.

It’s kind of nauseating how Steve exudes such a remarkable level of suaveness that even the older ladies at the diner are fawning over him.

With ease, all he had to do was bend his height down slightly to wave and greet the smaller, rounder woman with crinkles by her eyes that only deepened when she lit up at the sight of Steve. Despite his injuries, he was charming as ever, kissing her cheek in greeting like he’s known her for years and maybe he had with the way her name rolled off his tongue in the singsongy kind of way that made her giggle and lead you to what you learned was his booth.

Faint smells of cigarettes swirled with the nostalgic aroma of breakfast fill the space and your stomach actually rumbled. The cheap and tacky red vinyl that covers the bench seat squeaks awkwardly as you slide in with nervousness. The diner is basically empty with the closest patron still a good couple of feet away, but it still feels like everyone is looking at you.

Steve doesn’t seem to mind, though. He’s used to it, you think. He’s shrugging off his bomber jacket and tossing it onto the booth seat opposite from you before sliding in himself, completely unaware of the attention he gets—especially with a busted lip and dark crescent bruise framing his one eye. You see another waitress in the background gasp, touching her own cheek as if she can feel the sympathy for his injury. You wonder if when she whispers to a line cook if they’re assuming you did it, or something.

“Order whatever you want,” Steve sighs, silencing the paranoid thoughts of yours. “It’s on me.”

When you look at him, he’s only looking at the menu, turning it over a couple of times as he scours his options, but you both know he came here for the pancakes.

“I can pay for mine, don’t worry—“ you shrug, but Steve’s huffing with another crankier sigh than the one from before.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he mutters through a clenched jaw, brushing the underside of his nose with his knuckle in habit. In a quick flash, you can see his eyes dart over his menu to look at you, but they’re already back to scanning the print by the time you try to catch his gaze.

You understood his subtle warning; you’re not trying to start a fight back up again either. Your cheeks burn scarlet, your stomach filling up with flutters that were confusing your appetite.

“So,” you lower your voice to a volume hardly above the nostalgic radio playing above from the speakers. “You come here often?”

Steve snorts and hides a grin behind his hands folded in front of him, elbows propped up and shoulders shaking with a light chuckle. “Oh, my God,” his hands rub over his features, he sounds horrified as his laugh starts to subside. “What year did they program you, Geekatron? Who says that anymore?”

You join his laughter to spare your embarrassment which makes his smile grow despite his efforts of hiding behind his folded clasp. You noticed how his thumb would find its place against his lower lip, avoiding his cut and just toying with the soft plump part that you remember what it was like to nibble on. It looked just as blushed and inviting as you remember.

You clear your throat to recenter your thoughts. “I was asking because you seemed like a regular here,” your voice trailing off more distracted as you take in the sight of all the novelty art and items that lined the wooden walls—some war memorabilia, painted plates, rusty or faded tin signs of all kinds, and framed articles. Clearly, this was a historical hidden gem of Hawkins you never noticed before.

Steve’s eyes follow yours, though he has been here countless times, he still feels like he could find something new.

“Yeah, my uncle—“ he clears his throat then, his eyes squinting at some of the signage as if he’s trying to distract himself, “he, uh, did the tile in here back in the 60’s, so…” another sigh tumbles past his lips, “just came here a lot as a kid, I guess. There was a summer when I used to do the dishes when I was, like, fourteen but quit when I started school. Naturally, became a spot for where I could bring my friends to sober up after going out or parties, whatever. Been coming here forever, but it’s always looked the same. Just one of those places, I guess.” He scratches at some incoming stubble as he speaks before nervously brushing his nose with the backside of his knuckle again.

Your smile grows fondly as you imagine what Steve was like as a child, sitting at the bar of the diner by the open kitchen window and begging for more pancakes with syrup all of his cheeks and hands.

“That’s cool, I envy you. I don’t have anything like that, really. It sounds special,” you admit, catching him off guard. Steve’s eyes dragged from the hidden patterns of the wooden paneling to look at you then.

He lets his folded hands finally rest on the table and his lips part as if to speak, but you are interrupted by the same older woman from before who came sauntering in with a balanced saucer resting on her shoulder, the smell of maple and caramelized butter wafting in the air.

“Thanks, Jean,” Steve looks up at her with a toothy grin after she’s placed the plates in front of you, earning another musical giggle from her. She squeezes his shoulder and offers the two of you coffee, which you feel happily obliged to enjoy despite it being nearly 8:30PM. You bite the inside of your cheek to keep from smirking too obviously while watching Steve pour a fourth sugar packet in his mug.

“Alright, entertain me,” Steve began as he sawed carefully at his stacked pancakes, you nodded, not entirely sure where this conversation was headed after what you left behind in his apartment. “What makes you think waffles are better than pancakes?” He asks, waving the fork with his next bite at the end of it like a judge with a gavel.

A wash of relief rolls down your shoulders knowing he’s not trying to pick up where you left off right away.

You reciprocate, smearing the melted butter into the crevices of your crusted waffle. Maple syrup pools into the square shaped divots, making the ideal puddles on top for dipping. “Easy,” you say while effortlessly cutting a perfectly portioned cube of a bite, following the natural grid of the waffle. “Structure.” you answer confidently before the familiar comforting taste of warm butter and sugar envelope your tongue.

Steve snorts then. “Of course you love structure, robot,” he remarks lowly in a way that would make you embarrassed, but you immediately took notice of the playful tilt in his voice.

When your eyes leave your plate to look up at his, he’s leaned back into the booth with that smug grin that you’re used to. Steve’s arms rests on the back of the booth, fully relaxed as if he owns the place. His jaw works as he chews, drawing your attention to the hollow of his cheeks, the pinkness of his lips. You can see his exposed neck swallow his bite and your body heat rises.

His legs are much longer than yours, causing you to nearly jump out of your seat at the sudden brush of his cotton clad knees rubbing briefly against yours. It’s the kind of deliberate “playing it cool” move where it could be accidental, could be intentional, but with his smug expression, you have no choice but to assume it was his subtle way of making you nervous on purpose.

“Structure is important,” your eyebrows pinch at the center as you defend yourself while stacking your waffles to distract yourself from the energy radiating from your knee all the way through your body. Your cutting pace quickens, stacking and sliding pieces until the waffle is in bite size pieces but still maintaining its waffle integrity. There’s a satisfaction with the ridges lining up together and creating a perfect cube of deliciousness.

Steve’s smirk falters a bit but he shrugs with arched brows to play it off while continuing to haphazardly cut his pancake stack into some irregular shapes of all sizes, complete opposite to your organized bites.

“Structure sounds safe,” he murmurs.

This felt like a passive pivot that you weren’t sure if you felt ready for. His arms come down to his sides again as his posture straightens, his doe eyes lingering on you like you’re meant to read between his lines like always.

“I like stability,” you say on a heavy exhale, your chest growing tighter for some reason. “I like safe.”

His jaw ticks the slightest. You pretend to not notice, your fork poking around at some of your neatly stacked bites.

Steve’s lips purse as he nods slowly to your response, but he’s having a hard time believing you prioritize safety when your ex left his face like that.

At least he was in school for a real job, not just some cushion to get you from one place to the other like Steve’s been doing since graduation. Maybe that’s all you meant by safe… Stability, structure.

Your ex was a class act dickhead, but he was promising a stable future for you that Steve couldn’t compete with if he tried, especially since getting cut off from the Harrington Enterprise funds—a type of structure he couldn’t provide.

It was making his skin prickly with needles to think about. Steve could offer more than just financial stability. Steve had life experiences, he was able to show you things your ex wouldn’t without a guide or itinerary. There’s not even any competition anymore, but it still felt like he’s losing. His tongue pokes into the inside of his cheek before he shoves another bite of pancakes in his mouth to silence himself.

“Don’t you think—“ Steve starts, but huffs in frustration before his fork clatters against the ceramic, the noise sharpening the tension. “Don’t you think you would have a better life if you weren’t afraid all the time?” he rushes out, leaving you speechless.

A sharp twinge in your lungs spreads across your chest as you blink at him, trying to catch your breath.

You can’t see them underneath the tabletop, but Steve’s hands have balled into fists at his sides, desperately pushing whatever nails he has into his palm to create crescent shaped punishment markings for boiling over the way he promised himself he wasn’t going to.

You shake your head as you choke on a laugh, tilting it slightly as you look at him in disbelief. Was it so impossible to share a moment together that he wouldn’t sour?

“What makes you think I’m afraid?” you challenge, though you feel sick at the thought of his answer. Unfortunately, he was right. Maybe you were an over-thinker, someone who always has a Plan D—just in case.

Something about Steve perceiving you this intimately makes you want to take the butter knife from the table and force it into the flesh of your hand rather than have to hear what he had to say.

Steve’s not even done chewing as he rolls his eyes at you. “Please,” he starts, “don’t think I haven’t noticed.”

Your body stills while he continues to act natural, unfazed as usual. You wonder if he’s alluding to your crush; was it really so obvious? Maybe he just meant in general, since you are more of the anxious type and that’s not exactly a secret either. You’re already proving the point by overthinking his vague response, just as he wanted. It’s like he was dangling the bait right in front of you. How typical for him to always deflect the conversation into how something you do isn’t agreeable with him, what about Steve’s choices?

You shrug as you chew thoughtfully. “I really don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Steve makes a tsk sound before placing his utensils down quieter this time, leaning closer so even his lower register can be heard over “Do You Really Want to Hurt Me” by Culture Club which felt a little too on the nose for your liking. The universe would always find a way to remind you it had a sense of humor.

“Are you happy?” Steve asks then, his tone changing to something closer to sympathy or maybe patience. His eyes are looking up at you, his long dark lashes nearly reach his defined brow bone. A beat passes before you can begin to even process an answer. “Actually happy? Like, satisfied with your life?” he presses.

Now your turn to roll your eyes at him, suddenly feeling a loss of appetite. Steve’s pancakes are nearly gone, clearly he had no trouble multitasking being a human vacuum and an asshole.

You push your plate away from you and avoid his gaze. “No,” your voice barely a whisper. “I’m angry,” you confess.

Steve’s nodding as he slides his final bite into pools of syrup on his plate. You quietly wondered if he was desperate to clean the plate as much as possible with consideration for the current dishwasher.

“Anger’s good,” he manages before swallowing. You pretend to ignore the coil in your stomach winding tighter at the visual of him sucking the remaining syrup from the sides of his fingers. “Anger is at least a feeling.”

You can’t help but huff exasperated, “Would you knock it off? Have I not showcased enough emotion in front of you to convince you I’m not some sad, rigid, robot, control freak?” You fold your arms over your chest, trying not to let yourself grow in volume and draw more attention to this side of the diner. “Or do you need to make me cry again?”

Steve’s tight expression softens, his lips curving into the lopsided smirk that almost made you forget what you were getting upset over.

“Okay, okay—” he lifts a placating hand. “I’ll stop,” his voice sounding sincere, but his expression remaining sly.

You want to ask him why he even brings it up. What’s the point of criticizing you all the time if you can’t even ask about his own internal turmoil?

“Steve?” your voice carries across the booth sadly and it pulls him into reality like nothing else. His eyes are locked on yours, desperate to hear you say his name so softly again.

“If not because…“ you sigh, not allowing yourself to get embarrassed again by bringing up what he calls a stupid kiss, “Why’d you quit?”

Your shoulders hang low as your eyes dart between his dark irises that narrowed on you, traced with hints of copper and honey even in this ambient diner lighting.

Steve draws in a breath while a hand nervously rubs at the back of his neck before adjusting the hooded fabric. “Just felt like the right time,” he lies, fidgeting with the strings of his sweatshirt by the base of his throat.

You don’t say anything. It’s not worth a fight anymore; nothing is. You just nod and allow the bitter taste of diner coffee to help make it easier to swallow down your upset feelings.

Steve rubs his knee against yours again, more intentionally than before as he holds one of your knees between his own, and your body freezes instinctively. It feels like electricity is being passed directly from his skin into yours.

“I gotta help my uncle,” he clears his throat.

You blink, surprised by the sudden honesty. “The one who does tile?” you ask innocently as he nods slowly.

“The very one,” Steve mumbles behind the lip of his ceramic mug. You can see how long his lashes really are now as they rest against the tops of his cheeks with the long sips he takes before continuing. “M’actually flying to Florida tomorrow—to help him, I mean,” he swirls the remaining dark liquid around before taking another nonchalant sip while you continue to always feel like he’s never going to not be three steps ahead of you?

“Florida?” you ask, incredulous.

Steve’s fingers weave through his hair, a few rebellious strands still try to fall against his brow as he nods cautiously. His lips that were once pouted and bitten, probably tasting sweet like maple candy, have pressed into a tight neutral line.

Your heartbeat is quickening and you don’t know why. Freaking out to a sudden change is only going to prove his point from before. You could be cool. Steve likes cool girls.

“For how long?” you lean back into the cushion of the booth, the vinyl creaking as you do your best attempt at sounding disinterested.

He exhales through his nose, piling your plates and silverware together for Jean’s ease and his own distraction. “About three months,” Steve says under his breath. You can see his throat strain from a thick swallow.

Your hands find their place under your thighs, they’re safer there when they’re not flailing around gesticulating or balled into fists ready to slam on top of the table like the tantrum you wish you could throw. This was so unfair. Three months?

“What about your apartment?” Your brows knit together in confusion, but you try to keep your voice calm.

“What about it?” Steve shrugs, not looking to you as he’s signing the bill with a predictable scribble-like fashion. “Told you, m’dad paid me to get out of the house. He paid for the first year’s contract then cut me off. Just wanted me out that bad, I guess,” he huffs out a softer laugh, but it sounds hollow and bitter. He takes his irritation out on the receipt at the end of the table with a forceful slide using the flat of his palm.

You’re nodding like a bobblehead again, just trying to understand him even when he seems so far away. Your eyes flick to the fog on the diner windows. When did it start raining? A soft patter against the glass fills the silence between the two of you.

It’s not a breakup, so why did it feel more like one than the actual breakup you mourned last weekend?

“I’m sure the weather will be better,” you say lightly all of a sudden, hoping he can’t detect how forced your enthusiasm for him is. Inside, your stomach was turning.

It was one thing for him to not be at the bowling alley anymore, but to know that was going to be the last time in his apartment for an indefinite future was making you depressed. You didn’t want him to leave.

Steve studies your expression, his eyes flicking over rosy cheeks that rounded from your encouraging smile. Despite how badly Steve wishes for his ego to hear you beg for him to stay, he respects your distance.

There’s a tightness in his chest he can’t name when he sees you like this—smiling through your hurt, being a lot better at controlling your temper than he was. He began to realize he might not have been giving you enough credit for your strength.

“Yeah,” Steve folds his arms across the heavy ache to self soothe. “Looking forward to it,” he mutters under his breath.

You can’t help but sneak a glance at him then. His eyes completely trained on the condensation from the window, watching selected raindrops trail down slowly before colliding into another drop and creating a faster and heavier traverse. Maybe you were just a raindrop on a diner window that Steve, the bigger raindrop, just devoured one day.

Trying to return back to your normal routine without Steve sounded like paradise to you at one point, but now it feels devastating.

————————————————

Every moment from here on out felt like it needed to be savored, but there’s nothing you would miss more than the calloused warmth of his physical touch or the way his BMW smells on your rides home—a mix of spearmint, warm cotton, and the kind of light musk that just naturally smelled like him.

You tried to memorize how his hand fit around the gearstick, the veins flexing from between his fingers going up into his forearm as he shifts into a different speed. His skin was already tanned despite it being autumn, you couldn’t imagine what the Florida sun would do to him. The thought of his future inevitable tan lines left your mouth dry.

The hardest thought to relieve from your subconscious was what the women in Florida would do with a guy like Steve. The only way to remain sane was to imagine all of the retired older ladies he’s already popular with falling for him instead of a Miami Beach Barbie.

Despite your efforts, your devious thoughts are responsible for your growing smile and Steve notices without fail. He goes to tease you about it, but his teeth dig into his bottom lip instead, his jaw flexing at the motion and it’s making his profile view that much more beautiful. You hated the feeling sitting on your chest whenever you look at him.

The Beamer rumbles beneath your leather seat in a powerful purr as you go down the same familiar winding roads you know leads to your neighborhood. You’re not ready for your time with him to be cut so short and a heavy ache starts gnawing at your stomach.

Steve licks his lips as if to think for a moment before deciding to break your peaceful silence, “What would you have done, by the way? If I had answered the door not looking—you know,” he gestures vaguely by his face before turning to look at you, the bruised eye in sight again.

Your eyes drift to the roof of the car as you consider your words. The thought of being honest might spark up another defensive argument on either side, but lying didn’t feel like an option anymore. It was starting to become increasingly obvious how much Steve predicted your behavior. While you continue to always play your game of catch up, Steve could already see through you. It was hardly fair.

“I was pretty pissed,” you say sideways with a playful scowl, your lips curving up at the corners. You catch the flash of his eyes looking over at you then, assessing if you’re still mad at him or not. His grip on the wheel relaxes at the sight of your smile.

Steve nods as his free hand finds his lips again, running his fingertips over his smirk to conceal his amusement. “I knew those stomps up my stairs were pissed off stomps,” he jokes.

A giggle escaped from your throat and your cheeks flush immediately, feeling like another pathetic googly eyed girl in Steve Harrington’s passenger seat.

“I was pissed, but…” you trail off, noticing the houses out the window are only looking more familiar the closer you got to your parents’ driveway. “Then I just felt bad you got pathetically beat up by a bunch of short men in the parking lot.”

Steve laughs, a real laugh, louder than you anticipated but his eyes are crinkled the way you love when you glance over at him. He shakes his head and runs a hand up through his hair, pushing the dark curls away from his face that just fall back in line without effort.

”Fair enough,” he sighs as his chuckling softens. “Sorry again, but the way.”

Your expression changes too, your brows knitted together confusedly. “For?” you challenge, his car coming to a slow halt at the end of your driveway just as it always did every Friday after work.

It felt dramatic to end your time together with an apology. It would be more respectable if Steve was just content with being a pompous asshole who got high on messing with you, making you cry, occasionally humiliating you for your lack of experience or ability to read his mind the way he’s just managed to figure you out so predictably.

Right now, Steve doesn’t look cocky or smug like he’s going to say something that makes your eyes roll. His gaze is transfixed on the outside of your house, admiring the cookie-cutter nature of how it matches the other suburbans in the neighborhood.

Structure, he thought.

He seems far away even with only a middle console between the two of you. “It wasn’t stupid,” he says easily, the muscles in your stomach twisting together nervously. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

Your eyebrows shoot up in surprise. Steve’s head rolls against the leather headrest on the one side to face you, his eyes scanning your expression in a way that almost feels invasive with how intense his gaze can be. You can’t help but notice how the bump in his throat bobs to swallow hard, his neck craned in a position that makes the skin tighter and more exposed.

The sound of the rain growing lighter as it continues to pebble against his windshield fill the silence. A beat passes before you decide to speak.

“It’s stupid how much it affected me—my life, I mean,” you confess, sinking more into your seat. Your fingers start twisting together into your other hand, lips pursing as you consider how embarrassing it is to even have this conversation you thought you had planned better as more of an angry confrontation, not a heart-to-heart.

Steve’s brows furrowed, “Don’t say that.” He didn’t sound as stern as usual, something reminiscent of the tender way he’s spoken to you before, the tone that makes your knees wobbly if you tried to stand. “It’s not stupid at all… and you’re right,” Steve sighs, his eyes closing for a moment, “I was selfish.”

Your eyes finally lift up from your woven hands stirring in your lap to look at him. Though he can’t see, you still nod considering his words.

Having Steve admit fault and apologize to you like this just felt so finite, like you weren’t going to see him again. The thought that you used to celebrate at the idea of just makes your throat feel like it’s been wrapped with barbed wire that only tightened as he continued.

“I knew you were still with him, knowing what I knew too, I just couldn’t tell you—and I’m sorry for that too, you know? I guess I am pretty selfish.”

A sharp exhale leaves his nose before he can look at you again. Your hair still messy from work earlier, your polo streaked with the raindrops that pelted on both of you as you made a run for the car from the diner.

A warmth developed in Steve’s chest as he remembered how he had offered to bring the car up for you but you declined, calling him ridiculous this time. You shrieked together as the cold bullets falling from the dark clouds hit your skin, laughing with him the entire sprint before finally making it inside the Beamer.

The smell of fresh rain mixed with maple and vanilla filling the cabin of the car and your laughter falling into light panting as you both catch your breath. He remembered the look on your face—the rosiness that flushed across your cheeks and into your lips, wide with a smile. He wanted to be selfish again, to kiss you one last time before he got to disappear like he was planning to do, but it’s just not fair to you anymore. God, he was going to miss you.

“Steve?”

Your voice is like a soft chime, bringing his attention back to earth.

He doesn’t say anything as he half expects you to call him a bunch of names, remind him of how much he hurt you that night, then again at his apartment earlier tonight. Truthfully, Steve hates making you cry despite how good he is at it, he hates the way he can’t sleep without the pillowcase that still faintly smells of your hair from that night, and he hates the way his heart is reacting to you saying his name so gently like if you raised your volume any louder, the real bubble of reality could pop at any moment.

Steve’s looking at you—really looking at you, the same way he did when you caught him watching you admire the constellations from his stairway. His eyes, warm and glassy, search for something in your expression that makes your breathing more erratic.

Is this what he meant by challenging yourself to not be so safe all the time? Maybe this was his purpose in your life—to just be an aid to your cathartic purging of your past self. You’re still recovering from a traumatic breakup to say the least, he’s leaving the entire state of Indiana for three months, you don’t even have to see him at work anymore, and he was infamously good at this; it was kind of the perfect “one night only” scenario. The version of yourself you knew last month is not the same girl who could do what the current you has been thinking about all night.

It’s got to be now or never, you tell yourself.

“Do you want to come upstairs?”

You’re surprised by how calm you sounded, despite maybe a bit more winded than you were moments before.

Steve’s eyes switch to look out the windshield towards your house for a second, his lips parting in a way that makes you think he might protest or suggest that’s stupid, but you bravely lean forward across the console so that you can brush the pads of your fingertips over his lips, lingering over his injury.

“Let me be selfish too,” your voice hardly above a whisper and you’re being so soft, so gentle with him in a way he’s never seen from you. It physically pains him to have his heart strings pulled like this.

As he turns his chin towards you, your noses nearly brush and his eyes are trying to memorize how you look right now—pleading eyes sparkling at him, cheeks a shade of scarlet, and the wild wisps of your hair that surround your face still glistening from the rain.

When his eyes settle on your lips, you freeze completely still and hope he leans in. Your hand falls gracefully from his lips, to the stubble on his chin, to then rest carefully on his cheek—encouraging him to be selfish too.

Without so much of a real rebuttal, Steve gives into his cravings and crashes his lips against yours. The volume of your heartbeat between your ears competes with the pelts of the light rain. By just the impact of his lips on yours again, you’ve completely melted in your seat. Your hand on his cheek manages to steady his increasingly more eager kiss. Even with the cut in his lip, he doesn’t hold back the slightest.

His tongue—that tastes as sweet as you imagined after watching him lick the syrup from his fingers—skillfully swipes across your own almost immediately, both of you lightly gasping in between the languid movements of your lips molding together. There’s a warmth on your cheek from the air his nose fans onto your skin and the blood rushing to your flushed lips, you felt on fire. The way Steve kisses you makes you feel like you’re turning into the sun; glowing bright, a burning sensation so powerful across your skin that can feel like as sharp as needles, but it’s electrifying too.

Impatient and desperate to keep Steve for as long as you can before he flies across the country, your hand returns to his stubble lined jaw, tilting his chin ever so slightly with the pad of your thumb gently pushing up from underneath.

Steve’s jaw slacks from your sudden dominance, his pretty lips parting again on a soundless intake of breath as your mouth travels down his neck, placing individual delicate stamps from your soft lips onto the constellation of moles that lined his bronze skin until you reached the spot just below his ear.

“Is that a yes?” your teeth graze his earlobe, earning you a soft groan in response that sends a rush through you, your body responding to all of his noises as you desperately try and savor the moment.

Steve sounds completely wrecked as he breathes out a needy, “Yeah.”

By the time you pull away, your mouth is swollen to a pout—pretty like a rose, he thought. Steve’s pupils look blown, his chest rising and falling, craving to once again eliminate the space between you.

“Okay,” you nod, your voice coming out breathier than usual with a smile teasing him for what’s to come.

You don’t remember the last time you felt this kind of rush. Your heart was colliding against your ribs, a slight sweat reaching your palms as you hurriedly reached for the car’s door handle.

Steve’s own eagerness following your lead without hesitation as he chased you from the driveway up to your door, the rain hardly noticeable anymore despite it drenching you both again.

Barely past your front door, he’s reached for you again already. His hand, normally so warm and comforting, had turned cold from the rainwater that rinsed his skin and found itself entangled in your equally damp hair in another dizzying kiss.

His wet curls are pressed against your forehead, hardly noticing the rogue raindrops that trickle down your skin. You sigh into his kiss once more, muffling a broken cry in the slightest against his plush lips when his fingers tug at your scrunchie, seamlessly sliding it from your hair and onto his wrist in one quick motion before his grip can tighten near the roots of your hair again—earning another mewl from your throat that sends him over the edge, a low groan emitting from the deepest part of his chest while he’s pressing his center against yours as you cling onto his shoulders for support.

“Steve,” you plead, but his tongue carefully delves past your parted lips, massaging against yours, swallowing your needy whimper.

You’ve officially reached your limit of patience. You’re desperate to have more of him, to feel him without limitations.

Despite your stumbling between stolen kisses, you still manage to guide both of your soaked bodies towards your parent’s bedroom with a firm grip around his wrist, leading him into the dimly lit master bathroom.

Steve pulls from your entangled kiss and searches your eyes for a moment and something passes between the two of you—unspoken but the air had shifted into something thicker, heavier with meaning. You can audibly hear his rough swallow, his tongue you can now memorize the taste of is swiping across his bottom lip with nerves.

“Should we, uhm—?” His throat suddenly dry. He didn’t finish his question, but he didn’t have to, you knew what he was going to ask. It was the first time Steve sounded nervous around you and the blood rushed to your ears, stomach fluttering again in excitement hearing him sound like he wasn’t in charge this time.

Steve considers himself to be well-versed in being a girl's first. While he suspects you’re not a virgin, as far as he knows, this still felt out of his comfort zone. Seeing you like this, needing you in a way that almost feels primitive compared to how you deserve something more emotional, stable… he starts to doubt himself.

He's always found bubbly, bold girls to explore with, deliberately choosing girls who are capable of separating sex from feelings or at least ones who he would date briefly who knew when to accept his distance as a shortcut answer to eventually not speaking again. You weren’t one of those girls, you pitied yourself for it, but Steve was intimidated by it. You were different—this was different. Steve was usually unwilling to entangle himself in something as fragile as this. This trembling he hadn’t felt since he was a virgin himself, charged energy of his own personal restraint as well as with his burning desire for more.

Seeing Steve, normally so regal and strong like a lion, look so nervous had oddly put you at ease. Your hand that had gripped his wrist falls to his hand instead, a tender squeeze of encouragement before turning on the shower faucet.

The sound makes his posture stiffen, increasingly looking more unsure until your eyes meet his again. A mix between gaining his composure as well as confidence surges through his veins as his fingertips go to reach for the skin of your hip.

You take the lead, crossing your arms over your torso to bravely lift the edges of your damp polo over your head. The ends of your hair are still cold enough to raise goosebumps on your skin that are instantly relieved by the touch of Steve’s returning warmth in his calloused and curious palms.

“Gorgeous,” he breathes out so quietly that you almost miss it over the sound of running water. The sight of you being this bare makes his breathing falter. He reciprocates almost immediately, throwing his soaked hoodie to the tiled floors and you’re overwhelmed by his tanned skin, his broad shoulders, and the dark hair curling in a mat on his chest that leaves a trail down his stomach and into his sweatpants that are hardly disguising his excitement. With your heartbeat in your throat, you try to ignore the heat that burns on your cheeks as his fingertips explore your skin once more—his thumb tracing the underwire of your bra before his palm can rest over the mound of your breast, giving the most gentle squeeze as he matches the tenderness of his kiss.

There’s a bolt of pleasure from his carefulness that invokes another desperate cry from your lips. Steve’s movements slow before he pulls away completely, his pupils dilated and breathing haggard. He knew you could turn back now and continue as you were, but it’s not what he wanted and he prayed you felt the same. Something shifts in the dark depths of his eyes before he’s nodding, granting you permission to explore him just as you craved.

Your own prying hands tug on the hem of his sweatpants, shrugging them off his hips with ease and springing him free. You moan together in response and your kiss turns open-mouthed, heated pools of each other’s breath fanning against your skin.

A few more items of clothing are shed and even thrown over the shower’s frosted glass doors as you stumble inside to be engulfed by the hot water together. Clouds of steam envelop your bodies that press together to share the warmth, his mouth leaving a trail of sloppy kisses starting at the corner of your lips, sponging against the hollow of your throat; his tongue lapping the sweet spot of where your pulse races and you wonder if he can taste your adrenaline.

Your back collides with the colder shower tile for balance, fingers tangling themselves in his dripping curls and giving a slight tug as his kisses make their way down to your chest. The hot water beads against his muscular back, his grip on your hips could leave bruises with how determined he was to ironically remain gentle.

Steve’s mouth feels like ecstasy, his tongue swirling and lips sucking until your bud comes to a stiffened point in his mouth. His teeth graze your swollen nipple and you emit a sharp gasp that he swallows instantaneously in another kiss.

His hands that had been so deliberately holding you in place started to explore shamelessly and it felt so human to be touched like this. Steve’s nose pressing against your cheek as the kiss deepened, your back arching away from the cold tile and against his torso, the hot spray of the shower barely reaching your skin as Steve, who feels even warmer somehow, fully envelops you in his arms.

With ease, he spins you by your hips gracefully and your back fully presses into his front, he whispers a “Jesus” on impact in an octave lower than you’re used to hearing. Your spit feels thick to swallow upon feeling his erection against the small of your back, but Steve is reaching in front of you for the body wash.

Your eyes widen in surprise as you watch the soap lather between his palms before he starts smoothing it over your soft skin, his nose nudging the side of your head to relax back against his chest while he bathes the cold rainwater from your body. The steam carries the smell of lavender and musk from the soap as his hands find your breasts again, lathering a blanket of bubbles over your chest and stomach. Steve has a knowing smirk as your head feels heavier against his shoulder when his fingers graze the top of your thighs, closer to where you crave to feel him the most.

Your ex was always focused on his own enjoyment, something you thought was mandatory in foreplay. How naive, you think, as Steve hasn’t guided your hands anywhere but allowed you to simply anchor yourself to his strong shoulders for support.

Steve’s chuckle is warm near your ear, listening to your weak sounds from his expert touch.

“Shut up,” you can hardly breathe out with a clenched chest, making his amusement more apparent in another louder humming kind of chuckle.

“Does it feel good?” his lips trace the shell of your ear, pressing another kiss to the soft skin below, taking advantage of your exposed neck craned over his shoulder like this.

Pathetically, you nod, clearly not able to speak. Your teeth press into your lower lip to contain more of your noises as his hand massages soap lower, lathering the curls between your wobbly legs. The soap cascades down the curves of your body that Steve’s hands massage over.

“Steve,” you say his name like a prayer and it invites his longest finger to explore between your folds, both of you groaning in response.

He goes for another innocent touch with a second finger, circling with a precision that is nearly bringing you to nirvana. “Fuck, you’re so wet,” his voice hoarse and scratched.

Your eyes are almost in the back of your head while his movements haven’t slowed in the slightest, a breathy laugh escapes you, “Well, we are in the shower, aren’t we?”

Steve’s teeth knick your throat as punishment for your smart mouth, making you gasp as he laughs lowly, always amused with you.

“Relax,” he murmurs by your ear again before he’s pressing another one, two, six kisses along your neck. It takes so little effort on your part—just the dizzy, relieved decision to give in as you feel his arm snake around the front your waist to hold you in place, encouraging your arm to drape behind his neck behind you for better anchoring, your other hand finding comfort in clutching his forearm pressed to your middle.

His fingers continued to circle, alternating pressures before he’s carefully plunging his finger inside you. The sensation is almost too much, your body jerking in response as his middle knuckle disappears inside before easily—so easily—sliding back out and in once more. Your body responds to his touch, gripping the arm that’s working you, pressing your ass more against his swollen erection, making him hiss.

It’s an adjustment for his second finger to be added, but he’s patient with brows knitted together in concentration, panting against your wet skin, and focused entirely on understanding how you like to be touched. You’re grateful for the shower’s stream being loud enough to drown out the obscene sounds of your increasing wetness, but there’s no mercy for your moans.

As his pace quickens, you start quivering, your breathing turning into a strained gasp. Your hand tightens on the nape of his neck, gripping tight until he growls, grinding himself against your ass for his own relief. His thumb dares to sweep over your swollen clit, tightening your grip on his forearm enough that you can feel his tendons flexing as he works you. Steve’s fingers crook up and press the sponge of your inner walls that start to tremor and he starts saying your name with such a pleading tone that you could come undone right there.

Steve knows you’re close, ignoring how the water has basically run tepid with his skin burning as hot as it is. His mouth is on yours again, filthier and clumsier than before as his tongue slides across and against yours until you’re whimpering his name into his open mouth. The arm he had fastened around your waist slides up, cupping your breast again, rolling your nipple between his fingertips with a firmness you weren’t used to—almost bruising with the pinch, the tug, but your toes are curling and you’re starting to see stars.

“Steve, I’m…” you breathe out weakly, feeling him fill you again with his fingers. The treason snaps, a strained whine escapes before you’re fully shaking under his grip.

“That’s it, I got you,” he encourages as he rocks you through wave, after wave, after wave. Steve’s hot mouth and tongue mark your neck and his teeth find your shoulder, biting down on your skin, holding you through your pleasure until you’re gasping for air and your cries echo off the bathroom tile.

His own heated, breathless chuckle against your skin afterwards should make you feel embarrassed, but he didn’t sound smug, just utterly amazed by you.

Your legs are so shaky, you don’t trust yourself to stand without his arms around you. Steve spins you around to face him again and you sigh into another one of his hypnotizing kisses.

This time, you twine your arms around his neck, his erection poking your stomach in a way that sends feelings of aftershock down to your core. The tip of his tongue traces your lower lip and finds your apple-sweet taste, his deep moan vibrates against your lips. Steve says your name again, sending goosebumps up the back of your arms. His face is completely flushed and beautiful when he pulls back—his lips all red and swollen, your favorite rogue curl has escaped the rest of the hair that remained slicked back from the shower stream.

Without words, you turn off the faucet, keeping your eyes trained on his the entire time and allowing the tension between you to build thicker, impenetrable.

“Do you…” you start to say, briefly glancing between your dripping bodies to see his leaking erection and a sly smirk grows, “want to—“

“Yes,” Steve answers quickly, obediently. His eyes are intense and dark, his pupils seem dilated and his hunger wasn’t sufficed.

You’re struggling to keep your composure and not reveal a huge shit-eating grin, knowing you’re capable of making the King Steve buckle like this.

“Okay,” you whisper, briefly giving him a chaste kiss before grabbing towels and feeling his eyes trained on you the entire time.

A sense of confidence came with the control transferring into your favor. It felt empowering to feel a man like Steve follow you up the stairs to your bedroom as silently and loyally as a shadow. You bit your bottom lip to contain your bliss knowing your plan worked.

It sounds manipulative to say out loud, but your chest ached so deeply, to the point of hollowness, thinking about how long you would go without seeing him—maybe ever again. You’re not naive enough to think you actually matter, to think he won’t see this as just one last Hawkins Hoorah before he gets to fuck off to paradise for three months.

Though, it feels like a high when his hands are on your hips again once he clicks your bedroom door closed. Steve’s eye catch something familiar thrown over your desk chair, the heather gray crewneck of his from that night. He twitches beneath the towel around his waist remembering that night; how you looked with it on and how he imagined you the nights following while he stroked himself, thinking of you wearing only his stupid athletic sweatshirt and sprawled on his bed like that. His temperature starts rising as reality settles in, knowing he’s alone with you at last, without interruption or technicalities like a douchebag boyfriend.

Steve clears his throat for your attention with arched brows of amusement, a finger hooking the sleeve of the sweatshirt. When you spin around, your face immediately flushes with embarrassment.

“Oh, I—“ you stutter, a hand nervously tucking hair behind your ear. “Uhm.”

The glint in his eye sparkles, there’s a cockiness to him without saying anything at all. Steve’s delighted watching you stir like this, shifting on your feet like you have two left’s before your knees hit the back of your mattress, springs creak with your less than graceful plop. His forefinger and thumb find his bottom lip as he contains his smirk, approaching slowly like he’s careful to not scare off a rabbit.

Steve could be so intimidating without trying, though. Especially as he towers over you like this, being eye level with the happy trail that cascades into the towel. You swallow your nerves—maybe your lust, you don’t know anymore—and sit up more confidently, allowing the towel you clutched to your chest to be released, slowly undoing itself as it slides down your exposed skin. Steve’s lowering himself by the edge of your mattress like he’s about to pray.

Before you can fully process what’s happening, his damp hair brushes your inner thighs. Your breath hitches from the sudden cold droplets of water against your skin mixed with his warm breath fanning over you. You think he’s going to crawl on top of you, but he only sinks himself lower.

When his tongue licks your entrance, you nearly yelp loud enough that your neighbors should hear. Instead, your stomach caves in as you gasp, the feeling of his hot tongue sliding between you as easily as his fingers did in the shower.

“Oh— oh, my God—“ you stammer, roughly grabbing onto his hair from the root, tugging him closer until he’s burying his tongue in you.

Steve moans against you, his nose bumping your clit at the same time the stubble on his chin scratches against your most delicate skin, sending a sharp jolt through you. His lashes flutter shut as he tastes you, brows pinched together in concentration while his tongue swipes and glides to collect the honey dripping out of your center.

He leans back to sit on his heels, breathlessly admiring the sight of you while you almost sob from missing his mouth already. Your hands clenched at the blankets below you as one finger, then two, enters you at the same time his lips wrap around your clit with practiced precision.

You cry out in a way that makes him nearly leak on your duvet. “You’re so pretty,” Steve mumbles, shaking his head in disbelief, your wetness covering his chin.

The sight would normally embarrass you, but you’re so desperate to feel him as closely as possible that both of you make a noise of surprise at how quickly you’re forcefully grabbing his head to smash your lips against his, tasting yourself off his tongue.

“Fuck,” his voice breaks, muffled by your tongue sliding along his. You’ve never been more bold, reaching between the both of you to return how good he makes you feel, to feel the weight of him in your palm and Jesus, he was heavy.

Steve whispers your name on a shaky exhale as your fingers wrap around him, slowly pumping with the slick you’ve stolen from his swollen tip. He feels like warm velvet, throbbing in your palm. His pretty pouty lips are parted, panting unevenly as his nose nudges your cheekbone. Hot, wet breaths spill onto your neck, a wave of goosebumps erupt across your skin.

Steve can’t help himself, he thrusts into your hand out of desperation, hips sputtering while your pace quickens and your wrist is twisting in a tighter squeeze like he clearly wanted. His position changes to press his forehead against yours, lashes brushing his cheekbones while he remains slack-jawed over your touch.

Another strained whine erupts from his throat before he dives in for another deep kiss to which you eagerly lick at his tongue; his balance nearly faltering on top of you before he steadied himself, leaning you back fully against the bed, with his hands on either side of your head while yours remained in a tight curled fist that he thrusted into.

Steve wants to know how you learned to kiss like that, who taught you how to pull and twist on him like this, but his eyes are so transfixed on how you look with your hair spilled on the blankets when its not pulled tight in that ponytail for work and your lips so bitten and flushed. Something pricks in his chest that catches him off guard.

“Hey, uh, if this is—“ he’s not whispering, but it feels like it with how tenderly he’s talking to you. Your heart thuds heavily against your ribs as his hair tickles your forehead, still hovering above you with permission. You started feeling shy under his gaze, so you quickly wrap your arms around his neck again to stop him looking at you so sweetly.

“Steve,” you interrupt him, lips catching his in another kiss. You feel his muscles relax as his body lowers itself completely, his tongue delving deeper into your mouth while rolling his hips down onto yours.

Your ankles instinctively lock, pressing into his lower back. Steve’s lips brush your nose before he pushes himself against you, looking down at you like you hung the sun in the sky. You have an ache inside you so deep and desperate, your nails are digging into his shoulders before he gives another roll forward, aligning himself before he slowly presses himself forward.

Steve made a drawn out grunt, low and patient, like he was settling in. The stretch is a shock at first, not that it should be a surprise after the rumors you heard, but it was easily turned to pleasure as soon as he started moving his hips. He says your name again, your eyes that had squeezed shut then fluttering open to look at him longingly and he almost loses control right there.

“You…” your voice is strained, he presses an encouraging kiss by the corner of your mouth until you’re mumbling into a kiss, “Steve, you feel so good.”

His thrusts lose their tempo, jerking at your praise. He’s buries himself in the crook of your neck as his movements pick up speed, a raw soreness to your body stretching to accompany the full length of him, but the initial sting is covered by the waves of pleasure shooting through you.

As Steve got more comfortable, he’d pull himself almost fully out just to slide back inside you with ease until you felt fully adjusted. You moan so pretty for him, spreading your thighs as wide as you can so he can somehow be deeper inside you, completely swallowing him whole.

He’s shaking his head again incredulously, in complete shock this is real life as he slides a hand under the back of your neck, cradling you into another earth shattering kiss. Your lips wrap around his tongue, a slow deliberate bobbing that makes him twitch inside you before he’s growling into the kiss.

“Jesus,” he groans, corkscrewing his hips into you. The sounds are vile, wet slapping but you don’t care. You briefly catch his fingertips graze his tongue before they’re applying pressure to your clit again, perfect circles mixed with rhythmic thrusts that make you see stars.

You’re nearly choking for the air he’s breathing into your kiss, your body quivering beneath his. He cups your breast in one of his large hands, greedily kneading and squeezing for his own pleasure but it’s bringing you closer to the edge.

“I’m close,” Steve confesses in a voice so deep that you wouldn’t have guessed it was his if your eyes didn’t witness him say it. You lift your knee in any attempt to let him be inside you deeper, his palm finds the backside of your thigh as he pushes himself up taller, cockier, snapping his hips in a way that reminds you who he is. Your knee is almost against your shoulder with how he has you.

“Come on,” you encourage him, your hand finding his chest, running your fingers through the patch of hair there and letting your nails drag down his skin, feeling the muscles in his stomach flex as your nails only get lower.

A sudden surge of his hips makes you cry, somewhere between alarm and delight, because it feels like when a bruise hurts in a way that weirdly hits the spot. The bundle of nerves stirring enough that makes your legs shake, he holds you steady hooking his bicep to press into the underside of your calf muscle.

Steve’s eyes are intense, his head hung low while his curls, now more wild and unruly from your copious grips and tangling, continued to brush your skin with each thrust. The muscles on his back begin to quiver, shuddering with a deep groan as his jaw hangs open for you to bite at and kiss while he twitches inside of you.

He stills briefly before collapsing on top of you, then rolling onto his back to lay beside you; the two of you panting together while staring at your popcorn ceiling. Your bedroom fan spinning fills the sudden silence and brings immediate relief to your sweaty bodies.

You dare to turn your head towards him first, his attention pulled to you the moment you do, and a very slow, warm grin like a sunrise spreads across his lips. You’re relieved to be actually flushed so he wouldn’t notice how much your cheeks were burning.

Something about seeing Steve look so spent and out of breath, smiling at you like that, you could feel a familiar fluttering between your legs. You can actually see the red in his cheeks, the sweat on his hairline. He looks so pretty, you could cry.

Your bed creaks as Steve starts to sit up at the edge of the bed carefully before his hand finds your bare thigh with a soft pat of gratitude, making your body instantly jump from his touch. He chuckles at your sensitivity, admiring his view until you got too shy. In one swift movement, you had rolled over on your side to face oppositely from him, hiding your chest from his sight hurriedly to throw the infamous crewneck over your naked body.

Steve rolls his eyes and makes a tsk sound from behind you that makes you nervous. “That only makes it harder for me to resist, you know…” his voice coos by your ear before you shift to face him once more, immediately reminded of how gorgeous and naked he was.

He catches your upper lip between his own for one last lingering kiss, his thumb and forefinger firmly holding your jaw in place contrasting with the soft and languid movements of his lips. You could melt into him all over again—forever maybe, if he’d let you, but he’s already pulling away as soon as you start to fade.

Your eyelids heavy and brain in a fog feels like time is slowing as he starts to stand, finding his now dry clothes you nearly threw on your bedroom floor when you finally got to lead him upstairs. Your heart kind of aches to see him leave, even after all of that, as if that was supposed to magically keep him in your room for the next three months instead of Florida.

“I hope you have a good time with your uncle,” you squeak out, your throat still kind of hoarse. He’s fixing his hood around his neck again before looking down at you, standing between your legs—still spread for him.

Steve’s lopsided smirk has never been more relaxed, his large hands cup your cheeks for an innocent forehead kiss before he’s telling you goodbye.

“I’ll call you,” he says like a promise, so sincere that you felt sick. It’s mind numbing to have your brain immediately assume he’s ended every hookup like this just to lie to their faces and never see them again—like you got the old fashioned bait and switch. Regardless, you nod silently, ignoring the tight feeling in your throat and even more noticeable ache in your core.

You’re shimming on a pair of cotton briefs right as Steve finds your Polaroid on your desk. He catches a moment where you’re sat so pretty with your thighs pressed together and the sweatshirt—his sweatshirt—is just long enough to conceal you. You yelp in surprise at the sound of the camera’s flash before the pitched humming of its printing. Even if Steve had seen parts of your body that the sun itself had not seen, that moment still felt more intimate than anything else.

You’re frozen still as he’s grabbing a marker from the cup of disorganized pens that you had on your desk, extending it out to you along with the Polaroid.

“M’serious, write your number,” his crooked smile bewitching you in your fragile state while your heart tries to regulate its beating. You watched as he made sure the ink was dry before he was insane enough to put it in his wallet. Steve was so good at this. Effortlessly charming, but infuriatingly difficult to read.

“Cool,” he says, like always.

You force a smile you disguise as happily sleepy, though not quite able to reach your eyes.

“Cool,” you mimic back.

You see the flash of his smile one more time before he disappears behind your front door. You linger at your locks for a moment, hesitating on if you should swing your door back open and beg him to stay, at least for tonight, but you don’t because it’s not what he wants and it’s not going to keep him from leaving anyways; that much is clear.

The sound of his metal door clanging closed makes your head snap up before you’re bolting up your stairs in a haste, bare feet thundering up each step until you’re at your bedroom window, eyes narrowing in on your driveway.

As if on cue, Steve looks up from his window and salutes you with a small wave. You wiggle your fingers back and stare longingly as the BMW loudly roared out of your driveway. You’re unable to look away until the glow from his headlights on the slick road had disappeared, leaving you alone in your bedroom where the smell of him still lingered on your sheets and skin.