k

the first thing anyone ever knew about steve harrington was that he was loud.

not loud in volume, though he could be, especially when he laughed so hard milk came out of his nose at age eight because you told him the punchline to a joke wrong on purpose, but loud in presence.

even as a little boy, steve had always seemed to fill every room he walked into, every backyard he ran through, every sidewalk he skidded his bike tires across. he was all scraped knees and crooked grins, wild hair that never sat flat no matter how much water he slapped on it, and a habit of speaking before he thought, then somehow charming his way out of whatever trouble that got him into.

and somehow, from the very beginning, wherever steve was, you were too.

your mothers liked to joke that before either of you could even walk, you’d already claimed each other. two little babies in matching sun hats sitting in paddling pools in neighbouring gardens, grabbing at each other’s hands with sticky fingers and refusing to settle unless you were side by side. apparently, steve used to cry when your parents took you inside for naps, little fists clenched, cheeks red, angry at the universe for daring to separate him from his favourite person.

some things never really changed.

you grew up attached at the hip in the kind of way people only are when history roots itself so deep between them that pulling apart would feel like tearing skin.

you learned to ride bikes together, both of you wobbling dangerously down your street while your dads shouted instructions that neither of you listened to.

steve crashed first, straight into a hedge, and you laughed so hard you tipped over too. he came out with leaves in his hair and a branch caught in his shirt collar, grinning like an idiot, and before he even checked his own scraped elbow, he was kneeling beside you asking if you were okay.

that was steve.

always checking for you first.

there were summers spent so thoroughly tangled together they blurred into one endless golden memory.

afternoons in his parents’ pool until your fingers wrinkled and your skin smelled permanently of chlorine, competitions to see who could hold their breath longest underwater, cannonball contests that ended with his mother yelling because water splashed onto her expensive outdoor furniture.

nights where you slept over so often that both houses stopped asking questions, your toothbrush permanently living in the bathroom connected to steve’s bedroom, one of his old shirts becoming your designated pyjama top.

you built blanket forts in his room and swore they were castles. you made secret handshakes that changed every month. you whispered under covers with flashlights when thunderstorms rolled in, talking about stupid things and serious things and everything in between.

you saw every side of each other.

the ugly sides too.

you saw steve cry the first time his dad called him a disappointment.

you saw him go quiet after, quieter than should’ve been possible for a boy like him, shoulders tense and eyes glassy as he sat on your bedroom floor staring at nothing.

you sat beside him and said nothing at all, just leaned your shoulder against his until he leaned back.

that became your thing.

when his parents fought, he came to your house.

when his father got cruel, he came to your house.

when business trips left that giant empty house colder than winter, he stayed at your house, eating dinner at your table and laughing with your parents like he belonged there, because he did.

your mother kissed the top of his head when he looked especially worn down, your father taught him how to fix things in the garage.

your home became the place he exhaled and you became the person he always looked for first.

always.

through bad haircuts and braces and acne and awkward limbs that grew too fast for your bodies to catch up, you stayed constant.

until high school came and suddenly, painfully, neither of you were awkward anymore.

you grew into yourself quietly, like spring unfolding. pretty in a way that didn’t scream for attention, but stole it anyway.

soft eyes that noticed everything. a laugh that was rarer now, but warm enough to make people chase it. intelligence that shone bright and effortless. kindness that lived in every small thing you did. helping someone pick up dropped books, remembering birthdays nobody else did, always offering your notes to the kids who missed class.

you were beautiful in the sort of way people didn’t fully understand until they looked twice.

steve understood immediately.

and steve, god, steve grew into himself like he’d been handcrafted for trouble.

broad shoulders. soft brown eyes hidden behind ridiculous lashes. hair that somehow always looked perfect. that stupid smile capable of making half the female population of hawkins forget their own names.

and steve knew it.

or at least, his ego did.

king steve, they called him.

captain of popularity.

girls hanging off his arm, boys desperate for his approval, parties every weekend. loud music, expensive beer stolen from his parents’ liquor cabinet, people packed into his house hoping to breathe the same air as him.

he played the part beautifully.

cocky grin, easy charm, careless laughter, pretty girls, empty conversations. but there were things everyone noticed that nobody understood.

how steve only went to parties if you were invited too, even when you almost never came. how he always looked around rooms like he was searching for someone. how if anybody talked badly about you, even as a joke, his entire face changed. how he got mean.

how no girl, no matter how gorgeous, ever lasted long.

how every relationship seemed flimsy compared to the quiet girl who sat beside him in class helping him pass english, who rolled her eyes at his jokes but smiled anyway, who knew where he kept spare house keys and which scar on his knee came from which childhood disaster.

what nobody knew was that steve harrington loved you so badly it ached.

it lived in him like breathing. natural, constant, unavoidable. it was in the way he memorised everything about you.

how you tucked your hair behind your ear when concentrating. how you chewed on pen caps while studying. how you always gave him the marshmallows from your hot chocolate because you hated them and he loved them. how your nose scrunched when you laughed for real. how you never noticed when boys stared because you were too busy living inside your own head.

it killed him a little, that obliviousness.

because steve flirted constantly.

he tested waters in stupid ways.

telling you about girls he hooked up with, watching your face for any crack in your expression.

there never was one.

just your soft, distracted little hums. sometimes a wrinkled nose if the girl sounded awful. sometimes advice.

advice.

jesus christ.

he’d stare at you, really stare, eyes warm and helpless and completely gone for you, and you’d blink back like he was just steve.

just your steve.

your best friend.

meanwhile, he was halfway to insanity.

what steve never saw were all the quiet ways you loved him back.

how you kept every note he’d ever scribbled you. how no boy ever compared, which was why you’d only dated twice and barely liked either of them. how every time he brought a girl around, something sharp and sour twisted in your chest. how you knew the exact shade of hazel his eyes turned in sunlight.

how you sometimes laid awake at night, staring at your ceiling, replaying the way he smiled at you that day or how his hand rested warm on your back guiding you through crowds.

how your mother’s teasing words looped endlessly in your head.

you and stevie were made for each other.

you’d laugh it off, call her crazy, then spend hours wondering if maybe she wasn’t. wondering if steve could ever look at you and see more.

wondering what it would feel like if he kissed you. wondering if kissing steve would ruin everything, or finally make sense of everything that already existed between you.

and every morning after, you’d wake up and slip right back into your place beside him like those thoughts had never happened at all.

best friends.

always.

completely blind to the fact that the boy beside you was one heartbeat away from loving you out loud.

and equally blind to the fact that you already loved him too.

-

life carried on the way it always had.

which was strange, really, considering there was this constant thing sitting between you and steve. neither of you touched it, neither of you spoke it aloud, but it lived there all the same. tucked into glances that lingered too long, into hugs that held just a second more than necessary, into the easy way your lives folded around each other like they were built to fit.

more days turned into more weeks, more weeks into more months, and everything stayed beautifully, painfully normal.

you still sat with him while he copied your homework answers in that messy handwriting of his, tongue poking slightly into his cheek in concentration like he was actually trying, even though half the time he was writing complete nonsense because he was too busy talking to focus.

you still spent lunches together. sometimes alone, sometimes with your few close friends, sometimes with whatever crowd steve had orbiting him that week, but even in a room full of people, his attention always drifted back to you.

always.

you were still the first number he called. still the person he showed up for without asking. still the person he looked for in every crowded room.

and he was still yours in all the ways that mattered, without ever actually being yours at all.

one night after dinner at your house, your mother insisting steve stay because she’d made too much food, as if she hadn’t been cooking with him in mind from the start, the two of you found yourselves in your bedroom, exactly where you always ended up.

lying on the floor.

side by side.

staring at the ceiling.

it was a strange little ritual you’d created years ago, one that somehow stuck. whenever something weighed heavy on either of you, whenever thoughts got too loud or life got too complicated, you ended up here. flat on your backs, shoulders nearly touching, eyes aimed upward like answers might be written in the cracks of your ceiling paint.

this was where the real conversations happened.

not the casual chatter, not gossip, not jokes, this was where truths lived. the ugly ones, the tender ones, the ones neither of you gave anybody else.

steve let out a long breath beside you, one hand resting on his stomach, the other tucked behind his head.

“he’s doing it again.”

you turned your head slightly toward him.

“your dad?”

he laughed once, humourless.

“who else?”

his jaw tightened, eyes fixed on the ceiling.

“he’s on this whole thing about how i need to start learning the business now, so when he retires i can just… step in.” his voice hardened around the words. “like it’s some fucking honour.”

you stayed quiet.

you’d learned years ago that steve needed space to unravel before he needed comfort.

“he talks about it like he’s handing me a kingdom,” he muttered. “when really he’s handing me a prison sentence.”

your chest tightened.

because underneath the bitterness, underneath the anger, you heard what steve wasn’t saying.

he was scared, scared of becoming him. scared of looking in the mirror one day and seeing his father staring back.

steve scrubbed a hand over his face.

“i swear to god, i’d rather work in some shitty grocery store for the rest of my life than do what he does.”

that made you smile softly.

not because it was funny, though the dramatic way he said it was very steve, but because you knew him.

you knew this wasn’t about business being boring this was about morality. about goodness. about the way steve, despite all his pretending and ego and polished king-of-hawkins image, had the softest heart of anybody you knew.

he wanted to be kind, gentle. different. nothing like the man who’d raised him.

you reached your hand out between you, your pinky brushing lightly against his.

“what do you actually want?” you asked quietly.

“what?”

“after high school.” you looked back up at the ceiling. “college. life. what do you want, stevie?”

the room went quiet for a second, then two. then he laughed softly under his breath. not a happy laugh, the sad kind.

the self-deprecating kind.

“college?” he scoffed. “c’mon.”

you frowned instantly.

“don’t do that.”

“do what?”

“act like you’re stupid.”

he turned his head to look at you then, brown eyes soft in the dim lamp light.

“i’m not exactly ivy league material.”

“you’re smarter than you think.”

“i’m really not.”

“you are.”

there was firmness in your voice now, the kind that always made him listen.

“you just don’t try because somewhere along the line, somebody convinced you there was no point.”

his expression shifted. small, almost wounded, because you always saw right through him.

always.

you kept going, softer now.

“you’re smart, steve. genuinely smart. not even just academically, you read people better than anyone i know. you remember everything that matters. you’re creative. funny. emotionally intelligent, even if you pretend you aren’t.” you nudged his shoulder gently. “and if i have to spend the rest of my life reminding you of that, i will.”

steve stared at you and god, there was that look again. that look that made your stomach turn over.

warm, completely devastating. then, because he was steve, he ruined the moment on purpose.

“well,” he sighed dramatically, “in that case, i’ll just follow you wherever you go.”

you snorted.

“oh yeah?”

“absolutely.” he folded his hands over his chest. “be your little house wife.”

that made you laugh properly.

bright and sudden.

the kind of laugh that always made him smile like he’d won something.

“house wife?”

“yeah.”

“you?”

“i’d be incredible at it.”

“you can’t cook.”

“i can make toast.”

“you burn toast.”

“crispy toast.”

you laughed harder and soon he was laughing too, that big, warm laugh that filled your whole room.

then the laughter settled into something softer. comfortable quiet. and somewhere in that quiet, the strange truth of it hung there,

every version of the future either of you had ever imagined always included the other. always.

sometimes you were neighbours with houses connected by a garden gate. sometimes coworkers. sometimes roommates in a big city. sometimes pen pals, a ridiculous idea born from sixteen-year-old steve drunkenly declaring he was moving to italy after eating pasta he called religious.

you still teased him for that.

but every dream, every joke, every passing thought about what came next, included us.

never 'me'. never 'you'. always us.

neither of you spoke about the deeper version of that dream.

the one with shared mornings. shared beds. children with messy hair and stubborn attitudes. a home that belonged equally to both of you.

but somewhere, buried deep, you’d both imagined it.

more than once.

steve swallowed hard against that thought.

then casually, too casually, he asked,

“how come you’re still single?”

you turned your head.

“you’re single too.”

a slow smirk spread across his mouth.

“yeah, but i haven’t always been.”

you rolled your eyes.

“neither have i.”

“middle school boyfriends don’t count.”

you laughed.

“according to who?”

“according to me.”

you shook your head, smiling, then shrugged.

“i don’t know.”

and that answer sat strangely warm in steve’s chest.

because maybe, maybe you liked being single. maybe there was nobody. maybe it wasn’t that you didn’t want him specifically.

weirdly, that hurt less.

he smiled faintly, staring back up at the ceiling.

then you asked quietly,

“why haven’t you settled down with anyone?”

his chest tightened because there were a thousand truths he could say. because i’m in love with my best friend. because nobody feels like you. because every girl i kiss isn’t you.

instead, he shrugged.

“i don’t know.”

and selfishly, your heart liked that answer far more than the possibility of him loving somebody else.

silence settled again.

then steve spoke, voice quieter than before, serious,

“promise me something.”

“anything.”

he turned his head toward you.

there was vulnerability there, raw and boyish and achingly honest.

“don’t forget me.”

your brows pulled together instantly.

“steve-”

“i mean it.” he swallowed. “when all this ends. when college happens, life happens… if we end up in different places…” his voice got softer. “don’t forget about me.”

your whole chest ached because forgetting steve harrington would be like forgetting your own name.

impossible.

you reached across the floor and took his hand fully. fingers threading together like second nature. like instinct. like home.

you squeezed once.

“never” you whispered.

and steve squeezed back, holding your hand in the dark like it was something precious.

something worth keeping.

“promise?”

you smiled softly.

“i promise.”

neither of you realised then just how much that promise would come to mean.

-

by the time prom season rolled around, steve was losing his goddamn mind.

he sat at the edge of his bed one night, elbows on his knees, staring blankly at the carpet while every thought in his head somehow circled back to you.

which, admittedly, wasn’t unusual. most roads in steve’s mind led to you, had for years.

but this was different, this was bigger.

this was prom.

the last school dance.

the final stupid, sweaty gymnasium decorated with cheap streamers and glitter and songs that would probably suck and punch that tasted vaguely like chemicals.

and steve wanted one thing.

just one.

you.

not in the way he’d had you before. showing up together because that’s what you always did, wandering in side by side because steve bringing you was as natural as breathing, dancing stupidly together in between him getting dragged off by friends and you laughing at him from the sidelines.

not as best friends.

not as what everyone already assumed you were.

he wanted to take you, really take you.

wanted to stand on your doorstep with flowers and nerves and sweaty palms. wanted to tell you you looked beautiful and mean it so hard it hurt. wanted to dance with his hands on your waist and know it meant something different.

wanted one night where he could pretend, or maybe, if he got lucky, not pretend at all.

so he came up with a plan.

a stupid plan. a deeply embarrassing plan. a plan that, in hindsight, made him want to throw himself directly into traffic.

he was going to make it obvious.

not say it, because apparently despite being steve harrington, king of confidence, he became a complete coward when it came to you, but obvious enough.

obvious enough that if you smiled a little wider than usual, blushed even slightly, acted flustered in any way he’d ask you.

simple. easy. foolproof.

except it was none of those things.

because monday morning, the second he pulled into your driveway, he already started acting insane.

normally, steve would pull up, lean dramatically on the horn once, and wait while you came out rolling your eyes.

his logic always being, your house is right there, you can hear the horn when i get in the car.

instead, that morning, he got out. walked to your front door. and knocked. actually knocked.

when you opened it, bag over your shoulder, hair still slightly messy from rushing around getting ready, he nearly forgot every coherent thought in his head.

you blinked at him then squinted suspiciously.

“…why are you at my door?”

he immediately panicked internally.

say something cool.

say something normal.

“felt like it.”

idiot.

your eyes narrowed further, mouth twitching like you were fighting a smile.

“okay…”

you kept looking at him funny all the way to the car, and honestly, fair enough.

but then he made it worse.

because when you reached the passenger side, he darted ahead and opened your door for you.

you stopped dead.

“what are you doing?”

steve leaned against the open door casually, like he wasn’t having a full body crisis.

“being nice?”

you laughed softly, confused and amused all at once.

“you are nice.”

“being nicer.”

you stared at him for a second then shook your head, smiling to yourself as you got in. that smile hit him like a truck.

holy shit.

was that wider than normal? was that flirty? was that polite?

what did that mean-

and thus began the longest week of steve harrington’s life.

because once he started, he couldn’t stop.

every class you didn’t share, he was waiting outside when the bell rang.

leaning against lockers trying to look casual, heart kicking up every time your face lit up when you saw him.

he carried your books.

your bag.

once, your stupid heavy history textbook that you always complained about.

he held doors open.

walked you to every class.

blew off tommy and half his friend group every lunch just to sit with you.

actually did his half of your joint assignment, not copied, not barely attempted, actually did it, and when you looked at him like he’d grown another head, he just shrugged like it was no big deal while internally screaming notice me.

he bought you lunch monday.

again on wednesday.

again on thursday.

sat in the library with you after school willingly.

willingly. the library.

for hours.

and every single thing you did made his brain short circuit.

because you just accepted it. completely. you didn’t question him much, didn’t pull away, didn’t act weird, didn’t reject any of it. you simply smiled that sweet little smile and let him fuss over you.

let him carry your things. let him buy your lunch. let him walk you around school like you were something precious.

and worst of all you looked happy about it. which should’ve been good. right? that should’ve been good.

except now steve was spiralling because what the hell did happy mean?

did you know what he was doing? were you oblivious? were you pitying him? were you just enjoying the attention?

meanwhile, you were living in your own version of insanity.

because steve had always made you feel special.

always.

from childhood to now, there had never been a moment where you doubted your place in his life.

but this?

this was different. this was soft, intentional. sweet in ways that made your stomach flip.

it felt suspiciously like being courted. like being wanted. like being his girl.

and god you liked it. liked it so much it scared you. so no, you didn’t question it. because if you asked, what if it stopped? what if he laughed and said he was just messing around? what if this tenderness disappeared?

so instead, you quietly soaked it in.

let yourself pretend just for a little while. let yourself imagine this was what loving steve openly might feel like.

which meant steve’s giant, ridiculous plan was failing spectacularly for one very simple reason-

the both of you were idiots.

by friday, steve was at breaking point.

he sat in his last class barely hearing a word the teacher said, knee bouncing under the desk.

what the hell was happening? surely by now, if you liked him, you would’ve said something. asked him what all this meant. given him something obvious back.

right?

unless you didn’t like him. unless you just thought he was being nice. unless this was normal to you because he’d always treated you well and you saw no difference.

jesus christ.

he’d spent an entire week acting like a lovesick freak and somehow ended up more confused than when he started.

the final bell rang and steve made a decision.

enough.

no more weird signals, no more spiralling, no more stupid plans.

he was asking you tonight.

flat out.

whatever happened, happened because he was absolutely not surviving another week of this.

what steve didn’t know was that at that exact same moment, sitting in class chewing the end of your pen and smiling stupidly to yourself remembering how he tucked your hair behind your ear at lunch you were thinking,

please don’t stop whatever this is.

please let me keep having this version of you.

even if it’s not real.

even if it’s only for a little while.

-

steve waited outside your last class.

again.

at this point, it had become routine. somewhere in his ridiculous attempt at flirting came a habit he’d accidentally fallen in love with.

there was just something about it.

the way your face always softened the second you spotted him leaning against the lockers. the little smile you never seemed able to hold back. the way you automatically walked toward him, like your feet knew where they belonged before your brain caught up.

it made something warm settle in his chest every single time.

so yes, even if his original reasons for waiting outside your classes had been pathetic and embarrassingly romantic, now he did it simply because he liked it.

liked being the person you looked for, liked walking beside you through crowded halls, liked carrying your books even when you insisted they “weren’t heavy.”

liked the feeling of everyone seeing you together.

he liked it far too much.

that friday, though, he was restless.

you noticed almost immediately.

the way his fingers tapped against his leg. the way his jaw kept tightening. the way he kept opening his mouth like he wanted to say something, only to close it again.

still, you didn’t ask.

if there was one thing years of knowing steve harrington had taught you, it was that when he was ready to talk, he would.

until then, you let silence be comfortable.

and it always was with him.

the drive home was dipped in golden evening light, quiet except for the radio humming softly in the background and the occasional sound of steve drumming his thumbs against the steering wheel.

when he took a corner too fast his hand instinctively shot out, catching your thigh for a second to steady you.

warm, solid, gone too quickly.

neither of you said anything but your stomach flipped anyway.

when he pulled up between your houses, you reached for the door handle-

“wait.”

your hand froze.

you turned back.

steve looked terrified, actually terrified.

your heart immediately started hammering.

oh my god.

oh my god.

was he-

this was it. this had to be it.

the weird week, the sweet gestures, the way he’d been looking at you, the way he’d been hovering close like he couldn’t help himself-

this was him asking you to prom.

your whole body went warm.

steve swallowed hard. right. just say it.

say prom.

“do you wanna go prom-”

your breath caught.

his heart launched into his throat.

“-dress shopping with me?”

silence.

steve internally punched himself in the face.

coward. absolute coward.

you blinked.

then laughed softly, trying to ignore how quickly hope had risen and crashed in your chest.

“are you getting a dress this year too, stevie?”

he huffed a little laugh, looking down, shaking his head.

“no, i mean…” he rubbed the back of his neck. “y’know, i’ll drive us to the city. we can get all fancy and buy expensive shit we probably don’t need. get ice cream on the way home.”

he looked up at you then.

hopeful. boyish.

impossibly handsome.

you smiled, a real one.

“that sounds nice.”

his shoulders loosened instantly.

“yeah?”

“yeah.”

you opened the door, stepping out, then turned back with a grin.

“it’s a date.”

and walked away.

steve sat frozen in his car.

date.

date?

did you mean date date?

or date as in phrase?

people said that all the time.

right?

right??

he smacked his forehead gently against the steering wheel.

meanwhile, halfway to your front door, you were spiralling too.

why would you say it’s a date? why would you say that?

that sounds romantic. that sounds intentional. he’s going to think you meant it romantically.

except he doesn’t like you.

probably.

so now you sound insane.

great.

perfect.

wonderful.

still, somehow, both of you went to bed smiling because stupid was easier when it felt this good.

-

nice and early the next morning, steve was at your door.

knocking.

again.

except this time when you opened it, you were very much not ready.

hair wild, sleep still heavy in your eyes, oversized sleep shirt hanging off one shoulder, soft pyjama shorts, bare legs and sleepy confusion.

steve forgot how breathing worked.

you frowned at him.

“why are you here?”

his brain completely short circuited.

“…shopping.”

you groaned.

“shit.”

you looked over your shoulder at the clock and winced.

“i overslept.”

steve finally recovered enough to shrug casually.

“i’ll wait.”

he walked past you like he belonged there, because he did, headed straight to your room, kicked off his shoes, and threw himself face down onto your bed.

dramatically, arms spread, muffled voice immediately rambling into your duvet.

“had the weirdest dream last night.”

you stood at your mirror trying to brush your hair while pulling on jeans.

“what?”

more muffled nonsense.

something about a shark. your third grade teacher. a ferrari. possibly italy.

you laughed.

“i understood none of that.”

he lifted his face slightly, cheek squished against your pillow.

“it made sense in dream logic.”

“sure.”

then face planted again, continuing to ramble while you got ready, his voice muffled into your blankets.

it was domestic in a way neither of you thought too hard about.

easy, dangerously easy.

soon enough, you were in the car headed toward the city.

the windows down, music loud. summer warmth creeping in. you stopped at a roadside place for breakfast sandwiches, then got back on the road. where steve immediately became unbearable.

“bite.”

you looked at him.

“…what?”

“feed me.”

“you have hands.”

“i’m driving. i need to concentrate.”

you stared.

he opened his mouth expectantly.

“bite.”

your eyes narrowed, he looked ridiculous.

you hated how cute it was.

with a sigh, you held the sandwich up for him. he leaned over dramatically, taking a huge bite, cheeks full like a chipmunk.

you laughed despite yourself.

“you’re such an idiot.”

secretly, steve loved the little annoyed crease between your brows. loved making you roll your eyes. loved that you always indulged him anyway.

shopping somehow started with your dress.

steve had expected torture. hours of standing around, fabric talk, waiting, boredom.

instead he got to watch you try on dresses, which was apparently heaven. every single dress had him losing his mind quietly.

blue. green. white. sparkly. simple. dramatic.

even the absolutely hideous monstrosity he tossed into your pile as a joke, some bright orange ruffled nightmare, looked unfairly cute because you came out striking poses and making ridiculous model faces until he laughed so hard he nearly cried.

“that one?” you asked, spinning.

“burn it.”

you grinned.

but then you stepped out wearing soft baby pink.

simple, elegant, gentle, completely you, and steve forgot how to speak.

you looked beautiful.

not pretty, not cute, beautiful. the kind that hurt to look at because it made wanting feel too big inside his chest.

you smiled shyly at your reflection.

“i kinda love this one.”

steve could only nod.

because if he opened his mouth, he’d probably propose.

when you disappeared back into the changing room after trying on the final dress, leaving the pink dress hanging outside, steve moved instantly.

straight to the register.

money down.

done.

easy.

when the cashier smiled warmly and said, “that’s sweet- paying for your girlfriend’s prom dress”

steve didn’t even think, didn’t correct her, just smiled softly.

“yeah.”

the word slipped out naturally like truth. he walked back holding the dress bag proudly. when you emerged and saw it, your face scrunched instantly.

“steve harrington-”

“don’t start.”

“i told you i was buying it-”

he shrugged, smiling.

“it’s our last prom, princess. gotta treat you right.”

princess. that stupid nickname. it hit you exactly where it always did.

that awful lovely feeling.

but you’d become very good at hiding it so you only rolled your eyes.

“you’re ridiculous.”

“and generous.”

“annoyingly generous.”

“you love me.”

you smiled softly.

“yeah.”

the quiet honesty of it made his chest tighten because you meant it one way and he heard it another.

then he grinned, standing.

“c’mon.”

you looped your arm through his without thinking.

“your turn.”

shopping for steve’s suit was, thankfully, much quicker.

mostly because he cared significantly less than you did.

he tried on maybe three jackets, two pairs of trousers, one shirt, then stood in front of the mirror shrugging like, yeah, this one’s fine, while you looked at him like he’d lost his mind.

“fine?” you repeated.

steve adjusted the collar lazily. “yeah.”

“fine is your final prom outfit?”

he looked down at himself.

navy suit. clean lines, fitted enough to make his shoulders look unfairly broad. white shirt, sleeves rolled halfway while he changed ties.

hair slightly messy from pulling shirts over his head.

beautiful, unfortunately.

he shrugged again.

“looks good enough.”

you stared.

“good enough” you echoed flatly.

his grin only widened “mhm.”

but then, then he did something so stupidly sweet that your entire brain briefly stopped functioning.

the woman helping fit him asked what colour tie he wanted, before she could even list options, steve answered immediately.

“baby pink.”

you blinked.

he looked over at you casually.

“to match your dress.”

simple, matter-of-fact. like it was obvious. like there was never another option.

to match your dress.

your heart practically punched through your ribs because it was little things. always little things with steve. the details, the quiet thoughtfulness, the instinctive way he always included you in everything.

the way matching your dress mattered to him.

not because it was prom, not because it was fashion, but because it was yours.

you stood there smiling like an idiot while he tried on ties, your mind spiralling somewhere far, far away.

and honestly?

you barely paid attention to anything else after that.

just him.

his hands fixing his cuffs, his soft smile when he caught you staring, the way he kept glancing toward you for approval.

god.

you were in trouble. deep trouble.

when you guys got in the car both taking a deep breath, pausing before the long drive home, you stopped him.

“steve?”

his hand froze on the key.

“yeah?”

your heart hammered.

this was insane, absolutely insane but suddenly you couldn’t keep waiting, couldn’t keep wondering. couldn’t keep pretending every soft thing between you didn’t mean something.

so you looked at him and did exactly what he’d been trying to do all week.

“do you wanna go to prom with me?”

steve blinked.

once.

twice.

“…what?”

you smiled nervously.

“prom.”

he laughed softly, confused.

“we always go together.”

you swallowed then forced yourself to say it.

“i mean… properly with me, steve.”

his entire body went still, heart pounding so hard he could hear it.

“what?”

god.

he looked so confused, so beautiful.

and suddenly courage, reckless, terrifying courage, grabbed hold of you. you leaned forward and kissed him.

soft, quick.

the second your lips touched his, your whole body lit up like lightning.

then panic immediately followed.

oh god.

what did you just do?

you pulled back instantly, mouth already opening to explain, apologise, ramble, but steve’s hand came up, cupping your cheek.

warm, gentle, and he pulled you right back in.

kissed you properly.

like he’d been starving. like he knew exactly what your lips would feel like because he’d imagined it a thousand times, but somehow it was still better.

so much better.

you could actually feel him melt, his whole body softened into it and then, that little sound.

a quiet sigh against your mouth.

soft, content, completely helpless. it shot straight into your chest. your new favourite sound. absolutely.

when he finally pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours, breathing hard, smiling in complete disbelief.

then he said-

“i hate you.”

your eyes flew open.

“…what?”

he laughed breathlessly.

“i have been waiting my whole life for you to show literally any sign that you liked me.” he pulled back enough to look at you, eyes wide with mock offence. “and the one week i actually decide to try and something about it, you beat me to it.”

you burst out laughing then he did too, forehead dropping back against yours. then suddenly he leaned back fully, staring at you like you were insane.

“no, seriously- what?”

you blinked.

“what?”

“why now?”

you shrugged, cheeks warm.

“i’ve always liked you, stevie.”

steve’s jaw actually dropped.

“what?”

you laughed.

“i’ve always liked you.”

“then why didn’t you say anything?!”

you gave him a look.

“why didn’t you?”

he stared at you like the answer was obvious.

“because you never acted like you wanted me back. ever.”

you frowned.

“maybe you’re oblivious.”

steve scoffed so hard it was almost offensive then gave you the most irritated look imaginable.

“i do not wanna hear you call anybody oblivious. you are the most oblivious person alive.”

you gasped.

“no i’m not.”

“yes, you are.”

“i’m cautious.”

“cautious of what?”

you went quieter then.

honest.

“reading too far into things.” your fingers picked at your sleeve. “you could’ve just been being nice, y’know? i didn’t wanna lose you.”

steve’s whole face softened instantly.

his hand found yours.

squeezed.

“in no world do you lose me, idiot.”

your eyes rolled automatically, mostly because if you looked at him too long you might cry.

then, lighter, you said,

“been waiting your whole life?” you smiled. “dramatic ass.”

he laughed then shook his head.

“no, i’m serious.”

“right.”

“i am.”

“okay, sure-”

before you could argue, he grabbed your face again and kissed you hard. full of grin and relief and years of built-up wanting.

when he pulled back, he was smiling so wide his cheeks hurt.

“and yeah,” he murmured. “i’ll go to prom with you.”

he winked.

“it’s a date.”

you groaned, laughing.

“that line was awful.”

“worked the first time.”

you shoved his shoulder.

he caught your hand, kissed your knuckles and then finally started the car.

the drive home was spent sharing ice cream, stealing kisses at red lights, and smiling so much both your faces hurt.

and when he parked between your houses that evening for the first time going home next door didn’t feel like enough.

because now, finally, you knew exactly where home was.

and it was sitting in the driver’s seat, smiling at you like he’d found his whole world.

-

the week leading up to prom was, quite possibly, the happiest either of you had ever been.

which was saying something, considering you and steve had spent your whole lives making happiness out of ordinary things.

bike rides and late-night talks. pool days and movie nights. studying together, even when steve mostly just distracted you.

shared dinners. inside jokes.

the quiet comfort of simply existing side by side.

you had already built a life around each other long before romance ever entered the picture.

but now there was kissing. and, quite frankly, that improved everything.

the strange thing was, almost nothing about your relationship changed, and somehow, everything changed.

you still woke up most mornings to the sound of steve’s car horn, or, more recently, to the sound of him knocking on your front door because apparently now he liked seeing your sleepy face. you still rode to school together, still shared lunches, still studied in the library after classes, still spent evenings draped across each other’s bedroom floors talking about life until one of you fell asleep mid-conversation.

you were still you.

he was still steve.

best friends in every way that mattered.

except now, when he saw you, his face immediately softened into the most helpless smile. except now, his hand naturally found yours every chance it got. except now, when he dropped you off at home, you kissed him goodnight. except now, when he made you laugh, he looked at your mouth afterwards like he couldn’t help himself.

except now, he kissed you whenever the urge struck him, which was often.

very often.

because steve had apparently been suppressing years of affection, and now that he was allowed to touch you the way he’d always wanted he simply never stopped.

a kiss on your forehead when he saw you in the morning. a kiss on your cheek while waiting in line for lunch. a kiss against your temple while you studied.

a quick peck when he passed you in the hallway. a longer one when nobody was looking.

soft kisses, laughing kisses, hungry kisses that left you breathless, lazy kisses that happened just because you were standing close.

sometimes he’d stop mid-sentence, stare at you for a second, then kiss you like he’d just remembered he could.

when you’d laugh and ask what that was for, he’d just grin.

“been wanting to for years.”

as if that explained everything. as if that wasn’t enough to make your heart explode every single time.

steve, somehow, became even sweeter.

which you honestly hadn’t thought possible.

he was constantly touching you in little ways. fingers brushing yours, hand on the small of your back, absentmindedly tucking your hair behind your ear, resting his chin on your shoulder while reading over your work even though he wasn’t actually reading any of it.

he looked at you like you were his favourite thing on earth, like he still couldn’t quite believe this was real.

truthfully, he couldn’t.

steve had spent years loving you quietly, years convincing himself he was okay with just having you however he could get you.

best friend. neighbour. constant companion.

he had told himself that was enough.

it hadn’t been, not really.

and now he got to kiss you. hold your hand. hear you call him yours in little casual ways that made his brain completely short circuit.

my stevie.

mine.

god.

he’d never been happier.

and you felt exactly the same.

you weren’t even officially dating yet. somehow, neither of you had actually labelled whatever this was, but it didn’t matter.

you were his.

he was yours.

everyone knew it.

that was enough.

for now.

then prom night arrived.

you spent the afternoon at your friend’s house with your three closest girlfriends, all of you crowded around mirrors with makeup scattered everywhere, hairspray thick in the air, music playing too loudly in the background while laughter bounced off the walls.

it was chaos, beautiful chaos.

and, naturally, your friends spent most of it teasing you mercilessly.

“finally,” one of them said dramatically while curling your hair. “do you understand how painful it’s been watching you two circle each other for years?”

another snorted from where she was doing eyeliner.

“literally years.”

“it was embarrassing,” the third added. “for everyone involved.”

you laughed, shaking your head.

“we were not that obvious.”

three deadpan looks met your reflection in the mirror.

then all together-

“you were.”

one of them groaned dramatically.

“he looked at you like you hung the moon.”

you covered your face.

“okay, stop.”

they only laughed harder but beneath the teasing was genuine relief. everyone who loved you had been waiting for this, waiting for you both to finally stop being idiots, waiting for the inevitable.

because to everyone else you and steve had always been a love story waiting to happen.

later, after hugs and promises to meet at prom, you headed home to get dressed.

and when you finally stepped into your baby pink dress, the same one steve secretly bought for you, you stared at yourself for a long moment.

soft curls framing your face, makeup gentle and glowing, the pink bringing warmth to your skin.

for once, nerves hit.

not because of prom.

because of steve.

because you wanted him to look at you and feel what you always felt when you looked at him.

then, a knock at the door.

your stomach flipped instantly.

you carefully made your way downstairs, hand lightly gripping the banister so you wouldn’t trip over your own feet and halfway down, you froze.

your mother had already opened the door.

steve was standing inside.

flowers in hand, pink flowers, the exact shade of your dress, suit fitted perfectly, tie matching you exactly like he’d planned, hair done but still somehow perfectly messy, looking so unfairly handsome it almost knocked the breath from your lungs.

then he looked up and froze. completely.

his whole body went still, flowers slackening slightly in his hand. mouth parting, eyes wide.

you nearly froze too but you also nearly missed a step, so survival instincts forced you forward.

when you reached him, smiling shyly, steve still looked stunned.

then softly, so softly,

“you look so beautiful."

his voice full of awe.

you felt your cheeks warm.

“you look handsome.”

that snapped him into a grin.

your mother immediately started gushing.

“oh, look at you two-”

your father, already prepared, handed her the old camera.

same tradition every dance, same photo spot every year.

except this year felt different, this year felt important.

steve’s hand settled naturally on your waist.

firm, warm, possessive in the gentlest way. you tucked into his side and both of you smiled brighter than you ever had before.

click.

perfect.

the second you stepped outside and the front door shut behind you steve kissed you. immediately. like he physically couldn’t help it.

you laughed softly against his mouth when he pulled away.

“what was that for?”

he shrugged, smiling.

“sorry. i feel like i have to all the time now.”

you blinked.

he looked adorably sheepish.

“i waited too long before.”

your whole chest melted.

you stood on your toes and kissed his cheek.

“good job i don’t mind.”

his smile widened impossibly.

the drive there was perfect. madonna played loudly, steve complained-

“this song again?”

-while secretly singing every word.

badly. using one hand as a fake microphone. you laughed until your stomach hurt and when he caught you looking at him with that soft smile he winked.

god.

you were doomed.

prom itself was… nice.

crowded, hot, loud. friends dragged you apart almost immediately, his crowd calling him over, yours pulling you in. reluctantly, you separated. but only briefly. because, like always, you found your way back to each other.

effortlessly, like magnets, just in time for the slow dance.

his hands found your waist, yours looped around his neck. you swayed together beneath dim lights, forehead resting lightly against his, smiling softly at nothing and everything.

it was perfect, too perfect, too short. because when the song ended, steve frowned.

“that’s bullshit.”

you laughed.

“what?”

“not enough dancing.”

before you could ask what he meant, he grabbed your hand and started pulling you through the crowd.

out the doors, into the parking lot.

you were laughing the whole time.

“stevie- what are you doing?”

he just laughed breathlessly.

“trust me.”

he dragged you to his car, opened the door, turned the radio on, shoved in a cassette, then david bowie filled the warm night air.

steve dramatically bowed.

held out his hand.

“may i have this dance?”

you laughed so hard your cheeks hurt then placed your hand in his.

under stars, in a mostly empty parking lot, next to his car, you slow danced.

giggling, stepping on each other’s feet, swaying dramatically, kissing halfway through because neither of you could help yourselves.

it was perfect. better than prom itself.

afterwards, breathless and smiling, you both looked toward the building, then at each other and silently agreed-

fuck prom.

ice cream was mandatory, then home.

summer air still warm enough that sitting in his back garden felt perfect.

until suddenly steve gasped, shot upright and ran to the pool, crouching beside it staring in dramatically.

you followed quickly.

“what? what?”

he waved urgently.

“come look.”

you leaned closer and he shoved you in. cold water swallowed you whole. when you surfaced gasping, steve was doubled over laughing.

that little bitch.

fine.

game on.

you frowned dramatically.

“ow- steve-”

his laughter stopped instantly.

“…what?”

you grabbed your arm.

“i think i hurt it-”

panic overtook his face.

“shit- how?”

he reached down and his hand out.

the sweetest idiot alive.

you grabbed it and yanked.

he crashed in beside you with a loud splash. when he surfaced, hair plastered down, face full of betrayal, you were laughing hysterically.

he looked annoyed for exactly two seconds before pulling you into him, arms wrapping around your waist holding you close in the water.

laughing softly now too.

then he kissed you.

forehead resting against yours after, smiling wide.

then quietly, like truth he’d been carrying forever,

“i love you.”

your eyes opened.

you smiled.

“i love you too.”

his face softened so completely it almost broke you.

then he hugged you hard like he never wanted to let go.

later, dripping wet, climbing out of the pool steve paused. looked at you seriously, then “that means you’re my girlfriend now, by the way.”

you smiled.

nodded.

“okay.”

he frowned jokingly.

“…okay?”

you blinked.

“what?”

he shoved wet hair back.

“i always thought you were perfectly happy being single.”

you smiled softly.

shrugged.

“maybe i was just waiting for you.”

he rolled his eyes immediately, tugging you into his side as he walked you both inside.

his lips pressed briefly to your temple.

then quietly, certainly, “you always had me.”

his arm tightened around you.

“always.”

-

Robin's whisper-shove to his shoulder was enough to break the spell. He straightened up, ran a hand through his hair, a reflex from a bygone era, and pushed off the counter.

You were perusing the newest arrivals, a thoughtful frown on your face as you read the back of a copy of 'Aliens'. You looked up as he approached, a polite smile instantly on your lips.

"Finding everything okay?" he asked, trying for the casual, charming tone that used to work so well. It came out a bit more strangled than he'd intended.

"Almost," you said, your voice warm, with a hint of an accent he couldn't quite place. "I didn't get to see this in theaters so I thought I'd catch up."

"Oh, yeah. It's great. It's no 'Top Gun', but it's great." He winced internally. 

Really, Harrington? 

"I mean, not that you have to compare them. They're... different genres. Totally. One's in space, one's... not." He was fumbling.

He heard Robin snort from the counter as she rewound a tape with her head bent.

You just chuckled pleasantly and it made him wish he'd said something, anything, more interesting. "Good to know. I'll take it then."

"You... don't sound like you're from here..." he tried as you headed for the horror section. "I mean, I also don't recognize you."

You glanced over at him as you skimmed the shelves.

He was handsome, you'd give him that. Gorgeous head of hair, expressive eyes, a voice that could probably sell you anything. He had to be in his very early twenties from what you could tell.

"Do you know every woman in town?" You smirked slightly, reaching for a copy of ‘The Shining’.

Steve almost choked on his own tongue.

Robin snorted again, this time openly.

"Uh, no... " he said, rubbing the back of his neck, a telltale sign of his fluster. "No, I don't. I know the normal amount. Healthy, normal amount of... women..."

Great. Now he just sounded creepy.

You laughed again, but this one was louder, more genuine. "Right. Well, I just moved here. From the east coast."

The east coast. That explained the accent a little.

"East coast, huh? What brings you to Hawkins, Indiana?" The name of his town always sounded so much more pathetic when he said it out loud to an outsider.

"A job," you said simply, not offering more. You added ‘The Shining’ to your small pile of tapes.

You looked over at Robin who was watching you both. You didn't seem to notice Steve's internal monologue about how he was going to kill Robin with the put-back cart later.

Robin, sensing your gaze, gave you a little wave. "Hi. I'm Robin. I live here."

"She thinks she's funny," Steve mumbled. "She's not."

"I'm hilarious," Robin retorted without looking at him.

You smiled at Robin's antics before turning back to Steve, who was trying desperately to regain a shred of his composure.

"Well, do you have any other recommendations? I will watch a genre other than horror, actually." You smile up at him.

He stared for a beat, your smile hitting him like a shot of pure sunshine. He cleared his throat and scanned the shelves, a flicker of confidence returning. "Yeah. Sure. 'Dirty Dancing'... is a new one. It's a... you know. A date movie. It's good. Patrick Swayze."

"Ah. A date movie. Right." You tapped your finger against the VHS case in your hand. "I'll take my chances with Kubrick for now, thanks."

The implication wasn't lost on him.

"Not a romance fan, huh?" He leaned against the shelf next to you, feigning relaxation.

"Let's just say I'm taking a break from it." You said it lightly, but there was something in your tone that made him back off just a little.

"Right. Got it. Horror it is," he said, backing away with a small nod. "I can ring you up for those if you're ready."

You followed him to the counter, your three tapes making a quiet clatter on the laminate. Robin was still there, pretending to be absorbed in a stack of returned tapes, but he could feel her ears practically growing to listen in.

"If you ever end that break with romance," Steve started while he rang up the tapes. "Hawkins does have some... okay-ish date night options. If you know where to look."

You just smiled at him again, a small, knowing curve of your lips that made him feel like he was sixteen all over again. "I'll keep that in mind."

"Steve has a very curated list of date options," Robin piped up, not looking up from her work. "He'll give you a whole presentation if you ask nicely."

Steve shot her a glare that could curdle milk, but you just laughed softly. That girl had spunk. You liked it.

"I'm Steve by the way, since Robin is a terrible hostess," he said as he handed you your change, a crinkled ten-dollar bill and some coins. His fingers brushed against yours for the briefest of seconds, and he felt a stupid jolt. It had been a while since that had happened.

"I gathered from the... name tag." You gestured at his green vest before giving him your name as you put your change away in your purse.

Steve repeated your name, as if testing it out. It sounded nice on your tongue. On his.

You picked up your tapes and your bag. "Well, Steve, it was nice to meet you."

"Nice to meet you too," he said. "Come back soon."

You glanced at Robin with a little smile before turning your attention back to him. "I mean... I have to. To return the tapes."

"Right. The tapes. The returning of the tapes," he said, the master of smooth conversation.

You gave him one last, lingering look, your eyes crinkling at the corners with amusement before you pushed open the door and left, the bell chiming your exit.

Steve watched you walk to your car, a sensible-looking sedan, and get in before he finally let out a breath that sounded like he'd been waiting to exhale it for hours.

He turned back to find Robin grinning at him, her chin resting in her hands, her elbows propped up on the counter.

"So…"

"So what?" Steve busied himself with straightening a stack of late fee notices, refusing to look at her.

"'So what?'" She mimicked a terrible Steve impression. "'I'll take my chances with Stanley Kubrick for now, thanks.' She's hilarious, Steve. And hot. Did you see her... well, yeah. You saw her."

"I saw her, Robin. I have eyes."

"Your eyes were doing a lot more than just seeing. They were... experiencing. You were practically sweating."

"I was not sweating," he lied, wiping at his brow with the back of his hand. "It's… warm in here."

"It is literally thirty degrees outside, Harrington." She hopped off the stool, a glint in her eye. "You, my friend, were flustered. You flustered hard. You flustered so hard I think you might need to take a sick day to recover."

He sighed, leaning against the counter and crossing his arms. "She's new in town. She's... nice."

"Nice? She looked at you like you were a puppy she was thinking about adopting. And you looked at her like she was the last bottle of Farrah Fawcett hairspray on the planet." Robin leaned in closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Actually ask her out next time."

"I can't just do that! What if she has a husband? Or a... boyfriend? Or a weird cat situation?"

"You know, for someone who used to be the king of this town, you are a certified moron when it comes to actual women." Robin poked him in the chest.

Steve just rolled his eyes and went back to the put-backs, shoving tapes into their slots with more force than necessary. The rest of the shift was a slow crawl of bored teenagers and couples arguing over whether to watch 'Platoon' or 'Spaceballs'.

His mind was still on you.

The next night was Friday and Steve's beamer was idling outside Hawkins High, waiting for Dustin to get out of Hellfire.

It was a familiar, chilly, and profoundly boring ritual. He was tapping his fingers on the steering wheel, listening to whatever soft rock was on the radio and thinking about nothing in particular, when he saw you.

It was dark by now, but he knew it was you. You were walking out of the double doors with some art supplies against your hip.

The fluorescent lights from the school glowed on your hair. You had a pair of nice-ish pants on and a simple sweater. You looked tired.

He didn't even think. He just killed the engine, opened the door, and jogged across the damp asphalt to catch you. "Hey! It's uh, it's the video store guy."

You looked up, a bit startled at the tall figure coming at you out of the darkness. When you recognized him, a small smile played on your lips.

"Steve. Right. Are you following me?" Your tone was teasing, but there was a hint of a real question in there.

"What? No!" He held up his hands in a gesture of innocence that was probably too exaggerated. "What are you doing at the high school?"

He glanced at the doors before looking back at you, hands on his hips. He was dressed more casually from yesterday, in a simple yellow sweatshirt and jeans. The light from the parking lot made his hair look even fluffier.

"I teach art here," you said, shifting the weight of the large portfolio case in your arm.

"You're a... teacher?" Steve was obviously surprised, but tried to play it cool.

In his experience, teachers were... well, old. They were people like Mr. Kaminski, who had a combover and smelled like chalk dust. They weren't... you. They didn't wear soft-looking sweaters and have a laugh that made him feel like he'd just heard his favorite song for the first time.

"Yeah, that was the job I moved for. The one I mentioned yesterday."

"Right. Art. That's..." He trailed off, trying to find a word that didn't make him sound like an idiot. "That's cool."

"And why are you outside a high school at..." you glanced at your watch. "Quarter past eight on a Friday?"

Your raised eyebrow made him realize this was probably creepy looking. But his real answer also wasn't very suave.

Unluckily for him, he didn't have to answer. One Dustin Henderson, carrying a large binder and wearing a t-shirt with a cartoon dragon on it, jogged up.

"Steve! Sorry, Eddie was going on a tangent about some... nevermind, it doesn't matter." He said, coming to a halt as he noticed you.

Dustin was a great kid, a little much sometimes, but he had a good read on people.

"Oh hey Miss L! This is Steve!" he said, like he was connecting two puzzle pieces that were never meant to fit. "Steve, this is Miss L, my art teacher this semester. She's awesome. She lets us listen to The Cure during class sometimes."

"Okay well, don't go broadcasting that to the whole administration, Henderson." You said, but you were smiling as you turned back to Steve. "So, you're the Steve he always talks about?"

Steve looked from you to Dustin, and then back again. He felt a weird sort of whiplash. He was used to being ‘the Steve’ to a bunch of nerdy freshmen, but the way you said it, a different kind of context entirely, sent a jolt down his spine.

"I... I guess so? I hope it's... good things?" he asked, suddenly more self-conscious than he'd been in years.

Dustin, oblivious as ever, chimed in. "Oh yeah! He's great! He's the best at... uh... life advice. And he has a car. Like a cool one. He's my ride."

You looked over at Steve's maroon BMW and then back at him, your expression unreadable. Like you were sizing him up again. A small smirk played at the corner of your lips as your eyes met his.

"The best at life advice, huh? That's a high bar." You were definitely teasing him now.

"Well, it got him a girlfriend, so it wasn't too awful."

"Uh, I landed Suzie all on my own, thank you very much. He just tried to give me advice about..." Dustin's eyes went wide as he realized what he was saying to a teacher. He slammed his mouth shut.

You raised an eyebrow, a silent inquiry that Steve knew he couldn't answer.

"Well then, boys..." Steve's ego deflated internally at the word 'boys' from your lips. "...I'll let you get to it. Try not to drive my student off a cliff, Steve."

"I'll do my best," he said, a small smile on his face.

"Bye Miss L! See you Monday!" Dustin said, waving enthusiastically as you turned to walk toward the sensible sedan in the teachers' lot.

Steve watched you go again, a stupid habit he was quickly developing.

He was so lost in the sway of your walk and the way the parking lot lights made your sweater glow that he almost missed Dustin already climbing into the passenger seat of his car.

He jogged back over and turned on the engine, feeling Dustin's eyes on him, expectant and knowing.

"So, Steve," Dustin said as he clicked his seatbelt into place. "Was Miss L the mystery woman from your story? The one with the 'killer smile' who made you into a 'flustered mess'?"

Steve groaned, pulling out of the parking spot with a little too much force. "Stop listening to Robin. She's a liar. And I'm not... flustered."

"Steve, I've seen you face down demodogs. I've seen you stand up to jocks twice your size. But the way you were standing there? With the arm-crossing and the weird thing you do with your neck? That was flustered. Level ten. It was... a thing."

"I didn't know she was a teacher!" Steve shot back, his grip tight on the steering wheel. "She looks like... she could be in college! Or something."

"She's a great teacher. Super chill," Dustin said, tapping on the dashboard. "She's been doing it for like... almost ten years, she said."

"Ten years?" Steve's head whipped around to look at Dustin before he quickly turned back to the road. "She can't have been a teacher for ten years, she's like... my age."

"I'm pretty sure she's in her thirties. I think she said she was from New York or something. She moved here from somewhere else. Maybe Boston? Anyway, she's got to be at least thirty-five."

Steve Harrington felt his world tilt on its axis. No wonder she called him a 'boy', no wonder she'd given him that look. He'd been trying to flirt with a teacher. A thirty-five year old teacher.

"She's... thirty-five?" he said, the words feeling strange in his mouth.

"Why? Does it matter? Mrs. Wheeler is like, forty." Dustin pointed out, as if that was a normal and sane comparison to make. "And shes-"

"Okay, we are not talking about my ex-girlfriend's mom." Steve cut him off. "Not ever."

He drove the rest of the way to Dustin's in a tense silence, the synth-pop on the radio doing little to drown out the new, chaotic thoughts bouncing around in his skull.

Were you ever even flirting with him at all? Or had you just been... nice? Polite. The way a person is when they see a puppy trying to jump up on their nice pants. You'd been humoring him.

You, a woman who had been a professional, a teacher, for a decade while he was still trying to figure out which cologne worked best.

Thirty-five. Jesus.

He dropped Dustin off with a mumbled "Later, man," and drove home, the familiar streets of Hawkins suddenly feeling foreign.

He thought about you all day.

He thought about how you'd held your head up high when you said you were 'taking a break from romance'.

He thought about how you'd looked at him outside the school. Not with pity, or condescension, but with something else. Something... intrigued? Amused? He couldn't place it.

He thought about your hands, the way they'd looked holding the VHS tapes.

And he was pulled from his thoughts about you on Saturday night, because the very real you walked into a very dead Family Video close to closing.

You had your return tapes in your hands, and you looked even better in casual clothes, if that was possible. A pair of worn-in jeans and a simple grey sweatshirt that made your eyes look incredible. You looked tired, but still... incredible.

Steve, from behind the counter, felt that jolt again. The one he was starting to associate specifically with you.

You approached the counter.

"Steve Harrington." You said, simply.

Only he hadn't given you his last name.

Robin, who was stocking a nearby shelf with a stack of Disney tapes, froze mid-motion.

"I... uh, what?" Steve managed.

"Your name is Steve Harrington. Former king of Hawkins High, now purveyor of fine films." You set the tapes on the counter with a soft thud. "I knew you looked familiar. I walk by a 1984 MVP photo of you in the trophy case outside the gym. Basketball, yeah?"

Steve felt a flush creep up his neck. Of course you knew who he was. The whole town knew who he was. He was a walking, talking monument to a glory day that had ended before he'd even graduated. He was a joke.

"Oh. Yeah. That's... me. Ancient history." He gave a self-deprecating little laugh as he scanned the tapes, not looking at you.

"I wouldn't say ancient," you countered, your voice softer than he expected. "It was, what? Two, three years ago? You've got a while to go before you're ancient."

Robin, pretending not to listen, dropped a tape with a loud clatter. "Oops. Butter fingers."

You ignored her, your gaze fixed on Steve. He still wasn't looking at you.

"Anyway," you attempted to reengage. "I enjoyed Aliens. Very tense, but good. You were right."

He finally looked up at you then, surprised by the simple sincerity in your tone. "Told you. Not 'Top Gun', but solid."

"I'm not much of a Tom Cruise girl," you said with a small shrug. "Sorry to disappoint."

"You could never. Disappoint, that is." The words were out before he could stop them. Too earnest. Too much. Robin made a strangled noise that she tried to cover up as a cough. Steve's face burned. "I mean... uh..."

You just smiled, a slow, genuine curve of your lips that didn't hold any of the teasing amusement from the other day. It was... something else. Something warmer.

"Well, maybe I'll go for that... 'date movie' recommendation next," you said, your finger tracing the edge of the counter. The gesture was small, almost unconscious, but he couldn't look away from it. "If the offer still stands."

The offer had never been an official thing, not really. It was him floundering to make small talk. But hearing you say it back to him, phrasing it like a deliberate choice, sent a surge of something hot and hopeful through his chest.

"Dirty Dancing’!" He practically blurts the title out. "It's... it's a classic-in-the-making. You should definitely get it."

"Alright, Harrington. You've sold me." You turned and walked toward the New Releases wall, giving him a perfect view of the back of your jeans.

Robin rushed over to the counter, her eyes wide and her hands fluttering like agitated hummingbirds.

"'You could never disappoint?' STEVE! Are you writing poetry in your head now? What is happening?" she whisper-shouted, her voice a frantic, high-pitched squeak.

"Shut up," he mumbled, trying to look busy punching numbers into the register, even though there was nothing to ring up yet.

"She's totally flirting with you! I knew it! This is amazing!"

"She's thirty-five, Robin. She's a teacher. Dustin told me." He says it like it's a terminal diagnosis.

Robin stopped her frantic movements and just stared at him, her head tilted to the side. She looked as you were far enough away, browsing the drama section now.

"Oh, so you're one of the very few guys our age who isn't excited at the prospect of an older, more experienced woman who also happens to be, and I cannot stress this enough, objectively very hot," she said, her tone dripping with sarcasm.

"I'm not... I'm not not excited. I'm just... processing." Steve made a gesture of pure frustration with his hands. "She probably thinks I'm a kid. A stupid, overgrown kid with a dead-end job and a car that he got from his dad."

"I mean, you're old enough to drink. Old enough to vote. You're an adult, Steve. A real one. Even if you still eat cereal for dinner sometimes."

"Gee, thanks." He said dryly, finally looking up at her.

"Look, she's over in the romance aisle now. It's a sign. Just... ask her. Say, 'Hey, since we both established you're not currently seeing anyone, and I'm, you know, devastatingly handsome and available, maybe we could go see a movie that is not on VHS?'"

Steve groaned, but Robin gave him a little shove in your direction. He stumbled forward, caught himself, and squared his shoulders. He could do this. He was Steve Harrington. Once, that name meant something when it came to dating. Maybe it could mean something again.

He walked over to you, trying to look casual, trying to ignore the way his heart was pounding against his ribs like a trapped bird.

"So, no longer on a break from romance?" he asked, leaning against the shelf next to you, trying to mimic his posture from the other day.

You glanced over, holding a copy of 'The Princess Bride'. Your lips quirked into a smile. "A movie about true love, revenge, and pirates seems like a safe re-entry."

"Excellent choice. Top five. Easily," he said, his confidence returning a little.

"So you've seen it?"

"Yeah, it played over at The Hawk. I took Dustin and the party. It was... a lot of nerds saying 'my name is Inigo Montoya' for a week straight."

You laughed, a sound that made the dusty aisles of Family Video feel a little less like a dead end.

"You're sweet, to take them."

"It's either that or listen to them explain D&D to me for the millionth time." He paused, taking a breath. "So, about that date movie..."

You held up 'The Princess Bride' and 'Dirty Dancing', weighing them in your hands like a judge at a cat show. "Decisions, decisions."

He watched you, your profile illuminated by the store lights.

"Just get both. You can't go wrong," he said, taking them from you gently.

His fingers brushed against yours again, deliberate this time as he continued. "And, you know, I'm sure you have plenty of potential date options, but I was thinking maybe... one of them could be with me."

You finally looked at him, really looked at him. You saw the earnestness in his eyes, the way he held himself, trying to project a cool he no longer quite possessed.

He was so very handsome. There was absolutely no denying it.

And you had been alone for almost a year after a terrible breakup. You were new in town, you were lonely, and this... guy... was looking at you like you were the most interesting thing to ever walk into this small town video store.

"You're asking me out?" you said, your voice a little more breathy than you intended.

Robin had stopped pretending not to listen and was now staring, her mouth slightly agape. She looked like she was watching the final minutes of the championship game.

"I'm trying to, yeah," Steve said, a sheepish grin spreading across his face. "I'm not doing a very good job of it, am I?"

"How old are you?" The question was out of your mouth before you could stop it, a directness that was both your curse and your saving grace in life.

His grin faltered for just a second. "Twenty-one. I'll be twenty-two in May."

It wasn't that it was a deal-breaker. Not really. But it was a fact, a hard number that hung in the space between you. Fourteen years. When he was learning to ride a bike, you were navigating your freshman year of college.

You saw the flicker of disappointment in his eyes before he masked it with a casual shrug. "Look, it was a dumb idea. You're right. It's... you're a teacher. You're probably busy. I'll just ring these up for you."

"Hey, no." You reached out and put your hand on his arm, stopping him from turning away. The toned muscle was firm under your palm. "I didn't say no."

He looked down at your hand on him, then back up at your face, hope warring with confusion in his expression.

"Okay," he said slowly, testing the waters. "But...?"

"But I'm thirty-five," you said, the words feeling strangely vulnerable as they left your lips. "I'm not being presumptuous, but I get told I look younger a lot and I think you might be... surprised by that. I don't want you to feel like I... misled you."

The earnestness in your tone seemed to catch him off guard. He wasn't used to this, to directness. To women laying their cards on the table instead of making him guess. He looked over at Robin, who gave him a frantic, encouraging thumbs-up that was probably not as subtle as she thought.

"Yeah, uh, Henderson might have mentioned that. Something about... you teaching for almost ten years." He rubbed the back of his neck again, a nervous tic that was quickly becoming endearing. "It doesn't... bother me."

You raised an eyebrow at that and he immediately backpedaled.

"I mean, I also don't have, like, an older woman thing. That's not what this is. Not that you're old!" He let out a frustrated sigh, looking at the ceiling. "Why is this so hard?"

You couldn't help but laugh. He was cute. So damn cute. And so clearly out of his depth.

"You're doing fine," you assured him, your hand still on his arm. "You're actually doing better than most."

The ghost of your last serious relationship, a man your own age who had treated your honesty like a weapon, flickered in your mind.

Steve Harrington, with his floppy hair and earnest fumbling, felt like a breath of fresh, slightly chaotic, air.

"So... can I?" he asked, his voice a little lower now. "Take you out?"

You pretend to consider him before answering. "How about... you come to mine. It's just a small place over on Maple. I'll make you dinner. We can watch one of these. My treat."

"Your place?" He blinked, clearly not expecting that. He'd probably been planning some awkward dinner at Enzo's, the only decent-ish Italian place in town.

"Don't look so surprised. I'm a grown woman. I can cook and everything," you teased.

The smile that broke out across his face then was real. It wasn't the practiced, charming smirk of the former king.

"I can bring wine. A good one," he offered, a glimmer of his old confidence returning.

"Sounds perfect."

It was Robin who let out a little squeak, which she then tried to cover by pretending to cough violently into her elbow, again. Steve made a mental note to tell her that trick didn’t work like she thought it did.

He brought your tapes to the counter and rang you up, the whole process feeling more intimate than any transaction should. You paid, and as you took your bag from him, he let his fingers linger on yours for just a second.

"Tomorrow night? Monday is a holiday for the teachers," you said, giving him an easy out if he already had plans.

"Tomorrow night is great," he said, a little too quickly. "Seven?"

"Seven it is."

You took a pad of scrap paper out of your purse and scribbled down your address and phone number, tearing off the top sheet and handing it to him.

"Don't lose that," you said, your eyes sparkling.

"I wouldn't," he said, his voice barely a whisper as he folded it carefully and slipped it into his pocket like it was a winning lottery ticket.

He walked you to the door, a small, chivalrous gesture that made something in your chest feel warm and fizzy. He held it open for you, and you turned to him one last time before stepping out into the cool night air.

"Goodnight, Steve."

"Goodnight," he said, watching you walk to your car one more time before the door chimed shut.

The second it did, Robin was on him.

"Seven! She's having you over! At her house! For dinner!" She was practically bouncing on the balls of her feet.

"Yeah, Robin, I was there," he said, but he was smiling, a dopey, uncontainable grin that he couldn't seem to wipe off his face.

"She's a teacher! A thirty-five-year-old teacher! She's an adult, Steve! An actual adult with a job and a house on Maple Street and she asked you out. Well, you asked her out... actually it was kind of hard to tell. But you're going on a date!"

He was still staring at the door, replaying the whole conversation in his head. The way your hand felt on his arm. The way you'd looked at him. The little crinkle at the corner of your eyes when you smiled.

"I need to buy good wine," he said, more to himself than to her. "Do you know anything about wine? I don't know anything about wine..."

The next twenty-four hours were a blur of nerves and frantic phone calls.

Robin's advice was, predictably, unhelpful. "Just... don't be an idiot. And maybe wear that sweater. The one that makes you look... competent."

Steve checked himself once over in his bedroom mirror, the cream colored cable knit sweater, fitting him just right. His hair was coiffed perfectly. He put on his best jeans. He looked good.

But he felt like a boy playing dress-up.

When he pulled up to your small house on Maple Street, a cute one story with a porch light on, he had to sit in the car for a full minute just to breathe. He clutched the bottle of wine, a ridiculously expensive Cabernet he'd had to drive all the way to the next town over to buy from a fancy liquor store.

This was just a date. A normal date. He'd been on hundreds of them. He tried to tell himself that as he walked up the path.

You opened the door before he could even knock, as if you'd been waiting for him.

You wore a nice blouse tucked into a pair of light wash jeans that hugged you in all the right ways. You'd done something different with your hair, it was down, soft around your face.

"Hi." You said softly, taking in his appearance with a small, appreciative smile. "You look nice."

"Hi." He managed, feeling a little breathless. "So do you." He held out the bottle of wine. "Brought you this. The guy at the store said it was... uh... robust."

You smile, opening the door for him to come in and take the bottle before shutting the door.

"Just, leave your shoes by the door." You head over to put the bottle on the counter. "You're the first person I've had over for dinner since I moved in. So don't judge the half-painted walls and art projects everywhere."

He finally let himself look around your living room as he toed off his shoes. It was cozy. Lived-in, despite the fact you'd only been here for a short while. A few unpacked boxes were stacked neatly in a corner, but the rest of the space was already distinctly yours.

"It smells amazing in here..." He says, walking over as you pour two glasses of the wine he brought you. "Like... garlic and basil."

"It’s just pasta with a homemade white sauce." You say, a little shyly, handing him a glass. Your fingers brush again. "Easy, but a classic. I didn't want to poison you on a first date."

"First date," he repeats the words, testing them on his tongue. He takes a sip of the wine, trying to act like he does this all the time, but the rich, fruity taste is a world away from the cheap beer he usually drinks.

"It is, isn't it?" You take a sip of your own, your eyes locked on his over the rim of your glass. "I promise I won't grade you."

A real laugh escaped him, not a nervous one.

"I appreciate that."

"So, tell me something, Steve Harrington," you leaned against the counter, the space between you shrinking. "What does the purveyor of fine films do when he's not recommending romance and trying to get a date with women who are clearly too old for him?"

Your tone was teasing, but there was a genuine curiosity underneath. You wanted to know.

He leaned against the counter opposite you, mirroring your posture. "Well, my days are a thrill-a-minute. Put-backs, alphabetizing, dealing with Mr. Higgins who's convinced I'm personally hiding the last copy of 'Cocoon' from him. Then, when my glamorous shift is over, I drive Dustin and his friends around, listening to them debate the merits of this wizard versus that dragon. Or I'm hanging out with Robin."

"A busy life." you said, though it didn't sound like a judgment. It sounded like you were trying to see him.

"It's not... what I thought I'd be doing at twenty-one," he admitted, swirling the dark red liquid in his glass.

"It's a perfectly normal thing to be doing. For a twenty-one year old," you said, your voice soft. "And you're good with Dustin. You care about him. That's more than most people do."

"I just thought I'd be... somewhere else. College, maybe. Or getting married, starting a family. Not... the video store." The bitterness was an old, familiar taste in his mouth, but saying it out loud to you, he felt it lose a little of its power. You didn't seem to see him as a failure.

"Sometimes we end up exactly where we need to be, even if it's not where we planned," you said, turning to check on the pot of sauce bubbling on the stove. "I was supposed to be a gallery artist in SoHo. I had a studio and a boyfriend who was going to be 'the next big thing.' Turns out he was mostly just going to sleep with my roommate. So here I am. Teaching art to high schoolers in Indiana. But I love it."

You said it so simply, without a trace of self-pity. It was just the truth of your life. Steve found himself admiring you more in that moment than he'd admired anyone in a long, long time.

"Have you ever thought about being like... a coach? With your whole sports star past?" you asked, stirring the sauce with a wooden spoon, your back still to him.

Steve snorted. "Coach? No. I think I've sworn off high school sports for life. Besides, what would I even tell them? 'If you screw up enough, you too can work in retail until you're forty'?"

"Maybe not high school? Maybe younger. I know the middle school is looking for a new baseball coach..." You turn down the heat on the sauce and open the oven to check on the garlic bread. The smell that wafted out was divine. "Could be a good way to combine all those dreams. Sports, academia, and um... nurturing for others."

He watched you, the casual way you moved around your kitchen, the simple domesticity of it all. This felt so much more real than a loud date at Enzo's, more intimate than a drive in movie in the back of his car.

You start to plate the pasta and pour the sauce over it, bringing the two plates over to the small wooden table in your dining nook. It was set for two, with real linen napkins. The whole thing felt... grown up. Like a life he always wanted.

"You have to tell me if it's terrible." You said as you sat across from him.

He took a bite, the pasta perfectly al dente and the sauce rich and savory. He looked up at you over the rim of his wine glass.

"Thats not going to happen. This is... amazing." He said, and he meant it. "My version of cooking is... a Pop-Tart in the toaster oven. Sometimes two."

You laugh. "Well, you're welcome to Pop-Tarts and pasta anytime."

Dinner goes well. You both talk more about your respective, and very different, lives. He tells you about growing up in Hawkins, about the pressure to be the best, and how empty it all felt after he graduated. He doesn't mention the bats or the Russians or any of that, because in this world here, with you, none of that ever happened.

In this tiny corner of the world, the most traumatic thing he'd ever faced was losing Nancy Wheeler, and the slow, creeping realization that he was no longer the king of anything.

You, in turn, tell him about your art, about the joy you found in teaching, and the quiet loneliness of moving to a new town where you didn't know a soul.

He keeps a respectable, but still interested, distance on the couch as the movie starts. 'The Princess Bride' was a solid choice. It lets you both relax.

About twenty minutes in, you get up to get more wine. When you come back, you sit a little closer. Not so close that you're touching, but close enough that he can feel the heat radiating off of you. He can smell your perfume, something light and floral.

Even while staring at the screen his entire focus is on you, not the movie. He doesn't even care about the Dread Pirate Roberts. His heart is pounding with a painful anticipation as he waits for some kind of sign.

He finally gets one. You set your wine glass down and lean your head back against the couch cushions, letting out a small, contented sigh. You turn your head to look at him, and in the flickering light from the television, your eyes look darker. Softer.

"I've had a really nice night, Steve," you say, your voice a low murmur.

"Me too," he says, his own voice rougher than he expected.

He watches your gaze flicker down to his lips. "I'm really happy you didn't try that yawn trick on me. So much more mature." Your grin is small, but playful.

Steve huffed out a small laugh. "I was trying so hard not to."

Your smile widens, and it's all the encouragement he needs.

One of his hands comes up to cup your jaw, his thumb stroking the soft skin of your cheek. He's looking into your eyes, leaning in slowly, giving you plenty of time to change your mind. The last thing he wanted was for you to think he was just a kid, eager to get to second base on your couch.

But you don't change your mind. You lean in to meet him halfway.

When your lips finally touch, it's not the haphazard kissing of a high school party. It's slow and deliberate and so, so sweet.

It's exactly what he likes.

The build up was always Steve's favorite part. The tension, the anticipation. The feeling of your breath on his skin before he kissed you. He feels it now, bubbling under the surface of his skin.

Your hands go to his bicep and chest, respectively. The sweater is soft under your palms, and the muscle of his arm is firm. He's strong in a way that feels solid, real. He’s no longer a lanky boy, but a man who's been through some stuff that’s shaped him in ways you can't even begin to understand.

It makes him feel older, more mature, than you ever expected him to be. His other hand comes to rest on your hip, pulling you just a little closer, the fabric of your jeans rustling against the denim of his.

The movie is completely forgotten as he deepens the kiss, a low groan rumbling in his chest as you parted your lips for him. He's a good kisser. A very good kisser. Confident, but not aggressive.

"I can see why you were popular in high school." Just a whisper against his lips, your hands sliding up to the hair at the nape of his neck.

He lets out a breathy chuckle, "I'm not sure that's a compliment."

"This time it is. I promise."

He leans in to kiss you again, but you put a finger to his lips, stopping him. He looked at you, a question in his eyes, a flicker of panic there too.

"Steve," you say softly, your gaze open and direct. "I need you to know... this is... nice. Really nice. But I'm thirty-five. I'm not looking for... you know. Some kind of fling with a younger guy."

His heart sinks at that.

Because Steve Harrington isn't a 'fling' kind of guy. He thought he was, but he wasn't. Not really. Not after Nancy. Not after a series of awkward one-night-stands that left him feeling more alone than ever.

"Okay," he says, his voice quiet. He leans back, a physical manifestation of the emotional space he's trying to give you. "I can respect that."

"Hey," you say, your hand still resting on his cheek. You tilt your head, your expression softening. "I didn't mean I wanted you to leave. I just meant... I don't want you to think I'm some... cougar, prowling the video stores of Indiana for prey."

He lets off a soft laugh, something in his chest calming down from its panicked state.

"I'm not... prey. I'm also not a boy." He was getting a little tired of that implication. He wasn't a naive kid, even if he didn't have a house and a traditionally respectable job. "And... I don't do flings. Anymore."

The 'anymore' is soft, almost a confession.

You studied him for a long moment, your thumb stroking the stubble on his jaw.

"I haven't wanted that for a long time." It's an admittance, and he's worried it will be a turn off, but you seem to respect honesty. "Robin says I'm in a 'dry spell', which is an awful phrase and makes me sound like I'm a patch of dead grass."

He leans in subtly to the touch on his jaw, and you file that away for later.

"I just... I don't know. I try to date, but it hasn't gone far past a respectful kiss at her door. If it even gets that far, because half the time I'm bored five minutes into dinner." He shrugs and your heart aches for him in that moment, just a little. For the boy king who's now a lonely man.

"I think..." he started, looking down at your hands before meeting your eyes again. "I think it's like in the movies. Everyone's so busy trying to find the 'most romantic gesture ever' that they forget the simple ones are usually the best. The ones that just... feel real."

You lean in and press your lips to him again, a soft, gentle kiss that's full of unspoken understanding.

"You are... wildly introspective for a man who's favorite movie involves fighter jets and beach volleyball." You whisper against him, smiling as you do it.

"Hey. That's got a killer soundtrack. And a great plot." He tries to defend the movie but your soft kiss has melted him.

"It's okay. I'm not judging." You murmur, kissing him again. "I just like knowing you."

His hands are at the soft curve of your waist now, tracing the seam of your jeans. He is trying so hard to be a gentleman, you can feel it in the tension in his arms, in the way he's holding himself back.

So you make it easy for him.

"Do you want to get more comfortable?" You pull back to look at him, into those beautiful hazel puppy dog eyes.

He nods, a little too enthusiastically. "Yeah. Very much."

"Good. Because this couch is not it." You say, moving to stand up.

His eyes widen and you can practically hear him internally screaming 'oh my god' before he schools his features into a mask of casual acceptance.

You take his hand in yours and lead him down a small hallway to your bedroom.

It's cozy, like the rest of your house, with a queen bed neatly made and a few art prints taped to the walls. A large, unfinished canvas is propped up on an easel in the corner, a riot of colors and shapes that he doesn't understand but can't look away from.

He doesn't have long to look, because you turn to him, your back to the bed, and pull him down into a kiss that's much more intense than the ones on the couch.

This is the build-up he likes. The slow walk down the hall, the anticipation of your bedroom door closing with a soft click, the way you look at him, like he's exactly where he's supposed to be. It's the kind of thing he's only ever seen in movies, and now he was living it.

"You're so soft," he murmurs against your lips, his hands tracing the curve of your hips, the softness of your belly through the fabric of your shirt.

You let out a little breathless laugh. "That's one way to put it."

He pulls back to look at you, his hands coming to rest on your waist. "No, I mean it. It's... nice. You're warm. Real."

You've had men comment on your body before. You've heard the whole spectrum, from the cat calls and whistles to the backhanded compliments to the outright insulting. But no one has ever called you 'real' with the kind of reverence he was using now.

"I don't have the body of a woman your age. That's for sure." It's your one worry in this situation, not a big one, but a tiny nagging thought that has been in the back of your mind.

His eyebrows furrow in confusion. "What? What are you talking about?"

"You know. All... tight and toned and... you know." You didn't want to say 'skinny'. It wasn't that. It was that you were a woman who was comfortable with her body but knew it wasn't the athletic type he'd probably been with before. You had softness in places they didn't. A soft stomach, thick thighs, a generous chest.

A slow, easy smile spreads across his face, erasing the confusion. He takes your hand and leads you the final few feet until the back of your knees hit the mattress.

"I don't care about tight and toned," he says, his voice low and sincere. "Honest."

His gaze over your body is reverent. Unlike the guys his age when you went to college, who were all grabbing and clumsy, this one seemed to appreciate the whole picture before him, not just the parts they liked to look at.

"I've seen tight and toned," he continues, his fingers tracing the neckline of your blouse, the touch as light as a feather. One finger playing with the first button by your chest, waiting for permission. "But you..."

He pauses, leaning in to press a soft kiss to your collarbone that makes you shiver. "You feel like a woman. You feel... like coming home."

The heat pooling between your thighs comes to a slow simmer at that. This was not a game for either of you. This was not a conquest. This is something else entirely.

He's looking at you again with those big, earnest eyes, and you're nodding before he even has to ask.

His fingers, surprisingly deft, make quick work of the buttons on your blouse, pushing it open to reveal the simple, cream-colored lace bra you'd chosen on a whim this morning. He doesn't stare, not in a lecherous way. He looks. He sees you. His gaze is one of pure appreciation that makes you feel more exposed, and yet more beautiful, than you have in years.

"These are..." his voice is a reverent whisper, "Wow."

You have to let out a breathy little laugh at that. Of course, he's a boob guy. You're not going to be surprised by that.

He kneels in front of you as you sit on the edge of the bed, his smile a little crooked. "Are you laughing at me? Was 'wow' not the right thing to say?"

"No, 'wow' is perfect. It's very... enthusiastic," you assure him, your hands coming up to run through his hair. "I just... could tell you're a fan."

He leans forward and presses a kiss to the soft swell of your breast above the lace, the scrape of his very slight stubble a wonderful sensation against your skin. "I'm a fan of all of it," he murmurs against you, his hands smoothing down your back to rest at the curve of your waist. "I mean, I'm not going to lie and say I'm not, you know, specifically appreciative of..." he gestures vaguely at your chest.

"You can say breasts, Steve. I'm a grown woman, I can handle the word."

He grins, that charming, boyish grin that you have a feeling has gotten him out of a lot of trouble.

"Breasts, then. These are... great breasts." He says it with such simple, unvarnished honesty that you can't help but laugh. It's so much better than some cheesy, overly poetic line he'd probably tried to use on girls in high school.

His big hands come up to cup them, the heat of his palms bleeding through the lace. He just holds them for a moment, his thumbs brushing over your nipples, which are already pebbled and hard. You shrug your blouse off the rest of the way, and he takes that as his cue.

He kisses your sternum, then the valley between your breasts. His lips are soft and a little wet. He's taking his time, savoring the moment. He's not in a rush. He's not thinking about the end game. He's enjoying the build-up.

He's enjoying you.

"They're even softer than they look," he whispers, more to himself than to you, as his hands snake around to unclasp your bra. It falls away, and the cool air hits your bare skin.

You expected him to go for your nipples immediately. You expected the quick, clumsy, almost-painful pinching you were used to from past lovers. You expected the greedy, almost selfish, way a man your own age would handle you, like he was trying to get to the good part as quickly as possible.

Steve does none of that.

His eyes roam over your chest, a slow, appreciative sweep that almost feels in harmony with his hands. Then he leans in, and he takes one of your nipples into his mouth.

He sucks on it gently at first, just a soft pull that sends a jolt straight to your clit. He's not trying to leave a mark. He's not trying to prove anything. He's just tasting you. He's listening to the little sounds you make, the soft gasp that escapes your lips as his tongue swirls around the hardened peak.

"You like that?" he murmurs against your skin, not taking his eyes off your face. He's watching your reaction. He's paying attention.

"Yeah," you breathe, your head tipping back and your legs spreading more for him to settle between them on the carpet, as he gives the other breast the same attention. "God, yeah."

His praise is a constant, soft stream of consciousness that you've never experienced with a lover before. "So soft," he whispers, "So perfect." Each compliment is punctuated by a kiss, a lick, a gentle nip. He's not focused on the destination, he's enjoying the entire journey, and it's an absolutely intoxicating change of pace.

It's been so long since you've been touched like this, with such genuine care and enthusiasm.

It's been probably just as long since Steve got to be like this with someone. Without all the noise of the world, without the expectations. Here in your room, with the smell of your perfume, he feels grounded. He had been worried he was rusty, but the way you are responding to him, the soft sounds you're making and the way you're arching into his touch, is better than any feedback he's ever gotten.

He wants to do more.

One hand follows the curve of your tummy to the button of your jeans, looking at you for permission as his fingers pause there. You nod again, a silent, breathless 'yes'.

His thumb expertly pops the button on your jeans, a simple motion that feels incredibly intimate.

He's so much smoother and more confident than you ever would have expected. Maybe all those years of popularity hadn't been a total waste after all. He'd clearly learned a thing or two.

The rasp of your zipper is loud in the quiet room. He tugs the denim down over your hips, and you lift yourself up slightly to help him. The cool air hits your skin, and you're left in nothing but your simple, matching cream-colored panties.

He doesn't hesitate. His hands immediately find the soft curves of your hips, the generous swell of your thighs. He leans in and presses a kiss to your tummy, right above the waistband of your panties. The gesture is so tender it makes your breath hitch. Then another kiss, lower this time, on the sensitive skin of your inner thigh.

"You're so beautiful," he whispers, and he says it like it's the most obvious thing in the world. Like he can't believe he's here, in your bedroom, touching you like this.

You've had men tell you you're beautiful before. Your ex, for instance, had a habit of saying it like he was trying to convince himself. But Steve... Steve says it like it's a prayer. A holy truth he's just discovered.

He moves to kiss closer to you core, hands holding your thighs more open for him, but you lightly push his head back.

"Hey... are you okay?" he asks immediately, concern clouding his features. He pulls back, giving you space, thinking he's misread a signal.

You shake your head, reaching for him, your hand cupping his cheek. "I just think you're a little... overdressed."

You tug at the hem of his sweater, and he practically scrambles to comply, pulling it over his head in one smooth motion.

You were not prepared for the sight. He was so solid. Broad shoulders dotted with these pretty beauty marks, strong toned arms. A generous amount of chest hair that tapered down his soft stomach, and the trail of dark hair that disappeared into the waistband of his jeans. It was an intoxicating mix of soft and hard.

You want to see it all.

The scars are thin, silver lines on his torso and arms. They're not angry or jagged, but you don't think they came from a high school sports injury. You know better than to ask.

Your hands trace the planes of his chest, thumbs brushing over his nipples, and he lets out a shuddering breath, a choked-off moan that sounds a lot like relief.

Your gaze follows the path your hands just took, and it lands on the button of his own jeans.

He follows your gaze, a slow, easy smile spreading across his face. "My turn."

He stands up, shucking his jeans off in a single, fluid motion. He's left in a pair of simple, snug-fitting briefs that do very little to hide the considerable evidence of his arousal.

He's beautiful. In a way that feels so unselfconscious, so utterly male, it takes your breath away.

Steve is back to his mission before you casn get a better look, kneeling on the floor again, pulling you panties down so slowly.

He sets them aside and settles between your now-bare body. He pulls you to the very edge of the bed, your thighs draped over his shoulders.

He looks up at you from under those long eyelashes, then down to where you're aching for him.

"Honey... you are so wet for me." He sounds proud, of himself and of you. "Even more beautiful down here." He's not just saying it, you can see it in the darkening of his pupils, feel it in the way his grip on your thighs tightens just a little.

And then he leans in and tastes you.

His tongue is flat and warm against your folds, a long, slow swipe that has you crying out. It's not tentative. He knows exactly what he's doing. He's done this before, a lot.

He looks up at you before burying his face back in your cunt, eyes crinkling with mischief, and the sight of him, this gorgeous man on his knees for you, is almost enough to send you over the edge right there. He's so earnest, so eager, and he's looking at you like you're the best thing he's ever tasted.

He starts to tease your clit with the tip of his tongue, swirling around the sensitive bundle of nerves in a way that has your toes curling.

"You taste amazing, baby. So fucking sweet." His words are muffled by your skin.

Your hands, which have been gripping the duvet, move back to his hair, your fingers tangling in the soft strands. You hold him to you, your hips rocking against his face.

"Thats it, take what you need. Let me make you feel good." He murmurs against you.

Steve has always found intense satisfaction in this. The unfiltered reactions, the arch of a back, the soft cries and gasps. In high school, it had been a tool. A way to prove something, to be the best, to be talked about. Now, with you, it was different. It wasn't about his ego.

It was about the soft, yielding feel of your thighs against his ears, the way your breath hitched when he found just the right spot, and the honest pleasure of making you feel this good.

"Gonna cum, honey? Come on. I can feel it. Let go for me." He encourages, adding a finger, then two, into your slick heat as he sucks on your clit.

His fingers are long and skilled, curling inside you to find that spot that makes your vision white out.

"Steve..." you gasp, your grip on his hair tightening.

"Right there, huh?" He asks, his voice a low, smug rumble. "That's it."

It's the combination of his words and his actions that does it. The curl of his fingers inside you, the relentless attention of his tongue on your clit, the worship in his gaze.

Your orgasm washes over you in a wave of heat and light. He never stops, just works you through it with a skill and dedication that leaves you trembling and breathless.

He kisses your inner thighs, a series of soft, worshipful presses against your skin, before he finally pulls back. He keeps a hand caressing one of your thighs as he retracts his fingers, bringing them up to his own mouth to lick them clean without any hesitation. His eyes never leave yours. The raw act feels so intimate, so possessive in the best possible way.

"You're incredible," he says, his voice a low, satisfied purr.

"Me?" Your breathy laugh feels booming in the quiet room. "You are... very, very good at that."

A slow, proud grin spreads across his face. He doesn't bother with false modesty. "I try my best."

And he did, because he loved it. But also because he knew you'd need to be relaxed and sated before you were truly ready for him. Modesty was a virtue when it came to a lot of things, but in this department, he knew what he had going for him. He wasn't going to be shy about making sure you knew it too.

"Your turn..." You whisper as he comes up to kiss your lips softly.

His eyes widen as he pulls back. "Yeah? I mean, I can... but you don't have to... it's not required." He's not trying to be presumptuous, but he's not going to pass up an offer like this either.

"Stand up, Steve." It's a soft command. And he complies instantly. Your tone and your eyes say that this wasn't an obligation for you, but a desire. You wanted to taste him as much as he wanted to taste you.

He's a little shaky as he gets to his feet, the muscles in his thighs protesting from being in the same position for so long.

Your fingers move to the waistband of his briefs, the last barrier between you. You lean in and press a soft kiss to the trail of hair that leads down from his navel as your other hand palms him through the soft cotton of his underwear. He lets out a choked gasp, and you can feel him twitch against your palm.

You slowly pull the fabric down, over his hips, and he springs free as he steps out of the briefs.

Impressive is not even the right word. He's thick and long and perfectly formed. You've never been one for gawking at a naked body before, but you can't help but stare. The head is flushed and already weeping, and the thought of him inside you, stretching and filling you, sends arousal through your already sensitive body.

"You're..." You're not sure what you want to say, but it feels important to say something. To break the spell of silence.

"A lot?" He offers with a self-deprecating huff, and you can't help but smile. You like that he's a little bit shy about it, even after the way he just had you shaking apart on the end of his tongue.

"Yeah..." Your laugh is breathy and incredibly turned on. "A lot."

Your hands trace his hipbones, the jut of bone a stark contrast to the soft give of his stomach. Your touch is feather-light, exploratory. You're mapping him, learning the topography of his body. You lean forward, not taking your eyes off his face, and take the very tip of him into your mouth, swirling your tongue around the head to lap up the salty bead of pre-cum.

"Jesus," he whispers, and one of his hands flies out to brace himself by gently cradling your head. His hips give an involuntary little twitch. "Oh, wow. Okay."

He's trying so hard to hold still, to let you set the pace, but you can feel the subtle tension thrumming through him. You lick and make soft sounds as you learn the shape of him.

You take him a little deeper, a little more, your tongue flattening against the underside of his cock. He's thick, and it's a delicious stretch for your jaw.

"Honey, you don't have to..." he starts, his voice strained. But you can feel it in the way he's threading his fingers through your hair, in the ragged quality of his breathing. He doesn't want you to stop. He loves it. And you love giving him this pleasure, this sense of being cherished.

One of your hands is on his waist, the other moves to the base of him. You start to work him in tandem with your mouth, your other hand massaging and caressing what you can't yet take.

You look up at him through your lashes, wanting to see his face.

He's looking down at you with his pretty lips all plush and parted, eyes half-lidded and dark with need. He's looking at you like you are the most beautiful thing he has ever seen. And you're on your knees in front of him, praising him like a god with between your lips.

"God, that's it. Your mouth... so perfect," he praises. He's a talker. Another thing you weren't expecting, but now find you don't think you could ever do without. "Look so pretty like that, baby. Taking me so good."

He's trying to hold back, you can tell. His hips have a stuttered rhythm they're trying to suppress. The control is warring with the need.

You move from stroking him to cupping his heavy balls, rolling them gently in your palm. The action makes him gasp.

"Okay, okay... stop, stop." He says gently, pulling back. His tone is not one of rejection, but of desperation.

You slowly pull your lips off him, a little spit trail connecting your mouth to the head of him, before you look up at him from your knees.

"Everything okay?" you ask, your voice a little hoarse as he gently helps you to your feet, kissing your face softly.

"Yeah, I just... if you keep doing that I'm gonna finish," he says, a flush creeping up his neck, that charming mix of cocky and boyish that you're starting to find incredibly endearing. "And I'd rather... I'd rather be inside you when I do."

He says it with real directness, such candor, that it sends another flurry of arousal through you. He wasn't asking to finish on your tits or in your mouth.

"I mean like... I have a condom. In my wallet. Which is in my jeans." He gestures with a little bit of a panicked look, like he's worried you are going to say no, or that the logistics of this whole thing are going to ruin the mood. "That wasn't me assuming I could just..."

He gestures vaguely toward your lower half and you smile softly, helping him out as your hands graze his arms. "What? Go in raw?"

He definitely didn't expect that phrase and his cheeks warm a little, jaw going slightly slack at the thought. "I just want to be inside you."

"You know..." you say softly, walking your fingers up the trail of hair on his stomach to his chest. "I'm on birth control."

His breath catches, and then the most beautiful, wicked grin spreads across his face. It's a blend of pure joy and a dash of pure sin.

"I haven't been with anyone in a long, long time," he says, the admission made easier in the sanctity of your bedroom. It feels safe here. Safer than anywhere else has been in a long time. "Coming up on like, a year now. So, you know, you don't have to worry about me being... unclean."

That word was exactly the kind of reassurance you needed.

"It's around the same for me," you say, running your hands through the hair on his chest now, loving the slightly coarse feel of it. "And I trust you, Steve."

It's a simple phrase, but he can see you mean it. You're not just saying it to get to the main event. You really do trust him.

"C'mere..." He murmurs it as one hand grips your waist and the other tangles in your hair, pulling you into a kiss full of heat and tongue.

He's gently pushing you back, your knees hitting the mattress again as he eases you down onto the bed. He follows, his body covering yours, settles between your thighs. He's heavy, in a way that's comforting, propping himself up on his hands so he doesn't crush you.

"Better?" He whispers against your lips.

"Perfect." Your hands move down the expanse of his broad back, tracing the line of his spine, the muscles shifting under your touch.

His hips rock against yours, hard length sliding through the slick mess of your arousal. He's not trying to enter you, not yet. He's just dragging it over your clit, over your folds, letting you feel the weight and heat of him.

"Gonna go slow, honey. Promise." He says, as he takes a moment between kisses, looking down at you as he grips his cock, sliding the tip between your wet folds, just teasing your entrance.

He teases you like that for a minute, just the head of him sliding against you, making you arch your hips, trying to take him in. He's so good at this, this slow build-up.

"Mmm, that's it baby, keep moving for me." He encourages in a low rumble, as he slides himself up and down your slit a little faster.

"Steve, please," you whisper, your hands gripping his shoulders.

"I like seeing you want it," he says with a smirk, as he continues the slow maddening pace.

And you do. You want it so much you are aching, your hips rocking in a desperate rhythm. You kiss him harder, a plea, and he finally grants your wish with a low groan.

He pushes in, just the head at first, stretching you with a sweet, slow burn that has you gasping into his mouth. "That's it... so tight... fuck..."

"More," you plead, your nails digging into the flesh of his back. He gives you another inch, and then another, pulling back almost all the way before sinking deeper, setting a pace that is torturously, deliciously slow, until his fully seated in you, hips flush against yours.

"You're big," you sigh against his skin. It doesn't come out eloquently in any way but he's everywhere. The weight of him on top of you, the stretch of him inside of you. It's overwhelming and exactly what you want.

A deep, proud chuckle rumbles in his chest. "You can take it. You're doing so good, honey."

He stills then, buried to the hilt, giving you a moment to adjust, kissing you soft and slow as one hand moves to intertwine with yours on the pillow above your head. His other hand stays steady at your hip, thumb stroking soothing circles on your skin.

"You like how I feel?" He whispers it so softly against your lips, still kissing through the words. He needs you to feel as good as he does right now, buried deep in your warmth.

"You feel... you feel so good, Steve," you breathe back, rocking your hips against his, a silent plea for him to move.

He takes the hint, pulling out slowly before sliding back in, long and deep, watching your face as your eyes flutter shut. He’s so attuned to you, to every little shift and sigh, and he uses it all to learn what you like.

He sets a languid, unhurried rhythm. There is no race to the finish line here.

"Look at you... taking me so well. God, look how beautiful you are." He's breathy, praising you in a hushed tone that's just for you as he continues the slow, steady thrusts. "You feel... you feel like you were made for me, honey. Perfect."

This wasn't a quick, messy fuck in the backseat of his car. This was something else. Something deeper. The praise is a constant, warm current flowing between you, a stark and welcome contrast to the silent, perfunctory sex you'd had in the past.

He hikes your leg up higher on his hip, changing the angle just enough to make you gasp. "Right there?" He whispers, a knowing smirk on his face.

He's found it. The angle is just right, the pressure inside you building, the coil of arousal tightening in your stomach with every deep, deliberate stroke.

"Gotta make it feel really good when I'm buried this deep in you, honey," he says, punctuating his words with a particularly deep thrust that has you crying out. He wants you to remember this. He wants you to remember how he made you feel.

He wants to have you like this every night.

"S'good..." you whine as he hikes up your other leg, wrapping both around his waist. You link your feet together and the new position lets him sink impossibly deeper, the coarse hair at the base of his cock grinding against your clit with every stroke.

"Feels better than good," he murmurs, his mouth right against your ear, the coarse hairs of his chest scratching your sensitive nipples. "You're so warm... so wet."

The room is filled with the sounds of your pleasure: the slick, rhythmic slap of skin on skin, the creak of the bedframe, the soft, needy sounds you're making, and Steve's low, constant stream of praise and encouragement.

"Love being inside you," he groans, his tempo increasing just a fraction, just enough to make the pressure inside you build even higher. "Never wanna leave."

The coil inside you winds tighter and tighter, the pleasure building to an almost unbearable peak. You can feel your walls fluttering around him, your body preparing for the release that's just out of reach.

"I'm close," you gasp, your hands clutching at his back, your nails leaving shallow half-moons in his skin.

"Mmm..." He groans into your neck, kissing the soft skin there as he keeps the pace that's making you clench like that. "I can feel it, baby."

A few more deep, perfectly placed thrusts are all it takes before you're whining his name and holding him impossibly close, your body convulsing under him as your orgasm washes over you, leaving you breathless and boneless.

"Oh, fuck, honey..." His voice is practically a whine as he feels you grip him, your release triggering his own. He continues to move inside you, his movements growing more erratic as he chases his own pleasure. "Tell me you want it. All of it."

He’s not asking. Not quite a demand, but a desperate plea.

"Want it, Steve," you breathe, your hands moving to cup the back of his head, holding him to you as he buries his face in the crook of your neck.

"Gonna fill you up... God..." He’s almost sobbing with the force of it, a raw, desperate sound. With one final, deep thrust, he stills, a low, guttural moan tearing from his throat as he spills inside you, a hot rush that you can feel deep in your core. He continues to rock into you, a series of short, shallow thrusts, drawing out every last drop as he kisses you through his orgasm.

He settles on top of you then, his full weight settling, a warm, heavy anchor in the sea of your bed. You don't mind. You like the feel of him, solid and real, his heart thudding against your ribs, a frantic, slowing rhythm. You like the soft kisses he presses to your shoulder, your neck, the corner of your mouth.

After a long moment, he pushes himself up on his elbows, looking down at you with an expression you can't quite decipher.

"Hey..," he says, his voice a hoarse whisper.

"Hey yourself," you whisper back, a lazy, sated smile spreading across your face.

He smooths the hair back from your forehead, his touch impossibly gentle. "You are... seriously incredible."

"You're not so bad yourself..." you tease, your hands tracing lazy patterns on the sweat-slick skin of his back.

A genuine smile reaches his eyes as he ducks down to kiss your lips again, sweet and slow.

"We should probably..." he starts, then trails off, not wanting to move. "...clean up."

You nod. "Probably." But neither of you makes a move to get up. You're both content to stay tangled together in the warm, messy aftermath, your breath mingling in the quiet room.

Hes soft inside of you now, but you really don't want to lose the feeling of him, so you wrap your legs around him a little tighter. A contented sigh passes your lips and your bodies feel like they were made to fit together.

He shifts slightly, propping himself up more to look at you. He rests the free hand on your stomach, with a face you can't decipher. Your stomach, of all places, and you tense for a fraction of a second before forcing yourself to relax.

He looks up in your eyes then, almost shyly.

"I've never..." he starts, then pauses, a faint flush creeping up his neck. "...done that before."

Your breath hitches. You know he doesn't mean the act itself.

"Without a condom? Really?" Your question is gentle, curious. Not an accusation.

He shakes his head, a little bit of that boyish embarrassment returning. "No. I mean, I've done that. Just never... uh, finished inside? Without one..."

The implication hangs in the air, heavy with meaning. He's never trusted anyone enough. Or he's never been trusted enough.

His thumb strokes your stomach, a slow, absent-minded circle. "I... I was always really careful. Even when I wasn't... you know, a good guy."

"I can't imagine that you were ever actually a bad guy, Steve." You say it so soft and sincere that he's taken aback.

And thats probably true, he thinks. He was a douchebag, definitely. An asshole at times. He'd been selfish and egotistical and cruel. But 'bad'? Not bad. His badness came from a place of insecurity, not true malice. From loneliness and a desperate need for approval.

He just shrugs, a small, uncomfortable gesture. "I'm glad you think that."

"I know it," you state, a quiet but firm conviction in your tone that disarms him completely.

You can feel him twitch inside of you at your words, a small, involuntary reaction that speaks volumes. He likes this. He likes being seen. He likes being known.

He leans down to kiss you again, a slow, deep press of lips that's less about passion and more about connection. You can't help but rock your hips as he kisses you, a slow, lazy grind that has you both groaning into each other's mouths. The oversensitivity is a pleasant hum, a reminder of the pleasure you just shared.

"We are definitely making a mess," you mumble against his lips.

"Wanna make a mess in you again," he whispers back, without a thought in his head but the sheer want to feel you clench around him again. To empty himself into you even though he knows it wouldn't take. "And again, and again."

He's talking from a place of pure emotion, of some deep-seated want to be connected to you in the most intimate way possible, but as he looks down at you he's aware how that sounds.

"God... sorry... that was... I didn't mean that in a weird way." He's suddenly worried he's gone too far, scaring you with the intensity of his desires.

You just smile, a slow, languid curve of your lips that immediately puts him at ease. "Steve..."

"Yeah?""I'm thirty-five. I've been around the block a few times. I can tell when a man's got... a thing. And it's okay."

He's mortified, but also... relieved? He's never been able to talk about this before. With anyone. It was something he kept hidden, a secret shame he barely admitted to himself.

"Look, it's not like some... weird fetish thing." He tries to explain, stumbling over the words. "It's not... I don't know. It's just... the idea of it, of getting someone pregnant, of having a family..." He trails off, suddenly feeling deeply exposed. This was too much, way too soon. He was ruining it.

"I wouldn't have let you finish in me if this was going to be a one night stand. And I don't do flings. I told you that." Your hands are stroking his back now, in a calming, rhythmic motion. "I'm not looking to be some guy's late night booty call."

He lifts his head, looking down at you, a flicker of hope in his eyes. He almost hates that his dick twitches when you say that. This wasn't a fantasy being fulfilled, this was something else entirely. Something real.

"Guys my age... if they aren't already settled, it's like they never want to. And younger guys usually just see a woman my age as... you know. An experience. A notch. They never think about... the future."

It's true. Every man you'd tried to date in the past had run for the hills at the slightest hint of anything serious.

"But... I don't know... I look at you, and I don't just see a cute guy who's a good kisser. I see a man who's kind, and who listens. A man who knows what he wants, even if he doesn't have it yet."

He's almost fully hard now, the embarrassment of it warring with the overwhelming need he has to be seen this way. To be seen as more than just a pretty face.

"You..." he starts, but he doesn't know how to finish. So he just kisses you instead.

It's a different kind of kiss. Slower, more careful. There is a new level of communication in this one.

"Talking about commitment on a first date usually gives guys the opposite reaction..." You sigh into the kiss as you feel him grow and harden inside you.

"I am not most guys," he says, punctuating the statement with a slow, shallow thrust that has you gasping.

You feel like you could come again just from this. "No, you're not."

He looks down at you then, and the vulnerability in his eyes is breathtaking. He's completely bare in front of you, in every sense of the word. He feels like he can say anything, do anything, and you'll understand.

"What about you?" he asks, his voice barely a whisper. "Do you want kids?"

Your answer is so simple, so honest, it surprises even you. "Yeah. I do."

It's a conversation you've never been able to have before. Not with anyone. It was always too much, too soon. Too scary. But here, with Steve, it feels like the most natural thing in the world.

"Huh..." he muses, with an achingly slow grind into you. "Seems like you really enjoy the mess I'm making, then."

"Seems like it," you breathe back, unable to stop the grin spreading across your face.

The slow, lazy rhythm of his hips becomes more deliberate, a little deeper. He's so hard again, and the feeling of him sliding into your already-slick, sensitive core is exquisite.

"Seems like..." He hikes your thighs up a higher, almost to your chest, his hands gripping the back of your knees. "We should be more thorough. Just to be sure."

You know this isn't really about making a baby, not at its core, Not yet. You're on birth control, and both of you are practical. But the idea of it, the fantasy... that's a different beast entirely.

He's looking down at you, an intense, burning look in his eyes that makes your breath catch.

"Mhmm..." it's all you can manage to get out in this new position.

He's watching himself disappear inside of you, a look on his face that's pure concentration. Like you're a masterpiece he's finally allowed to touch.

"Gonna fill you up again, honey," he murmurs, the words a low, possessive rumble against your skin. "God look at it, my cum already leaking out of you. Can't have that... not yet."

He uses the mess he’s already made as lube, thrusting hard into you with a slick, easy slide that has you seeing stars.

"Steve..."

"Just... take it, honey." His hips snap against yours, a little harder this time, a little deeper. He's chasing something, and you're more than happy to let him catch it. "You want it all, don't you? You want all of it."

He's asking a question he already knows the answer to. He can feel it in the way your walls are clenching around him, in the way your hips are rising to meet his every thrust.

"Oh that's it..." he groans, looking at the mess he's making on your sheets, on your thighs. His cum and your arousal mingling together, making you glisten in the soft light of your bedside lamp. "Gonna fill you like this every night... you'd like that wouldn't you? Coming home to you. Fucking you full of me."

You are whining then, a continuous high pitched sound of pleasure as he continues to talk, driving himself into you over and over again.

"You want me to get that coaching job, huh? For me to be a real man? So we can have a real family, right here in Hawkins?" He presses on, each question punctuated by a hard, deliberate thrust. He's not really asking. He's not even dirty talking anymore. He's dreaming. He's building a future right here inside of you, with every thrust, every drop of sweat, every whispered word.

"Coach has to... teach sex ed..." You manage to get out, a small, delirious giggle escaping you as he continues to fuck into you.

He barks out a loud laugh, the motion of it shaking you both. It feels so good to be like this, to be playful and desperate all at once.

"You don't think I'm qualified, baby? I think I am." He slows down then, and the change in pace is a whiplash. He's sliding in and out of you with a maddening slowness, making you feel every inch, every ridge of him.

"Steve..." You whine. The pleasure is so intense it's almost painful.

"Shhh... I got you," he murmurs, and he does. He knows exactly what you need, even if you're not sure yourself. "I'm a very good teacher. I could teach all about... health. And wellness."

His hands release the back of your knees, moving to grip your ass, lifting your hips slightly, changing the angle so he's grinding directly against your clit with every pass. He flips you so you're both on your sides now, face to face, never pulling out. The intimacy of the position is overwhelming.

He's holding you open for him as he slowly rocks into you. The movements are less about penetration and more about connection.

"Gonna look so pretty," he whispers into your ear, kissing your temple, "carrying my baby."

The words hang in the air, not dirty, not taboo, but honest. A wish. A prayer. It's the most intimate thing anyone has ever said to you.

"Gonna come home to you every night... do this... every single night." He's slow, deep, and deliberate now. "Until it takes. And even after."

His hips pick up their pace again, the steady rhythm pushing you closer to the edge. He's so hard, so deep, you can feel every twitch, every throb.

"Is this too much?" he whispers even softer in your ear as he kisses your neck, laying you flat on your back again so he can be deep when he finishes, your legs splayed out for him. "Me talking like this? Can tone it down..."

You manage to shake your head, a small, frantic motion against the pillow.

He's looking down at you, his face a mask of intense concentration, as he slowly drags himself out and pushes back in. "You sure, honey? Tell me it's okay."

A sound escapes your throat, something between a sob and a moan. "I like it... I really like it, Steve."

A wave of relief washes over him, followed by a surge of affection and lust. "Yeah? Not too much?"

"Not too much." you manage, your voice a strangled whisper. "It's... it's what I want."

"Thank god," he breathes, and then he's kissing you again swallowing your gasps as he begins to move in earnest. "Just let me take care of you... let me fill you up again..."

You're so lost in sensation, in the feel of him, the sound of his voice, the scent of him, that you don't even register the change in him at first.

His hips begin to piston, a powerful, rhythmic cadence that has you crying out with every thrust. He's lost in it, in you, in the fantasy you're building together. He's not just fucking you anymore. He's claiming you, in a way that feels both primitive and deeply tender.

You look up at him, at the sweat beading on his brow, the way his muscles cord and strain in his arms and back, the pure, unadulterated pleasure on his face. Your arms wrap around his neck and the soft smile that shines through his focus shows you he knows you're with him, you're here.

He's not using your body for some twisted fantasy. He's using this moment to build a home in your shared desire. You want it as much as he does.

"M'gonna... you're gonna... fuck..." He's devolved into a mess of half-finished sentences and guttural sounds, the control he's so carefully maintained finally starting to fray. And it is the most glorious, beautiful thing you've ever seen. This confident, capable man, completely undone by you, by the thought of a future with you.

"Gonna cum, baby..." you whine out after a particularly harsh thrust against your clit that has your toes curling. "S'close..."

"Again? Already? God, you're... you're perfect." He's so fucking proud of himself, and of you. "Me too... me too, honey. C'mon, let go. I'll catch you. Always."

He's watching your face as he speeds up, fucking you with deep, hard thrusts that are designed for one thing: to send you over the edge, and to follow you right after.

And, god, does he.

Your orgasm crashes over you, an outburst of white-hot pleasure, so intense it borders on overwhelming. Your back arches off the bed, a silent scream tearing from your throat as your body convulses around him, a series of tight, rhythmic clutches that milk him for all he's worth.

"Oh, fuuuuck, baby... I'm... take it... take all of it..." With a final, shuddering thrust, he buries himself as deep as he can go, a long, low moan torn from his chest as he finds his own release. He pulses inside you, a wave after wave of heat that seems to go on forever, a tangible proof that feels more like a vow than anything.

He's kissing you through it again, hand finding yours and tangling your fingers together as he continues to rock into you, working every last drop of pleasure from both of you.

When it's over, he collapses, but this time he's careful to roll to the side, taking you with him so you're a tangle of limbs in the center of your bed. You're both sweaty, sticky, beautiful messes, and you wouldn't have it any other way.

For a long while, you just lie there, the only sounds in the room your mingled breathing slowly returning to normal. He pulls out so slowly you almost whine at the loss. But he's kissing your temple, your hairline, and then he's tucking your head under his chin.

"Stay," you murmur, the word a sleepy command.

"I'm gonna... don't worry." He kisses your head. "Just gonna get us cleaned up first okay, baby?"

He's calling you baby outside of the heat of the moment for the first time and your heart squeezes.

You're so boneless, you can barely move. He carefully disentangles himself, and you watch him, a warm, fond feeling spreading through your chest as he pads naked and unselfconscious towards your ensuite bathroom.

"Towels?" He asks from the doorway, leaning against the frame, all long limbs and messy hair. He looks... domestic. And it's the sexiest thing you've ever seen.

"Cabinet above the toilet. There's washcloths in there." Your voice is raspy.

He comes back a moment later with a warm, damp cloth. The sight of him sitting at the side of your bed, so gently cleaning you up with a look of such tender concentration, makes your chest ache in a way that has nothing to do with sex.

"Got a lot in you, honey," he murmurs, a soft, teasing smile playing on his lips as he gently wipes your thighs. His touch is reverent, his movements careful. He's not just cleaning up the mess; he's enjoying the remnants of your joining. "You should go pee, c'mon, I'll help you."

It was so incredibly practical, so unsexy on paper, but the deep intimacy of it hits you hard. He's already thinking of you, of your comfort and health. You've had men who couldn't be bothered to stay for a cigarette afterwards, and here's this beautiful man, a decade younger than you, insisting you get up to prevent a UTI.

He helps you sit up, then swing your legs over the side of the bed, his hands steady and supportive before guiding you the few steps to the bathroom.

"Maybe you'll be good at sex ed after all..." you grumble, a small smile on your lips.

He laughs again, that bright, easy sound that's quickly becoming your favorite thing in the world. "Gotta start with the basics, right? Safety and cleanup. Lord knows no one is going to listen to me about abstinence."

"Hawkins Middle is not ready for Coach Harrington's Sex Ed," you say, sitting down on the toilet as he lingers in the doorway, giving you privacy but not completely leaving you alone.

"I was a middle school boy once, and let me tell you, I think I could make sure they don't learn about it from their older brothers' hustler mags. And definitely not the jocks in the locker room."

You smile, cleaning up and flushing the toilet before washing your hands.

He comes up behind you as you're looking at yourself in the mirror, wrapping his arms around your waist and resting his chin on your shoulder. Your reflection is a shock. Your hair is a mess, your lips are swollen, your skin is flushed and there's a faint mark starting to bloom on your neck. You look thoroughly, gloriously fucked. And you look happy. A kind of happy you don't think you've seen on your own face in a very long time.

"Gonna have to wear a high neck collar, Miss L..." he murmurs against your skin, pressing a kiss to the mark he's just noticed himself. A flicker of something like regret passes over his face. He hadn't meant to mark you, to stake a claim so publicly.

"It's in season, don't worry. Just be careful not to do it again."

He smirks. "Don't worry, next time I mark you somewhere visible it's going to be way more noticeable than a hickey."

His hands travel to cup the soft flesh of your stomach, right over where your womb sits, his thumbs stroking the skin there. The intimacy of the gesture is a low thrum between your legs. He sees himself, older, with a little girl that has your eyes or a little boy with his same smartass little smirk, tucked away inside that softness.

You turn in his arms. "I'm gonna put a good word in with the school committee for that job."

"You don't have to do that." His face is serious again.

"I know I don't have to. I want to. I think they'd be stupid not to hire you. But... maybe I can help them see past the reputation, and see the man I see right now."

His throat bobs, as if trying to swallow words he can't say. So he kisses you instead.

You pull back, a soft smile on your lips. "Come on... lets get to bed." You turn off the bathroom light and walk back to the bedroom.

He follows, and the bed dips under his weight as he gets in beside you, immediately gathering you into his arms.

Many months later, a warm breeze carries the scent of cut grass and summer as you walk over to the baseball field. The sun is high and bright, forcing you to shield your eyes as you scan the diamond. And then you see him.

Steve stands by the dugout, clipboard in hand, shouting instructions at a lanky kid who's fumbling with a bat.

"Hey, Parker, you're trying to hit the ball, not swat a fly! Get your elbow up!"

His tone is firm but not harsh, and the kid rolls his eyes but does as he's told, adjusting his stance.

You are carrying a cooler, its contents jingling softly as you walk across the grass. A slow smile spreads across your face. He looks so natural out there, so in his element. The blue polo shirt, tucked into a pair of khaki shorts, fits him well. A cap sits backwards on his head, a few errant strands of hair poking out from underneath. He's tan and happy, a smattering of more freckles across the bridge of his nose from spending all his afternoons in the sun.

"Hey, handsome. Slacking on the job, I see."

He turns at the sound of your voice, and the stern coach expression melts away, replaced by a bright, easy grin that makes your stomach do a little flip. He glances back at the team and yells. "Alright guys, Miss L brought some liquid encouragement. Take a five-minute water break. And Parker, think about what I said about your elbow!"

There's a chorus of 'Yes, Coach' and a few snickers as the boys jog toward the benches where you've set the cooler down.

He walks you a little ways over, but so he's still able to keep an eye on the kids.

"They're getting good." You muse.

He looks from them to you. "Yeah, just want to get them prepared for tryouts next spring. They wanted me to coach basketball too, but I just think that will be too much with the uh, PE and Sex Ed teacher schedule."

He grins at you slowly.

He got the job.

"Steve! That's wonderful!" Your genuine happiness for him is palpable, and you throw your arms around his neck in a spontaneous hug. He catches you easily, laughing as he spins you in a small circle, your feet barely touching the ground. He's been working toward this since the night you met him, this tangible step toward the future you'd both whispered about in the dark.

It was the better part of the things he told you in the dark. The light in the darkness of the horrors he'd actually been through. You'd held him while he shook from a nightmare, and told him it was okay. That he was safe now. That he was here with you. And he believed it, so he told you everything. He laid all the pain of this town bare in front of you and you didn't shy away when you learned the ugly parts.

When he sets you down, he doesn't let you go. His arms stay locked around your waist, pulling you flush against him. "Couldn't have done it without you, babe."

The ring on your left hand, a simple, elegant diamond he'd picked out himself last month, glints in the sun. A promise he'd made you over dinner, at your now shared house. A nervous, heartfelt speech about wanting to build a life with you that had ended with you in tears and him sliding a ring onto your finger.

"It's official. I'll be Coach Harrington. In the classroom and on the field." The pride in his voice is unmistakable.

"Well, Coach Harrington... sex ed and sports. Hawkins Middle better be ready for you." You stand on your tiptoes to kiss him, a quick, soft press of lips that's meant to be chaste, but he deepens it, one hand sliding up to cup the back of your neck, holding you to him for a moment longer.

"Oh come on..." a young boy's voice pipes up. "Get a room, Steve!"

Steve breaks the kiss with a laugh, glaring over at the kid with glasses currently bullying him.

"Hey, Turnbow, on the field it's Coach. Now, five minutes are up, let's get back to it! I want to see you all run the bases twice, nice and clean!"

He winks at you before turning back to his team, but he pauses for a second. "See you at home?" he asks, the smile softening into something more private, more intimate.

"I'll make that pasta you like," you promise.

"You're the best," he says, giving your hand a squeeze. "Love you."

"Love you too, Coach."

You walk away from the diamond, the sounds of shouting and running and bats cracking against balls fading behind you. The late afternoon sun warms your skin, and for the first time in a long, long time, you feel a profound sense of peace.

Steve glances over his shoulder, watching you walk to your car, just like he did the first day he met you. The soft sway of your hips in that light sundress is a familiar, welcome sight.

A reminder of everything he has to come home to.

He's not that lost boy in the video store anymore. He's a coach, a teacher, your fiancé. A man with a future, a family, and a purpose.

And for the first time in your lives, you both know you are exactly where you are supposed to be.

'ahoy, ladies!' [steve taglist]

“Woah, hey—!” You catch him hard, the impact jarring up your spine as he sags into you. Your grip tightens around his middle, fingers digging into the damp cotton of his shirt.

“Stay with me,” you say, sharper now, breath coming quick as you fumble the key toward the lock. “Steve, just... just hang on, okay? We’re right here.”

He makes a vague sound in agreement, head lolling against your shoulder.   

“Mm... m’kay,” he mumbles.  

You finally jam the key in, shove the door open with your hip.

“I got you. Just watch the step—Steve, watch the—”  

His sneaker catches on the edge of the rug and he pitches forward, dead weight.

You lurch with him, heart jumping into your throat, barely managing to haul him back before he faceplants into the welcome mat. He makes a quiet, confused noise as you pull him upright.

The distance from the door to the couch is nothing. A straight line. Ten seconds, maybe.

It takes close to a full minute.

Steve’s face sinks right back into your neck as you half-drag him toward the living room. He keeps stopping every few steps, gaze snagging on random things like he’s discovering them for the first time: the standing lamp, the coat rack by the wall, the crooked photo of you two at the lake this summer.

“Babe,” he murmurs at one point, voice soft with wonder, pointing vaguely toward the end of the hallway. “There’s… wha... why’re you over there?”

“I’m right here, baby,” you say gently, tugging him forward again. “That’s a mirror.”

“...Oh.”

By the time you reach the couch, your arms are shaking.

Steve collapses into it with a breathy oof, body folding in on itself before going slack. His limbs fall wherever they land—one leg hanging off the cushions, head tipped back, chest rising and falling in uneven pulls.

For a moment he just sits there. Blinking slowly at the ceiling, breathing through his mouth.  

You drop into a crouch in front of him.  

“Steve?” you whisper.

“Mm.”    

The uniform makes it worse.

Bright navy and white stripes, grotesquely cheerful against the splatters of blood that have seeped into the collar, smeared across his side like someone tried to wipe their hands on him.

You start moving before you can think better of it.

Sliding your hands up his arms, across his shoulders, down to his thighs, his calves. You’re not even sure what you’re looking for, just checking for something hidden, something worse, eyes frantically cataloguing every faint scratch you can find on his exposed skin.

Steve makes a quiet noise in his throat when you touch him. Not quite pained—more like confusion, like the sensation is arriving late.

His hand lifts, slow and uncoordinated, missing yours the first time. He tries again, fumbling clumsily until it lands over your fingers.

The second he finds you, he holds on. Threads his fingers between yours, his grip weak but insistent when he squeezes.

You’re about to squeeze back when your eyes catch on something else.

His wrists.

Deep impressions ring both of them, angry red marks already bruising dark at the edges. The skin is rubbed raw, split and abraded in places where he must’ve fought against whatever they used to hold him down.

I don’t know, they took him—woah, dingus look at that! Oh my god, that’s amaazing... huh? Oh, right, right, um... I think they like... took him to another room? But... I don’t know what they did to him.  

You swallow hard against the rising bile, brushing your thumb lightly over one of the marks.

Steve doesn’t even seem to notice.

“Steve, baby,” you say quietly, still inspecting his wrists. “Can you tell me what happened?”

Nothing.

“Steve?”

Your head snaps up, panic cutting sharp through your chest.

He’s looking at you.

Staring, actually—eyes locked onto your face with a strange, heavy focus that doesn’t quite stick, like he’s trying to see you through water, like every second you’re slipping just out of reach.

His hair hangs in damp strands over his face, clinging to his forehead and the bridge of his nose.

“Hey,” you whisper, lifting your free hand to push his hair back.

Your fingers barely graze his skin before he flinches.

And you finally see it.

Up close, it’s so much worse than it looked under the neon glare of the Starcourt parking lot.

Steve’s eye is nearly swollen shut.

The lid is puffed up and dark, deep purples and sickly reds bleeding into his cheekbone. His nose is streaked with dried blood, rust-colored trails cracking against his skin. His lower lip is split wide open, a jagged cut that hasn’t fully sealed.  

You watch, horrified, as he presses his tongue against it, absentmindedly pressing the tip of it against the inside of his cheek. It slides beneath the swollen flesh, prodding the ragged edge.  

“No, baby, don’t… don’t do that,” you murmur quickly, your hand moving on instinct to catch his chin.

The moment your fingers touch him, he freezes completely. His body relaxes, almost unnervingly pliant, and his expression goes slack.

Your hand trembles when you pull it back.

You don’t let yourself think about happened in that room.

All you have are fragments. Dustin Henderson’s explanation outside of Starcourt had been rushed and breathless, a mess of words that mostly made no sense to you—Russians, secret codes, an underground government lab.

Torture. 

It hadn’t sounded real then.

It does now.

The evidence is sitting right in front of you, breathing unevenly on your couch.

Your gaze drops back to his wrists.

“Hey, Stevie?” you ask, voice thin. “Do you know where you are?”

“Mm?”   

“Where are you right now?”

He frowns slowly. His eyes stay on you for another long second, then drift, sliding across the room in a dazed, unfocused sweep.

Whatever drugs they forced into him—truth serum, Dustin had said—it’s still in his system.

You can see it in his pupils—so dilated that the hazel in his eyes is barely visible, just a thin ring of gold swallowed by glossy black. The whites are bloodshot, veins spidering outward.

“...your house,” he murmurs quietly.

Your lungs finally let go of the breath you’ve been holding.

“Okay. Good. That’s good.” You swallow, throat dry. “And what day is it?”

That one takes longer.

You see it, the delay. His lips parting, eyes losing you again as they drift somewhere over your shoulder.

“Mmm… don’t know.”

Your chest tightens.

“Can you try? Just take a guess?”

He squints. Looks down at the coffee table, following the swirls in the wood grain.

“...Wednesday?”

It’s Monday.

“Okay,” you nod immediately, trying to keep your voice from pitching higher. “That’s okay. Um... what about the month?”

He blinks slowly.

“Steve?”

“...July.”

“Yeah,” you breathe, squeezing his hand, clutching to the answer like a lifeline. “Yeah, that’s right. That's good. And tell me what year?”

Something in him changes at that, a sudden restless energy cutting through the drugged haze. 

His nose scrunches, shoulders twitching uncomfortably against the couch. He drops his gaze down to his hands, to where his fingers are still tangled with yours.

“I don’t…” His voice fades, head tilting in a slow, helpless shake. “…sorry.”

Your grip tightens instantly, thumb brushing over his knuckles.

“No, it’s okay. You’re okay, baby. You’re okay.”

You say it like it’s true.

Inside, everything is screaming.

You have no idea what you’re doing.

Nothing but half-remembered warnings from health class, scenes from movies, TV shows, something about concussions and checking someone's pupils, not letting them sleep.

But what if this is something worse?

What if there’s something happening inside his head right now—bleeding, swelling—and you’re just sitting here, holding his hand?

You tried to take him to the hospital. God, you tried.  

He could barely keep his eyes open in the car, forehead knocking softly against the window every time the road curved, but whenever you said the word hospital, he shook his head.

Stubborn as always, even half-conscious.

“Steve—"

“No.”

“Steve, you need—"

“No... no hoss...pital.”

And after what you learned tonight—after everything about Russians and government labs under small-town malls—you understood him enough to hesitate.

But now it’s just you.

And the quiet, suffocating thought that you’re not enough.

What if you miss something?

What if he gets worse and you can’t help him?

What if— 

A sharp, sudden huff cuts through your spiraling thoughts.

Your head jerks up just in time to see him fold forward, arms lifting clumsily, not quite making it.

You catch him immediately.

“Hey, hey, what’s wrong?” Your hands slide up to his shoulders, steadying him before he can pitch all the way down. “You okay? You feel sick again?”

Steve shakes his head.

Looks so distraught, all of a sudden.

The emotion sits strangely on his face, tangled up with the swelling and the fuzzy stupor still dulling his expression. 

He drags his tongue across his split lip, swallows hard.

“Can you... can you hug me?”

He’s nineteen.

You forget that sometimes.

He turned nineteen less than two weeks ago.

You remember the pancakes you made that morning—burnt on one side, stacked too high with a slow-motion avalanche of whipped cream. The surprise party at the lake, Dustin nearly dropping the cake twice before it made it to the table.

The way Steve groaned when you made him close his eyes and make a wish.

Babe, you know I’m way too old for this, right?

Still, he blew out every last candle. Tore open every gift, read every letter. 

And later that night, when it was just the two of you tangled under sheets and summer heat, he told you something you never forgot.   

“Mm… ten years, maybe?”

“What?”

“Yeah, I mean... my parents traveled a lot over the summer, so. Just stopped having ‘em, I guess.”

Stopped celebrating his birthday, he meant.

Your arms are around him before the memory can finish forming.

You pull him in carefully, one hand cradling the back of his head, angling him so he's not putting pressure on his bruised eye.

He crumples into you with a quiet sigh, forehead bumping against your collarbone before he buries his face in the curve of your neck. His breath is warm against your skin, damp where it catches.

For a minute, you just hold him.

Feeling the frantic, unrelenting thud of his heart against your ribs, so fast it makes your own chest ache. You tighten your arms around him, pressing him closer, like you can slow it down that way.  

His voice comes after a long silence, words muffled and heavy.

“…they kept... kept asking questions.”

Your fingers still in his hair, then move again, smoothing back damp strands from his forehead.

“Yeah?”

He nods, dragging his bruised cheek across your shoulder. 

“Same... same ones. Over and over. Didn’t matter what we said. Just... again, again.”

Your eyes squeeze shut, a quiet, nauseating realization washing through you. Maybe your incessant questioning—Where are you? What day is it?— just dragged him right back there.

You feel him shiver into your shoulder, a weak laugh ghosting against your collarbone.

“Hey... you know wha... you know what was weird?”

“What?”

His fingers move against your back, tracing shapes you can’t see.

“They said we were gonna die down there.”

Your throat goes tight.

“And I…” he huffs, another brittle laugh shaking through him. “I just like... kept talking, you know? So they’d look at me ‘n not... not Robin. Saying whatever. Dumb stuff. I work at Scoops! Ice cream... Scoops... Scoops Ahoy.”

He sniffs, tilting his face into your neck. You feel his brows furrow against your skin.

“They got really pissed. Said if we didn’t answer, that was it. Nobody’d find us. Nobody’d even… know we were there.”

He sighs, his weight sinking heavier into you.

“I kept thinking about you,” he whispers.

Your hand stills in his hair.  

“I kept thinking… if I didn’t come back, you’d—” He falters, jaw tightening where it presses into you. “You’d notice. Right?”

The inside of your cheek stings where you bite down. You nod, pressing your lips into his hair so he won’t hear the tremor in your voice.

“Of course I’d notice, Steve,” you whisper.   

He nods, swallowing hard enough you feel it against your collarbone.

“I didn’t... didn’t tell you,” he mumbles, words muffled into the curve of your neck.

“Hm?”

“I didn’t tell you,” he repeats.

A cold thread slips down your spine.

“Tell me what, Stevie?” you murmur, pulling back slightly, trying to see his face.

You feel it before you understand it.

The shift.

The warmth you were holding stiffens under your arms. Muscles locking up all at once, shoulders going rigid.

“Steve?”

It goes from nought to ninety in less than a breath.

One moment he’s heavy, pliant in your arms; the next, his whole body convulses. Tremors wrack him violently, shoving against your chest, jostling you both. Each wave builds, stronger than the last.

“Hey, hey, it’s—it’s okay—” You rush, voice thinning with panic as your hands scramble along his back, trying to grip him, steady him. “I’ve got you, you’re okay—"

His arms clamp around you like steel, brittle fingers digging into your back. His chest jerks with shallow gasps, each inhale too quick to carry air.

“I d-didn’t tell you,” he chokes out, words splintering between breaths. “I didn’t—I didn’t—”

“Steve, baby, it’s okay,” you whisper, sweeping your hand slow and firm along his back, even as your own chest feels like it’s caving in. “Hey, hey, just breathe for me, okay? You’re home, you’re safe.”

He shakes his head, breath hitching against your shoulder.

“No... no, I—” His voice catches in his throat, scraped raw. “I never said it. I never... I never told you. We never...”   

And in the long, ragged, suffocating pause that arrives after, you hear what he’s been trying to say.

What he means.

Two months.

That’s all it’s been.

Barely enough time to learn the shape of each other’s lives, and yet... it’s never felt that way. 

It’s always felt older.

Like you didn’t meet him so much as find him again. Orbiting the same point for years, lifetimes, just waiting to collide.

You used to joke about it. Past lives, red strings. Soulmates, if you were feeling dramatic.

And in those two months—in all the ways you’ve come to learn him—this boy who loves loudly without knowing it, who gives pieces of himself away in quiet, constant gestures, who shows up, who stays, who cares harder than anyone else ever has—

After two months of learning what it means to be adored by someone like him—

There was always something buried just under the surface, left unsaid.

They’ve lived inside you for weeks now. You carried it with you everywhere, pressed close like a second heartbeat.  

Three words you’ve never said out loud.

“I didn’t say it,” he whispers, hoarse, broken. “I didn’t.”

And whatever he’d been holding onto all night—whatever thin, fraying thread kept him upright for Robin, for the kids, through the mall, the parking lot, the drive home, brushing off every what happened? are you okay?—

It finally gives.

Slips clean through his fingers like sand underwater. Gone all at once, nothing left to brace against.  

“I was just... I was so scared.”

You fold him into your chest, arms pressing him closer as a tear slides down your cheek and catches in the damp strands of his hair.

“I know,” you whisper. “I know, baby. I know.”

It isn’t true.

You don’t know.

You weren’t there.

Didn’t see the way they looked at him, didn’t hear their threats.

Didn’t feel what he felt, tied to that chair, not knowing if the next second was going to be the one that ended everything.

Not knowing if nineteen was it.

You don’t know.

But what else can you say?

...  

It’s strange, how life keeps moving after a moment like that.

How something so monumental can implode in your chest while the rest of the world spins on, indifferent.

Your room looks the same—the half-made bed, his jacket draped over your chair from the last time he was here—but nothing feels the same. Your hands tremble, and you flex your fingers, pressing your nails into your palm to ground yourself before you pull open the drawer. You let your fingers trail over the familiar textures of his shirts, his sweatpants—pieces of him he leaves behind on purpose. They still smell like him, even after washing.

You take a shaky breath and turn back.

He doesn’t argue when you kneel in front of him.

Just watches you, sat quietly on the edge of the bed, legs parted to make space as your fingers start loosening the laces of his sneakers. 

You ease them off one at a time, then move to his socks, brushing your thumbs over the warm, soft skin of his ankles. Lingering there, trying to imprint the memory of a touch that doesn’t involve pain.

You glance up at him, hands sliding over to his waistband.

“Gonna get these off, okay?”

He nods, planting his palms into the mattress so he can lift his hips, fingers splayed to brace himself. Your chest tightens at the way his face pinches—just for a second, there and gone, like he’s trying not to let you see. 

You ease his shorts down over his thighs, then his briefs.  

His shirt is the last thing to come off.

He hesitates a little when you reach for the hem, and the moment you lift the fabric, you understand why.

Even in the dim light, there’s no hiding it.

Dark bruises bloom across his sides, wrapping around his stomach. There’s one just under his ribs that’s so deep it’s nearly black at the center, the skin tight and swollen in a way that turns your gut ice-cold.

That's not from a fist.

For a heartbeat, you see him there.   

Head slumped forward, taking blow after blow while he tries to breathe through the blood filling his mouth. You force it down, swallowing the rush of panic before it can break free.

Steve follows your gaze, blinking down at himself.

“Oh,” he breathes. “Yeah, that’s uh… looks worse than it is.”

His speech is clearer now. No longer thick or slurred like it was before. Up close, you see that the glassiness in his eyes has started to lift too, his pupils returning to normal.

But what’s left behind isn’t easy.

His brows are pulled tight, expression pinched from bracing against the pressure building in his skull. He’s clenching and unclenching his jaw to fight off the waves of nausea, worsening with each passing second of clarity. 

You know that he’s lying—that it doesn’t look worse than it is—but you don’t argue.

Instead, you reach for his hands, gently lifting his arms, pulling his shirt over his head. You discard the bloodied uniform to the floor before helping him into a fresh shirt, sliding it over his bruised frame with care.

You reach for his sweats next, guiding him one leg at a time, your hand braced at his shin to keep him steady as you draw the fabric up over his thighs.

You’re adjusting the waistband over his hips when he suddenly goes still.

“You okay?”

He stiffens, jaw working. “Mm—I need the—”  

You drag the trash can over just in time.

He folds forward with a weak gag, body curling in on itself as far as his ribs will allow.

There’s not much left in his stomach. The retching is brief, mostly dry, but it still wrings him out. Leaves him shaking, breath catching in uneven pulls.

You press your hand between his shoulder blades, rubbing slow, firm circles until it passes, until he leans back with a shallow breath.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, lips parted, face gone pale under all the bruising.

You shake your head, reaching for the warm washcloth you’d set aside earlier.

"It's okay. Don't apologize."

You press the cloth gently to his lips, slow, careful strokes as you wipe the corner of his mouth, the faint smear of blood under his nose, along the line of his jaw and down the column of his neck. It comes back faintly pink each time.

Your thumb follows after, catching where the cloth missed.

Then you pause at his mouth.

The cut on his bottom lip is so deep, the edges of it raw, pulled tight every time he speaks. You tilt his chin slightly, angling his face toward the light.

You’re still frowning at it, wondering whether you should clean it now or let him rest, when he says it.

And it’s not what you thought it would feel like, the first time.

It’s supposed to feel bigger than this, isn’t it? Fireworks in the chest, thunder in the ribs. Something that cracks the world open a little—shake the ground under your feet and pull the stars a little close so they can witness it too.   

Instead, it happens in your bedroom at two in the morning, the coppery smell of dried blood clinging to your fingers, sticky under your nails, catching at the back of your throat

“I love you.”

His voice is low, scraped hoarse with exhaustion, yet steady in a way it hasn’t been all night.

It’s almost painful, how much rushes up all at once.

All the times you didn’t say it.

All the almosts. 

All the places it lived instead.

In the center console of his car, watching him belt out the wrong lyrics at the top of his lungs, just to catch your laugh from the passenger seat.

In the sticky vinyl booth of that diner off the highway, knees knocking under the table while you plucked the cherries off his milkshake and debated the dumbest lines from the movie you just watched.

In the space between your pillows, lying on your sides in the dark, sharing half-formed plans and distant, candy-colored versions of the future—nothing guaranteed except for the easy assumption that you’d share it with one another.

It was always there.

Perched on the tip of your tongue, waiting—in the quiet beat after a joke, a kiss.

In all the moments where you’d look at him and just know.

Know with a certainty so sharp it scared you sometimes.

That this boy—this ridiculous, funny, soft-hearted, endlessly giving boy—was it.

You’d always told yourself there was time.

Tomorrow. Next week.

Later.  

Some other night with candlelight and rose petals, when it made sense, when it could be perfect, worthy of the way it feels to love and be loved by him.  

But maybe the truth of it lives here, like this.

Stripped bare, intimate in a way no grand declaration ever could be.

“I…” Your voice catches, and you swallow before trying again. “I love you too.”

Your vision fills with a sudden haze, and you blink quickly, forcing yourself to look away.  

Steve’s eyes droop at that, brows furrowing softly as he shuffles closer.

“Baby… c’mon, don’t…” He raises his hand, brushing his thumb under your eye to catch the second tear before it falls. He lingers there, cradling your cheek in the warmth of his palm. “Don’t cry. Please?”

“I’m not, I’m not,” you sniff, half-laughing, hastily wiping at your face with the back of your hand.

He studies you a long moment, blinking unevenly, before the faintest smile curls his lips. “Does my face look that bad?”

A startled laugh slips past you. You shake your head, pressing a weak palm against his shoulder. “You’re such an idiot.”

His grin softens into a gentle, half-lidded smile, eyes warm and heavy as he lets his gaze settle on you.  

“’M gonna say it every day,” he murmurs quietly.  

Your chest aches at the promise.

You wish he didn’t have to think about it like that.

That he didn’t have to worry. That he didn’t have to carry the weight of those three words on his chest while tied to that chair—wrists raw, blood in his mouth and fluorescent lights burning into his skull—wondering if he’d ever get to say them aloud.

That the last thing on his mind wasn’t the absence of something so small.

Something you already knew.

You’ve always known.

“Steve…” you whisper.

“I know,” he whispers back, nodding slowly, eyes thick with exhaustion but bright with that familiar resolve. “I know you know. I just…” He rubs his thumb gently across your cheek. “I’m still gonna say it.”

You watch him for a moment, taking in the quiet conviction in his gaze, the stubborn tilt of his head. Stubborn in the ways that matter most—clinging to small, sacred truths even after staring death in the face.

You nod, because that’s who he is.

And because you’ll listen every time like it’s the first.

“Okay,” you whisper.

You lean in carefully, tilting your head to avoid the split in his lip, and press a soft, lingering kiss to the unbroken corner of his mouth.

it starts loud. the bass shaking the walls of javi’s tiny apartment, people moving around like they own the place, drinks spilling, laughter bouncing off every surface. the smell of cheap beer and someone’s half-cooked pizza fills the air.

you’re leaning against the counter with margaret, trying not to knock over her drink while she’s in the middle of a story about kate nearly falling down the stairs, when a familiar arm snakes around your waist from behind.

“hey,” joe murmurs, resting his chin on your shoulder for a second. “there you are.”

you tilt your head back, smiling. “i’ve been right here.”

“yeah, i know,” he says, like it’s obvious. “just making sure.”

kate, perches on a couch with a sly grin, leans forward. “he’s been doing that all night, by the way.”

“doing what?” you ask, even though you feel it – the subtle weight of him close, like he’s orbiting you without even thinking. it’s normal to you at this point.

“that,” margaret says with a smile, pointing vaguely in your direction. “hovering. totally extra.”

he laughs, the sound warm against your ear, shaking his head. “you guys are dramatic.”

“he literally left a conversation mid-sentence because you walked into the room,” kate adds, smiling. “it’s pathetic.”

“that is not what happened.”

“it is!” margaret insists now. “you went, ‘hold on—’ and then just walked away.”

you turn toward him, amused. “you did that?

he squints at them, then back at you. “okay, i might’ve— but it wasn’t like—” he sighs. “i was making room for quality interaction. obviously.”

“you’re down bad,” matt calls from across the room, his eyes glued to the game on the tv, raising his drink. “like, hopeless.” he glances over.

“excuse me?” he feigns offense, grabbing a pillow and tossing it at matt. “i’m hopeless in the best way possible.”

“sure, man.” javi says, leaning in the doorway, taking a sip of his beer, his eyes also on the tv from far away. “whatever makes you feel better.”

you giggle quietly, feeling a little thrill watching him handle all the teasing with nothing but easy charm. he’s not flustered at all – he’s laughing, throwing little playful jabs back at them, but his hand never leaves yours. it’s like he’s in on the joke, always a step ahead.

“you introduced her to wesley like three separate times,” kate says, her arm now linked with wesley’s, getting a little too drunk for her own good. “same conversation.”

you laugh hard at that, eyebrows lifting. “you did?”

“he forgot my name.” wesley adds, nodding.

“i did not forget your—” he cuts himself off, pointing instead. “i know who you are, dumbass.”

“sure, man. definitely forgot for a second.”

joe just laughs softly. i mean, he can’t deny that his thoughts were definitely lost somewhere else when talking about you. it’s like any time he talks about you, it’s only you, you, you, and nothing else.

“you’re ridiculous,” you whisper, nudging him lightly.

“you love it,” he teases back, thumb brushing the back of your hand.

“no. i tolerate it.” you counter, smiling.

-

the night continues in this way — loud voices, overlapping jokes, playful arguments about who’s the worst dancer, who can’t hold their liquor, who’s most likely to get lost on the way home and through it all, you and him are quiet in the best way: a couple of glances, inside jokes, small touches, laughter spilling out in between the chaos.

at one point, javi slides up next to him while you’re laughing at some ridiculous story margaret is telling. “i’m happy for you, man,” he says quietly, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “she’s nice. cool too. i can tell you really like her.”

he freezes for half a beat, then his face lights up. “oh, wow. yeah. i mean—i love her, javi. she’s amazing. she’s funny and smart and–ugh, and she’s just… perfect. i can’t even—”

javi shakes his head, laughing, because of course he knows, because he’s seen him like this before when you two first started dating. “yeah, yeah, chill. you’re gushing.”

“i can’t help it!” he blurts, grinning at you. you’re watching now, that's for sure. and laughing, your cheeks hurting from all the smiling tonight.

he leans in just slightly nudging your shoulder with his again. “i literally can’t believe i get to be with you.”

you reach up, brushing a strand of hair out of his face. “you are so ridiculous, joe.” you say again, softly, smiling. “but i like it.”

“good,” he murmurs, like that’s the only thing he needed to hear. you could call him the worst names in the book and tell him you hate him, or call him the worst man in the world, yet, he’d still be smiling ‘cause it’d be coming out of your mouth, and it’d be your eyes looking at him. “i like you too.”

the rest of the night drifts by in a blur of snacks, laughter, teasing, and playful bickering. someone yells at him to dance, and he twirls you around in the air just enough to make you laugh, cheek brushing against his shoulder. matt shouts something about taking a picture, and you groan, laughing as he tries to hide behind you.

when he manages to get alone with matt he asks for the camera though. that way when you two sneak away to the kitchen later, he’s able to take a picture of you — well, mainly you — and a few pictures of the two of you.

its messy, chaotic and loud — and yet somehow it feels effortless, perfect.

-

later, when it’s finally time to go, he guides you through the sorta crowded apartment, hand resting at the small of your back, steady and protective. “text me when you get home!” kate calls.

“don’t die!” devon adds.

“very, very comforting, devon. thanks!” you laugh.

“he’s a great driver,” javi adds. “sometimes.”

“wow, thank you,” he replies.

“seriously though,” margaret says, pulling you into a quick hug. “it was so nice meeting you.”

“you too. we’ll hang out again soon. right, kate?” you smile which they both reply with a nod.

“we’re keeping her, by the way,” matt tells him.

“well duh. she’s not leaving.” he says easily, still smiling, his hand flexing on your back just slightly, staying there as you two make your way out.

-

the car is quiet. not awkward in any way, but calm. the music’s low, the windows are cracked, the cool air a relief after the heat inside.

you sink into the seat, exhaling softly. “that was a lot.”

he glances over. “yeah? good a lot or bad a lot?”

“good,” you say. “but definitely a lot.”

he nods, like that makes sense.

you sit like that for a minute before you speak again. “can you stop somewhere?”

“yeah, of course. what do you need?”

“gas station,” you say, already smiling a little. “i want my thing.”

he laughs under his breath, his hand moving over the console to play with the material of your white, below-your-knee length dress. it’s flowy. summery. he likes it. “your thing, huh?”

“don’t start.”

“i’m not starting anything,” he says, turning into the lot, his one hand turning the wheel easily. “i’m judging you silently.”

“you’re pretty loud for someone who’s supposed to be silent.”

“that’s true.”

-

inside, the lights are too bright, the place almost empty.

you two are way too overdressed for this cheap gas station. him, not too much, a simple pair of his signature jeans with a white tee, jean jacket, and some boots.

and then obviously you. that dress that has some lace accents to it and some black flats. perfect. hair all curled at the ends too. perfect.

you head straight to the snacks. he follows, slower, watching you like you’re doing something interesting.

you grab it, holding it up with a grin. “this one.” a single dill pickle in a pack.

he makes a face instantly. “that’s actually terrible.”

“it’s not.”

“it is.”

“you don’t even like snacks!” you laugh, the sound echoing throughout the walls.

“i like good snacks. and not from gas stations either. i’d rather get hats.” he says, holding out one he already picked out the second he walked in here. reminded him of your dress.

you gasp softly. “this is a good snack.”

“no, it’s not.” he grins, guiding you closer to him easily.

“you’re wrong.”

“the lady’s always right.” he takes it from your hand anyway. “i’m buying it.”

“wow, so generous.”

“i know,” he says. “i’m incredible.” he places a soft kiss on your temple as you approach the counter.

you reach for your wallet but then he’s already paying. “you don’t have to—”

“it’s like three dollars,” he says. “relax.”

you hesitate. “...thank you.”

he glances at you then, softer, popping the cap on your head. “of course.”

-

back in the car, you don’t leave right away. you open the snack, the baseball cap now on the dashboard, hair tucked behind your ears, fiddling with the wrapper.

“tonight was a lot.” you say again, quieter this time.

it’s really nothing you’re used to. sure, you have great friends, but meeting new people who already had such high expectations for you is definitely more nerve-wracking. and they all really liked you. and for some reason that comes as a surprise.

he leans his head back, turning slightly toward you. “yeah?”

“i think i’m just tired.”

“that’s okay.” he smiles. “why do you seem sorry?”

you glance at him. “i’m kind of boring when i’m like this.”

he snorts. “you’re not boring.”

“i’m literally sitting here eating snacks in silence.”

“yeah, and i’m still here.”

you look up at that. he meets your eyes, expression soft but steady.

“you don’t have to be ‘on’ with me,” he says. “i don’t need that.”

you swallow. “most people do.”

“i’m not like most people.” there's a pause. “even if you’re in a weird mood,” he adds, quieter. “i still wanna be around you.”

your chest just aches. “okay,” you say softly.

“okay,” he echoes.

-

home feels softer.

the door clicks shut behind you and it’s like everything from the night just falls away. no music, no voices, no chaos — just quiet, dim light spilling from the lamp in the corner and the familiar hum of a place that already knows you.

you kick your shoes off without thinking, nudging them toward the wall with your foot.

“you always leave them there,” he points out from behind you.

“yeah,” you mumble, already halfway to the couch. “if it bothers you that much you can move them. or do your hands not work?” you tease lightly.

“she’s back.” he smiles, bending down to pick up your shoes and put them on the shoe rack with a smile. “you know my hands work.” he says, earning an eye-roll from you.

you drop onto the couch, sinking into it, pulling a blanket over your lap.

“comfy?” he asks.

you nod, curling slightly into yourself. “very.”

he tosses the snack at you from the doorway. you catch it without looking, like you’ve done it a hundred times. “thank you,” you mumble, already messing with the wrapper again.

“yeah,” he says easily, disappearing down the hallway for a second.

you can hear him moving around, opening something, closing something, the quiet little sounds of him being here. it makes something in your chest settle even more.

when he comes back, he doesn’t say anything — just flops down next to you in some more comfy clothing, handing over one of his hoodies to you, getting close enough that your knees bump.

you lean forward to pull the hoodie over your head quickly, pulling the sleeves over your hands before leaning into him without thinking.

he doesn’t hesitate. his arm comes around you instantly, pulling you in like it’s the most natural thing in the world, like there’s no version of this where he wouldn’t.

“hi,” he murmurs, nudging his nose lightly against your hair.

you smile against his shoulder. “hi.”

“you survived.”

“barely.”

he huffs a quiet laugh, his hand rubbing slowly up and down your arm. “you did great.”

“yeah?”

“yeah,” he says. “everyone liked you.”

you tilt your head just enough to look at him. “they were nice.”

“they are nice,” he agrees, then adds, softer, “but they liked you more than usual.”

you narrow your eyes slightly. “what does that mean?”

“it means,” he starts, grinning a little, “you laughed at matt’s dumb jokes and didn’t completely destroy wesley’s ego.”

“i absolutely did that.”

“yeah,” he laughs. “and he still liked you. that’s how i know it’s serious.”

you smile, shaking your head.

you open your snack, pushing the pickle up just a little, offering it toward him without looking. he takes a bite, even though he said he doesn’t like it.

“this is still bad,” he says.

“you’re still eating it.”

“i’m committed.”

he glances at you, a little smirk tugging at his mouth. “making you happy. and taking care of you.”

you raise an eyebrow. “that’s what this is?”

“yeah,” he says easily. “very selfless of me.”

you nudge him. “you’re unbelievable.”

“you like it.”

“unfortunately.”

he grins.

for a second, it’s just quiet again — his thumb brushing along your arm, slow and steady, your head tucked into his shoulder.

“i feel bad texting people late,” you murmur sort of randomly. “when i can’t sleep.”

he shifts slightly. “then don’t text people.”

you glance up. “what?”

“text me.”

you smile a little. “you’ll be asleep.”

“then wake me.”

you shake your head, laughing softly. “no, i’m not doing that.”

“why not?”

“because it’s annoying.”

“i don’t care.”

“you will be at like, three in the morning.”

he tilts his head, fully looking down at you now. “i won’t.”

“you say that now.”

he nudges you gently, causing you to look at him again. “hey.” he’s soft but steady. “i mean it,” he says, quieter. “if you’re lonely or something, just… wake me up.”

you hesitate just a little. he notices, of course. his thumb slows against your arm.

“or if you just miss me,” he adds, lighter now, a hint of a smile. “which, let’s be honest, is very likely.”

you huff a small laugh. “you’re so full of yourself.”

“not full of myself,” he corrects. “just confident you’re obsessed with me.”

“that’s not true.”

“no?” he leans in a little closer, teasing you again. “not even a little?”

you try to hold your expression, but you’re smiling. “...maybe a little.”

“yeah,” he murmurs, satisfied. “thought so.”

there’s a pause.

then, softer, “still kinda crazy, though.”

“what is?” you ask.

he looks at you like he’s half debating saying it. “you,” he says finally. “like… i get to come home and you’re just here.”

your chest warms. “you’re being dramatic again.”

“i’m being honest,” he says, quieter.

you study him for a second. then you lean up, pressing a soft kiss to his mouth. it’s quick at first — just enough to catch him off guard. he smiles into it almost immediately.

“okay,” he murmurs against your lips. “that helps my case.”

“your case?” you whisper.

“yeah,” he says, leaning back in, slower this time. “that you like me.”

“i never said i didn’t.”

“good,” he breathes.

this time the kiss lingers.

soft, unhurried, his hand coming up to your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek as he tilts his head just slightly. there’s no rush to it — just warmth, just him staying close.

when he pulls back, it’s barely an inch between the two of you. his forehead rests against yours, eyes half-lidded, a small smile still there.

“you know,” he murmurs, voice quieter now, a little playful edge slipping in, “for someone who ‘just tolerates me,’ you kiss me a lot. you do a lot to me.”

you let out a soft laugh, nudging his shoulder. “don’t ruin it.”

“i’m not ruining it,” he says, smiling. “i’m just pointing it out.”

“you’re annoying.”

“and yet,” he leans in again, brushing another quick kiss against your lips, “you’re still here.”

you shake your head, smiling into him. “yeah,” you mumble.

his arm tightens slightly around you as you settle back against his chest, eating the pickle yourself now, his hand returning to its slow, familiar rhythm along your arm.

everything feels easy, quiet, and warm. like you don’t have to think about anything else except for him, except for this. and honestly? neither of you would trade it for anything.

steve sat at the table with a screwdriver in his hand, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, your dad standing next to him holding the loose hinge from the cabinet door.

your mom was hovering near the stove.

everyone looked very comfortable. too comfortable.

steve noticed you first.

his head lifted and his eyes landed on you instantly, the way they always used to when you walked into a room, like some invisible string had pulled his attention straight toward you and then he smiled.

that stupid soft smile that used to make you forget what you were mad about.

“hey.” he said.

you stared at him.

“why are you in my house?”

“he’s fixing the cabinet hinge.” your dad answered before steve could.

steve lifted the screwdriver slightly like proof. “your dad said the door’s been crooked for two weeks.”

you dropped your bag on the chair.

“so you called my ex-boyfriend?”

“he called me.” steve corrected lightly.

your mom turned around from the stove and pointed a wooden spoon at you.

“don’t start. steve was being very helpful.”

steve’s mouth twitched like he was trying not to laugh.

you narrowed your eyes at him.

he had the decency to look a little guilty but not guilty enough to leave.

that became the problem because he kept showing up. sometimes it was because your dad “needed help” fixing something, lie, he just wanted to spend time with steve. sometimes your mom invited him to dinner.

once he showed up with a grocery bag because he said the store had a sale on the cereal your dad liked.

your parents adored him.

and steve… steve was annoyingly good at acting like nothing had changed. like the two of you hadn’t broken up. like he wasn’t still

it drove you absolutely insane because the worst part was how natural it all felt.

you’d come downstairs in the morning and he’d already be there drinking coffee with your dad, hair messy, wearing that faded sweatshirt he’d had since senior year.

and he’d look up and grin at you like this was completely normal. “morning.”

like he hadn’t kissed you in this house a hundred times.

you tried ignoring him.

that lasted about three days because steve was terrible at being ignored.

one evening you were standing in the kitchen pouring yourself a glass of orange juice when he wandered in behind you.

no parents.

just you and steve.

he leaned his hip against the counter like he’d always done, arms crossed loosely.

“you’ve been avoiding me.”

you didn’t look at him. “i live here.”

“yeah,” he said. “and yet somehow i only see the back of your head.”

you set the carton down harder than necessary. “what do you want, steve?”

there was a pause.

long enough that you finally looked at him.

he looked nervous, which was weird.

steve was many things, dramatic, stubborn, occasionally dumb, but nervous wasn’t usually one of them.

he rubbed the back of his neck. “i just think it’s weird.”

“what’s weird?" you ask.

“that we broke up and suddenly you act like i’m radioactive.”

you scoffed. “we’re not friends, steve.”

“we were before we dated.”

“yeah, and then we dated.” you sigh.

“so?”

you stared at him. “so you don’t get to just… keep hanging around like nothing happened.”

his eyes softened a little. “something did happen.”

“exactly.” you murmur.

“you broke up with me.” he whispers.

you flinched slightly. steve noticed immediately. he always noticed when something hurt you.

he pushed away from the counter slowly.

now he was standing closer. so close you could smell his cologne. the same one he’d worn since senior year. it made your chest ache in an annoying, familiar way.

“you said you needed space.” he said quietly.

“i did.”

“so i gave it to you.”

“i know-”

“i didn’t call,” he continued. “i didn’t show up at your job. i didn’t beg or make a scene or any of that stuff guys in movies do.”

you opened your mouth, but he kept going.

“but your parents still like me.” he said with a small shrug. “what am i supposed to do, tell them no when they invite me over?”

“yes.”

he huffed a quiet laugh. “your mom made pot roast last week and literally told me to take leftovers home.”

you rubbed your forehead. “that’s not the point.”

steve watched you for a moment and then he said softly, “you don’t actually want me gone.”

“excuse me?” your head snapped up.

“you keep saying you do,” he said. “but every time i come over you still look at me like-”

“like what?”

he hesitated, and then he said it anyway.

“like you’re trying really hard not to remember you still love me.”

your stomach flipped hard enough that you hated him a little for noticing.

“you’re unbelievably full of yourself.”

“maybe.” he said but he didn’t sound convinced.

he was even closer now, close enough that if you leaned forward even a little your shoulder would touch his chest.

you hated that your body remembered him so easily. how tall he was. how warm he always felt. how his presence filled a room.

“why do you keep coming here, steve?” you asked quietly.

steve didn’t answer right away. he looked down at the floor, nudging the tile with his sneaker, then he looked back at you.

and there it was.

that soft, open expression he only ever showed you.

“because,” he said, voice low. “your house still feels like home and i can see how you´re doing, if you´re okay...”

your throat tightened.

you looked away first and steve stepped closer.

his hand came up like he was going to touch your arm but stopped halfway, hovering like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed anymore.

that hesitation hurt more than if he’d just done it.

“i- you-” you hesitate.

he swallowed, big brown eyes staring right into you. “yeah?”

“you can’t keep doing this.”

“doing what?” he asks.

“being here.”

he studied your face carefully.

“you’re the one who told me i wasn’t allowed in your room anymore.” he shrugged slightly. “you never said anything about the kitchen.”

you shoved his shoulder. “you’re impossible...”

he laughed and for a second it felt exactly like it used to.

then your mom’s voice called from the living room. “steve, honey, are you staying for dinner?”

steve glanced toward the hallway, then back at you, one eyebrow lifted slightly like he was asking permission.

you stared at him.

he smiled just a little.

“your call, baby.” he murmured.

your heart was beating way too fast for someone who had supposedly moved on from their ex-boyfriend.

your mother didn’t even try to hide how pleased she was when you walked into the dining room with steve a few minutes later.

she looked from you to him, eyebrows lifting just slightly in that knowing way that made your skin crawl.

“good,” she said, placing a bowl of mashed potatoes in the middle of the table. “i was hoping you’d stay, steve.”

steve, who had somehow already ended up with his hand on the back of your chair, smiled easily.

“i mean, it’d be pretty hard to say no to your cooking.”

your dad laughed from the head of the table. “smart man.”

you shot steve a warning look before sitting down.

he just grinned like he hadn’t noticed or like he had and was enjoying it.

the chair beside you scraped softly as he sat. too close.

not technically inappropriate. there were only four chairs at the table but still close enough that when he shifted, his knee brushed yours under the table.

you immediately moved your leg.

steve noticed.

he glanced sideways at you, mouth twitching slightly before he reached for the basket of bread.

“so,” your mom said brightly, settling into her chair, “how’s work been, steve?”

“same as always.” he said, tearing off a piece of bread. “the team is getting better. i think..."

you laugh.

steve’s eyes flicked to you instantly.

there was something annoyingly pleased about the way he looked at you, like he’d just scored a small victory.

“glad you think that’s funny.” steve muttered, reaching for the potatoes.

your dad kept talking, oblivious.

“didn´t you go to one of his games just a few weeks ago, honey?" your dad asks.

“um, yeah...” you admit slowly. "marie had to drive her brother there so we stayed."

steve leaned slightly toward you.

just enough that you could hear him over the conversation.

“you were watching my game?” he said quietly.

you stabbed a green bean.

“i was...”

“and you didn´t talk to me there?”

“i had nothing to say, steve.”

“you absolutely did.”

you finally turned your head to glare at him.

“stop, steve.”

steve raised his eyebrows. “didn´t even congratulate me on the win...”

"you lost that day, steve." you roll your eyes.

steve blinked once.

then he leaned back in his chair, slow and dramatic, one hand pressing to his chest like you’d personally wounded him.

“wow,” he said. “okay. first of all, that was unnecessary.”

you gave him a flat look.

your dad frowned slightly. “you lost that game?”

steve pointed his fork at you without looking away.

“technically? yes.” he said. “emotionally? i was doing great until about ten seconds ago.”

your mom tried to hide a smile behind her glass.

you scoffed and went back to pushing food around your plate.

steve didn’t, he was still looking at you.

you could feel it. that steady, familiar stare that used to make you forget whatever you’d been trying to say.

“so,” he said after a moment, voice thoughtful. “you were there the whole time?”

you didn’t answer.

your dad did.

“she came home talking about the game.” he said casually.

you choked on your drink. “dad.”

steve’s head snapped toward him. “she did?”

your dad nodded, cutting into his steak like this was normal dinner conversation. “said it was loud. that the other team kept fouling.”

you closed your eyes briefly. great. steve was smiling now.

you didn’t even have to look to know it.

“huh.” he said slowly. “that’s funny.”

you sighed. “what?”

“because i don’t remember seeing you.”

“i was in the stands.”

“yeah.” he said. “i checked the stands.”

“what...?” you froze, your fork hovered mid-air.

he shrugged, very casually. “habit.”

your mom glanced between you two. “steve always looks for you at his games.”

your heart skipped in a very inconvenient way.

you turned toward him slowly. “you… checked?”

steve seemed to realize he’d said something revealing.

he cleared his throat and focused on cutting his food.

“i mean. not like… obsessively or anything.”

you raised an eyebrow.

he kept going. “just, you know. out of curiosity.”

“curiosity.” you repeated flatly.

“don’t make it weird.” he stabbed a piece of potato.

“you’re the one who was apparently scanning the bleachers.”

“i glance up sometimes.” he says.

“you said you checked.”

he finally looked at you again. that little teasing smirk that meant he’d decided to double down instead of backtracking.

“well,” he said lightly, “i used to have a pretty good reason to.”

you hated how warm your face suddenly felt.

your dad, completely unaware of the tension, leaned back in his chair. “you were a hell of a player in high school, steve.”

“yeah, well. that was high school.” steve laughed under his breath.

“still got the moves.” your dad said.

steve tilted his head slightly toward you. “apparently not impressive enough for some people.”

you rolled your eyes.

under the table, his knee nudged yours again.

you shot him a look. he didn’t move it. instead he reached across the table for the salt.

“pass the pepper?” he asked casually.

you slid it toward him.

your fingers brushed briefly when he took it, steve didn’t pull his hand away right away. neither did you.

your mom noticed immediately.

you could tell by the way her eyes lit up.

“you know,” she said thoughtfully, “steve used to come over after every one of his basketball games.”

you groaned.

“mom, i know... i was here. no need to mention.”

“what?” she said innocently. “it’s true.”

your dad chuckled.

“covered in sweat and complaining about that boy, billy.”

steve laughed, rubbing the back of his neck. “okay.”

your mom continued like she’d been waiting for this moment.

“and you would sit right there,” she pointed to steve’s chair, “and eat half the food in the fridge.”

steve nodded solemnly. “i was a growing athlete.”

“you were a terrible at basketball, steve.” you corrected.

he grinned.

then he glanced sideways at you again.

“well, someone used to bring me ice packs.”

your stomach flipped.

you stared down at your plate. “i was being nice.”

“you were worried about me.” he says.

“i was worried you’d bleed on the carpet.”

steve laughed softly. “sure.”

“you two were always attached at the hip.” your dad took a sip of his drink.

there was a small pause at the table.

steve’s smile faded just slightly.

he glanced at you.

you kept your eyes on your plate.

then he nudged your foot gently under the table.

not teasing this time, just a soft little bump to get your attention.

you looked at him.

“hey.” his voice was quieter when he spoke.

you frowned. “what?”

he nodded toward your plate. “you still haven’t eaten.”

“why are you monitoring my dinner?” you blinked.

“because you’ve moved the same green bean around like six times.” he shrugged one shoulder.

you stared at him.

your mom laughed softly. “he’s right.”

you looked between them, betrayed.

steve slid the bread basket a little closer to you.

“eat.” he said, voice gentle but teasing at the edges. “or your mom’s gonna think i stressed you out.”

“you do stress me out.”

“yeah, but not about dinner.” he smiles.

you tore off a piece of bread just to prove a point.

steve watched you take a bite.

then he leaned back in his chair, satisfied.

you glared at him while chewing. “don’t look so proud of yourself.”

he lifted his hands in mock surrender, but the smile stayed.

“hey, i’m just making sure you survive dinner.”

“i was surviving just fine before you started monitoring my vegetables.”

your dad shook his head with a quiet laugh, cutting into another piece of meat. “you two pick at each other like this everywhere or just in my house?”

“oh, everywhere. she loves me.” steve answered immediately.

you kicked his shin under the table.

he winced.

“wow,” he muttered. “violent tonight.”

“you deserve it.”

your mom was watching the whole thing with a suspiciously delighted expression.

after a moment she set her napkin down and looked straight at you.

“why don’t you two go upstairs for a bit after dinner?”

you blinked. “what...?”

she waved her hand casually. “you haven’t caught up in months.”

steve coughed into his drink.

your dad raised an eyebrow but didn’t look particularly bothered.

“yeah,” he said. “go talk.”

you stared at both of them like they’d lost their minds.

steve leaned closer to you slightly. “your parents are very confident in me.” he murmured.

“don’t flatter yourself.” you shot him a look but your face was warm again.

dinner wrapped up not long after that, and before you could even think of an excuse, your mom was already waving the two of you toward the hallway.

“go on!” she said. “i’ll handle the dishes.”

you looked back once. she was smiling too knowingly.

steve noticed.

“she definitely thinks something’s happening.” he whispered as you walked toward the stairs.

“nothing is happening.” you muttered.

he didn’t answer which somehow made it worse.

you reached your bedroom door first.

for a second you hesitated with your hand on the knob.

steve was right behind you, close enough that you could feel the warmth of him at your back.

“you gonna make me wait out here?” he asked softly.

you rolled your eyes and pushed the door open. “don’t get used to this.”

steve stepped inside like he’d been there yesterday instead of months ago.

his gaze moved slowly around the room, the same posters, same desk, same bed tucked under the window.

“wow.” he let out a quiet breath.

you leaned against the door. “what?”

“nothing. it just… looks exactly the same.” he shook his head, smiling faintly.

“it’s my room, steve. i didn’t redecorate because we broke up.”

“yeah, i know.”

he walked a little farther in, running his fingers along the edge of your desk absentmindedly.

then he looked back at you. “feels weird, though.”

“why?”

“last time i was in here,” he said slowly, “you were yelling at me.”

“i wasn’t yelling.” you winced slightly.

he raised an eyebrow. “you definitely were.”

“you were being annoying.” you crossed your arms.

“i usually am.”

you huffed out a breath.

for a moment neither of you spoke.

the quiet felt different up here.

closer.

more dangerous.

steve leaned back against your dresser, watching you carefully.

“you didn’t talk to me at the game.” he said.

“we’re still on that?” you groaned softly.

“yeah.” he said simply. “kinda.”

you looked at the floor. “i didn’t think you’d want me to.”

“why wouldn’t i?” he asks.

“because,” you said slowly, “i’m the one who broke up with you.”

steve studied your face for a long moment then he pushed away from the dresser.

one step closer.

“that doesn’t mean i stopped wanting to see you.”

your chest tightened.

“steve-”

“you think this has been easy?” he asked quietly.

another step.

now he was right in front of you.

you could feel your heartbeat climbing.

“seeing you around town and pretending it doesn’t mess with my head?”

“you’re the one who keeps coming over.” you swallowed.

“yeah...” he said softly.

his hand lifted slowly, brushing a loose strand of hair away from your face.

the touch was gentle like he wasn’t sure he was allowed anymore.

“because staying away was worse.” he finishes.

your breath caught.

his thumb lingered briefly near your temple.

then slid down lightly along your cheek.

“i miss you.” he murmured.

“steve…” your eyes dropped to the floor.

“no,” he said softly. “look at me.”

you did and the look in his eyes made your stomach flip.

he’d been holding something in for months.

“you still came to my game.” he said quietly.

“i told you-”

“and you sat there the whole time.”

his hand slid down to your wrist.

not gripping, just holding it loosely.

“that means something.” he whispers.

“not necessarily.”

another small step closer.

now there was barely any space between you.

“it does.” steve says.

your heart was beating so loud you were sure he could hear it.

“i miss you so much.” he said again, softer this time.

his thumb brushed slowly over your wrist.

“i miss this.” he continued. “talking to you. you glaring at me every five minutes. being in here with you.”

despite yourself, your lips twitched.

he noticed immediately. “there it is.”

“don’t.” you sigh.

“that little smile you try to hide.”

you pushed lightly at his chest. “you’re insufferable, steve.”

he didn’t move back. instead his hand came up to catch yours.

your breath hitched.

for a moment the room was very quiet.

then steve leaned in, slow enough that you could’ve stopped him.

but you didn’t.

his lips met yours, firm, and the second it happened something in your chest unraveled.

the kiss deepened quickly.

months of tension snapping tight all at once.

his hand slid to the back of your neck, fingers curling gently in your hair as he pulled you closer.

you grabbed the front of his shirt without thinking.

steve made a quiet sound against your mouth.

“god.” he murmured between kisses, voice rough. “i missed this.”

his forehead rested briefly against yours.

your breathing was uneven.

so was his.

his thumb brushed lightly along your jaw.

“you have no idea how hard it’s been not doing that.”

you tried to steady yourself. “steve…”

but he kissed you again before you could finish.

softer this time.

slower.

like he was savoring it.

his voice was low when he spoke again.

“tell me to stop if you want me to.”

you didn’t.

instead your fingers travelled to his chest.

and steve smiled faintly against your lips like that answer was exactly what he’d been hoping for.

"What's first?" he asks.

You look at the recipe, then at the ingredients. "I need to chop the garlic. And the herbs. And then there's the sauce, and then the pasta, and—"

"Okay." He reaches for the garlic to start peeling. You've cooked together enough times that you don't need to talk about who does what. It's like breathing at this point, the way you move around each other.

Steve slides the garlic across the cutting board toward you, and you crush it with the flat of your knife, the way he taught you, and he watches your hands for a second before turning to the stove.

"You got the lemons?" he asks.

"In the bowl. I already juiced them."

He glances over, sees the bowl of pale yellow liquid, the pile of spent rinds beside it. His mouth curves. "You started without me."

"You were in the shower."

"You could have waited."

You shrug, smiling. "I was excited."

He reaches for you, just for a second, his hand on the back of your neck, his thumb brushing your jaw. "Cute," he says, and then he's back to the stove, heating the pan, adding oil, waiting for it to shimmer.

You work around each other like two pieces of the same puzzle. He reaches for the salt, and you're already handing it to him. You need the herbs, and he's sliding the cutting board toward you before you can ask. He's at the stove, stirring the sauce, and you're at the counter, dropping pasta into boiling water, and somehow you never bump into each other, never get in each other's way.

"This needs more lemon," he says, and you're already handing him the bowl.

"More garlic, too?"

He dips a spoon into the sauce, holds it out to you. You taste it, your lips closing around the spoon, and he watches your face, waiting.

"More lemon," you confirm. "And a little salt."

He grins. "That's what I said."

"You didn't say the salt."

"I was about to."

You laugh, and he adds the garlic, stirs it in, and then his hand finds your hip again, just resting there, a warm weight while you drain the pasta and he finishes the sauce.

"You're going to burn yourself," you say, nodding at the pan.

"I'm watching it."

"You're watching me."

He doesn't deny it. His hand squeezes your hip, and then he's turning back to the stove, adding the pasta to the sauce, tossing it together the way the recipe shows. You stand beside him, your shoulder pressed to his arm.

"What do you think?" he murmurs, picking up the pan by the handle, tilting it so you can see.

"I think," you say, "that we're getting good at this."

Steve's smile widens. He sets the pan down, pulls you into his side, presses a kiss to your temple. "We're getting good at everything."

Dinner is ready at seven. You plate it yourself, two bowls, a sprinkle of parmesan on top, a twist of black pepper. Steve is already at the table, watching you, his chin in his hand, his eyes soft.

"You're staring," you say, setting his bowl in front of him.

"I'm admiring."

You sit across from him, tuck your legs up under you, pick up your fork. "You're going to make me blush."

"Good." He picks up his own fork, takes a bite, and his eyes close for a second. When they open, they're fixed on your face. "This is really good. Like, really good."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." He takes another bite, and he doesn't look at his bowl. He doesn't look at anything else. Just you. "You're getting better at this. Every time."

"It's not just me. You helped."

"I chopped garlic. You did everything else."

"I would have burnt the sauce without you."

He grins. "Probably."

You talk while you eat. It's easy, the way it always is with him. He tells you about his day, about the kids at work, about a funny thing Robin said that made him laugh so hard he almost choked on his coffee. You tell him about your day, about the book you're reading, about the woman who came into the shop and bought flowers for herself because she said she deserved them, and wasn't that just the best thing?

"It is," he says. "The best thing."

He's still watching you. His bowl is almost empty, and he's still watching you, his fork moving automatically, his eyes never leaving your face. You feel it, the weight of his attention, the warmth of it.

It makes you want to be quiet, to let him look, to let him fill himself up on the sight of you the way he's filling himself up on the food.

"You're doing it again," you say, soft.

"Doing what?"

"Looking at me like that."

He sets his fork down, leans back in his chair. His eyes are soft, darker in the low light, and there's a small smile on his mouth that makes your stomach flip. "Like what?"

You don't have words for it. You never have words for it. The way he looks at you sometimes, like you're something he's still surprised to have, like you're something he's never going to take for granted. You shake your head, look down at your bowl, and you can feel his smile across the table, warm and steady.

"You're cute when you're shy," he says.

"I'm not shy."

"You're blushing."

You are. You can feel it, the heat in your cheeks, and you press your hands to your face and laugh, and he laughs too, and the sound of it mixes with the rain, fills up the kitchen, fills up your chest.

After dinner, you move to the couch. Steve settles first, stretching out, his arm along the back, and you curl up beside him, your legs tucked under you, your head finding his shoulder like it belongs there. The TV is on but neither of you are watching. The apartment is dark except for your favourite lamp in the corner, casting the living room in gold.

Steve's hand finds your hair, fingers threading through it, slow and lazy. His chest rises and falls under your cheek, steady and warm, and you let your eyes close, just for a minute, just to feel it.

"You're getting sleepy," he says.

"I'm not."

"You're barely keeping your eyes open."

"I'm resting them."

His hand moves from your hair to your shoulder, then your arm, then your hand. He pulls it to his chest, holds it there, his thumb tracing circles on your palm.

"You can fall asleep," he says. "I've got you."

"M not gonna fall asleep."

"Okay."

"I'm not."

"Okay, sweetheart."

You open your eyes, just to prove him wrong. He's looking down at you, that soft look on his face, the one that makes your chest go tight. His thumb is still moving on your palm, slow and soothing, and you feel yourself sinking, sinking, the warmth of him pulling you under.

"I love your hands," you murmur.

His thumb stops. "What?"

"Your hands." You turn yours over, lace your fingers through his. "They're so big. I like when you hold my hand. I like when you cook with me. I like when you touch my face."

He's quiet for a moment. When he speaks, his voice is lower, softer. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." Your eyes are closing again. You can't help it. "I like everything about you. Did I ever tell you that? Everything."

"You tell me."

"I mean it." You press closer, your face against his chest, his heartbeat under your ear. "I like your hair. I like your laugh. I like the way you say my name. I like—"

Your voice fades. You're not sure what you were going to say. It doesn't matter. He knows, you think.

"Sweetheart," he says, and his voice is so soft, so gentle, like he's talking to something small and precious. "You're falling asleep."

"Mmm."

"Come on. Let's get you to bed."

He shifts, and his hands slide under you, one behind your back, one under your knees, and you're being lifted, cradled against his chest. You curl into him automatically, your face finding his neck, your arms looping around his shoulders. He smells like your soap and home.

"I can walk," you mumble.

"I know."

"You don't have to carry me."

"I want to."

You sigh, content, and your fingers find the collar of his shirt, play with the fabric.

He carries you through the dark apartment, past the kitchen, past the windows where the rain is still falling, soft now, almost silent. The bedroom is dark, the sheets cool when he lays you down, but he doesn't let go. He stays there, leaning over you, his hands braced on either side of your head, his face close to yours.

"There," he says. "Comfortable?"

You reach for him, your hand finding his cheek. His skin is warm, a little rough from the day, and he leans into your touch, his eyes closing.

"Stay," you whisper.

"I'm not going anywhere."

"I know." Your thumb traces his cheekbone. "I just like saying it."

He turns his head, presses a kiss to your palm. "You're sweet when you're sleepy."

"I'm always sweet."

"You're always sweet," he agrees softly, smiling. Then he pulls back, and you make a sound of protest, but he's not leaving. He's just standing up, reaching for the covers. "Let me tuck you in."

You let him. You let him pull the blanket up to your chin, let him smooth it down, let him stand there for a moment, looking down at you with something soft and wondering in his eyes.

Then you remember. "Stevie."

"Yes, angel?"

"I gotta brush my teeth," you mumble sleepily.

He laughs, a breath of sound against your skin. "Okay. Come on."

He lifts you again, carries you to the bathroom, and you let him. You always let him. He sits you on the counter, the cool marble pressing against your thighs, and your legs dangle, and you watch him move around the bathroom, getting his toothbrush, getting yours.

He puts toothpaste on both brushes, hands yours to you, and then he's standing between your legs, his chest against your knees, and you brush your teeth together. It's silly, it's so silly, and you're both smiling around the foam, and his free hand is on your thigh, keeping you steady, keeping you close.

You spit, rinse, and he does the same, and then he takes your brush from your hand, sets them both on the counter. His hands find your waist, thumbs pressing into the soft skin there.

"There," he says. "Clean."

His hands slide up your back, pulling you against him, and you wrap your arms around his neck, let him hold you. He's warm, so warm, and his heart is beating against your chest, and you think about how you get to have this, every night, every day, for as long as you want.

"I love you," you murmur into his neck.

His arms tighten around you. "I love you too."

He lifts you again, carries you back to the bedroom, and this time he doesn't put you down. He climbs into bed with you, still holding you, and arranges you on top of him, your head on his chest, your legs tangled with his.

"Better?" he asks.

You nod, your cheek rubbing against his shirt. "You're comfy."

He pulls the blanket up around you both, tucks it in, and then his hand is in your hair, stroking, slow and steady.

"Go to sleep," he says. "I've got you."

You want to say something else. Something about how much you love him, about how safe you feel, about how you never want to leave this moment. But you're so tired, and his hand is in your hair, and his heart is under your ear, and the rain has stopped, and the world is quiet.

"Stevie," you whisper.

His breath catches. "Yeah, sweetheart?"

You smile against his chest. "Goodnight."

He exhales, slow and soft. His lips press to your hair, linger there. "Goodnight, angel. I'll be right here."

And he is. When you wake in the morning, he's still there, his arms around you, his face turned toward yours, his breathing slow and even. You watch him for a moment, the way his lashes rest on his cheeks, the way his mouth is soft, the way his hand is still curled around your waist

You press a kiss to his jaw, and his arms tighten around you, even before he wakes.

"Stay," he murmurs, not opening his eyes.

the apartment is quiet except for the low hum of whatever documentary you put on that neither of you are really watching. joe’s stretched out along the couch, long legs hooked over the armrest, your head resting on his chest. his fingers are lazily tracing patterns along your shoulder absentmindedly.

you can feel him thinking before he says anything. he always gets a little still.

“hey” he says softly.

“hm?” you tilt your chin up just enough to look at him.

he stares at the ceiling for a second, then down at you. “i’ve been thinking about doing something kind of dumb.”

you squint at him. “strong opener.”

he huffs a quiet laugh. “i kinda wanna bleach my hair.”

you push yourself up onto your elbow immediately. “really?”

he shrugs, a little sheepish now. “yeah. i don’t know. just once. see what happens.”

you study him like you’re already picturing it, fingers brushing into his hair at his temple. “you’re serious.”

“yeah.” he watches your face carefully. “is it a bad idea?”

“no” you say slowly, and then your eyes light up. “i can totally do it for you.”

he blinks. “wait, really?”

“yeah. do this for a living, remember?” you sit up fully now, already in work mode. “we’d have to do it in stages if you don’t want to fry it. your hair’s dark. and we’d need a good toner so it doesn’t go, like, yellow.”

he smiles at you in that quiet way he does when he’s impressed. “i love when you start talking like that.”

“like what?”

“like you’re about to run a science experiment on me.”

you grin. “kind of is.”

he reaches up and tucks a piece of your hair behind your ear. “i’d trust you with it. obviously.”

there’s something soft in his voice when he says that, and it makes your chest feel warm.

“we could do it next weekend,” you say, already planning. “i’ll bring proper stuff from the salon, not the drugstore disaster kit.”

“wow. no disaster kit?” he teases.

“absolutely not. i have a reputation.”

he laughs, then leans forward and presses a kiss into the top of your head. “thank you” he murmurs against your hair. not dramatic. just simple.

you settle back against him. “don’t thank me yet. you might hate it.”

“if i hate it, you’ll fix it.”

“that’s a lot of faith.”

he shrugs again, but his arm tightens around you. “i just like the idea of you doing it. feels… fun.”

you smile a little at that. “okay. next saturday. we’ll order food, make a night of it.”

“we documenting this?” he asks.

“absolutely not” you say immediately.

he laughs again, the sound vibrating under your cheek. “fine. private transformation.”

you both go quiet after that, the idea hanging comfortably between you. his fingers drift back into your hair this time, slow and easy.

“blonde, huh” you mumble.

“blonde” he agrees.

and you can already picture it.

-

the next weekend the apartment smells faintly like coffee and whatever clean, chemical edge the bleach has. you’ve covered the table with old towels, lined up bowls, brushes, clips. everything neat.

you’re measuring out developer, when you feel arms slide around your waist.

he doesn’t say anything. just rests his chin on your shoulder and watches you mix.

you glance sideways at him. “hi.”

“hi” he says quietly, voice right by your ear.

his grip tightens a little, like he’s anchoring himself there. you can feel his breath against your neck while you stir, slow and careful.

“this is serious” he murmurs after a second, looking at the setup. “you look intense.”

“i am intense,” you reply. “this is your hair.”

he hums, still not moving, just watching you like you’re doing something fascinating instead of whisking powder and cream together. neither of you talk after that. it’s just quiet and warm and domestic in a way that makes your chest ache a little.

eventually you nudge him with your elbow. “okay. chair. let’s go.”

he sighs dramatically but obeys, dropping into the chair in the middle of the room like he’s about to be interrogated.

you drape a towel around his shoulders, fingers brushing the back of his neck. “don’t move.”

“i’m not moving” he says immediately, already moving.

“joe.”

“i’m just adjusting.”

“you asked for this” you remind him, dipping the brush into the bowl.

the first swipe of bleach goes on and he makes a face. “it smells weird.”

“oh my god, shut up.”

“i’m just saying-”

“you wanted to be blonde. this is the price.”

he slumps a little. “i’m bored already.”

you pause, staring at him through the mirror. “it’s been three minutes.”

“feels like twenty.”

“shut up” you repeat, but there’s no heat in it.

he watches you work in the mirror, eyes following every movement. after a minute he sighs again. “how do you not get bored doing this all day?”

you don’t even look up. “joe.”

“what?”

“shut up.”

he pulls an exaggerated offended face at your reflection, eyebrows raised, lips pressed together like he’s deeply wronged. you have to bite back a smile.

“i’m just curious” he insists. “you’re standing here painting my head.”

“not painting,” you mutter. “it’s lifting pigment.”

“see? wouldn't have known that if i didn't speak up”

you finally look at him, and he’s trying so hard not to grin. like he wants to stay annoyed but can’t quite commit to it.

“you’re impossible” you say.

he shrugs slightly, careful not to disturb the bleach. “you like me.”

you roll your eyes but your mouth betrays you, curving anyway. “unfortunately.”

his smile breaks through fully then, soft and a little crooked. he looks at you through the mirror like he can’t help it, like it’s automatic.

and you can’t help smiling back, even while you shake your head and go back to work.

-

you finish the last section and lean back a little, studying your work.

“okay” you say. “now we wait.”

he groans softly. “how long?”

“like forty minutes? maybe a little less. i’ll keep checking it.”

“forty minutes” he repeats like you just sentenced him.

you drag a chair a little closer to his and flop down, swinging your legs over his lap without thinking. he automatically rests his hands on your calves.

“don’t move too much” you warn.

“i won’t” he says, already rubbing slow circles along your legs.

it’s quiet for a second, comfortable. the tv is on in the background again but neither of you are watching. he just traces patterns over your skin absentmindedly, thumbs pressing gently like he doesn’t even realise he’s doing it.

“so” he says after a minute. “what if i hate it.”

“then we tone it darker. or shave your head.”

he snorts.

he then squeezes your ankle lightly. “would you still date me if i went neon yellow.”

you look at him. “i would simply fix it.”

“that wasn’t the question.”

you shrug. “yeah. i’d still date you.”

he smiles at that, lazy and warm. “good.”

the conversation drifts after that. you talk about a client who tried to cut their own bangs. he tells you about a weird audition story. you argue about what to order for dinner. it’s the kind of talking where there’s no real point, just filling the space because you like hearing each other.

every so often you lean forward to check a strand, inspecting it carefully. “it’s lifting nicely” you mumble.

“is that good?”

“obviously”

he laughs quietly and goes back to rubbing your legs.

eventually you stand, brushing your hands together. “okay. bathroom. let’s rinse.”

he follows you obediently, bleach still processing, towel around his shoulders. you point to the floor beside the tub.

“sit.”

“on the floor?”

“yes.”

he sighs but lowers himself down, stretching his legs out. you turn on the water, testing the temperature with your wrist.

“tip your head back.”

he does, resting it carefully over the edge of the tub. from this angle he looks oddly vulnerable, hair paler and damp, eyes watching you.

“comfortable?” you ask.

“i guess.”

you start rinsing slowly, fingers working through his hair, making sure every bit of bleach washes away. the water runs cloudy at first, then clear.

his eyes close almost immediately.

you massage gently as you rinse, fingertips moving over his scalp in slow circles. he exhales, long and quiet.

“oh” he murmurs.

you glance down at him. “what.”

“nothin” he says, but his voice has gone softer. “just feels really good.”

you work conditioner in next, hands deliberately slower now. he sinks further against the tub edge, completely relaxed.

“don’t fall asleep” you say lightly.

“i might,” he replies, eyes still closed. “this is… really nice.”

you smile a little to yourself, watching how his face has smoothed out, all the earlier complaints gone. your fingers move through his hair again, careful, thorough.

“still bored?” you ask quietly.

he shakes his head just barely. “no.”

you rinse the last of the conditioner out, one hand steady at his forehead so he doesn’t slip. he looks peaceful, almost drifting.

“okay,” you say gently. “all done.”

he opens his eyes slowly, blinking up at you like he forgot where he was for a second.

“can you wash my hair every day?” he asks, completely serious.

you laugh softly. “absolutely not.”

but you can’t help the way you brush your thumb through his damp hair one more time before helping him sit up.

-

you plug in the dryer while he sits back down on the chair, hair damp and lighter already. he looks up at you like he’s waiting for a verdict you haven’t given yet.

“relax” you say. “we’re not done.”

you start drying slowly, fingers lifting sections, warm air moving through his hair. he closes his eyes again almost instantly.

“you’re so dramatic” you murmur.

“just appreciating the service” he replies, voice softer now.

your hands move through his hair over and over, shaping it as it dries. he leans into it without even thinking, every time your fingers brush his scalp he exhales a little.

“you’re making this last on purpose” you accuse.

“maybe” he says.

you roll your eyes but you slow down anyway, smoothing it into place, adjusting the front, fluffing it lightly. it suits him in a way you kind of expected but still feels new.

when you finally switch the dryer off, the room goes quiet again.

he opens his eyes immediately, searching your face. you step closer without saying anything, hands coming up to cup his jaw. you tilt his head slightly side to side, inspecting like you’re still in professional mode.

his hands hover awkwardly at his sides.

“what” he says carefully. “is it bad?”

he actually looks nervous now, brows pulling together just a little. like he’s bracing himself.

you stare at him for another beat, then shake your head slowly.

before he can say anything else, you lean down and kiss him. firm, warm, lingering just enough.

when you pull back, you’re smiling.

“no” you say quietly. “it’s hot.”

he blinks at you, then laughs, relief flooding his face. “shut up.”

“i’m serious.”

he stands up immediately and heads toward the hallway mirror. you follow, watching his reaction more than the reflection. he runs both hands through his hair, pushing it back, then forward, testing it out.

“oh” he says softly, almost to himself.

he turns his head side to side, then catches your wrist and pulls you in so you’re tucked against his side. his arm slides around your waist automatically.

“you like it?” you ask.

he nods, still looking at himself, then at you in the mirror. “yeah. yeah, i do.”

there’s a small pause before he looks at you properly.

“thank you” he says, more serious this time. “seriously.”

you shrug a little. “it was nothing, babe.”

he smiles at that, but then something shifts in his expression. his hand slides from your waist up to the back of your neck, fingers threading lightly into your hair.

he leans down and kisses you again.

this one isn’t quick.

it’s slow at first, like he’s still smiling into it, but then his mouth presses deeper, more certain. his other hand tightens at your hip, pulling you closer until there’s no space between you. you can feel the warmth of him, steady and grounding.

you kiss him back without hesitation, your hands fisting lightly into his shirt. his thumb brushes along your jaw as he tilts his head, the kiss deepening. it’s not messy or rushed, just full. like he’s trying to say something he doesn’t have words for.

he exhales softly against your mouth, and you feel the smile there again, even as he keeps kissing you.

when he finally pulls back, it’s slow. his forehead rests against yours for a second, both of you a little breathless.

he grins, running a hand through his newly blonde hair one more time.

“okay” he says quietly. “might never go back.”

you laugh, still close enough to feel his breath. “don’t push it.”

___

“It’s fine,” you lie as you pick up a few random tapes and pretend to consider them. You weren’t fine. You were trying not to cry.

Robin can tell she’s upset you and genuinely feels awful. The cassette tape in her hands clatters onto the table as she rushes to hug you. The telltales signs you were holding back tears were there—your eyes shining, bottom lip quivering and the way you went quiet.

You should be used to Steve’s casual dating by now. Should be used to the fact that he was fucking women who aren’t you. But honestly? You weren’t used to it at all.

And so, you rode home on your bike that night, crying as you tried not to imagine Steve and Emma—probably hooking up in the back of his beloved Beamer.

But now? Only three days later—Emma Stevens and Steve were the least of your worries.

The Upside Down always came knocking. Because of course it fucking did.

And this situation you found yourself in with none other than Steve himself—well, you were sure you weren’t going to make it out of this alive.

The room you were in—seemingly a boardroom of such in the upper floors of Hawkins Laboratory—was slowly but surely filling with a sludgy liquid that tried to keep you from moving.

You had no idea what was happening—you figured it had something to do with that energy shield (or whatever Dustin had theorised it was) you had just shot. But the guilt you’re feeling as you realise that you’ve condemned not only yourself but Steve to certain death—well, it’s all consuming.

“On the table,” Steve instructs, tugging on your hand so you follow—having to pull your legs up in order to move through the sludge.

Steve makes sure you go first—hoisting you up onto the table by your waist. You could have easily done it yourself but you took any and every opportunity—selfishly—for that man to touch you.

The table offered some reprieve—both of you free of that strange liquid that surrounded the table like an ominous ocean.

Steve looks at you—a look on his face you had seen only a few times before, one that plainly told you he was scared. “Wh-what do we do?” He asks you.

You look around the room, frantic—at the greyish liquid drawing ever closer—at the hole in the wall that had only made the situation worse as more and more sludge poured in—and finally, you look up at the gaping hole in the ceiling that was too high for either of you to reach and your only way of escape.

Steve is still looking at you—the way he’s always looked at you. Expectantly. Waiting to hear your plan. In the few years you had been falling into the Upside Down together, you always had a plan. Always one step ahead. But now—

“Help!” You yell out. “Help!”

And it’s that moment that Steve realises he was going to die. That if you didn’t see a way out of this? He knew there wasn’t one.

“Help!” He joins you, yelling in the hopes that Dustin, Nancy—hell, even Jonathan—would hear you. Though he knew, deep down, the trio were too many floors down to hear you both.

The two of you yell out, desperately. Trying your dammdest to live—to make it out of this alive. But as your voice cracks and Steve keeps yelling, you realise that no one was coming. That Dustin, Nancy and Jonathan couldn’t hear you. That you and Steve were going to die. Slowly, probably suffocating from the sludge. You thought about how painful it would be for that to fill your lungs.

“Steve—ju-just—stop,” you tell him, reaching out to tug his sleeve to get his attention. “They can’t hear us.”

Steve’s in denial. He shakes his head—fucking terrified—as he keeps on yelling anyway.

“DUSTIN! NANCY! JONATHAN! FUCK—ANYBODY—HELP US! HELP—”

“Steve!” You yell at him, your voice breaking as the tears finally start to fall. “Stop. They’re not—they’re not coming.”

Steve looks at you—at your tears. At the look on your face and he knows you’re right. Knows there isn’t a way out of this. Knows that you both aren’t going to be saved. That your will to leave alone couldn’t save you.

“We—we gotta try (y/n),” he says finally and you feel your heart do that funny thing it always did around Steve because fuck, he had so much fight in him. Such a will to live and you feel awful that this was your fault. That you were the one to shot the giant ball of matter.

You just look at him and shake your head, tears already spilling down your cheeks. “I’m so sorry, Steve—I didn’t know that would happen—“

“Hey, hey, hey,” Steve says gently, leaning closer to you and placing a hand on your knee. “Don’t cry. Please. You didn’t know. It’s not your fault.”

“But it is—”

“It’s not,” he cuts across you. You know he’s just saying it to make you feel better. But the matter of the fact is, if you hadn’t shot that thing, you both would still be up on the roof. Not stuck in this room, waiting to die. But you didn’t want the last few minutes of your life to be spent arguing with Steve’s over whose fault it was. So, you just nod and wipe away your tears.

It’s quiet then. Just you, Steve and both of you quietly accepting your fate.

“Wish I could—you know, listen to like one more song before—” Steve cuts himself off as he swallows. Not looking at you. His hand still on your knee.

“What song?” You ask in a quiet voice.

Steve looks at you and—you see the tears in his eyes for the first time. After everything you two had been through together with every Upside Down ‘adventure’ (because was several near death experiences really an adventure?)—you hadn’t ever seen him cry. Until now. But you don’t comment on it. You just look at him, waiting for his response.

“Take On Me,” he says, the corners of his mouth twitching.

You can’t help it, you laugh—despite the situation you both were in. It was just…so quintessentially Steve that you couldn’t help it.

“Haven’t you listened to that song enough?” You ask him, because Steve couldn’t seem to go a day without listening to that song. Robin had even made it a rule at the station that he was only allowed to play it three times a week, after you had received multiple complaints from listeners who counted a whopping eighteen plays of the track in a single week.

“Nah,” Steve says with a shake of his head, sniffling a little, “I bet you’d pick Edge of Seventeen.”

You bite back a smile—looking over at Steve with tears still falling.

“It’s a good song,” you say simply. Steve squeezes your knee.

You look away from him and your eyes dart around at the room again. You feel Steve squeeze your knee again. Grounding.

“Hey, look at me,” Steve says gently and you feel his fingers gently graze your cheek as he turns your head to look at him. Not at the reminder of your unfortunate fate. “Focus on me—”

You could feel your heart hammering in your chest. The gentle reminder that you were alive. Alive. Alive.

You hadn’t ever given much thought to it. Your heart that beat to keep you alive. But feeling it racing against your chest like that? Like it was desperate for you to live—you were grateful for it. Hadn’t ever been so grateful to be alive as you were now.

“I don't want to die, Steve,” you burst out in a panic, tears spilling down your cheeks. “I don't—”

“Neither do I,” Steve admits in a quiet voice. His hand on your knee tightening as his honeyed brown eyes flicker to meet yours, his other hand coming down to rest on your shoulder. “But I’m here, yeah? You won’t be alone.”

Your bottom lip quivers and you nod as a small sob escapes you because you were going to die. You were going die with the man you loved. And he still didn’t know—

“I wanna go first,” your murmur quietly. “I don't want to live in a world where Steve Harrington doesn't exist.”

“Don't,” Steve breathes out, jaw tense. Eyes shining and shaking his head. “Don't say that—”

“—and I’m s-sorry that it’s now that I’m telling y-you but I can’t die without you knowing,” you stutter out through shuddering breaths.

Steve looks back at you, lips parted and hanging on your every word. Unsure if he wanted you to keep talking or stop.

“I love you, Steve,” you tell him finally—your face wet with tears. “I always h-have.”

The silence you’re greeted with is the loudest you had ever heard. Your heart still hammering against your chest. Desperate to keep you to alive as death came—the liquid creeping ever closer with every second.

“Fuck—” Steve finally says, the fingers on your shoulder twitching as he shifts closer to you. “I had—I had no idea. And I’ve been—fuck—I’ve been screwing around for months—”

“—it’s okay,” you interrupt him with a shake of your head. “Really, Steve. It’s fine—”

“No. It’s not fine,” Steve says firmly, jaw set and his eyes roaming your face like he was seeing it for the first time. “Because I—shit—I love you too and I—I should've—fuck—I should've asked you out. Should've just done it instead of fucking wasting time. Should have taken you out for milkshakes or some shit—”

“Milkshakes?” You repeat, smiling a little. It was bittersweet. Because he wasn’t running. Didn’t find the idea of you being in love with him repulsive. And he said he loved you too.

Steve lifts his head up and catches your smile and fuck, if he does die—he wants your smile to be the last thing he sees.

“Yeah. Milkshakes,” Steve breathes out, “and bowling.”

“I would have kicked your ass at bowling,” you say, smiling at him as tears continue to fall. “Maybe would have let you get to second base too.”

Steve laughs—despite fucking everything, he's laughing.

“Shit, (y/n),” Steve breathes out, his forehead resting against yours, breath fanning your face. “You can't say that shit to me right now.”

“And I would have destroyed you at bowling. Would have worn a new shirt, bought you the biggest damn milkshake,” Steve's voice falters slightly, going quiet as his eyes flicker up to yours. “Would have kissed you stupid after.”

You smile at each other and for a moment—it’s just you and Steve. No grey sludge that was your death sentence around you.

“Fuck—we screwed up here,” Steve says and you laugh as you cry and suddenly he’s laughing too. You shouldn’t be. You’re about to die. It’s not funny, not in the slightest. But this moment? It didn’t feel scary. Or like death was around the corner. You just felt safe.

“Think we have time for me to kiss you stupid?” Steve murmurs quietly, fingers brushing along your jaw before his gaze falls onto your lips.

“Yeah,” you whisper back, eyes meeting his. Feeling his breath hot against your skin. “There’s time.”

He doesn’t wait a second.

You let out a noise of surprise as Steve's lips descend onto yours. There's no gentleness. No hesitation. Just years of tension and unspoken words between the two of you as your hands find the front of his jacket and tug him closer. Needing him so desperately as you kiss him back.

He groans—fucking groans—against your lips, his tongue tracing the seam of your mouth and groaning again when you part your lips for him. His hands scramble to find your waist and he licks into your mouth and in his desperation, begins to press you back against the table.

Your hand shoots out to stop yourself from tumbling back too quickly from Steve's eagerness. But instead of the gooey liquid you're expecting to feel—you feel something solid.

There's a wet noise as you pull away from him. His lips chase after yours.

“S-Steve,” you gasp. “Lo-look—”

Steve’s confused—face flushed, eyes wide and lips still wet from your kiss. “What? Was it too much or—”

It’s then he sees the solidified grey sludge. It had set just beneath the table.

“Does this mean—”

You don’t wait—you lean over the table and place both your hands on the solid surface. It doesn’t crack. Doesn’t budge in the slightest. You start to stand, you needed to be sure—

“(y/n), be careful! It might—”

But you ignore him. You stand up on the solidified sludge and—it’s a solid as concrete.

Steve looks at you for a moment that felt like a lifetime. And then—

He scrambles to his feet—his arms wrapping around your waist as he lifts you half off the ground.

“We’re okay,” he breathes out as you sob in relief, his free hand cupping the back of your head like he needed to touch you. Needed the reminder that he was alive. That you were alive.

Alive. Alive. Alive.

“We’re okay,” he repeats, setting you down and cupping your face between his hands as he wipes away your tears. “We’re okay—fuck—we’re okay.”

You don’t even have time to breathe before he’s kissing you again.

Soft. Gentle. Like he had all the time in the world. And now, he supposed you did. Had time for that date. Had time for milkshakes, bowling and maybe even second base.

“M’gonna—” Steve mumbles against your lips as your hands fist the front of his jacket. “—kick your ass at bowling.”

“Shut up,” you murmur back before pulling away and smiling up at him like this was the beginning of something, “you’re gonna be a gentlemen and let me win.”

Steve scoffs, his hands moving back down to your waist and squeezing gently.

“Oh, absolutely not if you’re offering to go to second base—”

You whacked him on the arm, feeling elated as he laughed. He ducked his head down to kiss you again and—

The sound of banging from the wall behind you is what pulls you away from each other. Steve doesn’t think as he pulls you behind him. Protective. It was so Steve it made your heart do funny things in your chest.

The banging continues. The drywall cracks. Dust fills the air and—

“What the fuck happened in here?”

You had never been so glad to hear Jonathan Byers’ voice.

Through the hole in the wall—seemingly made by the fire extinguisher in Jonathan’s hand—you see Nancy, Jonathan and Dustin. Looking at you and Steve and how close you were standing. His hands on your waist.

“Are we interrupting something?” Nancy asks with a small smile. “Or do you guys want to get out of here?”

You and Steve look at each other, adrenaline pumping through the both of you—having been so close, so certain you were going to die that it's hard to even stand still.

"Yeah," Steve says finally, keeping his arm around you and pulling you close. “Let’s get out of here. We’ve got a date to go on.”

dividers by the lovely @zclhs

MASTERLIST