Nerdekuhero

An hour prior

The bouncer assessed your ID, eyes flickering up at you, then back down to the card, raising it beside your face, looking back and forth.

Your friends were almost bouncing behind him, already through the doors, welcomed in.

His eyes squinted.

"Birthday?" He grumbled, giving you more of a hard time then the others in your group.

You felt heat rise to your cheeks, your heart begin to race, embarrassment creeping through you as you remembered the birthday on the card.

"Eleventh of march 1964" you answered, trying to sound confident in yourself as you stood tall, flashing the man a grin.

Part of you hoped he wouldn't let you in, just so your lie wouldn't go down with big guy upstairs.

But then again you would have driven out a few towns over for nothing - cons of living in a small town, can't lie your way into a bar if the bouncer already knows who you are.

But alas, once the security guard handed your ID back and ended you in, you realised your deviation had worked, and boy were you going to have to pray tonight.

Walking in as calmly as you could, you and your girls squealed to yourselves, taking the place in, and next thing you knew, you were being dragged to the bar.

The next couple hours were kind of a blur, you made sure to stay within a limit, at most 3 drinks, but after downing them in the first 30 minutes of being there, you found yourself wobbling everywhere, being obnoxiously loud and giggly.

It was definitely unlike yourself, but the feeling of being so loose made you feel way better about it.

And it felt so much better when you saw one of the pool tables now free.

Grabbing your friends arms, you lead them over before anyone took the table.

"Guys let's play pool!" You slurred, grabbing one of the sticks on the wall, passing the other one in the direction of the girls.

Setting it up was easy, having watched your father play in the garage when his buddy's were having a drink.

It almost made you wonder what he would think of you if he saw your right now.

Almost.

You took the first shot after a while, trying to keep it still and finding the right position to hit from, which was hard cause you kept almost falling.

Once the balls spread across the green, you noted the solid that had drop dropped through the corner, now aiming for another one.

Missing, you watched your friend take her go, too drunk to realise she was going for your solid instead of her striped.

Her stick fell from in-between her fingers, jabbing into the green, making you suppress a laugh as she cursed.

You only let yourself giggle when your other friend smacked her on the arm, hushing her dramatically.

"You can't swear!"

Guess if that it was your time to go again, you positioned your stick, aiming for your green to hit your orange to go in the pocket.

But pulling your stick back slowly, you noticed when it wouldn't go back forward.

You frowned, pulling on it again just for nothing to happen.

You turned your head, jaw literally and figuratively dropping at you saw the man holding your stick firmly.

A stern look in his eye that his hat hadn't shadowed under the neon lights

You gaped, eyes blurring around his figure before focusing.

You hadn't seen him since he came into the boutique you worked at, picking out a vest for some tournament.

That had been only a week ago.

It almost made you glad to see him.

But the churn in your stomach, and the look in his eye made you nervous.

You, underage wer we in bar, visibly quite drunk, just under an hour outside of town.

You swallowed thickly, thinking about what he might do. Tell your father, tell people at church- or made you sick to your stomach at the idea of people knowing of your sins.

You almost felt nervous until his lips quirked up into a small smile.

"Harri-" he cut you off, taking the stick from your now lazy hold.

"What ar' ya doing 'ere?" He questioned, eyes darting behind you to look over your friends.

You swallowed thickly, eyes darting back towards your friends before shrugging.

"...having fun?"

His eyebrows pulled together, creasing the lines in his forehead as he pondered for a moment, looking over your frame for a beat before huffing.

"Are you even old enough to be here?" He questioned, eyes squinting suspiciously.

You nodded your head vigorously "...Yes"

You avoided his gaze as he sighed, tapping his foot on the hardwood floor, nodding over to your friends.

"Grab the stick, clearly your friend can't play pool, luckily, I can" he flashed a smile, going around the table, taking a shot while you grabbed the stick from your now pouting friend.

"Just get a few drinks" you whisper-shouted, watching them bounce clumsily to the bar until you turned around, just as one of the balls rolled effortlessly into the side pocket.

"Hey! Not fair, it was my turn" you whined, rolling your eyes at his deep chuckle.

"Fine then, I'll let you go" he waved his hand across the table, leaning the stick down on it while he shook off his denim jacket.

You stilled for a moment, eyes stuck on his figure as he threw it on the stool by the wall.

The dark blue shirt he wore was tight in all the right places, stretching over his broad chest perfectly, sleeves rolling up over his biceps as he reached up, taking his hat off before placing it over his disregarded jacket.

You focused on his hair, realising it was the first time you'd seen him without his hat.

After years of seeing him from afar, or even closer in town, those stupid hats were always there, at some point, you had assumed he glued them on, that he might have a bald patch.

But alas, his head was full of perfectly fallen locks, curling at the ends where they met the back of his neck, golden strands highlighting the mop of caramel brown.

It made you wonder if he dyed it, as you were sure his hair had never seen the light of day, but that was just another mystery of Steven Harrington.

You only snapped out of the haze until he huffed out a laugh "you gonna play or keep starin' at me?"

You shook your head, looking down at the table to raise your stick, assessing the balls to see which one is easiest, ignoring the feeling of his eyes burning into you.

Taking a shot, you groaned as it hit nothing in its path, rolling and hitting the edge, bouncing the other way.

He tsked, shaking his head in feigned pity "Shame, darlin'. I expected better"

Your face flushed in embarrassment as he prepared his next shot, eyes flickering up to you to send a subtle wink your way.

Sucking in a breath, your gaze fell naturally to his arms, observing the way they flexed under his shirt, veins pulsing with a tap of his finger.

The sound of cheers and the call of your name forced you to look away, looking down at the drinks waved in your face by your friend.

"Tequila shots!" they giggled drunkenly, taking one each, looking at you expectantly.

Unaware of the stern stare Steve was giving you behind your back as he watched, you took the small glass, downing it with a cough as droplets fell from the corners of your mouth that you had to wipe away.

Your head felt dizzy as they waved more in front of you, insisting that a few men at the bar had bought them as they downed another, and then another.

The alcohol burned your throat on the way down, going straight to your head that had forgotten about your three drink rule.

On the last shot, you took a deep breath in, tilting back your head, waiting for the liquid to pour down your throat, but your fingers slipped from the glass, the shot spilling down your shirt and smashing on the floor.

Before you could even process it, you felt a tug on your arm.

"C'mon, it's time to get you outta 'ere, missy" Steve spoke firmly with a sigh, hanging your sticks on the wall as you protested.

"What? No" you whined stupidly, whipping your head around to face him as he pulled you away.

You stood your ground, refusing to let him drag you anywhere until he turned back around.

"We're leavin'" He huffed, giving you another tug, stronger than before.

"No, we're not"

He scoffed like he didn't believe your attitude "yes we are, you shouldn't even be 'ere in the first place"

You furrowed your brows, eyes blurring around the edges of your vision, making Steve glow in a way that made him look angelic, like an angry angel sent to protect you.

"Well, I can't just leave my friends!"

"Then I'll get my buddy to drive them home, alright? How did ya'll even expect to get home?" he questioned, grabbing his hat and putting it on top of his head, throwing his jacket over his shoulder.

You hesitated, not being able to come up with an answer you and your friends definitely hadn't thought of before planning this outing.

Looking at you expectantly, the man in front of you sighed in disappointment, kissing his teeth before giving a curt nod.

"Right, I'll take ya home then, huh?" he smiled tightly, giving a wave to a man whom you recognised as one of his friends, Eddie.

"But-" you began, words cutting short as he shushed you.

"No 'buts'. Just you getting your butt in my truck, a'right?"

You huffed, trailing after him as Eddie walked over to your friends, watching them whine in protest but ultimately going with him.

You let Steve guide you outside as you stumbled, barely being able to walk straight as he led you to the parking lot.

"Ste-"

Before you could finish saying his name, he stopped, turning around to pick you up.

"Yep" he grunted, arms strong around you as he carried you across the lot to his truck.

You held your breath, your head falling off his arm to look up at the sky.

"How did you even get into this place?" he asked, softer than his questions prior.

"I told you, I'm old enough" you lied through your teeth, words slurred and elongated.

"We both know I knew that was a lie" he drawled.

"Why do you even care anyway? I've bet you've done way worse" you spat.

"You ain't me, first of all, and a young gurl like you shouldn't be this far from home as drunk as you are" he responded grumpily, rolling his eyes.

"Didn't answer my question"

He sighed deeply "cause I don't wanna see you gettin' int'a trouble, 'Kay?"

"You let me stay for a while, though" you pointed out softly, a small teasing smile on your lips.

"That I did, Darlin'. But I shouldn't have"

You whipped your head up again, groaning as your head pounded, but that didn't hurt as much as the though of him telling your town of tonight.

"You're not going to tell anybody...right?" you pouted, staring up at him.

"Nah, I won't, your secrets are safe with me, Doll, but I can't promise I won't tease ya 'bout it" he joked, sparing a glance down at you before winking.

You squinted up at him, directly at his hat, cream with a brown band around the trim.

"How many hats do you own?" you wondered aloud, reaching up to flick the brim.

He stifled a laugh, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat "I'm not sure...I'll haf' to count 'em for ya"

"How was the tournament?"

He licked his lips "Yeah, good, Dusty and I won first place in the back breaker and jumping"

"The what?!" you gasped, letting him put you down on the ground as he dug in his pockets for his keys.

He laughed, throwing his head back as he opened the passenger door for you

"I'll have to show you some time" he grinned.

"No" you chuckled dryly "I dont think I'd wanna see that"

"Then you'll be missin' out"

You stared at her, horrified. "You're using me as honeytrap bait?!"

"I'm using you as a distraction," she corrected cheerfully, pulling the car into the valet queue behind a line of million-dollar sports cars and shiny town cars. "Besides, you look magnificent. Stop slouching."

"I'm not slouching, my spine is being crushed!"

"Beauty is pain, darling. Now, put on your smile. We're about to be surrounded by the worst kind of predators Gotham has to offer."

Selina killed the engine and turned to you, her expression softening just a fraction into something genuinely fond. She reached over, gently tucking a stray lock of your hair behind your ear. "You'll do fine. Just keep your ears open, stay light on those ridiculous feet, and if anything feels wrong, you walk out."

You let out a long, heavy breath, adjusting the tiny, glittering clutch in your lap, which contained no lipstick, but did hold a micro-scrambler, a pair of lockpicks disguised as hairpin flourishes, and a folded piece of wire.

"If I get arrested, I'm telling the GCPD I was kidnapped by a crazy cat lady" you grumbled.

Selina just laughed, stepping out into the crisp night air as a tuxedoed valet opened her door. "Deal."

Meanwhile, on the other side of the city, inside the echoing, cavernous luxury of Wayne Manor, a completely different tragedy was unfolding.

"Alfred, I am literally going to pass out. I can feel my brain dying from oxygen deprivation."

"If your brain were dying from lack of oxygen, Master Jason, I assure you that your capacity for dramatic theatricality would be the very first function to cease", Alfred said calmly, his fingers moving with practiced, methodical precision as he tightened the silk knot of a black silk bow tie.

Jason stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling gilded mirror in the grand dressing room, looking like he was being fitted for an executioner's block rather than a high-society charity gala. He was taller now, his shoulders broadening into the heavy frame of a teenager who spent five nights a week lifting himself onto rooftops and throwing punches at mobsters. But in a tailored midnight-blue tuxedo, he looked entirely out of his element, and he hated every single millimeter of it.

"It's too tight!" Jason whined, a full, unadulterated whine that he would violently deny ever making if anyone else were in the room. He tugged uselessly at the high stiff collar, his fingers pulling at the crisp white linen. "Why do rich people dress like they’re trying to strangle themselves? Is this a fetish? Is that why Bruce likes it?"

"Master Bruce tolerates formal attire because it is a necessary armor for his public duties," Alfred said, stepping back and smoothing down the lapels of Jason's jacket with two firm pats. "And you will tolerate it because you are representing the Wayne family tonight. Do cease tugging at the silk, child, you will fray the weave."

"I look like a penguin" Jason grumbled, scowling intensely at his reflection. He pinched his nose, trying to rub away a small smudge of charcoal near his hairline, a souvenir from a rooftop chase three nights ago that had stubbornly refused to wash off. "A rich, suffocating, absurdly shiny penguin."

"You look exceedingly handsome," Alfred corrected smoothly, handing Jason a pair of polished leather dress shoes. "Though I suggest you refrain from scowling quite so fiercely. You will give the impression that you intend to mug the caterers."

"Depending on what they're serving, I might" Jason muttered, shoving his foot into the stiff leather shoe and wincing. "God, these shoes have zero traction. How am I supposed to throw a kick in these if things go sideways?"

"You are not attending the gala to 'throw kicks,' Jason" a deep, quiet voice rumbled from the doorway.

Jason turned his head, his scowl immediately morphing into a look of dry annoyance. Bruce Wayne stood in the entrance of the dressing room, looking infuriatingly perfect. His hair was slicked back, his tuxedo fitted so flawlessly it looked like it had been molded to his broad shoulders, and his expression carried that lazy, charming billionaire warmth that he put on like a mask whenever he stepped out of the cave.

"Ah, the man of the hour" Jason drawled, crossing his arms over his chest, only to immediately drop them when the tight fabric of his jacket strained against his shoulders. "Tell me again why I had to come? Can't I just stay in the cave and run diagnostics on the Batmobile's exhaust system?"

"Because Bruce Wayne's ward attending a public charity event builds the cover story that you are a normal, upper-class teenager who goes to private school and complains about homework" Bruce said, walking into the room and adjusting his cuff links. His dark eyes flicked over Jason, a momentary flash of quiet pride passing over his features before his face smoothed back into neutrality. "And because Selina is going to be there."

Jason’s eyebrows shot up instantly. "Catwoman's crashing the party?"

"She isn't crashing. She received an invitation under her legal name" Bruce said smoothly, though his jaw tightened just a fraction. "Lord Sterling's private collection includes the Romanov Emeralds. She's been eyeing them for six months."

"So we're going to arrest her?" Jason asked, his tone suddenly shifting, dropping the dramatic teenager act as his eyes sharpened with genuine interest.

"We are going to monitor her" Bruce corrected, giving Jason a level look. "No scenes. No suits. No Batarangs. If she makes a move, we handle it quietly, discreetly, as citizens."

Jason let out a loud, theatrical snort. "Right. 'Quietly.' Because whenever you and Selina are in the same room, things always stay real quiet and professional. You guys practically project your weird romance onto the wall like a movie."

"Jason," Bruce warned, though there was no real bite to it.

"I'm just saying!" Jason held up his gloved hands, or rather, his bare hands, looking strange without his gauntlets. "Last time you two met up at the mayor's dinner, you spent twenty minutes arguing about a stolen brooch behind a velvet curtain while I had to stand by the chocolate fountain pretending I didn't know you."

Alfred cleared his throat softly, a small, subtle smile twitching at the corner of his lips as he handed Bruce a folded silk pocket square. "Master Jason does raise a valid historical point, Sir."

Bruce sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Just... put your shoes on, Jason. The car is waiting."

"Fine, fine," Jason grumbled, leaning over to tie his laces, his collar digging into his neck again. "But if I faint from heatstroke because of this stupid tie, I'm writing in my will that Alfred gets all my books and you get nothing."

"A fate I shall endeavor to bear with fortitude" Alfred remarked dryly, holding open the door.

Ten minutes later, the grand ballroom of the Sterling Estate was a blinding sea of crystal chandeliers, sparkling champagne flutes, and the low, suffocating hum of Gotham’s elite pretending to care about art.

You were currently holding a glass of sparkling water, disguised as gin, and trying very hard not to look like you were planning an escape route. The floor was polished white marble, which meant every step you took in your six-inch heels echoed like a gunshot in your ears.

"See?" Selina whispered in your ear, her hand lightly resting on your elbow as she guided you past a cluster of elderly women in diamond necklaces. "You look like you belong here. Miserable, beautiful, and completely unimpressed."

"I'm not pretending to be unimpressed," you hissed through a bright, fake smile, nodding politely at a man in a velvet suit who tipped his glass toward you. "I am genuinely suffering. My toes have lost all sensation. I think they've gone rogue."

"Focus, darling. Target at two o'clock" Selina murmured smoothly.

You flicked your eyes sideways. Standing near a massive, ugly oil painting of a French landscape was Lord Sterling, a round, balding man in an absurdly expensive tailored suit, holding court with three other wealthy donors.

"He's wearing his primary security lanyard inside his breast pocket" you whispered back, dropping your voice. "I can see the outline. The reader I have in my clutch has a range of about three inches. I need to get right next to him."

"Easy," Selina purred. "I'll draw off his security detail. You slide in, drop the complement, get the clone, and meet me by the terrace."

"Wait, Selina—"

Before you could finish, she was already moving, gliding away from you like a ghost in green silk. You watched in absolute awe as she effortlessly intercepted Sterling's head of security, flashing him a smile so devastating the man completely forgot whatever he was doing and turned to face her.

You took a deep breath, smoothing down the front of your black dress.

Okay. Easy. Just walk over, act like an idiot who lost her way to the bathroom, bump into him, get the ping, walk away.

You took a step forward.

And that was when your right heel caught the microscopic, invisible lip of an ornamental rug.

Your ankle gave out instantly.

"Oh, shit—" you gasped out loud, dropping your champagne glass as your center of gravity suddenly plunged toward the cold, hard, unforgiving marble floor. You braced yourself for the inevitable, humiliating crash, imagining the sound of shattering glass and the stares of fifty billionaires.

Instead of hitting the floor, a hand grabbed your waist.

It was a hard, solid grip, fingers locking firmly onto your hip through the thin satin of your dress, catching your weight before your knees hit the ground. Simultaneously, another hand snatched your falling glass out of mid air, catching it by the stem with ridiculous, reflexes of a cat precision before a single drop could spill onto the rug.

You gasped, your hands slamming against two very broad, very firm shoulders to steady yourself.

"Whoa there," a voice muttered, right near your ear. "Watch the rug. It's a killer."

You blinked, your heart hammering against your ribs, and looked up.

Standing inches away from you, his hand still clamped firmly onto your waist, holding a full glass of sparkling water in his other hand, was a boy.

Except he wasn't just some random rich kid.

He had messy dark hair slicked back with too much gel, a dusting of charcoal near his hairline that someone had tried and failed to scrub out, and eyes that were a startling, brilliant, familiar shade of blue-green. He was wearing a midnight-blue tuxedo, a black bow tie that looked like it was actively strangling him, and an expression that was half-smug, half-shocked.

You froze.

Robin.

He froze too. His eyes widened behind his lack of a domino mask as he looked down at you, at the floor-length black dress, the dark makeup framing your eyes, the heels, and the sheer, unadulterated shock on your face.

For three agonizing seconds, neither of you moved. The noise of the ballroom seemed to fade into a strange, muffled buzzing.

"You..." Jason blurted out, his voice slipping out of his smooth "billionaire ward" tone into that familiar, slightly rough register. "What are you—"

"You're not wearing your green boots" you said flatly, the words popping out of your mouth before your brain could filter them.

Jason's jaw dropped. His hand twitched against your waist, almost dropping you again before he caught his grip. "You're—you're wearing a dress!" he hissed under his breath, leaning down slightly so only you could hear. "What are you doing here?! Where's your bag of fries?!"

"In my other purse, Boy Wonder" you whispered back furiously, trying to regain your balance while keeping your hands pressed against his tuxedo jacket. "Now let go of me before people start staring!"

"I'm saving you from breaking your neck!" Jason snapped softly, though he quickly helped you pull yourself upright, stepping back just enough to give you space, though his eyes never left your face. He handed you back your glass with an absurdly dramatic sweep of his arm. "Here. You dropped this. 'Lady'"

You took the glass, your cheeks flushing a burning, furious red as you smoothed down your dress. "I didn't drop it. I was executing a tactical pivot."

Jason’s mouth twitched, a sharp, genuine smirk broke through his grumpy expression, his eyes gleaming with unmistakable amusement. "A tactical pivot into a carpet. Very heroic. Very stealthy."

"Shut up," you muttered, looking around frantically. "Are you alone? Is he here?"

"If by 'he' you mean the guy who dresses like a giant bat, yeah, he's over by the bar talking to some senator" Jason said, crossing his arms over his chest, and then immediately uncrossing them with a wince as his jacket pinched him again. "God, this tie is killing me."

You looked at his bow tie, then at his face, taking in the full sight of him without his mask. Without the suit and the cape, he looked... normal. Handsome, in a rough, sharp-edged kind of way, but undeniably like a real teenager.

"You look ridiculous" you offered, a tiny, teasing smile breaking through your panic. "Who tied that for you? A blind butler?"

"Alfred tied it!" Jason barked defensively, his face reddening. "And it's not ridiculous, it's formal. Unlike your shoes, which look like torture devices."

"They are torture devices" you admitted, shifting your weight from one foot to the other with a quiet groan. "I can't feel my pinky toes."

Jason looked down at your silver heels, then back up at your face. His smirk softened into something a little more genuine, his gaze flicking over your black dress with a quiet, appreciative curiosity that made your stomach do a strange, fluttery flip.

"So," Jason murmured, stepping half an inch closer and dropping his voice so it was lost in the room's music. "Selina brought you?"

"I was dragged" you corrected. "I was promised a quiet night with a pizza and my server logs. Instead, I am standing in a room full of old men who smell like expensive cigar ash."

"Yeah, welcome to my life," Jason grunted, tugging at his collar again. "Bruce makes me do this once a month. It's cruel and unusual punishment."

"You know," you said, leaning in slightly, "if you stop pulling on that knot, it won't tighten."

"It's already tight! It's choking me!"

You let out a quiet, exasperated sigh, setting your champagne glass down on the tray of a passing waiter. "Hold still, idiot."

Jason blinked. "What—"

Before he could protest, you stepped into his space, reaching up with both hands to adjust his bow tie. Your fingers brushed against the warm skin of his neck, and you felt him instantly freeze, his breath catching in his throat. Up close, you could smell his cologne, something sharp and cedar-scented, mixed with the faint, metallic tang of rooftop rain that seemed to cling to him no matter where he went.

"See?" you murmured, lightly loosening the inner fold of the silk knot with deft, precise fingers, the same fingers that cracked encrypted locks for Selina. "You just had the wings overlapped. It was digging into your trachea."

Jason didn't say anything, he was staring down at you, his chest rising and falling in short, quiet breaths, his hands hung awkwardly at his sides, fingers twitching like he wanted to reach out and steady you again, but didn't dare move.

"There," you said softly, smoothing down his lapels with a quick pat, mimicking Alfred's earlier gesture. You looked up into his eyes. "Better?"

Jason swallowed hard, his throat moving against the newly loosened collar. "Uh," he cleared his throat, his voice dropping an octave as he tried, and utterly failed, to look unbothered. "...Yeah. A little."

"You're welcome, Boy Wonder" you teased gently, stepping back, only to wince as your heel gave a sharp, throbbing protest.

Jason’s eyes immediately darted down to your feet, his brow furrowing. Without thinking, he offered you his arm, bending his elbow in a stiff, formal invitation.

You looked at his arm, then up at his face, raising an eyebrow. "What's this?"

"An escort," Jason grumbled, his cheeks turning a darker shade of pink, though he kept his head held high with absurd, stubborn pride. "Since you clearly can't walk ten feet without falling on your face, and I'm supposed to be acting like a gentleman. Take it before I change my mind."

You stared at him for a second, a soft, helpless smile spreading across your face.

"Fine," you whispered, wrapping your arm through his. "But if Bruce sees us, I'm telling him you're my hostage."

Jason let out a short, rough laugh, that bright, genuine sound that you remembered from the rooftop, and pressed his arm against yours, guiding you smoothly away from the rug and toward the edge of the ballroom.

"Deal," he muttered. "Now come on. Let's go find the dessert table before Selina steals the silverware."

Lord Sterling was precise in his repulsiveness. He stood near the grand mahogany double doors that led to the east gallery, holding a crystal snifter of vintage scotch in one hand and gesturing grandly at a 17th century portrait of someone else’s ancestor. He was forty years older than you, smelled overpowering of expensive tobacco and lavender water, and looked at every woman in the room like she was an item he could purchase at an auction house.

"The keycard is in his inner right jacket pocket" you murmured, keeping your face carefully neutral as you leaned slightly into Jason’s arm. "Selina said he keeps the RFID access card clipped right next to his Montblanc pen."

Jason didn't break stride as he walked you along the perimeter of the room, his long legs adjusting to your painfully slow, heel restricted pace. "And your brilliant plan is just to walk up to that old predator and let him corner you?"

"My plan," you whispered back sharply, "is to play the dumb, wealthy niece of some fictional tech investor, let him talk at me about his ugly paintings for two minutes, slip the reader within three inches of his chest, and walk away with his security codes cloned onto my clutch. It's clean, it's quiet and it doesn't involve punching anyone through a stained glass window."

"He's gross," Jason grunted under his breath, his eyes narrowing as he tracked Sterling across the crowd. "Look at him. He looks like a melted candle. I should just 'accidentally' spill hot soup on him."

"There is no soup at this party, just caviar and tiny toast triangles." You gave his arm a firm squeeze. "And you are not spilling anything. You're supposed to be Bruce Wayne's well-mannered ward, remember? You're my cover. So just stand nearby, look wealthy and brooding, and don't draw attention."

"I don't brood" Jason snapped quietly, though his shoulders immediately hitched into a familiar, moody posture that looked suspiciously like brooding. Before he could argue further, you stepped smoothly out of his arm’s reach, ignoring the dull, angry throb in your arches as you straightened your spine and pulled your best "bored rich girl" expression into place. You gave Jason a warning look over your shoulder, smoothed down the back of your black satin dress, and glided into Sterling's line of sight.

It took less than five seconds for the old man to spot you.

Lord Sterling’s eyes lit up with predatory interest the moment you paused near a silver tray of champagne flutes, pretending to admire a bronze bust of some long dead dutch admiral. He excused himself from his cluster of wealthy cronies and ambled over, smoothing the lapels of his custom tuxedo.

"Ah, a new face," Sterling purred, stepping right into your personal space. His tone was coated in that slimy, unearned confidence that made your skin crawl. "I usually know every lovely creature that grace these halls. Lord Sterling." He extended a heavy, ring adorned hand toward you.

You forced your lips into a sweet, slightly airheaded smile, extending your hand for a brief, limp handshake while keeping your clutch tucked firmly under your left arm, closer to his jacket. "A pleasure, Lord Sterling. I was just admiring... the bronze. The texture is so... metal."

Sterling chuckled, a wet, rattling sound, clearly delighting in what he assumed was complete naivety. "A discerning eye! Though I must say, the real treasures of this estate aren't kept out here for the general public to gawk at. My private gallery upstairs houses the Romanov collection. Far more... delicate."

He took another step closer, trapping you slightly against the pedestal of the bronze bust. You held your breath, carefully maneuvering your clutch forward, pressing the hidden RFID cloner inside the leather right against the chest of his jacket.

Closer. Just two inches closer for five seconds...

Suddenly, a heavy hand dropped casually onto Lord Sterling’s shoulder.

"Lord Sterling! Hey! Man, it is so great to finally meet you!"

You nearly dropped the clutch. Sterling flinched, spinning around in annoyance to find Jason standing right between the two of you, wearing a massive, loud, insanely exaggerated smile that didn't reach his eyes at all.

"Who on earth—" Sterling began, scowling up at the teenager.

"Jason Todd" Jason introduced loudly, throwing his arm over Sterling's shoulder like they were old fraternity brothers, effectively yanking the man two full feet away from you and completely breaking the RFID reader's range. "Bruce Wayne's ward! Bruce was just talking about you over by the bar. He said, 'Jason, you gotta go meet Lord Sterling. He’s the premier expert on... old stuff in the entire city.'"

Sterling blinked, his arrogant expression faltering at the mention of Bruce Wayne. "Bruce Wayne spoke of me?"

"Oh, absolutely! Non-stop!" Jason lied smoothly, his voice dropping into an obnoxiously enthusiastic prep school cadence. He shifted his posture, completely blocking Sterling's view of you while keeping a heavy, controlling grip on the man's shoulder. "He was saying how your collection of... ancient Dutch heads... is unmatched. I was wondering, as an esteemed patron of the arts, what's your take on early 17th century bronze casting techniques? Is it the copper ratio, or the wax loss method?"

You stared at Jason's back, your jaw practically on the marble floor. What is he doing?!

Sterling looked completely bewildered, caught between wanting to brush off an annoying teenager and wanting to suck up to Wayne Enterprises' heir. "Well... the cire perdue method is indeed—"

"Fascinating!" Jason cut in loudly, nodding with fake intensity. He turned slightly, giving you a quick, subtle side-eye over his shoulder. His left hand flicked behind his back, a tiny, sharp gesture telling you to move. "Tell me more. In extreme detail. Right now."

You narrowed your eyes at him, furious that he had interrupted your clone, but quickly realized the opportunity he’d just handed you on a silver platter. Sterling was entirely distracted, his back now completely turned to you as Jason held him in a verbal death grip.

Slipping around Sterling's blind side, you glided close behind the old man. While Jason kept Sterling pinned with an aggressive barrage of fake art questions ("And what about the patination process, Sterling? Don't leave me hanging!"), you reached into your clutch, pulled out a razor-thin steel duplicating card, and casually brushed past Sterling's right side, letting the card swipe directly over his jacket pocket.

A tiny, silent vibration buzzed against your fingers inside the clutch.

Target cloned.

You stepped back smoothly, slipping the card into your purse, and caught Jason’s eye. You gave him a tiny, triumphant nod.

Jason’s manic, art enthusiast smile immediately vanished. He let go of Sterling’s shoulder like the man had suddenly caught fire.

"—Anyway, super cool talking to you, Sterling, but I see my legal guardian beckoning me to go eat vegetables or something. Bye!" Jason announced in one breath.

Before Sterling could even figure out what had just happened, Jason spun on his heel, grabbed your wrist with light, effortless precision, and steered you swiftly away from the gallery doors, sweeping you into the flow of the crowded ballroom.

"Are you insane?!" you hissed under your breath, trying to keep up with his sudden, fast pace without snapping your heels off. "He was two seconds away from giving me the signal! You completely ruined my positioning!"

"I didn't ruin anything," Jason muttered back, pulling you into a quiet, shadowy alcove beneath the grand staircase, away from the roaming eyes of security. "You got the clone, didn't you?"

"Because I had to improvise around your ridiculous 'art history lecture'!" You pulled your wrist back, though your voice lacked any real bite. You leaned back against the cool stone wall of the alcove, letting out a long, exhausted sigh as you shifted your weight off your throbbing feet. "What was that about anyway? 'Early 17th century bronze casting'?"

Jason crossed his arms, leaning against the archway of the alcove to shield you from the main floor. He looked absurdly pleased with himself, a faint, cocky smirk playing on his lips. "I read a book last week. Wayne Manor has a big library. Besides, the guy was leaning way too close to you. He was practically breathing down your neck."

You tilted your head, watching him closely. "Oh? And is that part of Batman's tactical doctrine? Protecting thieves from creepy old men?"

"It's common courtesy" Jason grumbled, his cheeks flushing slightly under the dim alcove lighting. He looked away, focusing intently on a waiter carrying a tray of crab cakes fifty feet away. "You looked like you were about to gag. I did you a favor."

"I was acting," you murmured, though a small, warm feeling settled in your chest despite yourself. "It's called cover work."

"Well, your cover work sucks," he shot back, his eyes flicking back to yours, sparking with that familiar, sharp banter. "You look much better when you're yelling at me on a roof."

You snorted, a genuine, quiet laugh slipping past your lips. "High praise coming from a guy whose idea of stealth is throwing a temper tantrum about bronze statues."

"It worked" Jason pointed out smugly.

Before you could reply, the quiet shadow behind Jason seemed to lengthen.

"Indeed it did," a soft, purring voice echoed from the darkness of the staircase.

Jason instantly went rigid, his hand dropping toward his waist out of pure muscle memory, only to realize he wasn't wearing his utility belt. He spun around, stepping instinctively in front of you.

Selina Kyle stepped gracefully out of the shadows, a glass of champagne held lightly in one hand. Her green eyes danced with absolute, unadulterated amusement as she looked between the two of you, Jason, standing like a territorial guard dog in his midnight-blue tuxedo, and you, resting your poor feet against the wall with a cloned security card tucked in your purse.

"Selina," Jason growled, his voice dropping into his serious Robin tone, though it sounded funny coming from a guy in a bow tie.

"Relax, Boy Wonder," Selina purred, taking a slow sip of her drink. "I'm not here to start a fight. I just came to check on my associate." She looked past Jason's shoulder, raising an eyebrow at you. "Did we get what we came for?"

You reached into your clutch, held up the glowing green led of the RFID cloner for a split second, and slipped it back inside. "Cloned and ready. No alarms."

Selina’s smile widened, sharp and victorious. "Brilliant girl." She flicked her eyes to Jason, her expression melting into pure, teasing delight. "And I see you found yourself a very eager assistant. Did Bruce teach you that bronze casting distraction, Jason? It was remarkably dramatic"

Jason’s entire face turned bright red. "I wasn't assisting her! I was... monitoring a potential threat!"

"Of course you were," Selina purred smoothly, taking another step forward. She reached out, lightly adjusting the lapel of Jason's jacket, exactly the way Bruce often did. "You're a very dedicated officer of the law. But if you'll excuse us, my protege and I have a vault to unlock before the second act of the auction begins."

Jason didn't move out of the way immediately. He looked back at you, his brow furrowing. "You're going upstairs?"

"That was the plan" you said softly, straightening up from the wall with a small wince as your heels reminded you of their existence. "Get the code, unlock the service door, let Selina do her thing."

Jason looked at your feet, then up at your face. "You can barely walk."

"I'll manage" you grumbled.

"No, you won't. You're gonna trip on the grand staircase and break your neck" Jason said firmly. He turned back to Selina, his scowl returning full force. "The upper gallery has three roaming guards on a five-minute sweep. If she's limping, she won't make the turn past the east wing in time."

Selina paused, her green eyes sharpening as she assessed Jason. "You've already mapped the guard rotations?"

"I was bored during the speeches" Jason muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. He looked at you, stepping closer, his voice dropping so only the two of you could hear. "The service elevator in the back pantry bypasses the main hall entirely. No stairs. No security cameras until you hit the vault door."

You blinked, surprised. "How do you know that?"

"Because I snuck up there twenty minutes ago to see if they had better food" Jason said flatly. He reached into his tuxedo pocket, pulled out a small, heavy brass key, and pressed it into your palm, his fingers lingering against yours for a brief, warm second. "It unlocks the pantry door behind the kitchen. Use it."

You looked down at the key, then up at his blue-green eyes. "You're helping us steal from Lord Sterling?"

"I'm helping you not break your ankles," Jason corrected defensively, his chin lifting with stubborn pride. "And Sterling's an idiot who underpays his staff. He deserves it."

Selina let out a low, delighted laugh, resting her hand on her hip. "Oh, Bruce is going to have a complete heart attack if he ever finds out about this."

"He won't find out," Jason snapped, looking back toward the main floor to make sure Batman wasn't looming behind him. "Because none of us are gonna talk about it."

He looked back at you, his expression softening just a fraction, the sharp edges of his scowl smoothing out. "Get up there, do your tech stuff, and get out. I'm gonna go stall Bruce by pretending I ate bad seafood."

A soft laugh escaped you. You slid the brass key into your clutch and stepped closer to him, lightly tapping your shoulder against his. "Thanks, Boy Wonder. I owe you a bag of fries."

"Fresh ones," Jason demanded, a small, quiet smile breaking through his tough-guy facade. "And next time we meet on a roof, you're wearing sneakers."

"Deal" you whispered.

Jason took a slow step back, giving Selina a final, suspicious glare before smoothing down his tuxedo jacket and turning back toward the main ballroom, slipping into the crowd with the quiet, practiced grace of a boy who lived in the shadows.

Selina watched him leave, a purring laugh echoing in her throat as she turned to you. "My, my," she whispered, slinging an arm through yours to help support your weight. "You certainly have a way with the Bats too, don't you?"

"Shut up, Selina," you grumbled, though your face was burning hot as you looked down at the brass key in your hand. "Let's just go steal the shiny things."

The back pantry smelled of roasted garlic, expensive butter, and polished copper.

Thanks to Jason’s brass key, you and Selina had slipped through the kitchen prep area without raising a single eyebrow. While three line cooks were busily garnishing platters of seared tuna, you had unlocked the narrow service door behind the industrial ice machine, glided into the freight elevator, and ridden it straight up to the third floor private gallery.

Your feet felt like they were bleeding inside the heels, but as the elevator doors slid open with a quiet, metallic hissed breath, the adrenaline took over.

"Three guards on a five minute sweep" you whispered, pulling your micro-scrambler from your clutch as Selina glided out onto the plush, deep-crimson runner of the upper hallway. "Jason said the sweep starts at the west wing wing-tip, so we have about three minutes before the patrol loops back around the vault."

Selina didn't answer with words, just a slow, feline smile as she slipped off her heels, carrying them by the straps in one hand. She moved across the carpet in complete, terrifying silence. You followed, wincing with every step as you peeled your own heels off, letting your bare feet sink into the cold carpet.

The vault door at the end of the east gallery was a massive, reinforced brass disk set directly into the mahogany wall, a ridiculous, ostentatious display of wealth that Lord Sterling had undoubtedly installed just to show off to his billionaire friends. Beside it sat a sleek, glass-faced biometric scanner.

"All right, tech prodigy," Selina purred, stepping aside to let you work. "Do your magic."

You knelt down in front of the terminal, your satin dress pooling around your legs. You pulled out the cloned RFID card, slung your portable bypass rig, a device no larger than a deck of cards, against the glass face, and pressed the reader against the sensor.

A soft green light flickered across the interface. The digital lock clicked.

BIOMETRIC OVERRIDE ACCEPTED: LORD STERLING.

"Too easy," you whispered, grinning up at her. "He didn't even use two-factor encryption on the sub-routines. The guy's an amateur."

Selina reached past you, turning the heavy brass wheel of the vault. With a smooth, mechanical sound, the vault unlocked, swinging inward to reveal a dimly lit room lined with velvet cases. Right in the center, resting on a black silk pedestal under a clear acrylic case, sat the Romanov Emeralds, a cluster of deep, glowing green stones that seemed to catch what little light was in the room and set it on fire.

"Oh, you beauties" Selina murmured, stepping into the vault, her eyes wide with genuine, childish delight. She didn't use tools, she didn't need them. With two quick, delicate motions, she picked the lock of the display case using a hair pin she pulled from her dark curls.

She lifted the glass, reaching out to cup the weight of the emerald necklace in her gloved hand. "Sterling bought these at an illegal black market auction in Geneva three years ago. He doesn't deserve them."

"Great, heroic story," you said, standing near the doorway, monitoring your scrambler’s screen as it counted down the guard patrol. "Now can we please take them and go? We have ninety seconds before—"

"Ninety seconds before what?" a deep, gravelly voice rumbled from the shadows of the hallway.

You froze. Every muscle in your body locked up instantly.

From the dark corridor outside the vault, a heavy, tall figure stepped into the pale light of the gallery.

It wasn't a guard.

Bruce Wayne stood there, his hands tucked casually into the pockets of his flawless tuxedo pants. But there was nothing casual about the way he moved, or the sheer, suffocating weight of his presence. He didn't have his cowl on, he didn't have his cape, but in that moment, standing in the dim hallway with his dark eyes locked onto Selina, he was Batman.

And right beside him, looking immensely guilty and intensely annoyed, was Jason.

Jason was standing half a step behind Bruce, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. He flicked his eyes toward you for a fraction of a second, a look that practically screamed: I tried, I swear to God I tried.

Selina didn't drop the emeralds. She didn't startle, and she certainly didn't panic. She simply turned around slowly, holding the glowing green necklace in one hand, resting the other gracefully on her hip.

"Bruce," Selina purred, her voice dripping with lazy charm. "You know, it's considered very rude to follow a lady into a private room."

"You're in a private vault, Selina," Bruce said smoothly, his voice low, steady, and utterly immovable. "And those emeralds belong to the Sterling estate museum foundation, regardless of how he acquired them."

"He bought them with blood money from an offshore shell company" Selina countered, her eyes flashing with sudden, sharp fire. "They belong in a museum in St. Petersburg, not locked up in this bloated pig's playpen"

"And you were planning on mailing them to St. Petersburg?" Bruce asked, a faint, dry eyebrow lifting slightly. "Or keeping them in your safe for six months first?"

Selina opened her mouth to shoot back a witty retort, but Bruce didn't let her finish. He turned his heavy, commanding gaze directly onto you.

You shrank back half an inch, your clutch pressed tightly against your stomach. Getting yelled at by Selina was annoying, getting evaluated by Bruce Wayne felt like being put under an x-ray machine.

"So you're her protége?" Bruce asked softly, though the question carried the weight of an interrogation. His eyes flicked to the scrambler unit still plugged into the vault's terminal. "You brought a child to a grand larceny, Selina?"

"Hey!" you snapped instantly, your Gotham street kid reflexes overriding your terror before you could stop yourself. "I am not a child! I hacked your precious WayneTech protocols on your main server last Tuesday in three minutes, not something a child could do."

Silence fell over the hallway.

Jason let out a sudden, involuntary snort of laughter, quickly covering his mouth with his hand and coughing loudly into his sleeve to hide it when Bruce slowly turned his head to glare at him.

"You hacked the WayneTech server?" Bruce repeated, turning back to you, his dark eyes narrowing with a quiet, terrifying interest.

"She's exaggerating," Jason cut in quickly, stepping forward into the light, placing himself slightly between Bruce and you. "She didn't hack the main server, she just exploited a patch vulnerability in the sub-router. I told you about that glitch two weeks ago, Bruce."

Bruce looked down at Jason, his jaw tightening just a fraction. "Did you now?" He flicked his eyes back to the scrambler, then to the brass key sitting on the floor near your feet. "And I suppose you also gave her the key to the back pantry, Jason?"

Jason’s face flushed red, but he didn't back down. He lifted his chin, staring straight up into Bruce's intimidating glare with that stubborn, explosive pride that made him who he was. "I gave her the key because her feet were bleeding from those stupid shoes, and because Sterling is a creep who was cornering her downstairs! I didn't help them steal the necklace!"

"Jason..." Bruce warned, his tone dropping an octave.

"I didn't!" Jason yelled back softly, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. "I'm not playing Selina's game! I know what side I'm on! But she's—she's not some mobster, Bruce! She was just doing her job!"

You stared at Jason. His shoulders were tense, his posture rigid, standing up to the biggest, scariest man in Gotham just to defend you, a thief he’d met on a roof three weeks ago while eating cold chili fries.

Selina’s expression softened completely. The sharp, theatrical Catwoman mask slipped away, leaving behind a look of quiet, genuine warmth as she looked at Jason, then at Bruce.

"He's right, Bruce," Selina said quietly, stepping out of the vault and letting the heavy Romanov necklace drape over her fingers. "The kid had nothing to do with the heist. I forced her to come as my cover. If you're going to play the righteous vigilante tonight, take it out on me."

Bruce stood motionless for a long, heavy moment. The silence in the gallery felt suffocating. Below, from the grand ballroom, the faint sound of a waltz echoed up through the floorboards.

Finally, Bruce let out a long, quiet exhale, a sound that carried the weight of a man who was deeply tired of dealing with unpredictable teenagers and headstrong thieves.

He reached into his tuxedo jacket, pulled out a sleek, black leather wallet, and extracted a small, official looking document with a gold wax seal.

Selina blinked. "What is that?"

"A deed of acquisition," Bruce said flatly. "Wayne Enterprises purchased the Romanov collection from Lord Sterling forty five minutes ago, through an emergency board proxy vote."

You gasped. Selina’s jaw dropped. Jason stared at Bruce like his head had just exploded.

"You... you bought them?" Selina whispered, completely stunned.

"Lord Sterling was eager to sell when my lawyers pointed out the tax fraud violations in his Swiss accounts," Bruce replied smoothly, his tone entirely devoid of emotion, though a tiny, microscopic twitch at the corner of his lips betrayed him. "The emeralds are currently the legal property of the Wayne Foundation. They are scheduled to be shipped to the State Hermitage Museum in St. Petersburg on Monday."

Selina stared at him, holding the priceless necklace in her hands, entirely speechless for perhaps the first time in her life. "You bought them... just to give them away?"

"I bought them so you wouldn't steal them," Bruce corrected, taking a slow step forward and extending his hand. "And because they belong in a museum."

Selina looked at the emeralds, then at Bruce’s outstretched hand. A slow, breathtaking, impossibly soft smile spread across her face. She stepped closer to him, her bare feet making no sound on the carpet, and slowly laid the glowing green necklace into his palm.

"You always ruin my fun, Bruce" she purred softly, leaning up on her tiptoes to press a tiny, lingering kiss against his cheek.

Bruce didn't pull away. He merely closed his hand around the necklace, his eyes softening as he looked down at her. "The gala is ending in twenty minutes, Selina. Put your shoes on."

Selina laughed, a bright, victorious sound, and turned back toward you, winking broadly. "Well! It seems our client got what she wanted after all, even if Wayne Enterprises had to pay for it."

You let out a massive, shuddering breath, dropping your head back against the wall in sheer relief. "I am never going to a party with rich people ever again."

"Seconded" Jason grumbled, though the massive, relieved grin on his face contradicted his words.

Bruce turned his dark gaze back toward you and Jason. He looked at the scrambler unit in your hand, then at Jason’s unknotted bow tie, and finally down at your bare, aching feet.

"Jason," Bruce said quietly.

"Yeah?" Jason muttered, instantly tense again.

"Escort our guest down the freight elevator to the car," Bruce commanded, turning back toward the main hallway. "And make sure she doesn't fall."

Jason blinked, stunned by the lack of a lecture. "Wait... you're not grounding me?"

Bruce paused near the archway, looking back over his shoulder. A faint, almost invisible trace of a smile flickered across his face. "You defended a civilian, utilized tactical intelligence, and resolved a security breach without punching anyone through a window. I consider that progress."

Before Jason could reply, Bruce turned and walked down the hall, slipping silently into the shadows.

Selina grabbed her heels, gave you a affectionate pat on the shoulder, and glided after him, calling out smoothly, "Bruce, wait! You're buying me dinner!"

Five minutes later, the back alley behind the Sterling Estate was quiet, cool, and bathed in the pale orange glow of a single sodium streetlight.

You were sitting on the edge of an upturned wooden crate near Selina’s coupe, having finally abandoned the silver heels entirely. They sat upside down on the pavement next to your clutch.

Jason stood a few feet away, leaning against the brick wall of the alley in his tuxedo, his jacket unbuttoned, his bow tie completely undone and hanging loosely around his open collar like a silk scarf.

"So," Jason said, breaking the quiet as he kicked a loose pebble across the asphalt. "You hacked the WayneTech sub-router, huh?"

"It was a patch vulnerability," you said, echoing his earlier words with a small, teasing smile. "Like you told Bruce."

Jason snorted, looking away as his cheeks flushed slightly. "Yeah, well... don't do it again. I had to fix that patch on Wednesday."

"I make no promises, Boy Wonder."

You shifted on the crate, wincing as your bare arches hit the cold wood.

Jason noticed. Without saying a word, he pushed off the wall, walked over to you, and crouched down in front of the crate. He reached into his tuxedo jacket, pulled out a folded white linen handkerchief, the one Alfred had given him earlier, and gently took your right foot in his hand.

Your heart gave a sudden, violent thump against your ribs. "Jason—what are you doing?"

"Hold still," he grumbled softly, his hands surprisingly gentle as he wrapped the soft linen around a small, raw scrape on your heel where the strap had dug in. "You're bleeding on your expensive dress. Selina's gonna yell at you."

"Selina doesn't yell about blood," you whispered, staring down at the top of his head, at his messy, dark hair, at the dust smudge near his hairline, at the intense, focused way he tied the linen into a neat, firm bandage. "She yells about bad fashion."

Jason let out a short, quiet laugh, finishing the knot and patting your foot lightly before standing up. He stayed close, standing right over you, his blue-green eyes looking down into yours in the dim alley light.

"Thanks," you murmured, looking up at him.

"Don't get used to it" Jason shot back, though there was zero hostility in his tone. He reached out, his thumb lightly brushing a stray speck of glitter from your cheek, a touch so light, so brief, that it sent a shiver straight down your spine. "Next time I see you, you're gonna be in sweatpants, and we're getting greasy food."

"Is that a threat or an invitation?" you asked, tilting your head.

Jason’s lips curved into that familiar, brilliant, arrogant Robin smirk. "It's an order"

From the top of the fire escape two floors up, Selina stepped out into the night air, dangling her car keys from one finger, a thoroughly amused expression on her face as she looked down at the two of you.

"Alright, lovers!" Selina called down cheerfully, her voice echoing in the alley. "Time to go home before Batman realizes I stole his credit card to pay for the valet!"

Jason practically jumped a foot in the air, his face turning bright, violent red as he whirled around to glare up at the fire escape. "We weren't—she's not—Selina shut up!"

You burst out laughing, a loud, genuine, uninhibited sound that echoed through the cold Gotham night.

Jason looked back down at you, his angry scowl instantly melting away at the sound of your laugh. He rolled his eyes, a helpless, genuine smile tugging at his mouth as he offered you his hand to help you up from the crate.

"Come on," Jason muttered softly. "Let's get you out of here before she makes things any weirder."

a/n: i LOVE selina and writing her as a mother figure to reader is just so fun and jason and reader arghhh, if u have any ideas, thoughts or scene in mind please send it to me in my inbox cause i love talking w u guys!!

touchstarved!jason who likes having his hands around your waist, just holding on

touchstarved!jason who liked rubbing your stretch marks — he finds them nice.

"they're proof of you growing. I like them."

touchstarved!jason who would never let anyone else touch his hair except you.

touchstarved!jason who closes his eyes whenever you pat his head, almost like a cat

touchstarved!jason who lets you dye his hair, although he would complain the whole time

touchstarved!jason who would sigh whenever you traced his scars.

touchstarved!jason who loves the way you smell, so he always nudges his nose into the crook of your neck.

touchstarved!jason who secretly buys one of those perfume scent necklaces, spraying your perfume into one of the felt straps and wearing it under his shirt or his suit

touchstarved!jason who takes you on long bike rides just so he could enjoy feeling your hands wander. he loves turning sharply just to feel you squeeze him.

touchstarved!jason who prefers you grabbing onto his arm or bicep rather than handholding. he likes how much closer your body is to him, though he knows handholding is more practical.

touchstarved!jason who loves sharing a drink with you — classic double straw in one cup kind of thing. he also loves lady and tramping everything, and always takes a bite from where you took a bite or drinks from where you placed your lips.

touchstarved!jason who makes every single one of your belongings kiss. his cologne bottles kiss your perfume bottles. his toothbrush kisses your toothbrush. his mug kisses your mug - it's sickeningly adorable.

touchstarved!jason who, instead of one long kiss, loves to press multiple broken kissed to your lips. he loves feeling your breathing stutter against his face, and your soft gasps

touchstarved!jason who would stay up for hours into the night, tracking nonsensical shapes onto any patch of your skin he could find, mapping dips, valleys, curves and edges.

touchstarved!jason who is glad for leaky faucets and broken door locks. he loves any excuse to show off for you; shrugging his shirt off as he fixes whatever is broken because he knows you like how his muscles look. he works out in front of you and makes a show of stretching or getting out of his suit in front of you just so he could see and feel your gaze on his body - it is intoxicating.

touchstarved!jason who will find any reason to stare at you undressing or slip into the showers with you. he likes how good your bare skin feels against him - it's smooth and soft. or maybe he just loves touching you. either way, the man loves his skin on skin

touchstarved!jason who loves to take his time soaping up your body, paying attention to every dip and curve, pressing slow kisses to your lips as he washes you. and if the kisses get a little hungrier and he presses you against the shower's cold tile walls? well...let's hope the neighbours don't hear it and the water splashing on the tiles can cover up the moans.

touchstarved!jason who flops onto your lap or on top of you after patrol, reporting back everything that happened like it was his cardinal duty, smiling into your chest at the dumbest things he saw people do today.

touchstarved!jason who stops making specific jokes or using specific words in general because he knows you don't like them, and also because everytime he stops himself, you give him a kiss on the cheek

touchstarved!jason who pretends to be asleep for longer in the mornings so he could feel you press your lips all over his face and his shoulders lovingly, hiding his smile in the pillow.

touchstarved!jason who learned how to do hair from youtube tutorials so he would have more of a reason to touch you, doing your hair perfectly. it would come out great, too.

touchstarved!jason who looks around and makes sure no one is looking before kissing you whenever you're out for date night because he gets self-conscious kissing in public.

touchstarved!jason who loves making out in the back of a cinema showing room, smirking at how desperate you can get when your hands are dragging up and down his torso, pawing at his shirt.

touchstarved!jason who ends up having your lipstick all over his face because he loves kissing you no matter what.

touchstarved!jason who loves having his hands on your thighs. he just loves holding them, can you blame him?

touchstarved!jason who never asks to cuddle or tells you that he misses you, he just sits reaaaaally close to you on the couch, thigh to thigh, arm to arm and pretends he doesnt notice. he'll yawn and stretch, draping an arm on the couch that slowly turns into an arm around your shoulder. and then turns into an arm around your waist. and suddenly you're lying on his chest while a movie drones on in the background and he's playing with your hair.

touchstarved!jason who will surreptiously stretch within range for kisses or cuddling whenever he can.

i love touchstarved!jason todd. ideal boyfriend core.

The Survivors

Y/n Hopper, Steve Harrington

The Adults

Jim Hopper, Joyce Byers

The Teens

Robin Buckley, Nancy Wheeler, Jonathan Byers, Billy Hargrove, Eddie Munson

The Party

some family and ex partners throughout the years have let you know how much they disapprove of who you are as a person. you’re too bossy. you’re a bitch. you’re so moody. you’re always mad. you’re so rude. 

at some point, you could only let them run their mouths because taking it into your own hands would result in you behind bars. even if that was how you wanted to react, you didn’t spend thousands on getting an education. from undergrad to the years afterwards of pursuing a career and the multiple degrees that hung on your wall, you didn’t need anyone. 

that was until jason todd walked into your life. 

he caught you on a bad, bad day. hours of you wasting your workday away on interns that were just there to add onto their resumé and not for the passion of the craft. it was hard to get through teenagers who were practically brain dead and glued to their phone screens.

while jason was walking out of a bookstore, distracted by flipping through the pages of his new purchase you had been storming down the streets of gotham, swerving past the slowest people on earth. that’s when you both collided. 

jason’s book had slipped out of his hand before his quick, almost inhuman reflexes responded and he caught it before it could hit the ground. he looked over to see the angriest yet most beautiful woman he’d ever laid eyes on.

“sor—“

“god! can you watch where you’re going!?” you growled at him. yes, it is socially unacceptable to snap at a stranger but fuck society and let people learn to get out of your way.

jason stared at you as you walked past him, his eyes stuck on you until you turned the corner and were out of sight. normally, a man would be greatly offended to have his ego stabbed at. a regular man would have shouted at you till you disappeared, calling you a bitch and other disgusting phrases only a man could conjure.

but not jason. never jason. 

he stood there, letting out a low whistle as he slipped his hand into his pocket with a grin and an approving nod. you put him in his place and he couldn’t be more pleased.

that wasn’t the last of jason todd. the universe had its way of bringing its favorite pairings back together.

you met him again at a twenty four hour convenience shop. you’d been up working close to a deadline and had no energy to cook but did had the energy to go to the corner store you lived above. your plan had been to grab a sandwich but you ran into the jackass who had no spatial awareness.

yeah, you remembered him. he’d been so sturdy when you bumped into him that you almost fell onto the ground. 

jason was standing with his hands in his pockets, head tilted back to look up at the menu of sandwiches. it was a small menu but he wanted to make a good decision on a pre-patrol meal. 

“are you in line to order?” a sharply toned voice came from behind him, snapping him out of his decision making daze. the voice sent a shiver down his spine. the same voice that had shouted at him a few days ago in the sidewalk with people watching. it got him excited. 

jason turned to look at you, a calm demeanor before he pressed his lips together and shook his head, moving to the side. you gave him a squint, turning your attention to david, the older man who owned the corner store, letting him know your order. stepping to the side so jason could order, which he did, watching david work quickly on both sandwiches.

the convenience store was fairly quiet, just the sound of david’s radio playing some talk show that he laughed at occasionally. 

gathering up the courage, jason looked over at you. you hadn’t looked at him once, he’d been waiting for you guys to meet eyes so he can start up a conversation but you hadn’t paid him a second your time. 

“to be or not to be, that is the question, huh?” jason spoke, his voice a bit husky from not talking almost the whole day and being pretty.. nervous. he quickly cleared his throat so he wouldn’t sound like a dumbass.

he sees your jaw clench, you don’t even turn to look at him but give him an intense sideways glance that has his eyebrow perk up. “what?” you ask, or more like hiss at him. you didn’t know what he said, all you knew is that he was talking to you and he already made a terrible first impression. 

“i—“ jason was caught off guard, completely. this face didn’t show it, it was cool and not showing any of his inner thoughts. “your pin. hamlet?” he pointed to the enamel pin on your tote bag. a hand holding a skull.

“oh,” you sigh, nodding. “yeah, hamlet. everyone knows that play. the fact that you can quote the worlds most well known soliloquy doesn’t impress me.”

jason read enough books to be familiar with the love at first sight trope. he believed it was inaccurate but sometimes it worked when it served the plot. but as he stared at you, he was beginning to change his views. 

“jason,” he introduced himself, sticking his hand out towards you. you didn’t shake it or give him your name back. “don’t worry, i’ve signed up for S.U.A.” 

“what?”

“spatially unaware anonymous. i’m getting better at not standing in the middle of the sidewalk,” and that got you to reluctantly shake his hand and tell him your name. 

a night of eating your sandwiches together turned into days after days of getting to know each other. your walls were up to the sky, telling yourself you were just making a friend. 

which quickly changed when you asked him the question one night.

“do you want to be my boyfriend?”

he never agreed faster to anything in his life. and for the first time, nobody responded to your independence with resentment, or responded to you unable to tolerate incompetence with frustration and hurt pride. 

when you wanted intellectual conversations, he gave them to you with well thought out responses and opinions you can tell were built from experience and research instead of being easily influenced. he never left a mess, always cleaning up after himself.

when you both walked on the busy sidewalks of gotham, he let you take the lead because he knew you liked it better that way. he followed behind you, matching your fast pace. when you spoke, he listened. when you didn’t see him for a week because you were busy, he wasn’t nearly offended. and when you’d tell him you didn’t want to hang out and wanted to be alone, he had your favorite ice cream delivered to your door for your night in. 

and when you did snap, he didn’t get angry back but asked in a gentle voice: “talk to me.” 

you never wanted to get into a relationship in fear that it would give an opening to someone to try and snatch your freedom away. you didn’t want the stress of a man who couldn’t express himself or the texts of if you ate. jason never expected you to give up the time you gave your job for him or your alone time.  

if anything, he just liked to be yours.

“I swear to god, if I have to sit through another hour of his sad failed date stories I’m going to lose my mind.” Max rubbed her temples.

Dustin nodded, carefully placing his character sheet back into its laminated slot in his D&D binder. “It’s bad.”

Eddie looked up from behind what he called ‘the master's wall of secrets’ which was simply a divider with helpful stats and tricks for the dungeon master. “Harrington have another bust of a date?”

The room had emptied out save for Dustin, Will, Mike, Lucas, and Max (who had been bored out of her mind until they got to combat where she got increasingly scarier). They all groaned and nodded. Mike looked over at Eddie with an exasperated expression, “I could hear him whining about it to Nancy over the phone all night.”

“I think I know what his problem is.” Eddie carefully began packing up.

“If you do, would you please tell him?” 

“Better yet, I think I might just show him.” Eddie smirked, a devious plan swirling in his head.

Eddie had invited the older kids over for a simple hang out. Nothing too crazy, just some drinks, weed, food, movies… and oh yeah, a surprise for Steve. He had of course informed everyone he would have a friend over, but that she was cool and they didn’t need to worry about it. Actually, Eddie had informed everyone BUT Steve of exactly who you were and what he was planning. 

Steve and Robin came bearing chips and salsa, which promptly fell out of Steve’s hands at the mere sight of you. Hair messy without care, eyes half lidded as you took another slow drag of the cigarette in your hand, your body splayed out across Eddie’s couch, the swell of your breasts shining under the low lamp light so perfectly, your thighs slightly parted, the red straps of your thong peaking out from the waistband of the tiny piece of fabric called sleep shorts. Mascara smudged every so slightly. 

“Well fuck-” Steve muttered to himself.

You smiled over at the pair, swinging your legs off the couch and crossing the small distance to greet them. You pulled Robin into a sweet hug, introducing yourself properly. And then your attention was on Steve. Eddie had mentioned him. Eddie had not mentioned how much of a stud he was. You licked your lips, eyeing him without shame. You smiled sweetly as you stepped into his space, wrapping your arms around his neck and pushing your chest against his.

“It’s nice to meet you…?” You prompted him.

He swallowed hard, his arms slowly wrapping around your waist. He fought the insane urge to hold your hips. “Steve.” He answered.

You pulled back ever so slightly, arms loose around his neck. “Steve.” Your voice dripped with honey. You smiled to yourself as you took a long glance over his face, eyes lingering on his lips. Your hands slid from around his neck to the top of his chest, ever so slightly pushing yourself away. You let out a hum of approval, glancing over at Eddie. “I see why you kept this one a secret from me, wanted him all to yourself huh, Ed’s?”

Eddie’s head popped out from his room, a victorious smile on his lips as he took in the sight of Steve. “Guilty as charged. But I figured I’d finally share the wealth with the needy.” Eddie directed the last part to Steve, who of course hadn’t heard a thing. 

You bit at your lip as you turned your attention back to Steve. His eyes slowly lit up with a gentle fire the longer you stared. You hummed again. “You sure are needy aren’t you, Harrington?”

Steve half expected himself to grow shy under your stare. Instead, he felt a wave of confidence ooze from his skin. “What makes you say that?”

You smiled more, eyes lighting up with the same kind of fire. “Well, for starters, you’re playing with my thong.”

Steve’s eyes widened. Steve hadn’t realized, but his hands had slowly drifted from your waist to your hips, his thumb carefully tracing the straps of your thong. He carefully detached his hand, not fast, just the right pace to show you he didn’t really want to move his hand. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be. If I wasn’t enjoying it, you would’ve known. Plus I like your hands, big and warm.” You revelled in the way Steve instinctively leaned closer. “I bet you hold onto your girl real tight at night.” You staged the question perfectly. A statement used to draw out the information you wanted. Did Steve Harrington have a girl?

 Robin, who was watching the whole interaction with Eddie from down the hall, felt a nervous ping in her chest. Either you had just jumpstarted an hour of the ‘steve harrington is lonely’ conversation, or you were incredibly good at getting what you wanted.

Steve caught on, and had no problem playing right into your hand. “I would if I had one.” There was no ounce of self pity behind it. Instead, a promise.

You smiled again, an intoxicating little grin of delight. “Carefull what you wish for, Harrington.”

That night had been the spark that lit the blazing fire that was you and Steve. You were unlike anything he had ever known. Off the handle, fiercely confident, a masterful tease, and just as crazy for him as he was for you. 

Life with you in the passenger's seat gave Steve a whole new purpose. No, it wasn’t to tame you or bring you down to earth. It was to hold you up and show you off. The same way you showed him off. You had no problem making it well known that you and Steve were an item, and a blazing hot one at that. 

You would happily latch yourself to his side at parties, not in a clingy way, just in a way that exuded fulfillment. You had no problem staking your claim on the man with a long kiss or a slap on the ass or the occasional frequent mark on his neck in the shape and shade of your lipstick. You didn’t do those things because you felt jealous, or threatened when another woman openly flirted. You did those things because you were incredibly proud to call the tall, thick haired, gorgeous man beside you yours. It came from a place of pride, and god it made Steve dizzy. He liked being loved loudly. He enjoyed your bold moves, and brash admiration.

Steve had always doubted if feelings were truly reciprocated in his past relationships.

He did NOT doubt you. 

And he made damn sure you didn’t doubt him. With you, Steve finally didn’t feel ashamed to love with his whole chest. He didn’t feel like he needed to pull back his affections, or reign in his sweet words. Much like you, Steve had no reservations letting his hands roam your body under the lights of whatever party Robin or Eddie had dragged you along to. Steve liked holding you tight into his side, he liked holding your drink while you and Robin took to the floor. Steve happily got lost in your eyes while you retold some work horror story, and he happily twirled you around as you showed off your outfit to your friends. And he LOVED pulling you onto one of his legs while he leaned back against whoever's couch he was taking over. 

The love you had built with Steve was a wildfire, bursting with every loving emotion known to man. The two of you were fiery hot even on your own, and together… It was lethal. Every emotion was heightened around the two of you. Which made fighting particularly brutal… but the making up was other worldly. 

Parties in particular seemed to really stir things up between the two of you. Especially Eddies after parties, which were becoming more and more frequent as his band started booking more and more gigs. Eddies after parties involved a lot of things: loud music, drugs, dancing, tight spaces, unsolicited flirting, eye fucking, and the occasional shut down from the cops. 

You got incredibly rowdy at said after parties, something Steve had no problem with. He liked seeing you let loose, liked seeing you dance freely. He liked the way you would find his eyes as you swayed your hips in that irresistible way. What he didn’t like was that one of Eddie’s band mates simply couldn’t seem to understand that you had no interest in him.

Frank was a nice guy, truly. On any regular day, Steve liked Frank, thought he did a great job playing the keyboard or whatever it was he did. But when Frank was two edibles in, that’s when Steve had a bit of a problem with him. Steve could feel the agitation itching under his skin. You and Frank stood close, pushed together in the sea of bodies. You politely held your drink between his body and yours, creating space despite the way you leaned in closer to hear him and the playful laughs that fell from your lips. Steve knew you liked playing little games with him, it was your way of getting him riled up. 

Steve watched the exchange closely, half amused and half annoyed. Amused because you kept looking over at him, biting your lip as your eyes raked up and down his body. Steve caught the subtle way you rubbed your thighs together, bringing a smirk to his face as he imagined which lacy number you had decided to go with tonight. Annoyed because Frank was inching closer, eyes hungry as he got a good look at your chest. You shot a wink at Steve quickly as you leaned closer, giving Frank a better look. 

Steve felt his dick twitch with irritation and lust as you toyed with him from 10 feet away. To others, it looked like you might have been playing right in Steve's face, making a fool out of him. You and Steve knew better. He knew you were just setting up the tone for the rest of the night. He trusted you. And he was right to, because when Frank tried to tuck a strain of hair behind your ear you easily avoided the touch, pretending to have heard your name from somewhere across the house. Steve laughed to himself as the ends of your hair hit Frank right in the face, and laughed more when you patted the poor guy on the shoulder before announcing you were missing your darling boyfriend. 

Steve smiled as you easily slipped away, making your way to him with a sly smile. He opened his arms, letting you pull yourself into his chest. The heat from your body lit him on fire. You stared up at him with amused eyes. “Hey, baby.”

“There’s my little minx.” He smiled down at you, his hands finding your hips with ease.

You gave him a wicked little grin, “Oh come on, you’re telling me that didn’t turn you on?”

Steve laughed, his head tipping back slightly. “You know it did. Just wish you’d pick another target.”

You looked up at him carefully. “Do my ears deceive me or is Steve Harrington actually jealous of Frank the Keyboarder?” 

He rolled his eyes, sucking at his teeth. He let one hand slowly drift from your hip down your thigh and under your skirt. “Nah, m’not jealous. Wanna know why?” He leaned close, his lips brushing that sensitive spot beneath your ear.

You leaned closer, fingers digging into his bicep. “Why?” Your breath hitched slightly as your felt two thick fingers carefully graze against the wet spot in your panties.

Steve pulled his hand away, examining his fingers momentarily. “Becuase his fingers know how to work a keyboard, mine know how to work you.” He carefully slotted his fingers in his mouth, licking them clean and pulling them out with a sharp pop.

You squeezed your thighs together, scared you would genuinely start dripping on the carpet. “Fuck, baby. That was so-”

Steve hummed, gripping your jaw and bringing your lips to his. Your arms slid up around his neck, pulling him closer.

“Slut.”

You and Steve froze. He pulled away, eyes finding the guy who had officially dug his own grave. You grabbed Steve’s arm carefully, “It’s fine.”

Steve let a low growl through his teeth, eyes staring down the guy. “You wish.” he directed his words at the man. He wrapped a protective arm around your shoulder.

The guy slowly turned towards you and Steve again, a confused look on his face. “What?”

“I said you wish. Just so you know, calling her a slut isn’t gonna compel her to use you to turn me on.” 

You bit back a laugh, literally biting his arm to keep yourself from full on laughing in the guy’s face.

The douche was at a loss for words, him looking between you and Steve like you had lost your minds. “S-sorry.” He quickled turned away, drifting deeper into the house.

You pulled your teeth away from Steve’s bicep. “Wow, way to air out our dirty little secret.”

He shrugged, “I don’t feel too inclined to hide anything when it comes to you.” He twisted his arm to look at the indent of your teeth in his arm. “Damn, if you wanted a piece of me just ask.”

You smiled wider, linking your index fingers through his belt loops and tugging his hips against your own. “I don’t want just a piece of you, Steve.”

“Let’s get out of here, yeah?” His nose brushed against yours. You nodded eagerly and let him pull you from the house. 

When you were comfortably seated beside Steve in the beamer you shot him a wild smile. As Steve drove down the familiar path to your shared space, you carefully leaned over the center console. You let one hand grip his shoulder to steady yourself as you pushed your face into the crook of his neck. Your lips brushed against his warm skin, pulling a sharp shiver from him.

Steve kept his eyes glued to the road, clearing his voice as he asked, “Baby, what are you doin?”

You smiled against his skin, your tongue licking at the spot you had just teethed at. “What’s it feel like I’m doin?”

His grip on the steering wheel tightened. “Distracting me. I’m driving baby, I gotta focus.”

You took a deep inhale of his cologne, “Then tell me to stop.”

You waited, lips hovering so close he could feel your breath fanning across his neck. Steve blinked hard, shifting in his seat to try and give his growing boner some room. The small house was only a mile down the road. He could make it. “Fuck it- keep going.”

You immediately latched your mouth back onto his exposed skin. Sucking and soothing over his sweet spots. Your lips dragged up and down his skin, trailing warm kisses along his jaw line. You shifted closer, head dipping into the space where his neck met his shoulders. You carefully pulled at the skin with your teeth before letting your tongue run over the sore spot. Steve reached down, adjusting his jeans carefully. You caught the motion, smiling against his skin as the car jerked to a stop outside of the house. 

Steve quickly turned, his hand sliding between your thighs with ease. You pulled back, staring at him with hazy eyes. “Fuck- need you, Steve.”

Steve squeezed the plush of your thigh with one hand, the other coming up and gripping your chin hard. “Yeah? Tell me what you’re willin to do.” 

You stared at him hard, “Anything, just want you.” You brushed your nose against his, giving him sultry eyes.

“Fuck- can’t say no to you.” He smiled, pressing a hot kiss to the side of your mouth before unbuckling your seat bet. You both scrambled out of the car, Steve unlocking the house with ease and kicking the door shut behind him.

You pounced the moment the door was shut, leaping into his arms with a wicked grin. He caught you with ease, pushing your thighs around his waist. You happily wrapped your arms around his neck, fingers tugging at his hair. “You looked so good tonight, Steve. And god, the way you told off that guy… fuck- I would’ve let you take me right there.” 

Steve smirked, his hands gripping the fat of your ass as he walked you towards the bedroom. “Wish you would’ve said that, I would have done that. Shown that guy exactly what he was missing out on.” You practically let out a moan at his words, pulling his hair harder. Steve grinned wide, “Oh you like that, huh? You want me to fuck you in public baby? Show everyone exactly how good I make you feel?”

You bit your lip hard, his words shooting straight down to your aching heat. He carefully walked you backwards until the backs of your knees hit the edge of the bed. Steve wrapped a careful arm around, keeping you standing and pressed against him. Your fingers curled into the edges of his jack to keep you steady. He stared down at you, eyes attached to the sight of your top slightly disheveled and giving him the most mouthwatering view of your chest. His hands eagerly slid under your top, pulling it over your head expertly before cupping your tits and thumbing over your hard nipples with his thumb. A needy moan fell from your lips, your head tilting back as his large hands squeezed and played with your sensitive mounds.

Steve smiled to himself before giving you a gentle push, letting you fall down onto the plush mattress behind you. You propped yourself up on your forearms, chest high and legs already parted for him. Steve watched you from above, the sight of you splayed out like that for him, sending a new wave of heat down to his cock. He carefully kneeled on the edge of the bed, hands running up your legs as he admired you before climbing further up. 

Your skirt had carefully ridden up to your waist, granting him the most delectable view of your glistening cunt. He felt his dick strain against his jeans even more. “Fuck, look at you-”

You smiled, “Already so wet for you.” You finished his sentence. 

He carefully pressed his knee up against your aching cunt, revelling in the way you pushed yourself to meet him. A slow whimper drifted through the air as you rubbed yourself against him, letting a wet spot form quickly against his jeans. He pushed his knee up harder, driving out a string of curses from your mouth. 

Steve quickly rid himself of his shirt, flinging it somewhere in the room. His hands moved to your hips, pressing them down against the mattress and halting your attack on his leg. “Tell me what you’re feeling, baby.”

You squirmed under his touch, hips trying to chase his knee as he pulled it away. “Needy. Fuck- so needy Steve. I want you so bad it hurts. I need all of you, however you want me. But, please, just fuck me.”

Steve's eyes traveled from your face to your soaked panties, a broad smile finding its spot on his face. “It hurts, hm?” He easily slotted his head between your thighs. You nodded, watching him dip his head low. His fingers curl around the strings of your thong, pulling it down in one fell sweep and letting his warm breath fan across your wet slit. “How bout I kiss it better?”

You nod feverishly before your head flies back against the pillows as Steve licks a long stripe against your cunt. He lets the cold air rush in for a small moment before peppering kissing against your folds. A groan catched in your throat as he carefully knocks your legs wider and nudges his nose against your heat. “Fuck- stop teasing”

“What? A man can’t take his time with his dinner?” He looks up at you with a devious glint.

“Steve- please!” You carefully grab a fist full of his hair, pushing his head back down.

He laughs and grips your thighs harder, fingers digging into the fat of your skin. “So damn needy-”

“Yes! Now please fuck me with your tongue!” You call out from above him.

Steve obliges, his tongue diving in between your slick folds and taking in a whole mouthful of you. You moan out wildly, letting the feeling spread out warm and hot in your stomach. You push his head deeper, your legs tightening slightly as he brings his thumb to the outside of your heat, rubbing sweet circles against you. His tongue moves at an alarming pace, lapping up every ounce of your juices. He pushes his tongue deeper, lifting up your hips so he can get the perfect angle. Steve lets a moan fall against you, sending the vibrations up your body. Your eyes squeeze shut as he devours you like a man starved. He carefully guides in two thick fingers, letting them brush against your walls and pulling out more of your wet. You clench tightly around his digits, not wanting them to leave your needy cunt. His tongue rolls deeper, licking into you like he needs your taste to live. He pushed his fingers deeper, finding that aching spot waiting to be caressed. He curls his fingers against it, causing your body to jolt forward slightly, your eyes shooting up, and your hand yanking at his hair.

“Oh- Steve- fuck, that’s it. Fuck, yeah right there.” You urge him on, feeling the knot in your stomach begin to pull tight.

He moans again as you pull at his hair, his fingers dipping back in and working at your velvety walls. He feels your breathing pick up, and stuffs his face deeper working his fingers faster. He catches the tiny hiccup in your breath as it catches, your walls clenching down around his fingers, sucking them deeper. Your legs squeeze around his head so hard he thinks he might suffocate between your legs. What a perfect way to go. You moan his name loudly as your orgasm wracks through your body, before your legs loosen around him. 

You reach down carefully, grabbing his chin and pulling him up. And fuck, the sight of him lathered in you, chin dripping in your wet, lips mixed with saliva and your cum, it has you seeing stars. Steve carefully licks his lips, his fingers collecting you off his chin before licking them clean. You shutter at the sight, eyes burning into his skin. 

“Fuck, you taste so good, baby.” He crawls over you, planting a hard kiss on your lips. Your tongue swipes against his bottom lip before meeting his own tongue in the cave of his mouth. The taste of you on his tongue has you clenching around nothing. He trails sloppy kisses along your jaw, his warm hands splaying out against your waist. 

You carefully reach down in between your bodies, and palm him through his jeans. Steve hisses at the touch, looking up at you with fiery eyes. “Shit- baby be careful-”

Your fingers make quick work of his belt and jeans, pulling them down to his knees. You let your hand dip below his underwear, your hand gently stroking his hard length. His head falls into your shoulder as he groans low. You gently squeeze at his base, causing the feeling of teeth sinking into your shoulder. Your senses ignite at the feeling. You quickly stroke him again before he’s reaching down and completely discarding his pants and boxers. You bite your lip at the beautiful sight of his dick twitching in his hands and leaking droplets of precum. 

Steve takes in the desperate look in your eyes and quickly crawls back over you, his dick sliding between your folds. “Look at you, already cock drunk and I’m not even inside you yet.”

You loop your arms around his neck, pulling him closer. Your lips latch onto his neck, before trailing up to his ear. You gently nibble at his ear lobe, earning you a shutter and a groan. “Steve, I need you inside me so so so bad. Please? Just need to feel you fuck me senseless. Please baby? I’ll be so good for you, just need you bad.” You beg against his ear, the words and hot breath mixing against his skin. 

Steve groans low, and pushes himself to the hilt in one go, drawing out a desperate moan from your mouth. Your legs wrap around his waist instantly, your pussy sucking him deeper. He groans out as you clench around him. 

“Oh fuck- look at you, so tight and wet for me. Fuck, this pussy was made for me huh?”

You nod, mouth open but unable to form an actual sentence. “Made… ngh..you” 

Steve pulls back slightly before ramming himself back in, your body jolting against the sheets and the headboard slamming hard into the wall. His head ducks into your shoulder, pressing light kisses down your arm as the room fills up with the sound of his skip slapping against yours. Steve presses a kiss to your palm before his teeth sink into it as you squeeze around him.

You feel his dick kissing the edge of your cervix, hitting that sweet spot over and over again. You clench down on him, eyes screwing shut as you moan out his name. “Steve- right there. Fuck that’s it. Don’t stop, don’t stop, you feel so good”

Steve's fingers lace with yours beside your head, his forehead meeting yours. “I got you. Fuck you look so good taking me like this. I got you, baby, let go for me.”

Your legs shake as a second, harder, orgasm washes over you. Your walls squeeze around Steve, pulling him to the edge with you. He moans into your shoulder as you milk him. 

His hips come to a slow stop as he helps the both of you ease out of intense feeling. You plant kisses all along his face and neck, whining slightly as he pulls out. His arms wrap around your waist as he falls to the side of you, bringing you half onto his chest. 

He stares up at you with a dizzy smile, “I don’t think I’ll ever get used to that.” He laughs.

You smile, resting your head on his chest, drawing random shapes against his skin. “Me neither.” 

His hand wanders up to your shoulder, fingers tracing the indent he left with his teeth. He sits up slightly startled. “Shit- baby, did I do that?”

You laugh, “Yup, and this.” You show him your palm.

“Fuck, I’m sorry. I don’t even-”

You cut him off with a long kiss, “Don’t be sorry, it was fucking hot. Like really really really hot. Like if I think about it too long I might need a round two.”

He relaxes and laughs, “I dunno if I’m up for that, I’m pretty spent.” He kisses the tip of your nose.

“Oh I know, just beware, tomorrow morning… you’re getting the best head in your life.” You cuddle into his side with a happy smile.

Steve laughs, wrapping you up tighter. “You want to shower or just go to sleep?”

“Sleep, please. I’m so warm right here. Don’t want to leave your arms.” You smiled sweetly, “Plus what’s the point if tomorrow morning your cum is gonna be all over me again.”

Steve barked out a laugh, pulling the blankets around your shoulders, “You’ve sure got a mouth on you.” He paused slightly, feeling you smirk against his skin. “Wow, I really just set myself up, didn't I?”

“Yup. But.. I’ll give you a pass on this one, m’too tired to keep making sex jokes.” 

He smiled wider, pressing a kiss to your temple as the two of you drifted to sleep. Steve hummed contently, so happy to have finally broken away from his usual type to find his perfect match.

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The hearing loss had crept in slow, then all at once, the way grief does—and then it had worsened again six months ago, a sharp drop that had left you standing in an audiologist's office with the floor tilted under you and the words coming at you like they were travelling through water. Steve had driven you home. He hadn't said much. He'd just kept his hand on your knee the entire journey, warm and steady, an anchor in all that terrible quiet, and when you'd finally cried in the driveway he'd unbuckled your seatbelt without a word and pulled you across the gearshift and held you until you were done. Until the shaking stopped. Until you'd run out of things to be frightened of, at least for one night.

He'd learnt the alphabet that same week. Looked it up on his phone and practised on your arm in the dark until he got it right, his finger slow and deliberate against your skin, spelling things like okay and I'm here and once, memorably, dingus, which had made you laugh so hard you'd had to press your face into the pillow.

You love him the way you love a song that makes you stop walking. Completely. Involuntarily. Like there's no choice in it at all.

The first pancake hits the pan with a sizzle you feel more than hear, a low hiss that travels up through the handle and into your fingers, and you watch the edges go from wet to pale gold and think: he's going to hate waiting to find out what the plan is today. This is one of your favourite things about Steve Harrington—he can't stand a secret. Not because he's impatient, exactly, but because he gets excited, genuinely and openly and without any embarrassment about it, bouncing on his heels like a retriever who knows the lead is coming out. It's one of about four hundred things you'd never expected from him when you first met, all of which have quietly rearranged themselves into the architecture of why you love him.

You stack the pancakes high. You apply the whipped cream with perhaps slightly too much enthusiasm. You arrange them on his favourite plate—the chipped blue one he insists isn't chipped, it's characterful—and you balance it carefully with a mug of coffee and head upstairs, and you are so focused on not spilling anything that you nearly miss the way the morning light is coming through the window at the top of the stairs, soft and unhurried, laying itself across the carpet in long warm bands the colour of honey. It looks like something already remembered. Like a morning that knows it's going to be a good one.

Steve is asleep on his stomach with his face half-muffled in the pillow, one arm stretched out to your empty side of the bed, fingers loosely curled around nothing. It turns your chest to warm liquid. You cross the room carefully, set the plate and the mug on the nightstand, and sit on the edge of the mattress. You put a hand on his shoulder, a gentle press and hold, and feel the way his breathing changes before you see his eyes open—groggy and golden-brown and soft in the way that no one else ever gets to see him.

He blinks at you. Then at the pancakes. Then back at you, and the smile that spreads across his face is slow and sunrise-stupid and entirely unguarded, the smile of a person who has not yet remembered to be self-conscious about anything.

"Hey," he says.

You can read it easily on his lips—you always can, with him, you've made a study of his mouth over two years and you know its shapes the way you know a favourite road. "Hey," you say back, and then you sign, "Happy birthday, dork."

He laughs, the way he always does when you call him that, like it genuinely surprises him every single time. He pushes himself upright, hair a catastrophe, already reaching for the plate—and then he does the thing where he catches you completely off guard. He loops an arm around your waist and pulls, and suddenly you're tumbling sideways into the bed with a short yelp that you feel in your throat, pancakes miraculously intact, your balance entirely gone, and you're laughing before you've even landed. He gets the whipped cream on your nose with a precise and shameless efficiency that suggests he'd been planning it the moment he saw the plate.

"Steve—"

"You look great," he says, completely solemnly. He's grinning wider than the whole morning.

"I will take those pancakes back," you tell him.

"No you won't."

"I absolutely will."

He catches your hand and presses a kiss to the back of it, still grinning, and then he does actually let you sit up—magnanimously, like he's doing you a favour—and he pulls the plate onto his lap with the reverence it genuinely deserves. He takes a bite. His eyes close. There's a pause that has a kind of religious quality to it.

"Perfect," he says, and you know he means it because Steve Harrington is physically incapable of lying about food. It's one of his most endearing qualities.

He eats with one hand and keeps the other loosely around your waist, warm against the small of your back, grounding the morning like a full stop at the end of a sentence. You watch him eat and feel the particular contentment of someone who has found the right place to be—still and settled, like water that has stopped looking for somewhere to run to. He offers you a forkful somewhere in the middle. You take it. He looks pleased with himself.

When he gets near the bottom of the stack, he starts giving you looks.

Scheming looks.

"Tell me," he signs, halting but careful. His sign for tell me is not technically correct—it's a hybrid of something he invented and something he half-remembered from a tutorial—but you've stopped correcting it because it's become its own language between the two of you, a third dialect made entirely of his well-meaning mistakes and your patient redirection. It means tell me and it also means I love you enough to try, and you are not going to think about that right now or you'll get emotional before 8am on his birthday.

"No," you sign back, very simply. Very pleasantly.

"Come on." He says it out loud and attempts to sign it simultaneously, which is endearing and slightly chaotic, both hands busy and his face doing most of the emotional work. "Just a hint. Is it food? Are we doing something outside? Is Robin involved?"

You give him nothing. You give him a smile that you know, from extensive experience, is deeply infuriating in its serenity.

He puts the empty plate on the nightstand and turns to face you fully, which is a tactical escalation.

"Okay," he says. "Okay. I'm going to guess and you're going to tell me if I'm warm." He holds up a hand before you can respond. "I know you're going to say no. I'm going to ask anyway. Picnic?"

You say nothing.

"Drive somewhere? Fancy dinner? Bowling—no, you'd never make me go bowling, forget I said that." He runs a hand through his hair. "Surprise visit from my parents?"

You give him a look.

"Okay, yeah, that one was stupid." He pauses. "Spa day?"

There's a hopefulness in his voice that is genuinely touching.

"Escape room? Laser tag?" He's picking up speed now, running through options like sheer volume will crack you. "Some kind of elaborate scavenger hunt—are there clues? Is that what the good mood is about? You have clues somewhere—"

You smile. You say nothing. You are an unmoveable object, serene as a lake on a windless morning, and it is absolutely killing him.

He flops back against the headboard with a groan. "You're evil," he says, but he's smiling so wide his face can barely contain it, bright and bouncing with all that barely-leashed excitement. He bounces, at one point. Actually bounces, just slightly, against the mattress, and doesn't even notice. You'd been right about that.

It's almost painful how much you love him.

Eventually you go shower and let him sit with the not-knowing, which he bears with more patience than he'd probably like to admit he has. You take your time getting ready. You put on the jacket he always says looks good on you—he'd said it so often you'd started thinking of it as the jacket he likes, which is a category that exists now apparently, a whole taxonomy of your wardrobe sorted by his opinions. When you come back downstairs he's washed the plate himself without being asked, and changed into something that means he's at least tried to guess the dress code, and you've genuinely lost track of where his birthday behaviour ends and just him begins.

You make him close his eyes.

He closes them, hands open in his lap, and there's something almost unbearably earnest about it—this big, broad-shouldered man sitting on the sofa with his eyes shut like a child on Christmas morning, fully committed to the bit, trusting you completely.

You put the envelope in his hands.

"Okay," you say.

He opens his eyes. He opens the envelope. And the noise he makes is not a word—it's the sound of someone's whole chest doing something unexpected, a sharp inhale with joy underneath it like a coal bed beneath the surface of water, and he looks up at you with his jaw genuinely open and his eyes doing the thing where they go very bright and slightly overwhelmed all at once, like he doesn't quite know which feeling to land on first.

"How did you—these have been sold out for months—"

"Robin," you say.

"Robin," he repeats, like the name of a patron saint, and then he's already on his feet and he closes the distance between you in one long step and wraps both arms around you, lifting you slightly off the ground, pressing a kiss to your temple, your cheek, your jaw, your cheekbone—a whole cartography of gratitude mapped out against your face, and you're laughing, hands braced against his chest.

"You're the best," he says, against your hair. "You're genuinely the best person I've ever met in my entire life."

You pull back just far enough to see his face, and you sign, "I know."

He laughs, the real one, the one that goes all the way up to his eyes and isn't performed for anyone. He cups your face in his hands for a moment, just looks at you, and the morning settles around you both like a held breath finally, gently, gladly released.

"Okay," he says, pulling back with great apparent effort. "Okay. Should I bring a jacket? What's the venue like?"

"Jacket," you confirm.

"Is it—"

"That's all you're getting."

He points at you. "Evil," he says again, still grinning, and goes to find his jacket.

The drive to the venue is easy in the way drives with Steve always are—unhurried and comfortable, full of the particular warmth of two people who know each other well enough to share silence without filling it. He plays music and drums his fingers on the wheel and occasionally glances over at you with that look of barely-contained excitement you've seen on him before fireworks and good meals and one very memorable episode involving a surprise dog at a friend's party. Robin meets you outside—she's wearing something that should not work but absolutely does, and she punches Steve's arm by way of greeting and hands you both your wristbands.

"Happy birthday, hair," she says to him. "The hair looks genuinely incredible today."

"Thank you," he says, very seriously.

She says something else then, something quick and pointed, and you catch I told you so clear as anything on her lips before she turns to you with a conspiratorial grin. Steve makes a noise of theatrical protest.

"She told me you were going to cry," Steve says to you, just loudly enough.

"I'm not going to cry," Robin says, at the same volume, not looking at either of you.

"She's going to cry," you say.

"I'm not going to—can we just go in, please—"

The crowd inside is warm and loud and alive in the way that concerts are, the bass moving through the ground and up through your feet and into your bones, a language your body already speaks without needing to be taught. You don't catch everything the way you once did—there are frequencies that live in a register you can't always reach now, whole layers of the sound that blur at the edges—but you haven't lost this, the physical fact of music, the way sound becomes sensation when it's large and close and real enough. It fills your chest like weather filling a valley, wide and encompassing and impossible to stand outside of.

Steve stays close to you. Not smothering, not hovering with that anxious energy people sometimes adopt around you now, the performative carefulness that makes you feel like a problem to be managed. Just there—solid and present, his hand finding yours in the dark without any fuss or ceremony, just because he wanted to.

He keeps glancing over at you. Every few songs he mouths thank you, exaggerated and deliberate so you can read it easily, and every time you shake your head a little, because he's thanking you for the wrong thing. The tickets are Robin's logistics and your credit card and three weeks of strategic vagueness—but this, the two of you here with his shoulder against yours, the stage light catching the side of his face and making him look like something out of a memory you haven't made yet—this is just Tuesday with Steve, except louder.

You'd been practising for weeks.

You'd sat with Robin in her bedroom with the printed lyric sheets and the handshape guides spread across her floor, and you'd learnt three songs—properly learnt them, not just the words but the rhythm and the breathing of them, the ebb and pull of the phrases, the way the signs could move with the melody if you let them, the way the meaning could live in the motion rather than just the shape. Your hands had eventually known the route without you having to think about the map. Robin had watched you run through the third song and gone very quiet.

"He's going to completely lose it," she'd said.

"Good," you'd said.

"I mean that in the best possible way."

"I know."

She'd cried a little then, and denied it immediately, and you'd both pretended it hadn't happened, which is the correct protocol.

The slower song starts about two-thirds through the set. You feel the tempo shift before the crowd does—a low change in the vibration underfoot, the bass settling into something softer, the energy of the room folding inward like a page being turned carefully. You tap Steve on the shoulder.

He turns, expecting you to ask something—water, air, whether he's having a good time.

And you start to sign.

Your hands move through the lyrics—not translating word by word but interpreting, finding the shape of the feeling inside the words, the emotional skeleton beneath the syllables, and letting your hands carry it up into the air between you. You watch his face as it registers what you're doing. The surprise hits first, quick and bright as a struck match—and then it goes somewhere deeper and less nameable, his eyes going wide and then soft and then something that doesn't have an easy word, the expression of a person trying to hold something that keeps expanding past the edges of what they'd been prepared for. His mouth has gone slightly open. He watches your hands the way you watch the road when something beautiful is happening at the edge of it—not wanting to look away, not wanting to miss a single second of it.

The song ends. You let your hands still.

He doesn't say anything for a long moment. He just looks at you. The crowd moves around you, the next song beginning to build from the quiet, and none of it quite touches the space the two of you are standing in, which has its own weather, its own particular gravity, a small self-contained world.

Then he pulls you in—both arms, tight, his chin at the top of your head—and you feel him breathe, one long, slow exhale, like setting something down that he'd been carrying for a while without quite knowing it.

"I didn't know you could do that," he says, close enough that you feel the words more than hear them, the vibration of his voice against your temple.

You pull back just far enough to sign, "I practised."

He nods. Slowly. He looks like he is working very hard to keep his face together in a dignified and adult fashion.

"You practised," he repeats.

"For you," you sign.

He makes a sound that's not quite a word and pulls you back in, and you let him, your arms around his waist, the music pressing through both of you like light through glass. After a moment you feel rather than hear him laugh quietly, breath more than sound.

"Robin told me you'd been doing something," he says. "She wouldn't say what. I thought you were taking a cooking class."

You pull back to look at him properly. "A cooking class?"

"I didn't know what to think, you were being very mysterious about it—"

"You thought I learnt catering."

"I thought it was a possibility, you'd mentioned the pancakes weren't rising right—"

"Steve."

"It was a logical conclusion—"

"It really wasn't."

He covers his face with one hand. You pat his arm. Robin appears at your elbow like she's been waiting for precisely this cue, pointing between the two of you with an expression of supreme satisfaction on her face.

"He thought you were taking a cooking class," she says to you, loudly enough for both of you to catch it clearly.

"I was in the room when you told her," Steve says.

"I know. I wanted to say it again."

You're laughing now, proper laughing, and Steve is too despite himself, and the next song starts up around you and the three of you stand in the warm, loud dark and it's easy and good and real, the way the best things always are.

The rest of the concert happens around you like weather—vivid and surrounding and strangely secondary to the small warm fact of his hand in yours, his thumb moving slow and absent over your knuckles in a rhythm that isn't quite any song being played but is entirely its own thing. The bass moves through your feet like a low, continuous pulse. The crowd moves like water finding its level. Steve glances at you every few minutes with that soft brightness that lives in his eyes sometimes, the one you've never quite found the right word for—it sits somewhere between grateful and amazed, in a country that hasn't been named yet.

It's late when you finally get back to his car. The night air is cold and clean and the car park is mostly empty, and your feet ache in the pleasant way they do after hours of standing somewhere good. Robin hugs you both—holds onto you a beat longer than usual, which you notice, which you think you understand—and then heads to her own car.

"She's the best," Steve says, watching her go.

"She really is."

"Don't tell her I said that."

"She knows," you say. "She absolutely knows."

He unlocks the car but doesn't get in immediately, just leans against the door for a moment looking up at the sky—dark and enormous and littered with light, the same one that's been up there all evening waiting to be paid attention to. You lean next to him. Your shoulders touch.

"Thank you," he says, quietly. Not the exaggerated concert-version. This one is small and real and meant only for you.

"You've said that about sixty times tonight," you tell him.

"I'll say it sixty more."

You don't answer that one. You just lean a little more into his shoulder, and he shifts so his arm comes around you, and you both look up at the dark for a while without needing to fill it.

At some point without discussion he drives off the main road and pulls onto a quiet stretch with a wide, clear view overhead—the kind of sky that only happens when you're far enough from the town lights that the stars can properly show off, dense with them, reckless with them, more light than dark if you look long enough. He parks on the gravel shoulder and gets out, and you follow, and he produces two old blankets from the boot with the absolute unsurprised efficiency of a man who has done this before and intends to do it again.

"You keep blankets in your car," you say.

"Of course I do."

"For emergencies?"

"For exactly this," he says simply, and spreads one across the bonnet, and you climb up and lie back and the metal is still warm from the engine, radiating heat up through the blanket, and the stars are right there pressing close in the particular way they only do when the night is large enough and the world is quiet enough and you have someone beside you worth watching the sky with.

For a while neither of you speaks or signs. You just breathe. The silence between you is the comfortable kind—not empty but full, full of the day, full of music still sitting in your bones, full of all the small accumulated moments that build like light builds in a room at dawn, slow and steady and suddenly everywhere.

"Best birthday I've ever had," Steve says, eventually.

You turn your head to look at him. He's still looking up at the stars, a small, settled smile at the corner of his mouth, at peace with himself in a way that still surprises you sometimes—this ease he's grown into since you first knew him, this person he's quietly and steadily become.

"You say that every year," you tell him.

"Every year I mean it." He turns his head to look at you. "This year I really mean it. Not just the concert. Not just the tickets. This morning, and—all of it. You. The whole day."

"The whipped cream on my nose," you say.

"Especially the whipped cream on your nose." His expression is solemn, warm, entirely sincere underneath the joke. "I mean it. It's the best day."

You find his hand where it's resting between you on the bonnet and hold it. He turns his palm over and laces his fingers through yours, and the sky stays where it is, enormous and patient and full of light that's been travelling for longer than either of you can properly understand, arriving here, arriving now, arriving at exactly the right moment.

After a long while he turns his palm upward under your hand, and slowly, carefully, with one deliberate finger, he begins to trace letters into your skin. Not the quick ASL sign you use between you—not the shorthand that lives in a flick of the wrist—but the alphabet, each letter formed carefully against your palm the way he'd first practised in the dark. L. O. V. E. He does it twice, slow, making sure you feel it. The way he does when he wants to be sure it means something beyond the word.

You watch the stars and you feel the letters and you think about how love is not always loud. How sometimes it looks like a hand on your knee in a driveway while you cry in the passenger seat. How sometimes it's practising the alphabet in the dark until you get every letter right. How sometimes it's a boy who signed for you in a concert crowd and said it like it was the simplest and most obvious thing he'd ever done—because to him, it was. The night is wide and the stars are indifferent and the engine's still cooling beneath you, small metallic sounds that travel up through the metal and into your palms, and none of it is a metaphor for anything because it doesn't need to be. It's just real. It's just this.

You trace "I know" into his palm.

His laugh is quiet, almost breath more than sound, fond and inevitable, the laugh of a person who expected exactly that and is delighted by it anyway. He turns his face back to the sky, still smiling, and laces his fingers back through yours, and the night settles around you like something deliberate—like the whole long day has been building towards exactly this, the two of you on the bonnet of his car under a sky that has more stars in it than darkness, the warmth of the engine beneath you, his thumb moving slow against the back of your hand.

You stay there for a long time. Long enough that the engine goes fully cold beneath you, long enough that the cold starts to creep in at the edges of the blanket, and neither of you suggests moving yet. Long enough to feel the day begin to settle into memory—the flour on your wrist at 6am, his face when he'd opened the envelope, the way his eyes had gone wide and then soft in the concert crowd, Robin crying and denying it in the same breath. Long enough to feel all of it settle and become something solid, something you'll carry.

He's the one who makes every day something worth carrying.

You know that. You've known it for a long time. You think, looking up at all that light that's been travelling so long to reach you, that you'll keep knowing it—longer than tonight, longer than this year, longer than you have words or signs for.

Like it's enough. Like it's more than enough.

Surprisingly, the patrol had been pretty chill for a friday night. There was one armed robbery earlier, a couple pick pockets here and there and one very stubborn cat on top of a tree. The movement was so slow that Steve gave Dustin the night off. Not that he had that kind of authority, if anything, it was otherwise, with the boy, now a college freshman, being Steve’s self proclaimed guy in a chair. 

It was good for Dustin to go out there every once in a while, doing whatever nerdy college guys were doing on a friday night. Robin, though, didn’t need any incentive to take a night off and go drinking with her girlfriend, Vicky, and friends. Steve missed going out with them, or doing anything that didn’t involve wearing his very tight costume. He was in a desperate need of a new one. 

Steve decided to head towards Brooklyn, where his friends were reunited. He would do this every now and then, checking on everyone as they headed home, especially when there was drinking involved. 

As he got closer to the bar Robin mentioned, he was able to sense a few people from their group: Robin and Vicky dancing, Eddie and Gareth higher than the clouds checking girls out, and Nancy and Jonathan making out in the bathroom. Ugh, he hated that. His powers were useful and sometimes, even funny to use, but there was also that very inconvenient side. 

He tried concentrating on the surroundings to tune them out.  

“Yo, Spidey! You’re a guy, right?”

Steve thanked the universe for his coordination skills, because dear God, you scared the shit out of him, he almost fell from the side of the building next to the bar where he was stationed at.

Wait, why were you outside instead of hanging out with your friends inside?

“Because everyone is in a fucking couple!”

Steve had no idea he said that out loud. He got down from the building, walking slowly towards you, trying not to freak you out. That was something that happened with a certain frequency.  

“Shit, why am I screaming?”, you whispered to yourself, trying to control the volume of your voice. Steve tried not to laugh, you clearly had more than your normal quota of alcohol for the night.

“Are you okay?”

“You’re a guy, right?”, you asked at the same time.

Steve stopped, one hand on his waist, the other scratching his cap. His poor hair was suffocating inside it. 

“I mean, yeah. That's why they call me Spider-Man.”

“Huh”, you hold your purse closer to your body. “I’m so stupid!”

This time, Steve couldn’t hold the laughter. You couldn’t be farther from the truth: you were the smartest person he knew besides your own brother. But Dustin was a special case, you actually worked extremely hard to get good grades and do well academically. Graduated college with honours and all. 

“No no, you’re good”, Steve tried to intervene. “But I am, uh, indeed a man.”

“You sound more like a guy than a man”, you looked at him suspiciously. 

“Hey, I’m very manly, ok?” 

You laughed with your whole body, dominating Steve’s spidey senses, giving him full body chills. He guessed it was probably because he hadn’t seen you in weeks, there was barely any time in the day for him to rest, let alone socialize. Still, he was glad Dustin wasn’t monitoring this whole exchange with his older sister. Steve would never hear the end of it.

“But why do you ask?”

As you recovered from the laugh, your expression saddened. 

“Well, I need some advice in that department.”

Steve’s goggles betrayed him, going up in surprise like his eyebrows did. He had never thought much about it, just assumed you were always studying, but he hadn’t seen you with a guy before. It’s when he realized the meaning of what you said earlier: “Everyone is in a fucking couple!”. 

“Okay, yeah, sure. I’m a guy.”

“That has been established”, you laughed quietly. “It’s just…if you have tried everything to be noticed by a guy and he never has, does it mean he is not interested or just really oblivious?”

“I think you know the answer to that.”

You smiled sadly. 

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

“For what is worth, you deserve better than that”, said Steve. It sounded like the right thing to say. He just hated seeing people he cared about so sad. “This guy must be a real jerk.”

“No”, you said desperately. “He is…everything.”

That caught Steve out of surprise. But your mind seemed to be elsewhere. 

“How can I get over him, Spidey?”

Steve crossed his arms, trying to keep his composure. You looked at him like he might have all the answers to your problems and that had him panicking a bit. This was way above his paygrade. You were friends, sure, but never talked about your respective love lives. Your friendship started with being his best friend’s sister and ended with the two of you being in the same friend group. Dustin and Robin, and now, Spider-Man, demanded too much for him to consider deepening other friendships. 

“I dunno, I mean… You should try dating other guys”, Steve wasn’t entirely satisfied with his advice, but that was the best he could do under pressure. 

“Yeah, well, they might just not like me either.” 

“Change your approach”, said Steve, nervously. Even in your drunken state, he could tell you were paying close attention to what he was saying. “Maybe go for a totally different type of guy, do the opposite of what you did this time around.”

You gave that some thought.

“I guess I have nothing more to…”

And you threw up. Steve guided you towards a trash can. With one hand, he held your hair, while with the other he got his phone and texted Robin for help. 

You don’t belong in his world.

Half the night had been spent listening to Carol Perkins and Tommy Hagan gleefully dismantle half the student body, laughing themselves breathless as they picked classmates apart one by one.

And every time another name came up, your eyes had drifted to Steve.

Watching.

Waiting.

Trying to understand which version of him was real.

Because the boy sitting beside you—smirking into the neck of his beer while Tommy launched into another cruel impression of Betty Callahan's lisp—couldn't possibly be the same boy who waited outside your English classroom every Tuesday.

Leaning against the lockers with his hands tucked into his jacket pockets, smiling the moment he spotted you.

The Steve who kisses you on the cheek before walking you over to Chemistry.

The Steve who always peels the foil off your pudding cup without asking so you won’t get chocolate under your nails.

The Steve who drops to one knee in the middle of a crowded hallway to retie your shoelace, completely unfazed by the stares while your face burns hot enough to melt through the floor.

The Steve who insists on driving you home every afternoon, even though your neighborhood is twenty minutes in the opposite direction from Loch Nora.

Your Steve.

It makes your heart squeeze, watching it happen.

Watching him slip so effortlessly between the version of him that belonged to you, and the one that belonged to everyone else.

Always something a little distant, though, in those eyes, when the laughter fades and his gaze inevitably wanders back to find yours.

A flicker of something tired.  

Maybe you were imagining it.

Maybe wanting someone to be better than they were had a way of filling in all the empty spaces.

Or maybe...

Maybe being Steve Harrington was lonelier than it looked.

Maybe the boy who waited outside English every Tuesday was still in there somewhere, buried under the weight of being King.

Your worry the tab of your beer can with your thumb, spinning the little strip of metal around and around.

Beside you, Steve stretches out in the lounge chair with a quiet groan, long legs crossing at the ankles.

Against your better judgment, your eyes drift to him.

They always seem to.

It's infuriating, how inevitable it feels to be near Steve Harrington. 

You'd spent half the evening questioning whether you even liked him anymore, and the other half unable to stop looking.

From the corner of your eye, you catch him reaching into the back pocket of his jeans, fishing out a familiar red-and-white pack. He thumbs it open with practiced ease, taps the bottom against his palm until a cigarette slides neatly into waiting fingers.

The filter disappears between his plush lips, and your nose wrinkles before you can stop it.

"What?"

The word comes out muffled around the cigarette, low and amused.

You jerk your gaze upward, heat flooding your face.

Had he been watching you this whole time, too? 

He's smiling.

Not quite the easy, self-satisfied grin he'd worn all evening for the rest of his friends—this one’s a little softer, loosened by one too many beers and, maybe, just maybe, you think it’s the familiar comfort of finally being alone with you.  

Pool lights ripples across his face in shifting ribbons of blue and green. His hair’s still damp from earlier, when he’d cannonballed into the deep end without warning, resurfacing only to reach for your ankles while you squealed and scrambled away, laughing so hard you could barely keep your balance.

His lashes look darker when they're wet, clumping together at the tips, casting delicate shadows against his cheeks every time he blinks.

And those warm hazel eyes—they always lose a little of their swagger whenever they settle on you.

It's profoundly unfair that someone can be this beautiful.

Even now. Even with a cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth, the lazy curve of his smile stretching his cupid's bow in a way that makes your stomach flutter.

It isn’t fair.

None of it is fair.

You lift a hand, gesturing vaguely toward his face. “Those.”

“Hm?”

“The cigarettes.”

He arches a brow. “What about ‘em?”

“You know those’ll kill you, right?”

Steve lets out the longest, most theatric groan you'd heard in your life, rolling his eyes toward the stars and letting his head thunk against the plastic lounge chair.

“God,” he sighs. “You are such a goody two-shoes.”

Your brows knit together as you sit up straighter, instinctively tugging your cardigan tighter around yourself against the chill of the night air—which, okay, maybe only proved his point a little.

“I am not.”

“Uh-huh,” he mumbles around the cigarette, patting at his pockets for a lighter.

“Seriously.”

“Mhm.”

He isn't even looking at you anymore.

Just turning his lighter over in his hands, fighting another smile around that stupid cigarette.

“I'm not!”

That finally earns you his attention.

His head rolls lazily toward you, cheek still resting against the back of the lounge chair. 

The silver Zippo spins effortlessly between his fingers, his thumb flicking the lid open and shut, open and shut.

Click. Click.

His eyes glitter with quiet amusement, warm enough to make your stomach flutter again.  

“You’re not?” he asks, almost gently.

“No,” you huff, though the conviction you'd started with has somewhat evaporated.

His smile grows wider. “Could've fooled me.”

Click. Click.

He never lights the cigarette.

He's too busy looking at you.

Gaze slowly dipping from your eyes down to your mouth, lingering there for the briefest heartbeat before drifting lower.

Over the neckline of your dress peeking out beneath your cardigan, one shoulder slipping free of the knit.

Down the curve of your waist, where the fabric cinches before flaring into the plaid skirt that fans over your thighs.

Lower still.

To where your hands rest, folded carefully in your lap.

Your cream knee-high socks.

The freshly polished black Mary Janes you'd changed into three different times before finally deciding they looked nicest.

Because, despite everything, some foolish, embarrassingly hopeful part of you had stood in front of your bedroom mirror wondering whether Steve Harrington would notice.

And when his gaze makes the slow climb back to your face, you don't miss the way it pauses at your mouth—the way his tongue darts out to catch the corner of his bottom lip, wetting it absently before the cigarette settles back into place.

“Prove it, then.”

Your breath catches.

“What?”

“Prove you're not a goody two-shoes.”

“I...”

It's difficult to string together a coherent thought when he's looking at you like that.

Most people look at you.

Steve looks into you.

He doesn't glance away the moment you catch him staring, doesn't flush or pretend he'd been looking somewhere else. 

Something so openly and unapologetically wanting in the way he looks at you, like he's forgotten that staring any longer ought to make him self-conscious.

Heat settles low in your stomach, climbing up your neck and spilling across your cheeks until you're certain he can feel it too. The condensation from your beer slicks your fingertips where they tighten around the aluminum can.

And you really don't know what it is that possesses you.

Maybe it's the warmth burning beneath your skin. Or maybe the sudden, irrational urge to wipe that smug look off his ridiculously handsome face.

“Fine,” you murmur.

Before common sense has the chance to intervene, you're leaning across the patio table, plucking a fresh beer from the cooler.

Your hand hesitates over the silver Swiss Army knife Tommy had abandoned after opening the last six-pack.

Steve watches the whole thing unfold, a smile tugging at his lips. 

“What’re you doing?” he asks.

You ignore him, turning the knife over in your hand, trying to remember exactly what he had done earlier.

It looked easy enough, one quick jab and a twist of the wrist.

Where had he stabbed it?

Near the rim?

No....

Lower?

“You okay, baby?”

The nickname lands with infuriating precision, exactly where he intends it to.

You pretend it doesn't.

“Need some help?” he teases, cigarette still balanced between his lips.

“No,” you mumble, brows furrowed in stubborn concentration, bracing yourself as you angle the blade against the side of the can.

One quick jab, and the aluminum gives with a satisfying pop.

Triumph flashes through you for exactly half a second, immediately replaced by regret. 

The knife slips. 

It's hardly more than a sting, more surprising than painful.

You hiss through your teeth, blinking down just as a bright bead of crimson wells against the pad of your thumb.

Steve's lounge chair screeches across the concrete so violently it almost tips backward. 

“Jesus—”

Cigarette abandoned without so much as a glance, tossed onto the damp patio where it rolls forgotten toward the pool.

He's in front of you in an instant, dropped to one knee, already reaching for your wrist before the beer has even started hissing.

“You okay?”

The teasing has vanished from his voice, the change so complete and sudden it’s like he’s transformed into another person.

“Shit, gimme that...” he mutters, taking the beer from you and setting it on the ground, cradling your hand in both of his. “C’mere, lemme see.”

His brows knit together as he carefully turns your palm over.

The injury is laughably small—just a paper-thin slice across the pad of your thumb, one bead of blood slowly gathering along the edge.

Judging by the deep furrow between Steve's brows, though, you'd think you'd severed the whole thing.

“Steve,” you laugh softly. “I'm fine. It's just a little cut.”

It's like he doesn't even hear you.

His entire world has narrowed to your hand.

Hazel eyes fixed on your thumb beneath the wavering blue glow of the pool lights, lips pinched in concentration as he tilts it this way and that, checking how deep the cut is.

It’s so... endearing.

So unmistakably Steve.

Your Steve.

The same boy who insists you wear his jacket if it’s the tiniest bit windy outside. Who carries Band-Aids in his glove compartment because you were forever nicking yourself on notebook paper. 

A little bossy when he’s worried, his stubborn streak a mile long when it comes to the people he cares about.

“Steve,” you murmur again, softer this time. “Really, I'm oka—”

The rest of the sentence catches in your throat.

It's so quick.

So instinctive, you don't think he even realizes he's doing it. 

One moment he's studying the tiny cut.

The next, your thumb is cradled between his lips.

Your entire body goes rigid.

You can't do anything except stare.

At the top of his head, where he’s bent over your hand.

The ring of warmth where his mouth seals around your thumb, swallowing the sting whole.

His lips are soft against your skin, his breath warm, and then comes the gentle, rhythmic pressure as he instinctively sucks away the tiny bead of blood welling from the cut.

Your mind goes frighteningly blank.

All you can feel is the way he’s cradling your hand in his palm, the delicate pull against your thumb and the soft cushion of his lips. The subtle shifts in pressure every time he breathes. 

Then comes the faintest brush.

The barest sweep of his tongue against the pad of your thumb—a thoughtless instinct, nothing more than an unconscious attempt to clean away the blood—but it sends goosebumps ripping through your skin, a shiver so violent it turns the glittering pool into liquid stars, turquoise shimmer blurring into streaks of fractured light.

You don't think you've taken a breath since the moment he touched you.

What can't be more than a second or two stretches impossibly thin, every heartbeat unfolding into its own lifetime. The chirping cicadas dissolve into silence until all that's left is the impossible awareness of where his mouth is.

Of where he's licking you.  

Then, just as suddenly as it began, it's over.

His lips part, breaking the seal with a faint pop.                     

Cool air kisses the damp warmth he'd left behind, the cut glistening faintly beneath the patio lights, a thin sheen of saliva that’s slowly soaking into your skin.

Steve sits back on his heels, absently dragging his tongue across his lower lip before pressing his lips together in a quiet, unconscious smack.

Something strikes you, then, with mortifying clarity:

He’s tasting something.

Smacking his lips, savoring the flavor, chasing it off his skin—

And it’s you.

Your blood.   

You aren't sure you're capable of movement, anymore.

Or speech.

Or breathing.

You simply sit there, staring at him with burning lungs and a heart that seems to have forgotten any rhythm beyond him.

You’re still gaping when he lets go of your hand with a sheepish laugh, gently setting it back in your lap. 

“Sorry,” he mumbles, rubbing the back of his neck. “Bad habit.”

A faint flush dusts his cheeks as he clears his throat, suddenly fascinated by the sliding glass door.

“Uh... I'm gonna go grab a first aid kit, okay? Just stay here.”

As he pushes himself to his feet, his thumb brushes lightly across your knee—another fleeting, absent touch, so automatic you doubt he’s even noticed it.

Then he's gone.

And only after the door slides behind him do you finally remember to breathe.

· · ·

Aside from the whole sucking-on-an-open-wound thing, Steve Harrington is surprisingly good at first aid.

The kit itself seems ancient—white plastic scuffed and yellowed with age, stocked with mismatched supplies accumulated over the years. Steve doesn't have to search for any of it. His hands move with certainty, flipping open bottles, tearing foil packets, finding exactly what he needs with the ease of someone who's done this dozens of times before.

You watch the practiced way he twists open the little bottle of antiseptic one-handed, balancing the cap against his knee while soaking a cotton pad, and curiosity gets the better of you.

“How are you so good at that?”

Steve glances up, lifting his shoulder in a shrug.

“Practice, I guess,” he says, wetting the cotton until it’s damp but not dripping. “Been playing baseball since I was a kid. Lots of sliding. Tore up my knees all the time. Hands, too.”

You don't ask why a little boy who scraped himself often had learned to clean and bandage his own cuts so well.

He couldn't have been older than six or seven, back then.

You press your lips together, bracing against the sting of the antiseptic as he brings the pad up to your skin.

Steve winces at the exact same moment you do, his own face pinching like he can somehow feel it too. He mumbles an apology, his free thumb rubbing absent circles against the side of your hand while he waits for the sting to ease.

“Almost done. Promise.”

He’s impossibly gentle, smoothing a thin layer of antibiotic ointment over the cut with the tip of his finger.

Then he reaches into the kit.

Comes back with a strip of pastel blue.

And you realize, with no small amount of disbelief, that it’s a Care Bear Band-Aid—Bedtime Bear smiles up at you beneath a crescent moon, tiny silver sparkles scattered across the backing paper.

You bite the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling.

You don't ask about that one, either.

He’s patient and careful, smoothing the edges of the Band-Aid down so it won't peel away. Satisfied, he turns your hand over in his own, inspecting his work.

Then, before you can ask what he's doing, he brings your thumb to his lips once more.

Only this time, it's just a kiss, light as a whisper, pressed directly over the little blue bear.

“There. All better.”

And it's in that moment the blurry outline you've carried of him suddenly comes into perfect focus.

Certainty in the endless contradiction that is the boy sitting in front of you.

Steve finally lets your hand slip from his, settling back into the faded lounge chair across from  yours. He reaches for his beer, takes a grimace-worthy sip of what has to be warm and flat by now, and exhales like he's just completed a twelve-hour operation instead of patching up a small cut.

You stay exactly where you are, hands in your lap, tracing the tiny blue bear wrapped around your thumb.

And you watch him.

You watch the boy who keeps children's Band-Aids in his first-aid kit.

The boy whose face crumbles like your smallest hurts belongs to him, too.

The boy who spent the whole evening pretending to be King, only to become your Steve the second you needed him.

The boy whose first instinct is always gentleness, no matter how hard he buries it beneath easy smiles and careless laughter.

Maybe the rest of it is just armor, then.

“You’re so weird, Steve Harrington.”

The words slip free before you can stop them, quiet with wonder.

He blinks at that. 

Those wide hazel eyes lift to yours, catching the pool lights until little flecks of amber and green shimmer beneath his lashes. You don't think you've ever seen anything prettier.

A crooked smile tugs at one corner of his mouth.

He lets out a small, breathy huff of laughter, his head tipping to the side in that hopelessly puppy-like way he has whenever he's confused.

“I'm weird?”

“Yeah.” You can't help smiling back, something warm and impossibly fond blooming beneath your ribs.

His smile softens, gaze flicking down between the two of you.

“You know...” he murmurs, rubbing the label on his beer bottle with his thumb. “You don't have to sit so far away from me.”

He nods toward the gap between your chairs, eyeing the empty stretch of patio separating the two of you.

Three feet of sun-faded concrete, and he looks at it like it's an ocean.

Then his gaze slowly drifts lower, to the space between his spread knees.

Dark denim stretched over strong thighs, his hand lands there with two lazy pats—an unmistakable invitation, casual as anything—and suddenly your entire neck feels like it's on fire.

“C’mere.”

You blink hard, dragging your attention back to his face before it can linger anywhere entirely inappropriate.

Folding your arms across your chest with all the dignity you can still muster, you narrow your eyes at him, lips pursed in suspicion, determined not to fall for whatever unfairly charming stunt Steve Harrington thinks he's pulling.

“Why?”

Steve answers with another theatrical sigh and a fond little roll of his eyes.

“Because—”

He cuts himself off.

Having decided, apparently, that explaining is too much work.

Instead, he leans forward.

Wraps one hand around the leg of your lounge chair.

“...Steve.”

He gives you a completely innocent look.

“What?”

Before you can answer, he drags it forward, the chair letting out a horrible screech as it scrapes across the wet concrete.

“Wha—Steve!”

Another yank, and your chair slides straight into his with a hollow clack.

Satisfied, he dusts his hands together.

“See?” He sits back, completely pleased with himself. “Better.”

You stare at him, too flustered to actually be upset.

“I can’t believe you.”

“What?” he shrugs, a small frown tugging at his brows. “You were too far away.”

Then he smiles.

You swear Steve Harrington could talk himself out of murder with that goddamn smile.

Nothing but boyish charm and that unique brand of hopeless, lovesick devotion, so obvious you wonder how he can be so unaware of it.

And before you can come up with a clever enough response, he reaches for you. His hand gently closing around your wrist, thumb brushing over your pulse before his fingers slip lower, pushing into the spaces between yours until your hands are laced together.

“Didn't get to kiss you all night,” he murmurs, voice gone quiet.

And it's so easy, then, to remember why you fell for this stupid boy.

The way he looks at you and just says things sometimes—things so completely unexpected they make your heart stutter, your stomach twist, your face feel like it’s been set on fire.

You let out a quiet breath through your nose, fighting your own smile.

You don’t pull away, but you don’t lean in either.

Instead, you straighten just enough to make him close the distance himself, letting your eyes flutter shut.

Make him come to you.

You feel his smile before you feel the kiss.

The familiar curve of his lips, then the soft nudge of his nose against your cheek. The way his hand comes up to your jaw, gentle fingers pushing into your hair, pulling you closer.

He kisses you until you feel dizzy with it, light with air and heavy with him, until you’re gasping against his mouth and pressing lightly against his shoulders to pull back.

When he blinks his eyes open again, his pupils are dazed, dark and blown wide. He swipes his tongue over his swollen lips, chest heaving as he tries to catch his breath.

“You, uh...” His voice comes out noticeably rougher, a couple pitches lower than usual. “You still think I’m weird?”

You can’t help the smile that tugs at your mouth as you lean in, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek. Another threatens to break through when you immediately feel the warmth there, the faint flush beneath your lips that betrays him completely, no matter how hard he tries to keep up the act.

Before he can recover, you’re standing up.

“C’mon,” you say, holding out your hand. Then, with the most innocent expression you can manage: “Let’s go wash off the chlorine.”

Steve pauses.

He cocks his head at you in confusion, eyes narrowing as he studies the smile you’re very obviously trying to hide.

“...What?”

“You know. Like Carol and Tommy are doing?”

It takes him a second, but then you see it click.

And for once, Steve Harrington—king of effortless charm and perfectly timed one-liners—doesn’t have a single thing to say.

It was in high school when you got pregnant; the father was a friend... or he claimed to be. You'd known him so long that you'd assumed he'd never do that to you, never use you like an object...why would he ruin such a friendship? But he did... You got pregnant and became the talk of the town, the girl no one wanted to be around because she "couldn't keep her legs closed."

Eddie was always there for you; he'd tell people to fuck off when they got too close or bitched about you breastfeeding, even though they couldn't see anything cause he'd covered up Isha with his jacket. He was truly good to her and to you, but he passed away, and you've really had no one to lean on.

The door rang as you entered the Family Video movie shop, the little five-year-old's hand in yours with her hair in pigtails, her little rainbow striped top and her Strawberry Shortcake lunch pail. Today's Friday, which means Mommy and Daughter night as she calls it. Tonight? Movie and pizza night at your house.

Steve groaned as soon as he heard the bell, which means parents would bring their snot-nosed kids in who would trash the store and he'd have to clean it up, ten times harder with Robin calling in sick today. "Welcome to Family Video...If you need anything, feel free to ask." Steve doesn't look up from where he's at, reading some book that Dustin gave him, muttering. "...or don't. Please don't."

"Didn't expect you to want to help." You say with annoyance. Steve had given you nothing but pure bullshit all through high school, calling you names that you'd never utter in front of your daughter. Did he mean it? You have no idea; maybe it was to make himself look cooler, but that didn't make it hurt less. Pregnant and alone, your parents had disowned you, kicked you out. You were exhausted, pregnant, working night shift and going to school during the day.

Confliction passes across his features as he sees who it is: you. You and the little girl you'd always had tucked against your chest that senior year of high school. "Oh..."

"Oh." You say as you continue looking through the movies on the shelf, letting Isha run off to play in the kids section that was Robin's idea since her and Vicky are thinking about kids. "I thought you left this shithole after Eddie died."

"Unfortunately, I am still here."

"Isn't that...peachy. Wouldn't want every woman to go without 'The Hair Harrington.'"

"Well, Hawkins wouldn't wanna lose the skan-" He cuts himself off as he realizes he has literally no reason to be mad at you; you have a reason to not like him, and besides that, there's a kid around. "Lemme show you a few movies for kids."

"No, I'm good. I don't wanna bother you. I got what I needed, and It's all good." You went up to the cash register and pulled out your rewards card; it's been hole-punched a few times, and it's clear you come here regularly, probably usually when Robin's on staff or the other staff is.

"You look like a goober!" Isha yells at him while giggling, going behind the desk where she's not allowed.

"Oh, I'm a goober? I'm the goober? You look very goobery, Little Goober." He picks her up and puts her on the counter so you can get her without coming around; she's cute. She's got your pretty eyes, but they're so much more full of life, a happy kid and not a woman who's been stomped on her whole life. He hands you the movie and no receipt, doesn't even ask you for the charge for it.

"I- Steve, I need to pay for that, I don't nearly have enough stamp thingys." You go to hand him money, but he again shakes his head.

"I don't know what you're talking about." This is his way of beginning to apologize for what he almost said and everything he has said. He hands you a stamped new card.

After a few months, you'd come in regularly and drop off whatever movie you had picked up the week prior, even if you hadn't watched it, just to talk to him. Just to hear him go on and on about a movie or book you have no idea about. Steve is far from the man you used to know. Isha loves him to bits...he holds onto her hands and lets her climb up him and do a flip; it's the cutest thing ever. It's like he's meant for this. To be a dad, but it kills you like a shot to the chest as you see Eddie in some of the things Steve does with her.

"Hey. Oh, Hey." Steve says as you come in in a rather nice dress and heels; you look hot. I mean to him you always are, but right now you look like the perfect definition of sexy. He's staring; he knows he's staring, but he can't look at you.

"Steve, Honey, close your mouth...you'll catch flies." You smile as you pass by his desk looking for another movie to watch. He realizes he is practically salivating at the thought of being the one you dressed up for.

"Hot date?" Steve asks as if he's trying to be casual but it's quite cringey. "Where's Isha?"

"Um...it was supposed to be, yeah...but he bailed as soon as he heard I'm a single mom, literally said he'd needed the bathroom and never came back. And Dustin is babysitting her so he can earn some money for some gaming console called an NES. He's taking it very seriously."

"Henderson? You had Henderson watch her? I bet if I call over there, he's not even got it under control." Steve laughs at the idea; he loves Dustin, but Dustin doesn't always have the hang of things.

"How much?" You walk back over to him, sitting down in one of the chairs between the two desks, your heels clicking softly against the tile floor.

"Thirty, and we call off the store phone; you can't talk at all. He'll be more honest with me...Deal?"

"Deal." You move over by him, looking into his eyes that shine so beautifully in this lighting. His hair looks so soft, and his smile, God...your stomach's doing flips right now.

Ring...Ring...Ring..."Hello? This is the Hendersons." Dustin asks, sounding rather calm, sounding like he's half-eating a pudding cup and a bag of chips.

"Hey, how's it going over there? A Little Birdie told me you're babysitting." Steve asks with the phone now tucked between his chin and his shoulder, his eyes gazing back up at you to see your reaction to what Dustin will say.

"Well, the Little Birdie is right. Oh my God, this is so much fun. I'm showing her Star Wars, and she's making all the noises; it's so cute. I mean, she is a little messy though, and I've had to clean her face a couple times, but Isha's awesome." You both can hear the smile in Dustin's voice; he's clearly not struggling at all.

You smirk as you try not to audibly giggle..."I told you so." Steve rolls his eyes, blushing as you reach in his front pocket for his wallet. "Oh, that's- that's great. Yeah, just checking. I'll have to call you back; there's a customer...get your hands out of my pa-" The line went dead as Steve hung up the phone.

"You're aggravating." He says with zero bite, pulling you closer. His eyes find yours, your hand still down his in your pocket. Steve kisses you deeply, holding your face.

"Ew, you both are disgusting." Robin says as she comes in for her shift, bringing in food for her and Steve. She heads to the back to put her bag and her jacket up. You see rain on her, her hair slightly damp.

"Shit..." You look out the window, seeing how it's pouring, and you don't have a coat, and recently you've been walking everywhere due to your car breaking down, and you didn't have money to fix it. Usually Eddie would've tinkered on it and had it up and running, but alas.

"Take my jacket." Steve abruptly says, and you look back at him with shock; there's no way he's offering his coat.

"Steve- I..." Before you know it, he's shoved you into his coat; it's warm and smells even warmer...woodsy, citrusy like an orange, something safe with a hint of hairstray lingering. For a moment you forget what you were doing until he pulls the coat down a little to make sure it's covering you completely.

"Actually, take my car..get going." Steve grabs his keys and puts them in his coat pocket. He practically pushes you out the door before Robin comes back out. "Call me when you get home."

"What? What? Steve?!"

"Bye!" He closes the door and you're left under the awning, just completely dumbfounded.

~ The Next Day ~

"Mommmy, Dooor! I got door!" Isha giggles as she answers the door wirh cookies in her hand and jam on her cheek.

"No! No! No! No! ISHA! DON'T OPEN THE DOOR FOR STRAN-" You rushed down the stairs falling down them a bit lasnding onto your knees crushing onto the wooden floor boards, groaning as you look up seeing Steve holding her in arms.

"Stevie not stranger!" She presses her sticky hands against his face but he doesn't even complain, he just turns his head to face her with a gentle expression.

"No, I'm not you little goober but your Mommy is right. Don't answer the door for anyone. Only Mommy opens the from door unless she says otherwise."

"Shit, Hey, Steve." You look up at him as you stand up, your knees groaning. They'll definitely bruise but you don't have time to mess with it.

"You say shit, Mommy."

"Oooh, Isha. Don't say that." Steve carefully chastise her, he looks around and finds the kitchen taking the little girl in there. You follow him with confusion, how he seems so comfortable here.

"Steve, Don't. It's literally so messy."

"Don't worry." He said so gently grabs a wash rag to wet it before he wipes her face and her hands. Again you find yourself stopped as you realize he's doing exactly what Eddie used to do, set her on the counter and clean her up and you yet again space. Is this okay? Is this a diservice to him? Are you trying to replace him? Is this utterly and completely disrespectful?

And then, you reached the middle school building. There weren't too many teachers in yet, but when you passed by a classroom on the second floor, you noticed the door was wide open. When you peaked inside, there was a tall man hunched over the same old wooden desk every room had, a pencil behind his ear as he shuffled through some papers. He had the radio on — it sounded like it was WSQK 94.5 — and was mumbling along to Mariah Carey's "Emotions".

"Oh, this is Steve Harrington, our health and sexual education teacher," Principal Campbell says when he sees you peering into the room. "Steve, this is one of our new kindergarten teachers."

Steve, apparently, looks up with slightly disheveled hair and wide eyes framed by adorable wirey glasses. He grins and comes out from behind his desk, then leans forward to shake your hand.

"Nice to meet you," he greets, "Kindergarten, huh? That can't be an easy gig."

"I could say the same for you," you laugh. "I'll take little kids over teaching pre-teens about condoms any day."

Steve laughs and raises his hands in mock defense. "Listen, someone's gotta do it."

"Steve also coaches our elementary and middle school baseball teams." Principal Campbell adds, and you swear you see Steve's cheeks tinge the slightest hue of pink.

"Really? That's awesome."

Steve shrugs, bashful, "The games are fun and the kids love it. You should come to one sometime."

Naturally, you attend the first one.

It's on a Thursday afternoon, an hour after dismissal, two weeks into the school year. Your students are sweet and endearing, a group of 25 five-year-olds who can't make it through the morning without a nap yet, but are already on their way to learning so much more about the world around them.

Apparently, Steve doesn't go by Mr. Harrington when he's coaching baseball, because you constantly hear his little team of middle schoolers refer to him as "Coach Steve". When he notices you sitting in the bleachers with sunglasses shielding your eyes from the mid-afternoon rays, he waves excitedly, which only makes your stomach twist in the best kind of knots.

You wave back, grinning, and watch as he mouths "you came!".

"Of course!" you mouth back.

That evening, the Hawkins Roadrunners win their first game 3-2. Steve takes them out for ice cream, so you don't get to catch up with him afterwards.

Sure enough, though, the next morning, when you're setting up your classroom for another day, he stops by on his way in.

(Your room is very much not on the way to his.)

"Hey," Steve greets, leaning against your doorway with folded arms. "Thanks again for coming yesterday. It was really nice to see you there."

"Yeah, well, I have to come out and support, right?" you tease, bumping your hip against your desk.

He shrugs, a smirk on his face. "So, here's the thing..."

"Oh, there's a thing now?"

Steve laughs.

"Now that you came to our first game and helped us win, I think you might be our good luck charm."

"What if you're just a really good coach?"

"I mean, it's definitely that, too," Steve grins. "But... maybe my coaching is that much better when you're in the stands, y'know?"

You're coy beneath his gaze, but the inside of your body feels like it's on fire. You're a teenage girl again, internally squealing at the realization that her crush may like her back.

"You drive a hard bargain, Coach." you hum, pretending to consider his proposal.

"How about this," he's crowding your space now, and you feel entirely too overwhelmed by his scent, his looks, his everything— "If we win our next game and you're really our good luck charm, I'll take you out as a thank you."

You tilt your head. "What happens if you lose?"

Steve considers this. "If I'm being honest, I hadn't thought that far."

You laugh and twist your body to grab a pen from the mug on your desk, then a piece of construction paper. You scribble your landline number in blue glitter ink.

"What if you just take me out regardless?" you ask, folding the paper in two and handing it to him.

"Yeah?" he smiles, gratefully accepting the small token of mutual attraction. You nod. "Alright then. I'll call you tonight."

You bite your lip, trying not to grin to yourself as Steve walks out of your classroom. When he's gone, you busy yourself with organizing some worksheets, even though you feel like you could explode into fireworks.

"By the way," Steve's head suddenly pops back in, making you jump. He laughs. "This is the first time a girl's ever given me her number using a glitter pen."

You snort. "Yeah, and what about it?"

"Nothing!" he exclaims. "I love it. I hope you never stop using them."

Cold at the front, stale near the horror aisle, warm and dusty by the back room where the employees pretended not to nap on slow days. You'd learned it well. The carpet had been vacuumed badly enough that one popcorn kernel still sat near the base of the New Releases shelf, and the whole place smelled of plastic cases, old cardboard, butter flavoring, and Steve’s cologne whenever he passed close enough.

You had bought the Cosmopolitan at Bradley’s Big Buy ten minutes earlier because Steve’s shift still had twenty minutes left and you had already spent enough of your life pretending to be fascinated by the same movie boxes. The magazine was glossy and ridiculous and slightly bent from being shoved into the paper bag with your gum and cherry ChapStick. Its cover promised impossible hair, dangerous romance, and a quiz that claimed it could tell you whether your boyfriend was “summer fling material or forever trouble.”

You had bought it mostly because the cashier had taken one look at the cover, looked at you, and smirked. You felt the need to spite whatever assumption they'd made.

Now, standing in Family Video with the magazine tucked under your arm, you could hear Robin before you saw her.

“No, sir,” she was saying from behind the counter, her voice flat with the kind of patience that had already been used up twice that day. “Late fees do not disappear just because you personally disagree with the passage of time.”

A man in a tucked-in polo stood on the other side of the counter, holding a tape case in both hands. “I’m saying I returned it.”

“And I’m saying I was here when you did not.”

Steve was beside her, rewinding a tape with the solemn concentration of someone performing surgery. He had one elbow propped on the counter, his Family Video vest hanging open over a striped polo, name tag slightly crooked. His hair looked good in the unfair way it always did, even after a full shift under fluorescent lights. A pencil was tucked behind his ear. You'd learned that he only did that when he was pretending to be busier than he was.

He noticed you almost immediately.

He always did, even when he tried to play it cool. His eyes lifted from the rewinder, found you near the candy display, and softened before the rest of his face caught up. For a second, his posture changed. Not much. One shoulder dropped. His mouth tilted. The pencil behind his ear slipped slightly.

“Hey, babe,” he smiled gently in his usual greeting. His gaze flicked over you quickly, not dismissive, just practiced. “You look nice.”

Then the rewinder clicked, and he looked back down.

Nice.

You stopped with one hand on the edge of the counter.

It was not the worst thing he could have said. It was not bad at all, technically. Nice was safe. Nice was warm enough to count. Nice was the kind of thing you said to someone you loved when you were also trying to remember whether The Man with One Red Shoe belonged under comedy or suspense.

But you’d spent longer than usual getting ready today.

You had changed twice before leaving, had stood in front of your mirror with one earring in and one earring out, and tried to decide whether the pink skirt was too much for a Friday night at Family Video. You had redone the front of your hair because the first attempt had gone strange in the humidity. You had put on the good perfume, the one you used sparingly because the bottle was small and because Steve always noticed when you wore it.

Or he used to.

Nice sat there now, plain and harmless, while Steve returned to his tape and Robin told the polo-shirted man she could absolutely call Keith if he wanted to experience the same answer with less eye contact.

You slid yourself onto the stool at the end of the counter and sat the magazine down.

The cover girl smiled up at you in all her glossy confidence, her lips bright, her shoulders bare, and her hair reaching heights that probably required a prayer. You flipped through pages of perfume ads, diet soda blurbs, lipstick spreads, and letters from readers who apparently, lived lives full of beach parties and emotional ultimatums.

Then, you found the article.

The “Too-Perfect” Romance: 7 Flirty Signs He’s Getting a Little Too Comfortable!

You read the title once. Then again.

A laugh pressed against your throat, but you held it in.

Steve looked up quickly anyway. “What?”

“Nothing.”

His eyes narrowed at your quick response. “That wasn’t a nothing sound.”

You smiled with a shake of your head. “I didn’t make a sound.”

“You made a face.”

Robin’s customer finally huffed his way out of the store, muttering about principles. The bell above the door jingled after him. Robin watched him go with a dead-eyed expression, then turned toward you.

“What did you find?”

Your eyes flitted across the words of the page. “An article.”

“That’s never good.” Steve leaned over the counter, trying to see. You tilted the page away from him just as he came near.

His voice came low with curiosity.  “Why can’t I read it?”

You hummed lightly, “because you’re the subject.”

He blinked down at you, his eyes turning owl-ish at the vagueness of your words. “The subject of what?”

Robin’s mouth opened into a grin. “Oh, this is promising.”

You smoothed the magazine page with your palm and began reading silently.

You’ve made it past the two-year mark without a single major blowout, and your Friday nights are a perfectly oiled machine of movie rentals and shared pizza toppings.

You glanced up.

Steve was watching you now, tape forgotten, eyebrows drawn together. He had the expression he got when Dustin explained something too quickly and Steve was trying to decide whether he had missed an insult.

You looked back down.

Don’t get too cozy just yet! In our fast-paced eighties, there is a very fine line between a secure romance and a total relationship snooze-fest! Sometimes, when a guy knows he’s finally "won" your heart, he quietly hits the cruise control button. He might love you to pieces, but is he still trying to wow you?

Grab that gloss, lounge back on your bed, and take this quick checklist to see if your dream boy is secretly sliding into the "Comfort Trap"—and exactly how to tease him right out of it!

It was stupid. Completely stupid. Written in the breathless, bossy voice of someone who had never met Steve Harrington after midnight in a hospital waiting room, or seen him go quiet when one of the kids flinched at a loud noise, or watched him check the rearview mirror three times on the way home because caution had become part of him.

Still.

You had twenty minutes to kill.

Steve had said nice without really looking. And the article had numbered instructions. You folded the magazine back just enough to hide the page title and smiled to yourself.

Robin, who had the instincts of a person raised on chaos, took one step away from Steve.

He noticed and immediately frowned in questioning. “Why are you moving?”

Robin shrugged, her shoulders reaching the ends of her hair in doing so. “No reason.”

“That is also not a no-reason face.”

You tapped the first numbered section with your fingernail.

Steve looked between you and Robin, suddenly alert. “What’s happening?”

You kept smiling.

“Education,” you had to bite the i side of your cheek to stop from laughing outright.

───

The “Automatic” Compliment

When you spend forty-five minutes crimping your hair or putting on your absolute best pleated miniskirt, does he give you a real, jaw-dropping reaction? Or does he just look up from his car radio, smile, and say, "You look nice, babe," out of total reflex? If his praise feels like an automated recording, his eyes might be getting a little lazy.

The Solution:  Next time he says it without looking, step right into his line of sight, block his view, and playfully demand he give you three specific reasons why!

The article accused him of having lazy eyes.

You found that unfair, mostly because Steve’s eyes were not lazy. They were restless if anything. Always tracking movement. Always catching on exits and windows and whoever had just walked into a room. Even when he seemed relaxed, some part of him stayed awake, cataloging changes, and always listening for small changes.

But the article was not interested in nuance, the article clearly wanted drama. The article wanted you to step right into his line of sight and demand three specific reasons.

So, you did.

Steve had just gone back to sorting returns into piles with the kind of vague competence that would probably make Keith complain later. He held Teen Wolf in one hand and Out of Africa in the other, staring at them with open uncertainty.

“Comedy?” he muttered, his lips were pulled into a small frown as he wracked his brain for the possible answer.

“Drama,” Robin said without looking.

Steve wasn't entirely convinced, his voice turning questioning. “There’s a wolf.”

“It has feelings.”

He scoffed that, “all movies have feelings.”

Robin quickly shot back her response. “Not the ones you recommend.”

You took that moment to slip off the stool and come around the counter besides your boyfriend.

Steve saw you move, but he didn't seem to understand the danger quickly enough. He looked at you, then at the magazine on the counter, then back at you right as you stepped in front of him and blocked the shelf.

He stopped, not with suspicion, but with clear unsureness.

“Hi,” he said with a softness that made you grin on instinct. 

Steve mirrored your expression by impact and pure reflex. “Hi.”

His eyes dropped to your mouth for the briefest second. “Do you need something?”

You nodded with severe certainty “Yes.”

“Okay,” Steve looked up into your eyes and his head tilted, he seemed to wait for the further set of instructions he was clearly waiting for.

You specified soon after that, each word clearly enunciated, and your fingers held up in pairing. “Three specific reasons.”

He waited for more clarification with a gentle handed posture. His soft smile hadn't disappeared, but it became mixed in with something else now. “For…?”

“Why I look nice.”

The silence after that was truly beautiful.

Robin slowly lowered the inventory sheet she had been pretending to read and you swore her hard blinks could be heard across the air.

Steve stared at you with the VHS tapes still in his hands, and his mouth parted slightly. He looked, for one unguarded moment, completely removed from every version of himself he had ever practiced in a mirror or labeled to be. Instead, he just was your boyfriend in a dumb vest, ambushed by a request he should probably have been prepared for.

“Three,” you repeated with the underlying giddy feeling in your body simmering.

He stammered a bit at the blunt reminder. “Right now?”

“You already had time when I came in.”

“I was working.”

Your eyes narrowed slightly in clear disbelief. “You were rewinding Short Circuit?”

“It requires attention.”

Robin made a small noise from where she watched, mirroring your disbelieving look. “Does it?”

Steve shot her a look, then returned his attention to you. His gaze moved over your face properly this time, slower than before, and the amusement in you shifted into something quieter. You had meant to tease him, you hadn't expected the teasing to make him actually look.

He noticed your earrings first. You could tell because his eyes caught on the little flash near your jaw when you turned your head.

“Your earrings,” he cleared his throat with a particularly strong bobble of his head. Your brows quirked up on instinct. 

“That’s one?”

Steve shook his head quickly, then continued. “No, that’s the category. I’m building.”

Robin whispered to you with a clearly mocking tone that had you biting back a wider smile, “He’s building.”

Steve ignored her with effort, you could tell by the lack of bite back. “They’re the ones you wore to the Fourth of July thing, right? Before—” He stopped, jaw shifting around the rest of the sentence. You could tell he was trying to reference a memory that didn't come clearly to him, so you let him go on without issue. “Anyway. They look good. They do that little shiny thing when you move.”

You felt yourself soften, then immediately fought it because you were supposed to be conducting an experiment. A terribly stupid experiment, but an experiment you decided was going to be fun entertainment nonetheless. 

“One,” you allowed with your index finger tilting to the side in counting.

He adjusted the tapes in his hands, more comfortable now that he had survived the first answer. “Your skirt. The buttons on the side.”

The sentence wasn't what you were expecting it to be, your voice turned questioning before it evened back out. “You noticed the buttons?”

He gave you a look that was clear betrayal, his hand went up to stretch across the back of his neck. “I’m trying to be respectful in front of Buckley.”

Robin lifted both hands as if offended by being compared to something akin to an obstacle, “Im not even here. I am basically a chair.”

“You’re a very loud chair,” Steve huffed back to her. Then, to you, “Yes, I noticed the buttons. I noticed the whole skirt. It’s pink and it makes your legs look—” He stopped again and your eyebrows lifted along with your smile.

His ears went red, he gave a weak cough as his eyes looked at the ceiling than back to you. “Long.”

“Two,” you then counted with another finger, deeply pleased now.

Steve looked relieved to be nearing the end, then immediately concerned because the third reason required more care. He looked at your hair, your lips, the way you were standing there with one hip angled against the counter, pretending you had not started this solely just to watch him squirm.

“Your hair,” he said with finality. “You did something different.”

You touched it without meaning to. “Different bad?”

“No—Different good. It’s softer here.” He gestured near his own temple, not quite touching you like you'd have preferred. “And it keeps falling forward, so you keep pushing it back, and you only do that when you’re trying not to mess with it because you spent time on it.”

You went still at the explanation. 

Steve seemed to realize he had said something too observant for the tone of the game. He looked down at the tapes, then back up, shrugging one shoulder with a forced casualness that didn't suit him.

“So,” he licked his lips as his eyes lifted to meet yours with a hopeful expression. “Three.”

Robin broke the silence first, which you'd been grateful for because you were all too aware of the warmth seeping into your chest. “I hate to say it, but that was kind of good.”

Steve pointed Teen Wolf at her, “don’t sound so surprised.”

You took the tapes from his hands and set them on the counter, and you looked at him through a slight tilt of your head. “Better.”

His words came back questioning again. “Better than what?”

“The automated recording,” that was all you said with a light breeze in your tone.

“The what?” He asked but you had already gone back to the stool, pulling the magazine into your lap.

Steve watched you sit down. He felt a strange mixture of pride and suspicion, which was not an emotion he enjoyed. Pride, because you were smiling at the page now in a way that meant he had done something right. Suspicion, because he had no idea what the page had made you do in the first place.

Robin leaned close to him and murmured, “If she asks you to describe her personality next, fake your death.”

Steve whispered back, “What magazine is that?”

Robin looked at the glossy cover and grinned at Steve’s distress. “The kind that destroys men who say nice.”

Steve looked at you again.

You only turned the page.

He swallowed more visibly distressed now as you remained quiet.

───

He Swaps the Leather Jacket for the Lounge Sweatshirt

Remember those first six months when he wouldn't dare meet you without a splash of premium cologne and a perfectly pressed jacket? If he now regularly shows up to your dates wearing his old high school gym fleece with a mystery stain on the sleeve, the mystery is officially fading.

The Solution:  Snatch his favorite oversized sweatshirt right off his back and wear it yourself with nothing but your favorite perfume. Remind him who really looks best in his clothes!

Steve’s shift ended late because nothing in Hawkins could ever end at the time printed on a schedule.

A kid knocked over half the horror display and immediately blamed the “wind,” despite the fact that the air inside Family Video had not moved with any conviction since June. Keith called from the back office to complain that someone had stacked the returned tapes “emotionally wrong,” which made Robin press both palms flat on the counter and whisper, “I am not going to jail for him.” Then, a mother came in looking for a cartoon whose title she didn't know, only that it involved “a little man, maybe a duck, and possibly space.”

By the time Steve was finally allowed to clock out, his patience had frayed around the edges.

You could see it in the way he pulled off his vest, too fast, and missed the hook when he tried to hang it in the back. You could hear him mutter something at the locker that sounded less like English and more like a private feud. When he came out again, he had changed into the old Hawkins High gym sweatshirt he kept there for cold nights, rainy closings, and days when he claimed the uniform made him feel “itchy in a spiritual way.”

The sweatshirt was gray in theory. In practice, it had been washed into a soft, faded color that belonged to old socks and cloudy dishwater. The cuffs were stretched. The collar sat loose at the base of his throat. One sleeve had a faint stain near the elbow that neither of you had ever successfully identified, though Steve had once insisted it was “probably nacho cheese” with a confidence that made you less comfortable.

He looked tired in it.

He also, looked painfully familiar.

Your eyes dropped to the open magazine in your lap.

He Swaps the Leather Jacket for the Lounge Sweatshirt.

The article spoke of fading mystery and premium cologne with the urgency of a national crisis. You read the solution once and felt your grin arrive before you could stop it.

The words repeated in your brain: snatch his favorite oversized sweatshirt right off his back.

Steve came around the counter while digging in his pocket for his keys. “You ready?”

You stood and he glanced up, saw your expression, and stopped walking with clear intent.

“No,” he said with an immediate shake of his head

You hadn't even moved yet, your hands came up to your sides on instinct. “No what?”

Steve groaned in a way that didn't quite feel frustrated, but was knowing. “No whatever that face is.”

“I don’t have a face.” You did.

“You have the face you had before the whole three reasons thing.”

Robin, clocked out but still lingering because apparently this was better than whatever she had waiting at home, grabbed her bag from behind the counter. “For the record, I support her.”

“You don’t even know what she’s doing,” Steve immediately sighed in defeat.

Robin didn't seem bothered by the lack of information. “I know enough.”

You stepped closer and caught the hem of his sweatshirt. Steve’s hands immediately closed around your wrists, not tight, just startled. His expressive eyes instantly fell to your with faint concern and mostly curiosity.  “Whoa. Hi. What are we doing?”

You shrugged your shoulders, lips finding the familiar grin that had him faltering. “Testing a theory.”

Steve pouted in a way that you knew he'd deny if questioned later on. “Why do your theories involve grabbing me at work?”

“Because you just happen to be here.”

“That can't possibly be a complete answer.”

“It’s a location, though.”

Robin leaned on the counter, delighted as she sang over to you. “He’s panicking.”

“I am not panicking,” Steve scoffed with dismissal, but regardless of his claim, his voice was panicking enough.

You tugged the sweatshirt upward, with a plea on your lips and a look in your eyes. “Arms up.”

He sputtered at your request, his brows shooting upwards in clear refusal. “Absolutely not.”

“Steve…”

“No, this is a public establishment.”

You gave him a sidelong glance, looking over at his stance. “Keith is in the back alphabetizing gum wrappers or something.”

“Buckley is right there.”

Robin waved over at herself with the familiar grin you loved, humming a tune. “Chair.”

Steve looked at you, then at Robin, then toward the front windows where the parking lot sat mostly empty except for his car. His resistance lasted three more seconds. You could see the exact moment he gave up, because his jaw worked to hide a smile and his eyes dropped to the floor.

“Fine,” he muttered, but he didn't make a show of sighing this time. “But if you stretch the collar, I’m suing.”

There was no containing the laugh that left you. “You don’t even know how to sue.”

“I’ll learn.”

He ducked his head and lifted his arms, letting you pull the sweatshirt up over his torso. His white T-shirt rode up for half a second, revealing a narrow strip of skin above his jeans before he yanked it down with one hand before you could reach for it. He promptly ignored your dramatized look of resignation at being denied. His hair emerged from the collar in static-disrupted disarray, several pieces standing up at angles he would have considered unforgivable under normal circumstances.

You put the sweatshirt on before he could take it back. Although, you doubted he would ever actually do that. For all his whining, your boyfriend rarely said anything beyond a few complaints.

It swallowed you in the familiar fabric.

The sleeves fell past your hands, the hem dropped low over your skirt, and the collar slipped a little too wide on one side. Warmth held inside the fabric from his body. So did the smell of him: laundry detergent on the old cotton, the faded spice of his cologne, and something skin-warm and harder to name. The perfume you had put on earlier rose beneath it, mixing with him until the whole thing felt private despite the fluorescent lights and Robin’s shameless staring.

Steve went quiet in the moments still. You pushed your hair free from the collar and lifted your chin. Your hands were now taking residence upon the sides of your hips. “Well?”

He had seen you in his clothes before. A borrowed jacket during a rainstorm. A T-shirt after a late night when you spilled soda on yourself at his house. Socks frequently, because your feet had gone cold and he had acted annoyed while digging through a drawer with unnecessary urgency.

But there was a difference between necessity and choice.

This, was choice. This was you standing in the middle of Family Video wearing his old sweatshirt over your skirt, perfume clinging to the collar, and looking at him with bright, ridiculous expectation.

Steve’s brain provided several responses and rejected all of them for being either too honest or too stupid.

“That’s mine,” he managed with a breathlessness that immediately made him wince when heard.

You corrected him, clearly pleased. “Was.”

“You’re swimming in it.”

“I'm aware.”

“You look—” He stopped because your eyes sharpened in a way that told him his next adjective needed to mean something.

Robin clapped once from where she was, and you refrained from sighing at the girl's clear joy at her friend's inner struggle. “Careful, Harrington.”

Steve dragged a hand over his mouth, buying time. He had just been trained, apparently. Nice was no longer safe. Nice had been retired from service.

“You look good,” he decided to settle for, then saw your mouth twitch and hurried on. “You look really good. In my sweatshirt. Which is confusing because it looks better on you, but it is still, legally mine.”

“‘Legally’?”

Steve quickly corrected himself again. “Emotionally.”

You stepped closer and lifted one sleeve-covered hand to poke his chest. The movement had him squirming a bit because you knew where to poke to get a reaction. As such were the benefits of being with someone for so long. “I think I’ll keep it.”

Steve looked down at your covered hand, then at the place where the collar had slipped, then back to your face. He tried for annoyance and missed by several miles. He was never good at that.

His words didn't match his tone nor face. “You’re lucky I’m generous.”

“You’re lucky I look better in your clothes.”

Robin made a noise of approval that had you slightly leaning on the heels of your shoes. “She does.”

“Why are you still here?” Steve asked with such restraint that you let one palm rub against his forearm. He welcomed the familiar touch by leaning into it.

“I live here now.”

Keith appeared in the back doorway at exactly the wrong time, holding a clipboard and a soda. He took in the scene: Steve in his T-shirt, you in Steve’s sweatshirt, Robin grinning beside the register. His expression flattened.

“Is this happening on the clock?”

Steve grabbed his keys and reached up for your palm to pull you besides him. “Nope. Leaving. Bye.”

Outside, the evening heat pressed immediately. The air smelled of asphalt, cut grass from somewhere beyond the plaza, and the warm metallic scent of Steve’s car after a day in the sun. He unlocked the passenger side first out of habit, then paused when you walked past it.

His head shot up. “Where are you going?”

You looked over your shoulder with a smile that had him already weary. “You’ll see.”

Steve felt the first prickle of fresh suspicion. You still had the magazine tucked under your arm. He knew then that he really should have hidden it when he had the chance.

───

The Dreaded “I Don’t Care, What Do You Want to Do?”

Flexibility is cute, but romantic laziness is not!  If every single date night starts with him shrugging his shoulders and leaving the heavy lifting of choosing the restaurant or the movie up to you, he’s retired from being the captain of the ship.

The Solution: Take total control. Steal his car keys out of his pocket, slide into the driver's seat yourself, and drive him to a secret destination without telling him where you’re going!

The BMW had been baking all afternoon, and climbing into it felt briefly like entering a punishment designed by someone who hated vinyl. You pushed through either ways.

Steve opened both doors first to let the heat roll out. He complained under his breath when you leaned against the driver’s side, because he was already beginning to understand what you wanted and did not know how to prevent it without sounding insane.

His words sounded strained in their attempt not to seem sure. “You’re not driving.”

“I haven’t exactly asked.”

Steve's hands came out to gesture wildly at you. “You’re standing by the driver’s door wearing my sweatshirt and holding an evil magazine.”

Your frowned, lips pulled to the side as you argued against the idea. “Evil is strong, don't you think?”

“I think it's accurate.” You huffed out a sigh and merely held out your hand to him He stared at it blankly, big hazel eyes flicking to your face then your outstretched palm.

“Keys,” you all but sang in glee.

Steve laughed once, not because it was funny, but because his body needed somewhere to put the clear alarm. “No way.”

“The article says I’m supposed to take total control.”

Steve's voice now was a delightful mix of clear distress and restrained panic. “Babe, articles have never seen you parallel park.”

“I don't even parallel park.”

“Exactly.” You only wiggled your fingers in response, paired along with a particularly determined look up at him.

Steve looked toward the empty storefront beside Family Video, then back at you. His keys sat in his palm, heavy with all the trust and terror he attached to that car. He loved the Beamer in a way he would not have admitted under oath. Actually, scratch that—Steve would gladly declare his love for his car anytime, but now? It felt oddly like a trap. It had been freedom when his house felt too quiet. It had been status when he had been shallow enough to need it. And later one, it had gone on to become transportation for the kids with their walkie-talkies, frantic errands, and the late-night drives where neither of you said much but the silence was nice anyways.

Letting someone else drive it was not nothing to Steve.

Letting you drive it while grinning like you had a plan was something else entirely.

“You know,” he said carefully, his muscles pulled at where they crossed against his chest, “a healthy relationship includes respecting boundaries.”

Your question came instantly. “Is your boundary the driver’s seat?”

“My boundary is not dying.”

“I’m a good driver!”

“You once hit a curb and blamed the curb!”

“It came out of nowhere.” The Defense felt weak now on your lips, and you barely held in the wince that tried to escape you.

But Steve only closed his eyes and you waited.

The thing was, you knew he would give them to you. Not because he was helpless, he certainly wasn't. Not because you could push him anywhere you wanted, both him and you weren't like that. Steve could be stubborn when something mattered. He could dig his heels in so hard it made everyone around him want to throw things. But this was not about the car, not really. It was about you asking him to let go of control for twenty minutes, and Steve had been trying, in small uneven ways, to learn how to do that.

He dropped the keys into your hand with such anguish you saved the date so you could make fun of him later on. But for now, the keys in your palm were a big enough win.

“If you grind the gears,” Steve exhaled with more defeat than irritation, “I’m breaking up with you until Monday.”

The threat was as fake as his excitement. “It’s Friday though?”

“I'll need the recovery time.” You slid into the driver’s seat before he could change his mind at your delighted grin.

Steve walked around the front of the car slowly, one hand trailing over the hood in a gesture so mournful you laughed before he even got in. He lowered himself into the passenger seat with stiff dignity and immediately reached for the dashboard by pure instinct.

You looked at his hand and he quickly moved it to his knee with a faint twitch of his fingers.

Your voice came passive in its gratitude. “Thank you for bracing, real show of trust.”

His defense came hot and rapid. “I wasn’t bracing!”

Yours came cooler and breezily. “You were absolutely bracing.”

Steve decided then to correct his stance into something more softly shaped. “I was settling…”

“You were preparing for impact—”

Steve pointed at the windshield with a regained passion that had you rolling your eyes. “Eyes on the road.”

“We’re parked?”

“Consider it practice.”

You adjusted the seat, which made him wince because you moved it forward. He quickly turned silent when you glared at him through your side profile. Then, you adjusted the mirror, the hanging air freshener swayed gently at the movement. Steve watched every change with increasing distress, mouth pressed into a line, fingers tapping once against his thigh before he made them stop.

You started the car a moment after leaning in to give him what you'd call, and you were sure he'd also deny, a much needed kiss near the corner of his mouth for his tension.

The engine rumbled to life beneath you, familiar but different from this side. Steve’s car always sounded more dramatic than necessary, and now that sound moved up through the soles of your shoes, into your knees, into the base of your ribs. You pulled out of the parking space carefully. 

Too carefully, apparently, because Steve inhaled and did not exhale until you straightened.

“See?” you made a point to extend your hand in a show of gesturing. 

He finally exhaled, his head whirling around the perimeter. “Great. We’ve traveled twelve feet.”

“Progress.”

You drove past the pizza place first.

Steve twisted in his seat, his face losing some of that tension when confusion took its place. “Wait. I thought we were eating.”

“We are.”

“Pizza is back there.”

You adjusted your grip on the wheel,  and inhaled sharply when Steve seemed like he wanted to comment on that too. Thankfully, he refrained. “Maybe we’re not getting pizza.”

He looked genuinely unsettled now, looking something akin to a puppy set free in a foreign meadow. “But it’s Friday.”

“Exactly.” Your words did little to ease him in the slightest.

“What does exactly mean?”

Your right hand came up to emphasize your next words. “It means you say ‘I don’t care, what do you want to do?’ too much.”

His expression shifted, defensive at first, then confused. “I say that because I don’t want to make you do stuff you don’t want to do.”

You nodded to his words because they were true, and because you loved him more for it. “I know.”

Steve was sure he was feeling unrecorded levels of distress currently. “So why is that bad?”

You glanced at him, then back at the road. The light had gone soft and low, catching in the dust along the windshield. “It’s not bad! It’s just sometimes I want you to want something out loud.”

Steve leaned back, the argument leaving him in stages.

He had not thought of it that way. To him, letting you pick felt considerate. It felt safe because if he chose wrong, if you got quiet, if the night bent into disappointment, then it would be his fault in a way he could not fix by rewinding a tape or buying another soda. It seemed better to let you choose. Better to be the guy who went along with what you wanted and did not become another person demanding things from you. Steve was many things, considerate high on that list.

But you were looking at the road with both hands on his steering wheel, wearing his sweatshirt, saying you wanted him to want things.

That sat somewhere tender.

“Okay,” he spoke softner after a minute had passed in the lull.

You felt the agreement settle without the usual push and pull. “Okay?”

Steve let one roughened palm drag over his eyes as he cleared his throat. “Okay. I can want things out loud.”

You smiled, but kept your eyes on the road. Your nails tapped against the wheel again now. “Good.”

“Right now, I want to know where we’re going.”

The attempt had you smiling and not bothering to hide the exasperation on your face. “Nope, not that kind of want.”

He groaned against his hand, “that’s cruel.”

“It’s mysterious.” you preferred the term over his.

“It’s kidnapping with lip gloss.” You laughed at his response, and Steve’s shoulders eased by pure bodily instinct. 

You drove beyond the familiar restaurants, beyond the streets where the houses sat close together with bikes in driveways and porch lights beginning to flick on. The town thinned into trees and long grass. The car moved through pockets of cooling air, windows down, and the radio catching half of one station and then another until Steve gave up and turned the volume low.

When you finally turned onto the road near an old quarry, he sat up.

“Oh,” his brows twisted as he took in the dim, but no less deliberate view..

You parked near the overlook where the trees opened just enough to show the water below, darkening under the evening sky. Nobody else was there. The place had an abandoned feeling now, less romantic than it probably used to be, because Hawkins had taught everyone to distrust woods after sunset. Still, the view was good. Ot was pretty in an intimate way. The water held the last orange light in broken pieces. Cicadas screamed from the trees, and somewhere far off, a dog barked and stopped.

You turned the engine off then, the keys rustling softly against the opening. For a few seconds, the car ticked quietly as it cooled.

Steve looked at the overlook, then at you. His voice came out different when he spoke, less teasing. You liked the shift. “You planned this?”

You nodded with an unnecessary addition of solemnity. “I had a magazine and a lot of confidence.”

“That’s a dangerous combination.”

“Apparently.”

He smiled, but his eyes moved back to the view. You could tell he liked it because he didn't immediately make another attempt at a joke. He just sat there with his elbow near the open window, hair slightly ruffled by the drive, looking out over the quarry while the last of his workday drained out of him.

Steve had spent a lot of time in cars with people he loved and feared losing. He had driven toward danger, away from danger, around town at three in the morning because somebody needed a ride or a distraction or a place to talk where no parents could hear. Sitting still in the passenger seat while you turned off the engine was strangely difficult. It left his hands empty. It left the evening open.

Then you held out his keys, the abrupt movement had him looking down at them quickly.

“You survived,” your voice came out lighter than intended. 

He took them and let his fingers brush yours deliberately. Steve's posture wasn't as tense as it had been prior, and you took it as a tactical win. “Barely.”

You didn't let him off so easily. “You liked it.”

“I liked the destination.” His words had truth to them, but certainly not the full truth.

“You didn’t like my driving?” He hesitated one second too long.

You gasped and Steve immediately turned to you, one hand reaching out to rub your forearm. “No, no, your driving was fine.”

“Fine?”

He quickly corrected himself. “Good. Great. Beautifully legal even.”

You rolled your eyes and got out before he could continue and somehow dig himself deeper.

Steve followed, still smiling. That was your favorite part. He went to the trunk and pulled out the old blanket he kept there. You caught sight of a flashlight, jumper cables, an empty fast-food cup, and the stupid nail-studded bat partially hidden beneath a towel. He noticed your exasperated gaze land on it and shut the trunk a little too fast.

“Emergency stuff,” he cleared his throat too fast.

You looked at him and he suddenly found the grass beneath him interesting. “What?”

“Nothing.”

Steve murmured into the open air. “Not a nothing face.”

The decision to ignore the words came easy. You reached for the blanket instead of asking. He handed it over with a small nod, grateful and embarrassed at once.

The two of you spread the blanket over the hood of the car after he made you promise not to scratch the paint. It was still warm from the engine beneath, and when you climbed up beside him, the metal gave a faint settling sound. Steve passed you a bag of pretzels from the trunk, opened badly down the side, and you ate them while the sky turned deeper and the heat softened around you.

For a while, there was nothing else.

There was just Steve telling you about a customer who asked whether Pretty in Pink was part of a series because “there had to be other colors,” and you telling him about the woman at Bradley’s who squeezed every peach in the bin with the intensity of a medical exam. He laughed with his head tilted back, throat exposed to the evening, and you felt the ordinary pleasure of having made him laugh settle into you.

Then the windshield caught his reflection.

Steve glanced at it and you saw the words actively flash in front of your eyes.

───

His Mirror Time Outpaces Your Eye-Contact Time 

An eighties boy who spends an hour fixing his legendary hair or splashing on his favorite cologne is great to look at — but if he spends more time checking his reflection in the diner window than he does looking deeply into your eyes across the table, his vanity might be serving his own ego rather than trying to impress you!

The Solution: Mess up his hair! Messing up a vain boy's hair is a high-risk, high-reward move that instantly forces his full attention away from the mirror and entirely onto you.

The first time, you let it pass.

Steve had always had an intimate relationship with reflective surfaces. Car windows, store glass, dark television screens, spoons if he was desperate. It would have been annoying if it were not so earnest. He checked his hair with the focus of a man maintaining an ecosystem. He denied it every time, but the evidence was constant.

The second time, he turned his head slightly, pretending to watch a bird move through the trees while his eyes flicked toward the windshield.

You lowered your half bitten pretzel into your lap, waiting for the moment to prove itself.

The third time, he smoothed one hand near his temple.

You reached for the magazine, which sat on the hood beside your thigh, and tapped the fourth section.

Steve noticed the movement.

“What number are we on?” he asked with the faint resignment of a man knowing he's in too deep to argue anymore.

You held your fingers up at his face. “Four.”

His face fell and his exhale came steady.  “Oh, God.”

“You don’t even know what four is!”

“I know I won’t like it.”

You smiled at the truth of the statement and even more at his expression.

He put both hands up in a time out position, his grin was weak in its pleading. “Can I opt out?”

Your answer came sharply ennunciated. “Nope.”

“Is this democracy?”

“Why would I possibly have this be a democracy?”

He looked toward the empty road, and his exaggerated sigh didn't fool you enough to ignore his bitten back smile. “Is there a witness?”

“Nope.”

“This can't possibly be just—”

You moved before he could get any farther and he immediately tried to escape. But he was too late, because your hands went straight into his hair by then.

Steve made a sound of pure betrayal. The sound erupted a warmth in your chest as you grinned hearing his own struggle with maintaining betrayl. “Hey! No—no, watch the hair!”

You laughed so hard your first attempt barely did any damage, which gave him hope for half a second. Then you got both hands properly into it, pushing the front back, raking your fingers through the carefully maintained height, mussing the sides until his entire head looked softer, younger, more touchable and less arranged.

He caught your wrists and his eyes twinkled near yours. Small pieves of now unkempt hair fell over his brows and he had to blow them away. “We have rules.”

“We do not have rules,” you argued, struggling against his grip.

His hands were still wrapped around your wrists, they weren't restraining as much as they were holding in pleading hope. His grip was gentle, pulling you into him. “My hair has rules!”

The correction came quick on your tongue.“Your hair is vain.”

Steve gasped in blatant pffense which only served to make you laugh harder. “I'll have you know, my hair is a public service.”

You couldn't be comvinced. “You looked at yourself in the windshield three times.”

“I was checking for danger.” he tried to firmly combat your argument with his own.

“Was the danger split ends?”

Steve stared at you, scandalized. There was no hiding the wide smile that crawled its way onto your face now at his whine. “Sweetheart, that was really mean.”

“It was accurate.”

“It was both.”

You tried to continue ruining him, but he held your wrists away now, laughing despite himself. The sound exhoed against your ear drums. His grip was warm. His thumbs landed near your pulse points. The evening had cooled enough that the warmth of him felt more noticeable, especially with the blanket beneath your legs and his sweatshirt still hanging loose over your body.

His hair had slowly become a disaster.

Not terrible, it could never be terrible. Steve Harrington’s hair seemed incapable of true failure, which was deeply unfair to you. Or anyone else, really. But the shape was gone from it. One piece fell over his forehead, another stuck up near the back, and the sides had lost their polished swoop. He looked less like the version of himself he presented to the world and more like the one who woke up late and padded barefoot into the kitchen, squinting at the coffee maker.

Your laughter thinned into a smaller version of a smile. Steve saw the change and stopped pulling your hands away.

“What?” he mirrored your expression, as if your joy could be naturally echoed into his just as easily.

“Nothing.”

He narrowed his eyes at the softness of your voice. “You don’t get to use my line.”

You just shook your head at him, eyes softening gently. “You look different.”

“Worse?” The question left him in natural humor.

“No.”

He looked at you, and beneath the joking offense there was something cautious. Steve was used to being looked at. He had been looked at for years by people who wanted something from the surface. He knew how to stand under that kind of attention. He knew what to do with it.

But with you, it was always different. 

You were looking at him with his hair messed up and his guard lowered, your sleeves falling over your hands, your knee pressed against his thigh on the warm hood of his car. You were not laughing at him now, not exactly. You were seeing him in a way that made him want to joke and stay quiet at the same time.

He released one of your wrists, and you used your free hand to push the fallen piece of hair back more gently than before.

“There,” you breathed softer into the chilling air. “Improved.”

He huffed with a glint in his eye as he tilted his head looking to you. “Ruined.”

You remained steadfast in your description. “Improved.”

“Sabotaged.” a sigh escaped you before you decided to settle on the middle ground.

“Humanized.”

“That’s worse.”

You laughed again, and he grabbed you around the waist before you could dodge. It was not a dramatic move. It was entirely clumsy, half seated on the hood, one knee sliding on the blanket, and had pretzels nearly tipping over. You yelped, caught his shoulder, and he pulled you closer with a grin he wouldn't ever bother hiding.

“Retaliation,” he hummed against you.

Your eyes narrowed to glare up against him. “No.”

“Yes.”

“Steve.”

“You attacked a national treasure.”

The laugh left you all sputtered and incredulous. “You are not a national treasure.”

“My hair is.”

He tried to tickle your side through the sweatshirt, but the fabric was too thick and his angle was bad. You squirmed anyway because the attempt was enough, laughing into his shoulder while he complained about unfair defenses and oversized sleeves. The blanket bunched beneath you. Your knee knocked the pretzel bag. Steve caught it with one hand at the last second and looked so proud of himself that you shoved his shoulder.

“My hero,” you sighed dreamily as you exaggerated fanning yourself.

“Always.”

It was a joke, but it landed in the quiet between you with more weight than either of you meant. His smile flickered for half a second. Not gone, just altered instead.

You knew better than to poke directly at that. There were words that made Steve stiffen because they came with too many memories: hero, brave, fine. Compliments could hurt when they touched old bruises.

So you stole a pretzel from the bag he had saved and held it up against his lips. “Your reward.”

He accepted it solemnly, head tilting down to nibble against your fingers rather than the pretzel. That had you shoving at him all the same. “I deserve more.”

“You deserve a comb.”

“That too.”

The transition back into ease happened slowly but naturally, without announcement. Steve leaned back on his hands, letting his ruined hair stay ruined. You sat beside him, head against his shoulder, watching the quarry disappear into blue shadow. The air cooled enough that you finally felt grateful for his sweatshirt. He did not ask for it back again.

Later, when he drove you home, he checked his reflection in the rearview mirror only once. That once was entirely enough for you anyway. 

You reached over and tilted the mirror away.

He groaned your name and you smiled all the way to your driveway.

───

He Treats Your Presence Like a Given

Does he toss you his car keys, expect you to carry the snacks, and assume you’ll just automatically follow him wherever his friends are hanging out? When a guy stops asking you out on real, proper dates and just expects you to "be around," he’s treating you less like a girlfriend and more like his favorite security blanket.

The Solution:  Create a little mystery. Next time he assumes you're free, tell him you have "secret plans" for the afternoon. A tiny bit of healthy distance will make him realize just how much he misses his favorite view!

The next morning, Steve called before noon.

You were still sitting on your bedroom floor with your back against the bed, legs stretched out, the Cosmopolitan magazine open beside a half-eaten bowl of cereal. The window was cracked, but the air coming through was already warm. Somewhere outside, a lawn mower started, stopped, then started again with the stubborn cough of old machinery from your neighbors. 

Your room smelled faintly of hairspray, clean laundry, and the perfume still clinging to Steve’s sweatshirt, which you had absolutely not returned.

The phone rang twice before you picked it up.

“Hello?”

“Hey,” Steve greeted immediately. His voice had that slightly distracted quality that meant he was at work and probably doing three things badly. You could hear the store behind him: Robin talking too loudly, the dull clack of tape cases, the faint buzz of fluorescent lights even through the line. “Movie tonight?”

No lead-in. No question about your morning. No attempt at charm.

Just movie tonight, offered with the easy assumption that of course you would be there, because usually you were. Usually you liked being there. Usually Steve called and you fit yourself into the shape of his evening without minding much at all.

You looked down.

Number five sat open on the magazine page.

He Treats Your Presence Like a Given.

The article accused him of turning you into his favorite security blanket.

That was unfair too, but not entirely untrue in the way the most irritating things sometimes were. Steve did not take you for granted, and certainly not on purpose. He was too careful for that in the places where it counted. He noticed when you were cold. He remembered which pizza toppings you hated. He opened doors because he had been raised with manners and then kept doing it because he liked the brief second where his hand landed near your back.

But he did assume you would be around.

Sometimes, because he wanted you there.

Sometimes, because he needed you there and had not learned how to say need without dressing it up as a casual plan.

You let the silence stretch as your fingers came up to your lips in pondering. 

On the other end, Steve paused. “Hello?”

“I have secret plans.”

The line went quiet after your words.

You could picture his face too clearly: eyebrows lifting, mouth tightening a little, free hand landing on his hip. Steve did not like mysteries unless he was solving them, and even then he preferred them to arrive with flashlights, maps, and Dustin explaining too much.

“Secret plans,” he repeated, and you could practically see the way his face had been scrunching up.

“Yup.”

“With who?” The question came out too quickly.

You smiled into the receiver and you were sure he could practically hear it.

Steve regretted it immediately. You could hear it in the way he inhaled and then exhaled through his nose, probably turning away from Robin so she could not see his face.

“I didn’t mean that in a weird way,” he added. You knew that, of course. But would that stop you from poking fun at your boyfriend? Absolutely not.

You forced a flat hum to even your voice. “And what way did you mean it?”

Steve’s defense came strong, but no less real. “A normal boyfriend curiosity way.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Not jealousy. I’m not jealous.”

“I didn’t say you were.”

“I’m clarifying.”

Your fingers looped around the phone cord as your eyes flickered down to the magazine sprawled in your lap. “Sounds suspicious.”

At Family Video, Steve leaned against the wall near the phone and closed his eyes. Robin, sitting on the floor with a stack of returns around her, looked up with predatory interest.

“Are you being dumped?” she whispered, her blue eyes wide at his bodily reaction.

Steve covered the receiver and promptly ignored her, though not before throwing Robin a glare. “No.”

“Are you sure?”

He turned his back to her. And into the phone, he cleared his throat and said, “Are your secret plans dangerous?”

You only hummed in response. “Maybe.”

“That’s not comforting.”

“They’re secret.”

The faint spund of rustling hit your ear, and you could picture the scene everytime you blinked. With Steve running his hand through his hair because he'd become fidgety all of a sudden. “You keep saying that like it explains anything.”

You tried not to feel cruel at how the mental image made you grin and feel warmth crawl up your body. “It does.”

“It explains nothing.”

You pulled the sweatshirt sleeve over your hand and toyed with the phone cord wrapped around your ankle. “You can survive one afternoon without me.”

“I know that.”

Judging by his voice now, you weren't entirely convinced. “Do you?”

He stopped.

That was the trouble with joking. Sometimes it opened a door you had not meant to touch.

Steve knew he could survive without you for an afternoon. He had survived worse things than an empty passenger seat. He had survived silence in his parents’ house, survived losing versions of himself he had once thought were permanent, survived monsters with too many teeth and nights where sleep arrived late and left early.

But his day had begun to arrange itself around you without asking permission. He knew when you usually came by. He knew which stool you liked. He knew the face you made when Robin got into a fight with a customer and the face you made when Steve pretended he was above gossip and then leaned in anyway. He knew the small relief of looking up and finding you there.

He knew familiarity for certainty.

The realization made him pick at the peeling edge of a sticker on the phone.

“You’re really busy?” he asked, quieter.

You softened, because you hadn't really meant to hurt him. “For a little while.”

“Okay.”

Your tried not to falter, but your voice didn't heed your wishes. “You sound disappointed.”

Steve denied it quickly. “I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I’m handsome and disappointed.” That got you. You laughed, and the line loosened again.

Your secret plans were not glamorous. They involved going to the mall with a friend, buying a lemonade too sour to fully finish, and letting yourself try on clothes you couldn't afford in a department store dressing room with bad lighting. You walked past the arcade and heard machines chiming through the open entrance. You lingered in the music store longer than necessary, flipping through records with one hand while the other kept finding the soft cuff of one of Steve’s other jackets you held onto and never gave back.

You did miss him.

That was the annoying part. Or, rather, not.

The magazine had intended mystery to make him miss you, but nobody had warned you that absence worked both ways. By mid-afternoon, you caught yourself wondering whether he had eaten lunch or just stolen Red Vines from the candy display. You wondered whether Robin had teased him into a worse mood or a better one. You wondered if he had fidgeted with his hair because he'd become restless.

At four, you found a pay phone near the arcade.

The metal was hot against your fingers. A kid with sticky blue lips waited nearby, bouncing on his heels, probably impatient to call his mother for another ride he had already missed. You fed coins into the slot and dialed Family Video from memory.

Steve picked up on the second ring.

“Family Video, where late fees are real and the employees have no mercy.”

You snorted at the welcome. “Nice greeting.”

There was a pause, and then his voice changed. “Hey.”

One word, and it was warmer than it had any right to be.

You leaned against the phone, voice softening after hearing his. “My secret plans are over.”

“Oh, thank God.” You tried to not laugh at the sincerity of his wreckage. 

“You survived?”

“Barely. A woman asked for a movie with ‘the guy from that thing,’ and Robin threatened to eat the return log.”

You clicked your tongue in sympathy. “Sounds traumatic.”

“I’ve seen war.” His tone had you picturing the bobble of his head clearly.

You leaned your shoulder against the side of the pay phone. “Did you miss me?”

Steve looked toward the front of the store, where Robin was helping a teenager pick between two horror movies and making both sound morally inferior. He turned slightly toward the wall.

“Yeah, always,” he said.

No joke.

No handsome and disappointed.

Just yeah, always

Your fingers tightened around the phone cord.

The mall noise continued around you: sneakers squeaking, teenagers laughing too loudly, and the arcade machines spilling synthetic music into the corridor. But the line between you and Steve felt briefly separate from all of it, thin and private and warm.

“I’ll come by,” you hummed into the receiver.

“I’ll act surprised.”

“You better.”

When you walked into Family Video an hour later, Steve looked up from the counter and caught himself before saying the first easy thing.

You saw the effort.

His gaze moved over you properly, taking in the mall bag at your side, his jacket on your body, your hair slightly wind-tangled from the drive.

Then he smiled.

“There you are,” he greeted.  It was not a compliment, exactly.

It worked better than one, though.

Robin glanced between you both and rolled her eyes so hard it was nearly athletic.

“Disgusting,” she scoffed at Steve,  before smiling secretly when she saw the affect it had on you. “Do it again.”

Steve threw a wadded receipt at her and missed. And you sat on your stool, pretending you were not pleased.

He noticed anyway.

───

The Future is a Forbidden Zone 

Pay close attention to how he acts when you bring up anything happening more than two weeks from now. If he cracks a defensive joke, blushes, or immediately changes the subject to sports or cars, he might be totally terrified of growing up. He might love you today, but is he brave enough to dream about tomorrow?

The Solution:  Don't nag him! Instead, paint a fun, wildly dramatic picture of what you two will look like in the upcoming decade. Turning the future into a playful joke takes the pressure off and lets him see that growing up doesn't have to be boring.

Closing dragged that night.

Not in a bad way. Just in the way ordinary time dragged when nothing terrible happened and everyone was tired enough to notice the minute hand moving. A storm threatened for an hour without arriving. The air outside thickened, pressing against the windows, and the neon sign gave the front glass a red-blue glow that made the aisles look emptier than they were.

Keith left early because of “stomach problems,” which Robin translated as “he found something better to do.” She stayed until her ride came, drumming her fingers against the counter and telling Steve that if he forgot to lock the back door again, she would personally spread rumors about his favorite movie being The Care Bears Movie.

“It was one time,” Steve had defended himself vehemently. 

“One time is enough when crime exists.”

“No criminal wants our instructional workout tapes.”

“You don’t know their lives!”

After she left, the store settled even more.

You sat cross-legged on the counter while Steve counted the register. He had let you stay because he always let you stay, even though he complained that Keith would blame him if you scuffed the laminate. The Cosmopolitan lay open beside you, pages softened from a day of folding and handling. A half-empty soda sweated onto a napkin near your thigh. 

Steve counted bills under his breath.

You watched his hands.

He had nice hands, though he would have made a face if you said it too seriously. They were steady with money, restless when he talked, amd gentle when he touched you in public because he was more careful now than he used to be. There was a faint scar near one knuckle. Another near his wrist. Small reminders that did not announce themselves unless you already knew where to look.

You glanced down at the sixth section.

The Future is a Forbidden Zone.

The article described boys who blushed, joked, or changed the subject when anything more than two weeks away came up. It sounded exaggerated. It also sounded enough like Steve to make you bite the inside of your cheek.

Steve could talk about tomorrow. He could talk about next Friday, the next shift, the next movie, the next time Dustin needed a ride and pretended it was not a favor. But farther out than that, his voice shifted. He did not shut down exactly. He just moved sideways. A joke, a complaint, a sudden question about whether you wanted fries.

The future made him slippery.

You understood why.

The future had not been a reliable place for anyone in Hawkins. Plans got interrupted here. People disappeared. Malls burned. Girls moved away. Boys woke up different than they used to be and had to keep living in the same houses, driving the same roads, and pretending the town had not opened its mouth beneath them.

Still, the magazine said not to nag.

It said to paint a fun, wildly dramatic picture.

So you leaned back on your hands and said, “What do you think we’ll be doing in the nineties?”

Steve lost count instantly.

You knew because his lips stopped moving and his thumb froze on a five-dollar bill.

He looked up, expressive eyes on yours. “The nineties?”

You nodded. “Mhm.”

“The decade?”

The scoff left you before you could help it, and so did the sarcasm. “No, Steve. The sandwich.”

He stared at you with his scrunched up face, and you only smiled innocently.

He looked back down at the money, too focused now. “I don’t know. Hopefully not this.”

You tilted your head down at him, one leg dangled of the edge of the counter now, swinging casually. “You don’t see yourself managing Family Video for the rest of your life?”

Steve’s sigh came almost endearing in how displeased it was. “Please don’t say something that depressing while I’m holding cash.”

You continued brighter now that his face seemed determined to keep its sour state. “You could have a little office.”

“No.”

“A nameplate?”

“No.”

“Keith could work under you.”

Steve looked up at you horrified now. “Why would you say that?”

You laughed, then swung one foot lightly against the cabinet beneath the counter again. “Fine. Not Family Video. Something else. Something with ties.”

“Ties?”

The words came assured. “You’ll own at least three.”

“I already own ties.”

“Not funeral or wedding ties. Work ties.”

He made that familiar face that had you wanting to kiss it back to normal. “I don’t trust jobs where your neck has to be trapped.”

You continued on, you weren't quite sure he was a engaged as you,  but you went on anyways. “You’ll complain every morning and wear them anyway.”

“Sounds right.”

“And you’ll drive something practical.”

Steve's refusal came instantaneously. “No way.”

You only have a hum in response. “Uh-huh.”

“No.”

The words continued to flow. “A station wagon.”

Steve put the money down, hands resting on the area above where your thighs rested. “We’re breaking up.”

You didn't bother rolling your eyes at his words; instead, you let your smile stick and your tongue continue. “With wood paneling.”

“We’re broken up and I want my closet back.”

You crossed your arms in his jacket and continued to ignore him. “You’ll have little sunglasses in the glove compartment.”

“I already have sunglasses in the glove compartment. That part is cool.”

“And tissues.”

Steve nodded alongside you at that. “For allergies.”

“And snacks.”

“For emergencies.”

You leaned into him then,  the smile still easily in place. “And you’ll yell at kids for putting their feet on the seats.”

“They should not put their feet on the seats.”

You pointed at him for proving your point. “See? Dad car.”

He opened his mouth, then closed it. The word dad seemed to have landed differently than the rest.

You saw it happen. He tried to keep the joke moving, but his fingers shifted against the counter, pressing lightly into the laminate. His gaze dropped to the register. Not scared, exactly. Just weary at it being verbalized.

Steve had a complicated relationship with the idea of becoming anything permanent. He wanted it more than he trusted it. You knew that. You had learned it in pieces. In the way he got quiet around families at diners, watching fathers who remembered their kids’ orders. In the way he talked about his own parents with a shrug too practiced to be casual. In the way he could handle six teenagers in danger better than one sincere conversation about what he might want when danger was not the center of the room.

So, you kept the tone light.

“You’ll be the kind of dad who says he’s not mad, just disappointed, and then immediately gets mad.”

Steve rubbed the back of his neck, almost embarrassed at the accuracy. “I don’t say that.”

“You would.”

He tried to disagree stronger. “I’d be cool!”

You nodded at that. “You’d try.”

“I would succeed.”

Your grin came unabashed as your imagined ymthe picture you were painting. “You’d wear tube socks with sneakers.”

“That, is a personal attack.”

“You’d stand at the grill holding tongs and click them twice before using them.” Everyone clicked tongs twice. You were fairly certain it was law. But Steve looked down, smiling despite himself.

“Okay,” he sighed at final, with an amount of pleased resignation that you hadn't fully been ready to receive. “What about you?”

You blinked before you could help it. “What about me?”

Steve smiled at you, and your brain did a weird stutter. “In our tragic station wagon future.”

You had not expected him to ask it so seriously.

You had been building the future out of jokes so it would not collapse under its own weight. Suddenly, he was looking at you through the fluorescent quiet of Family Video, his hair still a little imperfect from running through it before, and his tired eyes steady on your face.

You swallowed quickly after realizing you fell quiet.

“I’ll be there,” you settled for, then made yourself smile before it became too much. “Obviously. Someone has to pick the radio station.”

Steve held your gaze.

His face did not do anything dramatic. There was no sudden confession. No grand realization. He just breathed in, small and careful, then nodded once.

“Obviously,” he repeated.

He looked back down at the register after that, but he had lost count beyond saving.

You didn't tease him immediately like you'd normally do.

You let him start over with the bills while you reached for the soda and took a sip that had gone mostly watery. The silence between you stayed easy enough, though changed at the edges. Steve counted more slowly this time. Every so often, his eyes flicked up to you, then away.

He was thinking.

Not running, not joking his way fully out of it.

Thinking.

When he finally finished the register and locked it, he leaned both hands on the counter and looked at the magazine.

“So,” he exhaled deeply into the open air, “is there a number about girlfriends who use journalism for psychological warfare?”

You closed the magazine with a strange lightness. “Probably in next month’s issue.”

He nodded. “Great. Can’t wait.”

You slipped off the counter, landing close enough that he had to look down at you. The store was dim except for the front lights and the glow from the sign. Steve smelled faintly of work and cologne and the peppermint gum he had chewed earlier.

“You’re doing okay,” you said at last because you couldn't help yourself. 

He lifted an eyebrow at that.  “Am I being graded?”

“Constantly.”

“What’s my grade?”

“it's pending.”

Steve snorted. “That’s worse than failing.”

“You can improve with extra credit.”

His expression warmed and he let his hands fall to your waist. “Oh, yeah?”

You took one step back and pointed toward the door. The smile on your face mirrored his before it fell. “Lock up.”

He groaned, but still went.

You watched him move through the store, checking the back, flipping switches, rattling the front door after locking it because Robin had trained him with fear. He looked young in the empty store and not young at all. He looked tired and solid and a little ridiculous with his key ring in his mouth while he adjusted the alarm panel.

When he came back to you, he held out his hand without making a production of it.

You took it.

Neither of you said anything about the nineties again that night, but Steve held your hand all the way to the car and didn't let go until he had to open your door.

───

The Spark Has Moved from the Bedroom to the Sofa

If your primary shared activity has slowly shifted from breathless, passionate sessions to falling asleep halfway through a rented thriller tape on the couch, your chemistry is taking a backseat to comfort. Snuggling is wonderful, but it should never entirely replace the fire!

The Solution:  Turn off the TV right in the middle of the movie's climax. When he complains, look him dead in the eye and tell him you have a much better way to keep both of you entertained!

Steve’s house was too clean when his parents were gone.

It always unsettled you a little, though you had learned not to say that. The Harrington house had the polished stillness of a place maintained for people who were rarely there long enough to leave evidence behind. The lamps worked. The counters shone. The couch pillows were arranged with decorative precision until Steve got home and ruined them by existing.

You liked it better after he ruined them.

You liked the shoes near the door, the jacket over the banister, and the half-empty glass of water beside the sink. You liked when he left a tape on the coffee table and a blanket half-folded over the arm of the couch. Those small messes made the house less showroom and more shelter.

After closing, he drove you there with the windows down and the radio low. The storm still had not arrived, but the air had changed. It smelled damp now, heavy with the promise of rain. Steve kept one hand on the wheel and the other near your knee, not quite touching until the roads emptied and his fingers finally settled there.

At his house, he insisted he was making popcorn because “date night requires snacks.” You followed him into the kitchen, still wearing his jacket because it was warmed than any blanket he could give, and watched him tear open the plastic wrapper with more confidence than the task required.

“You burned it last time,” you frowned at his work.

He was quick to correct you. “I did not burn it. I gave it character.”

“You set off the smoke detector.”

He paused before murmuring. “Briefly.”

“You waved a dish towel at it and yelled, ‘Don’t start.’”

Steve only shrugged. “That was a negotiation.”

You leaned against the counter while he put the bag in the microwave. He pressed the buttons, then turned around and caught you looking at him.

“What?”

The words came naturally. “Nothing.”

They also did little to please Steve. “Nope. We retired nothing. Be specific.”

You smiled and simply just shook your head. “You look nice, babe. ‘That's all.”

His eyes narrowed. “That’s my trauma now.”

Your voice came light and teasing now. “Three reasons?”

“I’m not falling for that.”

“You sure?”

The microwave started popping. Steve tried not to smile and failed by inches. “One, I’m making popcorn. Two, I drove. Three, my hair recovered from your previous assault.”

You didn't bother to hide the roll of your eyes. “You call those reasons?”

He simply shrugged with his grin. “I call them evidence.”

The popcorn began popping faster. Steve glanced back, then leaned beside you against the counter. His shoulder brushed yours. For a few moments, neither of you moved. The kitchen light was warmer than at his job, softer on his face, catching the tiredness under his eyes without making him look worn down. He had taken off his work polo and changed into a plain T-shirt, and the simplicity of it made you aware of how long the day had been.

He looked at you then, properly.

Not because a magazine told him to. Not because you demanded reasons. Just because you were there in his kitchen, sleeves over your hands, perfume faded, and hair imperfect from heat and wind and the day’s nonsense.

His hand found the hem of the jacket. “Still mine.”

“Still not.”

He pulled you into him by the grip he had on the hem of the fabric. “I’m going to start charging rent.”

You tilted your head up at him because the angle needed you to. “I’ll pay in compliments.”

“Specific ones?”

You huffed and leaned up to plant a chaste kiss on his lower jawline. “Don’t get greedy.”

The microwave beeped before he could answer.

The first bag came out mostly edible, only slightly scorched at one corner, which Steve declared a triumph. He poured it into a large bowl, added too much salt, then carried it into the living room with the dignity of a man presenting a feast.

The movie was a thriller neither of you had strong feelings about. Steve had picked it because the cover looked “medium scary,” which apparently meant scary enough to justify sitting close but not scary enough to ruin the evening. You took your usual side of the couch. He took his. Within five minutes, your legs were over his lap and his hand rested on your shin, his thumb moving absently over the ribbed cuff of your sock.

The television threw blue-white light across the room.

A woman on screen walked through a dark hallway with a candle despite every instinct and all available electricity. Steve, who had survived things that made movie monsters look lazy, immediately became furious.

“Don’t go in there,” he groaned at the television with his hands gesturing wildly.

Your reminder came gentle and blank. “She can’t hear you.”

“She should!”

“She’s fictional, babe.”

“She’s stupid.”

You took a handful of popcorn and shrugged. “Maybe she’s brave.”

“Brave people can turn on lamps.”

You laughed, and his hand tightened briefly around your ankle, pleased with himself for the achievement. 

This, apparently, was the comfort the article had warned you about.

The couch. The shared popcorn. The old rhythm of your legs across him, his fingers warm through your sock, the easy commentary over a bad movie. The way you both knew without discussing it who would get up for drinks, who would complain about the blanket being too far away, who would pretend not to be sleepy first.

It did not feel like the absence of romance.

It felt lived in.

You thought about the word comfortable and how the magazine had treated it like something dangerous, a warning sign in glossy print. Maybe sometimes it was. Maybe people did stop trying. Maybe affection could become furniture if no one touched it on purpose. But you had seen Steve try in ways that did not look glamorous enough for an article. He tried by checking your tires when he noticed one looked low. He tried by buying the cereal you liked and pretending it was for him even when he hated it. He tried by standing between you and things he had every right to run from.

Still, the final instruction was sitting there in your head, bright and absurd.

Turn off the TV right in the middle of the movie’s climax.

So, you waited.

The movie dragged itself toward chaos. Rain lashed the windows on screen. Someone found a bloody key. The heroine finally realized the killer was in the house roughly forty minutes after Steve had announced it.

He leaned forward despite himself.

“Okay, now run,” he instructed, his voice antsy now. “No, not upstairs. Why is it always upstairs? There’s nowhere to go upstairs!”

You reached for the remote, and you had to bite back a grin at how ridiculous this all seemed in reality.

He did not seem to notice, he was too entranced by the stupidity of the characters through the screen. 

The music rose. The heroine hid behind a door. A shadow moved across the wall.

And you clicked the television off.

The room fell silent so abruptly that the house seemed to inhale.

Steve froze promptly. 

His face, lit now only by the lamp, stayed aimed at the blank screen. His mouth was slightly open. One hand hovered above the popcorn bowl.

For three seconds, he did nothing. Then he turned to you, mouth agaped.

“You did not.”

You set the remote on the coffee table and nodded with a premium amount of sympathy. “I did.”

“That was the climax!”

You hummed, “I’m aware.”

Steve’s face was shoved into his hands now, his whine xould practically be heard for miles. “We watched the whole movie to get there.”

“Technically, you yelled at the whole movie to get there.”

“The killer was behind her!”

“I’m sure he’ll wait.”

Steve stared at you with deep, personal betrayal. “You’re sick.”

You tried to look serious and failed when you broke into a smile.

His eyes moved from you to the magazine lying on the coffee table, where you had dropped it earlier without thinking. The cover caught the lamp light. The headline peeked up from beneath the fold.

You watched understanding hit him.

Slowly, then all at once.

“Oh my God,” he said.

You pressed your lips together, which did nothing to hide the small giggles that left you as his voice turned blatantly aggrieved. 

“This whole time!”

Yoy played dumb. “What whole time?”

“This whole time was that—that thing.” He pointed at the magazine with such venom in his voice it was even barder to take him seriously now. “You’ve been Cosmo-ing me!”

You shook your head but couldn't stop your amusement. “I have not been Cosmo-ing you.”

Steve started to list his recount of the events. “You stole my sweatshirt.”

You shot back quickly. “You gave it up willingly.”

“You hijacked my car.” His voice became more breathless with each passing second with every realization. 

“You handed me the keys!”

This time, his tone of betrayal made you roll your eyes. “You attacked my hair.”

“It was deserved—”

“You had secret plans.”

You grinned at his expression. “They were secret.”

“You made me talk about the nineties!”

You shrugged and picked at the invisible lint of your bottoms. “The article made a few points.”

Steve sat back against the couch, processing betrayal with one hand over his mouth. He was quiet long enough that you wondered if the joke had gone too far. Then his shoulders started shaking.

He laughed.

Not loudly at first, just a helpless, disbelieving sound behind his hand. Then he dropped his hand and looked at you with his hair slightly messy again from the couch, eyes bright, mouth pulling open into the kind of laugh that made him look younger than he let himself be most days.

“You are unbelievable,” he breathed out, almost disbelieving. 

Your voice came out just as quiet as it was incredulous. “You’re not mad?”

“I don’t know. I might be. I can’t tell because it’s stupid.”

You tried for your favor. “It was educational.”

“It was psychological warfare with perfume.”

You smiled before you could control it. “You passed some of it.”

“Some?”

The words came instinctively. “You need room to grow.”

He pointed at you with a new sense of knowledge. “That is exactly what a magazine cult leader would say.”

You laughed, then reached for the popcorn bowl before it tipped. The room had changed without the TV. Not into something staged, but something quieter. More aware of itself. You could hear the refrigerator hum in his kitchen, the faint rush of air through the vents, and the distant roll of thunder finally approaching after hours of threats.

Steve’s laughter softened.

He looked at you, and this time there was no audience, no fluorescent light, no Robin waiting to make things worse. Just the couch, the cooling bowl of popcorn, the blank television, the old sweatshirt, and the magazine that had started as a joke and somehow exposed all these small places where comfort and effort touched.

“So,” he tilted his head upwards to the ceiling, “what’s the final diagnosis?”

You picked up the magazine and flipped it closed. The cover girl disappeared under your hand.

“You’re comfortable,” you decided to say at last.

Steve watched you carefully.

You could feel how much hung on the word now, though neither of you had meant for the night to become serious. His hand still rested near your ankle, but his thumb had stopped moving. He was waiting with the particular stillness he got when he was trying not to brace for bad news.

You nudged his thigh gently with your foot.

“But not lazy.”

His shoulders loosened and you wanted to melt into them. “You sure?”

You nodded against the cushion beneath your head. “Yeah.”

He looked down, smiling faintly. And you appreciated the sight on reflex. “Because I said nice?”

There was a faint silence before you took a deep breath and exhaled with a smile yourself. “You recovered from that mishap.”

Steve nodded to himself at your words. “I gave three reasons.”

“You did.”

“Good ones.”

“Mostly good ones.”

He made an offended sound, but it did not land. His hand resumed its slow movement over your sock. “For the record, I’m not trying to stop trying.”

You looked at him, because you weren't sure where else to look at.

He didn't look away, but he did look a little uncomfortable with his own sincerity. His jaw shifted, and his free hand picked at a loose thread on the couch cushion.

“I know sometimes I do the easy thing,” he said before you could jump in to stop him. “The restaurant thing. Or the movie thing. Or I just assume you’re coming over because you usually do, and I like when you do, so I don’t. . . think about how it sounds.” He paused, eyes flicking briefly toward the blank TV. “And future stuff is… I don’t know. Weird.”

You let him find the words without helping too much. You knew it was important to him.

Steve was not always graceful with this. If you rushed him, he might joke his way out. If you stared too hard, he might shut the sentence down and pretend it had never started. So you kept your body relaxed against the couch and waited. 

You would wait for him forever if need be, Steve was worth that and more.

He exhaled, “I want things. I just don’t always say them because saying them makes them real, and real things can get messed up.”

The words sat between you.

You looked down at the sweatshirt sleeves over your hands, then back at him. “I don’t need you to be perfect.”

“I know.”

You made a face. “Do you?”

He gave you the small, crooked smile that you loved. “I’m learning.”

There it was again: the same answer from the night before, but quieter now. Less joke, more promise.

Rain finally began against the windows, soft at first, then steadier. It tapped along the glass and filled the room with a low, gentle sound. Steve glanced toward it, then back to you.

“You also don’t have to use a magazine to tell me stuff,” he cleared his throat.

“I know.” And you did, that was something you were entirely sure of when it came to Steve. 

“Do you?”

You smiled because you deserved that. “Maybe I’m learning too.”

He nodded, satisfied. “Good. Because if next month’s issue tells you to fake your own disappearance to test my devotion, I’m calling Hopper.”

“He’d be very annoyed, I'm sure.”

“He’d arrest the magazine.”

“You think he has that authority?”

“For you? Probably.”

The seriousness eased. Not vanished, exactly, but folded into the warmth already there. Steve reached over and took the magazine from your lap, holding it up between two fingers.

“This,” Steve declared with a fevered passion, “is going in a drawer.”

Your words came out song-like and taunting. “You’re scared.”

“I prefer the term cautious.”

“You literally fight monsters.”

Steve gave you a pointed look. “Monsters don’t give you numbered relationship advice.”

You grabbed for the magazine, and he lifted it out of reach, which made you lean across him. The popcorn bowl wobbled dangerously. He caught it again with one hand and laughed under his breath.

“Careful.”

“You started it.”

“You started it at approximately five-ten yesterday after noon.”

“You kept failing tests.”

Steve defended himself fiercely. “I didn’t know there were tests!”

“That’s how tests work.”

“No, that’s how traps work.”

You got the magazine back only because he let you, though he pretended otherwise. When you tossed it onto the far end of the coffee table, he looked at you with narrowed, wide eyes.

“You’re done?”

“With the article?”

“Yes.”

You nodded solemnly, but your eyes gave you away to joy. “Done.”

“No more solutions?”

“No more solutions.” you promised. 

“Good.”

A beat passed.

Then you looked him dead in the eye, deciding to follow the last stupid line of advice you were given. “I do have a much better way to keep us entertained, though.”

Steve’s eyebrows lifted.

The line was ridiculous. You knew it. It belonged to the glossy page and the bossy article and the version of romance that thought every moment needed a dramatic instruction. But in the quiet living room, with rain beginning properly outside and the movie forgotten, it made Steve’s mouth curve.

“Oh, yeah?” he hummed with a tilt of of head. 

“Maybe.”

His hand slid from your ankle to your calf, still slow, still asking. “Does this better way involve stealing any more of my clothes?”

“You’re not wearing a sweatshirt anymore.”

“Thank God for that,” his words came out dry and low, sending goosebumps against where his fingers touched.

“Could steal your shirt though.”

His laugh came out all startled. “Okay, trouble.”

You grinned, but when he leaned closer, he didn't rush. That was one of the things you trusted about him. For all his teasing, for all the old reputation that still followed him around town in pieces, Steve had become careful with closeness. His hand came to your jaw, thumb resting near the corner of your mouth. His eyes searched your face with enough patience to make your chest ache.

“You sure the movie can stay off?” he asked against you. 

Your brow quirked up.  “You were yelling at it.”

“I was invested!”

“You’ll survive.”

“Barely,” he murmured and before you could argue, Steve kissed you.

The first kiss was smiling and badly aimed because you laughed right before it landed. His nose bumped yours. Your hand went into his hair by instinct, and he made a muffled sound of protest against your mouth.

“Hair,” he murmured with his lips putting against yours, the reaction only spurring you on more. 

“National treasure,” you whispered back.

“Exactly.”

You kissed him again, better this time.

The rain thickened against the windows. The lamp beside the couch hummed softly. Steve’s hand moved to your waist, fingers pressing into the thick fabric of his sweatshirt, and you shifted closer until your knees fit awkwardly against his thigh and the popcorn bowl had to be relocated to the coffee table for everyone’s comfort.

It was certainly not graceful. Your elbow hit the cushion, and he laughed into your mouth. You told him to stop laughing, which made him laugh more. He called you bossy. You called him dramatic. He tried to defend himself and lost the thread of the argument when you kissed the corner of his mouth.

This, too, felt comfortable.

But it was not dull.

It was the kind of comfort that knew where to put its hands and still paid attention. The kind that could laugh without breaking the mood. The kind that did not need to perform mystery to feel wanted, but could still play at it for fun. Steve touched you with familiarity, yes, but not carelessness. You could feel the difference in every pause, every small adjustment, and every time he pulled back just enough to look at you before leaning in again.

Your fingers fisted in the cotton of his shirt as the second kiss deepened, slower at first, then messier. Steve’s mouth opened wider under yours, his tongue slid hot and slick against your own, with spit gathering at the corners of your lips. Every breath you took was shared; the air between you grew thick and humid. He tasted of some sort of your faint chapstick taste, and tilted your head so your nose brushed and your teeth clicked again.

One of his hands then slide up your back, his palm broad and warm, until it cuped the nape of your neck and held you exactly where he wanted you. The other hand stayed low, fingers splayed across the curve of your lower back, squeezing once, then again, guiding the subtle roll of your hips that neither of you planned.

“Thought you weren't a fan of this,” you murmured against his lips when given the chance to break free for a moment. The moment didn't last long because his hand on your head pulled you in once again, a pout on his lips at your escape.

“Correction, I'm not a fan of the magazine,” you huffed a laugh at the intensity of his correction, and he used the opening to pull you in for another kiss. Though, this one was softer in a way that had your breath hitching on contact. “I'd like the record to show—I'm pretty encouraging of this.

Against his lips, you scoffed because he didn't let you break apart again. You could feel his smile against yours as you shoved at him for his distinction as his hands fell to your hips once more. 

Pressing closer to him, you felt him hardening beneath you, thick and insistent through the soft cotton of his sweats. The friction was barely there; just the slow, unconscious grind of you against the ridge of him, but it’s enough to make your breath hitch every time the head of him caught against you through your bottoms more insistantly now. You rock forward again, slower this time, as if trying to test something. 

Apparently, it's successful since Steve groans into your mouth, and the sound vibrates against your tongue, and his hips lift in a tiny, helpless thrust that drags another wet slide of fabric on fabric.

“Okay, so that's really not fair.” He breaks the kiss with a wet sound, lips parting from yours by inches. A thin strand of spit stretches, then snaps. His warm eyes are now turned glassy, his pupils blown wide, and his mouth red and shiny. “You know, you're the one that was excited for this movie for like—I don't know, a week?” he managed finally through pants, with his voice hoarse, and chest heaving under your palm.

“Ever think I was just trying to seduce you?” The ridiculous words did little to wipe away your smile, or his, for that matter.

Steve quirked his eyebrow up at you, “with begging and whining?” 

The look you shot at him must've been a good one, because he grinned down at you and pulled you in closer. “I'm kidding.”

“Mhm.” You weren't convinced, but it did little to deter him. Steve pressed his lips against the column of your neck in a makeshift trying apology. 

Instead of replying, your mouth found his again; slower this time, deeper, and your mouth curling together in a hazy slide. Steve’s hand at your neck tightened on reflex and the action had you pulled in closer, his thumb stroking the soft skin behind your ear. The other hand sliped lower now, taking up residence on your upper thigh. His fingers dug in just enough to guide another slow, deliberate grind of your hips. 

The ridge of his length dragged alongside you through two layers of cotton. The pressure was entirely maddening, it wasn't enough and too much at once. You felt yourself getting tenser, the crotch of your leggings clinging and every tiny movement he took made the fabric pull and drag.

Steve’s breathing grew more ragged against you. He sucked your bottom lip between his teeth then nibbled, then soothing with his tongue after you made a winced noise before diving back in for another open-mouthed kiss that left the both of you gasping. 

His hand that was placed below your ear roamed now. Up your side and over your ribs, with  the heel of his palm brushing the underside of your breast through your top. He doesn’t cup or squeeze like you'd prefer, he just let the weight of his hand rest there, thumb stroking slow circles that makes your body push up towards the friction. 

His hips lift again, meeting your slow grind with a shallow thrust that presses him harder against you, leaving you to curse against his lips. The friction sparked through you, sharp and sweet, and you moan into his mouth, though the sound swallowed by another kiss.

“You're such a weirdo.” The exhale that the words left you from was more breathless than you'd intended.  His hand on your breast finally moved when you spoke, a rough palm covering the soft swell, thumb flicking once over a stiff peak more incessantly this time. The touch is still half-hidden under your shirt and still restrained, but the heat of it burns through the fabric all the same. 

Steve would've sputtered at your words if he didn't know you better. And fortunately for him, he did. “Just say you missed me, honey. It'll make it easier for the both of us.”

“Can't say it if I don't mean it.” Your response had him strained against your throat, and the vibrations of his laughter sent shivers up your spine. You arch into his grip, pressing down against him harder with every slow roll of your hips. Steve’s abdomen flexed beneath you, the spasms eased through shaky exhales, and the tiny, helpless thrust of his hips tells you he’s just as affected.

“Come on, just say it.” His words were pressed into you now. You could hear the room becoming actively smaller between the two of you. Steve’s fingertips slid underneath the rising hem of your top, gripping at your sides directly now, leaving you to feel the warmth of his skin more clearly.

You could feel your head distantly shaking side to side, more so with just the need to push at him further than any real argument against his statement. His groan was propelled into your skin at that, his head tilting into you as if it was bodily necessity. 

Steve’s laugh rumbled low in his chest, the sound vibrating straight into you again. “You’re so damn stubborn,” he muttered, and his lips dragged higher over your pulse. His fingers slipped higher beneath your top until the fabric bunched under your arms, baring your stomach and the lower curve of your breasts. He didn’t bother pulling your top or bra off, he just shoved it up and out of the way so his palm could close over one bare breast, hus thumb circling the stiff nipple before he pinched it between his fingers.

You gasped instantly, hips jerking forward on instinct. The bulge of his cock dragged harder against you, the head catching right where you needed it. Steve groaned at the sudden pressure alongside you, his free hand sliding down to grip your ass and pull you inhumanly closer.

“Fuck, you’re already so wet,” he breathed, his voice turning rough. “I can feel it even through your clothes.” His hips rolled up to meet your grind in another slow and deliberate movement, letting you feel every inch of him. The cotton of his sweats was damp where you’d been rubbing against him, clinging to the shape of him.

You rocked harder, chasing the friction he slowly gave you. Steve’s thumb flicked over your nipple again, then he ducked his head and sucked it into his mouth through the bunched fabric of your top, his teeth scraping lightly before his tongue soothed the sting. The wet heat of his mouth made your back arch, pushing your breast deeper against his lips.

“Steve,” His name came out shaky. Your fingers threaded into his hair by the pure need to hold onto something, then holding him there as he sucked harder, the pull sending sparks straight between your legs. He switched to the other nipple, giving it the same treatment while his hand worked the first, rolling and tugging until both peaks were tight and aching.

His other hand stayed on your ass then the flesh of your thigh, his fingers digging into your skin as he guided your hips in a slower, filthier grind. Each roll dragged your swollen clit against the head of his cock through the layers of fabric, the pressure building until your thighs started to shake. Steve’s breathing grew ragged against your chest, hot puffs of air cooling the wet and reddening spots he’d left on your top.

“Still not gonna say it?” he asked, though his voice was muffled against your breast. He looked up at you through his long lashes, eyes dark and glassy, and his lips were pink as they coated themselves in saliva everytime his tongue poked out to wet them. His hips lifted again, thrusting up to meet your familiar movements, the motion making his cock catch and drag right over your clit in a way that had you moaning.

"I'm good, thanks." You shook your head, but the motion was weak and entirely distracted by the way his hand was sliding lower, how his fingers were slipping between your thighs to your front. He pressed two fingers against the soaked fabric covering you, rubbing slow circles that made your hips stutter.

“God, you’re dripping,” he breathed out, almost wonderingly. His fingers pressed harder, pushing the fabric against your entrance, the pressure just shy of pushing inside. You shot him a glare at his teasing. “I can feel how hot you are. How bad you want it.”

You rocked back against his hand, chasing more. He wouldn't fully give it to you, though. Steve’s mouth found yours again, the kiss messy and filled with wanting, it had your tongues sliding together in tandem as his fingers kept working between your legs. The heel of his palm ground against your clit while his fingers continued to tease your entrance through the thin fabric, the material growing wetter with every pass.

His cock twitched beneath you, thick and insistent, and you had to bite back the noises that wanted to leave you. Steve’s free hand slid up your back, having his fingers splaying wide between your shoulder blades as he held you close, chest to chest, with the heat of his skin burning through both your shirts.

“Say it,” he pleaded against your lips, the words barely audible over the wet sounds of your mouths moving together. His fingers pressed harder, the tips just barely pushing the fabric inside you, the stretch barely there but enough to make you clench around nothing but the want of him. “Just say you missed me and I’ll give you what you want.”

Steve’s fingers kept working between your legs. His mouth stayed on yours, swallowing every shaky breath you let out while his other hand stayed busy under your top, thumb and forefinger rolling your nipple in slow, deliberate tugs whenever his hand moved.

“Still so stubborn,” he chuckled against your lips, voice low and warm with the click of his tongue. “You’re twitching in my lap and you still won’t say it?” 

“Stop being smug,” was the only response you could get out. You rocked down harder then, chasing that pressure, and Steve groaned into your mouth. You had to bite back your smile against his lips at the reaction. His hand slipped out from between your legs only to grip the waistband of your bottoms, his fingers hooking under the elastic at your hips. He tugged once, slow, testing, then looked up at you with that half-smile that always made your stomach flip.

“Lift up for me?” he murmured the leading question softly. You braced your hands on his shoulders and raised your hips just enough for him to peel the pants down your thighs, dragging your panties halfway with them. The cool air hit your skin and you shivered on contact, but Steve’s hands were already back in their place, and his warm palms slid up the backs of your thighs until his thumbs hooked into the waistband of your panties too.

He paused there, looking up at you with his painfully mesmerizing big and soft eyes. “Still not gonna say it?” His voice stayed gentle, almost coaxing. He only grinned wide when you glared back up at him.

“That’s alright. I’ll get it out of you eventually.” He pulled your panties down the rest of the way, leaving them tangled around one ankle as he settled you back down on his lap. The cotton of his sweats was entirely damp where you’d been grinding, and now there was nothing between you and that thick, prominent feeling  of him except the thin fabric of his bottoms.

Steve’s hands settled on your hips again, guiding you into another slow roll. This time the friction was hotter, wetter, the head of his cock dragging right through your folds and catching on your clit with every pass. You gasped, fingers tightening on his shoulders, and he made a low approving sound in his throat.

“There you go,” he cooed, his voice soft and a little condescending, like he was praising a pet that finally learned the trick. You didn't have it in you to bite back at the moment. “That’s better, isn’t it? All that attitude and you’re still soaking my sweats.” His hands squeezed your hips, encouraging another grind. “Look at you, dripping all over me and still pretending you didn’t miss me.”

“Shut up, Steve.” The words weren't fruitful or honest. You rocked harder quickly after that, chasing the feeling even though your legs shook at the movement, and Steve’s breath hitched. That noise made the slight sting all the more worth it. One hand slid between your bodies again, fingers spreading your folds so the head of his cock could press more directly against your clit. The pressure was perfect, just enough to make your hips stutter and he held you there, letting you grind against his fingers and the thick length trapped in his pants.

“Fuck, you’re so wet,” he repeated again in that same breathless way. “I can feel how swollen you are. How bad you need it.” His thumb found your clit and rubbed slow circles while his fingers teased your entrance, not pushing inside yet, just pressing and circling until your thighs started to shake. The taunting had your head bowed low and a whiny plea in your throat. “You're killing me here.”

He shifted you higher on his lap, one hand sliding down to grip the back of your thigh and lay you on your back as he spread you open. Then he leaned in, his mouth finding the soft skin just above your hip, kissing and nipping his way lower until his breath ghosted over your bare skin. His eyes flicked up to meet yours, dark and warm, and that same soft, iritatingly condescending tone crept back into his voice that made your stomach flex.

“Poor thing,” he murmured, having his lips brushing your inner thigh now in soft kisses. “So worked up and still being so mean to me.” His tongue dragged a slow stripe up your slit, tasting you, and he hummed like he’d just found something sweet. “Sweetheart, you taste so fucking good when you’re not being mean.”

“I wasn't—fuck, I wasn't mean.” Your words fell on deaf ears when his hands held your thighs apart as he licked again, slower this time, with his tongue flat and broad as he dragged it from your entrance up to your clit. He circled the swollen bud once, twice, then sucked it gently between his lips, the wet heat of his mouth making your back arch against where you were laid out. One hand stayed on your thigh, thumb stroking soothing circles, while the other slid up to press two fingers against your entrance, rubbing but not pushing even though your hips lifted up to meet them.

“Say it,” he whispered against your clit, the words vibrating through you. “Just say you missed me and I’ll give you my fingers. I’ll give you my tongue. I’ll give you whatever you could want.” His tongue flicked over your clit again, faster now, while his fingers pressed harder, the tips just barely stretching you. His words seemed to leave you as if they were a carousel, only reaching you when your head stopped spinning. “Or you can keep being stubborn. Either way, I’m not stopping until you’re shaking and begging.”

“Fuck. Please, Steve—don't, don’t tease.” Your words came desperate in their pleas as you rocked against his mouth, chasing more. Steve groaned into you at that, the sound muffled but hungry. His fingers finally pushed inside then, slow and deliberate, curling just right as his tongue kept working your clit. The wet sounds of his mouth and your slick filled the space between you, mixing with the low, coaxing praise he kept murmuring against your skin.

“That’s it,” he cooed, voice soft and warm even as his fingers thrust deeper. Your forearm came up to your face now, sprawled across your face to muffle your sounds. “Good girl. Just like that. Keep grinding on my tongue. I’ve got you.” His free hand slid up your body again, finding your breast and rolling your nipple between his fingers while his mouth stayed busy between your legs. The action had you gasping out his name and biting the sleeve of the jacket underneath you. “You’re so fucking pretty like this, honey. All spread out and dripping for me.”

Your hips rolled in tiny, shaky circles over Steve’s mouth, thighs trembling around his head as his tongue kept flicking quick and firm over your clit. Every pass made your stomach clench and your breath hitch, and the fingers he’d finally pushed inside you curled just right, dragging over that spot that made your walls flutter around him.

“F-fuck—Steve—oh god,” you gasped, voice cracking. Your hands clutched at his shoulders, nails digging in as your whole body twitched. “Please—please, fuck, I missed you, won’t ignore you again, I missed—ah!”

He hummed against you, clearly pleased, the vibration shooting straight through your clit, and you felt him smile against you. His fingers thrust deeper now, more slow and steady, while his tongue circled and sucked, never letting up. Your hips jerked on pure reflex now, chasing every bit of pressure, and you could feel how soaked you were, seeing through half-lidded eyes the slick dripping down his fingers, and coating his chin, making every wet sound louder.

“That’s it,” he murmured with his voice low and warm against you. “Good girl. Say it again, tell me how much you missed me again?”

“I missed you,” you sighed, and the words tumbled out broken and breathless. “Missed your mouth, missed your stupid attitude, missed—fuck, Steve, please don’t stop—”

He didn’t. His tongue pressed flat and hard, licking languidly from your entrance up to clit, then sucking the swollen bud between his lips again after forcing your hips flat with his other hand wrapped against your waist. His fingers kept working inside you, curling and thrusting, and stretching you open while his thumb rubbed tight circles. Your thighs shook harder, your breath coming in short, desperate pants.

“Close,” you whimpered with a voice thin and shaky, you were borderline wordless now. “Steve, fuck—I’m gonna—please, I’m so close—”

He pulled back just enough to speak, lips brushing your slick folds. “Not yet,” he breathed heavy and his voice rasped. “You’re not coming until I say so. You can hold it for me, can’t you?”

You whined with your hips stuttering, trying to chase his mouth again, but he held you steady with a hand on your thigh. His fingers slowed inside you, just barely moving now, forcefully keeping you right on the edge without letting you tip over. Your walls clenched around him, desperate, and you felt yourself dripping even more, the wet sounds filthy and loud in the quiet room.

“Steve, please—fuck, I need it, I need to come, please let me just—” He licked you again, his movements slow and deliberate, and his tongue continuously dragging over your clit until your whole body jerked. 

“Not yet,” he repeated with a gentle voice but still firmly, his grasp on you turning slightly tighter in a soft warning. “You’re so pretty like this. You can wait a little longer, yeah?”

Your head fell forward, forehead pressing against his as your breath came in shaky gasps. Every nerve in your body felt on the frustrating edge without being allowed to be tipped over completely. Your head lifted weakly as your proped yourself on your elbows to look at him. “Please—come on, please? I’ll do anything. Fuck, Steve, I’m so close right now—”

He kissed your inner thigh in what felt like an apology, then your clit, soft and teasing. The action had your breath shake and your groan turn entirely frustrated. “I know, baby. I know. Just a little more.” His fingers curled inside you, pressing right against that spot, and you felt your orgasm building again, hotter and tighter, but he pulled back just before you could tip over once more.

Your words came out a mixed sobbed with your thighs shaking, and hips twitching against nothing anymore. “Fuck—fuck, Steve, don't do that! Come on—”

He shifted you down his body, hands guiding your hips until your legs were straddling his lap again and you're no longer lying down. His cock was rock hard under his sweats, the fabric soaked where you’d been grinding. He hooked his thumbs into the waistband and shoved them down just enough to free himself, the thick length springing up between you, all flushed and leaking.

“Ride me,” he murmured this time and his voice low and coaxing. “Take what you need. You’ve earned it, honey.”

You didn’t hesitate, the restlessness in your body didn't let you. You reached down and wrapped your hand around his cock, not before and lined him up, the head pressing against your entrance. You sank down slow, feeling every inch stretch you open, your walls fluttering and clenching around him as he filled you. The stretch was perfect, deep and thick, and you moaned loud and broken as you bottomed out, hips flush against his.

Steve groaned alongside you with his head tipping back, and hands gripping your hips harder now. “Fuck—there you go. So fucking tight. So wet for me.”

You started to move, slow at first, rolling your hips in languid circles, feeling him drag against every sensitive spot inside you. Your hands braced on his chest, nails digging in as you rode him, each roll of your hips sending sparks through your whole body. Steve's broken gasps sounds filled the room, mixing with your broken moans and his low, practically mindless praise.

“That’s it,” he breathed, and you could clearly hear how his voice shook. His head tipped back with every movement. “Good girl. Fuck, you feel so good. Missed this so much. Missed how you squeeze me, how you drip all over me.”

You couldn’t form words anymore. Your head lolled forward, forehead pressed to his, breath coming in short, desperate pants. Your hips moved on their own with his strained help, chasing every bit of friction he gave while inside you. The pleasure built fast, hot and tight, and you felt yourself tipping over the edge again, walls clenching hard around him.

Your hand came up to smack agakn his bicep helplessly. “Steve, fuck—”

He thrust up to meet you messily now, rough palms guiding your hips with his voice low and urgent. “Close? Let me feel it, yeah?”

You shattered with a broken cry, your whole body shaking as your orgasm continued to build and crashed through you. Your walls pulsed around him,  and you kept moving through it, riding out every wave with shaky and unstable footing. Steve groaned loud against his mindless bubbles against your shoulder, his hips jerking up in a stutter and you felt him throb inside you as he came down with you.

You stayed there for what seemed like a lifetime, bodies pressed limblessly together, breathing hard, and your hips still twitching with the remaining aftershocks. Steve’s hands stroked your back, then your hips, soothing and warm, while you melted against him, forehead pressed to his shoulder, breath coming in shaky wordless sounds.

“Fuck,” he whispered, and he almost sounded reverent. Steve's knuckles went to drag against the line of your spine, the touch barely registering with how light it was. “You’re so fucking perfect.”

You just hummed, too far gone to speak with your body still twitching and clenching around him as the pleasure slowly ebbed, leaving you warm and languid and utterly spent.

Steve’s hair was a mess now. Yours couldn't have been much better now either. The collar of your shirt had slipped off one shoulder, and he kept tugging it back up absently, not because he was concerned about modesty so much as because taking care of you in small ways was one of his habits. Your breath was still easing down when you felt the pressure of a kiss just below your eye, then one followed up to your temple. 

You were ready to let all the leftover tension in your body release when he spoke.

“Tomorrow,” Steve started quietly, and he took the moment for him to hook his chin over your head, pulling you into him even more.“I’m picking the date.”

You opened one eye to scan him when your vision returned to you. “Are you?”

“Mhm.”

“What are we doing?”

Steve used your words against you with a clear hum of delight. “Secret plans.”

You smiled against his chest, your own knuckles across him, mirroring his own actions on you. “With who?”

He pinched your side gently through the shirt that covered you once more, the action pulled a squirm from you. “Funny.”

“You walked into that!”

“I did and I regret it.”

The rain tapped steadily and the the microwave clock glowed green. Steve’s arm rested around your shoulders, heavy and warm.

“I’ll pick something,” he said. “A real thing. Not just pizza because it’s Friday.”

“I like pizza because it’s Friday.”

“I know. But I’ll pick.”

You lifted your head enough to look at him. He was staring at the blank television, but not really seeing it. His face had gone thoughtful in the dim light, mouth relaxed, and his eyes were tired but not drained. 

“And,” Steve added, “I’ll ask first. If you want to come.”

Your throat tightened unexpectedly.

You kept your voice light because otherwise the moment might become too delicate to touch. “That sounds very advanced.”

“I’m an advanced boyfriend.” You weren't entirely convinced. 

“You’re a boyfriend with homework.”

“I did great on the first quiz!”

“You got a B-minus.”

His head snapped toward you. “B-minus?”

You conceded. “Maybe B.”

“I gave three reasons and let you drive my car?”

“B-plus.”

“And discussed the nineties.”

You considered that, “A-minus.”

He relaxed back into the couch. “Thank you.”

“Don’t get too comfortable just yet.”

Steve looked down at you with his mouth tilting. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

You settled against him again, listening to the rain and the steady beat of his heart. The house around you felt less empty than it had when you arrived. The couch pillows were crushed. The popcorn bowl sat abandoned on the table. The magazine lay face down near the remote, defeated for now. Steve’s shoes were kicked halfway beneath the coffee table, and your mall bag had tipped over near the armchair, one receipt peeking out.

It was ordinary evidence, proof of a night spent badly and well.

After a while, Steve kissed the top of your head. He probably thought you were too sleepy to call him on it when he murmured, “You looked really pretty today.”

You smiled without opening your eyes quickly. “Three reasons?”

His sigh moved beneath your cheek when he pressed another kiss there. “I created a monster.”

You could only shrug. “You encouraged her.”

“I did.” His hand moved once over your shoulder. Steve’s fingers gently rubbed small circles into your shoulder blades, and you could only lean onto his touch. “Okay. The jeans. The ribbons. Your hair. The way you stole my clothes again and acted like I was lucky to witness it.”

“That’s four.” Your voice came pleased against him.

“I’m overachieving then. ”

“Good.”

“And,” Steve said quieter, “the way you came back.”

You opened your eyes and he was looking at the ceiling now, not at you, because that last one had slipped out seemed more vulnerable than he intended. His throat moved. His fingers kept tracing a small, absent path over your sleeve.

You didn't tease him for it this time, something told you that'd be too cruel; Instead, you reached for his hand and threaded your fingers through his as if it was always meant there 

“I'm always going to come back,” you decided to settle for saying, your voice soft.

Steve looked down at you then.

For a second, the room held still and quiet around you: rain at the windows, lamp light on his tired face, qnd your hand in his. He didn't say anything grand, really. He didn't need to. Steve just squeezed your fingers once and rested his cheek against your hair.

“Good,” Steve murmured against the crown of your hair.

It was not magazine-perfect, it was even better.

your shared bedroom is swallowed in a heavy, 2 am silence, the only sound being the rhythmic, synchronized breathing of two people entwined. steve has you pinned against him, his chest a warm comforting weight against your back, his arms wrapped tightly around your waist. but for the last hour, he hasn't been actually sleeping.

inside his head, a fever dream has been playing on a loop— something visceral, something raw —and it has left him aching. he’s been squirming in his sleep, his breath hitching, his hips unconsciously rocking in a slow, desperate grind against your backside.

he is so painfully hard, the thick length of him pressing firmly into the heat between your legs, pulsing with every subconscious throb of his heart.

as he finally drifts toward consciousness, the dream doesn't fade; it just transfers into reality. he wakes up breathless, his skin tinged pink and damp with a thin layer of sweat. he doesn't move away.

instead, he presses closer, his face burying into the crook of your neck, inhaling the scent of your body wash and lotion. he begins to mouth at your skin, his lips hot and insistent, sucking a bruised mark into your shoulder that makes you stir in your sleep.

“mmm… steve?” you murmured, voice thick and slurred as you began to stir awake.

he didn’t answer with words. he just lets the low, needy sound bubbling in the back of his throat flow out, his hands sliding down your waist. “shhh. it’s jus’ me, honey,” he cooed softly, voice just above a whisper, his thumbs hooking into the waistband of your underwear. “couldn’t stop thinkin’ ‘bout you all night. had a dream about you.”

you left out a muffled whimper, subconsciously pressing your behind further into his hips, chasing some sort of friction. you could feel the sudden, searing heat of him pressing directly against you, slick and demanding. you let out a soft, confused moan, your eyes still closed, drifting in that hazy space between dreams and waking.

“need you so bad. jus’ need to feel you.” he tugged your panties down just above your knees and dipped a hand between your legs, feeling the dripping mess there. “go back to bed, sweet girl… i’ll be quick. i’ll be so quiet for you.”

you both knew that was a lie. steve could never stay quiet.

he didn’t wait for an answer after. he pulled his heavy, throbbing length out from his sweatpants and gave himself a few slow strokes before lining the tip up with your entrance.

he let the head of him gather some of the slick before carefully pressing inside of you to the hilt with a shaky, desperate exhale. “ohh, fuck, you’re so tight, honey. so soft and warm f’me.”

his hips began to roll into your backside with a deep, gentle intensity, perfectly massaging your gummy walls and pressing into your cervix with each thrust. his hands moved across your body slowly, one hand coming up to squeeze your breast while the other held your hip, keeping you anchored to him.

“god, you feel so good,” he whispered breathily, mouthing at the skin of your shoulder. each little thrust is accompanied by a soft, pretty moan— small, broken sounds of pure relief that vibrate through your skin. “jus’ sleep, baby. mmm, let me have this.”

the sweetest, sleepy moan slipped past your slightly parted lips when the tip of him kissed at your cervix, pressing into that sensitive spot for a few long seconds. your hand clumsily reached down to catch his wrist, squeezing it still half-asleep when he began to roll his hips up towards that spot repeatedly. “mph, stevie… so good.”

he nodded into your shoulder, his mouth hot and insistent as he soothed over the flushed skin with his lips. “i know, pretty girl, i know. bein’ so good f’me. making me feel so fucking good,” he whispered, moaning so prettily against you. “jus’ keep taking it, honey. fuck. jus’ like that.”

you stirred slightly through the exhaustion, pushing your hips back even further against his to chase as much friction as possible.

“look at you, half-asleep and still so responsive,” he cooed into the shell of your ear, rolling your nipple between the pads of his fingers to pull the most heavenly moan from you. “still so sensitive f’me. just laying here ‘nd letting me do whatever i want to you. fuck. bein’ such a good girl.”

you let out a lazy, humming moan, your hips rolling back again in a slow, instinctive search for even more, grazing against him with an evident sleepy desperation. “please,” you whimpered.

he shifts his angle slightly, grinding deeper, his breath hitching as he finds that perfect spot. he’s in absolute heaven, his movements cautious yet possessive, carefully rolling his hips into yours as if he’s trying to memorize the exact way you fit together.

“there you go, honey. shit. right there? yeah? that feel good?” he mumbled into the crook of your neck, already knowing the answer. he nipped at the skin there hard enough to leave a mark. “you have no idea what you do to me when you’re like this… all soft and warm and open f’me. jus’ letting me slide right in, huh?”

your hand clasped over his on your breast, squeezing at it to add that little extra bit of stimulation. “mhm. right there, baby,” you whispered breathlessly, grinding back to meet each thrust. “so good.”