Because Steve never hesitates.

Never acts like affection is something shameful.

Love pours out of him, as naturally as body heat.

If your hands are cold, he interrupts himself halfway through a story just to catch your fingers and tuck them into his jacket pockets alongside his own, rubbing warmth back into your knuckles while continuing his sentence without missing a beat.

If you yawn during movie night, his arm is around your shoulders before the sound can finish leaving your mouth. “C’mere, sleepy girl,” he murmurs automatically, pulling you sideways against his chest.

If your shoelaces come untied in the middle of the sidewalk, he drops immediately to one knee with a distracted, “hang on, baby.”

Rainwater hisses along the curb while he reties the bow tighter this time, fingers quick and practiced, one hand steadying lightly against your ankle. His knuckles brush your skin through your sock and you have to stand there, holding your breath until your lungs ache with it, staring down at the concentration pulling his brows together.

Wondering what it must be like to love someone with your whole heart and not feel like it’s going to break you open.

He’s warm everywhere, your Steve. Warm hands, warm mouth. Warm stomach pressed against your back beneath blankets. He smells like laundry detergent and faint cedar cologne rubbed into the collar of his jackets. Sometimes vanilla chapstick, sometimes mint gum. Always Steve.

And the kisses are constant too.

Quick, thoughtless ones, born entirely from fondness.

The corner of your mouth while waiting for the microwave to beep. Your forehead when he passes behind you in the kitchen. Your shoulder while you lean over the sink brushing your teeth side by side. The back of your neck when he reaches around you for orange juice in the fridge, mumbling a sleepy, “morning, honey,” against your skin before kissing beneath your hairline.

Sometimes he just looks at you for a second. Expression softening imperceptibly, like some private thought crossed his mind, and then he leans over and kisses your cheek with this quiet little hum in his throat.

Like loving you tastes good.

And god, the neck kissing.

It’s terrible.

And right now, in the middle of a museum gallery so quiet you can hear shoes squeak against polished floors, he’s doing it again.

You’re trying to read the plaque beneath some enormous renaissance painting—something about divinity and grief, oil on canvas—but Steve is behind you, arms folded around your waist while he scans the museum brochure one-handed.

One of his hands has slipped beneath your cardigan, warm palm spread low across your stomach.

“Okay, so,” he murmurs near your ear, voice low enough that the sound vibrates through you, “there’s the Greek sculpture thing upstairs, or... there’s apparently a room with these like, tiny dollhouses?”

You wrinkle your nose. “That sounds horrifying.”

“Right?” His lips brush the shell of your ear as he speaks. “Like what if one of them’s haunted?”

Then his mouth finds the hinge of your jaw.

One lazy, distracted kiss.

His lips are soft, slightly chapped from the cold outside. Warm breath spills across your skin afterward, making your pulse jump beneath his mouth. He lingers there, nose nudging lightly against your neck while he keeps mumbling off different sections of the museum.

You feel the shape of his smile against your skin when he finds another ridiculous exhibit.

“Apparently there’s a room that’s just chairs.”

“That can’t be true.”

“No, I swear to god.”

Then his mouth drifts lower.

Open-mouthed kisses this time.

Slow enough that warmth blooms beneath every press of his lips. You feel the faint scrape of his teeth catch your skin playfully before he smooths over it with another softer kiss, his thumb stroking across your stomach.

Your entire body tightens around the feeling.

The worst part is knowing that he isn’t trying to fluster you.

Steve isn’t performing intimacy.

He just never second-guesses affection.

Unlike you.

For you, every touch feels catastrophic.

The second Steve touches you, awareness crashes through your body all at once—your pulse, your breathing, the weight of his hand, whether your hair smells okay, whether your stomach feels too soft beneath his palm, whether someone across the gallery can see this.

Whether you deserve to be loved this openly at all.

“....and Robin said there’s some painting of a guy eating his own son which honestly seems kinda—”

He stops, hand stilling against your stomach.

“Babe?”

You blink hard, staring at the plaque without reading a single word.

Steve leans back, concern creasing immediately between his brows.

“Hey,” his hand slides higher, rubbing gently over your ribs. “You okay?”

“Hm? Mhm.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

Another lie.

Your skin still burns where he kissed you.

And underneath all the panic is something worse.

Fear and hunger, knotted so tightly you can’t separate them anymore.

Wanting him closer, wanting him to keep touching you forever. Wanting to crawl inside every warm, gentle thing he gives you and stay there.

Not knowing what you’d do if he ever stopped.

Because as terrifying as it is to be loved this softly, you think losing it might actually destroy you.

“You wanna sit down for a sec?” Steve asks quietly. “I think I still have that granola bar in my bag if you’re hungry.”

You almost laugh, because of course that’s where his mind goes.  

Care.

Always care.

“No, I’m okay,” you say quickly, forcing a smile. “We can keep going. The uh, Greek sculpture thing sounds good.”

He watches you for a beat longer than comfortable, thumb rubbing against your hipbone through your jeans.

“Okay,” he says finally.

His hand slides up your arm, gently fixing the cardigan slipping off your shoulder. His fingers brush your neck in the process, absentmindedly smoothing your hair back into place too.

And then, because he’s Steve—because affection lives inside him so naturally he doesn’t know how to love except with his whole body—

He reaches down and interlaces your fingers with his.

Warmth immediately fills the spaces between your knuckles, his callused fingers curling around yours with steady, secure pressure.

He keeps holding your hand the entire walk toward the staircase, thumb stroking across your skin while he talks about haunted dollhouses and ugly marble babies and whether you think ancient Greek people had chest hair.

And isn’t it terrifying, how quickly your body has learned what safety feels like in someone else’s hands?

...

It isn’t just the touching.

You almost wish it was.

Because that would be easier to understand.

A touch can be explained away:

Steve’s just naturally affectionate. Steve likes physical contact.  

But it’s not just that.

It’s the way he loves you without condition. Without making you earn it first.

A few weeks into dating, he showed up at your apartment carrying a bouquet so enormous it nearly blocked his entire face.

When you opened the door, all you could see were flowers.

Soft cream roses crowded against pale pink delphiniums, petals curling delicately at the edges like silk ribbon. Deep burgundy dahlias bloomed low in the arrangement, velvety and dark as spilled wine, white baby’s breath drifting between everything like tiny bursts of snowfall.

And hidden right in the middle were your favorites.

Blue hydrangeas.

Dusty-blue petals clustered together like storm clouds at dusk, edges fading lavender where the light caught them.  

You had pointed them out exactly once while passing a florist downtown.

Three seconds, maybe.  

You remembered slowing briefly in front of the shop window because they looked beautiful beneath the warm yellow display lights. Rain had just started misting softly against the sidewalk and Steve had been halfway through ranting about some middle schooler trying to rent an R-rated horror movie with a fake ID. You’d smiled at his story before murmuring, almost absentmindedly, “Those are so pretty.”

That was it.

You hadn’t even thought he heard you.

But Steve Harrington has a habit of holding onto the tiniest details about you like they're something precious.

“Baby, I swear to god,” Steve was saying now as he stepped inside your apartment, nudging the door shut with his foot, “I had the craziest day today. This guy at work tried to return a tape completely melted.”

The bouquet landed in your arms before he shrugged off his jacket.

“Melted,” he repeated, horrified, running a hand through his hair. “Like, fully warped. Looked like somebody cooked that thing in a microwave.”

You stared down at the flowers.

The bouquet was heavy enough that you had to support it with both arms. Thick stems pressed cool and damp against your palms beneath layers of cream florist paper, the wrapping folded slightly unevenly around the flowers and tied together with rough twine that looked suspiciously hand-done.

Not florist-perfect, but Steve-perfect.

The flowers smelled dizzyingly alive: sweet rose perfume softened by rainwater and the cool, earthy scent of freshly cut stems.

“…um, Steve?”

“—and Keith asked me if I did that,” he huffed, toeing off his shoes. “I mean, can you believe that shit? What does he think I do at work all day, destroy tapes for fun?”

“Steve.”

“Yeah?”

You blinked at him slowly.

“What’s…” Your throat tightened strangely around the words. “What’s this for?”

He looked down at the bouquet like he’d genuinely forgotten he walked in carrying it.

“Uh…” His brows lifted slightly. “Flowers?”

He laughed softly after saying it, confused.

But you didn’t laugh.

Because your brain was already doing what it always did: rummaging frantically for conditions. For expectations and hidden meanings tucked beneath kindness.

Your heartbeat started creeping unpleasantly high in your throat.

Was it an anniversary?

Oh god.

Had you forgotten something?

Your stomach dropped, dates scrambling uselessly through your head too fast to follow. One month? Six weeks? Was there something couples were supposed to celebrate this early? Had Steve done something thoughtful and now you were standing there empty-handed like the worst girlfriend alive?

The cellophane crackled beneath your tightening grip.

“Did I…” You cleared your throat quietly. “Did I forget something?”

Steve’s forehead wrinkled.

“Huh?”

“The flowers.”

“What about ‘em?”

Your voice came out impossibly small. “Why’d you get these?”

“Uh, ‘cause I…” He huffed a tiny laugh through his nose, head tilting. “’Cause I wanted to?”

His confusion only made your chest tighten more.

“Is it our anniversary or something?”

His frown deepened. “What? No.”

“Then… why?”

Steve stared at you for a second, slightly open-mouthed now, the soft amusement on his face fading into gentle concern.

“Baby, they’re just flowers.”

You stared back helplessly.

“But why?” you asked again, quieter this time.

“Well, I…” He shrugged one shoulder slightly. “I saw them. And I thought about you.”

The apartment suddenly felt very quiet.

You looked back down at the bouquet in your arms.

The hydrangeas were even prettier up close, petals shifting between pale blue and soft lavender depending on how the light hit them. Tiny sprays of baby’s breath caught between larger blooms like stars scattered through clouds.

A single sunflower tucked near the back, drooping sideways because Steve probably had the bouquet strapped into the passenger's seat on the drive over.

Your throat burned.

“That’s it?” you asked quietly.

Steve let out a soft breath through his nose.

His socked feet whispered against the floor as he stepped closer, one hand rising to cup your cheek.

Big enough to hold the entire side of your face, his palm enveloped you in warmth. Your lashes fluttered at the feeling of his thumb sweeping beneath your eye, brushing over the apple of your cheek, soothing something there without even knowing what hurt.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “That’s it. I saw ’em and thought you’d like them.” His mouth tugged into a small smile. “You stared at those flowers for like, ten minutes.”  

You huffed weakly. “It was not ten minutes.”

Steve’s smile widened, encouraged by the sound of your laugh.

“There was this whole wrapping station thing too,” he added, gesturing proudly toward the bouquet still overflowing from your arms. The cream paper rustled softly as he touched it, uneven folds bunching around the stems where the twine had already started slipping loose on one side. “The lady kept trying to help me but I told her I could handle it.”

He tipped his head, inspecting his own work. “Pretty good, right?”

You looked down again.

The wrapping really was crooked. One corner folded inward strangely while another flared too wide, baby’s breath poking free through gaps in the paper.  

It couldn’t have been more beautiful.

Steve’s grin turned sheepish, one hand rubbing the back of his neck. “Honestly, I think she stopped helping 'cause I was stressing her out.”

A quiet bubble of laughter escaped you, and the second it did, you noticed the way his face changed. Grin softening, eyes gone warm at the realization that he’d made you smile.  

That was the other unbearable thing about him.

How carefully he watches for your joy, waiting for the next chance to do it again.   

He really had done all this just because he wanted to.

No special occasions—he just saw something beautiful and immediately thought of you.

You blinked quickly, staring down at the velvety rose petals before he could notice the dangerous sting gathering behind your eyes.

Nobody had ever remembered little things about you before.

Not enough to act on them later.

Certainly not enough to drive across town carrying an absurdly oversized bouquet because of one passing comment you barely remembered making yourself.  

But Steve noticed everything.

The tea you always reach for when you’re sick. The songs you hum in the car without realizing. Which side of the bed you like to sleep on. Which sweatshirt you wear when you’re sad. The way you peel pepperoni slices off pizza before eating.  

The flowers you paused to admire for three seconds on a rainy sidewalk weeks ago.

Your fingers tightened carefully around the bouquet.

“Thank you,” you managed quietly.  

Steve smiled, stepping closer until the bouquet crushed lightly between your bodies, cellophane crinkling in the quiet of the apartment.

“Yeah. Anytime, baby,” he hummed, bending down to press his smile into the curve of your mouth, as natural as breathing.

...

You don’t know why you get like this.

Why your body reacts like it’s bracing for impact when all he’s doing is being gentle. Why his affection makes your chest ache the way it does.

Why your first instinct is always to freeze.

Body going stiff whenever Steve wraps himself around your back in grocery store checkout lines, chin hooked over your shoulder while he complains about magazine prices and rubs his thumb beneath the hem of your shirt.

Sometimes he brushes your hair behind your ear mid-conversation and keeps talking without even realizing he did it. Sometimes he reaches for your hand in his sleep, eyes still closed, finding you beneath the blankets when his body notices your absence before he does.

And you wonder why, in all those sweet, wonderful moments—when he kisses your forehead while waiting for the microwave to beep, when he pulls you against his chest during movies, when he drops to his knees on dirty pavement because he doesn't want you to trip over your laces, when he holds your face in both hands like it’s something precious—you feel this horrible urge to apologize afterward.

Sorry I’m difficult. Sorry you picked me. Sorry you don’t realize yet there are easier people to love.

Love had always arrived transactional before him.

Conditional.

Dependent on being easy enough, pretty enough, quiet enough, useful enough.

But Steve loves you without condition.

And being seen that intimately by someone so good—someone as warm and earnest and sincere as Steve Harrington—feels unbearable sometimes.

Maybe that’s why nights like this overwhelm you so badly.

A fancy dinner downtown stretches long past sunset, candlelight flickering gold across Steve’s face while he steals bites from your plate despite insisting twenty minutes ago he was “seriously so stuffed.”

Wine leaves his cheeks faintly pink by the time you leave the restaurant. His tie hangs loose, crooked around his throat, top buttons undone and sleeves rolled to his elbows. Summer heat still clings to the sidewalks even this late at night, thick with blooming jasmine spilling from flower boxes outside storefronts. Somewhere farther downtown, music drifts through open bar doors, muffled bass and laughter carried through the warm air.

Steve's hand never leaves your lower back, fingers flexing gently against you whenever the crowd thickens, pulling you instinctively closer to his chest.

By the time you drift into the park, your heels are dangling from one hand and your body feels pleasantly heavy from the wine.

The grass is cool beneath your bare feet. Damp earth presses between your toes as you wander deeper along the meadow paths, fireflies blinking through the dark around you like floating embers.

Steve is halfway through retelling some ridiculous story his students had told him earlier that day, pausing every other sentence because he keeps getting distracted trying to kiss you.  

Grass stains smear across the knees of his expensive slacks when he finally pulls you down beside him into the field.

“Steve,” you protest weakly, glancing at his pants.

“What?” he asks innocently, tightening his hands around your waist.

“Those are gonna stain.”

“Mm.” He kisses the corner of your mouth, grin lazy. “Worth it.”

You lose track of time there.

Talking between kisses, lying shoulder-to-shoulder in the grass while Steve points out constellations he names wrong on purpose just to make you argue with him. His fingers comb slowly through your hair while your head rests against his shoulder, skin sticking together in the humid night air.

And by the time he gets you home, you’re half-floating.

Steve crowds you against the apartment door before the lock has even clicked shut.

Both hands on your waist, lips sealing over yours. The force of it nudges you softly into the door, his body fitting against yours as he grunts low into your mouth like he’s been holding himself back all night.

Sweet burgundy wine still lingers on his tongue when his lips part against yours.

He’s warm everywhere.

Warm hands sliding beneath your dress, warm mouth against your throat. Warm breath ghosting over newly exposed skin every time he pauses to look at you.

And he does pause, constantly.

Heavy-lidded hazel eyes drag across your face, your throat, the curve of your body beneath his hands, lips gone slack from that third glass of Merlot though his smile tells you he’s drunk on more than just the wine.

His palms skim along the back of your thighs while he kisses down your neck, the soft scrape of his stubble pulling a shaky breath in the shape of his name.

He smiles against your skin, feeling your fingers clutch tighter at his shoulders.

“C’mere,” he murmurs softly.

The bedroom lights stay low when he walks you backward toward the bed.

Blue comforter wrinkling beneath you when he eases you onto your back, following you down, kissing over every inch of exposed skin while your heartbeat stutters harder with each press of his mouth.

Broad palms smooth upward beneath your dress while his lips trail lower, the slow descent of it dizzying; his mouth dragging across your collarbone, the center of your chest, down your stomach, your ribs, each kiss separated by warm breaths and playful nips that make your muscles jump.

And when he kneels at the foot of the bed—nudging your legs apart carefully, lovingly, thumbs stroking slow circles into the soft skin inside your thighs as he settles himself in between—he lets out this quiet little sigh.

Like nowhere else on earth could possibly compare to this.

“Pretty girl,” he murmurs against you, pressing the words directly into your skin. “You’re so beautiful.”

His fingers hook beneath the waistband of your underwear while he glances up at you through heavy lashes, tongue darting briefly to wet his lower lip.

You reach for his hair quickly, panic flaring.

“Steve,” you whisper. “Wait.”

His hands still immediately where they rest on your hips. “What’s wrong?”

You swallow hard. “Nothing, I just...”

Your head spins pleasantly and horribly all at once from the wine and the heat and the sweet boy kneeling between your thighs looking at you like you hung the moon.

“I should shower first.”

His brows pull together. “Why?”

“Because,” you laugh weakly. “I’m sweaty.”

Steve smiles at that, like it’s the sweetest thing he’s heard all day.

He leans in even closer, nose brushing over your clothed mound before he presses a slow kiss there.

“Baby,” he murmurs against you, “I don’t care.”

“Steve...”

“I mean it.”

His hands glide upward along your waist, warm and heavy as velvet, fingertips grazing your ribs on the way up.

“I like you like this,” he says softly.

Then he takes in a breath.

A deep, deliberate pull through his nose, the warm drag of air against the damp fabric making your thighs twitch around him.

“You smell good,” he murmurs, kissing you there again. “Like summer.”

Your face burns, but Steve only smiles wider, already halfway gone.

“Just stay,” he whispers. “Let me take care of you. We can take a bath after, promise.”

He turns his head to the side, nose nudging affectionately along your inner thigh before he closes his lips around the sensitive skin there. The suction is soft at first, teasing warmth into you before the pressure deepens just enough to sting pleasantly.   

A new love bite starts to bloom, petal-soft and tender, like a flower kissed awake by rain. His mouth traces over it, soothing the flush of it back into softer color with gentle, unhurried pecks.

“So pretty,” he murmurs, pressing another kiss over the bruise-tinted skin. “My perfect girl.”

To be loved this intensely feels like it could swallow you whole.

Like the warmth of it could burn straight through you.

You don’t even realize you’ve started crying until your breath catches sharply in your chest, a raw, jagged gasp tearing from your lungs.

Steve’s head snaps up instantly.

You jerk your face away in horror, both hands flying to cover your eyes before he can see.

God.

Oh god.

Not now.

Why now?

“Baby, are you—”

His voice cuts off the second your breath stutters again, louder this time.

The mattress jolts beneath you as he pushes upright, fast enough that the bed frame gives a small protesting creak.

“Hey, hey—what’s wrong?”

You can feel him at your side immediately, his quick, uneven breaths brushing against your hands where they're pressed tight to your face.

“Baby, what happened?”

His fingers curl around your wrists, firm but impossibly gentle.

Always gentle.

“Did I hurt you? Did I do something?”

“N-no,” you choke out immediately.

“Then what?” His voice starts to break slightly, turning sharp with worry. “What is it? Honey, what’s wrong?”

You shake your head helplessly, unable to form the words, unable to explain.

The lamp clicks on beside you. Warm amber light spills across everything at once: rumpled sheets and discarded clothes, Steve kneeling beside you, shirt open at the collar, belt buckle undone and tie hanging loose around his neck.  

The flowers from dinner are on the dresser.

Slightly uneven in their vase, waterline crooked, the hydrangeas beginning to open wider in the warmth of your apartment.

Embarrassment crashes over you like a wave.

Perfect.

A night he’d planned so carefully—reservations at the candlelit Italian place downtown, your favorite wine already waiting at your table, flowers arranged before you’d even walked through the door—

And now you’re crying halfway through sex because your brain can’t handle something as simple as being loved.

You turn your face away again instinctively, shoulders curling inward, but the tears don’t stop. They come harder, messy and humiliating, gasps of air ripping through your chest no matter how hard you try to swallow them down.

You feel Steve’s hand slide up your spine.

Slow, slow passes between your shoulder blades, fingertips pressing gently.

“Hey,” he whispers. “Hey, it’s okay. You don’t have to hide, okay? You don’t have to hide from me.”

“I’m sorry,” you choke out, wiping at your face uselessly. “I-I don’t know w-why I’m—I’m sorry, fuck, I’m sorry—”  

“No, hey, don’t apologize, baby. Don’t say sorry.”

You resist him weakly when he tries to gather you in his arms.

You can’t look at him.

Can’t stand the thought of seeing the concern on his face after ruining this.

“I just—” You let out a shaky breath, voice cracking completely. “Fuck, I-I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

Steve stills at that.

Then slowly, carefully, he takes your wrists fully in both hands.

You let him this time. Arms trembling the entire way down as he lowers your hands into his lap. You still refuse to meet his eyes, staring instead at the heavy rise and fall of his chest. His crisp white shirt is wrinkled, open at the collar, a faint pink bite mark just above his collarbone where you kissed him during the taxi ride home.  

His gaze presses into you, heavy and intent, trying to read what you can’t say.

“I need you to look at me,” he says quietly.

“I can’t.”

“Yeah,” he answers immediately. “You can.”

Another tear slips down your cheek. He catches it without hesitation, wiping it away with the pad of his thumb.

“Please,” he whispers, softer now. “Look at me.”

You finally do.

Steve’s hair is a mess, chestnut strands falling across his forehead where your fingers had been tangled moments ago.

His eyes—warm honey and green and amber all blurred together beneath the low light—are pained, tight with worry and unbearably expressive.

“There's nothing wrong with you,” he says, unshakably certain. “Nothing.”

His lips are swollen from kissing you, parted slightly with how hard he’s breathing.

It’s so painfully clear, how panicked he is.

Steve’s face never hides anything

It doesn’t know how to.

When he’s happy, it shows in the soft wrinkles at the corners of his eyes.

When he’s worried, it gathers in his brows, in the tight set of his mouth.

And when he loves, it radiates from him so naturally it feels endless. Like sunlight.

You wonder what that must feel like.

To love someone without fear.

To offer tenderness without expectation, without the quiet dread that grows the more there is to lose.

He reaches up slowly, clearing tear-sticky strands away from your temples, thumb brushing beneath your eye. Still trying to read what hurts, the furrow in his brows asking without words.

You want to tell him.

For him, you’d try.

But the truth feels monstrous once it reaches your throat.

How do you explain that being loved by him feels unbearable sometimes?

That every touch lands somewhere deep inside you that still expects pain?

That he gives and gives and gives, asking for nothing in return, and yet some terrified part of you waits for the bill to come due?

How do you explain that it makes you feel broken, not knowing how to take something he gives so easily?

You part your lips, throat dry and aching.

Steve waits, thumb rubbing soothing circles into your wrists.

Patient.

Always so fucking patient with you.

“I just...” Your voice shakes. You stare at his mouth instead of his eyes, because it’s easier than being seen.

“...I just really love you.”

It rushes out so quickly.

And in a horrifyingly beautiful moment of clarity, you realize it’s the first time you’ve ever said it to anyone.

Ever.

Steve goes still. His brows soften, eyes drooping at the corners. His lips part soundlessly for a second.

“Oh,” he breathes.

You feel his hands twitch against yours, squeezing your fingers unconsciously.  

“I love you too,” he says, immediate and certain. “I... I love you so much it’s kind of insane.”

He watches you for a moment, thumb rubbing slow over your knuckles.

“Is that... is that why you're crying? 'Cause you love me a lot?”

A small, startled laugh breaks through your tears; it sounds so simple when he says it like that.   

It isn’t simple.

But maybe it also is.

So you nod, watching him visibly come back to himself, drawing out a shaky breath, shoulders dropping heavily like he’d been bracing too, just in a different way.

“Okay,” he murmurs. “Okay. C’mere.”

This time you don’t hesitate.

You fold into him, feeling his arm wrap securely around your back, the other cradling the back of your head.

And what you always used to brace against—tonight, you sink into willingly.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs into your hair.

You let your eyes slip shut, burying your face in the crook of his neck, fingers crinkling his shirt as you hold on tight.

“I love you,” you whisper again, the words pressed softly against his skin.

Thank you, you mean.

Thank you for being gentle with me. Thank you for waiting. Thank you for loving me like it’s easy.

Thank you.

After adapting to the new environment you learned your so called place in high school hierarchy. You made new friends, got good grades, stepped out of your comfort zone and became someone new. Someone who didn’t let people get under your skin the way steve did freshman year. You avoided him, kept distance and learned to not let it bother you until one day he and your younger brother dustin became some weird kind of friends and now he was showing up to your house casually like nothing happened between you two. And oh you fucking hated it.

July came with heat, sweat, melted ice pops and starcourt mall your new favorite way to escape the sun.

“ i don’t understand why you won’t just say yes he’s been begging to go out with you for like months” mary said as you two casually walked through the mall swinging The gap bags in your hands.

“ Cole is too.. i don’t know not me” you say looking at the floor

“ you mean he’s so much like steve” mary deadpans

the mention of him name makes you snap your head at her with a confused look. it had been years since you spoke about him as your about to be a senior in high school the upcoming fall.

“ don’t look at me like that you know it’s true i mean come on cole’s on the basketball team he’s got girls throwing themselves at him left and right and he does have really nice hair kinda like you know who” she says looking at you observing your reaction

“ok that really makes me wanna go out with him now” you say through laughter as you walk past scoops ahoy not realizing that who mary was comparing cole to stood right inside catching a glimpse of you almost letting it weigh on him. Almost.

Over the next few days you decided that you didn’t want to let your hatred of jocks because of steve hold you back anymore and maybe cole would change your presumptions. To be fair cole was nice to look at, tall, Blonde, Sharp blue eyes and wide shoulders you wouldn’t mind holding on too. You knew steve hated cole in high school and maybe that would have stopped you from going for it in the past but now the thought of letting an old friends past opinions stop you felt wildly stupid.

On your next trip to the mall you and mary ran into cole and his friends and all your fears flew out of the window.

“hey y/n” Cole said walking over to you looking you up and down meeting you half way to stand conveniently directly in from of scoops.

“ Oh hey cole nice uh.. shirt” as soon as the words came out of your mouth you internally cringed but decided to not let that stop you.

“hey thanks came here a few days ago and got it had to come back though i figured id need something nice to wear to the fair since i plan to ask someone special to go with me” he says casually running his hands through his blonde hair looking at you like he was implying something that you didn’t pick up on for a moment.

And then it clicked “ oh really i’m sure she would have a great time with you… and your new outfit” you say offering him and sweet smile but you were internally screaming at yourself because the talking to a boy like this felt so foreign to to since you swore of men at 14.

The conversation continued with mindless flirting and awkward looks until he handed you his phone number written on the back of a half crumpled receipt and told you to call him later before walking away only to turn back and wink at you. You had been so in your own world trying not to sound like a freak but also trying to flirt successfully with no practice that you didn’t realize the eyes looking at you from inside the ice cream shop.

“whatcha looking at sailor” robin said to steve who had been awkwardly standing still scooper in hand. her eyes followed his until they saw you right before you walked away giggling with mary holding the receipt with both hands.

“ohhhhh who’s that, do you know her, should i add a tally under you suck” she said poking his side as he finally moved from his spot he had been in during your whole interaction with cole.

ripping of the sailor hat and trying to fix his hair that’s too far gone he mumbled “ not anymore i used to this isn’t a tally moment robin” he said giving air quotes.

“ this is gonna sound … weird but since i gave up the whole “king steve” act i’ve been thinking about the stupid crap i did” he said as he pushed himself up to hit on the counter behind robin.

“awww self reflection you know that’s a good sign right it’s like stage 3 in becoming less assholey”

“what did you do to her stand her up or something, call her another girls name” she dramatically stopped and turned to face him “did you give her an STD” she said pointing a finger at him.

“ ok what… one i never even had an STD two i didnt stand her up or whatever else your saying… she was my best friend and i kinda went ghost a few years back you know peak assholey phase” steve said hands up in defense.

“ oooooh i see typical prime bird brain steve” robin said before turning to wipe the counter.

“she’s dustin’s older sister” steve blurts out causing her to whip her head around and stare.

“ so you dropped the older henderson and moved on to the younger one… what is it with you and that family” the girl said laughing as steve rolled his eyes and whent to help a customer.

The phone call with cole went better than expected later that night and you finally caved and officially planned to go to the fair with him on saturday giving you three days to try and learn how to flirt but you weren’t hopeful.

The fair was bright and loud, running wild with kids and families. The multicolored lights flashed across the warm July sky as the sun slowly disappeared behind the horizon. The smell of popcorn, cotton candy, and funnel cakes drifted through the air, mixing with the sounds of laughter and music from the rides. Ferris wheels sparkled with glowing lights distracting you from the hand that was wrapped around your own .

“Are you having fun?” Cole asked, smiling as you walked past the game booths.

“Yeah, actually. I was kind of nervous before tonight, but this is really nice,” you admitted.

“I was nervous too,” Cole laughed. “I spent way too long deciding what to wear.”

you smiled. “hey i thought you went and got a new outfit for this specifically”

“I did but the weather is so unpredictable… it’s really damn hot” he said shyly whipping sweat of his head.

you continued walking through the crowded fair, listening to the music and watching the rides speed past and children buzz with excitement.

Cole pointed toward the Ferris wheel. “You know, I think that has the best view here.”

You looked up at the towering ride. “It does look pretty amazing.”

Cole hesitated for a second before speaking. “Would you want to go on it with me?”

“The Ferris wheel?” you asked.

“Yeah. Unless you’re secretly terrified of heights.”

You laughed. “A little, maybe. But I think I can survive one ride.”

“Good,” Cole said, grinning. “Because I’d hate to miss the chance to see the whole fair from up there.”

“Then let’s do it.”

As you joined the line, Jake glanced over at her. “I’m glad you came tonight.”

You smiled. “Me too.” realizing maybe he wasn’t so bad after all

“Dude, why do you keep asking about her?” Dustin asked. “I told you she doesn’t care. Like, seriously. You’re making this way weirder than it needs to be.”

Steve sighed. “I know.”

“No, I don’t think you do,” Dustin said. “You’ve brought her up three times this week. Three. That’s not normal people behavior.” the boy said pointing a finger in steve’s face.

Robin snorted “He’s obsessed.”

“I’m not obsessed.”

“Sure,” Robin said. “And I’m secretly the mayor of Hawkins and you totally didn’t stare at her at work the other day for like ten whole long painful excruciating minutes”

Steve rolled his eyes “I’m just thinking about it.”

“Thinking about a friendship that ended four years ago?” Robin asked. “That’s somehow pathetic but makes total sense for you.”

“Thanks for the support.” steve said.

“Anytime.” Robin said shoving her face with more cotton candy.

Dustin looked between them “For real though, man. You guys barely talk. Actually, scratch that—you don’t talk at all i mean she acts like you don’t exist when your at my house and you do the same so what’s with the change of attitude harrington .”

“she got boobs, nice ones” robin said smirking

“Ew, Buckley, that’s my sister. Can we not?” Dustin said, pretending to gag.

Robin shrugged.

“What? I’m just saying. It’s not like he’s suddenly interested in her sparkling personality after ignoring her for four years.”

Steve groaned.

“Can both of you stop talking about me like I’m not standing here?”

“No,” Robin and Dustin said at the same time.

Robin pointed her cotton candy at him “Then explain it, Harrington.”

“Explain what?”

“The sudden interest.”

Steve opened his mouth, then closed it.

“See?” Robin said. “He doesn’t even have an excuse.”

“Maybe I just feel bad.”

Robin burst out laughing“Oh, that’s pathetic.”

“Thanks.”

“No, seriously. You spend years not talking to each other, and now you’re wandering around looking like someone kicked your puppy because she won’t magically start being your friend again?”

Steve rubbed a hand over his face “You’re making this sound worse than it is.”

“Am I?”

“Yes.”

Dustin looked at him suspiciously “You know what I think?”

“I don’t, actually.”

“I think something happened at my house that I missed.”

“Nothing happened.”

“That’s exactly what someone says when something happened i mean you are over like all the time.”

Robin gasped dramatically “Oh my God. What if they made eye contact?”

“Robin.”

“Maybe she said hi.”

“Robin.”

“Maybe she asked him to pass the salt and he’s been thinking about it ever since.”

Dustin laughed.

Steve pointed at her “You’re the worst.”

“And yet,” Robin said, smirking, “I’m still not the one asking about Dustin’s sister every five minutes.”

For once, Steve didn’t have a comeback.

That was all the confirmation Robin needed “Oh my God.”

“Don’t.”

“OH MY GOD.”

“Robin.”

“You totally miss her.”

The fair was beginning to wind down by the time Cole walked you back to his car. The bright lights that had seemed so overwhelming hours ago now felt softer, reflecting off the nearly empty parking lot.You held the stuffed bear he had won for you at one of the game booths against your chest as the two of you walked in comfortable silence.

Cole unlocked the passenger door before you could reach for the handle.

“Thank you,” you said.

He gave a small shrug. “Yeah, sure.”

The drive home was quieter than the fair had been.Not awkward.Just calm.The radio played softly in the background while warm July air drifted through the cracked windows.

Cole rested one hand on the steering wheel “I had fun tonight.”

You glanced over “You did?”

He laughed “Was that really that surprising?”

“A little.”

“Why?”

You smiled at the passing streetlights outside “I don’t know. You just seemed nervous.”

Cole groaned “I was nervous.”

“I could tell.”

“Great.”

“You asked me if I was having fun like six different times.”

“Okay, first of all, it was maybe four.”

“It was six.”

“It was not six.”

For a moment neither of you said anything.The houses in your neighborhood began appearing through the windshield.The night suddenly felt like it was ending too fast.Cole pulled up in front of your house and put the car in park.Neither of you immediately moved.

“Well,” you said quietly.

“Yeah.”

The porch light was already on, You looked down at the stuffed bear “Thanks for tonight.”

Cole looked over at you “No problem.”

Another small silence settled between you Not uncomfortable Just neither of you wanting to be the first person to open the door.

Finally you smiled “I had fun too.”

Something in Cole’s expression softened “Good.”

You reached for the handle before pausing “I wouldn’t mind doing this again sometime.”

Cole blinked. Then a grin spread across his face “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay,” he said, trying and failing to sound casual. “I’d like that.”

You stepped out of the car and started toward your front door.Halfway up the walkway, you turned around.Cole was still there.Watching to make sure you got inside safely.When he realized you’d caught him, he rubbed the back of his neck and looked away with an embarrassed smile.Your smile only grew wider as you headed inside.And Cole didn’t pull away from the curb until the front door closed behind you. Maybe boys weren’t so bad after all.

The days after your date with Cole should have felt normal. Hawkins was still Hawkins the same quiet streets, the same familiar faces, the same routines everyone had followed for years. Yet something felt different. The air seemed heavier somehow, thick with the humidity of late summer and an unshakable feeling that settled in the pit of your stomach. Maybe it was because your mind kept drifting back to Cole and the way he smiled when he dropped you off that night. Maybe it was because the town felt strangely tense, Hawkins felt different. Not wrong exactly—just off. Like the familiar town you had known your entire life was holding its breath, and you had no idea why.

The doorbell rang just as you were walking through the living room.

“Dustin!” you shouted. “Your ride’s here!”

No answer. Typical.

With a sigh, you crossed the room and pulled open the front door. The words died in your throat.

Steve Harrington stood on the porch.

For a second, neither of you spoke. You hadn’t expected him.And judging by the look on his face, he hadn’t expected you either.

“Oh.”

“Hi.”

The greeting came out at the same time. An awkward silence followed.Steve shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacket.You tightened your grip on the doorknob.

“Uh… Dustin’s still getting ready.”

“Right.”

Another silence, A painfully awkward one.

You glanced toward the stairs. Steve looked at the welcome mat.

The years between you seemed to stretch across the doorway. Finally, Steve cleared his throat.

“So… how’ve you been?” The question caught you off guard.

Good, you wanted to say.

Busy.

Fine.

Instead, all that came out was: “Good.”

Steve nodded “Good.”

Silence.

Somewhere upstairs, something crashed “DUSTIN!” your mom yelled.

Steve laughed before he could stop himself. The sound surprised both of you.For the first time, the tension eased slightly.

“Some things never change,” he said.

You couldn’t help smiling. “No. They really don’t.”

Steve noticed Just for a second.

Then Dustin came barreling down the stairs “There you are!” he said, grabbing his backpack. “Why are you both standing there looking weird?”

You immediately stepped back from the doorway “We’re not.”

“You totally are.”

“Dustin.”

“What?”

Steve rubbed a hand over his face “Can we just go?”

Dustin looked between the two of you. Then a grin slowly spread across his face “Oh my God.”

“What?” you and Steve asked simultaneously.

Dustin pointed dramatically “You both still do that.”

“Do what?” Steve asked.

“The talking at the same time thing.”

Neither of you had a response to that.

Dustin’s grin widened“Interesting.”

Before he could say anything else, Steve grabbed the strap of Dustin’s backpack and steered him toward the driveway “Get in the car.”

“You can’t silence the truth, Harrington!”

You rolled your eyes as Dustin continued shouting nonsense all the way to the car.

Steve opened the driver’s door before pausing.For a moment, he glanced back at the porch.

You were still standing there.

Watching.

His expression softened “See you around.”

The words were casual. Simple even.But they were the first real words either of you had spoken to each other in years.

You nodded “Yeah. See you around.”

Steve gave a small smile before climbing into the car.

You tried not to think about Steve after he left with Dustin.You really did.There was no reason to.Years had passed since the two of you had been friends, and even more time had passed since either of you had made an effort to fix whatever had broken between you. Somewhere along the way, ignoring each other had become easier than dealing with it.At least, that’s what you had always told yourself.But for some reason, seeing him standing on your front porch had unsettled something.Not in a bad way.Just enough to leave you confused.

You found yourself replaying the interaction at random moments throughout the day. The awkward silence. The way he looked just as uncomfortable as you felt. The small laugh the two of you had shared when Dustin nearly destroyed something upstairs.Most confusing of all was how normal it had felt.Not the awkwardness.The familiarity underneath it.

Like no matter how many years had passed, some part of your brain still remembered what it was like when Steve Harrington had been someone you talked to every day.

You hated that thought.Especially because things with Cole were going well.Cole was easy to be around. Easy to talk to. You found yourself smiling whenever you thought about the fair or the way he’d waited until you got inside before driving away.

So why was Steve suddenly taking up space in your head?t wasn’t like you missed him.At least, you didn’t think you did.Maybe you were just bothered by the fact that there had never been any real ending. No conversation. No closure. Just years of silence that had slowly turned two former friends into strangers.

The more you thought about it, the less sense it made.Because when you looked at Steve standing on your porch, he hadn’t felt like a stranger.And maybe that was the part that bothered you most.You weren’t sure whether you were remembering who he used to be or realizing that you never completely forgot.

Sleep refused to come.No matter how many times you rolled over or fluffed your pillow, your thoughts kept circling back to Steve.

To the awkward conversation.To the way he had looked at you before leaving.To the fact that seeing him again had stirred up feelings you couldn’t quite name.

By midnight, you finally gave up.You changed into your favorite pajamas—a soft oversized T-shirt and plaid shorts—and settled into bed with a book, hoping it would distract you.It didn’t.

The house had gone completely quiet.Your parents were asleep.Dustin hadn’t been home for hours.The only sound was the occasional creak of the old Henderson house settling for the night.

Then came a loud bang.You sat upright immediately. Another noise followed.The unmistakable sound of someone stumbling into a wall downstairs.

“Dustin?” you called.

No answer.A knot formed in your stomach.

You slipped out of bed and pulled open your bedroom door.The moment you stepped into the hallway, you heard frantic footsteps on the stairs.

Then Dustin appeared Half dragging, half supporting someone beside him.

Your heart nearly stopped.

Steve.

His arm was slung over Dustin’s shoulders while Dustin struggled to keep him upright.

“Dustin, what happened?” you asked, rushing forward.

“I need help,” he blurted That alone was enough to make your stomach drop.

Dustin never asked for help.

Not like this.

Steve’s head lolled slightly as he looked up His eyes seemed unfocused.

Distant.

Like he couldn’t quite figure out where he was.n“Hey,” he said suddenly.

You froze.“Hi.”

Steve pointed vaguely in your direction.“You’re real.”

“Okay,” Dustin muttered. “See? This is what I’ve been dealing with.”

“What happened to him?”

“I’ll explain later.”

“Dustin—”

“Please.”The panic in his voice stopped you.

For a moment, you simply stared.

Steve looked exhausted. His clothes were dirty. There were cuts along his arms and face.Dark bruises spread beneath his skin, blooming in soft patches of purple, blue, and red that reminded you of watercolor paint bleeding across wet paper, color spreading beneath the surface in uneven shapes.Evidence of something painful.Something neither boy seemed ready to explain.

Your chest tightened.“Dustin…”

“Please help me clean him up before Mom sees.”

Steve blinked“Oh.”

Everyone looked at himHe pointed at Dustin “He’s tiny.”

Dustin closed his eyes “I know.”

“And angry.”

“I know.”

“You yell a lot.”

“Dude.”

Steve frowned thoughtfully “I think you’re my friend.”

For the first time all night, Dustin almost smiled “Yeah, idiot. I am.”

Steve nodded like this was the most important revelation he’d ever had “Good.”Then his gaze drifted toward you.

His expression softened immediately “Oh.”

You swallowed“Oh?”

A slow smile appeared on his face “There’s two Hendersons.”

“Oh my God,” Dustin groaned.

You couldn’t help it. Despite everything.Despite the confusion.Despite the bruises and whatever terrible thing had happened.A laugh escaped.

Steve smiled wider. Like hearing it was enough.

Dustin pointed toward the bathroom You nodded immediately.As you hurried away, you couldn’t shake the image of Steve leaning heavily against your brother, bruised and exhausted, yet somehow still trying to smile.

And for reasons you didn’t understand, that frightened you far more than the injuries themselves.

The bathroom door clicked shut behind Dustin “ill be right back,” he said. “Just… make sure he doesn’t fall over.”

“Dustin—” Too late. He was already gone.

You stared at the closed door. And Steve sat on the edge of the bathtub while you carefully cleaned the cut near his eyebrow.

For once, he wasn’t talking.

He just watched you.The kind of stare that made you aware of every movement.

Every breath.

Every second.

“You’re still doing that.”

You glanced up“Doing what?”

“The concentration thing.”

“What concentration thing?”

Steve smiled softly “The one where your eyebrows pull together when you’re focused.”

Your hand paused “You remember that?”

“Of course I remember that.”

The answer came too quickly. Too honestly.

Something twisted uncomfortably in your chest.“You remember weird things.”

Steve laughed quietly “No.”

His eyes dropped to the floor “I remember everything.”

The smile disappeared from your face.Neither of you spoke for a moment.

Then Steve shook his head.“God.”

“What?”

His laugh was softer this time.

Sadder.

“We were such idiots.”

You looked down at the bandage in your hands“Yeah.”

“No.”Steve rubbed a hand over his face. “I mean me.”

The words surprised you.Steve wasn’t usually the type to admit fault.Not even before everything happened.

“I spent years convincing myself I didn’t care.”

You froze. The confession seemed to surprise him too. Like he’d only realized he was thinking it once the words were already out.

“I’d see you at school and pretend it didn’t bother me.”

Your chest tightened. “Steve—”

“I’m serious.”His gaze stayed fixed somewhere on the bathroom floor. “Every time.”

The room suddenly felt too small. Too warm.

You weren’t sure what to do with this version of him. The honest version.The one that wasn’t hiding.

“You’d walk by with your friends and I’d act like I didn’t even notice.” A hollow laugh escaped him. “Then I’d spend the rest of the day thinking about it.”

The bandage in your hand suddenly became very interesting. Because looking at him felt impossible.

“Why?”The question came out before you could stop it.

Steve blinked. Then looked at you. “Why what?”

“Why did it bother you?”

For a second, neither of you moved. The answer seemed obvious. And somehow impossible.

Finally Steve smiled. Not his usual smile. Something smaller. More fragile.

“Because you were my person.”

The words stole the air from your lungs.

Steve immediately looked away As though hearing himself say it had embarrassed him. “We told each other everything.” His voice had grown quieter.

“You knew me before everybody else did.”

The lump in your throat became impossible to ignore.

“Then one day we just…” He gestured vaguely.

“Stopped.”

The silence stretched.

Years of hurt packed into a single unfinished sentence.

You looked down “I thought you didn’t care.”

Steve laughed. The sound was almost heartbreaking.

“Yeah.” His eyes met yours again “So did I.”

Something in your chest cracked slightly.

Not broken. Just shifting. Changing shape.

Steve stared at you for a long moment.The drugs had made him honest. Painfully honest and all of The usual walls were gone. for the first time in years, you were seeing exactly what was underneath.

“You know what’s stupid?”

“What?”

His smile returned.Small.

Fond.

“I saw you on the porch today and all I could think was that you’re still pretty.”

Your breath caught.

Steve’s eyes widened immediately. “Oh.”

For the first time all night, he looked genuinely alarmed. “I wasn’t supposed to say that one.”

Despite everything, a laugh escaped you.

Steve dropped his head into his hands “Oh my God.”

“You said it.”

“I know.” His voice was muffled. “I am having the worst day of my life.”

You laughed again. And when Steve looked up, he was smiling too.Like hearing you laugh was worth every embarrassing thing he’d accidentally admitted.

The moment lingered.Neither of you looking away. Neither of you quite sure what to say next.

Then the bathroom door burst open.Dustin stepped inside carrying an ice pack.

He stopped immediately.

Looked at Steve.

Looked at you.

Looked back at Steve.

“…Why does it feel like I interrupted something?”

Steve immediately pointed at him “Your sister is really pretty”

Across the field, practice is in full swing. Kids swarm the infield, shouting over one another, cleats kicking up clouds of dust. A bright, metallic clang rings through the air, signaling a clean hit. The whole team erupts into cheers as little Johnny Peters takes off for first, freckles flashing beneath his helmet.

You smile, eyes following the chaos fondly.

“God,” Sharon mutters, gaze fixed entirely elsewhere, “I know he’s young, but does he really have to look like that?”

“How old is he, anyway? Twenty?” another mom asks.

“Twenty-two,” Sharon corrects promptly. “I asked.”

Kelly snorts. “Of course you did.”

“Huh. And he’s not seeing anyone?”  

“Apparently not.”

You take a slow sip of your coffee, keeping your expression neutral. You’ve gotten very good at that lately.

“It’s the whole authority thing, right?” Kelly says after a pause. “Give a guy a whistle and suddenly—"

“—suddenly he’s attractive,” another mom finishes.

“Well,” Sharon adds, “I think it’s a little more than the whistle.”

A soft ripple of laughter moves down the row.

Just then, the sharp blast of a whistle cuts through the air.

The effect is instantaneous.

It’s like Pavlovian conditioning, the sudden hush that settles over the stands. Conversations drop off mid-sentence. Heads lift in near-perfect unison. Like suburban meerkats sensing a storm, all eyes snap toward the field.

Every mom here knows exactly what that whistle means.

Coach Steve Harrington steps out from the dugout, lips still wrapped around the whistle, hands signaling a time-out as he jogs toward the pitcher’s mound. His cap is pulled low, shades perched on the bridge of his nose. The top two buttons of his Dodger-blue jersey are undone—as usual—revealing tanned collarbones and just the faintest tuft of chest hair.

He calls out a few pointers to the team, then leans over the plate to demonstrate a perfect, controlled swing.

The pivoting motion tugs his shirt upward, flashing a patch of sun-warmed skin at his stomach. It also strains the fabric of his pants, those khakis clinging to his ass in a way that’s a little snug for a public park.

A very un-subtle sigh rolls through the bleachers.

“Jesus,” Sharon mutters. “I mean, that’s just unnecessary.”

“He’s gotta know, right? There’s no way he doesn’t.”

“That shirt’s always like that. Never fully buttoned.”

A chorus of murmured agreement follows.

You press your lips together, managing to school your expression just as you hear a pair of little cleats pounding toward you.

“Mom! Mom!”

Toby skids to a stop in front of you, panting with effort, helmet crooked, knees grass-stained. He wedges himself between your legs and you reach up instinctively, straightening his helmet before it tips again.

“Mom, did ya see me? Did ya see that throw?”

“‘Course I did, honey! You were amazing!”   

His grin goes blinding. “Coach Steve said I got way better this week. He said I’m really fast. Like, like, maybe fast enough to be a pro!”   

“Yeah?” you smile, brushing a smear of dirt from his cheek. “You’ve been working so hard. I’m so proud of you.”

Toby nods so vigorously his helmet nearly slips again. He takes a quick gulp from the water bottle you hand him, then darts back to the dugout.

Across the field, Steve is crouched near home plate, murmuring low encouragements as he adjusts another kid’s grip on the bat.

After a moment, he straightens.

Flicks his cap off, rolls his shoulders, then lets his eyes roam over the bleachers.

When he finds what he’s looking for, he flashes a quick, casual smile.

From this distance, it’s broad enough to be meant for no one in particular.

And yet.

You look away immediately, pretending to study the condensation sliding down your coffee cup.  

“Oh my god,” Kelly whispers beside you. “I think he looked over here. Sharon, was that at you?”

Sharon scoffs, though the corner of her mouth quirks up. “Please. He smiles at everyone.”

“Mm, not like that.”

You keep your gaze fixed firmly on the cup.

⚾︎

“Alright, Cubs! Awesome job today! Make sure to grab all your stuff. I’ll see you back here Tuesday, yeah?”

A chorus of okay, Coach! and bye, Coach Steve! follows.

The bleachers wake up all at once. Moms rise in unison, purses scraping against aluminum, lipstick caps popping open for quick, totally casual touch-ups meant for no one in particular. Kids spill off the field in excited clumps, chatter overlapping as they relive every hit, every near-catch. Toby’s voice cuts through it all, loud and proud as he recounts a grounder he almost snagged.

You’re stuffing a water bottle into your tote when a voice behind you makes you freeze.

“Excuse me, ma’am?”

You turn.

Steve stands there, casual as ever, bat slung over his shoulder, sunglasses pushed up into his hair. His jersey’s still hanging half-open, collar darkened with sweat.   

“Hi.”

You purse your lips, stifling a smile. “Hi.”

He stares for a beat too long before he shakes himself, clearing his throat.

“Uh—I just wanted to say Toby did really great today. Kid’s a natural. Solid throw, great hustle. And..." his eyes flick briefly toward the chaos of children behind him, voice dropping a notch, “...he actually listens.”    

You laugh softly. “That last part’s news to me.”

Steve grins. Takes a step closer.

His voice slides into a familiar cadence you’ve come to recognize, warm and teasing. “So... I heard you might be on snack duty next week.”

You raise a brow. “You did, huh?”

“Yep. And, you know, I run a pretty serious operation here. Snack’s are a very important part of team morale. So I thought maybe we should… discuss our options.”

You can’t hide the smile this time. “Oh? And what exactly were you thinking, Coach?”

“Well…” he leans closer, eyes glinting. “We might need to talk details. You know… what kind of chips to get, how many… make sure everything’s perfect.”

“Mm,” you nod solemnly. “Sounds important. Why don’t I—”

“Mom! Mom!”

Toby barrels toward you, juice box clenched in his hand like a trophy, still buzzing with post-practice adrenaline.

“Mom, can I sleep over at Jackson’s tonight?”

You blink. “Tonight?”

“Yeah! He’s got the new Super Mario game! And, and, he said we can have pizza while we play!”

You glance up to see Jackson’s mom waving from a few yards away, already herding kids toward her van.

“You sure, baby? I made that lasagna you like.”

“Nooo, Mom, please? Everyone’s going.”

You give in with a smile, smoothing his hair back. “Okay. You want me to bring your stuff over?”

“Nope, he’s got extras!”

“Alright. Be good at Mrs. Miller’s, okay? And say thank you.”

“I will!” He vibrates in place just long enough for you to bend down and kiss his cheek.

“Okay, bye Mom! Love you! Bye, Coach Steve! See you next week!”

“Bye, buddy,” Steve waves. “Great job today. Let me know how that game goes, yeah?”

Toby nods furiously before sprinting off.

When you turn back, Steve’s grinning at you.

Hand shoved in his pocket, rocking lightly on his heels.

He's more boyish than ever, looks downright fucking pleased.

“Well,” he starts, tilting his head, “I don’t know about Toby, but…”

He shrugs, eyes flicking to you with warmth and something unmistakably like intent.

“I could definitely go for some lasagna.”

⚾︎

“You know all the—mmph—the moms are... t-talking about you, right?”

Even with your face shoved into the pillow, words muffled, jaw slack and drooling, you know exactly the kind of shit-eating grin that’s hovering behind you.    

“Yeah?” His voice comes perfectly level, lazy with a familiar taunt. Like he’s not ramming you within an inch of your life. “What’re they saying?”

“Mm, Shar... Sharon thinks you’re—fuck, Steve!”  

There’s no warning, just the sudden crush of his weight shoving you flat onto the mattress, pinning your stomach against the sheets. His hips snap forward, driving all the way to the hilt in one, long thrust, your body jolting up the bed from the sheer force of it.

You let out a strangled yelp, hands flailing back instinctively, scrabbling at his arms, his hips. You squirm desperately for leverage, clawing at the Dodger-blue fabric bunched around his waist, but he pins you easily, weight sinking down like an anchor. A thick forearm comes around to hook under your chin, wrapping around your neck to hold you there.

“She thinks I’m what?” he breathes, lips pressed to your temple.  

“She... she...”

He allows you a moment of merciful reprieve, thrusts slowing to a teasing grind, hips rolling in deep, languid circles against your ass.

“Into her,” you manage. “S-she thinks you’re into her.”

“Huh,” he pants, thoughtful. “Mrs. McIntyre?”

You nod weakly as he adjusts his grip around your neck, pressing up until you can feel your own pulse thundering along the column of your throat.

Then, before you can find your next breath, the weight over you lifts, the pressure around your neck releasing. You suck in a long, trembling gulp of air—the first real one in what feels like forever—just as you feel a pair of hands wrap around your hips, flipping you swiftly onto your back.

You hit the pillows with a startled gasp, chest heaving, legs splaying open instinctively.

Your cunt glistens between your thighs, weeping a slow, sticky trail into the sheets. It’s twitching uselessly, clenching around open air as if it could pull him closer.

From between your knees, your man watches.

The late-afternoon sun cuts through the room in slanted gold, draping his body in warmth and shadow. You take him in helplessly, all the familiar lines of him—the sloped planes of his shoulders, thick biceps and a toned chest that melts into the soft curve of his stomach. The pale-white scars that shimmer along his sides, stark and beautiful against flushed skin.

He’s naked except for that blue jersey. Hanging open at the front, hem brushing over his hips. The last two buttons are gone, thanks to your handiwork.

It’s a miracle his shirt’s stayed intact at all, what with the way you were climbing over each other the moment the door slammed shut.

Savage, open-mouthed kisses giving way to ragged gasps as you staggered through your living room, tripping over the ottoman, narrowly avoiding a vase as you dragged each other toward the bed. His dirt-stained khakis discarded mid-stride, he barely managed to tear your clothes off before hauling you onto the mattress.

Predatory.

It’s the only word to describe the way he’s looking at you now, honey-brown eyes darkened with intent, burning hotter than the molten orange sunset bleeding through the curtains behind him.

He takes his sweet time.

Holds your gaze, unblinking, as he shrugs the jersey the rest of the way off, letting it drop away. He raises a hand up to his chest, palm flat, and drags it slow across his skin. Slides it over his ribs, his stomach, the trail of coarse hair running below his navel, reaching down, down, down, until his fingers brush against the sticky patch of curls at his base.

A pleased, knowing smile spreads across his face as he drinks in your reaction.

“Mrs. McIntyre, huh? I had no idea.”

And even this fucked up—dazed and boneless from the way he’s been drilling his cock inside you for the better part of an hour, buried so deep you can feel him in your stomach—a tiny part of you can’t resist pushing back.

Just enough to test him, to see how far he’ll let you go.

“Don’t act like you’re surprised…” you murmur, words slurring. “You were smiling at her today.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then a low, incredulous laugh.

“At her?”

The hand on his stomach moves lower, thumb and four fingers splayed to form a wide ‘V’ as he cradles the imposing monument he calls a cock. The head of it’s all swollen, leaking, skin flushed from friction and glossed all over with your arousal.

“Huh,” he intones mildly, gaze flicking down between your legs, tongue gliding slow across his bottom lip. “Did I make my girl jealous?”

You scoff, pushing weakly against his shoulders as he makes his way back down, boxing you in between his elbows. “You wish, Harrington.”

He laughs under his breath, soft and playful, before he slams his lips against yours in a filthy kiss, tongues clashing until you’re left panting for breath.

Pulls back with a wet smack, eyes hooded, blazing with amusement.

“Sorry, honey,” he breathes, head tipped in mock sympathy. “Had no idea.”

You roll your eyes, instantly betrayed by the tremor in your voice. “I don’t care.”  

“Mm,” he smiles, dipping his head to nuzzle your cheek, mouthing along your jaw while he reaches a hand down without looking. “I think you do.”

His cock drags against your inner thigh as he positions himself against your opening.

“And I think,” he adds softly, “you mean Coach Harrington.”

You laugh despite yourself, breathless, feeling him bury a smile of his own against your neck.

“Nice try... ‘m not calling you that in bed.”

“Worth a shot.”

“Uh-huh.”

Your amusement quickly dies on a moan when he nudges the head of his cock against your swollen clit, dragging it down in a slow, wet schlick to your entrance. The pressure makes you clench, whining when he rubs insistently against your folds without pushing in.

“Steve—"

“Shh, I know, baby,” He smooth a warm palm up the inside of your thigh, pushing it back, spreading you wider. “I got you.”

In and in and in, he bottoms out in one stroke, stretching you endlessly until his pelvis is flush against yours. You take him well—pussy warm and slick from earlier rounds—but the weight of him, the sheer girth pressing into you, draws a low whimper from your throat.

“Yeah?” he breathes. “Is that good?

His lips trail soft, lingering kisses across your neck, one hand coming up to smooth your hair back, cradling the top of your head to shield it from bumping against the headboard.

It all runs so counter to the way he’s thrusting—slamming inside in quick, deep thrusts, hitting your g-spot with such merciless accuracy that your eyes prick with tears.

“God,” he huffs, brow furrowed in pleasure, jaw going slack as he starts hitting that rhythm proper, “You have any idea how hard it was to behave today? Couldn’t stop fucking staring at you. Couldn’t... couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

His eyes roam greedily over the fresh trail of bruises he’s already mapped across your body: deep wine-reds that bloom just underneath the skin, running down your neck, your collarbone, the soft underside of your tits.

“You were looking at me too, huh?” he murmurs, already knowing.

Head lolling back against the pillow, you can only nod, too dizzy and breathless to do more.

“Yeah, baby, I know you were,” he coos, dropping his forehead to yours, lips brushing in a slow, teasing ghost of a kiss. “Sitting up there… looking so pretty. Bet you were making a mess out of the bleachers, huh? Getting yourself all wet.”

You groan, arching against him. “Steve—”  

“Tell me,” he grunts, voice rough with need. “Tell me how good this feels. Tell me how much you need this cock.”

“I—fuck—I need it. I’s so good. Feels... feels so good.”

He lets out a guttural groan, pressing down harder, pulling you closer.

“Drives me… drives me fucking insane, you know that? Acting all polite out there, ‘Yes, ma’am…’ ‘Oh, he did just great today...’ When all I want—” He draws his hips back, slamming back inside to punctuate his next words “—is this.”

“Fuck, Steve—!”

The pleasure is blinding, a violent flash-bang to the senses that knocks the breath straight out of you. You squeeze your eyes shut, gripping onto his shoulders for dear life as you tip into your third orgasm of the day. He fucks you through it, murmuring praise, hips pistoning so hard it makes the mattress squeak, the headboard rattle.

And even as the high fades, he doesn’t relent. Light, shallow thrusts that leave you whining, twitching, your clit jolting each time he brushes against your tender g-spot.

“Mm…” you squirm, legs trembling against your will. “Steve...”

“Hm?”

“Can’t... ‘s too... too sensitive...”

“Just one more, baby.” He pants, lifting himself up on his hands. The playful edge in his eyes replaced by a look that’s all earnest now, all intent. “Want you to come one more time for me.”

You groan weakly, shaking your head. “I can’t.”

“You can,” he leans in close, nudging his nose against yours, pressing a soft peck to the tip. “Just one more. One more, baby. For me?”

Your response breaks into a loud groan when his hand slides down to your clit, middle and ring finger pressing slow, firm circles across the sensitive nub, making your cunt spasm around him with each pass.

“Come on, honey,” he whispers, voice soft but insistent, almost petulant in its coaxing. “I never get to take my time with you. Never get to have you like this.”

And even in this state, you can’t stop the wet, fucked-out laugh that escapes you. “You... you had me like this two days ago.”

The memory hits in a dizzying haze. He’d invited you over to his place before practice on Tuesday. Fed you a surprisingly excellent omelet first, then wasted no time bending you over the counter, and then the couch, and eventually his bed—both of you panting and laughing by the end of it, scrambling to get dressed once you realized how much time had passed.

“But we were still rushing then,” he counters, and you can’t muster the energy to argue that three and a half rounds don't exactly count as ‘rushing,’ but maybe for Steve Harrington they do.

“Please, baby,” he murmurs, still thrusting gently. “We’ve got all night today. Wanna see how many times I can make you come.”

“Fuck...” you sigh, head tipping back as another shudder rolls through you. You were convinced you’d come up against a wall, but the moment he angles his thrusts upward, fingers continuing their precise, coaxing swipes over your clit, the smoldering tension in your stomach catches kindling.

The high starts climbing back, somehow, sharper and brighter than ever.

“God, you’re so pretty... so fucking gorgeous,” he whispers, driving in a little harder. “Can’t believe you think I’d look at anyone else when I’ve got you.”

You whine weakly at his words, at the way his voice dips on the words I’ve got you, unmistakably possessive yet so bruisingly tender.

“You’re mine, aren’t you?” he mumbles against your lips. “No one gives it to you like this, hm?”

Your response is a trembling, breathless gasp, mouth brushing against his on every thrust, pressed so close it’s impossible to tell when you’re not kissing.

“Yeah? Say it, then. Tell me.”

“Yours, yours, ’m yours... fuck, don’t stop... mmph—"

Long, slow, filthy passes of his tongue as he pries your lips open, gliding into your mouth; he craves this point of connection, always. Every sound you make is swallowed eagerly, turned into something shared.

He breaks easiest when you’re this close, when the air between you disappears and his control gives way to raw, aching need. Instinct pulling him toward a singular desire to stay close, to share breath and spit and praise while he takes you.

“Oh... oh my god—Steve, I’m—"

“Yeah, that’s it, honey. Let go, I’ve got you.”

It almost hurts, this time around.

The slow, exquisite, endless pull of pleasure, cruel hands of a thousand little deaths come to strangle you off. Every nerve in your body feels raw and frayed, tears leaking freely when you shut your eyes tight. You bury your face into his shoulder, nails pressing hard enough to break skin, clinging desperately to his words for some fragment of relief.

“Good girl... ah, shit, s-squeezing me so tight. That’s it. Keep coming, baby. There you go.”

Your cunt spasms uncontrollably around him—long, drawn-out pulses that keep him from pulling back out. He ruts the last few inches inside before spilling deep, groaning against your neck.

“Fuck, yes, just like that. God, baby....”

He always stays inside you afterward, for as long as he can. Kissing, kissing, always kissing, like he just can’t help himself, lips roaming over any patch of skin he can reach. When he finally draws his hips back, he does so carefully, softening the distance with more kisses when you whine at the loss of him.

“C’mere,” he pants, breath still ragged as he rolls onto his side, tugging you in until you fit flush against him. “I’ve got you.”

Warm, gentle strokes against the curve of your back as you level out together, syncing your breaths. The window’s cracked just enough to let the evening air roll in, cooling against heated, buzzing skin.

“You okay?” he murmurs after a while.  

You hum in response, nodding once as you tuck your nose closer to his chest, breathing him in. Citrus cologne. Sweat. Steve.

“Wow,” he exhales, half a laugh caught in his throat. “What was that, three times?”

“Four,” you mumble, words muffled against his skin.

“Oh my god,” he laughs fully now, warm and boyish, chest vibrating beneath your cheek. He dips his head to press a quick kiss to your temple. “We’ll do five next time. Promise.”

You groan softly and shove at his shoulder, rolling away to hide your face in the pillow.

You hear him chuckle behind you as he slides off the bed. The soft pad of bare feet follows, sliding across hardwood, then the click of the bathroom light. Water trickles quietly from the sink.

You’re still catching your breath when the mattress dips again.

His fingers brush the backs of your legs, gently coaxing you to turn onto your back. You do, cheeks burning as he carefully swipes the warm, damp towel between your thighs, focused and attentive.

It’s something he’s done countless times before.

And still, it’s the part that always makes your chest tighten.

You push yourself upright once he’s done, settling against the headboard. He tucks the sheets around your waist, smoothing the fabric over your hips before reaching for the glass of water on the nightstand.

Brings it to your lips.

“Steve,” you laugh softly, still flushed, “I don’t need you to hold it.”

“Ssh,” he murmurs, lips quirking. “Small sips.”

You narrow your eyes at him but drink anyway, hands folded uselessly in your lap while he keeps the glass steady. When you’re done, he takes a long drink himself before setting it aside.

He turns back, catches you staring.

“What?”

You shake your head, smile faint. “Nothing.”

He studies you for a beat longer, searching your face, but doesn’t push. Instead, he stretches with a low groan, shoulders rolling until something pops.

“God,” he mutters. “You hungry?”  

“Sure. I could eat.”

“You said there’s lasagna, right?”

“Uh-huh.” You start to scoot toward the edge of the bed, but his hand lands firmly on your arm.

“Woah, hey. Where are you going?”

“To... get the lasagna?”

He shakes his head, already moving away. “Nope. Just tell me where it is.”

“Steve, it’s fine, I can—”

“Not happening.” He nudges you back against the pillows, then tucks another one behind your back for good measure. “I got it.”

You open your mouth to argue again, but he’s already pulling his boxers on.

“Is it in the oven?” he calls over his shoulder.

“...Yeah.”

“'Kay. Be right back.” He leans in for a quick kiss, lifting a finger at you as he backs toward the door. “Don’t move, alright?”  

You purse your lips, watching him go.

He’s back not ten minutes later, balancing two plates in his hands. Steam curls from the lasagna, edges crisp and bubbling.

“You gonna feed it to me too?” you ask dryly as he settles beside you.

He doesn’t even blink. Just picks up a fork and starts cutting into one of the slices.

“Jesus, Steve,” you laugh, grabbing the plate from him. “I was kidding.”

He hands it over with a grin, watching you take the first bite before digging into his own.

“Oh, hey,” he asks after a while, swallowing around a mouthful. “Did Toby like the new glove? Didn’t see him with it today.”

“Yeah,” you nod. “He loves it. I think he’s saving it for when the old one gives out.” You hesitate before adding, quieter, “Thank you, by the way. You really didn’t have to do that.”

Steve pauses mid-bite, fork hovering for half a second before he lowers it, lips pressing together.

“Yeah,” he nods softly. “Of course.”

You glance down at your plate, tracing a smear of sauce with the tip of your fork. “You know… if he knew it was from you, he’d probably never use it. He’d want to put it on a shelf or frame it or something.”   

He snorts quietly. “Guess it’ll be our secret then.”

“Hm,” you nod, the sound coming out thin.

You don’t eat much after that. Staring at nothing, just pushing the food around, lost in thoughts much heavier than hunger.

Steve notices.

He looks up from his plate, cheeks full, a smudge of tomato sauce at the corner of his mouth. He chews slowly, studying you over the rim of his fork.

“Hey,” he says once he swallows. “You okay?”

You blink. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.”

He watches you for another beat, then sets his plate aside and slides closer. His hand settles on your knee, rubbing small circles.

“Did I, uh…” He glances down, then back up, eyes sheepish. “Wear you out too much?”

You nudge his ankle with your foot, managing a small smile despite the ache blooming in your chest. “No. It’s not that.”

“Okay,” he says softly, not quite smiling back. “Then what is it?”

“It’s... it’s nothing. Stupid.”

“Baby,” he reaches for your hand before you can pull away, fingers threading through yours. He shuffles closer until your knees press together. “Talk to me.”

You close your eyes for a moment, drawing in a slow breath, then another. Your chest tightens on the exhale.

“Is... is this about…?” His voice trails off, gentle, circling the truth carefully.

You sigh and turn your head, but he follows, refusing to let the space grow.

“’Cause if it is,” he rushes on, urgency bleeding into his tone, “I’m ready. Whenever you are. I mean it. I want to—”

“Steve, stop,” you whisper, shaking your head. “You can’t.”

He freezes, lips parting like he wants to argue. The light in his face shifts: eyes drooping, brows pulling together. So young, stripped of his usual bravado, it hurts to him look at him like this.

“Why... why not?”

“Because I can’t ask you to do that.”

He shakes his head, grip tightening as he pulls your hand to his chest, pressing it over his heart.

“Ask me to do what? Be part of your life? Be around your kid?” He shifts closer, trying to catch your eyes. “I… I wouldn’t—look, I care about Toby. I really do. And I care about you. I lov—”

His voice falters. He swallows hard, throat working around the word.  

“I love you.”

You stare at a spot on the sheets, blinking hard, vision going blurry at the edges.

“Baby,” he murmurs, thumb sliding gently under your chin. “Look at me. Please.”

You do. Lashes heavy, eyes shining despite your efforts. He smiles at you then, soft and steady, certainty radiating in a way that makes your chest ache.

“I love you,” he repeats. “I want… I want to be with you. Wake up next to you, go to sleep next to you. Take you places.” He lets out a small laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “I mean, that old caravan I bought is a total mess, but... I thought we could fix it up together. Travel a little. Go see the country.”

His smile softens, expression sobering a bit. “And I want to be there for Toby. I know what it’s like to have a shitty dad. I would never do that to him. Ever.”

You make a small, broken sound and turn away, but he doesn’t let go. His thumb keeps tracing the same soothing path over your knuckles.

“And I’m not saying we should get married or—or move in or anything. Just… maybe a couple nights a week? I could come over, help with homework, hang out with him, just be there however you need m—”

You surge forward, pressing your lips to his in a desperate, trembling kiss. He freezes for a heartbeat, then melts into it, arms winding around your waist and lifting you onto his lap with careful, fluid strength.

You cling to each other, kissing in a messy, gasping rhythm, until the salt of your own tears brushes against his lips.

“Hey,” he whispers, pulling back, gently drawing your face into his chest. “It’s okay, it's okay."

You let yourself fold into him, cheek pressed against his bare skin.

"We’ll figure it out. We'll be okay, I promise."

You melt against him, surrendering to his warmth, letting the steady, gentle strokes of his hand calm the storm of thoughts in your head.

Eventually, a small, wet laugh slips out.

“Toby’s gonna lose his mind.”   

Steve pulls back a little, meeting your eyes. “You think he’d be weirded out by it?”

You shake your head, a smile breaking through. “No, he’d love it. He already worships you. And then you two would just… gang up on me every day.”

Steve laughs, thumb brushing a stray tear from your cheek. His gaze is unwavering, soft and intent as he lingers over the lines of your face, like he’s seeing you for the first time.

“I don’t know,” he murmurs, eyes sparkling. “I’m pretty sure I’ll always be on his mom’s side.”

⚾︎

epilogue

Toby sits at the very end of the dugout bench, where no one else is sitting.

He’s six and a half years old, not a baby anymore, but his legs still don’t touch the ground when he sits. They just kick the air, swinging back and forth, back and forth, cleats cutting little half-circles in the air. He scoots down an inch so the tips of them can scrape the dirt, and he finds a small pebble near the bench post. He nudges it with his toe, then nudges it back, careful not to kick it too far.

Everyone else is out on the field.

There’s the loud crack of a bat, and all the kids start shouting at once: “Mine!” “Run!” “Heads up!” The ball pops straight up into the air, and bonks Nathan Foster on the head when he tries to catch it. Everyone laughs. Even Nathan laughs, rubbing the back of his head like it didn’t hurt, even though it probably did.  

Coach Steve says that kind of thing is okay. Messing up is how you learn.

Coach Steve knows a lot of things.

He knows how to line your fingers up on the bat, and how to breathe out when you throw so the ball goes straighter. He says baseball is supposed to be fun, even when you strike out, even when you’re not the best player on the field.

But Toby isn’t having fun.

He keeps his glove in his lap, hugging it tight with both arms like it might slide off if he lets go. It’s new. It's the one Coach Steve bought for him, even though his mom said his old one still worked fine. This one is stiff and smooth and smells good—like a store, or like the inside of Coach Steve’s car. Toby presses his fingers into the leather and traces the thick stitches with his thumb, over and over.

It helps a little.

There’s a worry sitting in his chest. Heavy and squishy, like when you step in mud and it won't let go of your foot right away.

He hasn’t told anyone about it. Not Miss Collins from art class. Not his mom. He didn’t even whisper it to his glove, even though sometimes he tells the glove things—like how fast pitchers make him freeze, or how scared he was on his first day of school.

Today, the worry stays stuck inside, pressing down.

A part of Toby thinks maybe he shouldn’t be worried at all.

Coach Steve said that everything would stay the same. Normal. And most of the things Coach Steve says turn out to be true. So maybe this will be too.

But Jeremy Miller said something different.

Jeremy knows stuff. His dad’s a doctor, and doctors are smart. They do important things.

Toby kicks the pebble a little harder than he means to. It skitters across the dirt floor and disappears under the bat rack with a soft clack.

“Hey, buddy.”

Toby looks up.

Coach Steve is standing at the opening of the dugout, blocking out part of the sun. His whistle hangs from his neck like always, bumping softly against his chest when he steps closer.

“You hiding from me?” he asks, grinning. “’Cause if you are, this is kind of a bad spot.”

Toby shrugs and drags the toe of his cleat through the dirt, making a crooked line. He sort of misses the pebble he kicked away. “I’m not hiding.”

Coach Steve comes in and sits down beside him, the bench creaking under his weight. His knee bounces once, then goes still.   

“So,” he says, leaning his elbows on his thighs, looking out at the field. “I was kinda thinkin’ today might be the day you show off that rocket arm.”

The heavy feeling in Toby’s chest squishes tighter.

The words fall out before he can stop them.

“Are you and Mom gonna get married?”

Coach Steve freezes.

Just for a second, but Toby notices. His grin fades, and he blinks like he forgot what he was about to say. His hand comes up and rubs the back of his neck.

“Uh…” he clears his throat. “Yeah. Yeah, we are, buddy.”

Toby nods. He already knew that. Mom had told him. Coach Steve had told him. Grandma cried a little on the phone when they both told her together. Still, hearing it out loud again makes his stomach feel all twisty.

“Is that…” Coach Steve says, then stops. He presses his lips together. “Is that still okay with you?”  

Toby sighs and draws another line in the dirt next to the first one, pressing hard so they match.

“I guess.”

Coach Steve moves a little closer, his arm brushing Toby’s. He rests a hand on his shoulder and gives it a gentle squeeze, thumb rubbing slow circles like he does when Toby’s nervous before a game.

“Hey, if you’re feeling weird about me and your mom, that’s okay to say.”

Toby swallows. His throat feels tight, like when he’s about to cry but doesn’t want to.

“No, it’s just—” He stops, frowning. “I just want you to be my coach, still.”

Coach Steve turns his head sideways, frowning. “Why wouldn’t I still be your coach?”

Toby’s shoulders curl in. “’Cause Jeremy said that if you’re family, sometimes you can’t do stuff for each other.”

 “Jeremy Miller?”

Toby nods. “Yeah. His dad’s a doctor. Jeremy had to have surgery ’cause his ap-pen-di-sigh-tis was broken, and his dad couldn’t do it. They didn’t let him.”

Coach Steve lets out a slow breath through his nose. “Oh.”

Toby grips his glove tighter. “So, if you’re my family… you can’t be my coach anymore, right?”

Coach Steve’s face goes a little funny. His eyebrows pull together, and his mouth does this wobbly thing, like he’s trying to smile and can’t figure out how. He reaches out and gently pushes Toby’s hair back, his thumb brushing across his forehead.

“Toby,” he says softly, “that’s not how that works.”

Toby frowns. “But Jeremy said so.”

“I know, bud. And sometimes grown-up rules are really confusing.” He lets out a small huff of a laugh. “Doctors have rules like that. Coaching’s a little different.”

He waits until Toby’s looking at him.

“I’m always gonna be your coach, Toby.”

Toby wants to believe him. He really does.  

“…You promise?” he whispers.

Coach Steve’s face scrunches up more, eyes shiny like maybe some dust blew in from the field. “Yeah, buddy. I promise.”

Toby sticks out his pinky. He doesn’t do that at school anymore, because he’s a big first-grader now, but he still knows it’s the strongest kind of promise there is.

Coach Steve smiles, hooking his pinky around Toby’s, giving it a firm shake.

Satisfied, Toby launches forward. It’s all of him at once, knocking the air right out of Coach Steve.

“Oof, okay—” Coach Steve laughs, arms coming up to catch him. He pats Toby’s back, holding him closer as he rocks him side to side.

Toby squeezes back just as tight. The heavy feeling in his chest lifts, like taking off his backpack full of books at the end of the day.

He pulls back, smiling now, and says the thing he's been scared to say since the day he talked to Jeremy.

“Love you, Dad.”

Coach Steve goes very still. Then he clears his throat and quickly blinks up at the sky, like he definitely got some dirt in his eyes that time.

When he looks back at Toby, that funny, wobbling smile is back.

“I love you too, buddy.”

Toby grabs his glove and hops off the bench. His feet hit the ground, solid and steady.

Coach Steve stands too, quickly scrubbing the dirt from his eyes before turning back to him.

“So. You wanna go show your mom that throw we’ve been practicing?”

It’s Monday morning now at Hawkins High and you couldn’t feel any more exposed as you made your way through the crowd of people to get to your locker. Every laugh you heard in the loud hallway felt like it could be at your expense. You kept your head down for the most part, books clutched tightly to your chest as you tried to make yourself seem small and invisible. Because now you’re just you again, the girl who blends in and the girl who would never have Steve Harrington.

It was easy to fade into the background at school, easy to ignore everything and everyone else, but then you heard him, and once you heard him, it wasn’t so easy to ignore him.

You looked up, and halfway down the hall there he was, surrounded by his best friends leaning against his locker like he ran the entire school. Which he did, if you were being honest. Steve wasn’t looking at you though, he wasn’t even glancing in your direction. He was completely focused on his friends, on the way they were clinging to his every word.

Steve had three core friends in his group that ran the school. Tommy, Carol, and Ani. Tommy and Carol had been hooking up for years, never labeling it but everyone knew they belonged to each other. Ani and Steve were seen together sometimes, flirting or getting handsy, but it seemed pretty detached for the most part. Steve seemed pretty detached at least, he always did. You weren’t sure how Ani felt about it. Steve would bring a different girl home every weekend and by Monday, his arm was back around Ani’s shoulders.

They were loud, loud enough for everyone to know exactly what they were doing and talking about at all times. You could hear the end of their conversation as you hurried past.

“Nah, man. Quarry was weak. My parents are out of town this weekend, We’ll do it right.” Steve said lazily, his back leg kicked up on his locker and arm draped over Ani. His eyes, all brown and soft, slid over you for just a second, lingering for a moment before he looked away like he didn’t see anything at all. It would’ve felt normal but you could see the way his jaw tightened.

Tommy laughed. “Hell yeah, I’ll bring a keg.”

“Keep it chill, Dad will kill me if anything gets broken” He didn’t look at you again before you turned the corner, but his posture shifted. He stood straighter, laughed louder, and tightened his hand on Ani’s shoulder. He was ignoring you as you expected him to, but he knew you were there.

The school day dragged, slow as usual. The feeling of being exposed dampened as the day went on once you realized nobody was talking about you. Nobody was even looking.

You saw Steve again in History. Sitting in the back row, doodling in his notebook and not paying attention. You could see his reflection in the window, and every so often his eyes would flick up and settle on the back of your head before he looked back down and continued doodling. When lunch arrived it felt like a relief, you spotted your friends instantly at the usual table near the back by the bathrooms.

Ale, Becca, Monica, and María were already sat and eating their lunch when you slid into an empty seat. You couldn’t help but glance towards the popular table as you sat down. You never could. For years your friends had known that you’ve had a crush on Steve, but none of them knew that he had you underneath him two days ago. You didn’t plan on telling any of them either, you were embarrassed. It was embarrassing to be just another notch on King Steve’s belt, not because it wasn’t cool, but because he would abandon you like the rest of them.

Ale scoffed as she noticed where you were glancing “Look at them. You’d think they own the place.”

“Steve’s been staring more than usual. You finally catch his eye?” Becca teased.

You tried to play it off with a laugh, but it felt forced. “Doubt it.”

Lunch was normal, you tried to act as normal as possible around your friends. But it was always hard for you to act like you weren’t hyper aware of Steve.

On your way to class, one of your friends from the debate team, Leo, stopped you briefly in the hallway.

“Hey! You get a chance to look over the notes this weekend?” He was smiling, as always. Leo was friendly, the kind of guy who was trusted and liked by many.

“Hey. No, not yet. It’s on my to-do list! Promise!” A smile was on your face, the conversation was normal, and it made everything else feel normal too.

Leo’s hand reached out, squeezing your shoulder with a familiarity that made Steve clench his jaw from where he was standing alone down the hall. He was pretending to look for something in his locker, but his eyes kept drifting back to where Leo had just touched you.

“Alright, alright! Don’t stress about it. We could do it after school on Thursday? Grab a table at the library?”

You nodded with a smile “Yeah, that works great actually” The bell rang, so you both waved bye and continued down the hall, going your separate ways.

Your path was taking you directly past Steve as the hallway cleared. The second you began to pass him, you felt his hand shoot out from his locker and wrap around your wrist. Before you could even register what was happening, Steve was pulling you into the boys bathroom.

“C’mon. In here.” He whispered as you looked up at him.

The second you were both in the bathroom, Steve released your arm, blocking the door by leaning against it. He was looking down at you with that infuriating cocky smirk.

“Nice chat with debate club?” He crossed his arms.

“What? What are you even talking about? That’s none of your business, Steve.” You folded your arms across your chest, clutching your textbook, a little defensive and wary.

Steve laughed, taking a step towards you and putting his hands in the pockets of his khaki pants casually. “Yeah? I think you know what I’m talking about, and I think it became my business as of Friday night.”

His hand left his pocket and reached out to trace the lining of your textbook still folded in your arms. He looked entirely focused on you, possessive in a way you’ve only seen directed at others for a few weeks at a time.

“You shouldn’t be talking to him like that, princess.” Steve said quietly.

The name sent heat rushing to your cheeks that you knew would be obvious. “Talk to him like what? Why do you care? It’s not like you’re talking to me.”

He looked away, taking his hand back to run his fingers through his hair. “I don’t care.” He stepped forward again, the toes of his expensive nikes now touching the toes of your flats.

“You think I didn’t notice you all day? You’re fucking distracting.” The final bell rang, but neither of you moved. Steve didn’t seem to care, which didn’t shock you. He skipped often anyway.

“Im not doing anything. You’re the one who’s acting like nothing even happened between us.” It came out quieter than you had wanted, and it was laced with a hurt that was getting harder to hide as he stood in front of you.

He let out a long sigh at the tone of your voice and turned away, pacing the tile floor. “Jesus. What do you want me to do, huh? Walk up to you in front of everyone? You know how that would go.”

You leaned against the sink “I.. I don’t know, Steve. But I at least-“

He stopped pacing to walk back over to you, crowding you against the sink as he brought a hand up to rest it on the counter beside your hip to cage you in. His voice softened, barely, but you could hear it soften.

“I remember every second. Happy?” All you could do was look up at him, and let out a shaky breath. Your eyes were locked on his, and his were on yours. The overhead lighting made his big brown eyes look like they sparkled. His hair was falling into his forehead, face so close to yours that his nose was almost touching.

His hand moved to cradle your jaw, thumb gently tracing the line and going up to stroke your cheekbone. You felt completely frozen, back under the spell of him.

He’d left you at the party, not called for days, and pulled you into an empty room and now he wanted to give you the attention you’d been starved for. Steve had a way at this, making you forget everything he’s ever done by a simple touch.

He was handsome, yes.

But it was something about his charm.

The way he smiled, or the way he used his eyes to express himself. It made you melt under his fingers, which is why you didn’t move a muscle when his lips moved and found themselves hungrily pressed to yours.

You gasped against his mouth, obediently parting your lips when his tongue began to seek entry. The kiss was desperate, like he had been craving it just as much as you had. The kiss wasn’t soft or gentle, it was deep, insistent, and possessive. He kissed like he was trying to prove something to himself, or maybe you. His other hand wrapped around your waist, pulling you into him the warmth of his body.

You were putty against him. Your hands lifting to rest on his chest, curling your fingers into his polo shirt as soft noises escaped your mouth and transmitted directly into his. He felt so real, so warm, so yours again.

He broke the kiss just barely to murmur against your swollen lips.

“See? I remember.” You could hear the smirk forming on his face.

He kissed you again before you could respond. His fingers moving to tangle in the hair at your neck to tilt your head back so his tongue could dive deeper into your mouth. For just a second, the kiss slowed down, becoming more about feeling than the possession of it all.

His lips traveled from your lips to the corner of your moth, kissing down to your jawline and your neck. It made your heart hammer in your chest, each kiss of his lips on your warm skin feeling like a brand that was settling into place. He was smiling against your skin, and you were smiling as you held onto his shoulders, keeping him close as you inhaled the scent of his cologne.

Steve’s hand began to gently stroke the skin of your neck as he whispered directly under your ear in between kisses “You can’t look at other guys like that. Not after what we did together.” His nose was deliberately brushing against your skin back and forth.

“I wasn’t looking at him like… like I look at you, Steve. I wasn’t.” The confession was breathless. You didn’t owe any explanation to Steve, especially not after the way he treated you. But something about the look in his big brown eyes made you want to reassure him over and over again that it was only him. That it had only been him for years, that you couldn’t imagine anyone else holding your attention captive the way that he is able to.

He smiled a little, a real smile, and kissed you again. His lips taking in your top lip, and the pull of his lip on yours sent sparks through your body. Steve kept angling his head, and each angle made his nose press against your face. Bumping against your cheek and brushing your closed eyelids. The gesture felt more real than anything you’d seen from him before. It was clumsy, and intimate.

This kiss was nothing like the kiss of “King Steve” from the car. You thought Steve was a good kisser when you first kissed him, when he was trying to get another girl off the checklist.

But now he was kissing like he was trying to memorize the shape of your mouth and the way your tongue moved against his. It was addicting, and you couldn’t stop pulling him in for more. Your hands were all over his chest and hair, traveling up and down his arms and squeezing the muscle that was straining against his polo that was way too tight.

The bell rung after awhile, and the both of you seemed to realize just how long you’d been making out against the sink in the boys bathroom during the middle of the school day.

Steve pulled back almost instantly, running a hand through his hair to fix it.

“Don’t wanna be late for your next class, yeah?”

You were still dazed, lips swollen and parted as you stared at the sudden switch in Steve.

“I….what?”

“Class. You should go.” He walked over to the mirror and fixed his collar. “I’ll wait a minute, don’t need people seeing us walk out together.”

He was putting the mask back on slowly, piece by piece it was coming back together, but you saw what was underneath and you wanted to see that side of Steve again so badly.

“Will I see you later?” You asked hopefully, and he looked over at you through the mirror. His eyes tracing the line of your jaw and lips again.

“Maybe. I’ve got practice.” He shrugged. “Don’t wait by the phone or anything.”

It was meant to sound casual, but it felt like a stone being dropped in your stomach.

“Seriously. You should go.” He gestured towards the door with his head.

“Right. Okay, I’ll see you later?” You lingered for a few more seconds, wondering if he’d say something else or look at you again but he was already back to fixing his appearance in the mirror. Cleaning off any trace of you.

Your skin felt hot as you left the bathroom, eyes wide and fixed on some point down the hall while you walked to class. Friday at the quarry didn’t feel real, but this was even more unbelievable.

It wasn’t rare for Steve to have random girls on his arm, or even have makeout sessions in the bathroom.

You’d heard about the notes he leaves in the lockers of the cheerleaders like Kenzie. But it was rare for Steve to kiss with feeling.

You felt like you were dissociating for the rest of the school day, constantly out of body as you moved on autopilot. Mentally, you were still in that bathroom with your hands on Steve Harrington as his lips pressed to your skin.

Every-time a door opened, your heart would leap in your chest in hopes that it would be him, but Steve was nowhere to be seen for the rest of the school day.

You walked home alone, the same peaceful path you always take through the lawns and quiet houses, but today every thought you had just circled right back to Steve’s lips on yours in the bathroom. Every feeling you felt was so confusing.

There was giddiness, confusion, and a deep underlining of wanting. He told you he remembered every second, but he also told you to not wait by the phone.

Every second of the rest of the night felt like a special kind of torture. The phone on your nightstand seemed to mock you as you tried to do your homework or get ready for bed. Basketball practice was over hours ago. Would he call? He said not to wait, he told you not to wait. But what if he changed his mind? What if he decides to call?

You refused to change out of your sweater because his cologne continued to linger there. You refused to leave your room just in case the phone rang. Every action you made seemed to revolve around if Steve would, or if he wouldn’t.

Your mind raced through every word Steve said to you, replayed the interaction to see if you missed any signs, but everytime you ended with the same conclusion. He had kissed you, again. And he hadn’t called, again. But the memory of him was so sharp, too sharp.

You couldn’t get him out of your head, and it became frustrating in more ways than one. So your fingers moved, lightly tracing down your sweater until they were slipping under the waistband of your pants.

It was wrong. Your fingers weren’t as calloused as his, too soft, not rough enough. But you closed your eyes and tilted your head back. You thought of the way he looked at you with such hunger and possession in his eyes, and then the sudden vulnerability when he admitted that he remembered it all.

Your breath hitched as your thumb began to trace circles on your clit, mimicking the slow circles his thumb was tracing on your hip just hours ago. But lower, much lower.

It was weak, it was nothing compared to feeling wanted and filled by him, but it was enough for your stomach to flutter.

Your fingers moved downwards, tracing your entrance before you were plunging one finger inside, seeking the warmth that he always seemed to create inside of you. Your movements became urgent as you fantasized about him on top of you. His hair brushing against your forehead, his nose pressed against yours, his arms holding you tightly against his chest.

Your teeth were sinking into your lower lip, attempting to hold back the desperate sounds leaving your lips. The image of him was burning on your eyelids as you chased a release that felt so out of reach.

The second you orgasmed, the high dissolved into an emptiness. The confusion and longing were more present than ever now as you waited by a phone that wont ring. You felt foolish and desperate as your mind and body drifted to sleep.

Tuesday morning felt different when it arrived. You didn’t feel as hollow as the day before, the secret of the interaction in the bathroom was alive in your veins. You felt nervous, and curious. Would he do something similar again? Would today include another makeout session with Steve? You weren’t sure, but you were desperate to find out.

When you finally saw him at school, you felt your heart drop and stomach flip. He was standing with his usual friends, doing the same thing he always does, with his arm still around Ani.

You shouldn’t have been shocked, you shouldn’t have expected anything to be different between you and Steve. Everything would’ve seemed completely normal, but then Steve’s eyes slid over the hallway and landed on you. It was only a second, but you saw the way his body tensed up. You couldn’t help but notice the way his laugh sounded strained now as you walked past him to head towards your class. It was a game only the two of you were playing, and you had no idea what the rules were.

The day unfolded in stolen glances across classrooms and hallways, and each time Steve looked at you, the hope in your chest flared a little brighter.

At lunch, Ale seemed to notice first. Every few minutes Steve’s eyes would land on the back of your head before he would look back down before anyone could think anything of it.

She nudged your shoulder with her own “Maybe you should just talk to him? He’s been staring.”

You shook your head “You’re kidding, right? He’s not staring.” You knew you couldn’t talk with him. You didn’t know the rules of the game, but you knew not talking to him in public was certainly on the list.

Ale sighed softly “If you say so.”

“Steve stares at everyone, Ale. He just can’t help it. It’s in his genetics to be a man-whore.” María piped in briefly with a laugh to dismiss the idea.

The comment made you feel relieved that they weren’t pressing the topic further, but it came with a pang of insecurity. Did Steve actually stare at everyone? To the point where even your own friends wouldn’t think he was looking at you? Your brain was exhausted from the amount of confusing emotions you’d been having.

After school you were gathering your things from your locker when you saw him out of the small mirror on your locker door, he was coming down the hallway with Tommy. He wasn’t looking at you, but as he passed his shoulder briefly brushed yours.

It’s a touch you’ve seen a thousand times before, a touch you’ve even felt before, but this time his hand left his jacket pocket and he let his fingers graze your arm. A secret touch in a crowded hallway, and then he was gone.

The touch was small, barely anything, most people wouldn’t think twice about it again. But it was enough for you, enough to keep you on his hook as you walked home with the same hope that maybe tonight he would call.

He was obviously ignoring you, but he was watching you. Marking his territory on you in the quietest way he could. In some part of you, the secret was the thrill.

He didn’t call, but the hope inside of you didn’t fade. He looked. He touched. He kissed you. And that had to mean something.

A week went by of similar touches and silent tension. The moments were so small and fleeting that they were invisible to everybody else, but to you it was everything. Each day that went by was a delicate dance that was completely choreographed by Steve’s unpredictable attention.

On Wednesday, you were heading to the library, arms full of books as you turned a corner and collided with him. For a few seconds you were both completely frozen before his eyes dropped to your lips and you heard a barely audible groan leave his mouth before he sidestepped you and continued down the hallway faster than he was walking before.

Thursday before homeroom you were getting a drink from the water fountain. You could feel him and smell him behind you before you could see him, the signature trace of his cologne taking over every sense. Steve’s arm reached around you to press down on the button, his arm brushing against your side. He didn’t say anything, just held the button down as you continued to drink.

You straighted up and looked up at him through your lashes, water droplets clinging to your lips. Steve’s eyes were locked on your mouth, his head tilted down towards you. The proximity of him was dizzying, your eyes could trace the faint stubble that lined on his jaw.

“You’ve got a little…” Steve’s voice was low, almost a whisper.

He raised his hand to bring his thumb up, brushing the water droplet off your bottom lip. The contact after days without feeling the warmth of him made your breath catch. His thumb lingered, pressing slightly harder into your lip as his eyes flicked from your eyes to your lips over and over again.

Neither of you said anything else as he pulled away and walked quickly down the hall, leaving you frozen at the fountain.

On Friday after school you were heading to your locker, but he was already there, leaning against a locker a few doors down from yours. He was staring down the hallway, as if he was waiting on someone else. You heard him speak without turning his head as soon as you started passing by.

“Don’t make any plans Saturday night.”

It was a command, but it felt like a key unlocking a door that you’d been standing outside and knocking on for days, and you were running inside.

Saturday came around slowly. You weren’t sure what you were doing with Steve, or when, so you got ready bright and early just in case, putting extra care and detail into every choice. Then you waited, and waited.

Evening fell as you stayed up in your room, waiting for the sound of his bmw, but it never came.

Today was also the day that Steve had bragged about throwing a party on just earlier that week in the hallway. The party he didn’t invite you to. You tried not to think about who could possibly be there with him.

The hours stretched. Passing ten and even eleven, then midnight. The hope and excitement that was alive in your chest now felt like a physical weight of disappointment that made your shoulders slump. You felt foolish sitting by your window in the dark.

It felt humiliating, so you got ready for bed and tried to push it away entirely.

Sleep wasn’t coming easy though, you tossed and turned in your bed for what felt like hours until you heard the knocking. The noise was small, but you heard it.

You turned your head to face your window and saw Steve perched on the windowsill, knocking lightly.

“You awake? Open up.” Steve said in a loud whisper, continuing to tap on the glass.

You got out of bed and moved to open the window. You could see him clearer now, and smell the lingering trace of alcohol on his breath. His eyes were heavy lidded, and his body looked sluggish.

“Come on. Let me in.” He glanced over his shoulder out at the dark street, a paranoid look.

“It’s too late, Steve.” You said quietly, it was hard to hide the hurt and disappointment.

“Too late? I’ve been thinking about you all night. Five minutes. Please? I just wanted to see you” A lazy grin was on Steve’s face almost immediately, full of a charm he knew exactly how to use. His eyes widened and sparkled in the moonlight.

He was lying, and you both knew it. But the way he spoke to you with that charm made you hesitate on telling him to leave. He was looking at you like you were the only girl in the world, like he didn’t just spend the entire night at a party without you.

“My parents are asleep, Steve. It’s really late.” You whispered nervously, glancing back into your room.

“We’ll be real quiet. Im stealthy, like a ninja.” His grin widened, and you gave in immediately. The pull of him was too strong when he was looking up at you with such soft sleepy eyes.

“Five minutes. That’s it.” And you opened the window.

His hands gripped on the window as he hoisted himself into your room. He took a step closer to you immediately once he was inside.

“Couldn’t stop thinking about you. That party was fucking boring.” His hand reached out to stroke your cheekbone once, letting his fingers linger there.

“Five.. only five minutes, right?” You asked nervously, but your body was already melting under his touch.

“Mhm. That’s right.” Steve dipped his head, his lips hovering right above yours as he breathed you in. The smell of beer was undeniable this close up.

His mouth closed over yours almost immediately, his hand sliding into your hair and gripping at it to angle your head back. His other hand came up to rest on your hip as he began walking you backwards towards your bed.

“Told you… couldn’t.. stop.. thinking about you” He muttered against your lips in between kisses. The confidence in the way he kissed combined with his hands on you was making you dizzy, head spinning as your body went pliant and allowing him to walk you back towards your bed.

The second the back of your knees hit the mattress, Steve pulled back to look down at you.

“Lie down” It was an instruction, a command. His hands went to your shoulders to slightly apply pressure, guiding your body down onto the mattress.

Steve followed you down, bracing his body on his elbows as he caged you in beneath him. Your fingers began to thread through the hair that curled slightly on the nape of his neck, dragging your nails lightly on his skin.

He kissed you again, but this time it was slower. Your lips moving together in a conversation that only the two of you understood. He sat up quickly, pulling his polo over his head, then immediately met your lips again with his own.

Your hands immediately went back to his chest, remembering what it felt like to run your hands in the chest hair that rested there. Steve sucked in your top lip, causing you to tighten your hands on his chest.

A small whimper left his mouth as you pulled at the hair lightly, he kissed deeper and furrowed his brows together, attempting to silence the needy noises he was making.

“Fuck. You’re so…. fuck.” He sat up again to pull the straps of your nightgown down your shoulders and pushing the gown further to bunch up at your waist.

His head lowered instantly, the warmth of his lips meeting the warm skin of your breast, his tongue working over your nipple until it was hardening in his mouth. His other hand was everywhere, kneading at your other tit, and sliding down your stomach to push the nightgown down entirely until you were in nothing but your panties. He gripped at the flesh of your thighs to spread your legs further for him to grind against your core before he kicked off his shoes, his hand leaving your body to quickly work at the button on his jeans.

Your hands were running through his hair, going down his back and pulling at the skin.

The second he got his jeans and boxers down he shifted his body and lifted his head.

“Tell me. Tell me you want me.” Steve whispered into the quiet room as his head moved to find your mouth, biting gently at your bottom lip. It wasn’t as harsh as his usual demands, something about the look in his eyes was vulnerable in a way you’d never expected from someone who got everything he wanted so easily. He wasn’t asking you to tell him you wanted him to stroke his ego, he was asking you to tell him so he could be assured that did you want him.

“I do want you. I want you, Steve.” You said it as earnest as possible, continuing to run your fingers in his hair.

“Mmm. Good girl.”

His fingers slid down your body, starting at the column of your throat then moving down in between your breasts until he was tracing your bellybutton and hip bone. It was teasing, and it sent chills down your spine.

His fingers dipped lower, past the lace of your panties as he pulled them down, then parted your folds with two thick fingers, getting coated in the wet heat that had been gathering from the touch of him.

His other hand wrapped around his cock, stroking gently to smear the pre-cum all over his length. He began pushing into your pussy slowly, letting you feel every inch of him stretching you open around his cock.

Your eyes rolled back, jaw dropping as you moaned from the feeling of being filled by him again.

Steve continued moving until every inch of him was buried deep inside of you, then his hands came up to press down on your lower stomach, steadying himself there as he began thrusting in and out.

The rythym was slow, and deep. Nothing like the first time. This time you could feel every inch of his cock dragging against your walls before only the tip was inside of you, then him diving back in again.

You arched your back up, turning your face into the pillow next to you to muffle every moan and whine leaving your lips.

Each whimper seemed to fuel Steve, his hands left your stomach so he could shift back down, kissing you desperately and panting against your mouth while his movements became more urgent, the sound of skin slapping together becoming louder.

Your mouth found the side of his neck, tongue tracing over the scattering of small dark moles that dot over his neck. You could feel Steve shudder above you, a sharp breath catching in his throat as your lips moved lower to kiss the moles above his collarbone.

“Mine. You’re… fucking mine..” He panted out

“Steve…. Ohh.. Steeeve…” Pleasure was taking over your body entirely, legs trembling underneath him as he pounded into you.

“Yeah? You like how my cock feels inside of you?” Steve groaned, his hands going back to grip at your thighs while he hiked one of your legs over his shoulder to drive even deeper inside of your stretched pussy.

Steve’s eyes were locked on where your bodies joined, where his cock was sinking inside you over and over again.

“Look at you. Taking me so deep. God, you’re beautiful.” His fingers moved to your clit, rubbing rough and tight circles as he watched you tremble underneath him.

“Want you to squeeze me while im buried deep in this sweet pussy. Yeah? Can you do that for me, princess?”

You nodded eagerly, panting into the air as your hands gripped at his arms and your body twitched uncontrollably. Your pussy was clenching down on him, pulling him even deeper as pleasure radiated out of you.

Steve bit down on his lower lip to stifle a moan and began thrusting frantically, fucking into you so deep that your entire body was jolting back and forth on the mattress.

“Taking my fucking cock so good, baby. Such a good girl, huh? Drives me crazy when you’re such a slut for me.”

“Only you. Only you, Steve.” You whined out as he shuddered above you, his cum filling your insides as your walls milked him dry.

He stayed inside of you for a long minute, his head tilting back as he caught his breath before he let out a soft sigh and pulled out of you, collapsing down onto the mattress beside you.

His arm was thrown over his eyes, chest still rising and falling rapidly. You turned on your side, letting your eyes roam over the sheen of sweat on his chest and the relaxed way he looked when he was all pliant. You wanted to frame it. Steve Harrington in your bed, laying next to you.

“You’ll.. you’ll stay?” The question was vulnerable as you looked up at him.

Steve let out a long slow breath, his arm not leaving his face. “It’s late.”

It wasn’t an answer, it was a deflection.

“Please?” You reached over to trail your fingers across his chest lightly and he finally lowered his arm from his face.

“Yeah. Okay. I’ll stay.” He said it like he was doing you a favor as he rolled onto his side, pulling the sheets up and grabbing his boxers and your nightgown from the side of the bed to slip them back on.

Once you were both decently dressed, he slung his arm over your waist, resting his hand low on your back to pull you closer into his chest.

“Just.. go to sleep.” He muttered into your hair, voice slurring slightly as his lips pressed gently to your hairline.

You nuzzled in closer, smiling to yourself as your body drifted off to sleep being held by Steve Harrington.

You woke hours later, turning over and opening your eyes to find the bed beside you empty and cold. You laid there for awhile, staring at the spot he had occupied. Lifting your hand to run over the cool pillowcase that he rested his head on just hours ago.

You wanted more, you wanted everything. But wanting more from Steve Harrington felt like asking the sun not to set. It was a part of his nature. The leaving was as much a part of him as the charming smile and the possessive hands. The worst part was you know you'll be waiting by the window again next Saturday, desperate to feel that way again. Even if it’s just for a few hours, even if he always leaves.

-

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You looked down at your shoe against the carpet, at the way its color was darker than usual from whatever water had gotten into it. Looking up, you found a complete mess. A piece of the ceiling hanging open right above your bed, water still dripping in steady drops from the gap, your bedding ruined among many other things.

You don’t know how long you stood there, hand over your mouth, eyes flickering over the damage like you were hoping it would vanish, like it was only something you imagined.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t.

The couple who owns the house came down when they heard you shout for them, unsure of what else to do. They’d both gasped when they came down, and began apologizing for something that really wasn’t their fault before one ran up to call whoever it was they needed to call to fix this and the other comforted you with a gentle “we’ll take care of it, sweetie.”

You nodded, eyes still roaming your space that was now uninhabitable.

It’s an old house, something was bound to happen at some point, you only wished it wasn’t so inconvenient for you. A small leak, you could have handled, but the ceiling practically caving in?

Yeah, it was a complete fucking mess.

Hours later, with the damage assessed and set to take a few weeks to fix up, you’re on the phone with the one person you’d known would pick up.

You fill Steve in on what happened, and his first response is a sigh of, “Shit.”

“Yeah, shit,” you agree. “And now I’m gonna have to live with my parents for a while and I don’t know how I’m gonna go back into that house, Steve.”

If you’re being honest, the couple you live with now was kinder to you than your parents were. You suppose that’s one of the many things that you and Steve have bonded over.

“Just come live with me, instead,” he offers without hesitation.

Steve says it like it’s obvious, a no-brainer, and you guess it should be, since you’ve slept over at the Harrington’s house countless times before. Only, this is different because you’d be staying for a while, because you’d be needing his help, which makes you feel all awkward and guilty.

He’s been your absolute best friend for as long as you can remember, and you’re one hundred percent sure you’d offer the same thing if the roles were reversed, but that doesn’t make it any easier for you to accept, not when you’re already frazzled from the events of the day.

“No, Steve, I’m sorry I’m just being dramatic,” you say, twisting the phone’s cord around your finger. “I’ll be fine, really. It’s just a month, or so, and I don’t wanna be in your way or-”

“When have you ever cared about being in my way, angel?” The pet name he’s called you ever since your ninth grade Halloween party slips out naturally, the way it always does. “Besides, this house is too fucking big for me as it is, and you know my parents won’t be around to care, either.”

“I can’t ask you to let me move in, Steve.”

“Well then, it’s a good thing you’re not asking. I’m offering. It’ll be like that one week when we were twelve and you stayed over for spring break, only longer. It’s perfect!”

There’s a small smile ghosting across your face as you recall the memory he’s talking about. A blanket fort in their spacious living room, sleeping bags and pillows piled inside it along with two flashlights.

You can picture the way he looks on the other end of the phone, his hair a bit messy from running his hands through it during the day, one strand rogue against his forehead, his shoulder leaned carelessly against the wall the way it usually is when he stands. Like he can’t be bothered to hold himself up, like there’s constantly a weight on him.

“Are you sure about this, Steve? It’s really okay if you’re not. I swear I’ll be fine.”

“As if I’m letting you spend multiple weeks back in your parent’s house. You’re staying with me, alright?” His voice is insistent, yet kind, letting you know that he’s being honest, that he means it. “We’ll order pizzas and watch shitty romcoms, ‘kay?”

“You can call romcoms shitty all you want, but we both know you get teary at every single one.”

“Don't change the subject, angel. Also, fuck off,” he says, though you can hear the smile in his voice. “So, you’re living with me, yeah?”

You don’t think you could say no to him even if you wanted to.

“Yeah, alright, Steve. Thank you so much.”

“None of that. I know you’d do the same.”

There’s something beautiful about the kind of trust and ease that comes with a friendship as long as yours. One where you’ve watched each other grow up, awkward phases and all, and stuck together the entire way. There’s no questioning whether or not you’d be there for each other if you were in need.

It’s known, felt. Like a fact.

“Now,” he continues, “I’ll pick you up, okay? Ten minutes, tops.”

“Okay.”

“You need me to bring boxes for your stuff?”

“I’m not sure how much is worth keeping. It’s pretty ugly in there.”

Your voice goes small at the end, because the gravity of it all is really sinking in. You’ll have to replace a lot of stuff. Stuff you don’t have money for right now.

But, you haven’t let yourself cry just yet, so you swallow it down.

“I’ll bring some anyway, then. We’ll figure it out, angel, don’t worry.”

“Thanks again, Steve. See you soon.”

“Ten minutes,” he assures you, then the line clicks.

-

True to his word, Steve arrives in under ten minutes, which isn’t surprising considering the size of Hawkins, but feels reassuring all the same.

You’re sitting on the curb in front of the house when Steve’s BMW pulls over on the other side of the road, and you stand just as he climbs out and shuts his door, rounding the car and jogging over to you.

His keys jingle as he tucks them into the pocket of his faded jeans, his opposite hand coming up to squeeze your shoulder, “You okay?”

The warmth of his palm seeps through your work shirt that you’ve yet to change out of, and you let your eyes fall shut just for a second before looking at his face, “Guess so,” you nod. “Maybe ask me again after all of this?”

Steve’s arm winds itself over your shoulders, tugging you into his side and dropping a kiss to the top of your head, simple as an instinct. “I’ve got you. We’ll get through this, angel.”

We’ll, he says. A team.

You reach up and squeeze his hand and nod, guiding him to the side-entrance leading to your basement apartment.

“I hope you didn’t wear your good shoes for this,” you say.

Steve looks down at his feet and shrugs, “Shoes can be replaced.”

He lets you lead the way down the stairs, his footsteps close behind yours. You wince when you look at the damage again, even though you’d seen it minutes ago. You can't bring yourself to look at Steve, to see the reaction on his face, because you think it’ll just make it all more real.

He mouths the word ‘fuck’ while you aren’t looking, then claps his hands once. “Okay, let’s figure out what we can save, yeah? Where do you want me?”

You’re grateful for his gentle guidance at what to do. “Maybe the bathroom? Everything in there should be fine, so it just needs to be packed.”

“‘Kay. I’ll just go grab some boxes from my car,” Steve says. He squeezes your hand once before heading up the stairs. “I’ll be right back.”

You decide to tackle the worst spot first. Though the place is more like a studio, the side that houses your bed and your closet is the most affected, so you head over there and try to tune out the squish of the carpet beneath your feet.

You’re opening the sliding doors to your closet when Steve comes back, dropping a stack of boxes by your feet and running his hand down your arm softly before heading over to the bathroom to pack for you.

Even his presence seems to be making things a little bit easier for you, and each time he finds a small way to touch you or speak to you, to remind you that he’s there, you’re glad for it.

Half of your closet is a gross, wet mess, but some things are salvageable, which you take as a win. Things might be damp, but at least it’s only water, you suppose. A cycle in the dryer and most things will be wearable again.

Your dresses that are hung get the worst of it, soaked and smelly, and you decide that it’d be easier to get a couple new ones than to try and save what’s there.

Steve checks in every now and then, poking his head out of the bathroom’s doorway to look at you and make sure you’re doing alright, giving you a thumbs up when you look over to him.

You’re not sure how you’d be managing this if you were alone, and you’re thankful that you don’t have to.

The next time he checks on you, you’re by your nightstand.

Sitting atop of it is a framed picture of you and Steve from summer camp when you were around ten years old, maybe younger. Only now, the picture’s stained with water and the frame you’d decorated all those years ago at camp is a splotchy mess.

Where yours and Steve’s handwriting used to be, is now a blur from the water seeping into the wooden frame, the marker’s colors muddy. You frown, picking it up and running your thumb over the edge.

Before you can stop yourself, you’re tearing up, frustrated and sad and tired. Memories like this one are the most special to you, the ones that have kept you going for so long, and just like that, the picture that’s sat on your nightstand since being taken is gone, and it fucking sucks.

“Hey, angel?” Steve calls.

When all you do is sniffle and mumble an “mhm?” in response, he sets the box he’d been packing on the bathroom counter and walks over to you.

He comes up behind you, resting his hands on your upper-arms and peering over your shoulder at the ruined picture.

“It was my favorite one,” you say, voice breaking a little. You wipe your tear away as it trails down your cheek, your own fingertips too harsh against your skin.

Although it’s soaked and splotchy now, Steve knows which picture it is. The one where you’ve both got your neon summer camp t-shirts on, the one where his cheeks and nose are completely sunburnt and you’re both grinning up at the camera from your seats on the ground.

Steve’s clutching a stick in his hand for some reason, and you’ve got your fist tangled in the sleeve of his shirt.

It feels like no time and forever has passed since then.

Steve grabs the picture and pries it gently from your hands, setting it back onto the table and turning you around in his grip to face him.

“We can fix it,” he tells you, his brown eyes all soft as his hands come up to cup your face, thumbs swiping your tears away.

“But the frame-”

“We’ll fix it, angel. I’ll find a way, okay? We can pack it in one of the boxes and figure it out.”

“Steve-”

“Look at me,” he urges you when your gaze flickers to the ground. You listen. “This fucking sucks, I know it does, but you’re strong and I’m here, and we can handle this.”

His voice is quiet, but sure. You search his face for any trace of a lie and find none. He really believes what he’s saying, and he really believes in you.

“Thank you for being here.” You take a deep breath and drop your forehead against the collar of his shirt. “I’m sorry for crying. I know it’s kinda stupid. Most of this is replaceable, it’s just-”

“It’s not stupid,” he says, letting his chin rest atop your head. “You’re allowed to cry. Hell, I’d probably be kicking and screaming on the floor like I'm back in the terrible twos.”

You laugh wetly into his shirt.

“Now,” he says, pulling back and putting his hands on his hips, “the quicker we pack, the quicker we go home. I’ll even let you wear a pair of my good fuzzy socks.”

A smile tugs at your mouth. “Deal.”

-

Steve wouldn’t let you do much of the work after that.

Instead, he simply held up items for you to assess from where you’d been leaning against the wall and packed it into a box if it was a ‘yes,’ or tossing it aside dramatically just to try and get you to laugh if it was a ‘no.’

Once things were sorted through and packed, you loaded everything into Steve’s car—which wasn’t a whole bunch, considering how much you had to leave behind.

You’d refused to let Steve carry the boxes all on his own, though he tried, but he still managed to open the doors for you whenever you made it to his car, even when his own hands were full, too.

By the time you were finished, you were drained. It felt like you’d lived multiple days in the one. An eight hour shift opening at the store, then coming home to a wrecked apartment. All you wanted to do was shower and lay down and not get back up.

Steve knows you well enough to be able to tell when it’s time to fill the silence and when it isn’t, and on the drive back to his place, while your head was leaned against his window, he knew to stay quiet and give you a bit of space.

He turned the radio on, but not too loud, letting the songs hum through the speakers. At every stop sign, he reached over and gave your thigh a light squeeze. Reassuring, kind, somehow exactly what you needed at the moment. Nothing more, nothing less.

You were no stranger to the Harrington’s house, having been there countless times since you were little, but it feels more intimidating now, knowing you’ll be staying. You feel silly for being worried, but you are. Asking for help makes you feel like a burden.

Steve, however, doesn’t let you entertain that thought for long, parking in his driveway and jogging around to open the passenger door for you. “Honey, we’re home!”

“Dork,” you say, though you accept his hand and let him tug you up out of the car.

Grabbing the first couple of boxes, Steve leads you inside and upstairs, right to the guest room across the hall from his own bedroom. The closest one to him.

The house has at least two guest rooms, though you suppose with how little Steve's parents are around, you could consider there to be three. Three spare rooms and Steve puts you up in the nearest one possible. It makes your heart squish in your chest, how caring he is. He doesn’t even have to try, really, the goodness in him shows even when he tries to keep it hidden.

It only takes a few trips down to his car and back before all of your boxes are stacked against the wall. You decide you’ll deal with them later.

Steve runs over to his room and grabs a set of pajamas that you’d left there, and hands them to you. “I figured you’d wanna wash up.”

“You calling me smelly, Harrington?”

“Shut up, I think you smell nice. Usually.”

“Hey!”

“I’m teasing, angel.” He ruffles your hair. You swat his hand away. “You know where the bathroom is, and there should be soap and stuff in the shower already. Just yell if you need something, okay?”

You do know where the bathroom is. You have your own toothbrush in a cup by the sink, a set of travel-sized skin care products in the cupboard behind the mirror for whenever you end up staying over.

It’s funny, you’ve always felt more at home here than at your own parents house, and though he hasn’t said it to you, Steve much prefers this house when you’re in it. There’s a warmth that comes with your presence that makes him ache when it’s not around.

You nod, “Thank you again for letting me stay, Steve. I won’t be in the way, promise.”

“I want you in the way. You know you’re always welcome. This is no different.” He shrugs, “Plus, it’ll be nice having you around. Place always feels so empty when it’s just me.”

“Maybe I’ll just stay forever, then,” you say, tone light and joking.

Steve, completely serious, says, “I’d let you.”

There’s a zip that goes through you when he says it, quick as lightning, something you’ve never felt—or noticed, rather—around him. It throws you off just a little.

“Anyways,” Steve cuts your thoughts short, “I’ll let you get settled. Pizza will be waiting for you when you’re done.”

He leaves the room before you can thank him again, his footsteps retreating and heading downstairs.

You’ve been to his house a million times, so you don’t really feel the need to ‘get settled’ but you desperately need a shower so that’s where you go.

You stay in for longer than you need to, letting the too-hot water run down your neck and back.

When you finally do step out of the bathroom, now clad in your pajamas, and head downstairs, Steve’s sitting on the couch in the living room, the romcoms he owns sitting out in front of the TV for you to choose from, your favorite blanket resting on your side of the couch, and pizza boxes on the coffee table just as promised.

It’s the best thing in the world, you think, to have a friend like Steve.

-

You’ve been staying at Steve’s for a couple of days already, and time seems to fly by a little quicker when you’re there, especially when you’re around him.

He’s taken it upon himself to have coffee ready in the pot for you every morning, one of your favorite mugs already next to it on the counter. You’ve cooked breakfasts together (pancakes one day, where you’d done most of the work, or something simple as toast when you both have to get to work), ordered dinners, and Steve comes home from his shifts with a new movie to watch almost every day.

It’s been so nice. Almost perfect, actually.

This morning, the first day where your shifts happen to be at the exact same time, he’d even insisted on driving you to work. It was an easy yes, considering it wasn’t out of his way at all.

After a short stint of working together at the grocery store in ninth grade, and your subsequent firing from the job after a month of constantly distracting each other on the clock, Tim, the grocery manager, took it upon himself to warn Hawkins not to hire the both of you together.

Eventually, you’d taken the closest you could get which resulted in you working at the arcade and Steve next door at Family Video.

You share a parking lot. Steve already drives you to work most days. You like to put up a bit of a fight just to annoy him.

Though you haven’t worked together in years, and he isn’t far away by any means, you miss having Steve around on days like this. Where the arcade is quiet save for the sounds of the games in the background, where you’re simply babysitting the desk and cleaning things multiple times to try and make the hours pass by.

If Steve were with you, he’d make stupid jokes that you don’t wanna laugh at but do, or coerce you into playing the games while on the clock with the change you find whenever you’re cleaning.

He’d probably trash talk you, and bump your hip with his while playing pinball, and be a sore loser, and for some reason you want him around so bad.

You chalk it up to getting used to spending hours and hours with him, every single day, these past couple of days. Staying with him has made you miss him more, you think.

That’s it.

Meanwhile, over at Family Video, Steve isn’t feeling too different from you.

He’s spent the morning stocking shelves, memories popping into his head whenever he’d come across a movie you loved or watched together, while Robin’s been manning the desk.

Then, when his cart was empty and put back into the back room, he sat on the chair behind the front desk, spinning around until Robin stopped him with her foot and asked what he was thinking so hard about.

Steve caught her up on what had happened with your apartment (you’d told him he could tell her, because she’s your friend too and would find out sooner or later) and how you’d ended up staying with him in his house.

She raised her eyebrows and hummed in a way that was automatically suspicious, because Robin isn’t very good at hiding things.

“What?” Steve asks.

“Nothing.” When Steve only gives her a pointed look, Robin continues, “Well… are you sure that’s a good idea?”

Now, Robin is one of Steve’s closest friends, and him one of hers, and she supports him in pretty much everything that he does even when she teases him relentlessly along the way, but she cares about both of you and doesn’t want to see anyone hurt.

She can read Steve better than he can read himself, probably, because to Robin, it’s clear that he feels more than friendly towards you. And he doesn’t even know it.

When they became closer, it was clear to Robin, even before meeting you, just from the way Steve spoke of you, that there was a spot reserved for you in his life that couldn’t be filled by anyone else.

He would say it’s that of ‘best friend’ but Robin would call it something even bigger than that. Still, even though she thinks he’s an absolute dingus, she’s trying to let Steve figure it out for himself.

Clearly, it’s taking fucking forever.

He looks confused at her question, “Why wouldn’t it be a good idea?”

Robin sighs and resists the urge to drop her forehead against the desk and decides on, “You know what they say: become friends with your roommates, don’t become roommates with your friends.”

“Whoever they are, they’re dumb as shit,” Steve says. “She’s been over, slept over, hundreds of times. It’s not any different, just longer.”

“I guess so,” she settles on. “The rules of the world never really seem to apply to you two.”

“That’s because the rules of the world are also dumb as shit.”

“How would you know? It’s not like you’ve ever tried following them.”

“‘Cause I’m a rule breaker, Robs.”

Steve wiggles his eyebrows. Robin shoves the rolling chair he’s sitting on with her foot, sending it into the other side of the desk with a thud.

“Don’t think that smoking weed in your backyard is enough to call yourself a rule breaker, dingus.”

-

That night, your routine was pretty much the same.

Steve was already waiting for you in his car when you left the arcade, a smile spreading onto his face when he saw you making your way across the parking lot to him, your skirt swishing a little with the breeze.

Rather than go straight home, you made a stop at your apartment to talk things over with the couple who owned the home. They’d met with a builder and plumber about getting everything fixed and wanted to walk you through it all.

Steve came with you and held your hand, and both of them cooed at him and pinched his cheeks and called him a cutie before getting to the important stuff.

After going over what had to be done (rip out the carpet, replace it, fix the pipes and make sure no others were at risk, replace the ceiling, and more you couldn’t even remember already), they’d assured you that they would be taking care of it all. Covering the entire cost.

You probably would’ve argued if not for how little money was in your bank account, and how stubborn you knew these people to be. Instead, you’d squeezed them both and thanked them while your eyes grew misty with tears.

Steve’s hand stayed in yours and squeezed when you sniffled.

He knew, because he knew pretty much everything about you, that these people were kinder to you than even your own parents. That, if this had happened at their house, they would’ve found a way to blame you for it.

You feel lucky to have found that kind of parental love elsewhere, sad that you didn’t know exactly what it felt like beforehand.

After giving the couple Steve’s phone number to call in case they needed you and giving them both another hug, you and Steve headed back home.

Home, you call it. Like it’s yours.

Sometimes it feels like it is.

Later, after you and Steve have both showered and had dinner and gotten comfy in your sweats, you’re back in the living room, Steve shows you the movie he’s brought back this time.

“Gremlins?” You ask, smiling and shaking your head.

“Hell yeah, angel. It’s a classic.”

Steve sets everything up, joining you on the couch after pressing ‘play’ on the movie and adjusting the volume with your guidance.

“So, how was work?” Steve asks during the opening credits. The two of you have a hard time being next to each other and not talking. It’s why you get dirty looks whenever you go to the movies.

“Weekdays are so boring, Steve,” you say, letting your head fall against the back of the couch. “You’re so lucky you have Robin to entertain you during the day. I think I dusted like, ten times at least.”

“Robin is a pain in my ass.” He says. He doesn’t really mean it, because even when she is, he’s glad to have her around. A different kind of gladness than he feels with you. “She kept pushing me every time I sat in the rolling chair. There’s probably a dent in the desk.”

“That’s because you were probably hogging the chair, Steve.”

“What the fuck!” Steve’s smiling when he says it, lacking any sort of anger. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”

Your smile mirrors his, the way it always does. It’s contagious, you think, the way his eyes crinkle at the corner.

Shrugging, you say, “I don’t know, I’d wanna push you around on that chair too, I think.”

“You’d spin me too much. I’d get sick all over you and then nobody’s happy.”

“Don’t talk about barf while I’m eating, Harrington.”

You throw a piece of popcorn at him. It bounces off his cheek and lands on his lap, and he doesn’t even flinch. Steve just picks it up and pops it into his mouth.

When the bowl’s empty, you lean forward and set it on the coffee table before sinking back into the couch, Steve's shoulder brushing yours. You let the warmth seep through your clothes and shut your eyes.

It’s a little more than halfway through the movie when Steve realizes you’re asleep. You’d been quiet, sure, but Steve only thought that meant you were paying attention to the movie.

That was, until your head slipped and rested against his shoulder.

He looked down at you, at the hair falling across your forehead (he smoothed it away gently, so it wouldn’t be in your eyes or your mouth), your eyebrows relaxed and free of any worry, your chest rising and falling with steady breaths.

He thinks of how tired you must be, after everything. Your apartment and dealing with the aftermath both emotionally and physically, working long shifts most days to keep your bank account full.

Steve, though he doesn’t let himself look too deep into it, also thinks of how beautiful you are. Now and always.

Not wanting you to get a kink in your neck from the position, Steve decides to rouse you from sleep as gently as possible. He slips a hand under your head to keep it steady and maneuvers himself to kneel in front of you.

“Hey, angel,” he almost whispers, thumb dragging across your cheek. “C’mon, let’s get you to bed.”

Your nose scrunches and you grumble, but after some coaxing, you blink your eyes open and squint at Steve. You blame your half-asleep mind on the way you nuzzle into his palm. “Hmm?”

“You fell asleep.”

“Oh, sorry,” you mumble.

Steve laughs softly. “Don’t be sorry, I just didn’t want you to be uncomfortable.”

The warmth of his hand leaves your cheek as he stands and holds his hands out for you to grab. He pulls you up off the couch and starts leading you towards the stairs.

You knuckle at your eyes on the way, a tiny smile gracing your face at how sweet Steve’s being. As if you haven’t fallen asleep on his couch plenty of times before.

Still sleepy, you stumble a little on the stairs, but Steve catches you easily with an arm around your waist and a small “Careful.”

He leaves his arm there the rest of the way to what’s become your bedroom, guiding you over to the bed and lifting the covers for you.

Tomorrow, you’ll regret not brushing your teeth or washing your face before climbing in bed. But today, you don’t feel like risking not being able to sleep again if you wake yourself up further.

You’re practically asleep again by the time you’re settled with your head on the pillow as Steve tugs the blankets over you.

You’re just awake enough to feel the light press of his lips on your forehead and a soft “Goodnight, angel” against your skin before he leaves the room and shuts the door behind him.

-

On a random Thursday that you and Steve both have off, he convinces you to let him take you to the mall.

“We should go shopping,” he says when you walk into the kitchen. It’s a little later in the morning, having slept in since it’s a day off, the sun slipping through the window in warm beams.

You raise your eyebrows at him. “Like, groceries?”

“No, like shopping shopping. You know, the mall?”

You lean against the kitchen island, the countertop cool on your back where it touches the sliver of skin between your tank top and sleep shorts. Steve has his shoulder against the fridge, his arms crossed over his chest, the sleeves of his t-shirt tight against his muscles. Not that you’re looking.

You squint at him, trying to find his motive on his face. “You literally buy whatever the mannequins are wearing to avoid shopping.”

“That’s what they’re there for!” The sass in his voice has you biting back a smile. “You need new clothes,” he continues, “and I need to get out of this house.”

“We can do something else, Steve,” you say. “I thought you hated shopping.”

“Well, I don’t hate you.” There’s a pause, Steve’s eyes lowering to that sliver of skin above your shorts. He flicks them back to your face quickly, hoping you didn’t notice, because even he’s not sure what compelled his eyes to wander. “Plus, Eddie called me a hermit the other day and I really can’t stand for that, can I?”

“Ohhh,” you ignore the way your skin suddenly feels warm beneath his gaze, “so you need to make a public appearance to prove Eddie wrong?”

“Exactly. We’ll replace some of the things you lost and restore my reputation. Two birds, one stone, right angel?”

So that’s how you’d ended up at the mall. After Starcourt burnt down, the closest place was a couple towns over, and Steve (as always) offered to drive.

He lets you pick the music the entire way, sings along when you hold your water bottle by his mouth like a microphone, even attempts to harmonize with you which just ends in laughter because neither of you sounded that great.

You’re a couple of stores in, and Steve’s been complaint-free so far—which makes sense, since this was his idea, but you’ve caught him side-eyeing some things, so you know he’s got some remarks in his head he just hasn’t said out loud—and follows you around as you browse. You try not to take too long, because you can’t imagine that this is any fun for him.

“How about that one?” Steve asks, pointing at one of the dresses hanging along the store’s wall.

He’d seen your apartment, though that was a bit ago, and he remembered what you’d lost the most of, along with the type of stuff you like. He pays attention like that, in small, quiet ways that you think mean the most.

He knows you. He cares enough to know you.

“Yeah, that’s really pretty, actually,” you admit.

At your approval, Steve grabs one in your size (which he also just happens to know) and adds it to the couple of things he’d already been holding for you. Every time you picked something up, he was quick to snatch it from you, telling you it was ‘too hard to browse with your hands full.’

After making your way through the rest of the store, you decided to head back to try things on, holding out a hand for the stuff Steve’s holding. “You can wait out here, I’ll be quick.”

“Hold on,” he says, holding the hangers out of your reach. “Why do you think I’m here, angel? I wanna help you pick.”

“Seriously?”

“Yes, seriously. Give me a fashion show, yeah?”

“Oh my God,” you mumble, letting him follow you to the fitting rooms.

They’re hidden behind the back wall of the store, a hallway painted bright blue with pink changeroom doors on one side, and white benches along the other.

“Hi there,” an employee with auburn hair greets you both, her smile wide and kind, though you know it’s a practiced one. Customer service smile. “How many you got there, darling?”

“Oh, um,” you turn back towards Steve, who’s counting the hangers in his hand. “Five.”

“Perfect!” The girl takes the key hanging around her neck and unlocks one of the rooms for you. She takes the clothes from Steve and hangs them up inside for you, then turns to the two of you and says, “Your man can have a seat right here. We call them the ‘boyfriend benches.’”

“He’s not my-”

“Thanks,” Steve says, cutting off your correction because for some reason he didn’t want you to correct her.

Did he… like the idea of being your boyfriend?

Fuck. No. He just didn’t want you to have to explain the whole situation in your rambly way. That’s all.

The redhead smiles again, “Holler if you need anything,” she says before walking off.

You stand there for a second, something like confusion on your face. Did it look like you were boyfriend and girlfriend?

“Come on,” Steve says, snapping the both of you out of whatever that was. “Show me what you’ve got.”

“I can't believe you’re making me do this,” you say, walking into the fitting room and shutting the door.

You try on a couple of sweaters first, and Steve feels the fabric both times, making sure that it’s not scratchy on your skin. Then, there’s just some basic t-shirts that aren’t all that exciting, but Steve says they look nice anyway.

Finally, you get to the dress he picked out.

It really was pretty. A midi-length with a ruffled hem and straps that tie into little bows on your shoulders. You don’t always feel good in your clothes. Sometimes you wish you could crawl out of your skin when you look into the mirror, but right now, you don’t hate what you see.

You actually like it.

“Well?” Steve calls softly from the bench.

In response, you open the door and step out so he can see you.

Steve’s seen you in plenty of dresses—hell, you went to prom together—but for some reason this one makes his heart beat just a little bit quicker. Maybe it’s simply the fact that it looks great on you, or the way you’re smiling shyly as he looks you over.

Or, maybe it’s because he’s the one who picked it.

He stands up, spinning his finger in the air in a gesture for you to twirl. You roll your eyes but do it anyway, and he can’t take his eyes off of you. The hallway of fitting rooms isn’t very big, so with both of you in it, you’re standing toe to toe, the gold flecks in the middle of Steve’s eyes and the faint freckles that dot his nose are visible from where you stand.

As if he can’t help it, Steve lifts a finger and dips it beneath the strap on your shoulder. Not moving it or undoing it, just gliding along your skin where it sits.

“You look beautiful,” he says. His voice goes all quiet and soft when he says it, and his eyes widen a tiny bit, like he hadn’t meant it to slip out that way. It sounded… more than friendly. He clears his throat and steps back as much as he can in the small space, his finger leaving your skin. “I have great taste. Clearly.”

You blink at him, then shake yourself out of it as much as you can. “Yeah. Don’t let it get to your head.” You lift the tag where it hangs by your armpit and look at the price. You gasp and swat Steve’s arm. “Steve! Why would you let me walk into a place so expensive?”

You probably should’ve looked at the tag beforehand, but here you are. Steve, shrugging exaggeratedly, says, “I didn’t know!”

“Okay, I’m gonna change before she comes back. We can make a run for it.”

“We’re not stealing.”

“I know, but they look at you all judgemental when you try stuff on and don’t buy something. Trust me.”

You turn and go back into the fitting room to put on your own clothes, taking a look at the dress in the mirror one last time before shaking your head at yourself.

Steve, however, takes the opportunity to leave you and head back out into the store. He finds the dress easily and grabs another one in your size from the rack and heads to the cashier.

He’s just finishing up, bag in hand, when you walk out and meet him at the front of the store.

“For you,” he says, holding out the bag for you to take.

“Steve…” You grab it and look inside. Your chest aches when you see the dress, your heart suddenly too full and your stomach fluttering stupidly. “You didn’t have to do that. I would’ve been fine with something from the Gap.”

“I know that,” he says, a hand lifting to scratch at the back of his neck. It’s a nervous tick of his, and the thought of him being nervous right now makes you melt even more. “I wanted to get it for you. You looked too pretty in it not to have it.”

Your eyes catch his, and again, something passes between you that you don’t think you’ve ever felt before. A fizzle, a spark.

You rock back on your feet, looking down at the ground before meeting his eyes again. They’re so fucking soft it makes you wonder how lucky you have to be to have him in your life. Being your best friend, driving you to work even when he doesn’t have a shift, offering you a place to stay, buying you a dress.

He’s the sweetest boy you’ve ever known.

“Well,” you twist the straps of the bag around your fingers just to keep them busy. “Thank you, Steve. This is really nice.”

His knuckle traces down your arm just once, featherlight. “You’re welcome, angel.”

You don’t buy anything else after that, instead stopping at the food court for fries, stealing from each other’s baskets, smiling and slapping hands away.

It’s the best day you’ve had in a while.

-

You don’t think anything you do will convey just how grateful you are that Steve has been so kind to you. Always, but especially now. Letting you stay with him and refusing to let you pay rent. (“I don’t even pay rent, and I live here all the time.”)

But, this morning, you’ve decided you’re gonna try.

Steve’s favorite meal of the day happens to be breakfast, which is funny, considering he usually eats something as simple as cereal. He’d told you once that it was because, as a kid, breakfast was the most peaceful of meals, his parents too busy getting ready for work or wherever they were going that he’d have the kitchen table to himself.

Lunch was usually spent at school, and Steve was never a fan of school to begin with. Then there was dinner, which his parents (when they were home) still wanted to have all together. They’d ask him questions and make backhanded comments about every single answer he gave. He never won at dinner.

So, breakfast was, and has remained, his favorite.

You made sure to get up early enough to give yourself time to get everything ready before he wakes up. Steve’s usually the one making the coffee in the morning, and you figured the least you could do was give him a break.

Yesterday, while Steve had been at work, you went over to the Wheeler’s and asked Nancy if you could borrow their waffle maker. She’d directed the question to her mother, who went and grabbed it for you and handed it over with a smile. You promised to take good care of it and have it back in a couple of days.

By the time Steve walks into the kitchen, you’ve already made the batter and set out the toppings—berries, maple syrup, whipped cream—like a buffet. However, he just so happens to come in as you’re swearing at the waffle maker.

“Stupid fucking thing,” you mutter, trying to open it.

Steve smiles to himself before saying, “Morning, angel.”

You jump at his voice, not having heard him walk in. When you turn around, your heart beats for a different reason.

Steve’s still only in his pajama pants, plaid and soft, hanging low on his hips. And he’s shirtless, his chest smattered with hair and his skin a little tanned from the sun. He’s got beauty marks all over, like a constellation you could chart, and his abs are just visible beneath the soft of his stomach. A trail of hair leading to the waistband of his pants and disappearing beneath them.

You’ve seen Steve shirtless plenty of times. Swimming and sleeping over in the summer, in high school when you used to go to his practices, but it hits you harder for some reason this time.

The way his hair is still a mess from sleep, his eyes a bit heavy. The way it feels to be greeting him in the kitchen, cooking breakfast. Intimate. Domestic.

You clear your throat and turn back around to pry the waffle maker open, revealing a slightly burnt but otherwise good-looking waffle. “I’m making breakfast. Coffee’s already in the pot, too.”

He walks over, his chest close to your back as he grabs a mug from the cabinet above you before heading over to pour himself a cup. He looks at the spread you’ve prepared, “Waffles, huh? What did I do to deserve all this?”

“Just wanted to do something nice for you,” you say as Steve walks over to lean against the counter next to you, his hip barely touching yours. “To thank you, in a way. For letting me stay and the dress and-”

“How many times do I have to tell you to stop thanking me?” He says, though his voice is soft and still a bit rough from sleep. “I like having you around.”

“So you don’t want the waffles then?”

“Oh, I want the waffles. I just don’t want you to feel like you have to do anything for me. It’s not some debt you’ll owe me, angel.”

“Want you to know I appreciate you is all,” you say, pouring a new scoop of batter into the waffle maker.

Steve, unsure of what exactly possesses him to do so, dips in and presses a kiss to the apple of your cheek, his lips a whisper away from your skin when he says, “I appreciate you, too.”

Then he pulls away and moves to set the table. Like it was natural.

And it was, in a way. How you moved around each other in the kitchen. You leaning out of the way when he needed to reach something you were blocking, him putting a hand on your lower back when he walked behind you so you knew he was there.

Your cheek still tingles from where he’d kissed it when you bring the plate of waffles to the table, your skin somehow even warmer under his gaze, like he’s still remembering exactly how it felt, too.

You sit in the chair beside Steve, not noticing the way he tugs it a bit closer to him with his foot before you sit down. Soon enough, both of you are digging in. Steve’s got more whipped cream on his plate than waffle (you tell him as much) and you’ve got your berries on the side the way you always do.

Neither of you work until later in the day, and it’s nice knowing that you can take your time. Steve tells you about the advice he gave Dustin about how to be ‘cooler’ in school (he’d told him that being cool is completely overrated, he knew from experience, and that being himself is the most important). You’d told him he was going soft with age.

You talk about anything at all. How Keith somehow manages both of your places of work, how he also somehow does both terribly. The way he says ‘if you have time to lean, you have time to clean’ while literally having Cheeto dust on his fingers. Laughing at each other’s impressions of him.

What the new highscores were at the arcade, what people were renting from Family Video.

You wonder what it’ll be like when you have to leave. When you’re living alone again.

Logically, you know you’ll still see Steve frequently, because he’s your favorite person and you can’t remember the last time you went longer than a few days without hanging out. Still, it’ll be different than right now, waking up in the same space and sharing breakfast and brushing your teeth side by side in the mirror.

You’ll miss it, you think.

Trying not to dwell on something that’s still a few weeks away, you take another bite of your waffle. Steve catches your chin and wipes off a bit of whipped cream from the corner of your mouth, then pulling away and sucking it off his thumb.

He goes back to his own plate without a thought. Like touching you just now was an instinct.

Then, he teases you, “These are a little crispy, angel. Maybe you should stick to letting me make breakfast in this household.”

You kick his leg under the table. “That’s a funny way of saying ‘thank you,’ Harrington.”

He kicks you back, much gentler than you’d been. “Thank you.”

“That’s what I thought.”

When you look at him, there’s an easy, boyish smile on his face.

A similar one stretches across your own lips.

-

Steve has had the thought pop up into his head a couple of times, that maybe he should’ve just asked you to live with him before you ever bought that apartment. Because having you around feels the most right things have ever felt in his house.

And though the circumstances of your moving in with him (temporarily, he has to remind himself), were far from ideal, he can’t lie and say that he isn’t glad that you’ve ended up sharing his space.

The room across the hall will always be yours, even when you move back to your place.

He knows that you feel indebted to him for all of it, but if anyone owes the other something, he feels like it’s him. For everything you’ve ever done for him. Sticking around even when he was an asshole in highschool, defending him to his parents whenever you’d cross paths, simply being the kind of friend he needed.

Even when you’re not around, he can picture your face, the way your smile spreads slowly until you’re fucking beaming. Worse, the way you cried into his chest that day at your apartment.

He remembers the crack in your voice when you spoke about that picture frame from summer camp. Though he hasn’t seen you cry since, or even bring it up, he’s decided he wants to fix it. He’d told you he would.

Dustin wound up roped into his plan: find a similar frame, decorate it the exact same way, and scour the photo albums in Steve’s room for his copy of that same picture.

When he was younger, the photo albums pissed him off, because they were purely for show. Pictures of his family that were all fake smiles. Now, he’s glad for them, because at least he has some good memories to look back on. To know it wasn’t always all bad.

Steve probably should’ve thought that one through, because when they looked through his albums, he was on the receiving end of relentless teasing from Dustin. (“Dude, you have an insane boogie in this picture.” “I was four!”)

He hopes it’ll be worth it.

Dustin was the one who found the picture they’d been looking for, and he cheered and waved it in Steve’s face as if they’d been racing.

Now, after driving Dustin back home, decorating the frame the way the two of you did as kids, trying to make his handwriting look like it did back then (which wasn’t too difficult, ‘cause Steve’s writing still isn’t that neat), he’s waiting for you to come downstairs before giving it to you.

He’d picked you up after your shift at the arcade not too long ago, but he knows you like to shower and change as soon as you get home from work, so he’d taken the opportunity to wrap the frame and have it ready for you.

Steve can hear you singing in the shower, and he knows you’re done when it goes quiet. A few minutes later you’re walking down the stairs in a baggy t-shirt and silky sleep shorts.

His eyes, for some reason, linger on your legs for a second.

He stands up, frame in his hand, when you walk over. “I have something for you.”

“Steve! Stop buying me things. Seriously.”

“This thing was free, so you can’t even be mad,” he says, smiling almost sheepishly.

Your eyes search his face, flickering between his own and dipping down to his lips and his nose and back to his eyes. He looks… nervous.

Steve’s never nervous around you.

“Okay,” you say, shuffling on your feet. “What is it?”

“Here,” he hands you the poorly-wrapped frame. “Open it.”

You scrunch your brows at him once, because you have no idea what it could be. It isn’t your birthday, or any sort of holiday at all. With zero guesses, you look down at the light yellow wrapping paper in your hands and slowly tear it open.

What you find makes your eyes grow misty, tears pooling at your lash line but not quite falling.

It’s your favorite picture, the one of you and Steve in those stupid neon shirts with messy hair and dirt on your hands. Only now, it’s not water damaged, and the frame is new, but decorated just like the old one. You run your thumbs over the glass lightly, smiling down at little you and little Steve.

When you look back up at him, he’s already looking at you, his brown eyes all warm, his smile kind but also worried, waiting for your reaction.

Seeing his face springs you into motion, jumping forward and wrapping your arms around his neck tightly with the frame still in your hand. “Thank you,” you say into his skin.

Steve’s arms move to hold you around your waist without a thought. A reflex. They squeeze you close to him, his nose pressed into your damp hair, smelling your shampoo.

“It’s not perfect,” he says. “But I know how much you love that picture, and I wanted to fix it.”

“Steve. Shut up. It is perfect.”

“I’m glad you think so,” he says, his thumbs running back and forth against your back.

You hug for what could’ve been minutes, but neither of you moves to pull away first. You’re not sure if it’s still considered friendly to stand in each other's arms, breathing each other in, for so long, but you don’t care at the moment.

This is probably the nicest thing anyone’s done for you in a long, long time.

When you finally do pull away, you don’t go far. Your arms stay slung over his shoulders, Steve’s hands framing your hips. His thumbs still dragging those sweet patterns against you.

“I’m keeping it forever,” you tell him.

“You sure?” he asks.

“Certain. You’ll always be my best friend, Steve.”

“You’ll always be mine too, angel.”

Then, your eyes both move to each other’s lips, yours flick back up in a second, startled at their wandering.

Steve, however, is a bit transfixed. He looks at the slope of your cupid’s bow, the way your lips are shiny from your lip balm. He thinks it quickly, like a gust of wind that can’t be stopped: I really wanna kiss her right now.

Fuck. He wants to kiss his best friend.

He blinks a few times, clearing his throat and pulling back, letting his hands fall from your waist as yours slide off his shoulders. He misses the feel of your touch immediately, but he’s too freaked out and confused to do anything about it.

“What are you in the mood for tonight?” he asks, cutting off his own thoughts. “I brought back a horror and a comedy. Take your pick.”

“Mmm,” he picks up two tapes from the coffee table and holds them up for you to choose from. “Horror. Unless you’re too scared?”

“You’ll just have to hold my hand, then, won’t you?”

“I guess I will.”

You look back at the picture while Steve puts the movie into the player. You smile at it every time you see it, because you can still see parts of Steve in him now that were in him then.

His eyes, always kind, the way he smiles when he laughs, and about a half hour into the movie, the way he holds your hand and squeezes it when he’s scared.

-

You’re having one of those nights. The kind where sleep seems to be fighting you.

You worked a closing shift at the arcade, which usually lasts until late considering how long you’re open plus all of the cleaning you have to do afterwards. Today was no different, and despite how much later you finish than him at Family Video, Steve waited and drove you home. He hung out in the arcade with you until close, actually.

You’d think that after such a long day, the second your head hit the pillow you’d be out and breathing steadily. Today, that is not the case. You fell asleep for maybe an hour before a nightmare woke you up. You can’t quite remember what happened, only that you’d been yelling for Steve and he wasn’t there.

Groaning quietly, you rub your eyes and toss the blankets away. You stand up and head down to the kitchen in the dark, hand trailing along the walls to make sure you don’t bump into anything.

Just as you’re pouring yourself a glass of water, you hear the shuffle of sleepy footsteps coming into the kitchen.

“Holy shit,” he says, walking over to grab a glass, one hand on his bare chest. “I thought you were a ghost or something just now.”

You shift out of the way to let him get some water just like you did, taking the second that he’s distracted to look at him. His hair a mess, wearing nothing but his boxers. You take a big sip from your glass.

“I feel like I should be offended right now,” you say, “if you think I look like a ghost.”

“Shut up,” he says, dragging out the second word. His voice being rough from sleep makes his words sound much warmer than they are. “My eyes aren’t awake yet. Nothing to do with you, angel.”

You shake your head, though there’s a soft smile on your face the way there always seems to be when you try to be annoyed with Steve. You tilt your head at him, asking, “Couldn’t sleep?”

He shakes his head. “Been tossing and turning. Just can’t get comfortable, then I got pissed ‘cause I couldn’t get comfortable and only made it worse.”

“You would get pissed at that. Probably slapped your pillow like it was at fault.”

He folds his lips inwards and blinks at you. Because he did smack his pillow and call it a dipshit. “Why do you know everything? Spying on me?”

“Hate to say it, but you’re getting predictable, Harrington.” You shrug, then move to put your now empty glass in the dishwasher. “I know you too well.”

He looks at you, your hair falling across your shoulders, your pajama shorts riding up a little as you bend down. The moonlight slipping through the window seems to hit you perfectly. Like a halo.

Fitting, he thinks. You’re his angel, after all.

“Yeah, you do,” he agrees. Then, “What about you? Why’re you up?”

“Nightmare. Been forever since I had one.”

“You okay?” he asks, trailing a knuckle over your shoulder, pushing your hair behind it.

“Yeah,” you say, skin tingling where he’d touched you. “I can't even remember most of it, but now my brain won’t let me sleep.”

Steve wishes he could’ve protected you from whatever haunted you in your sleep. It’s silly, he knows, to think he might be able to ward away anything that hurts you, but he wants to, nonetheless.

He thinks about how comfortable he is whenever you cuddle during movie night. Your head on his shoulder or his chest, his hand on your back or waist.

So, he blurts, “Why don’t you sleep over?”

You furrow your brows at him, “Um, I’ve been sleeping over. A couple of weeks now, actually.”

“No, I mean, like in my room with me,” he says, suddenly shy at the idea. He’s grateful for the darkness, because he can feel his cheeks warming up. “A proper sleepover.”

You’ve done it before. Shared a bed a bunch of times, but for some reason your heart jumps when he says it. Your stomach swirls as you say, maybe a little too quickly, “Okay.”

Steve’s eyes widen like he’s surprised, just for a split second, before a soft smile takes over his face. He holds out a hand for you to take, “C’mon.”

Soon enough, Steve’s lifting his navy bedspread for you, letting you slip into bed next to him. He stays further away at first, letting you settle and lay on your side the way he knows you always do.

You blame sleepiness—or, maybe, the lack thereof—for the way you reach behind you for his arm and tug him closer, draping it over your own waist.

He obliges, of course, his arm securing itself across your stomach, palm spread out and warm against your sleep shirt. His chest is only a breath away from your back, though he keeps his lower half a little more distanced.

His thumb runs circles over your shirt, once, twice, three times before stilling, his forehead pressing to the back of your neck.

“Goodnight, angel,” he says into your hair.

Your hand splays itself on top of his. “Night, Steve.”

And suddenly your eyes grow heavier, and sleep doesn’t feel like much of a battle anymore.

-

You wake up the most rested you’ve felt in a while. There’s warmth surrounding you, but not the uncomfortable kind. The kind that feels safe.

Somehow, you and Steve are even closer than you’d been when you fell asleep. His arm is still around your waist, his other outstretched and tucked beneath your head like a pillow. His chest is flush to your back, and you can feel it expand with every breath he takes.

Most differently of all, however, is the way his hips are snug against the curve of your butt. And you can feel him hard against you.

Your skin feels even warmer than before when you notice.

Steve hasn’t woken up yet, you don’t think, because the faintest snores are getting puffed out against your shoulder where his face is tucked. His hand on your stomach has worked its way beneath your shirt, though, and his fingertips press against your skin, like he’s fighting to keep you close.

As if you’d go anywhere even in your sleep.

His knee is tucked between your legs, and you’re quickly realizing that it’d be pretty impossible to get out of bed without him noticing. You’re completely tangled together, a knot of limbs somehow fitting together just right. Like two puzzle pieces.

In his sleep, Steve’s mouth presses against the back of your shoulder, and only when you involuntarily shiver at the contact, does he stir.

It takes Steve a bit to really wake up, mumbling words that don’t make sense, scrunching his eyes shut even further before blinking them open. He’s met with the sight of you right in front of him. Body curved perfectly against his.

“Steve? You awake?” you ask, checking.

“Mhm,” he hums.

Then, something that has his cheeks flushing pink, he registers the feeling of his boner pressed against your ass. He shuffles them back enough so there’s space between you. “Fuck. Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” you say. Because he can’t control the way his body reacts while he’s asleep.

“I didn’t think-” he cuts himself off, because he’s not quite sure how to say I didn’t think about the whole morning wood factor or that I’d fucking plaster myself to you when I suggested a sleepover without sounding stupid. Instead, he just repeats, “I’m sorry.”

You twist yourself around to face him, sheets crumpling and twisting as you move. When you settle back onto the pillow and look at his face, at the redness on his cheeks and the tips of his ears, you squeeze his hand that’s now laying between you.

“It’s okay, really,” you say. “It’s, like, anatomy. You’re human, Steve.”

“I don’t want you to think I invited you to sleep in here for some pervy reason,” he says, scrunching his nose when he says it.

“I don’t think that at all,” you tell him. You squeeze his hand again. “We’ve shared a bed like, a hundred times by now. If anything I’m surprised this hasn’t happened already.”

“Oh my God,” he groans, shutting his eyes and pushing his face into the pillow.

“Steve,” you drag out his name, fighting a giggle at the way he’s acting. He’s got a reputation, after all, and how shy and embarrassed he seems to be doesn’t reflect the things you heard about him in high school. He’s changed a lot since then. “It’s seriously fine. We can pretend it never happened. Promise.”

Steve pulls his face from the pillow, eyes catching yours as his fingers squeeze yours back in appreciation. He lets his eyes wander a bit, at the messy bits of your hair around your face from sleeping, the marks in your cheek from the pillowcase, the way your sleep shirt has fallen off your shoulder.

He feels lucky to get to see you this way, right after you’ve woken up. Vulnerable, unguarded, beautiful.

It’s during this small stretch of silence that you realize how close your faces are now. You’re sharing a pillow, his nose not even an inch from yours. Shift forward the slightest bit, and they’d be touching. Your eyes trail down to his mouth, to the visible patch of chest hair and the freckles that dot his skin. He’s already looking right at you when your eyes flick back upwards.

You know Steve, could tell what he’s feeling just from the look on his face, but this is one you’ve never seen before. At least, not directed at you.

Steve moves first, his eyes a little darker than usual, shifting forward slightly, then looking at you. Daring you to make the next move.

“What if we didn’t forget about it?” he says. Quiet and scratchy.

You don’t have time to think before you move forward a bit, too. Your noses brush. “What would that mean?”

Steve doesn’t answer with words. Rather, he moves forward the final bit and brushes his lips against yours in a question mark of a kiss, giving you time to pull away.

You don’t.

Instead, the hand of yours that isn’t still holding his comes up to the back of his neck, gently encouraging him to do it again. His free hand tightens at your waist as he dips in a second time.

It isn’t as tentative now that you’ve urged him on. His lips meet yours more sure, more firm, but still soft against you. Neither of you cares one bit about morning breath, or about what this might change. As if the morning’s haze slows time, minds still a little sleepy.

You’re simply acting on instinct. And this feels too right to stop.

Soon enough it grows more heated, Steve shifting to hover over you, his elbows pushing into the mattress to hold himself up, his tongue sneaking out to lick against the seam of your lips for permission.

Just as you open up for him, the blaring sound of Steve's alarm cuts you off, pulling back with a gasp. He simply leans up on one arm and slams the snooze button—and you laugh, you laugh, at how hard he hits it—before diving back into you.

You feel hot all over, where one of Steve’s hands has moved to cup your jaw, his thumb running delicately against your face as his mouth moves against yours, practically devouring you. Where the blankets are still over your lower halves, trapping in heat. When he pulls back, looks into your eyes, fucking smiles all dopey and pretty, and then kisses you again.

It’s so good, you’re almost angry at yourself for not kissing him sooner.

You kiss until his alarm goes off again and Steve's forced to pry himself away from you, groaning about being on his ‘last tardy warning’ from Keith.

Still, he takes the time to kiss your forehead on his way out, Family Video vest slung over his shoulder, calling a sweet, “bye, angel,” on his way out. His hair’s still a mess from your fingers, and he doesn’t even seem to mind.

You stay in his bed longer than you probably should, blinking up at the ceiling, fingers pressed against your lips like you’re searching for physical proof that everything was real.

What the fuck just happened?

-

It’s been a couple of weeks, and Steve can’t stop thinking about that kiss. He doesn’t know it, but you can’t stop thinking about it either.

Neither of you have brought it up, and things have faded back to normal as if it had never happened. But you and Steve are both thinking the same things without knowing it. How good and natural and easy it felt, how, every now and then, you think about doing it again.

You talk and joke and watch movies and eat meals together the same way you always have, and it’d be so easy to stay that way, to never kiss again. But then, what if you could stay that way and kiss? Wouldn’t that be something close to perfect?

You lay awake thinking about it every few nights. Because, when you really reflect on your life and how intertwined it is with Steve’s, you realize that you’ve sort of always acted like a couple, minus the kissing and sex aspect. You go on what could easily be classified as dates—the movies, lunch or dinner—you cuddle on the couch almost nightly, and you’ve never shied away from physical touch with one another. Held hands, a palm on your back.

You haven’t brought it up with Steve because you haven’t even come to terms with it yourself. Feelings are so fucking confusing and messy and you’d like to have a better idea of what’s going on in your own head before asking him about his.

Meanwhile, Steve has allowed himself to come to terms with it. He’s in love with you.

He’s pretty sure he has been for a while. Months, maybe even years.

It hadn’t come easily, though. It was nights spent similarly to yours, running through interactions you’ve had and the way he felt that one time in senior year when you went on a date with some guy from your math class. Even then, a part of him felt wrong about it, that pit in his gut.

Then there were his shifts with Robin at Family Video where he’d practically spilled everything just to get her opinion. She looked up and sighed “thank you” before saying that it was nice of him to finally catch on.

Had he really been that obvious? All this time? And had he really been that oblivious to his own feelings?

Steve can’t answer those questions. He can’t say when his love for you changed from platonic to romantic, he just knows that it has and he doesn’t think he’ll ever come back from it.

You’re his best friend in the entire world, the prettiest girl he’s ever seen, and he can’t picture himself loving anyone but you so wholly.

He’s fucking terrified of losing you, but he’s also terrified of never telling you how he feels and testing that what if.

So, like a desperate idiot, he knocks on the door to Eddie’s trailer.

Eddie opens it after a minute and what sounded like him stubbing his toe, “oh, hey Harrington. More weed?”

“No, shut up. I need your help.”

“You,” Eddie points at Steve, then at himself, “need my help for something? Are you ill?”

“Okay,” Steve, dramatic and bitchy as usual, sighs and mutters something about this being a stupid idea and turns to leave.

“Come on,” Eddie laughs, “I’m just joking. What’s up?”

Soon enough, Steve’s sitting on Eddie’s couch, Eddie pacing in front of the coffee table like this is a very serious matter, and telling him pretty much everything. Your kiss, the train of thought it sparked.

“Basically I’m in love with her and I have no clue what to do,” Steve finishes, sinking back into the couch cushions. It squeaks as he shifts.

Eddie pauses, tugging at his bottom lip between his fingers, then looks at Steve and says, “You know I’ve never dated anyone in my life, right?”

Steve groans into his hands, “Why do all of my friends have to be losers with no dating lives.”

Eddie ignores that, because he can tell how affected Steve actually is by all of this. How much he cares. He walks over and sits down on the opposite end of the couch. “Have you ever thought of, I don’t know, telling her how you feel?”

Steve rests his elbows on his knees, leaning forward and letting his head hang for a moment before picking it up. “Of course I have, but I’m fuckin’ scared.”

“What’s the worst that could happen?”

“Um, she could reject me and not feel the same way and everything would be awkward because I ruined it and I’d lose my best friend in the entire world.”

“What if she does feel the same?” Eddie asks.

He’s both yours and Steve’s friend, he’s been around the both of you together. He’s seen the way you look at each other. Eddie might not be an expert, but it’s always looked a lot like love to him. He’s pretty sure the chances of you feeling the same are quite high.

“What do you mean?”

“What if she does feel the same and you never figure it out because you’re too afraid?” Eddie says. “Man, don’t you think that risk is worth taking?”

Steve thinks about it, and as much as he hates to admit it, Eddie’s right. He’d hate to always wonder, to lose out on the chance to really be with you when he knows it could be so good.

You are worth the risk to him.

“When the fuck did you become so wise, Munson?”

“Dunno,” Eddie shrugs. “Wanna smoke?”

Steve laughs, “Yes I do.”

-

With Steve gone at work and you off for the day, there’s been too much room for your thoughts to creep in. Too much silence.

You’ve already been thinking about things so much. Thinking about him so much, that in his absence, your mind seemed to work overtime to fill in the gaps.

You thought about the day he picked you up from your apartment, how quick he was to drop whatever he’d been doing and come over and help you and take you home with him. The day he took you shopping and bought you a dress because he thought you looked pretty in it, the way his fingers fiddled with the strap on your shoulder when you tried it on for him.

The day he gifted you a remade version of your favorite picture from summer camp because he knew how much it meant to you, the way you held on to each other afterwards.

How you’d been waiting for him to get home that night he went to Eddie’s, just to make sure he was okay. How when he came in, he smiled at the sight of you curled on the couch, and he kissed your cheek when he walked by like it was the easiest thing in the world.

Your brain knew he was high, you could smell the weed mingling with his cologne on his clothes when he leaned in close, but your heart didn’t care about that. It thumped in your chest the second he leaned in closer, even worse when his lips touched your cheek.

The realization hits you now like a shock, a quick zip of electricity running through your system. You fucking love him.

Sure, you’ve loved Steve practically your whole life, but this was different. You love him, love him. Like, you want to kiss him when he comes home from work and in the morning. You want him to introduce you as his girlfriend and to be able to call him your boyfriend.

You feel stupid for not realizing it sooner, because looking back on things now, knowing how you feel, you can see it written throughout your entire friendship. Holding hands and kissing foreheads and hands pushing hair away from faces.

For a second, you’re purely happy, because you get to be in love with your best friend and it feels as warm and sweet as sunlight. Then, the fear creeps in, and you’re scared. Scared of losing him, of making things weird, of change and doing the wrong thing.

So scared that you start to panic and pack up some of your things in your bag like you’re running away.

Truthfully, you’re not sure what else to do. You’ve never been in love before, you’ve never known it this way—so kind and unconditional. And your parents sure as hell didn’t set a good example for you. They’d fight, and someone would leave with the slam of a door, and then they’d be back and the cycle would continue.

You’re scared and confused and your instincts are telling you to run away even though the only place you really wanna be is with Steve. In his arms.

You’re stuffing clothes into your bag just to keep your hands busy, breathing hard and fast, when you hear the front door open and close. Steve’s quick to find you, his eyes scanning your room and then looking at you. “What are you doing?”

You feel like you might cry just looking at him. His brown eyes worried but warm as always, his hands stuffed into his pockets like he’s nervous.

“I thought you weren’t supposed to be home until later,” you say, hoping he can’t hear the shake in your voice.

“It was dead, so Keith let me off early. I-” Steve furrows his brows, “are you leaving?”

You nod. “I’ve been in your way long enough.”

“I told you, you’re never in my way.” Steve knows you, and he loves you, and he can tell that there’s something going on. That you’re panicked and trying to get away from whatever it is. He cares too much to let that happen. “I want you to stay.”

You want to stay, too. You just don’t know what comes next, and that unknown, the lack of control, of familiarity, it makes your hands shake.

Your mind doesn’t work the same when you’re afraid.

“Give me one good reason why I should stay, Steve. I’ve been taking up your space for weeks and-”

“Because I love you.” Steve cuts you off. He hadn’t planned on telling you this way, he wanted it to be romantic and perfect but he can’t wait any longer. Especially not when you’re trying to run away. “I’m in love with you. And I want you here.”

You immediately stop in your tracks, blinking up at him like you’re not sure you’d heard him correctly. “You- what?”

“I love you. Romantically. And I think I have for a really long time.”

“You’re not high again, are you?” You ask, your eyes a little misty.

Steve walks over to you and grabs both of your hands in his, making sure you’re looking at him, at the sincerity written all over his face, when he says, “Completely sober. I fucking love you and I want you to keep living with me, because this house doesn’t really feel like home unless you’re in it.”

“What about when my apartment is ready?”

He squeezes your hands. “Stay then, too. Stay forever.”

You look up at him, his hair falling over his forehead, his eyes so honest, a tentative smile on his mouth. The only boy you’ve ever loved.

You feel silly for trying to escape this when this is how it’s turning out. Steve had been brave just now, telling you he loves you and he wants you to stay, so you decide to be brave, too.

It’s easier than you thought it would be to say: “I love you, too, Steve. I feel the same. I only just realized it and freaked out. I’m so scared of losing you, is all.”

“You won’t. Not ever.”

You tip your chin up to kiss him after he says it, because you can. You pour your feelings into it, and Steve returns your kiss as if it’s one he’s known for years. It’s slow, and deep, and sweet, and so full of love you’re practically overflowing with it.

The two of you only pull away when you need a breather. Steve doesn’t go far, resting his forehead against yours.

“So what happens now?” You ask.

“Well, we’ve been acting like a couple for a while, I think, so we stay the same. Mostly. Except now I get to call you my girlfriend-”

“Um, I’m pretty sure you’re supposed to ask me first.”

He lets go of one of your hands and pushes a loose strand of hair behind your ear, his knuckle running lovingly across your cheek. “My angel girl, will you be my girlfriend?”

Your grin is wide and lovesick and cheesy and you don’t care one bit. “Yeah, yes I will. Boyfriend.”

“And, being your boyfriend means I get to do this.”

He kisses you once more. And you don’t ever want to not be kissing him again.

𝜗𝜚

You’d already been going, but you hurry to match his pace into the audacious kitchen. Steve’s stovetop could cook for ten, and the main counter is already laid out with snacks, sodas, and red cups. You lean on your elbows between chocolate covered pretzels and a bowl of fruit, wondering if tonight’s the night Steve might blow his lid. The wager is a generous sixteen dollars accrued between losers. Eddie thinks Steve’s gonna crack tonight. Jeff and Gareth both agree that the end is near but not nigh; a week or two and he’ll throw you out on the street. Cindy and Mindy have better faith in your ability to charm him, both girls betting on months further ahead. 

From the way he’s looking at you, you aren’t sure you’ll make it to the end of Hellraiser.

It might have something to do with your chewing. “Uh, sorry,” you say, pushing the bowl of pretzels away from you. 

He shrugs. “It’s fine. Who cares, right? What’s mine is yours.”

His sarcasm is acidic. 

“Aw, thank you, Stevie. I didn’t know you felt that way.”

Steve snorts. It’s not a nice laugh, but something in your chest pulls hot and rough at the sound. He practically throws your popcorn onto the stovetop and lights the burner, his shoulders tensed under a warm brown polo, steam curling out of his ears with every second you stand there behind him. The metal of the container starts to creak in the heat, but you wait for the first pop of popcorn inside before you slip around the counter to stand beside him. 

“Where’d you get the movie?” you ask. 

Steve doesn’t answer. So annoyingly immature. You love the stupid haughtiness lining his eyes and the set of his mouth as he ignores you. It’s a tad smug, poorly concealed. 

“I didn’t know you liked horror.”

“How could I? Do jocks even watch movies?” he asks. 

Your eyebrows raise of their own accord. “Do they?” you ask. 

“I worked at a movie rental.” 

“Well, one doesn’t like to assume.”

Steve scoffs, as if to say, that’s rich. It confuses you enough to have you fall silent, turned completely to Steve as he shakes the jiffy pop over the heat. He looks less angry and more sad for a moment, his almond eyes in a sorry downturn you’d happily kiss back upwards again, until he feels you looking and snaps his gaze to yours. His glare comes alive. “What?” he bites. 

“I didn’t say anything?”

“Why are you looking at me?”

You widen your eyes, a little showfully. “Am I not allowed?”

“Why would you want to?”

“Is that a trick question?” The popcorn pop-pop-pops, quicker now, a steady rhythm. “Why do people usually look at you, Steven?”

“Are you guys coming?” Robin calls. 

“In a minute!” Steve sounds as annoyed as he looks.

“I’m just asking!”

He swings open a cabinet door and slams a bowl onto the kitchen counter. Risqué, he tears open the jiffy pop like it isn’t scaldingly hot and upends your popcorn into the bowl. 

You like seeing his twitchy brow, the way he clenches his fist when you take a step forward, but you’re not as eager for a beating as you might pretend. “I can go home, if you really don’t want me here. I wasn’t trying to abuse your hospitality, or anything.”

Your careful monotone attracts his incredulity. “Why’d you even wanna come, anyways? You knew I’d be here, didn’t you? It’s my house.” 

“That’s exactly why I came.”

“To fuck with me.”

“‘Cos I like you, Steve.” You take pleasure in his lack of response, reaching over his arm to turn off the heat on the burner, the weight of his eyes like a burn on the side of your face. “Despite what you might think.”

“Since when?”

“Since forever?”

“You called me a neanderthal.”

“You were being rude.”

“You told Dustin you’d rather be caught dead than date me?”

“Is that what I said?” You meet him head on, staring right into his eyes with that flirty flare of your lashes and a gentle smile, something to mess with his head, even as you tell him the truth. Is there anything so fun as making Steve’s heart pound? His lips part in surprise. “I don’t think that’s what I said. What did Henderson tell you, word for word?”

“He said you’d rather die than go on a date with me.”

“Well, I told Dustin I’d rather die than go to see Wham! with you when he implied you had a spare ticket.” You tilt your head gently to one side. “But that was hyperbole. I could’ve toughed it out… given a good enough reason. I told him I’m persuadable.” 

“That little shit didn’t tell me that.” 

“No, he’s fine. You were so sweet to me before, but I like this version of you.” You follow the line of his neck to his Adam’s apple. It bobs as he swallows nothing at all. “Bitter suits you, H.”

“I think you’re fucking with me.”

“Do you want it in writing?” 

You drag the bowl toward you and shovel a few pieces of popcorn into your mouth. It’s fresh and crunchy, still hot in their centres. You’re tempted to smile at Steve with kernels in your teeth, but you pout a little for a kiss instead and watch his jaw go slack. 

“No?” you murmur when he doesn’t move, licking your teeth clean. 

“You’re evil,” he says, reaching for your side, his hand behind your back and pressing you closer as his brain works overtime, “you knew he lied to me?”

“He didn’t lie, Steve, he just told you what he thought I meant. I lied, a little. Just to see what you’d do.”

You should’ve expected the kiss. His hands are on your body and you’d goaded him, invited him, but the press of his lips to yours isn’t half as spiteful as you’d pictured. There’s no clack of teeth or sudden gasp as he yanks you into his chest, just heat as he closes the distance between you and folds you into a half-embrace, his free hand covering your collarbone as he gives a firm, testing kiss. Quick as anything, he pulls away, eyes flashing open again to yours that hadn’t managed to shut. 

“Fine?” he asks. 

You offer him a real smile. 

The second kiss is more like what you’d imagined. It’s not better, but harder, and greedier, the hot seam of his mouth meeting yours as the bridge of his nose nudges your own, too close, too quick. You sew your hand into his hair, tugging him back when you need to breathe. He presses a needy kiss into the line of your jaw rather than part from you, and you start to wonder if you should’ve been more flexible about the Wham! concert.

“You still like me, then,” you say happily. 

“Yeah. Apparently,” he mutters, red blush spread over his nose and the tops of his cheeks. He looks like he could sit you down and bite you hard if you let him. 

“Let’s sit together,” you say, hip checking him as you turn to leave. 

He has come to appreciate books a hell of a lot more since TVs became mostly useless. He misses movies, maybe wishes he studied harder so he understood words like ‘propagate’ to mean more than when his grandma used to plant flowers on the foothill of her yard hoping they’d grow to the top naturally. He can guess the meaning, of course, and he reads over the poetry quietly, forgetting you for a moment, even as he thinks of you.

“Hey, listen to this,” he says, clearing his throat. “‘I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where,   

I love you directly without problems or pride–’”

“Are you proposing?” you ask, flummoxed. 

Steve shushes you. “I’m reading to you.”

“Um…” You peer around his leg to see the book. “Where’d you get that?”

“In my jacket.”

“Oh. Okay. Well, finish it if you want, sorry. I’m listening,” you say.

Steve turns to look down at you, then stares at the book instead, caught by the image of you with your eyes as wide as they go, your mouth soft and parted, plush, the shape of your nose and your hands in your lap, waiting for him to talk, to read to you. He says the line again, then his voice goes to a slight husk. “‘I love you like this because I don’t know any other way to love, except in this form in which I am not nor are you, so close that your hand upon my chest is mine,’” —mortified, Steve clears his throat as subtly as he’s able to, thinking of every night and morning spent with your hand laid over his chest— “so close that your eyes close with my dreams.’”

He won’t cry. It’s not tears. But something in him feels embarrassingly wobbly at such a quick turn to emotion. Steve doesn’t love you without problems or pride, he is so prideful, and there are always problems, but he supposes if he got to the root of how much he loved you, he’d find it without complication. It’s not like he feels like he has much choice in things, it’s a desperate thing to need you, even if he wouldn’t change it. 

You toy with one of his shoelaces. “So close that your eyes close with my dreams,” you say, letting your voice list, your fingertips finding his ankle through his jeans. “Do you think he meant it literally, like they’re so in love she dreams his dreams, or that when she closes her eyes she thinks about what she has to do to– to get him the things he wants?” you ask. 

Steve blinks. “I think it’s that he loves her so much he sees her as another part of himself. Like they’re completely– they’re the same.”

You chance a sheepish glance up at him. “Like us, then,” you say, likely knowing how deeply corny it is to confess, but it doesn’t feel corny to Steve. It’s just affirmation that all his needs and wants are already fulfilled. “I like thinking my hand is your hand. Is that weird?”

Steve offers his hand to you and helps you stand. “Does it matter if it is? If we’re the same, then I said it. You used my mouth.”

“There’s a hundred of those in there?” you ask, nodding at the book's title. “If we get a pencil and underline everything that applies to us, is that totally lame?”

Your laugh makes Steve laugh. “Nope. Might need two pencils, though,” he says.

You slink your arms around him to force a hug. Steve squeezes you tight, resting his cheek contentedly against your temple. 

“And I already proposed, by the way,” he murmurs, rubbing his nose into your skin. “So I couldn’t have been doing it again.”

You make an excited huff of a laugh and wiggle a bit in his arms, apparently pleased with the reminder. “I don’t know, I wouldn’t mind it. Propose to me lots and lots.”

“Nancy’s maybe coming,” Steve adds. 

You cannot contain your jealousy at the idea, and decide not to talk at all. Steve did mention Nancy to you when you met her younger brother, Mike, at the College. Mike thought that Nancy, Holly, and their parents had all died at the start of the apocalypse, having made it out of Hawkins with the Byers family. 

Steve was understandably a little upset when Jonathan told him Nancy was dead, and you’d petted his hair, not jealous at all back then. Only now she’s most certainly alive, having escaped Hawkins with Holly to take up sanctuary in the Pontiac refugee camp. It was big news, Mike got stuck in a weird custody battle, and you had to contend with one of Steve’s ex’s being alive and around him, which you’d never dealt with before. 

It only got worse when you met her. She’s smart, and funny, and she has a nice smile when she shares it. Like you’re in on a secret. Your stomach curdles just thinking about her. 

“She’s good with the firearms,” Steve says. 

“Good,” you say. 

Eddie, who has listened to you lament Nancy Wheeler’s occasional presence in camp, tries to save you your dignity, “Yeah, that’s great! She can hold the geek’s back for me while I dry Y/N’s tears. We’re gonna do just fine, aren’t we, sweetheart?”

You snort laugh. Worse when Steve’s hand skirts up your calf and tickles you. 

“Eddie, as handsome as you are, I really can’t be without him,” you say. 

“I’m handsome,” Steve says. 

“Yeah, baby, you’re so handsome.”

He nods as though this is somehow permission he’d been waiting for and begins to untie your shoe laces. Usually, you would genuinely, sincerely worry that your feet smelled too much like feet after walking or sweating all day, but the weather is cold and you’re a sedentary creature on Fridays when you don’t have to go do your fence duties, so you let him take off your shoes and pull one socked foot into his hands. They’re pretty much always sore, even Fridays, and you aren’t one to pass up on a foot massage despite the initial terror of letting Steve them. Turns out Steve loves your feet as much as the rest of you, because he is a freak and a weirdo and a proper lover. You should’ve known that the first time he scrubbed blood out of your jeans, or checked your hurting tooth for cavities. 

“Can you do the thing to my heel, please?” you ask, with a healthy modicum of humbleness. It is, after all, still a foot massage. 

Steve does not care even slightly. “I gotta take your socks off.”

“Uh, then no thanks.” 

“Don’t be a baby, Eddie doesn’t care.”

“Uh,” Eddie says.

“Weren’t you just trying to steal her?” Steve asks, quirking his brow. He rolls his eyes. “Loser doesn’t have the chops for it.”

“I don’t like anybody’s toes,” Eddie says. 

“Feels like a lie.”

“I don’t! I saw this lady once at the public pool with a bunion and it made me footphobic, I swear.”

“That is so gross,” Robin says, collapsing on the bedroll beside Steve, announcing herself with little fanfare. 

“Bunions aren’t gross, they just happen,” Steve says. “What the hell. You guys are supposed to be the accepting ones.”

“Steve has a bunion,” you say plainly. 

Steve hisses, “I don’t, you’re undermining the point!” 

Steve having a bunion would not make you love him any less. They’re not gross, they just have a funny name. 

“I would like to keep my socks on,” you say, your request lost under Eddie and Robin’s high-pitched, hyena blend of a laugh. 

Steve doesn’t pretend to be mad about the bunion thing, leaning down to kiss your knee. “It’s fine, baby. Leave them on, I don’t care, just let me get the cramp out of your pinky toe.”

“Please, will you?” you ask. They wake you up sometimes, they’re so intense and in such a silly place. 

He does a groany-laugh thing you can’t think about in polite company and begins pressing the pads of his thumbs into your tense foot. From across the way, Eddie catches your eye. “Wrapped around your little finger,” he says. 

“He didn’t even like me when we met,” you brag. “Took ages for him to talk to me. I saved his life, and he probably said fifty words to me total, that first week.”

“I am sorry,” Steve says, sounding distracted by the task at hand. 

“Dude, shut up. I know he was grumpy, but fifty words?” Robin asks, the cropped lengths of her hair falling away from her face as she tips her head back, like she’s praying to someone. “God help this stupid boy.”

“I was under a lot of pressure,” Steve says, thumb in the arch of your foot now and slightly rougher than it had been before. No part of you thinks it’s in retaliation, though, it’s just the massage. “We were trying to catch up to you guys. The slower we were on foot, the further away you guys got in Michigan.”

“I’m confused,” Eddie says. 

“About what?” Steve asks. 

“This took a while to get,” you say, shifting around on the bedroll, pleased when Steve pauses his massage to move your legs into a better position over his thigh. “You know he used to kiss me and still not talk to me, some days.”

“That’s not funny,” Robin says. 

Steve glances up from your foot. 

You catch his expression and wince —it was meant to be light hearted. “Sorry, it’s not– he wasn’t mean–”

“I was mean.” Steve smiles at you gently. “I was. I still am. And there were days when I’d kiss you and not know what to say to you, or I’d be stressed because I didn’t know where our next meal was coming from, but I’m still sorry. It was mean, and you didn’t deserve it.”

You try not to stammer, hot in the cheeks. “Yeah, I know. I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Kinda hard to picture,” Eddie says, saving you again. “Can’t imagine you not falling over yourself trying to please, Harrington.”

“Well, I’m not, like, constantly fighting for both our lives anymore.”

“You act like I was such a burden,” you say. You’re not sure why; you’d been tentative the first time you thought you upset him and now you’re saying something you know has the power to start an argument. 

Luckily, Steve understands. “You weren’t, but I compartmentalised wrong and I– you know, I’m a sexist loser and I wanted to protect you. I had to. I had to live so I could make sure you were okay, and I had to make sure you were okay, too. For me. It stopped being, like. A thing I owed you pretty quickly.” 

“Yeah?” you ask. “When did it stop being about your life debt, honey?”

Steve shrugs. “I don’t know. When did you make that compass with my hair?”

“With what?” Robin asks.

“Like, a week after the high school?” you ask, startled. 

“I guess then.” 

You know Steve loves you, but you’d never pictured his affection for you beginning so early. Or, not affection, but– “I always thought I was such a chore,” you say. Which he knows. 

“Keeping you safe was never a chore,” Steve says, clearing his throat as he begins his massaging on your opposite foot. 

“Sorry,” you say. 

“No, don’t be. I was mean to you. Heart was in the right-ish place, but I still made it harder on you that it needed to be.” 

“Steve, you weren’t in love with her the second that you met her?” Eddie asks, mouth dropped open in his drama. “Baby, you don’t have to put up with this. I’ve been in love with you literally since I saw you cussing at pill bottles. I will treat you right.”

Steve extends himself over your chest to cover you up. “Don’t let him,” he says to you. 

You laugh. “No, I won’t.” 

“Let me do your calves, too.”