cold & unsure

It was true. The break room smelled horrendous. The freezers and the sale floor were cold to protect the product, but back here was a stuffy, sticky coffin of recycled air.

One of the mall's maintenance guys was supposed to fix it this morning but he hadn't been back yet. And to be honest, he looked a little sketch. No tools, very short sentences, and a vaguely Russian accent. 

"It's your turn, Buckley," Steve grumbled without moving.

"Nuh-uh. I did it yesterday. You two can duke it out but it's not gonna be me."

The swinging door to the shop floor shut behind her and she was gone.

Great.

You didn't even need to look at him to know he had that stupid, lazy grin on his face.

"You two can duke it out," he mimicked in a higher pitch, still slumped in the chair, clearly having no intention of moving.

"Look, there's two bags already, we can each just take one. For once this summer, I don't have the energy to argue with you. I'm sweating from way too many places I'd rather not be, I think my deodorant gave up hours ago, and my drink is already mostly water."

With a dramatic sigh, you pushed yourself up from the chair, the red vinyl sticking to the back of your thighs with an embarrassing noise. Steve watched, an unreadable expression on his face, as you went to the corner by the door where the offending bags sat.

"What?" you echoed his earlier tone. "I can't help it if the shorts don't come in a bigger size."

You yanked one of the black plastic bags from the pile, and Steve finally stood up. The shorts they had you wear were ridiculous on your frame, a size too small, digging into your hips and thighs. Usually you didn't care, but today, with the heat melting everything in the mall to a sticky pulp, you felt like you were suffocating.

"Trust me, I'm not looking," Steve said. But he was.

He grabbed the other bag, his arm brushing yours. The contact lasted less than a second, but it sent a jolt through you that had nothing to do with the oppressive heat. You blamed it on static, on the friction of the plastic bags, anything other than some pretty boy in a sailor suit. He was the antithesis of everything you were supposed to like.

You made it to the employee entrance at the back of the mall, near the loading docks. The heavy metal door groaned open, and a blast of real, unconditioned air hit you.

The groan Steve let out was dramatic, even for this heat. "It's worse out here."

You couldn't argue. The air smelled of hot asphalt and distant trash. The sun beat down on the concrete as you trudged toward the giant green dumpster, the plastic bag scraping against the pavement.

"Let's just get this over with," you mumbled, more to yourself than to him.

Steve tossed his bag in with a lazy heave. It landed with a sickeningly wet thud. You did the same. As you turned to go back inside, you tripped over a deep crack in the pavement.

"Fuck!" you grunted out, turning to take a look at your knee, which was now stinging and bleeding. You ripped your knee away from the searing concrete and inspected the damage.

A deep scrape, a little bloody but more dirt and grime than anything else. You huffed out a frustrated breath, your already frayed patience wearing even thinner. You lay back on the hot pavement, one knee propped up, and awaited the sweet release of heat induced death. 

"Looks like someone hasn't gotten her sea legs." Steve stood over you, blocking the sun in his eyes with his hand, the other settled on his hip. "Oh, shit, that actually looks bad..." 

"Brilliant observation, Captain." you snapped, the pain making you sharper than usual.

He crouched down, the shorts stretched tight across his thighs. This uniform was truly ridiculous, but the way it fit him was… infuriating. Being near eye level with his crotch was not helping matters. 

"You're bleeding," he said, his voice softer now. He reached out as if to touch your knee, then thought better of it, letting his hand hover for a moment before dropping it.

"Again with the astute observations. You missed your calling, Harrington. Should've been a detective."

"C'mon." he rolled his eyes again, extending a hand to help you up. "Let's get you back to the break room. We've got a first aid kit in the stockroom. I'm pretty sure I saw it when I was looking for places to hide the day they made us film that embarrassing commercial."

You ignored his hand and pushed yourself up, your palm stinging on the hot pavement. He gave you a raised eyebrow and you sighed before reluctantly taking his help. His grip was firm and warmer than you expected. You tried to pull away as soon as you were standing, but he held on for a beat too long, steering you toward the door.

The break room was still a sauna, but at least it wasn't the blazing sun. He sat you down in the same chair you'd vacated earlier and rummaged through a cabinet, finally emerging with a white plastic box with a red cross on it.

"Alright, tough guy," he said, kneeling in front of you. "Let's clean this up."

"I can do it myself." You protested, but he was already wordlessly cleaning the wound. 

He was really good at this, you thought. Much more than you expected someone like him to be. 

"What, did you patch people up after you and your jock friends threw them against lockers or something?"

It was an unnecessary jab, but you needed to say something to break the otherwise tender moment. 

He looked up at you with an almost hurt expression as he ripped the gauze packet open with his teeth. The motion was quick and efficient.

"Yeah, that was me," he said, not looking at you, focusing on cleaning the scrape with an antiseptic wipe. "King Steve. Got the T-shirt and everything."

He sounded so bitter, like the name tasted wrong coming from his lips.

"Sorry," you mumbled, feeling a pang of something you didn't want to name. "That was..."

"Forget it," he cut you off, but his touch gentled even more. "People are allowed to think I'm an asshole. I was an asshole."

You stayed quiet as watched him gently pressed the fabric to the cleaned wound, noticing how such big hands could be so precise. How someone who you knew could be a clumsy, arrogant moron could now have a look of intense focus.

He's quiet for a long moment, before glancing up at you again. "Had my ass kicked more than a few times. You learn a few things. Like how to clean a scrape."

There was something more there, something in the way he said it that you couldn't quite place. He wasn't talking about a simple schoolyard scuffle. But you didn't have the energy to press.

"Well if they didn't build this mall so fast maybe all the pavement wouldn't be cracking..." you muttered, both embarrassed by your fall and desperate to move on from an impending heavier topic.

He lets out a short, amused breath of air and he's taping a fresh piece of gauze over your knee. He's so close you can smell him, a clean scent of soap and a tinge of sweat. It's a musky, surprisingly comforting smell that has no right to be this intoxicating.

"All done, think you'll survive."

He pats your good knee and sits back on his heels, surveying his work before looking up at you, as if asking with his eyes if there's anything else you may need.

It was a cruel joke seeing him like that, practically on his knees in front of you. His hair was sunkissed, brushed slightly more away from his forehead. His eyes were unfairly puppy dog-ish and you swore he had to actively put balm on his lips with how pouty and shiny they always looked. 

Steve was pretty, and you hated it. You hated how easy he was to look at.

"Guess I'll have to." You push the chair back and stand. "Thanks, I guess. For the medical attention and not, you know, leaving me to die out there."

"Yeah, well, Buckley would have my head if I came back without you." He stands too, his height suddenly imposing in the small space. "Can't have you bleeding out on my watch. Bad for business."

He walked over to grab his hat and did a little trick where he flipped it onto his head. You tried to look unimpressed, but a ghost of a smile tugged at your lips.

"C'mon, Harrington, don't flatter yourself. My death would probably improve sales."

His laugh was real this time. "I disagree. We'd have far less preteen boys trying to order extra scoops just to get you to lean over the counter."

You paused, your hand on the panel of the swinging door. That was… new. A warmth that had nothing to do with the weather spread through your chest. You risked a glance back at him.

He looked as if he was surprised at himself, too. He was leaning against the table again, trying to regain that careless facade, but something had shifted. You saw it in the slight tension in his shoulders, in the way he couldn't quite meet your eye for a second.

"The shirt." he gestured, clearing his throat. "It's, y'know, tight."

Any hint of flirtatious energy inside you evaporated at that. You were suddenly acutely aware of the way the company mandated top stretched across your stomach and chest. The casual, almost clinical observation stung more than any deliberate insult could have.

Steve could practically feel an icy chill when you wordlessly pushed through the door and it had nothing to do with the AC from the sales floor. 

"Shit..." he muttered to himself, relaxing against the table with a deep sigh, running a hand down his face. He knew that look. He had said the wrong thing. Again.

The rest of your shift was a special kind of hell. The soft serve machine seemed determined to only dispense melted soup, the toppings station was a sticky mess that no amount of wiping could fix, and the endless loop of corporate-approved pop hits drilled directly into your skull. Every interaction felt like a performance. Your smile for the customers was a brittle mask, your sarcastic remarks to Robin were forced and thin.

"Are you good?" she asked when it was close to closing and the Friday rush had died down. 

"Yeah. Fine."

Your words were short as you marked your clipboard for the nightly inventory. 

"Okay... well you're practically putting your pen through the paper there..." She gestured with her scoop, "and you haven't made a single joke about the mall cop that looks like Tom Selleck if he was raised by wolves."

You glanced at the man leaning against one of the columns outside the store, sporting a truly glorious yet questionable mustache. You shrugged and went back to your clipboard.

You could feel her looking at you before letting out a dramatic sigh and going back to her duties.

Steve didn't try to talk to you. He worked with a quiet efficiency, wiping counters, restocking syrups, avoiding your line of sight.

Eventually Robin shut the gate and you counted the money in the till. 

"You missed a twenty." 

It comes from over your shoulder, not in a malicious way, but a simple statement of fact. The fact that it was his voice though, that made you clench your jaw. 

"No I didn't." Your reply was clipped.

"Yeah, you did. It's stuck to the back of the tray." He reached over you, not quite touching you, but close enough that the scent of him - that faint musk- washed over you again.

His thumb brushed the bill loose from its hiding place. He set it on top of the stack without another word and turned to wipe down a spotless display case.

The silent ride home with Robin was just as bad. Your hands gripped the wheels a little too hard. 

"He's not that bad." Robin finally said from your passenger seat. 

"Who? Tom Selleck wolf-cop? No, I think he's probably a pillar of the community." The sarcasm was so thick it was nearly solid. You knew exactly who she meant.

"No, Steve."

You sighed, letting your shoulders slump as you pulled into her driveway.

"I mean, he's a total dingus, sure, but he's not malicious, you know?" She was unbuckling her seatbelt, gathering her bag. "He's just… post-prime Steve Harrington. He's still figuring out the new manual."

"It's weird of you to defend him." 

"It's weird of you to get your panties in a twist over a stupid sailor boy." She shot back with a grin, hopping out and leaning back in through the open window. "Look, all I'm saying is... don't take whatever dumb shit he says to heart. He's probably just scared of your... you-ness."

You raised an eyebrow.

"Anyway," she said with a yawn. "I have the morning shift tomorrow so I need sleep."

"Wait... you're not closing on a Saturday?"

"Nope. You're on your own with Captain Hair Care." She wiggled her fingers in a wave. "Don't let him get under your skin."

She was gone before you could formulate a decent comeback, a skip in her step as she trotted toward her front door. You watched until she was inside, the porch light flicking on. Alone with the quiet hum of your car's engine, you leaned your forehead against the steering wheel.

Robin's words bounced around your head. Scared of what? Your tendency to swear like a sailor? Your less-than-perfect figure in a ridiculous uniform? Your ability to form complete sentences without the word 'like'? The thought of the former King of Hawkins High being intimidated by you was so absurd it was almost funny.

But it was the last thing she said that stuck. Don't let him get under your skin.

Too late. He was already there, a low-grade fever you couldn't sweat out, even in this miserable heat. The image of him kneeling in front of you, his focused expression, the gentle pressure of his fingers on your knee... It played on a loop behind your eyelids.

Right next to all the annoying shit. Forgetting to restock the cherries. Leaving sticky rings on the counter. The way he tried to charm every mom who came to the counter. And that comment. The clinical, almost detached observation about your shirt being tight.

He was under your skin alright, like a parasite.

Saturday afternoon arrived with the subtlety of a jackhammer. The heat was worse. It shimmered off the asphalt in visible waves, ready to fry an egg or melt your skin off.

You walked into Scoops Ahoy at 1:59 PM, a minute before your shift. The blast of frigid air of the mall was a welcome shock. When you clocked in, Steve was already behind the counter, wiping down the surface that was already immaculate.

"It's been surprisingly dead for a Saturday," he said without looking up, breaking the silence. He sounded tired. "Guess everyone's at the pool."

"Smart people are at the pool," you mumbled, tying on your own ridiculous apron. The uniform felt like a punishment, the fabric scratching at your already overheated skin.

Robin popped out from the back, changed in some normal summer clothes. 

"Lemme guess," you sigh. "The pool." 

"Right you are my fellow corporate slave! Some of the band kids are getting together, and I cannot miss an opportunity to make fun of Brad Johnson's new haircut." she beamed. "You two have fun. Don't burn the place down."

She gave you a pointed look, then one at Steve, before she disappeared out the front with a jaunty little wave.

"I would give anything to have the morning shift right now," you grumbled to no one in particular.

"You and me both," Steve sighed, finally looking up at you. "I could be at the pool right now, seeing how the summer is treating the female population of Hawkins."

A familiar irritation sparked in your chest.

Of course.

That's where he'd be. Scoping out chicks in bikinis. The thought made your stomach clench for a reason you refused to examine.

Instead, you grabbed a rag and started wiping down the already clean topping bar.

"I already did that..." he started. 

"Don't you have a pool of your own?" your voice came out judgey and sharp, but you didn't look at him. 

"Uh, yeah... I do. But it's no fun by yourself." He gestured vaguely with the rag.

"I'm sure you have a rolodex of numbers you could call."

There. The perfect jab. Annoying, bordering on cruel, and it would hopefully shut him up for a few hours.

"Right," a bitter, short little laugh escaped him. "Look, could you just... not do that?"

"Do what?"

"That thing you do. Where you act like you know everything about me."

Your hands stilled on the counter.

"I don't. I'm just making conversation based on the public record."

"Look, I know what my 'public record' is, alright?" His voice wasn't angry, just... weary. "You've made it pretty clear you think I'm some shallow, womanizing douchebag. But maybe..."

He trailed off, tossing the rag into the sink behind the counter with a wet slap.

"You know what? Never mind."

The silence that followed was thick as the hot fudge congealed in the drip tray.

A few hours went by and the after dinner rush finally slowed.

You managed to have a civil, albeit short, conversation about the best Muppet. You argued for Animal, obviously. He was a Kermit man through and through. It was the most you'd talked to him without the conversation taking a sharp, veiled turn.

As the night progressed, just a few hours left of your shift left, you both found yourselves people watching in between customers. 

"Oh shit, that's Stacey Carmichael," Steve said, a little too loud, a spark of that old King Steve charm suddenly igniting. He instinctively ran a hand through his hair. It was a reflex. "She, uh, she used to be a cheerleader." 

You rolled your eyes as you watched the tall, gorgeous blonde talking with a group of other equally gorgeous girls in the food court. 

"Yeah, I'm aware. She was in my class." 

"Oh shit... yeah you were a couple years ahead, right?" he looked at you with genuine curiosity, which somehow was more annoying.

"A gap year and then the failed college stint," you said, quoting the air with your fingers. "I was supposed to be a sophomore this year."

"So what happened? If you don't mind me asking..."

"Another gap year." was all you offered. You didn't want to get into the messy details of your spectacular failure. Of the crippling anxiety and the pressure of it all. How you'd locked yourself in your dorm room for three days before finally calling your parents in tears to come get you.

He seemed to understand this was a door you didn't want to open. He nodded, his eyes drifting back to Stacey, who was now laughing at something her friend said, a bright sound that carried across the food court.

"She turned me down for prom, you know," he said, a thoughtful look on his face. "Her prom. My sophomore year. I was so sure I had it in the bag. I'd just gotten my car."

"And already going for senior girls, huh?" you couldn't help but poke, a genuine, small smile gracing your lips. "A real legacy player."

He flushed, a deep pink creeping up his neck. "Shut up. She was... mature. For her age." He winced at how that sounded.

"Code for: she had boobs and long legs. Still does." you summarized, taking a sip of the soda you'd poured yourself a while ago.

"Yeah, well," he leaned against the counter, mirroring your posture. "She's still pretty."

"So go talk to her." The words were out before you could stop them. "You're a changed man now and all." 

He looked at you like you'd just suggested he go wrestle a bear. "No way. Not now. Not... not here."

"Why not? She'd probably still swoon for the old Harrington charm."

"I'm in a sailor suit," he deadpanned, gesturing down at himself with a look of utter revulsion. "The magic's kind of gone when you're asking for their order of banana splits instead of asking them to dance."

You had to stifle a laugh.

"Girls aren't that complicated. If she's still shallow like she was in school, she already peaked anyway." 

"You really think that?" He looked at you, and for a moment, the usual smirk was gone, replaced by a genuine, searching expression. "That people just... peak?"

"I think some people do," you said quietly, your gaze drifting to Stacey's group again. "She once asked me in English class if my hair was a 'political statement'. So, yeah. I think her peak was probably getting crowned queen of the winter formal."

The corner of Steve's mouth twitched.

"You had that pink streak in the front, right? That was cool."

Your eyes snapped back to his. Cool?

Coming from him, that felt like a betrayal of the natural order.

"Principal Higgins would disagree. He called it a 'deliberate act of insubordination' and threatened to suspend me if I didn't wash it out."

"He was a dick," Steve said with surprising vehemence. "He gave me detention once for a week when Mrs. Click caught me and Tommy H. trying to see how many pencils we could fit in the ceiling tiles."

You made a disgusted look at the mention of Tommy Hagan. That was a name you could have happily gone the rest of your life without hearing again.

"You were a child of privilege, Steve," you said, your tone light but sharp, trying to steer the conversation back to safer, more familiar territory.

He picked up a stray cherry that had rolled onto the counter and popped it into his mouth. The way his lips closed around the small red fruit was distractingly... something. "I think I was a bored little shit with too much time on my hands. There's a difference."

Seriously, why were his lips so—

"And now you're a bored little shit in a sailor suit," you shot back, grabbing the cherry stem from his fingers and throwing it in the trash. Your fingers brushed his lips only just slightly. A current ran up your arm that you blamed on the static from the stupid poly-blend uniform.

You turned back to see Stacey and her friends heading to the ice cream parlor. 

"And, sailor, here's your cue."

You leaned against the back counter, a gesture that forced Steve to take the lead and serve them. He straightened up immediately, that lazy, charming smile sliding into place like a well-worn mask. He was good at it, you had to give him that.

"Welcome to Scoops Ahoy, ladies. What's your pleasure?"

Stacey giggled, flipping her hair over her shoulder. "Steve Harrington? I haven't seen you in ages. You work here?"

"Just for the summer," he said with a casual shrug that was anything but. "Living the dream. So, what can I get for you? On the house, for old times' sake."

Her friends tittered. You rolled your eyes so hard you were worried they'd get stuck.

You busied yourself with wiping down yet another spot on the counter that was already perfectly clean, trying to ignore the easy way he worked them.

You heard that sickeningly sweet voice say your name and you looked up at Stacey. Her perfect pink lip curled a little as she looked at you. "You're still doing... this?" She gestured vaguely, an all-encompassing wave that clearly meant your entire existence— your curvy frame in the too-tight uniform, the dark eyeliner that was slightly smudged at the end of the day, your complete lack of interest in her conversation.

A hot prickle of shame and anger started at the back of your neck. Until you looked up at her and noticed a familiar tell you'd only seen from a few girls in your college. 

It was less judgmental curiosity and more... interest.

You held her gaze and gave her a slow, deliberate smile before leaning over the counter. You knew exactly what this did to the uniform top.

"Yep. But now I have a deep and abiding passion for corporate-mandated polyester and the art of the perfect swirl," you said, your voice dripping with mock sincerity, giving her exactly the right amount of sarcasm and confidence.

To your left, you heard the soft clink of a metal scoop hitting a ceramic bowl.

Steve had stopped.

Stacey's perfectly composed mask wavered for a second, a flicker of... something in her eyes.

"Oh. Well. Good for you," she said, her smile becoming more genuine.

Steve, bless him, was clueless. He made an attempt to steer Stacy's attention back to him. As if he was doing you a favor. Getting you away from her taunting. 

"Alright ladies..." he started, trying to regain control of the situation, but he didn't understand.

You already had it.

Stacey's friends lost interest and started ordering their sundaes.

While Steve was occupied, Stacey leaned a little closer to you, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.

"Hey, so, me and some friends are having a little get together tomorrow night. A bonfire, out at Lovers Lake. You should come."

‘Little get together’ was code for summer rager. You knew the type. Keystone lights and weed stolen from older brothers.

She was watching you, waiting. Not mocking. Expectant. And in that moment, the pieces clicked into place without any apprehension. Her initial judgment wasn't about you being beneath her. It was about her trying to figure out if you were like her.

A packed party meant no one was looking too much at any two people slipping off into the woods. A bonfire at Lovers Lake was prime real estate for secret encounters.

Steve's head popped up from behind you, a look of pure confusion on his face. He was completely lost.

"A party?" he asked, trying to smoothly join the conversation he wasn't a part of. He turned to Stacey. "Cool. Who's all going?"

Stacey didn't even look at him. Her gaze was fixed on you.

"We're not really advertising," she said, her tone dismissing him so completely it was almost masterful. "But... you're both welcome to join. Just some of us who are home for the summer. Hanging out."

The offer was still aimed at you. Steve was an afterthought, a necessary addition to extend the invitation to the other half of the current Scoops Ahoy duo.

He didn't seem to realize that Stacey Carmichael, the girl who had turned him down for prom, the girl who represented the peak of the very social hierarchy he used to rule, had just completely shut him out to talk to you.

"We'll think about it," you said, your voice casual, as if you got invited to ragers by reformed mean girls every day of the week. You gave her another slow smile, this one with a little more teeth.

"Cool. Hope to see you there," she said, finally turning to collect her sundae from a flustered-looking Steve. "Thanks, Stevie. It's... cute. The uniform."

The name 'Stevie' was the final twist of the knife. She sauntered away with her friends, their laughter echoing back from the polished linoleum.

You let the silence hang in the air for a solid ten seconds after they were gone.

"I think that went well," he said, crossing his arms and nodding his head. "She did a little volley there by mentioning the party to you and then looped me right back in. Classic misdirection. She's interested."

You stared at him. He was genuinely analyzing this like it was a sports play.

"Steve," you said, your voice dangerously quiet. 

"Yeah?"

"She wasn't interested in you."

"What are you talking about? She was totally flirting. I think she wants me to go to that party tomorrow." The hope in his voice was pathetic. "She even called me Stevie. That's pretty straightforward."

"That's not what was happening." You leaned forward, lowering your voice even though you were completely alone in the ice cream shop. "She wasn't interested in you."

The gears in his head were turning visibly.

"Okay...?" He drew out the word. "So... she was just being nice?"

"Let me spell it out for you, Captain. Her invitation wasn't for you. It was for me."

He blinked. The full, glorious impact of your statement seemed to short-circuit his brain.

"So she wants to be friends after bullying you in high school? Yeah, right."

"I didn't say she wanted to be friends." You met his bewildered gaze head-on, your own expression a mixture of pity and amusement.

And then, you saw it. A flicker of something in his eyes. A lightbulb, dim and far away, but it was on.

"Oh," he breathed out. He leaned against the counter, taking off his hat and running a hand through his hair. "Oh. Wow."

He looked from you, to where Stacey's group had disappeared, and back to you again, as if trying to solve a complex equation.

His gaze settled on your face, not your body, not your clothes, just your eyes. He was looking at you differently.

Not as a coworker, not as a friend of Robin's, not as the girl who made sarcastic comments. He was looking at you as a person with a secret, a life beyond this stupid counter.

"So she's...?" he trailed off, unable or unwilling to finish the sentence.

You just gave a simple nod.

"Holy shit," he whispered, a slow grin spreading across his face. It wasn't the cocky, practiced smile he used for customers. "Okay, now the prom thing makes so much more sense."

You couldn't help it. An honest-to-god laugh escaped you, echoing slightly in the empty shop.

"So that's what you get out of all this? An explanation for your bruised teenage ego?"

"What did you want me to say?"

It wasn't rude or judgemental like a small part of you had suspected he may be. He was confused and you had thrown a lot at him all at once.

"I was prepared for you to be an asshole, honestly."

"I can be," he said, shrugging on a surprising wave of vulnerability. "But, you know, not about... that." He gestured vaguely between you and the direction Stacey and her friends had left. "It's not... I don't see why it's a big deal."

Your laugh was a little softer this time. "You're the last person I expected to have that reaction."

His smile was a little softer now, something unreadable in his eyes as he cleared his throat a little. He busied himself with grabbing the clipboard and starting the closing inventory checklist before he spoke again. 

"So are you, uh, also..." he didn't look at you as he spoke, focusing hard on counting the boxes of cones like they held the secrets of the universe. "...like Stacey?"

"Gay?" you finished for him, the word feeling foreign and loud in the quiet shop. "No. Not... exclusively."

You watched the back of his neck turn pink as he nodded, processing the new information.

"Okay," he said to the inventory sheet. "Okay. That's... fine."

"Wow, Harrington," you deadpanned. "Don't get too excited. You might pull something."

He finally turned to look at you, and the smile was back, but it was different. It was real. "Sorry. My brain is just... rebooting. You know, Steve, circa '83, probably would have had some deeply stupid and offensive thing to say right about now."

"Yeah, well," you leaned against the counter, trying to act casual, but your heart was hammering against your ribs. "He's not here right now. Just the sailor."

"Good," he said, his gaze holding yours for a beat too long. "The sailor is much better company."

The last hour of your shift passed in a strange, comfortable silence. It wasn't tense or awkward, just...

Unnerving? 

You kept catching him watching you. Not staring, not leering, just... watching. When you'd catch his eye, he'd look away quickly, a faint blush creeping up his neck, and pretend to be intensely fascinated by the nutritional information on a can of whipped cream.

"I'm not interested in Stacey." You finally say, much more casually than you feel, as you count the till. 

Steve looked up from where he was sweeping the floor, leaning on the broom. "I figured."

"Did you?" Your tone was laced with skepticism.

He shrugged, pushing a stray sprinkle into a dustpan. "Yeah. I mean, you called her 'shallow'. You don't seem like the kind of girl to go for people you think are shallow."

He paused, then added, "Even if they do have incredible legs."

A small, unexpected laugh bubbled out of you. "Okay, fair point. Her legs are pretty great."

He grinned, a genuine, easy thing that made your stomach do a little flip. "See? We agree on something."

"Miracles do happen," you said, bagging the cash. "I just genuinely can't believe you didn't pick up on what was happening. I thought you were supposed to be the expert on girls."

"Former expert," he corrected, a wry twist to his lips. "My certification expired. Turns out, knowing how to get a handjob in the back of your car at a party doesn't exactly make you an authority on the female mind. Or... you know. Any mind but your own, really."

You made a disgusted noise. "Charming."

"I'm just being honest," he said, resting the broom against the wall and leaning against the counter opposite you. "It was all a game. And I was good at the game. But that's all it was. It was all... surface."

The words hung in the air between you, until he added the most vulnerable part. "You know, until Nancy."

You stopped counting the cash. This was the most he'd ever said about Nancy Wheeler outside of a few offhand comments you'd overheard, and it felt significant. Nancy Wheeler, the quiet, smart, headstrong girl who had brought Steve Harrington to his knees in a way that no cheerleader or social climber ever could.

"Surface?" you prompted gently.

"Yeah," he said, looking down at a worn spot on the linoleum. "She... she wasn't... She cared about things. Like, real things. The newspaper, and... college, her family and friends, and the future. And she saw right through the bullshit. Through me. It was... terrifying. And also maybe the best thing that ever happened to me."

The sincerity in his voice was disarming. He wasn't performing. He was just... talking. To you.

"And I'm guessing it didn't end so well," you said, finishing up the till and sliding the tray into its slot.

His smile was sad, a ghost of the easy charm he usually wore. "I, uh, didn't handle some things well. After her best friend went missing... I didn't... I wasn't there for her the way I should have been. I was still playing the game. And then... Jonathan Byers happened."

You knew Jonathan Byers. The quiet, intense photographer with the difficult home life. Another one of Hawkins High's outliers.

"Let me guess," you said, leaning on the counter, mirroring his posture. "They're together now?"

"I'm not angry," he said, and to your immense surprise, he sounded like he meant it. "I was, for a while. I was an asshole about it. But... they make sense. They actually, like, talk to each other. He gets her in a way I never figured out how to."

The only sounds were the low hum of the freezers and the distant muzak trickling from the mall's main speakers. You watched him, this boy you had so neatly categorized and dismissed, and saw the edges of the caricature start to fray.

"You're not so bad, Harrington. For a washed-up jock."

He looked up, a flicker of that old, lazy grin returning. "Coming from you, that's practically a marriage proposal."

"In your dreams," you scoffed, but the retort lacked its usual bite.

"You're right, my legs aren't nearly as good as Stacey's," he let out a dramatic sigh. 

You couldn't help the way your eyes glanced downward to see what he was talking about. The uniform shorts, while stupid, did little to hide how strong his legs were. How much they must've been toned from years of sports. How they hugged his thighs just right. How they hugged his--

"You're staring."

Your head snapped up so fast you nearly gave yourself whiplash. "I was not."

"Were too," he sing-songed, that stupid, completely gorgeous grin spreading across his face. "Don't worry, I get it. The uniform is a lot to handle."

"I was admiring the craftsmanship of how the seam is coming undone on your left thigh," you shot back, your face feeling hotter than the summer pavement outside. "Shoddy workmanship. I should report it to corporate."

He looked down, genuinely inspecting the seam in question. "Oh, hey, you're right. The thread's all popped." He fingered the loose string. "Huh. Probably from when I had to haul that new container of sprinkles out of the back. Nearly gave myself a hernia."

You internally were grateful for his complete obliviousness to your real line of sight and rolled your eyes. "Yeah, a real hero. The sprinkles would have been lost without you."

He shrugged, unbothered. "A hero's work is never done."

The weekend went by without much issue. You didn't go to the party. Something about getting high with a bunch of vapid teens you went to high school with, while trying to pretend you weren't having a mid-college crisis, felt about as appealing as licking the floor of the ice cream shop.

Instead, you’d stayed home, listened to records on repeat, and tried to write a short story that was going nowhere.

Tuesday night was when you always closed with Steve.

It was dead. A Tuesday night in Hawkins in mid-June was the definition of purgatory.

You both did your closing duties with practiced ease, a silent, efficient rhythm that you'd fallen into. He'd sweep, you'd wipe.

"So, like... the other night..." Steve started as he swept, his tone betraying the fact that it had been weighing on his mind. 

Him speaking had broken the zoning out you were currently doing. 

"What about it?" you asked, feigning disinterest as you scrubbed at a stubborn spot of dried fudge on the counter.

"Did you, uh..." He paused, leaning on the broom. "Did you and Stacey...?"

"If you're asking if we had some secret girl on girl rendezvous at Lovers Lake, the answer is no," you said, not looking at him. "I didn't go to the party."

He let out a small breath, and you couldn't decipher if it was relief or disappointment.

"Oh. Okay."

"It's not like porn, you know," you said, glancing over your shoulder at him. "The concept isn't a free-for-all for any man's viewing pleasure."

He bristled, his brow furrowing. "That's not what I was asking. I was... curious."

"What, wondering if we would go back home and wear silky pajamas and hit each other with pillows?" The sarcasm was a familiar armor, and you pulled it tight around yourself.

He almost looked angry now. He slammed the dustpan down on the counter a little too hard. "Why do you do that?"

"Do what?"

"Assume the worst of me. Every single time. I ask a simple question and you turn it into me being some kind of... of..." He struggled for the word.

"Scumbag?" you offered helpfully. "Caveman? Horndog?"

"I was going to say moron," he shot back, his voice low and surprisingly hurt. "But I'm not that guy. And it's... it's getting really fucking tiring trying to prove it to you."

You were silenced for once, before you let out a deep sigh and put the rag down for a minute. 

"Look," you started. "College was... hard for me. On like, so many levels. I guess I thought the one way it would be easier is that I didn't have to hide certain parts of myself like I did here. And then I quickly realized that there were new reasons it was hard being... like me."

You couldn't bring yourself to put a label on it. You hadn't quite figured out what one worked and that was okay. 

"But anyway, one of the biggest hurdles, and maybe the most surprisingly common reaction I got from both men and women was to... treat it like it was for them. That it was a performance."

"Okay," he said, leaning against the counter, listening.

"You know, I’d meet a girl at a party and we'd chat and flirt and once it got to anything more than that, anything physical, she was usually just trying to catch the eyes of some pervy frat guys." You let out a self depreciating sigh, a little embarrassed to be telling him all this.

"And then if I tried to start something with a guy, they acted like it was a free pass for a threesome. It wasn't genuine interest in me, you know, just in what I could offer them. What my... existence could do for their sexual fantasy."

Steve watched you, his eyes soft and serious. There was no smirk, no hint of judgment.

"So when you get that look in your eye-like you're trying to work out some kind of complicated puzzle that would probably earn you a prize if you solve it, it's... hard not to assume. So I'm sorry. That I was an asshole. It's an ingrained defense mechanism."

The confession left a raw, buzzing silence in its wake. You had laid a piece of yourself bare on the grimy linoleum floor, a piece that you'd been holding on to since you decided to take a gap year, and it was in front of him of all people.

"Okay," he finally said, his voice quiet. "Okay, I get that. I'm sorry that happened to you. That's... shitty. People are shitty."

He looked down at the floor, kicking at stray sprinkles before looking back at you.

"For what it's worth, I'm not asking for a show." he said, a little sadly. "I don't... I wasn't picturing that."

He paused. "I just... I was just trying to figure it out. Figure you out."

You looked at him, your heart giving another one of those little, painful flips.

He cleared his throat and picked up the dustpan. "The good thing is, I'm a very slow study. So you'll have plenty of warning before I solve any of your complicated puzzles."

You watched as he fell back into the rhythm of sweeping. You noticed the way the muscles in his back moved under the thin fabric of that ridiculous shirt. How the shorts rode up just a bit as he bent over. How the back of his neck, where his hair started to curl with sweat, was surprisingly vulnerable-looking.

You were humanizing this man. You were seeing him as Steve. A guy who worked a shit job, who had a complicated past, who seemed genuinely, achingly lonely sometimes. A guy who, for some reason, was putting in the effort to be decent to you, even when you were a complete bitch to him.

"Why do you want to figure me out?" You asked, busying yourself with meaningless cleanup to hide the softness in your own voice.

He finished with the dustpan, straightened up, and leaned against the broom handle again. He looked out over the deserted food court, at the mall security guard making his slow, predictable rounds.

"I don't know," he said after a moment. His gaze was distant, fixed on the flashing lights of the arcade. "I guess I've realized there's more to people than I thought. A lot more. And I feel like I spent years… just not seeing any of it."

He turned to look at you, and the sincerity in his eyes was so disarming it almost felt like a weapon.

"You're interesting. And you don't like me. I'm trying to figure out what I did. And... maybe if I do, I can stop doing it."

The honesty of it was a punch to the gut. He wasn't trying to charm you, wasn't trying to get anything from you. He was just a guy trying to understand why he kept failing.

"I—" you started, but no words came out.

He saved you by pushing off the counter and grabbing the clipboard for the closing checklist. "Alright, what's next on the shutdown protocol?"

He was letting you off the hook, changing the subject, giving you space. And you were ridiculously grateful for it. But you also didn't want to take it.

"You didn't do anything, Steve," you said, the words quiet but firm.

He paused, pen hovering over the checklist. "Come on. Every time I talk to you, I feel like I'm putting my foot in my mouth."

"That's not your fault," you clarified. "I don't dislike you. I dislike the idea of you. The version of you that lived in my head. The guy who had it all. The guy who never had to try."

You gestured vaguely around you. "The guy who was probably going to get a sports scholarship and have a summer fling and never think about the people who had to clean up after him."

Steve finally looked at you, really looked at you, a small, frown line appearing between his brows.

"Little fun fact? I am trying. All the damn time," he admitted. "And the summer fling? Not exactly panning out. And the sports scholarship..." He scoffed, a short, bitter sound. "Let's just say my dad and Coach had a little talk about my 'priorities' last year and I didn't listen. I don't think college is in my future."

You felt a strange pang of something in your chest. It almost felt like guilt. You had built this whole narrative in your head about him, this perfect, easy life, and here he was, chipping away at it with every quiet, honest word.

"Oh," you said, brilliantly.

"Yeah, 'oh'," he mimicked, a ghost of a smile on his lips. He set the clipboard down, moving to the back to start emptying the sanitary bins. "The universe has a funny way of kicking you in the teeth. Turns out I'm not as special as I thought I was."

"But!" He turned to you and pointed, before pushing the door open with his back. "I'm kind of okay with that now."

You watched the door swing shut behind him, waiting a beat before following.

"Well, I guess I'm sorry for underestimating-"

You're suddenly chest to chest with him in the back room. He'd forgotten the trash bag. He'd turned right around and you walked straight into him.

"-you." you finished, your breath catching in your throat.

One of his hands was braced on your waist, grabbing to steady you. You could feel the warmth of his palms seeping through your uniform. You could smell him again, that clean, soapy, slightly sweaty scent that was becoming infuriatingly familiar.

"Whoa, easy there," he said, but his voice was lower than usual. He didn't move away, the softest smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

Your eyes, almost of their own accord, flicked down to his lips. They were slightly parted. And in that split second, you wanted to know what they tasted like.

This was bad. This was so, so bad.

You pushed gently against his chest. "Personal space, Harrington."

He blinked, the spell broken. He let go of your arm and took a half-step back, running a hand through his hair in that nervous way he had.

"Right. Sorry." He looked anywhere but at you. "My fault. Should've worn a bell..."

It had been four days since the almost-kiss. It's all you could think about, but neither of you spoke about it.

The silence that settled between you now was different. Before, it was laced with tension and disdain. Now, it was charged with something else.

Luckily, the busy Saturday night crowd had left you both too busy to think about anything but orders and cash. You moved around each other in the small space with a new, careful choreography, your hands brushing, your shoulders passing close, each touch a tiny jolt.

A mother with three screaming kids finally left, leaving a sticky trail of melted strawberry ice cream across your clean counter.

Robin was at the register, her head in her hands.

"I swear to God, if one more kid asks for gummy worms on their chocolate ice cream, I'm going to scream."

"It's a culinary revolution, Buckley. Don't stifle their creativity," you said, scrubbing at the sticky spot with maybe a little more force than necessary.

"It's gross." Steve chimed in, wiping down the scoop well.

You both looked at each other at the same moment before quickly looking away.

Robin's head shot up, eyes narrowed. "You two have been weird all week. Weirder than usual. What's going on?"

"Nothing," you both said in perfect, damning unison.

"Oh, my God," she breathed, a look of dawning, horrified comprehension on her face. "You had sex."

Steve dropped his scoop. It clattered into the metal well with an almost ear-piercing clang.

"No!" he yelped, his face turning a shade of red you'd only previously seen on a sunburned tourist.

"No!" you echoed, your voice slightly higher than you intended. "What the hell Buckley!"

You both looked at each other again, this was the last person you wanted to be in this interrogation with.

Robin stood up straight, planting her hands on her hips. She looked back and forth between your panicked faces with a gleeful expression. 

"Relax, you two. I'm messing with you," she said, waving a dismissive hand, although her eyes still held a speculative glint.

Robin was too good at her job, her specialty being pattern recognition. She had you two pinned, at least enough to know something had shifted in whatever weird, antagonistic ecosystem you and Steve inhabited.

Steve picked up the scoop, wiping it on the side of his apron. "Hilarious. In no world would that ever, in a million years, happen."

The words were a slap in the face, even if they were said in a panicked attempt to deflect Robin's teasing. You felt a hot surge of anger, but you didn't even have the energy to fight him on it. You just bit the inside of your cheek, focusing intently on scrubbing the last of the sticky pink sludge from the counter.

"Yeah, Steve only goes for girls of a certain pedigree, isn't that right?" The words came out sharper, more acidic than you intended, but you were hurt. "He has standards to maintain."

Robin looked between you two again, her grin faltering as she sensed the shift from playful banter to something real.

Steve winced, physically recoiling from your words as if you'd slapped him. He looked at you, his expression a mess of regret and pleading, but your back was to him.

"Alright, I think I've overstimulated the weird little... whatever you two have going on here," Robin said, grabbing her bag from under the counter. "I'm taking my break before I have to witness an extinction-level event."

She gave you both one last, inscrutable look before disappearing through the swinging door, leaving you and Steve alone in a silence that was so loud it hurt.

You kept scrubbing at the counter, the rough texture of the sponge a welcome, painful distraction. Your shoulders were tight, a knot of anger and humiliation lodging itself right between your shoulder blades.

"You know that's not what I meant," he finally said, his voice quiet, rough.

"Wasn't it?" you shot back, not turning around.

A customer came to the counter just then— a worn out looking dad with two kids hanging off his legs— and you had to switch on your customer service face. It felt like a mask that was cracking. You took their order with a brittle cheerfulness that you knew Steve could see right through. 

He took over making the sundaes while you worked the register, a silent, tense dance. His hands were clumsy, fumbling with the hot fudge pump. He was off-balance.

When the family left with their ice cream, the silence descended again, heavier this time.

The line picked up again and the two of you were too busy to even look at each other. He made the ice cream, you rang it up. There was no room for error or emotion. It was the most efficient you two had ever been.

Robin had the mid shift, so you and Steve closed yet again. For the last hour, the only sounds were sloshing of the mop bucket and the click clacks of the calculator.

The cleaning was almost done. You'd wiped down every surface, emptied the sanitizing buckets, and were now in the backroom hunched over the final inventory sheet. The numbers swam in front of your eyes.

You couldn't wait for your day off tomorrow. Maybe you'd hit up the pool or see if a new album had dropped at the record store. Anything to get out of this polyester prison and away from the suffocating silence.

"I'm not going to apologize for saying something dumb to Robin to get her to back off," he finally said, his back to you as he restacked the crates we had been counting. "Because I didn't mean it. I think you know I didn't."

"Why do you think I care if you meant it or not?" you said, not looking up from the clipboard. "It doesn't matter to me who you do or do not want to sleep with."

"Because I hurt your feelings," he stated, simply, matter-of-factly. He wasn't asking. He knew.

Your head snapped up. "You have a high opinion of yourself, don't you?"

"No," he said, turning to face you. "I just feel like every time I get close to saying something right, I trip over my own feet and say something monumentally stupid instead."

He took a step closer, the backroom suddenly feeling much, much smaller.

"Look, I'm not sorry for trying to get Robin off our backs," he said, his voice low. "but I am sorry for how I did it. That's all. End of story."

He stood there, waiting. He wasn't pleading or demanding. He was just... present. He was holding himself accountable, and it was maybe the most attractive thing you'd ever seen him do.

You slammed the clipboard down on a crate before turning around, the noise echoing in the small room. "Why do you even care?"

"Because!" he burst out, his frustration finally boiling over. He ran both hands through his hair, messing it up. "Because for some insane reason I can't figure out, I like being around you! And I'd rather do that without you looking at me like you want to set me on fire!"

The confession held more weight than you realized, your breath hitching slightly at his earnestness.

You stared at him, truly and completely speechless for the second time that week. This whole conversation had careened wildly off the rails you'd laid.

You didn't know what to say. So you just watched him pace in the cramped space. He was like a caged lion, all restless energy and barely contained frustration.

"I've had my life fall apart, okay?" he said, stopping to face you. "My girlfriend left me for a guy who's probably a better person than I am, my dad looks at me like I'm a monumental disappointment, and my crowning achievement is a hairdo that gets compliments from either freshman girls or lonely housewives."

You didn't mean to laugh, but a small hysterical sound escaped your lips. It wasn't mocking; it was just the pathetic honesty of it.

"And then you show up," he continued, taking a step closer, a wild, desperate light in his eyes. "You're smart, and you're funny, and you're... you just don't give a shit about any of the stuff I spent my whole life trying to be good at. You see right through it, and it's infuriating. And it's... good. It feels real. For the first time in a long time, something feels real."

He was so close now. The space between you was humming with a new tension. 

"So, yes. I care. Not because I see you as some novelty or a challenge or whatever fucked up things you think guys like me think. I care because you're the most interesting person I've talked to in months. And because I said something stupid that made you look at me the way you looked at Stacey Carmichael and I can't stand it."

You couldn't move. You could barely breathe. Every carefully constructed wall you'd built around yourself was crumbling, brick by brick, at the blatant sincerity pouring out of him.

"Do you always give romantic movie speeches or is it a special occasion?" The words came out quiet, stripped of their usual bite.

He didn't even smile. "I'm not trying to be romantic. I'm trying to be honest."

Oof. You should say something. You should deflect. But he spoke again before you could. 

"Not that... I mean, not that you're unattractive because you're very much..." he trailed off, gesturing vaguely at you. He was so close you could feel the warmth coming off him, see the way his throat worked as he swallowed. "You know."

"Squished into this uniform?" you offer with a laugh that has zero humor to it.

"What? No!" he frowned. "You look… good."

Now it was your turn to blush, a heat creeping up your neck that you prayed he couldn't see.

"Yeah, well, you'd look good in anything," you admitted, the words slipping out before you could stop them. "That's your whole... thing."

You didn't want to admit it before, but you knew. Even in this stupid uniform he was handsome, but there was something else there. 

Steve's smile was lopsided and soft.

"So you forgive me? For being an idiot in front of Robin?"

"I'll consider it."

He took another step closer, and this time you didn't back away. The fabric of your uniforms nearly brushed. You were close enough now that you had to tilt your head back to look at him.

"What, are you gonna kiss me or something? To seal the deal?"

It was meant to be a joke, a final test. A way to push him away and see if he'd flinch. You expected him to laugh, to roll his eyes, to step back into the familiar safety of sarcastic banter.

He didn't.

He just looked at you, his eyes searching yours, and the lighthearted air in the room vanished. Your bravado evaporated.

His gaze dropped to your lips, and then back to your eyes.

"I might," he said, his voice a low murmur. "If you wanted me to."

Your breath hitched. This was a bad idea. A terrible, no-good, very-bad idea.

"Do you want to?" you whispered back, the words barely audible.

He answered by closing the final inch of space between you.

His lips were softer than you imagined. It was a careful, searching kiss, nothing like the confident, performative smooches you'd witnessed him bestow on girls in school hallways.

You responded in kind, a soft sigh escaping you. Your hand, as if of its own accord, came up to rest on the nape of his neck, your fingers tangling in the soft hair there. That seemed to be the permission he was looking for.

The kiss deepened. His hand came up to cup your jaw, his thumb stroking your cheekbone. He tasted like mint toothpaste and a faint, lingering sweetness from the strawberry flavoring he'd been ‘testing’ earlier.

Your free hand found its way to the front of his ridiculous shirt, your fist clenching in the fabric. He was solid, warm, real. Not the caricature you'd built in your head.

He angled his head, the kiss becoming more insistent, more desperate, his free hand steadying on your waist. He pulled you flush against him, and you gasped into his mouth as you felt his body against yours.

The rational part of your brain, the part that was still screaming about what a monumentally bad idea this was, went completely silent. All that was left was the feeling of him. The smell of him.

You were tentative as your hands trailed down his torso, palms flat against his toned pecs to the softness of his stomach and back up to his strong shoulders. You wanted to feel him.

"Hey," he murmured against your lips, a slight smile in his voice.

You pulled back just enough to see his face, your fingers still curled into the fabric of his shirt. His hair was a mess from your hands, his lips were swollen and wet, and his eyes were dark, pupils blown wide with want.

"Hi," you breathed back.

"This is," he started, then seemed to change his mind, leaning in to kiss you again, a soft, brief press of lips. "This is not a good place for this."

"No," you agreed, your brain slowly coming back online. "Not really."

He looked past you, towards the door that led out to the shop floor. "We need to go before that weird mall cop comes by."

You were suddenly acutely aware of your surroundings. The scent of dry goods, the hum of the freezers. You could still faintly smell the disinfectant and the sickly-sweet cherry flavoring.

"I'll go lock the gate and we can leave through the back." He kissed you again quickly and practically jogged out of the room, not giving you a chance to respond.

You took a minute to try and calm your racing heart before grabbing your bag. You could hear the heavy clank of the metal gate from the front of the shop.

You met him by the back door, the silence between you now charged with a different kind of electricity. You followed him out into the oppressive heat of the Hawkins night.

The air was wet, clinging to your skin. The parking lot was a sea of asphalt, shimmering under the orange glow of the mall lamps. The cicadas were screaming their summer song from the trees beyond the lot.

"Which one's yours?" he asked. 

"The blue shitbox over there." You pointed to your car.

"Classy." He grinned, shoving his hands in the pockets of his ridiculously short shorts. "Mine's the Beamer."

"I know."

He walked with you to your beat-up car, the silence stretching out between you. You could still feel the ghost of his kiss on your lips.

"So," he said, stopping next to your door, his proximity making it hard to think. "Now what?"

You looked up at him, at the hopeful, uncertain look in his eyes. "Aren't you the expert in this stuff? Master of the..." you trailed off, not knowing what to call this.

"Post-shift makeout session in a stuffy back room?" he supplied, a lopsided smile playing on his lips. "Yeah, kind of a new one for me, too."

He wasn't trying to play a part, not with you.

You leaned back against the warm metal of your car door. "Do you work tomorrow?" 

"You don't have my schedule memorized yet?" he asked, a flicker of the old Steve in his tone. You decided you liked this version better. "I'm off. So are you, according to the board."

"Right."

"So," he said again, rocking back on his heels. "Do you wan--" 

"I don't do hook ups." The words tumbled out of your mouth, blunt and defensive. It was your last line of defense, a final test to see what he'd do with the rejection. “Not… any more. Since, you know.”

He stopped rocking, his smile fading. He just looked at you, his expression unreadable in the lot’s lights.

"Okay..." he said, his voice quiet as he drew out the word. "I wasn't asking for one."

You winced internally. You hadn't meant for it to come out so harshly.

"I just mean, I don't..." you struggled to explain yourself, the heat from the asphalt and the heat from your blush making it hard to breathe. "I'm not that girl."

"I know," he said simply. "I wouldn't be standing here if I thought you were."

The certainty in his voice was disarming. He stepped closer again, crowding you against the car door.

"Is that what you thought this was?" he asked, his voice a low murmur that sent a shiver down your spine despite the humid air. "That I'd kiss you in the back room and then expect to... what? Come home with me and...?" He didn't finish, just let the question hang in the heavy air.

You almost hated that you wanted to be more than a forgotten hook up.

The idea that the one guy you've been trying not to want for weeks, might see you as just another notch on a bedpost, was a rejection that would sting more than anything else.

"I mean... I wouldn't want to get fired," you deflected. "Hypothetically, workplace fraternization would be very frowned upon by our corporate overlords at Scoops Ahoy."

God, that was weak. He knew it, too.

A lazy grin spread across his face. "If I did bring you home with me, hypothetically, it wouldn't be a hook-up."

And that, that right there, was what made you feel lightheaded. The casual certainty in his voice. He wasn't just trying to get you into bed. He was trying to get you.

"I mean... I'd be lying if I said I'm not thinking about it, or that I'd be against something happening..." he admitted, his gaze dropping to your lips again. "But I'm also thinking about seeing you tomorrow. And the day after. And maybe taking you somewhere that doesn't require a sailor hat."

You felt a smile tugging at your own lips, unguarded. "Oh yeah? Like where? The food court?"

"Even better," he said, leaning in, his lips ghosting over yours. "The movie theater."

You couldn't help it. You laughed. "Wooing me with all the high-class hotspots, Harrington."

"I aim to please," he whispered, and then he kissed you again. "I can also do restaurants, if you're feeling particularly adventurous. Maybe even that fancy Italian place out by the highway if I save up my tips for a month."

You were smiling against his mouth. "A whole month of Scoops for a plate of spaghetti? You drive a hard bargain."

"I like you." He said it like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Simple. Direct. A fact.

He pulled back just enough to look you in the eye. "That's all this is. It's not a game. It's not a hook-up. I just... really like you."

You held his gaze, feeling the warmth fill your body. 

"Do you like diner food?" you whisper. 

"Is that a serious question? Of course, I like diner food." The hopeful, ridiculously bright look that came back onto his face was worth more than you thought it would be.

It gave you the confidence to be bold. 

"I could... follow you home. And maybe in the morning you could take me to the diner for pancakes."

He blinked. "Seriously?"

"I'm not into hook-ups, Steve." The words were a little shaky, but you were sure of them. "But I'm not a nun, either."

He blinked again, trying to process. "So... you're coming home with me?"

"I'm following you home," you corrected, your own lips curving into a smile. "My car is my escape route. Don't make me use it."

"I won't," he promised, his voice dropping into that low register that made you want to melt into a puddle on the asphalt. "I won't."

He leaned in for one last kiss in the parking lot, a sweet press of lips that tasted like promise.

Following his BMW through the darkened streets of Hawkins in your hammydown car was one of the more surreal experiences of your life. The juxtaposition was almost funny. His clean, expensive car cutting through the night, you rattling along behind it, engine groaning in protest.

You'd driven by his house plenty of times. Large, sprawling, and dark. The kind of house that was meant for a family that was whole and happy, but instead there was an emptiness to it that you could feel from the driveway, a silence that had nothing to do with the late hour.

You hadn't asked if his parents were home, you already knew the answer. It was common knowledge that the Harringtons were never really around. You'd assumed he loved it. An endless party house. But seeing the stark reality of it, not even a single light on at the entrance, the cavernous windows all dark, you felt a different kind of understanding. A strange wave of pity and protectiveness washed over you. He was all alone in that big, echoing house.

He parked in one of the garages.

(Seriously, why were there so many?)

You had to park yours in the drive, a small, rebellious speck of automotive failure in the middle of all that success.

Steve must have gone in through the garage, because he was opening the front door as you got out of your car. You didn't miss the way he was still a little nervous about this whole thing. The confidence he had in the mall parking lot had retreated behind a wall of shyness that you had yet to see.

You walked up to where he was waiting at those red double doors.

"It's huge," you managed, feeling small.

"Yeah, well. My mom likes to entertain," he said, the words flat and devoid of any real emotion. He wasn't bragging; he was just stating a fact of a life that didn't feel like his.

He led you inside and locked the front doors as you toed off your shoes. The stairs were right by the entry way, carpet over wooden slats, the hall into the living space on the other side.

He turned a small lamp on by the wall before turning to you, hands on his hips and looking at the floor, trying to break the silence.

"Alright," he said, finally looking at you. "This is it. Casa del Harrington. Don't touch anything."

You could hear the smile in his tone.

"Wow, what a tour. So many highlights," you played along, your own lips tugging into a grin.

"I'm saving the best for last," he said, grabbing your hand. His was warm and a little sweaty, and your fingers linked together like they'd been doing it for years. He led you upstairs.

The hallway was long, half balcony, half doors to other rooms. One floor was bigger than your whole family home.

He pushed open a door at the end of the hall. "And this," he announced with a flourish, "is my room. The grand finale."

It wasn't what you expected. It was... plaid. Like, beige and black plaid walls and matching curtains.

"I swear I have a personality," he said, noticing your amused expression. "My mom's interior decorator did not get the memo."

"It's very... masculine," you managed, looking around the random items. A bowling pin on the desk, a poster of a car, a poster of a bikini clad woman he clearly flinched at when you saw. 

The king-sized bed, the sheets on top slightly rumpled from this morning, seemed to take up half the room.

It felt... intimate. Not in a threatening way, but in a way that made you feel like you were seeing a part of him no one else was supposed to. The messy pile of clothes on a chair, the photo on his dresser of him and a younger boy with curls and a goofy smile, a half-empty bottle of cologne.

"I'm gonna..." he cleared his throat. "Go change from this... stupid uniform." He gestured down at himself before turning to the door.

"Don't!" The protest slipped out before you could stop it.

Shit.

"Uh... I mean..."

He turned back slowly, his eyes wide, surprised. "Don't what? You afraid to be alone in here?"

"No, it's not that," you said, feeling your cheeks flush. You bit your lip, trying to find the words that wouldn't make you sound like a complete lunatic.

"I mean, don't... not because I don't want you to," you stammered, your gaze dropping to his chest. "It's just... I've been looking at that stupid uniform all summer. And I have this stupid image in my head of you in it and I..."

You trailed off, mortified. What were you even saying?

A slow grin spread across his face, a flicker of the cocky Steve Harrington you knew, but it was tempered by something softer.

"Oh," he said, the understanding dawning in his eyes. He took a step back into the room, closing the door behind him. "So... this is a thing for you, then?"

"It's not a thing," you denied, but your voice was weak and embarrassed. "It just... fits...well?"

That was also a bad choice of words.

You wanted the floor to swallow you whole, but then he started walking towards you with a slow, deliberate pace.

"Fits well?" he asked, his tone low and teasing. He stopped directly in front of you, so close you could feel the heat radiating from him. His gaze was heavy, searching your face. "You think so?"

You couldn't speak. You just nodded, your eyes locked on his.

"Is it the shorts?" he asked, his voice a low rumble. "Or does the dumb little scarf thing get you going?"

"Steve," you whispered, a pathetic attempt at shutting him down.

But instead of backing off, he took a hold of your waistband, tugging you flush against him. His hands were confident but not rough.

"Because, you know…" he continued, leaning down so his lips were right next to your ear. "I was thinking the shorts are a little short. Show a little too much thigh."

You let out a shaky breath, your hands coming up to rest on his chest. You could feel the steady, rapid beat of his heart under your palm.

"I take all my nice words back, you are actually evil."

He chuckled, the sound a deep, warm vibration against you. "Only a little bit."

One of his large hands found the red tie of your own uniform and played with it a little, not quite touching your chest, but his eyes were there.

"You're one to talk, you know..." he confessed. He traced the collar of the blue and white striped top. "Gotta say, I'm more than a little curious to see what's underneath. Not really leaving much to my imagination here, sailor." He says pulling at it a little to see your neck line.

"You're the one who said it was tight on me last week," you reminded him, your own hands slowly, nervously sliding up to wrap around the back of his neck, your fingers brushing the soft hairs there. "Wasn't really a confidence booster..."

"Is that why you were quiet the rest of the day? You thought it was, what, an insult?" He was genuinely confused. "It wasn't. I was trying not to stare, god, I was trying so hard not to stare."

Your fingers stilled in his hair. "Really?"

"Yeah," he breathed, leaning in again. His lips brushed your jaw, a fleeting, warm touch. "I spent the rest of the shift trying to think up ways to get you fired, just so I didn't have to look at you in this stupid uniform anymore."

The laugh that escaped you was half-shock, half-desire. "That's the most romantic and simultaneously psychopathic thing anyone has ever said to me."

He nipped at your earlobe, and a full-body shudder wracked its way through you. "God, when I was patching up your knee? And you kept flinching and your shorts were riding up your thigh and I could feel you shaking... you have no idea what I was thinking."

"I have a pretty good idea," you gasped as his lips trailed down the column of your throat. His hand was still on the ridiculous scarf-thing, one thumb stroking the skin just above your collarbone.

"No, you don't," he murmured against your skin. "But I'll show you. If you let me."

You didn't answer with words. You answered by tilting your head back, giving him better access, and by pulling him closer until there was no space left between your bodies. He took the invitation, his kisses becoming open-mouthed and hungry against your throat.

His hands finally moved to the hem of your uniform top, warm fingers brushing against the sliver of exposed skin on your stomach. You sucked in a sharp breath. His touch was a brand.

"Is this okay?" he breathed against your skin, pausing.

You answered by grabbing the hem of your own shirt and pulling it over your head in one smooth motion, tossing it to the floor.

Your eyes were searching his face, trying to gauge his reaction, half-expecting a flicker of disappointment or the detached calculation you'd imagined from the old Steve. Instead, you were met with clear want.

"Wow," he breathed, his gaze sweeping over you. He looked dazed. "Wow."

"Stop," you said, but it was a weak protest.

"No, I mean it," he said, his hands coming up to rest on your waist, his thumbs stroking the soft skin there. "Those are... wow."

He was looking at your breasts like he'd just discovered a new continent, but it was the reverence in his expression that did it for you.

"They're boobs, Steve," you said, your voice shaky with a nervous laugh.

"They’re great boobs," he countered, leaning in to kiss you again. This kiss was different. Deeper, more possessive. One of his hands slid up your back, his fingers tracing the clasp of your bra.

It was a simple, utilitarian, beige thing. Nothing lacy or special. You suddenly felt a pang of self-consciousness.

"This is the least sexy bra in the history of the world," you murmured against his lips.

"I'm not really looking at the bra," he said, a smile in his voice. He deftly unhooked it with one hand and you felt the straps fall loose.

He pulled back just enough to slide the bra down your arms and let it join your shirt on the floor. The cool air of the room on your bare skin made you shiver.

"Jesus," he breathed, his eyes wide, devouring the sight of you. He looked like a kid in a candy store who'd just been told he could have whatever he wanted.

He didn't say anything else. He just looked, his gaze hot and heavy, and it was somehow more intimate than if he'd touched you. You'd never had anyone look at you like that. Like you were a masterpiece.

Then he was kissing you again, and this time his hands were on you, warm and sure. They weren't tentative or clumsy. He knew what he was doing.

One hand cupped your breast, his thumb brushing over the nipple, and a jolt went through you so intense you gasped into his mouth. He swallowed the sound, deepening the kiss, as he rolled the sensitive peak between his thumb and forefinger.

You pulled his shirt up, your hands flattening against the warm, bare skin of his back. You could feel the muscles there, tense and solid. He helped you pull the stupid uniform shirt over his head, and then it was your turn to look.

His chest was smooth and defined, a patch of chest hair trailing down to a soft tummy that you wanted to lick. 

"Got a little soft from all the ice cream," he said, a self-deprecating note in his voice.

"I like it," you said, and you meant it. You leaned in, pressing a kiss to the center of his chest, right over his heart. His breath hitched. "You're hairier than I thought though."

He let out a surprised laugh, a real, genuine burst of sound that rumbled through you.

"You been thinking about my hair distribution a lot?" he teased, his hands settling on your hips.

"You'd be surprised," you murmured, kissing your way up to his collarbone.

"Let me get my hands on you before I explode" he whispered, and he was tugging you towards the bed. He sat down on the edge, pulling you to straddle him. His hands roamed over your back, your hips, your ass, appreciating your shape.

Your breasts were pressed against his chest, the coarse hair a delicious friction. You threaded your fingers through his hair, tilting his head back. You kissed him, a slow, deep kiss that you felt all the way down to your toes.

"God, you feel good," he breathed against your lips, his hands squeezing your ass.

He was hard, you could feel it through the layers of fabric between you, a rigid, insistent pressure against you.

"Steve," you whispered, rocking against him. The friction was maddening.

"Tell me what you want," he said, pulling back to look at you, his eyes dark and serious.

You took a shaky breath. You weren't used to this. Guys usually just took what they wanted, assuming they knew.

"Touch me," you said, your voice barely a whisper. "Everywhere."

He smiled, a slow, dangerous curve of his lips. "My pleasure."

He guided you onto the bed, your back sinking into the plush comforter. He followed you down, settling over you, propping himself up on his elbows so he wasn't crushing you.

He started slow. His lips traced a path from your jaw down to the hollow of your throat. His hands mapped your body, savoring every curve.

"I can't believe this is happening," he murmured, mostly to himself.

"Me neither," you admitted, your hands stroking through his hair as he kissed a path across your collarbones.

When he finally took one of your nipples into his mouth, you arched off the bed with a choked gasp. He swirled his tongue around the sensitive peak, his other hand coming up to toy with its twin.

"Look at these... God," he said, pulling away with a wet pop. His thumb and forefinger rolling the sensitive nub, pulling a little making your hips buck. "Fucking perfect."

The compliments, the reverence, it was overwhelming. It was too much, but also exactly what you needed. He wasn't treating you like a conquest. He was worshiping you. You were the only thing in this cavernous, lonely house that mattered.

He shifted, moving down your body, pressing open-mouthed kisses to your stomach, your hips.

"Can I show you what I was thinking about when I patched you up?" he asked, his gaze flicking up to meet yours from his position above your shorts. His fingers were hooked into the waistband, teasing the elastic.

You nodded, unable to speak, your throat tight with anticipation.

He grinned, that wicked, knowing grin, and slowly, torturously, peeled your shorts down your legs. He tossed them aside, leaving you in nothing but your plain cotton underwear.

He settled between your thighs, pushing them apart. His gaze was heavy, and you felt a fresh wave of self-consciousness wash over you. You started to close your legs, to hide, but he held you in place, his hands firm on your thighs.

"No," he said, his voice a command. "Don't you dare hide from me."

He leaned down, and you felt his breath, hot and damp, through the thin cotton of your panties. Your hips bucked, a silent plea.

"God, you're already so wet for me," he murmured, his thumb pressing against your clit through the fabric.

You whined, a high, desperate sound you didn't recognize as your own. Your hands fisted in the comforter.

He took pity on you, hooking his fingers into the waistband of your panties and sliding them down.

"Look at you," he breathed, spreading you open with his thumbs. "Pretty. So fucking pretty."

He didn't wait. He leaned in and licked a flat, broad stripe up your center.

The world tilted on its axis. Your back arched, a strangled gasp tearing from your throat as you fought to keep your eyes open. He looked up at you from between your legs as he did it again, slow and deliberate, savoring the taste of you. His perfect nose nudged against your clit. He groaned, a low, rumbling sound of pure, unadulterated pleasure, and the vibration of it shot through you like lightning.

"Steve... oh, god..."

"That's it," he encouraged, his voice a rough whisper against your sensitive skin. He settled in, alternating between broad, lazy strokes of his tongue and focused, precise circles around your clit. His hands held your thighs apart, his grip firm and grounding. He wasn't trying to impress you with some frantic, porno-worthy performance. He was trying to make you feel good. He was paying attention.

He watched you, his eyes dark and intense, cataloging every reaction, every twitch, every gasp. When your hips started to cant up, meeting the rhythm of his tongue, he knew he'd found it. He sealed his lips around your clit and sucked.

"Fuck!" you cried out, your hands flying from the bedspread to tangle in his hair, holding him to you. "Don't stop. Please, god, don't stop."

He didn't. He doubled down, flicking his tongue against the sensitive bundle of nerves in a relentless, perfect rhythm. He slid one finger inside you, then another, curling them in a 'come here' motion that made you see stars.

"Steve," you whimpered, his name a prayer on your lips. "I'm... I'm..."

He knew. He could feel it. The fluttering of your walls around his fingers, the way your thighs were starting to tremble uncontrollably. He was good at this. He'd learned a thing or two, a quiet voice in the back of your mind supplied, before the thought was obliterated by the coiling tension in your stomach.

And then you were falling. The world shattered into a million pieces. Your back bowed off the bed and a long moan was torn from your throat as the orgasm hit. He didn't stop, didn't let up, working you through it until you were a boneless, panting mess beneath him.

He finally lifted his head, his face glistening, a satisfied grin on his lips. He crawled up your body, pressing a kiss to your lips. You could taste yourself on him, the intimate flavor making your head spin.

"Your thighs are shaking," he whispered, the words a warm puff of air against your cheek. His hand came up to stroke your hair tenderly.

"Blame the sailor uniform," you managed, your voice hoarse. Your brain felt like it had been scooped out and replaced with cotton candy.

"And let it take all the credit? No chance. That was all me, baby."

Baby.

"You're insufferable," you whispered, but you were smiling, pulling him down for another kiss. You could feel him, still hard against your hip through the fabric of those ridiculous shorts.

"You don't seem like you're suffering too much." He rocked his hips against you, a deliberate, delicious friction that made you gasp.

"Conceited, too," you retorted, your hands coming down to cup his ass, pulling him tighter against you. The muscles were firm and perfect in your palms.

The move must have surprised him a little because he flinched away. Not in a bad way, he looked confused by the feeling of your hands there.

Truthfully, you hadn't been with a guy in a while, and your reflexes were a little rusty on the male body.

"Uh...sorry..." You whispered as you moved your hands back to the bed.

He just shook his head. "No, no. You just surprised me is all." The look on his face was a mixture of confusion and awe. "I... uh..." He was stammering again, which was weird.

"I'm not used to girls... well, touching my ass," he admitted with a little laugh. "Usually it's just been about what I can do for them."

You hadn't even thought about it. You'd been more interested in the feeling of him.

His smile was gone, replaced by that serious, searching look again. He was watching you, his brow furrowed in concentration.

"You've definitely had girls touch you before, Steve." You whisper, hands impatient back on his lower back. 

"Yeah... yeah. Just not like this." He leaned down, kissing your shoulder. "Not where it's about... me."

He had no right to look so vulnerable. Not with the reputation he had around Hawkins. Not with everything you'd heard. But as he hovered above you, all you saw was a boy who was used to being wanted for what he could provide, not for who he was.

"Also it's... been a while for me." he admitted, his lips against your neck again like it would help hide the confession. 

The idea that you were the one to make him this nervous, this unsure, was the most intoxicating thing you had ever experienced.

Your hands roamed over his back, feeling the muscles tense and flex under your touch. You wanted to memorize the slope of his shoulders, the ridge of his spine, the dip at the base of his back.

"I like it, for the record." He says after a moment of your hands playing with the waistband of those shorts, lost in the feeling of your hands on him. "I like how handsy you get when you're turned on."

You smile and your hands move back to his ass to push him more firmly against your core, you let out your own moan against his lips. He was still so frustratingly clothed.

"It's your turn," you breathed, your hands tugging at the fabric. "Lose the shorts."

He kisses you quickly before pulling back to take them off. There was a significant wet patch on the front from where he'd been pressed against you. You watch his eyes trail down to it. 

"Oops..." you whisper with a smirk.

He just shakes his head with a chuckle before he finally, finally slides them and his boxers down in one go, kicking them to the floor.

And then he was naked. All of him. And your brain had to recalculate.

You'd heard the rumors, of course. Locker rooms were a breeding ground for exaggerated gossip. But seeing him in the flesh... seeing the hard, thick length of him, curving up towards his stomach... the rumors hadn't been exaggerated. They'd been an understatement.

He followed the path of your eyes, and you watched a flicker of something- pride, maybe, or just deep-seated insecurity- cross his face.

"You're staring," he said, a nervous edge to his teasing tone.

"I can't imagine a person who wouldn't."

You reached for him, your curiosity overriding any lingering shyness. He was deliciously heavy in your hand, the skin velvety soft. He let out the prettiest moan as you gave a slow, tentative stroke, your thumb smearing the bead of moisture at the tip. His hips stuttered forward, an involuntary movement.

"Jesus," he breathed, his head falling back. His hands braced on the mattress on either side of your head, caging you in. "Okay. Yeah. That's... okay."

He looked wrecked already. His hair was a mess, his cheeks flushed, his lips parted. It was a heady kind of power.

Your other hand slid up the back of his thigh, over the firm curve of his ass. You gave a little squeeze and he swore again, his hips bucking into your fist.

"Tell me what you want, Steve," you murmured, your voice low and sure.

He looked down at you, his eyes dark, a muscle working in his jaw. He's never been asked that. Not like this.

"Jesus Christ," he said again, as if that were the only coherent thought he could form. "I want... everything."

"Be more specific," you pressed, your thumb swirling over the head of him.

"I want to be inside you," he ground out. "I need to be inside you."

"Good," you whispered, pulling him down for a kiss. "Get a condom."

He blinked, then nodded, a flicker of disappointment in his eyes at the loss of your touch. He rolled off you, rummaging in the drawer of his bedside table. He came back with a little foil packet, tearing it open with his teeth.

You watched him roll it on, your own body revving with anticipation. He hovered over you again, one hand braced on the bed, the other lining himself up with your entrance.

"Just... go slow..." you say with a steadying breath. "I'm eager, yeah, but like I said, it's been a minute for me too. And you're... not exactly... small."

He looked genuinely relieved that you'd acknowledged it. "Yeah. I know. It's... it's a lot sometimes, for people. I'll be careful, I swear."

The vulnerability was back, but this time it wasn't about your reaction. It was about the act itself. He was scared of hurting you.

He pressed forward, and you felt the stretch, the welcome pressure of him entering you. It was a slow, deliberate push, and you felt him inch by inch. You let out a shaky breath, your hands coming up to grip his biceps.

He paused, giving you a moment to adjust. "You okay?"

"Just...really love touching you," you gasped out in lieu of a real answer. And it was the truth. Your hands were on him, feeling the toned muscle and the warm skin and the slight tremor in his arms as he held himself still. "You can keep going."

He kissed you, a slow, sweet kiss, almost overwhelming feeling of him filling you. He started to move again, shallow rocking that gradually built into a deeper rhythm.

"God," he breathed against your lips, burying his face in your neck. "You feel... you feel incredible."

Your legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him deeper, silently begging for more. The feeling of your plush, soft thighs around his hips made Steve lose all train of thought. He was breathing into your neck and making these small helpless sounds, like he couldn't believe this was really happening.

He set a pace that was both leisurely and deep, rolling his hips in a way that made you see stars. One of those strong arms made its way under you when you arched into him, pressing your chest to his. The movement shifted you, and he slid deeper, hitting a spot inside you that made you cry out.

"Right there?" he asked, a smug satisfaction in his tone. He rolled his hips again, deliberately, grinding against that spot.

"Steve..." you whimpered, unable to form a coherent thought.

"Say my name again," he commanded, his voice a low growl against your ear. His lips moved along the shell of your ear, nipping gently. He was chasing the praise you gave him, hungry for it.

"Steve," you repeated, louder this time, your hands tangling in his hair.

"You feel incredible, fuck you're so soft everywhere" He panted.

He was losing control, the careful rhythm faltering as his hips began to snap harder, more erratically. Your hands slid down his back, your nails trailing just enough before grabbing onto his ass to keep him deep inside you. You didn't want this to end, but you were already climbing again, that coil of heat tightening in your belly.

"I'm..." you started, but you couldn't finish. The words caught in your throat as he shifted, hooking one of your legs over his shoulder. "Holy fuck..."

The new angle was putting his cock impossibly deep, hitting that spot with every thrust. His name became a mantra on your lips, a prayer to the only god you currently believed in.

"I know, baby, I know," he panted, his face buried in your neck. "Doing so good f'me... taking it so good."

The praise was your undoing. Your world went white. You clenched around him, your orgasm ripping through you with a force that left you breathless and shaking. A cry tore from your throat, needy and real.

The feeling of your walls closing in around him, the sound of you crying his name, it was too much. He drove into you once, twice more, a whimper tearing from your own lips at the overstimulation. Then he stilled, burying himself deep as he came with a long, shuddering groan against your neck.

For a moment, you both just lay there, a tangle of arms and legs and heavy breathing in the oppressive heat of the room. 

Slowly, he lowered your leg back down to the bed, but not before kissing the inside of your knee like a silent 'thank you'. He brushed a sweat-damp piece of hair from your forehead, a gesture so soft and tender it made your heart clench. He was still breathing heavily, each pull almost leading in so a loft laugh.

"Usually I can last longer than that." he's quiet, confessing something you didn't even ask for. "You just..."

He didn't finish.

You just what?

You wanted to ask, but the words wouldn't come. You were too spent, too content. He carefully pulled out of you, and you both winced at the sensation. He dealt with the condom, tossing it in the small trashcan by the desk with perfect aim.

You expected him to roll over, to put some space between you. That's what the other guys had done. A moment of awkward silence, then the shuffle of sheets and a mumbled 'I'll be right back'. But he didn't. He shifted, pulling you into his arms until your head was resting on his chest, right over his heart. The beat was still fast against your ear.

His arm wrapped around your shoulders, holding you close. One of his legs tangled with yours, a possessive but gentle weight.

"Your chest hair is sweaty." you mumble against him, but your teasing tone gave away that you didn't actually mind. In fact, you kind of liked it.

"I'm aware," he laughed. "You did this to me."

"Oh, so this is my fault?" You laughed with him, your fingers tracing abstract patterns on the soft skin of his stomach.

"Entirely," he confirmed, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

The comfortable silence that settled over you was warm.

"So," he started, his voice quiet in the dim room. "Diner pancakes in the morning. You still on for that?"

You propped yourself up on an elbow, looking down at him. His hair, which you now realized was grown out a bit more than usual and slightly sunkissed, was fanned out on the pillow, a complete mess. His eyes were soft in the low light, a perfectly warm mix of green and brown.

"You're so beautiful." The words slipped out.

A faint blush crept up his neck, coloring his cheeks. He turned his head for a moment, a boyish gesture that was so at odds with the confident way he'd been looking at you earlier.

"Was that weird?" You asked, suddenly self-conscious. You hadn't meant to say it out loud.

"No," he said, turning back to you, his gaze catching yours. "Just... not what I'm used to hearing."

He reached up, his thumb stroking your cheek. "The girls I'm used to... they'd call me hot, or tell me they liked my car. They wouldn't say that. Don't really think I'd like it from them anyway."

"Maybe you've been talking to the wrong girls," you whispered, leaning into his touch.

"I'm starting to realize that, yeah," he agreed, his hand sliding around to the nape of your neck, pulling you down for a slow, gentle kiss. 

You shifted, settling more fully against him, your leg draped over his. Your body was pleasantly sore, a lingering reminder of the way he'd touched you, the way he'd moved inside you.

You were both slick with a cooling layer of sweat in the humid, still air of the bedroom. The window unit was rattling away, doing a valiant but ultimately futile battle against the heatwave and your combined body heat. The sheets were twisted around your legs.

"Your parents aren't, like, gonna come home, are they?" you asked, a flicker of anxiety cutting through the post-coital bliss.

He let out a soft, bitter laugh. "No. My dad's in Chicago until August. My mom's on some retreat on the east coast. Supposed to 'celebrate the woman within' or some phony shit." He paused, tracing the line of your spine. "I think the only thing within her is a tanned tennis instructor named Todd."

"Ouch," you murmured, kissing his collarbone.

"It would be, if my dad didn't spend so many late nights at the office with just his secretary," he said, the words devoid of any real emotion. It was just a fact of life. "This house has been a revolving door for their issues for years. But I'm used to being alone here."

He squeezed your shoulder. "So, no. We're not going to get interrupted."

You felt the weight of that admission, the casual mention of a loneliness so profound it had become normal. It explained a lot about him, the desperate need for attention, the endless parties. He was just trying to fill the silence.

"We could... spend more time together tomorrow. After pancakes," you offered, your own nerves fluttering. "If you wanted."

He went very still. You could feel the change in his breathing, the way he held it.

"Yeah?" he asked, his voice a little rough. "You'd want to?"

"Do... you want to? I don't want to get in the way of you, like, hanging out with your friends or..."

"At this point my friends are a group of preteen nerds I was forced to babysit," he said, a small smile in his voice. "I think I'd rather hang out with you."

"Preteen nerds?"

"It's a long, very weird story," he said. "Involved a lot of digging and a very big bat."

"A bat? What, were you playing baseball?"

He huffed a quiet laugh against your hair. "Something like that. If you keep seeing me, maybe I'll tell you all about it one day."

"Are we seeing each other? Is that what this is?" You tried to keep your tone light, but your heart gave a little lurch at the prospect of putting a name to this thing between you.

"I'd like to," he said, so quiet you almost missed it. "If you would."

"I would," you whispered back, the answer easy and true.

He rolled onto his side, shifting so he was facing you, propping his head up on his hand. The little bedside lamp cast a warm, golden glow over him, highlighting the soft curve of his lips, the earnestness in his eyes.

"Good," he said, a slow, lazy smile spreading across his face. "So, pancakes in the morning? Then maybe we could go to the lake? It's supposed to be even hotter tomorrow. We could go for a swim."

"Trying to see me in a swim suit?"

"Is it working?" he teased, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

"Maybe."

"Should I try to convince you?"

"You're welcome to try…" you challenge.

A slow, predatory grin spread across Steve's face. He leaned in, capturing your bottom lip between his and giving it a gentle, suggestive nip. "I think," he murmured against your lips, "I can be very convincing..."

'ahoy, ladies!' [steve taglist]

Deep and guttural, dragged up from somewhere starved. His hands clamp around your waist, fingers digging into your ass as he hauls you flush against him. Denim rasps against the inside of your thighs when he rolls his hips up, grinding into you.

That thick, heavy bulge makes itself known, humiliatingly honest.

Blood in his mouth. Dirt under his nails and the sour, rotten tang of that other place still caked in his hair. 

And he’s hard.

Something in him is broken that way.

Years of surviving by the skin of his teeth—beaten and concussed and tortured and choked and drowned and devoured—it’s fucked up the wiring in Steve Harrington’s brain.

Pain tolerance shot to hell. Fear braided with dopamine until his nervous system can’t tell the difference anymore.

Getting hurt no longer scares him.

Now, agony comes hardwired with clarity. That split second before impact, when adrenaline screams through his veins and he’s teetering on that razor-sharp edge of death, that’s when he feels most alive.

Your thumb presses into the fresh cut on his lip, smearing his blood back into it. His lashes flutter. His hips jerk up, rutting against you like you’re fucking him.

You grab his jaw, fingers digging into the sharp hinge to force his gaze down to yours. His pupils are blown impossibly wide; barely any color left, drowned beneath an endless wash of black.

“Yeah?” you whisper, venom-sweet. You drag your thumb down his throat, feel the jut of his Adam’s apple jump under your touch. “Does that feel good?”

He nods.

Doesn’t even have the decency to look ashamed. Whatever scrap of self-preservation he’d once possessed hollowed out by hunger—by that sick, reckless void inside him that only ever seems to ignite after he’s survived something that should have killed him.

A cruel cosmic coin toss that keeps landing in his favor—and instead of gratitude, it leaves him burning for more.

You lift your knee and press your thigh into the seam of his pants. He sucks in a sharp breath through blood-slick lips, head tipping back, throat bared.

You despise it.

You despise that this is the language his body understands. That he can shove you out of the way without a second thought—dangle over two hundred feet of empty air because he decided your life was worth more than his—and still get hard when you hurt him for it.

You drag your bloody thumb to your mouth and suck it clean, eyes never leaving his.

He watches you do it, watches your lips wrap around the pad of your finger to taste, to swallow—swallow his blood like it’s yours, like he’s yours, like the world could never take him from you.  

Like he hasn’t already tried to give himself away.

Only this time... it was for you, wasn’t it?

Hurled himself into the abyss without hesitation, fingers scraping at metal while the yawning darkness waited below.

One second slower. One fraction of a heartbeat, and—

Your palms slam into his shoulders.

Just like his had slammed into yours.

Bile surges up your throat as you claw at muscle and bone, shoving and shoving until his balance falters.

He stumbles back, heel catching on the edge of the bed. Momentum betrays him for a second time and he falls back onto the mattress with a startled grunt.  

Your stomach falls with him. Phantom vertigo clawing up your spine, even now.

And the moment you close your eyes—

You’re standing on top of that tower.

You remember the look on his face.

That awful, quiet resolve of someone who had already made peace with his fate.

You remember his hands on your shoulders. The firm press of his fingers, the way he held on just long enough to make sure you were steady, to make sure you were far enough away.

Far enough that you couldn’t reach him.

Far enough that you would live.

And then he let go.

You remember the force of it careening you backward, your boots scraping against the metal platform as you fought for balance. You remember the cold bite of the railing against your back. You remember watching him move in the opposite direction, his own momentum carrying him toward the open edge.

You remember his hand shooting out on instinct, searching for anything that would keep him there. His palm scraping against rusted steel, leaving streaks of red behind as his fingers curled desperately around the railing.

The same hands that had pushed you away.

The same hands that had held yours on the way up, guiding you over every rung of that ladder when the height made your stomach twist.

You remember his mouth opening like he might say something—your name, maybe—a goodbye, something he needed you to know—but all that came out was a broken, ragged breath.

You remember the color draining from his face as he looked down, the terrible understanding settling in his eyes.

You remember lunging for him without thought.

You remember Robin’s arms locking around your waist, holding you back so tightly it bruised, her grip the only thing keeping you from following him over the edge.

And then his fingers slipped.

You stalk toward him now, trying to outrun the memory, fists clenched so tight your nails carve crescents into your palms.

He’s sprawled across the sheets, chest heaving, arms flung wide in surrender.

“Why?” you demand, climbing over him, straddling him with an anger so raw it shakes your whole body. “Why the fuck would you do that?”

He lets out a quick breath through his nose, incredulous. Raises his brows like you’re the insane one.

“Seriously? You’re seriously asking me that.”

He’s smiling.

A crooked, boyish thing, manic brightness behind the eyes, adrenaline still lighting him up from the inside out.  

It detonates something in you.

You slam your weight down on him, knees digging hard into his sides. The mattress groans, the air punching out of his lungs in a sharp grunt.

You fist the hem of his shirt and yank it up.

The sight underneath steals your air right back.

It never gets easier to see.

Bruises bloom fresh and vicious across his ribs, inky purples bleeding into sick reds. New hurt swallowed by old hurt, skin that never gets the chance to heal clean before something tears it open again.

Jagged crescents from teeth, ropes of pale, warped ridges that split the tan of his skin like fault lines, ready to crack him open. That chunk of puckered flesh on his right side that never healed right—and it never will.  

Your fingers drag down the center of his chest, shaking.

“What was the plan this time, hm?” you spit, nails scraping over the soft plane of his stomach, catching on one of the scars. “What was the fucking plan, Steve?”

You hook your fingers into his belt buckle and rip it loose, hard enough that the metal clangs against itself.

“Answer me. What would you have done if—if Jonathan didn’t catch you? If you slipped?”

His head falls back, exposing the flushed column of his throat, pulse hammering wild and alive under skin you’ve kissed a hundred times.

“What the hell was I supposed to do?” he pants. “Let you fall?”

“You didn’t know I was gonna fall!”

“Well I wasn’t gonna fucking wait to find out, alright?”  

The mattress groans when he pushes himself upright too fast, pain flashing across his face before he buries it immediately, one hand flying to his ribs on instinct.

“I can’t... I’m not gonna just stand there and wait for something to happen to you.”

Your body goes still.  

The bright sting behind your eyes arrives right on cue, the fury choking off in your throat until all that’s left is grief.

“You know,” you whisper, quieter now. “You know I’m not just talking about the tower.”

There’s a moment of recognition in his eyes as the words sink in, a flash of something that might be guilt if he ever let it sit long enough.

He knows exactly what you mean.

Then, just as fast, he shutters himself. Lets the feeling die before it can root.

His gaze slides away toward the ceiling.

“No, don’t... don’t do that,” he mutters. “Don’t make this into some... suicidal thing. It wasn’t.”

“Wasn’t it?”

“No.”

“You could’ve died tonight.”

“But I didn’t.”

“That’s not the fucking point!”

“Well what do you want me to say?” he fires back suddenly, frustration cracking his voice. “That I’m sorry I stopped you from falling?”

“I want you to stop acting like your life means less than mine!”

He clamps his mouth shut, an audible click of his molars as he frowns, incredulity settling behind his wide eyes. His brows pulling together as he stares at you like he can’t understand why you could possibly be saying this.

Steve doesn’t consciously believe his life matters less.

He would never say that.

But somewhere deep down—in the ugly marrow of him, in the abandoned, lonely places built inside him when he was a kid—he believes it instinctively.

You’ve known that for a long time now.

Steve grew up starving.

Not for food.

For affection.   

A reason to believe he mattered even when there was nothing he could offer except himself.

Love, in the Harrington house, was conditional.

And at Hawkins High, he traded one kind of emptiness for another.

Built himself a throne out of borrowed attention and hollow praise.

Then the world ended, and suddenly everybody needed him.

Needed his fists, his strength. Needed the frightening way he could take hit after hit after hit and still stand back up bleeding.

Steve latched onto that feeling with both hands.

And his body became a type of offering.

A thing to spend.

You’ve lost count of how many nights ended exactly like this.

Both of you stumbling back home, adrenaline clawing through your veins, slick with sweat and blood—yours or his, it doesn’t matter anymore. Shaking so hard your teeth chatter while you scream at him, fists slamming into his chest.

Screaming and shoving and crying and kissing and begging—begging him to please, please stop being so fucking careless with your life. What’s the point of any of this shit if you’re dead, Steve?      

It always ends the same way. Your anger dissolving into something wetter as Steve reaches for your waist with bruised hands, dragging you against him, mouthing apologies into your throat he’ll never say aloud. Fucking you on top of bloodstained sheets while the smell of iron hangs thick in the room, face buried in your neck, every thrust a word he won't say.

Sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.

You stare at him now, chest heaving, lungs scraping for air that won’t come.

Then you reach down and pull his wrists together.

The leather creaks when you thread his belt around them.

Loop, thread, pull, cinch.

Survival knots perfected in the dead of night, in basements and back rooms, hands slick with sweat while you practiced until it stuck. So when the time came, you could hold down something thrashing and dangerous.

Because hesitation is what gets people killed.

It makes sickness crawl up your throat, how naturally your body remembers.

How this world has taught you to restrain someone you love—and taught you well.

You yank his arms above his head, the strap biting into his skin, pulling tight until the leather creaks and his skin pales underneath.

Steve doesn’t fight it, doesn’t even try. Just lets his head fall back against the pillows, wrists falling limp over dark linens.

Has the fucking audacity to smile.

“What,” he breathes, wrecked in an entirely different way now. “You gonna punish me?”

You yank the belt tighter.

He hisses softly through his teeth, brows creasing in a fake show of pain, hips stirring in anticipation.

“Okay, easy, easy,” he mutters breathlessly, grin crooked. “Jesus—easy, honey.”

“Oh, so now I’m honey?”

You shove his wrists harder into the pillow, then drop your hands to his pants, fingers rough and impatient. The button fights you before snapping loose, his zipper dragged down with a harsh metallic rasp. He sucks in a breath, back arching as the pressure eases off his swollen cock.

“Baby...” he tries, a soft laugh in his voice. “C’mon, you don’t have to, just—”

“Shut up.”

You shove him back into the mattress, gaze burning furiously through him.

He just stares back, that reckless, adrenaline-drunk smile still clinging to him like he hasn’t learned a single fucking thing.

So you wrap your hand around his throat.

Four fingers digging into warm, sweat-slick skin. Your thumb presses into the hollow beside his windpipe until you can feel it.

The frantic thump-thump-thump of life.

Life he throws around like loose change.

“S-shit, babe...” he chokes softly, lashes fluttering, eyes rolling back, the fucked-up wires in his brain firing off all at once. He uses what little leverage he has to lift his hips, grinding against your ass until you tighten your grip, a crease of real strain forming between his brows as his breath snags under your palm.

But even then, he doesn’t push you away. His bound hands strain downward, fingers grasping uselessly at your wrist, tugging you forward so he can get you closer, grind up harder.

You hate him.

You love him so much it makes you violent.

And he’s still fucking bleeding.

Face covered all over in fresh cuts and bruises, illuminated by the soft blue glow of the dinosaur nightlight in the corner—same one he’s had since he was five.

This bed once held your first kiss.

Your first time.

Steve laughing breathlessly into your mouth at sixteen years old because he kept fumbling the condom wrapper with nervous hands.

Whispered promises under blankets about senior year and college.

A hundred different somedays and maybes.

About a future that didn’t look like this—didn’t include gates or monsters or watching the boy you love come within inches of disappearing, over and over again.

Now you’re choking him in it.  

Straddling him with your hand around his throat because you don’t know how else to make him understand that you cannot survive loving somebody who keeps choosing death.

It won’t leave you alone, the image of his face on top of that tower.

Not an inch of hesitation.

Like it wouldn’t have mattered, either way.

Your other hand comes up, circling his throat fully now, pressing in. 

Your eyes sting as you narrow them, forcing yourself to hold his gaze.

Barely a whisper, the words cut you on their way out.

“Fuck you.”

Some days you think about killing him yourself.

Ending it before the world gets to.

Precipitate the inevitable doom that is loving a man who would bleed for you, break for you, die for you—

But won’t live for you.    

At least it would be quick, then.

At least you wouldn’t spend the rest of your life waiting for the inevitable moment where his luck finally runs out.

It’s unbearable.

Loving someone who would move mountains to keep you alive, but cannot understand why you’d want the same for him.

Calm in the face of oblivion, martyrdom fits him like a second skin. 

That’s what terrifies you most.

Because somewhere deep down, you know he doesn’t fear death the way he should. The way a normal person would.

Sometimes, you think a part of him finds peace in the idea of going out useful.

And it’s all so completely, irreparably fucked, because you don’t love him despite it.

You love him because of it.

Loving Steve Harrington feels like standing on a fault line, waiting for the ground to split wide and swallow you whole.

It’s a special, exquisite kind of torture, to be so in love with a man who throws himself at death like it’s a dare.  

And it is love, undeniably and irrevocably so.

You love him.

By god, you love him.  

Because his martyr complex is just a twisted language for devotion. When he throws himself into danger, you know it isn’t bravado—it’s instinct. A reflex burned into his bones, older than logic, older than fear.

Love is the only language Steve Harrington has ever been fluent in, and he speaks it with his whole body.  

It turns his skin into armor, his heart into a blade. Sharp enough to carve permanent lines inside you—wounds that might close, someday, but never fade.

And he really does believe it.

That this is what it looks like, loving somebody.

But what good is devotion if it buries you?

What good is love from someone six feet under?

Your hand loosens around his throat, just enough for him to drag in a ragged breath. His chest heaves under you, pulse still racing against your palm.

His Adam’s apple bobs, sending ripples of light over the pale rings circling his neck, thin and white against his flushed skin. Scars that still have him jerking awake some nights, clawing at his own throat, gasping like he’s still back there.

Nightmares that leave him staring at the ceiling until four in the morning because every time he closes his eyes, he sees vines threading around broken bodies. Migraines that get so bad after trips to the Upside Down he has to sit alone in dark bathrooms, forehead pressed against cool tile, breathing through the nausea until the room stops tilting.

His hands still reach for a nail bat when the house creaks at night, before he's even fully awake.

Fear has never made him run. It only ever taught him to step forward.

And the tear you've been holding back all night finally slips free, landing on his bare stomach with a soft, awful plop.

Steve flinches like it’s acid, muscles clenching underneath you.

“Baby...”

You let go of his neck fully as you sink back onto his thighs, fingers gone numb, teeth digging into your lip until copper floods your mouth.

“You didn’t even hesitate.”

You watch as his expression immediately sobers, brows drawing together, eyes flicking between yours.

“Y-you never do. You never fucking hesitate,” your breath starts coming in tight hitches, catching in your chest. “And it’s like—it’s like—”

The rest of the words slip free, torn loose now that everything’s exposed, out there in the open, your handprint around his throat and his wrists bound in leather.    

“...It’s like you don’t even care if you leave me here.”

Steve goes silent for a moment, shoulders slumping with a quiet breath.    

You watch—eyes burning, body trembling—as he slowly reaches for you. The leather belt creaks as his wrists slide down until his fingers brush yours.  

You feel the metal burns on his palms against the back of your hand—his skin split from gripping the railing so hard he tore himself open just to keep from falling.   

He whispers your name on a soft breath.

“Baby, if I ever lost you?” He shakes his head faintly. “That’d be it for me.”

You sniff hard, refusing to blink.

“I mean it.” Light pools in his eyes, trembling along the lower lashes until they glimmer like wet glass. “I’d never… I’d never leave you behind. How could I?”

He closes his fingers gently around your wrist, thumb brushing over your pulse.

“I love you. More than... more than anything. You know that.”

You lift your gaze slowly to meet his.

“Do I?”

Two words, but it’s the ugliest thing you’ve said all night.

It's suffocating, the silence that follows.

“Do you ever think about us? About me?”

Because that’s what this is really about, isn’t it?

For all the names you’ve thrown at him in your worst moments—reckless, stubborn, idiot, a selfish asshole with a death wish—

It’s you who feel selfish.

For wanting him to stay.

For wanting to keep him in a world that seems determined to take him first.

For wanting him to choose you over the next disaster that crawls out of the dark.

Because you’re terrified that when the moment comes, when it’s you or the world, he won’t have to think about it. That the world will always reach for him first—and that one day, it’ll win.

Or worse, that he’ll choose you instead.

That he’ll stop running toward danger because of you. That loving you will make him hesitate.

And you’ll be the reason he changes.  

The reason the world breaks.

Steve’s expression changes in a flash.

The belt creaks as he tries to sit up, a real wince cutting across his brow when his bruised ribs take the pressure. He sucks in a breath through clenched teeth, dragging himself upright.

“Look at me.”

You turn your head instinctively, but he follows.

“Hey. C’mon. Look at me.”

Hazel burns molten in the dim light, the shine in them trembling.

“Of course I think about you,” he whispers, breathless. “You don’t think I think about you? Hey, hey, look at me—you’re all I think about. You’re in my head, all the time. Every fucking second.”

Your tears spill harder, falling freely now, dripping from your chin onto the dark brown fabric of his cargo pants, leaving small damp spots that bloom between you.

“Every time something goes wrong, or—or I’m thinking about doing something stupid, you’re there. First thing. Your face, your voice. Telling me to stop being an idiot, telling me to think—"

You shake your head, a broken sound catching in your throat.

“And if I just stood there tonight,” he presses on, eyes locked on yours, brimming with tears but never flinching, “If there was even a chance you could fall, and I didn’t do anything?”

He swallows.

“I couldn’t live with that. I mean it, honey. I couldn’t.”    

A tear slips loose and slides down his own cheek. He doesn’t wipe it away.

“Baby, I... I wasn’t trying to die. I was trying to end this. All of it. So we don’t have to keep doing this forever.”

His mouth twitches faintly.

“You remember what we talked about? About college? That stupid road trip idea I had with the camper van?” He shakes his head, letting out a quiet laugh. “Six kids, right? Or... whatever insane number I said.”

His hands come up as much as the belt allows, clumsy from the strain in his shoulders, and cradle your face. His thumbs drag across the wet heat beneath your eyes, catching tears as fast as they fall, rubbing salt into flushed skin. 

“That’s the goal. That’s always been the goal.”

He leans forward until his forehead presses against yours.

For a long moment, he says nothing. His hands stay on your face, thumbs brushing softly over your skin, his breathing uneven in the small space between you.

Then, almost too quietly to hear:

“I would’ve jumped with you.”

You recoil immediately, shaking your head hard, eyes squeezing shut.

“Don’t. Don’t fucking say that.”

Steve pushes on, voice low and terrifyingly calm.

“If you’d fallen off that tower tonight, I would’ve followed you.”

His thumb brushes under your eye again, catching another tear before it reaches your jaw.

“Wouldn’t even think about it. I’d just go.”

“Steve—”

“I’d go.”

Your eyes snap open.

Those big, stupid hazel eyes bore into yours.

That stupid nose. Those stupid thick lashes and those stupid moles and those stupid lips.

And underneath all of it, that huge, catastrophic, stupid heart crammed inside a body that keeps throwing itself into danger like it doesn’t belong to him.

Your chest aches just looking at him.

You’ve spent countless nights staring at Steve Harrington while he slept beside you, wondering if loving him would always feel like standing barefoot on train tracks.

Waiting.

Feeling the vibrations underneath your feet before the impact ever comes. Knowing that something massive and merciless will come racing toward you and there won’t be a damn thing you can do to stop it. 

Sometimes you’d trace the slope of his nose with the back of your finger. Follow the shape of his eyebrows. The tiny scar under his chin from a T-ball game when he was six.

You’d study the dip of his cupid’s bow, the soft curve of his lips as he breathed into his pillow, completely unaware of how thoroughly he’d ruined your life for anyone else.

And you’d torture yourself with the same impossible question.

If someone had stopped you before all of this, taken your face in both hands and said:

Here, this boy is going to become the center of your entire world.

He's going to make you laugh so hard your ribs hurt.

He’s going to kiss you like you’re the last person on earth, and he's going to love you so completely you'll forget there was ever a version of yourself that existed before him.

He's going to look at you like you're the only thing worth finding at the end of the world.

Then one day, he’ll start throwing himself in front of monsters and nightmares beyond comprehension. 

He's going to throw himself off a tower without hesitating if it means you get to live.

Would you still choose him?

Would you still let him in, knowing one day he might not make it back?

Would you willingly hand your heart to someone who would protect it with his life—

But never his own?

And even in the quiet space of that hypothetical, the answer had never changed.

You would.

Every fucking time. 

“I love you,” the boy in front of you whispers.

The words slice straight through you, scraping against everything frayed raw inside your chest.

“Shut up,” you breathe, eyes squeezing shut.

Because if he loved you, wouldn’t he try?

Wouldn’t he try?

“I love you.”

“Steve, s-stop.”

“I love you. There’s nothing—nothing—that matters to me more than you.”

“Steve, I swear to god—”

“You’re it for me. And if it came down to it again—”

“Please, stop—”

“—I’d choose to jump. Every time.”

It feels like a seam is splitting inside your chest.

Your breath caves first—a sharp, stuttering inhale that catches in your lungs hard enough to hurt—before your body moves on instinct.

You surge forward, the mattress groaning beneath the force of it as you crash into him, fists tangling in the front of his shirt.

“Fuck you,” you sob.

Steve sucks in a breath as you pound weakly at his chest, his restrained hands jerking uselessly between your bodies.

He can’t hold you properly. Can’t wrap his arms around you the way he wants to.

Still, he tries.  

He shifts forward on the mattress, pulling you between his thighs. The leather around his wrists creaks when he strains to hook his arms around your waist.

You bury your face against his neck.

His entire body folds around yours, chest pressed flush against you so tightly you can feel the frantic hammer of his heartbeat through his sternum, the uneven rise and fall of his lungs where your bodies are crushed together. He presses his cheek against your temple, breathing hard through his nose.

“I know,” he murmurs hoarsely into your hair. “I know, baby. I know.”

“N-no, y-you don’t,” you choke out.

Your hands claw at his shoulders hard enough to bunch the fabric beneath your fists. You need him closer. Closer than skin, closer than bone. If you could unzip his ribs and crawl inside his chest just to keep his heart beating yourself, you would.

“You don’t know,” you sob against his throat. “You d-don’t know what it f-feels like—”

“Hey,” Steve whispers shakily. “Hey, c’mon. Breathe for me, baby. Please.”

You curl tighter against him, fists twisting in the soft cotton of his shirt until your knuckles throb from the effort. The tears don't stop. They soak into the warm skin at the base of his neck, your breath catching against him in broken, uneven pulls until your throat burns and your ribs ache with every desperate inhale.

Steve gathers you as close as his battered body will allow. Every so often, he presses another lingering kiss into your hairline, your temple, the crown of your head, each one quiet enough to say what words can't.

“I’ve got you, baby,” he murmurs into your hair. “M'right here, I got you. Not going anywhere.”  

You let his words settle over you, one shaky breath at a time. The sobs begin to lose their violence, splintering into uneven hiccups that leave your chest sore and hollow.

When you finally pull back, it's only far enough to see him. 

Your hand trembles when you lift it to his face.

Steve goes still as your fingertips ghost over the scrape on his cheek, tracing down the line of his jaw. He doesn’t so much as flinch when your thumb brushes over the split in his lip, featherlight over the broken skin there.

The first kiss is soft.

Nothing like the frantic, bruising collision from earlier.  

But it’s worse like this, somehow.

Wet with tears, with blood, salt and iron passed between soft, shaking kisses. Steve sighs into it, a trembling sound that vibrates against your lips as he tilts his head and follows you deeper. His nose nudges against your cheek, his kisses careful, almost hesitant in how tender he’s being with you.

And it’s funny, really.

How grief can change shape in the span of a heartbeat.

One moment it's lodged beneath your ribs like broken glass, your body still trapped on that radio tower, watching Steve disappear over the edge.

The next, it's here.

In the careful way he kisses you, the warmth of his breath against your mouth.

In the slow, wet drag of his tongue against yours, your fingers hooking into the open button of his pants. The zipper presses cold against the side of your hand before you push deeper, slipping beneath the elastic of his briefs.

He’s already half-hard. Heavy and thick and burning hot against your palm, velvety-soft skin twitching when you wrap your fingers around him. The soft curl of hair at his base brushes against your knuckles when you adjust your grip.

He pants openly into your mouth as you slide your other hand into his hair, gripping tight, yanking his head back at the angle you want it.  

Nose to nose, lips brushing even as you’re not kissing—only sharing air and spit, slick between swollen mouths.

And your eyes stay open, watching him.

Darkened hazels and helplessly fluttering lashes, his is a face that will haunt every version of your future. The one you almost lost, the one you’re still begging the universe to let you keep.

“Show me.”

He blinks at your words, lips parted in soft pants.

“Show me how much you love me.”

He swears under his breath, eyes clenching shut.  

“Fuck…” he groans, shaking his head slowly, side to side, grunting when you drag your thumb across the sensitive tip. “Baby, please... just untie me,” he pleads, straining against his binds again. “Please—fuck—let me touch you—”

“No.”

“Please, baby—”

“No,” you repeat, wrist rolling as you start to stroke him harder, feeling him swell fully in your grip.

He grunts, brows creased in pleasure as you continue to squeeze and glide your palm up and down his length, lips parted to keep kissing you in this obscene way, tongues sliding together in slow, wet strokes.

“God, you’re so... so pretty when you’re mad, you know that?” He huffs against your mouth, almost a laugh, throat gone hoarse and dry from how hard he’s been panting.

“You get this look like you’re—ah, fuck—like you might actually kill me.”

You squeeze your grip around his cock, dangerously tight.

“Maybe I should.”

Something catches in those soft hazel eyes, then.

Pinning you in place with nothing but their unblinking stare, almost unnervingly steady.

You watch, helpless, as he lifts his own hands up toward his mouth. He spits lewdly into the hollow of his right palm, shoving his waistband down just enough to free his cock, replacing your hand with his own.  

Wrists still bound, he slicks himself in slow, wet strokes, eyes never leaving yours.

"Yeah?" he asks quietly. "You gonna punish me?"

He tips his chin up toward you, lashes nearly brushing your skin when he blinks.

“You gonna use this cock, baby? Take it out on me?”

He uses what little range of motion he has to rub his tip up and down your glistening slit, obscene schlicks that fill the space between your breaths, spurred by the impatient grinds of your hips.

And the moment he pushes inside you, he breathes the words against your skin.

“I love you.”

His mouth swallowing your whimpers at the stretch of taking him this way—no prep, no lube, just spit—yours, his, it doesn’t matter anymore.

“I love you. I love you. We’re... we’re gonna be okay, baby, I promise. We’re gonna be okay.”

Your hands shake as you reach for the belt around his wrists, the buckle catching under your fingertips before releasing with a muted clink. He cups your cheeks as soon as it does, cradling your face, pressing his lips against yours. 

“I love you,” he repeats against your mouth, over and over. “I love you. I love you.”

Grief really is a funny thing.   

It burns until there's nothing left to consume

And the anger that had kept you upright for hours—the frantic, desperate need to make him understand how terrified you'd been—begins to crumble beneath the weight of what you almost lost.

Your strength gives out in increments. Your fingers slowly uncurl from his biceps, the crescents your nails pressed into his skin easing away. Your forehead finds the warm slope of his shoulder instead, eyes slipping shut as the last of the fight drains from your body.

You sag forward, soft whimpers and low groans exchanged between your lips as you rock back and forth on his cock, letting it fill up the hollowed-out places inside you.

And when you get too tired to do even that—when your strength gives out, thighs trembling with the effort of lifting yourself up and sinking back down—he’s there to catch you.

One arm sliding securely around you as he eases you onto your back, the muscles in his shoulders rippling under your fingertips as you wind your arms around his neck. You cling to him as he kisses you hard and deep, exchanging punched-out breaths as he starts up his thrusts with newfound fervor.

"Gonna marry you," he pants suddenly, stealing what little breath you have left.

You gasp against his mouth, caught between a disbelieving laugh and another sob. “Steve—”

“I mean it,” he insists, hips snapping into the mattress, barely pulling out before burying himself back in. “I-I want all of it. That house with the... the porch. That trip we keep talking about, in the camper van, and—”

His face screws up and he has to stop moving for a second, drawing in a shuddering breath.

“I’m gonna marry you and—fuck—gonna give you a baby.”   

You choke on the words, a helpless sound catching in your throat as you cling to him, bruisingly tight.

“Yeah?” He strokes your hair back, cupping the crown of your head with his palm. Smoothing the sweat-slick strands away from your face, thumb lingering at your temple as his eyes search yours. “You want me to give you a baby?”  

You nod into him, unable to find the words.

“How many?”

His pace is unrelenting—thrusts hard enough that the bedframe is thudding repeatedly against the wall, hard enough that you know the wallpaper’s going to show it tomorrow.  

“Tell me,” he grunts, voice rough with emotion, like he needs to hear you say it out loud. “How many?”

Sweat shining along his skin, hair a damp mess across his forehead, but he never once looks away.

“F-fuck, I don’t...” you break on another sob, eyes clenching shut. “Two. Maybe... maybe three.”

“Three,” he repeats to himself, and his hips snap a little sharper. “What about... what about four? Make it a—mm, fuck—make it an even number.”

And it’s hardly new—the kind of bullshit he spouts when you’re both this far gone, when adrenaline has burned through every last nerve and neither of you are thinking straight anymore. He’s always been prone to making wild promises in the heat of the moment—spinning out impossible futures and reckless dreams, building an entire lifetime in the space of a few breathless minutes—just to get you both off.     

But tonight, they don’t feel like a fantasy at all. 

“You’d look so... so fucking pretty,” he pants, voice breaking. “Pregnant with my kid. Jesus.”

“Mm, close...” you whisper weakly, face scrunched at the unbearably mounting pressure in your lower stomach.  

“Yeah? You’re close? You gonna come for me?”

You nod, burying yourself closer, clinging to him harder. “T-tell me again.”

“Tell you what, baby?”

“That you... that you love me.”

“Fuck,” he groans, thrusts turning sloppy as he buries a loud groan against your lips. “I love you. Love you so fucking much. I don’t even know what I’d do without you. I—shit, a-are you coming? Oh, fuck, that’s—that’s it. That’s my girl.”

Your orgasm hits hard and blinding. A broken groan ripping out of you as you clamp your thighs around his waist, mewling into his skin. You blink your eyes open just in time to see his gaze fixed on you—expression reverent, chest heaving as he watches you shake underneath him.

And as you go to kiss him, feeling the labored grunts of his mounting pleasure against your lips, the weight of his breaths and the slick drag of his cock against your heat—

When you press your lips to his and whisper for him to come inside you, make me yours Steve, get me pregnant, keep me, love me, stay with me, stay, stay, please fucking stay—

When he presses inside all the way to the hilt and lets his own pleasure overtake him—

You finally whisper the words back.

Three syllables against the enormity of what lives inside your chest.

Three syllables trying to hold every sleepless night and every quiet morning, every time you pressed your lips to the places on his body that hurt and wished that love alone could take his pain away.

They cannot carry it all.

They never could.

But when he closes his eyes and tips his forehead to yours—his weight melting against you as he presses an exhausted, dazed smile against your lips—you realize maybe the words don’t have to hold it all.

Maybe he can feel the rest.

· · ·

The seal breaks with a sharp snap, the plastic ring splitting loose and skittering across the bathroom floor.

You turn the bottle over in your hand, staring at it for a moment.

It’s the good kind—the expensive kind stored in heavy glass, the label still clean. You haven’t touched it since the day Steve brought it home months ago, back when you could still ask for things like Epsom salt and a box of chocolates at the general store without anyone looking at you like you’d lost your mind.

He’d shown up at your door that afternoon grinning like an idiot, grocery store roses tucked under one arm and a paper bag in his other hand that clinked when he lifted it.

“Thought we deserved something nice,” he’d said, holding up the bag with that stupid, proud little grin. “We haven’t done a proper date night in a while, right?”

But you hadn't used the bottle then.

You'd saved it.

For a night that felt right.

For a night where you weren’t just surviving long enough to see morning.

Your hands shake a little as you tip the bottle now.

Pouring more than you should, watching the pale liquid ribbon into the rushing stream of water, swallowed by the force of it before slowly blooming back to the surface in soft, frothy bubbles.

The smell hits a second later. Sweet, heavy lavender that clings to the back of your throat, swirling with the clean heat of the water.

For a moment, you let yourself go back.

Back to the day Steve bought this because he wanted to take care of you. Because he wanted one normal night where you could both pretend the world hadn’t changed.

A night where the biggest problem was what movie to put on.

Then, the sink creaks behind you.

You turn immediately, heart jumping.  

Steve’s reflection is blurred in the mirror—shoulders slumped, chin dipping toward his chest. He’s got one hand braced against the counter, knuckles pale from how tightly he’s holding on. The other fumbles with an orange pill bottle.

“You okay? You need help?”

He shakes his head. “Nah, I got it.”

The words are automatic. Steve’s favorite answer to anything that worries you.

He tips a couple pills into his palm, fills the glass beside the sink, and swallows them down.

You watch his face tighten afterward, eyes squeezing shut as he waits for it to pass. His throat works hard, his whole body briefly tensing, muscles bracing against something that should have been painless.

You step closer, hands settling carefully on his arms as you turn him toward you. 

He doesn’t argue when you crouch in front of him.

You start with his shoes.

Fingers working at the laces, easing them loose before pulling them off one at a time. They hit the tile with a quiet thud. His socks peel off next. Then his pants, the buttons still undone. His briefs.

He stays silent through all of it, one hand resting lightly on your shoulder.

It’s not much pressure, but you feel the way his weight leans into you, the slight sway when you shift back, like he’s having to constantly correct himself just to stay upright.

Helping him into the tub takes time. You stay close while he steps over the edge, one hand gripping your arm, the other braced against the wall.

Slowly, carefully, he lowers himself into the water.

The second it reaches his ribs, he hisses.

“Shit—”

His head falls back against the tile, eyes squeezing shut as a sharp breath slips between his teeth. His hand tightens reflexively around your wrist.

Foamy water laps against his chest, darkening the hair across his sternum, rising and falling with each careful breath.

“Too hot?” you ask quickly, already reaching for the faucet.

He cracks his eyes open, shaking his head.

“’S perfect.”

You keep watching him, searching his face for the slightest sign that he's only saying it to spare you.

Then, little by little, the strain begins to loosen its grip.

The hard line of his jaw softens first, his fingers easing around your wrist. His shoulders sink another inch beneath the warm water, the tension slowly melting out of them as the heat works its way into his muscles.

His next breath comes easier. Then another.

After a long moment, his eyes drift open again.

They're hazy with fatigue, heavy-lidded and unfocused, but they find you where you're perched beside the tub, knees tucked against your chest.

He squints, mouth twisting into a petulant frown.

“What?” he murmurs. “You’re not getting in?” 

A smile tugs at your lips. “You want me to?”

He gives you a slow, incredulous look—the classic Steve Harrington stare.

“Uh, yeah,” he mumbles, like it’s obvious. “How else am I supposed to feel better?”

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling as you stand.

Your hands aren’t as steady as you’d like; you notice it more now, with nothing else to focus on.

You pull your shirt over your head, and immediately hear the quiet shift of water beside you, a soft slosh.

By the time you glance up, he’s already looking at you.

Sitting a little straighter than he was a moment ago, chin lifted despite the exhaustion pulling at him. Steam curls between you, softening the edges of his face, but his eyes never leave yours. They follow every movement with boyish concentration, fixed on you in a way that’s not even pretending to be subtle.

You huff a quiet breath through your nose, fighting a smile as you tug the rest of your clothes off.  

“Seriously?”

The corner of his mouth quirks, all innocence.

“What? Sue me.”  

He shifts deeper into the tub, water rolling around him as he eases back, making room between his legs before patting the space in front of him.

You step in carefully, goosebumps prickling as the heat climbs slowly over your ankles, your calves, your thighs. The water embraces you inch by inch until you're lowering yourself fully beneath the surface, warmth wrapping around you like a heavy blanket scented with lavender.

The moment your back brushes his chest, his arms find you.

They slide around your waist with familiar certainty, one settling securely across your middle to draw you closer.  Your hand rises on instinct, covering his forearm where it rests across your stomach. His skin is warm and damp beneath your fingertips, the fine hairs catching against your palm as your thumb strokes absent circles over his wrist.

His chin grazes your shoulder as he nestles closer, his next breath warming the side of your neck.

“This is nice,” he hums, body growing heavier where it rests against yours.

You let out a slow breath. “Yeah.”

You let your weight settle back into him completely. He answers by tightening his arm around your waist, one hand gliding up to squeeze your side as he draws you a fraction closer.

You take the other one for you to keep.

Turning it over slowly, relearning it by touch. The familiar roughness of his skin, the broad span of his palm, completely swallowing yours whenever he laces your fingers together. Your thumb glides over the callus at the base of his index finger, the thickened patch of skin from years of gripping weapons he never should have had to hold.

You rub over it absentmindedly, once, twice, then again.

“How do you know?”

The words come so quietly you're not even sure you've said them aloud.

“Hm? Know what?”

“How do you know...” You swallow, unable to lift your eyes from where the water laps gently over your joined hands, pale violet opalescence that ripples around you both. “How do you know this is real?”  

He goes still at that, the only sound between you the soft ripple of water and the rush of your own thoughts filling the space.

“We could still be down there,” you whisper, the words gathering speed the longer you speak.

“Maybe... maybe we never got out. Maybe Vecna just made us think we won by giving us...” You gesture around the room. “...this.”

The lavender.

The warm water.

Him.

“What if none of it's real? What if he just—what if he made us think we were safe because it'd hurt more when he took it away? I mean, how would we even know?”    

Your chest feels tighter with every word.

“What if we're still—"

“Hey.”

Steve's voice is so soft that you almost miss it.

“Hey. Look at me.”

His face is drawn with exhaustion, pain lingering in the tightness around his eyes, in the careful way he holds himself, like every breath reminds him of another bruise.

But they’re still his.

Still that same warm hazel you've spent so many nights memorizing, never daring to believe you'd get a lifetime of looking into them.

“You know how I know?”

Your throat goes tight. “How?”

“Because you’re scared.”

Your brows pull together, fingers tightening around his. He squeezes your hand back, gentle but certain.

“That’s how I know. Because you’re sitting here trying to figure out if this is real instead of just being happy that we’re okay.”

Steve watches you for a moment before looking down between you, at the lavender bubbles drifting around your joined hands.

A bead of water clings to his lashes before he blinks it away.

“I mean…” He draws out a slow breath. “I don’t know if I can prove it. How could anyone, right? After everything that happened? I don’t think any of us are supposed to just wake up the next day and be like, ‘Cool. Guess that’s over.’”

He pauses, a small smile pulling at his mouth.

“But then I look at you and… and I just see you doing that thing.”

You blink. “What thing?”

He lifts your joined hands from the water, droplets sliding down your wrists as the surface ripples around you.

“This.”

He gives your hand a little squeeze, lacing your fingers together more securely. 

“You always start messing with my hand when you’re freaking out.”

Your brows pull together. “What?”

He lets out a soft laugh, reaching up with his free hand to gently tuck a damp strand of hair away from your face.

“Yeah, you grab my hand and then you start doing this weird little... I don’t know. Thing. Like you’re inspecting it or something.”

Only then do you realize your thumb has been moving back and forth over the same callus on his palm, tracing the same small patch of rough skin.

“...Oh.”

“Yeah.”

There’s something teasing about his voice now, his smile.

The same Steve who’d make an absolute idiot of himself just to get you to roll your eyes. Who could make you laugh in the middle of the worst days of your life.

His smile softens as he looks down at the water, where your fingers are still tangled together.

His thumb brushes slowly over the back of your hand.

“I guess… I guess that’s how I know.”

The steam curls around you both, blurring the edges of the room until there’s nothing left but this.

His hand in yours.

His heartbeat steady against your back and his voice low and certain beside your ear.

“Because I know you.”

He tightens his fingers around yours.

“I know you.”

· · ·

Eventually, the warmth of the bath starts to fade.

The water isn’t quite as hot as it was when you first climbed in, the lavender bubbles breaking apart into a faint, delicate layer.

You’re still holding his hand.

Neither of you has let go.

“Hey,” he murmurs after a while, giving your fingers a small tug.

“Hm?”

He lifts your joined hands out of the water, turning his palm toward himself.

Then he starts tracing something, slow and awkward, brow furrowed as he studies the lines crossing his palm.

You can tell he’s searching for something—squinting at the grooves in his hand, trying to remember a detail you’ve explained to him once or twice before, maybe more.

You watch him for a second, then mumble:

“You’re doing it wrong.”

“I’m doing it wrong?”

“Yes.”

He turns to look at you, eyebrows raised, genuinely offended in that exaggerated way he does when he knows he’s being teased.

“How can I be doing it wrong? It’s my hand.”

You give him a look.

“Because you don’t know what you’re looking for.”

He glances back down at his palm, then back at you.

“Okay, fine, genius,” he huffs, holding his hand out toward you. “What’s this one mean?”

You smile faintly.

“You don’t remember?”  

“No, I do. Just... tell me again? I remember you said mine was good.”

You did. Sitting cross-legged on the couch years ago, his hand stretched across your lap while you traced the lines in his palm. You’d laughed the whole time because you didn’t actually believe in any of it. But Steve had listened like it mattered, eyes serious, hanging onto every word.

You adjust your grip now, turning his hand so you can see it properly. Then you take his index finger between yours and guide it slowly along the deepest line on his palm.

“Here,” you murmur.

His finger follows where you lead it, brushing over the groove that starts just beneath his pinky and curves upward across his hand.

“This is your heart line.”

Steve doesn’t look at his hand.

He looks at you.

“It’s deep, and it doesn’t break. That means you feel things deeply. You lead with your heart.”

He hums softly, leaning forward to press a soft kiss to the top of your shoulder.

You keep tracing, guiding his finger toward the end of the line where it curves upward.

“And here, it turns up.”

You press lightly into the space beneath his index finger.

“See that spot?”

“Mm.”

“That’s called the Mount of Jupiter. And when your heart line curves up like that, it kinda means you’re... a hopeless romantic.”

You don’t even have to see his face to know he’s smiling. You feel it in the small twitch of his fingers around yours, in the quiet huff of amusement against your shoulder.

“Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

You follow the line with your own thumb, pretending to study the grooves of his skin like they might reveal something you don’t already know.

But the truth is, you're not really reading his hand.

“It also says you don’t know how to love halfway.” Your thumb follows the line one last time. “When you care about someone… you give them every part of yourself.”

When you glance back over your shoulder, he's already watching you.

Something achingly fragile settled over his expression, a quiet wonder in his eyes as though he's seeing himself the way you always have.

“Yeah?” he whispers.

You nod.

“Yeah.”

You lean in to close the small space between you, brushing your lips against the uninjured corner of his mouth.

It’s a delicate thing, more of a press than a kiss.  

His fingers tighten around yours beneath the water.

“Tell me what else.”

You smile, looking back down at his palm.

“You want me to read everything?”

“Yeah. Obviously.”

You turn his hand back toward you, guiding his finger to another line.

“Okay. This one is your head line.”

Steve settles back against the tub, his arm tightening around you as you continue tracing the little grooves and curves in his palm, explaining what they’re supposed to mean.

The truth is, none of this is anything you don’t already know.

You don’t need the lines in his hand to tell you who he is. 

You’ve known for a long time.

So you tell him what you've been carrying in your heart for longer than you can remember.

That he’s stubborn.

That he’s brave.

That he loves harder than he knows what to do with.

That he’s always seen himself as ordinary when he’s anything but.

And Steve listens.

· · ·

You stay there together until the water goes cold around you.

And though the lavender fades from the bath, the scent still clings to your skin, lingering long after the warmth has left.

Outside this room, there will still be reminders.

Things neither of you can outrun.

Memories that return without warning, scars that ache long after the wounds have closed.

Maybe some things never fully leave.

Maybe they don’t have to.

Because the bad things are not the only things that get to stay.

And when the first light of dawn slips through the bedroom window the next morning, washing everything in soft gold, Steve is still there.

Beside you.

His hand wrapped around yours.

He was still in his gear from the Upside Down, that backwards cap that made your head spin.

Your arm was slung over his shoulder as his arm was wrapped around your waist, helping to haul you up into his bathroom.

You groaned as you walked up the steps.

“You okay?” Steve asked as you winced with every step.

You nodded. “Yep.”

A lie.

Your skin felt like it was on fire.

The bathroom door creaked open and Steve flicked on the light, a soft amber glow illuminating the confined space.

His hands rested on your hips as he lifted you up onto the counter. “Okay,” he said, reaching into the medicine cabinet and grabbing the first aid kit. “Can you uh…” he trailed off, glancing down at your shirt that was soaked in blood. He cleared his throat, looking away awkwardly. “Take your shirt off,” he finished quietly. “Only if you’re comfortable, of course.”

Of course you were comfortable with Steve. What a ridiculous comment to make.

Steve started to wash his hands as you carefully lifted your shirt up, holding it in your lap.

Steve dried his hands onto the towel and turned back to you.

He swallowed.

Hard.

You were nothing but your bra and jeans.

“You gonna keep staring at me or are you gonna help me, Harrington?” you asked, playfulness in your tone despite the burning sensation on your stomach.

Steve blinked back into reality, shaking his head as he scrambled for the first aid kit. “Right,” he chuckled awkwardly, hands shaking.

He accidentally knocked the entire kit to the floor, making your eyes widen.

He dropped to the floor in the blink of an eye, yanking the first aid kit up and laughing awkwardly. “Sorry,” he apologized sheepishly, cheeks pink.

You smiled softly, watching as his shaking hands opened the kit, pulling out antiseptic.

“Steve,” you said softly.

“Huh?” he replied, his pretty, but nervous, doe eyes meeting yours.

You glanced down at the antiseptic in his hand, then to the large gash across your abdomen. “I’m still bleeding out to death, you know.”

Steve’s eyes widened, your hand that was on your stomach covered in blood as it leaked out.

“Oh shit,” he panicked. He raced out the room to grab a clean cloth and returned a second later. “I’ve got it,” he said softly, his hand wrapping gently around your wrist to move your hand out of the way.

He applied firm pressure onto the cut, and you immediately groaned, body stiffening.

“I’m sorry,” he apologized. “Am I hurting you too much? I’ve just gotta stop the bleeding.”

“No, it’s okay,” you replied, voice hoarse. “Just…” you breathed out, body relaxing as you shut your eyes. “I’m a baby when it comes to pain tolerance.”

Steve laughed. “Tell me about it.”

You shot him a glare, to which he just smirked.

He applied a little more pressure as time went on. You groaned again, shutting your eyes and throwing your head back against the mirror.

Steve glanced up at you, and his breath hitched when he saw how…

Hot you looked.

Stray strands of your hair clung to your skin, your eyes were shut, jaw tight, and your back was arched slightly.

You were his best friend.

You were not supposed to be looking this good.

Especially after you just came back from two different dimensions, hadn’t slept in days, evaded the government, and dropped everyone off at home safely.

Damn you.

“Are you almost done?” you said breathlessly.

Steve almost melted right there.

Fuck, you were so perfect.

“Mhm,” he hummed nervously. “Almost.”

Your eyes fluttered open, lips parting slightly as a sigh escaped you. You lifted your head a little, looking down at the towel that was covered in blood.

Steve glanced up at you, but immediately looked away.

He figured now would be a very inappropriate time to be lusting over his best friend who probably had no interest in him.

Little did he know, you thought he was looking too good in that backwards hat.

Steve removed the towel from your stomach and set it down. He put some antiseptic on a fresh towel and turned to you. “Okay. This is gonna burn.”

Your jaw clenched as you nodded. “I know.”

Steve nodded. “Alright. One…two…”

“Fuck!” you winced, the stinging cutting through your already open wound like a knife. You squeezed your eyes shut as your head fell back again.

Steve dabbed at your skin as he cleaned it.

He also glanced up every now and then, unable to look away from the beautiful sight of you quite literally in agony.

Your skin was flushed, chest slowly taking in level breaths as low groans escaped you every now and then.

Steve pulled the cloth away, moving to grab a gauze pad. He placed it gently onto your skin, his other hand fumbling for the tape as he taped it onto your skin.

“All done,” Steve said, looking up at you awkwardly.

You let out a sigh. “Thanks.”

Steve hummed, watching you reach for the soap to wash your hands and rid it of the blood.

You were drying your hands off on the towel, still sitting on the counter when he spoke again.

“Does it hurt?”

You nodded, setting the towel down. “Yeah, actually. Like, pretty bad.”

“I could kiss it better,” he joked, earning a laugh from you.

“Careful,” you giggled. “I might find a few more wounds for you to kiss better,” you teased. Steve laughed, though his cheeks were burning bright pink. “But since you seem so eager go ahead,” you joked.

Now, when you said that, you didn’t think he was actually going to do it.

In your mind, you thought he knew it was a joke too.

Regardless, he did anyway.

His fingers delicately ran down your sides, making you shutter. His fingers slowly made their way down the sides of your stomach, stopping at your waist to hold on to.

His eyes never looked away from your face.

You swallowed hard, glancing up to make eye contact with him.

Was he fucking serious?

The pupils of his hazel eyes dilated, changing in the way he looked at you.

Friends didn’t look at each other like that.

Lovers did.

He held eye contact as he slowly bent down, his face now in front of your stomach.

Your breath hitched when he looked at your abdomen, shutting his eyes as he placed a soft kiss onto the gauze.

A soft sound escaped you, one that made his heart flutter.

His lips ghosted their way over to your skin, your heart hammering in your chest in anticipation.

He placed a soft, firm kiss onto your skin.

Then another.

And another.

And another.

It was electrifying in a way you couldn’t explain. It was like something you had craved for so long was just teasing you.

You had grown awfully fond of Steve over the years, unsure of if he could ever reciprocate your affection.

So you buried it and continued on with being friends.

But this?

This just changed everything.

“Steve,” you said softly.

He stood up straight, hands still at your waist.

You looked up at him, his pupils blown wide in not just desire, but love.

“Yeah?” he asked quietly.

“Come here.”

Steve leaned in a little closer.

“Closer.”

And he obliged like your words simply forced him to. He obliged like he would do whatever your words told him to without a second thought, without any hesitation.

He leaned in a little closer, his nose just inches from yours.

You tilted your head slightly, eyes flicking down to his lips before going back up to his eyes. “I don’t think I’ve thanked you properly.”

“No?” he asked, eyes slowly looking down at your perfect lips.

“No,” you whispered.

Steve smirked, one of his hands trailing down your bare arm, creating a line of goosebumps. “I’m listening,” he teased.

You both knew what you wanted.

It was right there, just seconds, inches away.

He knew damn well your thank you required no words, yet he teased you anyway just to prolong the moment.

Now you felt awkward, breath hitching at the way he eyed your lips, his fingers grazing your soft skin with such delicacy.

“I…” you faltered, looking down at his lips.

Steve smirked. “I don’t think a verbal thank you is the best way to go, huh?”

Your eyes looked up into his. Your faces were inches apart, eyes so close you saw stupid little stars in them.

“I’d rather show you anyway,” you said.

Finally, you leaned in slowly, closing the space between you and Steve.

Your lips met gently, his nose brushing against yours.

It felt absolutely electric. His lips were warm, soft, and it felt like absolute heaven.

He immediately melted into the kiss, sighing against your lips.

Your arms came up to wrap around his neck, one hand on the back of his head to keep him right where you wanted him.

His hands tightened around your hips as he deepened the kiss.

Within seconds, months, years, of built up tension released itself.

You moaned into his mouth and he kissed you reverently, like he’d never be provided the opportunity again.

The bathroom instantly filled with your pants and moans, something you would’ve found disgustingly vulgar, but it only pushed you over the edge.

Steve pulled apart, instantly kissing your neck.

You whined as he placed open mouthed kisses all over your sensitive skin. Your hands wrapped around his shirt, tugging at the fabric.

He took the hint, pulling away and tugging his shirt off over his head, followed by the hat.

Your eyes wandered his toned chest and biceps. The hair on his chest made your heart flutter and the scars along his skin from the demobats a year ago were still present.

He dove back in, kissing your lips.

He groaned into your mouth as your fingers gently traced small patterns onto his skin.

His teeth bit at your bottom lip and when you moaned, he dipped his tongue in, kissing you deeper.

You wanted Steve.

All of him.

And he wanted all of you.

You whined, fingers now pulling at his belt loop.

He smiled against your lips, pulling away for a moment as the sound of both of you catching your breaths filled the room.

“So needy, huh?” he teased, already reaching to undo his belt.

“Shut up, Harrington,” you said, rolling your eyes.

Steve laughed, unbuckling his belt as he leaned back in to kiss you.

You sighed as he kissed you slowly, as if he was savoring your taste and the moment.

His hands fumbled as he undid his belt, the sound of it dropping to the ground echoing in the room.

Your eyes were shut, but you could hear his pants dropping to the floor too.

His lips were still on yours as his nervous hands shook to unbutton your pants. He couldn’t believe it. It was really happening.

His fingers trembled as they unzipped your jeans and you gasped as he lifted your hips, pulling the fabric right off and tossing it onto the floor.

You wrapped your legs around his waist, and he pressed his front against you.

You moaned softly, pulling apart from Steve’s lips to catch your breath.

Steve pressed his front against you again and you could feel the prominent bulge in his underwear. “You feel what you do to me?” he asked, kissing your collarbone.

A gasp escaped you as he picked you up, carrying you into his bedroom and slamming the door shut, laying you down onto your back into the bed.

His nose brushed yours and you giggled, moving the stray piece of hair away from his face. “Hi,” you whispered.

“Hi,” he said softly with that familiar smile. 

Your face flushed as his was just inches from yours. Never in a million years did you imagine you’d be this intimately close to your best friend.

“You’re so pretty,” he murmured, eyes adorned.

You looked away with a nervous smile and when you did so, he tucked your hair behind your ear. “Don’t turn away,” he teased.

You looked back at him, face warm, body hot. “Is this gonna make things weird between us?” you asked. “I don’t wanna lose you, Steve.”

Steve’s expression softened. “No. Never,” he affirmed. “You could never lose me, no matter how hard you tried.”

Your lips curved upward. “Even if this is super awkward?”

“Nope. Not leaving.”

You hummed, thinking of something else. “Well what if-”

“Not leaving,” he interrupted you.

“I didn’t finish!”

“You don’t need to,” Steve laughed. “You could tell me that you burned my own house to the ground and I’d still praise the ground you walk on.”

“Steve!”

“It’s true! I love you.”

Your heart immediately skipped a beat as you stared at him in shock.

Did he seriously just say that?

“What?” you asked.

“I love you,” Steve repeated. “And I have for a long time.”

And it was like the world stopped spinning for a second.

Like the monsters and all the fighting were now insignificant, because Steve Harrington just told you that he loved you.

And he meant it from the bottom of his heart.

He loved you.

You blinked. “You…You love me?”

“Of course I love you,” Steve said like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “I love how smart you are. I love how you protect the kids. I love how considerate you are…” he trailed off. “You want me to keep going?”

You laughed. “Maybe.”

And Steve didn’t even hesitate to list the million other things about you that made him fall head over heels in love with you.

It seemed like the words were just flowing out of his mouth naturally, like he didn’t even need to think about it.

And when he was finished, you said the six words that made him melt instantly.

“I love you too, Steve Harrington.”

And that night the friendship wasn’t ruined.

Something more sacred blossomed.

Your love.

You were both so deeply in love and now neither of you ever had to second guess it anymore.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

you were dustin henderson’s old sister.

the one who spent most of her time trying to study or trying to stop your little brother from blowing up the basement.

you weren’t unpopular, exactly, but you weren’t part of the spotlight either. you kept your head down. got good grades. and tried to survive without drawing too much attention.

steve harrington was the opposite.

king steve. 

the guy who ruled the school.

he had everything — looks, money, status, and a different girl on his arm every other week. 

and you had never been on his radar.

until tommy hagan started loudly crushing on you.

tommy had clearly not gotten that memo. 

and for weeks, he had been bothering you.

every morning he’d lean against your locker like he owned it. flashing what he probably thought was a charming grin. making lame jokes. trying way too hard to flirt. he wasn’t subtle at all. 

he told anyone who would listen that he was going to ‘’bag henderson’s sister’’. it was embarrassing and annoying, especially because you had zero interest in him.

you turned him down politely the first few times. then less politely. but tommy was nothing if not persistent. 

and then steve harrington noticed. his best friend. 

one afternoon after the final bell, you were at your locker switching out books when you overheard them. steve was walking down the hallway with tommy, carol, and a couple of the other guys. tommy was being loud and obnoxious as usual.

“i’m telling you, man, i’m gonna ask her out this weekend,” tommy bragged loudly. “she’s fucking hot. she keeps playing hard to get but i know she wants it. i’m wearing her down.”

steve stopped walking.

“you’re serious?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. “dustin henderson’s sister?”

“yeah, dude,” tommy laughed, puffing out his chest. “she’s quiet, but i bet she’s a freak once you get her alone.”

something shifted in steve’s expression. 

he didn’t laugh along like he normally would. 

instead, his eyes narrowed slightly, almost like he had just decided something.

then, steve started paying attention to you.

it began small.

he nodded at you in the hallway. then he started saying “hey” when he passed by. soon he was waiting by your locker in the mornings, leaning against it with that famous king smirk.

“you know tommy’s got a massive crush on you, right?” he said one morning, arms crossed.you rolled your eyes, shoving books into your locker. 

“yeah. he’s not exactly subtle.” steve chuckled, low and warm. 

“he’s an idiot. you deserve way better than that tool.”

from that day on, steve turned up the charm.

he started walking with you between classes, even when it took him out of his way. 

he teased you about the stack of books you always carried. 

he made sure to sit near you at lunch sometimes, right next to him, much to tommy’s visible annoyance. 

carol was catty at first, throwing little comments your way, but steve shut her down every single time with just a look.

tommy’s dirty looks became more frequent. steve seemed to enjoy it. 

every time tommy tried to talk to you, steve would appear out of nowhere, sling an arm around your shoulders, and pull you closer like it was the most natural thing in the world.

what started as steve stepping in to shut tommy down quickly turned into something else. 

but he never asked you to be his girlfriend. 

he never took you on official dates. 

it was a fling. a messy, heated situationship that neither of you defined. you would make out in empty classrooms, in his car after school, and sometimes in the bathrooms.

and you? you felt completely out of your depth.

you kissed a couple of boys before, but never like this. 

you always felt awkward, unsure, like you didn’t know how to kiss properly. you never took control. you just followed steve’s lead, hoping you weren’t doing it wrong.

it happened again during lunch.

steve found you in the hallway, didn’t say a word, just grabbed your hand and pulled you into the male’s bathroom near the gym. 

“steve—” you started, heart racing.

the second the door was locked, he pushed you against the sink and kissed you hard.

his mouth was hungry, tongue sliding against yours as he pressed his body into you. 

you tried to kiss him back, but you felt clumsy, unsure. you never quite knew what to do with your tongue or how much pressure to use.

steve didn’t seem to mind. he kissed you deeper, tilting your head the way he wanted, dominating the kiss completely.

steve pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes dark.

you moaned softly into the kiss, your hands gripping his polo shirt. 

then steve didn’t waste time. he lifted you onto the sink, stepping between your legs, his hands sliding under your sweater.

“fuck, i’ve been thinking about this all morning,” he muttered against your lips.

you let out a soft sound when his lips moved to your neck, kissing and sucking lightly on your skin. 

his body was warm and solid against yours, and for a moment you forgot where you were.

just as steve’s hand started sliding higher up your side, the door handle rattled.

“steve…” you breathed, fingers threading into his hair.

he smiled against you and sucked your upper lip while one hand squeezed your thigh under your skirt.

just as his fingers started sliding higher, a loud knock came from the door.

“harrington! you in there, man?” tommy’s voice called out. “we’re gonna be late for that thing with carol. hurry the fuck up!”

steve groaned against your chest, clearly frustrated.

“shit,” he muttered.

he lifted his head and looked at you, eyes dark with want, lips slightly swollen. He gave you one last slow kiss, deep and lingering, before pulling back.

“i gotta go,” he whispered, regret heavy in his voice. “i told tommy i was going to the bathroom and that i’d meet him and carol after lunch. if i don’t show up he’ll come looking.”

you nodded, still breathless, cheeks flushed and lips tingling. steve helped you down from the sink, fixing your sweater and skirt with surprisingly gentle hands.

he cupped your face and kissed you once more, softer this time.

“i’ll make it up to you later, okay?” he said, thumb brushing your bottom lip. “promise.”

then he unlocked the door and slipped out, giving you one last smirk before disappearing down the hallway to meet tommy.

you stayed there for a moment, with your heart still pounding, legs a little shaky and trying to process what had just happened.

later that same day, carol pulled you aside during the last period and dragged you out to the bleachers behind the school. she looked at you with a raised eyebrow.

‘’so,’’ carol started, smirking. ‘’you and steve were getting nasty in the bathroom? bold move, girl.’’

you felt your face heat up instantly.

“it wasn’t… we didn’t—” you tried, but carol cut you off with a laugh.

“relax. i’m not judging. just surprised you let him drag you in there during lunch. tommy’s been sulking all week because steve basically stole you from under his nose.”

you sighed and sat down on the cold metal bleacher. carol sat beside you, crossing her legs.

“i don’t know what i’m doing, carol,” you admitted quietly. “every time steve kisses me, i feel like i’m doing it wrong. i just stood there and let him lead. i never know what to do with my hands or my tongue. i feel so awkward and inexperienced.”

carol looked at you for a second, then let out a short laugh, blowing smoke from the corner of her mouth.

“oh honey, you really are a baby at this, aren’t you?” 

she said it not unkindly. 

“steve’s used to girls who know how to kiss back. but he also likes the whole innocent thing you’ve got going on. still… you can’t just be a passive doll forever.”

carol continued, more direct this time.

“next time he kisses you, don’t just open your mouth and wait for him to do everything. bite his bottom lip gently. grab the back of his neck or pull his hair. press your body against him. guys go fucking crazy when you do that.”

you listened carefully with your cheeks burning.

“and if he puts his hand between your legs,” carol continued, smirking, “don’t just let him touch you. push against his fingers. show him you’re enjoying it. whisper shit in his ear too. steve acts cool but he’s easy when you talk dirty.”

then you stayed quiet for a moment, processing everything she said. carol glanced at you, almost gentle for once.

“i just don’t want to look stupid,” you said softly. “i feel like he knows so much more than me.”

“you are inexperienced. own it. steve clearly likes you exactly like this or he wouldn’t keep chasing you.”

you touched your neck self-consciously and stood up, walking beside her back toward the school building.

even though carol could be sharp and mean, her advice felt strangely useful. maybe you really did need to stop overthinking and just try taking control for once.

then two days later, you were at steve’s house after school.

his parents were out of town again, so the big empty house felt even quieter than usual. 

you went under the excuse of ‘’studying together,’’ but now you were both in his room, sitting on his bed and supposedly watching movies. 

the movie was playing on the tv across the room, some action flick with loud explosions, but neither of you were paying attention for a while.

now steve was half on top of you, kissing you slowly and deeply. his body was warm and heavy in the best way, and one of his hands was resting on your waist. the other cupped the side of the side of your face. 

his kisses were confident, smooth. he tilted your head exactly how he wanted. his tongue brushed against yours in that rhythm that made your stomach flutter.

then you remembered carol’s words.

you wanted to try. you really did. you wanted to be better for him.

so when steve kissed you again, you gathered all your courage. 

you slid both hands into his hair and pulled him closer, kissing him a little harder than usual. you sucked gently on his bottom lip, then brushed your tongue against his more confidently.

for a few seconds it felt good.

steve made a low sound on his throat, almost surprised,and his hand tightened on your waist.

you tried to take more control. 

you deepened the kiss, moving your tongue against his, pressing your chest closer to his body. you even tugged lightly on his hair the way carol said guys liked.

but then the thoughts crashed in.

is this too much? am i being too aggressive? what if he thinks i’m bad at this? what if he’s just pretending to like it?

your confidence vanished in an instant.

your movements became hesitant and stiff. you didn’t know what to do with your tongue anymore. 

you pulled back slightly, breathing faster. cheeks burning with embarrassment and frustration.

steve noticed right away.

he lifted his head and looked down at you, his hazel eyes were soft but concerned. his thumb gently stroked your cheek.

“hey… you okay?” he asked quietly, voice low and careful.

you forced a small smile and nodded quickly.

“yeah… i’m fine,” you whispered.

“we can slow down if you want,” he said gently. “or stop. you know that, right?”

“no, it’s okay,” you replied, shaking your head. you didn’t want to explain how nervous and insecure you felt. you didn’t want him to know you were overthinking everything. “let’s just… watch the movie.”

steve hesitated for a second, searching your eyes, but eventually nodded.

“alright,” he said softly.

he shifted beside you, lying on his back and pulling you against his chest. 

his arm wrapped around your shoulders, holding you close as he turned his attention back to the television. 

the movie continued playing — loud gunshots and dramatic music filling the room — but your mind was somewhere else completely.

you lay there with your head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat, pretending to watch the screen. inside, you felt stupid and frustrated with yourself.

carol’s advice had sounded so easy when she said it, but when you actually tried, your brain had sabotaged everything. 

you kept replaying the kiss in your head, wondering what you did wrong, why you couldn’t just relax and enjoy it like other girls seemed to.

steve’s fingers traced slow patterns on your arm. 

every now and then he would press a soft kiss to the top of your head, completely unaware of the storm happening inside you.

after a few minutes, he spoke casually, trying to include you.

“this part’s supposed to be cool,” he murmured with relaxed voice. “you like action movies, right?”

you nodded against his chest.

“yeah… it’s good,” you whispered, even though you had no idea what was happening on screen.

steve squeezed your shoulder lightly and continued watching, his hand still gently stroking your arm. 

he seemed good just holding you, completely happy with the simple closeness.

but you couldn’t stop the quiet voice in your head. you stayed quiet, curled up against him, pretending everything was fine while your mind kept spinning.

days passed after that afternoon at steve’s house. 

you tried to act normal around him, but the insecurity still lingered in the back of your mind. you kept overthinking every kiss, every touch, wondering if you were doing enough or if you looked inexperienced. 

steve noticed you were a little quieter than usual, but he didn’t push. 

he just kept being sweet and patient with you.

one afternoon after school, steve was leaning against his car in the parking lot with carol. 

tommy wandered off somewhere, leaving the two of them alone. steve pulled out a cigarette, lit it, and took a slow drag, exhaling the smoke toward the sky.

carol leaned beside him, arms crossed.

“so,” she said, smirking slightly. “how’s it going with henderson’s sister? you two are still sneaking around like horny teenagers?”

steve let out a small laugh, but it didn’t reach his eyes. he took another drag from his cigarette before answering.

“it’s going… okay,” he said. “i really like her. more than i thought i would. but she’s different.”

carol raised an eyebrow.

“different how?” steve hesitated, tapping ash from his cigarette.

“she gets in her head a lot. i can tell she’s nervous. like she thinks she’s doing everything wrong. i try to go slow but… i don’t know. sometimes i feel like i’m pushing too much.”

carol was quiet for a moment, then sighed.

“yeah, well… she talked to me the other day.” steve turned his head quickly, surprised.

“she did?”

“mhm,” carol nodded. “poor girl was spiraling. told me she feels awkward as hell when you kiss her. she thinks she doesn’t know how to kiss properly. she’s scared she’s bad at it and that you’ll get bored.”

steve stayed silent, staring at the ground as he processed her words. he took another long drag from his cigarette, clearly thinking.

carol continued, more gently than usual.

“she really likes you, steve. but she’s intimidated. you’re experienced, you’ve been with a lot of girls, and she’s… basically starting from zero.”

steve exhaled slowly, smoke curling in the air.

“fuck,” he muttered. “i didn’t realize it was that bad. i thought she was just shy.”

“she is shy,” carol said. “but she also really wants to be good for you. so maybe stop always taking control. let her lead sometimes. tell her it’s okay if she’s not perfect. tell her you like when she tries. girls like her need to hear that shit out loud.”

steve nodded slowly, looking thoughtful. he flicked ash from his cigarette and stayed quiet for a few seconds.

“yeah… you’re right,” he said finally. “i’ve been going too fast with her. i get carried away because i really like her, but… i don’t want her feeling like she’s not enough.”

carol smirked a little.

“good. don’t fuck it up, harrington”

that night your brother were out for dinner with friends and your mom was downstairs making a lot of noise with some friends.

you had your bedroom door closed, desk lamp on, trying to focus on your history notes even though your mind kept drifting.

you were halfway through rewriting a paragraph when you heard the familiar soft tap on your window.

your heart jumped. you turned around and saw steve’s face smiling at you through the glass, his hair a little messy from climbing. 

you quickly got up and opened the window.

“steve,” you whispered, half surprised.. “what are you doing here? mom is downstairs with some friends”

“i know,” he said quietly as he climbed inside, careful not to make too much noise. “i waited until i saw them all sitting down. figured it was safe enough.”

once he was inside he closed the window and immediately pulled you into a gentle hug, kissing the top of your head.

“missed you,” he murmured against your hair. “been thinking about you all day.”

you hugged him back, breathing in his familiar scent of cologne. 

after a moment you both sat on the edge of your bed. steve looked at the open textbooks scattered across your desk.

“still studying?” he asked, a hint of mockery in his tone. “you’re such a good little student, aren’t you?”

“history test tomorrow,” you sighed. “i’m trying to focus but my brain keeps wandering.”

steve nodded, then stayed quiet for a second, like he was thinking about something. he reached over and gently took your hand, playing with your fingers.

“can i ask you something?” he said, voice lower than usual.you looked at him, a little nervous. 

“sure.”

he kept his eyes on your hands for a moment before speaking.

“what’s wrong?” he asked, voice lower. “you’ve been weird the last couple days. carol told me you talked to her.”

you felt your cheeks heat up. you looked down at your lap, embarrassed that he had noticed.

“you didn’t do anything wrong,” you whispered. “i just… i feel like every time we do it, i freeze up because i’m scared i’m doing it wrong. i don’t know how to take the lead or… be good at it like you are.”

steve stayed quiet, listening carefully. his thumb kept gently stroking the back of your hand.

“i keep thinking you must get bored,” you admitted, voice small. “because you’ve been with girls who know what they’re doing and i’m just… following.”

steve was silent for a few seconds. then he gently squeezed your hand.

“you’re really overthinking this, huh?” he said, smirking. “it’s just kissing, baby. you don’t have to be perfect at it. you think i give a shit if you’re a little clumsy?”

you lifted your eyes to meet his. his expression was serious but incredibly warm.

“i’m not bored,” he said firmly. “not even a little. i like kissing you. i like everything we do together.’’

you were both half-lying on your bed, propped up against the pillows. steve shifted a little closer, his body relaxed beside yours.

“if you want,” he murmured, voice gentle, “you can kiss me. however you want. i’ll stay still. no moving. you’re in complete control tonight. just… experiment. do whatever feels good to you.”

your heart started beating faster. 

you nodded slowly, nerves and excitement mixing in your stomach.

steve lay back a little more against the pillows, looking up at you with calm, patient eyes. he rested his hands on the bed beside him, clearly showing he wasn’t going to touch you unless you wanted him to.

“i’m all yours,” he whispered.

you hesitated for a second, then leaned over him. 

at first you just kissed him softly, lips brushing against his. steve stayed perfectly still, letting you set the pace. 

you kissed him again, a little longer this time, trying to relax. 

when you tilted your head and pressed your lips more firmly against his, he let out a quiet hum but didn’t move.

feeling a bit braver, you parted your lips and slowly slid your tongue against his bottom lip. 

you sucked gently on it, just like carol had suggested. 

steve’s breathing changed slightly, but he kept his promise — he didn’t kiss you back, didn’t touch you. he let you explore.

you kissed him deeper, sliding your tongue into his mouth, tasting him. 

you experimented with different pressures, sometimes slow and soft, sometimes a little harder. 

“not bad,” he said, voice teasing. “but you’re still thinking too much. you kiss like you’re scared i’m gonna grade you or something.”

then you sucked on his tongue carefully, then kissed the corner of his mouth, his jaw, and came back to his lips again.

“you’re doing so good,” he whispered, voice a little rough. “keep going if you want. i’m not going anywhere.”

but after a few more moments of letting you lead, steve couldn’t hold back any longer.

with a low, quiet groan, he finally took control.

one of his hands slid to the back of your neck, holding you in place as he tilted his head and kissed you deeply. his mouth devoured yours — slow at first, then hungrier, more intense. 

his tongue moved against yours with confidence, tasting you, claiming the kiss completely. 

he sucked on your upper lip, gently biting it before soothing it with his tongue, then did it again, focusing on that soft sensitive skin like it was his favorite thing in the world.

his nose brushed against your cheek and almost pressed into the corner of your eye as he kissed you, the closeness making everything feel even more intimate.

you could feel every small movement, every warm breath against your skin. 

he kissed you like he had been holding back for too long, like he couldn’t get enough.

you let out a soft, surprised sound against his mouth. 

steve used that moment to gently push you back until you were lying flat on the bed. 

he moved with you, hovering over you without putting his full weight on you, one elbow supporting him while his other hand stayed at the side of your face.he never stopped kissing you.

his lips moved against yours with slow, deep strokes, occasionally pulling back just enough to kiss your upper lip again, sucking on it softly before diving back in. 

his nose kept brushing the side of your face, warm and intimate, as he angled his head to kiss you even deeper.

you were breathless, gripping his shirt, when his hand slowly slid down your body. 

he moved patiently, giving you time to stop him if you wanted. 

his fingers traced over your stomach, then slipped under the waistband of your pajama shorts and panties.

“is this okay?” he whispered against your lips.

you nodded quickly, whispering back, 

“yes… please.”

steve kissed you again as his fingers finally reached your bare pussy. 

he groaned softly into your mouth when he felt how wet you already were.

“fuck, baby… you’re soaked,” he murmured, voice low and rough. “all this just from kissing me?”

his fingers moved slowly, gently parting your folds and rubbing soft circles around your clit. 

he wasn’t rushing.

every touch was deliberate, patient, like he wanted to learn exactly what made you tremble.

you tried to stay quiet, biting your lip hard, but a small whimper escaped when he slid one finger inside you.

“steve…” you whimpered, voice shaky and a little too loud. “oh my god… steve—”

“shhh,” steve whispered, kissing the corner of your mouth. “gotta be quiet, sweetheart. your mom’s downstairs. can’t have them hearing how pretty you sound when i touch you.”

he added a second finger, curling them gently, stroking that sensitive spot inside you while his thumb kept rubbing slow, perfect circles on your clit. 

his mouth stayed on yours, swallowing every soft moan you couldn’t hold back.

“that’s it,” he breathed against your lips. “feel how wet you are for me? so warm and tight around my fingers… you’re doing so good, baby.”

your hips started moving on their own, grinding against his hand. 

steve kept the pace steady and gentle, never going too fast, just enough to make your legs shake.

“i’ve got you,” he whispered, kissing your upper lip again. “let go for me. cum on my fingers like a good girl. i want to feel you.”

when your body finally started to relax, he slowly pulled his fingers out of you and brought them to his lips, licking them clean while looking into your eyes.

“you’re killing me,” he whispered, voice rough. “so fucking wet and responsive… and those little sounds you make—”

you blushed deeply, still breathing hard.

“i’m sorry… i couldn’t help it,” you whispered, embarrassed.

steve smiled softly and leaned down to kiss you again, slower this time, gentler.

“don’t apologize,” he murmured against your lips. “i love hearing you. i just don’t want your brother and his friends running up here thinking something’s wrong.”

he kissed you for a long moment, deep and slow, before pulling back just enough to look into your eyes.

“i want you,” he whispered, voice husky. “i want to be inside you… if you’ll let me.”

you nodded, heart hammering. you breathed. 

“it’s okay.”

steve groaned softly and kissed you again, harder this time. 

he helped you out of your shorts and panties, then pushed his own jeans and boxers down just enough. 

his cock was hard and heavy as he rubbed the tip against your soaked entrance.

“tell me if it hurts,” he said seriously, looking into your eyes. “or if i should slow down or whatever”

“i trust you,” you whispered.

steve kissed your upper lip softly, then pushed in slowly.

you gasped at the stretch. 

he was big, and even though you were soaked, the pressure was intense. 

steve groaned deeply. his forehead pressed against yours, his nose brushing the side of your eye as he sank deeper.

“fuck… you’re so tight, baby,” he breathed, voice strained. “so fucking tight around me… you feel incredible.”

he moved slowly, inch by inch, until he was fully inside you. you let out a shaky whimper, gripping his shoulders. 

steve stayed still, kissing your upper lip again and again, his nose almost pressed into the corner of your eye as he tried to stay patient

.“you okay?” he whispered. “talk to me, sweetheart.”

“it’s a lot…” you breathed, “but… it feels good. keep going.”

steve groaned and started moving, slow and deep thrusts. his mouth stayed on yours, kissing your upper lip, sucking on it gently while he fucked you.

“that’s my good girl,” he murmured against your mouth, voice rough and low. “taking my cock so well… your first time and you’re already squeezing me so fucking tight.”

he started moving slowly, pulling out almost all the way before sliding back in deep. every thrust was careful but firm, his hips rolling against yours. 

his nose kept brushing the side of your eye as he kissed you, focusing on your upper lip, sucking and licking it between thrusts.

“steve…” you whimpered, a little too loud.

he quickly covered your mouth with his, kissing you deeply to muffle the sound as he picked up the pace.

“shhh, princess,” he breathed between kisses. “you have to be quiet for me. can’t let them hear how good i’m fucking you.”

he thrust deeper, grinding against you with every stroke. the wet sounds of his cock sliding in and out of your soaked pussy filled the room. 

steve groaned quietly into your mouth, clearly struggling to stay quiet himself.

“you feel so fucking good,” he whispered hotly. “so warm and tight… i’ve wanted this pussy for so long, baby.”

you moaned against his hand as he covered your mouth again, his thrusts becoming a little faster, deeper. every time he bottomed out, his hips pressed firmly against your clit, sending sparks through your whole body.

“that’s it… take my cock,” he murmured, voice rough with lust. “such a good girl for me… letting me fuck you in your own bed while your mom’s downstairs.”

he kissed your upper lip again, sucking on it hard as he fucked you steadily, his nose brushing your eye with every movement. 

the closeness, the heat, the way he filled you so completely — it was almost too much.

your moans grew louder despite trying to stay quiet. steve kept kissing you, swallowing every sound, his hand occasionally covering your mouth when you got too loud.

“cum for me, baby,” he whispered, voice breaking. “i want to feel you cum around my cock.”

you came hard, back arching, thighs shaking as your pussy clenched tightly around him. you cried out into his mouth, the sound muffled by his deep kiss.

steve groaned loudly, hips stuttering as he followed right after you, burying himself as deep as possible and filling you with warm, thick pulses.

for a few seconds he stayed there, breathing heavily against your neck. then he slowly pulled out and sat up, running a hand through his messy hair.

he looked at you for a moment, eyes still dark, before he started pulling his jeans back up.

“shit… i gotta go,” he whispered, voice low. “your mom and her friends are still downstairs. if i stay any longer they’re gonna wonder what the hell is taking so long.’’

you watched him, a little dazed.

steve ran a hand through his hair and finally glanced at you.

“you good?” he asked, but it sounded more like a quick check than real concern. “i’ll see you tomorrow or something.”

he leaned down and gave you a quick, almost casual kiss on the forehead — nothing like the intense kisses from minutes ago.

“don’t overthink it, alright?” he said as he moved toward the window. “it was good.”

and just like that, he climbed out the window and disappeared into the night, leaving you alone on your bed, half-naked, sore, and suddenly feeling very small.

Thank God you’re all the way out instead of back at camp where your middle school-age campers are tucked away, sleeping in their cabins on the hill.

At Camp Woodwick, the last night of their month-long summer session always ends on the Fourth of July. Which is tonight. And on the last night, the counselors don’t have a curfew, so the whole lot of you can pitch tents down by the lake and watch the fireworks show. 

It was fun for awhile, but after a handful of lackluster campfire stories and couple burnt marshmallows, Steve announced he was going to bed. The guys complained, begging him to light some fireworks with them, but he said he was going to turn in anyway. 

Right after his eyes caught yours. 

You excused yourself shortly after him, not even really sure why. And as you changed into your sleep shorts and a t-shirt, and settled into your sleeping bag, you blamed your sour mood on the heat and the bugs.

Assuring yourself that it had nothing to do with the fact that you and Steve Harrington have been at each other’s throats for weeks.

Tonight is is counselor’s night out! It’s supposed to be a fun end-of-the-summer bash for all the adults who were paid a few grand to babysit. It’s the night everyone looks forward to the most. 

You should be having fun—being young. Whatever that means. 

At some point between the whole saving-the-world-and-barely-escaping-with-your-life-thing, you became somewhat of a stranger to that idea. Your life had been, for lack of a better term, flipped upside down. 

Steve groans again. Hot embers flare to life in your core, stirred up by the sound of his thready voice. So low and breathless. 

He has to shut up. What is he thinking, jerking off like this with people nearby?

Granted, your tents are the furthest away from everyone else’s, and no one has really gone to bed yet. It shouldn’t be that big of a deal. But between the sticky humid air clinging to your skin, and the sharp whistles from exploding fireworks, when Steve moans softly again you finally just…snap. 

Ripping the blankets off yourself, you rustle around your tent for your flashlight, grumbling and muttering in the dark.

God, you have to do everything yourself, don’t you? 

You wince as your tent opens with a loud zip that punctuates the darkness surrounding you. Peeking over your shoulder, you can see the smoke from the campfire in the distance, curling up towards the stars. A few of your fellow counselors are still lounging around the fire, but most of them are small shadows dotting the lake’s edge. 

Steve pitched his orange tent under a tree. 

Stupid. 

Doesn’t he know that the roots will mess the tent stakes up? You’re surprised he could even get them in the ground. Honestly, it will probably fall down on him tonight. 

You hope it does. 

His tent is dark and quiet, but you march over anyway, flashlight raised so the beam falls straight on him when you turn it on. 

You yank on his tent’s zipper. It gives easily. A muffled curse comes from inside, and you click on the flashlight to reveal Steve lying on his side, bare chest rising and falling as he squints into the bright beam.

“God, you never could stay quiet, could you?” You say, bullying your way through the tent flap and zipping it back up behind you. 

Steve scrambles to throw his sleeping bag over himself, but it does practically nothing to hide his raging boner underneath. 

“What the fuck do you want?” He snaps, glaring up at you. 

Despite yourself, your eyes catch on a delicious bicep, and his muscled shoulder in the shine of your flashlight. That chest hair has taunted you all summer long. It’s been torturous pretending you didn’t know what it felt like against your bare breasts, against your back...

You clear your throat. “I just thought I’d let you know the whole camp can hear you jerking off.”

“What? I’m not—Jesus.” His big hand drags down his face, even as he pulls the sleeping bag up higher. “Get out.”

Whoops, there you go again, getting distracted by his hands. 

Maybe you should close your eyes, or turn around—something—because looking at him stretched out in the dark like this is making you think wicked things.

Your lips twist in a mocking smirk, and you gesture down to the sleeping bag. “Oh, c’mon, Steve. Why are you so embarrassed? It’s not like I haven’t seen it before.” 

Lots of times, actually. 

Through the years, you’d been there for everything—watched him get captured, tortured, and sacrificed for others. But after it was all over, and the dust settled, you fell into each other a different way. 

Because it wasn’t the days plagued with Demogorgons, evil Russians, or even Vecna that were the worst.

It was the days that followed.

The hollow darkness you experienced as the world kept moving on, oblivious to the memories that plagued you both. You had to learn how to live normally again, and something about that was both relieving and excruciatingly lonely at the same time.

The nightmares had a way of sticking to you like blood you couldn’t get off no matter how many times you scrubbed yourself raw in the shower. 

It was in those shaky, sweaty, middle-of-the-night fever dreams that you and Steve found solace in each other. Because when it all became a bit too much, you could dig your nails into someone else’s skin, feel a slick, hot mouth against yours—ground yourself in something intrinsically human just to prove that after everything, you still are.

But all that came to a screeching halt last summer. 

“Okay,” Steve sighs, shifting a little and squinting up at you. “Let’s say that I was. You wanted to come over and…cockblock me? From myself? And turn that thing off unless you want everyone to see two silhouettes in here.”

You click the flashlight off immediately, plunging you both into darkness. 

Maybe you should rescind your previous statement. Because now, without being able to see him, his proximity is somehow affecting you even more. 

You can hear his soft breaths, smell the lake water on his skin. And underneath it all, the familiar sounds and scents of him that opens a gaping hole of nostalgia in the pit of your stomach. 

You try to laugh, but it comes out cold. “You think I give a fuck if you’re rubbing one out, Harrington? No. I came over here because you’re fucking whimpering and moaning—”

“—I was not whimpering.” 

“—and you’re incapable of keeping quiet—yes, you were, and I was getting sick of hearing it. So, either do it quieter, or find someone to cover your fucking mouth.”

As you were talking, your vision adjusted to the darkness. Which is a very bad thing, because now you can see him again. Specifically the outline of his mussed hair as he lifts his chin to meet your gaze. 

“You offering?”

Your breath catches.

You should say no. You should tell him to go fuck himself—literally— and leave right now. He can let the whole camp hear him for all you care. 

But instead, you hesitate. 

Now, Steve is smart. Smarter than he gives himself credit for, that’s for sure. And there are certain patterns he’s picked up on with you over the years. Like, when you pause like that, the answer is almost always a yes. 

Which is why the second you go quiet, and the distant laughter of the other counselors fills the space between you, he’s already batting the sleeping bag off his lap. 

“I knew it,” he says. The fabric slips off him just as a firework bursts overhead, and your eyes drag over his body. The lean, tan muscle from all his time outside this summer, down to his long, hard cock jerking against his happy trail. “You’re so busy acting like you hate me, wanting to play this game where we bitch at each other all summer, and now you’re making up excuses to come into my tent—”

“Oh, trust me,” you scoff, tearing your eyes away to meet his again. “It’s not an excuse.”

“No?” he says softly, leaning back on one arm and gesturing at his body with the other. “Then, prove it.”

“Fine, but I’m only staying to keep you quiet,” you warn him, pinning him with a harsh look. 

“Sure. Whatever,” Steve rasps, watching as you drop to your knees beside him. 

Your fingers curl into his sleeping bag beside his shoulder, but you’re careful not to touch him. 

He wishes you would. 

You gesture impatiently at him, your hand a shadowy blur in the dark. “Go ahead and get it over with. I’m not sitting here all night. God.”

Steve rushes to obey, and when wraps his hand around his cock again, the rush is so intense it’s almost painful. The way you’re sitting there just watching him is making his head feel fuzzy, and his dick swell.

And look at you—pretending to not be affected in the slightest watching the flushed head poke out of his fist over and over as he jerks off in front of you. God, you turn him on so fucking much. 

Steve heaves a stuttering breath, and his head drops back onto the ground as the pleasure pools in his gut. He thinks he’s doing a good job being quiet. But he can’t smother the moan that escapes him the second your warm hand brushes his shoulder.

“Steve,” you hiss, warning lacing your voice. 

“Shut me up, then. Goddamn.” He groans, his cock twitching in his palm. “What are you even here for? I could do this myself—” At that moment, your hand finds his chest and, well, your fingers might as well be a defibrillator. His hips jerk, mouth dropping open in pleasure. “—oh, fuck yeah.”

Your touch is heaven. His eyelids threaten to shut as your fingers brush through his chest hair, over his ribs— so sure, and steady, soothing and warm. Like his flesh and bone is a map you know by heart. 

He’s panting, desperate not to make a sound and give you a reason to take your hand away while your palm trails lower.

He raises his chin to catch a glimpse of your profile as the fireworks crack in the sky, raining down in bright fizzling pops that he feels in his chest. 

Honestly, he should’ve known this is how the summer would end with you. 

He’s known it, and yet, he’s run from it. 

Because the last time he had you…God, he’s been such an idiot. 

Last summer, when you came home from college for break, he’d been sitting on your doorstep. A silent understanding passed between you two, and then you’d grabbed his hand and taken him up to your room.

Afterwards, you were laying under him, sweaty and warm, eyes glowing with…with something that made his heart tug painfully. And suddenly, it all got to be too much. 

He’d been craving you all semester. As if you were a long drag from a cigarette. And that gnawing ache didn’t surface with anyone else. Only you. 

His chest swelled up tight, and the bridge of his nose started to burn, and he realized… he was scared. 

Terrified, actually. 

Because what if the both of you reaching out for each other was nothing but a trained response, like Pavlov’s dogs or some shit? What if you had built this trauma bond…thing? He wasn’t entirely sure what that even meant, but he knew that no one could know him so intrinsically, so deeply, so invasively and still want him anyway. 

So, Steve proceeded to do the stupidest thing possible by dropping a kiss to your forehead, pulling his clothes back on, and walking out the door. 

He told himself it was for the best. Months after, even though he thought of you constantly, and still woke up slicked in sweat, hands flying to his wounds in the dark, he never called you. 

But when you showed up at Camp Woodwick, looking to earn some cash over the summer, same as him, all the walls he’d built up between him and his past came crashing down. 

So, he pushed you away. For weeks. It was worse than he thought it would be, though. Because when he pushed, you pushed back harder. 

His head swims with the knowledge that after a whole year without you, you’re here. You’re the same. Familiar. The smell of your hair, down to the soft breaths escaping to ur lips. 

He’s still hard as a rock, but his hand isn’t cutting it. Not when what he really wants is right here in front of him.

Steve curses under his breath. “You wanna help me out, sweetheart? Give me that mouth?”

“W-what?” You snort. “You can hardly be quiet with your own hand, Harrington. You think you’re going to survive that?”

“Please? Just lick it. Just the tip.”

“Stop begging. Also, be qu—“

“Right. Right, I’ll be quiet,” Steve grumbles. “Just—if you’re gonna fucking march in here and tell me to do it faster, then the least you could do is help me out.” Another firework squeals, then pops, showering you in gold as you blink down at him.

Boisterous laughs drift over the water, and your eyes flick up instinctively to meet the tent wall before your bottom lip disappears between your teeth. His stomach flips in anticipation. He knows that look. 

“C’mon,” he urges, fighting back a smirk. “You know how I like it, baby.”

Shit. 

Steve knows that pet name has always been your weakness. You’re not sure exactly why. Maybe it’s because it reminded you that on the outside, you were just friends. But in bed…you were his.

You shouldn’t fall for a cheap trick like that. Look at him, biting the corner of his mouth like he’s trying not to smirk. Cocky bastard. 

But, even so, you make the mistake of glancing down his body.

His hand slips away in a silent invitation, revealing his heavy cock jutting out from his soft tummy and you lose the war.

Rocks dig into your knees under the tent floor but you hardly pay them any mind, your clit already throbbing in anticipation of touching him. 

“Fine. But only because it’s faster.” You say.

Your hand curls around him, reveling in the hot, velvety feel of him in your palm. A sound slips from his throat, sudden and unbidden. 

You jerk your head up, and he can’t see your face clearly in the dark, but he knows your body language. The message is solidified when you bring your other hand up to rake through the hair on his chest, digging into his pec in warning. 

Steve’s hand lands on yours, and the warmth seeping through his fingers doesn’t just make your pussy clench, it also makes your nose burn. 

You turn your attention back to stroking him, ignoring the tightness in your lungs. Ignoring the way you’re practically holding hands across his chest.

“God, you’ve been kind of a bitch to me all summer,” Steve grunts, thrusting up into your touch. “You know that?”

You roll your eyes, even though he can’t see you. “Steve, you can’t call me a bitch at the same time you’re fucking my hand. Either we’re fighting or we’re fucking. Pick one. Jesus.”

“I don’t know.” His head falls back against the ground with a heavy thud. “We’re pretty good at both, apparently. God, your hand feel so g—”

“Shut the fuck up,” you hiss.

“Sorry! Sorry.”

Another firework shrieks into the sky, exploding in a loud pop, and showering you both in a flash of red. It lights up Steve’s body, illuminating the scars along his side. Long jagged things, carved deep under his ribs.

You can’t help but remember the panic that seized you when the Demobats descended on him. You’ll never forget the sickening horror that coursed through your body when you looked over to see him pale and shaking, dripping in blood. 

You swallow hard. Then, as if pulled by some invisible string, you lower your head and brush your mouth against his skin. His core muscles flex at the soft glide of your tongue on his belly, but he tenses as your lips trace his scar line.

“Don’t—” he rasps. Suddenly, his hand flies down and tugs your chin away. 

“What?” You whisper against his skin, a little teasing. But when you flick your eyes up to his, he looks away, raking a hand through his hair. Your hand slows around his cock and you frown. A thread of anxiety coils in your gut. 

“What?” you repeat. “I was there, too, remember?”

“Yeah, I remember.” He lets out a short laugh, but the warmth is gone from his voice. “I just—really don’t want to be reminded of that right now.”

You pull back, hands falling away from him instantly. 

Another bottle rocket screams, punctuating the heavy beat of silence that follows. Steve notices the shift in you, the way your body locks up in hesitation. 

Sighing heavily, he raises his palms to his face and digs them into his eyes. 

“Sorry, I’m—that was fucked up. I’m sorry.”

You sit back on your heels, suddenly unsure, and your eyes drop to the ground. 

He combs through his hair again roughly. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it. I was just…there’s a kid here that reminds me of a little Eddie, and the scars—”

You smile softly. “Reed, right? I’ve been thinking the same thing all summer.”

“Every time I see those scars, I think about the bats, and then I think about losing Eddie, and then with you here—” He gestures towards you and he trails off. 

You don’t need him to finish the thought, though. You can see it in the way his chest heaves, and the slight crack in his voice. 

With a sigh, you settle down onto the ground beside him. He shuffles wordlessly, giving you room to lay on the other half of his sleeping bag. 

“It’s okay, Steve. This is how it always was for us. Just—two people trying to get through it, you know? To feel something again.” 

“Oh yeah? Is that all were?” His voice is deeper now. Huskier. It makes a lump build in your throat. “Was that all it was for you?”

You watch the light show fall across the tent ceiling together, muted little orbs glowing through the fabric. 

“No,” you say softly. “But everything hits me at once sometimes, too, you know. And when that happens...fuck, I just need you. And that feeling…” The words fizzle out and fall like the embers in the sky, and your hand reaches up to clutch at your chest—like it would be easier just to rip out your heart and show him.

Steve hesitates, swallowing hard. “It’s not…bad, right? That feeling?” 

“No, Steve. It’s not bad.” 

A quiet moment passes, then he blows out a breath. “At college, they have these therapists. Robin dragged me to a session once, so I went.” You turn your head to look at him, but he keeps his eyes above. “I was scared, like, what if they didn’t believe me, you know? And, well, I’m not sure if Dr. Treya really believes me, but that doesn’t seem to matter much. She treats it all like it’s true, anyway.”

There’s a loud squeal of a bottle rocket, then laughter somewhere in the distance. 

“I’m sorry we fought the last few weeks,” you whisper. “I was angry. But mostly just hurt. By last summer.”

Steve sits up a little at that, his strong arm bracing his torso as he looks down at you. “And you had every right to be,” he says. “I was a coward for leaving like I did. I got scared, I think. But, I’m getting better. At least, Robin says I am.”

You chuckle. “I’m sure she’s right.”

“But I am sorry, too. For that, and for…just for everything.”

You gaze up at him, and the urge to cup his face and bring his lips down to yours grips you by the spine. But Steve lays back down next to you before you can say anything. 

“I’m proud of you for going to see a counselor,” you say into the dark after a long moment. “Does it help?”

“Yeah.” He swallows. “But I wish there was something I could do, too, you know? Other than just talk about it.” 

He takes the world upon his shoulders, this boy.

He deserves to know that, at the end of the day, someone has him. Someone wants him. Not just for what he can give, but for who he is. He’s been pushing you away because you had that for him, and he didn’t know how to accept it. Until recently. 

You see that now. 

His bare arm is so warm against yours. You follow it down with your fingers until you find his hand, threading your fingers through his. 

“Steve, you’ve already done so much. For everyone.”

His hand practically swallows yours. Long fingers, with blunt tips. They just remind you of all the ways he’s used them to pull orgasms from your body, one after the other.

All he does is give, give, give. Even when you give him hell all summer, fuck, he gives that right back. 

Your hair whispers against the sleeping bag as you turn to look at him. His brown eyes meet yours, and his soft exhale ghosts across your cheek.

You search his face for permission, because he already knows what you’re asking. When his expression softens, just enough, you don’t hesitate. Hooking your leg around his waist, you roll on top of him and sit up. 

“Let me take care of you,” you say.

He sucks in a breath at the sight of you rising above him, his hand coming to land hot and heavy on your thigh. 

Scooting backwards, you lower your mouth to his torso. He hisses, his other hand flying to tangle in your hair. His cock has softened slightly against his hip, but you can fix that with your mouth in no time. 

His chest heaves with a shaky breath. “Wait, no. No, baby.” 

You suck a soft love bite on his hip before raising your eyes to his. “You don’t want it anymore?”

“No—shit, of course I want it, but—” He snorts, but his hand finds yours and he tries to pull you up. “If we’re going to do this, I want to do it for real. Not to distract each other. Not like we used to. Can…can you do that?”

You nod once. Then again. “Yes. Yes, of course, Steve. I wasn’t—I was just—” your heart slams into your throat. “I still love you.”

A slow, sweet smile spreads across Steve’s face. Your cheeks flush, and you try to squirm away, but Steve squeezes your thigh, urging you to find his eyes again. And when you do, you see that familiar heat is back. 

“Good,” he says. “Now we can get down to the real question of what the fuck do you think you’re doing barging into my tent when I’m masturbating, you little brat?”

Heat licks up your spine, and you bite back a grin. “I told you! You were being loud.”

“Yeah, sure, now tell me the real reason.”

“That is the real reason!”

“Don’t lie to me.” 

You open your mouth to argue, but his hands clamp down on your hips before you can, and in one smooth motion, he flips you so you’re on your back. Your heart slams against your ribs as he pulls you down under him, his chest rising and falling against yours. 

“Just admit it,” he says, a cocky grin twisting his lips right over yours. “You wanted me to lick that pretty pussy for you, didn’t you?”

Your panties dampen instantly, pulsing in anticipation of feeling his mouth on you after so long. 

You might have been at each other’s throats for weeks, but that doesn’t mean he didn’t like it. You saw it in his eyes by the campfire and by every rough two-hand touch football game. Every time your face went red and you mouthed off at him he’d just smile and lift his eyebrows as if to say, ‘is that all you got?’ Maybe crook two fingers at you with a cocky tilt of his head, urging you to ‘give me more.’ 

Well, you could definitely give him more. 

“I don’t know, Harrington,” you sigh, tilt your head against the tent floor in mock confusion. “I hardly remember what getting head from you is like.”

His grin turns wicked. Then suddenly, he’s moving—greedy hands tugging at your shorts. 

“Oh, I’m sorry,” he says, voice dripping in that mocking tone that always makes you wet. “I thought maybe you’d want me to do that thing my tongue that always—” A whimper escapes your throat and he breaks off mid-sentence with an openmouthed laugh. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

He crawls down your body, taking your shorts and underwear with him, and you gasp when something hard and hot brushes your thigh. Glad to see he’s sporting that erection again. You feel a fleeting disappointment at the fact you haven’t gotten to suck him off yet, but it’s probably better this way, to be honest. 

It’s literally impossible to make Steve Harrington be quiet while getting a blowjob—

Without warning, he plunges two fingers deep into your slick channel. Your breath stutters, hips bucking into his palm on instinct. He groans out loud, but you’re too blissed out by the stretch that you can’t even get onto him for it. 

Lungs seizing, heart pounding, you squirm on the slippery fabric of his sleeping bag, trying to get even closer. Your nipples harden against your T-shirt, begging for his touch. For more of him.

You peek down your body just in time to see his head disappear between your thighs, and then his mouth is on you. God, his tongue is so warm and wet against your clit, and his skillful fingers stroke you just right. In and out, then curling into the spongey spot inside that has your mouth dropping open. 

“Missed those sounds you make,” he says, voice muffled against your pussy. 

Shit. 

You hadn’t even realized you were making noise. You dig your knee into his side in retaliation and he chuckles, squirming away before diving in again.

He licks messy, broad strokes, tasting you on purpose, getting you all over his tongue. When you grind up into his face he grabs you by the hips and moves with you, following your every wriggle and writhe. 

Yep, his mouth still makes the world feel dull, reducing your hearing to the whoosh of your heartbeat in your ears as everything else just fades away into mind numbing bliss—

“Shut up,” Steve says, pulls back from you with a wicked grin. His face is covered in your arousal, glinting in the firework light, and the sight makes you clench around his fingers. “Seriously, shut up if you don’t want them to hear you.” 

“Wha—Steve!” You whine, canting your hips up into his mouth again as he lowers himself back down to you. “H-help.”

He shrugs. “I’m not the one who gives a shit if they hear.”

The vibrations of his voice against your clit rips a moan from your throat, unbidden, and your lips cinch together. Your hand flies to your hip, finding his fingers there. You try to pull his hand up but he shakes off your touch, holding onto your waist and puling you roughly against his tongue. 

You whine in protest, and go to pull on his hand again, but that’s a mistake. 

He brings his palm down to your inner thigh with a sharp smack that has your back arching off the ground, your eyes narrowing in warning. 

“Cover your own mouth, sweetheart, fuck,” he chuckles, giving your clit a soothing series of licks. “I’m busy.”

“Fuck you,” you whisper, but it quickly turns into a needy whine when he sucks the swollen nub into his mouth. 

Steve continues to stretch you out on his fingers, murmuring dirty things into your pussy as he does. How sweet you taste. How tightly you’re squeezing his fingers. But you barely hear any of it. 

You’re so wet—both from his mouth and your arousal—that your inner thighs slick together when you try to squeeze them. He yanks your legs apart again, and you’re powerless to stop him because the pads of his fingers are dragging out tendrils of pleasure from your spine you haven’t felt in a year. 

Thankfully, the fireworks seem to be reaching a peak outside— loud bangs and pops going off every few seconds help drown out the sounds of your needy pussy and blissed-out sighs. Because frankly, you don’t have the brain power to think about anything except how desperately you need him inside you. 

You whimper again accidentally. “Steve—” 

“Okay, baby,” he replies instantly, knowing what you need by the tone in your voice alone. His fingers slip out and he rises up over you, your knees falling open eagerly as he lines himself up.

When he notches the tip of his cock at your entrance, your cunt greedily sucks him in. He gasps, hips bucking forward instinctively, and neither one of you are able to stop the mixed groans that ensue from finally, finally being connected like this again after so long. 

Big hands scramble for a hold on your waist, blunt nails pinching your skin as he drags himself back, then forth, slamming up into you with a depth that makes you sob.

“Still fuckin’ made for me,” he groans. “Goddamnit.”

You’re panting, arms wrapped around his shoulders, biting the skin of your forearm to keep from moaning as his hips roll slow and deliberate. 

“Good girl,” he praises, and you shudder, feeling the ache grow sharper. “Staying so quiet, look at you. You can’t ask me to be silent when you come around me, okay? Fuck—that’s like being tortured all over again.”

You shoot him a withering look even as you writhe underneath him. “That’s not funny.”

He laughs, and his silhouette shifts over you, his cock driving deeper and hitting that spot inside you that makes you see sparks that aren’t there. “Sorry, sweetheart. I just—oh yeah, grind that clit into me. That’s it.”

 Your hands rake through his hair, desperately trying to hold onto something. But the force behind his thrusts causes you to pull on the strands, and, well, that was a mistake. 

His teeth sink into the skin of your shoulder in order to stay somewhat quiet, and oh—fuck. How could you have forgotten what pulling his hair does to him? Stars burst behind your eyes as the fireworks crackle overhead, and the tension between your hips coils tighter. 

“Fuck—Steve,” you gush. “Please.”

“What do you need?” He rasps against your throat, sucking and biting. “I’m all yours.”

Little tremors course though your legs as your orgasm builds, the swollen head of his cock nudging those spots deep inside that ache for him. 

Only him.

“You need me to kiss you?” he says, breath hot in your ear. “Need me to shut you up?”

You nod frantically. 

“Go on, ask me for it.”

You whimper, too far gone to play the game anymore. “Kiss me, Stevie. Please, please—” 

“Fuck,” Steve groans at the nickname he hasn’t heard in so long, and instantly lowers his mouth to yours. 

The first brush of his lips against yours makes you want to cry. 

“Missed you, baby,” he says, then kisses you deeper, his tongue dipping into your mouth and swirling with yours. “So much. Missed kissing you. Missed talking with you.” He hesitates, pulling back slightly before planting one soft kiss to the corner of your mouth. “Missed loving you. But I guess I never really stopped, did I?”

Your eyes connect for one heartbreaking, devestatingly sweet second before you pull him back down, pouring your love for him into the gentle, yet desperate stroke of your tongue against his. 

Feeling you kiss him like that snaps something deep inside him. 

Your inner muscles clamps down around him as his thrusts turn messy and hard, and his hands run over your shoulders, your breasts, your hips, pulling your body back down to meet his every thrust. 

The pleasure builds to an insurmountable level as he rips your shirt up to capture your nipple in his mouth, swirling his tongue around it and making you want to scream. 

You flatten your palm over your lips, whimpering through the gaps in your fingers over and over, squeezing your eyes shut as Steve pushes you higher and higher until finally—you’re falling. 

Your teeth bite into your fingers hard to muffle your moans as your pussy clenches down like a vice on Steve’s cock rhythmically, your orgasm rushing through you. 

He lets out a choked sound above you, and with the way his chest falls in a sequence of familiar pants, you know he’s close. Through the pleasured haze, your other hand flies to cover his mouth just in time for his orgasm to hit. 

“Mmhmm, mhhhmm.” Steve whines loudly, as his body tenses, and his cock twitches inside you. And you have no choice but to shove your fingers inside his lips, forcing him to suck on them as he reaches his peak. His eyes roll back as he bullies his cock against your cervix, painting your walls with his come, even as his tongue strokes your knuckles tenderly and reverently.

It takes awhile for the both of you to come back down to earth, but eventually, you let your fingers fall from his mouth and he laughs breathlessly, dipping to give you one last slow kiss before slipping out of you. 

He fumbles around for his T-shirt in the darkness and then cleans you up with care, which makes your heart twist. Once he’s done, he settles on his side, and pulls you into him, your back pressed to his chest. You burrow into him, his arm settling around you, and it’s amazing how quickly your lashes start to fall, wrapped up in this familiar comfort. 

“So…truce?” Steve whispers into the crook of your shoulder. You laugh softly.

Even under a hazardously leaning tent, and a sky littered with mini explosions, the world seems a little less dark right now. The past, a little less heavy. 

Maybe it’s because neither of you are running away from it, anymore. But rather, facing it. Together.

And because you know, without a shadow of a doubt, Steve Harrington’s heartbeat will always be in your future.

“Truce.”

a/n: the tent definitely collapses on top of them five minutes later, by the way. also, my idea originally was not nearly as angsty, but don’t you just love it when characters highjack your story? god, the fics always turn out so much better that way.

Which is how, several hours later, you find yourselves climbing into bed completely unaware that you're about to begin what will later become known as The Longest Week Of Steve Harrington's Life.

The bedroom is already unpleasant.

Not unbearably hot yet, but close enough to be annoying. The air feels heavy and stale. The open window isn't helping nearly as much as either of you had hoped it would. Somewhere outside, a car alarm briefly goes off before stopping again, and from another house comes the distant sound of somebody arguing about whether they should buy a fan.

The sheets are warm. The pillows are warm. Even the mattress seems suspiciously warm.

You spend approximately thirty seconds lying there before kicking one leg free of the duvet. Steve follows shortly afterwards. Then the other leg. Then an arm. Then the duvet itself ends up somewhere near the bottom of the bed.

For a while neither of you says anything. You're both too busy attempting to negotiate a comfortable sleeping position without actually touching anything.

Then you feel it. The look. You don't even need to turn your head. You know that look. After several years together, you could probably identify it from another postcode.

Slowly, you glance across the bed, and Steve is already watching you. The smile arrives first - that familiar crooked smile that always means he's about to become a problem.

"Oh no."

"What?"

"Don't 'what' me."

The innocence in his voice is deeply unconvincing.

"What are you talking about?"

You stare. Steve stares back, his smile getting wider.

"There it is."

"There what is?"

"The face."

"I don't have a face."

"You absolutely have a face."

Steve laughs quietly. The mattress shifts as he rolls onto his side, immediately moving closer like a moth approaching a flame.

Or an idiot approaching an obviously bad decision. Possibly both.

"Baby."

"No."

"I haven't even said anything."

"You don't need to."

His hand slides lazily across your waist. You try very hard not to smile, but fail immediately. Steve notices, because of course he notices.

Encouraged by this development, he leans closer and presses a kiss against your shoulder. Then another. Then one just below your ear.

Ordinarily, this would be an excellent way to spend an evening. Ordinarily, you'd be entirely supportive of whatever nonsense Steve Harrington was attempting.

Ordinarily.

"Steve."

"Hm?"

"It's too hot." The protest comes out halfway between a laugh and a groan.

Steve freezes - actually freezes - like you've just informed him Christmas has been cancelled.

"It's not that hot."

You stare at him. Then gesture broadly around the room. Towards the open window which is doing absolutely nothing, towards the discarded duvet, towards the fact that neither of you has voluntarily touched each other for more than five seconds all evening.

"It's absolutely that hot."

The betrayal on his face is immediate, profound, almost moving. Steve drops backwards onto the mattress with enough dramatic force to make the entire bed bounce beneath you.

"My own girlfriend."

"Oh, don't start."

"My own girlfriend rejects me."

"You'll survive."

"I don't know if I will."

"You will."

"This feels personal."

You laugh so hard your stomach hurts.

Steve, meanwhile, continues staring at the ceiling like a man contemplating the collapse of civilisation.

For the next ten minutes, he complains continuously about injustice, about cruelty, about the fundamental unfairness of the universe. At one point, he accuses the weather itself of targeting him specifically.

You point out that several million other people are currently experiencing the exact same temperature. Steve remains unconvinced.

Eventually, however, even he has to admit defeat. The heat is simply too much.

So the two of you settle into the familiar compromise you've perfected over the years.

Close enough to feel each other's presence. Far enough apart that neither of you overheats.

One of Steve's feet ends up resting lightly against your ankle. Your hand brushes his wrist.

Tiny points of contact. Just enough.

And as you drift off to sleep, Steve mutters something under his breath about the weather being his greatest enemy.

At the time, you assume he's joking.

By day four, neither of you will be entirely sure.

Day two is worse.

Not just emotionally. Meteorologically.

The temperature climbs several degrees higher overnight and, with it, whatever goodwill either of you had left towards summer. The air feels thicker somehow, heavier, as though somebody has draped an invisible blanket over the entire town and forgotten to remove it. Opening windows doesn't help. Closing them doesn't help. Standing in front of a fan helps for approximately thirty seconds before the fan simply starts blowing warm air directly into your face.

By lunchtime, every surface in the house has developed the faintly unpleasant quality of being slightly warm to the touch. The sofa is warm. The kitchen counters are warm. Even the floor feels suspiciously warm.

Steve is handling this poorly, dramatically, the way Steve handles most things.

You find him standing in front of the open refrigerator no fewer than four times throughout the day, each time pretending he's looking for something despite making absolutely no effort to actually remove anything from it.

At one point you walk into the kitchen to discover him simply staring into the fridge with his eyes closed.

"What are you doing?"

"It's cooler in here."

"Steve."

"Don't take this from me."

By early evening, however, another problem begins presenting itself.

Namely you.

Or more specifically, the fact that surviving a heatwave requires dressing accordingly.

The tiny shorts aren't for Steve. The tiny vest isn't for Steve. The fact that you've spent most of the day with your hair tied up and as much skin exposed as possible isn't for Steve either.

It's for survival. Pure, practical survival.

Unfortunately, Steve appears determined not to believe this.

You catch him looking, frequently - the sort of distracted glances that start subtle and become increasingly obvious as the day progresses.

By six o'clock, he's lost all pretence entirely.

The incident occurs while you're making a drink in the kitchen.

You're standing on tiptoe, reaching into the cupboard for a glass when you feel familiar arms wrap around your waist from behind, and you immediately grow suspicious. Because Steve only approaches this quietly when he's planning something.

His chest presses against your back, his chin settles briefly on your shoulder. And then comes the smile. You can't see it, but you can feel it.

"Steve."

"Baby."

The man already sounds wounded, and you haven't even rejected him yet. His forehead drops onto your shoulder dramatically, like a Victorian widower grieving a lost love.

"What?"

"I had an idea."

You close your eyes. "No."

"You don't even know what it is."

"I absolutely know what it is."

"You don't."

"I do."

"You don't."

You finally turn around, only to find him looking deeply offended. A performance - an excellent performance - but a performance nonetheless.

"Tell me your idea."

The smile arrives instantly, far too quickly, like he'd been waiting for permission.

"What if," he begins carefully, "I had a really good solution to this whole situation?"

Your eyes narrow. "What situation?"

"The situation where my girlfriend keeps rejecting me."

You laugh despite yourself, and Steve takes this as encouragement. Which is a mistake.

"A really practical solution."

"Oh God."

"What if I bent you over the kitchen counter?"

You nearly drop the glass.

"Steve!"

"The counter's cool."

"Oh my God."

"What?"

"The fact that you've thought about the temperature of the counter is deeply concerning."

"I'm adapting."

"You're spiralling."

"I'm innovating."

The smile he gives you is so proud of itself that you nearly laugh again. Nearly.

Because the problem is that he's very attractive. Even sweaty. Especially sweaty, unfortunately.

His hands settle against your hips, his gaze flicks briefly to your mouth, and for one dangerous moment, you genuinely consider it. The cool counter, the empty house, the fact that it's been two whole days.

Steve sees the hesitation immediately, and the hope that appears on his face is almost embarrassing.

"Baby?"

You groan - actually groan - because he's making this difficult.

"I hate that look."

"What look?"

"That one."

"What one?"

"The one where you think you're winning."

Steve grins, slowly and confidently, like a man standing on the edge of victory.

Then you gently push him backwards. The grin vanishes instantly.

"It's too hot."

The devastation is immediate. Profound. Shakespearean.

"Baby."

"It's too hot."

"Baby."

"It's the hottest June day in years."

"I don't care."

"I do."

Steve drops his head backwards with a noise that should not be physically possible for a grown man to make. Somewhere between a sigh and a whine. The sound of a man watching his dreams crumble before his eyes.

You nearly cave. Honestly, you do. Because he's cute, and persistent, and looking at you like he's personally offended by the weather.

But then a bead of sweat slides down the back of your neck and reminds you exactly why this entire arrangement exists in the first place.

"No."

Steve closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and nods solemnly.

Then points accusingly towards the sky. "This is the weather's fault."

And for perhaps the hundredth time that day, you find yourself laughing at him.

By day three, Steve becomes proactive. Dangerously proactive.

You discover this when you walk into the bedroom after lunch and immediately stop dead in the doorway.

For a moment, you genuinely aren't sure what you're looking at.

The bedroom appears to have undergone some sort of hostile takeover.

Fans. Everywhere.

Not one or two. Not a sensible number.

Fans. An absurd number of fans.

There are fans on the bedside tables. Fans on the chest of drawers. A fan balanced on a chair that definitely wasn't designed to hold one. Another perched in the corner. One near the window. One near the wardrobe.

Possibly more. You lose count somewhere around six.

Every single one of them is pointed directly at the bed.

The combined noise is staggering. The room sounds less like a bedroom and more like the engine room of a moderately sized aircraft.

You stand there staring. The fans continue roaring.

In the middle of it all stands Steve, arms folded across his chest, looking so proud of himself it's almost offensive.

"What," you say slowly, "is this?"

Steve's smile widens immediately. "A solution."

You glance around again. The fans continue blasting air from every conceivable direction. One of them is oscillating aggressively. Another appears to be vibrating slightly. You're fairly certain the electricity bill is about to become a criminal offence.

"You did all this today?"

"Yep."

"You bought all these today?"

"Yep."

You look at the nearest fan. Then another. Then another. Then back at Steve.

"This cost money."

"It was an investment."

"Steve."

"A worthwhile investment."

"You bought six fans."

"I bought seven."

The correction arrives immediately, proudly, like he's expecting praise.

You laugh before you can stop yourself, and Steve looks deeply offended.

"You're laughing."

"You bought seven fans."

"Because I care."

"Our bedroom sounds like an airport runway."

"Because I care."

Unfortunately, the worst part is that it actually works.

The room is noticeably cooler. Not cold, not comfortable, but significantly less awful than the rest of the house. Enough that you find yourself lingering.

Enough that Steve notices immediately. The look on his face becomes dangerous, hopeful, the sort of hopeful that has repeatedly got him into trouble this week.

"You know," he says casually, "the bed's pretty cool now."

You narrow your eyes and Steve smiles the least trustworthy smile you've ever seen.

Ten minutes later, despite your better judgement, you're both sprawled across the bed. The fans continue roaring around you. The room is cool enough that you're actually touching for the first time in days without immediately wanting to peel your own skin off.

And honestly? You've missed this - missed him - missed the easy intimacy of being close without worrying about overheating.

Steve's hand slides into your hair, and your fingers curl into his shirt. The tension that's been building all week starts unravelling all at once - slowly, naturally, inevitably.

The kisses become longer, softer, then not so soft. The sort that makes you forget what you were talking about halfway through a sentence. The sort that leaves Steve looking increasingly pleased with himself.

Because after three days of rejection, three days of failed schemes and dramatic sighing and weather-related suffering, he can practically taste victory.

For one glorious minute, Steve genuinely believes he's won.

Then you pull back.

Not because you've changed your mind. But because you're laughing, hard, immediately. The kind of laughter that arrives out of nowhere and refuses to stop.

Steve blinks, confused and slightly offended.

"What?"

You point helplessly towards the nearest fan. Or rather, towards the collective noise of all seven.

The room sounds ridiculous. The kissing had distracted you from it momentarily, but now it's impossible to ignore.

Steve says something. You don't hear a word.

"What?"

He repeats himself. Still nothing. You laugh harder, tears beginning to form at the corners of your eyes.

Steve props himself up on one elbow. "What?"

You catch approximately half of the word, the rest disappearing into the mechanical roar surrounding you.

The absurdity of it all hits at once. The seven fans, the fact that he'd apparently spent actual money on this, the fact that he'd transformed your bedroom into a wind tunnel in pursuit of sex.

You bury your face in the pillow laughing.

Steve finally realises what's happening, and the betrayal on his face is immediate.

"Oh, come on."

"What?"

"I said-"

The fan nearest the bed chooses that exact moment to rattle loudly, and you lose it entirely.

Steve drops backwards onto the mattress with a groan, an actual groan - long, frustrated, deep enough that it cuts through even the fan noise.

You immediately point at him. "There!"

"What?"

"That!"

"What?"

"That's exactly what I mean."

Steve looks baffled.

You grin. "I can't hear all the pretty noises you make."

For a second, he just stares. Then his eyes close. His head drops backwards. And another groan leaves him - even longer this time, even more dramatic - the exact sound you'd been talking about.

Which unfortunately only makes you laugh harder.

Steve, meanwhile, lies in the centre of his self-constructed cooling system wondering how, despite spending an entire afternoon planning the perfect solution, he has somehow managed to lose yet again.

By the time you eventually leave the room still giggling, he's genuinely considering whether the weather itself might be sentient.

Because at this point, it's starting to feel personal.

By day four, Steve is desperate.

Not in a dignified way. Not in a way that future generations would look back upon with admiration.

By day four, Steve Harrington has entered a deeply concerning phase of the heatwave. A phase characterised by increasingly elaborate plans, questionable decision-making, and the unwavering belief that if he just thinks hard enough, he'll eventually discover a loophole.

You discover this shortly after your shower.

The house is still warm despite the sun beginning to sink. Your hair is damp from the water, a towel draped around your shoulders as you wander down the hallway, enjoying the rare feeling of not being overheated for approximately five consecutive minutes.

Then Steve's voice drifts in through the open back door.

"Baby? Can you come here?"

Immediately suspicious. Not enough for you to be alarmed or concerned. Just suspicious. Because you've spent enough time with Steve Harrington to recognise the tone he uses when he's trying very hard to sound casual about something. The tone itself is casual. The effort behind it is not.

You follow the sound outside.

And stop.

For a moment, you're genuinely speechless.

The garden has been transformed. Not professionally or even particularly elegantly, but with an amount of earnest determination that's honestly quite endearing.

A blanket has been spread across the grass. Fairy lights hang overhead, strung between fence posts in slightly uneven lines. Candles flicker inside old jam jars arranged around the edges of the blanket. Somewhere nearby, a portable speaker is quietly playing music. The last of the evening sunlight is fading beyond the rooftops, leaving everything bathed in that soft golden-blue light that only seems to exist for a few minutes each day.

And standing in the middle of it all is Steve.

Looking so hopeful it nearly breaks your heart.

For a second, all the teasing disappears. Because it's sweet. Ridiculously sweet. The sort of sweet that only happens when somebody has spent far too much time thinking about how to make you smile.

Steve shifts awkwardly when he notices you've stopped speaking, suddenly self-conscious, which somehow makes it even worse.

"I thought..." He clears his throat and rubs the back of his neck. "Well, it's cooler outside than inside."

You glance around.

To be fair, it is. The heatwave has finally loosened its grip slightly. A gentle breeze moves through the garden. The air feels lighter than it has all week.

Steve gestures vaguely around him.

"There's a breeze and everything."

"A breeze?"

"Yeah."

His confidence begins returning.

"A pretty good breeze, actually."

"Oh, a pretty good breeze?"

"Maybe even an excellent breeze."

You laugh, and Steve's shoulders immediately relax, encouraged and dangerous.

"I just figured maybe we'd sit out here for a bit."

"Steve."

"Maybe enjoy the evening."

"Steve."

"Maybe enjoy each other."

There it is. Finally. The real agenda.

Steve looks far too pleased with himself.

You stare at him for a moment. At the fairy lights, the blanket, the candles, the sheer commitment.

Then you cross the garden. Quickly, before he can say anything else, before he can ruin the moment by continuing to talk.

Your hands find his face. His eyes widen.

And then you're kissing him.

Hard. Immediate. Every bit of affection and frustration and longing that's been building for the past four days suddenly condensed into one moment.

Steve makes a noise that sounds suspiciously triumphant.

His hands find your waist instantly, pulling you closer. The kiss deepens, the breeze shifts around you, the fairy lights glow softly overhead.

And for one glorious, beautiful moment, Steve genuinely believes he's done it.

Finally. Victory. At long last. The curse is broken. The drought is over. The kingdom is restored.

Then you pull away.

The confusion on his face is immediate. Devastating, really. Like watching somebody lose a raffle they were absolutely convinced they'd already won.

"Baby."

"No."

"Baby."

"No."

"Come on."

You laugh despite yourself.

Steve, meanwhile, looks moments away from writing a strongly worded letter to the weather.

"You kissed me."

"I did."

"Very enthusiastically."

"I did."

"And now you're saying no?"

You reach up and gently tilt his chin upwards. Towards the neighbouring houses. Towards the row of upstairs windows overlooking the gardens. Towards the very clear view that several innocent bystanders currently have of Steve's carefully constructed romantic masterpiece.

Realisation dawns.

Briefly, very briefly, then vanishes again.

Honestly, at this point Steve no longer cares. Four days is a long time. A very long time. The man is operating almost entirely on hope and determination.

He squints at the neighbour's window, then shrugs.

"Maybe they're not home."

You stare. Steve stares back.

"That's your solution?"

"It's not a bad solution."

"Steve."

"We could take the risk."

You laugh so hard you nearly double over.

The expression on his face becomes increasingly wounded.

Eventually, you lean forward and press a quick kiss to his cheek. Then another, softer this time. Apologetic and affectionate. Enough to remind him that he isn't actually losing. Just waiting.

"I'm sorry, honey."

Steve lets out a noise that sounds suspiciously like genuine heartbreak. The kind of noise usually associated with tragic romances and historical disasters.

"As soon as the heatwave passes."

For a moment he simply stares at you. Then at the sky. Then back at you. As though attempting to determine exactly how much longer this weather intends to torment him personally.

Finally, he sighs. Long, suffering, dramatic enough to deserve its own award.

And as you disappear back towards the house, leaving him standing amongst the fairy lights and candles and increasingly unnecessary romantic gestures, Steve finds himself wondering whether five days can legally count as cruel and unusual punishment.

You wake on the fifth morning to the soft, steady sound of rain tapping against the bedroom window.

For a few blissfully disorienting seconds, you don't understand why you feel different. Then it hits you all at once.

You're comfortable. Actually comfortable.

Not half-awake and sweating through the sheets. Not tangled in blankets you've spent the entire night kicking away from your body. Not desperately searching for the cool side of the pillow every twenty minutes. For the first time in what feels like forever, the room feels pleasant. The air is cool. The mattress isn't radiating heat. Even the duvet, pulled loosely over your legs, feels cosy rather than oppressive.

Outside, the rain continues falling in a gentle, steady rhythm that would ordinarily make you want to stay in bed all morning.

Today, however, something else catches your attention.

Steve.

You turn your head and find him still asleep beside you, sprawled across the mattress in the careless way only Steve Harrington can manage. His hair is sticking up in approximately six different directions. One arm is trapped beneath his pillow. His mouth is slightly open. After four straight days of increasingly dramatic suffering, he looks suspiciously peaceful.

Completely unaware that the heatwave is finally over.

The sight makes something warm settle quietly in your chest.

Because the truth is, you've missed this too.

Not sex, necessarily.

Well. Not just that.

You've missed him.

Missed the easy closeness that usually exists between you. Missed curling into his side without immediately overheating. Missed waking up tangled together instead of separated by several feet of mattress and a mutual desire not to spontaneously combust.

For nearly a week, every touch has felt brief. Every kiss has ended with somebody laughing about the weather. Every moment has been interrupted by heat, sweat, neighbours, fans, or some other obstacle determined to test Steve's patience.

And somehow, through all of it, he'd never once stopped looking at you like you were the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.

The thought makes you smile.

Carefully, you shift closer.

Steve doesn't wake immediately, but he does make a soft noise in the back of his throat and instinctively moves towards you, even in his sleep. Your fingertips brush lightly across his jaw, tracing the familiar stubble there before drifting along his cheek. Then his shoulder. Then the curve of his neck.

Within seconds, his eyelashes begin to flutter. Slowly, sleepily, his eyes crack open. And the moment he sees you, he smiles. Not the cocky smile. Not the teasing one. The soft one. The sleepy one. The one that always feels like being let in somewhere private.

"Hey," he murmurs.

You don't answer.

Instead, you lean forward and kiss him.

The smile disappears immediately.

Replaced by surprise.

Then delight.

Steve's hand finds your waist before he's even fully awake, pulling you closer as he kisses you back. The rain continues tapping softly against the window. The room remains cool. Comfortable. Quiet.

For the first time all week, there are no fans roaring in the background.

No neighbours overlooking the garden.

No excuses.

Just the two of you.

When you finally pull back, Steve blinks up at you for a moment as though trying to process what's happening.

Then his eyes narrow slightly.

Suspicious.

"Baby?"

"Yeah?"

A pause.

"The heatwave's over," you giggle.

Steve, meanwhile, looks genuinely emotional.

"You have no idea how happy that just made me."

You kiss him again before he can continue complaining about the previous four days.

And this time, neither of you is in any hurry to stop.

You swing your leg over his hip, pulling him closer, and immediately feel the effect it has on him. A low groan escapes him as he presses against you, the sound swallowed by your kiss. After nearly a week of stolen glances, failed attempts, and endless frustration, the tension between you feels almost unbearable. The moment he rolls his hips against yours, his eyes flutter shut.

"Fuck, baby," he murmurs against your mouth, voice rough with want. "Missed you so much."

A laugh escapes you, soft and breathless. "I think I've got some idea."

The teasing only seems to make things worse for him. His hands slide down to the backs of your thighs, encouraging you onto his lap with a desperation that borders on endearing. The second you settle over him, another helpless sound leaves his throat.

"Oh, so this is what you wanted, huh?" you murmur against his skin, trailing kisses from his jaw down to his neck.

His answer arrives as a sharp exhale and a roll of his hips. "God, yes."

For a few moments, neither of you seems capable of doing anything except enjoying the simple fact of finally being close again. You shift on his lap, pressing down enough to relieve some of the pressure that had been building all week. Your fingers disappear into the hair at the nape of his neck, tugging lightly as his hands settle firmly at your waist, guiding your movements. Every touch feels heightened after days of avoiding exactly this.

When you moan into the kiss, he presses his lips against yours harder, spurred on by the pretty noises you're making for him. He's fully hard now, and you're dripping onto him, so much so that he can already feel his dick getting wet.

When you shift to climb off his lap, intent on tasting him after so long, his grip tightens immediately.

"Not now, baby. Need you. Need to feel you. Please." His voice is almost pleading.

The sincerity of it makes your chest ache.

You nod above him, sitting up on your knees to pull your underwear down, as he does the same with his boxers, so you're pressed skin-to-skin for the first time in days, and something about it feels unexpectedly emotional. Maybe it's because the heatwave had turned every touch into a negotiation. Maybe it's because you'd forgotten how much comfort existed in simple closeness. Whatever the reason, your heart is beating just as hard as his beneath your palms.

Steve watches you with an intensity that always leaves you slightly breathless. Even now, even after all this time together, you sometimes struggle to comprehend that he looks at you the way he does. Like you're something precious. Like he still can't quite believe you're real.

You grab onto his cock, and he hisses at the contact, while you line him up with your entrance, both of you letting out the same shaky breath as his head catches at your entrance. Slowly, you start to sink down onto him.

You both moan out, foreheads against one another's. Steve can't take his eyes off your face while you sink down. The way your mouth is open in a gasp, the way your eyebrows are scrunched up in pleasure.

He gives you a minute to adjust to him, eyes half-lidded as he simply takes you in. The effort of holding himself back is written across every line of his body.

“Fuck me,” you whisper against his neck. "Please, Steve."

That proves to be the last coherent thought either of you manages for a while. And Steve doesn't need to be told twice. Not after nearly a week without feeling you squeezing around him.

The rhythm that follows is steady at first, neither of you in any hurry after waiting so long. Steve's hands never seem to settle anywhere for long, constantly moving as though he's trying to reassure himself you're actually here. Your shoulders. Your waist. The curve of your back. Every touch feels affectionate as much as desperate. You dig your fingertips into his shoulders, moaning out as he mouths at the space between your breasts, looking up at you with nothing short of adoration.

You start bouncing on his cock, meeting him as he thrusts up into you, and his head falls back against the headboard, moaning out at the feeling of your pussy gripping his cock so good.

The praise comes naturally to him, spilling out between kisses and breathless laughter. Every time he hears one of those sounds leave your mouth, his expression softens, as though he's hearing something beautiful.

"That's it, sweetheart," he murmurs, eyes fixed on yours. "Just like that."

You keep up your pace as you grind your clit against his pubic bone with every downward movement. The feeling is so divine, you can't help the whines you let out. You're too lost in it to even really notice.

Steve stares up at your beautiful, blissed-out face, and in seconds he's pulling you off him, gently but firmly guiding you onto your stomach on the bed, face turned sideways on the pillow, and he's kneeling between your legs.

He gropes at your ass, spreading your cheeks to admire your dripping pussy, before pushing back into you.

He loves fucking you like this. You always go soft and boneless when he's fucking you from behind, his cock reaching so deep inside you at this angle that all you can do is grip onto the bedsheets and take the pleasure he's giving you.

Within minutes, you're right on the edge. You don't need to tell Steve, he knows your body inside and out, and he can tell you're close before you can.

"You gonna cum, huh baby? That's it. Give it to me."

The look on his face is almost your undoing.

Not the desire. The adoration. The way he seems completely incapable of separating one from the other.

Just like that, you're falling apart on his cock. Your legs quiver around his as your chest pushes into the mattress, your back arching, forcing your ass up further into the air, further onto his cock.

He can't hold himself back much longer when he feels you cum around him. Your pussy fluttering around his cock, pulsing, clenching, so warm and wet, has him right on the edge.

"Where d'you want it, baby? Huh?" he's panting above you, both hands on your lower back, pushing you further into the mattress so he can push his cock deep inside you.

"Inside baby, please," you whine, breathlessly, fucked out. "Fill me up, Steve. Need to feel you."

That's all it takes.

He comes inside you with a guttural sound that comes from deep inside him. He pushes his hips flush against yours, determined to fill you up as much as possible, and you keen at the feeling of his warm spend filling you up.

"That's it, baby. Take it. That's it, sweetheart," he mutters above you, hips slowing to a deep grind as he rides out his orgasm, eventually slowing to a stop.

For a few seconds afterwards, neither of you moves.

Then Steve practically collapses on top of you, all warmth and loose limbs, his weight settling over you in the most familiar way imaginable.

The room is quiet except for the rain against the window and the sound of both of you trying to catch your breath.

Eventually, you break the silence.

"Holy shit."

A tired laugh rumbles through his chest.

"Holy shit."

Neither of you can stop smiling.

Later - much, much later - the rain is still falling steadily against the windows.

The sound drifts softly through the room, blending with the occasional creak of the house settling and the distant rumble of traffic somewhere beyond the neighbourhood. For the first time in nearly a week, the bedroom feels comfortable. Not stuffy. Not oppressive. Not one degree away from becoming unbearable. Just comfortable.

The kind of comfortable you'd spent five days wishing for.

Steve lies sprawled beside you, one arm wrapped securely around your waist, his chest warm against your back. The two of you have somehow ended up tangled together beneath the duvet again, something that would've been completely impossible forty-eight hours ago. Now, though, neither of you seems particularly interested in moving.

And for a while, neither of you says anything at all. You simply lie there enjoying the rare silence that follows a week of complaining. Because there had been a lot of complaining. Mostly from Steve.

Eventually, his fingers trace absent patterns against your side.

"Worth the wait."

The words are spoken directly into your shoulder.

You laugh immediately. A tired, content sort of laugh.

Steve presses a kiss there in response. Then another. Then one against your cheek when you turn your head towards him.

"Worth every second," he adds, sounding completely sincere.

You roll your eyes despite the smile threatening to take over your entire face.

"Really?"

"Absolutely."

"Even the seven fans?"

Steve groans.

"The kitchen counter?"

"The kitchen counter was a great idea."

"It was not."

"It was."

"The neighbours?"

Steve buries his face against your neck.

"The neighbours were an obstacle."

You laugh again, and the sound seems to settle naturally into the quiet room around you.

For a moment, neither of you speaks.

Then Steve squeezes you a little closer.

Not dramatically. Not possessively. Just instinctively. The way he always does.

Outside, the rain keeps falling. Inside, the house is finally cool. And as Steve presses one last sleepy kiss against your shoulder before settling further into the mattress, you realise that for perhaps the first time in five days, neither of you has anything left to complain about.

Which, for Steve Harrington, might actually be a miracle.

dividers: saradika-graphics

You were pretty sure the boy was short circuiting at your words, his brown eyes darkening despite the way the sun was still shining through the windows, the light soft and golden, the day just turning into dusk. It was quiet out at the lake, the water still and cotton candy pink as the sky reflected off of it, tangerine clouds floating above.

It made everything glow, gold and bronze flitting over both your features and when you pushed yourself through the space between the two front seats, you tumbled into Steve’s lap - clumsy and a little desperate - hands on either side of his head as you pinned him to the bench.

He beamed at you, nose scrunched, eyes shining and you spotted the new freckles that were dusted across the highs of his cheekbones, brought by summer. God, he was pretty, you thought.

“Fuck, aren’t you just the prettiest thing,” he told you and you grinned, wondering how in tune two people could be.

His eyes were drinking you in, his hands grasping each side of your waist as he helped pull you into him, your thighs settling on either side of his own as you settled onto his lap. You lit up at his words, just the way he liked it, just the way he wanted you to and you leaned in, lips just brushing against his own as you whispered to him.

“I am?” You asked, tone light and teasing.

You had let your eyes fall shut but you felt his smile against your skin, skimming over the line of your jaw, rubbing over the curve of your bottom lip. You chased the feel of him, noses bumping a little clumsy and you felt him laugh underneath you, quiet and chest rumbling.

He hummed his response, a sound of agreement as his hands found their way to your knees, legs bare because you couldn’t stand the heat, because you’d planned to manhandle your boyfriend into the back of his car since the moment you’d woken up that morning.

Steve was playing with the hem of your skirt, smoothing underneath it to run his palms over your thighs, thumbs running lines on the inner parts of your skin. You shivered despite the heat that wrapped around the car, the blistering sun setting the car on fire, bathing you both in different shades of pink and peach.

He ran the tip of his nose along your jaw, following the slope of it until he could press his lips into the spot underneath your ear, grinning when you squirmed above him. You shifted and watched him stop and stare as your skirt billowed out, the bare skin of your upper thighs and the cotton of your underwear meeting the denim of his jeans.

Steve swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry as he let his head fall back onto the seat, his eyes heavy as he looked at you from beneath his lashes. His grip on you tightened - just a little, just enough - and you knew he was getting needy for you.

He moaned your name, a low, rough sound that had you moving on his lap, hips rolling as you surged forward and pressed yourself into him, hands in his hair, lips on his.

You teased him, lips brushing against the corner of his mouth, teeth nipping and he swore at you, muttering under his breath without any real heat behind it. You grinned, felt his eyelashes flutter against your cheek as he blinked dreamily, totally gone.

It wasn’t until you tugged in his hair, the messy strands fisted carefully between your fingers, that Steve was spurred into action.

“Alright, that’s enough from you,” he grumbled, and god, you knew he was trying to sound annoyed, to sound like he was in control but he was smiling, way too soft for someone who was trying to wrestle you out of your shirt.

You knew from the heavy fall of his chest that you’d gotten him worked up, enough that he was a little rougher than usual, bringing his hand to the back of your neck the minute he’d thrown your shirt into the front seat. Steve pulled you down and him, groaning in what sounded like relief as his lips met yours.

He was impatient, a little pushy, and you loved it. He cupped your jaw, bringing his thumb to smooth over the corner of your lip that his mouth wasn’t covering, pushing at it gently until you opened up for him. Your lips parted with his and he swallowed your soft sighs, his tongue slipping over your own as he held you to him, hands roaming and greedy.

His shirt went next, your hands a little shaky as you pulled it over his head, leaning back to take him in. Hair misbehaving, eyes dark and lips tinted rosy from your lip balm. Fuck.

He plucked the strap of your bra, a little lace thing that was the similar colour to his car, a deep, red wine shade that was making the flush on your skin seem darker than normal.

“I like this,” he whispered and his voice was shot, husky and low.

The compliment made you lean back a little more, your hands on Steve’s knees and his on your waist as you stretched yourself out for him, body taught.

“Yeah?” You asked, your own voice not faring much better.

He grinned at you, lovesick and so, utterly turned on. One hand left your side, palm flat and fingers splayed as he let it slide from your navel and up your chest, sliding between the lace triangles of your bra until his fingertips tracked across your collarbones and drew lines down the column of your neck.

Steve wrapped his hand there and it was big enough, wide enough, that it covered the expanse of your throat and the feel of it made your mouth go dry. You shifted on his lap again, thighs rubbing against the rough material of his jeans as you tried to gain some of the friction you were suddenly desperate for.

He nodded, “oh yeah, suits you baby,” he said, running his free hand over the lace. His thumb caught the hard bead of your nipple and you let out a sigh that broke into a gasp.

You must’ve looked a sight, you thought. Your boyfriend's hand wrapped around your neck, bra strap slipping from your shoulder, legs parted over his knees and skirt rucked up to show off your thighs to him. Your lips were parted, eyes glassy as you silently pleaded with him to bring his mouth back to yours.

He wasn’t too rough with you, never really was unless you asked for it, begged for it.

But he took pity on you, his grip tightening only slightly as he brought his lips back to yours, your hands desperate as they yanked at his belt, pushing clumsily at the button on the denim. He was too far gone to even lift his hips for you, just mumbling into your kiss about how good you felt, how soft your hands were.

You pulled the length of him from the confines of the denim, slipping your hand into his boxers and stroking over the heat of him, one, twice, three times. You felt him stutter into you, his kisses becoming messier, needier and you whined at the feel of it all, rocking yourself over and into him.

Steve hissed as the soft cotton of your underwear slipped over him, hot against his bare skin and you took all the sounds he gave you; pretty, needy noises that you kissed from his lips and stole for yourself.

You pumped your hand over him again, twisting your first at the base of him until he let his head fall back, neck exposed and primed for you to suck a kiss or two there.

The boy was panting, eyes glazed over and cheeks flushed as he stared at you, his fingers pulling deftly at your underwear, pushing the fabric to the side so he could slip his fingers over you.

You watched as his eyes fell shut at your quiet moan, biting down on your lip as he found your clit, thumbing over it in small, lazy circles. When he ran the pad of a finger over your entrance, you pressed yourself back into him, murmuring his name over and over until he took the hint, a smile on his face as you pressed your lips and teeth into the sharp line of his jaw, desperate.

He slipped a finger into you, then a second, letting you adjust before you were writhing against him, lips parted against his own, gasping. It wasn’t even really a kiss, just your nose pressed together, foreheads touching, breathing in each other’s sounds and god, Steve was whispering praises against your lips, mouth pressed hard and dirty on your neck as he told you how good you felt, how wet you were for him.

You rocked your hips a little more, thighs tight around his waist and his hard length was pressed between both your abdomens. You could feel his muscles there tensing and flexing with it all and he sounded wrecked when he grabbed at your wrist, stopping your movements on him.

“We’re gonna be back playing DnD with the rest of them pretty fuckin’ soon if you keep that up.”

You grinned, lighting up at your boyfriend’s admission, feeling far too powerful. You swiped your thumb over his tip before releasing him, your lips twisted into a smirk as he swore at you, his own fingers pushing deeper into in response. You gasped, high and keening, earning your own grin from Steve.

It didn’t last long, turning into a groan as you moved off of him, sitting up onto your knees as you crowded over Steve, your hand wrapped around him, hot and heavy in your palm.

“Yeah?” He asked, eyes meeting yours as you settled yourself over him, his tip brushing up against where you were wet and hot and desperate.

You nodded, urgent, skirt twisted up around your waist as you watched him watch you, his eyes hooded as you slid yourself down onto him. Your hands flew to his neck at the sensation, the tightness and pressure of it all and your fingers found his hair, tugging.

The groan you got from him was sinful and he gazed at you, head back, brow furrowed, lips parted and fuck, he had you acting up. You pulled again, lips chasing his as you began to move, hips rolling over his own as his hands found purchase on your ass, helping you move.

Neither of you had noticed the sky turn from pink to lavender, the clouds turning navy as they sunk with the sun. There was condensation dripping down the windows and it made the air hazy, too warm and thick. It settled on your skin, slick with sex and summer, Steve’s hand gliding easily over you as he gripped the curve of your ass, encouraging you to move a little faster.

And you did, grinding over him as he nipped and licked at any bare skin he could find, his mouth on your chest, hands fighting against the straps of your bra as he tugged it out of his way. He sucked a bruise onto your clavicle, lilac and pink and all pretty, and Steve hummed his appreciation at the sight of it in your skin.

“Greedy,” you told him, your voice higher and breathier than it had been before.

Steve scoffed, his smile brilliant before planting a searing kiss against your lips. “For you?” He huffed out, “always.”

His words did something to you, the way they always did and you tightened around him, moans a little louder now and Steve swore, dropping his forehead to yours at the same time his hand snuck back up your skirt, fingers finding your clit and pressing down.

“Fuck!”

“Please tell me you’re close,” he groaned, hips bucking up to meet yours, his thumb skimming over you in the perfect rhythm.

You nodded, voice gone, breath stuck in your chest as you moved a little faster, urged on by the pretty sounds that left him lips. You were rocking on instinct, chasing the high you knew he’d give you; lips parted, mind hazy, body buzzed.

“Shit, yeah,” you gasped, “are you?”

“Jesus christ, I’ve been close since you took your shirt off,” he half laughed, earning a scoff from you, and you pushed your laughter into his lips, kissing him sweet and hot.

But it was all getting too much, the heat from the summer and Steve sticking to your skin, making everything sound slick and dirty as you moved over him, faster and deeper. He watched the way your eyes shuttered closed, eyelashes fanning across your cheeks and the way you chewed at the curve of your bottom lip.

You felt Steve’s lips at you ear, words rushing out as you moved together, desperate. They fell over your skin in a mix of whispers and moans, the car shuddering underneath both of you.

“There you go,” he soothed, “atta’ girl, there you go, c’mon sweetheart.”

Something broke in you, snapped in the best way. Shattered heat, another kiss, his hand on your thigh, held just right. Fuck, bliss.

He fell apart after you, holding you close and tight against him as his hips stuttered against you. He found your hand, clutched tight on his bicep and he brought it to his lips, pressing a kiss into your open palm, one on each knuckle as you both tried to catch your breath.

Getting dressed was just as distracting. Steve took every chance he could to press his face into your bare skin before you covered it up, finding your shirt and pulling it back over your damp skin. A kiss to your shoulder, a playful bite to the jut of your hip, a press of his face into the crook of your neck.

It wasn’t until you were both dressed and seated back in the front of the car, that you remembered about the walkie talkie. Steve had rolled the windows down, letting in the cooler evening air and he was fiddling with the car radio, humming quietly to whatever song he’d managed to find.

But there was another static, a buzz coming from outside. It wasn’t the cicadas, or the fireflies, and god, once your chest had stopped pounding, you were sure it was your heart either.

Shit.

“Steve! Wait the-”

But the boy had already started the engine, taking off the handbrake and letting the car roll down the small, dirt path.

There was a crunch, a buzz of electricity and the crackled “Steve! We - a ride - where are - better not - makin’ out-” and then silence.

You looked at each other, guilt on both of your faces and Steve sighed.

“Did we, uh, forget about the-”

You’re halfway through a rerun of M.A.S.H., sucking the soul out of a cherry popsicle. You’re braless. The house is quiet. Peaceful, if a little tragic. Exactly the way Fridays are meant to be.

Until the knocking starts.

Correction: pounding.

Panicked, frenzied, FBI-doesn’t-need-a-warrant kind of pounding.

You groan and peel yourself off the couch, popsicle stick still dangling from your lips. You are not emotionally equipped to accept salvation or Thin Mints right now.

But when you open the door, it’s not a solicitor.

It’s Robin.

Robin Buckley, looking like she just got shot out of a chimney. Her cheek’s streaked with soot and something red that is very much not Kool-Aid.  

You blink. Yank the popsicle out of your mouth with a wet plop.

“Don’t freak out,” she blurts, before you even ask.

Which is Robin Buckley-speak for: Start freaking out immediately. Shit is on fire, metaphorically or otherwise.

The last time she said that, you ended up faking an asthma attack so you could ditch pep band and hit up Denny’s for the $1.99 Grand Slam. The time before that, you drove through three counties to rescue her cousin’s “emotional support ferret” from a petting zoo in Muncie.

This time? She’s brought a car with her.

A sleek maroon BMW, purring at the curb, passenger door flung wide open.

Inside: Limbs. Denim. Blood.

A boy.

Slumped sideways in the front seat, head tilted back at an angle that screams whiplash or maybe already dead. 

You squint.

“Who the fuck is that?” … Steve Harrington.

Steve Harrington is bleeding out in your driveway.

You don’t know him. Not really.

Knew of him, sure. Back in high school, he was all Farrah Fawcett volume and varsity swagger. Heir to the Hawkins High hierarchy, ruling keggers and hallways alike. He had rich parents and a bimmer he didn’t pay for. Threw parties like they were some kind of divine rite.

But then? Senior year hit him like a metaphorical truck. Or maybe a literal one. Hard to say.

Because somewhere between the scorched-earth gossip of graduation and the literal scorched-earth of the mall burning down, Steve Harrington dropped off the map.

Poof. King Steve: dethroned.

Burned out, like the very mall he used to work in.

You missed that whole implosion. Spent that summer in Chicago drowning in vending machine coffee and disaster drills, chasing your EMT cert while trying not to puke during ride-alongs.

You came home to find that Hawkins had gained a mall, lost a mall, and started blaming everything weird on “gas leaks” again.

And Robin Buckley had Steve.     

Her little sidekick from the ice cream wars. Who, allegedly, once confronted a creeper in the food court for harassing her. Ruined his pretty face doing it, too. Walked around with a purple shiner for weeks after that summer ended.

He now stocks tapes with her at Family Video, where helping customers ranks somewhere between abusing the label maker and arguing over who gets to abuse the label maker. 

You ran into him once, alone, in the cereal aisle of Melvald’s.

Dark rings under his eyes. Hair still doing that gravity-defying thing.

He smiled. You didn’t smile back.

You didn’t care.  

It’s the age-old fall from grace: high school royalty faceplants into reality, and the Burger King crown starts hanging heavy. (Well, sailor hat, in his case.)

But now, he’s here.

Dying on your lawn.

Ruining your Friday. … Up close, he looks worse.

Biblically bad.

Like, plague-of-locusts, hail-from-the-heavens, Lamb-of-God-who? kind of bad.

His jeans are shredded, shirt gone entirely. Bright red ligature marks around his throat like someone tried to strangle him with a piano wire. There’s ash in his hair, and something black smeared across his jaw that you’re really, really hoping is just dirt.

His eyes flutter.

Then, absurdly, he smiles.

“H-hey. Heard you know first aid?”

You stare at him for a beat. Then toss your popsicle stick into the grass.

“Yeah. Try not to bleed out on my porch, Harrington.”

He snorts. Gives you a weak thumbs-up.

Then promptly goes limp. … “It’s called compensated shock,” you grunt, dragging six-feet-too-much of unconscious prom royalty into your living room. “He looked okay ‘cause his body was pumping him full of adrenaline. Now it’s wearing off.”

Robin’s on the other end, doing her best to help, which mostly means not helping.

“Oh my god, yeah,” she babbles, smacking his sneakers into the doorframe. “—shit. He got all woozy at Skull Rock earlier.”

You pause mid-haul. “Skull Rock? Like, the makeout spot?”

Robin makes a face. “Yeah, but not for us, gross. That’d be like making out with my brother. Anyway, Steve invented Skull Rock! Took Heather C. there in tenth grade. Remember her? The girl with, like, thirty scrunchies and that creepy obsession with Mr. Connor’s—”

“Robin.”

“Right! Sorry! Panic talking!”

Steve groans from where you’ve deposited him on the couch, more pained by Robin’s volume than the probable internal bleeding.

You ignore him. “Why were you actually at Skull Rock?”

“Uhh walking? You know... trees. Friendship.”

You level her with a look.

She claps her hands. “Anyway! You can fix him, right? You’re, like, certified!”

You glance down at Steve.

His lips are blue at the corners, breath hitching in those tight, silent gulps that mean pain and refusal to show it.

“Yeah,” you say quietly. “Maybe.” … You do fix him.

Because you’re a sucker. Because you trained for this. Because your hands know what to do even when your brain is screaming. 

And maybe, just maybe, because Steve Harrington keeps making these soft, miserable, apologetic noises every time he flinches.

Like he’s sorry.

Sorry for bleeding. For being in pain. For existing.

You hate that.

You also kind of hate how he looks like this—hot, in that tragic, beaten, dog-left-out-in-the-rain kind of way that hits your brain like a chemical imbalance.

You strip off his vest first (Dio patch on the back, which, huh, maybe he has changed) and find a makeshift bandage beneath it, half-dried and crusted with old blood. You peel it off. It comes away with a wet schlorp like opening a bottle of dollar store wine.

And something inside you goes still. 

These are... bite marks.

Not scrapes. Not scratches.

Bites.

His flesh looks shredded, like a rottweiler got bored of chew toys and decided to sample teenage boy instead.

Except: you’ve treated dog bites. This is not a dog bite.

“Jesus christ,” you whisper.

You look up at the boy collapsed on your couch: sweaty, shirtless, and—oh, now he’s got a belt in his mouth.

Robin jams it there. “For the pain,” she says, helpful as ever.

Steve groans around the leather, eyes fluttering. Looks like he wants to die. 

You’re still staring at the worst bite, wondering if it’s actually moving, when you ask, voice low:

“Someone want to tell me what the fuck did this?”

Robin freezes. Eyes the belt like she’d rather choke on it herself than answer.

“Uh… bats?” She offers weakly.  

You blink. “Bats.”

“Like. Big ones? Really big?”

You stare at her. Then at Steve.  

You don’t believe her.

But also… you kind of do.    

Because whatever this thing was, it didn’t just attack.

It fed. … “Okay, but like—” Robin’s pacing like she’s trying to wear a hole in your rug. “He was fine earlier. Like, maybe not fine fine, but, you know, Steve-fine. And then we got out of the Up—uh—the woods, and I was driving him back and he just…”

She makes a dramatic fainting motion. Nearly brains herself on the coffee table.

“So, it could be rabies? Or tetanus? Or maybe one of those parasite things that lay eggs in your stomach? Or—”

“Robin?” you cut in, sharp as the pair of shears in your hand. “There’s towels and vodka in the kitchen. Go.”

“Right. On it.”

She skitters away like a gremlin set on fire, the thud of cabinet doors punctuating her panic.

You turn back to Steve.

His pulse is thin, fluttering weakly under your fingertips, but it’s there.

“Harrington. You with me?”

His hand twitches once, thumb up. … He doesn’t scream.

You wish he would.

Because you know this hurts. You know that when you pour antiseptic into wounds this deep, it’s supposed to rip sound out of a person. A yell. A curse. A sob. Something.

But Steve just… takes it.

His jaw’s locked tight enough to bend steel—no belt, miracle he doesn’t shatter a molar—and his throat works once, twice, swallowing back whatever wants out. His whole body trembles, shoulders twitching, knuckles bone-white, yet his voice stays sealed inside him like it’s chained there.

You kind of hate him for it.

Because you know this type.

Boys who bleed quiet. The beautiful, tragic kind who carry pain like it’s a penance.

You’ve seen them before, at crash sites, in the backs of ambulances.

It’s not bravery. It’s habit.

A mask. 

And Steve Harrington? He’s been wearing his so long, it’s practically fused to the bone.

Still, Robin squeezes his hand like she’s coaching him through labor. Eyes locked on the ceiling, because she’s still pretending she’s never seen boobs or blood or the inside of a human person.

You press gauze to the worst of the bites, just under his ribs, angry and wet and oozing something thick. You have to lean your weight into it.

Steve jolts—full-body, every muscle locking under your palms. His hand lashes out, fast and blind, gripping the leg of your jeans until his knuckles go pale.  

Then, just as quickly, he lets go. Eyes squeezed shut. Shame radiating off him like heat.

“Shit. S-sorry.”

You don’t answer.

You can’t. … It takes two hours.

Three full rolls of gauze. One regrettable vodka break, just to keep your hands from shaking.

It's not pretty. Not even close. But it's enough to keep him breathing, which, all things considered, feels like a decent win for a Friday night.

Now, he’s bandaged. Shirtless under your ex’s old hoodie, the one with the weird bleach stain and the hole in the sleeve, but Steve fills it out like it was made for him.

Of course he does.

In the kitchen, Robin’s hunched over your tiny sink, scrubbing dried blood and whatever else is staining her forearms that awful color.  

As soon as she’s done, you grab her by the sleeve and tug her into the hallway.

“Talk.”

Robin sighs, long and loud. Tries to stall by running a hand through her hair, only to grimace when it sticks up with dried sweat.

“…Demobats.” She mutters.

 “I’m sorry?”

“Demobats,” she repeats, like that’s a word people just know. “From this place called the… Upside Down.”

You wait. There’s no punchline.

“…You’re serious.”

She nods.

And then it all spills out.

Demobats. Some guy named Vecna. Russians. Underground government labs. Scoops Ahoy, for christ’s sake.

You lose the thread somewhere around “telepathic hive mind overlord.”

But you don’t interrupt. Because Robin may be a lot of things—loud, chaotic, deathly allergic to social cues—but she’s not a liar.

And there’s a half-dead boy on your couch with holes the size of teacups to prove it.

“So,” you say slowly, “that job at the mall…”

“Yeah. Secret Russian lab.”

“And you were tortured?”

 “I mean, mostly Steve?” She winces. “But, uh. Yeah.”

“Jesus christ, Robin.”

“I know,” she groans, dragging both hands down her face. “I know it sounds crazy. I didn’t want to drag you into this, okay? But I thought—he looked bad. Worse than before. And I couldn’t exactly walk into the ER and say ‘Hi, my best friend got eaten by mutant bats from another dimension, please ignore the blood trail.’”

She huffs, blowing hair from her eyes, and squints at you. “You don’t believe me.”

You snort. “No. I do. And I think you should’ve called me sooner.”

“Well, I thought he was fine. He was fine. Until we got in the car and he started slurring his words and, like… blinking wrong. Then I panicked.”

You glance back toward the living room. At the boy who didn’t scream. Curled on your couch, twitching in his sleep like he’s stuck in a loop he can’t wake from.

Robin follows your gaze, voice softening. “Look, I know he’s not exactly your favorite person, but… thank you. Really.”

You roll your eyes. “He was bleeding out, Robs.”

She gives you a look. The kind that says she knows you better than you want her to.

You scowl.

“Go. Shower. You smell like a burnt tire.” A beat. “…You want something to eat?”

Robin doesn’t answer. Just throws her arms around you in the tightest, sweatiest, most Robin hug imaginable. All elbows and bones and bloodstained sleeves.

You stiffen. Then sigh.

“Love you,” she mumbles into your shoulder.

You hold her tight for a second. Then let go.

“You owe me, Buckley. Big time.” …   Robin crashes in your bed, dead to the world in ten seconds flat.

You stay on the couch next to Steve.

Not close. Just close enough. So if he does something stupid like stop breathing, you’ll notice.

You keep a cool cloth on his forehead. Check his pulse every half hour. Whisper a soft “motherfucker” every time he twitches, because if he wakes up and asks if you were worried, you want to be able to say no with a straight face.

You stay up.

Because someone has to. … It’s almost 3 a.m. when he stirs.

Your head snaps up, heart launching into your throat like a flare. Your hand goes automatically to the bucket, the cloth, the mental checklist of emergency procedures you’ve memorized so well they’re practically sewn into your DNA.

But then his lips part.

Just a cracked breath through the dryness, small and quiet and impossibly fragile.

“Don’t… don’t let ‘em go back.”

It’s barely a whisper. It slams into you like a freight train.

You don’t know who ‘they’ are, but you know exactly what he means.

You’ve seen this kind of thing before, too. In the shaking hands of people who left something behind where no one could follow. This is what happens when the body survives, but the rest doesn’t.

And goddammit.

Goddammit, you didn’t want this.

Didn’t want some pretty, broken boy bleeding all over your couch. Didn’t want this guilt. This terrifying protectiveness. The quiet, suffocating weight of whatever this is clamping around your ribs like a trap you walked into willingly. 

Didn’t want Steve fucking Harrington, of all people, to break your heart without saying a single word.

But he looks so young like this. Pale cheeks, sweat-damp hair sticking to his forehead. He’s curled in on himself like he’s bracing for another hit, one hand fisted in your throw pillow.  

Without thinking, you lean forward.

Brush his hair back. Cool his skin with your fingers.

“Steve,” you whisper.

No answer. Just a tiny, broken noise. Almost a whimper, almost nothing.

Your throat tightens.

You reach down, and carefully, gently, pry his fingers free from the cushion. Thread yours through the empty spaces.

His grip grows impossibly tight, fingertips paling where they press between your knuckles.

“You’re okay. You’re safe.”

And slowly—like thawing ice, like a held breath finally let go—he stops shaking.

You stay like that, hand in his, until the sun starts bleeding through the curtains. … Robin once told you that you get off on fixing people. She meant hearts. You meant bones. You’re starting to think maybe she was right. … You wake to yelling.

Not normal yelling—whisper-yelling. The kind of frantic, hushed bickering that’s somehow louder than regular voices.

“…can’t just walk out, Steve!”

“It’s not that bad, just—give me a second—”

There’s the unmistakable rustle of struggling. A pained grunt. The telltale shuffle of someone stumbling sideways, seconds away from faceplanting.

“Oh my god, what is wrong with you?!”

“I’m fine,” Steve grits out, in the exact tone people use right before they pass out on you.

“And where exactly are you gonna go, huh? Enlighten me.”

“Just—I’ll go back and change, and then we’ll—”

“Nope. Absolutely not. You can’t even see straight, Harrington.”

“Yes, I can.”

“Really? Okay. How many fingers?”

“Why do you always do that?”

“Because it works!”

You groan loudly, dragging an arm over your face.

“Do I need to put you two in a time-out? Because I swear to god, I will.”

Instant silence.

When you peel your arm back, Steve’s frozen mid‑escape, one shoe on, looking like a kid caught stealing from the cookie jar. He glances your way, sheepish.

“Hey,” he says, like he didn’t just almost eat your tile. “You’re up.”

“Unfortunately.”

Robin flaps a dramatic hand at him. “Please, please talk some sense into this idiot before I duct tape him to the wall.”

You sit up, and immediately regret every decision you’ve ever made. Your spine crackles like bubble wrap. Your skull is pounding. The entire living room looks like a crime scene: blood-crusted towels, empty gauze packets, that one lonely vodka bottle rolling under the coffee table like a sad tumbleweed.

You squint at Steve. “Sit down.”

“I’m good.”

“You’re not.”

“I just need to—”

“Now, Harrington.”

You don’t raise your voice. You don’t have to. It’s the tone you’ve used on half-conscious college boys insisting they can “totally drive, man.”

Steve blinks. Then sighs, slowly lowering himself onto a kitchen chair.

Robin hovers like a human seatbelt, and he bats her away with a feeble flap of his wrist. Still, he grips the edge of the counter like it’s the only thing keeping him vertical.

You scrub a hand over your face. “Coffee? Or are we all just committing to bad decisions today?” … The coffee is yesterday’s.

Bitter, burnt, practically an oil slick in a mug.

You pour three cups anyway.

Steve drinks it black, which tracks. You clock the way his hands tremble as he brings it to his lips and file it away without comment.

Robin’s already rattling off the story again, filling in details she left out the night before. You get more names now. Places. Dates. Vines that slither like snakes. The gate under Lover’s Lake. You get the part where Steve dove in, headfirst, no hesitation.

Well, you already got that part last night, but Robin’s repeating it, and you’re starting to think maybe it’s not for you this time.

Steve just listens, quiet. Winces at certain beats—jaw tic here, hard blink there—but doesn’t interrupt.

You lean against the counter, sip your bitter sludge, and ask, casual as you can:

“So, you just jumped in. No plan? No backup?”

He shrugs, eyes on his mug. “Didn’t really have time to think about it.”

“Clearly.”     

He looks up at you then. Runs a hand through his still-matted hair, blood-sticky at the roots, and releases a quiet breath.

“Thank you. For last night.”

You raise a brow. “Didn’t really have a choice, Harrington. It was either that or explain to the cops why there’s a dead body on my couch.” 

He huffs a weak laugh.

“By the way,” you add, sipping again, “do your parents know about all this monster-hunting extracurricular bullshit?”

Robin makes a sound like a choked squirrel.

“Oh fuck! My parents! Shitshitshit.”

She’s already halfway out of her chair, tripping over her shoes while she scrambles for her jacket.

“Can you—?” she gasps, eyes wide.

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll cover.”

“Thankyouthankyouthankyou!” She barrels over, grabbing your face and planting a comically loud kiss on your forehead. Then she turns and grabs Steve in the same breath.

Gives his face a little shake.

“If I come back and find out you even thought about sneaking out, I will tell everyone you still sleep with a nightlight. Got it?”

You snort into your mug. Steve glares at her. “Robin—"

“Got it?”

He scrubs a hand through his hair, rolling his eyes. “Whatever.”

She releases him, then points at you. “You’re in charge. Don’t let him do anything heroic.”

“Oh no,” you deadpan. “However shall I bear the weight of such responsibility?”

Robin snorts, slaps your shoulder, then bolts, keys jingling like cowbells as she shoots out the door.

“Wait—” Steve squints after her. “Are you—Robin! You can’t just take my car! You’re not even—”

Slam!

“—licensed.”

You both sit in the silence she leaves behind. Steve stares out the window, listening to the screech of his precious bimmer as it peels down the street.

Then he turns back, eyes flicking to the trauma floor that used to be your living room.  

He clears his throat. “Sorry about your, uh… couch. And the carpet.”

You follow his gaze. The stains are bad, probably permanent. It stings a little, looking at them.

It hurts worse looking at him.

Steve Harrington, bruised and bandaged and slouched in your chair like he’s trying to disappear into the seams. His stupidly wide, puppy-dog eyes look like they’re about to apologizing for breathing your air.

You blink.

Then slowly, slowly, lean forward across the island.

“Harrington.”

“Yeah?”

“Stop apologizing for almost dying. It’s weird.”  

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Lands on a sheepish smile instead.

You hate how it softens his face, how it creases the corners of his eyes.

“And for the record,” you mutter, lips concealed behind the rim of your cup, “you’re not the worst thing to stain that couch, so. You’re fine.”  

He blinks, brow furrowing. “What’s… that supposed to mean?”

You shrug. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

It takes him a second to process it. Then he snorts quietly, eyes flicking to the side.

You take another sip, watching the pink rise in his cheeks as the sun filters in through the window.

And if you’re smiling too—well, he doesn’t have to know. … You try to make pancakes.

Try being the operative word.

There’s flour in your hair, batter on the counter. Somewhere, the smoke alarm is just giggling with anticipation.

Steve’s still in his spot behind the island, watching you glare down a lumpy pile of batter.

It’s distracting.

It’s fucking annoying, is what it is.

Pancakes aren’t hard. Whisking is not rocket science. And yet, it feels impossible with him sitting there, doing that thing with his eyes. All soft and brown and bruised, like you saved his life and now he doesn’t know how to deal with it.   

“How’s it going?” he asks, voice pitched deliberately neutral.

You don’t turn around. “Fine.”

A beat.

“You sure?”

You slam the next pancake into the pan. It looks like something you'd peel off a sidewalk after a hot summer day. You stare at it, furious.

Behind you, there’s the scrape of a chair.

“I said I’m fine,” you warn.

He ignores that.

Limps over to you instead, his gaze finding you like a physical thing. Warm. Curious. You catch him in your periphery as he stops beside you, close enough that the heat from the stove mixes with the heat of his skin. Suddenly, the kitchen feels about fifteen degrees hotter.

“Here,” he murmurs.

Before you can object, his fingers wrap around yours, gentle and coaxing as he eases the spatula from your grip.

Then: flip.

One smooth flick of his wrist. The pancake lands perfect. All golden and fluffy.

You blink at it, betrayed.

“I was handling it.”

“Sure,” he says, lips twitching. “Looked like it.”

He flips another. Doesn’t even look this time.

You narrow your eyes. “Okay. How are you doing that?” 

He shrugs, adjusting the burner dial like he’s lived here his whole life. “Cook for myself a lot.”

You pause. There’s something in the way he says it—off-hand, casual, but quiet enough to leave an echo.

You file that away, too.

“Of course you’re good at pancakes,” you mutter. “Probably make soufflés and like, caviar waffles or some shit.”

“Caviar waffles? That’s a thing?”

“I don’t know. You tell me, rich boy.”

He just snorts quietly at that, eyeing you sideways. “Well, my French toast is pretty solid. Could show you next time, if you want.”

You glance over, arching a brow. “Wow. Is that line always so subtle?”

He meets your gaze, smirk tugging at his split lip.

“I don’t know. You tell me.”

And fuck, it lands.

It lands hard, right in the soft space under your ribs. That warm, twisting feeling that makes your breath hitch and your stomach go stupid.

You turn away before your face can betray you, yanking open a drawer for a fork.

And then, as if the universe decided to throw you a bone, the kitchen landline starts to shriek like it’s being murdered.

You lunge for it like a lifeline.

It’s probably Mrs. Buckley, confirming her daughter crashed at your place, again.

“Hello? …You WHAT?”

Robin groans on the other end. “Yeah. Possibly until college.”

“Robin, you can’t—” You lower your voice, turning away from Steve and cupping the receiver like he’s not standing two feet away. “—you can’t be fucking grounded right now.”

“I know! But my mom saw the blood on my jeans and I totally panicked. I told her it was ketchup. Ketchup, dude. Now she’s got Toby posted outside my room. He’s just sitting there with his Legos, but he will scream if I so much as leave to go to the bathroom. So... yeah. It’s gonna be a while before I can sneak out. Are you… are you okay to stay with him for a bit? He’s trying to pretend he’s fine, but he’s definitely not.”   

You glance back.

Steve’s standing at the stove, peering at his stomach while waiting for the next pancake to bubble. His hand drifts down and starts poking at one of the bandages under his hoodie. Slow and gentle, like it won’t count as touching if he’s polite about it.    

You stretch the phone cord and smack his hand away.

He startles. Blinks at you like, Seriously?

You raise your brows like, Try me.

You sigh into the receiver: “Yeah. I got him.”

“Ugh, you’re the best. Just don’t let him—ohh, crap, I gotta g—"

Click.

Steve doesn’t turn when you pad back into the kitchen.

“She grounded?”

“Yep. Possibly until retirement.” You pause. “You don’t need to call your folks?”

He hesitates, just for a second. Then shakes his head. “They’re out of town.”

Then, with a one-handed spin of the spatula, he flips the pancake onto a plate.

You glance at the growing stack. They look obscene. You’d punch someone for a bite.

In your head, you run through the math.

Ten days. Minimum.

Ten days before the stitches can come out. Before he can walk out of here without ripping something open. Longer if he keeps poking at his bandages like that.

God help you. It’s gonna be a long week. … Breakfast is awkward.

No other word for it.

Steve eats like he’s on a timer. You eat like you’re trying not to notice.

Trying not to notice the way he keeps sneaking glances at you. Little flicks of his eyes over his plate, always quick, always subtle, never quite fast enough.

Trying not to notice the way he winces. Quiet flashes of pain, there and gone, just long enough for that crease to cut across his brow before he smooths it away.

When both your plates are emptied, he clears his throat.

“Hey, do you… you mind if I use your bathroom?” He gestures vaguely to his face. “Just need to clean up a bit.”  

His hair is still matted. There’s soot smeared along his jaw, a faint line of red where the blood’s dried and half-wiped away.

You nod, mid-sip. “Sure. First door on the left. Just don’t get the bandages wet.”

“Got it,” he nods, starts to rise—then stops halfway, jaw flexing tight.

“Actually, uh…” His hand slides to the back of his neck. His eyes shut briefly. “Can you give me a hand with this? I can’t really…”

He doesn’t finish the sentence. Doesn’t need to.

The white-knuckle grip on the hem of his hoodie tells you enough.

You blink, setting your mug down, and push your chair back without a word.   

He doesn’t meet your eyes as you reach for the bottom of the hoodie.

The fabric peels up inch by inch, sticking to where the gauze bled through, catching where raw skin clings to cotton. He winces, raising his arms awkwardly, the stitches along his sides clearly pulling. So you move gently, painstakingly slow.

Your knuckles graze his stomach, and—

Jesus.

He’s warm. Muscle corded tight under skin that flushes easily, even with all the bruises blooming across his ribs like bad watercolors.

You get the hoodie off.

His chest is bare.

And now you’re standing close. Way, way too close.

His breath brushes your cheek when he exhales. You glance up, just on pure instinct, and find his eyes already on you.

You both freeze.

There’s a beat where everything narrows. Where sound drops out.  

Your hands hover midair, still clutching the fabric, close enough to feel the heat radiating off his skin.

Close enough to trace the moles scattered across his chest.   

You don’t.

You look away so fast it nearly gives you whiplash.

“Towels are under the sink," you mumble. "I’ll get you some new clothes.”

Then you take a quick step back. Like distance will save you from whatever the hell that was.

Steve blinks. Once. Twice. Then nods, eyes flicking away. “Thanks.”

He disappears down the hall, barefoot and bruised.

You stand in the silence with his hoodie clenched in your fists, your pulse trying to beat its way out of your throat. … There’s an old joke your friends like to make.

That you’re a sadist.

That you chose the EMT life because you enjoy it. The blood, the pain. The broken bones and the chaos. Things normal people flinch away from.

But in truth, they’ve got it backwards.

You’re not a sadist.

No. What you are is a fucking masochist.

Because there’s no other explanation for why you keep doing this to yourself. Why you let yourself get this close to people you shouldn’t. Why you torture yourself, again and again, with things you know better than to want.

Why you’re standing outside your bathroom door right now, ears tilted, listening to someone who shouldn’t mean anything to you rinse the blood off his skin.

You told yourself you were just finishing the dishes. That the stovetop needed wiping down. That there were chores to do, reasons to move around.

But your feet kept wandering. Back to the hallway. Back to him.

Back to this spot in the hallway, where you can feel the warmth bleeding under the door. Where you can hear the faucet running in short, irregular bursts—on, off, on again.

You picture him hunched over the basin. One hand braced against the counter, the other shaking under the strain of movement. Jaw clenched. Shoulders bowed.

Something twists low in your stomach.

You roll your eyes at yourself—because god, you’re pathetic—and raise a fist.

A light knock.

“You good?”

A pause, then:

“Uh, yeah. Just… hang on.”

There’s a clatter, a quiet shit. Then the door creaks open.

And Steve—

Well.

He’s wet.

And shirtless. And pink.

Flushed from the steam, maybe from embarrassment. Because his hair—The Hair—is half-lathered and sticking up in foamy tufts, like a soggy cat caught mid-bath. A single drop of water slides slow down the hollow of his throat.

Your gaze follows it.

The sweatpants you gave him ride low. Damp at the waistband, pulled snug across his hips in a way you’re absolutely not thinking about.

He gestures toward the sink, sheepish.

“I, uh… can’t really bend right now. Tried to rinse it out, but—” He winces, fingers grazing his sides. “The stitches are kind of a hard no.” 

Your eyes drop, unbidden, to the bruises blooming purple-black across his ribs. The way his chest lifts a little faster when you step closer.

You should walk away. Turn around. Go wipe down the goddamn stove like you told yourself you would.

Instead, you say:

“Sit.” 

He blinks. “…What?”

“On the floor. Back against the tub.”

There’s a pause. His brows draw together like he’s trying to figure out the punchline.  

You don’t blink.

He exhales sharply, jaw flexing. “No, it’s okay, I can—”

“Steve.”

It lands heavy. The weight of it surprises even you.

His first name, in your voice. 

You’ve only said it once before, when he was unconscious, twitching under bloodstained gauze, fists clenched against a nightmare you couldn’t reach.

But now, he hears it. And something inside him goes quiet.

He studies you for a second longer, then sighs, shoulders dropping.

Wordlessly, he lowers himself to the tile.

One hand braced on the edge of the tub, the other on the floor, every movement stiff. His back hits the porcelain with a soft thud.  

You kneel beside him and roll up your sleeves.

“Lean your head back.”

He shifts, uneasy. “Seriously, you don’t have to—”

“I know.” You pick up the cup beside the sink and check the tap, waiting for the water to warm. “Just tilt."

There’s a long pause.

Then he does.

His head tips back against the curve of the tub. With his throat exposed, the worst of the bruising shines a mottled red-black beneath his jaw. His lashes flutter, lips parting just slightly.

The first pass runs slow and gentle down his scalp. He flinches.

“Too hot?”

He blinks, breath shallow. “No. S’fine.”

So you pour again. And again. Slow rivulets trickling through his hair, carrying blood and soap and grime down the drain. His hair start to fall naturally again, dark strands slicking to his forehead. 

It’s just the water at first. Rinsing out grit, loosening stiff knots and matted roots.

Then you lather the shampoo between your palms, and sink your fingers into his hair.

And that’s when it happens.

The shift.

Steve Harrington—king of easy charm, Mr. Everything’s Fine—goes completely still.

Not in a relaxed way. Not in a sleepy way.

No, he goes rigid.

His breath falters. His jaw locks. You can see the muscles in his neck ripple with tension.

And when you sweep a thumb absently behind his ear, chasing a line of foam, he jolts.

A full-body shiver, running shoulder to spine.

You clear your throat, voice catching before you force it steady. “Been a while, huh? Since someone did this for you?”

His response is delayed, a low rasp. “Uh huh. Long time.”

Then, after a beat:

“Used to be my mom’s thing. When I was a kid.”

Your hands still in his hair. He goes stiff the second he says it—jaw clenched, lips pressed tight, hands curling in his lap.

You blink, then resume drawing slow circles over his crown.

“That must’ve been nice,” you say quietly.

He doesn’t answer. Just breathes through his nose and keeps still.

So you keep going.

Rinse. Lather. Repeat.    

And with each pass of your hands, his breathing changes.

His head rests heavier against the porcelain. His lips part around soft, even breaths. His eyes flutter shut.

Then, he leans.

Barely enough to notice. But you feel it, the subtle tilt of his head toward your hands.

Like a plant bending toward light.

You wonder, not for the first time, how long it’s been since someone touched him like this. How long he’s gone without care, without softness.

And maybe that’s why this hurts so much.

Because you’d had him pegged, hadn’t you?

The hair. The charm. Pretty boy, ladies’ man, heartbreaker.

King Steve.

But this? This isn’t him.

This is the After.                                                                                       

The aftermath of Russians and monsters and lakes with no bottoms. The man who throws himself between danger and kids that aren’t his, time and time again. Like he’s got something to prove. Or maybe something to atone for.

The one who apologized for bleeding on your floor.

This is someone who’s forgotten how to be held.

And right now, he’s under your hands. Throat bared. Hair dripping. Leaning into your touch like he’s starved for it.

And that slow, sinking weight in your stomach settles for good. That gut-churn of realization that you barely know anything about the man who nearly bled out on your couch last night.  

You try to swallow the feeling down. Try to keep your focus on softer things: dripping water, steam-soaked light, the silky-smooth slip of his hair between your fingers.

But every time your hands leave him, even for a second, you feel it. The tension in his frame. The hesitation in his breath. Like he’s bracing for it to end.

And each time you return—thumb grazing his temple, palm cradling the back of his neck—he breathes in. Relief, sharp and silent, tucked between the ribs.

You reach for the conditioner next, fingers trembling a little as you work it through. When you tip his head back, he goes easy. Pliant. Trusting.

And then a quiet thought hits you.   

A hunch, really.

You let your fingers drift lower. Past the crown. Down to the nape of his neck. The hair there is softer, damp strands clinging to skin gone tight with tension and bruising.

You trace gently around the worst of it. Avoid the dark, angry lines where something had closed around his throat. 

Strangled. That’s what Robin said.  

You press into the muscle just beneath it, right where the pain likes to live.

Steve shudders. His head lifts from the tub with a breath, caught on something sharp.

But you don’t let up.

You continue pressing in slow, deep circles, growing firmer.

There’s a sound, then. Sharp. Brief. A strangled thing, torn between a groan and a gasp.

He tries to stifle it a second later, clearing his throat.

“Too hard?” you ask quietly.

His voice comes cracked. “N-no. Just—it’s fine. You don’t have to…”

The rest trails off when you move to his shoulders next, thumb kneading into the dense muscle. You’re not a massage therapist, but you know anatomy. You know where pain settles when it’s been left too long. How it tucks itself into the tender parts: the base of the neck, the hollow beneath the collarbone.  

And god, he’s full of it. All the signs. All the tells.

He lets out another shaky breath, lips sealed around a sound he doesn’t let out.

And there, just for a moment, you let yourself look.

At the bruises. The thin cuts just beginning to scab. The water gliding over his collarbone, beading into the curve of his chest.

That thick, molten part of your brain—the masochist, the idiot, the one who says yes when she should absolutely say no—flares hot.

It wants to lean in.

Wants to touch your mouth to his skin, right there, at the slope of his throat.

Just to see if he tastes like lavender and heat. Just to see if he lets you.

To kiss him slow enough to wash the ache from his mouth. Replace every sharp thing he’s swallowed with something soft.

God, you’re losing it.

You drag your thumb again along the base of his neck. His lashes flutter.

Then, from the corner of your eye, you see it—his hands shifting in his lap.

Cross. Adjust.

You glance down without thinking.

And oh.

Oh.

The sweatpants don’t hide much. Not like this. Not with how he’s sitting, loose-limbed and open, the fabric soaked and clinging in ways it wasn’t meant to. They’re pulled taut across the breadth of his thighs, darkened in patches where the water’s seeped through.

And beneath that?

Yeah.

Your breath stutters. Heat rockets up your neck.

You yank your gaze away, fumbling for the faucet and filling another cup. Your hand trembles as you lift it, rinsing out the conditioner.

His hair sticks to his forehead. Without thinking, you smooth it back.

His eyes flutter open.

And the look he gives you…

It’s quiet. Devastating. Tucked somewhere tender and deep, pressed hard against bone.

Softer than longing. Sharper than want.

It's something that aches.

You don’t know what to do with it.

So you just keep your hands in his hair.

And you rinse.   … You rinse long after the conditioner’s gone.

After his breath has evened out and the water’s cooled to a gentle trickle, steam curling around your ankles like fog.

The bathroom smells like lavender and heat and skin that isn’t yours.

When you reach for the towel and bring it up to his head, he leans.

Blot, pat, smooth. The towel’s too soft, your hands too careful. You graze the shell of his ear, the edge of his jaw, feeling the quick flutter of his pulse beneath your thumb.

His eyes are still on you.

“Thanks,” he says, quiet.  

You nod, not trusting your voice.

The steam’s thinning now, but the air still clings.

Too warm. Too full of something unsaid.

His breath brushes your cheek.

You’re too close.

It’s too much.

You could kiss him. 

God help you, you could.

Just one lean forward. That’s all it would take. His mouth is right there—slightly parted, pink and swollen in the middle where he’s been biting down.

And the look on his face isn’t just gratitude. Not just relief.

That’s want.

And worse? It’s yours too. It’s in the pit of your stomach, burning upward. It’s in your hands, your chest, your throat, curling behind your teeth like smoke with nowhere to go.

You pull back abruptly. The towel slips from your hands and lands in his lap with a soft thud.

“Okay,” you say, voice tight. “You’re good.”

Steve blinks, like you just dragged him up from underwater.

His throat bobs. “Cool. Yeah. Thanks.”

You stand too fast. Your knees pop. You don’t look at him when you speak next. “You should lie down for a bit. Keep pressure off the stitches.”

He nods, a little too slow.

You grab the towel again and press it against his chest. Not hard, but firm enough to make a point. Whatever it is.

Then you turn.

And you walk out.

You don’t need to look back to know he’s still watching you go. ... It starts the way summer storms do. 

Not with thunder. Not with rain.

With pressure.

The kind that presses close to the skin, wrapping around like a second layer. That hair-raising, skin-prickling tingle. Right as the birds go quiet and the trees hold still and the sky forgets how to move.

Stillness so absolute your skin buzzes with it.

The moment before it tips. 

It’s here now. In this room.

In the narrow inches of couch cushion between you. In the weight of the blanket tangled over your legs. In the single, unspoken brush of his thigh against yours.

The TV plays to no one. A dull flicker of static and synth beats, some late-afternoon rerun neither of you are really watching. The glow of it pulses dim blue across his skin, the shadows deepening where his jaw tightens every time you move.

The room smells like clean skin and new sweat. Yours. His. Both.

His voice breaks the quiet.

“Hey, how long ‘til the stitches come out again?”

“Ten days.”

“Hm. I like this show.”

“Knight Rider?”

“Yeah. It’s cool.”

“No. It’s dumb.”

“What? C’mon, the car talks.”

“Exactly.” A beat. “How do the stitches feel?”

“Uh, good. Yeah. They’re fine.”

“You hungry?”

“No, you?”

“No.”

And it builds, again. That low, rolling kind of stillness.

Storm pressure.   

It crawls up your spine. Pools hot behind your ears. You fidget with the hem of the blanket, rolling your shoulder back into the cushion like you can shake it loose.

You can’t.

The blanket’s too warm.

He’s too close.

And he’s watching you. You don’t have to look to know.  

“…You’re doing it again.”

“Hm?”

You turn your head. Meet his gaze full-on. “Looking at me like that.”

His lips part. “Like what?”

Your eyes drop to his mouth.

His pinky brushes yours.

And just like that, the storm breaks. … Steve leans in first.

The same way he had in the bathroom, instinctive and unthinking. Like something inside him keeps tipping forward and you’re the only place left to fall.

Only this time, you don’t let him do it alone.

You meet him halfway.

His nose nudges yours. His breath fans hot across your cheek.

And then your lips meet.

A question and an answer, exchanged wordlessly.

There’s no clean edge between want and need, no way to separate gentle from hungry. One second, it’s the cautious warmth of shared breath, the next—

It’s the pull of his hands. The low, wrecked sound he makes in his throat when your fingers slide up his neck, threading into the damp hair at his nape.  

Heat. Ozone. The bright-white zing of electricity rocketing down your spine.

You move forward without thinking. He shifts to catch you, hands spanning your hips, guiding you into his lap. You straddle him, careful to avoid the bruises across his stomach.

His breath is hot. His lips are plush, a little chapped from the way he’s been chewing on them all night.

Wordlessly, you reach for the hem of your shirt, tugging it over your head and letting it fall behind you. Cool air rushes over your skin.

Steve goes still. “God, you’re…” He breathes, throat working around the rest of the words when you take his hand and guide it upwards. Across your stomach, up your ribs. His thumb grazes over your nipple, soft and reverent, and your breath hitches.

You tug him back into a kiss, hips starting to drag across his lap. The hard press of him burns heat through the cotton of your sleep shorts.

“Good?” you breathe against his mouth.  

“Yeah,” he rasps. “Fuck. Yeah. You?”

You nod, catching your breath.

But he doesn’t stop looking at you

And there’s something about the way his gaze lingers—soft, searching—like he’s waiting for more than just an answer to a question. Something he doesn’t know how to say out loud.

But you know.

You just… know.

The same way you knew when your hands were in his hair earlier. That quiet ache. That silent pull in him, desperate and soft.

So you give him what he doesn’t know how to ask for.

Your hand slides up to his chest, pressing over his heart. It’s pounding. So is yours.

“You feel so good, Steve,” you whisper, close enough for him to taste the words off your lips. “You’re so good. So fucking good.”

He shudders, pulling you in tighter, groaning with his lips buried against your neck like he needs to hide the sound somewhere safe.

Still, you don’t stop. 

You reach for his hand and slide it lower, under the waistband of your shorts. His fingers slip through your slick heat and go still.

“Jesus,” he breathes. 

You kiss his temple, then his cheek. Frame his jaw with both hands and lift his gaze to yours.

“Feel that?” you murmur. “That’s for you. All for you.”

He lets out a strangled sound, nearly pained, and surges up to kiss you again. His fingers start to stroke through your heat, finding the rhythm, learning you. When his thumb grazes your clit and starts to circle, you gasp, hips jerking into his touch.

“Shit, baby…” he breathes.   

And that word—

It’s soft. Unconscious. Slipped out before he knew it was there.

You don’t think he even realizes he said it. His eyes are blown wide, focused only on you: the way your hips grind, the way you cling to him when his fingers push deeper.

Still, there’s that tremble in his voice.

Like that word came from somewhere deeper than he meant to reach. Like it cracked off the part of him that’s always waiting to be turned away but still dares to offer softness first.

You roll your hips again, chasing friction, but your focus has shifted now. You’re watching him instead—flushed and open beneath you, mouth parted, eyes locked to your face like you’re something he’s trying to memorize.

And it guts you. The honesty of it.

How easy it is to see now.     

That this is someone who aches for closeness. Reaches for it before he even realizes he’s doing it. Who says baby like it’s the only word he knows for want. 

Your chest grows tight. The heat in your stomach twists into something unbearably tender.

You roll your hips one last time, savoring the drag of him against you, then shift off his lap. His hand slips from your shorts, reluctant, trailing warmth up your stomach.

His eyes follow you as you slide to the floor. Your knees sinking into the carpet, fingers hooking in the waistband of his pants. He lifts his hips and—

You blink. Your mouth goes dry.

Because he’s—

Wow. Okay.

Noted.

It’s not just the size—though, yeah, that’s definitely part of it. It’s the weight of him. The flushed color, the dusky warmth. Velvety skin stretched tight over thick veins. The way he sits heavy against his thigh, curved just slightly, leaking at the tip and twitching under your gaze.

You swallow hard.

“What?” He stirs, uncertain. “Is something…?”

You look up at him, eyes wide.   

“Jesus, Steve…” you breathe. “Just. Holy shit.”

His brows pinch together, concern flickering across his face—until he sees your expression.

And there it is.

That grin. That stupid, boyish, shit-eating grin.

“Oh,” he says, trying to play it off. “Yeah?”

You narrow your eyes, desperately trying to hide your smile. “Don’t get cocky.”

He raises a brow.  

You realize your mistake immediately. Your cheeks flare hot.

He laughs, breathless. Looks down at you all soft and pleased and fond. It makes you want to bite him until he forgets how to smirk entirely. Kiss him stupid and never let him go.

“Shut up,” you mutter.

“Didn’t say anything,” he says, still smiling.

You roll your eyes and yank his pants the rest of the way down.

He quiets instantly.

Because your hands are on him now.

You stroke his thighs first, warming up the sensitive skin there. Pressing soft kisses along the inside, inching higher and higher until he’s twitching under your mouth.

“You’re so pretty like this,” you whisper. “You don’t even know, do you?”

He makes a strangled sound, part laugh, part disbelieving groan. His hands flex where they rest against his thighs.

You reach up and guide one to your hair, eyes still on his.

“You can touch me,” you murmur.      

His fingers curl, tentative. “You sure?”

You nod. “I want you to. Want you to feel this.”

Then, without looking away, you lower your mouth to him.

Slow. Wet. Base to tip, dragging your tongue along the underside. He jerks, whole body going taut.  

“Jesus,” he hisses. “Okay. Okay.”

You take your time. Because no one ever has, it seems. Not like this.  

Your fingers wrap around the base, tongue gliding along the ridge, licking the salt beading at the tip. Every twitch, every shudder, every wrecked baby whispered from above becomes something you file away silently, cataloguing the way he unravels.

And Steve unravels beautifully.

You glance up through your lashes, watching the way his stomach trembles, how his throat works. All the control he’s trying so hard to hold on to.

Then finally, you wrap your lips around him.

Just the head at first, sucking slow and sweet. You circle your tongue around the crown and let out a soft hum.

“Fuck,” he whispers. “Baby, your mouth—shit—”

His voice keeps catching like he doesn’t quite believe it. You get the sense he hasn’t been cherished in this way, either. Adored. Worshipped.

So you double down.

You ease off for a breath, kissing the flushed tip, thumb gliding over the sensitive skin there. Then you sink deeper, lips sliding lower, jaw loosening, tongue tracing the underside as you stretch around the thickest part of him.  

You keep going until he’s pressed up against your palate, brushing the back of your throat. You breathe into it. Let the weight of him sit there, hot and thick and yours.

“Shit, shit—” he pants. “I’m not—not gonna last if you keep—"

You pull off with a soft pop, lips slick and swollen. A line of spit follows you from the flushed head of his cock.

“It’s okay,” you smile, breath warm against his skin. “Don’t have to. Just want you to feel good.”

He stares down at you, cheeks flushed, eyes glassy.

Then, suddenly, breathless and earnest:

“Wait, can I—can I get you off first?” 

You pause, stunned.  

You blink up at him, hand still wrapped around the base of his cock. “You don’t have to—”

“I want to,” he says, quick and pleading. He cups your jaw, stroking your cheek. “Please. Let me?”

You hold his gaze a moment longer, drowning in that quiet, unspoken vulnerability he carries, one you’re learning to name without words.

Then, finally, you nod.

“Okay.”

You crawl back into his lap, shorts discarded somewhere behind you, it doesn’t matter where.

What matters is the way his hands settle on you again, calloused palms sliding around your hips, drawing you closer. You feel the thick heat of him pressed between your thighs, sticky and flushed and aching.

You roll your hips teasingly, gliding against him before reaching down to line him up. The head of his cock nudges, presses, catches. Then slowly, inch by inch, you sink down.

The stretch is immediate. Hot and all-consuming. You clutch at his shoulders, mouth falling open as you let your weight sink deeper, not pausing until he’s fully seated.

Your thighs tremble where you straddle him.

Steve groans low, one arm tight around your waist, the other gripping your hip.

“Shit, are you—?”

“I’m okay,” you breathe, laughing softly into his skin. “Just… gimme a sec. You’re kind of a lot, Harrington.”  

He kisses you, rubbing circles into your back while you adjust. The burn softens. The fullness remains.

And when you start to move—lifting your hips, rolling them back down—you feel him everywhere.

“God,” you pant, “you feel so good.”

You kiss his jaw, his throat, burying whispers between breaths.

“Can feel you so deep—fuck—”  

The rhythm builds slowly. Wide circles, deep grinds, savoring the way his cock hits just right.

And the more you give him—You feel so good, Fucking me so well, Love how you feel inside me—he melts a little more beneath you.

“Shit, right there—” you gasp, hips stuttering when his hand slides between your bodies, pressing into your clit.

“Come for me,” he whispers, voice rough. “Please. Want to feel you.”

His fingers circle faster.  

And your body breaks.

You cry out, nails digging into his shoulders, every muscle clenched and trembling as the orgasm crashes through you. You collapse against his chest, shaking, gasping his name, everything hot and white and so much.     

He holds you through it, breathing hard against your temple.

“That’s it,” he pants. “That’s it, baby, I’ve got you—fuck—”

You’re still trembling in his lap when you feel him thrust up into you once, twice. He pulls out with a sudden gasp, groaning your name, spilling hot and thick across your stomach, shuddering with the force of it.

You kiss him through the haze of your own come-down, legs still trembling, fingers tangled in the sweat-damp hair at his nape.

“Just like that,” you whisper. “You’re perfect like this, Steve. So good.”

His breath stutters against your cheek. His body, still pulsing with aftershocks, presses into yours like he can’t stand the space between.

And even after the world goes still, after the stuttered breaths give way to silence and the hum of the TV creeps back in, you keep touching him. Stroking his hair, brushing sweat from his brow, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses anywhere your mouth can reach.

And in the hush that follows, you murmur things you’ve never said aloud. Not to anyone.

Things too raw for daylight.

Things meant only for him. … You never ask him to stay.

Not when he wakes beside you the next morning, bare-chested, sleep-warm, hair sticking up in a dozen directions. Not when he wanders into your kitchen wearing nothing but rumpled boxers, whisking eggs for French toast like it’s an inside joke you’ve shared forever.

Not when you start leaving the sugar bowl out because that’s how he takes his coffee: one teaspoon, no milk. Not when you slip a second toothbrush into the cup by the sink, bristles leaning together like they’ve been kissing too.  

He never asks. You never offer. … You learn the little things first.

That he hums when he cooks, usually something dumb from the radio, sometimes dumber jingles from the worst commercials. That he wipes down your counters when he thinks you’re not looking. That he folds your laundry better than you do, big hands careful with worn-out cotton and delicate lace. It gets to you, the way he touches your things like they matter.

And sometimes, you catch him staring again.

Only now, you don’t look away.  

You’ll be across the room, pretending to read, eyes dragging over the same sentence for the fifth time because you can feel his gaze on you. He’ll be leaning in the doorway with his arms crossed, wearing that stupid smug expression he pulls when he knows exactly what he’s doing.

“Seriously, Harrington,” you mutter, eyes on the page. “Take a picture.”

He doesn’t blink. “I’m good. Like this view better."

You roll your eyes and throw a sock at his face. He catches it one-handed, smug.

Then he moves.

Three steps. That’s all it takes.

Three steps until your back’s against the mattress, his weight pressing you down, mouth dragging hot across your collarbone. His hands sneak under your shirt, warm palms sliding up your ribs. His lips chase yours like it’s a promise he’s been dying to keep.

“You’re annoying,” you whisper, breath hitching as he nips at your neck.

He grins into your skin. “Yeah? You gonna kick me out, then?”

You don’t.

You kind of never do. … The days bleed together after that.  

A quick stop at his house to grab spare clothes turns into a silent pause in front of his dresser. His fingers hover over a framed photo: faces you don’t know, smiles frozen mid-laugh.

He doesn’t explain. You don’t ask. You just wait by the door until he turns and threads his fingers through yours.

He doesn’t let go the whole ride back.

A grocery run on day three turns into a dumb argument in the pasta aisle. You’re ranting about canned tomatoes; he’s trailing behind you like a sulking toddler, forearms slung across the cart handle, sneaking cookies into the basket when you’re not looking.

You scowl at checkout. He grins.

“You’re gonna thank me later,” he says.

You do.

First with a mouthful of chocolate and a grudging laugh.

Then again, ten minutes later, when your 'thank-you's come in the shape of his name and a fistful of his hair between your thighs. … Eventually, the domestic stops feeling borrowed.

It starts to feel owned.