steve harrington truther

College, then a career, marriage, and after several comfortable years, maybe children could enter the picture. You were, after all, eighteen, and the prospect of kids had felt astronomically far away.

(Isn’t life funny sometimes?)

Then the car crash happened.

You don’t remember much of it—bits here, pieces there, some flashes if you think hard enough that it makes your head hurt—just that one moment you were in the backseat of your family’s car, buckled in and drifting to sleep, and in the next, you were staring up at the ceiling of Hawkins Memorial.

You had survived with some broken bones and a nasty concussion. 

Your family did not.

You were eighteen and alone, having graduated high school only a few weeks prior. And between all of the injuries that you’d sustained and the sudden lack of family to help pay for tuition, you were forced to drop out of college. Your days were instead spent planning funerals from a hospital bed, handling lawyers and life insurance and inheritance. You threw yourself into physical therapy and, once your leg healed, forced yourself into a car, refusing to let yourself vomit from the anxiety of being behind a wheel once more.

You survived it all, and you came out a stronger person on top.

Different, maybe, but stronger.

And throughout it all—through the long hours in the hospital and longer hours rebuilding your strength—was your boyfriend, Mark Lewinsky.

Mark was sweet. Mark was kind. He filled your recovery room with flowers, and once you were discharged, his parents allowed you to stay at their house as you healed.

But Mark also had a life outside of yours completely crashing down around you, and in August of ’85, he swept off to Purdue without a glance backwards.

And life moved on. Injuries healed, you moved back into your family’s home, and your days were spent with sorting through their belongings, figuring out which items you wanted to keep and which items would be better loved in another home.

Mark called often. Of course he called often! He was your boyfriend, the love of your life, and was even starting to talk about rings and weddings and marriage, and even if your life hasn’t gone the way that you thought it should, at least you could still have the other parts, right?

It was just as things were starting to feel normal again, that you were settling into your new existence, that the earthquake happened.

Mark spent the summer of ’86 bouncing between his parents’ house and your place, filling out the copious amounts of paperwork that the military required for him to be released to go back go college, and before you could wrap your head around it, he was gone.

He was gone, and you were left in this new, strange world by yourself. No Mark, no family, no friends.

Alone.

And it was fine. It was fine.

It was fine up until the military doctor informed you, during one of the mandatory checkups, that you were pregnant.

And then, suddenly, everything wasn’t fine, because it was October of 1986, the military was breathing down everyone’s necks, and you were scared and pregnant and alone and all Mark could say over the phone was, “Babe, are you even sure that it’s mine?”

You seethed. Of course you seethed—you were faithful! You’d been nothing but faithful for two years! You hadn’t even looked at another man, not since Mark asked you out during your senior year! And now you were pregnant with his baby, stuck in a nightmare scenario, he changed his phone number, his parents had moved from town, and you were alone.

Mark, clearly, did not care.

In fact, he didn’t really seem to care until long after you gave birth, not until your daughter, Mia, was nearly two, and he came skipping back into Hawkins after he graduated college, demanding a paternity test.

He demanded a lot of things, really, that you were too exhausted to fight him on. Not with the money behind the Lewinsky name. Not with the way you hadn’t slept for a full night since giving birth. Not with living through a military occupation, abandoned and scared, with a baby who depended on you for everything. 

So you got the test done, and wouldn’t you know it? Mark Lewinsky was, in fact, the father. Except Mark Lewinsky was no longer your boyfriend, and he had a nice, new woman at his side with a nice, new shiny ring on her finger and a nice, new lawyer to demand shared custody.

The only thing you refused to budge on was changing Mia’s last name from yours to Mark’s. You were, after all, the person that carried her in your body, the only parent she knew for the first two years of her life, and you were the one she cried for after nightmares. You were the one that she snuggled up next to after you rented Cinderella from Family Video for the umpteenth time and you knew exactly how she liked her pancakes made. 

She was yours in every way that mattered and nothing was going to change that.

And before you knew it, years passed, and Mia grew faster than you could keep up with. She developed thoughts and feelings and opinions—god, so many opinions that it makes you laugh—and, suddenly, an interest in sports.

(You’re not quite sure where that one came from, seeing as Mark’s athletic prowess had been comical at best and you were too busy in high school with other extracurriculars to even try.)

Which is how you find yourself here, the early June sun beating down on your neck, at Hawkins Middle School with an excitable Mia clutching your hand, surrounded by the newly formed Hawkins Little League Softball Team.

A team that had been spearheaded by none other than Steve Harrington, a familiar face that you hadn’t seen in a long, long time.

Shock spreads across your body at the sight of him jogging towards your ragtag group, and the first thought that crosses your mind is that he looks good. Better than he did in high school, back when the two of you spent a summer fooling around with one another like there was nothing better to do with your time. His hair is a bit shorter than it was back then, a little less styled with the tips curling from humidity, and a white shirt already drenched with sweat sticks to his chest.

Your throat goes dry at the sight of what should be considered indecently short athletic shorts and hairy legs stopping in front of the crowd, and not for the first time, you find yourself regretting that the two of you drifted apart once Mark became a more stable presence in your life.

(Were you ever really friends? You’re not sure, but you gave a piece of yourself to him that summer, and you’ve never once regretted giving it away.)

You rip your gaze away from his legs, tracing the line up his body—which is both so similar and so different from your memory—and find that he’s smiling sunnily at you, recognition crossing his face.

And then, he greets the kids and practice is started.

You make yourself way to the stands with the other parents, watching with no small amount of amusement as Steve corrals a gaggle of five year olds who want to do nothing more than sprint in dizzying circles around him. He takes it all in stride, however, and you find yourself impressed at the everlasting patience he has for the girls with no attention span. 

It would be a lot for any person to handle, you think, but somehow, Steve has a knack for getting the kids to listen to his instructions.

The first practice goes fine. Great, even, for a bunch of hyperactive, uncoordinated five year olds. And even though there isn’t a single kind who actually manages to hit the ball with the stupidly expensive softball bats, but afterwards, Steve gives each and every girl a high five, tells them that he’s proud of them, and reminds them all to drink plenty of water once they get home.

You watch Mia bound over to you, her twin braids flying as she yells, “Did you see? Did you see?”

“I saw!” you laugh, catching the bundle of energy in your arms as she babbles on excitedly about how much fun she had and how much she can’t wait for the next practice.

Your heart sinks, because despite how uncomfortable the metal bench was, you really enjoyed watching her tumble her way across the field. But… the next practice is next week, Mark’s week, and he was already reticent to pay for half of the fees. Would he even stay to watch? Would his wife—a lovely woman in her own right—stay to watch? Will there be anyone to cheer Mia on as she runs in circles? You’re not sure, and it makes your chest hurt to think about that.

Before you can dwell on it too long, though, a shadow crosses over the two of you, and you look up, up, up, to find Steve Harrington in all of his sweaty glory, your name dripping from his lips, and he asks, “Hey! It’s been awhile. How are you doing?

“I’m good,” you say at the same time that Mia, a clingy child on the best of days, does her best to burrow her way into your skin. “I was actually a little surprised to see you here. Didn’t know that you were moonlighting as a coach now, but it looks good on you.”

“Yeah?” he says, a little bashful as he pushes the hair from his eyes. “I coach the baseball little league, too, and was kind of annoyed that the girls didn’t have their own sport, so… yeah. Anyway, is this your niece?”

You open your mouth, ready to respond, but it’s in this moment that Mia chooses to peel herself from your arms and beat you to the punch.

“Uh, this is my mom, Coach Steve. Duh.”

“Mia!” you scold. “God, Steve, I’m so sorry, she’s a little—I mean—”

A booming laugh cuts you off. You watch, stunned, as his head tilts back, the evening sun catching on the column of his throat, the corners of his eyes crinkling from the force of his mirth. Everything about him screams All American Boy as the delight spills from him, and a knot in your chest that you didn’t even know was there eases.

“You’re right, Mia,” he says, holding a hand out to her as a peace offering. “I should’ve known better. Will you ever forgive me?”

Mia sniffs imperiously, eyes him a little warily, but clearly decides that he passes some invisible test when she places her little hand in his large palm. “I guess.”

You take this moment to pry her from your lap, instructing, “Go get a snack from the car, sweets. I’m going to talk to Steve real quick.”

She grumbles something under her breath, shooting you a sour look, but does as told, scampering towards your old sedan.

“So…” Steve starts, hands placed firmly on his hips and his gaze firmly trained on your daughter, as though he’s making sure that she doesn’t run into any trouble in the perilous twenty foot distance between you and her. “Daughter?”

“Long story,” you offer.

He raises an eyebrow. “Is it?”

You pause, thinking, and realize dimly, Oh, he should know. Especially if Mark drops her off next week. “Well… no, actually.”

You give Steve the abbreviated version—as abbreviated as it can be, anyway, for a tale that is both short and rather uninteresting. Knocked up at nineteen, gave birth at twenty, share custody with her father, Mark Lewinsky, so he’ll be the one at practice next week.

If possible, Steve’s brows raise higher at the mention of Mark. 

“The bench warmer?” he asks, then flushes as if he wasn’t supposed to say that.

But it’s your turn to laugh. “Yeah, him.” Glancing to make sure that your daughter is still out of earshot, you add, “Wouldn’t have been my first choice in fathers, but I got Mia out of it, so… Worth it, in the end.”

“She’s a good kid,” Steve says. “Picked up on what to do faster than the other kids. And I’m not just saying that to, like, stroke your ego or anything. She’s smart.”

“Yeah,” you smile. “She is, isn’t she?”

Life persists and summer continues to grow, the heat swells until it presses into every corner of your life, and the humidity wraps itself around you like a second skin. 

As always, Mia is at your house one week, goes to her dad’s the next, and inevitably she returns with her light a little dimmed and a trembling smile on her face, climbing into your bed every Sunday night after her dad drops her off.

(It breaks your heart, but what can you do? It’s not like they’re mistreating her or anything. She just doesn’t like going out over to Mark’s house, especially not since Mark’s wife announced her own pregnancy.)

And, against all odds, Mia sticks with softball, throwing her tiny little body into practice and drills. She takes to spending every evening with her bat in the backyard, swinging it around wildly as she asks, “Do you think Coach Steve can tell that I’m doing this?”

“Of course,” you reply amiably from your spot on the deck, a book propped open on the table next to you. “Coach Steve is very smart, you know.”

She preens under the thought of praise, and you heart clenches with gratitude that you get to be her mother.

Practices get bumped up to twice a week, too, meaning that every other week, on Tuesdays and Thursdays, your evenings are spent in the stands at your old middle school, watching your daughter flail across the field with the grace of a newborn kitten.

There’s a certain amount of affection that wells up in your chest whenever you watch Steve interact with her. He corrects her with a gentle efficiency, lifting her elbow into place, showing her how to stand. It’s hard not to notice just how much she blossoms under his roaring cheers from across the field when she manages to hit the ball, her little legs pumping as she sprints to home base. 

And then—faster than you can process it—she slides her way to the home plate. Tries to slide her way to the home plate, and it’s immediately evident that it completely went wrong when a shrill cry pierces the air. Your blood freezes, and in the next second, Steve’s at her side before you can even stand, scooping her sobbing form up. His big hand settles on her small back as he jogs towards the first aid kit. 

You scramble from the stands, forcing your way through the other parents, and as you make your way closer, you hear him say, “I bet it hurts a lot, Mia, but it’ll be okay. See? It’s just a little cut, don’t worry.”

“But—but—” Her lower lip wobbles, fat tears falling from her eyes. “What if I can’t run anymore?”

If this shocks Steve, he doesn’t show it. Instead, he reaches out gently, dragging a thumb across her cheek as he wipes the tears away, promising in a soft voice, “You’ll be able to run again, I promise. You think a little scrape can prevent that? Come on, Mia, you’re a strong girl. You can do anything you want.”

Your heart melts at the assurance as you slip onto the bench next to her, tucking Mia into your side as he finishes cleaning and bandaging her skinned knees, saying, “There, all done. Look! No more blood. How about you sit here with your mom for a bit, okay? If it hurts a little less, you can come back out, but no worries if not.”

She nods, presses her face into your shirt, and Steve offers you a soft smile before turning his attention back to the rest of the team.

You offer her soothing words and squeezes, smoothing a hand down her back throughout the rest of practice, trying desperately to ignore the way your stomach flips at the mental image of her coddled against Steve’s chest.

It’s inappropriate, you think, to feel so electrified after seeing how kind his is with your daughter.

(But is it really your fault? You’ve seen Mark with her when she’s injured, the way he tends to hand Mia off to his wife when all she needs is a hug, a kiss to the forehead, and an assurance that all will be well. Because Mark is awkward and never quite adapted to fatherhood, and Steve—)

(Steve just seems so naturally step into that role, even for kids that aren’t his own.)

After practice, you stay sitting on the bench, watching as the rest of the team disappears in the parking lot and drives off. It’s only once the last family has left that Steve makes his way back over to the two of you, checks on Mia’s knees and opens his arms up. “Will you ever forgive me, Mia?”

She giggles and throws herself at him, wrapping herself tight around his neck as she buries her face into the crook of his neck.

“I guess,” she says in a way that you know, from experience, means yes. 

Your throat tightens at the sight, trying to remember the last time you’d seen her actual father treating her with so much tenderness.

Steve’s eyes, warm and brown, meet yours, and he asks, “Can I make this up to you? Both of you? There’s a new diner nearby that’s supposed to be good, and it’ll be my treat. I should’ve shown Mia how to safely slide before she ever attempted it, and…”

“Oh, Steve,” you say. “You really don’t have to.”

“I want to,” he says firmly. “Please?”

“Please, Mom?” comes your daughter’s muffled voice.

You glance down at Mia, at her face still filled with baby fat tucked into his shirt, and find yourself nodding. “As long as Mia wants to, I’m fine with it.”

The smile Steve sends you is blinding.

He leads the two of you towards his car, having insisted on driving, with Mia held close to his chest after she demanded that he carry her as payment—where she learned that phrase, you’re not quite sure—and you find yourself shocked to find a silvery blue pickup in place of a maroon BMW, and you blurt out, “You got rid of the Beamer?”

Steve pauses where he’s opening the passenger door, glancing back at you with something unreadable on his face. Carefully, with a tinge of sadness in his voice, he says, “Figured that it was time for something better.”

“Still, we had some good memories in that car,” you say without thinking.

Steve coughs.

You freeze, face burning.

“Oh my god,” you say. “I’m so sorry, that just—”

“It’s fine,” he wheezes, his cheeks turning a rosy red. “Can’t say you’re wrong, can I?”

And Mia, ever the nosy child, finally puts two and two together. “Mom, did you know Coach Steve before softball?”

“I did, sweets,” you say. “We were friends in school.”

(Which isn’t exactly the truth, but, well, you’re not exactly about to tell your five year old that you and Steve hooked up between relationships, are you?)

“Your mom was the prettiest girl in our grade,” Steve whispers conspiratorially, easing Mia onto the bench seat and nudging her towards the center.

“Mom’s the prettiest girl now,” Mia asserts.

“You’re right,” he seriously replies. Then, as your brain struggles to catch up with the conversation, he turns to you with a hand held out, saying, “Alright, Prettiest Girl, let me help you in.”

Your face feels hot as you slip your hand into his, an electric shock racing up your arm at the contact. His palms are warm and calloused, assured in the way he grips your fingers as his other hand settles on your lower back, helping you up into the passenger seat.

He lingers for a moment, peering up at you, the setting sun making his eyes appear more honey than brown, and he says, “Not so bad, is it? Not as nice as the Beamer, but she’s a sturdy gal.”

And for a moment, you’re sixteen years old again, having your chin tilted up by Steve Harrington at Mayor Kline’s 1983 Fourth of July bash, his chapped lips brushing against yours at the peak of the Ferris wheel. You’re sixteen, and your biggest worry is whether or not your friends will believe you when you say that King Steve kissed you, and his hands are warm and steady on your waist as you wind your arms around his neck, his voice hoarse as he whispers, “God, you’re beautiful.”

You blink, and you’re twenty-five once more, with Steve Harrington—who has long since fallen from his throne—giving you a shy smile as his hand slips from your back, and for a moment you have the delirious thought that he still sees you as you, not the role you’ve filled for the past five years. He sees you as the teenager you once were, stealing kisses in the summer sun, making the windows of his Beamer fog up. He sees the person who once stole seven of his shirts in one night—shirts that still sit in your closet—and the person who once snorted lemonade out of your nose in his backyard.

And then your daughter shifts next to you, clearly antsy, and his gaze dips down to her, reminding you of the person you are now, before meeting your eyes once more.

As if he can sense your thoughts, he quietly asks, “You alright?”

You force yourself to nod, saying, “Yeah, of course. Just, uh, hungry.”

Because if you don’t, you’re going to ask him, Do you still see me as me? Or do you only see me as a mother like everyone else does?

(You’re not sure if you could handle the answer, no matter what it is.)

The drive to the diner is filled with endless chatter from your daughter as she fills Steve in on how she’s starting kindergarten in the fall, every thought and excitement and fear she has pouring from her body, and you watch. You watch the way his fingers curl around the steering wheel, you watch the way he leans over to ruffle Mia’s hair. You listen to the low, soothing timbre of his voice when he assures her that kindergarten isn’t hard, that she’ll have no problem making friends, that she’ll be okay no matter what. 

And for a moment—

For a moment, you wonder if this is what your life could’ve looked like, in another universe.

But you don’t let yourself dwell on that long, because in another universe, Mia wouldn’t be your daughter, and the thought of that makes your chest crack wide open from pain.

Steve helps the two of you out of the truck, doesn’t comment when Mia grabs his hand as well as yours, and holds the door open to the restaurant, ushering you both in and settling you into a corner booth.

Mia orders a stack of waffles—and you note the anguish that flashes across Steve’s face when she announces this to the waitress, wondering but not asking—and you order a sandwich, cautious of not spending too much despite his insistence to not worry about it.

It’s… it’s fun. It’s fun in a way you haven’t felt in a long time, a burden that you didn’t know was there easing from your bones. 

Steve, clearly, is phenomenal with kids, never flinching when Mia’s voice gets too loud or her stories too rambley. He meets her at her level like it’s the most natural thing to do, and you know from experience that it’s not. She’s a precocious child, too smart for her age and always getting into something, and it’s a common complaint you’ve heard from her father when he drops her off at your house. That she isn’t always controllable, as if it’s a crime to let a child roam free, as if a child is meant to be controlled.

(You can’t think about that one without righteous indignation burning through your veins.)

And when the food arrives, he waves you away when you move to cut up Mia’s waffles, saying, “I got it, just enjoy your meal.”

You think that you could cry.

Dinner passes without incident, and you’re nowhere close to surprised when Mia nods off onto your arm, her snores filling the space between you and Steve. He huffs out a quiet, affectionate laugh, goes to pay the bill, and when he comes back, he leans down to gather her into his arms, asking, “You ready?”

He’s quiet as he takes you back to your own car, contemplative, and he wordlessly helps buckle Mia into her car seat, biceps flexing as he protects the top of her head from bumping against the roof of the sedan. 

It should be odd, you think, to let him do this. To let him take care of your daughter without question.

But it’s not like you don’t know him. It’s not like he’s never treated you with the same gentle reverence, either.

(Because you remember high school. You remember your first big breakup, sophomore year, and Steve finding you crying behind the bleachers in the outfield. You remember him sitting next to you and wrapping an arm around your shoulders, pulling some napkins from his coat pocket to dab at your mascara stained cheeks. You remember his kindness, back when he was King Steve and you were someone on the outskirts of his universe. You remember him driving you home afterwards and helping you into bed. You remember coming into school the next day to see your ex with a black eye and fat lip, and the warmth in your chest that, for the first time, someone had taken care of you.)

“Thank you,” you say, even if it falls far short of anything else you really want to say. “This… this meant more than you know.”

Steve straightens, gently shutting the door. “It’s no problem, honestly.”

“Still,” you say. “You don’t need to be so nice, Steve. I know I’m just your…”

Your former fling. Someone you filled your afternoons with before Nancy Wheeler broke your heart. A person you probably haven’t thought about in years.

“My friend,” he gently finishes. “You’re my friend.”

You blink, taken aback. “But we haven’t—”

“I know,” he interrupts, still in that soft, soothing tone of his. “But I never once stopped considering you a friend. And…” He pats around the pockets of his jeans, pulling out a scrap of paper. “I’ve been trying to figure out a good time to give this to you.”

You take it, looking down to find a phone number scrawled out.

“I live in a place up near Forest Hills Park now,” he continues on. “Up in northeast Hawkins? Not the trailer park that has the same name, it’s on the opposite side of town. So my number’s obviously changed, but if, you know, you ever want to talk, I’m almost always home around eight. To catch up.”

“Oh.” Your throat feels uncomfortably tight. “Oh, this…”

“You don’t have to,” he quickly says. “Just figured I’d offer.”

Something in your chest warms at the thought. Catching up. Even if you’re confident that there’s nothing in your life interesting enough to catch up on, he’s looking at you so earnestly, so ardently, that you can’t deny him.

“I will,” you promise. “I will. And—my phone number never changed, so if you still remember that—”

“I do.”

You pause, smiling. “You can call me anytime.”

A shy, sheepish grin peeks from his face. “Yeah?”

You nod. “Yeah. And for what it’s worth, I’m still living in the same house I did in high school.”

“Really?” he asks, following you around the car as you reach for the driver’s side door. “What’s the story behind that?”

“I don’t know,” you say coquettishly, slipping into the seat. “You’ll have to call and find out, won’t you?”

Sunday comes, and Mia gets whisked off to her father’s house like she always does, and you’re once again left wandering around your house, trying desperately to fill up the time and space that’s usually allotted to parenting. It’s never easy to ignore the way that being a mother has been hardwired into each and every one of your molecules, a small tick tick tick that’s sounding off in the back of your brain like you’re somehow doing something wrong by curling up on the couch, watching reruns on the television instead of reading your daughter a bedtime story.

A few days pass, and Mia calls like she does every night when she’s at her dad’s, telling you about softball practice and feeling the baby kick and what she ate for dinner.

“I don’t think Dad likes Coach Steve,” she whispers over the line. “He always sits in the car at practice and never says ‘hi.’”

This doesn’t surprise you, but you’re not about to tell her that Coach Steve and Dad once got into it over Dad not being good enough at basketball to get off the bench in high school. 

“I’m sure he likes Coach Steve just fine,” you instead say. “Anyway, what else did you do today?

She continues to ramble, you continue to listen, and eventually, Mark takes the phone, saying, “Hey, listen, I had a question for you.”

You sit up straighter. “Yeah? What’s up?”

“I know this is short notice,” he begins. “But my parents bought plane tickets for me, Lisa, and Mia to visit them in Florida next week. They wanted to see everyone before the baby comes, you know? Anyway, I told them that it was your week, but they insisted on it.”

Something in your gut curdles.

And here’s the crux of the issue:

You don’t dislike the Lewinsky's. Sure, they did threaten to sue you into oblivion had you not agreed to the current custody arrangement between you and Mark, and sure, they ignored your calls when you were pregnant, trying to get in touch with Mark after he changed his number. But you can’t forget how they took care of you after your family’s death, either, nor can you forget that they’re your daughter’s family.

(As much as you might think they’re reprehensible people, that’s for Mia to decide when she’s older, and you do your best to keep your opinions away from her.)

You stay silent long enough that Mark says, “And so you don’t lose your time with her, I figure that when we get back, you’ll get the next two weeks before we go back to our normal schedule.”

You purse your lips together. “I’m not happy about this.”

“I didn’t think you would be,” Mark replies. 

“I’ll agree this time,” you say. “But don’t make a habit of it. Have you told Mia? She’s going to be upset.”

“Wanted to ask first,” he says. “Could you pack a bag for her, by the way? I’ll swing by Friday evening to pick it up, and she can say bye to you then.”

“Fine,” you tell him shortly. “Please take some pictures of her while you’re there and send me the copies.”

“You got it,” he says. “I’ll make sure to set some time aside for her to call while we’re down there, too.”

That’s the least you could do, you think bitterly, but force yourself say, “I appreciate it. Give her my love.”

And the line goes dead.

You let out an aggravated sigh, too annoyed to keep sitting. You make your way to the kitchen, aggressively scrubbing the scant dishes you’d left from breakfast. Laundry gets thrown into the wash before you climb upstairs, looking around your daughter’s room as you find a bag, tossing in clothes that Mark’s parents are the least likely to judge, tucking her favorite book in alongside in the fabric, and for a moment, you’re lost.

Adrift.

You’ve never spent two weeks away from your daughter. You had never gone more than seven days without her wrapping her small body around your chest, without hearing her mumble as she dreamed or watching her sleepily walk into the kitchen for breakfast. 

Your life, since May 1987, has entirely revolved around the role of Mom.

Who are you when you aren’t that?

You aren’t sure, and that scares you more than it should.

The rest of your evening is spent aimlessly, listlessly, as you try to find something to fill your time. Your time away from Mia is generally spent catching up on laundry and cleaning and getting ready for her to come back, making sure you have enough food in the house for her lunches and some new books from the library.

What did you do for fun before you were a mother?

You genuinely can’t remember.

Before you can consider it too deeply, your keys are in your hand, sandals are slid onto your feet, and the next thing you know, you’re in the parking lot at Family Video, easing your way inside the familiar store and nodding at the bored teenager behind the register. 

For a moment, you stare at the red curtain in the back, illuminated by the neon sign proclaiming ADULT above it, and you’re tempted. Really tempted. Honestly, when was the last time you had time for yourself like that? But the last time you’d been behind that curtain was the summer that Mia was conceived, when you’d snuck behind it with Mark, giggling like the children you were as you whispered the names of different titles, mocking and young and so, so in love.

If you go back there now, you’re not sure that you won’t meet the ghost of your former self, still being spun in a circle and covered in kisses with not a single care in the world.

So you pivot left, in the opposite direction of the pornos, towards the new releases and ignoring the door opening behind you as you search for something to fill your evening.

Rows of tapes surround you, some sticking out, movies you would’ve rented without second thought for Mia like 101 Dalmatians and The Brave Little Toaster. Films that are kid friendly, ones you can enjoy alongside her as you wait for a re-release of The Little Mermaid and fight half of Hawkins to snag a copy.

Just as a copy of Father of the Bride catches your eye, a warm voice behind you says, “Hey.”

You jump, spinning around, coming face to face with none other than Steve, who’s smiling down at you like it’s the most natural thing for him to do.

“Oh! Hi, Steve,” you say, clutching your chest. “What are you doing here?”

The second the words are out of your mouth, you feel like a complete idiot. What are you here for? What else would someone go into a video store for?

But he only shrugs, saying, “I caught sight of you walking in as I was driving home, so I figured I’d stop in. I was just about to call you, actually.”

Your heart beats harder than it should at the admission as you thump his arm softly. “Okay, creep.”

He laughs, and your gaze snags on his Adam’s apple as he tilts his head back, carefree in a way you haven’t felt in years.

“You got me there,” he admits. Glancing around, he asks, “Is Mia at her dad’s this week?”

“Yeah,” you say. “And, uh, next week, too. Last minute vacation to Mark’s parents’ place in Florida, apparently, so she won’t be at practice.”

There must be something in your tone—a sadness you can’t force away—because Steve catches your wrist, his thumb pressing comfortingly into the pulse point where your heart flutters against your skin, his voice full of empathy as he says, “That sounds rough.”

You nod, blinking back the torrent of emotions threatening to overpower you. “It’s kind of weird having no kid around, if I’m honest.”

“Hence the movie?” he asks, tilting his head towards the racks.

“Yup,” you say. “Hence the movie.” 

An idea pops into your head, then. And, well, Steve is the one who said that he still considered you a friend, right? 

“Hey, uh,” you flounder for a moment. “Would you want to come by for dinner on Friday? If you’re free? I can cook, you know, to make up for you buying our dinner. We could, uh, watch—” Your eyes cut to the tape next to you, and you snatch it from the shelf. “—Father of the Bride together. Maybe drink beer or something?”

His shoulders soften, and he fixes you with a look that has your knees weak and your stomach flipping as though you were a teenager once more.

“I’d love that,” he murmurs, his thumb worrying a path down to your palm. “But let me get the beer, alright? I’ll feel bad not bringing something.”

“I can agree to those terms,” you say, suddenly giddy. “You said you’re usually home by eight, right? Or—if you want to come home—I mean, come by earlier—I get back from work around four.”

“Is five okay?” he asks. “I’m helping a friend build something during the day, so I want to make sure I can shower before I come over.”

“Five’s perfect!” A grin stretches across your face before you can stop it. “You haven’t developed any allergies since high school, right?”

He shakes his head. “No, and before you ask, I do still eat anything that gets put on a plate, so just make whatever you’d usually eat.”

You already know that you are going to make something nice, and you’re pretty sure he can tell, too, but you lead him towards the register, slapping the tape down on the counter and digging through your purse.

But while you’re pulling your wallet out, Steve’s already handed a ten dollar bill over, telling the cashier, “Have a good night, man.”

“I was going to pay,” you say as he leads you from the store. “Seriously, Steve, let me give you money for it.”

“No can do,” he says. “My mother raised me to be a gentleman, honey. She’d rip me a new one if she knew I made someone as beautiful as you pay.”

You stumble, heat coursing through your body, and his hand quickly puts you right, a steadying presence as you choke out, “Hold on, are you flirting with me?”

“I’ve been trying to since I saw you without a ring on your finger,” he confesses. “But I’m glad it’s working now.”

You splutter incoherently. “Steve!”

Embarrassment flushes at your skin, and in the next moment, it feels as though your entire being is overpowered by him. He leans down, his nose brushing against your own as the smell of his cologne, something deep and woodsy, fills your head. Fingers skim down your arm, and you can practically taste the sweat on his skin as he murmurs, “I wasn’t lying when I said that you were the prettiest girl. And, well…” His gaze very obviously drops down to your lips. “I’d like to rectify that and say you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”

“You’re just saying that to be nice,” you breathe, heart beating erratically against your rib cage.

“Am I?” he asks.

For a moment, you think he might do something more, and you feel like that sixteen year old who spent her summer wrapped up in his arms, but the only thing he does is press a chaste kiss to your cheek.

You touch it gently, blinking up at him, and he whispers, “See you Friday?”

And then you’re left standing in the middle of the parking lot, Father of the Bride clutched in your hand as you watch him drive off.

You don’t remember much of the drive home. You don’t remember much of anything, really, just that the second your front door is locked, you’re climbing the stairs to your bedroom, arousal burning it’s way through your entire body.

It’s been so long since you’ve felt this way—since you had the freedom to feel this way—that it crashes into you all at once, almost blinding you with how much you want. Want Steve, want pleasure, want something.

Your shirt gets shed first, your bra is thrown towards the hamper in the corner, and you kick your underwear and pants off in one fell swoop before collapsing onto the bed. 

There’s no slow buildup the way you might have once done it, no teasing of your breasts, no swirling around your clit, because god, you are wet and aching in a way that you haven’t felt in so long. Too long.

While one hand roughly grabs your own tit, your other creeps down to the apex of your legs, drifting through the thatch of pubic hair to swipe through your slit, gathering slick on the pads of your fingers. 

You remember, suddenly, the first time you ever slept with Steve, a few months after that breakup in tenth grade. How he had gripped your hips with his big, warm hands—hands that were soft and free from callouses at the time—and brought his mouth down to your cunt, licking a stripe from your hole up, sucking your clit into his mouth and hollowing out his cheeks in a way that had you seeing stars. How you had never felt such pleasure before, how you’d never had someone pay so much attention to you wholeheartedly before, and it’s the image if him peaking up at you from over your pussy that has you plunging two fingers inside, using the heel of your palm to grind into your clit.

It’s messy. It’s hot. It’s mesmerizing, becoming reacquainted with a part of your body that has long lived dormant inside you, to have the thrill of desire run so freely through all of your senses. To have your breasts peak in the cold air of the bedroom, to be able to moan loudly and freely, to so unabashedly become reacquainted with yourself once more.

You pinch a nipple between two fingers, twisting it in a way you once remember Steve doing, gasping breathlessly as your hips jerk up into your hand.

It’s intense, and your orgasm builds fast, faster than it usually does in quick, stolen moments. Your toes curl as heat pools in your stomach, your core aching, and with one more circle of your clit, everything explodes.

You lay there, panting, as the aftershocks of pleasure fissures through your limbs, pulling your soaked hand from between your legs.

If there is one thing that you know, you cannot wait for Friday to arrive.

The rest of the week passes quickly, and you find yourself thrumming with anticipation at the thought of Steve coming over.

(Not that you’re expecting anything, but you can’t even find it in yourself to feel guilty for fantasizing about the feelings of his hands against your thighs.)

Mia still calls every evening, and any happiness of the thought of seeing Steve gets doused when she quietly admits, “I wish I could spend the week with you.”

“I know, sweets,” you tell her. “But you’ll have so much fun with Nana and Grandpa. And I’ll take a week off of work, so we can have a whole week to ourselves when you come back, okay? Plus I’ll give you such a big hug and so many kisses when you come to get your bag tomorrow that you’ll be set for a whole week of hugs and kisses.”

“Mom, I don’t think it works like that,” she whines. “Don’t be silly.”

“Uh, it absolutely works like that,” you say. “Are you questioning me? The same person you called the smartest person in the world?”

“You’re not being smart when you’re being silly!”

You sigh dramatically, shaking your head. “I love you too, Mia.”

It isn’t until later in the night when you’ve finished washing your face and have slipped into pajamas that it hits you.

Mark is coming over. Tomorrow. When Steve is going to be at your house.

Fuck.

You scramble for the phone on your nightstand, punching in the number to Steve’s house that’s sat by your alarm clock since he gave it to you, and you hope and pray that it isn’t too late for you to call.

And for once, luck is on your side.

His voice is a little rough when he answers with, “Henderson, I swear to god, I love you, man, but I haven’t gained any opinions on quantum physic theories since you asked me twenty minutes ago.”

“Well, good for you,” you wryly say. “I’m not here to ask your thoughts on quantum physics.”

There’s a silence, a spluttering, and then Steve chokes out, “Yeah, you weren’t who I thought was calling.”

“Clearly not.” You sit down on the bed, running a finger along a fraying thread on your quilt. “I, uh, needed to warn you about something.”

“Ominous,” he says. “Hit me with it, honey.”

Your face warms at the epithet, and you quickly explain the scheduling blunder you made, rushing to say, “Just—if you’re here when Mark and Mia come over, could you—uh—stay hidden? I’m not embarrassed or anything, but, well, you are Mia’s coach, and Mark has been kind of weird when I’ve had men over before—and you two do have a history—and you can park in the garage and everything so Mia doesn’t see the truck, and I’m so sorry to ask this of you, and—”

“Honey,” he gently interrupts. “I get it. You don’t need to worry about offending me.”

“Are you sure?” you ask, worrying your lip between your teeth.

“Am I sure?” He huffs out a laugh, soft and full of affection. “I was sure when we were sixteen and you pushed me into my pool. I was just an idiot back then, but, you know, I had to thump my head a few times to figure it out.”

“I just…” You press your eyes shut. “I haven’t… it’s been a long time, Steve, and I don’t want to mess this up, but… I’m not the same girl you knew then. ”

“You won’t,” he assures. “And I’m not the same boy you knew, either. I want the woman you are now, in whatever way you’ll let me have you.”

Something in your chest eases at the admission, and you whisper, “Okay.”

You can hear the grin in his voice as he says, “Maybe we can talk more about this tomorrow? In person, over some beers?”

“Yeah,” you say. “Of course. Of course—just—I’ll leave the garage door open for you, okay? And you can come in through the side door. Just shout so, you know, I know when you’re in my house.”

“Anything for you, honey,” he says. “See you then?”

“See you then,” you promise.

The next day passes slowly, and you end up taking a half day, feigning illness convincingly enough that your boss lets you go without complaint.

Your house gets scrubbed from top to bottom, new bedding gets spread across your mattress, dinner is prepped, and you take a gloriously long shower, scrubbing every inch of your body until you’re satisfied.

You make your way back into your bedroom with a towel wrapped around your body, digging through your dresser to find something, well, sexy to wear.

(Not to be presumptuous or anything, but… you didn’t want to be caught off guard, either.)

It’s as you’re dabbing perfume behind your ears when you hear the creaking of the screen door. Seconds later, Steve’s voice calls out, “Honey, I’m home!”

You roll your eyes, affection blooming in your chest, and you call back, “One moment!”

With one more glance in the mirror to make sure everything is where it’s supposed to be, you make your way down to find Steve in the living room, a six pack of beer in one hand and a bouquet of flowers in the other, smiling nervously as you make your way closer to him.

“These are for you,” he says, thrusting the flowers towards you.

You take in the sight of him slowly, savoring it as your fingers brush against his, accepting the bouquet. His hair’s curled at the ends, like he’d taken a shower and didn’t dry his hair all the way afterwards, and he has a nice, linen button down tucked into dark wash jeans, clearly having put effort into looking nice.

For you.

“You look handsome,” you say shyly.

The corner of his mouth quirks up. “You look beautiful.”

You shake your head, moving past him towards the kitchen. “You have to say that,” you say. “I made you dinner.”

“I’d say that even without the promise of food,” he tells you, falling into step behind you. “But I won’t lie, the food is a motivator.”

It should be a little awkward, a bit uncomfortable, but the only thing you feel is safe.

It’s easy, you think, to share a space with Steve. Even if you hadn’t talked to him in nearly a decade, even if the shape of your life has changed so much since you first befriended him, he still knows you at your core. He knows what makes you laugh and what you like. He remembers how to work your oven, preheating it for the ziti that you prepped, and he slides an open beer across to you without prompt, bumping his foot against yours underneath the breakfast table you’re both sat at as you wait for the pasta to bake.

It’s almost enough for you to forget who you are outside of this small bubble you’ve created, for you to forget the person you’ve become in the years you didn’t see Steve. 

Almost, up until the doorbell rings, and Steve hangs back as you bring the bag of Mia’s clothes to the front porch, easing the door shut behind you.

You’re not shocked when Mia throws herself at you, tears already streaming down her face as Mark taps his foot impatiently behind her, blubbering incoherently about missing and sad and Mom in a way that has your heart shattering into a million, tiny pieces.

“Oh, sweets,” you murmur into her hair, holding her tightly to your chest. “It’s just a week, sweet girl. You’ll be home before you know it, and you’re going to have so much fun.”

“But I don’t wanna,” Mia sobs, little hiccups bubbling from her. “I wanna stay here, Mom, I don’t wanna go to stinky Florida!”

Mark scowls. “Amelia, honestly. This behavior is ridiculous. I’ve already told you that we’re visiting Disney. Don’t you want to meet Minnie Mouse?”

You shoot Mark the nastiest glare you can manage. 

“Not without Mom!” wails Mia, gripping your shirt even tighter.

“Baby,” you try again. “It’ll all be okay. You won’t even have time to miss me!”

“You’re lying,” she shouts, though her words are muffled from the way her face is pressed into your throat. “I always miss you!”

(And if that doesn’t make you want to pull her into the house and lock the door.)

Mark lets out an exasperated noise, glancing towards the idling car, and you know it’s time for them to go. Forcing yourself to stand, you gather Mia up in your arms—even if she’s just a bit too heavy for you to comfortably carry—and make your way towards the backseat.

She screams the entire way, tiny fists pounding on your back as you pull open the door. Mark’s wife, Lisa, gives you a sympathetic look when you’re forced to pry Mia’s hands from the fabric of your shirt, choking back your own tears as you buckle your daughter into her booster seat. You capture her face between your hands, pressing kisses to every surface of her face that you can reach, even as she screeches in protest.

You barely manage to utter out one final I love you so much, sweets before Mark nudges you out of the way, slamming the door shut as he says, “If you didn’t coddle her so much, she wouldn’t act like this.”

There are plenty of things you want to say. You could say, words that have been simmering under the surface for years. Insults, injuries, all sorts of horrible thoughts you’ve buried ever since Mia came screaming into the world on an early May morning, but you choke all of it back, snapping, “Have you considered that, maybe, if you’d wanted to be a father when she was born, she would have more of an attachment to you, Mark.”

“The town was in lock down,” he argues.

You shake your head, not pointing out the fact that he changed his god damn phone number so you couldn’t to reach him. “You could’ve tried, asshole.”

“Yeah, well,” he snips, stomping his way over to the driver’s side. “At least I’m not an uptight bitch.”

The only thing that stops you from losing it entirely is the knowledge that your daughter will hear it, and you refuse to be the parent who does that to her. Instead, you say, “You better call once you’re settled at your parents’ house. I want to make sure she’s okay.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he grunts, slamming the car shut, effectively cutting the conversation off.

You stand there, waiting in the driveway as he pulls out, memorizing the shape of your daughter’s face pressed against the window, the way her little fingers claw at the glass, and you hold yourself tightly, trying desperately to not let her see just how much pain this situation is causing you.

(You would do anything to prevent her from shedding another tear again, and it kills you to be the cause of her anguish now.)

Once his car disappears from sight, and you force yourself back into the house, kicking the door shut behind you. 

Steve looks up from his place on the couch, takes one look at your face, and opens his arms up in the same way he had for your daughter just a few weeks prior. It’s easy, then, to crawl onto his lap the way you once did in high school, to let yourself be held tightly, to press your ear against his chest and listen to the sound of his steady heartbeat. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks softly, dragging a hand down your back.

You sigh, pressing your eyes shut. “Mark’s just an asshole, and Mia hates spending more time with him than she has to, but there’s nothing I can do about it. She’s still so young, and even if I had the money to take him to court for full custody, it would be hard to when the courts wouldn’t take her opinion into consideration. I try my best, but… but seeing her cry, I don’t know. Makes me wonder if I’m doing the right thing by not letting her choose now, you know? But despite everything, they’re her family, and she should know them.”

“What a douche bag,” Steve bluntly says. 

A laugh bursts from you, unbidden. “Did I ever tell you that he accused me of cheating on him when I announced that I was pregnant?”

A scandalized noise erupts from his throat. “No.”

“Yes!” You sit up, meeting Steve’s eye. “And because he was at Purdue, I had to call him. He asked, ‘are you sure it’s mine?” then changed his number so I couldn’t contact him! He only showed up when Mia was two and demanded shared custody after the paternity test said that he was the father.”

“Seriously?” Steve scoffs. “What an asshole. You know, he never watches Mia at practice, either, and always looks annoyed when she tries to talk to him about it. I’ve even told him that she was really good and he just glared at me! Glared! He doesn’t deserve her.”

“No,” you agree. “He really doesn’t.”

“You know…” A small smile crosses Steve’s face. “I bet the reason he’s so pissy about it is ‘cause he’s mad that she’s better at softball than he ever was at basketball.”

“I bet you’re right,” you say. “He can’t handle the blow to his ego.”

A beat passes, his grin widens, and before you can stop it, giggles spill from your lips as all tension leaves your body. 

It feels good to talk to someone about your daughter’s shitty father, to have Steve so easily validate every annoyance you’ve ever felt towards the man. It feels like you’re not as crazy as you're left feeling half the time after interacting with the man, to know that you’re not as alone in the world as you felt even five minutes prior.

The timer on the oven goes off, and the two of you make your way into the kitchen. Steve pulls plates from the cabinet, talking about the baseball team he coaches as you pull the baking dish from the oven, putting it on the breakfast table while he sets silverware down.

And dinner is…

It’s nice.

It’s simple, and it’s easy, and you feel like you, but in a way that doesn’t feel at war with your role as a parent. Like Steve sees both sides of you, understands that they are two sides to the same coin, and he likes you that way.

He talks about his life since high school. A shitty job at the mall, a shittier job at Family Video once the mall burnt down. The years spent working weird jobs, taking care of a gaggle of kids you vaguely remember seeing him with in high school. He tells you how he lied to his parents about how he couldn’t get into college, having not known what to do with his life and not wanting to disappoint them.

“I guess I thought they’d find it easier to accept that I was too stupid to be accepted,” he explains. “Though, as it turns out, they wouldn’t have had an issue with me just saying that I wanted to take a gap year.”

“Did you end up going?” you ask, sipping at your beer. “To college, that is.”

He leans back in his seat, stretching his arms behind his head. You don’t miss the flash of tummy, the trail of hair leading south that had not been there the last time you saw it. 

“I did,” he says with no small amount of pride. “Graduated this past May, actually. Got a degree in physical education from Ball State. I’m starting at a gym teacher at the middle school in the fall.”

“Holy shit!” You reach over, squeezing his leg. “Congrats! That’s huge!”

He beams, but shrugs bashfully. “It’s no big deal.”

“Don’t be modest,” you scold. “That’s amazing. Mr. Harrington, gym teacher. Has a nice ring to it.”

“You think?” He leans forward, resting his forearms on the wooden tabletop. “So… you told me to call and ask why you’re still living here. Do I still need to do that, or can I ask now?”

“Hm.” You pretend to contemplate it, dragging your gaze across the kitchen, your eyes catching on the fridge covered in your daughter’s drawings. “I guess I can tell you, but I have to warn you, it’s not a fun story.”

“Not everything has to be,” he says.

And that’s all the assurance you need.

He listens attentively as you describe the car crash you don’t really remember, the one that ended the lives of your family just a couple of weeks after you graduated high school. The physical therapy, the fact that you lost your spot in college from all the medical issues. The way you planned to go once you healed, just somewhere closer to home, somewhere more affordable so you didn’t blow through the money you inherited. But then one thing led to another—the earthquake, the quarantine, the pregnancy—and your life had once again flipped upside down.

You talk about the early years with Mia. The labor that had lasted for thirty-one hours, the nurse who all held your hand as you pushed, the one for whom you named Mia after. The exhaustion, the late nights and early mornings, how you felt so, so much love for the tiny creature that you created from nothing, who felt so alien and so familiar at the same time. You tell him about her first laugh and first words and first steps, her propensity to get into trouble even from such a young age. How you bawled at her first birthday party, an event that was only attended by neighbors because, at that point, all of your friends had moved on with their lives while yours was completely centered on Mia.

You tell him about the day that Mark came crashing back in, the fury that you felt, how you had screamed at him so loudly that a neighbor came over to see if they needed to call the police on him for trespassing. The way you felt so small when his parents came in with money and lawyers and more things than you could ever hope to provide your daughter on a meager salary, how you’d been bullied into giving up more of your time with Mia than you ever wanted. 

You tell him everything that you can think of, and when you’re done, you steel your nerves, look Steve straight in the eye, and say, “There’s another thing.”

He nods. “Yeah?”

“I can’t…” You chew on your lip. “I won’t do anything to hurt her, Steve. I can’t have you in my life as… as someone who’s flirting with me, or doing something more. Not if you don’t understand that we’re a package deal. She’s everything to me, and I would rather die than have her hurt over a choice I made. And I know this is a lot, and I know this is intense, but—I’m telling you right now. You’re either all in or you’re out. We can be friends, and we can hang out, but if you want anything more… you have to understand that she will always come first.”

“I know,” he says simply. “I wouldn’t expect anything less, honey. Whatever you’ll let me have, whatever parts of your lives I can be in, I want that. I want you. Both of you, in whatever way you’ll have me.”

Something in your chest eases at the admission, a nervousness dissipating.

Slowly, he leans in, the gap between the two of you closing, and he whispers, “Is this okay?”

“Yes,” you breathe, your eyes fluttering shut.

And his lips crash into yours.

Your fingers scramble up, gripping his chin as he pulls you forward, off your chair and onto his lap.

It feels as though you’re on fire, sparks shooting across your skin with every rough drag of his lips, with every nip of his teeth. You tilt his head so you can have a better angle, and when he lets out a wanton groan, you feel alive.

His calloused palms skim their way under your shirt, settling on your waist as you moan into the kiss, open mouthed, drawing his tongue in. 

It’s messy, and it’s a little clumsy, but you find that you don’t care. Not when you can feel him hot and hard against your leg, and not when he whimpers against your lips as you tug on his hair.

“Honey,” he whispers. “Don’t torture me.”

“I wasn’t planning on it,” you say, pulling away. A trail of spit connects the two of you, and you take in just how incredibly wrecked he looks already, with his pupils blown wide and a heavy flush on his cheeks. “Would you… do you want to go upstairs?”

“More than anything,” he admits.

You stand and capture his fingers between your own, tugging him through the house and up the stairs.

It isn’t until you enter the expanse of your bedroom that the nerves start to get the better of you, and you put your hands on his chest, stopping him from ducking down to kiss you once more as you say, “I have something else to tell you.”

“What is it?” he asks, pressing his forehead into yours.

“Just… I…” You squeeze your eyes shut, embarrassment flooding your system.

“Hey,” he murmurs. “Look at me, honey. Are you having second thoughts? We don’t have to do anything—honestly, I wasn’t expecting—”

“It’s not that,” you quickly interrupt. “It’s not—it’s just that—I’m different now. My body—it looks different from how you remember it. It’s softer, and I have stretch marks, and—I’ve had a baby. I don’t look the same.”

A kiss, gentle yet effervescent, is pressed into your temple. “That doesn’t matter to me at all. You grew a person. You think I’m supposed to feel anything other than awe over that?”

“I’ve had—other people have told me it’s gross,” you confess. “I just… I wanted to prepare you, is all.”

“Oh, honey.” It’s said so softly that you barely hear it. “I could never be grossed out by you.”

Your eyes fly open. You see the honesty on his face, along with the unbridled desire as his gaze dips down, and before you lose your nerve, you reach for the hem of your shirt, pulling it up and off and tossing it somewhere out of sight.

The reaction is immediate.

It’s gratifying, honestly, how clearly he wants you. How clearly he desires you, and everything that comes with it. Enough so that you’re pushing your pants down, asking, “Am I the only one getting undressed tonight?”

He grabs the end of his shirt with a fervor, completely and utterly uncoordinated, and you can’t help but giggle from his enthusiasm.

That is, however, until you see his chest. The way a forest of hair has completely taken over, yes, but the mottled silver scars that cover the tanned skin, tracing down his sides and stopping mere inches from his boxers.

You want to ask, but when you look back up at his face, you recognize the situation for what it is: A conversation for a different time, a different day, where you have the time and space to become reacquainted with one another on a deeper level.

He steps closer, then, and you remember thinking how much of a man Steve had seemed back in high school, back when you were just a girl yourself and he was the most grown person you’d slept with. All confidence and bravado and hard lines, a tendency towards your pleasure before his own like it was his solemn duty. But you had been utterly wrong about whatever masculinity that you assumed he had back in high school. 

The boy he was then has nothing on the man he is now, the kind of man who has grown into his own body, who is comfortable in who he is above all else. One that’s softer, less toned, but somehow more powerful than before. Covered in the kind of hair that can only come with life experience and age, a surety in his hands that no one else has ever had as he reaches for your hips.

“I’m going to kiss you,” he warns, his lips brushing over your own.

You tilt your chin up, grinning, and he presses forward.

It’s softer now, less frenzied. He takes his time mapping every part of your face as he presses you back into your sheets, covering your body with his own. You reach behind you, unclasping your bra and tossing it away, desperate to feel the wiry hair on his chest brush against your nipples, and you mewl at the sensation. 

Steve huffs a laugh into your mouth, planting his lips down your chin, ghosting his teeth over the column of your beck and down to your collar.

He pauses, then, one big, calloused hand coming up to cup your breast, his thumb dragging over the peak, and he whispers, “I know I keep saying this, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone more beautiful than you are.”

“You’re cheesy,” you say.

“Only for you,” he replies.

A kiss is pressed onto your sternum, then a little bite, and before you can process it, your entire nipple is sucked into his mouth, his tongue lavishing circles around the bud as his hand comes up to play with your other breast.

“Fuck, Steve,” you gasp, threading your fingers through his hair.

He peeks up at you, his brown eyes glowing in the darkness of your room, and grins with your tit still in his mouth.

It’s obscene, yet you feel so, so hot, especially as his hand travels down your body, making its way to your wet, aching core.

“So pretty for me, honey,” he murmurs, releasing your breast with a pop. “So, so pretty.”

He traces a path down, his tongue leaving a trail of spit as he goes, and for a moment, you think he’s going to just dive in, ripping your panties off and feasting the way he once did, but he doesn’t. He stops at your stretch marks, and carefully, begins to plant a kiss on every single one that he can find, mumbling beautiful and gorgeous as he goes. 

Your entire head goes fuzzy at the sight, and you think he can tell by the dopey grin he shoots you as he asks, “Do you still think I don’t love this?”

“You’re a perv,” you moan, his thumb pressing down on your clit through your panties. “And a freak. I can’t believe—”

“Only for you,” he promises. “Only for you, honey.”

Fingers come up to the elastic of your underwear, and with your permission, he begins the torturous process of peeling them down your legs, tossing them to the side without a care before spreading you open once more.

You aren’t surprised when he pampers kisses along your inner thigh, easing his way towards your core, to where you want him the most. You can feel the mess you’re making despite the fact he’s barely touched you, and you see the delight on his face when he makes his way home, stroking a hand through your pubic hair before spreading your lower lips apart.

“I missed this,” he says, then dives straight in.

The next thing you know, his tongue is everywhere. Dipping inside your cunt, swirling around your clit. He flattens it, licking a long stripe up as he peers at you through the thatch of hair, and you feel completely and utterly incoherent as pleasure builds faster than you’ve ever felt before.

Two fingers nudge their way inside, curling, finding the spot that has your thighs squeezing Steve’s head. You can feel his laugh, rather than hear it, as it vibrates against your pussy in a way that has your hips jerking up, desperate, chasing—

“That’s it,” he says, twisting his hand. “Come for me, honey.”

And you do.

Loudly.

A moan is ripped from your throat, bouncing around the walls as you tangle your fingers into his hair, stars shooting across your eyes as he holds you in place.

You feel like you’re on fire, like you’ve somehow been born anew as he works you through your orgasm, brushing a thumb against your clit as you shake and shake and shake, coming down slowly from the highest high you’ve ever felt in your life, until slowly, finally, your limbs stop trembling, and every single one of your muscles goes lax.

“Wow,” you whisper, forcing your eyes open and down towards the man still planting kitten kisses against your pussy. “Wow, Steve. You got—a lot better at that.”

“Yeah?” He shoots you a lopsided grin. “I’m glad.”

You tug on his hair once more, pulling him back up your body. “Come here.”

He follows, and you pull him towards your mouth, savoring the taste of you on his tongue as he kisses you deeply.

It’s perfect.

You reach down, hooking your thumbs into the elastic of his boxers, and he pulls back suddenly, saying, “Uh, when I said I wasn’t expecting anything—I meant it. I don’t—I didn’t bring protection.”

“It’s alright,” you say. “I have an IUD.”

His eyes blow wide open at that, and the next thing you know, his lips are crashing into yours once more as he helps you shuck his underwear. You take him into your hand, finding him warm and somehow bigger than you remember, but still so utterly him and utterly real.

His hips stutter as you give a few, testing pumps, and he whimpers against your mouth, pleading, “Don’t tease.”

“Not teasing,” you say. “Just feeling.”

His forehead drops to your collar as you continue to stroke him, up and down and up and down, dragging your nails across sensitive skin, soaking in the way he moans so beautifully under your ministrations. 

“Honey,” he groans. “Please, please, may I fuck you?”

“Well,” you giggle. “Since you asked so nicely.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice.

You yelp when he catches you under your knees, pushing up, up, up until you’re practically folded in half, the tip of his cock dragging through your folds, gathering wetness. He looks up, locking his eyes on you, before slowly—torturously slow—he pushes in. 

Your mouth drops open as a loud moan is punched from your throat, savoring the feeling of how he drags against your walls, filling you up in a way that you could go crazy over.

He eases out, testing, and gives a shallow thrust, testing, teasing, as he carefully fucks each and every single inch back into you until finally, finally, he bottoms out, his hips flush with your pussy.

And for one, small, excruciating moment, you know what it feels like to be home.

He leans over your body, capturing your hands in his own, winding your fingers together as he presses your foreheads together, the obscene sound of him fucking you gently filling your head.

“So beautiful,” he murmurs against your open mouth. “So, so beautiful, so mine—so lucky, honey, I’m so lucky—”

Tears of pleasure spring in the corners of your eyes, falling down your cheeks, and you let out a breathy laugh when he licks them up, loving the feeling of his tongue against your oversensitive skin. 

It’s never, not in any of your years of sleeping with people, made you feel as whole and complete as you do now, with Steve making space in your body for himself, with the unbridled pleasure he gives you with each and every thrust. 

It almost slips from your lips—an inappropriately timed expression of love—and you think he can tell, because he whispers, “I know, honey, I know.”

“Steve,” you gasp. “Steve.”

He picks up the pace, his hips snapping against yours faster, punching the air from your lungs as bliss lays claim on every single one of your senses.

“Please,” you babble, “please please please, come in me, please—”

“Fuck,” he grunts, then captures your lips so roughly that they’ll no doubt be swollen by the time morning rolls around.

He gives a last few, harsh, stuttering thrusts as warmth spills inside you before collapsing on top of you entirely.

It takes a few minutes, ones you spend stroking a hand down his muscular back, becoming reacquainted with the feeling of his skin, before he pulls out and rolls off, saying, “I could do that every day.”

You tilt your head, giving him what is no doubt a dopey smile.

“Yeah,” you say. “Me too.”

It takes a bit for the two of you to clean up, with Steve insisting on carrying you to the bathroom and laughing when you slip from his sweaty grip.

He finds a wash cloth in the linen cabinet, taking care to be mindful of any sensitivity on your end as he drags the cloth through your folds, washing his spend from your skin.

He also, in the years apart, has apparently lost all sense of shame and insists on staying in the bathroom as you pee, holding your hand like you were at risk of flying away if he were to turn away for just a single second.

It should be embarrassing, but you find that you’ve long since moved past any sense of shame when it comes to Steve Harrington.

Back in your bedroom, he tugs soft pajamas from the dresser and insists on dressing you, kneeling on the ground as he helps you step into underwear, his hands warm against your legs as he pulls up the fabric. 

The two of you move back to the bed, crawling under your old quilt, and instinctively you reach over to the alarm clock, flicking on the radio as Jimmy Lee’s Late Night at the Squawk plays.

“You know,” Steve murmurs against your cheek. “One of those weird jobs I mentioned earlier? One of them was at the radio station.”

“Yeah?” you ask, a little too sleepy to say anything else.

He nods, his hair ticking the soft skin of your face. “Uh-huh. Back during lock down, in ’87. I did the late night set at the Squawk, Monday through Friday.”

Everything in your body stills. “Are you serious?”

His eyes peel open, fixing you with a curious look. “Yeah. Robin—my best friend, she handled the morning show—always said that she had to put me late at night, ‘cause my music choices were too boring.”

“No, it’s not—” Your heart pounds erratically, and it feels as though flowers have wound themselves around your ribcage, blooming under the admission. “Steve.”

“Yes?”

“Mia was born in ’87.”

“I know,” he says.

“No, no, you don’t—”

A laugh bubbles from you, and he hitches himself up on an elbow. “I’m missing something.”

“That was you!” you say between giggles. “Oh my god! No wonder she likes you so much!”

“Honey?”

“After Mia was born,” you start, grinning like a madman. “When it was just me and her, the only way I could get her to sleep was by tuning the radio to the Squawk whenever your show was on. But I had no idea it was you—I was so exhausted, you know?—and your voice—oh, god, your voice—it was the only thing that ever soothed her to sleep without fail.”

“Are you…” He licks his lips, his voice hoarse with emotion. “Are you serious? She…”

There’s something in his expression—hesitation, wonder, affection—that brings tears to your eyes, because you know that look. You know it intimately, because it’s the same way you feel every single time your daughter does something that surprises you, every time she grows just a little more into her own person.

And it’s a look that you have never, not a single time, seen on Mark’s face when he looks at her.

Something in you bursts, a swell of tenderness, of hilarity, over the fact that it took so long to find someone who might even remotely feel the same way about Mia that you do. And that person—that man—the one who so carefully cleaned her scraped knees, is the same man who once applied the same, careful precision to wiping tears from your face when you were nothing but a stranger to him.

It took so long, and he’d lived so close the entire time.

“You know,” he says, sounding rather choked up. “I—don’t kill me for saying this, but—I wish I’d run into you sooner.”

You find his hand in the dark and squeeze, hoping and praying that it conveys every single thing that you feel.

He threads his fingers through yours and squeezes back. 

“I’ve wasted so much time that I could’ve spent with you, with her,” he whispers. “I… I was serious earlier, when I said that I’ll take the two of you, in whatever way you’ll have me.  I’m all in, honey. She’s just—god, she’s an incredible kid, and you—I don’t even know where to begin, but—fuck.”

But he doesn’t need to explain.

Twisting soft strands around his fingers. Scratching lightly against your scalp. Pushing hair back away from your face whenever it falls forward.

Steve likes touching you. This is not exactly new information.

What is new is the fact your voice suddenly cuts off halfway through a sentence.

Steve glances down.

You’re asleep.

Completely asleep.

Mouth slightly parted against his shoulder, breathing slow and even, one hand still loosely curled in the fabric of his t-shirt.

Steve blinks once.

“…seriously?”

You do not respond, mostly because you are unconscious.

Steve stares at you for another few seconds before looking down at his hand still buried in your hair.

Interesting.

The second time it happens, he starts suspecting a pattern.

You’re sitting between his legs on the floor of his bedroom while he half watches a movie over your shoulder and half messes with your hair mindlessly. You’d insisted you weren’t tired less than ten minutes earlier.

“You literally slept till eleven,” Steve reminds you while separating sections of your hair carefully.

“I know,” you mumble. “That’s why I’m not tired.”

“Hm.”

“You’re so annoying.”

“You like me.”

“Unfortunately.”

Steve grins slightly to himself before dragging his nails lightly across your scalp again.

Your shoulders loosen immediately.

Another few minutes pass.

Then, nothing.

No response to his last comment. No movement either.

Steve leans slightly sideways to look at your face properly.

Dead asleep.

Again.

Still sitting upright between his legs.

Steve laughs so suddenly he nearly wakes you back up.

“Oh my god,” he mutters quietly.

By the fourth or fifth occurrence, it becomes less of a coincidence and more of a genuinely ridiculous amount of power for one person to hold.

Especially because Steve starts testing it.

Not maliciously.

Scientifically.

“You’re doing it on purpose now,” you mumble one afternoon, already sounding half asleep despite having argued thirty seconds earlier that you were “definitely awake.”

Steve, stretched out beside you on his bed, continues scratching softly through your hair with an expression of complete innocence.

“Doing what?”

“The hair thing.”

“What hair thing?”

“The…” You frown weakly. “The sleepy thing.”

Steve bites the inside of his cheek hard trying not to laugh.

Because it really is absurd.

You could be fully awake, actively talking, even complaining about not being tired at all, and within ten minutes of Steve touching your hair for long enough you’re suddenly fighting for your life trying to keep your eyes open.

“You’re being dramatic,” he says.

You squint at him suspiciously through obvious exhaustion. “You’re evil.”

“Mhm.”

“You’re like…” Another yawn interrupts you completely. “Like a tranquiliser gun.”

Steve loses it completely at that.

You fall asleep less than five minutes later with your face squashed into his chest while he quietly laughs into your hair.

After that, it becomes sort of unavoidable.

Steve starts noticing all the tiny signs before you even realise you’re tired.

The slower blinking. The way your body gradually gets heavier against him. The increasingly delayed responses during conversations.

And every single time, without fail, the second his fingers slide into your hair properly, you melt.

On the couch.

In bed.

Once in the passenger seat of his car while he waited for Robin to come out of Family Video after locking up.

Another time at the Wheeler’s house with your head in his lap while everyone else argued loudly over a board game around you.

“You cannot be serious,” Dustin says, staring at your sleeping form in disbelief. “How does she keep doing that?”

Steve barely looks up from where he’s still lazily playing with your hair. “Doing what?”

“She was literally talking.”

“Yeah?”

“And now she’s unconscious.”

Steve shrugs like this is completely normal behaviour.

Robin narrows her eyes immediately from the opposite couch.

“Oh, this is definitely psychological.”

Steve scoffs. “What does that even mean?”

“She’s associated you with sleep now.”

“That’s not a thing.”

“It absolutely is,” Robin says. “You Pavlov’d your girlfriend.”

“I did not Pavlov my girlfriend.”

“You basically turned yourself into a human melatonin gummy.”

Steve rolls his eyes, but his hand never stops moving gently through your hair.

Mostly because Robin’s not entirely wrong.

There’s something about the trust of it that affects him more than he expects. The fact you fall asleep so easily against him. The way your whole body relaxes the second he touches you softly enough.

Like some part of you recognises him as safe before you even consciously think about it.

That part gets to him a little if he thinks about it too long.

Which is why he tries not to.

Unfortunately for him, you make this extremely difficult one rainy afternoon a few weeks later.

You’re both curled together in his bed while thunder rumbles softly outside, Steve lazily tracing shapes against your scalp while you blink sleepily up at him.

“You know,” you mumble eventually, “I think my body’s accidentally been trained.”

Steve grins immediately. “Finally admitting it?”

“This is your fault.”

“My fault you’re always sleepy?”

“My fault for trusting you enough to fall asleep this much.”

The smile slips slightly from Steve’s face at that.

You notice immediately, even half asleep.

“What?”

Steve looks down at you quietly for a second before shrugging one shoulder.

“Nothing.”

“Steve.”

His fingers slow slightly in your hair.

“It’s just…” He huffs softly through his nose. “I dunno. Kinda nice, I guess.”

Your expression softens immediately.

Because there it is.

The actual thing sitting underneath all the teasing.

Steve likes being trusted.

Likes being needed in these tiny quiet ways that nobody else really notices.

The way you automatically reach for his hand crossing roads. The way you sleep better beside him. The way you unconsciously move closer every time you’re tired.

You shift upwards slightly against his chest until you can kiss him properly.

Steve kisses you back slowly, one hand still tangled gently in your hair.

“I genuinely think this is my favourite thing.”

Your lips twitch.

“Me falling asleep?”

“No.” Steve smiles faintly. “You trusting me enough to.”

Something warm twists painfully through your chest.

You kiss him again before you can think too hard about it.

Steve’s fingers slide slowly through your hair once more afterwards, scratching lightly against your scalp in that familiar absentminded rhythm.

Dangerous.

You narrow your eyes immediately. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“You know exactly what.”

Steve looks deeply unconvincing. “I’m just touching your hair.”

“You’re literally weaponising affection.”

Steve starts laughing quietly while you attempt to glare at him through increasingly heavy eyelids.

“You’re already falling asleep,” he says.

“No I’m not.”

“You just blinked for like six seconds.”

“That means nothing.”

Steve grins down at you, still gently combing his fingers through your hair.

“You’re done for, sweetheart.”

You open your mouth to argue.

Then immediately yawn instead.

Steve looks so unbearably pleased with himself that you weakly shove at his chest in protest.

It does absolutely nothing.

Mostly because less than ten minutes later, you’re asleep against him again.

And Steve, unfortunately, looks far too happy about it.

part 2 here: [nap trap pt.2]

You freeze. 

What the—

He must not register the utter shock on your face, because he’s already moving towards you. The silky tie snaps through the air as he rips it from his neck. God, he must really be wound up. He didn’t even take his shoes off at the door. 

“Excuse me?” You manage to choke out. 

“Don’t freak out, I just really need to try something,” he grunts, rounding the couch. “Just for a second.”

The moment his knees hit the carpet in front of you, your jaw goes slack.  

“Harrington!” You scramble back into your mountain of pillows, nearly knocking your mug off the side table. You reach out and steady it with one hand, suddenly very aware of how your tank top has ridden up with the movement. “What the hell are you—?”

“…can’t believe she said that,” he mutters, ripping back the blanket thrown over your lap. 

“Who said what?”

He doesn’t respond, eyes locked on your short sleep shorts. They’re a cute set you picked up recently at the mall. Navy blue with white flowers. Innocent-looking. Sweet. 

But he’s staring at them like he’s going to rip them off with his teeth. 

Heat rushes to your cheeks. 

While you can’t deny what that look is doing to you, there’s something else trapped in his gaze. Sadness? Not quite. Disappointment, maybe? You’ve only been roommates for six months, but you already know him well enough to know when he’s upset. 

Reaching down, you grab a fistful of his hair and tip his head back. His eyes snap to yours. 

“What did she say?” you ask again, firmer this time. 

Steve’s lips form a thin line before he sighs heavily. You drop his hair. 

“She said I was bad at sex. Specifically, bad at...this.” He gestures unhelpfully between your legs and your stomach swoops as his finger almost brushes the seam of your shorts. 

It takes you a second, but then your brows pull together. “She actually said that?”

“Not exactly,” he groans. “The date was fine. It was our third, so when she invited me upstairs, I figured…well, you know. And then we got to making out and it was hot. I guess…”

You swallow hard and gesture for him to continue, even if the thought of his lips trailing down some other girl’s neck feels like a knife in your side. 

“And then I went down on her and she said—” He cuts himself off with a miserable little huff before resuming. “She said it wasn’t doing anything for her. At all. Like it wasn’t good enough or something. Can you believe that? I could’ve lived if she said my thrust game needed work or something, if we had even gotten to that point, but this? This is, like, my thing.”

Oh. Okay. 

Yeah, you could’ve gone the rest of your lease without knowing that eating pussy is your hot roommate’s thing. 

That is not good for your little crush you have going on that you refuse to talk about. Or think about. Ever. 

You nod quickly and clear your throat. “S-so, what exactly does this have to do with me?” 

Steve just shrugs. “We’re friends, right?”

“Right.”

“Right.” He levels your gaze, brown eyes soft and playful in the lamplight. “So…”

The moment stretches between you, an invitation, an ask, and a dare all rolled into one. 

“So, because we’re such good friends, we just…give each other oral sex?”

Steve sighs. “Look. I just want a second opinion, okay? I mean, this is bad. Really bad. If Cindy didn’t like it, then what if other girls didn’t either? Then I’ve just been lied to all this time—”

Your gaze drops to his fingers digging into the couch cushion beneath you, and despite yourself, a smile creeps across your lips. “Oh my God, this really got to you, didn’t it?” 

“What?” He balks. “No! It’s just…I need to set the record straight.” He taps your knees with a knuckle, playful but firm. “Spread ‘em.”

You bark an unbelieving laugh that ends in a sound too close to a whimper when his hands come down on your thighs. 

You cannot let him do this to you. If you do, you’ll never be able to get over your secret-no-good-very-bad-crush on your roommate. 

You force yourself to breathe. “I…I don’t want thinks to get weird.”

 His eyes flick up to yours. “Weird?”

“Between us.”

Steve seems to take a second to understand what you’re saying, and you watch as an emotion you can’t place crosses his face. 

Suddenly, he moves to stand. “You’re right. Sorry. God, I’m an idiot. What am I thinking, I just—”

Panic spikes and you snatch his wrist before you even really know what you’re doing, cutting him off. “No, wait. It’s like you said. We’re…friends, right?”

He nods quickly. Too quickly. “Yeah.”

“So, we don’t let it get weird.” The words spill out of you before you can take them back. But you don’t want to. “I’ll give you an unbiased review. A one time thing.”

You watch as his lashes drop again to your legs, and his pupils widen as your knees fall apart a little on instinct. 

“You’re sure?” he asks, voice thick. 

In an effort to appear nonchalant, you shrug. But you’re salivating when his tongue darts over his bottom lip. 

 “Yes,” you breathe. 

He doesn’t waste a second dropping back down to his knees, and your legs widen immediately to give him space. 

“So, you’ll tell me the truth, right?” he rasps, eyes jumping between your face and your hips. “Be honest. I can take it.”

“Honest,” you agree, but the word comes out in a whisper as his fingers slip under your waistband. 

Your face burns as he pulls down your shorts and panties in one smooth motion, baring you to him. His hands gently ease your thighs farther apart, and you fight the urge to squirm under his gaze. 

“Steve! Stop looking at it like that,” you gasp.

“Why?” he asks without glancing up. “It’s pretty.”

Shit. 

You’re not strong enough for this. 

But when he finally looks up, you recognize the silent question in his eyes. He’s asking for permission. You could stop this right now, and he would let you easily. He’s probably never even bring it up again. No harm done. 

And you should. 

God, you should. 

But you don’t want to. 

So instead, you just nod, not trusting your voice to speak. 

As he leans in, you brace for the feeling of his tongue, but you’re surprised when he starts by just…kissing you. 

His lips are soft against your folds, and your breath catches at the tenderness there. His eyes find yours before he goes lower, and the moment his nose bumps your clit, your body jolts in his hold. 

He makes a muffled sound and his eyes drift shut, large palms moving to your hips, pinning them to the cloth couch beneath you.

 Then there’s that wet heat. 

His tongue slides over you with just enough pressure, starting slow and exploring your entrance. 

“Oh, God,” you whimper. 

His hair is so soft against your inner thighs, and when he makes a sound of encouragement against you, and his tongue swirls higher, catching the underside of your clit, your mouth drops open in a silent moan. 

He’s hardly done anything yet, but the way he’s doing it, so confident, and steady, it’s unlike anything you’ve ever felt before.

“See? Good, right?” he mutters, the words muffled and slick against your core. “I know what I’m—mmm, fuck, you taste good.”

Before you can respond, his hands wrap up and around your thighs, and he hauls you closer. Your tank top rides up even higher as you slide down into the cushions, but you don’t reach up to fix it. 

Mostly because Steve Harrington is going down on you, and that thought alone is nearly making you lose your fucking mind. 

His lashes flutter shut as he makes out with your dripping cunt, his throat bobbing as sucks gently, swallows, and goes back for more. 

You’re surprised to find there’s no performance to his actions, but more of a genuine enjoyment. 

Steve eats pussy like he wants to. 

You watch, transfixed, and you can’t help but roll your hips once against his mouth, smearing your slick all over his pretty fucking face. 

Too pretty for his own good.

A sound escapes his chest, something caught between a moan and a whine, and he nods against you, peeking up from beneath his lashes. 

The carpet whispers as rises higher on his knees, mouth traveling up your mound and over the soft, sensitive skin below your belly button. 

But you whimper at the loss, pushing his head back down. 

His throat vibrates against you with a chuckle, but he follows you obediently. “Oh, yeah? So definitely doing something for you then.”

“Shut up,” you groan, but the sound dies out harshly when his mouth latches to your clit and sucks. 

Hard. 

You gasp, back arching as your core clenches instinctively. 

Then, without warning, he pulls back. 

You look at each other, chests heaving. Suddenly, you’re afraid he’s done. That you now have to give a report based on that. 

“Is that it?” You squeak. 

“What? God, you think I would just leave you like that? No, I was just thinking—” He draws in a breath, like he needs to physically rearrange his thoughts. “Well, I haven’t even kissed you yet.”

You just stare down at him, chest heaving, bare and slick from the waist down. 

He takes one look at your face and clears his throat. “Right. Later.” He leans in again, but pauses before glancing up at you one more time. “Yes?”

“Yes, Harrington, I will kiss you, later,” you whine pitifully, canting your hips into his hands. 

He seems pleased, and wastes no time picking up where he left off. 

And this time, he doesn’t tease you. 

Your head hips back, a moan tearing from your throat as two of his fingers spear deep inside and his mouth closes over your clit.

As you threaten to fall apart beneath him, Steve just watches. 

Every little whine and whimper. Every jerk and arch of your back. Every wriggle of your hips and curl of your toes. 

He studies you like a map, surveying everything that makes you soak his face, everything that makes you clench hard around his fingers, his tongue, and finding new routes to all those destinations. 

The tension between your hips pulls tighter, and when he reaches up to palm your breast, slipping his hand underneath your tank top, you wonder if he can feel it. 

The way your heart slams against your ribs. 

A silent, helpless confession. A call for him to see that this will not, in fact, be a one-time thing. 

That you’ve been thinking about this—about him—ever since the day you moved in. 

That ache builds like a tidal wave, threatening to break, and your fingers fly to his arms for stability. He’s warm, and strong, and his muscles shift under his dress shirt. 

It’s honestly impressive how quickly he responds, how easily he reads every subconscious signal your body gives him. Because when that breathy, urgent whine starts to leave your lips, his thumb replaces his mouth on your clit, rubbing firm, perfect circles that drive you higher. And then he dips lower, tonguing your entrance, devouring you in thick, broad strokes, pushing you to the fucking brink. 

“Yeah, you gonna come for me?” He slurs against your aching cunt. “Just like that. That’s it. I’ve got you—mmhm—”

The second his tongue spears deep inside, the tidal wave breaks. 

Your moan fills your quiet apartment, and you nearly come off the couch with the intensity of it. The rush is unlike anything you’ve felt before. You have no option but to surrender fully to it as it pulls you under, shamelessly riding your orgasm out on Steve’s tongue.

Steve’s ready for it though. He goes with you easily as your hips rise and fall, strong hands holding you to his mouth, unwilling to let you slide away. 

When the pulsing eventually fades to shuttering jolts, he pulls back, but his hands stay on your hips, caressing you softly, bringing you back down to earth. 

You bite your lip, looking down at him panting between your knees. Your body aches, but in a good way. Like you need more, but somehow, it still won’t ever be enough. 

“God, Steve—” you whine, but you’re cut off by him lunging up across your body and pressing his lips to yours. 

You laugh into his mouth, tasting yourself on his tongue as he kisses you eagerly. 

“You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting to do that.” He murmurs, pulling back a little.

Something catches in your chest at his confession, and you thread your fingers through his hair, pulling him back down for another kiss. 

This one is different. 

Deeper, and softer, and…meaningful. 

He sinks back down onto his knees, squeezing your thigh, your waist, like you’re something precious. 

“So, tell me , honestly, was it good?” He urged, gazing up at you.

You blink dumbly, throughly flushed. “Yeah, uh…no notes.”

He smirks. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. Five out of five stars.”

“I don’t know, Harrington. That literally means no room for improvement.” You’re not sure his ego is ready for that. 

“Oh?” His lips tilt in a crooked smile that makes you want to kiss him again. “What would you have me do to earn that fifth star, huh?”

His lids go heavy as you tighten your hold on his hair and urge his mouth back down where you want it. 

“You could do it again.”

a/n: It's my canon that his date, Cindy, was just hung up on her ex, and Steve was the unlucky rebound that night. Plus, Steve wasn't that into it. Because he was thinking about you, obviously. Also, here is the fluffy version sister fic if you care lol

Because Steve never hesitates.

Never acts like affection is something shameful.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And the kisses are constant too.

Quick, thoughtless ones, born entirely from fondness.

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

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

Like loving you tastes good.

And god, the neck kissing.

It’s terrible.

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

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

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

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

You wrinkle your nose. “That sounds horrifying.”

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

Then his mouth finds the hinge of your jaw.

One lazy, distracted kiss.

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

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

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

“That can’t be true.”

“No, I swear to god.”

Then his mouth drifts lower.

Open-mouthed kisses this time.

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

Your entire body tightens around the feeling.

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

Steve isn’t performing intimacy.

He just never second-guesses affection.

Unlike you.

For you, every touch feels catastrophic.

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

Whether you deserve to be loved this openly at all.

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

He stops, hand stilling against your stomach.

“Babe?”

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

Steve leans back, concern creasing immediately between his brows.

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

“Hm? Mhm.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

Another lie.

Your skin still burns where he kissed you.

And underneath all the panic is something worse.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Care.

Always care.

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

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

“Okay,” he says finally.

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

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

He reaches down and interlaces your fingers with his.

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

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

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

...

It isn’t just the touching.

You almost wish it was.

Because that would be easier to understand.

A touch can be explained away:

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

But it’s not just that.

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

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

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

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

And hidden right in the middle were your favorites.

Blue hydrangeas.

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

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

Three seconds, maybe.  

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

That was it.

You hadn’t even thought he heard you.

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

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

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

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

You stared down at the flowers.

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

Not florist-perfect, but Steve-perfect.

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

“…um, Steve?”

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

“Steve.”

“Yeah?”

You blinked at him slowly.

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

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

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

He laughed softly after saying it, confused.

But you didn’t laugh.

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

Your heartbeat started creeping unpleasantly high in your throat.

Was it an anniversary?

Oh god.

Had you forgotten something?

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

The cellophane crackled beneath your tightening grip.

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

Steve’s forehead wrinkled.

“Huh?”

“The flowers.”

“What about ‘em?”

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

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

His confusion only made your chest tighten more.

“Is it our anniversary or something?”

His frown deepened. “What? No.”

“Then… why?”

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

“Baby, they’re just flowers.”

You stared back helplessly.

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

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

The apartment suddenly felt very quiet.

You looked back down at the bouquet in your arms.

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

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

Your throat burned.

“That’s it?” you asked quietly.

Steve let out a soft breath through his nose.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You looked down again.

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

It couldn’t have been more beautiful.

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

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

That was the other unbearable thing about him.

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

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

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

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

Nobody had ever remembered little things about you before.

Not enough to act on them later.

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

But Steve noticed everything.

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

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

Your fingers tightened carefully around the bouquet.

“Thank you,” you managed quietly.  

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

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

...

You don’t know why you get like this.

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

Why your first instinct is always to freeze.

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

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

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

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

Love had always arrived transactional before him.

Conditional.

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

But Steve loves you without condition.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Those are gonna stain.”

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

You lose track of time there.

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

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

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

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

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

He’s warm everywhere.

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

And he does pause, constantly.

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

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

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

“C’mere,” he murmurs softly.

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

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

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

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

Like nowhere else on earth could possibly compare to this.

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

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

You reach for his hair quickly, panic flaring.

“Steve,” you whisper. “Wait.”

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

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

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

“I should shower first.”

His brows pull together. “Why?”

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

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

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

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

“Steve...”

“I mean it.”

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

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

Then he takes in a breath.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Like the warmth of it could burn straight through you.

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

Steve’s head snaps up instantly.

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

God.

Oh god.

Not now.

Why now?

“Baby, are you—”

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

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

“Hey, hey—what’s wrong?”

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

“Baby, what happened?”

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

Always gentle.

“Did I hurt you? Did I do something?”

“N-no,” you choke out immediately.

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

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

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

The flowers from dinner are on the dresser.

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

Embarrassment crashes over you like a wave.

Perfect.

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

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

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

You feel Steve’s hand slide up your spine.

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

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

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

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

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

You can’t look at him.

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

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

Steve stills at that.

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

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

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

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

“I can’t.”

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

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

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

You finally do.

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

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

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

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

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

Steve’s face never hides anything

It doesn’t know how to.

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

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

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

You wonder what that must feel like.

To love someone without fear.

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

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

You want to tell him.

For him, you’d try.

But the truth feels monstrous once it reaches your throat.

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

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

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

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

You part your lips, throat dry and aching.

Steve waits, thumb rubbing soothing circles into your wrists.

Patient.

Always so fucking patient with you.

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

“...I just really love you.”

It rushes out so quickly.

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

Ever.

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

“Oh,” he breathes.

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

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

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

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

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

It isn’t simple.

But maybe it also is.

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

“Okay,” he murmurs. “Okay. C’mere.”

This time you don’t hesitate.

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

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

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

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

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

Thank you, you mean.

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

Thank you.

She grabs a cushion and hugs it to her chest, watching you settle into the armchair across from her. Her eyes have that glint you recognise — the one that says she is about to pitch you something she has already decided you are going to do.

"Come work with me," she says.

"Work with you where? The video store?"

"Family Video, yes. It's perfect. They're hiring. I already talked to my manager. Well, I talked to my manager's manager, because Keith — that's my manager — is useless, but the regional guy said we could use another person. And you need money. And I need someone to talk to who isn't Steve Harrington."

You have heard about Steve Harrington. You have heard a lot about Steve Harrington. Robin says he's funny when he's not being a total grump, which is maybe 5% of the time. 

You feel like you know him, really. "I don't know that much about movies," you say.

"You don't need to know anything about movies. You need to know the alphabet and basic movie genres. That's it. That's the job."

"What if someone asks me for a recommendation?"

"Then you say, 'I don't know, I'm new,' and then you find me."

"What if you're not there?"

"Then you find Steve. And if Steve's not there, you make something up. Tell them Steel Magnolias is great. Everyone loves Steel Magnolias."

"I've never seen Steel Magnolias."

Robin throws her hands up. "That's not the point! The point is you need money and I need a friend and Family Video needs someone who can alphabetise without complaining."

You laugh despite yourself. "Okay. Fine. I'll come in for an interview. But if your manager is weird, I'm blaming you."

Robin grins. "Oh, Keith is definitely weird. But he's funny, you might like him. A little oddball."

The interview is scheduled for Thursday at 3 PM.

You walk to Family Video because you haven't saved enough for a car yet — which is, you remind yourself, exactly why you are doing this.

The heat is oppressive, the kind of humidity that makes your hair curl in directions you did not know it could curl, and by the time you push open the door of Family Video, you are flushed and slightly out of breath and pretty sure your outfit was a mistake.

The store is cool. Air-conditioned, so you sigh happily as you step inside. Rows of VHS tapes line the walls, new releases on the back, older movies toward the front.

There is a counter at the front, cluttered with candy and tapes and a cash register that looks older than you. Behind the counter, a guy is leaning against the wall, reading a magazine. He has a Family Video vest on, the name tag reading "KEITH" in block letters, and he does not look up when you walk in.

You stand there for a moment. Clear your throat. Still no reply, so you say, "I'm here for an interview?"

Keith looks up. His face is completely blank. Not annoyed, not surprised, not anything. Just — blank. Yeah, he's definitely weird. "You're the friend," he says. It is not a question.

"Robin's friend, yeah. She said you were hiring?"

Keith nods slowly, like this is information he is processing one word at a time. He stops in front of you. Looks you up and down. You resist the urge to smooth down your jeans. 

"Three favourite movies," he says.

You blink. "What?"

"Three favourite movies. Everyone who works here has to tell me their three favourite movies. It's the interview."

"Um." You try to think. You have watched a lot of movies. You have watched movies with Robin, with your roommate, with your mom when you were home for break. But now that someone is asking, your mind is completely blank. "I like — I like The Princess Bride."

Keith nods. Writes something on a clipboard you did not notice he was holding.

"And?"

You scramble. "And — Back to the Future. I saw it three times in theatres."

"And the third one?"

You open your mouth. Close it. You can feel your face heating up. Behind Keith, through the staff room window, you see some guy with really nice hair turn around. 

He is holding a box of tapes, and he is looking at you through the glass, and even from here you can see that he is — well. He is very pretty. Which is annoying, because you are trying to remember a movie and he is standing there being pretty and it is distracting.

"Um," you say again. "When Harry Met Sally," you say finally. You have not seen When Harry Met Sally. But Robin told you about it, and it seems like the kind of movie someone should say in an interview, and you need to say something.

Keith writes it down and then looks up. "You're hired."

You stare at him. "What?"

"You said three movies. That's the interview." He turns and walks back behind the counter, picks up his fishing magazine. "Robin will show you the schedule. You start Monday."

You stand in the middle of Family Video, trying to process what just happened. You have been here maybe three minutes. You have not filled out an application. You have not given him your resume. You said three movie titles and you have a job.

The staff room door opens. The pretty guy with the hair emerges, still holding the box of tapes, and up close he is even more distracting. Sharp jaw, big brown eyes, big hands — god, he has nice hands, you notice absently — and a mouth that is currently pressed into a thin line like he's trying very hard to look unimpressed.

He is wearing the same vest as Keith, his name tag reading "STEVE" in slightly crooked letters, and he is looking at you like you are a problem he did not ask for. "You're the new girl," he says.

You smile at him. You cannot help it. He is very pretty and you just got a job and the air conditioning is still blowing cold air on your overheated skin and everything feels a little bit like a dream. "I'm the new girl!"

His expression flickers. Something passes over his face — surprise, maybe, or confusion. Like he was expecting something else. Someone else, maybe. 

"So," you say, because you are good at filling silences and this one feels like it needs filling. "You're Steve."

He raises an eyebrow. "You've heard of me?"

"Robin talks about you all the time."

His expression flickers again — something that might be pleased, quickly suppressed. "Good things, I hope."

"Robin says you're grumpy." 

Both of his eyebrows go up this time. "Robin says a lot of things."

"She says you're funny, too. But only sometimes. Like five percent of the time."

"Five percent?"

"That's what she said. I don't know if it's accurate. I haven't known you long enough to do the math."

He makes a sound. It's not quite a laugh, but it's close. Something caught in his throat that wants to be a laugh and is being wrestled into something else. "You're doing the math?"

"I'm a math major. I do math all the time. It's kind of my whole thing."

He blinks. Something shifts in his expression — recalibration, maybe. Like he had you filed under a certain category and now has to move you somewhere else. "Math major."

"Was that not what you expected?"

He opens his mouth. Closes it. His eyes do that thing again, flicking from your face to somewhere else and then back. "I don't know what I expected."

"You expected something," you say, because you can see it in the way he's standing, the way he keeps looking at you like he's confused. "Robin told you about me, didn't she?"

"I didn't ask."

"You didn't have to ask. She just talks."

"She does talk," he admits. His mouth twitches. "A lot."

"That's why she's your best friend. "

"I'm not—" He stops. His jaw works. "Not best friends. We work together. That's different."

"You work together and you're best friends. I can tell."

"How can you tell? You've known me for three minutes."

"Because you're standing here talking to me when you could be doing anything else. Shelving tapes. Alphabetising. Whatever it is you do back there." You nod toward the staff room. "But you're here. Talking to me."

He looks at you for a long moment. His arms are still crossed, the box of tapes still pressed against his chest, but something in his posture has shifted. Softened. Just a little. "Maybe I'm just being polite."

"Are you?"

"No."

You laugh.

He looks at you. His eyes are very brown. Very warm. The grumpiness has slipped, just for a moment, and underneath it is something else. Something softer. Something that makes your chest feel tight. "How come you're working here, when you're a hotshot math major?"

You grin, amused. "My landlord raised my rent. And my scholarship only covers so much. And differential equations don't pay the bills, at least not yet, unfortunately, so I had to apply for this job that I'm totally unqualified for, and... here I am."

"Here you are," Steve echoes, and he looks like he's trying very hard not to smile. "You have to be qualified if you passed Keith's interview, though," he teases. 

"I said When Harry Met Sally. I've never seen it."

He blinks. "Why did you say it, then?"

You hesitate. You could lie. You could make something up, something normal, something that doesn't reveal the embarrassing truth. But he's looking at you with those eyes, and you've never been good at lying, and something about the quiet of the store, the late afternoon light, the way he's standing there with his nice hands and his hair and his brown eyes — it makes you want to tell him.

"Because I was distracted," you say.

Steve frowns. "By what?"

You point at him. "By you."

He stares at you. His mouth opens. Closes. His ears are very red now. "By me."

"You were in the window. With your hair. And your—" You gesture vaguely at his face. His whole face. "You know."

"I don't know."

"You were being very—" You search for the right word. "Visible. In the window. Where I could see you."

He is quiet for a moment. His hand is in his hair again, messing it up more, and he doesn't seem to notice. His eyes are fixed on your face, and there's something in them that you can't quite name.

"You picked When Harry Met Sally," he says slowly, "because I was distracting you."

"My brain stopped working. You were the reason my brain stopped working. So technically, yes. You're responsible for that answer."

He stares at you. For a long moment, he just stares, and you think — you think maybe you have said too much. You have only known this person for five minutes. You do not get to tell him that he made your brain stop working. That is not a normal thing to say.

But then he smiles. A real one. Wide and surprised and a little disbelieving, like he can't help it, like the smile is happening to him without permission. "That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard," he says.

"Hey!" you protest. "I told you the truth, and you're being mean."

"You told me the truth," Steve says, and his voice is doing something strange. It's softer now, amused. "You told me I made your brain stop working. In a job interview."

"Are you going to hold that against me forever?"

"Probably."

"You are the worst."

"You sound like Robin."

"Yeah, well, she's a good teacher," you cross your arms, but you're smiling, you can't stop smiling, and he's smiling too, and the two of you are standing in the middle of Family Video grinning at each other like idiots. "I'm going to be so very good at this job. You'll see. I'm going to learn everything about everything. I'm going to alphabetise so hard."

"Alphabetise so hard," he repeats, a grin tugging at his mouth. "You're a weirdo." 

"Keith is a weirdo," you correct. 

He shakes his head, but he's still smiling. 

"I have to go finish a paper," you say, and you're surprised to find that you don't want to. You want to stay here, in this cool, quiet store, with this grumpy boy who keeps smiling at you like he can't help it. "Twelve pages. Differential equations. The Heun function."

"That's—" He stops. "That sounds like a lot."

"It's a lot of math." You sigh dramatically. "I'm going to be up all night."

"You should go, then."

"I should."

You don't move. He doesn't move. The afternoon light is shifting, turning gold, catching in his hair. It's very nice hair. You've noticed. You're noticing now.

"Steve," you say.

"What?"

"Are you always here? Or just on Thursdays?"

He frowns. "I'm here most days. Why?"

You shrug, aiming for casual and missing entirely. "No reason. Just — for when I start. So I know who to bother when Robin's not around."

"You're going to bother me?"

"Duh." 

He sighs, long and heavy, but his eyes say he doesn't really mind. "You're going to be a problem, aren't you?"

You beam at him. "A good problem, I hope."

Steve looks at you for a long moment, something in his eyes that you can't quite identify. "Go write your paper," he says.

"I'm going."

"You're not going. You're standing here."

"Well sorry, Mr. Technical. I'll leave now." You gather your bag, sling it over your shoulder. You're at the door when you stop, turn back. He's still standing there, watching you. "See you Monday, Steve."

"See you, sunshine." 

You freeze at the door. Sunshine. He called you sunshine.

You turn back, but Steve has already turned away, his ears very pink, his hand very busy rearranging the candy display. You push open the door and walk out into the heat, and the word follows you like a warmth under your skin.

Sunshine.

You go to sleep smiling. You wake up smiling. Your roommate asks if you're okay. You tell her you've never been better, and you mean it.

The weekend passes in a blur of differential equations and daydreaming. You finish your paper — barely — and turn it in on Monday morning with dark circles under your eyes and a smile that won't go away.

You walk to Family Video faster than necessary. Your heart is already beating too fast when you push open the door, the bell jingling overhead, the cool air washing over you.

The store is quiet. The afternoon light slants through the windows, gold and soft, catching on the dust motes floating in the air. And there he is.

Steve is behind the counter, counting the till, his brow furrowed in concentration. He's wearing the same vest, the same jeans. His hair looks incredibly soft today. 

He looks up when the bell rings. Sees you. His eyes crinkle at the corners, his mouth softens, and his shoulders drop. "Hey, sunshine."

Your heart feels like it's in your throat. "Hey."

Robin appears from the back room, a stack of tapes in her arms. "There she is! My favourite brand new Family Video employee!" She sets the tapes down, comes around the counter, pulls you into a hug. "I'm so glad you're here."

"Uh, excuse me?" Steve chimes in grumpily from the cashier. "What are you trying to say, Buckley, that I'm not good company?"

"That's exactly what I'm trying to say, Dingus," she replies, but she's grinning, wide and amused, and you know she doesn't mean it. Steve is definitely her best friend. 

"Your words wound me," Steve says, pressing a hand to his chest like he's been shot. His eyes, though, are still on you. You can't seem to look away. 

"You don't have wounds, Steve. You have feelings. There's a difference." Robin pats his cheek twice, firm. "And your feelings are going to be fine because you have someone to train today. Someone who will actually listen to you."

She's looking at you when she says this. You feel your face warm.

Steve straightens, smooths down his vest. "Right. Training. The register first. It's not complicated."

He rounds the counter, and you follow him, your bag sliding off your shoulder. Robin is already disappearing into the back, humming something under her breath, and then it's just you and Steve behind the counter. 

"So," Steve says. He's standing close, close enough that your shoulder bumps his, close enough that his arm brushes yours when he reaches for the register. "This is the cash drawer. This button opens it. Don't press it when there's no sale or Keith gets weird."

"Weird how?"

"He doesn't say anything. He just looks at you. For a really long time, like you're stupid."

You laugh. Steve glances at you, brown eyes soft and less guarded. 

"So you open the drawer," he continues, clearing his throat. "You take the money. You make change. The computer tells you how much change to make, so it's easy."

You nod, watching his hands as he moves through the motions. His fingers are long, his movements sure. You wonder what it would be like to have those hands around yours. You wonder what it would be like to have him teach you something else, something slower, something where he stood closer and—

"Are you listening?" Steve's voice cuts through your thoughts.

"Yes," you say quickly. Too quickly. "Change. Computer. Easy."

He narrows his eyes. "What did I just say about the five-dollar bill?"

Your mind blanks. "It's... green?"

Steve stares at you. His mouth twitches in amusement. "That's not—" He stops, running a hand through his hair. "You're not listening."

"I'm listening. I'm just — it's really hot. The heat. From outside. It makes my brain slow." You stop. He's looking at you. "I'm not making a good first impression, am I?"

He leans against the counter, arms crossed. His shoulder is very close to yours. "Your first impression was telling me I made your brain stop working. This is actually an improvement."

You feel your face go hot. "I'm really never going to live that down, am I?"

He grins. "Nope."

You groan, letting your head fall forward. Your forehead nearly hits the counter, but Steve's hand shoots out, his palm flat against your forehead, stopping you.

And he's got good reflexes. Damn it. You are screwed.

"Easy," he says. His hand is warm, his fingers spread wide, and you're suddenly very aware of how close he is, how his palm fits against your skin, how his thumb is almost at your temple. "You'll give yourself a concussion like that. Then I'd get fired, 'cos you're under my watch, and Keith would have to do your training. And trust me, you don't want that."

You look up at him through your lashes. His hand is still on your face. He doesn't seem to realise he hasn't moved it.

"Keith's training would be worse than yours?" You ask, smiling.

"Ha ha," Steve deadpans. "Hilarious. Depends on your definition of worse. Keith's training is sitting in the back room reading his fishing magazine while you figure it out yourself." His thumb moves, just a fraction, brushing a strand of hair from your face. "I had to learn the register alone. Took me three days to figure out the cash drawer."

You blink at him. "You didn't know how to open the cash drawer?"

"I couldn't find the button." His ears are pink. "It was a learning experience."

You laugh, because you can't help it, because he's funny and you didn't expect him to be funny and because you can't believe you're working at a video store with Steve "The Hair" Harrington who couldn't figure out how to work the cash drawer. He's a little adorable. 

Steve's hand drops from your face, but he's smiling, that soft smile, the one that makes your stomach flip. "I'm glad my suffering is amusing to you," he says.

"You suffered?"

"I suffered," he affirms, leaning against the counter, watching you double over to laugh. 

"Okay," you manage, through a giggle. "Okay. Show me the register again. I promise I'll listen this time."

He raises an eyebrow. "Really? You promise?"

You nod seriously. "Very professional, I promise."

He doesn't look convinced, but he turns back to the register anyway. His hand brushes yours as he reaches for the drawer, and he doesn't pull away.

"The five-dollar bill," he says, and his voice is lower now, softer, "goes here. In this slot. The tens go here. The twenties here. The coins go in the little cups. Don't mix them up."

You nod, eyes fixed on the register, even though they ache to flit towards where his hand is so close to yours. 

"The computer tells you how much change to give," he continues. "You count it back to the customer. Slowly. Out loud. So they know you're not cheating them."

"People think you're cheating them?"

"People think everyone's cheating them. It's the American way." He glances at you. "You want to try?"

You nod. He steps back, just enough to give you room, and you slide into the space he was occupying. You go through the motions. Open the drawer. Pull out the bills. Count them back. Your hands are steady, your movements sure. You can feel him watching you, his eyes on your hands, your face, your hair.

"Good," he says, and his voice is strange. Thicker. "You're a natural."

"Thanks," you hum softly, looking back at him over your shoulder. 

He stares for a long moment, then clears his throat. "Okay. Next thing. Returns."

You spend the next hour learning returns. Steve shows you the system, explains the difference between damaged tapes and returned tapes, shows you where to put the ones that need to be rewound. He's patient, clearer than you expected, and he doesn't laugh when you put a tape in the wrong pile.

"Returns go in this bin," he says, pointing. "Damaged tapes go in this one. Tapes that need rewinding go in the back room. On the shelf. The one that says REWIND."

"That makes things easier," you note, "wouldn't peg Keith for the type of guy to make things easier for his employees."

"I made the sign myself."

You look up at him. "You made a sign that says REWIND?"

"It was necessary," he protests, but his cheeks are a little pink. "People, Robin included, kept putting them in the wrong place, so. It's a good sign. Very helpful."

"I'm sure it's a great sign."

"It's a great sign. Stunning, really."

You laugh. He glares at you, but there's no real heat in it. "Show me the sign," you find yourself saying.

He leads you to the back room. It's small, cramped, filled with boxes of tapes and a little desk with a lamp and a stack of schedules. On the wall, above a shelf lined with tapes, is a piece of cardboard with REWIND written in black marker.

Steve is watching you. "Well?"

"It's beautiful," you say.

He blinks. "What?"

"It's beautiful. The—" You gesture. "The craftsmanship. The attention to detail. You can really see the—" You wave your hand vaguely. "The heart. I might cry, really. So much effort for such a helpful act of kindness."

He stares at you, his mouth opening, then closing. "You're making fun of me."

"I'm not making fun of you. I'm appreciating the sign. The sign you made. With your own hands."

"It's cardboard."

"It's heartfelt cardboard."

He laughs, bends down a little to look at the sign closer. "It is heartfelt cardboard," he agrees, and you can't breathe, because his lips are right next to your ear, and he's impossibly close, and suddenly there's no space at all in this tiny backroom, and—

The bell over the door jingles. You both jump. Steve scrambles to his feet, nearly knocking over a stack of tapes.

You follow him to the front. You don't say anything about the moment you just had in the backroom, and he doesn't either. But when you shelve tapes together for the rest of the shift, he stands a little closer. His hand brushes yours when he hands you a tape. He calls you sunshine, and his voice is softer than it was before.

At the end of your shift, you're standing by the door, your bag over your shoulder. Steve is behind the counter, counting the till.

"Same time tomorrow?" you ask.

He looks up. His eyes are warm. "Same time."

You should go. You definitely should go. But you don't want to. You want to stay here, in this store, with this grumpy boy who made a sign that says REWIND and couldn't figure out a cash machine for three days.

"Goodnight, Steve," you murmur as you leave. 

"Goodnight, sunshine."

You push open the door and walk out into the evening air, and you don't feel the heat at all. You're too busy smiling, too busy thinking about pink ears and brown eyes and pretty hair.

You're thinking about tomorrow.

You wake up on Tuesday with a smile already on your face.

It's ridiculous. You know it's ridiculous. You've known Steve Harrington for exactly one shift — one shift and an interview, which barely counts — and already you're smiling before your eyes are even open. Your roommate is still drumming somewhere in the apartment, a steady thump-thump-thump that usually makes you want to throw something at the wall. Today it sounds like music.

You pick out your outfit carefully. Jeans, a soft sweater, your hair loose around your shoulders. You check the mirror twice. Not because you're worried — you're not, you tell yourself — but because you want to look nice. For yourself. Definitely just for yourself.

There's something different in your reflection, something you can't quite name. A brightness, maybe. A lightness. You look happy. You realize you are happy. You're happy because you have a job, because you finished your paper, because the sun is out and your roommate's drumming doesn't bother you today. 

That's all. It has nothing to do with a boy with nice hair and pink ears who called you sunshine and made a sign that says REWIND.

Nothing at all.

When you reach Family Video, Steve is behind the counter, his back to you, rearranging the candy display. He doesn't turn around.

You stand there for a moment, watching him. His hair is soft today, falling across his forehead. He's wearing his vest over a plain white t-shirt, and you can see the shape of his shoulders, the line of his back. He's humming something under his breath, something you don't recognise.

You clear your throat.

He turns. His hands are full of Milk Duds, his expression distracted, and then he sees you. His whole face changes. The distraction clears. His eyes crinkle at the corners, his mouth curves into something soft and surprised and warm.

"Hey," he says. "Hey, sunshine."

You beam at him, too happy to stop the way your mouth curves upwards. “Hi, Steve.”

He sets the Milk Duds down, rounds the counter. He's wearing jeans that fit him well, a belt, the same vest. His eyes are on your face, traveling, cataloguing. "You're early," he says.

"I wanted to—" You stop. You were going to say ‘I wanted to see you’, but that's too much, too soon, too honest. "I wanted to get here before Robin. So I could learn more. Before the rush."

He nods, but he's still looking at you, and there's something in his expression that makes your stomach flip. "Okay. Come on," he says. "Rom-com section needs organising. Robin's been messing with it again."

You follow him through the store, past the new releases, past the horror section, past the drama. The rom-com section is in the back corner, tucked between the classics and the kids' movies, and it's a disaster. Tapes are shoved in the wrong places, some upside down, some facing the wrong way.

A copy of When Harry Met Sally is somehow on the floor next to Ghostbusters.

Steve picks it up, holds it out to you. "Look what someone did to your favorite movie,” he teases softly, and it makes you laugh. “You should actually watch it though, sometime. It’s a good film.”

"Maybe I will."

He nods. "Maybe you should."

Steve drops down to the floor, cross-legged, and starts pulling tapes off the shelf.

"Come on," he says. "If we're going to fix this, we're going to fix it right."

You drop down across from him, a stack of tapes between you. The floor is cold through your jeans, the carpet worn and scratchy, but you don't care. You're sitting on the floor of Family Video with Steve Harrington, surrounded by romantic comedies, and you've never been happier.

He hands you a tape. "This one goes in the B section. Under 'B' for 'Runaway Bride.'"

You blink at him. “You realise that makes no sense, right? It should go under ‘R.’”

"It's a movie about a bride who runs away. B is for ‘bride’. It makes sense."

"That's not how alphabetising works."

"My system isn't about letters. It's about vibes."

"Vibes," you repeat.

"Vibes. Energy. The feeling of the movie. You can't put Sleepless in Seattle next to Steel Magnolias. They have different energies."

You stare at him. He's holding a copy of Sleepless in Seattle, his face serious, his brow furrowed. He's not joking. "You're weird," you say.

He looks up. "You're weird."

“You’re the one organising by your so-called ‘vibes’. What would Keith say?”

“You know, Keith actually agrees with me on this one,” Steve grins, eyes meeting yours. “It’s the one thing me and that oddball have in common. Plus, vibes are important. You can't put a movie about a woman dying next to a movie about a woman finding love. It's disrespectful."

"You're ridiculous," you reply through a laugh.

"You like it."

You do. You really do.

You spend the next hour on the floor, sorting tapes, arguing about where things belong. Steve has opinions. Strong opinions, but you find yourself not really minding. You like listening to him. He tells you about the kid who tried to rent an R-rated movie and argued with him for twenty minutes about the rating system.

“His name is Dustin,” Steve says, slotting a tape into place. “He’s like, sixteen. Funny kid, though, I have to admit. Don’t tell him that.”

“I won’t,” you murmur, smiling at your lap. 

The bell over the door jingles, and Steve is already moving, pushing himself up, reaching for the tapes. "Coming!" he calls, and then he's gone, rounding the corner, heading toward the front.

You follow him. You’re still thinking about his smile, the look in his eyes, when you round the corner and see him.

You stop. Your hands tighten on the action tapes in your hands. Your feet won't move. Your voice won't come.

Mark. It's Mark. Your ex. The one who didn't like when things didn't go his way. The one who called your apartment for months, who left messages you didn't answer, who showed up at your classes until you changed your schedule. "I've been looking for you," he says. "You haven't been answering my calls."

You can't speak. You can't move. Your hands are shaking, and the tapes are slipping, and you can feel yourself shrinking, becoming smaller, becoming the person you were when you were with him.

Steve moves.

You don't see him cross the space between you. You don't see him step in front of you. But suddenly he's there, his body between you and Mark, his hand finding your arm, pulling you close. You go without thinking, your feet moving, your body pressing against his side.

His arm slides around your waist, pulls you tighter, and you tuck yourself under his arm, your face against his shoulder, your hands finding his shirt.

You can feel his heart beating. Fast. Angry.

"You okay?" His voice is low, meant only for you.

You nod. You can't speak. His arm is solid around your waist, his hand splayed across your hip, and it makes you feel safe. 

Mark's eyes are on Steve now, narrowed, assessing. "Who's this?"

Steve's arm tightens. His hand is warm through your shirt, his fingers spread wide. "I'm her boyfriend," he says. Boyfriend. The thought makes your heart squeeze. "Who are you?"

Mark's smile flickers. His eyes go from Steve to you, to the way you're pressed against him, to the way his arm is wrapped around you. "Boyfriend," he repeats. "Since when?"

Steve's hand moves on your hip, pulling you closer. "Since she stopped picking up calls from guys who can't take a hint."

Mark's jaw tightens. He looks at you, and there's something in his expression that makes you press closer to Steve. "Come on," Mark says. "I just want to talk. We have things to work out."

Steve steps forward. Just one step, but it's enough. He's taller than Mark, broader, and he's standing between you like a wall. "She doesn't want to talk to you."

Mark's eyes flick to Steve. "I wasn't asking you."

Steve's hand moves from your hip to your waist, pulling you against his side. His body is tense, coiled. "She's my girlfriend. You're making her uncomfortable. You need to leave."

Mark stares at him. Steve stares back. The store is quiet, the afternoon light gold, and you can feel the anger rolling off Steve, can feel the way his muscles are tight under your hands.

"This isn't over," Mark says finally. His voice is low, dangerous.

Steve's arm is a band of iron around you. "Yeah, it is."

Mark looks at you one more time. Something passes over his face — frustration, maybe, or anger — and then he turns and walks out, the door slamming shut behind him.

You're shaking. You didn't realize you were shaking until Steve's other hand comes up, cups your face, turns you toward him. His eyes are dark, worried, scanning your face.

"Hey," he says softly. "Hey, sunshine. He's gone. You're okay."

You nod. Your hands have grabbed fistfuls of his shirt, and you can’t seem to let go. 

"Was that—" He stops. His jaw works. "Was that your ex?"

You nod again. Your voice comes out small. "We broke up six months ago. He doesn't — he doesn't like when things don't go his way."

Steve's hand tightens on your waist. His face is hard, his eyes dark. "If he comes back—"

"He won't." You take a breath. Let it out. "Not now. Not with you here."

He looks at you for a long moment. His thumb is moving against your cheek, slow and steady, and you realize he's still holding your face, still holding you close. His arm is still around your waist. You're still pressed against him.

"Good," he says. "That's good."

"I'm sorry," you whisper. "I didn't mean to — I didn't want you to have to—"

"Don't." His voice is firm. "Don't apologise. You didn't do anything wrong."

You look at him. His eyes are brown and warm and so close you can see the gold flecks. His hand is still on your chin, still steady, still gentle. His arm is still around your waist, still holding you close. And you realise you don't want him to let go. You don't want to step away. You want to stay here, in his arms, with his hand on your face and his heart beating against yours.

"Thank you," you whisper. "For — for pretending. For being my—"

"Boyfriend?" His voice is soft. "Yeah, well." He shrugs, but his hand doesn't move. "It wasn't really pretending. I mean—" He stops. His ears go pink. "I mean, he didn't know that. He thought — I was convincing. That's what matters."

You nod. Your heart is beating too fast. "Right. Convincing."

He drops his hand. Steps back. The space between you feels sudden, cold. "I should — we should get back. Robin's going to wonder where we are."

"Yeah." You smooth your shirt, tuck your hair behind your ear. "Yeah, we should."

You walk back to the front together. You don't touch, but you walk close, your shoulder almost brushing his arm. Robin is behind the counter, counting the till, and she looks up when you come in, her eyes sharp.

"You okay?" she asks. Her voice is careful.

You nod. "Fine. Just — someone I didn't want to see."

She looks at Steve. Something passes between them, something you don't understand. "Okay," she says. "Well, I'm here if you need me."

You smile. It's small, but it's real. "Thanks."

The rest of the shift passes quietly. Steve doesn't mention Mark. You don't mention Mark. But he stays close, closer than before, his hand brushing yours when he hands you tapes, his shoulder bumping yours when you walk. 

At the end of the shift, Robin leaves early. Something about band practice, something about not wanting to be here for Steve's closing routine. You're packing your bag when Steve comes up beside you.

"Hey," he says.

You look up. "Hey."

He's standing close, his hands in his pockets, his shoulders tight. He looks nervous, you realise. He looks like he's trying to figure out how to say something.

"That thing earlier," he says. "With your ex."

You tense. "You don't have to—"

"Let me finish." He takes a breath. "I was thinking. About the boyfriend thing. The pretending." He looks at you, and his ears are pink. "It could be useful. For both of us."

You blink. "What do you mean?"

He shifts his weight. "Robin's been trying to set me up with people. For months. She thinks I need a girlfriend. And Nancy — you don't know Nancy, but she's my friend, and she's been looking at me with this look, like she feels bad about us breaking up, and I just—" He stops. Runs a hand through his hair. "It would be nice. To have someone. To pretend with. So people stop asking."

You stare at him. "You want us to pretend to be dating. Regularly."

He nods. "It could help you too. With your ex. If he comes back. If he sees you're with someone, maybe he'll back off."

You think about Mark. The way he looked at you. The way he said this isn't over. Your stomach turns.

"It could help," you say slowly.

Steve's face lights up. Just a little. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." You pause. "But we need rules."

He nods. "Rules. Right. Good. Rules." He holds up one finger. "Rule number one is that you can't fall in love with me."

“You are so cocky,” you roll your eyes, but you’re grinning.

He smiles back, and he shrugs, shoving his hands deeper into his pockets. "I'm not cocky. I'm realistic. It's a very real risk."

"You're the one who should be worried about falling in love with me," you say, crossing your arms. "I'm very charming."

He laughs. "You're very something."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

He tilts his head, looking at you with something warm in his eyes. "It means you're a lot. In a good way. I'm just saying — you should be careful. I'm very charming too."

You roll your eyes, but you're smiling so hard your face hurts. "Okay, Harrington. What's rule number two?"

He thinks for a moment, tapping his chin. "Rule number two: we have to be convincing. No one can know it's fake. That means—" He pauses. His ears go pink. "That means we have to act like a real couple. In public. When people are watching."

Your heart skips. "What does that mean, exactly?"

He shrugs, aiming for casual and missing entirely. "You know. Hand holding. Arm around the shoulder. The occasional—" He gestures vaguely. "The occasional affectionate gesture."

"Affectionate gesture," you repeat.

"Nothing weird. Nothing—" His ears are very pink now. "Just convincing. That's all."

You nod slowly. "Okay. That's fine. I can do that."

He lets out a breath. "Good. Good. Rule number three: we have to actually hang out. Outside of work. So it looks real."

"So we're going on dates."

"They're not dates. They're—" He waves his hand. "Public appearances. Strategic outings."

"Strategic outings," you echo.

"Very strategic. We need to be seen together. By the right people."

You bite your lip. "And who are the right people?"

He ticks them off on his fingers. "Robin, obviously. Nancy and Jonathan. Your ex, if he shows up again. That's probably enough."

Your chest feels warm. "Okay," you say. "Okay. I'm in."

His face lights up. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." You hold out your hand. "Partners?"

He takes it. His hand is warm, his fingers wrapping around yours. "Partners."

You stand there for a moment, your hand in his, the store quiet around you. His thumb is moving against your knuckles, slow and steady, and you don't pull away.

"So," he says. "We should probably figure out our story. For when people ask."

"Our story?"

"How we met. How long we've been together. All that stuff." He leans against the counter, his hand still in yours. "We need to be consistent. So we don't slip up."

You think about it. "We met at work. That's easy. Everyone knows that."

He nods. "Okay. Good. And how long have we been together?"

“Recently,” you nod. “Because I only just started working here. So. It would have to be really recent.”

He nods slowly, thinking. "Right. So we've been together... a few days? That's not very convincing."

You shrug. "It's new. New relationships are exciting. People won't question it if we're—" You wave your hand. "Enthusiastic."

"Enthusiastic," he repeats, a grin tugging at his mouth.

"Affectionate. You know.”

"That's what you said."

"I know what I said." He's still holding your hand. His thumb hasn't stopped moving. "So we're a new couple. Very new. So new that we're still in the—" He stops.

"The what?"

"The honeymoon phase," he finishes, and his ears are pink. "Where you can't keep your hands off each other."

“Yeah,” you murmur, cheeks warm. “I guess so.”

Steve clears his throat. "So," he says. "We have a story. Now we just need to practice."

"Practice what?"

He looks down at your joined hands. "Being convincing."

You're still holding hands. Neither of you has moved to let go. His thumb is still tracing patterns on your knuckles, slow and absent, like he doesn't even know he's doing it.

"So," he says, and his voice is lower now, quieter. "So who asked who out?"

You don't hesitate. "You asked me."

He raises an eyebrow. "Why do I have to be the one who asked?"

"Because you need this more than me. I'm doing you a favour."

"A favour," he repeats, and there's something in his voice that makes your stomach flip.

"A very generous favour. You should be thanking me."

He laughs. "Thank you for pretending to be my girlfriend so my friends stop feeling sorry for me."

"You're welcome." You squeeze his hand. "And because you said you were very charming. So charm me. How did you do it?"

He grins. "Okay. I saw you across the counter. Thought you were cute. Asked you out."

"That's your story?"

"It's romantic."

"It's a line."

"It worked, didn't it?"

"Okay," you say. "So you asked me out. Where did you take me?"

He thinks for a moment. "Somewhere casual. Coffee? Drinks?"

"Coffee," you decide. "That's safer. Less pressure."

He nods. "Coffee. And we talked. For hours."

"Hours?"

Steve smiles. “Hours. That’s not really stretching the truth, is it? I mean, we have talked for hours,” his voice drops, and you feel your face warm. "You told me about your math classes. About the Heun function. I pretended to understand."

You smile. "And you told me about your organising system. I pretended to think it made sense."

"It does make sense."

“Sure it does, Harrington.”

The next few days fall into a rhythm. 

You work shifts with Steve, with Robin, sometimes with Keith when he emerges from the back room like a bear coming out of hibernation. You learn the store, the customers, the rhythm of things. You stop opening the cash drawer by accident. You stop putting horror movies in comedy. You stop being the new girl.

But you don't stop thinking about Steve. You don't stop noticing the way he looks at you when he thinks you're not looking. You don't stop noticing the way he stands a little closer than he needs to when you're shelving tapes together, the way his hand brushes yours when he hands you something, the way his voice gets softer when he says your name.

The fake dating thing is... going. You've been on three "strategic outings" now — coffee, a walk through the park, a trip to the diner you mentioned once, weeks ago. Each time, Steve picks you up at your apartment. Each time, he brings flowers. Each time, he puts his arm around you when you walk, his hand warm on your shoulder, and your heart beats too fast. 

You haven’t told anyone, not yet, because it has to feel real before you do. 

It's supposed to be fake. You know it's supposed to be fake. But when he looks at you like that, when his thumb traces patterns on your hand, when he says your name like it's something precious — you forget, sometimes. You forget it's not real.

You're in the comedy section one afternoon, shelving returns, when Steve appears beside you. The store is quiet — Robin is in the back, Keith is nowhere to be seen.

"You're doing it wrong," he says.

You turn. He's leaning against the shelf, arms crossed, the picture of casual annoyance. But his eyes are warm.

“Yeah, I’m not following your system, Steve,” you say, biting your cheek to keep from smiling. "Someone has to put these tapes in the right place."

"My system is the right place."

You laugh, turning back to the shelf, slotting a tape into place. You can feel him watching you, the weight of his gaze, the warmth of it. Your hands are steady, but your heart is not.

"Hey," he says.

You glance back. He's not leaning anymore. He's standing closer, his hands in his pockets, his head tilted. "Come take a break."

"A break?"

"You've been alphabetising for an hour. That's a lot of alphabetising. You need to rest your brain."

"My brain is fine.”

“Just come here.” He drops down to the floor, cross-legged, and pats the carpet beside him. "Come on. Take five."

You hesitate. The store is quiet. Robin is in the back. Keith is nowhere. It's just you and Steve and the afternoon light.

You sit.

You leave a space between you, a careful distance, your knees tucked up, your hands in your lap. It's professional. It's friendly. It's—

Steve's hand reaches out. His fingers hook into your belt loop, tugging gently, pulling you closer. You slide across the carpet, your hip bumping his, your shoulder pressing against his arm.

"There," he says, and his voice is lower now, softer. "That's better."

You can't breathe. He's close—so close you can see the gold flecks in his eyes, the faint freckles across his nose, the way his lashes catch the light. His hand is still hooked in your belt loop, his fingers warm through the denim.

"You're very bossy," you manage.

"I'm meant to be. I’m your trainer, remember?”

"Yes, I remember, which means you're supposed to be training me. Not dragging me across the floor."

He grins. "This is training. Important training. Learning how to take breaks is a crucial skill." His arm comes up, sliding around your shoulders, pulling you against his side. You go easily, your body relaxing into him, your head finding its natural place against his shoulder.

You tilt your head, looking up at him. His face is close, his eyes soft, his mouth curved. "There's no one here to see us."

His smile flickers, just for a moment. "I know."

You look at him. He looks at you. The store is quiet, the afternoon light gold through the windows, and his arm is around you, and his hand is warm on your shoulder, and you think — you think maybe this isn't fake. Maybe it hasn't been for a while.

"Steve," you say.

"What?"

You open your mouth. You don't know what you're going to say. Something honest, maybe. Something true.

The bell over the door jingles.

You both freeze. Footsteps, quick and light, coming toward the back. Robin's voice, bright and curious. "Steve? You back here?"

Steve's arm tightens around you. His hand is warm on your shoulder, his fingers curled over the edge of your sweater. You're pressed against his side, your face close to his, your heart pounding.

Robin rounds the corner. Stops.

Her eyes go wide. Her mouth opens. Her hands, full of tapes, fall to her sides.

Steve's arm doesn't move. His hand doesn't move. You don't move. You're frozen there, pressed against him, his arm around you, your face tilted up toward his.

"Uh," Robin says. "I — I was looking for — I didn't—"

Steve clears his throat. His cheeks are very pink. His arm doesn't move. "We were just—"

"Taking a break," you finish. Your voice comes out higher than you meant it to. "He was making me take a break."

"A break," Robin says. Her eyes flick to Steve's arm around your shoulders. To the way you're pressed against his side. To the way neither of you has moved.

"A break," she repeats slowly. Her mouth is doing something dangerous. It's threatening to become a grin. "In the comedy section. On the floor."

"The floor is comfortable," Steve says, and his voice is strangled. "Good for the back."

Robin's eyes are very bright. She's not buying it. Neither of you has moved. Steve's arm is still around you. Your shoulder is still pressed against his chest. Your face is still tilted up toward his like you were about to say something, something you can't remember now.

Steve's hand is still on your shoulder. His thumb is moving, just a little, like he's forgotten it's there. You can feel the warmth of it through your shirt, the steady pressure of his fingers.

Robin sets her tapes down on a shelf. Very slowly. Very deliberately. Her eyes don't leave the two of you. "You know, Nancy was asking about you the other day."

Steve's hand tightens on your shoulder. Just a fraction. "Nancy?"

"She wanted to know if you were seeing anyone. I told her you were very busy with work. Very focused on your career." Robin's grin widens. "I didn't realize your career involved so much... close consultation."

Steve opens his mouth. Closes it. His arm is still around you. You're still pressed against his side. You should move. You should definitely move. But Steve's hand is warm, and his shoulder is solid, and you don't want to. You don't want to at all.

Robin picks up her tapes. She's backing away now, her eyes still on you, her grin still wide. "I'm going to go. To the front. To do returns. Very important returns. Very busy. Lots of work."

"Robin—" Steve starts.

She holds up a hand. "Don't let me interrupt.” She rounds the corner. Her voice floats back, sing-song: "I'll just be up front! Doing my job! Not telling anyone anything!"

Steve's arm is still around you.

The store is very quiet.

"She's gone," you say.

"Yeah." His voice is low. "She's gone."

"We should probably—" you start.

"Yeah," he says again. "Probably."

You don't move. He doesn't move. The afternoon light is gold through the windows, catching in his hair, making everything soft. His face is close. His eyes are very brown.

"She's going to tell Nancy," you say.

Steve exhales. "Yeah. She is."

"And Nancy is going to want to meet me. Properly. After hearing about—" You gesture vaguely at the two of you, pressed together on the floor of the comedy section. "This."

Steve's hand tightens on your shoulder. "Is that okay?"

You look at him. His face is open, earnest, a little nervous. His hair is falling across his forehead.

"Yeah," you say. "It's okay."

The next day, Steve is behind the counter when you walk in, counting the till. He looks up when the bell rings.

"Nancy called," he says.

Your stomach flips. "What?"

"This morning. She wants to do a double date. This weekend. With me and you and her and Jonathan." He comes around the counter, his hands in his pockets, his shoulders tight. "I told her we'd think about it."

You stare at him. "A double date."

"A double date. She said she wants to meet you. Properly. After Robin told her about—" He gestures vaguely. "About us."

You think about yesterday. Robin finding you on the floor, Steve's arm around you, your face tilted up toward his. The way she grinned. The way she backed away. The way she was definitely, absolutely, telling Nancy everything.

"She thinks we're together," you say.

Steve nods. "She thinks we're together."

You take a breath. "So we go on the double date. We act convincing. We—" You stop. He's looking at you. "We do what we said we'd do."

He nods slowly. "Yeah. We do what we said we'd do."

You stand there for a moment, the counter between you, the afternoon light gold through the windows. His hands are in his pockets. Your hands are at your sides.

"We should practice," you say.

He blinks. "Practice what?"

You step closer. Your hand finds his, pulls it out of his pocket. His fingers are warm, his palm rough. You lace your fingers through his, the way you've done a dozen times on your strategic outings. The way that feels less like practice every time.

"This," you say. "Being convincing. So we're ready. For the double date."

He looks down at your joined hands. His thumb finds your knuckles, starts that slow pattern. "Okay."

You step closer. His arm comes up, slides around your waist. His hand settles on your hip, warm and steady. You lean into him, your shoulder against his chest, your face tilted up toward his.

"This is convincing," you say.

He nods. His eyes are very brown. "Yeah."

Your free hand comes up, touches his face. His skin is warm, his jaw rough with the shadow of stubble. His breath catches.

"This?"

He doesn't answer. He doesn't move. His arm is tight around your waist. His hand is warm on your hip. His eyes are fixed on your face.

You should say something. You should pull away. You should remember that this is practice, that this is fake, that this is supposed to be convincing for other people, not for you.

But his face is close, and his eyes are soft, and his hand is warm, and you don't want to pull away. You don't want to remember.

"Steve," you whisper.

"What?"

You open your mouth. You don't know what you're going to say. The bell over the door jingles, and you jump apart. 

His arm drops from your waist. You take a step back, smooth your shirt, tuck your hair behind your ear. Robin appears from the back, a stack of tapes in her arms. "Hey," she says, her eyes sharp, grinning. "Did I interrupt something?"

"No," you say, too quickly.

"Yes," Steve says, at the same time.

Robin looks at you. Looks at Steve. Her grin is wide now. “Sure,” she drawls, amused. “Have fun doing… whatever you were doing.” She backs away like a cheshire cat, clearly about to call Nancy and spill everything. 

You don’t know what to think about this anymore. 

The double date is scheduled for Saturday. 

The days between Tuesday and Saturday pass in a blur of shifts and stolen moments. Steve's hand finds yours more often now, under the counter, behind the returns cart, in the back room even when Robin isn't looking, even when you don’t have to pretend. His arm settles around your waist like it belongs there. His thumb finds your knuckles, your hip, the small of your back.

You tell yourself it's practice. You tell yourself it's for the double date. You tell yourself it doesn't mean anything.

You're getting very good at lying.

Saturday arrives faster than you expect.

You spend the afternoon in front of your mirror, changing your outfit three times, checking your hair, telling yourself it's just a double date, it's just acting, it's just one night of pretending to be someone's girlfriend.

The doorbell rings. You take a breath. Open it.

Steve is standing on your doorstep, his hands in his pockets, his hair soft, his face open. He's wearing a clean shirt, dark jeans, and he's holding a small bouquet of flowers.

"Hey, sunshine," he says.

Your heart does something complicated. "Hey."

“You look nice,” he murmurs, holding out the flowers. "For you. These are your favourites, right? I, um, I think Robin mentioned it. Offhand, a while ago.”

You blink down at the flowers, fight the urge to squeal like an excited toddler. “They are my favourites. Thank you. I’ll just — give me a second, I want to put them in a vase.”

He nods, and you step aside to let him in, closing the front door to head into the kitchen. 

“So this is your place,” he murmurs. 

“This is my place,” you affirm. “My roommate’s infamous drum set,” you say, nodding your chin towards the back of the living room. 

He grins. “I see.”

You find a vase under the sink, one your mom gave you when you moved in, the one you never use because you never have flowers. You fill it with water, arrange the bouquet carefully, your fingers trembling just a little. Steve is in your living room. 

Steve Harrington is in your living room, looking at your bookshelf, your puzzle on the coffee table, the photos on the wall.

You watch him for a moment. He's standing with his back to you, his hands in his pockets, his head tilted. He's looking at the picture of you and your mom from graduation, the one where you're laughing, your cap almost falling off, her arms around you.

"Is that your mom?" he asks.

You come up beside him, the vase in your hands. "Yeah. That was last year.”

He smiles. "You look happy."

"I was. I am." You set the vase on the coffee table, step back. He's still looking at the photo, his expression soft.

"You look like her," he says. "You have the same smile."

You feel your face warm. "I get that a lot.”

He turns to look at you. His eyes are warm. "I like your apartment. It's very—" He gestures vaguely. "You."

You look around. The puzzle on the coffee table, half-finished. The stack of textbooks on the floor. The blanket your grandma made you, draped over the couch. The photos on the wall, the plants on the windowsill, the mug from your favorite coffee shop.

"It's a mess," you say.

"It's not a mess. It's—" He stops. His eyes land on the stack of tapes by the TV. "Is that When Harry Met Sally?"

Your face goes hot. "I told you I was going to watch it."

He crosses to the TV, picks up the tape. His grin is wide. "You watched it."

"Twice."

He looks at you. "Twice?"

"I wanted to be prepared. For when people ask. About my favourite movies. I didn't want to slip up."

He's still holding the tape. His eyes are very bright. "And? What did you think?"

You cross your arms, lean against the back of the couch. "I cried."

He laughs. "You cried?"

"At the end. When he's running through the city. I knew what was going to happen, Robin told me the whole plot, but I still—" You stop. He's looking at you. "It's a good movie."

He sets the tape down carefully, like it's something precious. "Yeah," he says. "It is."

You stand there for a moment, the coffee table between you, the afternoon light gold through your windows. His hands are in his pockets. Your arms are crossed. You can hear your heartbeat in your ears.

"We should probably go," you say. "The restaurant. Nancy and Jonathan. We don't want to be late."

He nods. "Yeah. We should go."

Neither of you moves.

The apartment is quiet. The puzzle pieces are scattered on the coffee table. Your flowers are bright in their vase. Steve is standing in your living room, wearing a clean shirt, his hair soft, his face open.

"Steve," you say.

"What?"

You don't know what you're going to say. Something honest, maybe. Something true. "I'm glad it's you."

He tilts his head. "Glad it's me what?"

You take a breath. "Pretending. With. I'm glad it's you."

He looks at you for a long moment. His hands come out of his pockets. He steps around the coffee table, crosses the space between you. He's close now, close enough that you can smell something clean and warm, close enough that you can see the gold flecks in his eyes.

"Me too," he says. His voice is low.

Your hands are at your sides. His are at his. You're not touching. You're not pretending. There's no one here to see.

"Sunshine," he murmurs.

Your heart skips. "Yeah?"

He reaches out. His hand touches your face, his fingers light on your cheek. His thumb brushes your cheekbone, slow and gentle. "You look nice."

Your breath catches. "You said that already."

"I'm saying it again."

He's so close. His hand is warm on your face. His eyes are soft. His lips are parted. You can see the shape of his mouth, the curve of it, the way he's looking at you like you're something he's been waiting for.

You lean in. Just a little. Just enough.

His hand slides from your cheek to your jaw, tilts your face up. His thumb brushes your lower lip. "I've been wanting to do this," he says. "For weeks. Since the first day. Since you walked in with your messy hair and your terrible taste in movies."

You laugh, soft, breathless. "I told you. I've seen it now. Twice."

"Doesn't matter." His face is very close. 

"Steve."

"What?"

You don't answer. You can't. His hand is on your face. His eyes are on your mouth. He's going to kiss you. He's going to kiss you and it's not going to be practice, it's not going to be for anyone else, it's going to be real.

He leans in. You lean in. Your eyes close. His breath is warm on your lips.

The phone rings.

You both jump apart. Your hand flies to your chest. Steve's hand drops from your face. The phone rings again, loud and insistent, and you stare at it like it's a traitor.

"That's—" you start.

"I should—" he says.

The phone rings again. You cross to it, pick it up. "Hello?"

Robin's voice, bright and impatient: "Are you two on your way? Nancy's asking. She's very excited. She wants to know what you're wearing."

You look at Steve. He's standing in the middle of your living room, his hands in his pockets, his ears pink. He looks like he's trying very hard not to laugh.

"We're on our way," you say. "We'll be there soon."

"Okay, okay. Don't be late. Nancy's very punctual. It's a whole thing." She hangs up before you can respond.

You set the phone down. Steve is looking at you. His ears are still pink.

"We should go," you say.

He nods. "Yeah. We should go."

Neither of you moves. You stand there, the coffee table between you, the afternoon light gold, the flowers bright in their vase.

"Steve," you say.

"What?"

You smile. It's small, shy, real. "Later."

His face softens. "Later."

He crosses to the door, holds it open for you. You grab your bag, your jacket, follow him out. He locks the door behind you, his hand brushing yours as he hands you the keys.

You walk to his car together, your shoulders almost touching, your hands swinging at your sides. The afternoon air is warm, the sun is low, and you're thinking about the way his hand felt on your face, the way his eyes looked when he almost kissed you.

He opens the car door for you. You slide in. He closes it, walks around to the driver's side, gets in. His hands are on the steering wheel. He's not starting the car.

You look at him. He's looking at the windshield, his jaw working.

"Steve?"

He turns to you. His eyes are very brown. "I'm going to kiss you. Later. After the double date. When we don't have to pretend anymore."

Your heart is beating too fast. "Okay."

He nods. Starts the car. Pulls out of the driveway. His hand is on the gear shift. Your hand is on your knee. You want to reach out. You want to touch him. You want to close the space between you.

He looks at you. His hand moves. His fingers find yours. He laces them together, his thumb on your knuckles, and he doesn't let go.

You drive to the restaurant like that, his hand in yours, the afternoon light gold through the windows. He doesn't let go when he parks. He doesn't let go when he helps you out of the car. He doesn't let go when you walk toward the door, your shoulders pressed together, your hands swinging between you.

Inside, Nancy and Jonathan are already at a table. Nancy's face lights up when she sees you. Steve's hand tightens on yours.

"Ready?" he murmurs.

You squeeze his hand. "Ready."

You walk in together, his hand in yours, your shoulder against his arm. Nancy is watching, her eyes bright, her smile warm. Jonathan raises his hand in a wave.

Steve pulls out your chair for you. You sit. He sits beside you, his thigh pressed against yours, his hand finding your knee under the table.

"You must be the girlfriend," Nancy says.

You smile. "I must be."

She laughs. Jonathan laughs. Steve's hand is warm on your knee. His thumb is moving, slow and steady, and you think about later. You think about his hand on your face, his breath on your lips, the way he said I'm going to kiss you.

Later, you think. Later.

You smile at Nancy, at Jonathan, at Steve. You let your hand find his under the table. You lace your fingers together.

"Tell me everything," Nancy says. "How did you two meet?"

Steve's thumb moves against your knuckles. "She came in for an interview," he says. "She told Keith her favorite movies."

You look at him. His eyes are warm. "I was distracted," you say. "He was in the window. With his hair."

Nancy laughs. "His hair?"

"It's very distracting hair."

Steve's hand tightens on yours. "She told me her brain stopped working. Because of me.”

Jonathan grins. "She told you her brain stopped working?"

“I did,” you say, smiling, cheeks flushed as you hide your face in Steve’s shoulder. “I’m never going to live it down, I think.”

Nancy and Jonathan exchange a look. Something passes between them, something you don't understand. Jonathan's hand finds Nancy's under the table.

The dinner is easy. Easier than you expected. Steve keeps his hand on your knee, his thumb moving against your jeans. You lean into him when you laugh, your hand on his chest. You look up at him when he talks, your eyes wide, your smile soft. You call him Steve in a voice that's just for him.

It's not acting. It's not pretending. It's real. It's been real for weeks, maybe, since the first day, since he called you sunshine, since you told him he made your brain stop working.

Nancy is watching you both. Her smile is warm. "I'm glad he found you," she says.

You look at Steve. He's looking at you. "I'm glad he found me too."

After dinner, you walk out together, Steve's arm around your waist, your hand in his. Nancy hugs you, quick and warm. "We should do this again," she says. "Soon."

Steve nods. "Definitely."

Nancy and Jonathan get in their car, drive away. The parking lot is quiet, the streetlights gold. Steve's arm is still around you. His hand is warm on your hip.

You look up at him. "That was good."

He nods. "We're good at this."

You're not talking about pretending anymore. You both know it.

He pulls you closer. His hand comes up, touches your face. His fingers are warm, his palm rough. His thumb brushes your cheek.

He leans in. His forehead touches yours. His breath is warm on your face. His eyes are closed.

"Steve," you whisper.

He opens his eyes. They're brown and warm and so close you can see the gold flecks. "What?"

You don't answer. You can't. His hand is on your face. His arm is around your waist. He's going to kiss you. He's going to kiss you and it's not going to be practice, it's not going to be for anyone else, it's going to be real.

He leans in. You lean in. Your eyes close.

"Hey."

You freeze. Steve's arm tightens around you. His body tenses. You know that voice. You know it too well.

Mark is standing across the parking lot, his hands in his pockets, his mouth curved into a smile that doesn't reach his eyes. He's leaning against a car, casual, easy, like he's been waiting.

Steve steps in front of you. His hand is flat against your hip, pressing you behind him. "Not now," he says. His voice is hard.

Mark's eyes flick to Steve, then back to you. "I just want to talk."

"She doesn't want to talk to you." Steve's hand is steady on your hip. His body is a wall between you and Mark.

Mark's smile doesn't waver. "I'm not talking to you."

You press closer to Steve. Your hands find his shirt, curl into the fabric. You can feel his heart beating, fast, steady.

He takes a step forward. Steve's hand tightens on your hip, his fingers pressing into the denim, holding you in place behind him. You can feel the tension in his body, the coiled readiness, the way his shoulders have gone broad and immovable.

"She said she doesn't want to talk to you," Steve says. His voice is low, calm, dangerous. "That means you leave."

Mark's eyes slide past Steve, fix on you. "Come on," he says, and his voice is soft now, the old voice, the one that used to make you believe him. "You don't have to do this. You don't have to pretend with him. I know you. I know what you really want."

Your hands are shaking. You press closer to Steve, your face against his back, your fingers curling into his shirt. His heartbeat is steady under your palm, fast but steady.

"She doesn't want anything from you." Steve's voice hasn't changed. "You need to leave. Now."

Mark takes another step. He's closer now, close enough that you can see his face, the tightness around his mouth, the way his eyes haven't left you. "I'm not talking to you," he says again. "I'm talking to her."

"She's not listening."

"She will." Mark's hand shoots out, grabs your wrist. His fingers are cold, tight, familiar in the worst way. "Just come here. Let's talk. We can work this out."

You gasp. Your body jerks forward, pulled by the force of his grip, and Steve moves.

It's fast. You don't see it happen. One moment Mark's hand is around your wrist, cold and tight, and the next there's a crack, a sharp sound that echoes across the parking lot, and Mark is on the ground. His hand is gone from your wrist. His face is turned to the side, his mouth open, his hand pressed to his jaw.

Steve's hand is a fist at his side. His knuckles are red. His chest is rising and falling, fast and hard. His eyes are on Mark, dark and burning.

"Don't," Steve says. His voice is low, rough. "Don't ever touch her again."

Mark looks up at him. There's blood on his lip, a dark smear across his chin. His eyes are wide, shocked, and for a moment — just a moment — you see something in them you've never seen before. Fear.

Steve steps forward. His body is still between you and Mark, his hand still a fist, his shoulders still broad. "If you come near her again," he says, "if you call her, if you even look at her, I will find you. Do you understand me?"

Mark scrambles backward, his hands flat on the pavement, his eyes flicking between Steve and you. He's breathing hard, his chest heaving, his face pale. He looks smaller somehow. Smaller than you've ever seen him.

"Get up," Steve says. "Get up and get out of here."

Mark gets up. His legs are unsteady, his hand still pressed to his jaw. He looks at you one more time, something flickering in his eyes—frustration, maybe, or rage, or something else you don't want to name—and then he turns. He walks away, fast, his footsteps sharp on the pavement, and then he's gone. The parking lot is quiet again.

Steve doesn't move. His back is to you, his shoulders still tight, his hand still a fist at his side. You can see his knuckles, red and raw, the skin split across two of them.

"Steve," you whisper.

He turns. His face is hard, his jaw tight, his eyes dark. And then he sees you — sees your face, your shaking hands, the tears you didn't know were falling — and everything in him softens. The hardness drains out of his shoulders. His hand uncurls. His eyes go from dark to warm in the space of a breath.

"Hey," he says softly. "Hey, sweetheart." His hands come up, cup your face, his thumbs brushing away the tears. His hands are shaking, you realize. He's shaking. "He's gone. You're okay. You're safe."

You nod. You can't speak. Your hands find his shirt, curl into the fabric, hold on. His heart is pounding under your palm, fast and hard, and you hold on to the rhythm of it, let it anchor you.

"I'm sorry," he says. His voice is rough. "I should have — I should have moved faster. I should have—"

"You stopped him." Your voice comes out small, cracked. "You stopped him."

His hands tighten on your face. His forehead drops to yours. His breath is warm on your lips. "I should have stopped him sooner. I should have seen him coming. I should have—"

"Steve." You pull back, just enough to look at him. His eyes are wet. His hands are shaking. His knuckles are bleeding. "You stopped him. You stopped him."

He stares at you for a long moment. His thumb moves against your cheek, slow and steady. "I'm not going to let him hurt you," he says. "I'm never going to let him hurt you again."

You lean into his hands. His palms are warm, rough, steady. "I know."

He pulls you against his chest, his arms around you, his face in your hair. His heart is still pounding, but slower now, steadier. You press your ear to his chest, listen to the rhythm of it, let it fill you up.

"I've got you," he murmurs. "I've got you, sunshine."

You stay like that for a long time. The parking lot is quiet, the streetlights gold, and you're wrapped up in him, his arms around you, his heart beating against yours.

"Your hand," you say finally, pulling back. "You're bleeding."

He looks down at his knuckles like he's forgotten they exist. "It's nothing."

"It's not nothing." You take his hand, turn it over. The skin is split across two knuckles, red and raw, but the bleeding has stopped. You run your thumb over the edge of his palm, careful, light. "We should clean this."

He looks at you. His eyes are soft. "Okay."

He drives you home with one hand on the wheel and the other holding yours. He doesn't let go. He doesn't let go when he parks, when he walks you to your door, when you fumble with your keys and your hands are still shaking.

Inside, you lead him to the kitchen, sit him down at the table, find the first aid kit under the sink. He watches you, his eyes soft, his good hand flat on the table, his injured hand resting in his lap.

You sit beside him, take his hand, lay it palm-up on the table. His fingers are long, his palm rough, his knuckles split and raw. You clean the cuts with antiseptic, your touch light, careful. He doesn't flinch. He watches your face.

"You don't have to do this," he says quietly.

You look up at him. "Do what?"

"Take care of me. I'm supposed to be taking care of you."

You laugh. It's small, wet, surprised. "You punched my ex in the face. I think I can clean your hand."

He smiles. It's the smile you've been waiting for, the one that makes your chest warm. "He deserved it."

"He deserved worse."

Steve's hand turns under yours, his fingers wrapping around your wrist. His thumb finds your pulse, presses lightly. "Next time," he says, "I'll do worse."

You look at him. His eyes are brown and warm and so close you can see the gold flecks. His hand is around your wrist, gentle, steady. His knuckles are red and raw and he's looking at you like you're something precious.

"Steve," you whisper.

"What?"

You don't answer. You can't. His hand is around your wrist. His eyes are on your face. He's going to kiss you. He's going to kiss you and it's not going to be practice, it's not going to be for anyone else, it's going to be real.

He leans in. You lean in. Your eyes close. His breath is warm on your lips.

His lips touch yours. Soft, gentle, barely there. His hand slides from your wrist to your face, cups your cheek, tilts your face up. His thumb brushes your cheekbone. His lips move against yours, slow and soft and real.

When he pulls back, you're both breathing hard. His forehead is against yours. His eyes are closed.

"Okay," he says, breathless. "Okay."

You laugh. It's soft, surprised. "Okay?"

He opens his eyes. They're brown and warm and so close you can see yourself reflected in them. "That's all I've got right now. My brain's not working."

You smile. "My brain's never working. Around you."

He grins. It's the grin you've been waiting for, the one that transforms his whole face. "Good. That's good."

He kisses you again. It's longer this time, deeper, his hand in your hair, his mouth soft and warm. When he pulls back, you're both smiling.

"I'm going to take you on a real date," he says. His voice is low, rough, his forehead still pressed against yours. "Tomorrow. A real one. Dinner. A walk. Whatever you want."

You smile. "Okay."

"And then the day after that. And the day after that." His thumb traces your cheekbone. "Every day. I want to take you on a date every day."

You laugh. "That's a lot of dates."

He pulls back just enough to look at you. His eyes are soft, warm, a little nervous. "Is that okay?"

Your chest is full. "Yeah," you say. "That's okay."

He exhales, long and slow, like he's been holding his breath. His hands are still on your face, his palms warm, his fingers gentle. "Come here," he says, and he pulls you forward, guiding you into his lap. You go easily, your legs folding, your body curling against his chest. His arms come around you, hold you close, and you press your face into his neck, breathe him in.

His hand finds your hair, strokes it back from your face. "You're tired," he says.

You nod against his shoulder. You are tired. The adrenaline has drained out of you, left you hollow and heavy, and his arms are warm, his chest is steady, and you don't want to move. You don't want to think. You don't want to remember Mark's voice, his hand around your wrist, the cold press of his fingers.

"Don't think about it," Steve says softly. His hand moves in your hair, slow and soothing. "Don't think about him. He's gone. He's not going to bother you again."

You press closer. "How do you know?"

His arms tighten. "Because I'm not going to let him." His voice is quiet, fierce. "I'm going to be there. Every time. I'm going to be right there."

You close your eyes. His heartbeat is steady under your ear, slow and sure. You let it anchor you, let it pull you away from the cold, from the fear, from the way Mark's voice still echoes in your head.

"Steve," you whisper.

"Steve," you whisper.

"What?"

"Talk to me. About anything. Just — talk."

He's quiet for a moment. His hand doesn't stop moving in your hair. His chest rises and falls under your cheek.

"Okay," he says. His voice is low, soft. "Okay. Did I ever tell you about the time Robin put a porno in the kids' section?"

You laugh. It's small, surprised. "What?"

"It was my first week," he says. "I was still learning the system. Robin was supposed to be training me, but she thought it would be funny to test me. So she took a tape from the adult section and put it in with the Disney movies. Right between The Little Mermaid and The Fox and the Hound."

You lift your head, look at him. "She didn't."

"She did. And then she waited. She didn't tell me. She just — waited." He's smiling, a small, fond smile. "This woman comes in with her kid. Maybe five years old. And she picks up the tape, and she looks at it, and she looks at me, and her face just—" He shakes his head. "I thought she was going to kill me."

You're laughing now, your face pressed into his chest, your shoulders shaking. "What did you do?"

"I panicked. I told her it was a mis-shelving error. I said someone must have put it there by accident. I apologized like twenty times. She was so mad." He laughs, the sound rumbling in his chest.

You giggle into his chest. “Robin’s terrible,” you say, face tucked under his chin. 

"She's my best friend, though," he says quietly. "She's annoying and she talks too much and she put a porno in the kids' section, but she's my best friend. She was there when I didn't have anyone else. She—" He stops. His hand stills in your hair.

You open your eyes, look up at him. His face is soft, his eyes far away. "She what?"

He looks at you. His expression clears. "She's the reason I have this job. The reason I'm not—" He stops again. His jaw works. "The reason I'm not somewhere else. Someone else."

You reach up, touch his face. His skin is warm, his jaw rough. "I'm glad she did," you say. "I'm glad you're here."

He turns his head, presses a kiss to your palm. His lips are soft. "Me too."

You stay like that for a while, curled in his lap, his arms around you, his voice low and steady in your ear. He tells you about the regulars—Mrs. Patterson, who always rents Audrey Hepburn movies and cries at the end; Mr. Chen, who comes in every Friday for a western and brings his own popcorn; the kids who try to sneak into the R-rated section and jump at every sound.

You listen to his voice, let it wash over you. You're not thinking about Mark. You're thinking about Steve's hands, warm and gentle in your hair. You're thinking about his voice, low and soft, telling you about the time he couldn't figure out the cash drawer. 

You're thinking about the way he looks at you, like you're something precious, something worth protecting.

"Steve," you say.

His hand stills. "What?"

You close your eyes. "Don't stop talking."

He's quiet for a moment. His hand resumes its slow movement in your hair. "Okay," he says. "Okay, sunshine."

He talks until your eyes are heavy, until your breathing slows, until your body is loose and warm against his. He talks about the first time he saw you, through the glass in the staff room door, the way you were flushed from the heat, your hair curling around your face, your smile bright and open and real.

"I thought," he says, and his voice is lower now, softer, "I thought, I want to know her. I want to know everything about her."

You smile against his chest. "You know everything about me."

"I don't," he says. "I don't know your favorite color. I don't know what you wanted to be when you grew up. I don't know what makes you cry, what makes you laugh, what makes you stay up late at night when you can't sleep." His hand moves to your face, tilts it up. "I want to know. I want to know everything."

You look at him. His eyes are brown and warm and so close. "Yellow," you say. "My favorite color is yellow. I wanted to be an astronaut when I was little. I cry at commercials with dogs in them. I laugh at your terrible alphabetising system. I stay up late thinking about integration and whether I'm ever going to figure out what I want to do with my life." You reach up, touch his face. "And you. Lately, I stay up late thinking about you."

His breath catches. His hand tightens on your face. "Yeah?"

You smile. "Yeah."

He kisses you. It's soft, slow, his lips warm against yours. His hand slides into your hair, cradles your head. His mouth moves against yours like he's learning you, memorizing you, and you let him, you give yourself to it, to him.

When he pulls back, you're both breathing hard. His forehead is against yours. His eyes are closed.

"I want to do this for real," he says. His voice is low, rough. "I don't want to pretend anymore. I don't want to practice. I want to take you on dates. Real dates. I want to hold your hand in public and argue about alphabetizing and bring you flowers that are your favorite color. I want to be your boyfriend. Your real boyfriend."

You open your eyes. He's looking at you, his face open, earnest, a little scared.

"Okay," you say.

He blinks. "Okay?"

You smile. "Okay. Be my real boyfriend."

His face breaks into a grin. It's the grin you've been waiting for, the one that transforms his whole face. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

“Oh no, I stole the deed to the house and kicked him out,” you answer, earning you a barely contained smile from Max and a scoff from Dustin, “He’s in the shower.”

You pull the door open wider, stepping to the side to let them in, eyeing the box and bag in their hands, “Wait a minute. You guys hate biking in the summer and I didn’t drive you, Steve didn’t drive you. So does that mean-”

“Wow, such chivalry, holding the door for me,” Eddie welcomes himself into the house, beelining for the kitchen.

You shake your head laughing, “Hi Eddie. Please come in, you're more than welcome.”

“Thanks, shortstack,” he calls out from the kitchen, no doubt stealing food or a drink.

Your focus returns to Dustin and Max, eyes dropping to the gifts in hand, “what’s this?”

“Nothing,” max shrugs, gaze dropping to fiddle with the soft paper poking out of the bag.

You grin at the sudden shyness of the girl, so unused to it coming from her, “Mysterious.”

“They’re for Steve," Dustin offers you a proper answer.

“Oh?” Your brows pinch in confusion, “Want me to go get him? I'm sure he's almost done.”

“That’d be great, thanks,” he gives you one of his cheesy smiles that makes you want to squish his cheeks no matter how old he's gotten. You control yourself.

“Sure thing,” you turn towards the stairs and add a shout to the kitchen, “You better not eat all the ice cream we have left, Munson.”

You get a muffled reply, clearly full of ice cream, “I don't know what you're talking about.”

You roll your eyes and track up the stairs. You worry the entire time. Did you have Steve's birthday wrong? It was in June and you swear you'd already celebrated it. Did he pretend that you had the day right?

You find him half dressed in a pair of comfortable shorts, sorting through his drawers for a shirt. You settle behind him, kissing at a freckle beside his spine, then one on his shoulder blades. Your arms wind around his waist.

“There you are, pretty girl. Where'd you go?” He murmurs, hand patting yours against his belly.

“We have guests. Eddie drove Max and Dustin over,” you tell him, pressing your cheek to his back, still damp from the shower.

“What? They didn't call while I was in the shower, did they?”

You nearly laugh at his worry but you're overcome by his fond need to be number one on the kids list.

“No,” you his skin again before stepping back from him, letting him pull on an old t-shirt, “They do have presents for you though. You didn't lie to me about when your birthday was, right?”

His face scrunches up as he turns to look at you, offended that you would even put the idea of him lying out there, “No, honey. You had my birthday right. I don't know why they brought presents.”

“Huh,” you can't even fathom what special occasion would have the two going out of their way to get presents and have Eddie drive them over.

“C'mon, let's go find out,” he runs a hand through his wet hair and lifts the back of your shirt, smacking his hand lightly against your bare back.

You yelp, jolting away from his hand and the left over water, “Steven!”

“Oh, Steven. My bad, honey, just trying to cool you down,” he gives you a cocky grin and you want to smack him for it. Before you can enact your fantasy of violence, he's steering you towards the door.

His touch leaves you at the top of the stairs and he bounds down in a rushed two steps at a time, making you worry he'll fall. Thankfully, he only trips over the last step. It makes you laugh, muttering karma under your breath before you’re following after taking the stairs as a normal person.

You catch the tail end of the kids giving Steve his presents. He’s quick when he speaks, fondness in his tone, “For me? What for?”

You move to stand by Eddie, sipping on what you're certain is a root beer float he’d made with the last of ice cream. You manage to keep your mouth shut about it, if only to hear why the kids have presents for Steve. You do pinch Eddie’s rib though, earning a glare from him before he’s offering his cup to you.

You take it as Dustin says, “it’s fathers day.”

You still in surprise, with the cup to your lips. Eddie tugs the cup from your hand clearly losing his benevolent spirit.

“Fathers day?” Steve doesn’t hide his surprise and neither do you, glancing at Eddie beside you. He just shrugs and mouths driver to you. Unhelpful boy.

You turn your gaze back to the three as Max speaks, “It’s dumb but my dad… he’s great but he hasn’t really called much since we moved to Hawkins and you're just, you're always there, Steve. It's like, I don't know. This was Dustin’s idea.”

“It was not,” Dustin glares at Max before his gaze returns to Steve, “It was our idea together. We just want you to know we appreciate you, Steve. You didn’t ever have to stick around after the thing with Dart, but you did and I don’t know what I do without you.”

It was so odd seeing the two nearly embarrassed about the whole matter but it made you smile nonetheless.

You hip bump Eddie beside you as you mutter to him, “and you drove them all the way here for this. Knew you had a heart.”

“Pssh, sure do. You're out of ice cream by the way,” he says as he slurps his stolen root beer float. You ignore the gut urge to smack him upside the head and instead step towards where Steve was currently strangling the two teens in a tight hug.

“God, don't be a loser about it,” Max says, voice muffled against Steve's shoulder even as she hugs him back.

“You guys are so sweet,” you grin when you hear a sniffle from Steve, clearly trying to hold himself together when he pulls them back from the hug, hands tight on their shoulders as he shakes them a little.

“You guys make it easy to care. You're growing up too fast,” he gives them a sad, reminiscing smile. You knew Steve met the kids when they were just a tad smaller and younger.

“Shut up,” Dustin shoves at Steve's shoulder, smiling a bit more watery.

You sense the waterworks before they start and evidently so does Max, “Okay you wimps, we’re not doing that. Eddie said he'd take us to the arcade. Happy Father's day, Steve.”

She shifts and gives Steve a kiss on the cheek before she's rushing towards the door, cheeks reddening. Eddie follows after her with a shout, “only cause you said you'd pay so I could beat your ass.”

“You're full of shit, Munson,” you catch her voice outside.

Dustin drags Steve into another hug, "I mean it man. Thank you for sticking around. Happy father's day.”

Steve reluctantly lets go of Dustin and the boy offers you a wave as he heads out. The front door shuts. A beat of quiet.

“Man, this fucking kids,” steve wipes his hand over his face before. You finally move around to be face to face with him.

“Steve?” He blinks at you, eyes wet, "what're you crying for, huh? You always knew they loved you.”

He collapses into a hug against you, face to your neck. Your hands move to stroke up his back and into his damp hair. He speaks against your skin, words muffled and lost to you.

“What?”

He speaks again and this time you catch a few words, babies, and love them, and better. You sigh overly fond of the mess of a man in your arms.

“There, there, Steve," you pat his shoulder with your sarcastic response, “least we know you already have two little nuggets,”

He lets out a wet snort against your skin and finally pulls away from you, eyes red, “they think I’m like a dad.”

“Yeah?” you nod. You’d always known the kids looked up to Steve. You don’t know what's got him so emotional.

“I’m not bad.”

Your brows pinch at his words, “What?”

He shakes his head before he’s glancing at one of the family portraits on the wall. You never paid them much attention after your first few glances. The Harrington family had no idea how to take cozy family photos.

“I was so scared and I’d be like them,” Steve admits quietly, “but the kids, they think I’m good. They’re not even mine and they think I mattered to them enough to get a father’s day gift for me.”

“Steve…” you rub your hand up and down his arm.

His gaze returns to yours with a smile, “It makes me really fucking happy.”

He dives into an abrupt hug with you, startled screech escaping you when he spins around.

“I can be a good dad,” he repeats as he sets you down with a wider grin. Your mind suddenly reaches an understanding that as much as Steve wanted his many children, he still worried about the type of father he’d.

“You’re gonna be a great dad, Steve.” you grin back at him.

————

Masterlist

Working at such a central point of a small town – like a diner – means you have become intimately aware of the regulars’ comings and goings as well as the general local population at large. No one is safe from diner gossip, not even individuals who don’t patronize the restaurant. 

And you’ve come to like your regulars. 

You really like one of them in particular; Steve. 

Which brings you to your problem. Because Steve…Steve is really great; he’s got gorgeous eyes and a devastating smile and great hair and big hands and a lovely laugh and you’ve got a big ol’ crush on him like a teenager. 

Except you’re not a teenager, and neither is he. 

But the two of you are young enough in your adulthood that you’re well aware how this song and dance goes. 

A guy like Steve has probably tested the waters of every eligible person in the area and saw a new challenge in the new girl in town. 

Like shiny keys, you’re something new, some interesting to look at. 

But it’s all fun and games shooting the shit with the pretty little waitress at your favourite diner in town, it’s a totally different ball game when you find out she has a little one waiting for her at home. 

So, your existential crisis? Your moral quandary? Your ethical dilemma? 

You let Steve flirt with you. You encourage Steve to flirt with you. You even flirt with him back! 

But you know how this song and dance goes, which mean you’re basically stringing him along.

But can anyone blame you? He’s so, so handsome. And he’s got great hair; have you mentioned the hair yet? And maybe it’s just a little harmless flirting, maybe he’s this sweet and friendly to the waitress who serves him his tuna melts when you’re not clocked in. 

Except Steve always finds a way to ask when you’re working next, as if he only ever wants to be served by you. Except Steve sees you near the counter and smiles, asking what section you’re working before he chooses a seat. Except Steve has only ever come in alone, as if the front of house is sacred ground and he doesn’t want to bring anyone else into this hallowed space. 

And so, you’re a wretched thing.

Just awful, really. Letting him flirt with you, letting him call you sweet things like honey and beautiful, letting him tip you well and eat the majority of his meals in a rather mediocre diner, as far as diners go. 

Cruel girl. 

Maybe you should taper things off. You had your fun, he boosted your ego, he made your shifts much more enjoyable, and now you ought to put the whole thing to bed. 

Terrible, awful thoughts about Steve and to bed aside, perhaps it’s time to release Steve back into the wild where he can woo another girl who doesn’t have someone waiting for them to come home and make them mac & cheese or chicken nuggets. 

Speak of the devil…

“Hey, gorgeous,” Steve greets as he waltzes up to the counter. His smile does something wicked to your stomach and you have to lock your knees to keep you from actually swooning. Foolish girl. 

“Hi, handsome,” you greet in turn, internally kicking yourself at forgetting that you were supposed to be putting this to bed. “Take a seat anywhere you like.”

But Steve hesitates. That’s a first. 

“Actually I- uh, I can’t stay tonight.”

You pause where you’re drying the parfait glasses used for milkshakes to look at him. He shifts his weight between his feet as he brings a (big) hand up to rub at the back of his neck, seemingly unable to make eye contact with you. 

“No?” you prompt when he doesn’t seem like he’s going to continue. “Got a hot date tonight or something?”

It startles a laugh out of him, except this laugh is all high and tense and wrong in nearly every way; it’s nervous. Steve is nervous. “Uh, well…not- no, not tonight. But, hopefully, I, uh- shit, I used to be good at this.” 

You let out a nervous giggle of your own. “Good at what?”

“Good at asking girls out,” he answers honestly, shooting you an apologetic smile.

Oh. 

“Oh.” Your responding laugh is high and tense as well; what a picture the two of you paint.

“Yeah,” he chuckles self deprecatingly. “I, uhm, just wanted to ask if maybe you’d be interested in, I don’t know, getting to know each other outside of work? Or just getting dinner with me. Or, or maybe I make you something for dinner this time? Not that you make the food here, mind you, but-”

“I…I would like that,” you respond slowly, though Steve deflates a bit at the silent but teetering on the edge of your sentence. 

“But…” he guesses.

“I, uhm, well…I think you might’ve gotten the wrong idea about me.”

“Oh,” Steve breathes, cogs grinding in his head as he reroutes his course through this conversation. “Oh. Are you, like, married or something?”

“No, no. Nothing like that.” 

“Okay. Are you” Steve leans in further, eyes flicking behind you as though worried someone from the kitchen might overhear “into girls? ‘Cause if you are, that’s totally cool, and it’ll suck for me a bit but I have a friend I’d like to introduce to you in that case.”

Your following laugh is far more honest. “No, no. I’m- I have a secret. A different secret.” 

“Okay,” Steve agrees. “Okay, you can have secrets, if you want.”

“No- ugh. No, I…she’s not-” you shake your head as though trying to slip its faulty pieces back into place “-it’s not a secret. It’s just that I’ve kept her a secret from you; not that you asked and not that it came up and not that it was necessarily relevant but-”

“Her?” His question is quiet, soft, sweet.

You purse your lips and tilt your head at him. “I have a daughter.” 

A look akin to…relief paints Steve’s face, his brown eyes warming into something sweet and gooey and crinkling in the corners. “A daughter?”

You hum in acknowledgment. 

“How old?”

You clear your throat and start fussing with the parfait glasses again. “She’s two.”

“Two,” he repeats reverently. “What’s her name?”

You look back up at him, wondering if what you’re reading from him really is excitement. “Lucy.”

“Lucy.” He’s beaming at you. “And that’s your secret?”

You laugh. “Yeah, I- I guess, if she can be considered a secret.”

“Cool,” he says, leaning against the counter on his elbows. “And, so, just so I know what to tell my friend when she asks how this went: you don’t want to go out with me because you have a daughter…and you don’t have time to date? Or any interest in dating? Or ‘cause you think I’m a weirdo? It’s cool either way, just need something to report back to headquarters.” 

You’re almost embarrassed at how loudly you laugh, covering your mouth with your hands and turning to ensure no customers have turned to gawk at you. 

“No, I just…no, you’re not a weirdo.”

Steve lets out a theatrical phew and pretends to wipe sweat from his brow. 

“That’s just…usually as far as I get with guys.”

His brows furrow and he tilts his head at you. “What do you mean?”

“I mean it’s usually more fun flirting with the waitress than dating a single mom who’s new in town,” you explain, decorating your grimace with a tight smile. “Men usually look the other way once they know I have a kid.”

Steve scoffs. “Losers. Well, I love kids, so that really doesn’t change much for me. Actually, it’s kinda hot. You gotta be extra competent to move to a new town and set up shop with a little one on your hip.”

Your cheeks burn and the flames quickly spread to the tips of your ears. You keep your gaze pointed at the parfait glasses. 

“So…I’d love to take you out on that date, if that’s alright with you,” he continues, voice dropping low and dangerous as he dips his head in an attempt to meet your gaze. He’s smirking; the bastard. “And if it goes well, which I’m hoping it does, I’d love to meet Lucy one day.” 

And now you want to cry. Great, real nice. Damn Steve and his sweet eyes and his great hair and his charming smile and his big hands. 

“Yeah?”

He must hear the insecurity in your voice, because he ducks his head even lower to shoot you a real smile. “Yeah. Go out with me, don’t make me beg. ‘Specially in public; this is getting embarrassing, even for me.”

You laugh again. “Yeah, yeah. Okay, I’d like to go out with you.”

Steve, the dork, stands to his full height and drums his hands on the counter in excitement. “Think you can make time for me on Friday?”

“I can probably squeeze you in,” you play coy. 

“Good girl,” he purrs. You glare at him and he barks a laugh. “Okay, okay. Friday, I’ll swing by tomorrow to solidify plans, ‘kay?”

“‘Kay.”

“Great,” he beams, walking backwards. 

“Alright,” you laugh.

He bumps into an empty booth, turning to apologize to it. “Okay, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“See you tomorrow,” you agree.

“And then Friday!” 

He’s at the door now, though he pauses and waits for you to confirm.

“And then Friday, Steve.”

So yes, Steve sucked at keeping secrets. Making the fact that he was hiding something, something big, from Dustin Henderson of all people felt like a sick joke. Like the universe was daring him to fuck it up.

Because this wasn’t a fling. This wasn’t some temporary, easy thing he could shrug off when it got complicated. It was you. 

Yet Steve couldn’t find it in himself to end whatever had started between you both, bcause dating you was somehow the easiest thing he had ever done and the hardest thing he had ever survived.

Easy, because being with you made everything lighter. You slipped into his life without force, without noise, and suddenly he wasn’t so tense all the time. He laughed without thinking. He breathed without bracing for impact. The constant knot in his chest loosened, replaced by something warm that stayed with him long after you walked away.

Yet, it was so hard because it had to stay hidden.

Steve did not entirely hate the secrecy, and that fact made him feel like a bit of an asshole. There was something selfishly intoxicating about it, about having you all to himself, about the way your smiles and touches belonged only to him in stolen moments and half-lit rooms. Still, the logistics were a nightmare. 

Timing everything down to the minute, picking places that were quiet enough to be safe but not suspicious, constantly looking over his shoulder like he was doing something criminal instead of just falling in love.

All of that made it hard, yet the worst part of it all was Dustin.

Dustin was the one person Steve hadn’t lied to yet. Which was impressive, considering he was your brother and more than capable of beating the living shit out of him if he found out about your relationship.

So yes, in short, Steve hated lying about your relationship.

Though unlike Steve, you were an exceptional liar.

It was a talent you wielded effortlessly and oh so smoothly, never hesitating and never overexplaining. You could look someone dead in the eye and spin a perfectly believable story without your pulse so much as fluttering. 

Steve did not value dishonesty as a character trait. He really didn’t. But you were devastatingly good at it, and watching you lie with that calm, confident ease was — if he was being honest with himself— a huge turn-on. Which probably said more about him than it did about you.

Which was how he ended up now knocking quietly on your bedroom window at 8:30 in the evening.

You opened the window almost immediately, already grinning like you had been waiting there the whole time. Steve barely had time to step inside before your hands were on him, fingers curling into his jacket as you kissed him. 

He was about to say I missed you, baby, but it came out muffled and stupid as your mouth moved against his, sounding more like “I miffed you” than anything intelligible.

You pulled back just long enough to smile at him. “Missed you too, Stevie.”

He laughed under his breath, hands finding your waist automatically as he nudged you backward until the backs of your knees hit the bed. He pushed you down with gentle insistence. “You called me over like it was an emergency,” he said, brushing his nose against yours. “What’s going on?”

You pouted dramatically. “What, I can’t wanna spend time with my boyfriend?”

Steve rolled his eyes fondly. “You can, but you were very ominous about it.”

“It’s boring here,” you complained, propping yourself up on your elbows. “All Dustin does is run around with his friends doing weird shit. I swear, if I hear about another goddamn radio one more time—”

“Yeah,” Steve cut in, grinning, “exactly. Which is precisely why I should not be here right now.”

You waved him off, completely unbothered. “Relaaax. He’s across the hall and deeply invested in something grossly scientific. We’re fine.” you said, dragging out the words.

Steve glanced toward the door anyway, nerves prickling despite your confidence. “You say that, but I am one unexpected door opening away from ruining my entire relationship with your brother.”

“You’re dramatic,” you said, reaching out to tug him closer by the collar. “Sit.”

Steve leaned back against the headboard while you talked, filling him in on your day in a rambling, animated stream. He listened the way he always did, half-lidded and indulgent, kissing your neck like he had all the time in the world as you complained about something Stacey–or whatever her name was— from gym class did.

“She actually said it was my fault,” you scoffed, waving a hand. “Like I tripped her.”

“Mhm,” Steve hummed, lips brushing your skin again. 

You snorted. “You’re not even listening.”

“I am,” He finally looked at you then, eyes hazed and heavy-lidded, that familiar warmth darkened into something lazier, hungrier. His hand slid from your waist to your hip, fingers curling just enough to pull you back against him.

Then, softer, almost amused against your skin, “You know… I don’t think you realize how unfair you’re being right now.”

You hummed, a quiet sound that made him smile into your neck. “Unfair how?”

“These shorts…” he said, kissing just beneath your ear, lingering there. “You look really good in them. Like distractingly good.”

You laughed softly, fingers curling into the collar of his jacket. “They’re literally just pajamas, Steve.”

“Yeah,” he said, pulling back just enough to look at you, eyes warm and amused, “and yet somehow they’re ruining my ability to think straight.”

You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling, cheeks warm as you leaned forward to kiss him properly this time. He kissed you back without hesitation, familiar and easy as his hands slowly started to trail lower until they slipped past the waistband of your shorts.

The room was quiet except for the soft rustle of sheets and the faint sounds of the house settling around you.

Then there was a loud thud from across the hall.

Steve stiffened instantly, hand pulling away from you as you pushed him away. You froze too, heart jumping straight into your throat.

Footsteps followed, quick and careless, moving closer.

“Oh shit, shit, shit!” Steve whispered, pulling back completely.

“Window,” you hissed.

He scrambled off the bed, movements suddenly frantic as he headed straight for it, fumbling with the latch. He had just shoved it open when the door flew inward.

“Hey, I was just gonna ask if you—”

Dustin cut himself off.

He stood there, a bunch of wires in his hand, staring like his brain had completely short-circuited.

“…Steve?” he said slowly. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Steve turned around, caught mid-motion, hair messy, nerves written all over his face. For half a second, he genuinely looked like he might faint. His mouth opened yet nothing came out.

You stepped in immediately.

“Oh,” you said easily, swinging your legs off the bed and standing up like this was the most normal thing in the world. “Steve’s fixing my window.”

Dustin blinked. “Your window?”

“Yup,” you said, nodding toward it. “It’s been rattling for days. You just don’t notice because you’re always blasting that weird static crap in your room.”

“It’s not static,” Dustin said automatically, then frowned. “Wait. Since when does Steve fix windows?”

You didn’t hesitate for a second, the lie slipping smoothly. “Since he fixed his car window last week. Remember? When it got stuck halfway down and he couldn’t roll it back up?”

Dustin glanced at Steve. “You fixed that yourself?”

Steve nodded quickly. “Yeah. I mean—car windows, house windows… glass goes up, glass goes down. It’s all the same at the end of the day..” he laughed nervously.

That seemed to satisfy him. Dustin stepped further into the room, peering at the window inspecting the damage. “Huh. That’s actually kinda cool. You should’ve told me you knew how to do this. We could use that at Cerebro. The latch keeps sticking.”

“Yeah,” Steve said, forcing a smile. “Totally. I can look at it sometime.”

“Does it really rattle?” Dustin asked you.

“All the time,” you dragged out the words. “Especially when it’s windy. It’s annoying as hell.”

Dustin nodded thoughtfully. “Weird. I’ve never noticed.”

“That’s because you’re never in here,” you shot back.

He shrugged. “Fair.”

You grabbed your hoodie from the chair and headed for the door. “I’m gonna get the screws from the garage. I think they’re in the toolbox by the washer.”

As you passed Steve, he glanced down briefly, then back up at you, eyes wide and desperate. His expression screamed that this situation had become deeply inconvenient in more ways than one—mostly thanks to the very obvious bulge in his pants from your previous activities.

“So how long is this gonna take? Mom said dinner’s in like twenty minutes and—”

Steve swallowed, shifting his weight carefully, eyes flicking once more toward the open window.

“Uh,” he said, voice strained as he tried to angle himself away, hiding his little (but apparently not-so-little) friend, “not long. Just gotta… make sure it’s secure.”

Thankfully, Dustin seemed convinced and retreated back to his room, not even slightly suspicious. Steve let out a huge sigh of relief, knowing he would have been absolutely fucked if Dustin had noticed he had a boner while fixing his sister’s window.

2.

“Honey, you want butter or salt on that popcorn?” Steve called from the counter, holding a bucket that looked way too big for what you asked for.

“Is there caramel?”

“Yeah, yeah, of course, I’ll get that,” he said, and you heard the familiar shuffle of his shoes on the tiles as he walked toward the popcorn dispenser.

You followed behind, pretending to look around but really just watching him—Steve, who somehow looked like the absolute model of a gentleman right now, carrying your purse and filling up two massive buckets of popcorn. You’d asked for a medium, but of course he insisted on spoiling you, like he hadn’t just ripped your dress off a few hours ago in his car. God, you really had it bad for that man.

“Two tickets for E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial ,” he said, grinning at the cashier. He added, just for good measure, “The best seats, please.”

After getting the tickets and ordering, yet again, two large slushies, Steve turned, and started walking toward you. He leaned in, presumably for a kiss until you both were interrupted by a round of laughter.

A very familiar, very annoying, very fucking loud laughter.

You both froze. Slowly, you turned.

Dustin, Lucas, Will, Mike, Eleven, and Max were all marching into the theater like they owned the place. Max’s eyes locked on you two first as she saw you both standing right at the ticket counter. 

“Steve… and Y/N??” she asked, voice rising in shock.

Steve sighed, a long defeated sigh. “Oh, for fuck’s sake…” he murmured, more to himself than anyone else, as he tried to figure out how the hell you’d all just become the center of attention without even knowing.

Dustin’s mouth hung open for a second, then he leaned forward, pointing a finger at Steve. “Why are you two…here?”

“Oh, hello everyone!” you laughed nervously and very much annoyed at the aspect of your date being ruined.

Steve gestured vaguely around the lobby. “Uh. We are here to watch  E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial.”

Dustin blinked. “Together?”

Steve laughed. “What, no. No, man. Jesus. We just came here because—” 

Before Steve could finish his horrible half-assed excuse, Mike suddenly stepped forward, voice cracking just slightly as he blurted, “I invited them!”

Every head snapped toward him.

“You did?” Dustin asked.

Lucas frowned. “You did?”

Max raised an eyebrow. “Why didn't you tell us?”

Mike nodded nervously. “Ehm–yeah! Thought you guys would enjoy the movie. Y’know, fun group outing. No big deal.”

You shot Mike a look, half confused, half relieved.

Dustin let out a long, dramatic “Ooooh,” instantly forgetting his suspicions. “Well. I mean. If Mike invited you...”

“Then you’re welcome to join us! We are also watching E.T!” Will exclaimed after Dustin.

“Yeah,” El added. “You’re welcome!”

Steve exhaled through his nose as the tension eased and the kids started drifting toward the ticket counter, already arguing about seats. He leaned closer to you, lowering his voice. “Well, our date is ruined.”

You snorted, slurping your slushie. “Be thankful it’s only ruined. If Mike hadn’t jumped in, you’d be six feet under once Dustin put the pieces together.”

Steve grimaced. “Fair point.” He watched Mike for a second, still baffled. “But I don’t understand…why the hell did he do that?”

You took another slow sip as the sound of the slushie left a grrrrr sound, eyes following the group. “Let’s just say I caught him a few days ago in a… similar predicament to ours.”

Steve frowned. “With who?” He paused, then frowned harder. “El?”

You shook your head, nodding toward the counter instead.

Steve followed your gaze. Mike and Will were standing too close, shoulders brushing, heads bent together like the rest of the world didn’t exist. Something clicked behind Steve’s eyes.

“Oh my god,” he whispered. “He’s screwing Byers?”

You laughed, nearly choking on your slushie. “Lower your voice, Jesus.”

Steve stared, stunned, then let out a breathy laugh. “Holy shit. That explains everything.”

“Exactly,” you said, smirking. “He owes me one for keeping his secret.”

Steve shook his head slowly, a grin creeping onto his face despite himself. “This town is insane.”

“Tell me about it.”

3.

Dustin knew Steve was hiding something.

It was obvious, painfully so, even to someone like him. Dustin liked to think of himself as reasonably perceptive, and even if he wasn’t some kind of psychic genius, his best friend was not subtle.

Although Steve had many talents. Secrecy was surely not one of them. The signs were everywhere. The constant disappearances, the excuses that made no sense if you thought about them for longer than five seconds, the sudden inability to hang out because he was “busy”. Everything was pointing at one obvious conclusion.

And then there was the glow.

Dustin usually didn’t buy into that whole love makes you glow bullshit. It sounded fake, like something Shakespeare would’ve thrown into a sonnet just to sound deep. But Steve had been walking around lately with this stupid look on his face, like his brain had short-circuited and decided to replace all higher functions with glitter and rainbows.

Which was really pathetic, if one asked Dustin.

He was smiling at nothing, laughing under his breath like an idiot, and generally acting like someone had slipped something into his morning coffee that Dustin was starting to reconsider his stance about the whole glow thing.

Dustin was currently slouched in the passenger seat of Steve’s car, watching through the windshield as Steve stood at the counter of the gas station’s grocery shop loading up on sodas. 

The cashier rang everything up at a painfully slow pace, and Steve just stood there tapping his fingers against the counter, completely zoned out, grinning at absolutely nothing in particular.

“Jesus,” Dustin muttered under his breath. “Get a room with your own thoughts, man.”

Steve didn’t hear him, obviously, too busy living in whatever fantasy world had apparently taken up permanent residence in his head. 

Yeah. No question about it. Steve was in love, and therefore, almost definitely dating someone.

The realization did not make Dustin mad. If anything, it made him weirdly relieved. Steve deserved good things, deserved someone who made him smile like that instead of wearing that tight, exhausted look Dustin had gotten used to over the year. 

Still, there was a dull, uncomfortable tug in his chest that he could not quite ignore. Because Steve had not told him.

And Steve told Dustin everything. That had always been their thing, right? So why the hell was he suddenly holding something back now, of all times?

Steve was still inside, taking his time, so Dustin shifted in his seat. eyes drifting around the car. The car was a mess, as usual. Empty wrappers, crumpled receipts, a couple of cassette tapes shoved haphazardly into the compartment between the seats.

Dustin leaned forward, absently opening the little storage drawer built into the dash. He wasn’t snooping, not really. He was just bored, and that was a perfectly reasonable explanation to look around.

His fingers brushed against something small and solid in the drawer. He frowned, then pulled it out.

It was a box; red, neatly packaged, tied with a thin ribbon that had clearly been adjusted more than once. Dustin stared at it for a second, his curiosity getting the better of him. Slowly, he undid the ribbon and lifted the lid.

Inside was a golden, delicate necklace with a small heart pendant resting against the velvet lining. Definitely did not look cheap in any means. 

“Ohhh” he murmured quietly.

That settled Dustin’s suspicions; Steve was definitely dating someone, and the idiot was clearly head over heels.

He closed the box immediately and retied the red ribbon, and slid it back into the drawer exactly where he’d found it. 

Steve climbed in seconds later, arms full of junk food, that stupid, soft smile still firmly glued to his face. He dumped everything in the space between the seats and tossed a soda toward Dustin without looking, who caught it out of instinct.

“Got your favorite,” Steve said easily. 

Dustin cracked the soda open but kept his eyes on Steve as he leaned back in the driver’s seat, humming quietly while he sorted through the bags. “You’re in a good mood,” he said, keeping his tone casual.

Steve glanced over. “Am I?”

“Yeah, man,” Dustin said flatly. “You’re glowing. It’s gross.”

Steve scoffed. “Must be the new face wash I’ve been using then. Glad to know it works ‘cause that shit cost me 20 bucks.”

Not that kind of glow, Dustin thought.

“You spent a good three minutes smiling at a bag of chips back there,” Dustin shot back. “So either you’re in love or you’ve finally snapped.”

Steve froze for half a second, his panic showing through. It was subtle, but Dustin caught it anyway.

Interesting.

“In love? Nah man. Where the hell did that come from.” he laughed nervously.

Dustin said slowly, eyes widening. “You have a girlfriend or somethin’?”

“What?” Steve laughed, and far too quickly. “No, I don’t.”

Dustin tilted his head, unimpressed. “Steve.”

“I don’t,” Steve insisted, shaking his head as he started the car. “I’m just, y’know, in a good mood.” he shrugged.

“Gosh,” Dustin said, rolling his eyes. “You suck at this. You’re actually terrible at lying.”

Steve opened his mouth, then closed it again. He sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “Okay. Fine. Yes!”

Dustin grinned. “Yes, you have a girlfriend?”

“Yes,” Steve admitted. “I have a girlfriend.”

Dustin let out a loud, undignified noise, twisting in his seat so fast he nearly smacked his knee against the glove compartment. “Holy shit,” he said, grinning like he’d just been handed front-row tickets to something incredible. “That’s amazing. Seriously. Why the hell didn’t you tell me?”

Steve hesitated, his hands tightening on the steering wheel like it might give him guidance if he squeezed hard enough. “I just… I’m keepin’ it on the low right now, okay? It’s not a big deal.”

Dustin snorted. “You? Steve Harrington? The guy who once announced he had a crush to the entire video store after one date? You’re doin’ ‘low’ now?”

“Okay, shut up,” Steve shot back, but the words were undercut by the way his mouth curved into a smile anyway. “I mean it. I’m just… takin’ my time with this one.”

Dustin’s eyes lit up immediately. “Oh, this is serious then.” He leaned closer, lowering his voice like he was about to be let in on a state secret. “So who is she? Do I know her?”

Steve shook his head without missing a beat. “I’m not sayin’.”

“Oh, come on,” Dustin groaned, dropping back against the seat. “You can’t drop that on me and then clam up. I’m happy for you, Harrington. This is huge!”

“I know,” Steve said, quieter now, eyes fixed on the road. “I just need a little time, alright? That’s all I’m askin’ for.”

Dustin studied him for a moment, and whatever he saw there seemed to soften his hurt. He nodded once. “Alright. Fine.” Then his grin came back. “But for the record, I fully expect details eventually. Also, congrats on finally having consistent sex.”

Steve nearly swerved into the next lane. “Jesus Christ, Dustin!”

“What?” Dustin asked, it wasn’t like the topic of sex was taboo between them. 

“You’re clearly happy. And besides, it’s kinda comforting to know you’re finally screwing someone on a regular basis. So honestly, you might as well spill some details.”

“Fuck no,” Steve said immediately, horrified. “Absolutely not. I would rather drive this car into a ditch than talk about that with you. And I’m pretty sure you don’t wanna hear it either.”

“Oh please,” Dustin shot back. “I have heard all the details about your hookups. Tammy Thompson, Carol Perkins, Emilia from—”

Steve winced. “Okay, first of all, you were not supposed to hear about half of those, and second of all,” he added quickly, “you really wouldn’t wanna know about this one.”

“Whatever, I’m just happy for you.” Dustin shrugged.

4.

There’s a saying that goes: even when life takes so much from you, it also gives a lot back. Time heals all wounds, but that was hard to believe when your nights were haunted by the things you’d seen in the Upside Down. 

Even though it had been over a year since the painful experience, the monsters, the screams, there were nights—far too many nights—where the images came back, vivid and cruel. 

Which is exactly how you found yourself lying on the cold kitchen floor at one in the morning, phone pressed to your ear, body curled slightly as though curling into yourself might make the world feel safer. That old wired phone—the one that belonged to your parents—was pressed just so, and your nose was red from quietly sniffing.

“No, Steve, it’s fine,” you whispered, voice tight. “You really don’t need to come over. I… I’ll be okay.”

There was a pause on the other end before Steve’s voice came, tight with worry. “Are you sure? You’re sure you’re okay? I don’t care about the time. It’s a ten minute drive, maybe less, and I can be there before you even blink.”

You sniffled again, blinking against the tears you didn’t want to admit were falling. “I… I just want to hear your voice,” you admitted softly. “That’s enough.”

“No, that’s not enough,” he said, frustration and concern threading through his words. “Y/N, you woke up from a horrible nightmare all shaken up and you’re telling me you’re fine? I don’t think so. I’m coming over. I can’t not.”

You let out a soft laugh, barely audible. “Steve…please. I don’t need you to drive over. Just—just talk to me for a minute. I’m too tired to deal with…everything else right now.”

There was a long pause, then the faint sound of him running a hand through his hair. “Okay, okay, fine. I’ll stay on the phone. But if you change your mind, I’m out the door in ten seconds.”

You shivered slightly, clutching the phone closer. “I’m… trying. I’m tired, Steve. I just… the nightmares won’t let me sleep.”

“I know, baby,” he murmured softly. “I know. And I’m sorry you have to deal with that. It’s not fair. You didn’t ask for any of this. You didn’t ask to see all that shit, to go through all of it. But I’m here. I’m right here. And you’re not alone, alright?”

You sniffled again. “Mhm. I just… sometimes it feels like it’s back, y’know? Like it’s all around me, and I can’t… breathe.”

Steve’s voice came soft, almost a whisper, like he was leaning over you even through the phone. “Hey… shhh, hey, it’s okay, baby. I know it feels heavy right now, I know it does. But you’re still here. You’re safe and I won’t let anything harm you. I’ve got you, alright? I’ll stay right here on the line as long as you need me.”

A quiet tear escaped, and you pressed the phone harder to your ear. “You really mean that?”

“Every word,” he said. 

“I… I’m really tired,” you whispered, eyelids heavy. “But… thank you. For staying on the phone.”

“I’ll stay as long as you need,” he said. “You hear me? And tomorrow, if you want, we can hang out, eat some junk food, and watch some dumb movies, how’s that sound?”

A soft laugh broke past your exhaustion. “Okay,” you murmured. “Tomorrow sounds… good.”

“Good,” he said, smiling through the phone. “Now close your eyes. Try to rest and I’ll be right here. I promise.”

You yawned, the sound muffled against the phone, and whispered, “I’ll try.”

You were too drowsy to notice the quiet shift on the staircase. Dustin had stopped midway, listening to the faint conversation after he woke up from the sound of rustling downstairs only to find you on the phone. 

His heart twisted hearing your soft, shaky voice. He couldn’t hear Steve's side of the conversation—only your side. But from the way you spoke, he could tell Steve was there comforting you and keeping you safe.

The alarm bells went off in his head, but he shoved them aside. If Steve was the one who could help you through the nightmares, then Dustin didn’t need to dig any deeper for answers or suspicions tonight. 

With a quiet sigh, Dustin crept back upstairs, leaving you to your whispered reassurances and the fragile sense of peace settling over the kitchen floor.

He was, after all, too sleepy and exhausted to think too much of it.

+1

If there was one thing you hated more than anything, it was fighting with Steve.

And somehow, against all odds, he was currently sitting in the living room of your house with Dustin, like this was totally normal and not driving you completely insane. 

Worse, there was nothing you could do about it. You couldn’t exactly kick your secret boyfriend out in front of your brother. You also couldn’t scream at him, or throw something at his head, or do any of the other deeply satisfying things you’d been imagining for the past two days.

Steve hadn’t even been subtle about it. He’d shown up under the excuse of “hanging out with Dustin,” which was bullshit, because Dustin was busy ranting about some new gadget and Steve hadn’t been listening to a word of it. 

He kept glancing toward the kitchen like he was waiting for you to look back at him, like that would somehow fix everything.

It wouldn’t.

You were in the kitchen, cutting watermelon into uneven slices, jaw clenched so tight it ached. You told yourself you were being efficient, but really, you were being petty. Every slice you set aside for Steve had as many seeds as you could stuff in there—a small, vindictive way to get back at him for the kind of shit he’d pulled.

You didn’t even feel bad about it. He deserved to suffer a little after pulling the kind of shit he had.

You dragged the knife through the rind harder than necessary. And then it slipped.

“Shit,” you hissed as pain flared across your palm, sharp and immediate. The knife clattered onto the counter before you could even process what happened.

Before you could grab a towel, the knife was gone.

You looked up, heart jumping, and there was Steve, standing way too close behind you in the kitchen.

“What the hell are you doing,” you snapped, instinctively pulling your hand back. “Why are you following me in here? Isn’t it enough that I have to pretend we’re fine in front of Dustin?”

He didn’t argue or even joke. He just sighed, long and tired, like this had been weighing on him for days too.

“Let me see your hand,” he said quietly.

“No.”

“Don’t do that,” he replied, gentle but firm, already reaching for you. “You’re bleeding.”

You hesitated, then let him take your hand. His grip was careful, thumb brushing lightly against your skin. He grabbed gauze from the drawer without even thinking, muscle memory kicking in, and turned the faucet on low.

“This is exactly what I mean,” you muttered. “You act like this and then expect me not to be mad.”

Steve cleaned the cut slowly, eyes fixed on your palm. “I know. And I fucked up. I know I did.”

You stayed quiet, letting him talk. The kitchen felt smaller than usual, the sound of running water filling the space between you.

“I wasn’t trying to make you feel hidden,” he continued, voice low. “I just… every time I thought about telling him, I pictured his face. And the questions. And the way he never shuts up. And I panicked. That’s on me. Not you.”

He wrapped the gauze around your hand, careful not to pull too tight. “You don’t deserve that. You don’t deserve to feel like I’m ashamed of you, because I’m not at all. I’m just an idiot.”

You swallowed, throat tight, still not looking at him.

“I should’ve done better, but I—” 

“What’s going on in here?”

Both of you froze up. You turned just in time to see Dustin standing in the doorway, eyes locked on your hand in Steve’s, on the gauze, on how close he was standing.

You both turned around quickly, trying to act casual. You held your hand up like nothing happened. “It’s fine,” you said, forcing a shrug. “I’m not, like… we’re not holding hands or anything. Steve was just helping me because I cut myself.”

Dustin raised an eyebrow, clearly skeptical. “Uh-huh. Sure.”

You rolled your eyes. “I mean it, Dustin. It’s not what it looks like.”

“Oh, I’m not worried about that,” he said with a shrug. Then, without warning, he held up a necklace in his hand. A delicate gold chain with a heart-shaped locket dangling from it.

Your stomach dropped. “Oh. Where—where did you find that?”

Dustin turned toward you, raising the locket so you could see it better. “I went to your room to look for that Indiana Jones DVD you mentioned,” he said casually, “and well… this was just sitting on your dresser.”

Your jaw went slack. “You went in my room?”

He ignored the mini-panic in your voice and glanced at Steve with a sigh that could’ve crushed the both of you. “And you, Harrington…”

Steve straightened, trying to look casual, and opened his mouth. “Listen, it’s not—”

“—so, this is not the same necklace I saw in your car a few weeks ago that was meant for your secret girlfriend?” 

Steve froze for a second, hands halfway raising in defense. “Woah, okay. Uh, I don’t think we should be talking about this like that.” he said, voice cautious.

You jumped in, waving your hands. “Dustin, wait—you need to calm down, okay?”

“Calm down?” Dustin repeated, narrowing his eyes at Steve. “You mean the part where he's been screwing my sister and I find out by a fucking necklace?”

Steve threw his hands up. “Okay, okay, I get it! Look, I wasn’t trying to hide it, not exactly. I just… didn’t know how to tell you. I thought you’d get mad. And I didn’t wanna risk our friendship, man. I swear, I was gonna tell you soon, like really soon. It just… happened. And, things kinda happened.”

Dustin tilted his head, holding the necklace up again like it was evidence in a murder trial. “ Steve, you’ve been sneaky and going around hiding stuff, and I get it—you’re happy—but come on!”

The room felt too small all of a sudden. Steve opened his mouth again, clearly ready to keep apologizing and explaining himself, but Dustin didn’t even look at him this time.

His eyes flicked to you instead, sharp and searching in a way that made your chest tighten.

“Can we talk alone?” Dustin said, already turning toward the hallway. It wasn’t really a question.

Steve hesitated, glancing at you with eyes full of worry. You squeezed his fingers once before letting go, a quiet reassurance, and nodded. He stepped back, lingering near the counter.

Dustin led you out into the porch where you sat on your mom’s fluffed up garden couches.  For a moment, neither of you spoke. He stared at the floor, the necklace looped around his fingers now instead of held up like a weapon.

“I’m not mad,” he said finally, voice lower than usual. “Okay, maybe a little mad. But that’s not what this is about.”

You waited. You knew better than to rush him.

He glanced at you then. “I just wanna know if you’re… happy. Like, actually happy.”

You leaned back into the couch, shoulders brushing his. “I am,” you said honestly. “Steve makes me happy. He makes me feel safe. He listens to me, even when I’m being stubborn or when we argue. And yeah, we fight sometimes—but I am happy.”

Dustin was quiet, picking at the chain in his hands. “He better,” he muttered. “Because I swear to God, if he ever—”

“I know,” you said softly, bumping your knee against his. “And I wouldn’t be with him if I thought he’d hurt me. I promise.”

That seemed to ease something in him. He let out a slow breath and leaned back, eyes on the ceiling. “So why hide it? I mean… I’m annoying, yeah, but I’m not, like gonna sabotage your relationship if you’re both happy.”

You huffed a small laugh. “I know. It wasn’t about not trusting you. It was just… complicated. You’re my younger brother. He’s your friend. And I didn’t know how to tell you without making it weird or feeling like I was crossing some invisible line. Plus, we wanted to keep it private for a while. Just… us.”

Dustin nodded slowly. “You could’ve told me,” he said, quieter now.

“I know,” you replied softly, voice a little tight. “And I’m sorry I didn’t. I didn’t want the first time you found out to be like this.”

He glanced at you, lips twitching despite himself, a reluctant little smile tugging at the corner. “Yeah… well. Finding out via incriminating jewelry isn’t exactly ideal,” he muttered, shaking his head.

You let out a small, rueful laugh, leaning your head against his shoulder for a moment. He didn’t pull away, and you let yourself stay there for a beat longer than you should have. “I’m really sorry, Dustin,” you whispered, tone earnest. “You’re my baby brother. I shouldn’t have kept this from you, especially since I know how much Steve means to you. I wasn’t trying to hurt you.”

Dustin’s fingers flexed around the necklace in his hand, and he let out a long, slow sigh, finally pushing himself to his feet. “It’s okay, Y/N,” he said quietly, voice calmer now. “I get it. I just… I wanted to make sure you’re actually happy. Not just saying it because I asked. I needed to know that he… that you’re good with him.”

You smiled, warm and a little tender, and stepped forward, wrapping your arms around him in a tight hug. 

He froze for half a second, then awkwardly hugged you back just as tightly. 

“Awwww,” you teased softly, pulling back just enough to peek up at him. “My little baby brother, all protective and worried about me.”

Dustin groaned, rolling his eyes but smiling despite himself. “Shut up, Y/N,” he said. “I’m not your baby.”

“Sure you’re not,” you said, still smirking, giving him a playful squeeze before letting go. “Now go. Go tell Steve what’s what before he freaks out even more.”

Dustin muttered something under his breath, tugging the necklace off his fingers, then straightened and strode toward the door. 

You couldn’t help laughing quietly to yourself, watching him go, knowing that underneath the eye-rolling and teasing, he really did care—and that you were lucky to have him in your corner.

Dustin slipped back inside. He found Steve standing near the couch, eyes unfocused, staring at nothing in particular. When Steve finally noticed him, his gaze sharpened, and it was full of regret and worry.

“Uh… hey,” Dustin said slowly, shifting from foot to foot. He swallowed, uncertainty flickering in his eyes. “Can I… can I ask you something?”

“Yeah,” Steve replied immediately. “Anything.”

Dustin swallowed. “Were you ever friends with me just because you wanted her?”

Steve’s stomach dropped at the question.

He straightened, brow furrowing. “What? No. Dustin—”

“Because if that’s the case,” Dustin rushed on, voice tightening despite himself, “I just wanna know. I can deal with it, I just— I don’t wanna be the idiot who thought this meant something if it didn’t.”

Steve took a step closer without thinking. “Hey. No. That’s not—” He scrubbed a hand over his face, searching for the right words. “Man, I didn’t even know she liked me when you and I started hanging out. You were just… you. And you mattered to me before anything else did, you were—are my best friend before anything else.”

“I just—” he hesitated. “I keep thinking maybe I was stupid. Like maybe you were always here for her and I just didn’t see it.”

Steve stepped closer, shaking his head. “You weren’t stupid. And I wasn’t using you. I swear.” He paused, choosing his words carefully. “What happened with her wasn’t planned. It wasn’t a thing I decided to do.”

“Then what was it?” Dustin asked.

Steve exhaled. “You know how people say you fall in love?”

Dustin nodded slowly.

“Sometimes it’s not like that,” Steve said, voice low, almost careful, like he was trying to measure every word. “Sometimes it’s not this lightning strike or a moment that hits you and knocks you off your feet. Sometimes…it’s more like…you walk into it.” 

Dustin seemed stunned at Steve’s words, not expecting this amount of vulnerability. 

“You walk into it slowly, one step at a time. And at first, you don’t even notice. You think it’s just…life. Just…routine. You don’t realize it until you’re already in the middle of it, completely surrounded, and there’s no going back without losing something you didn’t even know you had.”

Dustin’s voice dropped, small and uncertain. “You couldn’t…help it?”

Steve shook his head, a short, humorless laugh escaping. “No. I couldn’t. Not at all. I thought I could, you know? I tried. I tried to keep it at a distance. I told myself it was a really bad idea.” He stopped, his jaw tightening. 

“But it wasn’t. It was everything. Little things. The way she laughed at the stupidest jokes, even when I was barely funny. The way she listened when I rambled about shit that didn’t matter. The way she could look at me and make me feel like I was enough, even when I wasn’t sure I deserved to feel that way. It’s all those moments, one after another, stacking up quietly until suddenly…it was overwhelming.”

He paused, and his hands flexed against the counter, knuckles white. “And I kept telling myself I was imagining it. That it would pass. That I could step back before it got too…real. And then one morning I woke up and looked at her, really looked at her, and I realized I had it so bad, Dustin. So completely, hopelessly bad. And by that point, it wasn’t a choice anymore. I didn’t even know how to stop. I didn’t want to stop. And I was terrified—terrified that if I stepped away, I’d lose both of you. I’d lose my best friend…your sister…everything.”

He swallowed, eyes glimmering. “And that’s when I understood that I couldn’t help it, Dustin. I didn’t want to.”

Dustin’s shoulders sagged a little. “You were scared.”

“Yeah, terrified.” Steve admitted. “I didn’t want to lose you. I didn’t want you thinking I crossed some line on purpose. I was just… trying to figure out how to be honest without blowing everything up.”

For a long second, Dustin didn’t say anything. Then he stepped forward suddenly and wrapped his arms around Steve’s middle, hugging him hard.

Steve froze, then hugged him back just as tight.

“I don’t like it,” Dustin muttered into his shirt. “But I get it.”

Steve let out a shaky breath. “I’m sorry.”

“I know,” Dustin said, pulling back and wiping his face with his sleeve. “Just—don’t screw it up.”

“I won’t,” Steve promised. “I swear.”

Dustin dug into his pocket and pulled the necklace back out, the gold chain glinting under the kitchen light. He held it out to Steve, not like evidence this time, but like an offering.

“For the record,” he said, tone almost shy now, “it’s a really nice necklace.”

Steve blinked, then let out a breathy laugh as he took it. “Yeah,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Thanks.”

There was a pause as Dustin leaned back against the counter, arms crossed, eyes flicking toward the front door.

“So,” he said casually. “Why were you guys arguing before I caught you?”

Steve’s stomach dropped.

“Oh. Shit.” He looked at the necklace in his hand as he realized he forgot about the argument you both had.

“Oh shit, I—fuck.” He ran a hand through his hair, panic setting in fast and unfiltered. “I gotta go. I really screwed it up. Fuck, man, fuck.”

And before Dustin could even respond, Steve was already moving, shoving the door open as he hurried outside.

Dustin watched him go, lips twitching. “I’d say get a pair of earrings this time!” he called after him, laughing when Steve shot him a frantic look over his shoulder and kept going.

He stayed where he was, drifting toward the window without really meaning to. Outside, Steve was already rambling, hands flying as he talked, apologizing in that messy, earnest way of his, clearly trying to fix whatever dumb thing he had managed to screw up.

You stood there with your arms crossed, weight shifted to one hip, expression unimpressed in a way Dustin knew very well. The bratty attitude of yours was all there.

Not even halfway through Steve’s frantic explanation, you stepped forward and wrapped your arms around him. Steve froze for half a second before melting into it, relief written all over him as he broke the hug to clasp the necklace around your neck, murmuring something Dustin couldn’t hear. 

Then he leaned down and kissed you.

Dustin immediately turned away. “Gross,” he muttered, scrubbing a hand over his face.

Still, he smiled.

Because even if he wasn’t ready to watch it, even if it was weird as hell seeing his best friend kiss his older sister, he knew it was right. He knew you were happy.

And he knew, deep down, that Steve Harrington had somehow managed to stumble into exactly the person he was meant to love.

steve harrington masterlist

a/n: for some reason this fic took me a whole 40 days to write, but nonetheless it was a very fun and cute experience <3 i enjoyed exploring more of steve and dustin's dynamic, so hopefully i did it all justice!!

However laborious Steve’s pre-date routine may be, though, it still takes less time than yours. 

And right on cue: “Baby, pass me the chapstick?” 

You know without asking what he means (Steve has his own chapstick, in the drawer on his right). You push your lips out as he takes your face in hand, pecking them sweetly. 

“Dork,” you tease. 

“Aw, come on,” he says without any heat, “you know that’s not true.”

You take another kiss for yourself before he backs out of the bathroom. “When do we have to leave again?” 

“The reservation’s at eight.” 

“Okay. I’ll be done soon.” 

You finish the rest of your own prep quickly. It’s not as much fun after Steve leaves, but you do still like feeling pretty to go out with him, slipping on a nice dress, spritzing perfume over your pulse. You know, even as many times as your boyfriend has seen you like this, none of it will go unappreciated. 

Steve might try to deny it, but he is a complete dork, and part of you thinks he must know it, because when you are ready you find him waiting for you by the door like a nervous prom date. With flowers. 

“Where did you get those?” you ask, startled. 

Steve looks up from where he’s fiddling with your crossword book. (He’s always doing that. You’ll get most of the way done with a puzzle, and he’ll finish it off when you’re not looking. It drives you a tiny bit crazy, but you let him because you love him.) 

“Whoa,” he says. “You look amazing.” 

You smile, though you’re well accustomed to Steve’s charms. It takes more effort from him to make you fluster now than it did the first time he took you to dinner. “You picked this dress,” you remind him. 

His gaze doesn’t move from yours. “Sure did. I have good taste.” 

“So you shouldn’t be surprised.” You cross the last few steps to him, taking Steve’s face in your hands. As special as he tries to make it, it’s easy to get swept up in these date nights. Easy to get swept up in Steve anytime. 

His touch warms the small of your back, keeping you close even when you pull away. 

“Have you been hiding these under the bed?” You nod down to the flowers now held at his side. 

“In the garage,” Steve admits. 

“Sneaky.” Someplace he knew you’d never look. “They’re pretty.” 

You know that if you ask really, very nicely, Steve will press some of them for you before they wither. You like them like that, kept like time capsules from your dates, but for some reason when you try to do it the colored petals are never preserved the way they should be. Only Steve has the magic touch. 

Some of that magic sparks when he kisses you again. A shorter one this time, gentle and chaste on the corner of your lips. “You really do look beautiful,” he says, an inch from you. “I’m serious.” 

You were wrong. You fluster instantly when Steve looks at you like that, all genuine adoration peeking out from between his lashes. 

“Thank you,” you say, soft. “So do you.” 

It’s no thoughtless reciprocation. Steve looks nothing short of dashing, his suit crisp and unbuttoned just so. You like Steve when he puts in effort for you, though later, when you both get home and he changes into his sweatpants, you’ll like that Steve too. 

You take the flowers from him, kissing his cheek. “Very handsome.” 

Let it not be said that Steve Harrington isn’t victim to your charms, too. He smiles like he’s heard it a thousand times (and he has), but the pink in his ears is cute enough to pinch. 

“Okay, well—” He opens your front door, holding it for you. “—our steed awaits.” 

You laugh. “You can’t say you’re not a dork when you talk like that.” 

“Uh, yeah, that—I don’t know what that was. That was Dustin’s fault.” 

“Can’t always be his fault,” you hum. 

Across from you, Dustin is locked in a heated debate about the optimal way to rewire a walkie-talkie for "extended range, not for illegal surveillance, Steve, god."

Steve’s been half-listening, throwing in the occasional dry, "That sounds like a one-way ticket to getting your house raided by the Feds, Henderson."

You’re tucked into Steve’s side, but you’ve gone quiet. Not sad. Just… full. The noise is a buzzing hive in your ears, the movement a blur at the edges of your vision. Words feel heavy and far away.

So you retreat to one of your favourite places: Steve’s hands.

He’s got one arm around you, his fingers drawing idle patterns on your shoulder. His other hand rests in his own lap, palm up, relaxed. It’s an open invitation.

You take it. Gently, you slip your hand into his. You trace the lines of his palm with your thumb, following the life line, the heart line, as if reading a map written just for you. You fiddle with his fingers, bending them slightly at the knuckle, then straightening them.

He feels like his heart is going to melt right out of his chest. His focus drifts away from the kids and to you instead. His world is contained within the circle of his arms and your gentle, fidgeting hands.

Steve starts to reciprocate the quiet attention. His thumb begins to move, stroking slow, rhythmic arcs across the back of your hand held in his lap.

When Dustin’s voice reaches a particularly piercing peak, Steve feels the tiniest flinch in your fingers. He reacts instantly, his head coming up. His voice is calm but carries a gentle, firm authority that cuts through the noise.

“Hey. Volume, Henderson. Dial it back a notch.”

Dustin pauses, mid-rant, and looks over. “Oh. Right. Sorry,” he says, his voice dropping several decibels.

Steve nods, his attention already returning to you. He leans down again, his lips near your ear. “Too much?” he murmurs, the words barely audible.

You shake your head, finally looking up at him. Your eyes are a little wide, but full of a trust so profound it makes his breath catch. You offer him a small, shy smile.

That’s all he needs. The sun could have exploded outside, and in this moment, Steve Harrington would only have eyes for that smile.

He smiles back, his whole face transforming with a warmth that has nothing to do with the basement’s heat. He lifts your joined hands and presses a lingering kiss to your knuckles.

“Are we boring you?” Mike’s voice, laced with familiar teenage exasperation, cuts through the moment.

Steve doesn’t pull away from you, he just turns his head, cheek resting on top of your hair. “Yeah, Wheeler. You are. My beautiful girlfriend is right here, and you're talking about resistors. It’s not even a contest.”

Lucas lets out a short, sharp laugh. “He’s gone. Fully checked out.”

“Seriously, Steve?” Dustin groans, though he’s smiling. “This is crucial communications infrastructure! You’re telling me that doesn’t hold a candle to… to what, exactly? What is she even doing?”

“Nothing that concerns you, man,” Steve says, his voice a low, contented rumble. He’s not looking at them. He’s looking at the way your thumb has started tracing slow circles on his wrist, right over his pulse. He can feel his heartbeat under your touch, steady and sure for you. It’s almost too much.

From her spot in the corner with El, Max cocks her head. “He’s got that look on his face.”

“What look?” Mike grumbles, finally looking up from the disemboweled walkie-talkie on the carpet.

“The one he gets when he’s about to start crying."

Steve huffs a soft laugh, but it’s shaky. He’s not denying it. He feels raw, peeled open by the sheer, quiet force of your affection.

You feel the tremble in his hands. You look up at him, your shy smile fading into soft concern. You squeeze his fingers gently, a silent question, cocking your head just a little.

He shakes his head, pressing another quick kiss to your knuckles, as if to reassure you. “I’m okay. I’m just… really okay.” He clears his throat. “C’mon. Let’s blow this popsicle stand.”

Steve stands, pulling you up with him, but doesn’t let go of your hand. As he leads you toward the stairs, the kids launch into their usual commentary.

“There he goes!” Dustin announces, as if narrating a wildlife documentary. “The male, once dominant and alert, has been completely disarmed by a display of simple tactile affection. His higher brain functions are shutting down. All that remains is the urge to provide snacks and soft blankets.”

“We get it, you have a girlfriend who likes you,” Mike mutters, though it lacks its usual venom.

"Yeah, one who hasn't dumped your ass," Max teases Mike.

El stifles a laugh.

Mike’s head snaps up, his face flushing instantly. “Shut up, Max! That was— it was mutual!”

“Yeah, right,” Lucas snickers, nudging Will. “Super mutual. I remember the mutual crying.”

“The mutual moping,” Will adds, grinning.

Mike throws his hands up. “You guys are the worst! Steve, are you hearing this? Defend me!”

Steve pauses at the foot of the stairs, one hand on the railing, the other still holding yours. “Defend you?” Steve echoes, a slow, shit-eating grin spreading across his face. “Wheeler, look at this. Look at what I’ve got. I’m in the middle of a… a personal victory here. You’re on your own, kid.”

Mike groans, sinking further into the couch. “Traitor.”

Steve’s grin softens just a fraction, turning more fond than teasing. “Get your girlfriend back, then we’ll talk.” He flashes a wink at El who smiles shyly before giving your fingers a gentle squeeze, his gaze returning to you, the softness flooding back in. “Ready, angel?”

You nod, a little overwhelmed by the intense focus of his attention.

As you reach the top of the stairs, Dustin starts again. “And thus, the hierarchy is established. Harrington, smug and emotionally compromised, remains at the top. Wheeler, tragically single and roasted, remains at the bottom. The natural order is preserved.”

Steve shakes his head, a quiet laugh escaping him as he leads you out of the house, towards his car.

He opens the passenger door for you, jogs around to the driver’s side and gets in, but he doesn’t start the engine yet. He just turns in his seat to face you, the interior light casting soft shadows on his face.

“You were worried about me down there,” he murmurs.

“You were shaking,” you whisper, looking down at your lap where your hands are now folded. “I didn’t like it.”

The raw concern in your tone, the admission that you were watching him so closely, seems to undo him all over again. He reaches out, his fingers gently tilting your chin up so you have to look at him.

“It was a good kind of shaking,” he promises, his thumb stroking your jaw. “It's just... no one’s ever… paid that much attention to me. Not like that. Not just to… to me. Steve.”

You reach up, covering his hand on your cheek with your own. “I like Steve,” you say, the words simple and true.

A choked sound escapes him. A tear finally spills over, tracing a path down his cheek. He doesn’t wipe it away. “Yeah?” he whispers, his voice cracking. “You like this mess?”

You nod, leaning forward to press a soft, shy kiss to the tear track on his cheek. Then another to his other cheek. “I like this mess,” you murmur against his skin. “A lot.”

That does it. He lets out a soft, broken sob and pulls you into a hug across the centre console, his arms wrapping tightly around you, his face buried in your neck.

“My sweet, shy girl,” he mumbles into your skin, his voice muffled and wet. “You’re gonna kill me with how good you are. I don’t know what I did to deserve you.”

You just hold him back, one hand stroking his hair, the other rubbing slow circles on his back. You don’t have the words to tell him he deserves everything. So you show him, in the only language you feel truly confident in—the silent, steady language of touch.

Eventually, his breathing steadies. He pulls back just enough to look at you, his face blotchy and beautiful. He gives you a watery, radiant smile. You know, completely, that he'd do anything for you.

“Okay,” he breathes, wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand, laughing a little at himself. “Okay. Let’s get you home. I think I need to look at you somewhere that isn’t Mike Wheeler’s driveway.”

He starts the car, and as he pulls onto the quiet street, he immediately reaches for your hand again, lacing his fingers through yours and resting them on his thigh.

You’d been at the Squawk with Steve and Robin, the three of you crammed into the booth like always. Robin, as usual, was rambling about something while Steve laughed and bumped his knee into yours under the table, grounding you without even trying. 

By the time the clock crept past 8:30, the air outside was already dark and heavy, that familiar tightness had started curling in your chest; one that always showed up when it got late.

You’d told yourself you could handle it, that you were fine and you weren’t helpless, but you still asked Steve to accompany you home anyway, too afraid to go on your own.

“Can you come with me?” you’d asked casually, “or at least drive me home?”

Steve frowned, glancing at Robin. “Baby, you’ll be fine. You can go on your own. I’ll be back in like an hour, okay? ”

You nodded and kissed him goodbye, then you walked out to your car telling yourself you weren’t a scared little kid, and that nothing can harm you anymore.

Only to realize halfway down the lot that your coat was still inside.

So you turned around.

That was all; a forgotten coat, a stupid, normal thing, and you would have been in and out in seconds if not for your name cutting through the noise in the squawk as you heard Steve mention you to Robin.

You shouldn’t have listened, you knew that. You were raised better than to hover at doors and steal pieces of conversations that weren’t yours to hear, but your body didn’t listen to reason anymore.

Your feet stayed planted, your lungs forgot how to work as panic washed over you so fast and so violently that for a second you weren’t in Hawkins at all.

You were back in the Upside Down.

Back in that choking red sky, where  the air is thick and cold. You could feel all over again the vines slick and alive under your hands as you ran, heart tearing itself apart inside your chest. 

You could still feel the demobats, the weight of them, the wet snap of their wings, the sound of flesh ripping, the blood, so much blood, everywhere you looked there was bloodbloodbloodbloodblood—

—the combined screams of yours and Eddie’s. You remembered the way his body had gone still, the way Steve had dragged your bloodied body away as your entire abdomen was ripped apart, shaking so badly you couldn’t even scream.

You remember the way you’d thought you were going to die there with your throat ripped open and your bones scattered across that fucked-up place.

You hadn’t felt safe since.

Four months, five months? however long it had been, it didn’t matter. Fear had latched onto you like a parasite and refused to let go.

Everything startled you now, doors, clocks, cold air on your neck, cars backfiring, footsteps too close behind you. The world felt like a nightmare, and the night was only much worse.

Steve was the only place that didn’t feel like that.

Steve made it quiet. Steve made it stop.

You hadn’t even realized you’d started clinging until it was already done, until your body had decided he was shelter, that he was protection, that if he was near then nothing could touch you. 

And now you were standing outside a door, listening to him talk about you.

“I don’t know, Robin,” he says again, voice rough and worn down, like he’s been chewing on the same thought for weeks and it’s finally gone bloody. “She’s just… different. Ever since.”

Robin leans back against the counter, arms crossed, watching him carefully. “Yeah,” she says, slow and measured. “No shit. She went to literal hell, Steve.”

“I know that,” he snaps too fast, immediately regretting the edge in his voice. He exhales, drags a hand down his face. “I know. I do. That’s the problem. I know, and I still feel like shit about how I feel.”

She waits. Robin’s good at that. At letting him talk himself into the truth.

“It’s like,” he starts again, quieter but faster, words tumbling over each other now, “she’s everywhere. All the time. Wherever I go, she’s already there or tryin’ to be. If I grab my keys, suddenly she needs to leave too. If I’m sittin’ down, she’s sittin’ down. If I say I’m tired, she’s tired. It’s like she can’t exist unless I’m right next to her.”

Your stomach drops where you stand, frozen just outside the door, fingers clenched tight around the strap of your bag.

“I’m serious,” Steve keeps going, oblivious, frustration bleeding through every word. “If I’m goin’ to see Dustin, she’s got a reason to come. If I’m headin’ to the Squawk, somehow we’re paired up for drills again. She doesn’t do anything alone, Robin. Never. She’s just… latched onto me.”

He laughs humorless. “And I sound like a dick sayin’ it, I know I do, but it’s fuckin’ suffocating.”

Suffocating. Like he’s drowning because of you.

Robin doesn’t answer right away. When she finally speaks, her voice is softer, more careful. “Steve. That’s not weird, matter of fact it's a normal response given what she's been through. That’s her brain trying to keep her alive.”

“I know,” he says, rubbing at his neck like it physically hurts to admit it. “I know she’s not doing it on purpose.”

“She nearly died,” Robin presses. “She watched Eddie die right in front of her. She got dragged into the Upside Down and came back with scars all over her body. She wakes up screaming, Steve. You’re the only thing that makes her feel safe.”

“I didn’t say she was the bad guy,” he snaps, voice cracking despite himself. “I’m just sayin’ I’m overwhelmed. She’s so clingy, Robin. You saw her tonight. She didn’t wanna leave without me. I had to practically beg her to go first.”

Your vision blurs. You press a hand to your mouth, swallowing hard.

“It’s like I gotta make up excuses just to be alone,” he admits, quieter now, stripped bare. “I need space. I need to breathe. And I can’t say that without soundin’ like a heartless asshole because yeah, she’s traumatized, and then suddenly I’m the villain for wantin’ five goddamn minutes to myself.”

Robin scoffs, pushing off the counter. “Steve, you idiot. You said it yourself. Your girlfriend is traumatized.”

“Yeah,” he shoots back, voice rising, “but how the hell do I tell my traumatized girlfriend to back off without destroyin’ her. How do I say ‘hey, I love you, but you’re smotherin’ me,’ and not absolutely fuck her up more than she already is.”

“You don’t call her clingy,” Robin says immediately. “For starters. That word is banned and most girls, including Vickie, hate it.”

Steve lets out a short, bitter laugh. “Well, she is.”

Robin gasps dramatically, clutching her chest. “Oh nooo,” she mocks, voice high and obnoxious. “I’m Steve Harrington and my girlfriend loves me so much. Oh noooo, she feels safe with me. My life is helllll.”

“Shut up,” Steve mutters, shoving her shoulder.

“Oww, you asshole!” Robin shoots back, swatting him in return, then sobers as she gets all serious again. “You’re not wrong for being tired. You are wrong for talking about her like she’s a burden.”

Steve goes still. “I don’t think she’s a burden,” he says quietly, and this time it sounds like the truth. “I just… I don’t wanna be the only thing keepin’ her together. What happens if I fuck up? What happens if I leave?”

Robin sighs. “Then you talk to her. You communicate, dingus.”

You step back before they can see you, heart pounding, every word replaying in your head on a brutal loop. Suffocating. Clingy. Everywhere.

You don’t grab your coat when you leave.

You don’t even realize you’re driving until you’re already halfway home, knuckles white on the steering wheel as every memory crashes into you at once. Begging him to stay while you showered because you were convinced something would crawl out of the drain. Nights you woke up screaming, clinging to his shirt like it was the only safe place left in the world. Training days for the crawl where you stuck close, too afraid to be alone, grateful when you were paired with him again.

You could see it all, every single little thing you had leaned on him for, flashing through your mind like some god-awful horror slideshow.

Steve’s words had been like a bucket of ice water dumped on you, shocking you into clarity whether you wanted it or not. 

Maybe you had been too sensitive. Maybe you had been unbearable. Maybe you had been so clingy that it wasn’t fair for him, and maybe you needed to let go, at least a little. 

It wasn’t as if you had been the only one stuck in the Upside Down. Will had survived a week in that hell, seen things that should have ripped him apart, and yet he had come back and carried himself with a strength you couldn’t even muster. 

Dustin had lost Eddie too, but he hadn’t latched onto anyone, hadn’t made himself a burden. Eleven had been tortured, exploited, experimented on, broken in ways that should have left her crushed, and yet she still managed to find herself amidst everything, to stand and breathe and continue on. 

And here you were, the only one who seemed incapable of moving past it, of finding even a fragment of independence, still tethered to Steve as if without him you would fall apart.

Somehow, without realizing it, you had arrived at your shared home with Steve, parked your car in the driveway, and walked inside on autopilot, your body carrying you through familiar motions while your mind carried the full weight of guilt, shame, and heartbreak.

You stripped off your clothes in the bathroom, letting the water hit your skin in a rhythm you used to find comfort in, and prepared some dinner. You heated up leftovers, the smell of food filling the kitchen like it always had, but this time there was no laughter, no shared commentary on who had eaten what, no teasing Steve about his obsession with ketchup. 

By the time Steve arrived, the house was quiet. You were already in bed, tucked under the covers, something you hadn’t done alone in months because for months you hadn’t slept unless his arms were wrapped around you. 

But tonight, the house felt empty, and he found himself standing in the kitchen, fork in hand, staring at the warm meal you had prepared for him, and realizing that for the first time in an eternity, you weren’t waiting for him.

The next morning only deepened the silence. Steve woke to an empty bed, the sunlight spilling across rumpled sheets that smelled faintly of your perfume, and felt a prickling, cold panic he couldn’t name at first. 

You were already dressed, shoes on, ready to leave.

“Where are you heading?” he asked, voice rough.

“Going to get some stuff from the store,” you replied dryly.

“Want me to come with you, sweetheart?” His words carried that familiar gentleness, but you couldn’t look past it without feeling like a burden.

“No,” you said simply.

It was such a small, simple word. It shouldn’t feel like this. Except it made Steve sit in bed alone, blood running cold, realizing far too late that you were beginning to avoid him.

You leave early and don’t come back until the sky is already dimming, the house dark except for the kitchen light that Steve has turned on and off three times now like it might summon you home faster.

By the time you unlock the front door, he has been pacing a groove into the living room carpet, heart in his throat, mind running through every worst case scenario he promised himself he wouldn’t think about anymore. The second the lock clicks and the door opens, he’s there, crowding your space before you can even hang up your coat.

“Where the hell were you?!” he blurts, voice tight and frantic, eyes scanning you like he’s checking for blood. “You’ve been outta the house for nearly six hours. Six. I was losin’ my goddamn mind. I thought somethin’ happened to you.”

You sigh, slow and tired, and for a split second when you really look at him, at the pure unfiltered worry etched into his face, you almost break.

Almost step into his arms, almost let yourself melt into him and admit how badly you missed him, how those six hours felt like six days without his voice or his hands or the steady reassurance of his presence. 

If six hours did this to him, then the space you were forcing had been tearing you apart twice as badly.

But then your brain betrays you, replays his words in his voice, clingy, suffocating, always there, and you harden.

“I was out, Steve,” you say quietly.

“Yeah, no shit,” he fires back, following you as you walk toward the kitchen. “Out where?”

You open the fridge, more for something to do than because you’re hungry, and shrug. “With Nancy. We hung out and I accidentally lost track of time.”

The tension drains out of him immediately, shoulders sagging in relief. “Jesus,” he breathes. “Why didn’t you tell me, huh? I was freakin’ out. Is everything okay? Did somethin’ happen?”

You shake your head. “No, nothing happened, don’t worry.”

He nods quickly, like he’s trying not to push. “Okay. Okay. I won’t pry.” He hesitates, then softens. “Hey, I was thinkin’ dinner. You want lasagna or pizza?”

“I’m not hungry,” you say, already turning away. “I’m gonna go sleep, okay.”

He frowns. “But I thought we could just hang out a little, I mean we barely saw each other toda—”

“Maybe another time, alright? Goodnight, Steve.”

He exhales, defeated. “Goodnight,” he says softly. “I love you.”

You pause just long enough to whisper it back before disappearing down the hall. “I love you too,”

The days after are worse.

Steve wakes up and barely gets a word in before you’re already pulling on shoes, mumbling something about a jog. If he waits, you need a shower. If he waits longer, you’re late to see your nana. 

If he suggests the Squawk, you’re already going with Nancy. It’s like every time he reaches out, you slip through his fingers a little more, like trying to grasp smoke.

Not long ago, you haunted him with your presence. You were everywhere, constant, inescapable, but now you ghost him with your absence. He doesn’t know where you go or what you do, only that the house feels emptier even when you’re technically still there.

That’s how he ends up sitting on the edge of the bed tonight, waiting for the bathroom door to open, heart pounding like he’s bracing for bad news. When you finally step out, hair damp, towel slung over your shoulder, he looks up like he’s been holding his breath.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he says gently, like he’s testing the word to see if it still belongs to him.

You glance at him in the mirror and give him a small, careful smile. “Hi, Steve.”

He lingers there for a second, then steps closer, hands hovering before he settles them lightly at your waist, afraid you might flinch. He leans down and presses a kiss to your collarbone. 

“I missed you,” he murmurs. “You’ve been out all day. Didn’t even see you at the Squawk.”

Your body betrays you before your mouth does, a shiver running through you at the sound of his voice, the warmth of him behind you. For a heartbeat you let yourself feel it, the pull, the ache. Then you pull away, just enough to break the contact, reaching for your hairbrush like it’s a shield.

“Yeah,” you say lightly. “Nancy asked me to go shopping with her again.”

“Oh.” He straightens, nodding, trying to keep his tone easy. “Was it fun? I figured you’d come back with, like, ten bags or somethin’.”

You shrug, brushing through damp hair. “Didn’t need anything.”

He watches you in the mirror, the way you won’t quite look at him, the way your answers land flat and stop short. He clears his throat as heshifts his weight.

He hesitates, then clears his throat, trying again, voice low and careful. “Uh. We trained today. Me, Hopper, and El. She shaved her time down again.”

You pause only briefly, tugging at your hair with the brush.

“Thirty-three seconds,” he continues, a little brighter despite himself. “Last week it was thirty-six. She’s pissed about it too, which I guess is good. Means she knows she can do better.”

“That’s good,” you say quietly.

He nods, even though you’re not looking at him. “Yeah. She’s gettin’ scary strong again. In a good way.”

“Mhm.”

Steve frowns. He leans back on his hands, searching your face even though you’re facing away now. “We could all hang out this weekend. Just us, or maybe the kids too. Whatever you want. Thought it might be nice.”

“I’m actually quite tired,” you say quietly.

“Okay,” he says quickly. “Yeah. That’s fine. We don’t have to do anything big.” He pauses, then softly asks. “Hey. Are you okay? Like, really okay?”

You swallow. “I’m fine, Steve.”

There’s a beat of silence where he clearly wants to say more as his mouth opens and closes like he’s rearranging words that never come out right. 

He tries again, desperate now. “Did I do somethin’? Because if I did, I swear I’m not tryin’ to mess this up. I just need you to talk to me, okay.”

Your chest tightens. You squeeze your eyes shut.

“Steve,” you say softly, cutting him off before he can dig himself deeper, “can you turn off the light, please?”

He gets the hint; you don’t want to talk.

He freezes for a second, then nods once. “Yeah. Yeah, of course.”

He stands, reaches for the lamp, and the room falls into darkness. He lingers there for a moment longer, like he’s hoping you’ll turn back around, say his name, give him something to hold onto.

You don’t.

“Night,” he says quietly.

“Night,” you reply, barely audible.

He lies down beside you, careful not to touch, staring up at the ceiling with the awful, sinking realization that this is what losing you looks like..

As the days passed, then quietly turned into weeks, you built a new routine that did not include Steve in it at all. It happened slowly enough that it almost felt reasonable at first. 

You learned how to time your mornings so you were out the door before he woke up, learned how to come home late enough that conversation felt unnecessary, learned how to smile just enough to keep him from asking questions that you did not have the strength to answer.

Avoiding him became second nature. Lying became easy.

You spent most of your days outside, anywhere that was not the house and not around him. Sometimes you sat beside your nana’s hospital bed for hours, holding her hand and watching the rise and fall of her chest just to remind yourself that people stayed alive even when everything went wrong. 

Other days you walked until your legs ached, wandering neighborhoods you barely recognized, letting exhaustion drown out thought. Occasionally you called a friend, anyone who would answer, and let the hours blur together in cafes and parking lots and friendly conversations that never went anywhere deep enough to hurt.

It got to the point where you could not remember the last time you had kissed him without forcing yourself to think about it, and when you did, the number made your stomach twist. Four days. Four whole days since his mouth had been on yours, since his hands had found your waist without asking, since you had slept tangled together instead of inches apart. 

There was a time when five minutes apart felt unbearable, when you haunted each other in hallways and kitchens and doorways, hands always reaching, always searching.

You grew used to the distance. 

Steve though, did not.

His patience thinned in ways that showed. It did not help that things with Dustin were already strained. Steve started snapping again and retreating into old habits he thought he had outgrown. 

He tried to pull himself back every time he felt it happening, tried to reach for you like he always had.

And every time he did, you stepped further away.

That was how he found himself one late afternoon sitting on the couch, elbows braced on his knees, staring at the front door. 

You had been gone all day again, supposedly with Nancy, doing whatever it was you told him you were doing now. 

Steve knew you were close to her, knew you trusted her, but not to the point where you would spend hours every other day together. Still, he told himself not to judge. Girls were odd in their friendships, and he did not want to be the guy who questioned everything.

But his mind would not shut up.

Every instinct in him was screaming that something was wrong, that he needed to do something instead of sitting there waiting. He was snapped out of his thoughts when the doorbell rang.

Steve was on his feet instantly, relief and fear colliding in his chest as he rushed to the door. He yanked it open, already ready to say your name.

Instead, Nancy Wheeler stood there.

For a split second, his brain refused to process it. Then panic slammed into him so hard it stole the air from his lungs. If you were supposed to be with Nancy, then why is she standing here alone?

“Where is she?” he blurted out, voice sharp and scared. “Is she okay? What happened?”

Nancy blinked in shock at his reaction, taking in the way his shoulders were tight, the way his hands were already shaking like he’d been holding himself together by sheer force of will. “Whoa, Steve, hey,” she said quickly. “Slow down. What’s going on?”

“What,” he shot back, breath uneven, eyes already scanning the driveway behind her like you might suddenly appear. “Where’s she? Why are you here without her, Nancy?”

Nancy frowned. “Without who?”

“Y/N,” he snapped, panic bleeding into anger because fear always did that to him. “I’m talking about Y/N.”

Her expression shifted immediately. “Yeah,” she said slowly, “that’s actually why I’m here. I haven’t heard from her in weeks. I just wanted to check in.”

The words hit him like a punch straight to the chest.

“What do you mean you haven’t heard from her?” he said, quieter now, like saying it louder might make it real. “You were literally  together today?”

Nancy let out a short, incredulous laugh. “Steve, no. I’ve been with Jonathan all day. He’s waiting in the car right now. I just stopped by because I was worried about her.”

The color drained from his face so fast it scared her.

“Steve,” she said carefully, stepping closer, “you’re freaking me out. What’s going on?”

He swallowed hard, throat tight like it was closing in on itself. “She’s been telling me she’s with you,” he said. “Every time she’s gone. She says she’s with you.”

Nancy stared at him. “Why would she lie about that?”

“I don’t know,” he said, voice cracking despite how hard he tried to keep it together. “That’s the thing, Nance, I don’t know. One day she was everywhere. Everywhere. I couldn’t turn around without her being there, couldn’t breathe without feelin’ her next to me, and then suddenly it’s like she vanished. We didn’t fight. I–i didn't do anything. At least not that I remember.”

Nancy sighed, rubbing her forehead, her tone firm but not unkind. “Steve. You don’t just wake up one day like that. Something must've happened.”

“No, no, no” he said immediately, shaking his head. “No, I would know. I would remember if I fucked up that bad.”

“And you didn’t think to ask her?” Nancy pressed.

“I did,” he snapped. “I tried. Every time I tried she’d shut it down, say she was tired or busy or fine. What the hell was I supposed to do, corner her?”

“She was clingy, okay. I’ll say it. I couldn’t go anywhere without her, couldn’t get a second alone, and then suddenly it’s like she was gone.”

Nancy’s head snapped up. “Don’t,” she said sharply.

“What?” he shot back.

“You do not call her clingy, Steve!” Nancy said, anger flaring now. “You don’t get to use that word with Y/N out of all people!”

He bristled. “Oh come on, Nancy. I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Yeah, you did,” she said. “And even if you didn’t, it doesn’t matter. In case you’ve forgotten, Harrington, we’re all wrapped up in this upside down bullshit because we have to be. I do it because of Mike and Barb. You do it because of Dustin. Guess what? She doesn’t have to be involved in it!”

Steve opened his mouth, then stopped.

“That girl is fucking traumatized, and she went through that shit because you dragged her into it!” Nancy continued, voice steady but fierce.

“She nearly died. She was attacked by monsters that shouldn’t exist. She watched Eddie die just like the rest of us, and she doesn’t get to talk about it with anyone outside this circle. She can’t go to her friends or her family and say, ‘hey, I got slimed by an interdimensional monster and almost got ripped apart.’ The only person she feels safe enough to lean on is you!”

His jaw tightened, guilt creeping in through the cracks.

“So yeah,” Nancy went on, “maybe she leaned too hard or she  didn’t know how to be alone after that. But that doesn’t make her clingy, Steve. That makes her scared.”

He dragged a hand down his face. “I didn’t mean to hurt her.”

“I know,” Nancy said. “But intent doesn’t erase impact. Something you said or did made her feel like she was too much, like she was a burden, and instead of yelling or crying she did the only thing she could think to do. She disappeared.”

Steve let out a shaky breath. “She’s been lying to me, Nancy.”

“She’s protecting herself,” Nancy said. “You need to see things in her light”

Silence stretched between them, thick and heavy.

“So what,” he said finally, voice raw. “What if she’s just… done? What if she realized she doesn’t need me?”

Nancy softened then, stepping closer. “Steve. She needs you. She just doesn’t think she’s allowed to anymore. And that’s on you to fix.”

He looked at her, eyes glassy. “How?”

“You talk to her,” Nancy said simply. “Really talk. Don't accuse her or get defensive. Listen to her.”

She glanced back toward the driveway. “I’ll stop by tomorrow and check on her too, okay? But you can’t let this sit. Whatever’s going on, it’s clearly eating both of you alive.”

Steve nodded faintly, chest aching. “Yeah.”

Nancy opened the door, then paused. “And Steve.”

“Yeah?”

“Snap out of it,” she said firmly. “Before you lose her for real.”

With that, she left, heading back toward Jonathan’s car, while Steve stood alone in the doorway.

Ironically, barely ten minutes after Nancy and Jonathan pulled out of the driveway, you came home.

The house was dark. Too dark.

Your stomach dropped immediately, panic flaring hot and fast as you stepped inside, the door clicking shut behind you. No lights. No TV. No noise.

For a split second, every worst-case scenario you’d trained yourself not to think about came crashing in all at once.

“Steve?” you called out, voice tight.

Footsteps shuffled, and then he appeared in the doorway to the kitchen, lit only by the faint glow from the stove light.

“Hey,” he said, like nothing in the world was wrong.

You froze for half a beat. “Oh. Hi.”

There was something awkward in the air instantly, like you’d both stepped into the same room carrying entirely different weights. He leaned against the counter, trying to look casual.

“How was your day?” he asked.

You shrugged, slipping your shoes off. “It was… alright.”

His eyes drifted to the bag clutched in your hand, the crinkled plastic catching his attention. “What’s that?”

“Oh,” you said quickly, glancing down at it. “I stopped by the pharmacy to get the cream. For, uh… you know. The scarring.”

He nodded, softer now. “That’s good.”

Neither of you said anything else as you walked down the hall together. The bedroom felt smaller than usual as Steve sat on the edge of the bed while you set the bag down.

“Um,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Do you want me to help you apply it?”

You hesitated for a second. Then you nodded and handed him the bag.

He unsealed the ointment while you slipped your shirt off and sat cross-legged on the floor, your back to him. You were suddenly acutely aware of every scar—deep, jagged reminders carved across your back and abdomen from the demogorgon attack. Old wounds, but never really gone.

Steve didn’t react the way you always feared people might. He never did.

His hands were warm as he scooped some of the cream, spreading it carefully across your skin gently. He worked it into your shoulders, thumbs pressing lightly as he massaged your shoulders.

You let yourself breathe.

He kept going until he was done, smoothing the last of it in with quiet focus. As you started to shift, ready to stand and pull your shirt back on, you felt it—

Two soft kisses. One pressed over each long scar crossing your back.

Your heart kicked hard against your ribs.

You stood quickly, sliding your shirt back on, suddenly unsure what to do with all the space between you. You were halfway to the door when his voice stopped you.

“Uhm, Y/n.”

You turned. “Yeah?”

He reached out, fingers wrapping gently around your hand, and tugged you a step closer. “Can we talk?”

He keeps hold of your hand when you hesitate.

“Talk about what?” you ask quietly.

Steve doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he steps closer, close enough that you can feel the heat of him, the familiar gravity that’s always pulled you in whether you wanted it to or not. His hand tightens around yours like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he loosens his grip.

“I know I’ve been shitty,” he says again, like repeating it might finally make it land where it needs to. His voice is low and rough, scraped raw by guilt. “I know I’ve been so far away from you. I know you felt it. I saw it, even when I pretended I didn’t.” He swallows hard. 

“And I know you’re going through things—things I can’t even fully understand—and I hate that instead of being the person you could come to, the person who made it easier, I—”

He cuts himself off with a sharp breath, hand lifting to his face like he can physically stop the words from spilling.

Your chest tightens so painfully it almost steals your breath.

“I panicked,” he rushes on, panic bleeding straight through his words now. “I didn’t know how to handle it. Knowing someone was dependent on me, really dependent on me, not just for rides or babysitting or stupid shit like that, but emotionally.” His voice wavers. “I thought I was gonna screw it up. Thought I already was screwing it up. And instead of dealing with that like an adult, I freaked out.”

He laughs once, sharp and broken. “God, I thought I needed space. I thought if I pulled back, things would calm down, that we’d both breathe easier. But fuck—” His voice cracks hard on the word. “This is so much worse. You being gone is so much worse than you being everywhere. I’d give anything to have you hovering around me again, asking if I’m okay, touching my arm, sittin’ too close on the couch.”

He steps closer, hands shaking as they come up to your sides.

“Please,” he whispers, forehead nearly brushing yours now, eyes glossy and wrecked. “Please, sweetheart. Don’t stop being dependent on me. Don’t stop needing me. Don’t stop loving me.”

Your breath stutters, a broken sound caught somewhere between your chest and your throat.

“I need you to need me,” he says, the words spilling faster, desperate and unfiltered. “I didn’t realize it until you pulled away, but I do. I need it. I need you. Because I can’t do this anymore. I can’t wake up every day wondering if you’re okay and knowing it’s my fault you don’t tell me.” His voice drops to a whisper. 

“I can’t do this without you.”

That’s when you break.

The sob tears out of you violently, ripping through your chest like something finally gave way. Your knees nearly buckle as you fold into him, crying so hard your body shakes, hiccups jerking through each breath. 

Steve reacts instantly, arms wrapping around you tight, crushing you to his chest like if he lets go you’ll disappear for real this time.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs into your hair, voice breaking completely now. “I’m so sorry. Fuck—fuck, baby, don’t cry. Please don’t cry.”

His hand moves up and down your back in slow, steady motions, grounding and familiar, his chin pressing into your hair. You cry into his shirt until it’s damp, until your throat burns and your lungs ache and you feel wrung out and hollow.

Eventually, trembling, you pull back just enough to look at him.

“I heard you, Steve,” you say, the words tripping over themselves.

He freezes. “You… heard what?”

Your hands curl into fists at your sides, nails biting into your palms like you deserve the sting. “A few weeks ago. At the station. I left early and forgot my coat.” Your voice wobbles badly now. “I came back, and I heard you.”

The color drains from his face so fast it scares you.

“You were talking to Robin,” you continue, tears spilling again. “You said I was clingy. You said I was suffocating you.”

“Oh—no,” he breathes, panic exploding across his features. “No, no, no, baby, please—”

“I didn’t mean to be,” you sob. “I swear I didn’t. I wasn’t trying to trap you or make you feel stuck. I just—” Your breath breaks, the words barely making it out. “I only felt safe with you. And everyone else was doing okay. Everyone. And I wasn’t. I was falling apart and I didn’t know how to move on from everything that happened.”

You swallow hard, voice dropping to something small and raw. “And somewhere along the way, it started to feel like you weren’t loving me anymore.”

Your eyes lift to his, shining. “It felt like you were just… tolerating it. Tolerating me.”

Steve’s hands come up to cradle your face, thumbs brushing your tears away like each one physically hurts him.

“Baby,” he says fiercely, voice shaking as his arms tighten around you. “You can cling to me as tight as you want and as long as you want. I don’t ever want you to feel like you have to pull away to protect me.”

His voice drops, thick and aching, the words pressed straight into your hair. “I love you so much it hurts. I love you so much it scares me, and instead of owning that, I ran my mouth and said somethin’ stupid and careless. And I hate that it hurt you. I hate that I made you feel like you were too much when all you ever were was… you.”

He presses his forehead to yours, breath shaky. “You were never suffocating me. I was just scared of how much I needed you back.”

You search his face, eyes swollen, chest still hitching with quiet aftershocks of sobs. He looks wrecked and earnest and painfully open, like every wall he’s ever built has finally come down.

“It’s okay, Steve,” you whisper, even though the words wobble on the way out, even though they don’t quite feel solid yet.

He shakes his head immediately, curls bouncing with the movement. “It’s not. It’s really not.” His hands slide up your back, holding you close. “But we’re gonna fix it, okay? I will fix it. I promise. I don’t care how long it takes.”

His forehead presses against yours again, like he’s grounding himself. “Just… don’t pull away from me ever again.”

You nod, slow but sure, arms wrapping around him fully now as you bury your face into his chest. He holds you like he means it this time, rocking you gently, big hands warm and steady like they’re reminding you that he’s real, that he’s here.

You breathe him in.

And then—

Grrrgrgrgrgrgr.

You freeze for half a second.

Then you pull back just enough to look up at him, eyes still wet, face scrunched, and you burst out laughing—broken, hiccupy laughter that comes out of you mid-cry.

“Are you—” you sniff, laughing harder, “—are you hungry?”

Steve’s face goes bright red.

“I—” he stammers, mortified. “I was gonna wait for you to come back, okay? I didn’t wanna eat without you.”

That just makes you laugh more. You press your face back into his chest, shoulders shaking, and he lets out a breathy laugh too, embarrassed but relieved, his arms tightening around you again.

“God,” he mutters. “Timing, huh.”

You tilt your head up and kiss him. He kisses you back immediately, like he’s been starving for it just as much as food. When you pull away, barely an inch, he leans in again and kisses you harder this time and deeper, pouring everything unsaid into it.

He breaks the kiss with a breathless laugh, forehead resting against yours. “Missed kissing you.”

You smile. “Me too.”

He exhales, then straightens suddenly like he’s had an epiphany. “You know what?”

“What?” you ask.

“I am starving,” he says, dead serious. “And I’m pretty sure you are too.”

You blink. “Steve—”

“Come on,” he says, already grabbing your hand and tugging you gently toward the door. “Grab a coat.”

“Wait,” you laugh, stumbling after him. “Where are we even going?”

He grins over his shoulder, that familiar boyish smile you fell in love with. “Enzo’s.”

Your eyes widen. “What? No, Steve, that place is expensive. And you need a reservation and— I can just heat something up, it’s fine—”

“Nope,” he cuts in immediately. “Absolutely not.”

“Steve—”

“I gotta spend the next year or so making it up to you,” he says, squeezing your hand. “Minimum.”

You gape at him. “But—”

“Too late,” he says cheerfully, already opening the door.

You stumble as he leads you out to the car, the night air cool against your skin. He opens your door for you like always, and excitedly smiles at you. As the engine starts and the house disappears in the rearview mirror, you lean back in your seat, heart full and sore and warm all at once.

Deep down, you know it again: Steve will stay by your side. He’ll wait while you heal. He’ll hold you steady until you’re strong enough to take steps on your own.

And Steve knows, wholeheartedly, that he’ll be the one clinging to you just as tightly. Because you’re the only one he’s ever loved enough to spill his heart to.