Isn't that sweet...

Sometimes it comes after a long life, peacefully, at home, surrounded by the people who love you most. Sometimes it's sudden. Sometimes it's cruel. Sometimes it arrives so slowly you have time to make peace with it. Other times it steals that chance away entirely.

Some people spend fortunes trying to outrun it. Chasing miracle drugs, freezing themselves in the hope science might one day wake them up again, searching for ways to reverse the very thing so many others pray they’ll live long enough to experience.

Wrinkles.

Grey hair.

Laugh lines etched beside smiling eyes.

Proof of a life fully lived.

Funny, really. Some people would give everything to look younger. Others would give everything just to grow old. But at the end of the day it’s all the same; our time is limited. It's an inescapable, heart-crushing fact. One you have far too much experience of for someone your age. 

Your next comment, however, is more opinion than inescapable fact, but you’d be hard pressed to find someone who disagrees—who isn't an interdimensional monster anyway.

And it’s that The Upside Down really fucking sucks. 

Really, really fucking sucks. 

You’d thought, last summer, that you’d seen the last of it. That it, and Vecna, and all the horrible things that called it home, had finally taken their last victim. It was over. O. V. E. R. Over. 

That finally, after everything you’d all been through—and were still going through, one hospital trip was proof of that–after months spent trying to piece yourselves back together, it was finally over. You really needed it to be over but–

Oh boy, were you all so dead wrong.

So dead wrong, in fact, that it would have been embarrassing, had you not all been so preoccupied with being terrified. Terrified for yourselves. For your families. Max. Each other. You’re not sure you could curate a list long enough, so let’s just say you were all too terrified to be embarrassed by how monumentally wrong you all were. 

The thought that scared you most was that the Upside Down had this terrible habit of taking things from people. More specifically, your people. Sometimes it was time. Sometimes it was pieces of yourself, left behind after surviving things nobody should even have to hear, let alone survive.

And sometimes, sometimes it was your people.

After all, the last time you’d been here, Eddie Munson had been by your side. 

If you let yourself, which you rarely did, unless alone and unable to sleep, you could still see him. Leaning against the graffiti-covered wall of Hawkins High with that stupid cheeky grin on his face. Shoving your shoulder with his own. Making some joke at Steve's expense because apparently even the end of the world wasn’t enough to stop him from running his mouth.

“Hell, if Eddie ‘The Freak’ Munson can be in the same room as Steve ‘The King’ Harrington, shit must really be bad, huh? 

And even though he’d joked, shit really was bad. 

Worse than any of you had imagined.

Eddie, like everyone else who woke up that day, believed it was yet another day he’d see the end of. He wasn’t naive—none of you were. You couldn't afford to be. He knew, just as well as the rest of you, even though he was new to everything happening, how bad it was. How categorically, monumentally, utterly shit it was.

But knowing you're in danger and believing today is the day you die are two very different things.

It never feels like it'll be you.

You're more likely to win the lottery. More likely to be struck by lightning. More likely to wake up tomorrow exactly as you always have.

Until one day... you don't.

He still believed. Choose to–despite the odds–hope.  

Even standing in an alternate dimension. Even with Vecna looming over all of you. Even with monsters lurking in the shadows and the end of the world breathing down your necks, he had still found a reason to believe–to joke. 

To believe in a tomorrow. 

Ninety-nine percent of people—not an accurate statistic, admittedly, but probably not far off—start their day without ever considering it might be their last. They leave home, maybe throw a goodbye, a quick and fleeting kiss to their loved one–or maybe, they leave without a word. Why wouldn’t they? They don’t know this could be their last conversation.  

People make plans. Promises. They say I'll be right back and have no reason to think that they’re lying. 

After all, if you knew the date, the minute that will be your last, would you act differently? Of course. 

You’d never let an argument run on, or a grudge take hold; you’d let a hug last a little longer, tell all the people who know you love them that you do, one more time–even tell the ones who don’t know. 

You’d say all the things you keep putting off for tomorrow. 

But you don't.

Because there's always a tomorrow. 

Until there isn't.

So they leave, and sometimes they never come back.

The worst part was that Eddie had probably said goodbye to people that morning without realising it truly was goodbye. His uncle. His friends. Dustin. He'd probably made plans. Promised to see someone later. Told somebody he'd catch them tomorrow. And meant every word. 

He’d probably gone to sleep the night before thinking he had years left. 

Standing in Nancy Wheeler's living room–well, the upside down version of it—surrounded by the people you loved most in the world, you couldn't stop wondering which of them would be next. Maybe that’s why your eyes couldn't stop themselves from finding him every few seconds. 

Actually, scratch that, they would’ve found him anyway; they had a habit of that. You weren't sure you'd ever gone more than a minute in Steve Harrington's presence without looking his way. To check. For reassurance. To admire. That was your bad habit. 

Steve had another. 

Several, actually–like any of you. Yet, the worst one by miles was the way he seemed to think his life was worth less than everybody else's. The bruises scattered across his jaw and cheekbone were proof enough of that. The cut above his eyebrow was another. The fact that he'd spent the last ten minutes pretending his ribs weren't bothering him despite repeatedly reaching for them whenever he thought nobody was looking was yet another. 

Unfortunately for him, you were looking—intently. Which was why you caught the moment his attention drifted from Nancy's plan to the front door. Despite you all agreeing to stay put. Stay together. You knew he wanted to deviate from the plan and risk his life, in his mind, in exchange for all of yours. 

A demogorgon had followed you as soon as you all got through the gate and you’d escaped, but narrowly. Together, not alone. Robin was still sporting a cut along her arm from where she'd been grabbed before Steve had thrown himself between her and six inches of very sharp, bloody teeth. Owning himself a nice gash across his ribs. At this point, the group looked one strong gust of wind away from collapsing.

You knew that look. Had seen it far too many times. The slight tension in his shoulders. The way his gaze kept flickering toward the door. The way he'd stopped paying attention to Nancy's plan several minutes ago because he'd already started forming one of his own. He was past considering his next move; he’d already made it. 

And yet despite all of this, or because of it, Steve took another step. Slow and careful–almost tiptoeing. As if you wouldn’t notice him leaving. As if you hadn’t spent the better part of the last few years tracking him unconsciously. As if he wasn't currently the source of at least seventy percent of your stress. Come on. 

The most heartbreaking part was that Steve would genuinely believe he was helping. Somewhere along the way he'd convinced himself that protecting everyone else meant doing it alone. 

Meanwhile, all that was running through your mind was Eddie.

About promises. About tomorrow. About all the people who'd genuinely believed they were coming back.

About all the things left unsaid. 

“Steve.”

It took him stopping mid-step, turning to look over his shoulder, for you to realise you’d spoken. The concern in his expression made the knot in your chest tighten—he looked at you like you were the one who needed protection. As if he hadn’t already decided that he was going to step out, alone, straight into whatever danger lurked in the dark.  

"Hey–" You cut him off. You couldn't bear to hear his explanation, his reassurances. The inevitable speech about being careful, staying put, how he'd only be gone for a minute and—you were done. Fed up. Completely over it. 

“Don’t.” you didn't need to say more: you knew what he was about to do, he knew what he was about to do and knew you knew. And yet his brow still furrowed, as if he genuinely didn't understand why you’d said it. 

The command hung between you and for half a second, something flickered across his face. Guilt, maybe. Regret, you hoped. But then he smiled. All soft and sweet and stupidly reassuring. 

"Honey, I'll be right back."

First thought? Bullshit.

Second? The words, even said in that tone of his that usually made you melt, hit like a punch. Because how could he know? Does he not think Bob thought the same? Eddie? 

"You don't know that."

Steve frowned immediately. "What?"

"You don't know that," you repeated, the words coming out steady and fast this time. "How could you? You don't even know what's out there."

"Hey—"

"No." You shook your head fiercely, already feeling your chest tighten. "Do you think Bob knew? Do you think Eddie did? Do you think anybody actually knows what they're walking into when they make that decision? Because if they did, if they actually knew the consequences, if they knew what it would cost and who it would hurt, don't you think they would've done things differently?"

The room had gone quiet around you, but you barely noticed. Your eyes never left Steve's. It was just you and him, and you were going to make him listen. 

"Nobody wakes up thinking today's the day. Nobody leaves believing they aren't coming back. That's the whole point." Your voice cracked despite your best efforts. "Eddie thought he was coming back. He had plans. He had people waiting for him. He thought there would be a tomorrow."

Something shifted in Steve's expression then, but it wasn't enough. Not when he was still standing there. Not when one fleeting look at him told you he'd already made up his mind. And it wasn’t to stay.

"We've seen what happens, Steve. We've lived it. We've buried people who all thought they had more time." Your throat tightened painfully. "And yet you're standing there acting like somehow it doesn't apply to you."

The accusation hung heavy between you.

"Like because it's you it'll be different, somehow. Like your life is the one exception to all the horrible things we've spent years watching happen." The laugh that escaped you was shaky and entirely humourless. "You don't get to make that promise."

Steve blinked. "I-"

"You don't get to stand there and tell me you'll be right back when you have absolutely no way of knowing that." Your voice dropped on the last few words. "Nobody does."

He opened his mouth but again you beat him to it, "You know that." Your voice sounds exactly how you feel. Tired, oh so painfully tired. 

"You know that," you repeated, shaking your head as your gaze finally dropped to the floor between you. "And you still say it."

You know you have an audience but to you, it's just Steve. As you practically beg him not to do this. To  himself. To them. You'd name anyone—say anything–if you thought it would stop him. 

"You say it and then just get to just walk away,” you can’t help the irritation that’s now creeping into your voice; your hand motioning with you, “and everybody else is just supposed to stand here and what? Believe you." And not wonder if that’s the last time they’ll see him like that: warm, breathing, alive. 

"It's reckless," you continued, your voice shaking despite every effort to control it. "It's selfish and it's stupid and it's—"

The word lodged itself in your throat.

You couldn't say it. Shouldn’t. You made a promise to yourself; but did life care about that? You force it past the ache sitting heavy in your chest, because saying it out loud would make it real. Would mean admitting just how much this affected you. How much he affected you.

But your heart was already saying it.

In every frantic beat. Every sleepless night. Every moment spent watching doors and waiting for him to walk back through them. So you forced the word out anyway. 

"It's heartbreaking."

If you were to describe Steve's expression after you said that, it'd probably be pretty similar to how you felt. Shattered. “Sweetheart—”

“No.”

You cut him off immediately because you knew exactly what was coming next. Once again the explanation, the reassurance only he believed–or at least, he wanted to. The promise that he understood but that he’d be careful. That he knew what he was doing and would he right back. But how many times could somebody promise they'd be careful before the promise stopped meaning anything? How many times could someone gamble with tomorrow before tomorrow finally ran out?

“You matter.” Years of frustration, fear and grief seemed to rise to the surface all at once, crashing into you hard, and then into him. Your hands landed against his chest as you stepped forward, the force of them making him rock back slightly. Had he not been so caught off guard, you knew he wouldn't have moved an inch; that only motivates you further.

“You matter too, Steve.” Your voice cracked.

Everyone in this room knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that Steve would throw himself in front of any form of danger for them. Robin knew it. Nancy knew it. Hell, even Jonathan knew it.

Yet nobody had ever been able to convince him that he deserved the same kind of protection in return. That it was reciprocated—the care, the loyalty, the devotion. Everything Steve felt for the people he loved was reflected right back at him, whether he chose to see it or not. Hell, for you it was probably tripled.

Being in love with him and all.

“That pull you feel to protect us? To fight for us?” Your hands tightened against his shirt. “We feel it too.”

The words came out fierce. Immediate. You needed him to understand. Needed him to stop looking at himself like he was the expendable one. Your hands thudded against his chest once. Then again. And again.

Not at all hard enough to hurt him. Just hard enough to make your point. Hard enough that your own palms began to sting.

“You think you’re the only one who lies awake worrying? The only one who panics when somebody gets hurt? The only one who’d throw themselves in front of something if it meant everybody else got to go home?”

Before you could hit his chest again, his hands closed gently around your wrists. Not to stop you. Not to push you away. Just... To hold them?

Your throat tightened. “‘Cause you’re not.”

Steve's fingers loosened around your wrists, his thumbs absentmindedly brushing across your skin. His eyes hadn't left yours once and he’d gone completely still. He didn’t even seem to blink. Good. Maybe now he’d listen.

“Every. Single. Person. In this room would do exactly the same for you.” Your voice cracked again as you murmured under your breath. Your wrists flexed instinctively in his grasp, your body still wanting to physically make the point even though it was caged by him.

“And some of us would do even more.”

The words hung there. The only thing separating you now were two racing heartbeats and the fact neither of you seemed brave enough to say what had just become painfully obvious. You could actually feel his heartbeat beneath your palms, fast and uneven.

"Sweetheart."

The word was soft. Wrecked. And for one stupid, honestly naive, hopeful second—that you’d surely mock yourself for later–you thought you'd finally gotten through to him. Then something crashed outside.

The noise echoed through the house, loud enough to make everyone jump. Instinctively both of you looked toward the front door.

Your heart broke.

Because of the look Steve gave you.

It was so painfully Steve. Torn. Apologetic. Determined. He looked at you like he wished you hadn't made this so hard—like every word you'd said had found its mark, but hadn't been enough to change what he'd already decided because he had to do it. For whatever reason that remained unsaid he had to go. .

The conversation had affected him. You could see that. It had shaken him. Left him looking as devastated as you felt. It just hadn’t changed anything. Because of another fact you knew–Steve wasn’t doing this to hurt you. 

He wasn’t ignoring you, dismissing you, placating you. He genuinely believed this was how he kept everyone alive.

You couldn't do this again. Couldn't stand here and watch somebody you loved walk willingly toward danger while you stayed behind praying they'd come back. Couldn't spend months replaying a final conversation, wondering if one different sentence might've changed everything.

Not again.

Not Steve.

Before your brain had the chance to catch up with your heart, your hands slipped free from his grasp. They left his chest, lingering for only a fraction of a second against his wrists before they rose to cradle his face instead.

Maybe it was selfish. Maybe it was long overdue. Maybe it was just pure desperation. Maybe—probably—it was all three.

You pulled him down and kissed him.

He didn’t move. 

For what felt like minutes–but was more accurately less than a second—he simply stared, frozen beneath your hands. 

Then he leaned in. Fully. 

Teeth knocking together. Your noses bumping. It wasn't smooth or practiced; it was a collision. A frantic, clumsy crash of relief, fear and years of buried feelings that neither of you had ever found the courage—or the timing—to say out loud.

You felt one of his hands slide up the side of your neck while the other settled against your jaw, holding you as though he was afraid you'd disappear if he let go. His fingers trembled beneath your ear, the tiny movement betraying him far more than his expression ever could.

It wasn’t cinematic, nor movie-esque in the slightest. In fact, the director would have called cut and probably pulled his hair out whilst screaming that it was all wrong. There was no slow-motion grace to it. No sudden hush of the world around you–expect you’re sure the others have gone quiet. 

There was only panic.

The kind of kiss that happened when tomorrow suddenly stopped feeling guaranteed.

You clung to him, your fingers digging into the warmth of his cheeks, pulling him impossibly closer as though proximity alone could keep him here. As though if you held him tightly enough, the Upside Down couldn't steal him from you too.

Steve made the smallest sound against your lips, something caught somewhere between a relieved laugh and a broken breath, and suddenly he was kissing you with every bit as much desperation as you were kissing him.

Years of almosts collapsed into seconds. Every glance that had lingered too long. Every brush of hands neither of you had acknowledged. Every moment that had been interrupted by monsters, bad timing or fear. It all found its way into this one kiss.

It was messy and uncoordinated, a frantic exchange of breath and heat in a place that felt cold and dead. In that moment, the plan, the monsters, the impossible odds waiting beyond the front door–all of it blurred into nothing. 

There was only this. 

There was only Steve. 

When he finally pulled back, it was only because breathing had become, rather unfortunately, unavoidable. Yet even then, he barely managed an inch, his forehead resting against yours while both of you fought to catch your breath. 

His eyes were blown wide, searching yours with a mixture of shock and an aching kind of tenderness. For the first time in years, Steve looked like he didn't have a single answer, his habitual controlled mask completely shattered.

"You can't do this," he whispered, his voice sounding like he’d been dragged through gravel. "You can't just... Honey."

The endearment should've comforted you. Instead, it sent your brain into a complete, and catastrophic free-fall.

Shit.

Shit, shit, shit.

You'd just kissed Steve Harrington. Your best friend. You'd grabbed his face and kissed him without thinking, without asking, without giving him so much as half a second to process what was happening. 

What if he'd only kissed you back because he'd been too surprised not to? What if you'd just ruined everything? What if–

“I—I shouldn’t have done that,” you rushed out, the words tripping over one another in their desperation to escape. “I just panicked. I didn't—I mean, I did, obviously, but I wasn't thinking. I just... I don't know why I—”

“Hey.”

His voice cut straight through the spiral. Not sharply. Never sharply. Like he’d said it a hundred times—which he had— to calm you down from things considerably less catastrophic than accidentally confessing your feelings by kissing your best friend in the middle of the Upside Down. Actually… no. 

Now you say it out loud–in your head, in complete meltdown mode–you were pretty fucking sure this took first place. 

His thumbs brushed gently across your cheekbones, keeping you close even as every instinct screamed at you to bolt. He didn't tighten his grip. Didn't trap you. He just didn't let you run before you'd heard him out.

“Hey,” he repeated, quieter this time. “It’s okay.”

Your breath hitched. God, you wanted to cry. And scream. And run. Preferably all at once. 

“It’s not okay, Steve. I just kissed you.”

For a second, he simply looked at you. Then, to your utter bewilderment, the corners of his mouth twitched upward. It wasn't mocking. It wasn't even the sort of endearingly awkward smile someone wore when they were desperately trying not to make a situation worse.

If anything, it looked dangerously close to relieved. 

Which made absolutely no sense. 

“Yeah,” he said quietly, his smile growing by the smallest amount. “I noticed.”

Well... obviously. It was admittedly quite difficult to miss someone grabbing your face and kissing you—especially when that someone happened to be your best friend of several years.

Right. 

Brillant.

Excellent really. 

If you got really lucky there would be a gate nearby, that you could simply throw yourself into and save everybody the second-hand embarrassment. Granted, it was probably a little late for that, but optimism had gotten people through worse.

Your gaze darted anywhere but him, already preparing to launch yourself through that front door and become the biggest hypocrite in recorded history, when gentle fingers caught your chin. They didn't force you to move. They simply guided your face back towards his until your eyes met once more. 

Big mistake. Huge. 

Because he was smiling. The nerve. 

Not awkwardly in some failed but potentially sweet attempt to spare your feelings. Smiling. Softly. Warmly. Like you'd just handed him a gift he'd wanted for a very, very long time. It was, quite frankly, the sappiest smile you'd ever had the misfortune of witnessing.

God, he was beautiful.

Again, how unbelievably rude.

He just kept looking at you. Smiling all sweetly, all bashfully, all on that beautiful face of his. Like kissing him hadn't scared him half to death. Like it had almost made him... happy.

Your brain promptly gave up trying to understand any of it. “...Why are you smiling?”

That seemed to catch him off guard more than anything else that had happened in the last few minutes. He blinked once, but the smile never quite left his face.

“Because you kissed me?” He said as if it was the most obvious thing in the whole world and you were crazy to not know that. 

His thumbs brushed across your cheekbones again, grounding you in place even as your brain threatened to short-circuit once again. “You—” Your breath caught, your head spinning and no longer from the lack of air. “...what?”

Steve let out another quiet laugh, softer this time, disbelieving.

“Honey,” he murmured, shaking his head ever so slightly. “I've been thinking about you... a little—actually, a concerning amount—since way before this whole mess started.”

The words stole the air from your lungs. He watched your expression carefully, his smile slowly giving way to confusion as he searched your face.

“...You didn't know.”

It wasn't a question anymore. 

And in lieu of an answer, all you could do was stare at him.

 “Steve…”

“You really didn’t know.” He blinked, then let out another little laugh, shaking his head like the idea itself physically didn’t make sense. “I just spent the last few minutes assuming you’d finally figured it out.”

You tried. You really did. You tried to get your brain to cooperate, to line up words into something resembling coherent thought, but nothing quite stuck. You barely managed a small shake of your head.

Steve saw it immediately.

His expression shifted—softening, sharpening, all at once—as understanding dawned in slow, careful pieces. You could tell he was afraid of scaring you off. His thumb brushed lightly across your lower lip, almost absentminded in the way someone might reassure themselves you were actually there.

“Honey…” he murmured, quieter now. Breathless.

That did it. Something in you snapped back into place just enough to speak before you could lose your nerve entirely. 

“I thought there was too much going on for you to notice me.”

The words came out smaller than you meant them to. Honest in a way that felt far too exposed, even now, after everything you’d said mere minutes ago and for a second, he didn’t say anything at all. Then his brows pulled together, as if the thought genuinely didn't fit in his mind. 

“Notice you?”  His hands tightened slightly against your face. “Are you kidding?” he asked, another faint, incredulous laugh breaking through the words.

“Honey…” His voice softened on the memory, gaze never for even a second leaving yours. “I noticed you the moment you walked into Mrs Peters’ class in Hawkins Middle.”

His thumb slowed again against your cheekbone.

“And I’ve been noticing you ever since,” he added, quieter, voice certain. “Even when I really, really shouldn’t have been.”

You opened your mouth—to protest, to question, to fill the silence with something safer, or really anything at this point—but he didn’t let you.

“I notice everything about you,” he said, still gently, but just a little firmer now, like he needed you to actually hear him.  

This… This was really not how you expected today to go. Like, at all. You'd expected monsters. Running. Probably some mild-to-moderate trauma. Maybe another concussion if the universe was feeling particularly creative.

You had not expected Steve Harrington to be holding your face like you were something precious while calmly dismantling every insecurity you'd spent years building.

A horrifying thought crept into your mind.

…You’re not under Vecna’s spell, are you? 

It would certainly explain how he seemed to know every single thing you'd secretly wanted to hear for years from that gorgeous mouth. You very briefly considered pinching yourself. Then Steve started speaking again before you had the chance.

“I notice the way you chew the end of your pen when you’re thinking too hard,” he said quietly, his thumb brushing slowly across your cheek. “I notice how you always trip over that one loose floorboard in your hallway, then immediately look around to make sure nobody saw.”

Heat rushed to your face. “You've... seen that?”

“Honey.” He laughed softly. “I've seen it more times than I can count.”

Oh God, where’s that door again? 

“I notice you always carry two hair ties,” he continued, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Not because you need two. Because you know Max is going to forget hers. And even with her in the hospital, not knowing if she’ll–you still do.” 

His smile softened. “I notice when you haven't slept well, because the next morning you always ask for an extra teaspoon of sugar in your coffee. I've noticed every haircut you've ever had, every new jumper, every time you've pretended you were okay because you don't want anybody worrying about you.” 

“I notice when you're actually okay, too.” His eyes searched yours, while his thumb stroked your cheek. “And I notice every single time you look for me.”

Your breath caught. Literally–you could not breath. 

Steve smiled—small, impossibly fond. “Because,” he whispered, his forehead dropping once more to rest against yours, “I'm looking right back.”

Fuck. What could you possibly say to that? 

To the fact that he'd been paying that much attention. That he'd noticed things you didn't even realise you did yourself. Tiny habits. Thoughtless little routines. The sort of details you only learned by watching someone over and over again.

All you could do was stare. 

Stare at the boy you'd spent years convincing yourself never noticed you—not the way you noticed him. And yet here he was. Standing impossibly close, one hand cradling your face like you were something precious, looking at you like you'd hung the damn moon and every star around it.

Your throat suddenly felt very tight. "I..." You swallowed, and said the only thing you could think of. "...I notice you too." 

The confession came out so quietly you weren't entirely convinced you'd actually said it aloud, and his reaction gave you no indication to the contrary. At least not until a second later, when his eyebrows shot up.

"...You do?" The words escaped him with an enthusiasm that was almost comical.

His eyes went impossibly wide, his hair still adorably mussed from where you'd grabbed him minutes earlier, his lips pink and slightly swollen from kissing you. He looked completely, utterly caught off guard.

God, he was beautiful.

He cleared his throat immediately, attempting—and failing—to scrape up even a speck of his dignity. "I mean..." He nodded once. "Good."

Then he nodded again and blurted out another, "...Good."

Before a thoughtful little hum escaped him and, for reasons known only to Steve Harrington, he nodded a third time. "That's...that's really good."

And you just couldn't help it. A laugh slipped out before you could stop it. In your defence, it was only tiny at first—one he could only hear because you were standing so close—but then he looked at you with that hopelessly, ridiculously lovestruck expression on his face. 

That was it 

One quiet laugh became another. Then another. Until your shoulders were shaking and you had to press your lips together in a thoroughly unsuccessful attempt to contain yourself.

Not because he was being ridiculous—well, okay, maybe a little—but because somehow, absurdly, Steve Harrington looked even more flustered than you felt. Which, considering your brain had completely ceased functioning several minutes ago, was honestly impressive.

Steve didn't interrupt once. His thumb idly stroked beneath your jaw, completely content to simply stand there and watch you laugh.

Eventually, your laughter softened into the same quiet smile mirrored on his face.

For a few perfect seconds neither of you spoke. You just stood there, smiling at each other like two complete idiots who'd somehow managed to confess years of feelings in the middle of the worst place known to man.

Monsters outside. Friends definitely watching and getting ready to mock you (or at least Robin surely was). The fate of Hawkins hanging by a thread. And somehow, impossibly... neither of you cared one bit.

Well... until he decided to ruin the moment.

He cleared his throat. "So..." He rubbed the back of his neck with his hand, looking almost sheepish. "Now that's sorted..."

He hooked a thumb vaguely over his shoulder towards the front door. "...I'm just gonna—"

The look you gave him stopped him dead.

It wasn't even a glare anymore. It was far past that. 

It was the face of someone who had spent the last several minutes explaining, in exhaustive detail, why he absolutely was not allowed to do exactly what he was implying. It also suggested that, should he ignore said explanation, you were more than willing to become the cause of the very death you'd just spent so long trying to prevent.

Steve looked towards the front door. Actually looked at it. Looking as if he was truly weighing up his options. Then he looked back at you.

Paused.

Took one look at your expression...

...and completely broke. This man was going to be the death of you. Fact.

"Okay," he breathed through another chuckle. "Okay."

Still smiling, he closed the tiny gap he'd created, his hand slipping into your hair, fingers combing gently through it before settling at the nape of your neck.

"What?" he asked, trying—and miserably failing—to sound innocent.

"You can't honestly think kissing me means you suddenly get to tell me what to do."

You raised one eyebrow. Nothing else. Just...One singular eyebrow.

Steve held your gaze with every intention of proving his point. His expression was wonderfully stubborn, almost smug, like he genuinely believed he could win this particular battle of wills.

He lasted all of three seconds.

His eyes flickered downward, landing squarely on your lips before he could stop them. He froze for a beat, seemingly realising exactly what he'd done, then squeezed his eyes shut with a quiet groan.

"...That," he sighed, sounding personally offended by himself, "was a terrible example."

Your smile escaped before you could stop it. His thumb caught it instantly, stroking gently along the corner of your mouth. His own smile answered yours—fond, hopeless and completely lacking the dignity he'd been trying so hard to recover.

And for a second, it was almost quiet again. Almost. Only the distant, echoing groans of the Upside Down, the occasional creak of something that definitely shouldn't have been moving, and whatever horrifying creature was politely waiting outside the front door reminded you the world was still ending. 

You found yourself almost begging for it to all shut up. Just to give you another minute. In this moment. With him. 

“…Can’t die before I take you on a date, right?” He said it lightly, though you knew he was only saying it that way to wind you up. And it worked. 

Your hand moved up before you even realised you’d decided anything. “Steve—are you serious right now?” You hit his chest. Not hard enough to really hurt him but absolutely hard enough that he definitely felt it.

He let out a soft laugh immediately, more breath than sound, and caught your hand against his chest before you could pull away. His fingers curled loosely around your wrist there, keeping it pressed to him just like he did mere moments ago. 

“Sorry, honey,” he murmured, and there it was again—that stupid softness in his voice. “I’m just… excited.”

His mouth tilted into a small, helpless pout, eyes flicking down to yours like he already knew exactly what he was doing to you. “Can you blame me?”

His entire face softened when he caught the look in your eyes–you trying to smile but it all just hitting too hard– teasing easing from his face until there was nothing left but something achingly earnest. His thumb brushed slowly across your knuckles where your hand still rested against his chest.

"I know," he murmured. "I can't promise forever." He gave the smallest shake of his head, as a tiny, humourless huff escaped him. "Hell… I can't even promise tomorrow."

The words hurt to hear, but before you could argue, he shook his head.

“But I can promise you this.” His fingers intertwined with yours, squeezing gently. “I'm going to do everything in my power to come back to you. 

His thumb brushed across your knuckles. "I'll fight to come back to you."

His forehead rested against yours once more, his eyes never leaving yours. "I'll fight for us."

You let out the smallest laugh, though it caught around the knot tightening your throat. "So.. Tomorrow?" you whispered.

For the first time since you'd met him, Steve Harrington answered without pretending certainty he didn't have.

"...Tomorrow."

Dividers by @designlikenonsense (aka my alter-ego)

P.S. I don't know what to say... but I've never not done this so... hi 👋🏼

Because Steve had been waiting by the door when you arrived, barely giving you enough time to put your bag down before he'd pulled you into his arms with a kiss worthy of a cheesy rom-com montage, murmuring, "I love you. I missed you," against your lips, again and again, before declaring that forty-eight hours apart was never, ever happening again.

Your next move is slow and elicits a sharp inhale from the boy beneath you. You aren't in any rush to move; instead, you settle your weight, shifting your hips in a languid, rhythmic circle. You could sit here all day.

The sensation is a heavy, humming heat that radiates from where you are joined, a slow-motion slide that feels more like a homecoming than a physical act. You feel him react to you: to your every breath, your every move. 

He makes a sound—halfway between a sigh and a prayer—and his fingers dig slightly into the small of your back, anchoring you to him as if he’s afraid you might finally decide to let go.

"Thought you were tired," he murmurs, though his voice is thick, lacking any real conviction. He isn't asking you to stop; he's barely breathing, his eyes fluttering shut behind those crooked glasses, simply absorbing the feeling of you with a slow, deliberate patience.

"Mmm, no I didn’t," you whisper, the lie tasting sweet because he knows it's a lie and he doesn't care. 

The truth is, you had both crawled into bed an hour ago, limbs heavy and eyelids drooping, convinced that the sheer exhaustion of the weekend had won. 

You’d barely managed to pull one of his oversized grey t-shirts over your head—the fabric smelling of laundry detergent and that specific, warm scent that was wholly Steve—before collapsing against his chest. You had been too tired for anything more than a few kisses and a long shower, but the thought of an inch of air between your skin felt like an intolerable distance. You had murmured a request, a soft, "Can I sit on you?", thinking it would be a way to feel his heart against yours until you drifted off. 

And how could he ever say no to you, especially when the request was hardly a hardship for him? 

"You're a menace," he breathed, though the way he arched his hips upward told a completely different story. 

"A menace who loves you," you counter, leaning forward until your chest brushes his. You don't move to get off; instead, you shift your weight again, a slow, grounding press that makes Steve’s breath hitch and his eyes snap open. 

The moonlight catches the gold in his pupils, his gaze hazy and completely undone. He doesn't try to push you away or suggest the sleep you both desperately need. Instead, his hands slide from the small of your back to your hips, his grip firm, guiding the rhythm with a slow, instinctive patience.

He lets out a long, shaky exhale, his head falling back against the pillow. "You're actually trying to kill me, aren't you?" he murmurs, though he's smiling, that soft, crooked expression that always makes your heart ache.

He looks like he's floating, anchored to the earth only by the quiet weight of you. 

"Could never," you murmur.

Your fingertip grazes the line of his cheek, tracing the soft curve of his jaw before he turns his face into your palm, catching your wrist and pressing a sleepy kiss against the inside of it. You pepper his face with tiny, feather-light kisses—one on the bridge of his nose, one at the corner of his mouth, one on the temple. Everywhere you have missed so dearly.

"You're so needy," he whispers, though his arms wrap tighter around your waist, pulling you flush against him. His thumb drifts absently over your side, back and forth, back and forth, the motion so mindless it feels like something he'd do even in his sleep.

He sounds dazed, his voice trailing off into a soft hum of contentment as you murmur sweet nothings against his skin; telling him how much you missed the way he sounds when he's sleepy, how much you love the familiar weight of his hands on you.

You aren't just staying put for the physical heat; you're anchoring yourself to him, refusing to let the world outside the bedroom door exist.

Refusing to allow anything but this warmth, him, and you to exist.

It starts almost subconsciously—a slight tilt of your hips, answered by the instinctive arch of his back. What had once been lazy and rhythmic becomes something faster, more desperate; a quiet, unspoken conversation between the two of you, each movement an answer to the last. 

You can't stop. You don't want to ever stop. Not when you're this close, not when every little sound he makes feels like something you could spend forever hearing. The sleepy hitch of his breath, the quiet little groans he tries and fails to swallow, the way your name slips from his lips like it's the only word he can remember.

And every time you pause, even for a second, his fingers flex against you, a tiny, unconscious reminder that he doesn't want the distance either.

You missed this.

You missed him.

And now that you have him beneath you again, warm and familiar and entirely yours, you can't bring yourself to imagine letting go.

Not for forty-eight hours. Not for even one.

loverboy steve masterlist ♡

P.S. wanna see more clingy reader or loverboy Steve? send in some ideas! ♡

P.P.S. also hi! how are we all? been a little while...

Dividers by @designlikenonsense ♡

Because Steve had been waiting by the door when you arrived, barely giving you enough time to put your bag down before he'd pulled you into his arms with a kiss worthy of a cheesy rom-com montage, murmuring, "I love you. I missed you," against your lips, again and again, before declaring that forty-eight hours apart was never, ever happening again.

Your next move is slow and elicits a sharp inhale from the boy beneath you. You aren't in any rush to move; instead, you settle your weight, shifting your hips in a languid, rhythmic circle. You could sit here all day.

The sensation is a heavy, humming heat that radiates from where you are joined, a slow-motion slide that feels more like a homecoming than a physical act. You feel him react to you: to your every breath, your every move. 

He makes a sound—halfway between a sigh and a prayer—and his fingers dig slightly into the small of your back, anchoring you to him as if he’s afraid you might finally decide to let go.

"Thought you were tired," he murmurs, though his voice is thick, lacking any real conviction. He isn't asking you to stop; he's barely breathing, his eyes fluttering shut behind those crooked glasses, simply absorbing the feeling of you with a slow, deliberate patience.

"Mmm, no I didn’t," you whisper, the lie tasting sweet because he knows it's a lie and he doesn't care. 

The truth is, you had both crawled into bed an hour ago, limbs heavy and eyelids drooping, convinced that the sheer exhaustion of the weekend had won. 

You’d barely managed to pull one of his oversized grey t-shirts over your head—the fabric smelling of laundry detergent and that specific, warm scent that was wholly Steve—before collapsing against his chest. You had been too tired for anything more than a few kisses and a long shower, but the thought of an inch of air between your skin felt like an intolerable distance. You had murmured a request, a soft, "Can I sit on you?", thinking it would be a way to feel his heart against yours until you drifted off. 

And how could he ever say no to you, especially when the request was hardly a hardship for him? 

"You're a menace," he breathed, though the way he arched his hips upward told a completely different story. 

"A menace who loves you," you counter, leaning forward until your chest brushes his. You don't move to get off; instead, you shift your weight again, a slow, grounding press that makes Steve’s breath hitch and his eyes snap open. 

The moonlight catches the gold in his pupils, his gaze hazy and completely undone. He doesn't try to push you away or suggest the sleep you both desperately need. Instead, his hands slide from the small of your back to your hips, his grip firm, guiding the rhythm with a slow, instinctive patience.

He lets out a long, shaky exhale, his head falling back against the pillow. "You're actually trying to kill me, aren't you?" he murmurs, though he's smiling, that soft, crooked expression that always makes your heart ache.

He looks like he's floating, anchored to the earth only by the quiet weight of you. 

"Could never," you murmur.

Your fingertip grazes the line of his cheek, tracing the soft curve of his jaw before he turns his face into your palm, catching your wrist and pressing a sleepy kiss against the inside of it. You pepper his face with tiny, feather-light kisses—one on the bridge of his nose, one at the corner of his mouth, one on the temple. Everywhere you have missed so dearly.

"You're so needy," he whispers, though his arms wrap tighter around your waist, pulling you flush against him. His thumb drifts absently over your side, back and forth, back and forth, the motion so mindless it feels like something he'd do even in his sleep.

He sounds dazed, his voice trailing off into a soft hum of contentment as you murmur sweet nothings against his skin; telling him how much you missed the way he sounds when he's sleepy, how much you love the familiar weight of his hands on you.

You aren't just staying put for the physical heat; you're anchoring yourself to him, refusing to let the world outside the bedroom door exist.

Refusing to allow anything but this warmth, him, and you to exist.

It starts almost subconsciously—a slight tilt of your hips, answered by the instinctive arch of his back. What had once been lazy and rhythmic becomes something faster, more desperate; a quiet, unspoken conversation between the two of you, each movement an answer to the last. 

You can't stop. You don't want to ever stop. Not when you're this close, not when every little sound he makes feels like something you could spend forever hearing. The sleepy hitch of his breath, the quiet little groans he tries and fails to swallow, the way your name slips from his lips like it's the only word he can remember.

And every time you pause, even for a second, his fingers flex against you, a tiny, unconscious reminder that he doesn't want the distance either.

You missed this.

You missed him.

And now that you have him beneath you again, warm and familiar and entirely yours, you can't bring yourself to imagine letting go.

Not for forty-eight hours. Not for even one.

loverboy steve masterlist ♡

P.S. wanna see more clingy reader or loverboy Steve? send in some ideas! ♡

P.P.S. also hi! how are we all? been a little while...

Dividers by @designlikenonsense ♡

Because Steve had been waiting by the door when you arrived, barely giving you enough time to put your bag down before he'd pulled you into his arms with a kiss worthy of a cheesy rom-com montage, murmuring, "I love you. I missed you," against your lips, again and again, before declaring that forty-eight hours apart was never, ever happening again.

Your next move is slow and elicits a sharp inhale from the boy beneath you. You aren't in any rush to move; instead, you settle your weight, shifting your hips in a languid, rhythmic circle. You could sit here all day.

The sensation is a heavy, humming heat that radiates from where you are joined, a slow-motion slide that feels more like a homecoming than a physical act. You feel him react to you: to your every breath, your every move. 

He makes a sound—halfway between a sigh and a prayer—and his fingers dig slightly into the small of your back, anchoring you to him as if he’s afraid you might finally decide to let go.

"Thought you were tired," he murmurs, though his voice is thick, lacking any real conviction. He isn't asking you to stop; he's barely breathing, his eyes fluttering shut behind those crooked glasses, simply absorbing the feeling of you with a slow, deliberate patience.

"Mmm, no I didn’t," you whisper, the lie tasting sweet because he knows it's a lie and he doesn't care. 

The truth is, you had both crawled into bed an hour ago, limbs heavy and eyelids drooping, convinced that the sheer exhaustion of the weekend had won. 

You’d barely managed to pull one of his oversized grey t-shirts over your head—the fabric smelling of laundry detergent and that specific, warm scent that was wholly Steve—before collapsing against his chest. You had been too tired for anything more than a few kisses and a long shower, but the thought of an inch of air between your skin felt like an intolerable distance. You had murmured a request, a soft, "Can I sit on you?", thinking it would be a way to feel his heart against yours until you drifted off. 

And how could he ever say no to you, especially when the request was hardly a hardship for him? 

"You're a menace," he breathed, though the way he arched his hips upward told a completely different story. 

"A menace who loves you," you counter, leaning forward until your chest brushes his. You don't move to get off; instead, you shift your weight again, a slow, grounding press that makes Steve’s breath hitch and his eyes snap open. 

The moonlight catches the gold in his pupils, his gaze hazy and completely undone. He doesn't try to push you away or suggest the sleep you both desperately need. Instead, his hands slide from the small of your back to your hips, his grip firm, guiding the rhythm with a slow, instinctive patience.

He lets out a long, shaky exhale, his head falling back against the pillow. "You're actually trying to kill me, aren't you?" he murmurs, though he's smiling, that soft, crooked expression that always makes your heart ache.

He looks like he's floating, anchored to the earth only by the quiet weight of you. 

"Could never," you murmur.

Your fingertip grazes the line of his cheek, tracing the soft curve of his jaw before he turns his face into your palm, catching your wrist and pressing a sleepy kiss against the inside of it. You pepper his face with tiny, feather-light kisses—one on the bridge of his nose, one at the corner of his mouth, one on the temple. Everywhere you have missed so dearly.

"You're so needy," he whispers, though his arms wrap tighter around your waist, pulling you flush against him. His thumb drifts absently over your side, back and forth, back and forth, the motion so mindless it feels like something he'd do even in his sleep.

He sounds dazed, his voice trailing off into a soft hum of contentment as you murmur sweet nothings against his skin; telling him how much you missed the way he sounds when he's sleepy, how much you love the familiar weight of his hands on you.

You aren't just staying put for the physical heat; you're anchoring yourself to him, refusing to let the world outside the bedroom door exist.

Refusing to allow anything but this warmth, him, and you to exist.

It starts almost subconsciously—a slight tilt of your hips, answered by the instinctive arch of his back. What had once been lazy and rhythmic becomes something faster, more desperate; a quiet, unspoken conversation between the two of you, each movement an answer to the last. 

You can't stop. You don't want to ever stop. Not when you're this close, not when every little sound he makes feels like something you could spend forever hearing. The sleepy hitch of his breath, the quiet little groans he tries and fails to swallow, the way your name slips from his lips like it's the only word he can remember.

And every time you pause, even for a second, his fingers flex against you, a tiny, unconscious reminder that he doesn't want the distance either.

You missed this.

You missed him.

And now that you have him beneath you again, warm and familiar and entirely yours, you can't bring yourself to imagine letting go.

Not for forty-eight hours. Not for even one.

loverboy steve masterlist ♡

P.S. wanna see more clingy reader or loverboy Steve? send in some ideas! ♡

P.P.S. also hi! how are we all? been a little while...

Dividers by @designlikenonsense ♡