#80s references

He pauses. “Yeah, both.” The two of you laugh simultaneously as you take the knife from him. He looks down at you as you begin to position the watermelon on the cutting board. “What? You don’t think I can cut a watermelon? You think I’m too clumsy to perform a simple task?”

You turn your face to him with a knowing smirk. “Steve I know you’re too clumsy to perform a simple task.”

He places one large hand on his chest and feigns hurt. “I am deeply wounded, L/N.” You roll your eyes as he swipes the watermelon from underneath the knife. The boy begins to walk backward to the counter while holding your gaze. “I mean I can’t believe you think I can’t handle fru-“

Steve bumps into the counter, sending the watermelon out of his grip and onto the ground with a resounding thud. Luckily, the only thing that’s broken into a million pieces is Steve’s ego, and not the fruit.

You nod to yourself as he slowly leans down to pick it up. Once his eyes meet yours, you gesture to the watermelon. “Like I said...” Your hands wrap around the slightly bruised fruit as you tug it towards yourself. “Clumsy.”

You step towards the cutting board and begin to chop up the watermelon for the two of you to snack on later.

While you do that, Steve watches shyly from the side. His body shakes with nerves as he studies you. No less than a week ago, he was your best friend. But now, he’s debating on whether or not he has enough confidence and belief to tell you that he likes you (because if it’s anything more than like, he’d die). You’re all he’s been able to think about, and to be honest, he’s pretty sure he’s going to insane. As his mind wanders, he realizes he’s almost at the point of biting all of his nails off, but you suddenly beckoning him from the back door draws his attention.

The poor boy is so lost in his thoughts that he didn’t notice you had left the kitchen with a plate of chopped up watermelon in your arms. “You comin’, Harrington?”

He swallows the lump in his throat and gives you a shy smile as he walks towards you; praying for some kind of miracle to allow him to grow a pair and just talk to you.

•••••

To say you were surprised was an understatement. Of course, Steve always had a knack for being a little bit...extra...but this?

This was on a whole other level.

“Steve...what’re you doing?” You asked slowly, although it was pretty clear. The two of you were snacking on the leftover watermelon when he had heard the song on the radio.

The second it had come on, he had jumped to the device and turned it up, sending a playful, yet nervous look your way.

He ran a hand through his hair and began to sway his body towards you. “What does it look like I’m doing?” He had then spun dramatically—albeit, a little shaky as he almost tripped on his own foot—but nonetheless, he had ended up in front of you, with an outstretched hand and a glint in his eyes that peered out beneath the messy strands of his famous hair.

“Dance with me.” At first your breath hitches in your throat. He says it so softly and so earnestly, that you’re left stunned.

But then your mind kicks into overdrive and you laugh. You hadn’t meant to, out of fear of hurting his feelings. But the whole situation was just...different. So different that you couldn’t help but resort to nervous laughter. You tried to convince yourself that the electric nerves that you could feel pumping through your body at that very moment had been simply derived from shock. It had derived from your friends proposition and the way his hips swayed in your direction.

Jesus...those damn hips.

While you mauled over your thoughts and the reasoning behind your racing heartbeat and jittery limbs, Steve stays put, hand still reaching out to you, and body still moving in place (a way of “enticing” you, because God know’s Steve’s not the best with words and wouldn’t be able to verbally convince you). But he had to get you to dance with him somehow. Afterall, this was the miracle. The song that played at the end of Dirty Dancing was playing right here, right now. In your backyard, on your radio. And Steve figured that if you two were planning on redoing the lift, then you might as well attempt to do the whole dance...right?

Steve was not known for taking many opportunities anymore. But this time was different.

It has to be.

He’s refocuses his attention, and his confidence, and shoots you a grin. “C’mon, Y/N. The song will be done by the time you get off your ass.” You didn’t even have to reply, as the boy just took to gently taking your hand and leading you to the middle of your backyard.

You both stand opposite if each other; still and unsure. Steve inhales deeply before taking the opportunity to pull you closer. One arm snakes around your waist, the other joining yours in a tight grip to your left. “Is this good? Are you...comfortable?” He can’t find a better word, and he knows he sounds like an idiot, but your approval is all that really matters. You look at him and nod slightly.

Steve gulps, and you shake—neither of you noticing the others reaction, although it’s so easy to notice.

With my body and soul, I want you more than you’ll ever know.

Steve makes the first move of the basic box waltz (the only dance he really knows from the lessons his mom made him take when he was 10 or so), before you’re stopping him. “Steve...” You look at him. A little nervous and little embarrassed at what you have to tell him. “Steve I can’t...I can’t dance.”

He quirks his eyebrows up, surveying your face. You look a little hurt by the prospect of not being able to dance, but he’s gotten so far in this plan of his that he refuses to let this moment ruin his chance. “Well then...” He leans into you with a grin. “I guess you’re just gonna have to help me ice my toes after we’re done.”

Your jaw drops at his response. Letting go of his hand for a quick moment, you nudge him sharply in the stomach. “Rude!”

He lets out a laugh as he steadies you with his body weight—never truly loosing focus of you. He begins to slowly shift, moving the both of you around in a small circle. After the first loop the two of you make, you focus on both of your moving feet, trying to keep your movements in check. To no avail, your toes land on the top of his foot. It’s a sharp step and one that may or may not have hurt him. You can’t tell. He doesn’t let his attention drift, which makes you feel a little better about possibly bruising up your friends feet.

You’re the one thing I can’t get enough of. So I’ll tell you something...

Your eyes are still trained on your feet, until his hand is guiding your face to his. But then, as quick as the previous movement, your body jerks away from him. By the time you balance yourself, you realize that he had spun you. Successfully, too. You smile wildly at the fact that you just did a simple dance move that you’ve never fully got down. But then the slight pull of his hand reminds you that now you brave the ultimate task. Spinning back into him without knocking him over.

You decide to focus on his nose, and as you let yourself be roped back into his dance space, you feel yourself teeter. But Steve’s quick on his feet, and soon your flush against his chest, arms raised up and resting on his shoulders.

The dancing stops and as you try to settle down your erratic breath and limbs, you eyes lazily trail up his face and rest on his eyes. A few short moments pass and you feel yourself blush because you can’t tell how long you’ve been staring at him for. But then he blushes in response, and you realize that he’s been staring at you for just as long, if not longer.

The two of you stand close together to the point where there’s barely any air left between the two of you. The moment—one that’s calm and teetering on the edge of sensual—gets far away from you both. As you feel his hands drift to your waist slowly, yours (rather unknowingly) trace up his arms. And then, as he ducks his head to yours, your nerves flare up. Panic invades your body and soon your jumping back.

Your heart beats fast, almost throwing your breathing off-kilter. You’re not stupid. You knew where it was going; where it could’ve gone...

You just can’t tell whether or not if felt right (and whether or not it should).

Steve however, mistakes your confusion as rejection. He steps back a little, giving you your space before clearing his throat. “I—I’m sorry. I didn’t—I didn’t mean...I must’ve misread the situation.”

He frowns, and is soon picking up his stuff. If your fear hadn’t gotten you into shit before, it sure was now. He looked up to you, and you took note of his glassy eyes. You couldn’t really tell if he was on the verge of tears or not. And a part of you didn’t want to know. “I should go.”

No, no, no. This is all wrong.

Before you can tell him this, Steve is walking back to his car. You push past the gate, halting to a stop at the top of your driveway. “Steve!” You call out, voice threatening to crack beneath the pressure of its emotion.

He turns to look at you in anticipation. But you frown at his faith in you. You don’t know what to say, or what to do. All you know is that he can’t leave. You don’t trust your voice, but you let it go anyway. “You promised we’d do the lift again.”

You hate that your voice sounds small, and it sounds manipulative. You absolutely hate that it sounds that way. It beckons your friend back, but you hope it doesn’t cause him to feel bad. That’s the last thing you want.

You just need Steve to stay. He has to stay.

He frowns and drums his fingers on the car door. “I know, but...now just doesn’t seem like a good time, Y/N.”

You speak out before you can think. “When is it ever a good time though?” You can feel yourself digging a deeper hole. He likes you...a lot...and you feel as though you’re just hurting him. But he has to know that you...that you didn’t reject him.

Your just confused and you don’t—

“Steve, please. I—I want to try again.” At this point you don’t know whether you’re referencing the lift or the relationship that wobbles beneath the weight of the emotions that are present. At this point it’s too late to tell.

But Steve sighs in response, looking at you sadly once more before closing the car door and walking to the end of the driveway. He holds his hands out to you, which causes something in your brain to snap. Every calculated thought, movement, and piece of your rationale is thrown out the window and your feet take off.

You run to him. This time as fast as you can. You watch him dig his feet into the ground as he braces himself. Wind whips past your cheeks, and you can feel tears trickle down your neck.

It’s all so much at once: the running, the breathing, the wind, the tears...Steve...

Until it isn’t.

You hadn’t even realized that you had screwed your eyes shut. But when you open them to the sight of the top of Steve’s head, your world shifts. His hands are gripping your waist, and you finally recognize that you’ve done it. You’ve done the lift.

Steve waits a few more seconds before lowering you slowly; the sudden weight and new movements too much for his arms. He means to lower you to the ground, but you lift his hands off your waist as you wrap yourself around him.

Your hugging him tightly, arms suspended around his neck, the tips of your bare toes just barely touching your driveway. You bury your face into his neck and try to steady your breathing. “I don’t want you to leave, Steve. I want to try it again.”

You pull away from him and lift your eyes up to his. His brow furrows in confusion. To be honest, you’re just as confused. But you’re tired of thinking. You just...need to do it.

“What do you mean ‘try it again’? We just did the lift. Like we actually—“

He’s quiet when you kiss him. Frozen, too. Almost like your action has stopped his existence in time to just relish and relive this moment. Your mouth moves against his for a moment before he’s kissing you back. Soon you’re backed up against his car, hands tangled in each other’s hair and mouths tracing every spot they possibly can.

It ends with Steve kissing you lightly on the nose and pressing his forehead to yours; hands wound tightly together. “Jesus, Y/N...”

You giggle and use your other hand to stroke stray hair out of his vision. You smile at him warmly as your fingers stroke his cheek and the tiny scars that always appear out of nowhere. “I guess Johnny did have it harder, didn’t he?”

Steve laughs into you, pulling you closer to him once more in a quasi-hug. “Fifty-fifty.”

You hum playfully, the sound growing distant as Steve kisses you. Again. And again. And again.

•••••

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