#imagines

She felt so guilty. Hannah was her best friend. Why did she have a crush of her best friend’s boyfriend? Yes, he was attractive but so were his roommates. Why couldn’t she have a crush on Dean, Tucker or even Logan.

She thought she had everything under control. One night after hearing them have their second round of sex, Y/n pulled up her notes app to come up with a plan to shake off her feelings. First, avoid one on one time with Garrett and Hannah. Second, try not to gawk when Garrett is around. Third, don’t daydream about watching a movie with Garrett. Don’t daydream about Garrett in general.

For Y/n, her crush on Garrett wasn’t obvious. But for everyone around her it was as clear as day. When she saw them together she would sprint the other way. Which made Dean comment and on the regular that maybe Y/n should consider joining the track team with how fast she would sprint out of that situation. She would also avoid eye contact with Garrett, rambling random excuses to not speak with him. Everyone knew about her little crush, even Hannah and Garrett, themselves.

So after much discussion with Hannah. She had convinced Allie Hayes to speak to you.

“Y/n, come on. I won’t judge. But the first step to overcoming this is admitting you have a problem.” Allie says sitting on the small twin size bed. Y/n forcefully laugh her eyes still glued on the computer in front of her, her physiology midterm essay glaring back at her.

“Allie, are you reciting an addict intervention script? I don’t need to overcome anything, like I said before, you are insane. Why would I have a crush on Garrett? First, he’s Hannah’s boyfriend. Second, he’s not my type? Third… I can’t think of a third because of how ridiculous this sounds.”

“You can’t think of a third because you are clearly lying and are in denial. Look, I won’t judge you Y/n. Garrett’s an attractive guy. But you need to accept that he’s in love with Hannah, so you can move on this pathetic little crush you have. You can’t avoid spending time with all of us forever.”

“I can since I'm here to get my degree. I’m not here to get shit wasted at a stupid frat party or to get accused about liking some guy by my friend. I’m not going, not because I'm avoiding Garrett and Hannah, I'm actually busy doing things?” Y/n replies shutting her computer. Allie scrunches up her face thinking of ways to deescalate the situation.

“You are starting to sound like Logan”

It was ironic. While Y/n was crushing badly on Garrett. John Logan, Garrett’s best friend, was crushing on Hannah. A full soap opera moment if you will. Y/n picked up on Logan’s crush, not because he told her, but because it was pretty fucking obvious with the way he acted around her. Then Y/n would wonder if she was also that obvious, but she would shake it off.

There were two possible options for Logan and Y/n. They could continue with their sad high school crush and avoidance, it would eventually work on the couple making them break up and date the two. or they could date each other to end each other's suffering. When the thought passes through her head Y/n doesn’t think about it twice. That’s how she found herself in John Logan’s room on a Friday night at 10:30pm.

“You told Allie what! No scratch that. How the hell did Allie believe you? You barely even speak to me.” Logan said looking down at Y/n with a stressed look on his face.

“I’m speaking to you right now, Logan.” Y/n claps back as she reads one of Logan’s notes from an Econ class.

There was a small problem with the little white lie Y/n had told Allie. Y/n L/n and John Logan, don’t get along at all. John Logan got along with loads of people, but Y/n was one of the girls that didn’t stick for him. One time she had insulted his form after a game in front of the guys and that was the start of his dislike towards her. They would constantly bicker and to the blind eye, people would consider that there was pent up sexual tension between the two, even if they both denied it.

“You know what I mean. We barely talk to each other and when we do it’s to fight about something stupid.” John replied back clearly annoyed at your comments.

“So, you admit that the things you usually say are stupid? See we are starting to get along already.” Y/n force a smile as she turns to look at the man pacing in front of her.

“How the hell would you tell her that we are together. She has to know you're lying. You clearly aren’t my type.” Logan sat in the chair in front of you tugging his hair frustrated.

“Gee thanks. Don’t worry I don’t go for condescending assholes. She always says we have this pent up sexual tension and that we should work on it. So my best bet was to say I was dating you for it to make some logic. I was helping you out because Tucker has been calling you out on your crush on Hannah and…”

“I don’t have a crush on Hannah.” Logan cuts you off. Slapping his hand on the table in front of him.

“ and I don’t have a crush on Garrett but if we work together we could put those fake rumors to rest.” Y/n replies in the same tone as him. John Logan stands up and leans toward you.

“Fine, it’s a deal. I’m not going to enjoy this. We are doing this under my rules” Logan’s hand rests between your knees pushing them apart.

“Fine.”

“First rule. If they are going to think we are together they need to hear us hooking up” Y/n feeezes, she starts nervously rambling but he chuckles. “ I don’t mean actual sex. We can fake it. Like I said, you aren’t my type.”

“Oh, really? I thought you fucked everything that has a skirt on.” Y/n replied sarcastically.

“I have my exceptions.”

Logan grabs the bottom of the bed and pushes it against the wall. He pushes it again, doing the same action repeatedly as the headboard hits the wall.

“They aren’t going to believe it if you don’t moan. Come on, I know you’re a screamer” Logan says making Y/n glare at him.

“You are a pig. That’s what you tell all your hook up’s to fake their moans?”

“Actually, I work for it. I have an impressive form when it comes to sex.”

“Just like your impressive form in hockey”

“L/n. I wasn’t the one that lied to our friends. If you want to keep this act up and make our friends believe it. No scratch if you so desperately wanted to be in a fake relationship with me, you need to put in the work. Now let me hear you.” He whispered in her ear, still continuing the moments with the bed. His arm would occasionally bump with your knee.

“Why would I be the only one moaning. You need to moan too!”

“I don’t moan.”

“Bullshit. I’ve heard you and you are pretty vocal. Come one John. Hannah and Garrett are next door. You want them to stop bothering with the crush? you better start moaning.” Logan let out a fake but impressive loud moan.

“Damn. Y/n” He let out a breathy moan. You hold in your laugh trying to take the situation as seriously as possible.

The sun poured through your window in long, lazy streaks, turning the dust in the air into something soft and golden. It was the kind of light that didn't demand anything from you, that simply existed. 

Nothing could've disturbed your peace and quiet.

Not today.

Weekend mornings were sacred. No alarms. No rushing. Just the gentle awareness that you had nowhere to be and all the time in the world to enjoy it. You could already picture it: wandering downstairs when you felt like it, eating whatever you wanted for breakfast, letting the hours blur together in the most delicious way. And then doing it all over again tomorrow.

You lay tangled in your sheets, suspended in that perfect in-between, where sleep hadn't fully let go yet, and consciousness hadn't quite claimed you either. Your thoughts drifted slowly, lazily, like they had nowhere better to be. Every breath felt deep. Heavy in the best way.

Your untouched curls fanned out around your head, catching the sunlight as it spilled across your pillow. You didn't know it yet, but they looked especially alive this morning, soft and full and glowing like they'd been carefully arranged by the universe itself.

You shifted slightly, burrowing deeper into the mattress, a small smile tugging at your lips as you decided—very firmly—that you were not getting up anytime soon. This morning was yours.

And then..

"WAKE UP, PRINCESS! YOUR KNIGHT IN SHINING ARMOR IS HERE!"

The sound ripped through the house with all the subtlety of a fire alarm.

You groaned immediately, burying your face into your pillow as if it might protect you from the sheer audacity of your brother's voice. Dustin Henderson was many things, but quiet was not one of them ,especially when he thought he was being funny.

"Shut up," you groaned into the fabric, barely awake. "I swear to God-"

From downstairs came the unmistakable sound of snickering, followed by hurried footsteps and what sounded suspiciously like him running away before retaliation could occur.

You sighed, dragging a hand down your face.

Of course. Of course it was your brother who would ruin such a lovely and perfect morning. 

Your morning peace cracked just enough to let the outside world seep in, but not completely. Not yet. You were still half-lost in the warmth, still clinging to the comfort of your bed, unaware that just down the hall, someone else had gone very, very quiet. And that he was already on his way to you.

By the time Steve made it upstairs, you'd already drifted back under.

Not fully asleep, just dozing. Floating. Caught in that hazy space where the world feels distant and safe, and nothing sharp can reach you.

He moved quietly, instinctively so.

The house was still settling behind him, distant murmurs of Dustin's voice echoing once before being cut off, probably by Mrs. Henderson telling him to keep it down. Steve slipped out of his jacket at the bottom of the stairs, folding it over his arm like it was second nature, like he already knew he wouldn't need it where he was going.

His footsteps were soft against the carpet as he climbed. Careful. Measured. When he reached your door and nudged it open slowly, the faintest creak slipping into the room before he froze completely, breath caught halfway in his chest.

You were sprawled comfortably across your bed, limbs loose, face turned slightly toward the window where the sunlight spilled in unabashedly. Your breathing was slow and even, lips parted just a little like sleep had caught you mid-thought.

And your hair- 

Steve's mind went blank.

Your curls were everywhere. Wild in the softest way. Piled around your head like you'd sunk straight into a cloud and never bothered to come back down. The sunlight threaded through them, catching on every curve and coil, turning them warm and bright and impossibly alive.

He'd seen you a thousand times. Laughing. Arguing. Rolling your eyes at Dustin. Sitting cross-legged on the floor explaining something way too smart for him to follow.

But this?

This felt... private.

Intimate in a way he hadn't prepared for.

They hadn't been together long. Long enough to know it mattered. Long enough for careful hands and hesitant kisses and that quiet awareness that everything still felt new and fragile in the best way. Long enough that he'd never slept over, never seen you like this, untouched by effort, untouched by the day.

Steve had been in this house before. Of course he had. Dustin had claimed him first, dragged him over for game nights and breakfast chaos and afternoons that stretched too long. He knew the couch. The kitchen. The way the stairs creaked on the third step.

But this was different.

This wasn't him as Dustin's Steve. The honorary babysitter. The loud presence in the living room.

Steve had come here for you.

To be polite. To impress your mom. To sit at the table and say please and thank you and pretend he wasn't nervous about joining your family breakfast like it meant something more than just food.

Something fluttered low in his chest, spreading fast, warm and dizzying and almost embarrassing in its intensity. He swallowed, shifting his weight like that might ground him, like that might stop the sudden rush of affection threatening to knock the breath out of him.

Because this wasn't the version of you he usually saw.

No styled curls. No effort. No awareness of being watched.

Just you, soft, half-asleep, sunlight-touched and completely unguarded.

And it made his chest ache in a way he didn't have a name for yet. "Jesus," he breathed, barely louder than a thought.

He eased the door shut behind him and crossed the room slowly, each step deliberate. When he reached the foot of your bed, he set his jacket aside and sat carefully, the mattress dipping just enough to make you stir.

Not awake. Not yet.

Steve smiled without meaning to. His hand curls into the sheets as he exhales through his nose, a quiet huff of a laugh at himself, like he can't believe he's nervous about this. About you. The awe doesn't fade, though. If anything, it settles deeper. Quieter. Reverent.

"Hey," he murmurs softly, voice low and warm. "C'mon, sleepyhead."

No response, just the faintest shift, a soft hum of contentment slipping from you without thought.

Something in his chest stutters.

He tries again, even gentler. "You're gonna miss the whole morning."

Still nothing.

Steve smiles despite himself, fond and helpless, leaning closer until his shadow spills over you, until he can feel the warmth of your skin beneath him. Up this close, the moment feels almost too private. Like he's standing on the edge of something he doesn't quite have the words for yet.

"Guess I gotta do this the hard way," he whispers. 

When he finally lies down, it's slow. Thoughtful.

He lowers himself carefully, bracing on his forearms so he doesn't crush you, fitting over you like he already knows how, warm and solid and careful. Protective without trying. Familiar in a way that feels almost unfair, considering how new everything still is.

His presence wraps around you instead of pressing down.

Then he starts small.

A soft kiss to your forehead.

Another to your temple.

Your cheek.

The bridge of your nose.

Each one gentle like he's testing whether you'll stir, like he has all the time in the world. Nothing like Dustin's yelling from downstairs. Nothing loud or chaotic.

You come back to yourself slowly.

Not all at once, just bits and pieces. Warmth first. Weight, careful and familiar. A soft breath against your cheek.

You mumble something incoherent, words slurring together like you're still halfway under. Your brow furrows, nose scrunching as you shift beneath him.

Steve stills immediately.

"Hey," he whispers, almost instinctively. "It's okay."

Your eyes flutter open, unfocused at first. All you see is a blur of brown and gold and morning light, then it sharpens.

Steve.

Right there. Hovering over you, braced on his arms, hair a little messy, eyes soft and entirely fixed on you like he's afraid you might disappear if he blinks.

Your mouth curves into a sleepy smile without you even trying.

"...Hi," you murmur.

Relief washes over his face so fast it's almost funny. "Morning."

You blink up at him, still processing, then let out a tiny huff of a laugh. "You're being weirdly quiet," you mumble. "Did Dustin finally break you?"

He snorts under his breath. "Please. He tried."

You shift again, stretching slightly, and that's when awareness fully settles in. You're tangled up. Hair probably everywhere. Eyes puffy. Face warm from sleep.

You suddenly feel very exposed.

"Oh my god," you groan softly, lifting one hand to your face. "This is... not how I wanted you to see me."

Steve frowns, distracted, gaze flicking to where your curls spill across the pillow, catching the sunlight. His eyes trace them like he's cataloging every detail, like he's trying to understand how something can look that good without effort.

"See you how?" he asks, genuinely confused.

You peek at him through your fingers. "Like this. I look—" you gesture vaguely, embarrassed. "Like I just woke up."

He smiles then. Small. A little stunned. "Yeah," he says quietly. "I know."

You drop your hand, narrowing your eyes. "Steve."

"I'm serious," he insists, still looking at you like you've hung the moon. "You're... kind of unreal right now."

Your cheeks heat immediately. "You're lying."

"I never lie before breakfast," he says solemnly, then pauses. "Okay, that's not true. But not about this."

You roll your eyes, smiling despite yourself. "You're so dramatic."

"Maybe," he admits. His thumb brushes the sheet beside your shoulder, hesitant but warm. "But you make it hard not to be."

And you realize, that he hasn't stopped looking at you once. Not even for a second.

Steve finally speaks, voice low, hesitant, like he's testing the words before they come out.

"I—uh... wow."

He blinks at you, still a little stunned.

"Is this... how it normally looks?",  he gestures softly to your curls, fingers slowly tracing the faint outline of the strands framing your flushed face. 

You feel a rush of shyness, curling a hand in your lap. "Yeah... this is my natural hair. I... I usually style it, you know, blow-dry it, tame it a bit."

His jaw drops slightly, eyes widening as if the words don't compute. "You... style this?"

You nod, embarrassed but honest. "Every day. I just... I didn't have time last night. Thought I'd fix it before you got here."

Steve whines softly, half-joking, half-serious. "You can't. Wait- fix it? Don't ever do that. Leave it like this. Please." The way he says it, awed and utterly captivated, makes your chest flutter.

You always do your hair before leaving the house. After every shower. Before every hangout, every event, every casual I'll just stop by for a minute. Not because you hate your curls, just because they're a lot.

Too much volume. Too much shape. Too noticeable in a decade that worships blown-out layers and sleek ends. So you tame it. Heat it. Smooth it into something safer. Something that blends in better, that doesn't take up so much space.

It's habit. Curling iron, dryer, patience. Make it behave. Last night was the exception.

You were exhausted, convinced you'd wake up early and fix it before Steve arrived. You wanted to look put together, especially since this was new, since he was coming over for breakfast, since meeting your mom felt important.

You just didn't expect him to see this. But maybe there was nothing to worry about?

"I mean...can I at least do my curl routine?" you murmured, fingers nervously twisting a loose strand of hair. "Just so it looks more presentable?"

Steve froze, eyes wide. His jaw literally dropped. "Presentable?" he whispered, as if the concept didn't even exist. "Do you have any idea... what this hair looks like right now?"

You tilted your head, shy but teasing. "Uh... messy?"

"Messy?!" His voice rose in a whisper-shout, incredulous. 

You giggled, brushing your fingers through a curl. "You're overreacting."

"No," he said firmly, stepping closer, voice low and earnest. "I—look, I don't know why I'm even surprised. I mean... genetically, yeah, it makes sense. Dustin got the curls, fine. But... this? This is something else."

He paused, eyes practically sparkling, and it hit him: all those compliments he got in high school? All the hair jokes, the admiration, the "King of Hawkins High" nonsense? None of it mattered. None of it prepared him for this. For you. Steve "the Hair" Harrington was completely, utterly in awe of the angel standing (or sitting) right in front of him, and he couldn't look away.

"Please," he said, almost pleading, voice softening. "Let me see. Show me. The... uh... curling routine? I need to understand how this happens."

You blinked, flustered, but also amused. "You want to watch me do my hair?"

"Yes!" he whispered, leaning closer, eyes glued to yours. "I don't even—God, I don't even know. I need to see how this works. You can't just... just have this and not let me witness it."

Your heart swelled a little at his earnestness. You nodded slowly. "Okay... fine. But you're not touching anything unless I say so."

Steve grinned like he'd just won a golden ticket. "Deal," he said, practically bouncing on the balls of his feet. "I'll be the most respectful observer ever. Probably."

Later, you're sitting at the mirror, you reached for the spray bottle first, explaining to him that your hair had to be completely soaked before anything else. Steve watched, utterly fascinated, as you carefully spritzed each section, the curls coming alive under the mist.

"This is... a lot," he murmured, brow furrowed at the display of products in your vanity, which is ironic coming from him, but there was no judgment in his voice, only awe.

"It's the only way I can brush it without ruining the curls," you said softly. "Unless I'm using heat,"

"Fuck that," he cut in immediately, a small laugh escaping him. "No way am I letting you touch that hair with heat. Ever."

You smiled, letting him take the brush. He was patient, careful, gentle, and you closed your eyes as he hummed quietly, brushing through the damp hair with the kind of reverence reserved for sacred things. There was a warmth in the way he worked, as if every stroke was a silent compliment, and you couldn't help but relax under his hands.

Once the middle section of your hair was clipped up, you wet the sides until they were thoroughly soaked and began scrunching layer by layer, coaxing the curls into their natural shape. Steve leaned in close, tilting his head to follow each movement, asking tiny, fascinated questions, and offering to help whenever you gestured.

He keeps asking questions, genuine curiosity in every word. "So that... like, makes it curly like this? Every time?" When you nod, he can't help the small grin.

"Mousse next," you said, and he handed it over, careful not to spill a drop. You applied it to the sides, then moved to the back, focusing on the middle and front sections of your hair, repeating the process, wetting, brushing, scrunching, layering the mousse.

Steve perches on the edge of the bed, leaning forward slightly,

"It's... kinda mesmerizing," he admits, voice hushed. "The way you do it. The patience, the... process."

You laugh softly, trying not to notice how intently he watches every motion, how his hand twitches like he wants to touch but knows better.

Finally, you added a bit of gel and began diffusing, Steve hovering beside you, hands ready to help, adjusting the heat and airflow, making sure the curls dried perfectly without losing their bounce. He didn't rush, even as the diffuser hummed for what felt like forever, and you realized you didn't mind that he was there at all.

Once the majority was dry, you let the rest air-dry, slightly embarrassed by how long it took. You added a few drops of hair oil to break the gel and finish the look. Steve watched every movement like he was witnessing a miracle, each curl and each bounce, he couldn't stop thinking how lucky he was to see it all unfold.

He reaches out, fingertips hovering near a strand, pauses, then gently tucks a curl behind your ear only when you nod approval. His eyes stay locked on yours, on the way the sunlight hits each ringlet, the way it frames your face.

“Jesus,” he breathes, the word slipping out before he can stop it. He shakes his head slightly, like he’s trying to recalibrate. “You’re… you’re really beautiful. Like—” He exhales a small, disbelieving laugh. “Like this should be illegal or something.”

You giggle, cheeks warming, and before you can deflect or tease him back, he leans in. The kiss starts soft, barely there, like he’s checking if this is real. It is.

Your laugh melts into the kiss, and that’s all it takes. Something in Steve shifts. He kisses you again, deeper this time, more certain, like the permission you gave him didn’t just apply to your hair, but to everything.

His hand slides into your curls, fingers threading through gently at first, then a little firmer when you sigh against his mouth. He makes a quiet sound at that, barely restrained, like he’s finally losing a battle he didn’t even know he’d been fighting.

“You have no idea,” he murmurs between kisses, forehead resting against yours, thumb brushing your cheek. “I’m never recovering from this. Ever.”

You laugh again, soft and breathless, and Steve kisses you like he means it, like he’s memorizing the moment, the light, the curls beneath his hands, already knowing this is something he’s never going to forget.

"Steve—" 

“BREAKFA—”

Dustin’s voice cuts through the moment like a siren. He barrels into the room without knocking, stops dead in his tracks, and immediately regrets every decision he’s ever made.

Steve’s hand is still warm against your cheek, thumb resting just beneath your eye. You’re leaning into him without even realizing it, half-lidded and soft, like this is the most natural thing in the world.

Dustin screams. Actually screams.

“OH MY GOD—WHY ARE YOU TOUCHING HER FACE LIKE THAT?”

Steve startles, hand flying back like he’s been caught committing a crime. “Dustin! Dude—what the hell?”

You groan, covering your face. “Have you ever heard of knocking?”

“No,” he says immediately. “Because I didn’t think I’d walk in on this.” He waves his hands between the two of you dramatically. “Whatever this is.”

Then he squints at you. Pauses. Leans closer.

“…Wait.”

You peek at him through your fingers.

Dustin tilts his head, eyes narrowing in recognition. “Is that—” He points. “Is that your real hair?”

You blink. “Yeah?”

He stares for a second longer, then nods, oddly sincere. “Huh. I haven’t seen it like that in forever.”

Steve opens his mouth, still recovering.

“It looks good,” Dustin adds quickly, then grimaces. “Which I hate. For the record.” totally jealous.

You smile. “It was Steve’s idea.”

Dustin whips around. “It was whose idea?”

Steve shrugs, trying, and failing, to look casual. “What? I just—thought she should leave it.”

Dustin presses his lips together, processing. Then he shudders.

“Okay,” he says slowly, backing toward the door. “This is… oddly domestic. And it’s adorable. And I kind of want to throw up.”

He turns to leave, hand already on the doorknob, then pauses.

“…Oh yeah. Breakfast is ready.” and you swear you've never seen him leave your room faster, or close the door properly for that matter. You and Steve just stared straight at closed door, then you both start laughing.

You bump your shoulder into his. “You love him.”

“I do,” he admits immediately. Then, with a smirk, “Doesn’t mean I won’t lock your door next time.”