#line dancing

You’d argued, of course. Told him you weren’t the cowboy-boot-wearing, line-dancing type. But Eddie just gave you that shit-eating grin, the one that means you’re going anyway.

Now you’re bouncing along in his van, the hum of the road under your feet and some scratchy radio station filling the silence. Eddie taps the steering wheel in rhythm, curls wild around his face, looking far too pleased with himself.

“You’re acting weird,” you accuse.

“I’m always weird,” he shoots back.

“No. You’re acting like you’ve got an agenda.”

Eddie’s smirk widens, but he doesn’t answer. Which is answer enough.

By the time he pulls into the gravel lot outside the bar, the place is already alive—neon signs buzzing, music spilling out the open doors, couples laughing as they head inside.

Eddie kills the engine and stretches like he just drove across the state instead of ten minutes down the highway. “Alright, princess. Showtime.”

You squint at him. “What the hell does that mean?”

But he doesn’t explain. He just hops out, slams his door, and gestures for you to follow.

And then you notice—another car pulling in a couple spaces over. Robin’s little hatchback.

Out climbs Robin… and Steve Harrington.

He’s wearing jeans that fit just a little too well, boots, and a casual button-down, the sleeves rolled to his elbows. A damn cowboy hat sits low on his head like it belongs there, and he looks like every country girl’s dream. You’re not supposed to notice, but your stomach does a little flip anyway.

Robin throws Steve a wink you can’t quite decipher, then catches Eddie’s eye. The two of them share a look—quick, conspiratorial, the kind of thing that screams plan in motion.

You groan. “No. Absolutely not.”

Eddie slings an arm around your shoulder, steering you toward the entrance. “Oh, sweetheart. Absolutely yes.”

And Steve? Steve looks up just in time to catch your eye. His smile is slow, easy, like he’s been waiting for this.

You’re so screwed.

✴︎

The bar smells like beer and fried food the moment you step inside. It’s dim but warm, lit mostly by neon signs and strings of little white bulbs zigzagging across the ceiling. A small stage sits in the corner where a local band is tuning up, and the wide dance floor in the center is already filling with people in boots and plaid, stomping out a line dance with practiced ease.

It’s loud, messy, and way more country than you’re used to.

Eddie takes one look around, makes a face, and mutters, “God, I hate this music.”

Robin, who’s appeared at your side with Steve trailing just behind, smacks him on the arm. “Shut up, Munson, you love it.”

“I tolerate it for the fried pickles,” he shoots back, but you don’t miss the way he glances toward Steve, then toward you, like he’s waiting for the magic to happen.

Robin claps her hands together. “Okay! Drinks first.”

“Second,” Eddie corrects. “Food first, drinks second.”

“Food with drinks,” Robin insists.

While they bicker their way toward the bar, you’re left standing awkwardly next to Steve. He pushes his hands into his jeans pockets, cowboy hat tipping just a little lower as he turns to look at you.

“So,” he says, voice smooth over the hum of music. “Dragged here too?”

“Yeah,” you admit, fighting a smile. “Apparently it’s mandatory.”

He chuckles. “Same. Robin said if I didn’t come, she’d never speak to me again.”

You roll your eyes. “Eddie said the same thing. Think they planned this?”

Steve lifts one eyebrow, amused. “Wouldn’t put it past them.”

You’re about to respond when Robin comes barreling back with a tray balanced precariously in her hands. Eddie follows with two baskets of fries like he just won a prize.

“Alright, here’s the deal,” Robin says, setting the tray down on a high-top table. “We eat, we drink, and then we dance.”

“I don’t dance,” Eddie says immediately, already shoving fries into his mouth.

“Yeah, me neither,” you add.

Robin narrows her eyes at both of you. “Yes, you do. Tonight you do. That’s the whole point.”

Steve grins, leaning on the table. “I don’t mind dancing.”

Your stomach dips. Great. Of course he doesn’t mind dancing.

Eddie snickers into his fries, and Robin kicks him under the table.

The drinks arrive—cold beers and something bright Red Robin insists you try. The first sip burns but in a good way, and soon the table is littered with baskets of food, empty cups, and the sound of Robin and Eddie’s relentless commentary.

When the band finally strikes up a loud, familiar tune, Robin hops off her stool. “Alright, let’s go!”

You try to protest, but she’s already grabbing your wrist. Across the table, Eddie shoves Steve in the opposite direction with a wicked grin.

✴︎

Before you know it, you’re on the edge of the dance floor, heart thumping in time with the music.

Robin squeezes your hand once, leans close, and whispers, “Don’t fight it.” Then she disappears into the crowd, leaving you standing there as Steve approaches from the other side.

He tips his hat at you, smiling like this is the most natural thing in the world.

“Guess we’re up.”

The first few beats of the song thunder through the speakers, and already the floor is alive with stomping boots and clapping hands. You glance around, watching as people fall into the steps with practiced ease, and your stomach drops.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” you mutter.

Steve leans in so you can hear him over the music, his shoulder brushing yours. “Good thing I do.”

He says it so easily, like it’s not a big deal, like he doesn’t already look ridiculously good in that stupid hat, with that stupid smile.

“I’m not sure teaching me is worth the embarrassment,” you try.

His grin widens. “Embarrassment for who?”

Before you can answer, his hand finds yours. Warm, steady, confident. He places your other hand on his shoulder, the weight of it sending a little shock through you, then positions himself in front of you.

“Alright,” he says, voice low. “Step left. Now right. Back. Kick.”

You fumble immediately, nearly tripping over your own feet. Steve laughs—not mean, just amused, a warm sound that curls in your chest.

“Relax,” he says, squeezing your hand. “Just follow me.”

So you try again. Left, right, back, kick. He counts you through it, steady and patient, until somehow your feet remember what to do. The two of you fall into rhythm, surrounded by other dancers, your hands still linked, his thumb brushing over your knuckles like it’s on purpose.

“You’re a natural,” he teases.

“You’re a liar,” you shoot back, but you’re laughing now, cheeks warm from more than the alcohol.

Somewhere off to the side, you spot Robin and Eddie watching like hawks—Robin grinning ear to ear, Eddie throwing you an exaggerated thumbs-up. You flip him off discreetly, which only makes him laugh harder.

By the time the song ends, your legs are already aching, but Steve doesn’t let go of your hand. He tugs you toward the bar instead, where Eddie and Robin are waiting with fresh drinks.

“Not bad,” Robin says slyly. “Looked like you were having fun.”

“Steve’s a good teacher” you mutter, smiling, grabbing the nearest glass.

Eddie wiggles his brows at Steve. “Smooth moves, Harrington. Didn’t know you had it in you.”

Steve tips his hat, grinning. “Got a few tricks up my sleeve.”

The night blurs into rounds of drinks and laughter. Someone suggests a drinking game—Robin insists on a version of flip cup that ends with Eddie knocking over half the table, while Steve wins every round like it’s his job. You’re not sure if it’s the booze or the way he keeps catching your eye across the table, but your stomach won’t stop flipping.

At some point, Robin leans close, her voice cutting through the chaos. “You know about the cowboy hat rule, right?”

You blink. “The what?”

She smirks. “Wear the hat, ride the cowboy.”

Your face heats instantly. “Robin!”

She just cackles and downs the rest of her drink.

✴︎

A little later, Steve finds you leaning against the wall to catch your breath. He tips his hat back with a finger, smirk tugging at his mouth.

“You’re holding up better than I thought,” he says.

“Please. I’m dying.”

He chuckles, then—boldly, casually—takes the hat off his own head and sets it on yours. It dips low over your eyes, too big, but he adjusts it gently until it sits right.

“There,” he says, stepping back to admire. “Looks better on you.”

Your pulse stutters. Somewhere in the crowd, Robin and Eddie whoop like they just won a bet.

Steve leans closer, voice low enough just for you. “You know the rule, right?”

Your throat goes dry. “Maybe.”

He grins, slow and wicked, like he’s got all the time in the world.

The band shifts gears, trading fast stomps for something slower—steel guitar humming, a fiddle sighing, the kind of song meant for swaying close. Couples filter onto the floor, boots shuffling, arms winding around shoulders and waists.

Steve glances at you, then at the dance floor. His smirk softens into something steadier, more serious.

“C’mon,” he says.

You shake your head immediately. “No way.”

“Way,” he counters, already holding his hand out. “Don’t make me dance with Robin.”

“Hey!” Robin calls from the table, grinning. “I’m a great dancer.”

Eddie leans back in his chair, already amused. “Don’t lie to yourself Buckley.”

You hesitate, but Steve doesn’t drop his hand. He waits, patient and sure, like he knows you’ll give in. And—damn it—you do.

He leads you onto the dance floor, one hand finding your waist, the other holding yours. The hat is still on your head, dipping low enough to hide the heat in your cheeks.

“Relax,” he murmurs. “It’s just a slow dance.”

Easy for him to say. He moves like he’s done this a hundred times, confident and smooth, guiding you without forcing it. You’re hyperaware of everything—the weight of his hand at your hip, the brush of his thumb against your knuckles, the way he smells like clean soap and something warm underneath.

“You’re staring,” he teases after a moment, voice low.

“I am not,” you mutter.

“Sure you aren’t.” He grins, leaning just close enough that his breath brushes your temple, grin sharpening before his eyes flick down to your mouth before dragging back up.

The two of you sway in silence for a beat, the rest of the bar fading away. It’s just his hand warm against your back, his chest brushing yours when he leans in.

“You’re dangerous,” you murmur, surprising yourself.

Steve laughs softly, eyes locked on yours.

The song winds down, couples peeling off the floor. But Steve doesn’t let go. Not right away. His hand lingers at your waist, thumb stroking absently, like he’s weighing whether to pull you closer or let you breathe.

At the table, Robin and Eddie are not subtle—Robin’s biting her fist to keep from squealing, Eddie looks smug as hell.

Steve notices, following your gaze, and sighs with a crooked smile. “They’re not even trying to hide it, huh?”

“Not even a little.”

“Guess we shouldn’t either.”

Before you can ask what he means, he dips his head and brushes a kiss against your cheek—soft, fleeting, but enough to send your stomach into freefall.

The crowd cheers for the next song, but you barely hear it. Steve’s still close, his smile wicked.

And yeah—you’re done for.

✴︎

The night blurs after that dance. Another round of drinks came and went, Robin and Eddie heckle you mercilessly, and Steve doesn’t leave your side once. He’s warm and steady at your back, brushing against you like he can’t help it, and every time you catch his eyes, you feel that pull again.

Eventually, Robin claps her hands together and announces, “Alright, we’re calling it. Some of us have work tomorrow.”

Eddie groans. “You’re no fun.”

“You’ll thank me when you’re not hungover.” She throws him a look, then glances at you and Steve. There’s something smug and satisfied in her expression, like the night turned out exactly the way she wanted.

Outside, the night air is cooler, sharp after the heat of the bar. Gravel crunches under your boots as the four of you step into the lot. Eddie jingles his keys. “Shotgun,” he declares, already heading for his van.

Robin rolls her eyes. “You can drive yourself. I’m calling a cab for them.”

Your head snaps up. “What?”

But Robin’s already got her phone out, tapping with purpose. Eddie smirks. “Don’t wait up, sweetheart.”

They’re both in their vehicles and gone before you can argue, taillights disappearing down the road.

You’re left standing next to Steve, the night quiet except for distant crickets. He looks at you, tilts his head toward the road where a pair of headlights approaches.

“Guess we’re sharing a ride.”

The cab rolls up, you slide into the backseat, and Steve follows, the bench seat suddenly way too small. The driver asks for an address, and you rattle off yours before Steve can speak.

Silence settles, heavy and thick. The cab smells faintly of pine air freshener, the hum of tires filling the space.

Then Steve shifts closer. His thigh brushes yours, warm and solid.

His hand finds your knee, fingers brushing light over the denim before sliding a little higher. You suck in a breath, pulse leaping.

“Steve,” you warn, though it comes out shaky.

“What?” His voice is low, teasing. “We’ve got time before we get there.”

The cab takes a corner, jolting you into him. His arm comes around your shoulders to steady you, and suddenly you’re pressed against his side, heat rolling off him.

“See?” he murmurs, lips ghosting against your ear. “Meant to be.”

Your breath hitches. The driver is oblivious, eyes on the road, but it feels dangerous, reckless. Steve’s hand slides higher on your thigh, squeezing gently, testing.

You turn your head, and he’s right there—eyes dark, mouth curved in a challenge.

The kiss happens before you can think. His mouth on yours, hot and hungry, his hand cradling your jaw as if he’s been waiting all night. You gasp, he deepens it, tongue teasing yours, and suddenly you’re clawing at his shirt, pulling him closer.

By the time the cab slows in front of your place, your chest is heaving, lips swollen, his hand still burning on your thigh.

The driver clears his throat. “That’ll be twenty-two even.”

You fumble for cash with shaking fingers, Steve smirking as he leans back like he didn’t just make out with you in the back of a stranger’s car.

The moment the door shuts behind you, though, it’s back—hands on each other, mouths colliding, laughter breaking between kisses as you stumble towards your door.

You barely manage to get the key in the lock before Steve crowds in behind you, his chest pressed against your back, his lips grazing the side of your neck.

“Take your time,” he murmurs, voice low and rough. “Not like I’m dying here.”

You fumble the key, cursing under your breath, and his chuckle rumbles against your skin. The door finally swings open, and then you’re stumbling inside together, mouths crashing, hands everywhere.

You shove the door shut blindly. Steve’s already spinning you around, pressing you up against it. His kiss is hot and desperate, tasting of whiskey and something sharper, something that’s just him.

His hands slide under your shirt, palms warm against your waist. He pauses just long enough to smirk. “Still got my hat on.”

You grin against his mouth. “What’s that mean again?”

He dips his head, lips brushing your ear. “You know damn well.”

Heat licks down your spine. You tug him closer by his shirt, and he lifts you easily, your legs wrapping around his waist. He carries you through the living room like it’s nothing, stumbling into walls, both of you laughing breathlessly between kisses.

The couch is the first casualty—you collapse onto it, Steve braced above you, his hat tilting precariously on your head. He looks down at you like he can’t believe his luck.

“Jesus,” he mutters, thumb tracing your bottom lip. “You’re unreal.”

“You’re cheesy,” you tease, tugging him back down for another kiss.

His laugh melts into a groan when your hips shift against his. One of his hands fists in your shirt, rucking it up until his palm skims bare skin. His other hand slides down, fingers pressing into your thigh, pulling you tighter against him.

“You sure about this?” he asks, voice ragged, though his body is already answering for him.

“Yes,” you breathe. “God, yes.”

That’s all it takes.

Clothes come off in a messy blur—your shirt yanked over your head, his buttons fumbling open, his jeans shoved down just enough. Every touch is urgent, greedy, like you’ve both been holding back for way too long.

You’re still under him, breathless, hips rolling lightly, trying to find friction, when Steve suddenly shifts, his hands gripping your thighs firmly.

“Hold on,” he growls, eyes dark with need. Before you can react, he leans forward, gripping your waist, and in one smooth motion flips you over onto his lap. The couch cushions groan under the sudden shift.

The hat slips sideways, threatening to fall, and Steve catches it with one hand, grinning wickedly.

“Uh-uh,” he says, setting it firmly back on your head. “Rule’s a rule.”

Your pulse rockets, heart hammering, as his hands grip your hips, helping you ease onto him, holding you firmly.

“Steve…” you breathe, voice shaky.

“I know,” he whispers, tilting his head so his lips press along your neck.

His hands slide up your sides, over your ribs, onto your breasts, teasing, exploring, before moving down again to guide your hips. Every touch is precise, deliberate, sending sparks through you. He begins rocking you gainst him, slow at first, letting you feel every inch of him, every press of his length beneath you.

He shifts, adjusting your hips with careful, commanding hands, and your body responds naturally, moving with him. The couch creaks beneath the two of you as you find the perfect rhythm, every small movement sending sparks along your nerves, pulling soft moans from your throat.

Steve shifts his hands, tilting your hips with quiet authority, and you let out a shiver of awareness. His touch is everything all at once: grounding, guiding, teasing. You press down harder against him, rocking in measured circles, feeling the response beneath you in low groans.

You tilt your head back, letting his lips find your collarbone, working his way down to the valley between your breasts. His hands slide up to your ribs, tracing the curve of your sides, then back down, steadying, encouraging, directing—never harsh, but always confident.

“Feels good,” he murmurs, voice rough but not rushed, just full of heat. “God… you feel so good.”

You tilt his hat forward, hiding your flushed face, and let your body move faster now, hips rolling with confidence. The heat coils tighter, nerve endings alight, your breath hitching, mingling with his low, ragged groans. The couch creaking beneath you, your chest brushing against his, his hands guiding every subtle shift, making each touch feel deliberate, almost sensual in it’s precision.

The crescendo builds quickly, teasing you, until it finally snaps—waves of heat rolling through you, making you shiver, your body trembling over his, pulse racing. He holds you firmly, letting you ride out every shiver, groaning low, voice rough, chest pressing into yours as he follows moments later, steadying you, letting every touch linger.

✴︎

You lie tangled together on the couch, his arms wrapped around you, holding you close. The warmth of him beneath you is steady, comforting, and you can feel the slow rise and fall of his chest against your back. The hat falls onto the floor at last, forgotten.

“You know, I hate to admit it” Steve murmurs, brushing a thumb along your arm, “but that hat looks way better on you than it does on me.”

“Well, obviously,” you say through a giggle, “smushes your hair too much.”

Steve chuckles, nuzzling into your hair. “True… but I think you look way better without it anyway.”

You press a soft kiss to his chest, heart still fluttering. “Guess I’ll have to remember that for next time.”

He wraps his arms a little tighter around you, voice low and warm. “Next time?”

“Next time.” You agree.