#steveharringtonsmut

God.

This was supposed to fix things. That was the whole point. You were supposed to walk into school feeling lighter somehow, more confident, more experienced, finally ready to talk to River without feeling insecure or inexperienced all the time. All you wanted was to feel like a normal teenage girl just for once. 

Instead, it feels like everything inside you shifted overnight without your permission.

And the worst part?

You finally understand why.

It takes a little too long for the realization to fully settle in, but once it does, there’s no pushing it away anymore. No pretending it’s something else. No burying it like you used to.

Because somewhere along the way—quietly, accidentally, completely against your will—

you fell in love with Steve Harrington.

And that’s what makes this feel like such a disaster. Because Steve was never supposed to become someone you wanted like this. He’s Steve. Your best friend. The person who’s always been there, always constant, always safe. Not someone you were supposed to ache over. Not someone you were supposed to look at and want to keep close forever. Not someone you were ever supposed to have sex with. 

You can’t have him like that.

You can’t ruin the one good thing that’s always belonged to both of you even though it feels like you already have. 

Which means you need to get over this. Immediately.

Maybe the answer is simple. Space. Just for a little while. Not forever obviously—you physically cannot imagine a version of your life where Steve isn’t in it—but maybe if you put a little distance between you two, everything will settle back down. Maybe your feelings will calm down and your brain will stop acting insane every time you imagine smiling at you. 

Maybe if you stop replaying Friday night over and over again, it’ll slowly stop meaning so much. And maybe, if you avoid him long enough, Steve won’t bring it up either. The thought gives you a tiny, pathetic amount of relief. Because if neither of you talks about it, maybe it can stay tucked away somewhere untouched. Safe. Unexamined.

Maybe you can hold onto him a little longer that way.

You’d rather deal with your own miserable feelings in private than risk losing him completely.

So that becomes the plan.

Avoid Steve at school. Stop overthinking every little thing. Act normal. Pretend Friday was just one slightly reckless mistake between friends and nothing more.

Easy enough.

Except the problem with your plan is that Steve Harrington has never once made avoiding him easy.

- -

By the time you get to school, your nerves are so bad you almost turn around in the parking lot. But you can’t—not when you already have way too many unexcused absences and graduation hanging over your head.

It’s incredibly nerve wracking the second you walk through the front doors, your stomach already twisting so hard you might vomit. And it’s all because you already know Steve’s here somewhere, lurking around, waiting to jump up and talk to you. 

But you can’t talk to him because things are not normal anymore. It’s all your fault, you are the one who messed it all up. 

Well…. Technically, you didn’t know for sure if you had ruined things, but it felt obvious. The way Steve had quietly dropped you off at home, the awkward silence that settled between you after the most intimate moment you’d ever shared. Still, you couldn’t really blame him. Sex complicated things—especially when it was something you still didn’t fully understand.

Maybe that was why the idea of seeing him at school suddenly made you feel sick. Because now every hallway glance would remind you how stupid you’d been for falling for your best friend in the first place. And if Steve regretted it—if he looked at you differently now—you didn’t think you could stand there and watch it happen.

It was supposed to be easy to avoid him but then… you spot him almost immediately. Of course you do. He’s hard not to notice with his thick, luscious hair and that bright, pearly smile he flashes at girls like it’s some kind of weapon.

He’s busy standing by his locker with Tommy and Carol, one shoulder leaned against the metal, basketball jacket hanging loose over a gray sweatshirt. To anyone else, he looks completely fine. Relaxed and casual. Like always.

You immediately think about how in a normal circumstance, you would’ve walked right up to him without thinking. You would’ve slipped into the empty space beside him and started rambling about your weekend or some annoying teacher or whatever dumb thought popped into your head first. Steve would roll his eyes, pretend not to care, but still listen to every word anyway.

That’s how it always was.

But not anymore. 

Because you had to go and ruin it. Your gut had practically screamed at you to not sleep with Steve, that it was all a bad idea, and somehow you did it anyway. You just had to cross that line with him, and now everything was different. Now you've gone and fallen for your best friend, turning something easy and familiar into something painfully complicated. To the point where you knew you wouldn’t be able to even look at him without your chest aching.

As you try to avoid his glance, rushing past him as quickly as these tiny hallways allow, you see his eyes flick up. Right at you. And suddenly, it feels like all the air leaves your lungs. The look only lasts a second. Barely enough time to study his face—or at least try to. You can’t tell what’s there. Recognition. Hesitation. Maybe guilt. But there’s something sharper underneath it that makes your stomach twist.

Then Steve looks away first.

And you do too.

Your chest tightens painfully as you keep walking, heart hammering so hard it almost drowns out the noise of the hallway around you. Immediately, your mind starts spiraling.

What if Steve regretted it? What if he thought it was a mistake? What if it really did ruin everything between you?

You understood why you were avoiding him. That part made sense. Looking at Steve now felt unbearable when all you could think about was how badly you’d messed things up.

But why was he avoiding you too?

“You’re not gonna go talk to Steve?” your friend whispers slipping up beside you interrupting your thoughts for a moment, the question laced with obvious suspicion.

Of course she noticed. Talking to Steve every morning was practically a routine at this point. No matter how busy the day got, you always found him before first period. Usually because you knew afterward you’d barely get a chance to see him between classes, basketball practice, and everything else. It was just… normal. Familiar.

So for you to walk right past him without even a hello?

Yeah. People were going to notice.

“I’m just tired,” you mumble quickly, adjusting the strap of your bag so you don’t have to look at her. The excuse sounds weak even to your own ears.

Your friend gives you a look like she doesn’t buy it for a second, but thankfully she doesn’t push.

Still, the damage is already done. Because now your mind immediately jumps to the worst possible conclusions. If your friend caught the weird tension between you and Steve that fast, then who else did? Tommy? Carol? God, what if Steve had already said something to them? What if they were laughing about it right now?

Your stomach twists painfully.

Usually, you were good at reading Steve. Better than anyone, probably. You always knew what his expressions meant, what he was thinking before he even said it out loud. But now? Now every glance felt uncertain. Every second around him felt wrong somehow.

And the what-ifs just kept coming.

What if he regretted everything?

What if he was embarrassed by you?

What if last night meant way more to you than it did to him?

The worst part was not knowing. Normally, you liked certainty. You liked understanding where you stood with people, especially with Steve. But now it felt like the ground beneath you had shifted, leaving you stuck questioning every little thing he did.

But the worst part was that you didn’t even know if Steve was actually avoiding you.

All that had happened was one tiny glance in the hallway. A split second before he looked away. That was it. Still, your brain insisted on turning it into something awful. Because it had to mean something, right? Things didn’t just go back to normal after something like that.

And that’s what made this all so frustrating. You didn’t regret sleeping with him—not really. It was amazing and if anything, that almost made it worse. Normal people shouldn’t think of describing having sex with their best friend as “amazing”. Because of this—despite the awkwardness and panic clawing at your chest, you couldn’t bring yourself to wish it never happened.

But God, the complications afterward?

The overthinking. The distance. Steve. Everything about Steve suddenly felt so painfully complicated and it had only been less than 72 hours. 

- -

By third period, you were running on fumes. Life couldn’t really feel worse right now. Well, technically it could, but try explaining that to a confused eighteen-year-old who had just slept with her best friend from childhood and was now actively avoiding him for reasons she couldn’t even fully put into words. It didn’t feel okay. Not even close.

You tell yourself to get it together as you slide into your seat in your art class, pulling your sketchbook out with more force than necessary like you had your own personal vendetta against it. 

This is so stupid.

You had sex with your best friend one time.

That’s it.

People survive weirder things.

Probably.

You don't know anything right now. 

Your brain continues to explode with thoughts. Nothing had technically changed since the hallway. Steve hadn’t said anything. You hadn’t said anything. There had just been that moment—one glance, one flicker of something you couldn’t read before he looked away—and somehow it had managed to follow you into every thought you had since.

Why did Steve have to take up so much space in your head? It was ridiculous! Yes, he was good-looking, like really hot. So what? That didn’t mean anything. Except it did, because he was also so much more than that. He was funny without trying to be. He was annoyingly kind in ways he pretended not to be. He had this soft side he’d never admit to, like it physically offended him to care too much—

Oh my god. Stop.

While you are spiraling internally in your chair, someone slides into the seat next to you.

You’re so busy fighting your own thoughts that you almost don’t look. Almost. But then you do. And your stomach drops.

River? 

Great—because you’ve really built such an impressive track record with hot guys.

“You okay?” he asked softly. Your head snaps up so fast you almost drop your pencil.

River is right there… and he’s talking to you for some reason. 

For a second, your brain genuinely short-circuits because River never talks to you first. Not really. Sure, he’s been nice before in that casual-artsy-boy-who’s-nice-to-everyone-but-is-actually-evil kind of way, but this is different. He’s actually looking at you. Smiling a little as he slides into the stool beside yours. 

And god, he’s still unfairly pretty. Dark curls falling into his eyes, paint smudged faintly along his fingers, rings glinting under the fluorescent classroom lights.

You stare at him for one second too long. “…Yeah,” you say quickly. “Why?”

He shrugs, resting his elbow against the table. “You just seem distracted.”

“Oh.” Smooth. Really smooth.

River smiles slightly. “You nervous about the project critique today?”

“A little.”

“You’ll be fine,” he says easily. “Your stuff’s good.”

Your stomach flips. Oh. Oh no. 

Because this is what you wanted. This is literally exactly what you wanted. River talking to you. River noticing you. River looking at you like he actually wants to keep the conversation going. He’s the reason you ended up in this whole mess in the first place. 

But what’s even worse is that… your brain is too preoccupied with Steve to really care at the moment. I mean you do care—sort of but you wish it was Steve for some weird reason. Which feels confusing and horrible and selfish all at once.

“Thanks,” you mumble.

River taps his pencil against the table once before speaking again. “So…” he says casually. “Steve told me about you.”

Your stomach drops instantly, even the slight drop of his name makes you nervous. “What?”

Not to mention what-the-fuck was River talking about? In what scenario would Steve be talking to River about you. Did you even want to know?

He doesn’t notice the shift in your expression. Or maybe he does but he continues anyway. “Steve Harrington?” he clarifies like it’s the most obvious thing in the world and you're an idiot for not understanding. “You guys are close, right?”

Every nerve in your body suddenly goes cold. “…Yeah.”

River nods slowly, still weirdly relaxed. “Honestly, I didn’t even know you were into me.”

Your heartbeat stutters. “What?”

Okay now you are fully panicking, if you heard that correctly then well… that would mean Steve had told him something he was never supposed to know about, and suddenly nothing about this conversation feels safe anymore and you just want to curl up into a ball and die. 

Now he finally notices something’s wrong. His brows pull together slightly. “Wait—he didn’t tell you he talked to me?”

You stare at him. Your mouth actually goes dry. “Talked to you about what?”

River lets out a small awkward laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Uh…”

The silence stretches. Too long. It’s painfully quiet. 

Then—

“He mentioned you finally lost your v-card,” River says carefully. “And that you were freaking out about seeming inexperienced.”

The world stops. Like it actually stops. You feel it.

That horrible, dizzy drop in your stomach like missing a step in the dark.

Your face drains completely. “…What?”

River’s expression changes immediately.

Confusion first. Then realization.

“Oh shit,” he laughs.

Your ears are ringing now.

No.

No no no.

Steve wouldn’t—

“He said it like… I don’t know, like he was helping you out or something,” River says slowly, now sounding unsure. “I just figured you knew.”

“Helping you out.”

The words hit like a slap across the face.

Suddenly you can hear Steve’s voice from Friday night so clearly it makes your chest hurt.

“I would do anything for you.”

You feel sick because you told him that in confidence. You trusted him. And he told River everything. Humiliation burns hot beneath your skin so fast your eyes sting.

“Hey,” River says quickly, sitting up straighter. “I didn’t mean to make this weird—”

“You should’ve just not said anything,” you cut in quietly.

River freezes. Your hands are now shaking. 

It suddenly feels like your world has just collapsed in on itself, and you’re far too shaken to even try and pull yourself back together. That was something you told Steve in private—something soft and vulnerable and completely yours. In total confidence. He had absolutely no right to take that and hand it over to someone else like it meant nothing.

It wasn’t his to tell. It wasn’t his to twist. It wasn’t his to spill.

And now your chest feels too tight, your throat burns, and you have to blink hard because if you don’t, you’re going to cry right there in the middle of class and you don’t think you can handle that on top of everything else.

Steve told him. Steve told him.

You can’t stop hearing it. Every horrible possibility crashes into you all at once.

Did Steve regret it?

Was it funny to him afterward?

Did he tell Tommy too? Carol? Half the damn school?

God.

You suddenly feel stupid.

Stupid for asking.

Stupid for trusting him.

Stupid for thinking maybe the weird feeling in the car meant something to him too.

Stupid for having sex with him. 

Because apparently, while you spent the entire weekend spiraling over him he was busy talking about taking your virginity to your crush.

Your chair scrapes loudly against the floor as you stand, not even caring about the consequences you’ll have to face later for storming out of class. 

River blinks up at you. “Wait—where are you going?”

“I have to go.”

“Did I do something wrong?”

“No,” you say immediately, even though your throat burns. “No, it’s not you.”

It’s him. It’s Steve.

And that will always hurt so much worse. Steve has never been the person you needed protecting from before. Not once. He’s always been the safe one—the one you trusted without thinking, the one who felt like home in a way you never questioned.

Until now.

Because that trust doesn’t feel steady anymore. It feels cracked. Uncertain. Like it could splinter completely if you press on it the wrong way. He’s no longer the man you trusted enough to let in like that, the one you thought you knew inside and out—no, he… feels like someone else entirely now. Someone you can’t quite recognize, standing on the other side of something you never agreed to cross.

And underneath all of that hurt, sharp and immediate and impossible to ignore, there’s something else rising up fast—hot, messy, and completely irrational.

Because you were going to kill him.

- -

By the time you realize where your feet are taking you, you’re already halfway down Steve’s street. Which is… humiliating, honestly because you didn’t plan this. You didn’t think. You just moved, like your body was faster than the part of your brain that was still trying to process River’s words on repeat.

Steve told him. Steve told him.

Steve told your crush something that wasn’t his to tell. He had no right. 

And it’s so painful to even think about because you trusted Steve. Completely. Without hesitation. You would’ve told him anything, anything at all, if you’d had something bigger to confess, something heavier to carry. That’s how safe he was supposed to feel. And now that same trust feels like it’s been handled too roughly, like it’s been dropped and stepped on without even realizing how fragile it was.

The idea that he told someone about the night you shared—something so private, so intimate, so carefully unspoken between just the two of you—turns your stomach.

Not just told. Not just mentioned.

Bragged about it.

The thought makes something sour rise in your throat, sharp and immediate, like you might actually be sick.

Now it’s not an intimate memory between the two of you. 

Now it’s exposed, a piece of you taken without permission. 

Your hands are still shaking when you turn the corner and see him. He’s in his driveway. Basketball bouncing in a steady rhythm against the pavement, the sound sharp in the quiet suburban air. He’s in athletic shorts and a loose tee, hair messier than usual, like he’s been out here a while already. Focused. Lost in it.

Like nothing in the world is wrong. Like you’re not currently falling apart. You stop at the edge of the driveway.

For a second, you just watch him.

You debate, for a split second, whether you should just march straight up to him and punch his stupid face. You even picture it—clean, satisfying, deserved. But you don’t. Because you couldn’t hurt his face. It’s too familiar. Too infuriatingly pretty. Too Steve—like it’s somehow been carved into something you were never actually meant to damage, no matter how much he might deserve it right now.

The way he moves is automatic—easy, practiced. The ball hits the ground, comes back into his palm, spins, disappears into the hoop with a clean swish.

Of course he’s good at everything, you think bitterly.

Of course.

“Steve,” you call out.

You’ve never felt this courageous in your life, but it turns out an angry teenage girl holds a lot more power than anyone ever gives credit for. Your voice comes out sharper than you intended. The ball slips through his hands mid-shot. It clanks off the rim with a harsh metallic thunk and ricochets away down the driveway, bouncing once, twice, then rolling to a stop like even it knows something just shifted.

Steve turns slowly. Not rushed. Not startled. Slowly. Like he already knows this isn’t going to be a normal conversation.

And the second he sees the anger in your face, something shifts.

Not surprise exactly. Something heavier.

“…Hey,” he says cautiously, like he can already sense the storm building behind your eyes—like he knows whatever’s coming isn’t going to be easy to weather.

His tone alone almost makes you snap.

Because hey?

That’s it?

You walk straight into the driveway, stopping a few feet away from him. Your chest is tight, like your lungs don’t want to fully work.

“What the fuck, Steve?”

He blinks. “What?”

“You told River.” The words come out fast, shaking. “You told him about me. About—about what happened. Why would you do that? How could you do that?”

For a second, he just stares at you. Like he’s waiting for you to laugh and say you’re joking. When you don’t, his expression hardens slightly. “Oh,” he says quietly.

That tone. That calm, controlled tone that makes it worse. And now there is even less self-control stopping you from punching his face. 

“Oh?” you repeat. “That’s all you have to say?”

He runs a hand through his hair, looking away for a second like he’s trying to collect himself. “I didn’t think—”

“You didn’t think?” your voice cracks a little, and you hate it. You hate that it does that. “Steve, that was private. That was mine. You don’t just go telling people—especially not him.”

At River’s name, something flickers in his face. And now he looks defensive. “Oh, so that’s what this is about?”

Your stomach drops slightly. “What?”

“River.” He gestures vaguely, like the word tastes bad. “This is about him.”

“No, this is about you betraying me,” you snap immediately. “Don’t try to twist this.”

Steve exhales sharply, jaw tightening. “I didn’t betray you.”

You let out a humorless laugh. “Are you serious?”

He takes a step toward you now, frustration slipping through the cracks. “I did it for you.”

That stops you. For a second, your anger stutters. “What?”

Steve gestures again, more sharply this time. “You told me you liked him. You were freaking out about it, you were overthinking everything, you were—” he stops himself, like he realizes he’s getting worked up, then continues more controlled, “—you weren’t going to do anything about it, I know you.”

Your heartbeat is loud in your ears.

“I was helping you,” he adds. 

You stare at him, and there isn’t much room for thought in your head anymore—just a sharp, buzzing mix of anger and disbelief, like your brain can’t decide which one it should feel louder.

“…Helping me?” you repeat slowly. 

“Yeah,” he says, like it’s obvious. Like this is rational. “I just gave you a push. That’s it.”

Something inside you breaks at that and it suddenly clicks. All of it.

The way he looked at you in the hallway. The silence in the car. The distance afterward. The way he couldn’t meet your eyes. Not guilt. Not regret.

Control.

“You told him I was embarrassed,” you say quietly, and this time your voice doesn’t rise—it just shakes, like you’re holding it together by force alone. You blink hard, refusing to let the tears fall even though your eyes already sting. Because that wasn’t something you could say out loud easily. Not even to yourself. Telling Steve about your insecurities—about being a virgin, about all the thoughts you never let anyone see—was the most private thing you’d ever handed over to another person. It wasn’t casual. It wasn’t light. It was trust in its rawest form. 

And he went and broke that trust. 

Steve hesitates. That hesitation is answer enough.

Your throat tightens. “You told him I was inexperienced,” you continue, voice shaking now, “like it was some joke. Like it was something to fix.”

“That’s not what I said,” Steve snaps immediately.

“It’s what you meant.” A tear falls from your eye this time, it hurts too much now. You were expecting some sympathy at least but you are only met with silence.

The basketball rolls to a stop near your foot.

Neither of you moves.

Steve’s face shifts—something frustrated, something pained, something that looks almost like he’s trying not to say too much.

“I didn’t make fun of you,” he says more quietly.

“But you talked about me,” you whisper. “And that’s not fair.”

That lands differently. Now he doesn’t have a quick answer. His mouth opens slightly, then closes again. And for the first time since you got here, he looks unsure. “I thought I was helping you,” he says again, but it sounds less certain now. “You were so worked up about it and I just—River likes you. He already did. I figured if he knew you were overthinking it, he’d—he’d make a move or something. It’s what you wanted. You told me you needed to lose your virginity for him, you got that, and so I told him for you.”

“That’s not your decision to make,” you say, voice trembling harder now.

Steve’s jaw tightens again, but he doesn’t argue.

Which somehow makes it worse because now it feels like you’re the only one who’s panicking. The only one who feels like something important just got handled carelessly. “You don’t get to decide things like that for me,” you continue, stepping back slightly like you need space just to breathe. “You don’t get to tell people personal stuff about me because you think you know what’s best.”

“I was trying to fix it,” he says sharply.

“Fix what?” you ask, louder now. “Me?”

That hits something in him.

You see it.

A flicker. It’s fast, sharp, almost like pain.

“No,” he says immediately. “No, that’s not—”

But you’re already shaking your head. “Do you even hear yourself?” your voice cracks fully now. “You’re acting like I’m some problem you had to solve.”

“I’m not saying that.”

“You basically did!”

The silence after that is brutal. Steve looks at you for a long moment. And when he speaks again, his voice is lower. Tighter. “I did it because I didn’t want you getting hurt.”

That makes you freeze.

There it is. The honest part. Something that almost sounds like care. But it doesn’t fix it. It doesn’t erase the betrayal sitting heavy in your chest.

“I didn’t need you to do that,” you say quietly.

Steve’s expression shifts again—something in him breaking through the frustration now.

“You think I didn’t know that?” he says, sharper again, but not cruel. “You think I wanted to mess things up between you and him?”

Your eyes sting. “Then why did you?”

He doesn’t answer right away. And in that pause, you see it again. That thing underneath everything. The thing he keeps trying to bury.

“I thought it would be easier if you just… moved on,” he says finally, voice quieter. “I thought it would make everything less complicated.”

Your laugh is shaky and broken.

“Less complicated for who, Steve?”

That’s when his eyes finally meet yours fully. And for a second—just a second—you see it clearly. The conflict. The restraint. The thing he’s swallowing down so hard it’s making him say all the wrong things.

“For both of us,” he says.

But it doesn’t sound like both of you. It sounds like him. Like he’s the one trying to survive this. 

Your chest hurts in a way that feels too big for your body. “You don’t get to decide what’s easier for me,” you say again, softer now, but it lands heavier. “You don’t get to make choices about my life and call it helping.”

Steve flinches slightly. That’s new. You take a step back. Then another.

“I trusted you,” you whisper.

Something shifts in his face—panic, maybe. Or realization that he has just royally fucked up. “Wait—don’t—”

But you’re already shaking your head, tears finally spilling over before you can stop them. “I can’t do this,” you say.

Steve steps forward quickly. “Hey—no, just—talk to me—”

You shake your head harder, wiping your face fast, embarrassed by how much it’s showing. “I’m done, Steve,” you start to back away even more. “I hate you. Just—don’t talk to me ever again. I’ll never forgive you.” 

That stops him completely. Like the words physically hit him. 

You don’t stay to watch it settle. You turn and walk away fast, vision blurry, heart loud, every step feeling like you’re leaving something behind that you can’t actually pick up again later.

Behind you, you hear him say your name.

Once.

Then again.

But you don’t turn around. 

- -

Steve’s perspective. 

From the moment you asked him to sleep with you, he knew it would only lead to something bad. Something that would dig deeper under his skin, something that would blur lines he had already been struggling to keep straight. Something that would make it even harder to separate what he felt from what he was supposed to feel.

Because the truth is… he has been in love with you for a long time now. He’s had these thoughts for a while now—romantic ones, intrusive ones, whatever label was least embarrassing to admit. He didn’t even remember when they started exactly. It wasn’t like a switch flipped. It was slower than that. Worse than that.

Just you, existing in his life the way you always had, and somehow becoming the one thing he couldn’t stop noticing.

The way you laughed at things no one else even thought were funny. The way you looked at him like he wasn’t some performance he had to keep up. The way being around you never felt like a chore. 

And that was the problem.

Because he wasn’t supposed to want more than that. He wasn’t supposed to be in love with his childhood best friend. 

So when you came to him that night—careful, nervous, trusting him in a way that made his chest tighten immediately—he already knew he was standing too close to something he wouldn’t be able to walk away from cleanly.

And then you said it.

“Will you sleep with me?” 

You had asked so nicely… so soft. Like it cost you something to ask.

So of course he said yes. Because he couldn’t say no to you. Never. Not when you were looking at him like he was safe. That’s the part that comes back to him now, sharper than anything else. Not just the moment itself. Not even what happened after.

But the fact that you trusted him enough to hand him something that vulnerable—and he still managed to turn around and mess it up anyway.

And now he understands something he didn’t want to admit before:

This was never just about helping you move on.

It was about him trying to move himself out of the picture before he could ruin something he already didn’t know how to stop feeling.

He hated that this was all for some other guy—River. 

Oh god, he absolutely hated him. There was nothing interesting about that guy at all. So what he could paint? Boring. Everything about him was boring. 

You deserve so much more than him. And he regrets not telling you that part out loud. 

Not to mention, River was a player. He was up to no good, his intentions weren’t pure…honest. River would never get to know you as well as he did. 

He’s the one you went to have sex. You trusted him. Not River. 

But then again… he’s also the one who made you cry and run away. He’s the one that made the stupid awful mistake and betrayed you. 

It’s hard to explain why he did it. Why he told River you had a crush on him. Why he said it out loud like it was nothing. Because it wasn’t nothing. 

It was panic.

Real, ugly panic.

Because sitting with the knowledge of how much he wanted you—how deeply, how constantly, how unfairly—was starting to feel unbearable. 

Sleeping with you only added fuel to the fire. And he knew, with a kind of certainty that scared him, that you couldn’t feel the same way. You just couldn’t. So if that was true—if he was the only one standing there like this, holding something that would never be returned—then he needed it out of his system. Out of his control. Out of his head.

He needed distance. He needed silence. He needed you not to be the center of everything anymore. And River was… easy. Convenient. A way to redirect it. A way to make it feel like there was a direction this could still go that didn’t end with him falling further into something he couldn’t have.

He already knew you had a crush on him—so in his mind, why not say something? The part about “I slept with her” wasn’t something he planned to reveal; it just slipped out in the moment, more out of irritation than intention, like a way to wipe that smug look off River’s face.

He thought that if you could get with River… he could forget about you. 

It wasn’t meant with bad intentions—but he knew you well enough to know you probably never would’ve said anything to River on your own. So he told himself it was helping you. That if River stepped in, if things shifted, if you ended up getting what you thought you wanted, then everything would eventually fall back into place.

You’d be okay.

He’d be okay.

Nothing would break in a way that couldn’t be fixed.

That’s what he told himself. That he was doing you a favor. That he was protecting you from something complicated before it could get worse.

But now he can see what it actually was. It was him trying to save himself from the fact that he was already too far gone. And it didn’t save anything. 

It just cost him you instead.

“I hate you.”

Your words cut sharper than anything anyone had ever said to him. You had every right to feel it—he knew that—but it didn’t make the impact any less brutal, didn’t soften the way it landed or the way it lingered in his chest after you said it.

He stood there anyway, like if he didn’t move, he could somehow keep the moment from becoming permanent. From becoming the thing that actually ended everything.

Because now all he could think about was how you looked when you said it. How final it sounded. How easily it came out.

And the worst part was the silence after.

How was he supposed to fix this? How was he supposed to make it up to you when it felt like he’d just broken the one person he never meant to hurt in the first place?

*.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.*

You were laying on your side on the couch, wearing an old pair of plaid pajama bottoms and a loose fitting t-shirt, with a throw blanket covering you from your shoulders to the tips of your toes. The light from the television set illuminated your face as you stared intently at the screen, rewatching Friday the 13th for the hundredth time. A stack of tapes you’d picked up today from Family Video adorned the coffee table in front of you as you reached the end of your horror marathon. 

It had been a few days since your parents had left for their business trip, leaving you as their free-of-charge housesitter. As they were heading out the door, they had given you a firm set of rules: 

Lock the doors and don’t leave the house at night. 

You didn’t exactly have the most exciting nightlife so that rule was easy to agree to. Lazy horror marathons were your favorite activity this time of year. You had already carved two jack o’lanterns and placed them on your front steps, one displaying a toothy grin whilst the other grimaced with a fangy frown. You had toasted the pumpkin seeds as a snack but those were gone halfway through A Nightmare on Elm Street which you had seen previously in the night. 

As you lay sideways on the cushion of the couch, your eyes drooped with exhaustion. You unraveled yourself from the blanket and sat up to turn your head to read the analog clock on your wall which let you know it was now one thirty in the morning. A dark blur quickly entered your vision as you looked out the window behind the television. The streetlights lit the quiet neighborhood as leaves blew down the road, nothing else in sight. Although you could’ve sworn you’d seen a coyote or something.

Deciding to call it a night, you stand up to shut the television off but you didn’t see the remote anywhere. Sticking your hand between the cushions, you felt around for the plastic device yet it wasn’t there. You picked up the bundled blanket and shook it around which caused the remote to fall to the floor and under the couch. Tipping your head back in annoyance, you signed and crouched down, getting on your knees and sticking your arm under the couch to fish for the remote. After a few seconds, your hand felt the warm remote and pulled your arm back and as you were still on your knees, you leaned against the couch and pressed the power button on the remote. As the screen faded to black, you stood back up, placed the remote down on the coffee table, folded the blanket neatly and placed it on the couch.

The living room was dark except for the warm lighting that peaked through from the connecting kitchen. You walked across the cold tiled floor with your warm wool socks to make yourself a cup of tea before heading up to bed. Placing a small kettle of water onto the stove, you turned around to reach for the cupboard handle as a sharp ringing gave you a fright. 

You jumped and turned around quickly, although you already knew the noise had come from the yellow telephone hanging from the wall. 

Who could be calling at this hour? 

You picked up the phone and immediately put it back down to stop the ringing. Whoever it was could wait until the morning. Maybe it was just Nancy asking about an assignment due this week, surely she could ask you in homeroom on Monday. 

Turning back around, you went over to the cupboard and pulled two bags of chamomile tea from a box then went over to the cabinet that held glassware as you grabbed a mug you made freshman year in art class. You picked it out specifically for its orange and red glaze, matching the autumn foliage. 

The mug in your hands almost went crashing to the floor as another ring from the telephone reverberated through the kitchen. You tightened your grip after the initial scare and placed the mug gently on the countertop as you went over to pick up the phone. 

Two calls in a row, this must be urgent. 

You weren’t exactly thrilled to have to converse with someone at this time of night but if this was an emergency then you’d have felt awful for ignoring it. You picked up the phone and leaned against the wall.

“Hello?” you asked into the speaker by your chin.

“Hello, sweetheart,” a low voice snickered into your ear. 

You furrowed your brows in confusion. What kind of joke was this? 

“Why are you calling so late?” You were too tired to be playing any games.

“Why are you answering so late?” The voice worried you. It didn’t even sound real, yet the lack of a serious tone made you feel like this phone call could have waited till morning. 

You could hear the kettle of boiling water start to whistle as you started to lose your patience. 

“Listen, I don’t know who you are or what you want but I really don’t care,” you said into the phone, hanging it up back onto the wall as you turned to the kettle to take it off the stove to pour it into your mug. 

As you ripped the tea packets open to begin steeping your chamomile, the phone rang once more. In your mind, the ringing almost sounded more aggressive than the last two times it rang. 

You dropped your tea bags into the mug as you stomped your way to the phone as you ripped it off the wall and held it by the side of your face.

“What the fuck do you-” you started angrily into the phone before you were abruptly cut off. 

“I’ll tell you exactly what we want, sweetheart. Once we get you.” 

“What?” You said into the receiver. Your shoulders slumped with fear as your heart rate quickened. That was not the response that you were expecting. 

You looked towards your front door. You had remembered to lock it right? No, of course you remembered. You double-checked it. Triple-checked it. 

Then why was it cracked open? 

And who was that figure visible through the fogged glass? 

“You might want to run,” The voice suggested. 

Abandoning your tea, you dropped the phone, letting it hit the wall and swing by its curly cord. 

You didn’t know where to run, you were frozen. How could they be calling you from your front door? Who was this person and what were they after? Were they going to hurt you?

As you quickly tried to come up with any plan for evacuation, you heard a creak coming from the door. You looked over to see the figure reach out a gloved hand and grasp the edge of the door, slowly opening it until it was wide enough for them to step in. 

You now saw them in full. A tall, black-cloaked figure wearing a white mask with drooping eyes and a long, open mouth stepped in and stood staring at you. Not making any advances, but not looking friendly either. 

That mask.

Shielding the identity of the intruder, the horrified ghastly expression perfectly reflected the way you felt as your heart sank into your stomach.

Your flight instinct finally kicked in as you skidded down the hallway trying to get away. Since the invader was blocking you from exiting through the front door, you could try to run out the back door, or possibly a window if you had no other choice. 

As you quickly turned the corner at the end of the hallway that led to your dining room which had a door to the back porch, the tall figure suddenly appeared in front of you as you crashed into their chest. The wool socks on your feet caused you to lose your balance and crash land onto the wooden floor in front of them. Your head ached as it smacked against the hard planks. As you regained vision and remembered your situation, you dizzily lifted yourself up enough to lean on your elbows as you looked up at the figure who was now standing menacingly above you. The hallway was dark except for the small nightlight which illuminated the horrific expression displayed on the mask which mocked your lower position.

Before you could scramble away towards the other end of the hallway, the harsh force of a boot stomping down on your hair caused a yelp to escape your lips. Your scalp was on fire from the pain as you looked up with teary eyes to see a duplicate of the masked figure. 

A glint of silver caught your eye as a blade was slowly brought into your line of sight. It made your heart sink further. A blade that was spotless and clean, which meant they either took great enough care to properly clean up after themselves or it had never been used, meaning it was just for show. 

The scuffed leather boot was lifted from your hair which released the sharp tension on your scalp, yet your head still throbbed with pain. Your vision was blurry and your heart continued to beat rapidly and unevenly, causing you to worry whether you could stay conscious to fight for your life. 

The figure with both hands free lifted you up off the ground, grabbing you by your upper arms, and standing you up on your feet. The neck of your tee shirt slipped off your shoulder as you tussled, revealing the skinny strap of your bralette across your shoulder. They turned your body forcefully to have you face their companion as they pressed their chest against you, pinning your left arm behind your back whilst wrapping a bicep around your neck tight enough to keep you in place. 

A gasp left your lips as their muscles closed you in. Your right hand was free which you used to try and pry their arm away from your throat enough to allow you to inhale without a struggle. The mask in front of you stared down at you, inching closer, almost mocking your pathetic position. When the arm would budge, you brought your hand out to rip that smug mask off, you couldn’t take that look any longer. A rough, gloved hand wrapped around your wrist to stop you from revealing their face but it was too late. Your fingers wrapped around the long chin and as their reflexes snatched your hand away, the mask went along with it. 

Steve. Fucking. Harrington. 

Was this a fucking joke? 

His brown eyes gazed into yours with a dark look yet he wore a smile that would forever taunt you. He leaned in closer till his face was inches from yours. 

“Gotcha.”

Your eyebrows scrunched in utter confusion before your expression turned to one of annoyance and anger. You couldn’t believe this. You tried thrashing around in the arms of the unknown accomplice before you remembered your legs were free and started kicking. His face turned impatient as he pulled his hood off, the unknown figure moved their bicep from around your neck and let your arm free from behind your back, only to hold both of your arms to your sides and wrap their own around you. 

You were seething, “What the fuck is wrong with you, Harrington? Do you seriously think this is funny?” 

“Oh definitely, but don’t give me all the credit,” he chuckled as he looked over your head and winked to whoever was holding you in place, giving the okay to unmask. 

An arm left from its place around your torso as it was lifted to remove the ghost mask, revealing Eddie Munson, who placed his grinning face on your shoulder. 

You were disgusted. Why did they even think it was okay to do this, even as a joke? You could have gotten seriously hurt, the cops could have gotten involved. If your parents found out they did this you’d never be allowed to be left home alone overnight ever again, even though you followed their rules perfectly. It was now two in the morning and you were two tired to deal with their antics any longer. 

You knew Steve and Eddie had been getting closer recently, courtesy of Dustin trying to get his two older male friends to bond, which clearly might now have been a good idea. They were both whispering with each other over the counter yesterday when you went to Family Video for your movie night. You had been friends with the both of them individually for a while now but you’d never thought they would pull this shit on you. 

You sighed and tilted your head back, pursing your lips in annoyance as you tried to pick the right words to gently parent them from the angry scoldings in your mind. 

“Okay, you got me,” you said in the most unamused tone you could muster, “Guys, this really isn’t funny. I don’t know what made you think it was okay to do this to me but you can both go home now.” 

You tried to escape Eddie’s hold but he only held on tighter, before nuzzling his face into your neck. Sure, Eddie was very comfortable around his friends, but this was new. 

“We can’t go now, sweetheart. The fun was just getting started,” he mumbled into your neck. 

“What?” you said quietly, confused at what he meant. 

Steve quickly brought the knife up to your face, causing you to flinch and lean your neck further into Eddie, prompting him to lightly bite. 

He traced the silver, curved blade across the silky skin along your chin as he peered down at you with a look that made you shrink. 

“We came here to scare you,” he said darkly, “hoping to get a little more than a laugh.” 

You looked up at him, cautiously aware of your slight movements as to not knick yourself with the edge of the blade. You’d never have thought either Steve or Eddie would think of you like that, yet you couldn’t say you’d never thought of them. 

Eddie removed his face from your neck as he matched Steve’s persuasive look. 

“Come on, sweetheart, you feeling something other than fear? Maybe a heartbeat somewhere else?” He joked with a dark laugh, his hands going lower as you scoffed. 

There was no way you were considering this. Breaking into your home, the frightening phone calls, the knife, the slasher costumes. It was just too ridiculous. 

You’d be lying if you said you weren’t intrigued, weren’t enjoying the attention. The knife on your face with just enough pressure, daring to draw blood, was a thrill you weren’t used to but you weren’t opposed to it either.

Biting your lip as you consulted with your pride, the boys watched you with anticipation and a growing need. 

You lightly laughed at yourself, entertaining the idea, as you gave them a look and nodded. Eddie smirked widely, placing his mask back on before he threw you over his shoulder, Steve following suit. 

They made their way back into the living room before Eddie roughly tossed your body down onto the couch. As you landed, you looked up at the two masked men who stood tall, staring down at you which was quite intimidating but you definitely weren’t as mad as you were five minutes ago. 

In fact, you were looking forward to continuing your slasher marathon, even if it was a little different than what you had in mind. 

~

It’s scraped knees and shared popsicles.

It’s Steve, all messy hair and too-big grin, standing in your driveway like he belonged there. 

“Cmon,” he’d call, already halfway back down the sidewalk. “We’re gonna miss it!”

“Miss what?” you’d shout, chasing after him anyways. 

“Don’t know yet!” he’d answer, like that was the best part. 

And somehow, it always was.

- -

Your parents have always liked him. That’s one of the earliest things you remember. Not in the way parents sometimes like their kid’s friends—tolerant, polite, a little distant and reserved. No, they liked Steve. 

Your mom would ruffle his hair when he came in without knocking, like he was just another one of hers. Your dad would ask him questions at the dinner table and actually listen to the answers. “Good kid,” you dad would say, watching Steve laugh at something dumb on TV. And Steve would duck his head a little, like he didn’t quite know what to do with that. 

You didn’t notice it then. Not really. You just knew he stayed. 

Even when other kids in your life drifted in and out, even when friendships changed the way they do when you’re growing up—Steve always stayed. He became such a permanent figure in your life that you had no idea what it could be like without him.

He was there when you both started middle school, awkward and unsure and suddenly aware of everything all at once. He was there when you got your first bad haircut at 13 and swore you’d never leave your house again.

 “You look fine,” he told you, leaning against your bedroom door like he hadn’t just barged in without asking, after demanding that you pull off your hat so he could see the grand reveal of your “terrible” haircut. 

“I look like a mushroom, Steve” you shot back, horrified. 

He squinted at you, tilting his head. “...Well, maybe a little bit,” he admitted.

You threw a pillow at him. He just laughed, catching it with ease. “Hey, hey—listen. It’ll grow out. And until then—” He shrugged. “You’ve got other things going for you.”

“Oh my god, shut up.” you groaned, deeply annoyed at the boy's words. 

“I'm serious!” 

“You’re literally the worst person I could’ve asked.”

“And yet,” he said, still grinning holding back another laugh, “you still asked me.” 

And that’s how it always was with Steve. 

Easy, familiar and safe. 

- -

By high school, things… shifted. 

Not all at once, not at some big dramatic change but just slowly. The way they always do when you start to grow up. Steve got taller, broader, louder in some ways, quieter in others. People started noticing him more–and he noticed that they noticed. 

You saw it all happen in real time. 

The way his confidence started to sharpen. The way he learned how to smile just right, how to say the right things at the right time. The way people started orbiting around him like he was something bright. Steve had always been quite the charmer, but this was a new level.

However, it didn’t change things between you. Not really, but it changed how the rest of the world saw him. And, by extension, how they saw you.  

“Wait—you’re friends with Steve Harrington?” someone asked you once, like it didn’t quite make sense and for some reason they seemed… jealous? 

You frowned. “Yeah? Why?”

They blinked. “No reason. I just–didn’t expect it, is all.”

You didn’t know what that meant. You didn’t like it. 

- -

There were moments. Small ones. The kind that didn’t feel like anything at the time—but lingered longer than they should’ve. Like the first time you noticed a girl looking at him. Really looking. 

It was you and Steve’s junior year. You were at a party—one of the earlier ones, before they got bigger, before everything got louder. Steve was across the room, laughing at something Tommy said, a red cup in his hand. 

And this girl, someone you didn’t know, was watching him, like he was the only thing in the room. You followed her gaze without thinking. And for a second, you saw it. What she saw. 

The way his hair fell just right, even when it was messy. The easy confidence in the way he held himself. They way people leaned in when he spoke. Something in your chest shifted. You didn’t have a word for it yet. So you ignored it. 

Because you could not have a crush on Steve. Not on your best friend. It was silly, it was stupid and it was destined to never work out. You pushed those feelings so far down and just prayed to yourself that it would work itself out. 

- -

By senior year, it seemed like everything had finally settled into place. Whatever weird, confusing feelings you might’ve had about your best friend at one point? Gone. Or at least… buried well enough that you didn’t have to think about them anymore. You didn’t look at Steve like that—not now, not ever again—and honestly, it was better this way.

Things were easier. Steve had his own life anyway. Some new blonde girl he’d started seeing—her name never really stuck, not that you tried very hard to remember it. He was busy, you were busy, and everything between you stayed exactly the same.

Still friends. Still close. Still completely, totally not into each other.

Yeah. Perfect.

And you?

Guys didn’t really gravitate toward you—but it never bothered you all that much. Not when there was only one guy you had eyes for anyway. River. From your art class. God, he was just… perfect. He looked like he’d been carved straight out of a marble statue—like something out of ancient Greece. And it wasn’t just that he was hot, though, yeah, he definitely was, it was the way he used his hands. Not like that… well, maybe a little. But mostly, you meant the way he painted. The way he held a brush like he knew exactly what he was doing, like it was second nature.

Honestly, Vincent van Gogh didn’t stand a chance—not against River, and definitely not against an eighteen-year-old girl with a hopeless crush. There was just one problem. River had… experience. All the artsy, free-spirited girls loved him and he seemed to love them right back. You’d heard him once, talking to someone in class, saying he liked girls who “knew what they were doing.”

And you? You’d kissed one boy. Once. In seventh grade. During a game of spin the bottle—which barely even counted. So yeah. That was the only thing standing between you and the guy you were pretty sure was the hottest in school. Just a small, insignificant detail. That you were still a virgin.

And what does any rational person do when they need help? They go to their best friend. Which is exactly how you ended up here—seriously considering asking Steve for… that. 

No, no no you won’t. That’s disgusting, oh my god. You have to meet Steve in an hour and you want to ask him to take your virginity so you can be experienced for River? What the hell was wrong with you? 

- -

“Are you coming in or what?” Steve’s voice pulls you back.

You blink, realizing you’ve just been standing there, staring off again. Steve had been kind enough to take you to the movie theater—just a casual hangout, nothing special. “Just like old times,” he’d said, flashing that easy smile of his. And then, instead of dropping you off afterward, he’d insisted you come back to his place.

Normally, you wouldn’t have thought twice about it. Going to Steve’s house had always been second nature, automatic, easy. But that was before. Before the question that had been circling your mind all day. Before River…

Now, standing in his driveway, you weren’t so sure this was a good idea. Because the longer you were around Steve, the harder it felt to ignore it—the thought sitting right there on the tip of your tongue. And you didn’t know if you trusted yourself not to say it out loud.

“Are you good?” he asked again, snapping you back into reality and far away from your terrible, dirty mind. 

“Yeah,” you say quickly, jogging to catch up. “Just thinking.”

“Dangerous,” he mutters. 

Oh if only he knew…

You ignore his words, nudging him with your shoulder. “Shut up.”

He grins. 

God, that grin. It’s unfair, honestly…

- -

The Harrington house has always felt a little too big. You noticed it more as you got older. As a kid, it was cool–wide hallways, a pool, a living room big enough to run through without getting yelled at, no annoying siblings to bother you either. 

But now, it just feels… quiet. Empty in a way that echoes sadness through the walls. 

“Your parents' home?” you ask, kicking off your shoes by the door out of habit. 

Steve shakes his head. “Nah. They left this morning.”

“Again?”

“Again.”

He says it like it doesn’t bother him. You know better.

You both end up in the living room, like always. Steve flops onto the couch, tossing his keys onto the coffee table. You settle beside him without thinking, close enough that your knees brush. Neither of you move away. 

He turns the TV on. Something random, something just for background noise more than anything. This is what most of your time together looks like now. Not big adventures anymore. Just… this. Hanging out. Talking. Existing in the same space. And somehow, it still always feels like the best part of your day. 

“You’ve been weird,” Steve says after a minute. 

You glance at him. “I have not.” your poker face is betraying you so wrongly at this moment. 

“You have,” he insists, turning slightly to face you. “You’ve been, like—quiet. And you keep staring off into space like you’re in some dramatic movie or something.”

“I do not do that.”

“You literally just did it outside.”

“That doesn’t count.”

“It absolutely counts.” 

You huff, crossing your arms. “Maybe I just don’t feel like talking to you.”

He gasps, offended. “Wow. Rude.”

You shrug. “Maybe you deserve it.”

“For what?”

“For being annoying!”

“I’m always annoying.”

“Exactly, Steve.” Your tone is obviously teasing but deep down, Steve knows you better than this. You're trying to change the subject by coping with humor, and it’s not going to work on him. 

He leans closer, squinting at you like he’s trying to figure something out. “Okay, but this is different. Usually you like me.”

Umm. What did Steve mean by that? 

“I do like you.” you mutter, somewhat nervous now. 

“Mm,” he hums, unconvinced. There’s a moment of silence between you both then…”Did I do something wrong?” The question is quieter this time. Less teasing. Something in your chest tightens. 

“No,” you say, a little too quickly. 

Steve’s eyes narrow slightly, “You sure?”

“Oh, I'm sure.”

He watches you for another second, like he’s deciding whether to push it. Then he leans back again, one arm stretching along the back of the couch just behind you. Not touching, but close enough to make your heart start to increase its pace. 

But Steve seems to be convinced enough to let it go so you can finally breathe. You exhale, tension you didn’t realize you were holding slipping out of you. 

It’s not that you’re hiding something. Well…not exactly. It's just… you’re not sure how to say it yet. Or if you even should. It’s a bad idea, right? But what if it isn’t? Things have always been good like this. And the idea of messing that up? Yeah. You don’t want to think about that. Asking Steve for a favor as big as this was just wrong. No, you were going to keep your stupid mouth shut and suck it up like you always do. 

- -

“Hey,” Steve says after a while, nudging your knee lightly with his. 

You glance at him, still so deep in your confusing brain, “What?”

“You remember that time you tried to teach me how to ride your bike without hands?” he laughed, recalling the moment so randomly. 

You groan immediately at that embarrassing memory that you had tried desperately to hide away forever. “Oh my god, don’t.”

He laughs again, “You were so confident about it, too. ‘It’s easy, Steve, just balance.’” 

“It is easy!” you groan. 

“I crashed into a mailbox.”

“That’s not my fault.” 

“It was absolutely your fault.”

“How is that my fault? it’s a user error on your part if anything.”

“You told me to look at you while I was doing it! And then I broke into Mrs. Kline’s mailbox.”

You snort, trying not to laugh. “Okay, but in my defense—that mailbox was ugly anyways and it was on its last life. Like it was totally leaning!"

“It was not leaning! It just had...character.” Steve shaked his head, smiling despite himself. And just like that, the weird tension from earlier fades. That’s how it always goes with you two. No matter what—-no matter how strange or quiet or complicated things start to feel—you always find your way back to this. 

The easy, familiar, safe feeling. 

- -

It happens a little later. The shift. It’s subtle but definitely there. 

You don’t even realize you’ve gone quiet again until Steve glances over. “...There it is,” he mutters. 

You frown. “What?”

“That face.”

“What face?”

“That one.” He gestures vaguely at you. “The ‘I’m thinking too hard about something and not telling Steve about it’ face.”

“Okay, there’s no face for that—” you try to defend yourself but Steve cuts you off. 

“There is a face for that and it’s plastered all over you.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s no real bite to it. 

He nudges you again, softer this time. “C’mon. What is it?”

You hesitate. Your fingers fidget in your lap, picking at nothing. Steve notices. Of course he does. He always noticed. His expression shifts—just slightly. The teasing fades, replaced with something more patient. 

“Hey,” he says quietly. “You can tell me, you know.”

You know. That’s the problem. Because you can tell him anything. You always have and there’s never been a moment where you couldn’t. Which makes this so much heavier than it should. 

“It’s nothing, Steve.” you try. 

“Mm. Don’t believe you.”

“…Are you sure something didn’t happen?” he asks, softer now.

“Yes...”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

Another pause. Longer this time. He leans back slightly, one arm stretching along the back of the couch behind you—not touching, just there. He’s waiting… It's like he knows that you can’t keep anything from him. You guys have been best friends forever after all. 

“Fine… Can I ask you something?” you say finally. The words come out quieter than you meant them to and they just slip out before you can really realize what you're doing.

Steve doesn’t miss it. “Yeah,” he says immediately. “Of course.”

You nod, even though you’re not sure why. Your heart starts beating faster, and you hate it—hate that this suddenly feels like such a big deal when it’s just Steve. It’s always been Steve. But this doesn’t feel like always. This feels like something else. “Okay, but—” you start, then stop, shaking your head. “It’s kind of weird.”

Steve raises an eyebrow. “We’ve known each other since we were, like, five. I think we’re past ‘weird.’”

“Not this kind of weird.”

That gets his attention. You can see it in the way he straightens slightly, how his expression shifts from teasing to curious—maybe even a little cautious.

“…Okay,” he says slowly. “Now I’m interested.”

You let out a nervous breath, pressing your lips together. “This is stupid,” you mumble.

“Hey,” he says, a little more firmly. “If it’s bothering you enough to bring it up, it’s not stupid.”

You glance at him. Big mistake. Because now he’s looking at you like that—like he actually cares about what you’re about to say. Like it matters. Like you matter.

And suddenly, this feels ten times harder. “You can say no,” you rush out. “Like, seriously, you can just say no and we’ll forget this ever happened and I won’t bring it up again and everything will go back to normal—”

“Whoa, hey—” Steve cuts in, frowning. “Why are we already talking about me saying no? I don’t even know what you’re asking yet.”

“Because it’s—” you stop, dragging a hand down your face. “It’s just… I don’t know, it’s a lot.”

“For who?” he asks.

“For me,” you admit. “And well, you too.” 

That softens him immediately. It always does. He shifts a little closer—not enough to overwhelm you, just enough to remind you he’s there.

“Okay,” he says gently. “Then take your time.”

You nod again, even though your brain feels like it’s short-circuiting. This was a bad idea. You should drop it. You should laugh it off and change the subject and pretend this never almost happened. But then—

River flashes in your mind. The way he’d laughed with those girls in class. The way he’d said it so casually—girls who know what they’re doing. And something twists in your chest. You don’t want to feel like this anymore. You don’t want to feel behind. Or inexperienced. Or like you’re missing something everyone else just… knows. 

You swallow. “…Hypothetically,” you start.

Steve stops you immediately, dropping his head back against the couch teasingly. “Oh my god.”

You glare at him. “Don’t.”

“No, whenever you say ‘hypothetically,’ it’s never actually hypothetical.”

“Just listen.”

“I am listening,” he says, though there’s a hint of a smile tugging at his mouth. “I’m just preparing myself.”

You take a breath. “Hypothetically,” you try again, slower this time, “if someone wanted to, like… get more experience with something…”

He turns his head to look at you again. “What kind of experience?”

You hesitate. Your fingers twist together in your lap. “…Personal experience,” you say vaguely.

Steve’s eyes narrow slightly. “That’s not an answer.”

“I know, I just—” you exhale sharply. “I don’t know how to say it.”

“Then just say it badly,” he shrugs. “You can clarify after.”

You stare at him. “…That’s terrible advice.”

“Yeah, well,” he says, a little smug, “you came to me.”

You huff out a quiet, nervous laugh. He’s trying to make this easier. Of course he is. That almost makes it worse. There’s a beat. Then another. Your heart is pounding so loud you’re convinced he can hear it. You open your mouth. Close it. Shake your head.

“This is a bad idea,” you say quickly, starting to push yourself off the couch. “I’m just gonna—forget it, it’s fine—”

Steve’s hand catches your wrist before you can fully stand. Not tight. Just enough to stop you. “Hey,” he says, more serious now.

You freeze. Slowly, you look back at him.

“Don’t do that,” he says quietly. “Don’t bring something up and then run away from it.”

“I’m not running away—”

“You are,” he cuts in, not unkindly. “You’ve been building up to this all day. Just… say it.”

His hand is still around your wrist. Warm. Steady. Grounding. You swallow.

Your voice is smaller when you speak again. “…I don’t want to feel like I don’t know what I’m doing anymore.”

Steve’s expression shifts—confusion, mostly. “What do you mean?” he asks.

You hesitate. This is it. You can still back out. You probably should back out.

But instead—

“…I mean,” you say, forcing the words out before you can stop yourself, “I was wondering if you’d—” Your voice catches. God. Why is this so hard? You squeeze your eyes shut for half a second. Then—

“Will you sleep with me?”

The words come out fast. Too fast. Like they’ve been sitting there, waiting, and the second you let them go, they just spill. 

It’s then immediately silent. Heavy. Steve doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak.

You feel your stomach drop straight to the floor. “Okay—wow—great—yeah, that sounded insane—” you start rambling, heat rushing to your face. “You can just forget I said that, I don’t even know why I thought that was a good idea—”

“…What?”

You stop. Blink.

Steve is still staring at you. Like he’s trying to make sure he heard you right.

“…I said forget it,” you mumble.

“No,” he says quickly, sitting up straighter. “No, I heard you, I just—”

He runs a hand through his hair, clearly thrown.

“…Can you say that again?”

You groan, covering your face. “Oh my god, no.”

“I just want to make sure I didn’t hallucinate that,” he says.

You peek at him through your fingers. “…I asked if you would sleep with me,” you say, quieter this time. Mortified.

Another pause. Longer. Steve exhales slowly, like he’s trying to process something that doesn’t quite make sense.

“You’re serious,” he says.

It’s not a question.

You drop your hands, staring down at your lap. “…Yeah.”

There’s another moment of silence then—

“Why?”

It’s not harsh. Just really… confused. And somehow, that makes it worse.

You swallow, forcing yourself to answer. “It’s not—” you start, then stop, trying again. “It’s not like a thing, okay? It’s just—there’s this guy, River—”

The words slip out before you can stop them.

Steve stills. Just slightly. You don’t notice.

“And he’s, like—” you huff out a breath, frustrated with yourself. “He likes girls who know what they’re doing, and I just—I don’t want to feel like I’m… behind or something.”

Your voice gets quieter toward the end. More uncertain. You finally risk a glance at him. Steve’s not looking at you the same way anymore. Not confused. Not amused. Something else. Something you can’t quite read. And suddenly, the room feels a little too quiet. A little too small.

Your heart pounds. “…You don’t have to say yes,” you add quickly. “I just thought—since it’s you—and we trust each other—and it wouldn’t have to mean anything, it could just be—”

You stop.

Because Steve’s expression. It changes again.

And whatever he’s about to say—

It doesn’t feel small anymore.

“Is this a joke?” That is the next thing that comes out of Steve’s mouth, after you just spilled your guts and asked the man to have sex with you.

“Steve it’s not a fucking joke, okay? I’m serious and it’s stupid I know and just say no if you want. I don’t care.” you absolutely did care, and the change in your expression and tone was showing Steve how much this actually mattered to you. 

“You want me to… take your virginity?” Steve is so stunned he can barely form the sentence. You have asked him for a lot of things in his lifetime but this is just a whole new level of crazy and confusion and oh my god…

“Yeah…” you respond quietly.

Steve’s brain is telling him no. There’s no way he is going to take your sweet, innocent virginity. He’s just not the right guy for this… you deserve someone so much better. But his heart? Oh, for whatever reason, it loves the sound of that. The idea of him taking something so pure from you, and not someone else, is all he’s ever wanted, he just didn’t know before. 

“Why me?” Steve asks softly, he technically hasn’t said no yet. His brain is currently deciding if he should just cave in but he needs to understand first. 

“I trust you, Steve. Of course I do. And I need this to happen. It's just… I'm 18, I'm tired of feeling inexperienced and like I'm not good enough. I would do it with someone else but if I'm being honest it terrifies me a little. So… please?” You’ve clearly been able to ask Steve for almost anything your whole life, so… why not ask for one more, slightly huge favor that could change the whole trajectory of your relationship, right?

“Oh, okay…” Steve nods, he’s trying to convince himself that what he is about to say is acceptable before he backs out completely: 

“Fine. I’ll do it.” Steve agrees before he even realizes what he is saying yes to. Sex might only make things complicated and possibly ruin this long-lasting relationship between the two of you. But you’re sitting there, so nervous, looking at him like you trust him completely… and that’s all it takes. Because when it comes to you, Steve’s always going to say yes.

“Really?” you finally look up from the spot that your eyes have been nervously gnawing at, you look up at Steve. “Thank you, Steve.”

“Yeah. I would do anything for you, you know that.” Steve gives you a small smile. 

On the surface, Steve looks completely fine, calm, casual, like this doesn’t faze him at all. But underneath, his thoughts are racing, a quiet panic he quickly tries to shove down. It doesn’t matter. Not right now. He just needs to be what you need, steady, confident, the version of himself that always has an answer, always knows what to do. Because it’s not a big deal. It shouldn’t be. It’s just… helping you out. Just something simple between two people who trust each other. Nothing weird about that. Nothing at all.

- -

You both mutually agreed to do “it” right then and there. It felt like the right choice to just proceed with the deed before either of you chicken out and run away. You also both agree to head upstairs into Steve’s bedroom for your first time. It wouldn’t be gentlemen like for you to lose your virginity on a couch. At least that was Steve’s thought process. 

Upstairs, the soft light from Steve Harrington's bedside lamp fills his bedroom with a warm, inviting glow. You sit on the edge of his king-sized bed, fingers twisting in your lap. Steve stands in front of you, his hair slightly messy but of course it still looks amazing in an effortless way. Steve has that familiar, kind smile on his face. 'Everything alright?' he asks gently, sitting beside you. 

You swallow hard, your cheeks flushing hot immediately. “Yeah, sorry I'm just nervous. That’s all.” It felt silly to be freaking out but then again you were about to have sex with your best friend so maybe it wasn’t weird to totally flip the fuck out. In fact, it would be weird if you weren’t. 

Steve is just as nervous as you—maybe even more—but he doesn’t let it show. Instead, he tells himself to stay calm. Steady. Like he always is. Because if you’re already anxious, he can’t be the one falling apart too. He has to be the one who keeps it together. For you. “Hey, look at me. I promise it’ll be fine. We can go as slow as you want, it’s all up to you. You’re in control here, I just want it to be pleasurable for you.” His tone is steady, supportive, like always.

You nod, relief flooding you as a shy smile breaks through. “Are you good at this?” you ask randomly, suddenly feeling much more courageous than you did three seconds ago.

Steve huffs out a laugh, “Uhh—well… haven’t got any complaints yet.” he gives you a cheeky grin, attempting to ease out the nerves that currently fill the room. 

You roll your eyes playfully but the sound of that gives you some reassurance. Your best friend obviously knew what he was doing. It was going to be okay. You were going to lose your virginity and then River would finally love you the way you so desperately wanted. 

“But umm yeah, you’re in good hands. Promise.” Steve adds slightly awkward this time. 

“Can we just… start?” you mumble, the awkwardness pressing in on you from every angle, making it hard to breathe. This whole situation feels too big, too real—and dragging it out isn’t helping. Because, if you’re being honest… Steve is attractive. And that definitely isn’t making this any less terrifying.

Steve lets out a small, breathy laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah—okay. Okay, we can… start.” He nods once, like he’s convincing himself as much as you. “Just—uh…” He glances at you, something softer slipping through. “Tell me if you want me to stop, alright?”

“Okay.” you promise, reassuring him with a small smile. After a moment of hesitation for both of you—you give Steve the green light to start whatever this whole thing is. 

You start by taking your jeans off carefully, slowly and measured like you’re still testing the waters. Then Steve helps lift your top off, fingers careful. He helps you unhook your bra as if you couldn’t do it yourself, thumbs grazing your back slowly as he unhooks the strap. Your bra falls to the ground, and now you’re left in just your bra and panties. It suddenly feels very awkward next to the fully clothed Steve. You're laying on your best friend's bed practically naked in your mismatched bra and underwear while he stands above you dressed to the toe, how awesome is that. 

Sensing your nerves, Steve starts to unzip his pants, he’s not as careful as you but he’s still cautious, making sure not to overwhelm you. You can’t help but notice the slight…well large bulge that fills his boxers. You’ve only ever heard rumours about your best friend's overly large penis (not on purpose) but seeing it in person was a whole different experience. Maybe this wasn’t a good idea. You thought, it’s too big. 

“You okay?” Steve caught you staring but he proceeds to lift up his shirt anyways like your brain isn’t ruminating with a thousand thoughts per second. 

“Mhm… yeah, I’m fine,” you say quietly, swallowing past the nerves as you push the thoughts aside. You trust Steve, you’re going to be fine. 

“I’m going to start okay?” Steve gives you a quick heads up and you nod your head in response. You know if you don’t say yes now you never will. 

Warmth spreads through you as Steve eases your panties down, settling between your thighs. It seems like he’s overthinking it too because his tongue immediately laps at your folds gently, tracing your clit with slow, light strokes. You grip the sheets, breath hitching.

“How’s that feel?”

“G-good,” you manage, your voice soft and a little unsteady at the sudden feeling of Steve’s mouth at your folds, the moment feeling bigger than you expected—too much to fully put into words but you know you are enjoying it. It feels nice, pleasurable even. By now you are somehow very wet, it didn’t take much for Steve’s magic to kick in.

“I’m gonna try something, okay?” Steve says softly.

You nod at his words, even though your heart is racing. It crosses your mind that he probably doesn’t usually move this carefully—doesn’t stop to ask before every step with other girls. But this isn’t just anything or any girl. This is different. This is you. And maybe that’s why he’s taking his time.

Suddenly one finger presses in carefully, so slow, letting you feel every bit. You're tight, but he whispers encouragements, adding a second only when you relax around the first. He curls them just right, mouth still kissing your clit softly. The pleasure builds gently and you shatter with a quiet moan, thighs quivering.

Your whole body shifts as you move your legs farther apart for him, sinking your back into the bed, your toes curling with pleasure. The moans coming out of you is all the reassurance Steve needs to keep going, to increase the intensity and his pace. He watches closely for your reaction to each move, trying to figure out what it is you like best. 

Your moans amplify the acoustics of the whole room. You’ve been in Steve’s bedroom a lot throughout the years but never did you think you’d be having sex in it. But… here you are. Steve seems to be enjoying this as well. For whatever reason he is enjoying it too much, watching you unfold so easily at just the touch of his fingers. 

You can feel his warm breath skim along the side of your neck, sending a quiet shiver through you as goosebumps rise against your skin. It’s subtle, but immediate—like your body reacts before your thoughts can even catch up.

It sends you completely over the edge and you quickly breathe out, “Steve, I think I'm gonna—” 

“Let go. I’ve got you.” His response was quick. Easy even. He always has the right thing to say. 

It doesn’t take much longer before you let go and come all over Steve’s fingers. He doesn’t seem to care at all. Maybe you should feel embarrassed about how easily your orgasm came but you don’t. Not with Steve. 

He pulls out his fingers, softly rubbing your clit gently now. He seems rather amused and well.. proud of himself even. He lets you take another moment to breath before—

“Think you can handle another?” 

You laugh under your breath, still trying to steady yourself, and nod. “Yeah… let’s do it.”

It’s now or never. 

- -

Steve strips his boxers off quickly, cock thick and ready. He rolls on a condom that he took from his night stand, positioning himself. 

“You just have condoms ready in your dresser?” you mutter under your breath. Your stomach might be twisting inside but you’ll never miss an opportunity to tease your best friend. Never.

“Shut up,” Steve says with a grin, shaking his head a little like he can’t believe you. The serious moment slips just slightly under your teasing. “Do you want me to do this or not?”

“Yeah—yes I do, ” you say quickly, a small nervous laugh slipping out before it fades just as fast. Then your expression settles again, the humor dropping away. “…I mean it. I want to.”

“So desperate for me, huh?”

“Shut the f—” whatever sound of annoyance you were about to let out is quickly interrupted by the feeling of his tip against your entrance. 

Watching your careful expression Steve then pushes his cock in slowly, inch by inch, pausing to let the stretch ease, giving you a moment to take it all in. His hand rubs your clit, easing the fullness until he's buried deep. “Feel good, so far?”

You nod, the ache slowly but surely turning into a pleasurable feeling you can handle. “Yeah, I'm okay.” 

Steve’s hands are now on your waist, he rocks his hips gently, shallow thrusts building to a steady rhythm, cock dragging along your walls further and further. Your legs wrap around his waist out of instinct but he doesn’t seem to mind. It takes a second but all the pressure turns into a relaxing pleasure as Steve cock warms your insides. The tension builds again, and you clench around him. 

“Mhm,” Steve mutters under his breath, almost like a curse, dragging a hand through his hair as he tries to steady himself. “Sorry, it’s just you’re so tight.” 

You’re pretty sure that’s a good thing, but with Steve it’s hard to tell—his expressions always feel like they could tip either way in a second. His brows are slightly drawn together like he’s concentrating too hard, jaw flexing as if he’s trying to keep control of himself. There’s a faint flush spreading across his cheeks, and he swallows once, looking at you like he’s caught between focusing and completely losing his train of thought.

Noticing your confusion he quickly adds, “This is good, I promise. You feel fucking amazing.” 

You whimper, a combination of his words and the warm feeling of his cock inside you overwhelming you with pleasure. You can feel that you're close and you’re pretty sure he is too. 

He starts moving again, shallow rocks of his hips, building a gentle rhythm. Pain fades, pleasure blooming as he fills you perfectly. His hands interlock yours, fingers laced, his brown eyes beaming into yours. He shifts thrusting deeper this time but still stays tender. The bed moves softly beneath you, his body warm against yours. “Come for me again,” he breathes, and you do, walls fluttering around his cock, pulling him closer.

Steve follows soon after, groaning quietly as he spills inside the condom, hips pressing deep one last time. He stays close, wrapping you in his arms, kissing your forehead out of nowhere but you don't mind, to focused on the orgasm you just let out. “You were perfect. How do you feel?” 

“I don’t know.” you huff out a laugh because it’s all you can seem to do at the moment, the pleasure of the experience overwhelming your train of thought. But regardless, it’s a good laugh, he can tell. 

“Well… congrats you’re not a virgin anymore.” he smiles at you. He still cannot believe what you two just did but there’s no regret in his tone. He just hoped that your first time was everything you wished it would be. 

Steve’s smile lingers for half a second longer than it should. Then it fades because why did he say that? 

“…Yeah,” he says quietly, clearing his throat. “Sorry. That came out wrong.” He rubs the back of his neck, looking suddenly unsure of what to do with his hands. For once, Steve Harrington doesn’t have the right thing to say immediately. That alone makes the air feel heavier.

“No, no. It’s okay. You’re right.” you smile this time, clearly his words did not seem to affect you. 

“Thank you, Steve. You’re the best friend I could ever ask for.” 

The word friend lands in a way you don’t expect. It shouldn’t mean anything new—it’s always been what you are—but after everything that just happened, the fact that he just gave you the orgasm of your life and literally took your virginity makes it feel slightly off, like it doesn’t quite sit right in the air anymore. Well at least not to him. 

But he doesn’t react to it. At least not outwardly. Instead, he just gives you that familiar, easy smile like he can tuck the moment away, like he’s choosing not to look at it too closely. “Yeah,” he says softly, like it’s nothing. “Of course.” he brushes off his weird thoughts. This was just a friend giving you a favor. Besides the whole reason you did this in the first place was for some… guy. You clearly did not like him in that way, romantically that is. 

You nod again, even though something about the moment still feels suspended. Like the world hasn’t quite settled back into place yet.

Steve shifts slightly, trying to shake off the heaviness. “You want me to take you home?”

It’s casual. Normal. Familiar.

And it almost works. 

Almost.

For a second, it feels like something you’ve done a hundred times before—like this is just another night, another favor, another ride home, another easy ending to something that didn’t mean more than it should.

But the weird feeling doesn’t settle. Instead it lingers, it feels quiet, off. Like the words are trying to pull everything back into place, and something in the room just… won’t let them.

You start to grab your clothes from the ground, pulling them on slowly, more focused on the motion than anything else. It gives you something to do—something to keep your hands busy so you don’t have to think too hard about why everything suddenly feels so different.

Because it is different. Not in a way you can point to exactly. Not something you can name out loud. But it’s there. In the silence. In the way you’re suddenly aware of where he is in the room without looking. In the way it feels just slightly harder to meet his eyes.

Like if you do, you might see it reflected back at you—that same shift you’re trying not to acknowledge. You grab your bag, holding onto it a little tighter than necessary, and avoid his brown eyes for a second too long.

Because you don’t know what you’d find there.

Or worse—

you don’t know what it would mean if you did.

“Yeah,” you say finally. “That’s fine.”

- -

The drive back is quieter than usual. Not uncomfortable. Just… different. Like something’s missing, or maybe something’s there that wasn’t before—you can’t quite tell which. Steve keeps one hand on the wheel, the other tapping lightly against it whenever you stop at a red light, a habit you’ve seen a hundred times before. 

He glances at you every now and then, quick, subtle looks like he’s about to say something, like he’s working up to it. But the words never come. And somehow, that silence says more than anything else could.

You feel like you should be glowing right now. Like you got what you wanted—like this should be some big, exciting moment that leaves you giddy and light and sure of yourself. But instead…Why does it feel so… off? Not wrong. Not regret—not even close. You don’t regret it. You know that. Having sex with Steve wasn’t the part that you regretted, in fact you enjoyed it…maybe too much?  

But there’s something else lingering in the air, something you can’t quite name, and it settles in your chest in a way that makes you uneasy. Your brain is betraying you cause now…

it’s not River on your mind. Not his smile, not the way you used to watch him from across the room, not the idea of finally having the confidence to talk to him on Monday like you’d planned.

That excitement is just… gone. Replaced by something you weren’t expecting because every time your thoughts drift, they don’t land on River anymore.

They land on Steve.

On the way he looked at you. The way he said your name. The passionate experience you two just shared. The way everything felt different with him in a way you didn’t prepare for. 

And that is what makes your chest tighten. This wasn’t supposed to change anything between you two but somehow it already has.

And you don’t have anything to say either so you let the silence stay.

When he pulls up in front of your house, he turns the engine off but doesn’t move right away.

“Will I uhh—see you at school on Monday?” he asks.

A simple question, but it feels heavier than it should, you wonder if he’s thinking the same thing as you. But he’s probably not. 

You nod. “Yeah.”

Steve smiles a little—small, familiar, real enough this time.

“Cool,” he says.

You step out of the car, gripping your bag tighter than necessary.

Before you close the door, he calls your name softly.

For a second, he just watches you.

Then he nods once, like he’s decided something he’s not saying out loud. 

“Yeah,” he says after a beat. “Let me know how it goes with that guy… River, right? Or whatever his name is.” 

His tone is light. Casual. Almost teasing. But it doesn’t quite land that way.

“Yeah,” you reply, a little slower than before. “I will.”

The door shuts behind you.

The car doesn’t leave right away.

And as you walk up your driveway, you can feel it—something shifting, quiet and invisible, right at the edge of everything that used to feel simple.

Something in your gut is telling you that this was a bad idea. People can’t just have sex and pretend it doesn’t mean anything. 

It’s fine. It’s fine. It’s fine. You try to convince yourself. You and Steve have been through all the awkward phases together. There’s nothing the two of you can’t surpass, nothing can stand between your friendship. Not even sex apparently. 

Your hand hovers over the doorknob for a second longer than it should because something in your chest doesn’t feel convinced. You push the door open anyway. You're not sure what to even do with yourself right now. 

Pretend it didn’t happen.

Pretend it didn’t change anything.

Pretend that when you see him again, it’ll feel exactly the same.

You step inside.

The door shuts behind you.

And for the first time since you’ve known him—

you’re not sure if that’s true anymore.

*.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.*