#strangers things

“Time to head home at last, Harrington.” Robin came from the back of an ambulance with an out of place grin—she was definitely just happy to be out of the building, Robin gave him a light smack on the shoulder yet he still winced at the pain it caused.

“I guess,” Steve shrugged, the last place he wanted to be was home. Whether his parents are there or not. It was all the same, cold bones of a house that never felt like his, might as well be just like the room he was held in for what felt like so long.

“You sound so glum, do you wanna go back to the basement?” Your voice teased him from beside Robin, you had been swept up with all of this the same way Robin had.

Steve almost said yes, a halfway true joke, but Steve was too tired to explain that. Robin knew Steve’s reputation with his parents. You knew things from Steve’s rare and usually surface-level rants, but never the full extent.

“I think my parents are home,” he said, throat dry and mouth coarse. “I don’t really know how I’m gonna explain all of this.”

You hummed in understanding.

“I would see if my mom would let you have the couch but I’m in the same boat as you.” Robin grimaces, looking up at the opaque sky.

The late summer breeze was nice, at the very least, it made up for being stuck however many feet below the ground. It brushed through hair and Steve felt himself glance over at you. A pang in his chest sparked through him for you and Robin, what you guys had to go through the past few hours was nothing short of life-changing. Steve looked at the two people he didn’t even know the names of a month ago and felt more seen than he ever had in his life. Wide open and vulnerable. Or maybe the pang of hurt was just his injuries.

“It’s okay, Robs.” Steve waved her offer off, as nice as it was. Steve was about to bite the bullet to be able to sleep on an actual bed tonight, his body needed it. “Let’s get going, okay?”

Robin nodded, turning away from Steve to hug you tight, the tightest she probably hugged anyone. Trying not to let any tears slip, she shared a few words with you before moving towards Steve’s passenger seat.

Steve found your eyes easily, tired but somehow still so kind and beautiful. You shuffled on your feet for a moment, hands fiddling around your keys, “Thanks for everything you had to take back there for us.”

The beatings. Is what you didn’t want to say out loud, but Steve understands.

“Don’t. It’s okay, rather me than you guys, right?”

Your shoulders fell, followed by your face, eyebrows knotting together. Steve tried not to notice the look you were giving him, “Steve…”

“Seriously,” Steve said firmly. “Don’t—just don’t mention it.”

“Well, if you uh,” you bite your lip, not knowing if this was too much to offer to your coworker. You glance back at Robin, then you see the swollen eye Steve was sporting. You all were much more than coworkers now, especially with no place to actually work. “Um, are you sleeping somewhere else tonight, like do you have somewhere else to go besides your parents?”

You choked on your offer and instead rambled out an overbearing question instead, you were going to kick yourself.

Steve took a heavy breath, “uh, I don’t know. I’ll find someone’s couch to crash on,” a lie; Steve lost the majority of his friends last year, like he’d even want to see them right now. “I’ll be fine, my car is pretty comfy if anything.”

“Oh come on, seriously?” You blurt out.

“What?”

You swallowed down some nerves, too full of worry for the boy crumbling before you, unsure if he’s even safe to be driving right now. “Look, I have an apartment, it’s downtown. I got an extra bedroom, food, and a shower.”

Steve’s eyes almost glistened at your offer, unknowingly his mouth gaped, sucking in a cold breath. “I don’t wanna be a burden.”

“No, please.” You whisper, “If anything, I don’t wanna be alone after tonight.

Steve nodded, a silent understanding. He barely fucking knew you outside of Scoops Ahoy but here he was, about to confide and find comfort in you for something only you, him and Robin would ever understand. He thought it over for a moment, head pounding as he nodded, more confident this time.

“Yeah, yeah, that would be nice.” He says, “um, let me—“ Steve took strides to his car, ignoring Robin's whines to get home as he grabbed a marker he had in his glove box.

You watched his movements a little too intently, a realization washing over you when he handed the sharpie to you with his forearm out.

“Just scribble your address down here, if that’s okay? I just gotta drop Robin off and I can be over.”

“Yeah, of course.” It was a little awkward, but you grabbed his hand and wrote your street name and unit number down, Steve tensed under your fingers. “Get her back safe, okay?”

Steve just nodded once more, his mop of hair falling into his face. You almost leaped to brush it away.

“I’ll see you in a little bit? If you don’t show up within an hour, I’m calling the cops and suspecting more Russians.” You try to joke, it's amusing but you’re both too tired to show it.

Then you part, walking away with aching legs to sit in your car watching Steve pull out of the parking lot hoping he doesn’t pass out on the way. Deep heavy breaths as you remember how horribly messy you left your apartment before you left for your shift this morning.

“Shit, shit, shit.” You curse under your breath while putting your car in drive to race home.

-

Steve buzzes your apartment in 25 minutes, just enough time for you to worry and take a quick shower. It was then when Steve stood in front of you, still wearing his blue and blood-stained sailor uniform, he realized that yeah—he probably should have picked up some clothes first.

It didn’t dawn on him then, the second he dropped Robin off and double-checked that she’d be okay for the night. Steve shouldn’t have done it, but he extended your invite to her, she didn’t take it in favor of being alone tonight but Steve was pretty confident you would have been okay with it.

So Steve Harrington stood in the middle of your dimly lit kitchen, and he wore his silly Scoops Ahoy uniform, feeling like a proper idiot. You had a cat; Herzog, who brushed his black fur tail against Steve’s ankle. It was oddly grounding in that moment.

“I didn’t think to grab clothes,” he whispered, not sure why. Maybe because of the dark room. Maybe your shared migraine. Maybe because this whole situation felt so odd and new and Steve wasn’t even sure if he was allowed this olive branch from you.

You had assured him it was okay despite his few protests to just leave and come back, you noticed the tired expression and pained face at the idea of going home. “No, Steve. You are exhausted, it’s okay.”

Steve gave you a thin-lipped smile despite the overwhelming pain, all the adrenaline had worn off and he was fully feeling the effects of his beating and fighting from tonight. You left the kitchen for a moment, and it was so quiet. Steve could hear the soft purrs from your cat before the soft echo of your feet padding back into the kitchen, a pair of gray sweatpants and an old college shirt folded neatly in your hands.

“From an old boyfriend, you can keep ‘em if you want.”

“Thank you.” Steve’s words came out so rough. Before Steve could even think, you had a glass of water ready for him. The boy was almost too stunned to move, not even understanding the kindness and care you were showing him.

“The bathroom is here,” you walked down a hallway, your cat meowed and burst past Steve’s legs, and after you, a cute enough sight to make his mouth quirk up slightly. “My bedroom is here, the extra one is down the hall. I’ll be up, so if you need anything else, please ask.”

“Thank you,” Steve says again.

“Don’t mention it.” You reply, and he notices the slight jab at his words from earlier.

“Ha,” Steve says dryly before a smirk, closing the bathroom door behind him.

The lock clicks, Steve's nose meets inches from the wooden door, with you behind it. Steve’s chest is tight and the heavy sigh does little to relieve him, shuffling to the bathroom mirror, flinching at his reflection. The EMTs cleaned up the worst of his face, butterfly stitches on the gash on his chin, and his swollen eye had gone down slightly with the ice pack they gave him yet quickly took back. Dried blood still painted his face along with the flowering of purples and yellows.

Bruised and bloody fingers ran through his outgrown hair, it was the wildest it’s ever looked. Steve’s shoulder creaked and ached at the motion, another heavy sigh left him.

Steve peeled his socks off, cringing at the feeling, along with his watch, and dropped the rest of the things in his pocket on the sink.

Ready to pull at the hem of his shirt, yet his shoulder spiked with pain and Steve winces hard. A low groan left his mouth as he tried to tug the tight and cheap fabric from his body. Okay, try again—

“Agh!” He moaned, trying to keep quiet.

But Steve was slowly learning that it was hard to get anything by you. Oh-so watchful one.

A soft knock vibrated the door, “Steve, everything all right?” You whispered.

He paused for a beat too long apparently.

“Do you need help?” You asked.

Steve doesn’t really know why he paused for so long, somehow thinking too many things and nothing all at once. Feeling so foreign in his own body that he felt unburdened suddenly.

“Sorta,” he also doesn’t know why he said that and it hits him by the time you're turning the doorknob.

Your eyes find his body, searching for the cause of harm. Steve stands with his shoulders hunched uncomfortably, thumb rubbing at his hem.

“I think I fucked up my back or shoulders, maybe the Russians did or maybe it was from crashing into Billy.” Steve tried to find the cause but his brain already feels like it’s going haywire from all the events of tonight, it could be anything and all of it at once.

You hide a grin, “That stunt with Billy was pretty badass by the way,” you take a step towards him.

“Doesn’t feel badass.” Steve groans, his muscles betraying him.

“Do you want me to—“ your hands raise to the hem of his shirt, and Steve can feel the thick layer of sweat on his back and if having a pretty girl undress him to get him to a shower, he’d take that leap. So, Steve nods.

Your hands smooth over the harsh fabric, slowly pulling it over his torso, Steve's arms raised high above him. It hurt less than trying to strain and pull it off himself, but he still winced at the motion. Steve felt silly, like a little boy getting taken care of for no reason.

Your eyes found his torso, a small gasp left your mouth as the shirt pushed up and over his head, only making his mop of a head worse.

“Jesus Christ, Harrington.” You winced, fingers hovering over his left ribcage, dark splotches of blues, purples, and yellows starting to blossom. You were crouched slightly to look over the damage, before your eye flickered up to Steve’s, watching him beneath your lashes. Steve’s breath hitched.

“Did they check you for this?” You worried, hands still hovering over Steve’s cold skin. It tickled slightly, yet you hadn’t even touched him.

“Uh,” Steve tried to think, “they kinda just checked my breathing, gave me a bandaid and ice pack, and pushed me out for the next person.”

You responded with a disapproving eye roll, quickly reaching over Steve towards your cabinets, close enough that Steve could feel your breath in the crook of his neck.

“Take a few of these,” Steve hears the sound of pills shaking, before you’ve got two in your hand, and offer them to him. “It’s just Tylenol.”

“Thank you,” Steve says, feeling like a dumb and broken record. He couldn't even pull himself together if he tried, Steve just stared at you with two white pills in his hand. You didn’t question him either, just found comfort in his teddy bear brown eyes for a moment.

Then you nodded, breaking the spell. It was too fleeting all of a sudden, the way you excused yourself and left the bathroom. Leaving Steve standing alone, feeling cold suddenly, no shirt, and painkillers in his palm.

-

Steve found you perched on your counter with a glass in your hand, entertaining yourself with nothing besides the moon outside a window.

The kitchen was almost dark, except for a string of lights that started from one of your cabinets and into the living room that hid behind a corner. It was warm. You had mugs and dishes all distinctive to you sitting beside the sink, magnets and notes on your fridge, and a vase of flowers on the island.

You were only a few years older than Steve, he vaguely remembered you from freshman and sophomore year before you graduated and left his plain of mind until recently.

You didn’t notice Steve while he took in your space, he stood shyly by your fridge watching you.

Steve ached for somewhere of his own and seeing you, whom he’s got to know little by little every shift, everything in the room only made him yearn. Steve saw every hint and reminder of your character and he wasn’t sure if he wanted to live in it or have one of his own.

“Feeling any better?” You finally spoke.

Steve nodded, then gestured to the funny colored glass in your hands.

“It’s definitely not the healthiest reaction to this situation. It’s uh,” you circled the glass in your hand, the ice clinking. “Smirnoff and pineapple juice.”

“I think we’ve had enough of Russia for one day.”

“Would you rather have me go out and get some Bud Light?”

Steve didn’t respond, only a cheeky eyebrow raise. You almost threw a dish towel at his neck. “I’m not being serious!”

“Alright, alright, whatever.” He cheesed despite how badly his face still hurt, “Just pour me a cup, please.”

“Only because you said please.” You smile and drop down from your perch, reaching for another glass and Steve watches you pour two liquids into his cup, then another round into yours.

Steve put the glass to his lips, winced slightly but the burn hurt less than any other part of his body right now.

You both mulled on the silence that settled between you too, over the past month Steve got used to coexisting with you. In silence, in a rush, sometimes in awkward situations. So the deafening silence that grew between you two was more than welcome.

“Hm,” you hummed, putting your glass down. “How hard do you think it’ll be to find a new job?”

Steve almost chuckles, “Honestly, I think that’s the last thing on my mind.”

“Oh? Would you like to pay my rent this month, Harrington?” You shoot at him.

“I’m sure dear old dad won’t notice if some hundreds leave his account, as long as the extra bedroom invite will extend past tonight.”

Maybe it was the alcohol and remains of Russian drugs pumping through his body, but Steve really didn’t know why he said that.

You grimaced, “I don’t know about that.”

It was a joke, laced with bravado, yet the rejection still hit Steve in the chest. Weird.

“We’ll see how you fare with Herzog tonight,” you continued, noticing the silence that followed your response, whilst scratching the black cat's head.

The cat jumped on the kitchen table with ease, a subtle thud as he placed himself in front of Steve, seemingly asking for the same attention from him.

“Right,” Steve spoke quietly, scratching at his forehead.

Your cat seemed to lean into Steve’s touch, eyes closed in a silent satisfaction.

Herzog seemed to agree with Steve's presence, he just hoped you would too.

-

Steve knew he’d rather be here than anywhere else, in a comfortable bed and safe home, yet he still tossed and turned for the past 30 minutes. Only because he spent the first 30 minutes after you both departed for sleep staring up at your ceiling on the brink of a panic attack. Steve was grateful for the few hours of mindless conversation he got from you before that, he smiled more than he expected to after tonight, only ending after you noticed the clock had hit 3:30am.

The constant moving on his body kept him occupied but the panic was still there. Unrelenting and overwhelming. Steve's heart rate just couldn’t settle.

Because he’d been here before, the aftermath of this war with the upside down. It’s over, right? Even though it had ended last time, and then the time before that.

Steve didn’t even know what he was going to do tomorrow, or next week. Or 5 months from now. He has nowhere to go and almost no one to turn to, and now the harsh touch of Russians and supernatural enemies lingers under his skin.

Maybe Steve was still drunk, or just stupid and desperate. But his feet carried him out of his designated extra bedroom and down the hall before he could think, his strides matching the pace of his panicked heart. Then he was in your room, you sat up quickly from the jostle of your doorknob, seemingly just as awake as him.

“Can’t sleep?” You said quietly.

“Yeah, uh—“ reality hit him. Steve felt so beyond stupid, like a pathetic child twisting his hands in front of him. “Nevermind.”

Steve almost bolted back down the hallway before you raised your voice slightly, “Hey, what’s up?”

Breathe in, breathe out.

“Can I sleep in here?” Steve said, pointing to your bed despite how vague he kept his request out of embarrassment.

But you were just as scared as him, so you understood.

“Yeah, yeah, please.” You said, your plea quieter than the rest, a slip up you honestly hoped Steve wouldn't think on too much. You scooted over and opened your comforter for the boy, hands almost shaking.

The left side of your bed sank suddenly, your body naturally coming close to Steve’s, knees knocking his as he settled next to you. He muttered a small ‘sorry’ under his breath.

You both lie on your sides, face to face, eyes open and in a trance. Neither of you really said a word, just gazing at each other while learning how to breathe steadily again.

Steve felt odd, not just the discomfort in his body. He felt comfortable in an unknown way, because this pushed him so far out of his comfort zone at the same time. Steve Harrington had gotten so used to coming home to an empty, cold house after these things. Hurting and alone. Steve never had this option.

And now he’s not sure if he’s ready to go back. And it scared him more than anything.

Seemingly, you had sensed the turmoil in his head.

“I was joking earlier.” You whispered, sounding sleepy. Steve could feel your breath on his lips. “About your extended stay.”

“Are you just saying that because your cat let me give him treats before bed?”

If you weren’t so tired you might have laughed, “No, Steve. I’m serious.”

“It’s okay, you don’t—“

“No, I’m so serious. Steve, if you need a place to stay and sleep or just loiter around, my doors open for you.” You assured him, eyes fluttering from sleep. “I don’t need rent or your dad's money, I know how much you hate that house. After everything we went through, what you have been dealing with since this all started. It’s the least I can do.”

Steve wasn’t sure what to say, he was too focused on trying to steady his heart still. A lump grew in his throat, and soon he felt the prick in his eyes. Oh god, no way he was going to let himself cry right now.

Your eyebrows furrowed in the dark, Steve nodded his head, and swallowed down his emotional uprising. “Thank you,” he sniffled, “that’d be, uh,” sniffled, “Great, yeah, thank you.”

“Don’t get emotional on me, this apartment isn’t that cool.” You teased, eyes closing.

“Herzog—“ Steve still choked on tears, trying to tease but it just came out pathetic. “You know, he’s just so lovable, okay, I’m just feeling a little attached.”

You couldn’t bite back the sleepy grin on your face even if you tried, “shut up, Harrington.”

Steve felt you beaming from only a few inches away, wearing a similar sleepy, boyish grin.

You were falling asleep too, he could hear it in your voice.

Steve noticed now that his chest had calmed and his head stopped pounding. You were so warm and comforting. Steve was barely even touching you, your shin felt on his knee from the way you were curled up.

“Goodnight,” Steve muttered. You hadn’t responded.

Your breathing slowed into a lull of sleep, and Steve soon followed after with a small smile settling on his face as he slept.

“Absolutely not.”

“I didn’t even say anything.”

“And you didn’t need to.” She threw the pen back at him. “Steve, I like girls. Practicing with you would be like… I don’t know, practicing for the spelling bee by playing ping pong. Two completely unrelated skills.”

Steve blinked. “Fair point.”

“And,” she continued, “I’m just as catastrophically bad at dating as you are. Maybe worse. I’d give you the wrong advice and you’d end up alone forever, haunting Family Video like a sad polo-wearing ghost.”

Steve groaned, covering his face. “Great. Amazing. Cool. Perfect.”

Robin patted his shoulder. “You’re welcome.”

He blew out a sigh, shoulder slumping- and then his widened like he’d just had the worst idea of his life. 

“...I could ask Nancy?”

You and Robin both choked on air. 

“NO,” Robin snapped instantly. “No. Absolutely not. That is a multiverse-ending-level bad idea.”

You nodded in agreement. “Steve, you cannot ask your ex to help you date other people.”

He winced, already regretting it. “Okay, yeah, yeah, that sounded bad in my head too.”

Steve ran a hand through his hair, looking embarrassingly close to waving a white flag. “So what am I supposed to do? I need someone honest. Someone who won’t make fun of me the whole time. Someone who actually would give me good pointers.”

He looked around helplessly. 

Then- only then- did he look at you. 

His expression softened. Brightened. Hope flickering behind his eyes. 

And your pulse skipped, then stumbled, then practically face-planted. 

“What about you?” he asked. 

“No way,” you said immediately. Too fast. Too defensive. “Absolutely not.”

“Why not?” he asked, genuinely confused. 

Because I already like you. 

Because fake dating you is basically a death sentence for my heart. 

Because watching you try to get better for someone else will shred me slowly, one date at a time. 

Because I know exactly how this ends - I’ll sit there across from you, trying hard to remember all of this pretend, knowing you’ll eventually use everything you learned on a girl who isn’t me. I’ll be left in aisle four, next to the action movies, with a broken heart that only you can fix. 

Out loud, though, nothing came out. 

Your throat had sealed itself shut. 

Robin leaned her hip against the glass counter, smirking. “Well dingus? Make your case.”

Steve turned fully to you, hopefully and unbearably earnest. 

“You’re honest. You know me. You’ll tell me what I’m doing wrong. And… I trust you.”

The last part hit you like a soft blow to the chest. You were a goner. 

Of course he trusted you. Of course he saw you as safe. And of course he had no idea that the safest place for him was the most dangerous place for your heart. 

You swallowed hard. “This would be strictly practice. You understand that, right? I give you honest feedback, almost like a report card. And that’s it.”

Steve nodded eagerly. “Yes. Totally. No funny business, just practice. A training arc. Like Rocky but… romantic. 

Robin snorted so hard she nearly dropped a tape. 

But Steve wasn’t joking. His smile was boyish and relieved, like someone had tossed him a life raft after he’d nearly accepted drowning. 

“So… Friday?” he asked softly. “Our first test run?”

Your heart was already aching - and yet you smiled anyway.

“Yeah,” you murmured. “Friday.”

Steve pumped his fist and as he beamed at you - warm, grateful, oblivious to the storm he’d just invited into your chest - you knew this was going to hurt. 

–

You shouldn’t have said yes.

That was the first thing you thought as you stared at yourself in the mirror one last time before the first “fake” date. Your stomach churned in anticipation as you smoothed down your clothes. The mirror reflected a version of yourself that looked calm, collected… which was a lie. Your chest tightened every time you thought about Steve; you already liked him. Way too much. And agreeing to fake-date him? Emotional suicide.

But it was too late.

Fuck Steve Harrington and his deep brown eyes and his perfectly coiffed hair.

Steve had insisted on picking you up, suggesting it should be as “realistic” as possible. You wanted to argue that making it realistic was exactly the problem—but then he flashed you that goofy Harrington grin, and that was it. You were doomed.

Your eyes flitted to your watch as you paced in front of the door. He was ten minutes late and it wasn’t helping your anxiety. Just as you were about to call him, you heard a knock that made you jump.

You hurried over, opening it to find him standing there, hands shoved into the pockets of his denim jacket, his hair tousled to perfection. He grinned like he had won some private lottery.

“Hey, Coach,” he said. “Ready for… uh, training?”

“You’re late,” you said deadpan, trying to keep your cool as your heart betrayed you.

Steve scratched the back of his neck, sheepish. “Uh… there was traffic?”

“In Hawkins?” you asked, incredulous.

He paused, then grinned crookedly. “Fine, I couldn’t decide what to wear.”

You exhaled, pinching the bridge of your nose. Of course. You waved off his tardiness although you made a mental note of it. “Where are we going?”

“You’ll love it, it’s a classic.”

The drive over made your stomach twist in ways that had nothing to do with your feelings. Steve had the stereo cranked so loud that every power ballad and synth riff rattled through the car, vibrating your chest and giving your pulse a nervous rhythm. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.

When he pulled into the parking lot, you caught your first glimpse of Benny’s Burgers, far from the hometown diner you would have loved. The place reeked of old grease and something that might have once been cigarette smoke but had since evolved into its own species. The floor was sticky in a way that made your shoes feel unsafe, and men in faded denim jackets sat at the bar, leering in that slow, lazy way that made you pull your coat a little tighter around yourself.

Steve’s grin didn’t falter. “See? Totally chill.”

The waitress waved a notepad at him. Steve didn’t even glance at the menu, “Two burgers, extra pickles, large fries, a chocolate shake with two straws, please.”

You folded your hands in your lap, trying not to think about how this whole night was already a sinking ship. “Classic,” you muttered under your breath.

–

He leaned back in the booth, stretching out like he owned the place, one arm slung over the vinyl seat. The pose would’ve been charming anywhere else. Here, it mostly looked like he was trying very hard not to touch anything sticky. “Man, I haven’t been here since high school. The guys and I used to come after basketball practice. We’d cram like six people into one booth and try to beat the record for the tallest stack of ketchup cups.”

You hummed softly. “Basketball, huh?”

“Oh yeah,” he said, missing your tone entirely. “Basketball, Swim, a little baseball when I felt like it. Coach used to say I could’ve lettered in just about anything if I put in more effort. But, y’know—” He grinned. “—girls were kind of a distraction.”

You fought the urge to roll your eyes. Of course they were.  

He didn’t notice how your smile was strained.

He didn’t notice—the way Steve Harrington never noticed—when your heart pinched.

Instead, he kept talking, oblivious and charming in a way that made your heart ache. 

“Okay,” he said with a grin that was too bright for the dim room. “Oh! Speaking of distractions - Family Video. You know we got some amazing returns lately and we’re running this, like, insane deal on rentals—"

You blinked. “Steve, I literally work there with you.”

“Right.” He laced his fingers together on the table, leaning forward with sheepish enthusiasm. “This lady brought in a bunch of old classics—like black-and-white classics. I kind of recognized the titles because Nancy made me watch some of them back when we were dating.”

Your heartbeat stuttered.

There it was. Her name.

He didn’t even notice he’d said it.

“Yeah, like, uh… Casablanca. Rear Window. That stuff.” He waved a hand. “At the time, I pretended to be bored, but honestly? Some of them were pretty good. Don’t tell Robin or she’ll call me pretentious.”

You swallowed. “They’re… good movies,” you said carefully. Maybe it was a slipup, everyone deserved one mistake, right?

He snapped his fingers. “Exactly! And, like, I don’t know. It’s nice watching stuff that’s not just action and explosions. Nancy really opened my eyes to, like, the artsy side of film,” he finished with a proud smile, completely unaware that the conversation had been slowly siphoning the air out of your lungs.

You nodded, letting your gaze fall to the table. “Right. The artsy side. Makes sense.”

He brightened. “See? You get it!”

You didn’t know if you wanted to bang your head against the table for letting his words tear you apart or bang his head against the table for saying said words. 

The rest of dinner wasn’t any better, then — as if he’d been saving the worst for last — he wiped his hands on a napkin, leaned back, and said, “This is the part where I would ask if my date would want to go back to my place.” 

Your soul left your body.

He held his hands up fast. “But not—not you. Because this is training. And I wouldn’t, like, hit on you. Obviously.”

Obviously.

You pasted on a smile. “Good call.”

He grinned.

You wanted to scream. You didn’t know if you hated that Steve didn’t see you as worthy enough to ask him back to his place or the fact that he used this move on other girls. 

The check arrived. You reached for your wallet. Steve, to his credit, did slap his hand over yours.

“No way — I’ve got it.”

Which would have been nice, if he hadn’t immediately followed it with:

“…Because obviously none of this is real or anything.”

Your smile tightened like a noose.

When you finally slid out of the booth, you felt dirty. Not in a fun way. In a why did the floor do that to my shoes? kind of way.

–

When he pulled up to your apartment, he flashed you that signature Harrington smile.

“So,” he said, hopeful, “be honest. How’d I do?”

You inhaled slowly. “Steve,” you said, steady, sure, “I didn’t even take my coat off.”

His face went blank with confusion.

You continued before he could say anything,“That’s how uncomfortable I was. I kept my coat on in a heated restaurant because men were staring at me and you didn’t notice.”

His expression collapsed slightly. Not dramatically. Just enough.

“And that’s not even the start of it,” you added gently but firmly. “You were late. You didn’t ask a single thing about me. You talked about Nancy—not vaguely, not accidentally—by name. Multiple times.”

He winced.

“And then you mentioned taking girls home,” you finished softly, “and made sure I knew I wasn’t one of them.”

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

“I—I didn’t mean it like that.”

“I know,” you said, and you did. He wasn’t cruel. Just oblivious. “But the thing is, Steve, dates are about presence. Not just showing up, but actually being there. Being aware. Being with the person you’re taking out.”

He stared at you with something that looked like regret, like dawning realization, like he was watching a reel of mistakes he didn’t realize he’d made.

“So,” he whispered, “that’s…an F?”

“That’s an F,” you confirmed.

He slumped in his seat, rubbing his hands over his face. “Shit.”

You reached for the door handle.

“But,” you added gently, “you’ll do better next time. That’s the whole point.”

When you stepped out, closing the door behind you, you knew three things with absolute certainty:

He would do better.

And when he does get better you’re going to fall apart completely.

And even after everything tonight—after the staring men and the Nancy slip-ups and the obliviousness— you still liked him. Maybe even more than before. More than what you considered safe.

–

Steve was early this time.

Not dramatically early, not flowers-before-sunrise early, but early in the way that showed he tried — really tried — to get this one right. He waited outside your building, leaning against his BMW with his hands in his pockets, bouncing lightly on his heels like he was psyching himself up for a job interview.

He gave you a bright, almost relieved smile when you stepped outside. “Hey Coach, you look nice,” he said, gently, causing a warm flicker in your chest.

The place Steve picked this time was an upgrade. Not a wow Steve Harrington has cracked the dating code kind of upgrade, but there were actual table cloths, steady lights, and families instead of men who looked like they collected DUIs the same way some collected stamps.

When he saw you shrug your coat off, you heard him murmur to himself, “See? Better already,” almost like he was checking boxes off on an invisible clipboard.

Steve pulled out your chair for you, and the surprise almost knocked you over more than the gesture itself.

“You good?” he asked, grinning like he knew he’d earned a gold star.

“Yeah,” you murmured, cheeks warming despite yourself. “Just… polite. Very unlike you.”

He made a wounded noise. “I can be polite!”

Menus open. Drinks ordered. The first ten minutes were lovely, you’re in “small talk territory,” which should be safe. 

But then the conversation just… tanked.

“So,” you began, giving him an easy opening, “how was work today?”

“Fine.”

You blinked. “Fine… how?”

He shrugged. “Just fine.”

Silence spread across the tabletop like spilled ink. You tried again.

“Did you and Robin ever fix the VCR rewinder that kept eating tapes?”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah… as in…?”

“Fixed.”

Your eye twitched.

Okay. Fine. Not all men were conversational juggernauts.

He drummed his fingers on the table. You wondered briefly if you slipped into a parallel universe where Steve Harrington forgot how to speak to women.

You tried again. “Any weird customers today?”

“No.”

No elaboration. No story. Nothing.

Your brain went flat. Airy. Almost amused.

He’s trying—but dear God, was he boring tonight.

You picked at your napkin. “So… movies. Anything good come through the store today?”

“Yeah.”

You exhaled in relief.

“We got a drop-off of older movies the other day. You know—black-and-white stuff.”

“That’s cool,” you said. “Did anything catch your eye?”

 “Mm.”

The waitress arrived just in time with your food. You would’ve kissed her hand if it hadn’t been for her smile - a little too sparkly, a little too Hi, I’d like to sit on your lap. She rested her hand on Steve’s shoulder when she set down his drink and leaned a little too far when she asked if you needed anything else.

And Steve Harrington — without even noticing — turned on that effortless charm. Not flirty on purpose. Just… Steve. The Harrington Effect. She practically glowed.

He grinned too wide. Sat up straighter. Gave her that easy, golden-boy attention he wasn’t even aware he was giving.

Meanwhile, you sat there hoping you were back at Benny’s, At least the waitress there knew how to keep her hands to herself.

God. What a sentence.

How had your life gotten here?

You forced a smile at your food, pretty certain that the couple at the next table thought you’re the third wheel.

–

The meal itself was fine. Pleasant. Easy. Steve was a gentleman in all the mechanical ways—doors, chairs, napkins, the check—but not in the ways that required intention. He asked about your day, but he didn’t follow up when you answered. He smiled at your jokes, but only after a beat. His attention was here, but not anchored here.

By the time he pulled up to your building, you were both quiet. He tapped the roof of the car and glanced at you with that hopeful grin.

“I guess this is the end, right?” he asked.

You raised an eyebrow. “You aren’t even going to walk your date to the door?”

Steve’s eyes widened. He rubbed the back of his neck, sheepish. “Uh… sorry. I… I’m an idiot sometimes.”

You chuckled softly. “Sometimes?”

“Okay, all the time,” he admitted with a shrug, the corners of his mouth twitching like he was holding back a grin.

You shook your head, smiling. “You’ve got to be careful around people like me. I hold grudges.”

He leaned back against the car, crossing his arms mock-seriously. “People like you? Dangerous types?”

“Extremely dangerous,” you said, poking his arm playfully.

“Noted,” he said with a grin. Then he tilted his head, mock-curious. So… uh…Better than last time, right?”

You exhaled slowly. “It wasn’t bad, Steve.”

His face lit up — prematurely.

“But…” you added gently.

He froze.

“This is a C. A low C. Like… C-plus on a curve.”

He looked wounded, like you’d taken a bat to the King Steve ego he swore he no longer had. “What? Why?”

You tilted your head at him. “Steve, you didn’t even come to my door before or after the date, and you flirted with the waitress more than you talked to me.”

“What? I didn’t—” He stopped. Brow furrowing. “Was I? I swear I wasn’t flirting.”

“I know you weren’t intentionally flirting,” you said. “But some girls might not be okay with… all that.”

Steve rubbed the back of his neck. “Okay, yeah. Fair.”

“And the date was just… bland,” you said finally. “Very not-you, you didn’t tell any real stories, you didn’t— I don’t know — open up. Honestly… you were kind of boring”

He winced. ““Boring? I— I was trying to be normal.”

“Don’t look so shocked,” you interrupted, “We talked about the weather like four times Steve.”

“I didn’t wanna screw it up. I wanted to be a better version of myself. So I figured… fewer words equals fewer screwups? I didn’t mean to be boring.”

You stared at him.

“That is not how talking works.”

He groans, throwing his head back. “Okay, okay, noted.”

“That Steve,” you said, gesturing vaguely toward him, “at the restaurant, the one who was quiet, careful, trying to be perfect? That’s not you. Your personality is the best part of you - the Steve who’s ridiculous and charming and makes people laugh without even trying. Don’t lose him. Anyone would consider themselves lucky to date the real you.”

He blinked at you. “Really?”

“Really,” you said, smiling. “When I told you to ‘stop talking about yourself’ on the first date? I didn’t mean you should change who you are. I meant… also get to know your date, too. Not replace yourself.”

Steve’s grin widened, the kind that made your chest twist and ache in equal measure. “Got it. Be myself. And pay attention.”

“Exactly,” you said, laughing. “That’s all anyone could ever ask for, don’t be too hard on yourself. A C is still passing, mediocre, but passing. Just keep in mind that not every girl is okay with mediocre.”

“I’ll do better than mediocre next time.” he promised. 

As you closed your door, you thought—Steve Harrington, in all his messy, oblivious, charming glory, was far too dangerous for your heart.

–

You weren’t supposed to look forward to the third “date”.

You told yourself after last week, you were going to turn off your emotions and stop letting your heart fling itself against Steve. But then he knocked -exactly on time this time- holding the most beautiful bouquet. 

He smiled sheepishly, boyishly. “Uh… these are for you. I don’t know what any of them are called but the lady said they were pretty.”

Your heart stuttered, the warmth in your chest almost searingly painful. “Thank you, they’re really pretty.”

“So are you,” he said shyly. His eyes widened—like he hadn’t meant to say it out loud—but he didn’t take it back either. He just scratched the back of his neck, cheeks pink, and motioned toward the car.

Steve’s car rumbles down the quiet road, headlights cutting through the dusky gold of late afternoon. You hadn’t expected mellow music - not for him at least. Not from the guy whose tapes were usually a rotation of upbeat pop and hair-band rock. 

You glanced at him. “You, uh… switched up your playlist,” you said, trying to keep your voice casual. 

Steve shrugged, eyes still on the road. “Yeah. Though you might like it a bit more.”

Your chest tugged as you stared out the window so he wouldn’t see your face soften too much. 

The rest of the drive stayed quiet - but not awkward. Just warm. Comfortable in a way that made your nerves flutter in excitement rather than dread. 

Twenty minutes later, Steve turned into a parking lot and cut the engine. You blinked looking around the familiar sign. “Steve… the museum?”

He only smiled, shy but a little proud. “You told me once - that day Keith made us reorganize the entire sci-fi section - that you hadn’t been back since our elementary school field trip. And how you always meant to come back, but something always came up.”

You stared at him in awe. He remembered that? You barely remembered saying it. 

Steve rubbed the back of his neck. “I, uh… though it’d be a good place. Figured it was about time you make new memories.”

You didn’t know what to say, at least not at first. Because no one ever picked dates based on something you said offhandedly. No one bothered to remember the small, throwaway things you said to pass the time at work.

But Steve had. 

“Steve,” you whispered, almost breathless, “this is perfect.”

His smile turned soft, not charming, not cool - just… real. 

“Good,” he murmured, opening his door. “C’mon. I wanna show you something inside.”

You followed him through the museum’s towering front doors, your steps echoing across the marble floors.

Inside, the air was cool and still, dust motes floating lazily in the streams of light from the skylights. The familiar childhood awe tugged at your chest — but something else tugged harder.

Because Steve Harrington looked completely at home here.

Like he’d been waiting for this more than he let on.

“You come here a lot?” you teased.

He shoved his hands in his pockets, almost bashful.“Uh… maybe.”

Your brows shot up. 

He huffed a laugh. “Okay, yeah. I mean, not like a lot a lot. Just… sometimes. It’s quiet. And kinda cool. And—”He paused in front of a display of old astronomical instruments, glancing sideways at you.“I like knowing stuff,” he said, almost awkwardly. “Real stuff. Not just… whatever people think I’m supposed to know.”

You stepped closer to him without even thinking.

“What’s your favorite thing here?” you asked softly.

That lit him up.

“Ooh. Okay. Come here — look.” He guided you toward a huge bronze armillary sphere.“This thing,” he said, hands animated, “I used to think it was just a big metal ball, but it’s actually like— it maps the sky? The stars? Sort of like a 3D calendar but cooler.”

You blinked. He wasn’t fumbling his words. He wasn’t pretending.

He knew this.

And he liked it.

“You’re kind of a nerd,” you whispered, unable to stop the stunned smile spreading across your face.

Steve flushed immediately. “Okay, wait—”

“No,” you laughed, “a cute nerd.”

He froze.

Blinking.

Processing.

Then that slow, shy smile — the one he never used on anyone else — spread across his face.

“Well… then maybe I don’t mind being a nerd,” he said quietly. “If it gets that smile out of you.”

Your heart tripped in your chest. And as you wandered deeper into the exhibits, it got harder and harder to tell the difference between real and pretend. 

He asked questions — real ones. He listened, not the “waiting for his turn to talk” kind of listening. The real kind.

He told you stories too — not the polished King Steve ones. The honest ones.

How he wasn’t sure who he was supposed to be anymore.

You watched him rub the back of his neck, embarrassed.“I don’t know,” he murmured, fiddling with a brochure. “I think… I’m still figuring stuff out. Who I am now. What I want. Some days I think I’ve got it, and then other days…” He exhaled slowly. “…yeah.”

Your chest tightened in a soft, aching way.

“Steve,” you said quietly, “you’re allowed to figure things out.”

He looked up at you like no one had ever said that to him before.

Like it mattered.

Like you mattered.

“Sorry,” he muttered. “That was… a lot.”

“It wasn’t,” you murmured. “It was real.”

He smiled — small, shy, tender.

Something inside you unspooled so gently it almost hurt.

And he made you laugh. Really laugh. The helpless kind.Every time he did, he looked proud, like your laughter was a rare collectible he’d spent years trying to find.

Somewhere between the mellow music in his car, the dusty halls, the way he remembered offhand comments from months ago…

You realized:

You were in trouble.

Because Steve Harrington wasn’t trying to impress you. He was showing you who he really was.

And you were falling for him anyway.

–

Steve insisted on opening the car door for you again when he drove you home, which would’ve felt old-fashioned coming from anyone else… but from him it just felt sweet. Gentle. Like he actually wanted to.

The quiet hum of the streetlights filled the space between you as you walked up the path toward your front door. Neither of you talked. Neither of you needed to. The whole night had been full — full of laughter, full of stories, full of things that felt too important to ruin with small talk now.

When you reached the step, you turned to face him.

Steve stood a little too close, hands stuffed in his jacket pockets, shoulders slightly hunched like he was trying to make himself smaller. His eyes flicked over your face, then down to your shoes, then back up again — nervous. Really nervous.

Not King Steve. Just… Steve.

He cleared his throat. “So, uh… I had a really good time tonight.”

You smiled, soft and real. “Me too.”

His breath caught. It was so quiet you almost didn’t hear it.

He rocked back on his heels. “Can I—” He stopped, tried again. “Can I kiss you?”

Your heart cracked clean down the middle.

Because you wanted to. God, you wanted to.

But it wasn’t real. Not to him. Not the way it was to you.

Still, you nodded.

“Yes,” you whispered. “You can.”

Steve stepped forward, slow like he was afraid you’d disappear. His hand lifted, hesitated, then gently cupped your cheek. His thumb brushed your cheekbone, feather-light.

And then he kissed you.

It started soft — questioning, almost chaste — but when you exhaled against his mouth, he leaned in, deepening it just slightly, just enough to make your knees weaken. His other hand slid to your waist, holding you steady, like he couldn’t help it.

It felt like a promise.

It felt like possibility.

It felt like everything you’d secretly wanted.

And it meant nothing.

When he finally pulled back, the cool night air rushed between you.

Steve looked dazed.

Really dazed.

His eyes dropped to your lips, then lifted again, searching your face as though he was trying to memorize it.

“Same time next week?” he asked, voice low, hopeful.

Your stomach twisted painfully.

You forced a laugh — light, breezy, like your chest wasn’t cracking apart. “No. I think you’ll be okay.” You tapped his arm gently, teasing even through the ache. “That was at least an A-. Consider yourself graduated.”

Something flickered across his face — surprise, confusion. Like he’d genuinely forgotten this was supposed to be fake.

But then he blinked, straightened, and the mask slipped back into place.

“Oh. Right. Yeah.” He rubbed the back of his neck, trying to play it off. “Sure. Graduation. Cool.”

You smiled like it didn’t kill you.

“Goodnight, Steve.”

“Goodnight.”

You stepped inside, closed the door quietly behind you. And the second it latched, your back hit the wood and your legs gave out. You slid down the door until you were sitting on the floor, pressing a hand over your mouth to muffle the sound.

But the sob still clawed out of you.

Because no matter how sweet he’d been — no matter how gentle, how real, how warm the night felt —it wasn’t real for him.

Not the way it was for you.

And that was the part that hurt the most.

–

Steve didn’t sleep that night.

Not really.

He laid in bed staring at the ceiling, replaying every second of the night like he was afraid letting it fade would make it unreal.

The museum. Your hands brushing. The way you looked at him when he talked—not confused, not bored, not judging.

Just… seeing him.

And the kiss. Jesus. He could still feel the tremor in your breath, the way you’d leaned in like you didn’t want it to end.

He didn’t know what the hell was wrong with him. He just knew that when you told him he didn’t need another fake date… something inside him had fallen out. Perhaps his heart. 

The idea of not seeing you again—not seeing you like that—made his stomach twist painfully. And somewhere between midnight and dawn, he realized something that shook him so hard he sat upright:

He missed you.

Not the version of you from the fake dates.

You.

He itched to grab the phone and call you. The only thing stopping him was that you deserved a good night of sleep. Little did he know, a few streets down, you were caught in a similar dilemma—sobbing into your pillow until exhaustion finally claimed you, dragging you into a restless sleep. 

–

The next morning right as the clock struck eight, Steve called you, forcing you into the reality of headaches and heartbreak.

“Hey,” Steve said, voice too bright, almost jittery. “I… I need your help again.”

You blinked, still trying to clear the fog from your head. “With what?”

“There’s this girl,” he said. “I like her. And I wanna ask her out… the right way this time. She’s… different.”

Your stomach dropped like it had just been punched. “Oh.”

“Yeah,” he said, a little too fast, like he was trying to fill the silence. “And I want it to be perfect. I just… I need someone who can help me figure it out.”

You swallowed hard, your throat tight. You shouldn’t be doing this. You shouldn’t be helping him plan a date for someone else, but your fingers itched to pick up the phone, to hear him. Because even in heartbreak, it was him. Always him.

“What kind of date are you thinking?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Something… meaningful,” he said. “Thoughtful. Quiet. Nothing crazy. What would be your perfect date?”

And because you were a masochist, because a part of you still loved him more than your own self-preservation allowed, you told him exactly what you’d dreamed of once upon a time:“Something quiet. A picnic under the stars. Lowkey, but special.”

There was a pause on the line. Then, softly, “Got it.”

Got it.

Your chest twisted. He got it.

There was a pause, and then he said, almost nervously, “Could… could you come by Lover’s Lake around six? I… I need your help setting it up.”

You hesitated. Your mind screamed at you not to go, not to put yourself through it. But the sound of his voice, the way he was holding himself so carefully on the other end of the line, made you falter.

“I… I don’t know, Steve,” you murmured.

“I get it,” he said quickly, like he was afraid you’d say no. “But… please? I can’t do it without you. I just… I really want it to be right.”

Your fingers itched to hang up, to run away from this mess of feelings. But another part of you—the part that had been hopelessly tangled in him since day one—softened.

“Okay,” you said finally, your voice quiet, reluctant. “Six.”

“Thanks,” he said, relief softening every syllable. “See you then.”

And just like that, the call ended, leaving your chest aching with a mix of dread and something else, something you couldn’t name, as you braced yourself for whatever awaited at Lover’s Lake.

–

When you arrived at Lover’s Lake, your steps slowed. The air was cool, the water reflecting the faint pink of the setting sun, but your chest felt tight, like someone had pressed a fist against it. You had expected to help him—maybe lay out blankets, arrange candles, set up a little picnic—but what you saw stopped you cold. 

The blankets were already spread. Lanterns were softly glowing along the edges. A wicker basket sat ready, your favorite snacks peeking out as if someone had peeked into your private thoughts. 

And Steve… Steve was standing there, just beyond the blanket, hands shoved nervously into his pockets, shoulders tight, eyes flicking to you every few seconds like he was afraid you’d vanish if he looked too long. 

You couldn’t breathe. “This…” you whispered, voice trembling. “Steve… what’s going on? I thought you needed help – I… ” 

Steve shifted, hands twitching in his pockets, avoiding your gaze for a moment. He swallowed, a nervous sound that made your stomach twist. “I didn’t know how to say it. I didn’t know until last night, when… when you said you were done. I just… I couldn’t stop thinking about you. About how you looked at the museum. About how you laughed. About how… kissing you felt.” He took a shaky breath, voice low. “Like… everything.” 

You felt dizzy. Floating. Heart caught somewhere between hope and fear. 

“I like you,” he said simply. “I think I’ve been liking you for a while. And I’m sorry I didn’t see it sooner. I’m sorry I made you grade me like a report card just to figure out how to be good for you.” 

Your pulse roared in your ears. Every nerve in your body screamed, but your feet moved anyway, bringing you closer, hesitant, afraid of what would happen if you got too near. “Steve,” a shaky laugh slipped out of your lips.

He took a careful step closer, lifting your chin gently with his fingers. “Can I kiss you?” he murmured, soft, tentative. 

“Yes,” you whispered, breathless. And when he kissed you, it wasn’t practice. It wasn’t fake. It wasn’t a graded exercise. 

It was Steve, warm and real and entirely yours. When he finally pulled back, forehead resting against yours, he grinned, wide enough to make your chest ache. “I can’t believe you said yes after all those crappy dates.” 

You snorted, wiping a stray tear from his cheek. “But I liked those crappy dates.” 

“Why?” 

“Because they were with you.” You smiled, soft, certain. 

Steve choked out a laugh, relief and affection lighting up his whole face. “Well,” he whispered, pulling you closer again, “good news then.” He kissed you again, deeper this time, and murmured against your lips, “Because from now on… they’re real.”