hi friends

As Steve gazes over himself he realises how badly in love he is with Y/n. Badly.

Sure, Steve is far from caring about his reputation of High School’s King Steve ever since he placed that tormenting Scoops Ahoy hat atop his head and had to sling ice cream while his peers ventured off to college. However, Steve thought this was a step down, even for him; world’s best babysitter.

Jennifer Grey could arrive to the little town in Hawkin’s and ask poor Steve to wear the exact same outfit and he would have even refused her, his celebrity crush. But the sweet grin Y/n wore as she handed over one of the aerobic workout costumes that are already gravely going out of style, and telling him she has a matching outfit for the Halloween party, Steve could only muster up a smile and hide his embarrassment to please her.

Pink tight leggings and a green contrasting leotard, Steve knew after tonight he was going to never leave the house again. How could Y/n ever want to date him after this? Did she not think it was the most unattractive thing she could see her boyfriend in? What happened to simple Maverick from Top Gun?

His large house empty as he got ready, Steve could hear the echo of the front door slam as Y/n entered, “Stevie! I’m here!” Disapproving glances in the mirror as Steve tried to not ruin his hair while adjusting the headband, he shouts, “I’ll be two seconds, just wait there!”

After a second he continues while groaning and adjusting it uncomfortably, “please… if you don’t mind.” He wasn’t thinking straight as he looks at the ridiculous outfit. But finally pulling himself away from the mirror, he flips the leg warmers up his legging-covered shins and old stingy-sneakers to accommodate.

He looks ridiculous, not a soul, especially Robin, was ever going to let Steve live this down, he knew that. His crotch was uncomfortable against the material, tight and short and the leggings enclosed his thighs and Steve wishes the ground would open up and swallow him hole so he didn’t need to go to this stupid Halloween Party.

But when Y/n shouts his name from downstairs again, Steve remembers why he’s putting himself through this. It was for Y/n. It was only a stupid Halloween party where half the people will be dressed as Maverick, some Ferris Bueller and maybe The Karate Kid here and there was always people who dressed as ridiculous as he was right now, sometimes worse.

Steve also knew Eddie was going as the stupid Cousin Itt from the weird 60s show Steve always quickly flipped past whenever it was on. So, he wouldn’t look as bad as Eddie planned, who wanted to stand out from the crowd as usual.

If Steve looked in the mirror for much longer, he would inevitably dig a large hole of regret and discontentment, leading him to back out of his decisions and disappoint his poor awaiting girlfriend. So, he decides to tear himself away and go where Y/n patiently waited downstairs.

“Baby?” Steve speaks from the top of steps, hearing her rustle around before her muffled voice speaks while she stands from the living-room couch, “coming, handsome!”. She’s not going to call me that after she sees the state I am, Steve thinks.

He stops in the middle of the flight of stairs hesitantly, trying to assure Y/n before she finally sees him, “okay, you can’t laugh at me, yeah? I feel like an idiot, Y/n.” She giggles while leaning against the archway between the living space and cold hallway, packet of cookies she’s stolen from the kitchen cupboard in one hand, “I’d never dream of it.”

“See, you say that, just wait until you see me.”

Y/n rolls her eyes at her dramatic boyfriend, of course only Steve Harrington would make an innocent Halloween get-together seem like a horrid event he was dragged to out of his will. “You’re such a drama queen, come here so I can kiss you and we can go to this thing.”

With a sigh, Steve pulls himself begrudgingly down the remaining steps, coming into view as they both look at one another. Y/n adorns a matching neon aerobic outfit and Steve curses to himself at the fact she pulls it off. Already does Steve realise she looks ten times better than any of the woman in aerobic classes he “glanced” at while working in the mall before they dated.

Steve knows he will look so stupid next to her.

“Why does it look good on you, baby? I don’t get it,” asks Steve once he’s reached the floor, stepping in front of Y/n and eyeing her knowingly when she uses the back of her hand to cough into when a small piece of chocolate went down the wrong way, eyes stuck on his Halloween outfit.

Y/n was holding her laughter for his pride, which only made Steve hate this even more.

Steve’s thick thighs covered with pink material threatening to almost rip, despite it being his size. Cute fluffy leg warmers upon his calves and the graze area of chest hair peeking from the top-half of the outfit, broad shoulders on display contrasting with the neon.

“And why do you look so cute?” Y/n responds teasingly, reaching over with one hand to slide across the nylon material of his chest and he’s already groaning disapprovingly, “don’t make fun of me, this was your idea, y’know.”

Steve ushers the cookie packet out of Y/n’s hand to sit on the sideboard by the wall before gripping her hands to pull her towards him, leaning down to watch her expression which is filled with an amusing glint in her eye and a held smile threatening to tug the corners of her lips.

Instead of speaking, Y/n only shakes her head as her lips quiver, corners turning upwards only slightly but more than enough for Steve to notice. “It’s very uncomfortable. I mean I feel like I’m on show, nothing really covering me,” Steve continues, quickly gesturing to his middle section.

There was a yellow hoodie tied loosely around Y/n’s waist, and she pulls from Steve’s reluctant hands while his fingers yearn to fidget with hers for a minute more. “Here,” she ushers, untying the loop to then swing it around her boyfriend’s small waist instead.

Steve only watches with a more defeated gaze, strands of his hair floating over his face as he watches her tie it around him, the cuffs of the knotted sleeves falling against his body and he only scrunches his face when they look at one another again.

“That only draws more attention, baby, but thank you.” Steve kisses her forehead before tilting his chin down to try and coax Y/n into a proper kiss, trying to pry her lips open as she responds briefly with a sweet smile before pulling away.

Steve groans when she takes a step away from him, chasing lips changing to face the ceiling as his head falls back, “I want a good look at my handsome aerobic partner.” Steve feels Y/n’s eating this situation up too well, knowing how much he hates this but also how easy it was for her to convince him.

Opening his closed eyes and flopping his head forward, hair bouncing, Steve stares when she giggles, outwardly and not exactly quietly enough to keep her boyfriend’s pride. “Baby,” Steve tries, opening his arms to try and usher her back into his embrace.

Maybe, just maybe, if he was lucky enough he could kiss her dizzily until she agrees they can stay in and he can take this god-awful costume off and watch a scary movie with her instead. Give her a pair of his own sweatpants and sweatshirt to cosy into and forget about the whole night they almost got themselves into.

Y/n falls forward, hands sliding up his bare extended arms and back up to his chest while Steve wraps his arms around her, watching her giggle with his own fond yet defeated smile, eyes lighting up at the sound.

Her head falls forward, landing on her hands placed across his chest, emitting louder laughter in hopes her hidden face can muffle the sounds, “Y/n.” With a sharp inhale at attempts to keep from continuing, she looks up at Steve and holds a hand to his cheek softly, “you look ridiculous, I love it.”

“Only for you, honey.”

Steve indulges in the warm feeling or her hand on his cheek, her thumb stroking over the two small, dotted freckles upon the skin, the only sense of solace he’ll find for the next few hours. One of his own hands fall lower down her back, gently landing across her bum which also feels on show due to the cheap material. Steve knew he’ll be ushering the hoodie back over Y/n’s waist in no time.

With a light tap, and a peck to her lips, Steve reluctantly pulls away with a small, “c’mon, let’s go. The faster we’re there, the faster we leave.” As if he can’t fret to pull away completely from her, attached to her side for tonight, Steve weaves his hand down her arm and entwining their fingers tightly together while grabbing the keys from the sideboard with his free hand.

Y/n follows, grabbing the cookie packet and shaking them in front of Steve as they walk toward his front door, “want one? they might help you feel better.” With a smirk, Steve nods and takes one from the box, a muffled voice through the crumble, “you mean, my stolen cookies? I’ll take the rest to help.”

⤸

taglist form . the library . steve harrington masterlist

It went both ways, though. Steve found you irritating and he hated that you had the same group of friends now. Because it meant he had to be around you almost all the time.

He wasn’t aware, however, that you struggled in school to have friends that weren’t Nancy, and when they dated, he sort of took her away from you, cut your time with her and you were alone a lot. Logically, it’s not his fault, but it’s how you felt. He didn’t know that you had a hard time at home like he did.

Maybe, for both of you, the feud was an escape, a way to channel your negative energy towards each other and not anyone or anything else.

After graduating, you applied for a job at Family Video, only for it to be taken by none other than Steve Harrington. You knew Robin worked there, too, but she was actually your friend.

That left you with a job at the grocery store that you hated but had to keep. It sucked.

Again, maybe it’s not his fault, but you were usually mad at him anyways. Why not add another layer to it?

On your days off, you spent your time at Family Video, though. You didn’t like being at home, and Nancy was still busy with high school for another year, so you hung out with Robin. Unfortunately, hanging out with Robin often meant hanging out with Steve, too.

That’s where you found yourself now, walking through the glass doors into the video store.

“Hi Robin,” you said as you walked up to the counter.

“Hey!” She noticed the takeout bag in your hand, “oh my gosh, you’re the best.”

“No hi for me, babe?”

“Fuck off, Steve.”

He scoffed. “This is my workplace, actually. I can't leave.”

“Yeah, I’m painfully aware of that.”

“Why don’t you ever just go home? You don’t need to be here.”

You tense up at that one, because he’s right. You don’t need to be there, but the last place you want to go is home these days. You roll your shoulders and try to shake it off.

“Anyway. Robin’s taking her break now. Bye.”

Robin just shrugs as you pull her away into the back room.

Steve is left thinking about why you reacted that way to what he said. It wasn’t the worst thing he’s said to you by far, and he knows it, so why was it enough to make you wince a little? And why the fuck does he care?

Once you were alone Robin glanced at you. Noting your off behaviour due to the home comment. She hates that two of her closest friends don’t get along, and she thinks she has a plan to change that.

“He doesn’t know,” she says. “About…you know.”

“Yeah, I know.” And you did, but that didn’t stop it from stinging. You just wanted to stop thinking about it. “So, how’s work going?”

“Ugh, it’s so boring. This food helps.”

“Not even my presence? Just the food?”

“Oh. You’re okay too, I guess.”

The both of you laugh, and you’re reminded of just how great Robin’s company can be. She takes your mind off of things and you wish you could show her how much you appreciate it.

So, when she asks you if you want to go catch a movie that night, you say yes.

-

You show up a little early, making sure you meet Robin outside before the movie starts.

However, she wasn’t showing up. And Robin wasn’t the type to be late, or blow you off without an excuse. So, you just went inside without her. You wandered around for a bit, giving her another chance to show up but she never did.

A call of your name grabbed your attention, but the voice made you roll your eyes. Why was Steve here?

“What are you doing here, babe?”

People would think the nickname was an endearment, something sweet. When it was coming from Steve, directed at you, though, it was almost like an insult. Spat out and accompanied by a frown of an angry pinch of his brows.

“Supposed to meet Robin, not that it’s any of your business.”

He chuckles, like he knows something you don’t. “Actually, it is my business. ‘Cause I was supposed to meet Robin, too.”

“She’s gonna be the death of me.”

“That’s something we can agree on.”

She must’ve thought putting you two together unknowingly would solve the issues. It certainly wasn’t that simple, but bless her for trying.

“Well. I’m not gonna give up some popcorn and a movie, Steve.”

“Neither am I. I’m already here, so…”

He wasn’t going to leave? Why? You really didn’t think seeing the latest rom-com would interest him, but then again, Robin got him here somehow. She thought she was so slick, you’re sure of it.

“Fine.”

“Fine,” he parrots back.

You get your snacks and go to the screening room, all without talking to Steve. You’re actually trying to ignore his presence as a whole. He’s trailing behind you the entire time, though, so it’s not that easy. When you sit down, he sits beside you, and you glare.

“Why are you beside me?”

“It’s the seat on my ticket, babe. Where else would I go?”

“Seriously? Do you see the amount of empty seats?” You gestured around the theatre to prove your point.

In return, he just leaned back in his seat and let out a dramatic sigh, like it was the most comfortable he’d been all day when you know the seats are lumpy and stiff. You turn your face to the screen and go back to ignoring him.

He was a dork at the movies, you found. And it hadn’t even started.

Steve giggled at the stupidest commercials, would nudge you anytime he found a joke funny just to annoy you more. He ate his popcorn in giant handfuls where most of it would just land in his lap anyway. You even moved seats, leaving two between you and him, and he just moved over with you.

Fucking Steve.

“Would you move back over?”

“But the view’s so much better here.”

“Insufferable,” you mutter as you move back to your original seat. He tries to follow again but you push him back down with a hand on his chest, you ignore how it feels under your palm. “Stay here like a good boy.”

His heart rate picks up and he prays you can’t feel it. He kinda thought that was hot, but he shakes it out of his head before he thinks about it too much, what it might mean. He looks at you from under his lashes, taunting. “What if I wanna be bad, babe?”

You stand up fully and take your hand off of him. You don’t know if the comment was meant to sound so dirty, but you don’t even want to think about it. The idea of Steve in any way that’s more than a pain in your ass makes you shudder. The opening credits of the film grab your attention.

“You stay here. I’m gonna go there.” You don’t give him enough time to respond.

He watches you walk away, and he decides he’ll let you have at least some peace until he goes over and bothers you again. He’s itching to go and sit next to you, and he convinces himself it’s because of his pent up frustration from the work day, nothing else. You’re the only one he can argue with that will give it right back to him. He hates it, but he craves it all the same.

It’s about halfway through the movie when Steve sits next to you again. You shake your head, though you're surprised he waited this long.

“Thought I told you to stay,” you whisper rather aggressively at him.

“Yeah, well I don’t think you really hold any authority over me, babe.”

“Nobody trained you as a kid to listen?”

“You’re talking like I’m a dog.”

“Might as well be.”

He scoffed, maybe a little loudly, but he didn’t care. You tested him constantly, and he wasn’t sure what it was about you that made him so frustrated all of the time. Maybe it was the fact that you never even gave him a chance to be civil with you, staring him down and rolling your eyes the first time you even met. Maybe it was the way he knew you were a good friend to others, he saw it with Robin and Nancy and everyone else, just not him.

Either way, you made his blood boil, so much so that he often thought about you when you weren’t around. The things you’d say and the looks you’d give him. You never left his mind and it infuriated him.

“You’re a real pain, you know that?”

“That's all you got for me, Steve?” You blinked at him with an innocent smile.

“You know-” he’s cut off by multiple people in the theatre shushing him.

“I tried to tell him, guys. So sorry.”

Despite people telling you to be quiet, you and Steve only last about two minutes next to each other before whisper-fighting again. It gets bad enough that you’re asked to leave.

As much as you know you’re both at fault, you feel fine blaming him.

“Seriously, Steve?” You spoke harshly at him once you’re outside. “You couldn’t just stay two seats away and let me watch the damn movie?”

“I didn’t want to watch it, so I talked to you instead. What’s so bad about that?”

“Oh don’t play innocent with me.”

“Fine. No, I couldn’t. You piss me off and I just wanted to hangout with Robin, not deal with you yet again today.”

“You’re not dealing with me. I can deal with myself, and I wanted to be with Robin too, asshole. Don’t get that twisted.”

“Trust me. You never let me fucking forget how little you want to be around me.”

“Because this is what happens!” You’re tired, and you don’t feel like arguing with him anymore. “Fuck this, I’m going home. Thanks for ruining my night, Harrington.”

He almost offers you a ride home. He knows you took the bus, you usually do. And he also knows that you hate the bus, he hears you say it to Robin enough. Then, he thinks about sitting next to you for longer and decides against it.

“Ditto,” he spits your name back at you. Not ‘babe,’ not any other nickname.

-

Once you're home and safely in your room, after the usual shit from your parents, you dial Robin’s number. She picks up on the third ring.

“Heyyy,” she sounds guilty, and she should.

“I’m gonna end you, Robs. What the hell?”

“I’m sorry! I just wanted you and Steve to get along and I thought maybe forcing you two to spend time together would help.”

She says it in a rush, her rambly way of speaking and you feel bad for being angry with her when you know she had good intentions, but she lied and you hated being lied to. Even if it was a small one.

“Robin, he got us kicked out of the fucking theatre.”

“You mean you both got kicked out?”

You sputter. You know she’s right but you hate to admit it.

“Fine, whatever. Still. That was torture, Robin. Torture!”

“I just want you guys to be civil, at least.”

“Maybe you should talk to Steve, then,” you hate that even when he’s not around, you can’t avoid him. “He’s just as guilty as I am.”

“I know that, and I will. I have another thing to bring up, actually.”

You’re eager to change the subject, to not talk about Steve Harrington for five fucking minutes so you hum, tell her to go on.

“The camping trip?”

You groan into the phone, “I know we do it every year but I hate camping.” Hate is an exaggeration.

“Nance wanted me to remind you, so that you book off work and don’t make any excuses.”

Fuck. She knows you too well.

“Yeah, okay. I’ll go.”

“Yay! And I really am sorry about the movie, I thought it would work.”

“I wouldn’t be so hopeful if I were you, Robs. Thanks for trying, I think? Bye.”

You hang up and flop backwards onto your bed. Staring at the ceiling, you can’t help but reflect on your day. The way Steve seemed to infiltrate everything you did, how his chest felt under your hand, the way he made you lose your mind like nobody else. You roll over and bury your face in your pillow.

Even when he’s not around, Steve’s able to drive you insane.

He wasn’t feeling much different. Steve had a very similar phone call with Robin where he complained about what she did, asked her what the hell she was thinking, and agreed to the camping trip reluctantly just as you had.

Robin couldn’t believe how similar you two were, and you had no idea.

Steve fell asleep with his face squished in his pillow and your perfume lingering in his senses. It was a fitful sleep.

-

The days pass by and you manage to avoid Steve as much as possible. When you visit Family Video, you make sure it’s during Robin’s breaks or on a day Steve isn’t meant to be working. When you do see him, you try to stay quiet and simply glare. You don’t feel like wasting energy arguing with him anymore.

Before you know it, it’s time for the camping trip. Nancy writes packing lists for everyone, Jonathan and Argyle are in charge of equipment, Robin plans everything, Steve and Eddie get the tents, and you plan the meals. It really is a whole system, and it’s been working so far and you can only hope it stays that way.

The morning you’re set to leave, you’re extra tired. You barely slept the night before and when you think about it you haven’t been sleeping well for a while. Since the movies with Steve, actually. You’re half asleep sitting on your porch steps next to your luggage when Eddie’s van finally arrives.

The sharp honk of the horn startles you, and you groggily grab your things and make your way over to the car. Of course, you’re not ecstatic to be spending an extended amount of time trapped in a van with Steve, but you’re too sleepy to worry about it too much.

Jonathan and Argyle are taking a car packed full with most of the stuff, while Eddie drives the rest of you along with whatever couldn’t fit in Jonathan’s car.

As you climb in, you don’t really take note of who’s sitting where, only that there’s enough room in the back for you to take a nap, so that’s what you do. You say hi, then, you’re curling up and closing your eyes. Your friends decide not to bother you and let you sleep.

Steve, sitting in the passenger seat next to Eddie, couldn’t stop turning his head to check if you were still asleep. He’d cover it up by saying something to Robin or Nancy, but they could see where his eyes were looking. On one hand, he was glad you were asleep; you seemed tired—more so than usual—and it kept him from having to argue with you. On the other, he sort of wished you’d wake up and say something to him, even if it was an insult. He missed the banter, the way he could let himself go around you.

He’d never say it, he barely even lets himself think it, but he misses the sound of your voice, too.

He didn't even want to wake you up when the van finally got to the campsite, even though the others left him to do just that. You looked so peaceful, the usual scowl you wore around him wiped off your face. He reached a hand out carefully, slowly, like he was almost afraid to wake you. He ran it up your arm first, ignoring the buzz in his fingertips, and shook your shoulder gently.

“Babe, wake up.”

You blinked your eyes open lazily, “oh god. Please don’t make fun of me right now, Steve. I’m too tired.”

He tries not to think of the pinch he feels at the fact that you think he woke you simply to say something to tease you. He doesn’t blame you, but it still bothers him. He pulls his hand away.

“Just telling you we’re here, sleepyhead. Would’ve let you keep sleeping, you know, enjoy the quiet. Everyone else wanted me to wake you up.”

“‘Kay, well your job is done.”

“Yep. Bye.”

He walks away after that, and you think that might’ve been the most awkward interaction you’ve ever had with Steve. He was distracted, maybe. Something on his mind you think. You stretch with a groan and move on.

You finally make your way over to where everyone else is setting up the tents, and Robin greets you with a dramatic hug. “Don’t be mad.”

You pull back and squint at her. “What did you do?”

“So,” she rocks back on her heels. “While you were asleep during the drive, the tent arrangements were sort of made and you and Steve happen to be sharing.”

“What? Why?”

“Well…me and Nancy want to share,” she looks at you shyly, even though you know she’s harboured feelings for a while. “And so the big tent went to three of the guys and Steve volunteered to share the last one with you.”

“He volunteered? You’re joking, right?”

Steve? Voluntarily share a tent with you? There was absolutely no way. The last time you checked, he hated you and vice versa, so what the hell was he trying to do here?

“No, I’m not.”

“Fuck’s sake,” you take a deep breath. You don’t want to ruin Robin and Nancy’s time and to be honest, when you think about it, you know Steve the most out of all of the guys. “Okay. Fine.”

“Thank you!” She then runs off to set up the tent with Nancy.

You look around for Steve and find him by himself, trying to put up the tent that would be yours, too. You make your way over there to help, and maybe to figure out what he was up to with this sharing thing.

“Hey, Harrington?”

He looks up from where he was fiddling with the tent, his forehead slightly damp and his jacket forgotten on the ground. You look at his arms, the way they move, but catch yourself before he notices. What the hell?

“Uh oh. The last name…”

“You agreed to share a tent with me?”

He honestly has no clue how he’ll talk his way out of this one. The truth is, he volunteered to share with you not only because he thinks Robin and Nancy deserve to share, but because he hated the idea of any of the other guys being the ones to sleep next to you. He doesn’t even want to begin to unpack what that might mean.

“Is that gonna be a problem?”

You crossed your arms, “you tell me, Steve. What are you playing at?”

“Wha- nothing. You should be thanking me, actually. ‘Cause Eddie and Argyle smell like weed all the time and Jonathan Sleep talks. I know from last year.”

“Thank you? Oh, Steve my saviour, for saving me from having to sleep next to a sleep talker.. the horror!”

He rolls his eyes, “are you gonna help me with this tent or stand there like a princess, huh?”

You stomp over to help him, sort of petulant and grumpy. You just want to know why he seemed so okay with this. None of it made sense and ever since he woke you up from your sleep in the van, things feel weird with Steve. You aren’t having full on arguments so far, and you don’t even remember the last time you’d gone this long without yelling at least once.

Miraculously, you and Steve actually finish setting up your tent first.

He smiled at you when it was done, and you shook off the feeling in your chest at having that boyish grin of his directed at you. You don’t think he’s ever genuinely smiled at you before.

After the site was set up, you all spent the rest of the day moving your stuff to the right places. It occupied enough of your time that when you were all finished, it was beginning to get dark out, the sun and its beams replaced by the night sky.

That night, nobody was up for cooking a big meal, so you all settled for cooking hot dogs over the fire that Steve built. It was a good night, in the end. Steve sat across the fire from you and the whole group split off into smaller conversations meaning you didn’t really have to interact with him. You still looked at him, though.

Every couple of minutes your gaze would flick over to him, his face lit up by the orange glow of the campfire. He’s always been pretty, you knew that, but you could see it now more than ever. The way he looked when he laughed, his hair a little messy but he didn’t care about it around his friends. It was hard to look away.

He found himself doing the same, stealing glances when you were too preoccupied telling a story or giggling at something someone said. You always grabbed his attention in a way he didn’t understand. He wanted to look at you, to talk to you (even when talking was more like fighting).

As it got later, and the majority of the group had already gone to bed, the rest of you decided to turn in, too. You had sort of been dreading going to bed because you were worried about how having Steve there would be. If you two could get along long enough to sleep.

He let you get changed first, hanging back to put out the fire and make sure everything was cleaned up. He waited a bit before going to bed, lingering by the dying fire and hoping you’d be asleep by the time he joined you in the tent.

You weren’t asleep, but you laid facing away from his sleeping bag and stayed that way while he laid down next to you. It was weird, feeling Steve’s body so close to yours. You could feel the body heat, the slight shift everytime he moved.

Steve had trouble getting comfortable. Something about you being so close to him in this way had his mind running miles a minute. He could smell your shampoo, could see details he never really lingered on before.

When Steve shifted once more you turned onto your back, “will you stop moving? Can’t sleep ‘cause you’re noisy.”

He smiles at the sleep in your voice, he hopes you don’t see it.

“Sorry, babe. Trying to get comfy.”

You expected him to say something along the lines of ‘you can sleep outside if it bothers you so much,’ not to apologize. He’s sweet when he’s tired, it seems, because after that he really does try to stay still.

“Um. ‘S okay,” you turn back onto your side, shutting your eyes and adding, “night, Steve.”

“Goodnight.”

He moves one more time before falling asleep, as slowly and quietly as he can and he winces when the noise of his sleeping bag against the fabric of the tent still rings through the small space. Luckily, you’re already sleeping this time.

-

At one point during the night, Steve wakes up extra warm. He opens his eyes and the space is dark, but he can see enough to know that the two of you have moved much closer in your sleep.

Your sleeping bags were against each other, Steve’s arm sticking out of his and slung over your waist, his nose almost touching your hair.

It’s an intimate position, especially for the pair of you, and he really doesn’t want to move but he also doesn’t want you to wake up and yell at him for being so close.

He takes another inhale, smelling your hair again before pulling himself away from you and turning to face the opposite direction.

He misses the feeling of you tucked close to him but chooses not to dwell on that.

-

The first full day was mostly uneventful.

You spent the time hanging out around the campsite reading, or playing cards, or just talking. It was nice to be able to spend so much time with the people you keep close, the friends you know you’ll always have.

As for Steve, things with him are odd. You don’t find yourself arguing with him, more so just teasing and letting things go that you wouldn’t have before. It seems like you both have realized something. What exactly that is, you’re not sure.

For now, you blame the atmosphere. Something in the air is making things shift around, feel different.

At one point you and Robin take a walk, finding the communal bathrooms and some trails that you can take later. She really just wanted to have someone to spill to about how things went with Nancy, and you were more than happy to listen. To get your mind off of a certain boy who wouldn’t seem to leave your thoughts.

The time ticked by lazily, the day filled with laughs and a lightness that you don’t feel when you’re in Hawkins. There are so many horrible people in the town, and while you know there are good ones, too, it’s nice to escape the bad for a couple of days.

Nothing super eventful happened until that night.

You all decided to open up the lunchbox Eddie brought containing joints, some provided by Argyle, which you wouldn’t touch given your tolerance, and smoke by the fire that burned as brightly as the night before.

A couple of joints were lit, passed around the circle until they were finished. Some people would hog them for longer, causing some false anger and light slaps and playful whines to ‘share,’ and ‘be nice!’

Somehow, you and Steve ended up next to each other this time. And somehow, there wasn’t any comment made about it, you both accepted it, welcomed it, even. He was warm, his skin like a space heater that you actually wanted to keep close. You blamed it on the fact that you got chilly easily.

Once, when you tried to reach for the joint from Steve’s grasp, he gave you a teasing grin and held it out of your reach.

“Hand it over, Harrington,” you huffed.

“If you want it, you gotta come get it, babe.”

Usually, the nickname would come out harsh, but not this time. No, this time it lost its edge, leaving his mouth like a true endearment. It made your heart stutter.

“‘Kay,” you were already feeling it, so you didn’t hesitate to practically climb into his lap to get it.

He was frozen at the feeling of you against him, on him. It made him blush and he hoped that the glow of the fire hid it well. You grabbed the joint easily, humming in success and moving back to your spot next to him.

He avoided Robin’s gaze, knowing it would say ‘seriously?’ and raise even more questions in his head about what he actually feels for you. He wasn’t ready to dive into that just yet.

As the sky got darker and the hours shifted to the earliest of the morning, the group began to head to bed. First, it was Nancy and Robin, stumbling off giggling with their elbows linked. Then, it was Jonathan and Argyle, who left with a ‘goodnight dudes.’ When Eddie saw that it was just him, you, and Steve left, he sent you both a wink and strutted off with that mischievous grin on his face.

You didn’t really want to know what he was implying with that look.

“You tired?” Steve asked you.

“Not really,” you shook your head. “Would love to lay down in my sleeping bag, though.”

“Forgot weed makes you snuggly, babe.”

He’s right, it does, and you're resisting the urge to lean your head on his shoulder as he speaks. He stands before you can, grabbing a bucket to put out the fire and then leading you both to your tent with his flashlight.

It’s not long before you’re both in bed, facing each other and laying closer than you ever thought you would. The weed was mingling with your thoughts about the boy, the new feeling you got when he looked at you. You’re sure it was nothing. At least, you think you are.

“Hey Steve?” You speak softly.

“Yeah?” He’s laying on your side, facing you and you’re doing the same. He isn’t sure when your face got so close to his but he doesn’t mind. Not one bit. What is happening?

“Why’re you being nicer to me? Thought you hated me,” you’re being more honest than you would usually allow yourself to be, especially with him. “It’s confusing.”

His eyes roam your face, the color of your eyes and the way your hair fell over your forehead messily due to your position. He brushed it back, contemplating what he might say.

“I never hated you,” and he means it.

“Oh,” you don’t know what else to say. You’re surprised by his admission.

“Do you hate me?”

“I don’t think so,” you shake your head, correct yourself. “No. I don't.”

He realizes his hand is still pushing the hair from your forehead, and when he goes to pull it away you make some sort of sound in protest. He keeps going.

“I’m sorry that I judged you ‘cause of high school.”

Your eyes are closed, but he knows they’re probably looking sad, misty. He can tell you feel guilty, though he appreciates the apology, he doesn’t want you to be upset.

“I’m sorry, too.” He knows the dislike went both ways. He’s not so sure about that anymore, though.

You shuffle closer to him, letting your cuddling tendencies while high get the best of you and pushing yourself into Steve’s warmth. You tuck your head under his chin, the sleeping bag preventing you from using your arms. Instead, he frees one of his and wraps it around you.

You fall asleep with the smell of Steve surrounding you, bergamot, something woodsy, something sweet buried under the scent of weed that still lingers.

Your clouded mind doesn’t let you think about what this might mean, what might’ve changed in the short time you’ve spent at the campsite. Same goes for him. Steve’s content holding you for now, and worrying about it in the morning.

-

When you wake up, Steve still has an arm wrapped around you, though you’ve spun to face away from him. He’s close, his chest against your back and legs bracketing yours. You can tell even through the layers of your sleeping bags.

It makes your head spin.

You think maybe everything you’ve ever thought about Steve has been wrong—except for the fact that he’s pretty, you’re right about that—and it’s making you panic.

You lift his arm off of you as carefully as possible, just enough to slip out from under it. You wince when he makes some sort of sound of protest, his arm seemingly searching for you. You don’t want him to wake up now, you’re not ready to face him, really. You need to think.

Lucky for you, he finds your pillow and decides to cuddle that instead, remaining asleep.

You’re up before anyone else, catching the last bit of the sunrise and seeing the yellows and oranges give way to the blue skies of the day. You sit on the ground with your back against one of the logs used as a bench during campfires, your legs bent and your chin propped up on your knees.

The quiet is nice, nothing but the birds chirping and the wind rustling tree leaves. It allows you to try to figure out whatever the hell this camping trip has done to your relationship with Steve, if you could even call it that.

It seems that at some point during the short time you’ve been here, the hatred you thought you had for him had dimmed, changed into something more friendly, maybe. Though, you wouldn’t describe some of the thoughts you had about him recently as friendly.

You huff and drop your face so your forehead rests on your knees now. You haven’t figured one thing out. If anything, forcing yourself to think, to unscramble your thoughts, has only made things worse. Blurred the lines more.

It could’ve been minutes, or it could’ve been hours before someone else got up. That someone was Nancy, who simply walked over to where you sat, and took a seat next to you. She knew when not to ask, when to just be there. You’d known each other long enough for things to be easy like that.

When you turn your face to look at her she gives you that classic Nancy smile, close-mouthed and soft, and it tells you that she’s there, that it’ll be okay in the end.

In that moment, you believe it, and you rest your head on her shoulder.

-

Other than your inner crisis of the morning, the day is uneventful like the one before. You all head down to the nearby lake and laze around. You keep reading the book you brought, munch on the snacks Nancy packed up in a picnic basket, and even have a nap on the blanket that was lying beneath you.

You had an early morning, after all.

Steve couldn’t keep himself from sneaking glances at you all day. Though, maybe it doesn’t count as sneaking if both Robin and Eddie call him out on it. He doesn’t say anything to them, he doesn’t think he could even if he wanted to. He himself has no idea what’s going on.

All he knows is that you look really pretty when you sleep. Well, you look pretty all of the time, but there’s something about the complete serenity on your face, the way your cheek is squished against your hand and your hair falls around you messily.

When the breeze picks up, he uses the blanket he was sitting on to cover you. He doesn’t let himself overthink it in the moment, even if he knows he will later. He just wants you to be warm and comfortable.

Robin pulls him aside under the guise of wanting to grab something from her tent and fully believing in the buddy system. In reality, she wanted to try and knock some sense into him, because she knows she’ll be able to crack him sooner than she could you.

“Steve, you like her,” she tells him. Not a question, a statement.

“I don’t, Robin.”

“Oh come on! You won’t stop looking at her, you tucked her in for fucks sake!”

He only stares at her, unsure of what to say.

“How can you be so clueless about your own feelings? We can all see it. Me and Nance talked about it earlier, and she said she saw your lady really early this morning looking all troubled.”

“She’s not my lady. Jesus, Robin.”

“Of course that’s the part you choose to focus on, dingus. Means she’s confused, and so are you. I knew you guys didn’t hate each other.”

“Just ‘cause we don’t hate each other anymore, or whatever, doesn’t mean we like each other, either.”

“Can't wait to tell you I told you so later.”

With that, she heads back to the group, leaving Steve even more frazzled than he already was.

That morning, when he woke up holding your pillow, his face buried in it, he couldn’t ignore the disappointment he felt because of your absence. Hated that he inhaled deeply to catch a whisper of your perfume or shampoo on the pillow.

He also can't stop thinking about the conversation from the night before.

‘Do you hate me?’

‘I don’t think so…No. I don’t.’

He wonders if you really meant it. He hopes you did.

-

The two of you don’t talk again until you’re going to bed, back in the solitude of your shared tent. You’d been orbiting each other all day, round and round and never colliding.

You’re forced to talk to him when you climb into the tent, Steve already in his sleeping bag with a book propped open and a pair of glasses perched on his nose.

“Didn’t know you could read, Harrington.”

He peeks at you through his glasses, your face clearer than usual thanks to them. “I’m full of surprises, babe.”

You’re realizing that now, you think.

“And the glasses?” You gesture towards him with your hand, moving to sit down atop your sleeping bag when he replies.

“Got beat up one too many times, I think. Ended up with shit vision.”

“At least you look good in them,” you blurt out.

It’s true, he does look good in them. You think he’d look good in anything, really. The frames suit him, make him look softer in a way. Even though you mean it, you didn’t want to say it out loud. You hope he’ll ignore it for your sake and move on. He doesn’t.

“You think so?”

He sounds like he truly means that question, like what you think actually matters to him. It does matter to him. In fact, you’re the only person besides Robin who’s seen him with them on and he can’t help but feel nervous, insecure.

“Um,” you look at him. “Yeah, I do.”

You’re pretty, you almost add, but you stop yourself. You haven’t figured things out enough to say things like that to him right now. You don’t know if he’ll tease you for it, hold it against you, or if maybe he’ll keep looking at you the way he is right now. You hope it’s the last option.

His gaze is tender, but it leaves your skin burning. His eyes trail your entire body, down and back up until they’re locked on yours once again. He’s taking his time to see you in a way he hasn’t let himself until now. The color of your skin and the dips and curves of your body, the way your hair frames your face and the shine of lip balm on your lips. He closes his book, tosses it aside.

“They’d look good on you too,” it takes you a second to realize he’s talking about the glasses. He shuffles closer to you, takes them off and pushes them onto your face. “There.”

His fingertips brush the skin of your face when he pulls his hands away.

“Jesus, Steve, you got punched badly enough for this prescription?” You squint at him through his lenses.

He huffs out a laugh, small, but there. You want to make him laugh again and again. The thought scares you because you know that something is changing in how you look at Steve, that maybe it changed a long time ago and you were too busy mouthing off at him to notice.

“I think it has more to do with the number of punches, not their force,” he says. Then, “they look nice. The glasses, I mean.”

“Oh. Thank you.”

You take them off and give them back to him, he tosses them aside to where his book lays forgotten. He’s not so interested in reading anymore, anyways. Not when you’re here, not when you seem to be getting along well enough that he keeps looking at your lips.

Everything’s fucked. It’s all so different, like a tectonic plate has shifted in his mind and stirred it up, changed how he sees you. If only he knew the exact same thing was happening to you, too.

It’s quiet for a bit, sort of awkward. There’s something you know you have to talk about, but neither of you want to bring it up.

Steve seems to be the braver one in the moment as he starts, “listen. About last night-”

“It’s okay, Steve,” you cut him off. “If you didn’t mean what you said. I understand.”

“No! No, it’s not-” he cuts himself off this time, trying to find the right words to say. “I did mean it.”

“What parts, exactly?” You hate that you have to ask for clarity, but you need to know in order to feel less afraid about what you feel. If he was in the same boat, you’re sure it’d make you feel safer.

“All of it. The part where I don’t hate you, that I never did. The part where I’m sorry for how things have been between us until now.”

“I meant it, too,” you say after a beat, voice almost shy. “All of it.”

“Can we be friends?” He asks, though the way his sight keeps flicking from your mouth to your eyes to the way your pyjama top falls off your shoulder doesn’t feel friendly. No, it feels heavier than that.

You nod, “I would like that, Steve.”

You can smell his shampoo, his scent, and feel his body heat that’s become more familiar in the last couple of days than ever. When did you move so close?

He’s right next to you, your legs touching and facing each other and you can feel his breath tickling your lips, taunting you.

“Do you think maybe we can start being friends tomorrow?” He says.

“Why’s that?” You ask, though by the way his hand comes up to cradle your jaw, his thumb brushing your lower lip, you think you know exactly why.

“‘Cause I want to do some very unfriendly things to you right now if you’ll let me.”

“Okay.”

It’s the only confirmation he needs before he leans in, pushing his lips onto yours sweetly at first, just a peck. Like he’s testing the waters and making sure you won’t pull away. When he pulls back and you try to chase his mouth, that’s when he really kisses you.

This time, it’s messier, quicker. It’s heated in a way that has your stomach swirling and your thighs squeezing together. He licks into your mouth, fully tasting you and opening you up for him. It’s dirty, the way he slows it down so it’s languid.

It has you climbing into his lap to straddle him and pushing your hands into his hair to keep him close. It has you grinding yourself against him and letting a small whimper escape when he pulls your bottom lip between his teeth before diving back in.

You’re absolutely done for when he pulls back long enough to peel off his shirt and then kisses you dumb all over again, his hands on your waist urging you to move over him. He eventually takes your shirt off, too, but he doesn’t lean back in.

No, he’s completely taken by the sight of you and your lack of bra. Transfixed.

“Can I touch you, baby?”

That one’s new.

“Please.”

The word sparks him into action, and he can’t believe it just came out of your mouth and was directed at him. He thinks he must be dreaming, it’s all too good to be true. The feel of you against him, on him, all over him. The way your tits feel in his hands when he cups them and brushes his thumbs over your nipples, the hitch in your breath when he does.

“Fuck. You’re so pretty. So, so pretty.” He can’t stop himself from saying it.

”You’re pretty, too.” Your hands interlock at the back of his neck and pull him in to kiss you again.

It’s not much longer before he flips you over, grabbing a pillow to place beneath your head and letting his hips weigh yours down, pinning you beneath him with one hand propping him up and the other still busy at your chest.

Your hands trail down his back, feeling the muscles ripple and shift under his heated skin. He’s pushing himself into you, hard, giving you both a taste of the friction you’ve been needing. It’s not enough, though, and he knows it. He needs more, too, but he holds off to tease you, to hear you say please again.

He can feel your chest heaving beneath him, and he pulls away from your mouth to give you room to breathe. He moves his kisses to your jaw, down your neck, instead. He’s careful not to leave marks, but he’s greedy with you nonetheless, covering as much skin as he can until he finds that spot that makes you whimper.

His ear is right by your mouth when you do and he thinks he’s found his new favorite sound.

His kisses stray further south, and your hands push into his hair when he pauses at your chest, pecking across the swell of your tits before taking a nipple in his mouth. As much as he wants to, he doesn’t stay there for long. The way you’re squirming a little under him, pulling his hair tighter, tells him you need more and he decides he’s teased you enough.

“Can I?” He asks, sitting up enough to hook his fingers in the waistband of your pyjama bottoms and panties.

“Only if you take yours off, too.”

It sounds like a good deal to him, he’s straining against his boxers, and he really wants to see you. Taste you.

He pulls your bottoms off first, leaving you naked and waiting as he stands to take his pants off.

“Hurry up, Steve. It’s cold.”

He lowers himself to hover over you once again, “don’t worry, baby. I’ll warm you right up.”

Then, he’s making his way back down, a kissed path down your stomach until he’s laying between your legs. His hands run soothingly along the outsides of your thighs, hold them apart when you try to force them shut.

You feel shy under his stare, focused on where you’re wet and wanting. You seriously can't believe this is happening.

“You’re beautiful, okay? Don’t need to hide from me,” he punctuates his sentence with a sweet kiss to your inner thigh.

You don’t have time to say anything back because his mouth is on you, licking a stripe from the top up to your clit that has your eyes fluttering shut. One of your hands is back in his hair, the other searching for one of his and holding tight when you find it.

It’s not long until he has you moaning, your thighs now thrown over his shoulders. He’s groaning into you everything you buck up towards his mouth, encouraging you. He acts as if he’s enjoying it just as much as you are even though nobody’s mouth is on him. It makes it that much hotter.

You don’t think you’ll ever be able to look at him without thinking of what he’s capable of making you feel after this.

“Steve,” you whine.

He pulls back to look at your face, the pinch between your brows telling him you need more. “What is it, baby?”

“Please.”

“Gotta tell me, pretty girl. Use your words.” He knows he’s teasing you but the reaction it’s getting him is too good to stop. The way you whimper when he licks at your clit only to pull back before you can even process it.

“Your fingers, please,” you say it quietly, but he lets it slide.

He uses the hand that isn’t still holding yours and brings two fingers to your entrance, circling it and getting them wet before he pushes them in slowly.

Steve doesn't think he’s ever felt this way with another person. He's so invested in making sure you’re comfortable, so taken by how you look and how you sound. He’s so completely lost in you and this and he doesn’t want it to end.

His fingers are moving steadily, finding that spot inside you that has your toes curling. He keeps going until he feels you squeeze around his fingers, his mouth back on you, though his eyes stay on your face. He knows you’re close when your head falls back, when you moan louder than before, when your thighs tighten around him.

“Is that good, baby?” It’s a rhetorical question, but he wants to hear it from you.

“Yeah, Steve,” you breathe out. “Really close.”

“Go on. Come for me.”

You don’t know how, but his words draw your orgasm out of you. It’s intense and has you laying back down, your head digging into the pillow and your hand squeezing his tight.

He doesn’t pull away until you push his head lightly, needing a minute to regain your bearings because of him. You don’t know how he can be so good, make you come in a way you didn’t think was possible. And he still looks as pretty as ever while doing it, his mouth and fingers wet with you.

You think your eyes almost roll back into your head when he sucks his fingers clean.

Steve Harrington really is a menace, just maybe not in the way you thought.

Your legs fall from his shoulders when he moves back up to your lips, kissing you slow and steady. It’s grounding, in a way. Brings you back to him and clears whatever remaining haze was there from your orgasm.

You can feel him hard against your lower stomach as you kiss, and you reach down to grasp him in your hand, stroking him slowly. He moans into the kiss when you do. You utter his name against his lips, he pulls away and rests his forehead on yours in response.

“Yeah?” He’s breathing heavy, his voice coming out breathy and rough.

“Fuck me.”

His hips buck into your hand when he hears the words come out of your mouth.

The hand holding him guided him down to your entrance, and he takes over from there. He holds a hand by your mouth, “spit.”

You do, and he uses it to lube himself up, and pushes in with his elbows on either side of your head, blocking out anything that isn’t him. Once he’s buried all the way, your legs wrap around his waist, urging him to stay close.

The first thrust is slow, almost painfully so because you can feel every single inch as he moves. He’s big and the stretch is just enough to make your eyes water, just enough to have you moaning again.

“Holy shit, Steve.”

“I know, sweet girl. You’re doing so good.”

“Faster, please.”

He complies, his rhythm picking up and his mouth finding the spot on your neck he discovered earlier. It’s all-consuming, the way he touches you, the way he fucks you. It’s as if the rest of the world has melted away and all you can sense is him. His smell, his skin against yours, the way he moves inside you.

You tug him by the hair back to your mouth, letting him swallow your moans. He savours every single one, adjusts his hips every time one is louder than the rest.

Somehow, he can tell when you need more from him, like he’s learned your body completely even in the short time he’s had it. When he knows it this time, he sits up so he’s on his knees, takes one of your legs and sets it on his shoulder so he can move deeper, better.

“You feel so good, babe. Fuck, can’t believe you’ve been right in front of me for so long.”

It’s like he can’t control what comes out of his mouth anymore, all he knows is that you feel incredible, that you’re beautiful and he wants to break down every single wall that’s been put between the two of you. He wants to know you.

It doesn’t take much longer for your second orgasm to build up, your hands bunching up the fabric of the sleeping bag for something to hold onto. When Steve takes a hand and pushes it against your lower stomach, asking, “can you feel me, pretty. Right there,” that’s when you hit your peak again.

You’re a mess, moaning his name over and over as he fucks you through it all. When you’ve come down, Steve isn’t far behind you, his thrusts sloppier and small moans escaping him.

“Can I come on you, baby?”

“Fuck, Steve. Yeah.”

He pulls out, jerking himself off until he comes over your stomach, all but collapsing next to you when he’s done. Your heads on the same pillow and pants leaving your mouths. Steve searches the tent for his boxers from before, using them to clean the both of you up the best he can.

You’re still sticky and sweaty when he covers you both with his sleeping bag as if it’s a blanket, but you don’t mind. You want him to stay close, you think.

“You’re really pretty,” he says quietly. “I definitely do not hate you.”

You giggle, push yourself closer to him, your face at his chest. “I feel a lot of things for you, I think. Hate isn’t one of them.”

His heart swells at your words. He doesn’t think you’ve ever been so candid with him and he treasures it.

“Where have you been hiding this sweet girl, huh? ‘Cause I really like her.”

“Shut up,” you deflect.

“Just being honest. Let’s sleep?”

“Yeah, let’s sleep.”

You find that Steve’s embrace feels familiar now, letting his arms come around you and pull you close. You think that his lips on your forehead in a goodnight kiss is something you might need every night.

You also think you’ll have a slight panic about all of this tomorrow. But, for now, you let yourself fall asleep, safe and satisfied.

-

When you wake up, Steve’s already outside, and you can hear the chatter of your other friends, too. You figure it’s later in the morning, that Steve let you sleep in.

You can't believe what happened the night before, half convinced it was a dream until you notice that you’re still naked. You don’t regret it, you only wish it didn’t cause so much confusion in your head.

You really do want to be friends with him, though, now you’re not sure if that’ll be enough. If you might want more than that.

Once you get up and ready, and the day begins, you keep your distance from him. He seems to be doing the same. It’s not that you’re upset with him, it’s just that you’re scared of how much has changed in so little time and you need to process it, to let yourself solve the puzzle in your mind.

The only thing Steve had said to you that morning was while passing you a plate of breakfast he seemed to have saved for you. “We’ll talk later?”

You nodded and that was it.

It’s the afternoon when the group of you head towards one of the hiking trails, water bottles and granola bars packed in your bags. You all smell like sunscreen, thanks to Nancy going mom mode on you all.

The sun beats down on your shoulders as you walk, only quick moments of shade provided by the trees that you pass. You know that by the end of it you’ll all be sweaty and sticky, but it’s a nice trail, with a view of the lake peeking through the trees.

Argyle stops to look at every plant he deems ‘peculiar’ including mushrooms, he forces Jonathan to look at them, too. Eddie is humming a guitar solo the entire way, he says it’s the soundtrack to your adventure. Robin picks flowers along the way, putting one in everyone’s hair—two in Nancy’s.

As for you and Steve, you hang back a couple of steps behind the group, walking alongside each other. You don’t talk, settling for a comfortable silence. A mutual understanding that there is something to discuss, just not right now.

Every so often, your hands will brush, and you’ll glance at each other shyly before looking away again.

You’re about halfway through the trail when a tree root gets in your way. You happened to be looking away at the moment, Steve laughing at Robin’s joke caught your attention. You trip over it, your ankle rolling painfully as you fall with a small yelp.

Steve notices first, and he crouches down next to you. “Shit. Hey, you okay?”

“Yeah, fine,” you try to brush it off, even with tears gathering in your eyes.

Everyone else comes to see if you’re alright, too, and you hate all of the attention. You know they mean well, but it’s embarrassing.

“Can you stand?” Robin asks.

Steve holds out his hands to help you up, and he catches you when the pressure on your ankle is too much and you almost fall again.

“Guess that’s a no,” Argyle says. Jonathan gives him a light slap for it.

“I’m fine, guys,” you urge, though you’re clinging to Steve to help you stay up. “Just give me a minute and we can keep going.”

“Absolutely not,” Steve says firmly. “We gotta take care of that ankle, babe.”

Just as you’re about to protest, Nancy cuts in, “he’s right, it’s kinda swollen.”

“There’s a first aid kit in the van,” Eddie adds.

You’re frustrated that you’ve ruined the walk for everyone, and you cover your eyes with the hand that isn’t holding onto Steve to hide the fact that you are now crying. You’re in pain and humiliated and there are too many eyes on you.

Steve can tell, so he says, “you guys keep going, I’ll go back with her.”

They agree, and Robin gives Steve a look that tells him she knows exactly how he feels even though he’s not one hundred percent certain. When he hears you sniffle, his attention doesn’t stray anymore.

“I’m sorry,” you say between your crying.

“None of that. Was getting bored anyway.”

You try your best to gather yourself, wiping at your cheeks and eyes roughly. Steve pulls your hand away and does it for you, he’s much more gentle. The two of you stay put until you’ve stopped crying, and Steve doesn’t let go of you through any of it.

“I’m gonna carry you, okay?”

“No, I can walk, Steve. I swear.”

“Shut up and get on my back,” he leans down enough so you can hop on, in position for a piggy back. Your arms hold onto his shoulders, trying not to choke him, and your legs are around his waist. He holds you by the thighs and begins the descent very carefully.

His hands on you feel all too familiar now. You know what they do in intimacy, how they move and squeeze at your skin, your thighs. Almost like he’s doing now, though the situation and intent is much different.

Again, the walk is spent in silence apart from the sounds of your breathing and Steve’s footsteps.

Once you’ve made it back, he sets you down so you can sit on one of the log benches by the fire pit, and he goes off to Eddie’s van with a promise to be back soon.

You discover that he’s good at keeping promises, as he’s back before you really noticed his absence. You think he might have ran there and back and that thought has your heart skipping a beat in your chest. He’s good at taking care of people, you think. The way he knew how to calm you down, how he offered to carry you, and how he takes your injured leg in his hands so carefully you almost melt. He tugs your shoe and sock off, apologizing when you say a small ‘ouch.’

“There should be a tensor bandage in here somewhere. I’ll wrap you up real good, I swear.”

“I trust you, Steve.”

He thinks those words hold a lot more weight and meaning than just wrapping your ankle, and he files it away in his mind to think about in the future. He can tell you don’t trust a whole lot of people, and he feels special that you do him. His lips curve into a soft smile.

He kneels on the ground in front of you, first aid kit open at his side and your foot propped on his knee. He wraps it slowly, fully focused on making sure he does it right because he doesn’t like the thought of you hurting. He hates it, actually.

He knows things have changed drastically since you’ve been here, and he knows they won’t ever be the same. He only hopes that the outcome is good.

You watch as he works, eyes focused on the way his hands move and hold you so softly. With nobody else around, you allow yourself to relax around him, to let your eyes linger.

When he finishes, he presses a small kiss to your ankle over the bandage. If kisses had healing powers, you think you’d be all better after that.

You don’t know how or why your feelings for him seem to have shifted so much, all you know is that any trace of hatred you had towards him has disappeared, wiped away to make room for something else. Something fonder that could be described using four letters and might have been around much longer than you thought.

“Thank you,” you say as he sets your leg down and moves to sit next to you.

“No problem, babe,” he pauses before continuing. “Do you want me to take you home today? I bet Eddie would let me take the van.”

“No!” It comes out more panicked than you wanted it to, but you really didn’t want to go home. You’d be happy staying at that campsite forever, because you hadn’t thought of your parents since you left until now. “I mean. No, I'd rather stay. Thanks though.”

Steve knows something’s wrong, that your relationship with your family may not be the best. He’s suspected it ever since your reaction to his comment about you always hanging around Family Video. He wants you to know he can relate.

“Do you wanna talk about it?”

You shrug, “not much to say, really. Just don’t like being home.”

“You can stay with me, you know… If you ever need to. My parents aren’t really around anyways.”

You lean your head on his shoulder, giving him some silent support. “Thank you. You’re kind of a great guy, Steve.”

“Only kind of?”

He turns his head towards yours, and you do the same. You’re close enough that you could lean forward ever so slightly and you’d be kissing. You think about it, he does too.

Steve breaks the moment first, though. He wants to kiss you, he really does, but he doesn’t want it to be in this grey area the two of you are stuck in. He wants it to be real, and to know exactly what it’ll mean.

“Why don’t I find you some ice for that ankle, huh?”

He squeezes your knee and stands, not waiting for a reply.

-

The rest of the day passed quickly, the group coming back from their hike and showing you polaroids they took of the view for you, Steve fussing over you every time you went to walk on your own.

Before you knew it, it was time to head to bed. Steve helped you walk over to your tent despite your insistence that you could do it yourself, “I’m going there anyways,” he said.

You simply huffed and let him curl an arm around your waist to give you some support. Maybe to have an excuse to touch you, too.

Steve left while you got ready for bed, even though he’d seen it all before. He still didn’t know where you stood and wanted to be mindful of that. As he walked back to the tent after a few minutes, he geared himself up to start some sort of conversation with you. The intent melted away when he saw you, though.

You weren’t usually a crier, but as you tried to get comfortable, you bumped your ankle against something and pain shot up your leg, sharp and sudden. You were sitting up when he came in, knees bent and your face buried in them, and your hands clutching above the bandage.

The tears fell before you could stop them, the frustration you felt and the flare up in your injury bubbling and spilling over. You heard the zipper of the tent’s entrance slip open, and you knew it was Steve, but you didn’t really want to look at him.

You hated crying, it made you feel embarrassed, and the softness in his brown eyes would only make you cry harder because you never had anyone care that much about you being upset.

“Hey,” he starts, sitting next to you. “What’s wrong, baby?”

“Hurts,” is all you manage to get out.

One of his hands rubs up and down your back soothingly, the warmth seeping through your shirt. His other hand reaches to where yours are holding your leg, prying them away gently and grasping it himself.

You lift your head to look at him, shy under all of his attention.

“You tired?” He asks.

You nod, and he urges you to lay down, so you do. He wipes away your tears for you yet again once you’re settled on your pillow. He reaches for his pillow, lifting your leg and placing it under your ankle to keep it elevated.

“Steve, you need that. What’re you gonna sleep on?”

“Got some sweats I’ll bunch up, don’t you worry. You need that more than I do, ‘kay?”

“You’re really sweet.” You say quietly, already much more comfortable than before. You don’t know if it’s the pillow he’s placed under your foot or if it’s simply Steve’s presence that makes you feel that way.

He does as he said, digging for his sweats and balling them up to use as a pillow but you stop him by saying, “you can just share mine.”

You scooch over until half of your pillow is empty, leaving room for Steve to lay down next to you. He’s careful as he does, watching where he puts his legs so that he won’t bump your ankle. He lays on his side facing you, wondering whether it would be okay to reach out and hold you.

He does it anyways, figuring you’d tell him to get off if you didn’t want him to. His arm slips out of his sleeping bag to hold your waist. You turn yourself towards him as much as you can while keeping your foot in a good position.

You find yourself getting sleepy a lot faster with him near, and it’s odd. Less than a week ago you were convinced you hated the boy and now… Well now you felt something far from hatred.

You never thought you’d even become friends with Steve, let alone whatever the relationship between you is now.

“Thanks for taking care of me today, Steve.”

His hand pulls you a little closer, “no worries. You’re a great patient.”

You breathe out, a hint of a laugh that would be there if your eyes weren’t so heavy.

“Do you think this is weird?” You ask. You’re not specific but he knows you’re referring to you and him and the lack of arguments.

“It’s different, but I’m happy. That we can actually talk now, that you don’t hate me.”

“Me too. Cuddling is also nice.”

Neither of you bring up the kissing, or the sex, but the thought of it lingers. It hovers over the two of you constantly, waiting to be brought up.

You fall asleep soon after, barely noticing the pain in your ankle anymore.

-

The next day was your last full one of the camping trip. So, naturally, everyone was together for it all. There wasn’t room for a conversation with Steve about the serious stuff which you didn’t mind all that much.

You were nervous to know what he thought. Did he even want you, or was it just a heat of the moment thing? Does he only want to be friends, or did he feel more than that?

You’d rather float in the unknown rather than hear that he didn’t like you the same way. Because this was new to you. You never had a boyfriend, never wanted one, either. And then Steve Harrington just had to make you feel so much for him. Things you didn’t know how to deal with for so long that your instinct was to act like you hated him. To convince yourself you did.

You weren’t ready to go home, to go back to reality. You were scared that you and Steve would revert back to how it was before, the dirty looks and the comments and the mask of dislike. You didn’t even want to think about going back to your house or your lousy job.

Though you didn’t have time for any serious chats, Steve would find ways to check in on you, to ask if your ankle was bothering you at all. He even rewrapped it for you when he noticed you struggling with it.

As day turned to night, the sun swallowed by the horizon, you all spent time packing up the site so it would be quicker to leave in the morning. Everything apart from the tents and what you needed to sleep was cleaned up and packed into Jonathan’s car.

Once more, the most talking you and Steve did was before bed, in the bubble of your tent.

He shared your pillow like the night before, held you the same way, too. He couldn’t stay away from you no matter how hard he tried. Steve found himself making excuses to come up to you during the day, asking if you needed help even though he knew you didn’t, checking on your ankle even if he had already done it ten minutes ago.

“What do you think is gonna happen when we go home?” You ask.

“You mean with us?” He checks, and when you nod, he takes a moment to think before continuing. “I want to be your friend, I meant that. I also think that there might be more? Maybe. I just don’t want to rush things with you,” he says the last part quieter than the rest.

“I do, too. Think there could be more. I’m scared, though.”

He reaches a hand to hold your cheek, his thumb brushing back and forth.

“I know that a lot has happened in the last couple of days, but I think we could be something. Don’t you want to give it a try?” He asks you, his face close enough to yours that you can feel his breath on your lips.

“Yeah, I do.”

You know that you’ve barely scratched the surface of what you really feel. You’re ninety nine percent sure that you love him and you know he deserves to know that. You’re just not ready to say it, and you want to give yourself time to see what things will be like back in Hawkins before you do.

He nudges his nose against yours in response, waiting to see if you’ll pull away before leaning in to kiss you. It’s slow, languid and you know it won’t lead to anything more but you cherish it all the same.

You try to pour what you can't say into it.

Steve couldn’t hold himself back anymore. He’d been wanting to kiss you ever since the last time and it was as if the rubber band of his reserve snapped when you said you wanted to try with him. Deep down, he’s a romantic and he wants to show you that side of him.

He figures kissing you the way a lover would is a good start.

-

The next morning was a whirlwind of packing what was left, making sure nothing was forgotten, and taking the tents down. It was a lot of yells back and forth and stuffing cars as full as you could.

The energy was down, everyone slightly bummed to be heading back to reality. You were especially bummed about going home. You never realize how much you hate it until you’re gone. You also worried about what would happen with Steve, how things would play out.

On the drive home, everyone sat in the same spots. Though, this time, Nancy and Robin stayed a lot closer, hands intertwined and smiles a bit brighter. It seems you and Steve aren’t the only ones who felt a shift while you were away. Maybe there really was something in the air, something that wasn’t as heavy as things felt in Hawkins.

You ended up falling asleep again during the drive, the crack of the music through the van’s speakers making your eyes heavy. You’re lucky nobody let Eddie play his music or else you surely wouldn’t get a nap in.

You’re the first one to get dropped off and Steve can’t help but worry. From the very small amount of information he’s gathered about you and your family, he knows you don’t like being around them. He wishes he could shield you from it all, how odd is that?

He’s pretty damn sure he loves you, actually.

That’s why when Eddie pulls into your driveway he offers to wake you up and help you grab your things. It’s why he’s gentle when he does so, getting out of the car and opening your door.

“Hey, babe,” he shakes your shoulders gently. “Wake up.”

You do; you’re a light sleeper. You rub your eyes tiredly and when you blink them open the first thing you see is Steve. It’s a nice sight to wake up to.

“Mmm, hi.” You say, stretching your arms.

“Hey, we’re at your place,” he tells you.

“Okay.”

You climb out of the car, thanking Eddie for driving and saying bye to Robin and Nancy. Steve grabs your bags for you and walks you to the porch. He goes to help you inside but you stop him.

“It’s alright, Steve. I’ve got it,” you take your bags from him. “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it,” he’s quiet for a moment, glancing at your door before adding, “you’ll be okay? I meant it when I said you could stay with me, you know?”

“I’ll be fine. Promise.”

You smile at him shyly, not quite sure whether you should hug him or just go inside. You wait to see what he does, but he has his hands in his pockets, rocking on his feet.

“Okay, I’ll head inside. Bye, Steve.”

“Bye, babe,” his hand brushes your arm as you go inside.

Back in the van, everyone looks at Steve like he’s an idiot. And, well, maybe he is only this time he doesn’t understand why. He looks out the window for the rest of the drive.

He knows your parting was awkward, but he didn’t want to scare you off by kissing you or doing something in front of the others when you had only become friendly a few days ago. He wasn’t used to having things move so fast, or to having them feel so strong, so vivid.

When he gets home, the house is empty. He can’t help but feel like it’d be much brighter with you in it.

-

You’d been back for a week and nothing major really happened between you and Steve. You weren’t sure if the conversation was forgotten, if it didn’t actually mean anything. All you knew was that you definitely loved him and it was scary.

You didn’t let yourself feel things like it so often, and it was hard for you to admit it, but you were in love with Steve. It’s why it made it almost harder to be around him than it was when you thought you hated him. You didn’t know how to act, what to say.

When you weren’t working, you still visited Family Video, though now when you and Steve would tease each other it would end in smiles and laughs, not someone storming off.

Things were sort of awkward, too. Neither of you knew if you should touch, or kiss. Neither of you wanted to be the one to ask, either. You were constantly tip-toeing around each other, never fully diving in even though you wanted to.

He called you somethings, too. Late at night when your parents would be asleep. You’d always pick up right away, ‘cause you waited for his calls, sitting in your bed with a hand next to the phone just in case. He’d always ask you how you were doing, remind you that you were welcome at his place. He once said he missed sharing a tent with you, that he wanted to see if sharing a bed would be the same.

It’s the boldest statement either of you had made since your return.

Despite the actions not being there, the feelings never left. Steve would stare at you when you visited him and Robin at work, distracted from tasks and practically hypnotized. Where he used to watch you with red hot anger, it’s turned into a rose coloured haze. A pair of heart sunglasses.

It’s not until you finally take up his offer that you’re alone with him.

Your parents were being their usual selves, only somehow it was worse, more amplified. You couldn’t stay in that house anymore, so you packed a backpack, snuck out your window, and walked all the way to Steve’s house. It wasn’t too bad of a walk. It gave you time to clear your head.

Steve was actually about to call you when he heard a knock on his door. He wasn’t expecting anyone, and he couldn’t stop himself from hoping it was you. Then, he opened the door and there you were, looking pretty as ever with a backpack on your shoulders and an apology in your eyes.

Before you could even say anything, he ushered you inside.

“Hi, babe,” he grabbed your backpack. “You okay?”

There was a softness in those brown eyes that warmed you from the inside out, that made you feel like everything would be okay as long as he was around. God, love makes you so gooey inside it was gross.

“Yeah, well, not really. Can I stay here?”

“‘Course you can. Anytime.” He holds a hand out for you to take, and when you do, he squeezes your fingers.

He holds it all the way up the stairs to his room, setting your bag down at the foot of his bed and sitting on the edge of his mattress. He pats the space next to him for you to join.

“Thanks, Stevie.”

Stevie. He’s only ever had people call him that teasingly. Mostly in high school and he didn’t like it then. He much prefers it coming out of your mouth.

“Don’t need to thank me,” he says, reaching to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear. “I’m happy to have you here. I, um, I’ve missed you.”

He’s had a hard time opening up to people romantically since what happened between him and Nancy. He’s not sure how, but you make it easier. You make him feel like it’s okay to be more open, to let the walls around his heart crumble.

“I missed you, too,” you say.

“C’mere,” he moves up to sit with his back against his headboard, and pulls you into his lap, your legs on either side of his. It’s not in a dirty way, not at all. Rather, it’s for the comfort that can only be provided when having someone you love is that close to you.

He winds his arms around your waist and pulls you in for a hug, yours going around his shoulders, face turned into his neck. You indulge yourself in his smell and his arms and his warmth. You push a small peck into the skin just below his ear before pulling back enough to see his face.

“I needed that, I think,” you say.

“I really fucking like you,” he says, his head tilting back to rest against the headboard with a thump.

It’s like he couldn’t stop the words from coming out anymore. He’s been thinking it for too long without being able to say anything, and he’s done waiting, he thinks. He knows he loves you and as terrified as he is, he won’t let that feeling go ever again.

“Really?” You ask.

“Yeah, really,” he smiles at you, shutting his eyes for a second before looking at you again. “Listen, I know things have changed crazy fast, and I know that we’ve really only just started to get along but, I love you. I have for a long time, I think.”

The butterflies in your stomach are set free, a smile breaking out on your face because this is what you’ve been waiting for since the trip that changed everything.

“I love you too, Stevie,” you say, pushing the hair off his forehead as if it’s a reflex; without thought. “I think I just convinced myself I hated you ‘cause I was scared.”

“Gave is an interesting story, don’t you think?”

“Mhm,” you hum.

He leans in to kiss you then, tender and smooth the way that only couples do. Full of love and emotion, your bottom lip between his. It’s the fluff and sweetness of the best kind of pink cotton candy. It melts on your tongue.

Steve pulls back when your smiles break the kiss, leaning his forehead against yours.

“I think this could really last. You and me,” he tells you. He says it quietly, like it’s a secret for your ears only. A confession; he’s thought about this, the future.

“You do?”

“I mean we already had our first fight like forever ago. And our second, and our third, and our fourth, and-”

You cut him off putting your hand over his mouth, “okay! I get it,”

You can feel him smiling against your palm.

༄

There’s a hand outstretched that’s still suspended by the doorbell, knuckles rap-free but still aching as it rings. Idle and unused, so not quite from the force of a knock; maybe craving something more, something sloven and calloused like the promise of Steve’s touch. You exhale quickly, a breath that’s forced through flared nostrils. The arm that’s pining drops to your side even quicker.

Above you, the porch light glares fluorescent yellow, an ugly, confronting hue that doesn’t let you hide in the shadows.

A shame, because that’s all you really want to do. You drag a clammy hand across your denim shorts painstakingly slow.

Beyond the front door, there’s a muffled clamour. Hinges creaking, linoleum squeaking, the steady thud of nearing footsteps. Steve Harrington, to whom they belong, feels equally nervous as he reaches for the door handle. His hand falters where it grips and pushes, long fingers shaking and breathing non-existent.

Maybe focussing on the facts will help him regain control of this situation. There’s a sweet, overwhelming something that’s threatening to yawn his chest wide open.

Fact one, you’ve been to his house a million times before tonight. Fact two, he’s been on the same number of successful dates without his heart making a fool of him. Fact three, this isn’t a date, anyway.

Fact four, he really wants it to be. He holds firm on the handle until his knuckles blanch, pressure enough to subdue the jolt of his wrist pulse.

When he pulls it open and finds you figure on his porch steps, his heart squeezes through his open ribcage and springs forward. Like, really thuds against his breastbone and almost ends in a stumble, kind eyes and bashful smile sure to land him in serious trouble.

He thinks that you’re more dressed up than usual. Is that conceited of him? There’s a sheen of gloss on your lips, a pretty colour on your eyelids, and you’re wearing a tiny tank top that shies away from your denim shorts. The taunting wafer of skin between the two shines porch light yellow. It’s a little more than usual, a little more than Steve can handle. He thinks that this is on purpose, too. Is that conceited of him?

Fact five, he’s never been on a date with someone who’s made him feel this much, ten seconds in. Not that this is a date, or anything.

“Hey,” he greets quickly, sounding more breathless than he appears. “Hi, come in.”

Your smile grows in response, neat hands clasped at your torso as you move past him. “Robin here yet?”

There’s a pause as your elbow knocks his at the doorway. You think he’s wearing more cologne than usual. Is that conceited of you? Farrah Fawcett in the air intermingles with aftershave, giving away his well-mussed hair and clean shaven chin. And he’s an all-encompassing warmth that makes an inch feel far less, broad shoulders better defined in the long sleeve he’s wearing. You think that this is on purpose, too. Is that conceited of you?

“Nah,” he answers after a beat, scratching the back of his neck bemusedly. His biceps looks really solid up close.

“Hm.”

You walk along the hallway and into the living room, finding an impressive assortment of movie snacks splayed out on the coffee table. Near an edge, there’s a stack of well-loved classic films, The Breakfast Club and The Goonies favourites in amongst them.

You know, for that movie nights friends do all the night.

“Thought she would be,” you add, frowning thoughtfully. “Didn’t you guys do a shift together today?”

“Yeah,” Steve answers, shrugging when you turn. “Said it was,” he pulls up his fingers into mock quote marks, “‘absolutely imperative’ I drop her home instead of coming straight here.”

“Interesting.” You don’t think that it’s interesting at all. You think that it’s Robin playing Cupid with bent arrows.

Steve cracks a grin, less nerves and more amusement. “I don’t try to figure out what the fuck goes on in her pea brain anymore.”

He begins to jog backward toward the kitchen, raising his eyebrows expectantly. “Beer?”

“Beer,” you agree, collapsing back onto the couch with a smile in tandem.

There’s an organised array of plush cushions that soften your fall, greens and tired greys that have known the passage of time. Known the other girls that have made home on this couch, Steve’s hands on their waist and his lips dragging over their jaw. Your chest feels a little funny. You straighten up and folds your hands in your lap with newer diffidence.

“Reckon we start without her?” Steve calls from the kitchen, hissing open two bottles of beer.

“Dunno.” You glance up at the wall clock, still unsure. If you wait for Robin, perhaps you can stay here a little longer. “Maybe?”

Steve’s agenda is different. Starting early will mean more couch time when it’s over, long stretches of silence and anticipation and first kiss seconds. “I’m sure she won’t mind,” he tries.

“I don’t know,” you say, lying through your teeth. “She told me she’s been dying to watch Breakfast Club.”

“But she’s already seen it.”

“Doesn’t matter. It’s a classic.”

As if on queue, his corded landline rings just as he’s about to argue. He frowns at it for a moment before reacting, freeing a hand by placing one of the glass bottles on the kitchen counter. Condensation glazes the black headset as he pulls it to his ear.

“Yeah?” He’s never had to be formal on the phone. It’s not like his parents have ever bothered to call and check up.

“Yeah?” Robin mocks, her sweet, croaky voice filled with mirth. “Seriously, Steve? You always pick up the phone like that? What if someone important was calling you? What if it was the fucking cops?”

“Hello, dumbass.” Steve tries for more slow and placating, but the scoff that escapes him is a loud, exasperated sound. “Why the fuck would the cops be calling me right now?”

“You’re nineteen with a fridge full of beer?” she offers.

Steve sighs tiredly. “Whatever. When’re you getting here?”

A pause. He thinks he hears a crackle of static as Robin twirls her telephone cord around her forefinger.

“Oh, right, yes,” she answers in a rush, making up for the beat of hesitating silence that she’s lost. “About that.”

Steve’s brow furrows, grip on the headset loosening a margin. “Robin.”

“Change of plans, Harrington,” she lies, another rustle as she shrugs. “Something came up. Can’t do move night anymore.”

“Oh.” A whole evening with just you on his plush couch, no Robin. Steve tries for nonchalance. “Right.”

He overshoots. There’s an audible promise of something more hidden within nerves and anticipation.

“You’re welcome,” Robin says, sounding pleased with herself.

The tips of Steve’s ears warm. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he mutters.

“Don’t know who you’re convincing, dingus,” Robin snorts, shaking her head bemusedly. “Because it definitely isn’t me.”

“What came up?” Steve asks gruffly, trying to change the subject. His voice has grown a fair few octaves and he feels very unlike himself.

“Stuff,” Robin answers vaguely. She knows that he won’t call her up on it with any fire; Steve’s well aware that she’s lying, and the unrequited something in his ribcage is grateful for it.

“Stuff,” Steve echoes, eyes darting to the sliver of living room he can see through the ajar kitchen door. “Right.”

“Anyway,” Robin says, her wide smile audible. “Better go get started on it.”

“Robin —”

“Bye!” she interrupts, already moving the headset back to its holder. “Have fun without me.”

Steve grimaces abashedly, waiting for the low knell of the dial tone. And then, “like… so much fun,” Robin adds through a laugh, making obnoxious kissing noises that are sure to travel to the couch. “Do everything I wouldn’t do and then some more stuff —”

“Good bye Buckley,” Steve forces through gritted teeth, hastening to push the black headset into place before it has a chance to burn his skin more. On the other end of the line, Robin grins down at her receiver triumphantly, looking extremely smug as she hops off the counter and does the same. Less heat on her cheeks, less havoc in her heart; Steve wants to feel jealous of her, but he can’t.

Because she’s not the one that gets an uninterrupted evening in your presence. Nerves aside, Steve Harrington’s sure he’s won the fucking jackpot.

When he reenters the living room with two beers in hand, it’s to find concentrated-looking you sorting through a bag of sour patch kids. To find the greens and purples, he surmises; those are the two flavours you’ve always preferred to the rest. There’s a soft, barely there moue on your lips as you squint into its confines. Steve wonders fleetingly how much it’d cost to manufacture bags with only your favourite sour patch kids in them.

Something in his heart squeezes and pulls. He decides to focus all of his energy on placing one foot in front of the other.

“Here,” he says, holding out a cold beer bottle for you to accept. There’s a touch of pinky fingers as you move to take it, his hand leaving an imprint against the condensation. Yours doesn’t quite manage to cover it on replacement.

This revelation makes your chest feel funny. You decide to focus all of your energy on taking a sip. “Who was on the phone?” you ask, tipping it backing and gulping down a generous amount.

There’s a few things Steve isn’t allowed to look at. The way your full lips wrap around the rim, the shift of the column of your throat as you swallow. The hitch in your crop top as you stretch and tilt your chin up. He resigns to staring at his own beer bottle instead.

“Robin,” he answers, grabbing The Breakfast Club tape sleeve and turning to place it into his video player. “She isn’t gonna make it.”

Steve’s back is to you, affording a moment’s privacy for your surprise to take free reign. Surprise that’s selfish, surprise that’s a little giddy; in hindsight, her absence shouldn’t make you feel so anticipatory.

Because this is just a casual movie night between two just friends, right? Nothing more, nothing less, nothing that your pretty make-up and carefully curated outfit would lead an outsider to believe was a first date.

Right?

“Oh, what?” you ask, tad too heavy on the nonchalance. “How come?”

“Didn’t really explain,” Steve answers with a shrug, slotting the tap in and turning. “Something about some stuff she had to do?”

“Maybe an errand for her mom,” you try. Why are you helping her, again? “You know Mrs. Buckley can get meticulous about her grocery list.”

“Oh yeah, of course,” Steve agrees ethusiastically, grateful that you aren’t asking any more questions. An insistent line of reasoning is sure to land him in trouble, prod at his poor, messy heart, until he’s spilling the truth about Robin, trusty friend come makeshift wingwoman.

If only he knew she was working as a double-agent.

“No big,” you add, clearing your throat awkwardly. “She doesn’t mind if we go ahead, right?”

“No, not at all,” Steve says quickly, too quickly. He winces a little as his eagerness registers, sitting down beside you on the couch before continuing. “I just mean — uh, she’s watched both movies already. She’s not missing out on anything, is she?”

You smile sheepishly. “She was looking forward to watching The Breakfast Club.”

“Why?” Steve teases, scoffing playfully. “Heard that movie’s super overrated.”

“Shut up,” you return with a mock-glare, bumping your shoulder against his. There’s a beat where you should pull away, but you don’t. The skin of your forearm is all warm and pliable, still touching his when you add, “I know you secretly love watching chic flicks.”

Steve doesn’t, really. He just secretly loves doing things you love. “Not as much as I love The Goonies,” he says.

You make a face. “Boring.”

“Hey.” Steve’s turn to create an excuse to move closer. He raises his arms faux-threateningly before dropping one behind him, stretching it along the headrest of the couch before relaxing. “C’mon. You’ve never even fucking watched it.”

“True,” you allow, raising your eyebrows meaningfully. “But that’s because it doesn’t look like the kinda thing I’d be into.”

Steve’s brows soar in tandem. “Why not?”

“Just… not my vibe, you know?”

“I do,” Steve nods, “except that it is.”

You cock your head to one side, surveying him with mild amusement. “And how can you be so sure?”

“Because I know you,” Steve answers, inching closer without meaning to. “You gotta trust me, Y/n. Do you?”

Maybe it’s the way he says it; more sure of himself than he has been all evening, deep and firm with a timbre that makes your breath catch. He knows you, he insists, like there’s a chamber in his heart that has your name written all over it. You wonder if it mirrors the one in yours. And when he asks you if you trust him, all brown eyes and messy hair, you realise that the walls are stretching and your insides shrinking to make space.

You’re going to be all heart, no other vital organs soon.

“I trust you.” With this, amongst other things. “You better not let me down, Harrington.”

“I could never,” Steve says, using his forefinger to cross his chest pocket for good measure. “We ready to go?”

His arm, still stretched like a pillow over your headrest, moves down an inch to make contact with your shoulders. This shouldn’t make your pulse race the way that it does. Steve’s put his arm around you more times than you can count.

“As long as we’re starting with The Breakfast Club,” you answer, sounding weaker than you want to as the pressure grows warmer. Your cheeks, too, all the skin-on-skin forearm and half a thigh and almost ankle.

“See,” he says easily, pressing play to a familiar-sounding opening. “Knew you’d say that.”

“Fluke.”

Steve decides to ignore you. “Cause I know you.”

—

You keep track of the passage of time through touches.

Near the beginning of The Breakfast Club, they’re quick and fleeting; fingers reaching for the same bag of candy, knees almost knocking as you readjust. Like you’re testing tentative waters before braving a step further, adding an element of something more to amicable points of contact.

At the halfway mark, Steve’s manspreading becomes obvious. His thigh is a firmer pressure on yours, legs swinging a little so your ankles are tangled, too. It’s here that the temperature in the room rises a few degrees.

By the times The Goonies has begun, the arm Steve had on the headrest rests around your shoulders. His fingers graze the bare skin of its curve intermittently, braving closer and closer to your forearm before clasping and squeezing. Here it lingers. You find yourself moving closer.

And then, somewhere between twenty minutes in and thirty, you pull your knees up and drape them onto the free couch to your right. Slowly, your head moves in the opposite direction, tucking under Steve’s chin to fall against the pillow of his bicep and relax.

He begins thinking of excuses to keep you here forever. The hold he has on your elbow tightens, but there’s a paradoxical sense of featherlight abandon. You’re safer here, he thinks, well taken care of. Do you need anything else? Less space and more embrace? His heart on a silver platter, all of you within all of him?

He’ll give it to you if you ask. There’s no space for light to squeeze through the space where your hips kiss.

When the end-credits roll, you haven’t moved an inch. And though you were previously intertwined and at ease, the prospect of separation sets your soft skin aflame. The thrum of your heart begins to quicken. Maybe dread, maybe anticipation.

“So?” Steve whispers, making no move to pull away. “Did you like it?”

“Was okay,” you reply quietly. “How about The Breakfast Club?”

When met with silence, you angle back and tilt your chin, soft lips parted. There’s terrifying depth to the brown of Steve’s irises, sure and charged as they look over your features. “Wasn’t really paying attention,” he murmurs honestly.

“Rude.” You know he didn’t mean it that way. “You promised you would.”

“Hey,” he responds, raising his eyebrows. “I was trying to, I swear. Just couldn’t.”

You fold your arms across your chest, pouting with faux-chagrin. “Why not?”

“Didn’t hold my attention,” he answers cryptically, shrugging. There’s another pause as the hand on your forearm drops, slipping under your wrist to give your waist a quick squeeze. When he doesn’t pull away, you wonder whether he means to linger, the warmth of his touch making your fingers feel tingly.

He doesn’t. Touching you puts a monumental strain on his self-control.

“Not interesting enough?” you ask weakly.

“Easy to get distracted,” Steve corrects.

You nod, swallowing slightly. “Hey Steve?” you ask tentatively, chewing on your bottom lip. “Think I can stay the night?”

There’s no reason for the question to come out so demure. You’ve crashed at Steve’s house enough to call it half yours, sprawled on the couch with liquor breath and make-up still on. And yet, the proposition comes out all rushed and unsure, as though you haven’t ever slept over before.

Perhaps it’s because this you hasn’t, the you with Steve-borne chaos within your heart chambers. It’s why you feel the need to add, “Only — like, only if it’s no trouble, of course, I totally don’t mind driving home — it’s — I only ask because it’s, like, super late and you know the street-lights get so dim after eleven and I’m —”

“Hey,” Steve interrupts, lips pulling up all sweet on your diffidence. He isn’t smiling big, but his cheeks ache anyway. “Of course you can stay. C’mon.”

He straightens and untangles with some reluctance, knotting his fingers in yours to guide you up as he stands. Except too much, because since when do just friends hold hands? There’s a beat where you memorise his callouses before he pulls back.

He walks you up the stairs and into his bedroom, retrieving an old pair of shorts and a faded tee for you to throw on.

“Make yourself comfortable,” he says, handing you the items of clothing before gesturing to his bed.

You blink up at him in surprise. The flannel comforter that covers it smells like cedar wood and fresh linen.

“What?” This is new. “No, it’s — I’ll sleep on the couch like I always do.”

“You don’t have to do that,” he assures, ushering you toward his bed. This is new. “Take my bed. Seriously.”

You look up at him over your shoulder, raising your eyebrows dubiously. “I’m not letting you sleep on the couch in your own house, Harrington.”

“But you’re the guest,” he tries. Your knees knock the edge of his bed as you startle to a stop. “I insist.”

“The guest?” you echo, snorting bemusedly. “I’ve stayed here like, a million times dude.”

Steve balks. “You know what I mean,” he says quietly, a knowing timbre that makes your skin feel hot.

You swallow. “I can’t.”

“Too bad,” he returns, pulling away and jogging to the door. “Let me know if you need anything, alright? Or, uh, I mean —” he halts just short of it, turning around and combing his fingers through his hair. Rough, a little jagged. Like he’s nervous. “— yeah, that — you know where everything is anyway. Right?”

“Right,” you mumble, watching his hand drop to his side again. Why is he nervous?

Why are you?

At the doorway, a pause. Something fond and messy is wreaking havoc on Steve’s poor heart.

He thinks it has something to do with you, with the fact that there’s a kissable girl standing in his bedroom. And he knows that this doesn’t make any logical sense — you’ve been here a million times before, in thirteen-year-old dungarees and mismatched socks with holes.

But still, he thinks. A kissable girl and a bed.

He closes the door in a hurry.

—

You wake to the smell of burnt toast.

It’s different to the frangipani detergent Steve uses, sheets all lush and floral on your nose. And there’s hints of him hidden within it, faint vanilla and a strong cedar wood that you know. Sometimes more, sometimes less with some cypress, too. Maybe it’s the pheromones, but you’d be happy staying here forever.

Steve’s bed is softer than he is.

Not that that’s a bad thing, you find you like a solid wall to latch onto. A little more pressure when he squeezes you, a broad set of shoulders to steady yourself on.

You’re sure that there’s a point to this tangent, but instead of finding it, you’re getting distracted. You find that this is happening more and more often. Steve Harrington and his stupid bed are warming your clay heart terracotta.

Once you’ve ambled out of bed, re-tucking and re-making and smoothing out as you go, the burnt toast smell leads you down the stairs and out into the large kitchen.

Here, you find a shirtless Steve Harrington trying his hand at a full English breakfast. With his back to you, he’s attending to a sad-looking frying pan of blackened whites and yellows, stove coil burning. There’s another with dry bits of bacon and hash browns, hissing away under thick wisps of smoke.

He has a lot of muscles.

Maybe you’ve always known this and pretended not to notice, maybe they haven’t ever been this apparent. Maybe they’re tensing more than usual, flexing and relaxing with every move of his shoulders. Maybe they’re new.

Or maybe, it’s you. The heat on your cheeks could scramble more eggs than they’re worth.

“Morning,” you say weakly, trying for nonchalance and landing on hopelessly soft. Something broad and traceable is turning your brain to fog.

Steve looks over his shoulder and grins all over easy, beckoning you over with a nod before responding, “How’d you sleep?”

“So shit.” His sweatpants hang low on his hips. “Your couch is way better.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Steve says, returning to his pan of scrambled eggs. “Gave me a kink in my neck.”

“Hm,” you return, frowning in feigned bemusement. “Weird. Never had that problem before.”

“Sure you haven’t,” Steve says, raising his eyebrows skeptically.

You shrug, reaching under his forearm to switch off the stove-top. “Told you to give me the couch.”

When Steve angles back and looks down at you, there’s a moment where you startle at his closeness. Moving to the stove-top had felt like second nature, but tension in his proximity is anything but. Your fingers feel weak against the shiny, black knob, chin less than an inch from the bulk of his bicep. “Couldn’t do that.”

“Why not?” you ask, raising your eyebrows.

The column of Steve’s throat shifts as he swallows. “You deserve to sleep on a proper bed.”

“And you don’t?”

“Not as much as you,” he answers. What he really means is, you deserve far more than I do. What he’s really saying is, let me try to give it to you.

You try to roll your eyes, but the thrum of your heartbeat messes with your conviction. “That’s stupid.”

“You’re stupid.” Steve’s trying not to focus on where his shirt hems and your bare thighs begin. “I’m just being a good host.”

He’s failing miserably. He adds, “A good friend,” as if there’s anything platonic about the way he’s thinking about you in his bed.

“Good friend,” you echo. It garbles out of your throat a little funny. “Right.”

There’s more awkward silence as the pair of you hide an emotion, Steve his blunder and you your disappointment. He scoops scrambled eggs and bacon onto two plates of burnt toast, handing you the one that’s more seasoned, less charred.

The dining table feels too formal. Between platonic and romantic sits a terrifying stretch that’s unrequited, and perhaps the pair of you aren’t ready to let it go, just yet. You have to accept it to move past it, though perhaps that’s proving more difficult than it appears.

Instead, you hop up on barstools and eat at the kitchen counter. It isn’t much, but it’s better than informercials on the couch, one step that says just enough to mean something.

You use your fork to prod at a piece of scorched egg, a fond, teasing action that makes Steve mock-indignant.

“Wow.” You raise your eyebrows up at him. “Delicious.”

Steve frowns, but his eyes are full of mirth when he says, “Sue me for doing you a solid and feeding you.”

“Poisoning me,” you correct.

“Food is one of four basic human needs, by the way,” he says. He’s scraping off charred bits of toast when he reaches to your plate and does the same, absentminded little movements that flip your heart like a pancake. “Shelter’s another, king bed princess.”

You blink down at his large hands. There’s a quick second before you realise that his response calls for a scowl. “This isn’t food. It’s firewood.”

Steve grins sheepishly, wider when he catches the scrunch of your eyebrows, your chin. There’s determination to the way you’re frowning, all of your facial features intent on chastening him. He fights back with more fire. “I was trying something new. Smoked, like with salmon.”

“Cute.” Steve’s chest does something soft and messy. “Inedible, but cute.”

“You haven’t even tried it,” Steve accuses.

You fork at a piece of bacon that’s more streaky than burnt. “Smoked stuff has gotta be bad on your lungs.”

“Wrong pipe, babe.” He’s called you that before, right? He calls you that all the time.

Suddenly you’re unsure. “You know what I mean,” you say, popping it into your mouth and chewing dubiously. “Like cigarettes.”

“Like cigarettes?” Steve asks, raising his eyebrows.

“Yeah, they make your insides all gross,” you point your knife tip at a blackened edge of toast, “like that.”

“But cigarettes get people nice and relaxed, too,” Steve points out.

“Steven.” You make a show of wincing as you pop another charred rectangle into your mouth. “Besides the point.”

Steve grins devilishly, sweetly like hidden danger. “What you’re saying is,” he continues, deciding to ignore you. “My cooking relaxes you.”

You try for a frown, as if your lips don’t want to pull up in tandem. Steve’s amusement is contagious, all bright eyes and flared nostrils.

And the way he’s looking at you. Among other things. “Your cooking’s giving me a headache.”

Steve falters, brow furrowing a pinch. “You don’t actually have a headache, right?”

“No — no,” you say too quickly, his worry like dynamite to the flame in your chest. “I’m mostly kidding. Free of aches,” you look down at your plate pointedly, “but definitely not eating that.”

Steve’s features relax into a half-smile, half-grimace, hand coming up to scratch the back of his neck. “Shit, I know, it sucks,” he admits, emboldened by your sincerity. “Just wanted to make you something, you know?”

Your lips part in surprise. “Me?” you say, as if there’s ever been anyone else. “Why?”

“Because I never do.”

“Because you don’t have to.”

“We shit on the breakfast menu at Benny’s anyway,” Steve argues, shrugging. “Least we can do that for free here.”

The flame softens your heart like clay. “This isn’t as shit as Benny’s cardboard pancakes.”

“Yeah?” Steve asks, heart-squeezing smile reinstated.

“Don’t get me wrong, still totally shit,” you tease, breathing a laugh at his faux-indignation. “But better than diner food by a mile.”

“Right,” Steve nods. “Because you prefer homemade meals.”

You roll your eyes, kicking his shin gently. “Not what I meant,” you say, “It’s better because you made it.”

Steve frowns down at your suspended leg, struck with an urge to reach down and pull it into his lap. “Shouldn’t that make it worse?”

“For me, Steve. You made it for me.”

“That makes it better?”

A pause. There’s tension to this revelation that has your poor pulse jolting, because Steve made you breakfast and you enjoyed said breakfast and now the pair of you are wondering whether this goes beyond meal preference.

If only you knew. “Thank you,” you say quietly, hoping that answers his question. “You know I would’ve been okay with butter and jam.”

“No biggie,” Steve says, as if he had the ingredients lying around. (He didn’t. He’s been up for a few hours already, first customer at Kroger’s with a conveyor belt full of groceries.) “I like cooking.”

You raise your eyebrows skeptically. “Liar. You hate it.”

For you, he wants to add. I like cooking for you. Instead, he gives your heart a break and says, “Feelings change.”

That’s generous, it isn’t quite a break. There’s a hint to double-meaning that does something warm and fond to your chest. You try to control your breathing, hopelessly failing.

“Ah.”

If Steve has to stare at your pretty face and stop himself from kissing you silly, the least you can do is bring solidarity to his suffering.

“Right,” you add weakly.

“Right.” He sounds more sure of himself than you do, and you want to hate him for it.

You can’t, though. You’re falling in love.

—

“No, he was a total serial killer in the making,” you insist, leaning against the glass front as you wait for Steve to lock up. “You should’ve seen his face when he asked for Motel Hell. Seriously fucking sinister.”

Steve jiggles the door handle to ensure that it’s secure, pocketing the store keys before turning toward you. He was crouching a second ago, and you almost startle when your eye-line goes from floppy hair to wide shoulders. “Sinister?” he echoes, raising his eyebrows.

“Oily forehead, straggly hair, weird clothes,” you list, your own lifting in tandem. “He didn’t even make eye contact.”

“Poor dude was probably stressed the fuck out,” Steve reasons, grinning roguishly. “Got a pretty girl working the till instead of overgrown baby Keith.”

Your cheeks warm. “Don’t be lame.”

“No — not even trying to be,” Steve insists, crossing his heart and hoping to die for good measure. “D’you have any idea how many guys key up over you ringing them through?”

“Steve,” you warn.

“Too many,” Steve says, unlocking his BMW as the pair of you near. The carpark is dimly lit and deserted; an alarming sight, but you’ve never felt safer. “Like — too many.”

“No way,” you argue, frowning stubbornly. “I would’ve noticed.”

He waits for you to open the door and get in before he says, “You never do.”

“Hey.” You’re still frowning as you buckle in, though there’s a brush of fingers as his find the centre console. It ebbs a smidge. “I’m perceptive.”

“Not with guys,” Steve returns, raising his eyebrows meaningfully. “You know that Eddie kid was totally flirting with you when he came in today, don’t you?”

He’s been dying to bring this up all day. How stupid Eddie Munson, all rebellious hair and riot of metal clothing, managed to steal another one of those, fond messy smiles from you.

They’re meant to belong to him. It’s selfish, he isn’t proud of it, but Steve’s sick of someone else doing his job better than he can.

“No he wasn’t,” you argue.

“Oh, he definitely has the hots for you.”

“Right,” you say, snorting bemusedly. “Because I’m more of a catch than his very cool, very available, band of groupies.”

“Sweeter,” Steve corrects. “More unassuming.”

He turns on the ignition and shifts to back out, using it as an excuse to stretch his arm across your headrest. It’s a solid weight that pressed into your shoulder, the soft hinge where it meets your neck.

You shiver. The moment passes, Steve’s hand dropping to the centre console, but your skin still feels overwhelmingly warm all over.

“You think I’m naive.” You say it like an accusation.

“I think you can’t tell the difference between someone being nice to you and someone flirting.”

Your lips part in surprise, more bashful than kissable but Steve’s mind strays anyway. “Serial killer dude was not hitting on me.”

Steve cracks another roguish grin, raising his eyebrows. “Might’ve wanted to, though.”

“No way,” you say.

“And you wouldn’t even have known it.”

“Steve.” You frown, worrying the hem of your denim shorts absentmindedly. “Take it back.”

Steve’s eyes fall to your fingers without meaning to. They pull up the edge and expose bare thigh as they move, just enough skin to cause a car crash. You’re trying to kill him.

Steve thinks he’ll even let you. “It’s the truth.”

“How’re you so sure?” you return stubbornly. “You aren’t in their heads.”

But I’m in mine. Except that that’s definitely overkill, so he amends it to, “But I’m a guy. We think the same.”

You falter. What does he mean by that?

“That doesn’t make any sense,” you say, sounding unsure. Does he mean that he’s a guy that flirts with you, too?

“Of course it does.”

Another pause. Car rides with Steve feel like time-travel, sometimes.

Music blaring and windows rolled down, velvet hues bleeding into cotton candy clouds. You’re so caught up in the conversation that you don’t realise you’re almost home, his BMW rolling to a stop adjacent to your lit porch.

You turn your head as it halts, blinking up at your drawn curtains. “Right,” you say slowly, and then you startle, eyes widening as you spring to action. “Wait — I almost forgot — wait here.”

You jump out of his car with a quickness that’s alarming, leaving poor Steve with clammy hands on the steering wheel. The smell of you lingers as he watches you disappear through the front door, citrus that cuts through lavender and vanilla soap. Cinnamon, maybe, a hint of patchouli that’s all him. He aches at the prospect of your sweet perfume fading.

When you walk back out the front door and toward the greying sidewalk, Steve’s exited his BMW to lean against the hood. His hands are clasped behind his neck in a handsome display of strength, bicep stretched deliciously and long legs neatly folded.

You fight the overwhelming urge to collapse against him. He looks as though he could carry all of your weight, and then some.

“Here,” you say, a little bashful, a little breathless.

In your outstretched palm, an oversized tee that belongs to Steve. It’s the same one you’d worn to bed after Robin-free movie night; you don’t know why you’re so intent on returning it, you’re sure he wouldn’t mind if you decided to keep it.

Maybe you’re vying for confirmation. “Didn’t get a chance to return it.”

Steve looks down at it with a frown, pushing your hand away. It’s palm to wrist and your skin burns as it registers, warmth that spreads to toe tip nerve-endings. “Have it.”

“It’s yours,” you say lamely.

“I want you to have it,” Steve repeats, firmer this time.

He straightens before he inches closer, guiding it back to your chest. Here, his hand lingers, squeezing pressure into your soft-looking knuckles. “Please?”

You look up at him with wide eyes. He’s close enough for your knees to feel like jelly, every freckle on his nose neat and traceable. “Why?”

“I liked seeing you in it,” he says honestly. His fingers move to your wrist and clasp gently, thumb swiping over the pillow of your palm. You almost don’t feel him pull you forward as he leans back against the hood, you thighs finding home in the space between his.

Closer now. You can count the frown lines on his forehead, enough for your heart to ache and your fingers to itch. He should have less. He shouldn’t have any, only creases when he smiles and when he laughs and when he teases.

“I’ve worn your stuff before, though,” you mumble lamely.

His head dips. “Not like this.”

The hand that’s caressing your forearm drops to your waist and holds pressure. The touch travels to your chest and stretches your yawning heart wide open.

“Steve,” you whisper, eyes closing.

His nose dots yours when he responds, equally hushed, “Y/n.”

“What are we doing?” you say, even softer this time.

You can feel Steve’s warm breath on your cheeks. “I don’t know about you,” he murmurs, “but I think what I’m doing is gearing up to kiss you.”

There’s nothing platonic about the way his lips meet yours, soft to more supple, harder until you’re breathless. Torso to torso squashes his oversized tee, rough hands vying for free curves to press you into him. They slip under your tank top and mess with the cadence of your skin, sloven touch mirroring the labour of his kisses.

And there’s nothing platonic about the way his tongue moves over yours, a hot, searing swirl that jolts straight to your core. You gasp as his lips move, slow to quick to the sort of ardent that bruises, tension in the air and hands on your skin and cheeks all pretty and warm to the touch.

There’s nothing platonic about the sureness with which he’s kissing you. Steve’s memorising the way your lips taste, immortalising his own with longer stretches of firm pressure.

You wonder if he’s wanted this as long as you have. He wonders the same with far less diffidence.

When his lips drag to your jaw and along your throat, you sigh and say, “Steve,” all pretty and drawn out.

Steve’s obsessed with the sound. He pulls up to eye-level and cups your cheek, rough thumb swiping over it gently. “Yeah?”

“We just kissed.”

Steve raises his eyebrows, pressing another kiss to your lips, another, one more. “We’re still kissing,” he corrects quietly. You can feel his smile more than you can hear it, yours growing in tandem until your cheeks are aching.

“You know what I mean,” you mumble.

Steve’s fingers are warm enough to mould your skin like clay. You lean into the rough hand he has on your cheek, less sloven and more reverent now that your soft lips are imprinted. “This is what I was talking about before,” he teases, grinning a little.

Your brow furrows as you look up at him. “Hm?”

“About never taking a hint.” He smiles wider when you scoff. “Flirting’s kinda pathetic when it’s one sided.”

“Who said anything about it being one sided?” you ask timidly, trying for fire but feeling it elsewhere. On your cheeks, in your ribcage, every nerve-ending Steve’s touch has set ablaze.

Steve’s lips part in surprise. “You were trying to flirting to with me?”

“Why’re you saying it like that?” you ask, groaning.

“Because.” Your foreheads touch as he leans in, a featherlight pressure that feels all yours. “God — because there’s no way you have a crush on me too. You’re you.”

“I’m me?” you repeat, bemused.

“I don’t believe this,” he says, mostly joking as he presses closer. Nose on nose now. “I’m gonna need to make out with you some more before I’m sure.”

“Steve,” you fake-chide, breathing out a fond laugh. “C’mon. Of course I like you, you dingus.”

Steve almost startles at the sweet register of the confession, missing a beat before raising his voice and yelling, “HEAR THAT, MAPLE STREET?” You want to tell him to shut up, but your cheeks ache too much. “SHE LIKES ME!”

Into the echo, you say, “This is the part where you tell me you like me back.”

“Right,” Steve nods, kissing you once more good measure, quicker, harder till it’s there forever. “Except that I way more than just ‘like’ you, sweet thing.”

—

Your legs wraps around Steve’s thigh like ivy, ankles almost knocking and shoulder pressed to bicep. He has a rough hand squeezing the exposed skin below your shorts, sometimes firm, sometimes softer; always warm and there.

Since the sidewalk first kiss, you’ve learnt that Steve’s obsessed with creating points of contact. It’s as though skin-on-skin emboldens his senses; he’s always searching for something exposed, something unblemished, no regard for personal space and you aren’t even sure you mind it.

There’s a bounty of stars in the sky above you, brighter comets illuminating his features as he turns. The hand holding pressure grows looser and more careless, trailing up your thigh to slip underneath your tank top.

Your head moves too. “Hi,” you say softly.

A pause. He has a strange look on his face when he returns, “Hey.”

You reach forward and smooth a thumb over his frown lines, other fingers moving up to drag through his brown hair. “What’s that look?” you ask between soft, soothing swipes.

Steve turns fully, broad shoulders perpendicular to yours. “You’re my best friend, you know that?”

Your breath catches. Something warm and overwhelming threatens to break out of your ribcage. “I know that.”

“Good.” Steve feels it too. “Shit, I’m lucky.”

There it goes. It’s your heart that bounds out of your chest and into his, tucking into the empty space as though it’s always belonged there.

It has. His replaces yours in tandem.

“Me too,” you say, smiling softly.

“Less than me.”

“That’s not true.”

And so it goes, round and round like a snow globe dance, a silly argument about who’s sweeter on who, who’s pined for longer and who loves who more.

You were finishing up your makeup when the light caught your attention. A flashlight, blinking from Steve’s window. You knew it meant he wanted to talk, so you made your way to your window and opened it, elbows perched on the windowsill and your head sticking out.

“What do you want, Steve?”

Things were tense between the two of you ever since you broke up. It was a big fight that ended in tears and heartbreak. It sucked.

“Saw you getting ready. Just wondering where you’re going looking that nice.”

He didn’t want to say nice. He wanted to tell you that you looked beautiful, that he always thinks you look beautiful but you especially do now. He wanted to tell you he missed you.

“If you must know, I have a date.”

“A date?” Steve felt like he was just punched in the chest. He knows you aren’t his anymore, and he knows he probably won’t get you back, but it still hurts.

“‘M going to Enzo’s.”

“Enzo’s?” He wanted to scream, to tell you that you hated fancy restaurants like Enzo’s and that he knows that. He knows that you prefer the diner just outside of town, or the small café on Main Street.

“Yeah. With Charlie.”

“Oh, yeah. Well, have fun.”

“You could try and sound a little more sincere with that one, Steve.”

“I wish I could, sweetheart.”

What was he thinking using his pet name for you just like that? Like it wasn’t a big deal. God, he confused you so much it was infuriating.

“Nice chat.”

You closed your window before he could get another word in. Stupid Steve Harrington with his stupid perfect face and stupid fluffy hair, always messing with your feelings. Even if it wasn’t on purpose, he managed to scramble your brain.

Everything he said to you affected you. His voice and his tone, the way his face never hid how he felt. It aggravated you because even after the fallout, you wanted to reach out and hold his hand whenever you were close enough.

You heard Charlie pull into your driveway, his music loud and his hand hitting the horn a couple of times so you knew he was there. Unfortunately, that meant Steve knew, too.

He watched you leave through his window, watched you climb into that fucking car and frowned as it drove away.

He wanted to be the one taking you out, but he fucked that up.

-

The date was going well. Charlie was kind enough and he did all of the right things. He opened the door for you, pulled out your chair, complimented you.

And yet, something was missing.

It wasn’t like it was a bad date. Enzo’s was a lovely restaurant and the food was amazing, the conversation wasn’t really awkward but it wasn’t stimulating. It didn’t challenge you or lead to any interesting discussions. It was just okay, nothing more, nothing less.

You weren’t excited about this boy, about what could happen between the two of you, and you felt awful. The last thing you wanted to do was lead him on, so, as you walked back to his car, you paused your steps and grabbed his arm so he did the same.

“Listen, Charlie,” you started.

“Oh no. This is never good.”

“I’m sorry. I just don’t really see us being anything more than friends.”

You felt bad for turning him down this way, for letting him take you out when you don’t think you were ever that interested. You think a lot of it has to do with Steve, and your struggle to get over him.

“Well, thanks for being honest. Do you still want a ride home?”

You shook your head, “I think I’ll walk. Need to clear my head. Thank you for dinner. And for understanding.”

Just as you’re about to walk away he stops you.

“It’s Steve, isn’t it?”

“What?” You turn to look at Charlie, seeing him nod over to the infamous BMW sitting in the parking lot. Stupid fucking Steve Harrington.

“I get it. You guys were good together.”

“No. No, it’s not-”

“It’s alright. See you around.”

Charlie leaves you deserted in the parking lot, your mind processing what he just said. You turn to look at Steve’s car again. You’re fucking fuming.

Why would he show up here? Why does he even care?

You storm over to his car and tug on the passenger door handle, it’s unlocked. You climb in. Steve’s sitting in the driver's seat, looking at you like he expected you to come over and be all angry with him. You hate that he knows you so well.

“What the actual fuck, Steve?”

“Not happy to see me, sweetheart?”

“Don’t pull that shit with me right now,” your heartbeat is fast, ringing in your ears and you feel like you might explode. It’s better than how you felt on the date, you think. You didn’t feel anything then. You feel everything now.

“Okay. Fine,” he’s looking at you, completely focused and you wish he would just look away. That he never showed up here because it was all so confusing.

“What are you doing here?”

“I wanted to see how your date was going. Considering he left and you’re here, it wasn’t good?”

He’s not trying to sound cocky, or condescending, but it’s how he feels. After you left, he couldn’t stop thinking about you with someone that wasn’t him. Someone probably nicer and less likely to make you cry or yell, but he was selfish when it came to you.

“You know what? It was good. He was nice to me, he never said anything that upset me, or made me want to pull my hair out. No, he was sweet.”

Steve thinks he might cry about this when he’s by himself, “So why did he go without you?”

“Because I told him to! I didn’t feel anything with him. Nothing at all. And I should have. You ruined me.”

“You ruined me, too.”

“I know,” you take a deep breath, you don’t feel like having this fight right now. “Can you just take me home?”

He decided to give it a rest. He wants to grab your face and kiss you until you kiss him back. He wants you to yell at him, to give him the rush of emotion only you provide. But, it’s not the time, and it probably won’t ever be.

“Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

He drives off, and you only now notice that your favorite artist is playing, that he probably put it on for you. Only in the now awkward silence, do you think that maybe he was worried about you. Worried in his Steve way that made him do stupid things.

You hated that it wiped your anger away.

Something about this boy made you act insane, like nobody else. He made you feel. More so than anyone else and even though it felt like a disaster, it was what made you feel alive. Like you were actually living instead of just coasting.

Steve pulls into his driveway, because your house is right next door. It’s weird that you won’t be going up to his room with him, he thinks. He doesn’t remember the last time you were in his car without holding his hand or giving him that smile of yours that makes his heart beam. He misses it.

“Home sweet home,” he says. He’s trying to say bye without making things weird or heated again. It isn’t working.

“I don’t know what to do with myself around you.”

“What?”

“You make me lose my mind and I hate that I want you to. How fucked is that?”

“Sweetheart-”

“No, Steve. I just don’t understand what I’m supposed to do. I can’t even go on a fucking date without thinking of you. Or seeing you, apparently.”

You think you want him back. You think you always have. But, it wasn’t healthy in the long run. It didn’t work.

You look at his face, at his sad eyes and the little frown on his mouth. How dare he look so pretty when he was upset? And how dare he make you want to cry without even saying anything?

This boy.

He looks like he’s about to say something, something important.

“I miss you, sweetheart. All the time.”

“We can’t, Steve. All we did was fight.”

“That’s not true. We fought a lot, yeah, but that just means there was something to fight for. Don’t you think so?”

You’re so close to giving in, to reaching out and touching him again and kissing him and falling back into what might be the best—or worst—thing you ever had. You can't let yourself do that.

“Thank you for driving me,” you say.

You want to say more. You want to tell him you miss him, too. That you miss what you had and how it made you feel. That you miss it because it was the realest thing you’d ever known. You miss fighting with him and then the make-up kisses that would ensue. You miss everything about him, about the two of you together.

You don’t say any of that, though. No, you shut his car door behind you and turn to go into your house.

You walk away from him.

You don’t see him fall forward to lean his forehead on his steering wheel, you don’t see him wipe his eyes when he sits back up.

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