summary: a late night phonecall, a dangerous question, and the night you both stop pretending
warnings: 18+ minors DNI, NSFW, sexual content (smut)
a/n: for the anon that asked if i'd ever stop edging with the Steve fics
-
The house feels too big when it’s only you inside it.
Not haunted, not in the way Hawkins has taught you to fear.
Just… quiet.
The kind of quiet that makes you notice every creak of settling wood and every sigh of wind against the windows like the place is trying to talk to you and doesn’t know how.
Your bedroom is a little island of warmth in the evening. The lamp on your nightstand glows honey-gold, throwing soft shadows against posters and book spines and the familiar mess of your life.
The air smells like your shampoo, sweet and clean, steam still lingering in the hallway from the shower you just escaped.
You’re wrapped in a towel that clings when you shift, soft and stubborn against your skin. Your hair drips slow, patient drops down your spine.
Your parents are out of town, visiting relatives after you insisted that you’d be fine - that Hawkins is safe, and that you’re responsible because you’re an adult now.
You’ve been an adult in the way you don’t get to brag about. An adult because you’ve stood in blood and ash and impossible cold and told yourself to keep moving. An adult because you’ve watched people you care about come back wrong, or not at all, and you’ve learned how to smile anyway.
So you’re fine. Mostly.
Still, when the phone rings, it cuts through the quiet like scissors through wrapping paper.
Sharp. Bright. Sudden.
You stare at it for half a beat, the beige plastic with its cord coiled like a sleeping snake. The ring comes again. Insistent.
You reach for it, the towel shifting as your arm lifts, and you press the receiver to your ear.
“Hello?”
There’s a pause.
And then, like a match striking in the dark, you hear him.
“Hey, it's me.”
Steve Harrington’s voice does infuriating things to your nervous system. It always has.
It’s warm and a little rough around the edges, like he’s been laughing or yelling or talking too much all day. There’s a casual drawl to it that pretends it doesn’t care… and a thread underneath that always, always does.
You settle down on the edge of your bed, leaning back against your pillows, letting your shoulder cradle the receiver. “Well, if it isn’t Hawkins’ resident babysitter. Shouldn’t you be doing rounds with a whistle and juice boxes?”
A beat. You can practically hear his grin. “Wow. Okay. That’s how it is?”
“That’s how it is,” you agree, and you’re smiling too, because it’s automatic. Because with Steve, banter is a habit you both pretend you don’t need.
“Can’t a guy call a friend without getting attacked now?”
“Steve,” you say, letting your voice go sweet in the way that is absolutely a lie, “if you wanted kindness, you should’ve called literally anyone else.”
He huffs a laugh, and it’s such a familiar sound that something in your chest unclenches. Like your body recognizes him as a safe thing before your brain can argue.
“Fine,” he says. “I’ll take it. I’ve had worse today.”
You picture him as he says it, sprawled on his bed or slouched at his kitchen table, phone cord stretched, hair a little wild in that way it always is when he’s tired.
His hands, big and restless, probably messing with something without thinking; the edge of a magazine, a rubber band, the phone cord.
“Yeah?” you ask. “What, did Keith finally develop superpowers?”
“Oh my god,” Steve groans, and you hear the way he drops his head. You can see it like you’re there. “Don’t joke about that. I’m serious, if that guy starts levitating tapes or something, I’m quitting.”
“You’d never quit.”
“I would,” he insists. “I totally would.”
“Steve Harrington,” you say, with all the solemnity of a judge, “you once fought an interdimensional monster with a bat. You did not survive that to be taken out by Keith.”
He makes a sound like he’s trying not to laugh and failing. “Look, Keith is… honestly, he might be worse.”
“Might be?” You clutch the towel a little tighter as you laugh, the fabric warm against your skin. “Tell me everything.”
And he does, because he can’t help himself. Because he wants to. He tells you about the customer who insisted they returned tapes on time when they absolutely did not, about a kid who tried to rent something way too old for him and then stared at Steve like he was the problem, and about Keith’s latest power trip, complete with a new set of rules he keeps inventing on the spot like they’re corporate policy.
You toss little comments back, you tease and poke, and Steve swats at you verbally like a cat batting at a string, all lazy confidence and mock outrage.
It’s so normal it almost hurts.
Because normal is a costume, and in the space between his sentences, there are ghosts. Things you don’t say.
Like how he’s called every night since your parents left town, always a little too casual about it.
Like how he never says I’m checking on you, but the words hover in the silence anyway.
“So,” Steve says after a few beats, like he’s trying to steer the conversation somewhere that isn’t too obvious, “How was your day?”
You glance at the clock. It's late enough now that the sky outside your window has turned that deep blue-black that makes every streetlight look lonely.
“Exhillirating,” you admit. “Cleaned. Did laundry. Ate cereal for dinner because no one's here to stop me. Thought about setting the house on fire just for something to do.”
“Please don’t,” Steve says instantly, and the humor slips for half a second, revealing the thing underneath. The instinct. The protectiveness.
You smile into the receiver anyway. “Relax. It’s a joke.”
“I know,” he says, but he doesn’t sound fully convinced. Then, softer, “Just… you okay?”
There it is.
Not outright. Not dramatic. But real.
Your throat tightens in a way you don’t want to examine too closely. You let the towel edge ride up to your collarbone and press it there like it can hold you together.
“Yeah,” you say. “I’m okay.”
“Good,” Steve answers too quickly, like he’s relieved and annoyed at himself for being relieved. “Yeah, that's good.”
You can hear him shift on the other end, the faint creak of springs or a chair. A distant clink, like he sets something down.
“So,” he says, casual again, a little too casual, “what’re you doing right now?”
You blink, and then your mouth curves before you can stop it. Because if Steve is going to pretend he isn’t checking on you, you’re going to make him pay for it.
“Steve,” you say, voice light as a feather, “you sound like you're one question away from asking me what I’m wearing. If you're going to treat this like one of those hotlines, I think I'm supposed to charge per minute.”
Silence.
Not dead silence. Not scary silence.
Just the kind that makes your skin notice itself.
“W-what -” Steve laughs, but it’s a little strangled, like the sound got caught somewhere on its way out. “I wasn't going to -”
“You sounded suspicious,” you say innocently.
“I did not,” he insists, but he’s still laughing, and you can hear the way his voice warms, the way he tries to climb back into the safety of joking. “Also, charging per minute? After everything I’ve done for you? That’s cold.”
“Fine,” you say, put-upon, like you're doing him a favour. “You can have the hero discount. But don’t get smug about it.”
“You’re unbelievable.”
“You love it.”
A beat.
And then, quiet enough that it makes your breath hitch, Steve says, “Yeah.”
Not dramatic. Not a confession.
Just one soft syllable that lands in the space between you like a dropped match.
You stare at your ceiling, suddenly hyper-aware of the wetness at the nape of your neck, the warmth in your cheeks, the way your pulse thuds in your throat.
Steve clears his throat on the other end, as if he can feel the shift too and wants to pretend it didn’t happen.
“So,” he says, a little hoarse now, “no plans tonight?”
You swallow. “No plans. I was just gonna watch a movie or something.”
“What movie?”
“I don’t know,” you say. “Something dumb. Something where the worst thing that happens is someone gets dumped at prom.”
Steve hums. “Sounds… sensible.”
“I’m always sensible.”
The conversation drifts on for another minute, comfortable and ordinary, like you’re both trying to keep it that way.
Then there’s a lull. Not uncomfortable, exactly. Just… full.
Like you can hear each other breathing. Like the line between your houses is suddenly more intimate than it has any right to be.
You fiddle with the corner of the towel. Your fingertips catch on the fabric loops.
On the other end, Steve doesn’t fill the silence right away. And that’s strange, because Steve usually fills silence like it’s his job. He hates empty space. He hates not knowing what to do with his hands, his mouth, his heart.
When he finally speaks, his voice is lower.
Honest in the way honesty sometimes slips out when you’re not watching it.
“So…”
You close your eyes.
“So,” you echo, barely above a whisper.
Another beat. And then Steve says it, like the words have been sitting on his tongue for the last five minutes and he’s finally letting them fall.
“What are you wearing?”
Your eyes snap open.
Heat blooms under your skin, immediate and ridiculous. You let out a breath that sounds like a laugh but isn’t really.
“Steve,” you say, and it comes out half a laugh, half a plea.
“I know,” he says immediately, and then there’s a sudden, awkward laugh. “Sorry, I don’t know why I -” He cuts himself off, exhales hard. “I mean you said it and my brain just… latched on. And now I keep thinking -”
Your fingers tighten on the towel edge until your knuckles go pale.
You could dodge. You could make it a joke again. You could say pajamas and let it drift back to safe.
But the truth is sitting right there, obvious and dangerous.
You lick your lips. Your voice comes out softer than you intend.
“A towel.”
The silence this time is immediate.
Sharp.
You hear Steve inhale. Not loud. Not exaggerated. Just… there. Like you’re suddenly close enough to count each breath.
“What?” He says, and his voice has dropped another notch.
“I’m ‘wearing’ a towel,” you clarify, cheeks hot. “Just got out of the shower.”
There’s a small, helpless sound from him, like he’s trying to decide whether to laugh or choke.
“Just a towel?” Steve asks, and there’s no humor in it now. Not really. It’s a question and a dare and a plea all braided together.
You glance down at yourself. The towel is still damp, still clinging, still one wrong move away from disaster.
“Just a towel,” you confirm.
“Oh,” Steve breathes. And it’s ridiculous, how much is in that one sound.
Your stomach flips again, lower this time. Your skin prickles along your arms.
You shift on the bed, and the towel slides a fraction against your thigh. The movement feels loud in the quiet room.
“Did you -” A pause. Then Steve’s voice, softer, almost careful. “Did you use that coconut shampoo?”
Your eyebrows lift. “You remember my shampoo?”
“Yeah,” he says, as if it’s obvious. As if he hasn’t spent the last year collecting little facts about you like they’re survival gear. “It smells like… like summer. I remember.”
Something warm and sharp twists in your chest.
“Yeah,” you say, quieter. “I did.”
Steve exhales like he’s relieved he got it right. Like he’s standing in the dark and you just handed him a match.
“Where are you?” he asks.
“In my room.” You glance at your rumpled sheets, at your damp hair dripping onto your shoulder. “On my bed.”
“Okay,” Steve repeats, and his voice goes rough on the second one, like the word caught. “Okay.”
You shift, and the towel moves, loosening in a way that makes your breath hitch.
You force your voice back into teasing. “Do I need to start charging per minute?”
His laugh comes out strained, almost breathless.
“I’m just… I’m trying to -” A beat. And then, honest again, like he can’t help it: “I’m just picturing it… Picturing you.”
Your stomach flips hard enough you almost laugh, but it comes out as a shaky breath instead.
“Okay,” you manage, forcing lightness back into your voice. “Then it’s only fair… What are you wearing?”
Steve clears his throat. “Uh. T-shirt. Jeans.”
You wait.
“And…” he adds, like it’s being dragged out of him, “I’ve still got the stupid Family Video vest on.”
You snort, the sound slipping out before you can stop it. “Oh my god. You didn’t even take it off?”
Steve exhales, and you can hear the smile he’s trying not to make obvious. “I literally just got in.” A beat, quieter. “I didn’t even… I didn’t even take my shoes off. I just grabbed the phone.”
Your chest does something small and inconvenient.
“So you came home,” you say, teasing because it’s safer than sounding soft, “and your first thought was to bother me?”
“Yeah,” Steve says, and there’s a quick laugh that doesn’t quite cover the honesty underneath. “Obviously.”
Then, quieter, like the joke takes a wrong turn halfway out of his mouth, “And now I feel… ridiculously overdressed.”
Your breath catches.
“Overdressed,” you echo, voice light on purpose, “for what?”
Steve’s laugh comes out softer this time. Less shield, more truth.
“For whatever this is,” he admits. “For whatever’s… happening.”
Another pause, and you can picture him shifting on his bed, vest probably tugged loose, fingers worrying the edge of it like he’s trying to keep his hands busy.
You swallow, shifting the receiver closer, like it might pull the answer out of him. “What’s happening, Steve?”
“I don’t know,” he says finally, and the honesty makes your skin prickle. “I just… it feels dangerous.”
“Dangerous,” you repeat, a tease that comes out quieter than you meant.
“Yeah,” Steve says, and you can hear him smile, but it’s tight at the edges. “Like I should be sensible. Like I should just say something normal and hang up and go to sleep.”
You hear fabric shift, a small rustle like he’s tugged at the vest again, like he needs his hands to do something.
“I should really stop talking,” he mutters, but he doesn’t. “I should stop before I say something I can’t take back.”
“Like what?” You breathe, half warning, half invitation.
Steve lets out a low groan, the kind he probably regrets the second it leaves him. “Jesus,” he murmurs, and there’s a laugh in it that doesn’t quite cover how wrecked he sounds. “Really?”
You don’t answer. You don’t have to. The silence does it for you.
Steve exhales, like he’s bracing himself.
“I can picture you,” he says. “Sitting on your bed, phone pressed between your shoulder and your cheek. Hair still damp. Skin still warm.” A beat. “Legs… bare.”
Your breath stutters, and the silence stretches hot.
“I swear I can almost smell your shampoo,” he adds, voice barely above a whisper. “Like I’m right there next to you.”
Another beat. Then, more serious, like the joke has nowhere left to hide:
“And I keep thinking,” Steve says, “that it’s stupid that I’m not.”
“Then why aren’t you?” you ask, and it comes out softer than you meant it to. Not quite a tease. Not quite anything you can take back.
Steve lets out a quiet, wrecked laugh. “Because… because we don’t do this.” A beat, the sound of him shifting like he’s sitting up straighter and it still doesn’t help. “The part where we stop joking and start saying things that are…”
He trails off, like the word he wants is too dangerous to name.
“Real?” You supply, barely.
Steve exhales, sharp, like you’ve knocked the air out of him.
“I don’t even know what I’m saying,” he mutters, and it’s honest in the worst way. “I’m trying to be normal, and I can’t.” His voice drops, rough around the edges. “It’s like my brain is just full… of you.”
Your grip tightens on the receiver.
“You,” Steve repeats, like he has to convince himself it’s true. “On your bed in a stupid little towel, all warm, all -” He stops, swallows, tries again. “All wet.”
Then, immediately, as if realizing what he just said, Steve’s voice scrambles for cover.
“I mean from the shower,” he blurts. “Wet from… from the shower. I just - I -” A beat, wrecked. “Fuck.”
You can almost hear the moment he decides you’re going to hang up.
There's a muffled thump, like his forehead met his hand. Like he’s sitting there with his eyes squeezed shut, silently begging it to rewind the last ten seconds.
“Steve,” you breathe, and it’s not a warning. It’s warm. It’s a little unsteady.
He goes quiet.
You close your eyes again, because it’s easier not to see the room, not to see the empty house, not to see the line you’re both inching toward like it’s a cliff and you’re daring each other to jump.
“Just from the shower?” you murmur. “You sure?”
A sound on the other end, small and wrecked. Like he can’t decide whether to laugh or swear again.
Then you whisper, so quietly it feels like you’re telling him a secret you’re afraid to want, “It’s not just from the shower.”
You hear Steve’s breath stutter.
You imagine him sitting up straighter, like his body reacts before his brain can catch up. You imagine his hand tightening around the phone. You imagine his jaw clenching, the way it does when he’s trying not to lose control.
And then Steve makes a sound like he’s reached the end of his restraint.
“I’m coming over.”
You sit up so fast the towel almost slips, and you grab it with one hand, breath sharp. “What?”
“I’m coming over, now.” Steve repeats, and there’s a wild steadiness in it, like he’s made a decision and now he’s clinging to it so he doesn’t think too hard. “Unless… unless you don’t want me to?”
You think about all the times you’ve told him to stop. All the playful insults, the sarcastic jabs, the eye-rolls when he leans too close, the way you shove his shoulder when he says something stupid just to have an excuse to touch him.
This is different.
This is the kind of stop that changes things.
You picture him at his house, keys in hand already, hair probably a mess, eyes bright with something that isn’t just lust and isn’t just fear. It’s Steve, standing at the edge of a line you’ve both drawn for months and pretending you don’t see it.
You press the receiver tighter to your ear.
Your voice comes out on a breath.
“I want you to,” you say.
The silence that follows is electric.
Then Steve exhales, and it sounds like relief.
“Okay,” he says, and his voice is soft now, in a way that makes your chest ache. “Okay. I’ll be there in five.”
“In five,” you repeat, like you don’t believe it.
“In five,” he confirms, and you can hear him smile, a little breathless. “Don’t… don’t get changed.”
“Okay,” you whisper.
You hang up before you can think too hard about it.
The click of the receiver settling into place is final. Loud.
You sit there on your bed, heart racing, towel clutched to your body like it can anchor you. The house feels even quieter now, as if it’s holding its breath with you.
Five minutes is nothing. Five minutes is an eternity.
You scramble, because you don’t know how to be still with this much electricity under your skin. You smooth your sheets for no reason. You shove a stray sweater off the chair. You pat your hair, then stop, then start again, like if you can just make everything look normal the moment won’t feel so huge.
It doesn’t work.
Nothing about this is normal.
So you do the only thing you can think of.
You tighten the towel. You smooth it down like it’s a dress. You take a deep breath.
Your cheeks are still hot.
Your nerves buzz all the way to your fingertips.
Then the knock comes.
Three quick raps that sound like Steve even without seeing him. Impatient and careful at the same time.
You cross the hallway on unsteady legs, hand reaching for the doorknob. The metal is cool under your palm as you twist it.
And when you open it, there he is.
Steve stands on your porch like he sprinted here. His hair is a little wild, his chest rising and falling like he’s still catching up to his own heartbeat.
He’s wearing jeans and a jacket, but the Family Video vest is still there underneath, rumpled and half-fastened, like he left the house mid-thought and never looked back.
His eyes land on you.
On the towel.
On your damp hair. Your bare shoulders. The small, betrayed grip of your hands on the towel, knuckles whitening as your pulse picks up.
Steve goes still.
For half a second, he looks like his brain has stalled.
Then his throat works as he swallows. His gaze flicks up to your face, and there’s a question there, raw and unguarded.
You try to smile, because you don’t know what else to do with all this heat in your body.
“Well,” you say, leaning against the doorframe like you’re not trembling, “you got here in record time.”
Steve huffs a laugh, but it’s thin. “Yeah. Uh. Yeah, I… Might’ve broken a few speed limits.”
“That’s… very naughty of you,” you murmur, and the words slip out before you can stop them.
Steve’s eyes darken, just a shade, and you feel it like a hand around your waist.
He steps forward like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to cross your threshold.
You step back, giving him space, giving him permission without saying it.
The door shuts behind him with a quiet click, and suddenly the world feels… smaller. More intimate. Like the air has changed because Steve Harrington is breathing it with you.
He’s standing in your entryway, hands hanging at his sides like he doesn’t know what to do with them. Like his usual bravado got lost somewhere between his house and yours.
You’ve seen him scared before. You’ve seen him bleeding, shaking, furious, brave. You’ve seen him in the worst moments and the aftermath.
This is different.
This is Steve facing something he actually wants.
He looks at you, then away, then back again. His gaze catches on the towel again like it’s a magnet.
“Is this…” Steve starts, then stops, like the words jam in his throat. He swallows. “Is this actually happening?”
Your pulse kicks hard. Because you're finally acknowledging the line you’ve both been toeing for months, daring each other to blink first.
You nod once, slow.
Steve lets out a breath that sounds like relief and panic tangled together. “Okay,” he murmurs, stepping closer, just one careful step. “It should feel weird, right?” he adds, softer, like he’s confessing. “But… But I don't think it does.”
“No,” you whisper. “It doesn’t.”
Steve’s shoulders drop a fraction, like he’s been carrying this on sheer stubbornness and you just took some of the weight.
His voice dips lower, like he’s talking to you and only you and the whole world can mind its own business.
“It feels like…” he starts.
“Finally?” you finish, barely breathing
Steve’s eyes widen a little, like he didn’t expect you to meet him there. Like he didn’t expect you to take the words out of his mouth and make them real.
For one heartbeat, you just look at each other.
The lamplight catches in his hair. In his lashes. In the cut of his cheekbone. His lips part like he’s about to speak and then he doesn’t.
And you realize, with a sudden clarity that makes your chest ache, that you’ve wanted him at your door like this for so long that your body recognizes the moment before your mind can argue with it.
Steve shifts again, hands flexing.
Then something in him snaps, like a rubber band finally released.
He closes the distance.
His hands come up to your face, warm palms against your damp skin, fingers spread like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he doesn’t hold on.
And then he kisses you.
It’s not gentle.
It’s not cautious.
It’s the kind of kiss that’s been waiting behind every joke and every argument and every time your shoulders brushed in a hallway, building pressure until it has nowhere else to go.
Steve’s mouth is warm and a little frantic, like he’s trying to learn you by feel. Like he’s making sure you’re real. Like he’s been starving and didn’t know it until now.
You make a soft sound into the kiss and feel his hands tighten, thumbs brushing your jaw, like the sound goes straight through him.
Your hands find him without thinking, fingers fisting in his jacket, pulling him closer. His body is solid and warm against yours, and the towel suddenly feels like a flimsy lie between you and the truth.
Steve breaks the kiss just long enough to drag a breath in, forehead resting against yours.
“You sure?” he asks, voice ragged.
The question is everything, not just permission, but proof. It’s Steve asking if you’re about to regret him. It's him needing to hear that you want him as much as he wants you. Your lips are tingling. Your heart is a hummingbird in your ribcage.
You nod. “I’ve never been more sure.”
Steve exhales like he’s been holding that breath since the phone call, and kisses you again.
This time, it’s slower, deeper, still hungry but steadier. His hands slide to your waist, careful of the towel, like he’s trying not to spook you, like he’s trying to be respectful even while everything in him is burning.
You tilt into him, and your towel shifts. The air kisses your skin in places it shouldn’t.
Steve’s breath catches, and he pulls back a fraction, eyes dropping, then snapping back up to your face like he’s trying not to be obvious and failing spectacularly.
You can’t help it.
“You gonna make a joke,” you whisper, “or are you finally out of material?”
Steve lets out a shaky laugh, forehead dropping to your shoulder for half a second. “Don’t,” he mutters, and you feel the vibration of his voice against your skin. “I couldn’t make a joke right now if I tried.”
The earnestness of it hits you like a warm shove, and you turn your face into his hair just for a second, breathing him in. Laundry detergent and the video store and Steve, always Steve.
His hands tighten at your waist like he wants to leave fingerprints.
Then he lifts his head, eyes bright, and there’s a softness there that makes your stomach flip again.
“Come on,” you whisper, and it’s both an invitation and a decision.
You don’t wait for him to answer.
You take his hand.
His fingers lace with yours immediately, like they’ve been waiting for this too, like your hands know each other.
You lead him up the stairs, and every step feels like crossing another line you drew to keep yourself safe.
Behind you, Steve’s breath is audible. Ahead of you, your bedroom door waits, half-open, lamp still glowing, sheets still rumpled from where you were sitting when the phone rang.
You pause at the threshold.
Steve stops behind you, close enough that you can feel the heat of him, but he doesn’t push. He doesn’t assume.
You turn, and he looks at you like you’re something precious and dangerous. Like you’re a thing he’s wanted to touch with both hands for years but never let himself reach for.
Your towel is slipping a little at the edge, damp fabric losing its grip.
Steve’s gaze flicks down. He swallows hard. His hand rises, hovering near your collarbone like he’s asking permission without saying it.
You nod once.
Steve’s fingertips brush your skin, and it’s such a small touch that it shouldn’t feel like lightning, but it does. It does because it’s Steve, and it’s now, and it’s real.
His fingers hook gently under the edge of the towel, pausing there as if to give you one last chance to pull away. You don't.
You lean into him instead, your free hand coming up to trace the line of his jaw, feeling the faint stubble there that speaks of a long day and hurried decisions.
Steve's eyes meet yours, dark and searching, and there's a reverence in them that makes your breath hitch.
"I've thought about this," he murmurs, the words rough around the edges, like they've been bottled up too long. "About you... For so long."
The confession hangs between you, warm and weighted, and you feel it settle deep in your chest.
You've imagined it too - nights spent replaying conversations, wondering what his hands would feel like not just in passing but with intention.
"Me too," you whisper back, your voice steady despite the way your pulse races. "It's always been you, Steve."
That seems to undo him a little more. His thumb brushes your collarbone, a feather-light touch that sends a shiver racing down your spine.
And slowly, deliberately, he tugs at the towel, letting it loosen and fall away, pooling at your feet like a shed secret.
The cool air of the room kisses your bare skin, and for a split second you want to fold in on yourself. You realize you’d probably hide from anyone else. But not from him.
Not with the heat of his gaze on you like that, warming you from the inside out, tracing the lines of your body with a hunger tempered by awe.
He doesn't rush. His hands find your shoulders first, sliding down your arms in a slow glide, memorizing the feel of you. Your fingers thread through his hair, drawing him closer as you step back together toward the bed, the rumpled sheets inviting you both.
He follows without hesitation, his jacket and the stupid Family Video vest somehow shed along the way - maybe in the hallway, maybe you tugged it off without realizing - leaving him in that soft shirt that clings just enough to hint at the body beneath.
The back of your knees hit the edge of the mattress, and you lower yourself back, the cool fabric of your sheets brushing against your skin as you settle onto the bed.
Steve settles over you gently, his body warm and solid, caging you in the best way without overwhelming. His lips meet yours in a deep, lingering kiss, slow and reverent, his mouth moving against yours with a tenderness that makes your heart ache.
Your hands run through his hair, fingers tangling in the soft strands, nails scraping lightly against his scalp in a way that draws a low hum from him.
His hands explore your body, smoothing over your waist, tracing the curve there before sliding to your hips, gripping just enough to ground you both. They wander higher, brushing the underside of your breasts with featherlight touches that send sparks racing across your skin.
He deepens the kiss for a moment longer, then lowers his head to kiss down your neck, his lips warm and insistent against the sensitive column of your throat.
He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes, his voice dropping low and rough with emotion. "You're so beautiful," he starts, then swallows. "Can I… I want to take care of you. Let me?"
You nod, trusting him in a way that feels both new and inevitable, and he smiles softly before sliding down your body further. He settles on his knees in front of you at the edge of the bed, his hands resting on your thighs, parting them slightly with a gentleness that belies the fire in his eyes.
He presses a kiss to your knee, then higher, his lips warm and exploratory against your skin. It's a path of reverence, each touch building the anticipation like a slow-burning fuse.
When his mouth finally reaches your core, you gasp softly, head tipping back as waves of sensation ripple through you.
Steve's tongue moves with deliberate care, tracing and teasing, drawing out soft, involuntary sounds from your lips.
"Fuck, you sound so -" he murmurs against you, voice husky and low, "keep going, I want to hear you."
Another moan escapes you as he presses his tongue against you again, firm, and he hums, the vibration sending fresh sparks through you. You feel his grip tighten on your hips, like your reactions are fueling him, making him more intent on unraveling you completely.
Your fingers tangle in his hair, tugging lightly at first, then with more urgency as the pleasure builds.
Steve groans against you at the pull, the sound muffled but raw, and it tells you everything - how much he loves knowing he's the one making you feel this way, how your pleasure echoes in him.
Emboldened, he slides a hand higher, his fingers joining the rhythm of his mouth, moving and pressing with a touch that's both firm and attuned to every shift in your body.
The combination is intoxicating, his tongue lapping steadily while his fingers delve deeper, curling just right to coax more of those breathless moans from you.
Each one seems to spur him on, his movements growing more focused, more devoted, until the tension coils so tight it snaps.
You arch against him, trembling through the release, and Steve doesn't stop until you're spent, his lips and fingers easing you down with lingering gentleness.
He lifts his head then, his lips curved in a soft, satisfied smile, eyes meeting yours with that same wonder.
"Knew you'd taste amazing," he says, voice rough from effort but laced with quiet awe.
The words hit you like a warm wave, leaving you momentarily breathless, struck by the sheer closeness of it all.
You meet his gaze, fingers still loosely threaded in his hair, and the sight of him - hair tousled from your hands, mouth glistening - stirs something fierce in you.
You pull him up for a kiss, tasting yourself on his lips in a way that seals the intimacy deeper.
"Now you really are overdressed," you murmur against his lips, your voice husky with the afterglow and fresh want.
Steve laughs low, the sound rumbling through his chest as you guide him to sit on the edge of the bed.
Your hands work at his shirt, peeling it away to reveal the planes of his chest, warm and inviting under your palms.
He watches you with wide eyes, breath quickening as you sink to your knees before him, mirroring his earlier position.
His jeans follow, shoved down just enough, and there he is - hard and ready, a flush creeping up his neck as he leans back on his forearms.
You start slow, your hand wrapping around him first, stroking with a firmness that makes him hiss through his teeth.
Leaning in, you lick along the underside, right where it meets the tip, feeling him twitch under your tongue.
Steve's hand finds your hair, not pushing but holding, and when you take him into your mouth - sliding down to take his full length - he lets out a ragged groan that vibrates straight to your core.
The sound spurs you on, your mouth working him with a rhythm that's teasing and deep, tongue swirling around the sensitive spot just beneath the head each time you pull back.
He moans again, louder this time, his hips bucking slightly before he reins himself in.
"God, that... you have no idea what you're doing to me," he breathes, voice strained with awe.
His reactions - the way his breath catches on every slide of your mouth, the low praises spilling from his lips - light a fire in you, making you hum around him in approval.
You love the power of it, the way you can make Steve Harrington, king of easy charm, come undone with just your touch.
Before he tips over the edge, his fingers tighten in your hair, gently urging you up.
"Wait," he pants, eyes dark and pleading. "Not yet."
You rise, kissing him deeply so he can taste himself on your tongue, and he pulls you onto the bed with him, shedding the rest of his clothes in a hurried tangle.
He rolls you beneath him, his body covering yours in a warm, protective weight.
"You're incredible," he whispers, positioning himself at your entrance, his eyes locked on yours with that mix of hunger and care.
He pushes in slowly, inch by inch, the initial slide stretching you wide, his thick cock filling you completely, and you both let out shaky breaths - yours a whimper, his a deep rumble from his chest - as he bottoms out. Your nails dig into his shoulders while he buries his face in your neck, breathing you in.
His hips roll in a steady, languid rhythm at first, grinding in a rolling wave that has you arching into him, your legs hooking around his waist to pull him closer.
Each thrust drawing out soft moans from you both - the way he sinks deeper makes your breath hitch, and he echoes it with a ragged exhale against your skin.
His mouth finds your collarbone, sucking lightly as his pace builds, hands roaming your curves, sliding up your sides, thumbs brushing your breasts as the pace quickens just enough to make your bodies slick with sweat.
When he drives in particularly deep, hitting that spot that sends sparks through you, you clench around his cock and he shudders, a guttural "Fuck" slipping out as his grip tightens on your hips, both of you lost in the building heat.
As he picks up speed, thrusting with more force, the wet sounds of your bodies joining fill the air; when he angles deep, your back bows off the bed with a cry, and he matches it with a strained moan, his cock pulsing inside you, both of you trembling from the overwhelming rush.
The urge hits you suddenly - you need to take over, to ride him until you're both unraveling. Without a word, your hands press firm against his chest, and with a swift push, you roll him onto his back, straddling him in one fluid motion.
Steve's eyes flash wide with shock, a breathless laugh escaping him as he blinks up at you. A slow, delighted grin spreads across his face as he settles beneath you, hands immediately finding your thighs, his voice rough: "Fuck, yeah. You wanna ride me?”
Bracing your palms on his shoulders, you align your bodies, teasing him with a deliberate hover before sinking down gradually, your breath hitching at the exquisite stretch.
"I - oh god, yes." You gasp, eyes meeting his as you begin to move, circling your hips in a slow, sensual grind.
Steve's hands guide you, his fingers firm yet gentle on your hips, urging you into a steady rhythm.
His gaze locks on you with pure mesmerization - the way your body moves, the sway of your breasts, the faint tremor in your breath and the glimmer of sweat at your collarbone.
"Just like that," he breathes, his thumbs tracing circles on your skin, encouraging each roll of your hips.
You lean into his touch, whispering, "You feel so good," your words a sweet affirmation as you pick up the pace, drawing him deeper.
He sits up slightly, his mouth finding one breast, then the other, sucking gently at first, then with more hunger, tongue flicking over the peaks.
The sensation pulls a moan from you, and he responds with a groan of his own, the vibration against your skin making you grind down harder.
“Look at you,” he breathes, almost wrecked, lips skimming your chest. “I can’t believe you're real.”
Your hands tighten on his shoulders, fingers digging in as the pleasure mounts, but it's when his hand slips between you - fingers finding that sensitive bundle of nerves, rubbing in tight circles - that the world narrows to just this.
He watches your face, adjusting to your every reaction, the hitch in your breath, the way you clench around him.
"That's it," he encourages, voice rough. "Want you to come for me."
The dual sensation - him inside you, his mouth on your skin, his fingers working you relentlessly - pushes you both to the brink.
Your release crashes over you in waves, and Steve follows instantly, his body tensing beneath you as he spills deep, a broken moan escaping his lips against your throat.
It's simultaneous, shared, the kind of peak that leaves you both shaking, clinging to each other as it fades.
For a long moment, you just lie there, hearts pounding in unison, skin slick and warm.
Steve turns his head to look at you, brushing a damp strand of hair from your forehead with a tenderness that makes your chest ache all over again.
His fingers linger like they’re afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go. Like the last hour was something he’s already trying to hold onto with both hands, greedy and careful at the same time.
He looks at you the way he did at the door, stunned and disbelieving, except softer now. Unarmored. His lashes are dark with sweat, his mouth swollen in a way that makes heat stir low in your stomach even as your limbs feel boneless.
His eyes look different like this. Softer at the edges, still dazed, still a little stunned, like he’s half convinced you’re going to blink and vanish and he’ll wake up alone in his room with the phone still pressed to his ear.
You don’t vanish. You just breathe, slow and shaky, and let your fingers slide up his arm until your hand finds his shoulder, warm skin, steady muscle. An anchor. Proof.
Steve’s eyes flick down to your mouth, then back up again like he’s afraid to look too long and tip the moment into something unreal. His thumb strokes once at your cheekbone, careful, reverent.
“This is…” he starts, then exhales, a quiet, wrecked laugh scraping out of him. “We’ve been idiots.”
You feel your own smile tug, small and tired and happy in a way that feels almost unfamiliar. “Mm,” you hum, because that’s true enough to cover everything.
Steve’s gaze softens even more, like the tension finally found somewhere to go. He shifts, barely, pulling you closer without fully moving you, like he doesn’t want to break the spell. “I kept thinking,” he murmurs, words slow now, “we’d keep doing the whole… pretending thing. Forever.”
You swallow, your throat tight, but it doesn’t hurt. Not really. “Me too,” you whisper. “But I'm glad we didn't.”
Steve lets out a soft, disbelieving laugh, the kind that’s more relief than humor. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “God, yeah. I'm really glad.”
A beat passes, full of things you don’t say because you don’t have to. Because it’s all over the room already, written in the way his hand still cups your face like it belongs there.
A smile tugs at you first, small and sleepy and a little wrecked, like your body remembered how to joke before your brain caught up.
“So,” you murmur, voice lazy and warm, “about that charging per minute thing…”
A breath of laughter escapes him, quiet and disbelieving. “Oh my god.”
“I’m just saying,” you add, tracing the edge of his jaw with your fingertips, “this has been… a lot of minutes.”
Steve’s smile breaks, helpless. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” you whisper. “You’re in serious debt.”
He exhales, a soft laugh against your skin. “Okay.” A beat, amused and tender all at once. “Do I get, like, a payment plan?”
You hum, pretending to think. “Maybe.”
Steve shifts closer, eyes bright, voice still rough from effort. “Or,” he says, like he’s testing the words on his tongue, “I could open a tab.”
Your heart gives a small, stupid kick. “A tab?”
“Yeah,” Steve murmurs, and it’s still a joke, but it lands like something steadier underneath. “Like an account. Ongoing.”
Something in your chest warms, slow and steady.
“Ongoing,” you echo softly. A beat, and your smile turns a little shy around the edges. “Yeah. That works.”
Steve’s breath stutters, relief and something brighter crossing his face so fast it almost hurts to see.
He doesn’t answer it with a speech. He just leans in and presses a slow kiss to your forehead, lingering there like he’s sealing something quietly into place.
“Good,” he breathes against your skin, so soft it’s almost nothing.
Then he settles back down with you, pulling you into the tangle of him and sheets and warmth, your bodies fitting like they’ve been practicing in dreams. You tuck your face into his neck, and he holds you like he’s done running, like he’s finally where he’s supposed to be.
Downstairs, the house stays silent. No ring, no interruption, no world ending.
Just you, and Steve, and the line you finally crossed, now stretched out behind you like an old road you don’t have to walk again.
Sorry 😂 I actually have one almost ready to go that won't be edging 🫣 if you want me to tag you or anything let me know, I'll probably post it this Friday!
summary: after hours at WSQK; control disguised as organization, flirting disguised as bickering, and an accident that finally shatters the illusion.
warnings: 18+ minors DNI, mature content (non-explicit), sexual tension, suggestive language
-
The WSQK studio smells like old vinyl sleeves, stale coffee, and the faint sugary ghost of Steve Harrington’s bad habits.
You pause in the doorway with your clipboard pressed to your chest like a shield, letting your eyes adjust to the dim, amber light spilling from the hallway.
The “ON AIR” sign is dark. There's no Robin doing her rapid-fire monologue thing, no Steve treating the soundboard like a toy.
No show tonight - just the quiet, steady rattle of the box fan in the corner, and the uncomfortable fact that Hawkins is still trying to pretend it didn’t crack open like an egg.
Steve is already there.
Early.
That’s never a good sign.
He’s slouched in a rolling chair by the console like he was born there, legs too long for the space, one hand tipping a bag of M&M’s into his mouth. His other hand is busy spinning a pencil between his fingers, dropping it, picking it up, repeating the cycle like the fate of the town depends on it.
He glances up when the door shuts behind you.
His smile starts in the corner of his mouth, like it’s trying not to be obvious.
“Hey,” he says, like you’re not about to commit an act of war. “You brought… paperwork. Great.”
“It’s a list,” you correct automatically.
“A list,” he repeats, eyeing the pages like they might bite. “Looks more like a prison sentence.”
You ignore the way his eyes track you as you cross the room - your legs bare because it’s summer and you know the box fan merely pushes hot air around the studio instead of cooling it, your hair pulled back because you refuse to let it become another thing that gets in your way.
You also refuse to let him become another thing that gets in your way.
The studio is a mess. Again.
There’s a stack of records leaning against the wall like they gave up and decided to live there. A few sleeves are half-open, vinyl peeking out like tongues.
A box of sound effects carts sits abandoned in the middle of the floor. Loose cables sprawl like vines.
Someone - Steve - has left a small army of props spread across the counter: a handheld bell, a kazoo, a squeaky toy that looks like it crawled out of the bargain bin at the pet store, and a rubber chicken.
You take a slow breath through your nose.
Order. Planning. Systems.
Those are the things that keep you alive. Those are the things that kept you alive when the air turned cold and the sky turned wrong and the ground beneath Hawkins became a crater.
Steve Harrington, on the other hand, somehow seems to survive on vibes, hair spray, and sheer dumb luck.
You put the clipboard down on the counter with careful precision.
“Good to see you on time for once,” you say.
Steve crunches an M&M and watches you, eyes bright with the particular mischief of someone about to poke a bruise on purpose. “Yeah? You look thrilled about it.”
“I made a plan,” you say.
His eyebrows lift. “Of course you did.”
You flip the clipboard around and slide it toward him. The pages are neat, the handwriting clean. Categories. Subcategories. Labels. A plan that accounts for the fact that half the station’s inventory is older than both of you and treated like it.
Steve leans forward, takes one look, and makes a noise like he’s been shot.
“Jesus christ,” he says, laughing, but not nicely. “You do know this is a radio station, right, not the Pentagon?”
Something sharp flicks up inside you. A reflex. A spark to tinder.
“It was a radio station,” you say, voice very calm, which is always the first sign you’re about to snap. “Right now it’s a disaster. And if we’re going to do this - if we’re going to keep this place running - then it needs to be functional.”
Steve props his chin in his hand. “It is functional.”
You gesture at the rubber chicken. “Is it?”
He follows your hand, then looks back at you with a slow grin. “That’s essential equipment.”
“Either help me or don’t,” you say. “But if you’re going to help, you follow the system. If you’re not, get out of my way.”
For a second, his expression changes - just a flicker, quick as the station’s static when the antenna catches a storm. He sits up straighter, like he’s heard something in your tone that isn’t just bossiness.
Then, because he’s Steve, he smirks right over it.
“Okay, okay,” he says, holding up his hands in surrender. “Wow. Fine. I’ll help. Don’t have a heart attack, Captain… uh…”
His eyes drag over you like he’s searching for the perfect button to press.
“…Clipboard.”
Your jaw tightens. “Don’t call me that.”
“Captain Clipboard,” he repeats, delighted.
You snatch the clipboard back and tuck it under your arm. “Steve.”
He pops another M&M into his mouth, chews, and beams at you like this is flirting. Like you don’t want to throw him through a window.
It is flirting. That’s the problem.
It’s the way the two of you have always moved around each other; sharp edges, stupid jokes, the constant tug-of-war of people who care too much in incompatible ways.
You argue like you’re trying to win something. Like there’s a prize at the end.
Sometimes you think the prize is survival.
Sometimes you think it’s him.
You shove the thought down where you keep all the other dangerous things.
“Records first,” you say briskly, because brisk is safe. “Alphabetical. We sort by artist, then by album. Anything warped or scratched gets set aside. Anything salvageable gets cleaned. Anything beyond saving goes in the unusable box. We’ll make backup copies of -”
Steve holds up a finger. “Wait, wait. You want to alphabetize all of it?”
“Yes.”
“How many records do we even have?”
“Enough,” you reply, clipped, and attempt to grab a crate of vinyl off the floor.
Steve watches you try to haul it toward the desk, your arms flexing, face determined like you’re about to fight god. His smile softens for a second, almost fond.
Then he ruins it.
“You’re… intense,” he says, like he’s tasting the word.
“I’m competent.” You grit out.
He follows you, grabs the other side of the crate with one hand like it weighs nothing. “Sure. Competent. In a scary way.”
You glare at him over the crate. He grins back, unrepentant.
“You ever try relaxing?”
You roll your eyes as the two of you lift together, shuffle sideways, and set it down.
Your fingers brush his for half a second on the plastic edge.
It shouldn’t matter. It does.
His eyes flick to your hand like he felt it too.
You straighten too quickly and cross the room, fussing at the turntable, pretending you’re just being practical.
Background noise.
Something to smooth the edges.
Something to distract you before your brain can do something stupid - like notice how close he is, how warm the air is around him, how his T-shirt clings to his back just a little in the heat.
You thumb an album from its sleeve and lower the needle - Pink Floyd, Wish You Were Here.
Gentle. Familiar. Something you can breathe to.
The record doesn’t start so much as it materializes: a thin, glassy tone first, then a slow swell of keys like a haze.
Steve makes a face like you’ve fed him a spoonful of cough syrup.
“This is your idea of background music?” he asks.
“It’s calming.”
“It’s depressing.”
“It’s not depressing.”
“It sounds like staring at the wall and contemplating the void.”
You keep sorting. “It helps me focus.”
Steve grabs a sleeve off the top of a nearby stack and squints at it. “Yeah, well, it makes me feel like I’m trapped at the dentist’s office.”
You don’t look up. “Then start working.”
He huffs, offended, and wanders toward the shelf where you’ve started lining up alphabetized rows.
-
Steve, for the first five minutes, actually does what you ask.
For the first five minutes.
Then he finds a box of sound effect carts labeled “WEIRD.”
You hear it before you see it: the squeal of a sneaker, the scrape of plastic, Steve’s delighted little “oh my god.”
You turn. He’s crouched by the box like a kid who found fireworks, flipping through labels.
“Steve,” you warn.
He looks over his shoulder with innocent eyes. “What?”
“That’s for later.”
“This is important,” he insists, and pulls out a cartridge. “Listen. ‘Monster Roar #3’.”
You give him a flat look. “We have actual monsters. We don’t need a sound effect.”
His grin widens.
He slots the cart into the machine before you can stop him.
The studio fills with a ridiculous, over-the-top roar that sounds like a bear swallowed a lawnmower.
Steve throws his head back and laughs, loud enough that it bounces off the walls.
Your mouth twitches. You can’t help it - your body betrays you with the smallest hint of amusement.
Steve sees it like it’s a miracle.
He points at you, triumphant. “Wow. See? You almost relaxed there. Maybe you are human.”
“I’m going to kill you,” you say, but your voice is a fraction less sharp.
“Yeah, yeah,” he says, still laughing. “Put it on my tombstone. ‘Here lies Steve Harrington. Died making Captain Clipboard smile.’”
You hate that your face warms.
You hate that he notices.
You bend back to the records like they can save you from your own stupid hormones.
Time drags in that tight, restless way it does when it’s just the two of you. The sun sinks outside. The studio gets dimmer, the air cooling just enough to make the back of your neck prick with goosebumps when the fan shifts.
You’re halfway through wiping down a record when you feel it - a familiar prickle between your shoulder blades.
You’re kneeling by a crate, skin sweaty from work, hair coming loose from your scrunchie, skin warm and alive.
You can sense Steve’s gaze on you like a warm hand.
You don’t look up right away. You keep working, because if you look up you’ll have to deal with the fact that he’s looking.
His eyes travel. You know they do.
Your shorts have ridden up slightly where you're leant forward, the air hitting the back of your thighs. It’s summer. It’s hot. Your skin is already too aware of itself.
You can almost feel the moment you become a thought in his head.
“Steve,” you say, still not looking, voice mild.
“…Mm?”
“If you’re going to stare at my ass,” you say, finally turning your head just enough to catch him, “you could at least have the decency to pretend you’re not.”
He freezes, caught in the act, one hand on a cart, the other hovering uselessly in the air like it forgot its job.
“I wasn’t -”
You raise your eyebrows.
He exhales through his nose, then smirks.
“I was -” He searches for an excuse that doesn’t exist. “I was… reading a label.”
“A label on my ass?”
He makes a helpless little gesture. “Maybe you’ve got a really informative ass.”
You stare at him, mouth tight.
Steve’s smile widens, like he’s addicted to pushing you exactly one inch past your limit.
“Please,” he adds, faux-sincere. “Continue. I’ll… respect the workplace environment.”
“You do that,” you say.
You go back to organizing, but your pulse doesn’t return to normal. It keeps skittering, like it’s looking for a place to land.
And Steve - Steve keeps working, but now there’s a different edge to his attention. Like he’s aware he got caught and he enjoyed it.
Like he’s thinking about what else he can get away with.
-
The evening drags on in steady, stubborn increments. The clock ticks. The station hums. Records spin, end, get replaced - because you replace them before the silence can creep back in.
You curate the music on purpose. Low, steady albums. Nothing too loud, nothing too cheerful, nothing that invites Steve to turn the studio into a dance floor or a joke.
Because if Steve gets to choose, he’ll put on something bright and obnoxious and grin at you while it bounces off the walls, like distraction is a cure-all. You’re not giving him that.
You’re sorting cables - labeling, looping, making sense of chaos - when you catch the moment his attention locks on something. His posture changes. The mischief sharpens in his eyes, like a match struck in the dark.
He halts as he's digging through another crate, and comes up with a different record. The grin returns - dangerous now, sharpened by the fact that he knows just how to get under your skin.
He strides to the turntable.
“Steve,” you say, already suspicious.
“This,” he declares, holding up the sleeve like he’s just unearthed a priceless artifact, “is your theme song.”
“Hall & Oates?” You scoff, eyeing the cover warily. “What are you talking about?”
He slides it out, sets it down, and drops the needle before you can cross the room.
The studio erupts - bright, punchy synth and that unmistakable beat - loud enough that you actually flinch.
Steve glances back over his shoulder, eyes gleaming. “Maneater,” he clarifies, practically vibrating with satisfaction.
Heat crawls up your neck so fast it’s almost comical.
It's not just the song, it’s the way he says it, like he’s handing you a nickname and daring you to wear it.
Because Maneater doesn’t just mean you’re scary with a label-maker. It implies something else. Something you can feel in the way he’s looking at you. That you’re… dangerous. That you could ruin him. And that he likes the idea.
“Seriously?”
He doesn’t answer. He just turns the volume up one more notch, watching your face like he’s waiting for the exact moment you crack.
You make a beeline for the console.
Steve, apparently sensing your intent like a predator sensing movement, glides sideways into your path - throwing a shoulder dip and a ridiculous little step-tap like he’s escorting you onto a dance floor.
“Move,” you hiss, trying to sidestep.
He mirrors you. Again. Still in time. Like this isn’t you trying to reach the console, it’s you two in the world’s stupidest slow dance.
Then the chorus hits, loud and smug and specific.
He points at you, like he’s calling you out in front of a jury. “Oh-oh here she comes,” he sings, fully committed now, “watch out boy, she’ll chew you up -”
“I will chew you up,” you hiss, stepping closer, “if you don’t get back to work.”
Steve leans in, close enough that you catch the smell of him - soap, sweat, the faint sweetness of candy.
His eyes flick over your face, your mouth, like he’s cataloguing every reaction you’re trying to hide.
“Promises, promises.”
Your stomach does a stupid little flip.
You hate him.
You want him.
You shove his shoulder - not hard, just enough to make him rock back with a laugh.
He laughs like he likes being touched.
You turn away before your brain can spiral.
The work continues because it has to. Because you can’t let yourself stop and feel how the air between you has thickened into something you could drown in.
You organize sound effect carts by category. You coil cables. You label drawers. You wipe down surfaces. You stack cleaned records like you’re building a wall between you and every unspoken thing.
Steve helps, technically.
But he also puts rubber bands on his fingers and shoots them at you until you threaten to staple them to his forehead.
He dons a pair of headphones and pretends to be a DJ with a “sexy voice”, narrating your movements in a way that makes you want to hit him for reasons you refuse to unpack.
He finds an old poster of some long-gone rock band and holds it up like it’s museum-worthy, asking if you think the lead singer “was hot” until you tell him to shut up.
And, at one point, he drapes a coil of wire around his neck like a scarf and calls it “fashion.”
You keep your face stern. You keep your tone sharp.
But every time he gets a flicker out of you - a breathy laugh you try to swallow, a smile you try to kill - his eyes light up like he’s won.
It’s infuriating.
It’s also… strangely comforting.
Because Steve’s jokes are a refusal. A refusal to let the darkness have every inch of you. A refusal to let the Upside Down be the only thing you remember when you think about being alive.
You understand that.
You just wish he’d understand that you need control the way he needs humor.
You’re both trying to keep the world from falling apart in your hands.
You’re just doing it in different ways.
-
It’s later - much later - when it happens.
You’re on the floor, sorting a pile of sleeves into “good,” “clean,” “repair,” and “trash.” Your labels are neat. Your stacks are perfect. Your brain is finally settling into the calm rhythm of progress.
Steve is standing at the desk in front of you with a box of props.
You can hear him rummaging.
You don’t look up. “Be careful.”
“I am being careful,” he says, in the exact tone of someone who is absolutely not being careful.
You glance up just in time to see him lift something heavy - some old metal contraption you don’t recognize, all brackets and bolts and weird hinged joints - and teeter it on the edge of the box like physics is optional.
“Steve,” you warn, sharper. “Steve, don’t -”
He grins at you. “Relax.”
There it is again.
Relax.
Like a magic word he can toss into the air and everything will just… fall into place.
Like you haven’t spent the whole night bracing while he keeps telling you to unclench.
Then his grip slips.
The contraption lurches, pitches forward, and time stretches in that horrible way it does when you can see the disaster coming and you still can’t stop it.
You watch Steve’s hands fumble - quick, desperate - trying to catch it again, to muscle it back into place. But it’s already gone, weight shifting past the point of saving.
It drops.
Plummets towards the floor, headed straight for your stacks of neatly organised records.
It hits the top of the “good” stack first - metal on vinyl with a sickening crack - then keeps going, tumbling end over end. Records snap under it like brittle bones. A sleeve tears clean through with a sound like paper being ripped in half.
Steve lunges after it, too late, and in the scramble his elbow catches the cardboard box.
And suddenly there’s a second wave - a cascade of props and carts and wires and loose screws spilling out, crashing into what’s left of your piles.
The mess spreads fast, swallowing clean lines and careful categories, turning everything into one loud, ugly heap.
The sound is loud, messy, final.
For a heartbeat, the studio is silent except for the fading echo of impact and the background music still playing, oblivious.
Steve stands frozen, hands half-raised, like he can rewind time just by wanting it.
You stare at the disaster on the floor.
Something inside you goes very still.
Then it snaps.
“What -” Your voice comes out too sharp, too loud in the quiet room. You push to your feet so fast you sway. “Is wrong with you?”
Steve blinks. “Okay - okay, I’m sorry, I didn’t -”
“I knew this would happen,” you spit, gesturing at the mess like it’s evidence in court. Your pulse bangs in your ears. “I knew it. You can't - you can't do anything right. It's like you’re completely useless.”
The word lands before you can stop it.
Steve’s expression changes.
Not anger first.
Hurt.
It flashes across his face so quickly you almost miss it, like a crack in glass.
Then his jaw tightens.
“What the hell is your problem?” he asks, voice suddenly flat. “It was an accident.”
“It’s always an accident with you,” you say, because your adrenaline is steering now, not your brain. “It’s always ‘oops’ and ‘sorry’ and ‘relax.’ You barrel through everything and expect everyone else to deal with the aftermath.”
Steve’s laugh is short, sharp. “Are you kidding me?”
“No,” you snap, stepping over a sleeve on the floor like it’s evidence. “I’m not kidding.”
“You’re immature,” you say, and the words tumble out ugly and hot, faster than you can filter them. “You’re reckless. You’re messy. You cause problems and then smile like it’s charming.”
Something flickers across his face - annoyance, then that defensive brightness he gets when he feels like he’s the joke and you’re the audience.
He steps closer anyway, like he can crowd the argument into submission.
“It’s a pile of records,” he says, voice hardening. “Not the end of the world.”
“That’s your problem,” you shoot back, throat tight. “You never take anything seriously. You don’t care unless it affects you.”
Steve’s face drops so fast it’s almost startling.
His eyes flash, hurt snapping cleanly into anger. “You think I don’t care?”
Your mouth presses into a line. You don’t deny it.
He stares at you for a beat, jaw working, like he’s chewing on a reply sharp enough to cut. When it comes, it’s clipped and loud enough to bounce off the studio walls.
“Okay,” he snaps, stepping in closer. “Fine. You wanna know what your problem is?”
“You?” you say flatly.
That does it.
His mouth twists.
“You're bossy,” His hand jerks in a sharp, helpless gesture up and down your body, like you’re weather he’s been trapped under. “You’re uptight. You act like relaxing is a crime, like having fun is a sin.”
Your throat tightens. “I’m just trying to keep things from falling apart.”
“You had a meltdown over a rubber chicken,” he shoots back, eyes blazing. “Over a song. A box of records. Over anything that doesn’t line up perfectly with your little system.”
“It’s not about the damn chicken,” you bite out.
“It is,” Steve says, voice cutting. “It's about everything - every stupid little thing. You’re wound so tight you turn all of it into a crisis.”
“It is a crisis,” you snap, stepping in without meaning to, “when you can’t do one simple thing without turning it into a disaster.”
Steve’s eyes flash. “And you can’t let a mistake just be a mistake,” he fires right back. “You turn it into a personality defect. Like I drop a box and suddenly I’m - what - irredeemable?”
The words land, ugly and accurate enough to sting - because you can hear yourself. You can. You just don’t know how to stop once you’re already in it.
He’s close, too close, and you can feel him doing it on purpose, pressing the argument into your space until there’s nowhere for it to go but through you.
Steve’s voice drops.
“You -”
A beat.
“Are a tight-ass control freak.”
Your heart is pounding. You can feel it in your throat, your wrists, your fingertips.
“And you know what I think?” He says, voice still dangerously low.
“Oh, do tell. Please.” You glare up at him. “I'm dying to know what you think.”
Steve’s jaw flexes.
His gaze drops to your mouth again.
Then he says it, like ripping off a bandage.
“I think you need a good -”
He stops himself at the edge of the cliff, breath catching, eyes flashing like he can’t believe he almost said it out loud.
But you already know.
Your body knows.
Heat floods you so fast it’s dizzying, like someone struck a match inside your ribs.
His eyes flick over your face like he’s watching you react in real time, and you hate - hate - that he sees it. That he sees the way your lips part, the way your breathing changes, the way you go very, very still like a predator deciding whether to lunge.
His mouth twitches.
Not a smile.
Something sharper.
“Go on. Say it.” You demand, even though you should be furious, even though you should slap him, even though your entire body is screaming yes in a language you didn’t know you spoke.
Steve’s voice lowers to something almost intimate.
“A good fuck.”
The word hangs between you like smoke.
On principle, you should be offended.
On principle, you should slap him. Tell him to go to hell.
Instead, your whole body lights up - hot, needy, furious desire that has been circling him for months and finally finds a target.
Steve watches it happen.
He watches your throat tighten when you swallow.
He watches your pupils widen.
He watches your control slip by half an inch.
His smile turns slow and dangerous.
There’s no teasing in it now.
There’s hunger.
“Yeah,” he murmurs, like he’s confirming something he already knew. “That’s what I thought.”
You snap.
You shove him, hard, back toward the console, and before he can say another word you grab his shirt and kiss him.
It’s not gentle.
It’s not sweet.
It’s months of bickering and near-misses and the constant adrenaline of surviving together crashing into one point.
Steve makes a sound into your mouth that’s half surprise, half approval.
Then his hands are on you - on your waist, your hips - fingers digging in like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.
You kiss him like you’re trying to shut him up forever.
He kisses you back like he’s letting you.
You don’t let him set the pace. You angle the kiss, deepening it when he tries to pull back, nipping at his lip when he starts to smile - your hand stays fisted in his shirt, holding him exactly where you want him.
And he lets you lead, breath rough, allows you to steer him back in small, deliberate steps until there’s nowhere else to go. His back hits the edge of the console, and your body slots in close to his.
You keep pressing in until you’re hip to hip.
The contact is like a spark to gasoline.
You feel him - hard, unmistakable evidence of how much he wants this - and your breath breaks.
Steve’s mouth leaves yours just long enough for him to drag in air, eyes half-lidded, pupils blown wide.
“Still think I’m useless?” he rasps.
You glare at him, chest heaving. “Stop talking.”
Steve’s laugh is a rough exhale. “Bossy.”
“Steve -”
He makes the first move this time, cutting you off cleanly, like that was the last word you were getting.
This kiss is slower, deeper, controlled. He takes the frantic, desperate edge you threw at him and reshapes it, setting the pace himself.
Steady. Intentional.
His hand slides up, fingers threading into your hair, tugging just enough to make your head tip back.
He uses the new angle to deepen the kiss, mouth opening, tongue brushing against yours - confident, coaxing - drawing a sound from you despite yourself.
A soft moan leaves you before you can stop it.
Something sharp flickers across his expression as he feels the way your body answers him - certainty settling in. A switch flipping into place.
He turns you with purpose, hands sure at your waist, guiding you back until the edge of the desk presses into the backs of your thighs. Papers crinkle under your palms as you brace yourself, the sound absurdly loud in the small space.
Steve steps in immediately, crowding your space.
His presence pins you there, and you can’t decide if you want to push him away or pull him closer until your skin hurts.
He makes the decision for you.
One knee nudges between your legs.
You gasp, hips reacting without permission, hands flying back to his shirt, and Steve’s eyes flick up to your face, catching every bit of it.
There’s triumph there.
And something softer.
Like relief.
Steve’s mouth brushes your ear. “You’ve been bossing me around all night, giving orders like you run the whole damn world.”
You swallow hard. “Someone has to.”
Steve’s hand slides down your side, grips your thigh, and lifts just enough to make your balance shift further into him. His touch is firm, sure, like he knows exactly what he’s doing.
“Yeah,” he says. “Well, now it’s my turn.”
Then, quieter, “You can take orders for once. You ever tried that?”
You glare at him, weakly. “I don’t take orders.”
Steve’s smile turns wicked. “You will.”
Your body betrays you again with a shiver.
Steve’s hand cups your jaw, thumb pressing lightly under your chin, guiding you. Like he’s making you look at him. Like he’s making you choose this.
“Tell me to stop,” he says, suddenly serious. “And I’ll stop.”
The words land heavy - not playful, not teasing. A line drawn clean.
Your throat tightens for a different reason.
Because he’s reckless, yes.
But he’s also… good. In the ways that count.
You swallow, eyes locked on his.
“Don’t stop,” you whisper.
Steve exhales like he’s been holding his breath for months, the sound shaky on the way out - like relief and restraint hitting the same point in his chest at once.
For a second he doesn’t move. He just looks at you, eyes dark and steady, like he’s making a decision that isn’t about winning.
Then his hand slides from your jaw to the back of your neck - warm, firm, anchoring - and his voice drops into something quieter than a tease.
“Okay,” he says. “First things first. I’m gonna need you to relax.”
You blink at him, because you should've seen it coming. And because your body doesn’t have an automatic setting for ‘relax’.
You try anyway.
You draw in a deep breath that’s meant to be calming, grounding - what you imagine relaxing is supposed to sound like - but it comes out as a sharp, irritated huff.
You force your hands to release his shirt, only for them to curl right back into fists against his chest, knuckles white with tension.
Steve watches your attempts and his mouth quirks; half amused, half exasperated.
“Oh my god,” he murmurs. He shakes his head once, incredulous in a way that’s almost gentle. “You really don’t know how, do you?”
Your pride tries to flare on instinct.
You scowl, lips parting to argue.
Nothing comes out.
Because he’s not wrong, and you hate that he can see it.
Steve’s thumb brushes just under your ear, a small touch that feels like a question. His gaze holds yours, patient in a way that doesn’t match the sharpness of the argument you were just having.
“Alright,” he says, like he’s decided to stop fighting you and start guiding you instead. “Just… Do what I say.”
Your breath catches - not fear, not exactly. More like anticipation, threaded with the familiar urge to take control back.
Steve’s hand slides up your arm. He catches your wrist gently and turns it, palm down, like he’s adjusting you into place.
“Hands on the table,” he says, low and even.
You hesitate, half a heartbeat of stubbornness.
Steve lifts a brow, unimpressed. “Don’t make that face at me.”
It’s so stupidly Steve - so direct, so unafraid of you - that your annoyance sputters.
He takes your other hand and places it down, spacing them out like he’s setting a boundary.
“Good,” he murmurs. “Right there. Don’t move them.”
Your fingers curl against the edge of the desk, instinctively wanting to grip, you can't help it. The wood is cool under your palms, grounding.
Steve watches your hands for a second, then your face, like he’s checking you for any sign of panic or resistance. When he doesn’t find it, something in his shoulders eases.
His knee stays between your legs, steady pressure, not pushing - just present. A reminder that he’s here, that he’s not letting you float away into your head where you build plans and defenses and worst-case scenarios.
His hand comes back to your jaw. Thumb under your chin again, gentle insistence.
“Look at me,” he says.
You do. You hate how quickly you do.
Steve’s gaze flicks over your face - your eyes, your mouth - and lingers like he’s trying to memorize the exact shape of you like this: flustered, furious, wanting, and still standing your ground.
His expression softens for a beat, something protective sliding in under the heat. Then his thumb tips your chin up further, exposing your throat.
He leans in, not to kiss you, but close enough that you feel the warmth of his breath where your pulse jumps at your throat.
“Don’t think,” he murmurs.
And then his mouth touches you.
Not urgent. Not possessive. Slow. Deliberate. A press of lips just below your jaw that makes your whole body jolt like it’s been waiting for permission to react.
You inhale sharply, shoulders tensing automatically.
Steve makes a low sound - more like a hum than a laugh - and the hand at your jaw steadies.
“Breathe,” he tells you, like it’s an instruction you’ve forgotten. “Slow.”
You try. It comes out shaky anyway.
His mouth finds your skin again. A kiss, then another, then a slower one that lingers - his lips warm, his breath hot, his hand holding you in place like he’s making sure you don’t snap back into control out of sheer habit.
He works his way down with maddening patience, kissing along the line of your throat, pausing where your pulse jumps hardest.
You feel the shape of his mouth around the rhythm of your heartbeat and it makes you dizzy in a way that isn’t unpleasant.
His teeth graze your skin lightly, just enough to make your stomach flip and your eyes flutter.
Your hands twitch on the desk - wanting to grab, wanting to pull him closer, wanting to do something other than be still.
Steve notices immediately.
His voice is a murmur at your collarbone. “I said don’t move them.”
It should irritate you. It almost does.
But then his mouth presses to the spot again, slower, like he’s rewarding you for obeying. Like he’s teaching you a different kind of control - one that isn’t about managing the world, but about surrendering on purpose.
He kisses lower, just above your collarbone, soft, then firmer, then the faint scrape of teeth again that makes you gasp.
And for once relaxing, letting someone else lead, doesn’t feel like losing.
His hand slides down your back, warm pressure between your shoulder blades. Guiding. Encouraging your posture to soften, your spine to stop bracing for impact.
“Drop them,” he says, low. “Your shoulders.”
You swallow. Your muscles fight you like they always do.
Steve’s voice turns coaxing, almost patient. “C’mon. Just a little. For me.”
The phrasing hits you - for me - and something in you unknots by a fraction. Not because he’s commanding you, but because he’s asking for something that matters to him, like this is trust, not just a win.
You feel your shoulders lower an inch.
Steve notices. Of course he notices.
His mouth stills at your throat. His breath catches, soft against your skin.
“Yeah,” he murmurs, and the satisfaction in it is immediate but not cruel. It’s… pleased. Warm. “That’s it.”
His lips press to the spot again, slower now, as if he’s savoring the change.
The tension in your jaw eases without you meaning it to. Your hands stop trying to claw their way off the desk. Your breathing finds a rhythm that isn’t panic.
Steve kisses behind your ear again, and this time the shiver that runs through you feels less like betrayal and more like permission.
You tilt your head, just slightly - offering him more, without thinking.
Steve makes a sound that’s half exhale, half approval.
“Good,” he whispers, voice rougher now. “You’re doing really good.”
The praise lands heavy, heat skittering up your spine as a small, humiliating sound escapes you - half breath, half need.
Steve stills for a fraction of a second, like he heard it in his bones.
Then his expression goes almost wrecked with satisfaction, eyes widening like he didn’t expect his own words to do that to you.
“Oh. Okay.” A slow smile curves his mouth. “I get it.”
A flicker of self-consciousness tightens your shoulders anyway, instinctive - like you’ve been caught doing something you don’t usually let anyone see. You draw a breath to lock it back down, to smooth it over.
Steve notices immediately.
“Hey,” he says, softer but firmer, his hand settling warm and steady at your waist. “No, don’t - don't do that.” His thumb presses in, grounding, coaxing. “It’s good. It's -” a crooked smile tugs at his mouth, heat clear in his eyes, “- it's hot.”
Your breath stutters.
He leans in, forehead brushing yours, voice low and sure. “I wanna hear you,” he murmurs.
Something in you loosens at that, not all at once, not dramatically. Just enough. Like a knot finally admitting it can be untied.
You swallow, then - quiet, almost shy in a way you hate and don’t - murmur, “Were you… planning on actually kissing me again?”
The question doesn’t bite the way it would have ten minutes ago. It slips out softer, threaded with want.
Steve’s brows lift, just a fraction. He doesn’t rush it. “You want me to?”
“Yes,” you say, immediately. Too quick. Your mouth betrays you before your pride can intervene.
He waits. Just looks at you expectantly, patient in a way that feels deliberate.
Your jaw tightens. You hesitate. Then the word comes anyway, small and honest and terrifying in its own way.
“Please.”
You hate how quiet it is. Hate how much it costs you. Hate how good it feels when his expression shifts - when the satisfaction there isn’t smug, just warm. Like you’ve given him something he knows how to hold.
“Okay,” he murmurs, like it’s a promise. “Yeah.”
He kisses you again - slow, unhurried, all warmth and intent. He takes his time, like he’s letting you settle into the shape of it, his mouth moving against yours with steady confidence, letting the tension drain out. You feel it happen, little by little. The way your thoughts quiet. The way your body stops scanning for the next thing to manage.
You feel yourself following him without thinking.
Your hands slide away from the desk of their own accord, movement slower now, less frantic. Your fingers find his shoulders, his neck, his hair.
He doesn’t stop you this time. Doesn’t comment. He just lets you move, humming softly against your mouth, pleased, letting the kiss grow warmer, fuller, as you relax into it.
You’re dimly aware of how different it feels now. Less like a collision. More like a decision you’re making together.
You soften further into it, into him. Into the heat and the closeness and the simple relief of not having to manage anything for a minute.
A quiet sound slips out of you - unfiltered this time, unguarded - and Steve feels it immediately.
“Jesus,” he whispers, warm and approving, “you have no idea what you do to me.”
You don’t tense. You don’t retreat. You just let another sound answer him, softer still, and feel yourself sink even deeper into the moment.
Steve’s hands tighten just a fraction at your waist, pleased.
Then he shifts, hands firm, and before you can overthink it he lifts you - effortless - and sets you back on the desk. Papers slide under you, your carefully stacked lists going a little crooked. For once you don't care.
He braces one hand beside your hip, the other settling at the small of your back as he leans in, close enough that you feel the heat of him everywhere.
You kiss him again, slow this time, letting it linger. When he responds, you deepen it, tugging lightly at his hair just to feel the reaction. He makes a low sound into your mouth and rocks forward into you without thinking, hips rolling once, deliberate and unashamed.
It sends a pulse of heat straight through you.
You press up into him in response, answering. He exhales against your lips, a rough, pleased sound that feels like encouragement.
“Was this on your list?” he murmurs, breath warm against your cheek. “Or did I mess up the schedule?”
“Shut up,” you say, but you’re smiling now, breathless and fond.
He's smiling too. “Make me.”
Your fingers curl in his hair again, firmer this time, and Steve groans quietly - exactly the reaction you wanted. He kisses you deeper, then breaks away only to trail his mouth down your jaw, your throat, following the path your pulse sets for him.
His hands drift lower, slow and careful, skimming down your thighs. His thumbs brush the hem of your shorts, then trace back up your hips, lingering there - right at your waistband - like he’s asking without words.
“Let me… help you relax,” he says quietly. No teasing this time. Just intent. “Let me make you feel good.”
Your chest tightens, not with nerves, but with something warm and steady. You nod - small, sure - and lean back on your palms, surrendering yourself to him without hesitation.
Steve’s gaze flicks over you, dark and focused, like he’s committing the sight to memory.
He dips his head, kissing down your throat, along the line of your sternum. His hands slide up, nudging your shirt higher as he goes, mouth warm and unhurried against your bare skin. Each kiss is slow, deliberate - meant to be felt, not rushed.
You breathe out his name without realizing you’re doing it.
Steve pauses then, hands resting on your thighs, and looks up at you. Really looks - eyes dark, expression open and intent, taking in the way you’re leaning into him, the way you’re letting go.
He looks like he's memorizing this version of you
The one not bracing. The one trusting him to lead.
Your breath slows. Your head tips back.
For the first time all night, you don’t feel wound tight.
You feel safe.
You feel seen.
You feel… relaxed.
-
EPILOGUE:
Morning doesn’t slam into the station the way last night did.
It eases in instead - thin sunlight slanting through the front windows, catching on dust motes and turning them briefly golden before they drift back into nothing.
The air feels cooler, calmer, like the building itself has exhaled. Even the hum of the equipment sounds different in daylight, steadier, less charged.
You arrive early.
That alone would normally mean something - intention, planning, control - but this morning it doesn’t.
You sit on the edge of the desk with a cup of coffee warming your hands, legs dangling, shoulders loose in a way they rarely are.
No clipboard. No list. No mental tally of what needs fixing.
Just quiet.
The station looks… good. Organized. Clean.
The records sit neatly in their crates, labels facing the same way. The desk is clear except for what actually belongs there. The faint scent of cleaner still lingers, citrus cutting through the old vinyl smell.
You notice everything without aggressively cataloguing it. That might be the strangest part.
The door opens behind you with a familiar clatter.
Steve’s footsteps stop short the second he sees you.
You don’t look right away. You feel him there anyway - the pause, the way his attention lands on you like a hand at your back.
“…Huh,” he says finally.
You glance up at him over your coffee. He’s standing just inside the doorway, keys dangling from one finger, hair still a little messy like he didn’t bother taming it all the way. His expression is open, curious, faintly amused.
“What?” You ask cautiously.
He walks closer, slow, eyes tracking you like he’s afraid you’ll spook. “Nothing,” he says. “Just -”
He gestures vaguely at you. At the room. At the absence of tension.
“You look,” he decides, “relaxed.”
You snort softly and take another sip of coffee. “Don’t let it go to your head.”
His mouth curves anyway. Of course it does. “Too late.”
He leans back against the desk beside you, close enough that your knee bumps his thigh. The contact is casual. Easy. Neither of you apologizes. Neither of you moves away.
For a moment, you just sit there together, the quiet settling around you like something earned.
Then Steve clears his throat.
“So,” he says, aiming for casual, and missing by a mile. “About… last night.”
You don’t miss the way his fingers hover uselessly at his pockets, like he needs somewhere to put the nervous energy. When he looks at you, the usual smirk is gone. This is the version of Steve that only shows up when it’s just the two of you and the stakes feel real.
“I just wanna make sure,” he says, slower. “That you’re okay. That we didn’t… cross a line you wish we hadn’t.”
You blink at him, then let your mouth curve, fond and a little incredulous. “You already asked me that. Like fifty times last night.”
His gaze flicks away for half a second, caught. “Yeah, I -” He exhales, almost a laugh, almost a sigh. “I know. I just… wanted to check that you didn’t wake up and change your mind.”
You soften, because of course he would. Brave about monsters, cautious about hearts.
“I haven’t changed my mind,” you say, steady. “Not even a little.”
He searches your face anyway, like he can’t help it. Then something in him eases, shoulders dropping by a fraction, breath loosening.
“Yeah?” he murmurs.
“Yeah,” you repeat. “I’m glad it happened.”
He nods once, decisive, like he’s filing it away somewhere important.
“Okay,” he says quietly. A small smile tugs at his mouth. “Good.”
A beat.
“Me too.”
Silence stretches again, but it’s different now. Comfortable. Charged in a low, pleasant way.
Steve breaks it first, because of course he does.
“You know,” he starts, casual on the surface, lips twitching, “I always thought it’d be more… I don’t know. Romantic. When we finally -” He gestures vaguely, then lets the word land anyway. “Did that.”
You turn fully toward him now, eyebrow lifting.
“Finally?” you echo, amused.
He blinks, caught. He scratches the back of his neck, then shrugs like it’s nothing - like he hasn’t clearly run this movie in his head more than once. “Well, yeah. Guess I always assumed it would happen.”
There it is - that quiet confidence, the way he says it like gravity was always going to do its thing.
“I know I wanted it to,” he adds, softer.
Something warm settles in your chest. “Yeah,” you say. “Me too.”
You watch him for a beat, then smile, just a little. “So… you thought about it, huh?”
Steve’s mouth quirks. “Maybe.”
“How much?”
He hesitates, then admits it with a crooked grin. “A lot.”
You laugh under your breath, shaking your head softly.
“Did you… think about it?” he asks, hopeful and teasing all at once.
“Maybe.”
He waits, expectant. When you don’t elaborate, he scoffs. “That’s all you’re gonna give me?”
“Your head barely fit through the door this morning as is,” you say dryly.
“Besides,” you add, quieter now, “it was kind of perfect. In an us way.”
Steve’s grin fades into something warmer, more thoughtful. He nods once. “Yeah,” he says. “I guess it was.”
You take a sip of your coffee, then glance back at him through your lashes. “Still,” you say lightly, “I am curious about this romantic vision of yours… Maybe you should run it by me sometime.”
His smirk lingers for a second, then softens into something warmer, more intentional. “Maybe I will.”
He leans in - not rushed, not testing, just… sure. His hand comes up, fingers brushing your waist, grounding you.
His mouth meets yours in a soft, unhurried kiss that feels like morning; gentle, promising, private.
You barely have time to register the feeling before the sound of the front door detonates through the station.
It slams open, followed by a loud, familiar voice.
“Good morning, fellow miscreants -”
You and Steve jolt apart instantly, like there’s a tripwire between you.
His hand drops from your waist like it’s been burned. You turn away too fast, nearly sloshing coffee, suddenly very interested in the console buttons.
Robin barrels in mid-sentence and then stops dead.
Her eyes sweep the room.
The clean desk. The organized shelves. The suspicious lack of chaos.
“…Wow,” she says slowly. “I cannot believe you two actually did it.”
You choke on your coffee.
It goes down the wrong way in a sharp, humiliating burn, and you cough hard enough that your eyes water.
Steve freezes beside you, half-reaching like he’s about to pat your back and then clearly deciding that would look suspicious.
When you straighten, breathless and red-faced, you catch his eye.
He’s flushed too. Definitely flustered.
Steve clears his throat and gestures vaguely at the room. “I mean,” he says, casual but a little rushed, “you’re acting like we’re completely incapable of basic tasks.”
Robin’s eyes flick to you first. “You? No.”
Then to Steve. “But you? Yes. Completely incapable.”
Steve lets out a short, offended laugh. “Wow.”
“I’m just saying,” Robin continues, strolling deeper into the station, still staring at the organized shelves like they might bite her. “I half-expected to walk into a crime scene - Steve Harrington murdered in cold blood because he put a record back in the wrong sleeve.”
You mutter under your breath, half into your coffee cup, “I thought about it.”
Robin points at you again, vindicated. “See?”
Your stomach is still settling when her attention drifts past you, past Steve - past the two of you entirely - and locks onto the room again, eyes scanning the shelves, the console, the absence of chaos.
She gestures at the room. “But this? This level of organization? Deeply suspicious.”
You manage to swallow another sip of coffee without incident, pointedly avoiding Steve’s gaze.
Steve, unfortunately, has never met a loaded silence he didn’t want to poke.
He tips his chin toward the shelves - all neat lines and labels - and says, far too nonchalant, far too pleased with himself,
“Turns out I’m great at following orders,” he says, all innocent. “With the right motivation.”
You cut him a glare sharp enough to peel paint. A clear, silent: Do not.
Steve bites the inside of his cheek like he’s trying not to smile. It doesn’t work. His mouth twitches, pleased with himself.
Robin’s eyes flick between you both, suspicious. “Okay,” she says slowly. “You two are weird this morning.”
She shakes her head and turns towards the console, already flipping switches, bending over to adjust the microphone, muttering to herself as she preps for the show.
You busy yourself with straightening something that does not need straightening. Steve pretends to check a cable that is already perfect.
You make it through a full minute of silence before Robin’s voice cuts through the station again, sharp and loud.
“WHAT the hell is this?”
The words crack through the station like a dropped needle.
You freeze.
Your stomach drops somewhere near your knees as you look up - slowly, dreadfully - to see Robin holding something black, lacy, and unmistakably yours between two fingers, pinched like it might come alive and attack her.
For one suspended, terrible second, the world stops.
Steve goes rigid beside you. Not moving. Not breathing.
Robin looks at the bra.
Then at you.
Then at Steve.
Her eyes widen, horrified understanding dawning in real time.
“Oh my god,” she says. “No. No, no, no. Please tell me you didn’t -”
“Robin,” you say weakly, heat flooding your face so fast you swear you might actually combust.
“That is so gross!” She continues, scandalized, holding it farther away now like it’s radioactive. “In the workplace! In our workplace.”
You open your mouth. Close it again. There is absolutely nothing you can say to make this better.
Robin’s gaze drifts around the room, taking in the spotless desk, the aligned records, the sheer lack of clutter - and then realization slams into her.
“That’s why it’s so clean,” she breathes. “Post-coital guilt.”
You make a sound somewhere between a groan and a plea for mercy.
Your eyes squeeze shut for half a second, like that might erase the last thirty seconds of your life, and the fact that Robin is currently parading your underwear around like evidence.
But Steve, the absolute traitor that he is, grins.
Not smug, exactly. Not cruel. Just… openly pleased, like he’s proud in the quiet, unrepentant way that makes your skin burn and your stomach flip at the same time.
“I mean,” he says, shrugging one shoulder, entirely too relaxed, “I wouldn’t call it guilt. More like… the right motivation.”
Robin points at him. “You’re a pig.”
“Harsh,” he says, but he doesn’t stop smiling.
Her gaze snaps back to you, accusatory now. “I expect this from him. But you?” She gestures with the bra. “You let him turn this place into the Harrington bone zone?”
You contemplate, briefly and sincerely, simply ceasing to exist. Melting into the floor. Becoming a cautionary tale whispered about in Hawkins folklore.
Steve shifts closer.
He doesn’t touch you - he doesn’t dare - but he’s there, solid at your side, shoulder almost brushing yours. Like he’s saying ‘I’ve got you’. Like he’s not embarrassed at all, and that somehow makes it worse and better at the same time.
Robin looks between the two of you again, something in her expression changing, less scandalized, more… resigned.
She sighs, long and theatrical. “You know,” she says, shaking her head, “it took you guys long enough.”
You blink at her.
“I’ve been caught between whatever the hell this is for, like, an age,” she continues. “Every room. Every conversation. Constantly feeling like I walked in on some weird emotional foreplay.”
Steve snorts.
You groan. “Robin.”
She waves a hand. “I’m just saying. Gross? Yes. Traumatizing? Also yes. But overdue.” She points vaguely between you with the bra. “Very overdue.”
Steve glances down at you then, grin softening just a little. Supportive. Unbothered. Entirely unashamed.
“Worth it,” he says.
Robin rolls her eyes so hard it’s a wonder she doesn’t sprain something. “I hate you both.”
She drops the bra onto the desk like she’s done with it and turns toward the booth. “Put that somewhere I never have to see it again. And don’t make this a thing. I do not need details.”
You nod immediately. “Agreed.”
Robin exhales hard, shakes her head, and turns away from you both, headed towards the station kitchen.
“I need caffeine before I can process… any of this.”
Her footsteps fade and the station exhales.
The hum of the equipment fills the space again, familiar and steady. You’re still standing there, cheeks warm, dignity in several scattered pieces, staring resolutely at your coffee like it might offer guidance.
Steve watches her go, then turns back to you.
His eyes are bright. Warm. Entirely too fond.
Still grinning.
“Well,” he says mildly, like he’s making an observation about the weather, “I guess you forgot to add ‘pick up underwear’ to your list of chores.”
You finally look at him, rolling your eyes so hard it’s practically athletic. “You’re unbelievable.”
He shrugs, unrepentant. “You love it.”
You hesitate - just a beat - then exhale, the fight draining out of you as easily as it came. “Yeah,” you admit, softer now. “I guess I do.”
Something warm flickers across his face at that, quick and unguarded. He leans in before either of you can overthink it and presses a brief, easy kiss to your mouth.
Then he pulls back, already turning toward the sound board, all business again but still smiling.
“Alright,” he says, hands hovering over the controls. “C’mon, Captain Clipboard.”
He glances back at you over his shoulder. “You can boss me around again if you want.”
You shake your head, fond, and take your place beside him as the station comes alive.
Hi! I've just discovered you and I love your writing so much! I feel like you're extremely underrated because there is something so captivating about the way you structure your stories! Can't wait to spend the rest of my night reading everything you've ever written!!!!
Ah thank you so much ♥️ That's so lovely to hear, really appreciate you taking the time to send a message! I just write for the love of the game 😅 And enjoy adding in little details and call backs in the stories! Hope you enjoy 🥰
Hawkins feels different when the world isn’t actively trying to kill you. When the ground stays quiet, when the sky is just a sky.
No code red warnings crackling through walkie-talkies. No damp, rotten smell seeping in where it shouldn’t. No quiet, sick certainty that something is watching from just behind the walls.
It’s been months since the tear in reality sealed shut. Months since Hawkins stopped flinching every time the ground rumbled.
You keep expecting the relief to feel cleaner than this; less complicated, less haunted.
But peace isn’t a light switch. It’s a slow thaw.
Steve’s living room is half-lit by a lamp in the corner, the rest of it soft in shadow. The air smells like popcorn - slightly scorched, because he refuses to follow instructions - and the faint chlorine ghost of his pool even though it hasn't been touched in forever.
Normal.
You try to let it settle in your bones.
Steve drops onto the couch with an easy sprawl that would’ve felt impossible a year ago. You shift closer, without thinking, like it’s the most simple thing in the world to be in his living room on a random night, arguing about movies like nothing has ever tried to tear your town apart.
He leans forward, elbows on his knees, squinting at the tapes scattered across the coffee table like the right choice might decide the fate of the universe.
You're close enough to see the way his mouth tightens in ridiculous, serious focus, and a smile tugs at your lips.
“You’re taking this very seriously,” you murmur.
Steve glances back at you, eyes narrowed. “Yeah, well. Last time you destroyed me over my pick.” He turns back to the tapes, riffling through them with exaggerated care. “I’m trying to avoid a repeat of that.”
You turn your head toward him, brows lifting. “Weird Science was a crime, Steve.”
He shoots you a look, offended on principle. “It was a classic.”
“It was a crime against women,” you correct, ticking it off on your fingers like you’re presenting evidence in court. “Against science. And honestly? Against humanity.”
Steve scoffs, but the corner of his mouth twitches like he’s trying not to laugh. “It was not. You just -” he points at you, accusatory, “- you just like being a movie dictator.”
“I’m not a dictator,” you say, leaning back into the cushions with innocent composure. “I just… get my way.”
Steve’s stare goes flat, like he’s waiting for you to hear yourself. “Yeah. Right.”
He huffs, then snatches a VHS from the pile like he’s pulling a sword from a stone. “Back to the Future?”
You don’t even have to think. The comeback is already in your mouth, pure reflex.
“With Alex P. Keaton?”
Steve goes rigid. For a second his eyes close, like he’s actively pleading with the universe for strength. Then he opens them and looks at you with the weary resignation of a man doomed to be haunted by his own words.
“You’re unbelievable. I said it one time.”
You smile sweetly.
“And I'll never let you forget it.” You inform him, enjoying the way his ears go a shade pinker.
Steve presses his lips together and stares at the ceiling. “I can't believe Robin told you about that.”
“Steve,” you say solemnly, “Robin tells everyone everything.”
He points at you like you’re the problem. “That’s why I have trust issues.”
You laugh, and it feels good; easy in your mouth, warm in your chest.
That’s the thing about Steve. Even when the world was ending, he could still make you laugh. Sometimes especially when the world was ending, like humor was a rope you both clung to so you wouldn’t fall.
He tosses the tape back onto the table, defeated. “Fine. Whatever. Something else.”
He digs through the stack again, the movement exaggerated, theatrical. You watch his hands because you always do.
They’re big and callused now in a way they weren’t when you first met him - knuckles scarred, a faint white line across one finger that you remember cleaning - a cut so small it shouldn’t have mattered, except it just kept bleeding.
Those hands have held you upright. Those hands have shoved you behind him.
But those hands have never -
You force your mind to behave.
Steve’s fingers pause. He lifts another tape, brows raised like he expects an argument.
“Raiders of the Lost Ark?”
You answer too quickly. “Sure.”
The word hangs there, suspicious as hell.
Steve looks down at you slowly, like he’s watching a trap door open. “Oh.”
You blink up at him. “What?”
“That was… eager,” he says, voice velvet with accusation.
“It’s a good movie,” you say, making your tone as casual as possible.
“Mhm,” Steve murmurs. He leans over a little, head tilted, eyes bright with that familiar predatory mischief, like he can smell weakness. “So it's got nothing to do with Harrison Ford?”
You scoff. “It has nothing to do with Harrison Ford.”
Steve’s smile deepens, sharp and pleased. “You’ve got a thing for him.”
You lift your chin. “Maybe I’ve got a thing for charming, reckless men.”
And there it is - the shift. The faint, dangerous quiet after the joke lands.
Steve’s expression flickers. Not much. Just a tiny hitch, like something in him took that personally. Like something in him heard charming and reckless and realized you could be talking about the guy on the cover of the VHS…
Or the one sitting right next to you, trying very hard not to look like he wants to say, Yeah? You do?
You hold his gaze.
He recovers with a scoff, waving the tape as he pushes to his feet and crosses to the TV.
“So, what, you’re into older guys now?”
“Jealous?” you shoot back, because you can’t help yourself.
Steve laughs too loud, too fast. “Jealous of Harrison Ford? Please. He’s, like, forty.”
“So?” you say.
“So he’s ancient,” Steve insists, shoving the tape into the VCR with a little more force than necessary.
You hum, eyes bright with mischief. “He has a whip.”
Steve freezes for half a beat.
Then he lets out a short, dismissive snort, but his ears go faintly pink.
He mutters something under his breath as he straightens, not quite meeting your eyes. “I could have a whip.”
You grin, satisfied. “You’re jealous.”
“I am not,” he says, dropping back onto the couch beside you. He grabs the two sodas off the coffee table and shoves one into your hand like it settles the argument. Then he bumps his shoulder against yours. “Drink your drink and stop psychoanalyzing me.”
You take the soda, your fingers brushing his, and there’s a small spark under your skin that has nothing to do with static. His shoulder stays against yours a beat longer than it needs to.
Normal people would call that nothing.
But you and Steve have practically built a whole life out of nothings.
The movie starts with the soft VHS hiss, the screen flickering into color.
Steve immediately begins a running commentary, quiet at first, then louder once he hits his stride.
“Okay, see, here’s the thing,” He says, pointing with a handful of popcorn. “This guy? Total idiot.”
“That guy is you,” you say.
Steve makes an offended noise. “Excuse me?”
“You would absolutely do that,” you insist. “You would see the obvious trap and go, ‘Yeah, I got it,’ and walk right into it.”
Steve huffs. “I don't walk into traps.”
You tilt your head back just enough to look at him. “Steve.”
He meets your eyes and tries to deny it, tries to be indignant about it.
The attempt dies in his throat, replaced by a small, helpless smile. “Okay,” he says quietly. “Maybe I do.”
You smile because it feels like home. Not Hawkins, not the town that tried to swallow you whole. Home as in this, as in Steve and stupid banter and the kind of ease you only get with someone who’s seen you at your worst and stayed.
The movie rolls on. Steve laughs in the wrong places and groans dramatically at the right ones. Your body relaxes in increments you don’t even notice, untensing like you’ve been holding your breath for years and only now remembered you’re allowed to exhale.
That’s the dangerous part of peace, you think.
It sneaks up on you.
It makes you feel safe enough to notice the things you’ve been pretending not to want.
And you have wanted Steve for so long it feels woven into you.
You’ve wanted him in the quiet moments. In the messy ones. In the seconds after the screaming stops, when he looks at you like he has to check you’re still alive.
You’ve wanted him in the way he always stands just a little too close when the world feels too big or too scary. In the way his hands linger on your shoulders, your elbows, your back; steadying, grounding, never crossing that invisible line.
You’ve wanted him in the way he flirts like it’s a reflex, like breathing, and then pulls back like the idea of meaning it might destroy something.
And now the Upside Down is gone. The monsters are dead. The gates are closed.
There’s no fight left to hide behind.
So what, exactly, are you waiting for?
The thought makes your stomach twist.
The scene changes. On screen, someone says something you don’t catch because you’re leaning forward for more popcorn, stretching across the coffee table.
You feel Steve's attention shift, away from the screen and onto you, like a weight on the back of your neck.
The fabric of your collar slides with the movement, baring the soft skin above your collarbone - just enough for his gaze to catch on something there.
There’s a beat of charged quiet.
Then - crack.
Steve’s soda can dents in his grip.
He jerks, sharp and involuntary, and the can tips. Soda spills fast and dark over his jeans, fizz hissing in the sudden silence.
“Shit,” he mutters, breath clipped, scrambling to right it.
You blink and sit back, startled by the sudden mess. “Steve -”
“I’m fine,” he says immediately, too quick, too sharp, like the words are meant to slam a door.
You frown, eyes dropping to his lap, to the spreading stain, to the way his hand is shaking just enough to notice as he wipes at it with a napkin he snatched from the coffee table.
And then he looks up.
Not at your face.
At your neck.
His gaze lands and sticks - a fixed point, like he can’t stop himself.
The realization hits you a beat later, cold and precise.
Oh.
Your hand flies to your collar, fingers fumbling, tugging the fabric back into place like it can undo what’s already been seen.
Heat crawls up your throat, blooming in your cheeks; embarrassment first, then something worse, something sharper, because you know exactly what he saw.
The skin is tender when your fingertips brush it by accident. The small, purple bruise you’ve been pretending doesn’t exist. The kind of mark that’s obvious it didn't come from a fall or a fight.
Evidence of an evening you tried to file under normal.
A stupid attempt to forget the almosts with Steve, to forget the thing between you that you never name, because you're convinced by now that it’s never going to happen.
It didn’t mean anything. The bruise is just a mark left behind by someone you didn’t even want, proof you could pretend to move on.
But now Steve is staring at it like it’s a crime scene.
Your pulse kicks up hard. His eyes flick to your hand at your collar, then immediately back to the movie, jaw tight like he’s swallowing something sharp.
He doesn’t say anything.
Which is somehow worse.
You don’t say anything either.
You let the movie keep playing. You let Steve wipe soda off his hand far too aggressively. You let him stare at the screen as if concentration might burn the thought out of his head.
But the energy has changed.
The easy warmth drains out of the room like someone pulled a plug. The air is still charged, but not in the fun, flirty way it usually is - more like the seconds before a thunderstorm breaks.
He goes so still it’s like someone hit pause on him, shoulders set, hands locked tight around his soda.
You tell yourself it’ll pass. That it’s just a weird moment. That if you act normal, it’ll fall back into place.
It doesn’t.
When he gets up for more drinks, he moves too fast, too tense. You hear the refrigerator door shut a little too hard, the clink of cans, the way he sets them down on the coffee table with a heavy thunk instead of his usual careful drop-and-slide.
He doesn’t look at you once.
The movie keeps rolling, bright and loud and oblivious.
You try to drag the night back onto its familiar track.
On screen, Indy does something reckless, something stupidly brave.
You gesture with your popcorn. “See? That’s you.”
Steve’s response comes without hesitation, clipped at the edges. “Sure.”
No grin. No scoff. No “shut up” with that soft smile he always fails to hide.
You blink and glance at him. He’s staring at the TV like it’s something to fight, jaw tight, shoulders still stiff. The silence between you isn’t comfortable anymore; it’s suffocating.
You try again, lighter. “I’m just saying, you’d absolutely do something like that.”
Steve exhales through his nose, sharp. “Can we just watch the movie?”
The words land harder than they should. Cold. Final.
Something in you snaps.
You lean forward and hit pause.
The click is loud in the quiet.
Steve turns his head slowly, irritated already. “Why’d you do that?”
You look at him. Really look.
His jaw is set like concrete. His eyes are bright in a way that isn’t amusement, more like anger, tightly leashed.
“Because you’re being weird,” you say. “And I’m not going to sit here and pretend you’re not.”
“I’m not being weird.”
“Yes, you are,” you insist, voice steady even as your heart thumps harder. “What the hell is up with you?”
Steve’s gaze cuts away from yours, too fast, and lands on your neck.
Pointed.
Deliberate.
Then he looks back up at you with a sharpness that makes your skin prickle.
“Seriously?” he says, voice edged with sarcasm. “Nice. Real classy.”
The words land like a slap.
For a second, you just stare at him.
It’s not just that it’s mean. It’s that it's coming from him. From Steve, who’s always been the one to step between you and the worst of the world - who’s never once looked at you like you were anything but worth saving.
“Excuse me?” Your voice comes out too low, too dangerous.
Steve’s eyes flicker, just a tiny hitch, like the words land in his own ears and he hates them. His jaw tightens anyway, stubbornness snapping into place like armor.
“Forget it,” he mutters, turning his head toward the TV like he can shove the moment back into the dark. “Just - whatever.”
He reaches for the remote like he’s going to unpause it, like the movie can cover this up.
You catch his wrist before he can.
His skin is warm under your fingers. He freezes.
“No,” you say, leaning forward, anger burning clean now. “No. You don’t get to say that and look at me like I’m disgusting for doing the exact same thing you’ve been doing forever.”
That gets him. You see it; the flinch, subtle but real, like you hit a nerve.
“You go on dates,” you keep going, voice shaking at the edges. “All the time. You disappear with girls. You make jokes about it. You act like dating is your whole brand. So don’t -” your grip tightens on his wrist, “- don’t look at me like you’re better than me. Don’t try to shame me for it.”
You shove his wrist away, a sharp little motion that feels like pushing him back across an invisible line.
His hands clench on his thighs instead, knuckles going white. He finally looks at you, and his eyes are filled with something sharp and ugly - anger, yes, but also panic, like he doesn’t know how to say what he really means without giving too much away.
“I wasn’t -” he starts.
“You were,” you say, fierce. “You're a hypocrite.”
Steve swallows. His mouth tightens like he’s going to spit back something defensive, like he’s going to double down just because you pushed.
He does, but it doesn’t land as sharp as he wants it to.
“Yeah, well,” he mutters, eyes flicking anywhere but your face. They snag, betrayingly, on your neck. “At least I don’t -” His voice catches, the anger thinning into something dull and miserable. “At least I don’t walk around with it stamped on me. Like an announcement for the whole damn town.”
The words should sound judgmental.
Instead they sound… wounded.
And suddenly it clicks; the soda, the silence, the way he couldn’t look at you without looking there.
Not disgust. Not morality.
It’s hurt. It’s want.
It’s Steve staring at the evidence that someone else got there first, and not knowing what to do with the feeling.
Something in your chest clicks into place, quiet and startling.
You breathe out, the realization tasting sharp.
“You’re jealous.”
His eyes snap to yours. “No.”
“Yes, you are.”
“I’m not,” he replies, too sharp, too fast.
You hold his gaze and feel your fear drain out, replaced by a slow, dangerous confidence.
Because now you know.
You know he wants you the way you've wanted him.
“Admit it.”
His chest rises like he’s bracing for impact. For a moment, he looks like he might keep fighting out of stubbornness alone.
Then his shoulders drop, just a fraction, and his voice comes out rough.
“Fine,” he bites out. “You’re right. I’m jealous. Happy now?”
“No,” you say immediately. “I’m not happy.”
Steve’s laugh is short and bitter. He drags a hand through his hair, eyes locked on yours, jaw working like he’s trying to chew the feeling down into something smaller.
“Me neither,” he mutters.
The admission hangs there; quiet, heavy.
You watch him for a beat.
You swallow, and when you speak your voice comes out softer - steadier than pleading, but it has that edge of it. Like you’re asking him to finally stop making you guess.
“Steve… you don’t get to be jealous, not if -”
The words catch in your throat. You don’t finish the sentence. You don’t have to.
It isn’t a reprimand. It’s a truth you’re offering him, gentle and unavoidable. And the way you look at him says everything you don’t: not if you won’t act on it. Not if it doesn’t mean something. Not if you won’t choose me.
He stills.
You don’t fill the silence. You just wait.
“I know.” He starts, then stops, as if he’s searching for a version of this that won’t make him look pathetic. He fails. His voice drops anyway.
“I know I don’t,” he repeats, firmer, like he needs to hear it said out loud. “Because I haven’t -” His throat bobs, but he doesn’t look away. “Because I’ve never done anything about… this.”
The word sits between you like a live wire.
This.
The thing you’ve both been pretending isn’t real, because naming it would make it impossible to ignore.
His gaze flicks to your neck and his jaw tightens.
“But seeing that,” Steve says, voice rougher now, “thinking about some other guy -” He cuts himself off, breath sharp, like the image tastes bad. “It’s driving me insane.”
You feel your heartbeat in your throat.
Steve shifts forward on the couch, elbows on his knees, like he can’t sit back with it. Like it’s too big to hold inside his chest.
“All this time,” he says, quieter, “I told myself it was safer. Safer not to say anything. Safer to go on dates and keep pretending this -” his eyes flick to you, “- wasn’t happening.”
A humorless smile pulls at one corner of his mouth. “Because it was always something, right? Always a new thing trying to kill us. Always -” he exhales, “- danger. And it felt like we were on borrowed time.”
His eyes lift to yours. They’re bright again, with something almost furious, but aimed inward.
“And then it ended,” he says, a little sharper, like he still can’t believe the word applies. “The monsters. The gates. All of it. And I thought I’d feel -” He shakes his head, frustrated. “I don’t know. Lighter.”
He looks at his hands for a second, like they might explain it for him.
“But I didn't,” he admits. “And I kept thinking… if I actually let myself want you out loud,” he says, voice tight, “if I reached for you for real, the universe would hear it and go, ‘Oh, Steve’s finally getting something good? Cool. Let’s ruin it.’ Like something else would show up. Some stupid new disaster, just to prove I don’t get to keep anything.”
The silence stretches.
Then he lifts his gaze again, and it’s so honest it almost hurts.
“And then I see that,” Steve says, voice low, “And it hits me - it doesn’t have to be monsters.”
His eyes flick, again, to your neck.
“It can just be… life. Some guy. Some normal, nothing guy who doesn’t hesitate.” His throat works. “And it’s so -” He lets out a breath that sounds almost like pain. “It’s so stupid, after everything we survived, after all of that, that I lose you because I didn’t have the guts to do anything about it.”
He goes quiet, breathing hard through his nose.
The air is still charged. Still crackling.
But the fight in him has shifted, less stubbornness now, more truth.
And he’s looking at you like he’s run out of places to hide.
You draw a slow breath. “I can’t keep waiting, Steve. Hoping you’ll finally do something. Not when half the time I don’t even know if you mean it, or if I just made it all up.”
Steve holds your gaze, and there’s no argument in him. Only regret.
“I know,” he says. “I know.”
A beat.
“I just -” he starts quietly. Not angry now, just raw. “I wanted it to be me,” he forces out. “I want it to be me. That gets to do… that.”
A beat. His throat works, and when he speaks again his voice drops, rougher. Honest in a way that steals the air from your lungs.
“I want you,” he says. “All of you. Always have.”
Your breath catches.
All the years of banter and almost-touch and not-quite - suddenly it’s all right there, bare and undeniable. Every time he stood too close. Every time his hand lingered at your back. Every joke that wasn’t really a joke.
It all rearranges itself into something simple and devastating.
You could be careful. You could ask for promises, for reassurance, for him to say it again slower.
But you’re tired of careful.
“Steve,” you say, voice soft but sure, because your heart is pounding and you’re done pretending you can’t hear it. “I’m right here. I've been right here.”
His eyes flick to your mouth.
“If you want me,” you continue, steadying on the words like they’re a handhold, “then stop waiting…”
You take a deep breath, the invitation turning into a dare you’ve earned.
“Just take me.”
Steve goes very still.
For half a heartbeat he looks like he can’t believe you said it.
Then something in him breaks - something restrained and aching - and his hand comes up to your face like a reflex, cupping your jaw with a careful firmness that makes your skin tingle.
You lean into his touch
And that’s all it takes.
He kisses you like he’s been hungry for years and finally stopped pretending he isn’t.
It’s not tentative. Not polite. It’s Steve’s mouth on yours, warm and urgent, the kiss deepening fast - his lips parting, yours following, a soft sound slipping out of him when your breath tangles together and he realizes you’re not pulling away.
His tongue brushes yours, and the sensation is dizzying, electric in a way that makes your fingers clutch at his sweatshirt just to ground yourself. You taste soda on his mouth and heat and the raw edge of relief.
And then Steve jerks back.
Not far - just enough to break it, abrupt as a snapped thread. His hands stay on your face, thumbs pressed hard at your jaw, and his chest heaves like he’s trying to get air back into his lungs.
“I’m sorry,” he blurts, immediate, like he can’t stand another second of it sitting between you. His eyes are wild for a beat, guilt and want colliding, before they lock on yours, stubbornly honest. “About what I said. I was - I was being an asshole.”
Your chest is still tight from it, still sore, but his apology lands different when his mouth is swollen from kissing you and his voice sounds like that, like it costs him. Like he means it.
You swallow, throat hot. “Yeah,” you manage, because the truth matters. “You were.”
“I didn’t mean it,” he adds, voice catching on the truth. “I just -” A harsh exhale. “I saw it and lost my mind. You didn’t deserve it.” His eyes flick over your face, pained. “I’m so sorry.”
Your throat tightens - not with anger now, but with the sudden, aching relief of hearing him mean it. Want rushes in behind it, fast and undeniable.
You curl your hand into the hair at the back of his neck and pull him back in before the moment can turn too careful.
Steve exhales like you’ve just given him permission to breathe, and the sound he makes is small - half relief, half hunger - before his mouth finds yours again.
At first it’s almost reverent; warm, firm, like he’s afraid a sudden move might break the spell.
Then your lips part, and something in him shifts.
Steve’s hand slides down your neck, along your spine, then hesitates, restraint flickering, before he gives up on it and pulls you closer, like he’s done pretending he can take his time.
The kiss turns hungrier and heavier, dangerous in the way it builds. His mouth opens to yours, tongue warm and sure, sweeping like he’s learning you, like he’s memorizing the feeling.
A sound slips out of you, quiet, wrecked, and Steve answers it immediately, kissing you even deeper like it went straight through him.
Your hands slide to his shoulders and grip, anchoring yourself as everything in you leans into want.
You need closer. You need more.
You shift up onto your knees and then into his lap, straddling him in one smooth movement that steals the air right out of him.
“Jesus -” He exhales, hands clamping to your hips, thumbs pressing into the curve there, firm and possessive as though he’s found where you fit and refuses to lose it.
He pulls back just far enough to look at you, eyes dark and blown wide, lips parted. For a second he looks almost stunned, like he can’t believe he’s allowed to have this.
Then he leans in and kisses the corner of your mouth, your cheek, your jaw - little hungry claims that make your skin spark.
“Steve,” you breathe, and it’s not a warning. It’s a surrender.
He answers by dropping his head and kissing down your throat.
Warm mouth, slow pressure. Your shoulders lift with a shiver you can’t control. His hands tighten on your hips as if he feels it, as if the reaction feeds him.
He reaches the edge of the bruise above your collarbone and stops.
You feel him hover there, his breath against your skin, the pause heavy with meaning.
Then his mouth closes over it
Slow. Intentional. Deliberate, like he’s claiming the space, like he can’t stand that it exists and he’s going to rewrite it with his lips.
He presses another kiss beside it, then another, covering the tender skin as if he can erase the memory by touch alone.
“I want you,” he murmurs, then shakes his head like that isn’t big enough. “I want us.”
Another kiss, slower, like he’s convincing himself he’s allowed. “I want -” he swallows, “- I want to be yours. For real.”
A sound slips out of you before you can stop it, breathy and helpless, an instant yes.
Steve hums against your skin, and it’s more feeling than language, before his voice turns rough. “I’m going to make you forget whoever it was.”
He lifts his head just enough for you to hear it clearly, then kisses you again - right there, right over the bruise.
“I want you so gone on me you can’t think about anything else.”
A breath catches in your throat, sharp and helpless.
His name slips out of you again, more a whimper than a word.
Your fingers fist in his sweatshirt like you need something solid, and you pull him up by it, mouth finding his again. The kiss is messy, urgent - too much feeling and not enough space to hold it.
His hands slide from your hips, searching, like he can’t decide where he wants to hold you the most.
His palms skim your waist, your ribs, drifting higher until his thumbs brush just under your chest - an almost-touch that makes your skin flare hot. He catches himself and pulls back a fraction, like he’s trying to be careful.
You don’t want careful.
The frustration comes out as a shaky little noise, and something in you tips over.
Your body shifts before your brain can organize a single responsible thought - a small roll of your hips, instinctive, chasing comfort, chasing friction, chasing something to do with all the heat collecting under your skin.
Steve makes a sound like it’s punched out of him.
His head tips back against the couch, throat exposed, eyes squeezing shut for a beat like he’s trying to get control of himself and failing. The noise he makes next is lower - a groan, half swallowed.
The reaction sparks something bold in you.
You shift again, slower this time, an experimental roll of your hips, just to see if it happens again. Just to see if you can pull that sound out of him whenever you want.
Steve’s throat works. His breath stutters.
His hands fly to your thighs, bracing you, steadying you, fingers digging in like he’s anchoring himself as much as he’s holding you in place.
And your breath catches because you feel it too: the solid, unmistakable pressure of how much he wants you, trapped between denim and heat, pressed up against you in a way that makes your stomach flip.
You go still for half a heartbeat, eyes wide, heart hammering.
Then your mouth opens and the tease falls out before you can stop it - breathy, startled, and a little wicked.
“So… the rumours are true.”
Steve blinks up at you like he’s catching up with the words. His pupils are blown wide, his mouth parted, his expression dazed in a way you’ve never seen on him outside of adrenaline and near-misses.
Like his brain is still stuck on the fact that you’re here, in his lap, and his hands are on you like they’ve been waiting for permission for years.
“The -” he starts, swallowing. “What?”
You can’t help it, a shaky laugh escapes you. “You know. What Robin said about you being too b-”
Steve cuts you off with a rough groan, his hands squeezing your thighs like a warning.
“Please,” he breathes, voice wrecked. “Do not talk about Robin right now.”
You bite down on your lip, trying to smother your smile. Another small laugh slips out before you can swallow it down. “Okay - sorry, I just -”
“Don’t,” Steve cuts in, rough.
Your smile dies on your lips at the look he gives you - fierce, intent, like he’s done hiding behind jokes.
His hands slide back to your hips, firm and sure.
And then he moves you.
Just a gentle rock at first - slow, controlled - pulling you down into him in a way that makes the air leave your lungs. It’s deliberate, like he’s answering the rumour without words. Like he’s owning it. Like he’s proving he wants you to notice.
Steve watches your face the whole time, expression dark and satisfied.
“Yeah?” he murmurs, voice rough, guiding your hips again; fractionally deeper, fractionally slower. “Is that what you wanted to know?”
Your breath stutters.
The next slow rock pulls a sound out of you; helpless, embarrassing, real.
“Steve -”
His name slips from your lips on a half-gasp, half-moan before you can catch it.
Your eyes flutter shut. Your head tips back on instinct, throat exposed, mouth parted like your body forgot how to be subtle.
For a second you’re not even thinking. Just feeling. Heat, pressure, Steve’s hands guiding you like he knows exactly what he’s doing.
He watches your face, and the corner of his mouth lifts; slow, smug, almost disbelieving.
Then the curve of his mouth sharpens and his voice drops right against you.
“Told you,” he murmurs, rough. “Told you I’d get you so gone on me you couldn’t think about anything else.”
You want to roll your eyes at him, summon a smart remark out of pure spite.
But your head feels light, your mouth is still parted, and all you manage is a shaky breath that sounds dangerously like agreement.
Steve’s eyes flick to your lips like he can’t help it. Then his hand slides into the back of your hair, fingers threading through, steadying you like you’re something precious.
He draws you in and kisses you again.
Not frantic this time. Slow. Deep. The kind of kiss that takes its time and still steals your breath anyway, his mouth moving against yours like he’s making up for every moment he didn’t let himself have.
He eases back a fraction, just enough to catch his breath, still holding you close. Your foreheads rest together, both of you breathing hard, the space between your mouths barely there - close enough that every word feels like a kiss.
Steve’s voice comes out rough, strained. “You’re -” he exhales, like it’s pulled out of him, “- you’re killing me.”
You tilt your head, mouth grazing his as you murmur, “Thought you said no more waiting.”
Something flashes in his eyes - amusement for half a second, and then it drops into something steadier. Real.
“I meant it,” he says quietly. His hand settles at your lower back, thumb moving in a slow, absent circle like he’s anchoring himself. No more waiting. No more pretending. I want…” His breath shudders. “I want us. For real.”
“Us,” you echo, quieter, like you’re tasting it.
Steve holds perfectly still, eyes locked on yours - searching, intent. Like he needs the next words the way he needs air.
Your chest tightens, “I want us too.”
The honesty lands between you like a spark.
You don’t waste it.
Your hands slide up his shoulders and into his hair, fingers threading at the back of his scalp, giving a small, testing tug - just enough to see if he reacts.
He does.
Steve’s eyes squeeze shut for a beat, and a sound breaks out of him, low and wrecked, like you’ve found the exact wire to touch.
You feel a fierce little thrill. At the power of it. At the fact that you can do that to him.
“Yeah?” you whisper, breath shaking, not a question so much as a dare.
Steve opens his eyes again, dark and intent. The corner of his mouth lifts, like he knows what you’re doing.
His answer is his mouth - he kisses you again, deep and unhurried, like he’s deliberately refusing to give you what you want too fast. Like he’s making you feel every second.
And then his hands slide back down to your hips, grip sure and possessive, thumbs pressing in like he’s got you.
He moves you with another slow, guided roll - controlled, patient, devastating - like he’s giving you your own test back. Like he’s reminding you, quietly, that he can make you lose your mind without rushing a single second of it.
Your breath shudders. Your forehead tips forward before you can stop it, catching against his shoulder as if your body needs somewhere to brace.
Steve’s hands stay steady on your hips. He doesn’t let you hide. He leans in just enough that his mouth brushes your ear, voice low and rough with satisfaction.
“Yeah?” he murmurs - one word, smug and smiling. Your own question, thrown right back at you.
A thrill sparks low in your stomach.
And you move, letting your hands drift down his chest; slow, deliberate. Your fingers skim his stomach and settle at the waistband of his jeans. Just resting there. Just there.
Your thumb traces the button once - light, testing - then pauses like you’re waiting to see what he'll do.
Steve goes still in the way a predator goes still, focus sharpening.
You lift your head, just enough for your gaze to meet his, hazed and heavy-lidded, all heat and permission.
“Yeah.” You whisper back.
It's not a question anymore.
Just an answer.
Steve holds your gaze like he’s afraid if he looks away he’ll lose whatever thread of control he’s hanging onto.
For a heartbeat, neither of you moves.
Then your hands do.
You keep your eyes steady on his as your thumb slides over the button on his jeans again.
Then you press.
It pops free with a small, unmistakable sound.
For one long, heavy moment Steve goes perfectly still.
Then he moves.
He stands in a smooth movement - like decision has finally replaced hesitation - and you go with him, legs tightening around him on instinct as he hauls you close. You make a startled sound, half laugh, half gasp, arms flying to his shoulders on instinct.
Steve doesn’t stop. He doesn’t let go. He carries you like he’s done waiting for the universe to take its turn.
The living room blurs behind you; the paused tape, the half-finished drinks, the lamp casting its quiet circle of light. Everything left exactly where it is, like a life you’re stepping out of.
And the rest of the night turns into something raw and inevitable: breaths and hungry sounds, names whispered against skin, hands roaming in the dark, and the steady, inevitable proof of what you’ve both wanted for too long.
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