okay hear me out.. RE6 Leon is female!readers mission partner right… and she trained under him and whenever she would do something wrong he clicks his tongue. ACCIDENTALLY SORT OF CLICKER TRAINING READER and mayhaps it leads to some nsfw stuff during a mission??🫣🫣
I'm so sorry but I could not find a way to sneak the smut in there! But I really hope you like this either way. (Also RE6 is so underrated! I played it with my partner and it was a blast!)
Summary: Leon accidentally clicker trains you. Pavlov would be proud.
One Shot Masterlist
Pavlov was a Dick - Leon Kennedy x Reader
The first time it happens, neither of you notices.
Which is probably why it gets so bad.
Training under Leon Kennedy is, frankly, a nightmare. He’s not particularly cruel or unfair, no. Actually, you couldn’t be trained by anyone better. In a way, that’s the problem. He's annoyingly good at everything he does.
Every stance correction is perfect. Every critique is somehow correct. Every piece of advice immediately solves whatever problem you're having. It's insufferable.
"Your shoulders."
You immediately straighten. Leon nods once. "Better."
You hate how satisfying that approval feels.
You hate it even more when he clicks his tongue. It's never loud. Just a small little sound whenever you do something stupid.
Miss a target?
Click.
Forget to check a corner?
Click.
Nearly trip over your own feet during a drill?
He made the noise twice that time. Click click.
It's not even intentional. Half the time he doesn't seem aware he's doing it. But after months of training together, the sound becomes synonymous with one thing; you've done something wrong.
Unfortunately, your brain decides to take that information and run with it.
.
.
.
It becomes apparent during a mission six months later. Leon is crouched beside you, behind an overturned vehicle, while gunfire erupts across the street.
His hand comes up, holding up three fingers. You understand immediately.
Three hostiles. You nod.
He gestures again, this time waving his hand a little to the left.
Left side is mine. Another nod. With that, you start standing up, readying your weapon-
Click.
You sit back down so fast you nearly give yourself whiplash. Both of you freeze.
Leon blinks.
You blink.
"...Why did you do that?" The words are whispered, barely audible under the noise of the gunfire.
Your mouth opens. Then closes. You sit there a moment, mouthing out unintelligible words. Then, "...I don't know."
Neither of you thinks much about it.
… At first. Then it happens again. And again. And again.
A month later, while sloughing through the underground ruins of a cathedral, his newest tag along finds out.
She’s a nice young woman. A bit younger than him, with chestnut brown hair and kind eyes. Her name is Helena, if you’re recalling correctly.
You’re reaching for something when Leon clicks his tongue. Immediately, without hesitation, you pull back
Her eyebrow raises. "Wait.”
Both you and Leon give her a confused glance.
“Leon…” she takes a breath, “Make that noise again.”
He does. As if on cue, you step a little closer to him, your eyes snapping to his form, as if waiting for a command.
Helena’s eyes widen. "Oh."
You give her a confused look, before starting to walk again. Helena clicks her tongue.
You freeze. The room goes silent.
Then, Helena lets out a laugh. It’s the most genuine reaction you’ve ever heard from her. You can almost see tears forming in her eyes as she doubles over, chuckles falling from her lips.
"You clicker trained your partner!"
Leon’s arms come up in defence. "I did not."
"You absolutely did." The woman gestures towards you both.
"I did not."
"You made her into a golden retriever!"
More laughter. You can feel yourself melting into an embarrassed puddle as Leon just shouts.
"I DID NOT."
.
.
.
The worst part is that once everyone notices, nobody lets it go.
Chris finds out, while you both try to pursue Ada Wong. Then Piers. Then, Sherry and Jake. Suddenly everyone is testing it.
It's humiliating. It's horrible. It's nonstop.
Click.
You stop peeking out from cover.
Click.
You stop running and start listening.
Click.
You skid to a halt mid run.
The last one makes Leon groan loudly enough to be heard from feet behind you. "This is my fault."
"This is absolutely your fault."
He just rolls his eyes. "I didn't mean to do it."
Helena is quick to snort. "You Pavlov'd her."
"That's really not what Pavlov did."
"You know what I mean."
Meanwhile, you're standing still, watching helplessly while this argument happens around you. Honestly, you're still not entirely convinced it's real.
Until after the mission is over.
The two of you are alone in the safehouse. It's late. Everyone's exhausted. You're sitting on the floor cleaning your pistol when Leon walks into the room carrying two coffees.
Without thinking, you reach for yours. You don’t go for the handle. Instead, you reach for the mug itself.
The cup is hot. Very hot. Hot enough to burn. Leon’s brows raise.
Click.
Your hand jerks away before you even register the sound. The movement is instant. Automatic. Reflexive. The room goes quiet. Slowly, you both look down at the coffee. Then at each other. Then, back at the coffee.
"...Oh."
"...Yeah."
For some reason, that's the moment it finally hits him. Not necessarily because it’s funny, or because everyone keeps teasing him, no. It’s because he realizes how much you've trusted him.
For months.
Every correction. Every lesson. Every warning. Every tiny click of his tongue. Somewhere along the way, your brain decided that sound meant safety.
To listen to him. That he's trying to help.
The realization hits Leon right in the chest.
He looks away first, which is unusual. He's never been particularly good at hiding things from you.
"What?" you ask.
His jaw flexes slightly. "Nothing."
"You're being weird."
A pause. "...You listen to me."
Your brow furrows. "Usually? Duh?"
"No, I mean..." He exhales softly. "You really trust me."
The words make you freeze for a moment. He hands you the coffee carefully this time, turning it so that you can grab the handle. His shoulder bumps yours when he sits beside you. For a moment, neither of you speaks. He feels warm beside you.
Then, Click.
Your head immediately turns toward him.
Leon bursts out laughing. It’s the happiest he’s sounded in days.
“why do you care that i’m using AI to write my fics?”
putting the environmental and ethical considerations aside, it’s because writing is a craft even if it’s ’just a hobby’. to practice becoming a better writer, you have to read because it will expand your vocabulary and understanding of tone, syntax, and plot development. so when i’m scouring for fics and they turn out to be AI, i’ve learned nothing from it. AI uses consistent phrasing and signals that it learned to mimic from humans. writing is a craft and AI will only ever mimic the work it has stolen from authors, and can never be original or genuine because it is not human. you cannot learn to sew if you cannot thread your own needle. you cannot learn to sing if you refuse to learn your scales. you can learn and you can write.
Masterlist
AO3
Pairing: Leon Kennedy x Reader
Summary: Leon falls victim to the cat distribution system.
As an emergency vet, you have strict rules about giving out your personal number to clients. But when a soaking wet, broad-shouldered man walks into your clinic holding a shivering neonate kitten like it's a live grenade, you make an exception. Strictly for cat emergencies, of course.
(It does not stay strictly for cat emergencies. Not when he keeps using "suspicious sneezes" as an excuse to see you)
Content: Sick animals, grief and loss, burnout, alternating POV, no Y/N, fluff, angst, hurt/comfort, gentle romance, Leon becomes a cat dad, flirting, awkward Leon, domesticity, reader is a veterinarian, realistic vet med content
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The rain is a relentless, gray sheet that turns the Washington D.C. outskirts into a blurred watercolor of brake lights and misery.
Inside his Porsche Cayenne, Leon S. Kennedy feels the familiar, hollow hum of a post-mission comedown. His suit is wrinkled, his tie is loosened to the point of uselessness, and the smell of stale coffee and government-issued paperwork seems to have seeped into his very pores.
The debriefing had been a disaster. Four hours of bureaucrats in sterile rooms asking him to quantify the "unquantifiable horrors" he’d seen in a damp basement in Eastern Europe.
They want data; Leon just wants a drink and a decade of sleep.
"Note to self," he mutters, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that barely carries over the rhythmic thwack-thwack of the windshield wipers. "Next time Hunnigan calls with an 'easy' reconnaissance job, tell her I’ve retired to open a bakery. At least bread doesn't try to grow extra heads."
He’s doing sixty on the slick highway, his grip on the leather-wrapped steering wheel light but practiced. His mind is already drifting toward the bottle of aged bourbon sitting on his kitchen counter—his only roommate in an apartment that’s too quiet and too clean.
It’s a dangerous headspace to be in. In his line of work, the moment you start looking forward to the end of the night is the moment something bites you.
Suddenly, the world narrows.
A flash of neon orange darts into the cone of his high beams. It’s small—too small for a deer, too erratic for a trash bag.
"Son of a—!"
Leon reacts before he thinks. It’s a muscle memory honed by years of dodging charging Ganados and careening through Raccoon City in a stolen cruiser.
He slams the brake pedal, the ABS system pulsing violently beneath his boot. The car skids, its tires screaming in a high-pitched protest against the wet asphalt. The back end fish-tails, a graceful but terrifying slide that Leon corrects with a sharp, disciplined jerk of the wheel.
The car lurches to a halt, the engine idling with a low, mechanical pant. Leon’s heart is hammering against his ribs, a frantic rhythm he usually reserves for when a Tyrant is breaking through a drywall.
"Great. Just great," he sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. "If I’ve totaled the suspension for a squirrel, I’m never living this down."
He throws the car into park and steps out. The rain hits him instantly, soaking through his dress shirt and plastering his blonde hair to his forehead. He rounds the front of the car, expecting to find a mess on the road. Instead, he sees a tiny, shivering lump huddled against the front passenger tire.
It’s an orange kitten. It couldn't be more than five weeks old, its fur spiked into pathetic, sodden needles. It looks less like a predator and more like a very angry, very wet dandelion.
Leon stares at it. The kitten stares back with wide, watery eyes, letting out a pathetic, high-pitched mew that sounds like a rusty hinge.
"You’ve got a real sense of timing, kid," Leon says, crouching down. The water is already pooling in his expensive shoes. "Of all the lanes in all the world, you had to walk into mine."
He reaches out, and the tiny creature tries to hiss. It’s a valiant effort, really—a miniature display of bravado that makes Leon’s chest ache with an unexpected, sharp tug of empathy.
He knows what it’s like to be small, cornered, and surrounded by things much larger and meaner than you.
"Easy. I'm not a zombie. Well, not on the weekends, anyway," he murmurs.
He sheds his suit jacket—the one that cost him more than an average paycheck—and scoops the kitten up. The creature is so light it’s terrifying; he can feel every individual rib beneath the soaked fur. It’s vibrating with a bone-deep chill. Without a second thought, he swaddles the kitten in the heavy fabric of his jacket, shielding it from the downpour.
Back inside the Porsche, the heat is blasting, but the kitten is still shaking. Leon sets the bundle on the leather passenger seat, watching as a tiny, pink nose pokes out from the lapel of his jacket.
"Come on, little guy," Leon mutters, his voice softening in a way he hasn't heard in years. "Don't clock out on me yet. I didn't almost wreck my favorite car just for you to quit now."
He taps the GPS on his dashboard with a frantic, wet finger. 24-hour emergency vet.
"Alright, hold on," he says, shifting the car back into gear. He glances at the kitten, who has now curled into a ball inside the jacket, looking exceptionally small against the vastness of the interior.
"I hope you like German engineering, because we’re about to break some speed records."
As he pulls back onto the highway, the bourbon is forgotten. His focus is entirely on the tiny, rhythmic rise and fall of the orange fur beside him. For the first time in a long time, the mission isn't about saving the world or stopping a virus.
It's just about making sure one small thing makes it to tomorrow.
──────•✦•──────
The clock on the wall of the treatment area mocks you. It’s 3:00 AM, the literal witching hour of veterinary medicine, where the cases are either bizarre, tragic, or a headache-inducing combination of both.
You take a sip of coffee that has reached a temperature and consistency best described as "over-brewed sludge," feeling it burn a slow path down your throat. It’s the only thing keeping your eyes open.
"The tulips really did a number on him," you mutter to Sarah, your lead tech, as you both stare down at a sedated domestic shorthair in cage four. "Bloodwork looks like a disaster zone. His liver’s basically thrown in the towel and headed for early retirement."
Sarah sighs, rubbing her eyes behind her glasses. "Are we starting him on the lactulose titration now?"
"Yeah," you say, your fingers dancing across the sticky keyboard of the workstation with a weary, mechanical rhythm. "And hang the fluids. I’ve already typed in the orders. Honestly? I could use a Propofol coma myself right about now. Just ten minutes of medically induced silence. Is that too much to ask of the universe?"
The chime of the front bell rings—a sharp, cheerful ding that feels like a physical blow to your sleep-deprived brain.
"The universe says yes," you grumble, pushing off the counter.
You catch a glimpse of the security monitor. Standing in the lobby is a man who looks like he just crawled out of a shipwreck. He’s soaking wet, broad-shouldered, and wearing a look of such raw, high-octane panic that your professional instincts override your exhaustion.
"Well," you mutter, adjusting your stethoscope around your neck. "This is going to be interesting."
You head out to the lobby, the smell of wet pavement and expensive leather hitting you before you even reach him. He’s striking—harsh jawline, blonde hair plastered to his forehead in messy clumps, and eyes a startling, piercing shade of blue that seem to be vibrating with adrenaline. He’s cradling a high-end suit jacket like it’s made of glass.
"Exam room one," you say, your voice blunt but not unkind. You don't wait for him to move; you lead the way, the squelch of his boots following behind you.
Once the door clicks shut, he gingerly places the jacket on the stainless steel table. "I found him on the highway," the man rasps. His voice is deep, underscored by a slight tremor he’s trying very hard to hide. "He almost... I almost hit him. I think he’s dying."
"Let’s see the damage," you murmur. You carefully peel back the wet fabric, expecting a gore-fest. Instead, you find a tiny, orange scrap of fur that lets out a pathetic, high-pitched squeak.
Your hands, practiced and steady, move over the tiny body. You grab a warm, chlorhexidine-soaked gauze to wipe away the road grime and grease. You check the gums—pale, but pinking up. You listen to the heart—fast, but steady. No broken bones. No internal bleeding. Just a very cold, very hungry little life.
"Good news, sir," you say, looking up at him. "He’s not dying. He’s just a dramatic, malnourished neonate."
"Leon," he corrects instantly, his voice slightly breathless. "Just... Leon."
You blink, then tap your ID badge with a tired, playful smirk. "Okay, Leon. We can do first names. It saves time in an emergency." You go back to drying the kitten with a soft towel. "He’s probably five weeks old. He’s thin, he’s got a bit of a chill, but he’s remarkably intact for someone who took on a car and won."
Leon sags against the counter, his hands shaking as he runs them through his wet hair. The relief on his face is so profound it makes your chest twinge with a rare spark of empathy. Usually, people are just annoyed about the bill. He looks like he just saw a ghost be resurrected.
"So, what happens now?" he asks. "You... you have a shelter? Or a rescue?"
You stop scrubbing and give him a long, grim look. "It’s kitten season, Leon. Every rescue within a three-state radius is currently overflowing. They won't take a bottle-baby right now. If I send him to the city shelter, his chances are... well, they aren't great."
The silence that follows is heavy, thick with the sound of the rain lashing against the exam room window. You watch the conflict play out across his face—a man clearly burdened by a world of "heavy" things, staring at a three-ounce kitten. He rubs his temples, looking at the orange scrap that is currently trying to burrow into his damp shirt.
"I don't know the first thing about cats," he admits, a dry, self-deprecating humor touching his lips. "I'm more of a... tactical entry kind of guy. Not a 'nanny' guy."
"You managed to not squash him with a car," you shrug, reaching into the cabinet to pull out a starter kit. "That’s a passing grade in my book."
He sighs, a long, defeated sound that ends in a nod. "Fine. I’ll take him. What do I do?"
For the next ten minutes, you give him the 'Neonatal 101' crash course. You pack a box with formula, tiny bottles, and a snuggle-safe heating pad. You show him how to hold the kitten—belly down, never on his back—and how to test the temperature of the milk.
"And here’s the best part," you say, a mischievous glint in your tired eyes. You pick up a cotton ball and dip it in warm water. "Since he’s this small, his mom would usually lick him to make him go. Since you are now the mom, you have to stimulate him to go to the bathroom after every meal."
You hand him the cotton ball. Leon stares at it as if you’ve handed him a live grenade with the pin pulled.
"I have to... what?"
"Stimulate," you repeat, suppressing a grin. "Gently. It’s glamorous, I know. Welcome to parenthood, Leon. Try not to get any on the suit."
The moment of levity is shattered when Sarah’s head pops through the door, her expression grim. "Doc, we’ve got a hit-by-car ten minutes out. It’s a Golden Retriever, multiple fractures, looks like he’s in shock. We’re prepping the crash cart."
The shift in your energy is instantaneous. The playful vet vanishes, replaced by the clinical commander. You reach for a pen stuck in your pocket and use it to shove your messy hair up into a makeshift bun, tightening the knot with a sharp tug.
"Copy that. Get the O2 ready and start a warm saline bag," you say, already moving toward the door. You look back at Leon, who is standing there holding a box of formula and a terrified-looking orange kitten.
"Leon, he's stable. Take the kit, go pay the tech at the front desk, and get that cat into a warm bed," you say, your voice now a sharp, professional staccato as the adrenaline begins to flood your system. "I’ve got a real crisis coming through those doors. Good luck. Don't be a stranger if he stops eating."
You don't wait for a goodbye. You're already sprinting toward the treatment area, the "Propofol coma" forgotten.
──────•✦•──────
The apartment is a monument to a man who expects to leave it at a moment’s notice and never return.
It’s located in a quiet corner of D.C., all cold granite countertops, brushed steel, and a sofa so ergonomically perfect and devoid of character it might as well have come with the lease. There are no photos on the walls. No stray mail on the entry table. The air usually smells of nothing but filtered ventilation and the faint, metallic tang of the gun oil he uses to clean his gun.
Now, it smells like kitten formula and desperation.
Leon sits on the edge of his bed, the glow of his phone illuminating the deep grooves of exhaustion etched into his face. He sets an alarm for 02:00. Then 04:00. Then 06:00.
"Great," he mutters, his thumb hovering over the save button. "I've gone from tactical extractions to a scheduled piss-watch for a creature that weighs less than a standard-issue magazine. My career trajectory is really peaking."
He looks down at the shoebox he’s lined with one of his softest, most expensive hoodies. Inside, the orange kitten—whom he has tentatively dubbed 'Cheeto' in a moment of sleep-deprived weakness—is a vibrating ball of fluff.
The 02:00 alarm blares with the subtle grace of a flashbang. Leon is upright in half a second, his hand flying toward the nightstand before his brain registers that he’s not in a trench in Edonia. He’s in a climate-controlled bedroom, and the only 'hostile' is a hungry five-week-old feline.
He stumbles into the kitchen, his movements stiff. The process of heating the formula is an exercise in agonizing precision. He uses a meat thermometer to ensure the liquid is exactly 98.5 degrees Fahrenheit. If it’s 98.4, he’s convinced the kitten will get hypothermia; if it’s 98.8, he fears he’s essentially serving lava.
"Okay, kid. Chow time. Don't make it weird," Leon whispers as he gathers the kitten into his lap.
His hands—hands that have steadied a sniper rifle in high-wind conditions and punched through the reinforced glass of Umbrella laboratories—are shaking slightly. He holds the tiny plastic bottle like it’s a detonator with a frayed wire.
When the kitten finally latches, a frantic, rhythmic tug-tug-tug vibrating through the silicone nipple, Leon finds himself holding his breath.
"Easy there, tiger. It’s a buffet, not a race," he says, a small, lopsided smirk tugging at his mouth. "You eat like a zombie at an all-you-can-eat brain buffet."
The "glamorous" part comes next. Leon stares at the box of cotton balls you had handed him with that knowing, mischievous glint in your eyes. He can still see your face—the way your hair was a mess, the way you didn't even flinch when he walked in looking like a drowned rat.
You had looked at him like he was just a guy, not a government asset, not a survivor. Just a guy with a cat.
"Stimulate," he repeats your words, his voice a flat, dry monotone. "She said it would be fun. She lied. I’m definitely filing a complaint with the veterinary board for emotional distress."
He performs the task with a grimace of intense concentration, murmuring apologies to the kitten the entire time.
By day three, the "sterile" nature of the apartment has surrendered. There are half-washed bottles in the sink. A trail of discarded paper towels leads from the sofa to the trash. A stray sock, mangled by tiny needle-teeth, sits in the middle of the hallway.
Leon should be annoyed. He should be furious that his sanctuary has been breached by an orange chaos-agent. But as he sits on the sofa at 4:30 AM, watching the sun begin to bleed over the D.C. skyline, he realizes his internal monologue has gone quiet. The anger—that low-simmering hum of PTSD that usually keeps him company in the dark—has been drowned out by a tiny, motorized purr.
The kitten crawls up his chest, stumbling over the buttons of his shirt, and tucks its head directly under Leon’s chin. The fur is soft, smelling faintly of the soap you’d used to clean him.
Leon freezes, his arms hovering awkwardly for a moment before he slowly, tentatively, rests a hand over the kitten’s back. He feels the tiny heart beating against his own.
For the first time since the world ended in a rain of missiles over Raccoon City in 1998, the crushing weight in his chest feels... lighter.
"I think the vet might be onto something, Cheeto," Leon breathes into the quiet room, his eyes heavy with a sleep that feels, for once, like it might be dreamless. "But don't tell her I said that. She already thinks I’m a pushover."
He closes his eyes, the minimalist apartment finally feeling like something it has never been before: a home.
──────•✦•──────
The fluorescent lights of the clinic are humming at a frequency that is starting to feel like a drill against your temple.
You’re leaning your lower back against the cabinetry of the pharmacy station, clutching a lukewarm cup of coffee like it’s a holy relic.
"I mean it, Sarah," you mutter, watching your tech draw up meds with terrifying efficiency. "One more pyometra. Just one more emergency spay where the uterus looks like it might burst, and I’m done. I’ll donate my scrubs to a thrift store and start a new life. Maybe I’ll go into accounting. Numbers don't bleed on your shoes or try to bite your face off.'"
"You’d be bored in a week," Sarah chirps, not even looking up. "Besides, you love the drama. Oh, speaking of drama—look who’s back."
The front bell dings. You peer around the corner. It’s Leon.
He looks like he’s been through some shit. The rugged, leading-man handsomeness is still there, but it’s buried under a layer of profound sleep deprivation. He’s got dark, bruised circles under his eyes that rival your own, and his blonde hair is a mess of spikes. But then you look at his hands.
He’s holding that plastic carrier with a level of tenderness that is honestly offensive. It’s like he’s carrying a box of nitroglycerin.
"Room two," you tell Sarah, snapping into a professional mask that is mostly held together by caffeine and sheer stubbornness.
You walk into the exam room and find him standing by the table, looking at the carrier like it’s a bomb he forgot how to disarm.
"Back for more punishment, Leon?" you ask, your voice dropping into that comfortable, blunt cadence. "You look like you’ve been living in a war zone. Which, granted, is a normal Tuesday for a kitten owner."
"He doesn't stop," Leon rasps, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that makes your nerve endings tingle. "I followed the schedule. I monitored the intake. But he just keeps screaming. Is he broken?"
"It’s called meowing, Leon. It’s how they demand your soul." You reach into the carrier and scoop out the orange scrap. He’s already gained weight; his belly is a round, healthy little pear, and his eyes are bright. "Wow. Look at you. You’ve actually kept him alive. I’m impressed. Most guys usually give up by the third bottle feeding."
"I don't like failing assignments," Leon mutters, though there’s a flicker of a lopsided smile on his face as he watches you examine the tiny creature.
You perform the check-up, checking the heart rate and the lungs, all while Leon stands way too close. He smells like woodsmoke and laundry detergent, a combination that is currently frying your brain.
You praise him for the kitten’s hydration levels, and you see his shoulders drop about two inches in relief.
As you move to pack the kitten back into the carrier, Leon starts firing off a string of hyper-specific, borderline neurotic questions.
"The water for the formula—I’ve been using a thermometer to keep it at exactly 98 degrees. Is 98.5 too high? Does it cause thermal shock? And the cotton balls—are the quilted ones too abrasive for his skin?"
You stare at him. This man is currently worried about the abrasive quality of a CVS-brand cotton ball. It’s the most endearing thing you’ve ever seen, and your filter—already weakened by a twelve-hour shift—completely disintegrates.
He’s hot, your brain shrugs. He’s a good dad. And you haven't been on a date in ages. Just do it.
"Leon," you interrupt, putting a hand on his arm to stop the frantic flow of questions. The muscle beneath his sleeve is hard as a rock, and the heat of him makes your palms itch. "Stop. You’re doing great. The cat is thriving. You, however, look like you're about to have a stroke."
He pauses, looking a little sheepish. "I just... I don't want to mess it up."
"You won't." You reach over to the counter, grab a neon-pink sticky note and a pen, and scribble your personal cell number on it. You press the note into his large, calloused palm, your fingers lingering just a second longer than necessary.
"Look," you say, flashing him a playful, slightly crooked smirk. "If you have any more midnight panics about formula ratios or quilted vs. non-quilted cotton, just text me. Strictly for cat questions, of course. My expertise is limited to things with four legs, but I can talk you off a ledge."
Leon stares at the pink paper in his hand like it’s a piece of top-secret intel. He looks up at you, his blue eyes searching yours, and for a second, the sarcastic vet and the stoic man are just two people standing in a cramped room with a tiny cat.
"Strictly for cat questions," he repeats, his voice low and a little amused.
"Obviously," you say, walking him toward the door. "I'm a professional, Leon. Now get out of here and go take a nap before you face-plant in the lobby."
As he walks away, you lean against the doorframe, watching the swing of his shoulders.
"What was that?" Sarah asks, appearing out of nowhere with a smirk.
"Professional consultation," you mutter, taking a final, cold sip of your coffee.
Oh god, what did I just do? If he texts me a picture of his cat's poop at 2:00 AM, I'm never living this down.
──────•✦•──────
Leon is a man who understands protocol. He understands mission parameters, chain of command, and the strict rules of engagement. So, when you handed him that sticky note with your number on it, his brain filed it under a very specific, very restricted category: Emergency Technical Support.
He spends the better part of forty-eight hours staring at the digits, convinced that a woman like you—someone who handles life-and-death crises with a sarcastic quip and a steady hand—has better things to do than talk to a government-sanctioned blunt instrument like him.
You’re light, and full of life, and you probably have a social circle that doesn't involve handler-reports and ballistic testing. In Leon’s mind, you are firmly out of his league, occupying a world that isn't stained by the things he’s seen.
But then, the kitten—Cheeto—starts doing things. Weird things.
His first text is sent at 11:30 PM. He attaches a grainy photo of the kitten standing in the middle of the hallway, arched like a Halloween decoration, scuttling sideways with a chaotic energy that Leon can only describe as "biological anomaly."
Leon: He’s moving at a forty-five-degree angle and his tail looks like a pipe cleaner. Is this a neurological tremor? Do I need to bring him in for an MRI?
Your reply comes three minutes later, and Leon feels a pathetic jolt of electricity at the buzz in his pocket.
You: Leon, he’s just playing. It’s called crab-walking. He’s trying to look big and scary. Is it working?
Leon looks at the kitten, who has just tripped over its own paws and face-planted into the carpet.
Leon: I’m terrified.
By Thursday, the anxiety reaches a fever pitch. Leon is sitting on his bed, watching the kitten knead a fleece blanket with a rhythmic, intense focus. He doesn't text this time. He calls. He needs a professional voice to talk him off the ledge.
"He's vibrating," Leon says the moment you pick up, his voice a deadpan, military monotone that betrays the fact that his eyes are currently dinner-plate wide. "The whole cat. He’s vibrating and poking the blanket with his claws. It’s some kind of repetitive motor reflex. Is he having a seizure? Should I be checking his airway?"
He hears you let out a long, melodic breath on the other end—a laugh you’re trying to stifle.
"Leon," you say, and the way you say his name makes him grip the phone a little tighter. "He's making biscuits. He's purring. It means he's happy. It means he thinks the blanket is his mom."
Leon looks down at the orange fluff currently 'baking' against his thigh. "Making biscuits. Right. So it’s a culinary instinct, not a medical emergency. I’ll cancel the medevac."
"Please do," you chuckle. "Go to sleep, Leon."
But sleep doesn't come easily. The climax of his "cat-dad" neurosis hits at 1:00 AM on Saturday. Cheeto had been particularly enthusiastic about his bottle, guzzling the formula until his stomach was a hard, round little marble. Afterward, the kitten had simply... collapsed.
He’s sprawled out on his back, limbs limp, unresponsive to Leon’s frantic prodding.
Leon’s heart is in his throat. He hits the FaceTime button before he can talk himself out of it.
The screen flickers to life, and suddenly, you are there. You’re in your pajamas—something soft and mismatched—and your hair is a magnificent, messy bird’s nest that tells him he definitely just woke you up. You look soft, blurry around the edges, and devastatingly beautiful in the low light of your bedroom.
"Leon?" you mumble, squinting at the screen. "Is everything okay?"
"He’s unresponsive," Leon says, his voice dropping into a low, intimate rasp of genuine distress. He turns the camera toward the kitten. "He’s just... lying there. I tried poking his paw and he didn't even hiss. I think I broke him."
You lean in closer to the camera, your eyes scanning the image. Then, you smile. It’s a gentle, warm expression that makes Leon’s apartment feel ten degrees warmer.
"Just a milk coma, Leon," you explain softly. "Look at that belly. He’s just full. He’s passed out in a food haze. He’ll be up and terrorizing your curtains in two hours."
Leon sags back against his headboard, the adrenaline draining out of him and leaving a hollow, aching exhaustion in its place. He covers his face with one hand, letting out a jagged sigh.
"I'm a disaster at this," he admits, his voice sounding raw even to his own ears. "I've faced things that—things that shouldn't exist—and I'm losing my mind over a cat that's just... full."
"It's because you care," you say. There’s no mockery in your tone, no punchline. Just a simple statement of fact that cuts right through his armor. "Most people would have just ignored him on that road, Leon. You didn't. You’re a good man. Even if you are a neurotic cat-dad."
Leon lets the words sink in. A good man. He hasn't felt like one in a long time. Usually, he’s just a weapon that the government points at problems.
"A 'cat-dad,'" Leon repeats, a dry, self-deprecating smirk appearing as he looks back at the screen. "Is there a badge for that? Or do I just get a lifetime supply of lint rollers and a permanent coating of orange fur on all my tactical gear?"
You laugh—a real, bright sound that echoes through his quiet bedroom. Leon finds himself staring at the screen, watching the way your eyes crinkle at the corners, the way a stray lock of hair falls over your forehead.
He realizes, with a sudden, jarring clarity, that he’s stopped looking at the kitten. He’s just looking at you.
The silence stretches, becoming something heavy and electric. Leon realizes he’s spent the last forty-eight hours coming up with increasingly flimsy, ridiculous reasons to see your name light up his phone.
He isn't worried about the cat anymore. He’s worried about how much he doesn't want to hang up.
"You look tired," he says softly, his thumb tracing the edge of the phone. "I should let you get back to sleep. Sorry for the... milk coma false alarm."
"It’s okay, Leon," you say, your voice dropping to a sleepy, tender murmur. "Call me anytime. Even if it’s just for biscuits."
As the screen goes black, Leon stares at his own reflection in the glass.
He’s a mess. He’s a DSO agent who just got called a "good man" by a woman who makes him feel like he’s eighteen again, before the world turned into a horror movie.
He looks at the sleeping kitten and then at the phone.
"You've failed miserably, Kennedy," he whispers to the empty room. "You’re definitely flirting now."
──────•✦•──────
The daily text updates from Leon have become the highlight of your grueling, twelve-hour rotations—a digital breadcrumb trail of "cat-dad" neurosis that you’ve come to rely on more than caffeine. What started as a clinical safety net has morphed into a steady stream of orange-furred chaos. You find yourself smiling at your phone in the middle of the surgery prep, looking at a blurry photo of a kitten stuck in a tissue box.
But lately, the digital interaction isn't enough for him.
"He’s back," Sarah, your tech, sings out from the pharmacy area. She leans against the doorframe with a devious, toothy grin. "The hot brooding guy with the orange accessory is in the lobby. Third time this week. What’s the 'emergency' today? A crooked whisker? A suspicious meow?"
"Shut up, Sarah," you mutter, though you can feel the heat crawling up your neck. You instinctively reach up to smooth a stray hair back into your ponytail.
"Oh, please. You’re wearing the 'fancy' scrubs and you actually used mascara today. I see you," she teases, checking the clipboard. "He’s here for... a bag of gastrointestinal kibble. The kind we sell for a 20% markup that he could literally Prime-deliver to his door in four hours."
You roll your eyes, grabbing a clean lab coat. "Maybe he just likes supporting small businesses."
"Maybe he likes supporting your specific business," she retorts, following you toward the lobby. "The girls in the back have a pool going. Twenty bucks says he asks for your number by Friday. Fifty says he’s already got it and he’s just a massive coward."
"I don't think 'coward' is in his vocabulary," you whisper, though your heart is doing a rhythmic thud against your ribs that feels suspiciously like a drumroll.
You push through the double doors and there he is. Leon stands near the display of prescription diets, looking entirely too large and too handsome for a sterile veterinary lobby. He’s wearing a charcoal sweater that hugs his shoulders in a way that should be illegal, his blonde hair perfectly tousled despite the humidity outside.
"Leon," you say, your voice landing in that sweet spot between professional and playful. "Don't tell me. He’s developed a sudden, life-threatening allergy to his own tail?"
Leon turns, and the way his blue eyes light up when they land on you makes your stomach do a slow, dizzying somersault. He clears his throat, shifting his weight. He looks incredibly cool until he opens his mouth, and then that slight, charming awkwardness leaks out.
"He sneezed," Leon says, his voice a serious, low rumble. "Three times in a row. It was... rhythmic. I thought it might be the early stages of a respiratory collapse. Or a dust mite allergy."
You walk over, taking the carrier from him. Your fingers brush against his—just for a second—and you feel the static electricity zip up your arm. You peek inside at the kitten, who is currently busy trying to eat a loose thread on his bedding.
"He looks like he’s on death’s door, truly," you say, your voice dripping with dry sarcasm. "The 'rhythmic sneezing' was likely just him being a cat, Leon. But since you’re here, I suppose I can perform a very expensive, very rigorous five-second nose check."
"I also needed food," he adds quickly, gesturing to the shelf. "The bag I have is... getting low. Maybe."
"You have half a bag left at home, don't you?" you ask, tilting your head, a smirk playing on your lips.
Leon stays silent for a beat too long, his gaze dropping to your name tag before meeting your eyes again. "I like the atmosphere here," he says, a bit of that one-liner bravado returning. "Very... clinical. Good lighting."
"Right. Everyone comes to the vet for the 'ambiance' of barking dogs and the smell of anal glands," you retort. You lead him to the counter, ringing up the overpriced kibble. You’re acutely aware of the techs watching from the window, probably exchanging silent high-fives.
You feel a pang of doubt as you hand him the receipt. A guy like this—rugged, mysterious, probably used to high-octane thrill-seekers—couldn't possibly be interested in you.
You’re a woman who spends her days getting peed on by Chihuahuas and her nights smelling like antiseptic and wet fur. You’re exhausted, your under-eye circles are permanent residents, and your social life is a graveyard.
But then Leon reaches out, his hand hovering over yours for just a fraction of a second longer than necessary as he takes the bag.
"Thanks," he says softly. The way he says it isn't like a client. It’s a low, intimate vibration that makes the bustling clinic fade into the background. "I’ll... let you know if the sneezing returns. Or if he looks at me funny."
"I'm sure you will," you say, your bluntness softened by a gentle, tired smile. "Go home, Leon. Your cat misses you."
As he walks out, his stride confident and his shoulders broad, you lean against the counter and let out a breath you didn't know you were holding.
"Twenty bucks!" Sarah yells from the back. "He’s totally into you, Doc! He’s just waiting for the cat to give him the green light!"
You just shake your head, looking down at the counter where he stood. You find yourself hoping the kitten sneezes again tomorrow. Just once. Just to be safe.
──────•✦•──────
The air in the treatment area is thick with the scent of antiseptic, metallic blood, and the heavy, lingering stillness of the recently departed. You’re standing over the stainless steel prep table, your hands steady despite the tremor of exhaustion in your knees as you pull the heavy plastic of a cadaver bag over a sweet, senior Greyhound who just couldn't fight any longer.
"If the shift keeps up like this, we're going to run out of freezer space," your tech, Marcus, sighs, his voice flat with the kind of gallows humor that keeps hospitals running at 2:00 AM.
"Don’t," you whisper, zipping the bag with a sharp, final schlick. "I hate this part the most. Every time. Packing up someone’s best friend in a glorified trash bag. It’s a hell of a way to say goodbye."
You lean your forehead against the wall for just a second, letting the grief wash over you and then drain away. You have to stay empty. If you let the "sad" stay in your lungs, you’ll drown.
Then, the front bell doesn't just chime—it screams. Someone is leaning on it.
You’re moving before you even think, your clogs squeaking on the linoleum. You burst into the lobby and stop dead.
It’s Leon. But the charming, awkward "cat-dad" who buys too much kibble is gone. In his place is a man who looks like he’s standing in the middle of a war zone. His face is pale, his eyes are blown wide with a jagged, frantic terror, and his chest is heaving.
He isn't holding a carrier. He’s holding the orange kitten against his chest, his large hands trembling so violently you can see the tremors from the doorway.
"Please," Leon chokes out. The sound is raw, a jagged piece of glass in his throat. He thrusts the limp, tiny body toward you. "I can't—don't let him die. Please. Not him too."
The kitten is a wet rag. His breathing is a shallow, agonizing rasp—the "guppy breathing" that makes every vet’s blood run cold.
You swear under your breath and snap into action the internal "vet-mode" slamming into place. You snatch the kitten and sprint back through the swinging doors. "Marcus, get the O2 cage prepped! I need a 24-gauge IV and a dose of dex. Now, move!"
For the next twenty minutes, you are a machine. You slide the needle into a vein thinner than a piece of thread. You listen to the crackle in the tiny lungs—pneumonia. Aspiration, likely. The kitten is tucked into the oxygen-rich plexiglass box, a tiny, fragile heartbeat under a mountain of IV lines and telemetry wires.
You finally step back, wiping a smear of blood off your thumb. You look toward the door. Leon is standing in the entryway of the treatment area, looking utterly lost. He’s hovering in the "no-man's land" between the lobby and the sterile zone, his hands still curled as if he’s holding a ghost.
"He’s in the cage, Leon. Steroids, antibiotics, and oxygen," you say, your voice softening as the adrenaline begins to ebb. "It’s touch-and-go. The next six hours are the decider. You should go home. Get some sleep. I’ll call you the second anything changes."
Leon doesn't move. He just looks at the floor and then slides down the wall, his long legs stretching out across the cold linoleum directly in front of the kennel bank.
"I'm staying," he says. It’s not a request. It’s a directive.
"Leon, I have four other critical patients in here trying to find the light at the end of the tunnel. It’s not exactly a five-star hotel," you say, trying to inject a bit of your usual dry bite into the air to break the tension.
"I don't care," he mutters, leaning his head back against the cages.
You leave him there because you have to. You spend the next three hours wrestling with a diabetic ketoacidosis cat and a bloated Doberman. Every time you pass the kennel ward, you see him sitting on the floor like a dejected kid, watching the rhythmic puffing of an orange kitten in a plastic box.
Around 5:00 AM, you find a lull. You walk over and nudge his boot with your clog.
"Leon. Seriously. The floor is disgusting, and you look like you’re about to vibrate out of your skin. Go home."
He looks up at you, and the sheer weight of the shadows under his eyes hits you. "Sometimes," he says, his voice a low, hollow echo, "I feel like I can't save anyone. Not my teammates. Not the people I’m sent to protect. And now... not even a cat."
You feel the breath hitch in your throat. You slide down the wall next to him, your shoulder brushing his. The warmth of him is startling against the sterile chill of the room.
"You and me both, Leon," you sigh, staring at the rows of monitors. "The 'God complex' they give us in vet school is a lie. Most days, we’re just finger-plugging a leaking dam."
Leon looks at you, his gaze intense. "Sorry. I shouldn't... this has been a hell of a shift for you, hasn't it?"
"They all are," you say, leaning your head back. "Some just have more body bags than others."
──────•✦•──────
Your shift officially ends at 7:00 AM. Your relief vet walks in, and you should leave. You should go home, take a scalding shower, and sleep for a week. But you don't. You go to the break room, grab two lukewarm coffees, and walk back to the floor.
You sit down next to Leon again.
"You're still here," he notes, a ghost of a smile touching his lips.
"I’m a glutton for punishment," you mutter, handing him the cup.
For the next hour, the barriers crumble.
You find yourself telling him about the "soul-crushing" parts—the people who bring in their pets to be euthanized because they’re moving, the neglect cases that make you want to break things. But then you tell him about the good parts—the dog that woke up after three days of a coma, the kitten that beat the odds.
Leon listens with a terrifyingly focused intensity. He doesn't interrupt. He just watches you speak, his blue eyes mesmerized by the way you navigate the darkness of your profession without letting it turn you cold.
"You’re a lot stronger than you look," he says softly.
"I'm not strong, Leon. I'm just stubborn," you retort, nudging him with your shoulder. "But thanks. You’re not a bad listener."
──────•✦•──────
Leon is no stranger to stakeouts.
He’s spent weeks in cramped vans eating lukewarm rations, and he’s spent months in damp trenches waiting for a target to blink. But this? Sitting on a stool that’s three inches too short for his frame, staring into a plexiglass box at a creature that weighs less than his handgun? This is the most grueling mission of his career.
Over the next week, the clinic becomes Leon’s base of operations. He shows up at the start of your night shift and doesn't leave until the sun is high enough to make his eyes ache. He’s become a fixture in the kennel ward—the tall, brooding man in the leather jacket who looks like he could snap a neck but spends four hours straight whispering to a kitten with a congested nose.
You become the highlight of his vigil.
Whenever the clinic settles into that eerie, midnight lull, you find him. You don't just check the charts; you check on him. You start bringing him half of your sandwich—usually something with way too much sprout-to-protein ratio for his liking, but he eats it like it’s a five-star meal because you made it. You sit on the floor next to his stool, your shoulder occasionally brushing his knee, and the contact sends a low-voltage jolt through his system that he’s doing a poor job of ignoring.
"You look like you're trying to intimidate the pneumonia into leaving," you murmur one Tuesday at 3:00 AM, sliding a container of pasta toward him. "I hate to tell you, but bacteria doesn't care about your 'scary agent' eyes."
Leon takes the plastic fork, his thumb grazing yours in the exchange. He lingers for a second too long, his gaze dropping to your lips before he catches himself and looks back at the kitten.
"I’m just providing overwatch," Leon grunts, though his tone is fond.
The conversation drifts, as it always does, into the quiet, heavy things. You talk about the "little miracles"—the paralyzed dog that wagged its tail for the first time today, the elderly cat that finally started eating. You speak with a weary, glowing passion that Leon finds intoxicating.
He realizes he’s spent years surrounded by people who are hollowed out by their work, but you? You’re tired, sure, but your heart is still terrifyingly intact.
The weight of his own secrets starts to feel like a physical burden. He’s used to being a ghost, a name on a redacted file. But sitting here in the dim light of the clinic, with you looking at him like he’s someone worth knowing, the lie feels like a wall he’s tired of leaning against.
"I don't just do 'security,'" he says suddenly. The air in the room shifts. He stares at the oxygen monitor, his voice dropping into that professional, gravelly register. "I work for the DSO Division of Security Operations. Directly under the President."
He waits for the shift in your expression. He’s seen it before—the way people’s eyes go cold when they realize he’s a professional dealer of death, or the way they start prying for gruesome details like he’s a character in a movie. He explains the bio-terrorism, the BOWs, the constant cycle of violence that has defined his life since the night he drove into Raccoon City as a rookie cop.
He braces for the disgust. For you to realize that his hands, the ones that have been helping you bottle-feed a kitten, are stained with things you couldn't imagine.
Instead, you just take a slow bite of your sandwich, chewing thoughtfully. You look at him with a gentle, tired smile that makes his breath hitch.
"So, you fight bio-weapons," you muse, leaning your head back against the cold kennel. "I guess that means we have the same primary skillset."
Leon blinks, his brow furrowed in genuine confusion. "Which is?"
"We both try really hard not to get bitten on the clock."
Leon stares at you. He waits for the punchline, for the horror, but all he sees is your playful, sparking gaze. A laugh bubbles up in his chest—not the dry, sarcastic bark he uses to deflect trauma, but a genuine, soft sound that echoes off the metal cages. It’s a sound he hasn't heard from himself in years.
"That’s... one way to put it," he says, the tension bleeding out of his shoulders. The heavy weight he carries every day feels, for a moment, like it’s been halved.
"I'm serious," you say, laughing softly as you nudge his arm. "I've seen the teeth on a grumpy Malamute, Leon. I think I could handle a zombie."
"Don't test that theory," he says, but he’s smiling now—a real, lopsided Kennedy smirk.
He looks at you, and the tension that’s been simmering for weeks suddenly boils over. The ward is quiet, the only sound the hum of the oxygen machine and the soft rain against the window. You’re close—close enough that he can see the gold flecks in your eyes and the way your scrub top dips at your collarbone.
Leon reaches out, his hand hovering near your face before he loses his nerve and settles for tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers linger on the skin there, warm and soft, and he sees your breath hitch.
"You're a strange woman," he whispers, his voice thick with a sudden, heavy longing.
"And you're a very dramatic cat-dad, Leon," you whisper back, not pulling away.
For a second, the mission, the BOWs, and the world outside don't exist. There’s just the smell of antiseptic, the hum of a kitten’s recovery, and the terrifying realization that he’s falling for you faster than he ever fell into a trap.
──────•✦•──────
The dawn light is a sickly, pale yellow as it bleeds through the clinic’s high windows, illuminating the dust motes dancing over the surgical bays. You feel like a ghost inhabiting a body made of lead and caffeine. Your neck cricks as you stand up from the floor, your joints popping in a rhythmic protest that sounds like a bowl of Rice Krispies.
Leon is still there. He’s slumped on that too-small stool, his head bowed, his hands clasped between his knees. He looks like a man waiting for a verdict from a hanging judge.
"Alright," you murmur, your voice sounding like it was dragged over gravel. "Let’s see if the little guy is ready to join the land of the living."
You walk over to the incubator. The hum of the oxygen concentrator has been the soundtrack to your week, a mechanical heartbeat that you’ve grown to loathe. You unlatch the plexiglass door with a soft click.
Inside, the orange scrap of fur is no longer a limp rag. He’s sitting up, his head wobbly, his copper eyes half-open.
"Hey, tough guy," you whisper. You scoop a tiny dollop of calorie-dense recovery mousse onto your finger and hold it to his nose.
For a heartbeat, nothing. Then, a tiny, sandpaper tongue darts out. Then another. He starts to lap at your skin with a desperate, frantic hunger. A weak, high-pitched mew vibrates through his chest—a sound of life, demanding and stubborn.
"He’s eating," you breathe, and the sheer, ridiculous relief of it makes your vision blur for a second. "He’s actually eating. The little bastard made it."
You turn to Leon, a triumphant, sleep-deprived grin plastered on your face. "He’s actually eating. He’s—"
The words die in your throat.
Leon has stood up, his massive frame casting a long shadow across the kennel ward. He’s staring at the kitten, but his face isn't the stoic mask of a government agent. His jaw is trembling, just a fraction, and his eyes—those piercing, icy blue eyes—are brimming with tears that he’s desperately trying not to let fall.
He looks shattered. Not because of the danger, but because of the hope.
Oh, Leon, you think, your heart doing a slow, painful squeeze. You really were ready to lose everything again, weren't you?
You don't think. Thinking is for people who aren't running on thirty minutes of sleep and pure empathy. You are about to do something wildly unprofessional. You don't care.
You step across the linoleum, closing the distance between you and the man who fights monsters, and you wrap your arms around his waist.
Leon goes rigid instantly.
It’s like hugging a statue carved from granite. He stays perfectly still, his breath hitching, his arms hovering uselessly at his sides. He feels like a man who expects a blow to follow the touch—someone whose only experience with physical contact in the last decade has been a struggle for survival or a professional handshake. It’s jarring, feeling the tension radiating off him, a high-voltage wire ready to snap.
"It’s okay," you mumble against his chest, squeezed tight. "He’s okay. You can breathe now."
Slowly, agonizingly so, the statue crumbles.
You feel a shudder rip through him, a deep shift of his shoulders. Then, his weight collapses into you. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his stubble scratching against your skin, and his arms finally come around you.
They are heavy. They are massive. He wraps them around you with a crushing, desperate strength, as if you’re the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth. You can feel his heart thudding against your collarbone—slow, heavy, and raw.
He doesn't say anything, but the way he clings to you tells you everything. He isn't just relieved about the cat. He’s drowning in a decade of loneliness, in the weight of the bodies he couldn't save. He’s so touch-starved it feels like he’s trying to absorb the warmth of your scrub top through his skin.
It’s not just "he’s hot and I’m tired." It’s the feeling of two people who spend their lives in the trenches finally finding a place to put their packs down.
Your hands move up his back, rubbing small, soothing circles into the expensive fabric of his shirt. You feel the dip of his spine, the hard muscle of his shoulders, and the way he lets out a long, shaky exhale into your hair.
"You're okay," you whisper again, your voice softening, losing its sharp, sarcastic edge. "He’s got you."
Leon pulls back just an inch, his hands sliding down to rest on your waist. He doesn't let go. He looks down at you, his lashes wet, his face mere inches from yours. The air between you is thick, charged with the scent of his woodsy cologne and the clinical tang of the ward. His gaze drops to your mouth, and for a second, the world stops spinning.
"I don't... I don't know how to do this," he rasps, his voice a broken low-frequency hum.
"Do what? Hug? You're doing a C-plus job, Kennedy," you tease, though your voice trembles. "A little less 'death-grip' and a little more 'gentle human interaction' next time."
He lets out a watery, huffed laugh, his forehead dropping to rest against yours. "I think I've forgotten what 'gentle' feels like."
"Well," you say, closing your eyes and leaning into him, savoring the solid, terrifying warmth of him. "Stick with me. I’ve got plenty of practice. Usually with Golden Retrievers, but I think I can make an exception."
He squeezes your waist, a silent, grateful pressure. In the quiet of the dawn, with a recovering kitten purring in the background, you realize you’re in a lot of trouble. Because Leon Kennedy isn't just a client anymore—he’s someone you’d fight a world-ending virus just to keep holding onto.
──────•✦•──────
Leon’s smartphone vibrates against the granite countertop with the persistence of a terminal alarm. He doesn't need to look at the ID to know it’s Hunnigan.
The universe has a twisted sense of humor; the moment his life gains a shred of stability—symbolized by an orange kitten currently trying to disembowel a feathered toy—the DSO decides it’s time for him to jump out of a plane.
"Yeah, Ingrid," Leon sighs into the receiver, his eyes tracking the kitten's chaotic movements. "Tell me it's a seminar on file organization. Tell me I’m being sent to Hawaii to count palm trees."
"It's a hot-zone extraction in the Balkan periphery, Leon. Transport leaves in four hours," Hunnigan’s voice is crisp, devoid of the sympathy he’s looking for.
"Four hours. Right. I’ll just tell the cat to order pizza and lock the deadbolt behind me," he mutters, his mind racing.
Panic, cold and sharp, stabs at him. He can’t leave Cheeto. Not after the pneumonia, not after the nights spent on a linoleum floor praying for a meow. The idea of a stranger from a boarding app—some teenager who might forget the water bowl or leave a window cracked—makes his skin crawl. He finds himself dialing your number before he’s even processed the thought.
When you answer, Leon’s cool persona is nowhere to be found. He’s just a man with a cat and a very specialized, very annoying career.
"I have a problem," he says, skipping the pleasantries. "Work called. I'm being... deployed. A week, maybe more. Do you know a medical boarder who doesn't mind a kitten with a God complex and a lingering cough?"
He hears you pause on the other end. "Leon, it’s short notice. Most medical boarding is booked out through the month. Is it somewhere... dangerous?"
"It’s never a spa day," he says dryly. "Look, if I have to, I’ll—"
"I’ll do it."
Leon freezes. "What?"
"I can stay at your place. I'm overqualified and I can keep an eye on his lungs. Besides," you add, your voice taking on that playful, blunt edge he’s grown addicted to, "your apartment probably needs a woman’s touch. Or at least someone to throw away the three-week-old takeout."
"You'd... stay here?" Leon asks, his throat suddenly tight.
──────•✦•──────
An hour later, you’re standing in his foyer. Leon is dressed in his tactical gear—dark, reinforced fabrics and heavy boots—looking every bit the agent he tried to describe to you. He holds out his keychain. The metal is warm from his palm. As he drops the keys into your hand, his fingers linger against your skin.
It feels like a surrender. He’s giving you the keys to his sanctuary, the only place on earth where he doesn't have to look over his shoulder.
"The alarm code is 1998," he says, a flicker of dark, self-deprecating humor in his eyes. "Try not to set it off. The response team is... unfriendly. And if he stops eating, call me. I don't care if I'm in a tunnel. Make them patch you through."
"1998? Creative," you remark, looking at the keys. "Go save the world, Leon. I’ll make sure the kitten doesn't burn the place down."
He lingers at the door, the weight of the mission pulling at him, but the sight of you standing in his living room—framed by his sterile, gray walls—makes him feel like he’s actually leaving something behind for once.
"Don't eat all my cereal," he says, a lopsided smirk appearing. "It's the only thing I have left."
──────•✦•──────
Leon’s apartment is exactly what you expected: a high-end, minimalist cave that screams 'I don't plan on being here for long.'
The furniture is expensive but looks like it’s never been sat on. The fridge contains three bottles of high-end bourbon, a jar of pickles, and enough Gatorade to hydrate an army. It’s a gorgeous space, but it’s inhabited by a ghost who clearly spends his life waiting for the next disaster.
"Alright, Cheeto," you sigh, dropping your bag on the granite island. "Let’s see if we can make this place look like a human actually lives here."
Over the next week, you start a quiet insurrection against Leon’s minimalism. You buy a soft throw blanket to cover the "ergonomic" sofa. You bring over a small succulent that Leon will almost certainly forget to water. You organize the chaos of his mail and make sure the kitten’s toys aren't just limited to "stray socks."
It becomes a semi-regular occurrence. Every time Leon gets the call, you get the keys. You’ve mastered the 1998 alarm code and you know exactly which floorboard creaks near the bathroom. You send him daily updates—photos of the kitten sleeping on his discarded hoodies, or videos of Cheeto "hunting" his toys.
When he’s home, you linger. You’ll stay for an hour after he returns, leaning against his kitchen counter while he tells you—in vague, redacted terms—about where he’s been. You find yourself liking the routine. The way he looks at you when he walks through the door, his eyes scanning you first before they even find the cat.
"You moved the blender," he notes one evening, leaning against the doorframe, looking exhausted but softer than you’ve ever seen him.
"I put it where a normal person would use it, Leon," you retort, not looking up from your phone. "You had it stored like it was a classified weapon."
"It's a high-RPM motor," he deadpans. "It’s practically a turbine."
You laugh, and you see his shoulders drop an inch.
The messages between you two have evolved from 'Is he breathing okay?' to 'Saw this and thought of you' and late-night Facetimes where you talk about nothing and everything. You’re becoming a permanent fixture in a life that was never meant to have any.
──────•✦•──────
The wind in the mountains is a serrated blade, cutting through his tactical layers and biting into his skin. Leon is crouched in a blind, his rifle steady, the world around him a monochrome blur of snow and gray rock. His breath mists in the air, his fingers numb despite the heated gloves.
It’s the kind of environment where his mind usually goes to dark places—to the faces of the people he’s lost, to the smell of burning plastic in Raccoon City, to the weight of the kills he’s had to rack up to keep the world spinning.
But today, his mind wanders somewhere else.
He thinks about you. He thinks about you sitting on his couch, probably wrapped in that fuzzy blanket you "donated" to his living room. He thinks about the way his apartment smells like your shampoo instead of gun oil when you’re there. You are currently three thousand miles away, probably complaining about a difficult client or a dog that wouldn't stop barking, and the thought is his only anchor to reality.
He pulls his phone from a secure pocket, shielding the screen from the wind. He has one bar of satellite signal. A photo from you has managed to crawl through.
It’s a picture of you on his bed—the kitten curled up on your stomach, both of you looking half-asleep. It’s a domestic, quiet image that has no place in his world of bioluminescent horrors and political assassinations.
"Hunnigan’s going to kill me if she sees I’m using secure bandwidth for cat photos," Leon mutters to himself, a tiny, genuine smile cracking his frozen face.
He wouldn't admit it to you—not yet, maybe not ever—but he’s stopped dreading the "end" of the mission. He used to hate coming back to the silence of his flat. Now, he finds himself checking his watch, calculating the hours until he can walk through his door and hear your voice.
He doesn't just have a cat to come home to anymore. He has a presence. He has a reason to stay sharp, to stay fast, to stay alive.
"Target in sight," his comms crackle.
Leon shifts his grip, his eyes focusing. He feels steady. The cold doesn't matter. He has a cat-sitter to get back to.
"Copy that," Leon whispers, his thumb flicking the safety off. "Let’s wrap this up. I’ve got a date with some bad takeout."
──────•✦•──────
The shift didn’t just break you; it ground you down into a fine, bitter powder and scattered you across the linoleum.
It started with a car crash that sent two mangled retrievers into your bay and ended with a client screaming at you that you were a "heartless gold-digger" because you couldn't perform a miracle on a sixteen-year-old cat for the price of a drive-thru burger.
You’d spent four hours in emergency surgery, your hands slick with blood and your back screaming in protest, only for the monitor to flatline anyway. You’d had to tell a ten-year-old boy that his best friend wasn’t coming home, and then you’d been reprimanded by management for the "negative impact on wait times" caused by you taking five minutes to cry in the supply closet.
By the time you let yourself into Leon’s apartment, you’re less of a human and more of a walking bruise. You don't even turn on the lights. You just drop your bag, kick off your clogs, and collapse onto the sofa—the one with the soft throw blanket you bought—and bury your face in your hands.
The kitten, sensing the shift in the atmosphere, trots over and lets out a concerned chirrup. He kneads your thigh, his tiny claws snagging on your scrubs, before curling up against your chest.
"I hate it, Cheeto," you sob into his orange fur, the tears finally bursting the dam. "I hate the people, I hate the blood, and I really, really hate the wait times."
The front door clicks. The 1998 alarm code beeps—one, nine, nine, eight—and then the heavy thud of boots hits the floor. You don't even look up. You’re too deep in the salt and the snot to care that the owner of the house is back early.
Leon freezes in the entryway. Even in the dim light of the city skyline peeking through the window, he looks like he’s been through a meat grinder. His shirt is torn at the shoulder, there’s a nasty, dark bruise blossoming across his cheekbone, and he’s limping slightly. He looks like a man who just survived a war, only to find a different kind of casualty in his living room.
"Hey," he says, his voice a low, startled rumble. "What—is the cat okay? Did something happen?"
"The cat is fine," you choke out, wiping your nose with your sleeve and failing miserably at looking composed. "Everything is fine. I’m just... Go away, Leon. You look like you need a medic and a gallon of ibuprofen."
He doesn't go away. He drops his duffel bag with a heavy thud and walks over, his movements stiff and cautious. He looks wildly out of his depth, his hands hovering at his sides as if he’s trying to remember the manual for 'Human Comforting 101.'
"You’re crying," he notes, his voice dropping into that quiet, gravelly register.
"Astute observation. They really do pay you for the big brain, don't they?" You let out a jagged, watery laugh. "I just had a shitty day, Leon. A patient died after four hours of me playing God, and then some guy called me a bitch because he had to wait forty minutes for his dog's ear cleaning while I was doing CPR. I’m just... done."
Leon stands there for a beat, the blue of his eyes scanning your face with a terrifying intensity. He’s seen trauma, he’s seen death on a global scale, but seeing you falling apart on his couch seems to rattle him more than a BOW ever could.
"Move over," he says.
"Leon, you’re bleeding on my 'donated' blanket—"
"Move over," he repeats, firmer this time.
You slide over, and Leon sinks onto the sofa next to you. He smells like gunpowder, cold rain, and woodsmoke. He doesn't say anything at first; he just reaches out, his large, scarred hand hesitating before he pulls you tentatively toward him. You collapse against his side, your head landing on his shoulder.
"I've got you," he murmurs.
He wraps an arm around you, pulling you flush against his chest, and starts to stroke your hair. His touch is awkward—clumsy, even—as if he’s afraid he’ll break you, but it’s the most grounding thing you’ve ever felt. You grab the front of his torn shirt and just sob, letting all the bitterness and the exhaustion pour out of you and into his expensive, ruined gear.
"It’s just... so much sometimes," you whisper, your voice cracking. "I try so hard, and it’s never enough. The world just keeps biting."
"I know," Leon says, his voice vibrating against your temple. "Believe me, I know. But you did your job. You showed up. That’s more than most people can say."
He keeps stroking your hair, his calloused fingers snagging slightly on the tangles, but he doesn't stop. He doesn't try to "fix" it with a one-liner or a tactical solution. He just holds you. You realize, as your breathing finally starts to level out, that this is the first time in your life someone has held the weight for you instead of you holding it for everyone else.
"You look like hell, Leon," you mumble against his chest, feeling a flicker of your usual bluntness returning through the haze of grief.
"You should see the other guy," he retorts, a ghost of a smirk in his voice. "Actually, don't. He’s currently a smudge on a highway in Sarajevo."
You let out a tiny, genuine huff of a laugh, and you feel his arm tighten around you.
"See? There she is," he whispers.
You stay like that for a long time—a battered agent and a broken vet, curled up on a minimalist couch with a kitten sleeping between you.
In the quiet of the apartment, the monsters and the body bags feel a million miles away. You’re still tired, and your heart still aches, but as Leon rests his chin on top of your head, you realize that maybe the "ghost" has finally moved out of this apartment.
And for the first time in a long time, you don't feel like you're fighting the dark alone.
──────•✦•──────
The transition from "emergency technical support" to "semi-permanent fixture" happens so gradually that Leon doesn't even see the trap until he’s happily walking into it.
It starts with you dropping by after your shift to "check the kitten's weight," and then somehow you’re staying for a coffee, and then—suddenly—you have your own designated spot on his couch and a spare toothbrush in the guest bath.
Leon finds himself leaning against the kitchen island, watching you move through his kitchen with a grace that is utterly at odds with the clinical chaos of your day job. For years, this kitchen has been a graveyard for styrofoam containers and a shrine to a single bottle of high-end bourbon. His culinary skills are limited to reheating things and not burning the water.
"You know, the FDA suggests that a human being cannot actually survive on a diet of ninety percent spicy tuna rolls and ten percent Scotch," you remark, your back to him as you chop fresh parsley with a rhythmic, practiced speed.
Leon takes a slow sip of water, leaning his hip against the counter. "I’ll have you know I also eat the occasional multivitamin. And once, a piece of fruit that I'm reasonably sure wasn't plastic. I'm practically a health nut."
"You're a disaster," you retort, but the look you throw him over your shoulder is fond, lacking the sharp bite of your usual sarcasm.
You’ve taken over his stove, and for the first time since he moved in, the apartment doesn't smell like filtered air and gun oil. It smells like sautéed garlic, crushed basil, and browning butter. The scent hits Leon with a physical force, dragging up buried memories of a childhood —the sound of heavy pots clanking, the steam on the windows, the feeling of a home that was loud and full.
It’s a sensory overload that makes his chest ache with a sudden, sharp pang of nostalgia he wasn't prepared for.
"Is that... actual garlic?" Leon asks, his voice dropping into a low, slightly dazed register. "I forgot it came in cloves. I thought it was just a powder that lived in the back of the pantry until it turned into a solid brick."
"God, you're pathetic," you laugh, sliding a pan of chicken onto the burner. The sizzle is loud in the quiet room. "Go sit down. You look like you're having a religious experience over a bulb of garlic."
"I might be," he mutters, though he doesn't move.
He likes watching you. He likes the way your hair starts to frizz slightly from the steam and the way you’ve tucked your ID badge into your back pocket.
He realizes, with a dry, self-deprecating twist of his gut, that he’s become addicted to this. To you. The mission-driven part of his brain—the part that usually keeps him scanning for exits and checking his six—has gone completely quiet. He feels safe. Not "perimeter secured" safe, but actually safe.
He walks over, ostensibly to reach for a glass, but he lingers in your space. He’s still a touch awkward with the physical stuff, his hands hovering near your waist before he settles for gently bumping his shoulder against yours.
"Smells better than my grandmother's Sunday gravy," he admits, the honesty feeling like vulnerability. "And she would have hit me with a wooden spoon just for thinking that."
"Well, don't tell her ghost I'm trying to upstage her," you say, nudging him back. Your smile is gentle, and Leon feels the last of his professional walls crumbling. "I just figured since you're busy saving the world, someone should make sure you don't succumb to scurvy."
"It's a noble cause," Leon says, his blue eyes softening as they fix on you.
"Just doing my civic duty, Agent," you tease.
Leon watches you stir the sauce, and he feels a surge of protectiveness so fierce it surprises him. He spends his life in rooms with people who want to tear the world apart, but here, in the dim light of his kitchen, you’re putting things back together. You’re making a home out of a man who thought he was just a weapon.
"You're staying for dinner, right?" he asks, and he hates how much he hopes the answer is yes. "The cat gets lonely if you leave too early. And I... Well, I'm not great at talking to the furniture."
"I'm staying, Leon," you say, reaching out to pat his hand. "Relax. I'm not going anywhere."
Leon breathes out a sigh he feels in his very marrow. He looks at the garlic, the herbs, and the woman currently occupying his heart's center of mass, and he decides that if this is a trap, he never wants to be rescued.
──────•✦•──────
The blue light of the television flickers across the living room, casting long, dancing shadows against the walls. On the screen, some generic action flick is playing at a low volume—something about a heist that Leon has already found sixteen tactical flaws in—but he isn't watching the movie.
He’s watching you.
You are out cold. Your head is tilted back against the cushion at an angle that looks like it’ll require a chiropractor by morning, and your breathing is deep and rhythmic. On top of you, Cheeto—who has graduated from a palm-sized scrap to a lanky, teenage chaos-agent—is sprawled across your stomach like a heavy, orange weighted blanket.
Leon sits in his armchair, a glass of bourbon sweating in his hand, and feels a strange, terrifying tightness in his chest.
He should wake you up. He should tell you that the movie is over and offer to call you an Uber. That would be the professional, just friends thing to do.
"Right," Leon whispers to the empty room, his voice a dry rasp. "Because I’ve always been so great at following the 'sane' path."
He sets his glass down with a soft clink and stands, his joints popping. He gently nudges the cat aside. Cheeto lets out an offended mrrp but settles into the crook of the sofa, watching with wide, glowing eyes as Leon slides one arm under your knees and the other behind your back.
He braces himself, expecting you to be dead weight, but as he lifts, he’s struck by how light you feel—and how perfectly you seem to slot into the space against his chest. You let out a tiny, sleepy sigh, your head rolling naturally into the hollow of his neck, and Leon freezes. His heart kicks against his ribs like a trapped bird.
Don't wake up, don't wake up, don't make this weird, he thinks, his internal monologue screaming in a way it never does during a fire-fight.
He carries you down the short hallway, his boots silent on the hardwood. His bedroom is the inner sanctum—a place that usually feels like a cold, utilitarian bunker. But as he lays you down on the mattress, the room feels different. It feels occupied.
He pulls the heavy duvet over you, tucking the edges in with a focused, military precision. He lingers there for a moment, his hand hovering over your face. He can't help it; his thumb grazes your temple, smoothing away a stray lock of hair, before his knuckles lighty brush the warmth of your cheek. Your skin is soft, a stark contrast to the rough, scarred texture of his own hands.
"Rest up, Doc," he murmurs, his voice barely a breath. "You’ve earned it."
He backs out of the room, closing the door with a click so soft it’s almost silent. When he turns around, Cheeto is standing in the middle of the hallway, tail twitching, staring at him with unblinking, judging eyes.
"What? I’m being a gentleman," Leon grunts, stepping past the cat toward the sofa. He doesn't go back to his chair. Instead, he collapses onto the couch, staring at the ceiling. The cat hops up onto his chest, pinning him down and staring directly into his soul.
"I’m a DSO agent," Leon tells the cat, his voice flat and defensive. "I’m stoic. I’m professional. I’m a guy who deals with world-ending threats and international conspiracies. I definitely don't have a 'crush' on the veterinarian who makes me eat kale salad."
Cheeto blinks slowly, looking entirely unimpressed by the lie.
Leon sighs, rubbing his face with both hands. The lie is thin. It’s paper-thin and tearing at the seams. He lies there in the dark, listening to the silence of the apartment. For years, he’s filled this silence with the burn of cheap whiskey, the hum of a background news cycle, and the crushing weight of old regrets—Raccoon City, Krauser, the faces of people he couldn't pull out of the fire.
But tonight, the silence feels... full.
He thinks about the way you’ve invaded his space. The way you cook him actual meals because you know he’d live on protein bars and spite if left to his own devices. Most of all, he thinks about the night you fell apart on this very sofa, and how holding you felt more important than any mission he’s ever been assigned.
He realizes then, with the terrifying, crystalline clarity of a man staring down the barrel of a loaded gun, that he isn't just "interested."
He is completely, hopelessly, and dangerously gone for you.
It’s a catastrophic tactical error. He’s spent his entire adult life running from attachments because in his world, attachments are liabilities. Attachments get turned into leverage. Attachments get you killed. But as he looks at the closed door of his bedroom, knowing you’re safe inside, he knows the truth.
He’d burn the whole world to the ground—he’d take on an army of Ganados with a pocket knife—just to make sure you wake up tomorrow without a care in the world.
"Great," he mutters, his hand dropping to scratch Cheeto behind the ears. "I’m officially a Hallmark movie protagonist with a body count. Hunnigan is going to have a field day with this."
The cat purrs, finally satisfied, as Leon closes his eyes and accepts his defeat.
──────•✦•──────
The air in Leon’s apartment has changed.
It’s no longer just the scent of high-end bourbon and your lavender shampoo; it’s thick, electric, and heavy with the kind of "will-they-won't-they" energy that usually precedes a season finale. Every time you’re near him, the space between you feels like a magnetic field, pulling you toward him until you can practically hear his heart thudding in sync with your own.
You’re not an idiot. You’ve seen him look at you when he thinks you’re not looking—that soft, guarded yearning that makes your own chest tighten. You’ve felt the way his hand lingers on your waist when you pass him in the kitchen. He’s a DSO agent, a man who survived Raccoon City and global bio-terrorism, but apparently, asking a veterinarian on a date is the one mission that has him completely paralyzed.
And then, there’s the cat.
"You know, I was thinking," Leon starts, his voice dropping into that low, gravelly register that usually makes your knees feel like they’re made of cotton candy. He’s leaning against the kitchen island, his blue eyes fixed on yours with a terrifying intensity. He takes a step closer, his hand reaching out toward your arm. "I’ve been meaning to ask you—"
CRASH.
You both jump. Cheeto, now a lanky, orange blur of destruction, has successfully swiped a half-full glass of water off the side table. The glass doesn't shatter, but the water spreads across the hardwood in a slow, mocking puddle.
Leon closes his eyes, his hand dropping back to his side. He lets out a long, weary sigh that suggests he’s currently contemplating buying a kennel.
"He’s just expressive, Leon," you say, struggling to keep the smirk off your face. You grab a roll of paper towels, your internal monologue providing a dry commentary. Mission failed, Kennedy. The orange menace has you beat.
Ten minutes later, the puddle is gone, and the tension is back, sweltering and inescapable. You’re sitting on the sofa, and Leon is beside you, closer than usual. The movie on the TV is just background noise now. He turns toward you, his arm draped along the back of the couch, his fingers inches from your neck.
"Anyway," he says, his voice a breathy murmur. "What I was trying to say before we were so rudely interrupted by the feline Special Forces... is that I’ve really appreciated you being here. Not just for the cat. For me."
He begins to lean in. You can feel the heat radiating off him, the faint scent of his woodsy cologne wrapping around you like a promise. Your heart is hammering against your ribs, a frantic thump-thump-thump that screams finally.
"I was wondering if—"
Suddenly, there is a soft fump sound, followed by the sensation of four pounds of orange fur landing directly on Leon’s face.
Cheeto hasn't just jumped; he has launched himself from the top of the bookshelf with the precision of a heat-seeking missile. He is now perched on Leon’s head, his tail flicking rhythmically against Leon’s nose.
"Are you kidding me?" Leon’s muffled voice comes from beneath the cat.
You burst out laughing. You can't help it. The legendary Leon S. Kennedy is currently being used as a landing pad by a cat who still hasn't figured out how to bury his own poop correctly.
"It’s not funny," Leon grumbles, gently detaching the cat and setting him on the floor. Cheeto just looks at him, lets out a smug little mrrp, and starts grooming his shoulder like he didn't just ruin the most romantic moment of the year.
"It’s a little funny, Leon," you wheeze, wiping a tear from your eye. "I think he’s gatekeeping you. He knows you’re about to make a move and he’s not ready for a stepmother."
"I am a professional," Leon says, straightening his shirt, though his ears are a distinct shade of pink. He looks adorable—awkward, frustrated, and so deeply human it makes your breath hitch. "I have survived international conspiracies. I have navigated minefields. I can handle a five-pound orange domestic shorthair."
"Can you, though?" you tease, leaning back and watching him with a playful, expectant look. "Because so far, the score is Cheeto: two, Leon: zero."
Leon looks at the cat, then back at you, a lopsided, determined smirk finally breaking through his frustration.
"The night is young," he says, his voice regaining some of its cocky, one-liner edge. "And eventually, that cat has to sleep."
"Good luck with that," you retort, your heart singing even as your inner skeptic sighs. He’s going to chicken out again. I’m going to have to be the one to do it, aren't I?
You watch him settle back into the couch, his eyes fixed on you with a renewed focus. The tension is still there, humming under the surface, but now it’s tempered with the hilarious reality of your domestic life. You realize you don't mind the interruptions. If anything, they make the quiet, stolen moments feel even more earned.
You just hope the cat doesn't decide to launch a third offensive when things finally get interesting.
──────•✦•──────
The dinner is kind of a disaster.
Leon has spent the last hour trying to act like a normal human being, which is difficult when his heart is trying to beat its way out of his ribcage like an escaping experiment. He’s made pasta—the one dish he can’t screw up—and the table is set, the wine is poured, and you are sitting across from him looking so devastatingly beautiful in the low light that he’s forgotten how to use a fork.
The air between you is thick enough to choke on. Every time your eyes meet his, Leon feels like he’s standing on the edge of a skyscraper with no parachute. He clears his throat, leaning forward, his hands clasped tight.
"So," he begins, his voice dropping into that low, serious register he uses for briefing the President. "I was thinking that maybe—"
Clank.
In one fluid, chaotic motion, the cat—who has apparently developed a taste for expensive Pinot Noir—swipes a paw at the wine bottle. Leon lunges, catching it before it tips, but the moment is shattered. The cat lets out a defiant meow and begins to weave through Leon’s ankles, tripping him as he tries to sit back down.
Leon’s patience, a resource he usually has in abundance when dealing with global catastrophes, officially hits zero.
"That's it," Leon mutters.
He doesn't hesitate. He scoops up the lanky, protesting orange blur with the efficiency of a man clearing a room. He strides to the hallway, ignores the indignant squawk from the feline, and gently but very firmly sets the cat on the other side of the door. He shuts it with a definitive thud and turns the lock.
Silence. Blessed, complete silence.
Leon turns back to you, leaning his back against the door. He’s breathing a little hard, his blonde hair a mess, and his face is flushed with a heat that has nothing to do with the stove. He rubs the back of his neck, the "cool agent" mask finally crumbling into a thousand pieces.
"I face bio-terrorists for a living," he starts, his voice rough and stripped of its usual bravado. He looks at his boots, then finally, desperately, at you. "I’ve survived things that defy the laws of physics and biology. But asking you out is officially the most terrifying thing I've ever done. My heart rate is higher right now than it was when I was being chased by a ten-foot-tall man in a trench coat."
He takes a step toward you, his hands trembling just enough for him to notice. "I don't want to just be the guy with the cat anymore. I don't want to be the guy who only sees you when things are bleeding or when I’m being deployed to some hellhole. I want to be... yours. If you’ll have me."
He braces himself. He’s ready for a "let’s just stay friends," or a polite laugh, or even a tactical retreat. He’s spent his life waiting for the other shoe to drop, for the mission to fail.
But you don't say a word. You just stand up, and the look in your eyes makes Leon’s knees go weak. You cross the kitchen in three purposeful strides, your gaze locked on his.
Scritch. Scritch. MEE-OWW!
From behind the door, the cat begins a frantic, rhythmic assault on the wood, accompanied by a series of yowls that sound like a siren. Leon flinches, his eyes darting toward the hallway.
"Dammit," he curses softly, his shoulders sagging.
He never finishes the sentence. You reach out, your hands snaking up his chest to grab the collar of his shirt. With a strength that catches him entirely off guard, you pull him down toward you.
You can feel the exact moment Leon’s brain goes entirely offline. There is no more DSO. No more missions. No more orange cats trying to sabotage his life. Beneath your hands, his chest seizes with the shock of a man who has finally stopped running and found exactly what he was looking for.
He freezes for a millisecond, his body going completely rigid. He is so utterly unaccustomed to physical contact that doesn't involve violence or a medical triage that he genuinely doesn't know what to do with his hands. But then, a low, fractured groan vibrates from deep in his chest, and the dam breaks.
His hands, clumsy and hesitant at first, suddenly scramble to find purchase at your waist, pulling you flush against his chest. He kisses you back with the terrifying, unbridled hunger of a man who has been starving in the dark for years. It’s a searing, desperate collision that tastes like red wine and the heavy weight of shared secrets.
You can feel the slight tremor in his fingers as they dig into the fabric of your shirt, gripping you like a lifeline. Months of suffocating tension, of late-night FaceTime calls and lingering, aborted touches, all shatter in this frantic, messy connection.
He feels you smile against his mouth, and he forces himself to pull back just an inch, his breathing ragged as he rests his forehead against yours. He’s delightfully dazed, his blue eyes blown wide and glassy, completely stripped of his cool-agent armor.
"Took you long enough," you whisper, your voice breathless and playful, your thumb tracing the line of his jaw. "I’ve been waiting for you to do that since I gave you my number."
Leon blinks, his mind clearly struggling to process the information. A slow, lopsided smirk finally pushes through his shock, accompanied by a faint, boyish flush on his cheeks. "You have? I thought... I thought that was really just for cat questions."
"You are so incredibly clueless," you laugh, grabbing his shirt and pulling him back down by his collar.
"Maybe," Leon breathes, his hands tightening possessively around your waist, completely ignoring the cat that has begun to scream and scratch at the hallway door. "But I think I'm starting to get the hang of it."
He kisses you again, and the second kiss is even better than the first.
Where the first was a desperate, panicked collision, this one is a slow, deliberate exploration. He’s a man carefully mapping out a territory he never thought he’d be allowed to claim. His initial awkwardness melts into a heavy, intoxicating rhythm.
Leon’s hands are surprisingly gentle as they slide up your spine, settling warmly at the small of your back. He pulls you in tighter until you can feel the frantic, heavy thud of his heart against your chest.
He’s so profoundly touch-starved that it aches; he chases your lips when you pull back to catch your breath, his mouth hot and insistent, sliding a hand up to cradle the back of your neck so he can tilt your head exactly how he wants it. His thumbs trace small, rhythmic circles against your skin.
Your inner monologue, usually a sharp-tongued critic, has finally been silenced. About fucking time, you think, your fingers tangling into the soft, blonde hair at the nape of his neck. I was starting to think I’d have to perform a personality transplant to get you to make a move.
The moment is perfect. It’s cinematic. It’s everything a slow-burn romance should be.
And then, there’s the scratching.
Scritch. Scritch. Mrow?
The sound of claws on wood is followed by a heavy thud against the door, as if the cat has decided to use himself as a battering ram. The rhythmic, indignant yowling has escalated into a sound that can only be described as a feline operatic tragedy.
You huff a laugh into Leon’s mouth, the vibration of it making him let out a low, frustrated groan. You reluctantly pull back just an inch, your hands still resting on his broad shoulders. He looks absolutely wrecked—pupils blown wide, lips slightly swollen, and a dazed expression on his face that you’re definitely going to tease him about later.
"He's going to tear through the drywall, Leon," you whisper, your voice breathless and playful.
Leon leans his forehead against yours, his eyes closed. "Let him scream. I’ve survived interrogations in darker rooms than this hallway. I can outlast him."
"He’s a cat, Leon. He has nothing but time and spite."
With a reluctant sigh, you disentangle yourself from his arms—feeling the immediate, cold void where his body heat was—and walk over to the door to pull it open.
Cheeto doesn't even hesitate. He streaks into the kitchen, his tail puffed out to the size of a bottle brush. He doesn't go for the food bowl. He doesn't go for the toy. He marches straight to the space between you and Leon, sits down, and begins to lick his paw with a level of smugness that is almost impressive.
"See?" you say, leaning back against the counter and crossing your arms. "He’s the third wheel we never asked for."
Leon watches the cat, then looks at you. The adrenaline of the confession is still fading, replaced by a soft, domestic glow. He walks over, invading your personal space again, and traps you against the counter with a hand on either side of your hips. He’s smiling now—that lopsided, cocky Kennedy smirk that usually means he’s about to say something incredibly cheesy.
"You know," he says, his voice dropping into a low, teasing rumble. "I just realized something. As a professional, I have to ask... is this even allowed? Isn't it a little unethical to be dating a patient's owner? I feel like there’s a code of conduct for this."
You stare at him, a deadpan expression flat on your face. Oh, here we go. Tactical awkwardness at its finest.
"Leon," you say, your voice dripping with sarcasm. "The 'patient' is currently trying to eat his own tail. And his 'owner' is a man who carries a handgun to the grocery store. I think the ethics board has bigger fish to fry than us."
"I'm just saying," he continues, his blue eyes dancing with mischief as he leans in closer, his nose brushing yours. "I’d hate to be the reason you lose your license. 'Vet caught in scandalous affair with local cat-dad.' The headlines would be brutal."
"You are such a dork," you mutter, though you can feel the stupid, helpless grin breaking through your defenses.
"I have my moments," he murmurs.
"Shut up, Leon," you say softly, the playfulness fading into something warmer, something real. You reach up, grabbing the front of his shirt again to bridge the tiny gap he’s left between you. "And kiss me again. Before the cat decides to jump on the ceiling."
Leon doesn't need to be told twice. He closes the distance, his mouth finding yours with a renewed confidence. This time, there’s no hesitation, no tactical stalling—just the quiet, certain knowledge that the empty apartment isn't empty anymore.
And as the lanky orange cat finally settles on the floor to watch you both, Leon realizes that for the first time in his life, he isn't just surviving a day.
leon s. kennedy as your mission partner, and all he wants to do is kiss you but there's never any time & it's just not the right time - so he has to make do with pecking your temple or cheek.
he needs to check something? okay, but wait! he has to leave a quick and tender kiss on your cheek before running off. you've both just narrowly avoided certain death and are hiding in a corner to catch your breaths? yeah, leon's cupping the back of your head to press a swift kiss to your forehead.
the only time he's ever kissed you on the lips during a mission was after a particularly gruelling fight with too many close calls to count. that's when he decides that, screw it, an extra second to kiss you properly is worth it, so he does :)
but also, also. these small kisses aren't overly common, so when he does leave behind those small pecks on your face, it's basically like having the reclusive & slightly gruff neighbourhood cat decide that it likes you and bumping its head into your leg to show affection.
about: dustin’s dad sucked at buying presents, steve does not
c.w: none, nauseating domestic fluff (fork found in kitchen), angsty in the beginning, descriptions of unhappy marriage between dustin’s parents but nothing graphic
a/n: canon divergence in this universe steve and nancy never got back together after s1, steve is buying you a christmas gift (he would even if you don’t celebrate and would just call it a holiday gift), i’m coming out as a “steve’s a momma’s boy” truther, divider from @/cursed-carmine
Dustin knew his parents were getting a divorce by age seven. He was proven right at age eight. His dad would later proclaim it “came out of nowhere,” which Dustin heavily disagreed with. The statement was a true testament to his father’s lack of awareness about anything that wasn’t himself.
His father wasn’t a bad person, just extremely narrow-minded.
He didn’t care much for things that he didn’t personally find interesting. He tried to get Dustin to play football and go fishing, but Dustin was much more fascinated by the chemistry set on aisle three of Melvald’s.
While his mother may have found crocheting, cooking shows, and her Sunday book club more interesting than spherification, she still saved up a little money from every paycheck to make sure that chemistry set was his birthday gift.
When her birthday came around in May, Dustin spent all night handmaking a card and painstakingly hot gluing red construction paper around skewers to make a flower bouquet. He even spritzed it with some of her perfume so it would smell like real flowers.
The morning of her birthday, his father didn’t wake up early. His mother woke up before him and made breakfast for the three of them. He heard them yelling in the kitchen when he was in the bathroom brushing his teeth. They only paused when he came downstairs and he saw why.
A bottle of peach scented lotion on the counter and a wilted bouquet of lilies with the clearance tag on them.
His mother is allergic to peaches. Lilies are highly toxic for cats.
His father slept on the couch that night and when Dustin walked past the master bedroom he heard his mom crying.
The divorce happened soon after that incident, with little protest from his father. It felt easier to breathe in the house after he left.
Then years later, in between all the supernatural horrors and government conspiracies Max Mayfield moved to Hawkins and he was beyond smitten. A pretty girl who plays videogames and skateboards, who is also way cooler than him.
He was beyond gone.
There’s only one issue, Dustin has no idea how to talk to girls. He doesn’t know how to flirt or make them like him, let alone how to actually be a good boyfriend.
Thankfully, someone he knows (kinda) in Hawkins does.
After handing you $25— way way too much money for buying raw beef— and sending you into Bradley’s Big Buy ,Steve is already scampering out of the car.
“C’mon, help me out Henderson,” Steve calls out to him as he pops the trunk. “I need to move this stuff quickly.”
“What stuff?” Dustin complains, but climbs out of the car, mostly to satiate his own curiosity.
Steve’s trunk is an organized mess of stuff. An old weathered looking book, Dustin recognizes it as your favorite— holy shit is that signed? A Macy’s bag with what seems to be a perfume bottle, an expensive one at that with the amount of tissue paper securing it. A jewelry box with a name Dustin doesn’t recognize but the font is gold and cursive.
Finally tucked away in the corner with some colored construction paper and wooden skewers is a rabbit plushie. Given the circumstances it’s not too weird but something about it is off. When Dustin squints at it for a moment he can see the crochet stitches. It looks like the ones his mom makes for his cousins’ birthdays. It looks… homemade.
“Did you make that yourself?” Dustin points at the rabbit.
Steve’s ears go red, “Crocheting has health benefits.”
“Did you read that in Women’s Weekly?”
“Shut up and help me move this,” Steve snaps back, it’s not intimidating considering how flustered he looks.
“What even is all this?” Dustin asks, grabbing the book and jewelry box. The packaging of the box is heavy and when he runs the thumb over the logo he can tell it’s been engraved rather than painted on.
“Gifts,” Steve replies, he grabs the construction paper and skewers, hiding them under the driver’s seat. “Put those in the glove compartment. I don’t want them to get dusty.”
Dustin obliges but he isn’t done being nosy. “Y’know most people wait until Black Friday to do their Christmas gift shopping.”
“Why don’t I just buy her a gift from the clearance rack too?” Steve retorts, tucking the rabbit under the perfume in the Macy’s bag and putting it in the backseat on the floor. “That’s a gift for my mom if she asks.”
“How would I know that?”
“Because you saw it in the backseat and asked while she was in the store.”
Steve fusses for another minute, triple checking he hasn’t left anything in plain sight before returning to the driver’s seat. Dustin already sat back down and his eyes keep darting between the Macy’s bag by his feet and the glove compartment. For the first time in his life, he wishes he knew Steve well enough to ask him questions.
The wish doesn’t hold him back for long when his eye catches the construction paper under the driver’s seat.
“How’d you know?”
“Know what?”
“What to buy?” Dustin asks, his voice is quieter than usual and Steve must’ve noticed because he turns to look at him.
“She’s my girlfriend,” Steve says, like it’s obvious.
The sky is blue. Grass is green. Steve is your boyfriend so he knows exactly what you want.
“Hey look man,” Steve’s voice is softer now, almost how it is when he talks to you. “When you’re dating someone this kind of stuff is important. Knowing little details like if she wears gold or silver jewelry might not seem important but they matter. It makes a girl feel special when you notice things.”
“And making homemade gifts?”
Steve huffs a laugh. “Yeah that too.”
They fall silent for a minute but it isn’t uncomfortable.
“...You should spray them with perfume.”
“Huh?”
“You were gonna make flowers with the paper right?” Dustin waits for Steve to nod before continuing. “You should spray them so they smell like real flowers.”
Steve opens his mouth then closes it, thinking for a moment. “Good idea, thanks man.”
They go quiet again but it doesn’t last long this time either. Steve sees you walking out of the store, ten pounds of raw beef in plastic bags. He steps out just as quickly as before, popping the trunk again.
He takes the bags from your hands and kisses your cheek. Dustin hears a muffled “thank you baby,” and twenty minutes ago the petname would’ve made him nauseous.
It doesn’t, he’s still looking at the construction paper under the driver’s seat.
childhood best friends to lovers w/ Steve Harrington
summary: growing up, steve was your favorite person, your best friend. but now that you're older, he's calling less and less, fading away slowly. will your hail mary attempt to draw him back to you end with you in his arms, or has he given up on you for good?
content: fluff, angst, smut. pinv, strictly 18+ minors do not interact. non-canon steve au (upside down-less hawkins)
Steve holds out his pinky finger, and you know exactly what that means. You’re on adjacent swings, legs dangling over the thin layer of woodchips that wouldn’t really soften the blow if you fell. But you know that Steve would be right by your side, lifting you from the ground, making sure you were okay.
You’d moved to Hawkins a year ago, starting school in the same third grade class as Steve. You were so scared your first day, you didn’t speak to anyone in your class. You could hear the cool girls in the corner of the classroom whispering about you. Arms crossed on the desk and head hung low, you fought hard not to cry. The first tear broke through at the same time a chair pulled up next to yours.
A boy with brownish greenish eyes, and a disproportionate amount of hair on his head for such a scrawny frame, smiled from the seat next to you.
“Hi I’m St-”
The tear rolling down your cheek caused him to lose his train of thought.
“Uh oh, are you crying?”
“No,” you replied. But it was no use, the second tear was already falling and you could feel a third on deck.
Steve pulled the sleeve of his sweater over his hand, bringing the fabric to your cheeks to pat them dry.
“Yes you are,” he pointed out.
“Please, don’t tell anyone,” you begged him.
He eyed the girls in the corner, sending them an angry frown, then turned back to you, his small voice dead serious as he vowed, “your secret’s safe with me.”
“Promise?” You asked skeptically.
“Not just promise,” he raised his pinky finger out to you, “pinky promise.”
And from then on he got all of your secrets, and you got all of his.
So there on the swings, you dragged your feet along the ground to inch your swing closer to his, looping your pinky around his like you had been doing all year.
“Pinky promise.”
The years went by that way. Your best buddy Steve by your side, even through the awkward middle school years. Like the time a boy in your biology class said you looked like the frog he was dissecting and Steve punched him in the face and got suspended for a week. Or when his parents told him they were getting a divorce and you snuck into his bedroom window and stayed up with him all night listening to records until he fell asleep. He laid his head in your lap, his tears dripping onto your pajama pants while you pushed his hair back from his forehead and whispered, “everything’s going to be okay, because I’m not going anywhere.”
As you grew up together, almost everything changed, except that promise you’d made each other on the playground - you were still best friends. Even when you got your first period and realized there were going to be some things in life you just couldn’t talk to him about. Even when he shaved off all of his hair the Summer you were fourteen and you cried when he showed you, which made him cry and he didn’t speak to you until it had grown back. Even when you were in high school and his dad started coming around less and less and he entered what you now refer to as ‘The Mean Steve Years.’
Even the night before junior year, when you were swimming at the lake. Steve took his shirt off and you noticed he was starting to grow chest hair, your surprise slowly melting into a warm feeling in your belly you couldn’t quite understand. Even when your fits of laughter while watching Spinal Tap on your basement’s shag rug turned into a giggly wrestling match until Steve was pinning you down and you felt something hard and strong against your thigh. Even when he ran out of your basement blushing, making an excuse about being home for dinner and then didn’t talk to you for a week.
Eventually, of course, he spoke to you again, but something had shifted between you. Then began the years of glances across the room, sneaking peaks at his strong hand on the gear shift while he drove, his lower lip tucked between his teeth when, getting ready for prom, you asked “zip me up?” like it was the most innocent thing in the world, like the brush of his knuckles on your spine didn’t send heat through you all the way down to your toes.
Through it all, you repeated over and over how you were best friends, just best friends. The oldest lie in the book. It had certainly been for you. And the day you found out it had been for him too, all bets were off.
College had come and gone. You’d gone far for school, he’d stayed close. Your once weekly phone calls with Steve grew fewer and farther apart. Last you’d spoken, you were moving in with your Psychology 101 TA boyfriend and you thought you could hear Steve grinding his teeth on the other end of the line when you’d told him.
Then, after only a few months of coinhabitated bliss, you and James the TA started fighting. The two of you were fighting so often that one day, you just stood up from your shared sofa and walked out. He lost you, and you lost your security deposit. Aimless and yearning for home, you took a job covering sports for the Hawkins Post.
Now, single and speeding down the highway toward your hometown, your whole body tingles with excitement every mile you get closer to seeing your best friend. You haven’t told him you’re moving back yet, you can’t wait for the delicious look of surprise and joy he’ll give you when he sees you.
Only, in the seventh inning, when he finally looks up and spots you in the stands cheering him on, he doesn’t seem excited at all.
Waiting until every last fan left and the away team boarded their bus home, you sneak down to the dugout. Steve is cleaning up empty water cups and brushing sunflower seeds off the bench. His team lost, and he’s angrily muttering to himself about something you can’t quite hear.
“You’ll get ‘em next time, coach,” you say.
He looks up, though he doesn’t seem as startled as you’d thought he’d be, like he had expected you to make your way down here.
“Welcome home,” he says, his body tense.
“You’re not even going to give me a hug?”
“Sorry, I’m just thinking about…the game.”
When you don’t reply, he crosses the dugout and pulls you in for a hug. You sink into him, reveling in his familiar scent as your fists clutch the back of his shirt.
“I missed you,” you mumble, your lips brushing the warm skin of his neck.
Steve pulls back too quickly, your arms fall to your sides lamely as he puts space between you.
“Yeah, uh, you too.” He scratches the back of his neck, staring just past you to avoid your eyes.
“Is everything okay?” You frown.
“Yeah, ‘course,” Steve runs his hands through his hair, making the stringy ends stick up before falling back over his forehead. “Just didn’t expect you to be back so soon.”
“Oh. Well my grad school classes are over, so…I’m actually, uh, moving back.”
You’d practiced this little announcement the whole drive home, so why did this moment feel so anticlimactic?
“Right.” He nods. “Cool.
Oh, that’s why.
To avoid the sting of his indifference, you try to pivot.
“I sent you an invite to my graduation, but you weren’t there.”
“Sorry, yeah, I just figured there’d be plenty of people there, I didn’t want to crowd you.”
“I mean, it was just my parents. I didn’t even use all of my tickets.”
“Really? What about Sigmund Freud?”
You roll your eyes at the nickname. “You mean James? We, uh…I left him.”
For the first time since you’d wandered into the dugout, Steve looks you in the eyes.
“Oh, well, good. Your head can only be shrunk so much, y’know, before the brain damage sets in.”
You crack a smile at his familiar sarcastic rambling.
“Why don’t you seem happy to see me?” You reroute the conversation away from James and back to the moment.
“I am. Of course I am, I just didn’t expect it.” He sets his hands on his hips, trying to come across as casual while acting anything but. “I’m in work mode I guess.”
“Okay, well don’t work too hard.” You smile softly. “Before you were Mr. Harrington, you were Steve. My Steve.”
Steve sighs, lips drawn tight.
“Yeah, well, I should get back to it. The custodians hate it when we leave this place a mess.”
Before you can respond, he turns and goes back to his cleaning duties.
“Hey?” You say, voice feeling small.
Steve turns back to you, “yeah?”
You step carefully toward him, your pinky extended.
“Promise you’re still my best friend?”
A thousand times in your fifteen years of friendship, Steve has wrapped his pinky around yours as you both swore to be friends forever. But this time, he just stares at your outstretched hand, forehead creased in…is it anger? No, something more like disappointment.
“Really?” You drop your hand as your voice rises. “What, have you outgrown me? You have a big grown up job now and no need for a best friend?”
“I don’t know.” Steve shakes his head and you feel your heart crack right down the middle.
“Okay. Okay, well that’s fine. I have other friends.” You try your hardest to sound unaffected, but you know he can see the way your chin is starting to wobble. “I’m sorry for wasting your time.”
Steve huffs, muttering under his breath, “still dramatic as ever I see.”
Your hands ball up at your sides, shaking in fury. Steve knows there is nothing you hate being called more than ‘dramatic.’ Other than maybe when you’d been compared to that dead frog.
Too angry to speak, you just glare at him. He shies away from your anger by turning to throw away another cup.
“I’ll see you around, okay?” He sighs, ending the conversation. But you aren’t done.
It’s then that you notice the cooler of water on the dugout wall, lid thrown on the ground and dead gnats floating at the water’s surface.
Not giving yourself a second to overthink it, you grab the cooler and lift it over Steve’s head. Only, as you raise it up, the water sloshes over the edge and your grip slips, tipping the cooler so it covers you both in frigid water and bug guts.
“What the hell?” Steve turns on his heel and stares at you in shock, his locks of brown hair sticking to his forehead and coach’s uniform soaked through. “Why did you do that?!”
You blink the water out of your own eyes and gasp for air.
“Because! Coming back to this school has turned you back into Mean Steve!”
“I wasn’t being mean!”
“Yes, you were! And I didn’t do anything to deserve it. I want my best friend back, right now.”
“He’s standing right here! And now he’s cold, and wet, and probably going to catch a cold like this, so thanks a lot.”
“Oh my god, you’re being such a baby.”
“Oh I’m being a baby? You’re the one throwing a temper tantrum because I wouldn’t make you a pinky promise.”
Chin wobbling, your voice is small as you say, “that’s not why, and you know it.”
Before he gets the chance to distinguish the tears from the water still dripping down your face, you turn from him and run out of the dugout toward your car.
As you open the door of your old beat-up station wagon, a hand reaches around you and slams it shut. For a moment, there is just the quiet of the night, the sound of crickets, Steve’s breath behind you, and nothing else.
You turn and look at him, your makeup completely smeared from the water cooler, body shivering in the crisp night air. His hand stays on the door, head tilted down as he struggles for something to say.
He lands on, “I’m sorry.”
“For what?” You demand.
“For missing your graduation. And for tonight. I don’t know what my problem is.”
“Maybe you just outgrew me. It’s okay if you…” you swallow hard. “If you’re done with me.”
Steve’s eyes meet yours, a stunned expression on his face as if you just slapped him.
“Done with you? I’ll never be done with you. Never. I can’t. Not when I-”
“When you what?” Your hands are shaking again, this time for a completely different reason.
You can almost see the words forming on the tip of his tongue, but suddenly he drops them, stepping back and shutting down again. God, this is exhausting.
An exasperated growl leaves your throat as you throw your head back and look at the stars. You can feel the water drip from your hair down your legs to the backs of your ankles. You try to find the Big Dipper among the stars. Anything to keep your eyes off of him. But then he speaks.
“Why did you leave James?”
You thought he was going to say something to break your heart. You’d almost rather he do that than make you answer this question.
“Why does that matter right now?” You deflect.
Steve pulls his lips between his teeth. His hands go to his hips and then fly out in exasperation, finally landing with a slap against his thighs. He doesn’t need to speak, he just gives you that look. Eyes wide and a little frenzied. It’s the look he gives you when you’re annoying him, when he’s trying his best to love you but you’re pushing him to his limit. The familiarity of that look, of fighting like you used to fight when you were kids, makes you smile.
“What’s funny?” He asks.
“Just…you.”
Steve laughs but there’s no humor in it. He runs his hands through his hair in the way that you love, the way that makes it fly in all directions until he looks like a mad man. It’s so endearing you take some pity on him and decide to answer.
The anger from earlier has been drained out of you. Everything he’s doing, every expression, every mannerism is so familiar, so very him, that your inhibitions go up in flames.
“Can I tell you a secret?” You ask him.
“Always.” He responds, the quickness of his answer wrapping you in comfort like a warm blanket over your wet, shivering shoulders.
“And you won’t tell?”
“Have I ever?”
“No, you haven’t.”
You step toward him and he almost seems like he’s going to step back. His defenses are up, confused by your sudden change in demeanor.
Once you’re close enough, you reach out and rub a palm over his head to straighten his hair, like you’ve done a million times. Like you did the night of the snow ball in eighth grade, giving him a pep-talk to ask Mindy Tompkins if she wanted to dance. Like you did before he appeared in court to testify in his parent’s custody hearing. Like you did before he interviewed for his first job. You can tell by the look in his eyes that he’s thinking of all those times, too.
“I left James because we got in a big fight. I was yelling, he was yelling…”
At the mention of James yelling at you, Steve’s jaw tightens. “He yelled at you?”
“Don’t worry, any hell he gave me I gave him right back,” you wink at him. He fights back a smile because he believes you.
With a deep breath you continue, “we were fighting all the time, and then one day he said something that just…something I think he’d probably been trying not to say for a long time. And I couldn’t even fight back, because I knew he was right. So, rather than try to lie, I just left.”
Steve waits a moment, giving you the chance to keep going, but then; sensing you’re having a hard time with the rest, asks, “what’d he say? If he was mean to you I swear to God-”
“No, no,” you chuckle. “He wasn’t mean. He was right.”
You shut your eyes and breathe in deep, steeling yourself, willing yourself not to chicken out.
“He said that I would never be able to give myself to him fully. Not when my heart belongs to somebody else.”
Steve’s jaw tightens then goes slack. “Who does it belong to?”
You tilt your head and smile a sad, knowing smile.
“...c’mon,” you whisper, begging him not to make you say it.
For a long moment, you just look at each other.
The air is tight between you, threatening to snap, only you don’t know if you want to find out what will happen when it does. Will you be drawn to each other, that delicate space between you that’s held you back for so long finally giving way? Or will you be propelled apart, any chance or ‘maybe’ that lives in the back of your mind dying in the dirt under you.
“Y’know, the morning of my first day teaching here, I was so excited,” Steve confides. “I woke up early.”
Your eyebrows shoot up. “You woke up early?”
“I know, right?” His lips twist into a smirk. “I was up before the sun, I tried on like four different outfits. I was so excited. And the day went perfectly fine, the kids seemed to like me. Even the teachers whose classes I used to cut seemed happy to see me. But when I got home that night, I just sat in the dark in my living room, sipping room temperature beer and feeling like, I don’t know…empty, I guess.”
You frown, hating the thought of him alone like that, wishing he didn’t have to spend even one second of his life not being his carefree, easygoing self.
“It took me a long time to figure out why I wasn’t having fun. The life I worked for was right in front of me, I have a job that I got completely on my own, without my dad wielding his influence. I even bought a house, it’s tiny, nothing like the one I grew up in. But it’s mine.”
“I’m so proud of you, Steve,” you interject.
“But see it’s not right. None of it is right. My life will never be right...”
You hold your breath, somehow knowing in that inexplicable way you’ve always known him down to your core, exactly what he was going to say next.
“...unless you’re in it. But you were with him. And I knew after him there’d be someone else, and that person would never be me. So I stopped calling. Stopped thinking about you, hoping if I moved on from you I’d finally find a life that makes me happy.”
His eyes glass over just slightly. He steps back, just an inch, just enough to study your face with pinched eyebrows, like he’s bracing himself for a fatal blow.
“And did you?” You ask, almost too quiet for him to hear.
“Do I seem happy to you?”
You study him, your lungs aching with the breath you’ve been holding.
“So you don’t want me to be your best friend anymore?”
“No.” He shakes his head. “No, I want you to be my girl.”
“Steve.” You step closer, and this time, he doesn’t move away. “I’ve always been your girl.
Then it happens, it finally happens, the invisible string between you, always pulled taught, fraying at the edges, breaks. Like magnets, your bodies snap together.
His hands fly to your hair, yours to his shoulders. Your lips hover for just a moment, just one excruciating, exhilarating, delicious moment. And then they meet.
Steve kisses you like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your mouth. Like he’s been slowly and carefully mapping it out for years. But a groan escapes him when you finally part your lips and invite him in, realizing it’s so much better than he’d imagined.
It is everything it’s supposed to be. Drenched confessions of love lead to screeching tires and running stop signs until he finally gets you back to your new apartment. Doorway kisses lead to hands gripping each other desperately as he walks you toward the bed.
You’d been kissing like that for what felt like days, laying across your bed, tangling together, rolling in the sheets in your now mostly dry clothes. After forever like that, Steve pulls back, tentatively beginning to unbutton your top. His fingers are shaking.
Placing your hand softly over his you ask, “are you nervous?”
“What? Nervous? I’m not…I’m definitely not…” he hangs his head and sighs, “yeah, okay. Yeah I’m really nervous.”
His cheeks are scarlet as he avoids your gaze. When he finally looks back up at you, you cover your face in your hands, peeking at him through your fingers.
“I’m nervous, too,” you confess.
The shared relief breaks you both into a fit of laughter. There had been so much build up to this moment, years of it, that now that you’re here, it feels impossible.
“Is this real life?” You ask him through your giggles.
“I honestly don’t know,” he croaks out, making your belly shake with another round of laughter. You’ve both lost your minds.
When the hilarity finally dies down, you look over at Steve, the golden glow of a streetlamp washing over his face.
“Maybe for now you could just hold me?” You suggest.
With a rush of relief, Steve pulls you into him, your back to his chest, legs tangled together.
“Yes, I’ll hold you,” he whispers in your hair, “you’ve got no idea how long I’ve been waiting to hold you just like this.”
“Hmm, I think I might have some idea.”
You fall asleep like that, wrapped up in each other, and sleep more soundly than you have maybe ever.
The night comes and goes, the sun eventually rises. And though neither of you wants to, you eventually get out of bed. Steve’s team has an away game two towns over, and you have boxes to unpack.
So he leaves, you shower, eat, spend the day distractedly unpacking books and clothes, only to rearrange them again and again, just killing the time until you see him again. Hours pass so slowly they feel like days, and as the clock ticks, reality hangs in the air outside your window, threatening to bring you back to earth. Just as you’re wondering if you’d really imagined it all, you hear a knock on your door.
You swing the mahogany open, standing flushed and expectant in the short blue satin dress you hope he’ll love, cheeks pink and not just from your rouge. Steve's eyes drift up and down like he hasn’t seen you in days, despite having his hands on you just this morning.
He leans against the door frame as he devours you with hazel eyes. He’s cleaned himself up, wearing a black sport coat over a black shirt, a single swirl of hair falling over his forehead despite his obvious attempt to hairspray it into place. It’s okay, you like him messy.
His gaze may be confident but his words come out in a clumsy stammer.
“You…it’s…just…aghhh.” He throws his head back, eyes shut tight as he tries to gather his thoughts.
“Yes, Mr. Harrington?” You tease, only flustering him more.
He just shakes his head, tongue poking into his cheek.
“It’s not fair.” He laughs.
Your smile finally breaks through, heart swelling. The arms that held you tight last night belonged to a man, but in front of you now he’s still the devilishly cute schoolboy you’ve been harboring a secret crush on since your playground days.
“Is that a compliment?” You ask.
“It’s a compliment.” He steps over the threshold and grabs you by the waist, finally finding his voice, “a compliment, a praise, a prayer-”
He cuts his own musings off with a kiss, arm looping around your back, crushing your body into his until you’re lifted to your tippytoes. You sigh into it, bunching his lapels in your hands as if you could possibly pull him in any closer. He kisses you so fiercely, his lips eventually slide off of yours, leaving a trail along the corner of your lips, your cheek, the sweet spot behind your ear. He sucks there, just slightly, until your knees turn to water and he has to hold you up for real.
“Speaking of things that aren’t fair,” you exhale.
Steve’s laugh is muffled against your ear and he pulls back to look at you. His lips are stained red from your lipstick. You grin wildly at him as you swipe your finger along each lip to clean him up.
Seizing the opportunity, he holds your hand to his mouth, kissing your knuckles, then your palm, down to your wrist. If you don’t stop him, you know you’re seconds from ditching your dinner reservation. When his lips press to the pulse point inside your wrist, you consider never leaving the house again.
Then your stomach grumbles, loud enough for the whole neighborhood to hear.
“Hungry?” He jokes, letting your hand fall only to lace his fingers with yours.
“Mhm, probably because I skipped dinner last night…” you remind him.
“Let’s get you fed then.” He tips his head toward his waiting car in the driveway. “You’re gonna need your energy.”
“Oh will I?” Your eyebrows raise, daring him to elaborate further.
“Oh yes.” He nods earnestly, though you still catch that teasing glint in his eye. “You’re gonna want to enjoy your dinner, ‘cause I’ve got big plans for dessert.”
You scoff and slap his arm, hoping he doesn’t notice the way your heart skipped a beat at the thought. Apparently, he wasn’t nervous anymore.
The restaurant is nice. Nothing like the dive bars and diners you’ve spent most of your friendship terrorizing. Your Friday nights usually consist of digging through Steve’s car for coins so you can play the same song on the juke box twenty times. On those nights, you take bets on how many people you can annoy out of the bar while you throw back cheap beers and sing badly to the bartender.
But tonight, Steve is a total gentleman to everyone you encounter - the valet, the hostess, the waiter, even the busboy gets a crisp five dollar bill slipped into his palm as Steve tells him, “thanks for taking care of us.”
You stare at him from across the table, head tilted and eyes studying him.
“What?” Steve asks, wiping his face as if maybe there was a glob of chocolate left over from the soufflé you’d shared.
“Nothing, it’s just…” your lips scrunch, considering how to say what you’re thinking without hurting his feelings.
He leans closer from across the table, “tell me, baby. You can tell me anything.”
You know it’s true. He’s been your number one secret keeper your entire life. But something shifted last night, and now it feels like you’re holding each other’s bare hearts in your hands, everything tinted with a vulnerability that wasn’t there until he’d kissed you.
“I’m just wondering,” you lay your hand over his, “when you became such a…man.”
Steve bites the inside of his cheek, considering your words. You’re nervous you offended him until he turns his hand over to hold yours, giving your fingers a reassuring squeeze.
“Do you not want me to be a man? Because I’ll be literally anything you want me to be. An animal, a vegetable, a mineral, you name it, and I’ll be it.”
Relief pours over you at his joking. It’s clear the same Steve you’ve spent your favorite days with is still the one who’s sitting in front of you tonight.
“I just want you to be you.” You squeeze his hand back.
“Yeah but maybe there’s parts of me you haven’t met yet,” he suggests.
You consider his words. They almost make you sad, like you’re jealous of anyone who's gotten to see any version of him you haven’t yet. Suddenly, you’re hungry again. Not for another five star meal, but for him. All of him. Last night you’d barely gotten a taste, but suddenly, sitting across from him, lights low and his eyes fixed on you, you’re not nervous anymore. Not at all.
You need to do it all again, to see if you can find the boy you love within the man. See if you can have both.
The toe of your shoes run up his calf, lifting the pleated fabric of his trousers as they go.
“Well then why don’t you introduce me?”
Without another word, Steve motions to the waiter to bring the check.
Once home, you stand at your vanity, removing your earrings and the gold necklace you’d worn to dinner - a locket Steve had given you for your birthday in the tenth grade. He had told you he found it on the school bus, but later, his mom had let it slip that he’d spent all of the money he’d made mowing lawns in the summer to buy it for you. Your heart squeezes as you trace your fingers over it now. The signs that he was in love with you had really been there all along, you just hadn’t been paying attention. You’re done missing things.
“Steve, can you help me with something?” You call out.
He stops halfway through pouring your coffee - the flimsy excuse you’d made to invite him inside after he drove you home - and makes his way to your bedroom.
When he appears in the doorway, your eyes find his in the mirror.
“Can you unzip my dress for me?”
Steve swallows, stepping toward you slowly. When he pulls the zipper down, you swear you can feel his fingers shaking a little. Maybe he too feels the importance of this moment, that what happened last night was inevitable, but what happens next will be far more important. He’s never been this quiet before. The thought makes you miss him, even though he’s standing right behind you.
Once the zipper is as low down your back as it’ll go, you turn, meeting his eyes. He’s blinking back at you, both of you breathing shakily, unsure of what comes next.
“Do you still want this?” You ask him.
Steve’s eyes sweep over your face, landing back on yours with an almost aching intensity.
“I’ve always wanted this,” he swears. And you believe him.
“Me too.”
You lift your hands to slide off the straps of your dress. Steve sucks in a breath and doesn’t release it for several seconds, the anticipation nearly killing him.
You take your sweet time lowering the fabric, torturing him as you let the silky threads fall away slowly. The straps finally slip from your fingers, the dress pooling around your hips, leaving you half bare in front of him. He tries to keep his eyes on yours, to be respectful, but he’s only human.
Losing the battle, his gaze drops down your body. It’s only then that he finally releases the breath he’s been holding, exhaling through his nose as his forehead scrunches. At first, you’re worried he’s upset somehow, until you realize he’s not in distress, he’s completely wrecked.
Steve’s forehead falls forward onto your collarbone. His hand finds the small of your back, clinging to you like you’re the only thing keeping him on Earth.
“I…I just…” He tries to speak, but nothing comes of it. You run your fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck, soothing his worry.
“Steve?” You say, low and comforting.
“Hmm?” Is all he can manage.
“Take me to bed.”
He stands to his full height again, which forces you to look up into his face.
“If you insist,” he says, wrapping his other arm around you and pulling you up to wrap your legs around his waist.
Steve lays you on the bed softly before standing to pull his suit jacket off.
“I think I promised you dessert?” He smirks. He’s trying to muster that bravado he’d shown at the restaurant, but that’s not what you want right now.
You pull the rest of your dress down over your hips, leaving you in just your bra and underwear, a matching lacy set you’d selected just for him. He looks down at you in awe, his whole body tight, from the tick of his jaw down to the firm grasp of his hands on your waist.
“You too.” You nod to his clothes, the only thing standing in the way of getting what you so desperately want.
He stands at the end of your bed, and you rise on your elbows to watch. Slowly, he slides the suit jacket off his shoulders and lifts the black sweater underneath over his head. His trousers go next, pooling in a pile at his feet until he’s standing in only his socks, boxers, and white undershirt. He gives you a shy smile.
“All of it.” You insist.
With a deep, shaky breath, he pulls the shirt over his head, revealing his broad chest and that pillow of chest hair that’s been filling your dreams since you were seventeen. He’s bigger than the last time you saw him shirtless. His chest is solid, his stomach taut and chiselded. His biceps are defined, but not bulky, a pulsing vein running down them all the way to his forearms. He’s been working out, clearly, and selfishly you hope it was all for you.
Lip drawn between your teeth, your chest rises and falls with anxious breaths as he removes his socks one at a time and then finally hooks his fingers into the waistband of his boxers.
“Wait,” you say, and he freezes instantly.
You rise on your knees, shifting toward him on the bed until your fingertips find the goosebumped skin on his stomach, “let me.”
He watches with wide eyes as you gently push his hands out of the way and slip your own fingers under his waistband. Your eyes stay locked to his, looking up at him with a smirk as you lower the fabric over his hips and let it fall away down his legs. In your peripheral vision, you can see him, hard and ready, just inches from brushing against your belly. But you just keep your eyes trained on him as you slide your hand between your bodies and wrap your fingers around his cock, your touch featherlight.
He twitches in your hand and you can’t contain your satisfied smirk. When you run the pad of your thumb over his slit - already leaking desperately - his head falls forward, hair hanging over his forehead and eyes screwed shut.
“Th-that is…” He can’t find the words. You’ve got him speechless and it feels so damn good.
This is what you wanted. To watch all his efforts to seem cool and calm melt away and reveal his truest self. The self that’s desperate for you, the self that’s always been at your mercy, just like you are at his.
You run your hands over him a little firmer, and his whole body jerks forward. Laughing gently you rise higher on your knees, the hand that isn’t working up and down his shaft wrapping around the back of his neck, pulling his lips to yours.
Steve kisses you hard and you squeeze around his base in gratitude. Then he whimpers into your mouth and every nerve ending in your body buzzes with pleasure.
Like a reward, you pull him down further, until you’re laying back on the bed, head resting on your pillow, and his body hovers over yours. One of his hands is on the mattress just next to your shoulder, and the other finds its rightful place on your hip.
He runs his fingers along the elastic of your panties, making to push them aside, but you stop him.
“No,” you command gently. “I get to go first.”
He obeys and pulls his hand back, though his eyes are squinting in confusion. Instead of explaining yourself, you lick your own palm before bringing it back to his cock. Twisting your wrist, you begin to stroke slowly, feeling his fist bunch up the sheets next to you.
“Oh, my god,” he breathes through gritted teeth. “Ah, shit, that feels incredible.”
You watch him in awe, your own mouth hanging open, adoring eyes sweeping over his features, taking mental pictures you know you’ll treasure for the rest of your life.
Steve groans, the growl in the back of his throat petering out into another whimper.
“Yes, keep making those sounds, baby,” you coo. “I love seeing you like this.”
With your encouraging words, you start to move your hand faster, twisting all the way to the tip and circling your thumb there until you drag your palm back to his base and squeeze gently. His eyes that have been squeezed shut fly open and he looks at you with pure panic.
“If you…I can’t…if you keep going I’m not gonna last,” he warns you with a breathy chuckle.
There he is. Your sweet boy. All pretenses dropped, telling you the truth without embarrassment. Your best friend, shaking above you, gasping against your skin when his forehead falls to the center of your chest.
“That’s okay,” you reassure him. “I want you to feel good. I want to watch you fall apart for me.”
“Can I…mmm - fuck - can-” he tries desperately to find his voice between needy moans, “I need to touch you.”
“Yeah?” You smile. “You want to feel me?”
“God yes,” he breathes. “I’ve wanted this for so long you have no idea.”
The hand not working him brushes his hair away from his eyes, palm caressing his cheek.
“Me too,” you admit. “I dream about this.”
“Do you?” He asks, and it melts you completely.
Because it’s not cocky, not teasing. It’s a prayer, begging for your words to be true. Begging you to tell him he’s not alone, that you need him in the same way he needs you.
“Mhm,” you nod. “I dream about you coming undone for me. About the look on your face when you fall apart, about what sounds you’ll make when you give in.”
Steve’s eyes roll back at your words, shaking his head.
“Okay, that’s it, I need to touch you. Now.”
He drops his mouth to the crook of your neck, trailing down to your chest, sloppy kisses all the way down. You giggle as the last bit of his pride crumbles for you, fingers slotting in his hair to keep him anchored to you.
Once his mouth gets to the top of your breasts he pauses, tilting his face up to look at you as he pulls the straps of your bra down your shoulder. You lift off the mattress a bit to give him enough room to undo the clasp. When he pulls the lace away completely, his tongue runs over his lips, like he’s literally hungry for you.
“Are you kidding me? How are you even real?”
Steve tugs on your legs, dragging you down the bed, making you fall back onto the mattress until you’re underneath him again. You yelp in delight and his lips are on your neck again, mumbling between each kiss, “so beautiful…perfect…my dream girl…”
His words make you feel dizzy, completely drunk off this.
“You’re so sweet to me,” you smile. He picks his head up to look at you, kissing the smile right off of your lips.
“‘Cause you deserve it, baby.”
He’s still kissing you when his fingers dance over the lace between your legs, feeling your wetness through the fabric.
“You’re also so fucking hot,” he whispers in your ear.
Steve sits back on his knees to watch as he slides your panties down your legs. You shimmy to give him room, and then hold your breath as he runs his eyes over you, bare for him for the first time. It’s the first time you’ve ever been skittish around him, his stoic silence not relaxing you one bit.
“Listen, uh, this may sound lame but…I don’t know it’s like, sometimes I think I wouldn’t exist if you didn’t either. Does that make any sense? Like I was only put on this Earth because you were too. If I didn’t have this…I wouldn’t…I couldn’t-”
Two seconds ago you were laughing, and now he’s choking up. You sit up to bring your face close to his, making sure he hears you when you whisper, “we’ll always have this. You’ll always have me.”
You kiss his lips like it will somehow seal your words, make them permanent in his mind. He sighs into it, like he’s accepting them from you.
You try to keep him from noticing that your hand is drifting down between you again, reaching out for him, but it’s no use, he knows you well enough to know what you’re doing even when his eyes are closed.
“Yeah, no,” he scolds, pushing your hand back. “It’s still my turn.”
You narrow your eyes at him, “I don’t remember agreeing to that.”
“”We can argue about it later,” he tells you, “but right now…”
Steve grabs your shoulders, turning you so you’re on your knees in front of him, him on his knees behind you. He kisses along your shoulder and you tilt your head to give him more access, sighing in defeat. His tongue draws long stripes up your neck and up higher until they’re swirling over your ear, his tongue dipping in. You’ve never had someone do this before and you’re so surprised by how good it feels, warm and wet in the best way. You whine a little and he smiles against you.
“Your mouth is so good,” you say, not sure if you’re even making sense anymore.
“Mmh, later I’m going to taste you for real, but first…”
Without you realizing it, he’s snaked his arm down your front, his fingers finding the slickness between your thighs and sliding through it gently. The pads of his fingers drag achingly light over every sensitive nerve. Your body jolts in response, so worked up that even just this gentle touch overwhelms your senses. You’re shaking now, so much that he lays his other hand flat over your stomach to settle you. After exploring you for a few more seconds, he circles your clit, just once, and you gasp.
“There?” Steve asks in your ear when you shiver under his touch.
You nod and let your head fall back onto his shoulder.
“Yes, yes I love that.” You whimper.
“Love, huh? You love when I touch you?”
You just nod again, knowing you look pathetic with your eyes shut so tight and your body quivering but you’re so far past caring. Steve picks up the pace, alternating between circling and tapping your clit until you’re so gone you start grinding down, riding his hand.
Feeling that familiar tightness in your stomach, you realize you never want this feeling to end. You rise up on your knees, causing his hand to fall away. Just as he opens his mouth to protest, you reach back and wrap your fingers around his cock again.
“Fuck.” The word comes out harsh and broken, like he’s just been punched.
Twitching in your hand again, Steve’s head falls forward to rest just between your shoulder blades. He looks down, mesmerized by the sight of your delicate fingers running over his thick length and the curve of your ass just inches away. He swears nothing could possibly be better than this, until you lean forward and guide the head of cock through your slick, dragging the tip through your folds and over your clit.
“Jesus, fu -” Before he can get out another curse, you slide him down to your dripping hole, slipping him inside.
You both shiver in unison, frozen in place as you adjust. Steve grabs your hips but doesn’t pull you back, not wanting to force you to do anything. So you do it for him, rocking your hips back until he slides deeper inside.
“Ah…ah ah fuck, you’re so…” His breath is coming out in increasingly desperate gasps with every inch of access you give him.
“Oh my god, Steve, can you feel how much you’re stretching me out? Feels so good,” you cry out.
“Yeah, yes, baby, I feel it. I feel all of it.”
Once he’s fully buried inside of you, he pulls your upper body back against him. His hands are everywhere as you start to rock together - on your stomach, your tits, your neck, your hips - gripping and gliding like he’s afraid if he lets go you’ll disappear.
You’re so full of him that your mind is hazy, almost slipping away into yourself until you remember you’re supposed to be paying attention.
“Talk to me,” you beg him. “Wanna hear you.”
He groans against your ear, the vibration running down your neck. You’re grinding back onto him as he rolls his hips to hit you as deep as possible, and your breath is completely stolen. He takes a second to groan again and nip at your jaw before he speaks.
“Yeah? What do you wanna hear? That I’ve never felt this fucking good in my entire life? That you’re so tight and hot around me I’m afraid I’m gonna come already?”
In response to his perfect words, you lift your arm, hand rubbing the back of his neck. He takes the opportunity to kiss your arm before he keeps crooning.
“I’m gonna go harder now, honey. Is that okay?”
“Mhm, please,” you moan.
Steve’s hands land on your hips, pushing you forward just enough to bring you back again, testing your response. You cry out, a sharp squeal that tells him exactly what he wants to know.
“There we go. Better like that, right?” He asks.
“So good, please keep going,” you whimper.
“Well if you insist…” he jokes before bringing you forward and back again, thrusting his hips forward to meet you each time.
The room fills with the sound of your bodies coming together over and over, the soft smacks of your ass against his thighs. The pressure of his thrusts is so good that you fall forward, supporting yourself with your hands on the mattress as he takes over the rhythm. Your moans are uncontained now, nearly crying from the pleasure.
“Gonna keep you just like this.” He hasn’t forgotten your request for him to talk you through it. “Under me, full of me. You deserve it, baby, you deserve everything. So patient with me, so good to me.”
You cry out his name, almost unable to bear the affection you feel for him. The moment is so tender you’re afraid you’re going to shatter, break into a million pieces underneath him. You can’t help the small sniffle that escapes you.
“Hey, hey, hey,” he draws you back up by your shoulders to hug you from behind, one hand tilting your chin so he can look you in the eyes. “You okay? Was it something I said?”
“Yes, it’s everything, you’re everything.” You’re afraid you won’t be able to find the words to explain it. “It’s just, I don’t ever want this to end.”
Steve’s face floods with relief, and he presses his forehead against yours.
“It’s never gonna end.” He kisses your cheek, right over the tear that’s streaking your skin. When he kisses your mouth gently, it tastes like salt water.
“Believe me, now that I’ve gotten my hands on you, God himself couldn’t pull them off. Never letting you go now.”
“Promise?” You ask.
He laughs once before his face goes dead serious, “pinky promise.”
As he says it, his hand is sliding down your stomach, leaving a trail of goosebumps until his fingers find your clit again.
“Steve!” You sob.
It's the loudest you’ve been all night and you can tell by the way his free arm tightens around your waist that he loves hearing you just as much as you love hearing him. So you don’t hold back, words incoherent as you let out a string of moans and babbled praises.
Steve’s fingers pick up the pace on your clit as he rocks his cock in and out of you, making you tremble each time he hits that perfect spot deep inside you. Of course he’s the first and only man who has ever found it. You clench around him hard each time he does.
“Oh, shit, so tight.” He can barely grunt the words out with his jaw clenched so tight. “Are you gonna come? Please tell me you’re gonna come. I’ve been waiting my whole life for this, please don’t make me wait anymore.”
His voice is hoarse as he begs. Nobody has ever been this desperate for you before. Hell, no one has ever cared about your pleasure this much before either. The connection between you is so cosmic and intoxicating that the world is spinning around you, stars sparking behind your eyes when you squeeze them shut. You gulp down one sharp breath, and then you’re gone.
“Oh!”
You’re shaking, body absolutely convulsing as you reach the peak, and then fall over the edge. You can’t speak, can’t even breathe, mouth wide in a silent scream as you’re hit with wave after wave of the sweetest ecstasy you’ve ever felt.
It’s almost too much, your hand grabs Steve’s, pausing his work on your clit as you pant desperately, “come with me. Please, need you here with me.”
It doesn’t take much convincing at all. It’s clear Steve has been right at the edge of it this whole time, because as soon as the words leave your mouth he’s breaking. A sound from so deep inside him, you swear its primal, rips out of his chest. The warmth of him fills you, beginning to drip down your legs where he’s buried to the hilt. Steve’s groan fades into a breathy whisper.
“I….oh my god…I love you. I love you. I love you so much,” he whispers as he twitches once more, pulling your ass flush against him so he can hit that spot you love one last time.
When it’s over, he holds you there for several minutes. His arms are wrapped around your waist, head resting on the nape of your neck. You rub your hands gently up and down his forearms, both of you needing time to make sure that actually just happened, that it wasn’t a dream.
Only when you’re both sure this is real life does he let go. You slide down on your front and collapse into the bed. Your arms fold on the pillow so you can rest your head on your hands. You breathe the happiest sigh of satisfaction. Steve lays next to you, looking at the ceiling, one arm under his head, one on his chest. Your eyes flutter shut as you let this perfect moment wash over you.
“So…” Steve says, never one to let silence linger. “That was like, what? A five out of ten?”
Without opening your eyes you throw your hand in his general direction, smacking him on the arm as hard as your spent body can manage.
“Ow!” He fake cries. “I’m kidding!”
You turn your head to face him, cheek still smushed into the pillow. He shoots you a smirk and winks.
You’re still completely naked and Steve doesn’t miss the goosebumps all over your skin. He lifts himself to pull the bedsheet up and over you. Giggling, you pull it higher until it’s over both of your heads. He finds you under the covers, your own little tent where only the two of you exist, just like when you were kids.
Your lips twist, trying to suppress a smile that escapes anyway.
“What?” He asks, your smile making his cheeks go hot.
“You said you love me.”
Bashful, he pulls the sheets back off, “okaaay, alright. That’s enough outta you.”
You laugh hard as he rolls away like he’s going to get out of the bed. You grab his arm to pull him back and he pretends he’s going to fight you on it for only a second before giving in and falling back onto the mattress.
When you turn on your side to face him, he follows suit, until you’re laying chest to chest, laughter fading slowly.
You reach out a single finger, running it over his jaw, across his cheeks, down his nose, even along the soft skin just under his eyes, caressing all of the features you’ve known for so long but never gotten to touch like this.
“I love you, too,” you whisper.
You thought after all these years, you’d seen all of Steve’s mannerisms. But this look on his face is something completely new, like he’d been waiting all his life to hear those words.
“Promise?” He asks.
When you lift your pinky out, he wraps his own around it.
You kiss his hand slowly and swear, “pinky promise.”
a/n: thanks for reading! i know i'm new to the stranger things au world, i hope y'all like what i came up with! may have more steve stories to come! xoxo
summary - steve's parents aren't around often, much like this night. when he wakes up to a strange tapping on his window, finding the girl he's known for as long as he can remember, he learns something new about her that forces him to think of the past and present.
word count - 3.3k words
warnings - friends to somewhat lovers, comfort, fluff, friendship, flashbacks, mentions of divorce, small mentions of injury, lmk if i need to add anything!
a/n - this is my first fanfic!!! i've been so insanely obsessed with steve as of recent, so i'm sharing it here! i hope you like it, please be kind, i'm not the best writer! taking suggestions with WIDE open arms. also, lmk if i should write a part two to this!!!
It's 2:57 AM when Steve wakes up to the sound of soft tapping on the frame of his family's home.
He assumes it’s the rain. It’s been heavy recently. Other than the sound of the water droplets falling on the roof, trickling down the gutters and depositing in the street, it’s been relatively quiet at the Harrington’s house. The occasional rustle of leaves from a strong wind gust, the sounds of children walking on the sidewalks with their parents, making memories Steve wishes he had gotten to experience.
Instead, “Not now, Steven. Mommy's busy.” or “I have to work, sorry, son.” were the phrases that often filled his juvenescence. His parents were either in meetings, working at home, on long, dragging phone calls with business partners, or on a business trip throughout the majority of his early life. Even now, his house is empty. Both his parents in Thailand for some important meeting. It seemed they were always gone.
But no.
This tapping, it was too loud, too intentional. There were long pauses between them. Longer than it takes for the rain to fall outside. He glances at the clock again. 2:58. Another patter. When he can’t stand not knowing the cause, he pulls the blanket by the corner off of his frame, swinging his legs over the side of his bed. He stands, mattress slowly rising back up at the absence of his weight. Slowly, as if not to break the relative silence, he pads over to the window of his bedroom, hands braced on the lower corners, leaning forward.
The rain falls in streaks of water down the paned glass, trickling down in flowing rivers of droplets. It cools his skin, the sound and feel of the rushing precipitation creating a strange sense of comfort. It's broken when a small pebble comes rushing at him, hitting the window and bouncing off before falling to the ground below.
“What the..” he mumbles slowly under his breath, words dragging in the sleepy night. Although impossibly quiet, they cut through the layers of silence that had fallen over the house. That's when he spots it. Where the rock must've come from. Even through the heavy rain and distance, he recognizes the figure. He'd recognize the girl it belongs to anywhere, any time.
It's you. The very girl he has known since first grade. Since taking turns on the swings, pushing one another back and fourth, giggles spilling from your little mouths. Since scraped knees and bloodied elbows on the black top, walking together to the nurses office. Since doing his homework beside you in the kitchen of your home. He’d always liked your house better. Even though your parents fought on the occasion, at least they were around.
You were his person, to say the absolute least.
There you are, standing in the pouring rain, fist curled around a couple small pebbles, the other hand falling limp at your side. You must’ve seen him, apparent in the way your fist unclenches and drops the small stones.
He slides the window open, head stuck out into the cool night air, forearms crossed on the sill as he calls out to you. “What are you doing out there? It’s pouring rain!” he asked. You could tell he was completely at a loss, unaware of what had you awake at this hour, let alone at his window, throwing pebbles in the rain. He knows you. More than most do. This is far from your usual.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.” the words tumble from your lips, coming out quickly like your sentences always have. That part of you has been constant through his life. You’re dependable in more ways than not.
That's when he hears it.
Through the rain, a sound sharp enough to cut like a blade straight through his chest. The softest sob he's ever heard. And it came from your lips. The girl who's nothing but kind to everyone, everything. The girl who tries her hardest to keep everyone happy. The worst part is it isn't loud. It isn't messy and tearing from your chest. It's just broken, the kind that rips him apart more than it does you.
“Shit.” he mumbles underneath his breath again, fingers fumbling with the window, shutting it and turning to the door. He can't stand when you're upset, period. But when you're this upset? To the point where your tears barely make a sound? That hurts him the worst. His feet fly down the stairs, the soft sounds of his socks on the hardwood floor the only sound in his empty hallways.
His hands shake on the lock of the front door, flinging it open and rushing out, not even bothering to close it behind him. He doesn't have time for that. Not when you're there on the lawn, tears slipping down your red, cold cheeks, rain pouring on your figure. You’re the main focus. Always have been.
There was a time like this when you were younger. It was late, you and Steve riding your little 10-year-old bikes around his driveway. The rain began to fall, drenching the two of you. Giggles spilled from both of your lips, eyes stuck on each other. It was like you were glued together. Your mom came by then. She told you her and your dad had fought, something you didn't understand the lengths of at 10. He was going to be away for a little while. He needed ‘space.’
All you knew was that your father wouldn’t be home for a bit. You saw the sadness on your moms face as she drove off, giving you and Steve more time. She didn’t want to ruin the fun you were having. You couldn’t help the tears that spilled over, trailing down your freckled cheeks, mingling with the rainfall surrounding you.
It broke Steve. Steve, who was also only 10, who wanted nothing but the best for the kind girl that was his world, no matter if she saw it or not. He wrapped his little kid arms around you, providing the most comfort someone who’d grown up without an example could. He helped you more than he ever knew.
Unknown to him at the current moment, the situation wasn’t too different.
He practically flies off the porch, taking the steps down from his front door two at a time, feet hitting the gravel of the walkway, followed by the grass drenched by the precipitation. You're frozen in your spot, salt streaming out of your eyes without a sound. It's hard to tell how much of it is the heavy rain and how much comes from the sadness in your heart.
It doesn't matter to him.
Any tear on your face is one too many. Steve's been protective of you forever. Since as long as you can remember, he's been by your side. A warm body that'd fight anything just to make you happy. Whatever you asked, he'd find a way to get it done. He wraps his strong arms around your shaking body, pulling you into his chest.
Your face ends up in the space between his neck and chest, soft tears falling onto his collarbone, continuing their trails before absorbing into the fabric of his grey t-shirt. He doesn’t ask. Not immediately. It doesn't matter what the problem is, he knows you need him. He's not in a rush.
“Hey, sweetheart. Shh, shh, it's okay.” he mumbles into your hair, the area in which his head naturally falls due to the height he has on you. His face tilts down, pressing a soft kiss to the crown of your head. He doesn’t even have to think about it. But it sends your mind into a spiral. He's done it before, but it feels different tonight.
The first time it happened was summer before freshman year, June, his birthday. His parents, as usual, were away on a trip. Something for work. Steve was in his house alone. You offered to come over, brought an entire chocolate cake, his favorite kind. You sat side by side on his couch, giggling at a stupid movie, making commentary that added to its idiocy, two forks, the cake slowly chipping away.
“Thank you. For everything.” he had said, smiling over at you, arms pulling you in tight. You didn't know why he was thanking you. You were just doing what best friends do, right? You're just naturally there for him. But when his lips pressed to your temple, like sealing in a promise, a vow of some sort, you knew what he meant.
He was thanking you for being his person.
His arms were stronger, bigger like he was now. But it still felt like that same night, all those years ago on his couch.
Now you stand there, body shaking from the tears and the rain, arms around his waist, head in the crook of his neck. His hands encircled your frame, chin on top of your wet hair. “Come on. Inside.” he said, pulling back softly, hands finding yours as he led you towards his ajar front door. You enter the house behind him, the familiar setting wrapping around you like a blanket of comfort. He's really what you needed right now.
He couldn’t care less that your body's dripping water. The only thing he can think of are the tears that pour from your soft eyes. The eyes he wished were always crinkled at the corners in a grin. He pulls you into his bedroom, sitting on the edge of the bed right next to where you had been delicately placed by his arms. With one arm draped around your shoulders, his other hand comes up to brush the tears off your soft cheeks with the pad of his thumb.
In soft brushes, the water from your eyes begins to dissipate slowly. His presence helps enough. You tilt your head so it rests against his shoulder, eyes not leaving his face, tracing the shapes of him. He's gentle with you. Gentle in the way years of constant hang outs results in. being each other's people for that long.
“Wanna tell me what's got you this upset, angel?” he asks, his voice impossibly soft, seeming as though it blends with the light sounds of rainfall or his roof. He's always been this way with you, gentle in a way that suggests he feels differently about you than anyone else. Maybe he does. It wouldn't surprise you. You've known each other all your lives. Highs, lows, everything in between. He's seen all of you.
The deep care, the tone of voice it's spoken in, the weight of the situation, the setting. It all runs deep within you. It rattles you a bit, for some reason. You don't quite know how to respond. How does he expect you to dump this all on him? He doesn’t deserve the burden.
“A lot has me upset, Steve.” you tell him, head still tipped on his shoulder, hair failing on his soft shirt, a few strands in your face. His hand, warm and worn, reaches up to brush the strands from your face, revealing your eyes once more. His touch lingers, too long to go unnoticed.
And here it comes. The rambling. You’ve always been a really big talker.
“It’s like, just when I think something might be getting better, like, even if it's just a fraction. Something small, but meaningful, you know? Like, I think Hazel is starting to like me, or I get a good grade in Mrs. Clicks class, it just gets reset. It's like life is just one punch in the gut after another.” you sputter out, voice still a little shaky from the earlier tears, water tracks dried on your tears. The clothes still stick to your cold, wet frame.
“Life can be a bitch sometimes. Trust me, I know.” he replied, voice still gentle and grounding, there for you, a shoulder to lean on. There's a small smile on his lips, soft and familiar. The curve of his lips never did really change. Corners upturned, eyes crinkled slightly in the corners. Pure comfort.
There's a silence, breaths synced, two bodies that have grown familiar across over a decade, points of contact feeling more charged than they ever have. A brush of the knee, lingering longer. A soft look and gentle smile, lingering longer. His hand runs along your upper arm, lingering longer. Time seems to stretch out in his room.
That's when you know. You know you can tell him. You can tell him anything.
“My parents are getting a divorce.” you speak softly, voice barely audible through the rainy night. It hurts to say, hurts to think of again, the words have burned all the way up your throat, stumbling out with difficulty. His face falls instantly, the silence settling back in after the confession. It's not charged anymore, no. It’s full of unsaid thoughts and emotions that seem too big for this hour. His arm around your shoulders tightens a fraction, automatically grounding you.
It takes him back. Takes him way back.
Takes him back to the summer before sophomore year. This time, it wasn’t June, it wasn't as soft and learning and exploratory as last year. It was August. Hot and sticky and full of feelings too big for teens still figuring out themselves. He had come over to do the summer reading assigned in your English class. You were scribbling down answers with pens, eyes skimming the book for information. The box fans around your room working to tone down the humidity, their electric hum filling the air alongside your laughter and shared ideas.
That was all paused as you heard them yelling.
Your parents, downstairs, voices carrying up the stairs. It was bad, a stupid fight about something you couldn't quite make out. Steve didn't care what it was. What he cared about was the frown that replaced your upturned lips. He sat down his book, paper between the pages to mark his progress, walking to the side on the bed you were on. That was the first time he held your hand.
Fingers entwined, you both looked over your shoulders at one another, small smiles on. His thumb stroked your knuckles, giving you something to focus on other than the booming voices of your mother and father. The grin didn’t reach your eyes, but it was at least somewhat genuine. As long as he could bring you some joy, any amount, that felt like a win.
He had always wanted to protect you from your parents bickering because he couldn’t control the life he had with his own.
All he wanted then was for you to be happy. And that hasn't changed.
“Shit, sweetheart. I'm sorry.” he says softly, still holding you protectively as you inform him of your parents' decision. He wasn’t ever the best with words. He was always better at showing his comfort than speaking it. A divorce. That shocks him. He knew that they fought, sometimes bad, sometimes just silly things. But a divorce? He didn't see this coming. Or maybe, he had just hoped for your sake that it wasn’t.
“It isn’t your fault.” you tell him softly, head turning and lifting up off his shoulder. It’s there, looking him in the eyes, seeing how he aches for your pain, that you know. You know you love Steve Harrington, that you have loved Steve Harrington. He's been there for you more than anyone in your life ever could be, no doubt.
“I found the documents on the counter after school. Everything's already set.” you utter, the words coming out more broken with each passing syllable. His eyes trace your face, the corners of his mouth on a downward slope. You have almost no expression now. It's almost as if any feeling of joy or mirth you’d ever felt had been ripped away, leaving behind your hollow frame and empty expression.
“Thats fucked up.” is the words that follow, coming from the mouth of the boy beside you. He seems as if he's just as hurt by this revelation, voice wavering with a tone you haven't experienced often. Around you, Steve is normally happy. Despite anything going on in his life, he’s laughing, because you're the girl beside him. How could he not be content with you next to him?
There's silence. A long silence, full of mutual understanding and lingering gazes.
Then, he breaks it.
“Do you want to stay here for the night? It's already really late and all.” It's less of a question and more of a heavily advised suggestion. He doesn’t think you should be in that suffocating house of yours, four walls and two unwilling parents. He wants you here, with him. Where he knows he can protect you from anything negative.
“Yeah, I really do.” you replied, words coming out before you even thought of stopping them. The desperation and longing is heavily pronounced in your voice. You want nothing more than to be here with him, to be comforted by his presence and far from the reality of your family life.
The next 15 minutes or so go by in a blur.
He gives you some clothes to change into since yours are entirely soaked through. A pair of soft grey sweatpants that hang loose and long on your smaller frame, an old faded track t-shirt he used to wear on movie nights. You slip them on when he leaves, following him out once you're changed. You brush your teeth side by side in his bathroom, glances in the mirror, brushes of the elbows, giggles and splashing water on each other.
Later on, you're laying sideways across his bed, head resting on his lap. His fingers run through your soft strands of hair, gently moving through with all the care in the world. You're both watching a movie, some comedy Steve had insisted was essential for lifting the mood, but he isn’t fully there. His eyes, though looking between you and the screen, aren’t crinkled in the corners how they would be if he was smiling. There's far more in his gaze. He's deep in thought, drawing the parallels between your parents' troubles and his own.
While no, his parents aren’t divorced, they fight. That is, whenever they are around, which is a very limited amount of time. They are always away for work trips, leaving him forlorn in the house, the large size feeling fitting for the emotions that pass him. Much like you are now, both feeling alone and isolated from the world.
But you have each other. You always do.
“I want you to know I'm here. That you can talk to me, no matter what is going on in there.” He says, tapping on your skull lightly, earning a soft giggle from your parted lips. “I know what it's like, at least a bit.”
While he doesn't know the full weight of your situation, you told him a substantial amount. He wants to be there for you, no matter what. As a boy who didn't grow up with much care placed on his wellbeing, he's trying the best he possibly can. Even though he may not understand it, he's helped you more than he'll ever know. And you can't help but think that maybe fate is pulling in the right direction. That there really is an outcome for the two of you.
Sometimes it's nice to think that just one single thread of gold may be tying you to him.
꣑ৎyour cat does not like Steve꣑ৎ
fem reader x steve harrington
thank you @phantomamour for proofing!! thank you @sincere1ystar for the ask!!!
large text version here!
Steve kissed your nose, then your cheek, then buried his face in your neck, pressing another kiss there. You giggled, rolling over onto your stomach and letting the sheets get tangled around you. "I'm still sleepy."
He smoothed hair from your neck. "I'm not." When you giggled into your pillow, he kissed your crown. "You know how beautiful you look in the morning?"
"Mm. No." You wiggled your way under his arm, nose pressed into his tummy. "'M sleepy."
"Awwh. C'mere." Steve fixed his hands under your arms, pulling you up to lay on his chest again. "It's okay. Sleepy, stay sleepy." He rubbed your back, holding your head to him. "We've got all morning, baby. Close your eyes."
You did, until there was a little meow from your left. Gasping and lifting your head, you patted the nearest space to summon your cat, which happened to be Steve. "Come here, Fish! Come up here!"
Steve lifted his hand. "Woah, woah. Hold on-" He was cut off by your black cat springing onto him, hitting him right in the stomach. "Oof."
"Oh, Fish," you cooed, picking him up and cuddling him to your chest. "How's my lovey?" Scratching him under his chin, you kissed the top of his head.
Stone faced, Steve folded his arms and leaned against the headboard. "Thought you were sleepy."
"Well, Fish is sleepy too." You set the black cat at your feet. "He's been very busy lately."
"Doing what?"
"Well, he sleeps, and he has to clean himself," you said matter-of-factly. "His fur takes a lot of work to maintain."
"Hey, I've got hair to look after," Steve protested. "And I have a job. Fish does not have a job."
"His job is being cute and nice."
"Well, then he's getting fired, cause he's not nice." Steve looked grumpy, so you cuddled close to him and rubbed his chest. "Dunno about cute either. Not as cute as Willow."
"Willow and Fish are both very cute," you said, tracing a heart on his chest. "It's not a contest, love."
"I spent most of my life playing sports. Can't blame me for wanting my cat to win." Steve kissed your head.
"Well, since you love me, you should want my cat to win," you pointed out. "Besides, they're both our cats."
"Sure, sure." He smushed his cheek against your head. "One's just a creature escaped from the Upside Down and the other's an angel."
"We got them from the same litter," you said, kissing his cheek.
"It's unbelievable," he mumbled, rocking you back and forth. "There's really no way it's possible."
"Oh, please." You sat up, looking over to the corner where Willow was sleeping in her pink princess bed. She lifted her head with a little mrrp, as if she knew you were talking about her.
"Just look at 'er. Prettiest cat in the world." Steve talked about Willow like he'd given birth to her himself. "Fish's just one color. Willow's got all of 'em. She's a…uh…"
"Calico," you reminded him.
"Yeah. She's got all the colors." Steve whined when you got up. "Where are you going?"
"Shower."
"Without me?" Steve's frown was so adorable that you nearly rejoined him.
"I figured you'd want some quality time with Willow," you teased, straightening the covers on your side and skipping to the bathroom. Steve scrambled behind you, and the next thing you knew, his arms were around your waist, lifting you into the air.
"C'mon, baby. You know you're my favorite girl." Steve set you on the counter, sliding his big hands up your thighs and leaning in.
Granting his wish, you pressed your lips to his. "You're a real sweet talker when you want to be."
"Mm." He peppered kisses across your cheeks. "Cause I'm smooth."
"You're silly." You tugged his shirt collar. "We need to keep the door open in case Fish wants to come in and steam his fur."
Steve exhaled through his nose. He kissed your forehead once more before stepping to the side to turn on the shower.
The night was young, and you were relaxing on the couch, a movie playing in the background. Willow was purring at your feet, Fish spread out across your chest.
Steve walked into the living room whistling, swinging his keys around his finger. When he saw you all cozy with the cats, he smiled, tossing them to the side with a clatter. "Look at you."
"Look at me."
He knelt beside the couch, cupping your cheek in his palm. "How are you?"
"Good." You tilted your head up, hoping for a kiss, and he leaned in. Just when his mouth was brushing yours, there was a loud meow and then Fish was nudging under your arm, practically yowling. When you turned to look at him, there was no mistaking his displeasure.
Steve waved his hand. "See, this is exactly what I'm talking about. What's he gonna do when we get married, huh? Or when he sees the ring on your finger is he gonna kill me in my sleep?"
Willow padded over Fish, stepping fully on top of you. She blinked slowly at Steve, who melted in an instant. He reached out to scratch under her chin. "You've gotta give some lessons to your brother, cutie. He wants me and your mama to break up so he can have her all to himself."
"Fish would never make us break up," you said, lifting a hand to stroke his hair. "He likes living here too much."
"Yeah? He likes my big, fat coach's paycheck?" Steve lifted Willow so she was resting against his chest, his arm supporting her back feet. He scoffed, burying his face in her fur. "Wait 'til my friends find out I'm getting bullied at home by a cat."
"A bunch of teenagers?"
"That's worse than adults." Steve kissed Willow's head. "We've killed monsters but my enemy's a cat. They're gonna beat my ass."
"Wait until they find out you spent an hour at the pet store choosing a pink cat tree for Willow."
He set Willow back on the blanket. "You wouldn't."
"No, I wouldn't." You surrendered, wrapping your arms around him and sighing into his neck. "What's this I hear about getting married?"
Steve smoothly lifted you so he could sit on the couch with you draped over his legs. "I'm gonna marry you."
"Really?" You drew back to look at him, smiling mischeiviously. "I think I have to say yes first. And you have to ask someone if you're allowed to marry me."
"Hey, your dad and I are on good terms," Steve assured you easily.
"I was talking about Fish." You looked over at your cat, who was lounging across an entire cushion.
Steve pressed his lips together. "I have to ask one of our cats if I can ask you if you want to marry me?"
"Yes."
"Huh." Steve kissed your cheek absentmindedly. "Never would have known."
Lifting your sweater over your head, you gasped when it got caught on your earring, tugging your earlobe up. "Ow, ow, ow." Your pants had been the first to come off, and in your enthusiasm to get ready for bed, you'd forgotten to maneuver around the open back of your little heart-shaped hoops.
"What is it?" Steve's hands covered yours, pausing your pulling. Your head was still in the sweater, so you could only see the silhouette of his head. "You okay? What's the matter?"
"Earring. Stuck." You tried to unhook it again, whimpering when it didn't work.
"Okay, okay." He managed to work the sweater all the way off your head, holding it so it didn't pull at your ear. "I've got it. Hold on."
Everything about the situation was making you giggle. Steve smiled without taking his eyes off his progress. "It's really in there, huh?"
"I was too confident. Forgot I was wearing earrings." When he freed the sweater, you sighed, rubbing your earlobe. "Thank you."
"You're welcome." Steve folded your sweater over his arm. He was already mostly undressed, pants and shirt tossed in the laundry. Seeing him like this, almost naked in a context other than sex, made you want to wrap your arms around his waist and burrow into his chest. He was a teddy bear hidden under the guise of coolness.
Sitting on the bed, you let yourself fall back against it. Steve laid on his stomach, head turned to face you. "Pajamas?"
"I'm cozy." You turned onto your side, looking at him with a lazy smile.
"You're sleepy." The way he was rubbing your side acted hypnotically, making your eyelids heavy.
"No." You sat up on your elbows, determined to stay awake. "Not sleepy. Wanna stay awake."
"We," he started, taking you by the waist, "have had a very big day. We deserve some sleep, sweetie."
You held your left hand up, admiring the glittering diamond, the new and permanent addition. It felt like you couldn't stop smiling if you tried. Steve reached up to take your palm, bringing your fingers down to his lips. "I love you."
"I love you." Your finger traced shapes on his chest, heart melting. He was perfect everywhere: the sunset, the flourescents of his classroom. Your favorite was here though, in the soft lamplight of your bedroom, shrouded in a quiet you craved. He was yours here, completely and utterly belonging to you.
His voice was quiet, reverent. "Sometimes it feels like it's too big for me. How much I love you." Steve's hand found the top of yours, rubbing over your ring. "Big enough to fit both of us and then some."
The door creaked, announcing the arrival of one or more of the cats. You wrapped yourself up in Steve's arms, lifting your chin and kissing him deeply. He settled a palm on your cheek, lips moving fluidly on yours. You were lost in him, pressing your chest to his. The leg he had thrown over yours tightened, the heel of his foot nudging you closer.
Steve grunted against your mouth, breaking the kiss. You looked up to find Fish standing over his head like the Grim Reaper, eyes beaming into him. Lifting a paw, he batted at Steve's hair, starting to knead at it.
"Baby, he's gonna murder me," Steve gasped, pushing your face into his chest. "What's his problem?"
"Oh, he just wants attention," you laughed, reaching over to pick Fish up. He purred happily laying against your chest. "See? No harm."
Grumbling a little, Steve threaded his arms around you from behind. He tried to rest his chin on your shoulder, but Fish was occupying that space. Steve settled for the other side, tilting his head against yours. "I asked him and everything, and he's still mad at me for being alive."
"Asked him what?"
"If I could marry you."
You leaned your head back in thought. "You actually asked him?"
"Hey, better safe than sorry!" Steve dropped a kiss to your shoulder, moving to the ticklish spot on your neck.
You shrieked, and Fish took a swipe at Steve, who jumped back. Releasing your cat, you reached for your fiance again, aiming to soothe him. "He loves you. He really does."
"Right."
Smiling into him, you moved your hand up to smooth his hair. You froze, drawing back from him and lifting your fingers away.
"What?" Steve looked worried. He looked over you as if he were searching for injuries. "Somethin' wrong?" You held up your fingers, trying not to laugh. He squinted, mouth going a little slack. "Is that…?"
"I think Fish was playing in the mud," you said, voice restrained.
Steve's hands flew to his head, eyes widening like he was in a horror movie. When his hands returned coated in the same dark substance on your fingers, you pressed your lips together, trying not to laugh.
"It's on you too!" When he pointed at your chest, you looked down, noting the faint muddy paw prints on your light-colored bra.
"I think it mostly came off in your hair." You shrugged, but he looked distraught.
"He came all the way upstairs and wiped his feet on my head?" Steve looked astounded. You looked over at Fish, who was sitting on Willow's pink bed looking pleased. When Steve noticed, it only seemed to infuriate him more. "That's Willow's bed!" He got to his feet, running to the bathroom.
You waited a moment to follow him. Steve was sifting through his hair, trying to assess the damage. It was hard when his hair was nearly the same color as dirt.
Wrapping your arms around him from behind and pressing your cheek between his shoulder blades, you grazed your fingers over his tummy. "What's the damage?"
"I don't know," he practically whined, arms falling frustratedly to his sides.
Hopping on the counter, you widened your knees and reached for him. He moved forward without protest, dropping his forehead to your shoulder. You whispered, "How's a shower sound? We'll return your hair to its' glory."
"Yeah?" He was still pouting.
"Yeah." You smiled, rubbing your thumb over his cheek. It was really a bruise to his ego more than anything. Nothing that couldn't be fixed with a little cuddling and a kiss.
"That cat's gonna make me lose my mind," he grumbled in the shower, hair sticking to his cheeks. "It's psychological warfare. Like The Thing."
"Fish is not the Thing." You nuzzled your cheek into his chest. "If he was the Thing, he'd put bleach in your conditioner."
Steve softened when you scratched his head, a similarity he shared with Fish. He relaxed even more when you worked soap through his hair. You were sitting on the shower seat, and his head was in your lap. He kissed your thigh, rubbing your knee. "Sweetheart."
"Hmm?"
"No, I'm calling you a sweetheart." His fingers were still grazing over your leg. "I'm bein' mean to your cat and you're washing my hair."
"Well, my cat did something not nice," you responded soothingly, a smile in your voice.
"Baby." He shifted to look up at you. "I was being dramatic. And you're being nice."
"You can be a little vain sometimes," you teased, rubbing his head. "But I love you."
Steve took your hand, pressing it to his mouth. "I don't deserve you."
He repeated it over and over, through getting out and drying off, getting dressed again. Fish was cleaning his paws on Willow's bed. All was well.
Willow was splayed out on the bed, fluffy and clean. She meowed when Steve laid next to her, burying his face in her fur. "I asked Willow if I could marry you too."
"What'd she say?" You got in on your side, pulling the blanket over your legs.
"She was the one to convince Fish actually," he said, lifting Willow to lay on his chest, one arm pulling you close. Her whiskers tickled your cheek as you adjusted over Steve. "Fish was reminded that me marrying you means cans of chicken and a warm house forever."
"So it was a business proposal?"
"Yeah." He kissed your head. "I also told him I want to make you happy for the rest of our lives. He seemed to like that."
"Good." You looked up at him. "You do make me very happy. I didn't think it was possible to be this happy."
"Even after washing cat footprints out of my hair?"
"Especially after that," you said, nuzzling into his shoulder. "You used to be a dog person. Look how far you've come."
❤︎︎ summary. five times you thought you’d kept your relationship with steve a secret + one time everyone admits they already knew you were dating.
❤︎ contents. 5+1 fic, (not so) secret relationships, minor s5 vol 1 spoilers, idiots in love, fluff, humor, steve & reader were childhood friends, very light angst in some parts, insecurities, takes place between s4/s5, established relationship, pet names, reader is relatively new to the party — 11.3k words
❤︎ notes. happy stranger things finale day + happy new year!!! i'm super excited to share this fic and i had a lot of fun writing it. i took some liberties with what happens during the time-skip, but i think this is mostly canon compliant!! dividers by cursed-carmine. i hope you enjoy <3
I. Dustin
Droplets of cold water fell down your cheeks, soaking the collar of your—well, Steve’s—shirt completely.
Waking up never really had been your strong suit, and it normally took a half hour and a cup of coffee for you to be, at least, amicable in the morning. Cold showers never worked, as much as you wanted them to, nor did any other trick in the book.
For good measure, you splashed a few more handfuls of icy water across your skin, but it was no more successful the second go around. Instead, you stared back in the mirror, looking at a zombified version of yourself, exhausted and puffy in most parts of your face.
Sleep clung to you like the plague, and you yawned again, blinking against the bright lights of the bathroom. You gave yourself a few moments to unglue your eyes, and then began the slow motions of preparing for your day. Lazily, you reached for your toothbrush, pressing the minty end to your teeth.
While you weren't really living with Steve, most of your necessities had already found a place in his bathroom. Over the past few months, he’d bought a duplicate of nearly everything you used, claiming that you were over too often to have to pack a bag every time. He hadn’t gotten around to your makeup, but you were certain he’d find a way to make a carbon copy of your cosmetics bag, as soon as he figured out exactly what you products you liked.
You spit out the toothpaste, watching the foamy liquid rinse down the drain.
The process was slow-going, minutes ticking by as you stumbled around the bathroom, slapping things onto your skin. Mornings were your least favorite part of the day—once you were dressed and ready to go, everything else became easy. It was the getting around that made it rough, and the lack of motivation that deemed it nearly impossible.
Fortunately, you’d gotten it almost down to a science, something you could do on complete autopilot.
You had plenty of time today, though you were normally rushing around, throwing your clothes all over the place while you tried to find the things you needed.
Steve was, usually, no help in the mornings either, even if he hadn’t already left for the radio station. The two of you were an incompatible pair, when it came to getting around in the morning. He slept like the dead, and you had a habit of turning off your alarms instead of hitting snooze.
Today, you got through your routine in a relatively efficient manner, swiping a dark shade of color over your eyes, before moving onto your mascara.
Just as you were putting the finishing touches onto your skin, a voice—most definitely not Steve’s—caught your attention. The words were garbled as they came through the closed door, but unmistakably, a two-way conversation was happening.
You froze, throwing the tube of mascara back onto the countertop as you listened closely, trying to catch whatever was going on down the hall.
Steve hadn’t told you anyone was coming over.
Your relationship wasn’t new, per se, but it was something delicate, soft, and you were trying not to let it interfere with the chaos that was the Upside-Down. Too much had happened over the past year that it seemed… well, silly, to draw attention to your blooming relationship.
You pressed your ear to the door. Definitely a voice you recognized. Henderson.
They had a brief exchange—something about Dustin’s upcoming test, another something about the crawl that had happened last week. It seemed like Dustin was in a rush, his laughter clipped, no elaboration on any of the anecdotes. Steve’s replies were too quiet to make out, save for a few words here and there.
Then, Dustin said, “I have to use the bathroom. I’ll be right back.”
Your stomach flipped. You’d been too busy eavesdropping that you hadn’t even tried to make your way out of the bathroom. Panic surged over you, as you looked back at the mess you’d made all over the counter.
“Sure thing. I’ll just wait down here,” Steve said, heading back downstairs, a careless sound of agreement leaving his throat.
Steve, you goddamn idiot.
Scrambling, you threw all your stuff into a bag, and tossed it in the cabinet under the sink, not caring that the door didn’t shut all the way. The few articles of clothing you’d discarded onto the floor, you hastily dumped into the bath, hid them behind the shower curtain and hoped that would suffice.
With just a moment to spare, you wiped the spot of blush you’d spilt onto the white counter, and tossed the dirty towel in the bath with the rest of your clothes.
The hair products—well, those could stay. Dustin would just think they were Steve’s anyway.
Cursing under your breath, you straightened your clothes, grateful you, at least, looked presentable. If you were quick enough, maybe you could make it back to Steve’s—
You threw the door open, and jumped, clutching your hand to your chest. “Jesus, Henderson.”
Dustin, already on the other side of the door, blinked back at you, eyebrows knit together. “Oh,” he said, standing a little taller. There was confusion drawn throughout his expression, but not surprise, as he gave a little wave. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you.”
“No, no. It’s fine.” You exhaled, stiff with awkwardness as you clutched at the doorknob. “What are… What you doing here?”
Internally, you cringed at yourself, hating how suspicious you sounded. Sure, your relationship was something of a secret, but you weren’t doing anything wrong. You were a grown adult, for God’s sake, sleeping over at your boyfriend’s house, someone you’d known for long before that. What was Dustin going to do, arrest you?
You barely caught the first part of Dustin’s answer, too busy drowning in your own humiliation.
“—picked me up from school yesterday, and I left my homework in his car. I had to come get it before class.” Dustin looked past your shoulder, into the bathroom, before dragging his eyes back to you in a comically slow way. “What are you doing here?”
You were going to wring Steve’s neck out.
“Oh.” Your cheeks grew warm, palms sweaty as you gripped the handle harder. “Well, I—”
Then, before you could finish, Dustin broke out into a small grin, one that didn’t quite meet his eyes, didn’t show his teeth. It was about all he could muster, these days—smiles that were dull, compared to the bright ones he’d once had, but soft enough to remind you he was still a boy. Despite it all, humor played in his irises, as he rocked forward onto his toes.
“I’m just kidding.” Then, he grew serious once more, sheepishly looking back down. “I do have to use the bathroom, though. If you’re done.”
You blinked at him for a moment, getting whiplash from the conversation. Dustin, who had never been anything but polite towards you, stared back patiently, hands tucked in the deep pockets of his coat. It was almost uncanny, how much he looked like Eddie these days.
“Uh, yeah. Yeah, I’m done. It’s all yours.”
“Thanks.” Dustin nodded, a quick acknowledgment of gratitude. “I’ll just be a minute.”
“No rush.”
The door clicked behind him. You stared out into the now empty hallway, before your anger overwhelmed you once more, and you stomped downstairs into the kitchen.
Steve was humming softly to himself, the radio at a low enough volume to talk over. Robin, who was the only one that knew about your blooming romance, had apparently given Steve the morning to himself. Normally, he would’ve been at work already, and for once, you were wishing he had been.
You crossed your arms, watching as Steve poured another round of apple juice on top of the already half-filled glass. Almost like a child, sometimes, with his antics, and though you were already starting the day off exhausted with him, you couldn’t help the fondness that tugged at your heart as you scoffed.
“Steve? What the hell?”
He glanced over his shoulder, looking somewhat guilty, before he shook it off and smiled, one that was full of all the adoration in the world. It would’ve melted you too easily, had you not been on the warpath already.
The person you were later would probably apologize, but you couldn’t be held accountable for your irritability in the morning.
Steve didn’t seem to notice your foul mood, though. Maybe, he’d just grown used to it.
“Morning. I didn’t realize you were awake.”
The radio hummed behind him. Robin finished her little spiel over the crackling frequency, the first few notes of a Bon Jovi song following soon after.
While you were distracted, Steve made to press a kiss to your lips, but you put your hands up to your face, shoving him away. “Get off of me. Asshole.” You said, narrowing your eyes and holding your arms up like a shield.
Steve stared back at you for a few moments, before letting out a short laugh. “Geez. What’s got you all worked up?”
“A little warning would’ve been nice, Steve. I didn’t realize Dustin was coming over.”
Realization dawned upon his face, and he threw his hands up in surrender. “Hey, don’t blame me. He just showed up.” Steve rolled his eyes. “Besides, I thought you were still asleep. I wouldn’t have sent him into the bathroom otherwise.”
“Yeah,” you exhaled heavily, blowing out all your steam. The anger fizzled out of you easily. “I wish I was.”
Steve laughed, and tenderly guided your hands back down to your sides, lacing his fingers with your own. “Can I have a kiss now?”
“No.”
He pouted, squeezing your hands tighter. “Please,” Steve said, drawing the word out into more than one syllable. “I made you breakfast.”
That must have been why he was late to work.
You softened, eyes melting into puddles of affection you would never admit, but you were certain he noticed anyway. With a huff, you pulled him closer. “Fine,” you said, pressing your lips to his own. He smiled into the kiss, and though it only lasted a second, it stole your breath away.
The moment broke soon after, with the sound of heavy footsteps heading down the stairs. You and Steve split apart, and Dustin came around the corner, wiping his still damp hands on his pants.
“Thanks, Steve.” He looked between the two of you, and then smiled, before saying goodbye. “I’ll see you guys later.”
You returned the sentiment, and ushered him out the door, waiting until he was half a mile down the street before you said anything else.
Steve had already gone back to his cooking, splitting the food up onto two plates. It was a bit of a disaster, but you didn’t mind.
“Do you… think he knows?” you asked, biting the inside of your cheek.
Steve laughed, looking back up from the dishes. “Henderson? No way. He knows we’re friends.”
You refrained from pointing out that you weren’t just friends anymore.
“Yeah, but he’s not a little kid anymore, Steve. He’s more observant than you think.” A deep frown took over your features—how embarrassing. You’d wanted to wait until the right time to tell him, but it was never the right time. You still weren’t sure how he’d react to you and Steve dating. “Is he going to tell anyone?”
Steve was about to brush past it, deeming it a much smaller issue, but seemed to notice anxiety ridden throughout your words. He sighed.
“Listen. If he really thought—knew—we were together, he would’ve brought it up earlier. Or one of his punk friends would’ve. Trust me, they have no idea.” Steve pressed a kiss to your forehead, and clasped your hands together once more. “Come on, I only have a little longer before Robin starts getting pissed at me.”
II. Lucas (and Max)
Although you’d never been close with the girl, you visited Max as often as you could, hating the sight of her frozen body all alone in that hospital room.
In the very brief time you’d gotten to know her, you’d already developed some sort of maternal instinct over her. She hadn’t lived an easy life—not before she came to Hawkins and certainly not after—but you were glad that there were so many people that loved her now.
Lucas Sinclair, of course, being at the top of that list.
He’d become a usual presence at Max Mayfield’s bedside, paired with lovesick eyes and a shield the size of a Kate Bush tape. Running Up That Hill, as always, played out from the speaker, soft undertones of melancholy seeping beneath the crack in the door.
You almost turned away, not wanting to break the moment that was forever suspended between her and Lucas, an unfinished conversation you didn’t feel right intruding on. But Steve pushed on, knocking gently on the door, before cracking it open just enough to see Lucas.
“Sinclair?”
Lucas looked up, clearing his throat as he wiped his wet eyes. “Hey, Steve,” he said, and then repeated the same greeting to you, when you poked your head through the threshold.
You gave him a small wave and followed Steve into the hospital room. Lucas had already replaced the flowers at Max’s table, so you set the fresh bouquet next to the vase, watching the leaves flutter flat against the surface.
“How are you doing?” Steve asked quietly, not quite able to look Lucas in the eyes. He busied himself with straightening the corner of Max’s sheets, where someone had put a wrinkle in it from sitting beside her.
“Same as always.” Lucas exhaled heavily. He mustered a smile but it was sad, empty. His eyes were hollow as he glanced back at the two of you, then down to the girl with fiery hair and skin that was even paler than before.
Steve swallowed, his dark eyes fixated on the young teenager. Absentmindedly, he played with the loose strings of the thin sheets, twisting them around his fingertips until they turned purple. You had an itch to reach out and grab his hands, stop him from fidgeting.
You didn’t.
“The music helps,” Lucas said. You weren’t sure which of you he was talking to—you, Steve, or himself. He pressed a kiss to the back of Max’s hand, and then released it, leaning back in his chair. “At least, I think it does.”
The image of his longing for her made your heart ache.
There was something about Lucas and Max that reminded you, distantly, of you and Steve. You recognized her hardness, the walls she put up, and Lucas’s desperation to break them down, all because he loved her.
Sometimes, it made you feel guilty for being happy, while Max withered away and Lucas yearned for a girl he might never be able to speak to again.
These kids had gone through hell—you’d never done anything half as brave as them. How were you deserving of the love that Steve gave you?
“Max is tough,” you said, diverting your thoughts away from self-pity. “If anyone can make it back, it’s her.”
Lucas smiled, not quite believing you, but appreciative nonetheless. “She’d like the flowers. Those are her favorites.” Then, he tilted his head. “How did you know?”
It’d come up, at one point, back when you were still getting to know one another. Max had asked you if you were the kind of girl who liked flowers. You said you supposed you were. They were pretty, they smelled nice, and Steve liked buying them for you. It made you happy when he was happy.
Of course, you and Steve hadn’t been dating at the time, but the sentiment rang true now.
Max had made a face in return, complaining that it was a waste of money, that Lucas wouldn’t stop buying them for her, and that was annoying because all they did was sit in a vase and die. You’d let her grumble about it, nodding every once in a while to tell her you understood.
Then, she’d deflated, changing her tune. I do like poppies, she’d admitted, they remind me of California.
“I just had a hunch,” you smiled, shrugging as Lucas gave you a nod of gratitude in return.
The three of you sat with Max for a while, exchanging conversation beside her. You weren’t sure how much of your words were reaching her—if any—but it felt like you were helping, in some strange way. Like it would amplify the power of the music, if the voices of you, Lucas and Steve were reaching her too.
Maybe, you were just an optimistic fool.
Your thoughts drifted away as Lucas and Steve’s conversation diverted to the high school basketball team. Steve asked if he was going to keep playing into the next season—Lucas said he still wasn’t sure.
Not that you could blame him. It was so hard to keep a shred of normalcy, these days. Hard to even want to try, knowing that there were bigger things at stake. You felt like you were always on your toes, waiting for the next shoe to drop, for another tear to open up in the earth, another monster to creep out of the shadows.
Yet, you woke up every day, put on your bravest face, and kept pretending. It was nice, sometimes, to act like you were just a regular person, in a regular town, living a regular life—even if that was just a fantasy.
You looked at the clock.
“Oh, shit. I’ve got to get going.” The hospital chair screeched underneath you, but Lucas didn’t seem to mind, even as you cringed at the obnoxious sound. “I’m supposed to be there for Murray’s supply drop—I completely forgot. Can you give me a ride, Stevie?”
You could still make it, if you left immediately. Otherwise, you’d have to call Robin, see if she could get there on time—or maybe Nancy. But then you’d just feel awful for dropping the ball and being an unreliable source when everyone was counting on you.
Steve looked at his watch, already making his way to his feet. “Yeah, of course. What time was he—”
“Stevie?” Lucas perked up, the first real smile of the day, one full of mischief. “That’s cute. Can I call you that?”
You looked over at Lucas, lips parting, before you sealed them completely. Had you really let that slip? Normally, you were so good about keeping any nicknames to a minimum. A frown started to form on your features, apologetic, as you looked back at Steve, who was pointedly not looking at you.
“Absolutely not.” Steve rolled his eyes, pulling his sleeve back over his wrist. “She’s been calling me that since we were kids.”
Lucas tucked his top lip under his bottom lip, cooing at Steve like he was a little puppy. “That’s even more adorable.”
“Whatever,” Steve scoffed, though his cheeks were growing pink as his eyes darted away from Lucas, who was already laughing loudly to himself. "It’s annoying is what it is.”
“Sure,” Lucas said, drawing at out the word. “Bye, Stevie.”
“Sinclair, I swear to—”
“Come on, Steve.” You said, grabbing his wrist before he got too worked up about it. “We have to hurry.”
Steve huffed. “Yeah, okay.”
You apologized to Lucas for leaving so quickly and dragged Steve away, hiding your small, sheepish smile.
III. Mike and El
At some point in the past year, the basement of the radio station had gone from a professional meeting space to a gathering spot for people that couldn’t always see each other.
With Eleven having to keep a low profile, the times that she could be with her friends were few and far between. There were only so many places that Hopper deemed safe—the radio station, under Joyce Byers’ supervision, being one of them.
While you knew the girl was tired of all the secrecy, you couldn’t really blame Hopper for his unending concern. Even though El could take care of herself, he’d lost too much—you’d all lost too much—that nothing was worth the risk anymore.
Still, it was nice to see her lighten up around her friends, the weight of years past lifted marginally off of her shoulders. It was good for El, to be surrounded by people her age, especially ones that could understand some of the things she’d been through. Hopper was a great parent, a positive figure in her life, but he could never be a substitute for the camaraderie she’d gotten from the other children of Hawkins.
You smiled, watching the group of teenagers excitedly talk over one another, as El leaned in with wide, fascinated eyes. Mike was regaling a story from the past week, certainly adding his own dramatic flair, while Lucas and Dustin chimed in, throwing in a few anecdotes of their own.
They weren’t as lively as they’d once been—carefree kids who didn’t know the weight of responsibility and loss—but they were, somehow, still able to find joy in the small moments.
And what more could any of you do, really?
You listened to them talk for a few moments more, though only a few words really sank in, your eyes already beginning to droop from exhaustion. It wasn’t horribly late, but the past week had worn you down, and your energy was draining quicker than you’d anticipated. With so many bodies in such a small space, the heat had become trapped, turning the air miserable and stuffy.
Standing, you began to make an exit, and turned to face the rest of the adults. Nancy, Jonathan and Joyce stood on the other side of the room, deep in a conversation you didn’t feel like intruding on.
It would have bothered you, normally, that you had been ignored, left alone while the three of them carried on. Tonight, though, you didn’t mind. The Byers and Wheelers had been living together for so long now, they were practically one big family—one you weren’t a part of.
“Hey, Nance?”
During a pause in the talking, you called out to your friend, trying politely to ease your way into the group. While none of them minded, guilt flowered in Nancy’s expression as she looked over, eyebrows pinching together.
“Sorry, we weren’t trying to—”
“No, no, it’s okay,” you waved off her objections, offering her a small smile. “I’m just going to go upstairs for a bit. I’m getting hot down here.”
She didn’t look entirely convinced, but reluctantly, Nancy returned the smile and nodded. “Do you want me to come with you? We can leave soon…”
“No, it’s okay. Really,” you said, just as Nancy was rolling down her sleeve to check the time. Lately, going anywhere alone after dark had seemed daunting, so you’d ridden over with her and her brother. “I don’t want to rush Mike. I just need some fresh air.”
“Of course.” Nancy looked back at Jonathan and his mother, and then let the nerves wash off of her features. “Let me know if you need anything.”
You accepted her offer and waved one last time, finally heading up to the ground floor, where it was much quieter. Over the sound of the electronics running, you couldn’t even hear the whisper of voices a few stories down.
The station was empty, lit only by the neon signs and lamps that Robin and Steve had set up for the early mornings. It painted a calming ambience, paired with the low hum of the radio station that had otherwise gone silent.
It had only been a little over a day since you’d seen Steve, trying to balance living your own lives, but you wished he would’ve come this evening. As much as you loved Nancy and the Byers’, you always felt a little out of place tagging along with the rest of them.
Still, they were the only friends you had, save for Steve and Robin, who you tried not to tag along with on every one of their hangouts. Steve had promised it never bothered either of them, and that Robin was your friend too, but you didn’t want to be the type of person that couldn’t be apart from her significant other.
It was nice for him and Robin to have their own time together, too.
They had gone to a movie earlier, plans they’d made long before Nancy had called you about the impromptu arrangements. It must have been over by now, and while you weren’t sure when Steve was planning on getting home, you decided to give him a call.
The phone spun through a few dials, the ring on the other end sounding much louder than usual.
Waiting patiently, you tucked the phone under your chin, flicking through the records that Steve and Robin had recently added to their collection. Most of them were the regular hits, but there were a few less popular ones—ones that you had told Steve you would’ve liked to hear more often.
Softness seized your insides, and you smiled as you thumbed through all the new ones. Steve must have been waiting for a time he knew you’d be listening.
The phone clicked, as someone on the other end picked it up. Steve’s voice reverberated through the line. “Hello?”
You couldn’t help it—the sound made your stomach turn inside out, melt into a puddle of something horribly sweet. God, you never wanted to let him go. “Hi, Steve.”
“Hey, pretty girl.” Steve laughed, like he’d just been waiting for you to confirm his suspicions; he’d recognize your voice anywhere, of course. “Figured it was you.”
Another ridiculous smile split your face. “Of course it’s me. Hope you don’t get calls from any other women this late.”
“Nope just you. And sometimes my mom.” He snorted, amused. “What’s up? You still at the station?”
“Yeah, we—” Then, remembering you’d completely skipped over the question you’d been meaning to ask first, you let your reply die out. “Wait, is Robin still there? Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt—”
“Jesus, don’t be sorry. Makes it sound like I don’t want to talk you,” Steve huffed. You could just imagine his face on the other end, more than displeased by that particular thought. “But, yeah. She just went home. Everything okay over there?”
“Yeah. All good. El seems happier today. They all do, honestly.” You picked up a pen and spun it around on the table. The metallic clip scratched against the countertop. “I like seeing them all having fun together. They don’t get to do it enough.”
Steve made a sound of agreement on the other end of the line. “Are you going home soon?”
“Whenever Mike and Nancy are ready. She’s going to drop me off at home.” You yawned, midway through speaking, the last few words coming out a bit garbled.
“You want me to come get you?” Steve asked, noting your exhaustion. He’d been telling you over and over to go to sleep earlier, but sometimes, it was near impossible. The past few nights had added up, though, making you feel like you could fall asleep standing.
“No, I’m okay. Just wanted to cool down a bit. God, it gets hot down there.”
“Probably doesn’t help when you have a bunch of sweaty teenagers yelling at each other.”
“They’re keeping the volume down, this time.” You laughed, shaking your head. “How was the movie?”
Steve sighed, long and drawn out on the other end of the phone. “Robin liked it. Was a bit too on the nose for me. Bunch of kids looking for the body of a missing boy—fuck that.” He made another sound of disapproval, one that came from the back of his throat. “Next time, I’m picking.”
“Hmm. It sounds like I would’ve liked it.”
“Yeah, you would’ve, weirdo.” Undoubtedly, Steve was rolling his eyes. He took a short pause, before continuing. “If you want, I’ll go see it again with you.”
The offer softened you all up inside. Steve had never really been one for horror movies, but he watched them because you liked them. It was endearing, knowing that Steve had taken down more than enough Demogorgons, but couldn’t handle a few corny jump scares. “I’m not gonna make you do that.”
“What kind of boyfriend would I be if I didn’t at least offer?” Steve scoffed, horrified by the notion. “You think I’m a bum?”
“Well…” You smiled, leaning into the phone. “You’re alright as far as boyfriends go.”
“Whatever.”
You talked for a few more minutes, already feeling yourself beginning to drift off. Steve’s voice kept you awake, but it also lulled you into a sleepy state of calm, and you lost a few of his words to your subconscious.
The watched chimed, alerting you of another hour past. You yawned again.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to pick you up?” Steve asked again. “It’s really no big deal.”
“I’m fine, Steve. Nancy should be right along.” You rubbed your eyes, trying to wake yourself back up. “Do you need me to set anything up here before I leave? Anything you forgot?”
“No, I think we’re good,” Steve said, though he couldn’t have thought long enough to know for sure. “Thanks, baby. Just go home and get some sleep.”
You smiled. “Okay. Whatever you say, champ.”
Steve laughed. “You still coming over tomorrow?”
A noncommittal sound left your throat. “Hm. We’ll see if I feel like seeing you. Which I might not.”
“Uh huh. I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”
You said goodbye to Steve and hung up the phone, just as another presence crept up behind you, one you didn’t notice until they spoke.
“Do you have a boyfriend?”
You jumped, whirling around in the chair as the phone clattered back onto the receiver. Mike stood next to El, who was peeking her head around the corner, the two of them eyeing you curiously. Jesus, these kids were going to be the death of you, always sneaking up on you like that.
“What?”
“A boyfriend?” Mike asked again casually, gesturing towards the phone. “It sounded like—”
“like a boyfriend,” El repeated, nodding with enthusiasm. “Do you have one?”
You forgot how nosy they could be—these two especially. Not that you blamed them, really. They were normally the ones keeping secrets, not the other way around.
Sighing, you looked back at the phone, then at the two teenagers. Mike was looking at you expectantly, while El, with her suspicious smile, seemed to know exactly who had been on the other end of the line.
Did her powers work like that? You weren’t exactly sure of the extent of her mind capabilities.
“Um,” you began, wringing your knuckles together, your joints making a satisfying pop. “Well. I do, but I want to keep it a secret for now. If that’s… okay?”
God, you had to stop letting these kids walk all over you.
To your surprise, they just looked at each other and shared a secret grin. There was no exaggerated I knew it, no push to reveal more details, no questions about who he was.
Those were exactly the kinds of things you would’ve pried for, at their age. They didn’t seem to care.
“Okay,” Mike said, as El nodded promptly. “Cool. We’ll keep it a secret.”
You blinked. “Okay? That’s it?” You almost didn’t believe them. "No follow up questions?”
“Nope, that’s it.” Mike said, just before yawning. “I think Nancy’s ready to go. Are you?”
IV. Nancy and Jonathan
At some point, you’d drifted off, lulled into a peaceful sleep by the glow of the television screen and the hushed whispers of those speaking on it.
You’d thought you’d be able to make it to the end of the movie, but when Steve had passed out with his head on your lap, you’d felt your eyes growing heavy too. The couch cushions molded perfectly around you, the blanket far too warm and cozy, creating a cocoon that made it impossible to stay awake.
After closing your eyes for what had felt like a second, you’d been out like a light.
You weren’t sure how much time had passed when you woke back up—it could’ve just been a few minutes or an entire hour. The film was coming to an end, the climax already having passed and the characters sharing a few parting words before the final song played.
Blinking a few times, you tried to clear the fogginess from your brain and orient yourself again.
Steve was still fast asleep beside you. One of his hands hung off the side of the couch, the other squished up against your hip in an awkward position. He was too tall for the space that was left on the other side of you, and his feet dangled off the arm of the sofa, one knee slightly bent. The weight of his head on your thighs was beginning to feel like a brick.
You’d grown stiff from sitting in the same position for an hour, your body begging you to move. With a yawn, you rolled out your neck, hearing the clicks and pops that resulted from the angle it had rested at, and looked back down at Steve.
He was deep in sleep, his cheek squished against your leg, lips slightly parted as he exhaled softly.
You settled your hand back in his hair, smiling tenderly as you contemplated whether or not you should try to wake him. It couldn’t have been any later than eight; still too early for you to go to bed, but Steve was normally up much earlier than you. Maybe he needed the rest.
But before you could come to a decision, there was a sound at the front of the house, a voice calling out Steve’s name as footsteps approached.
“Steve? Are you here?”
You froze, at first hoping it was just your imagination, but the sounds grew louder and closer. There was someone inside Steve’s house.
“Steve?” you whispered, shaking him gently, your heart thudding in your chest. “Steve.” Despite the panic in your voice, he only let out a soft groan, and dug his cheek deeper into your thigh, swatting you away.
Just as you were about to push him off of you, find some way to defend yourself, you realized that you recognized the voices. You just hadn’t expected them to be here.
“Steve?” Nancy said, coming around the corner. Her eyes narrowed as she adjusted them to the dimness of the room, looking for him. “We just came by to—” She jumped, spotting you as you sat up taller, peering over the back of the couch.
Behind her, Jonathan slowed his tracks, stopping just a foot away, the two of them fumbling for an awkward apology.
It must have been too dark for them to see who you were, judging by how uncomfortable they were.
“Oh God,” Nancy said, beginning to usher Jonathan out of the room. “Sorry, Steve didn’t say he had—”
“Nancy, wait, it’s just me,” you interrupted, voice thick with sleep as you rubbed your eyes. Talking over her reply, you leaned over and flicked on the lamp. “I’m not going to lie though, you guys almost scared the shit out of me. What the hell are you doing here?”
Nancy blinked, mouth slightly agape as her eyes darted between you and a sleeping Steve. Her expression flickered through a series of emotions, unable to settle on just one. She seemed confused—and perhaps a bit relieved. They must have thought you were some random girl Steve had brought home on a date.
You supposed that would’ve made sense why she seemed in such a hurry to get out of there. Most women wouldn’t be happy with their boyfriend still being friends with their ex-girlfriend, but since you and Nancy were also friends, that was sort of the ideal situation.
Jonathan visibly relaxed beside her, and the awkwardness of the situation faded away as he greeted you. You gave them both a little wave, yawning again.
“Sorry,” Nancy shook the conflict from her face and settled on an embarrassed smile. “Did we wake you?”
“No, no. It’s okay. I should probably get going soon anyway. I didn’t mean to fall asleep.” The nap had made you feel the opposite of rested, though. You could’ve fallen right back asleep on the couch. “What time is it?”
“9:00,” Jonathan said, checking his watch, wearing something of a smile as he looked between at you and Steve. “You need a ride home? We didn’t see your car.”
Later than you thought, but that was fine. As long as you left by ten, you’d have enough time to get ready for bed and fall asleep before midnight.
You waved him off. “Steve picked me up, but it’s okay. I’ll just wake him up in a bit. Thanks, though.”
“We just came by to drop off the keys to the van,” Nancy whispered, holding up the set of Squawk keys. “My mom’s getting a bit stir crazy.” A quiet laugh left her throat. “She’s been wanting to get rid of a bunch of stuff, so Steve let us borrow the van. It’s a little easier to haul things in that than any of our cars. I called him earlier, and he said he’d leave the door unlocked for us. I guess he didn’t tell you?”
“He always forgets.” You sighed, rolling your eyes. “There’s a basket by the front door, you can just—”
Of course, Steve decided on that moment to raise his head and pop one eye open. “Did you say something?”
“Not to you, dumbass. Nancy and Jonathan are here.”
“Oh yeah. Forgot they were coming,” Steve said, trying to crane his neck back to look at the two of them. He muttered a brief thank you, and then to your annoyance, dropped his head right back on your lap. In a few seconds, Steve was out again.
You snorted out a laugh, one filled with fondness, as you turned back to Nancy and Jonathan. There was something sappy in their faces, something that you chose not to think too deeply about.
“I’ll tell him you came by. He won’t even remember this in the morning.” It struck you that that might be too intimate of a detail for someone who was just a friend to know, even if you had been friends for almost your entire life.
Then again, the position you’d been caught in was probably more incriminating than anything that had come of this conversation.
Jonathan laughed. “We’ll just put the keys by the door. He’ll figure out we were here.” He turned back to Nancy. “We should get going. Your mom’s probably wondering what’s taking so long.”
“I told her we might be back late,” Nancy said, but sighed anyway, knowing Jonathan was right. Ever since Hawkins had blown up last year, Karen had been a bit obsessed with knowing the whereabouts of her children. Even Nancy. “The van’s back at the Squawk, but have Steve call if anything’s wrong with it. I tried not to mess with anything.”
“I’m sure it’s fine. Thanks for coming by.” You yawned. “See you guys later.”
They waved, bidding you one last goodbye before leaving through the front door.
You dropped your head back against the cushions, closing your eyes.
It stuck you, then, that you should’ve felt awkward about the situation, that Jonathan and Nancy should’ve been more surprised by your closeness than they were. Instead, the conversation was anything but uncomfortable. Perhaps, they’d just come to understand that you and Steve had an unconventional relationship, one that any of your potential future partners would need to understand.
Or, maybe, they thought you were someone just hopelessly in love with her best friend—which was a mortifying thought, but one you were too tired to be embarrassed by. You’d fret over it in the morning.
Instead, you settled back into the couch. Pushing away the humiliation and ignoring the pain in your body, you fell back asleep.
V. Will and Joyce
Pacing back and forth across the basement of the Squawk, you wrapped an arm around yourself and held your hand to your cheek as you worried your lip.
The crawl felt like it was taking forever.
There wasn’t even supposed to be a crawl.
Hopper had gotten sick earlier in the week—infected with something that had him bedridden and Joyce worrying that he needed to see a doctor. Of course, since it was almost impossible to treat a man that had been pronounced dead, Hopper continued to tough it out, and the crawl had been cancelled.
That was, until your idiot boyfriend had decided to volunteer in Hopper’s place.
Sure, Steve was no stranger to the Upside Down, the brutality of the military, or fighting off the Demogorgons, but he also wasn’t Hopper. There were too many things that could go wrong, too many that Steve hadn’t adequately prepared for.
You’d tried to reason with him, but Steve had seen the looks on everyone’s faces—the worry that if they were to miss this crawl, it would be the time that Vecna finally decided to reveal himself. Which was certainly a possibility, but what then? They were just going to leave Steve stranded in the Upside Down to fend for himself against a creature none of you fully understood?
“Are you sure, Steve?” you’d asked him before the two of you left for the station. “Hopper wouldn’t want you to do this. It’s not—”
He’d kissed you, one that lasted just long enough to shut you up.
“Relax. This makes what? Eighteen crawls? Twenty? We’ve been doing this for months, and there’s been nothing suspicious. I’ll be in and out—you won’t even know I’m gone.”
He was stupid—so stupid, but there’d been no talking him out of it.
Or maybe you were the dumb one, for being so anxious about something that had become a routine in recent months. There was nothing exciting about the crawls anymore. Just in and out, with as much time as the military allowed, scouting the Upside Down before returning with absolutely nothing of note. There was a possibility the Upside Down wasn’t even a threat anymore.
Still, you couldn’t erase that inkling of doubt. Nancy seemed so sure that Vecna was still out there, plotting, waiting… What if this was reason enough for him to return? Something changing in your routine, a sign to him that he could catch you off-guard?
Joyce called your name again, and this time, it snapped you out of your anxious pacing. Will had taken her seat manning the walkie-talkie, ensuring that Robin and Dustin still had contact with Steve, while she came over to you.
“Hey,” Joyce said, her eyes soft and full of understanding. “You doing okay, sweetie?”
You let yourself be guided away from the table, not resisting as you took a moment for a breather. Your hands were shaking, your stomach wound in a tight knot—you hadn’t realized how nervous you’d been.
“Yeah,” you said, unconvincingly, your body language betraying you. “Yeah, I’m fine.”
Joyce looked down at your hands, and then to you, a reassuring smile beginning on her face. “Everything’s been fine so far. It’ll go just as planned.”
You chewed your bottom lip, looking away from Joyce and back at Will, watching for any sign of distress on his features. There was none—nothing out of the ordinary, at least. Joyce was right. Everything would be okay.
“Yeah,” you nodded, exhaling heavily, trying to muster up a smile to give back to Joyce. Maybe if you said it enough, you’d convince yourself. “I’m sure it will. There’s just always the what if.”
“I know how you feel.” Joyce said, squeezing your hand. “It’s never easy, but he’ll be fine.”
You opened your mouth, then closed it, your cheeks growing warm as your realized what she’d been insinuating. “Oh,” you said, heart thudding in your chest. Had she meant it like that—that it wasn’t easy to see the person you loved putting themselves in danger? “Steve and I aren’t—”
To your relief, Will interrupted, holding up the walkie-talkie with a smile. It didn’t feel right, lying to Joyce.
The two of you turned to face him, the start of your reply forgotten.
“He made it,” Will said, giving you a look that was so much like his mom, it was impossible to doubt that they were related. “Hard part’s over.”
Maybe that was true, but there were still countless things—non-Vecna related things—that could go wrong. Steve wasn’t exactly know for his stealth, and the last thing you wanted was for him to be caught by the military.
“It was really brave of him to volunteer,” Joyce said, as Will got up from the table, giving his mother her spot back.
You sighed, rolling your eyes while the two of you crowded around her, listening to the radio frequency. “It was brave. And stupid.”
Joyce laughed, though it was hushed, just on the edge of an exhale. “There’s a fine line between the two of those things.”
“Yeah, well. Steve’s got enough of both of them to go around.”
Except Steve wasn’t stupid—not really. He was no genius, and there were times when he didn’t think things through, but he just wanted to be useful. He knew the he could do that by stepping into Hopper’s role, so he’d jumped on the opportunity to run head-first into danger.
“Sorry,” you said, after a brief moment of silence, the crackling of the radio your closest companion. “I shouldn’t be so worked up about this. Hopper does it all the time. I guess the rest of you have just been at this a lot longer than me, you’re probably used to it.”
“Are you kidding?” Will looked up, a small laugh escaping him. “Do you realize it’s my mom you’re talking to? She’s never gotten used to it.”
“Oh, hush.” Joyce said, but her expression betrayed her, and you could tell you agreed with him.
When Steve finally got in the Upside Down, left to his own devices and away from the military, he called for you over the radio.
Joyce and Will both turned to you, knowing smiles on their features.
Trying not to give anything away on your face, you swallowed and took over the walkie-talkie. “Yeah? What do you want, Harrington?”
“Remember that time I spilled my blue slushie all over your mom’s new blouse?” Steve asked casually.
You frowned, pinching your eyebrows together. That was so long ago—1974, maybe. You and Steve couldn’t have been more than eight years old.
“I remember. My mom was so pissed she didn’t say a word on the way back to your house,” you laughed, shaking your head. Steve hadn’t stopped apologizing the entire drive home, until your mom finally broke and said it’s fine, Steve, I can always get a new one. “What’s that got to do with anything?”
“It doesn’t.” Steve snorted, and a surge of static came over the radio, interrupting part of his speech. “I just passed the gas station and thought of it.” He paused, for just a few seconds, before continuing, “And I need you to quit worrying for a second.”
You started to object, but you didn’t get a chance to speak before the other people on the frequency interrupted. You’d almost forgotten they were there at all.
“Can you two quit flirting so Steve can get on with the search?” Robin said over walkie-talkie. “We don’t have all day.”
“I second that,” Dustin followed quickly after.
“I don’t see you—”
“Hey, Steve,” you interrupted, before him and Dustin could get bicker any further. “I’m handing it back over to Mrs. Byers. Focus.”
“Yeah, listen to your—” Robin began, before a pained yelp left her throat—most likely Dustin—and her radio cut out.
The crawl carried on.
At some point, you found yourself back on your feet, pacing until Steve had successfully found his way out of the Upside Down. As expected—there had been nothing. No sign of Vecna, no unusual Demogorgon activity, hardly a trace of anything otherworldly. Another bust.
You were relieved, though, that it had been as easy of a mission as it was. For two hours, you’d anticipated the worst, only for everything to go according to plan. You couldn’t have gotten any luckier.
Will and Joyce stayed with you at the Squawk, waiting until the van—and Steve—returned. There was still adrenaline racing through your body, and you chewed at your nails, trying to expel the nervous energy. The evidence of it still lingered, shocks of electricity that traveled up your body, making your hair stand on end.
Finally, you could hear the obnoxious motor of the Squawk van pull into the lot, just outside. The three of you went to greet the noise, relief and love thrumming through your body.
Steve was talking with Robin as he climbed out of the car safe and sound, not a scratch on him. When both of his feet landed on the ground, he tugged his hand through his hair, disheveling the already loose tendrils.
Despite the low stakes of the crawl, you’d never been so happy to see him.
Without thinking, you ran out the doors of the radio station, jogging the rest of the way to meet Steve. He turned, just as you threw your arms around his neck, pulling the two of you together in a close embrace.
“Hey,” Steve said, sneaking a quick kiss to your temple. He hugged you back just as tightly, digging his fingers into the space between your shoulder-blades. “Did you miss me?”
“I hate you,” you said, quietly, into his chest. “I shouldn’t be this worried for you.”
Steve laughed, his entire face lit up with a smile. “Maybe it’s because you love me.”
“Shut up,” you said, but your expression matched his when you pulled away—giddy and full of so much emotion. “I’m glad you made it out okay. Where’s Dustin?”
“Him and Lucas caught a ride back with Nance. I think they planned something at the Wheelers’ house.”
Before you could reply, Robin leaned out from the passenger’s side, grinning at you and Steve. “Aren’t you two cute? I wish I had a camera.”
Jonathan, who was climbing out from the driver’s seat, came around the front of the van and grinned. “Too bad I don’t have mine.”
“Don’t have your what?” Will asked, as him and Joyce caught up with you, the door of the station swinging shut. He glanced between you and Steve curiously, focusing on how little space there was between the two of you.
As if on a reflex, you took a small step away from Steve. Will diverted his eyes, and glanced back at Jonathan, sharing a secret look with his brother before they both broke into smiles.
Suddenly, you felt as if you were on the tail-end of a joke that you didn’t know the punchline to. You shifted uncomfortably, staring at Robin in a desperate attempt to diffuse the awkward tension, which Steve was none the wiser to.
“My camera,” Jonathan said, throwing an arm around Will. “Robin was saying she needed it for something.”
“Oh, it’s not important,” Robin brushed it off, before she was struck by a hilarious revelation, and she grinned at Steve, eyes darting back and forth between him and Jonathan. “Wait. Didn’t you—”
Steve groaned, before whirling on her, his eyes narrowed. “That’s old news, Robin. No need to bring that up again.”
“So that wasn’t just gossip then?” she asked, intrigued. “Noted. Did you ever take up photography, Steve?”
“No,” Steve’s lips pulled into a thin, unamused smile. “Any other hobbies you wanted to ask about?”
“Well,” Robin said, leaning against the van, deep in thought. “Since you’re asking…”
Steve nudged her, just enough to knock her off-kilter, and she laughed, letting the question die.
Joyce, who often indulged your conversations without having a clue what was going on, interjected. “Do any of you need a ride? Will and I are going back to the Wheelers’—”
“I’ll take one,” Robin said, pushing herself off the van to stand beside the family of three. “If you don’t mind. It’s a little out of the way.”
“Of course not,” Joyce said to Robin. The six of you spoke for a while longer, before Joyce turned, once again, to face Steve, a wistful sort of smile on her face. “Hop would be proud, Steve. Although I can’t say he’ll be too thrilled when he finds out you went in his place.”
Steve laughed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Well, now we’ve got another successful crawl in the books. That’s all that matters.” He shrugged, before sticking his hands back in his pockets. “I’ll happily go back to our original roles next time, though.”
Her eyes crinkled at the corners, another laugh escaping Joyce’s throat. “You two drive safe. Be careful getting home.”
“We will.”
You watched the four of them head towards the car and drive out of sight, before Steve turned back to you, pressing a much more passionate kiss to your lips.
Your eyes widened, caught off-guard, before you leaned into it, lips curling into a smile as Steve cupped your cheeks.
“What was that for?” you asked quietly when Steve pulled away, pressing another kiss to your forehead.
“I’m glad I made it back, too,” he said softly.
+ I. Murray
As always, Murray had come with a truckload of items to fulfill each of your personal requests, which had become something to look forward to since the quarantine started.
Dustin, as usual, had a laundry list of items, and it was rare that Murray could ever find all of them. The rest of you had smaller requests, perhaps not any easier, but just a few things here and there. Sometimes they were serious, used to help you in your fight against Vecna. Other times, they were personal things the town no longer got, since the stricter laws allowed less goods to come into Hawkins.
It was rare that you asked Murray for anything—you’d never felt entitled to it.
Which was why you were surprised when he reached in the back of the truck and pulled out a full, heavy box to give to you.
“Here,” Murray said, dropping the box from the truck to the ground. It landed with a heavy thud at your feet. “For the love birds.”
You looked back at the box, then at Murray, surprised to find him staring directly at you. You’d expected someone else to step forward and pick it up—Nancy, perhaps, maybe even Hopper. But when you looked around your small circle, they were all, very indiscreetly, looking at you.
“Oh,” you said, kneeling down to flip through the contents of the box, trying to ignore the feeling of eyes on your back. “But I didn’t ask for anything.”
“It’s a gift,” Murray said, watching as you crouched down to open the flaps of cardboard. “An early one. For a birthday, or maybe an anniversary.” He shrugged, the sides of his lips curling into a grin. “Whatever comes first.”
The box contained a few stacks of books and VHS tapes, most titles that you knew well. Your cheeks burned as you shuffled through them, growing warmer as you read each one. Anna Karenina. Casablanca. The Great Gatsby. The Graduate. Romeo and Juliet. Lady Chatterly’s Lover.
“What’s in there?” Steve asked, leaning over your shoulder as he tried to get a good look at the titles. “Books?”
“And movies,” Murray said, sly as a fox. “Ones that fit a certain subject matter I thought the two of you might enjoy.”
“Huh?” Steve’s posture changed, realizing that Murray was playing his typical mind games. His eyebrows knit together as he grew defensive. “Am I missing something? Why does no one ever tell me shit?”
“You don’t want to read them to find out?” Murray laughed, sharing a sideways glance with Nancy, who was biting the inside of her lip.
“Not a huge fan of reading.” Steve crossed his arms over his chest, irritated.
“We can tell.”
Steve started to argue, but you cut him off with a sigh, closing the box back up. The look that Murray had shared with Nancy, who certainly had read or watched everything in the box, told you everything you needed to know.
You stood, brushing the dirt off your pants. “How long have you known?” you asked, resigning yourself to your fate. If this was the moment you told everyone about your relationship, so be it. It’d been long enough, anyway.
“Wait, is there a special clue in the box? Even you understand?” Steve said to you, throwing his hands up. “What the hell. Can someone please tell me what’s going on?”
“Jesus, Steve,” you said, putting your hand to your forehead. “It’s about—”
“Steve, we all know that you two are together,” Dustin interrupted, his expression flat, as he spit the words out, hard and fast. “We’ve known for a while.”
You and Steve were both stunned into silence, as you gawked back at the teenage boy.
“Wait,” you said, standing straighter, the contents of the box forgotten. “All of you know?”
None of them seemed surprised in the least, nor did they say a word as you stared at each of them accusingly. How was it that you’d been trying to keep this a secret from all of them, and yet, they were the ones keeping the secret from you?
Your shoulders slumped. “For how long?”
“Well, I figured it out back in…” Dustin thought out loud, drumming his fingers on his chin, “December, I think. Of last year. You came to pick me up from school and Steve kissed you in the car. I walked back inside and waited a few minutes.” He laughed, like it was obvious.
You couldn’t even remember that. It’d been so long, and such an inconsequential moment in the grand scheme of your relationship, that it'd become a lost memory. Yet, it had been the first time that Dustin had any concrete proof that you and Steve were romantically involved.
And he’d said nothing.
“You’ve known for that long?” you asked, frowning.
“I’d suspected it for a while,” Dustin grinned. “But that’s when I knew for sure.”
“I’ve known the whole time,” El spoke up, shrugging. “I told Mike. We kept it a secret, like we promised. But then Dustin told us—”
“Hold on Dustin told you?” Steve said, his hands on his hips. “No one said anything to me.”
“Well, actually I told Lucas first,” Dustin interjected, laughing a little as he exchanged a look with the other boy. “He can keep a secret better than Mike.”
“Hey.” Mike frowned. “I can too keep a secret.”
Dustin ignored him. “Then, Lucas and I told Mike and Will, but Will didn’t really believe it at first. He was sure you were just good friends.”
You were relieved you hadn’t been so obvious to everyone, but when you looked over at Will, he seemed a bit embarrassed that he hadn’t caught on sooner. You gave him an appreciative smile.
“Of course, Mike told Nancy, and then Nancy told Jonathan—”
“Jesus Christ,” Steve said, rubbing his temple.
“I didn’t tell anyone without beating it out of Robin, first,” Nancy said proudly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, as you and Steve shot a look at your other friend. “I wouldn’t just spread a rumor without evidence, and she did say you wanted to keep it a secret, so I didn’t tell anyone besides Jonathan.”
Robin raised her hands in surrender, “Nancy was scary. Plus, I knew the two of them wouldn’t say anything. I kept part of my promise.”
You sighed, dropping your head, before speaking to Jonathan. “I’m assuming you told your mom?”
Jonathan rubbed the back of his neck, a soft, sheepish laugh leaving his chest. “Sorry.”
Before you could wrap your head around the situation, one last voice cut in. The final person of the group.
“Joyce told me.” Hopper said dismissively, as if just to clear the air, seemingly not caring an ounce about the situation. “I think I was the last to know.”
Obviously, you were the last to know, because no one had told you a thing. “Right…” you said, looking back at the man who had started the whole conversation. “And Murray? How long have you known.”
He seemed pretty pleased with himself, delighted to share his deductive instincts. “It was obvious you two wanted each other, but I realized back in October you’d gotten to home base… Which I assume was the first time?”
You wrinkled your nose, not liking your personal business being discussed so flippantly. October had been when you and Steve first confessed your feelings for one another, feelings that had been building for years, but you didn’t need Murray to know that. “Everyone knew this entire year? And you didn’t say anything?” you frowned, looking at Steve, who seemed just as perplexed. “Why?”
“We figured you had a good reason,” Mike said, tilting his head, just a hair, as he smiled. “We wanted you to tell us.”
“Most of us, at least.” Lucas said, rolling his eyes. “Murray got tired of waiting.”
Your heart warmed at the confession. They’d all grown up a lot, in the past year, and you’d barely even noticed. A small sound, something between a laugh and a sob, escaped your chest as you became overwhelmed with emotion.
“It wasn’t a good reason at all,” you said, quietly. “I just—it never felt like the right time to bring it up, and I’m so new to the group…” your words trickled off as you shrugged, feeling embarrassed, as a self-deprecating laugh escaped you. “Well, I didn’t know how anyone would take it. You’ve known Steve for so long, and—”
“That’s why you didn’t tell us?” Dustin said, before looking over at his friends. “Guys, we should’ve just stuck to the plan.”
“You’re the one that told us not to, Dustin!” Mike said, throwing up his hands.
Dustin sighed, tilting his head back to look up the sky. “Yeah, well, I was trying to be a good friend—”
“Hang on,” Steve said, and it was then that you realized how close you were standing, drawn together like two magnets. Now that your secret was out in the open, there really was no good reason to pretend otherwise. “What plan?”
Lucas grinned. “We were planning to set you two up, somehow. You’re not exactly subtle, Steve. It was pretty obvious you were in love with her.”
“But then, El and Dustin said you were already together, so we gave up on it,” Mike said, sharing a look with El, who seemed thrilled that this was all being revealed. You wondered if she’d carried the knowledge of your relationship for long, or if she’d told Mike immediately. You guessed it didn’t really matter, now. “We should’ve gone through with it, just to get you to confess.”
“You’re really not that great at hiding it, anyway,” Dustin said, shrugging. “It was getting hard to pretend like I didn’t know, especially since you’ve been so obvious lately. Any idiot could see you’re together.”
You supposed you’d never really tried that hard to hide it, and these kids were much smarter than the average person. You should’ve known they’d figure it out, sooner than later.
“I can’t believe you idiots never said anything,” Steve said, pulling Dustin’s hat over his face, a gesture that was full of affection. “You’re usually much worse at keeping secrets.”
That was true. Still, some things didn’t add up.
“Wait.” You wrinkled your brows together, looking back at Dustin. “Why did you always ask me why I was at Steve’s, then?” you said.
“I was trying to get you to tell me. I thought it’d make it obvious I knew,” Dustin laughed. “I think you were just in denial.”
That made sense. You frowned, looking at El. “And that’s why you and Mike asked me about—the boyfriend?”
El nodded, an affectionate, small smile plastered on her face. You hadn’t gotten to know her well, not yet, but it meant a lot, that even she welcomed you into the group.
Relief washed over you, as you realized not a single person in your little crew of misfits was disappointed. In fact, they all seemed excited that the truth had finally been revealed, happy, even, that you and Steve were together at all.
Which explained a few other things—it made sense why Lucas made such a big deal about your nickname for Steve, why Will and Joyce had been so understanding when Steve went on the crawl, why the two of you were always sent off on your own when you split up, why they always asked Steve where you were when he went places alone, why Nancy was relieved when she figured out that it was you at Steve’s house and not a stranger…
You felt like an idiot for not realizing it earlier.
“You really don’t care?” you asked, wrapping an arm around yourself. “I thought—”
Dustin threw his arms around you, catching you off-guard in an affection embrace. It was just a quick hug, before he pulled back, embarrassed. “You’re one of us, now,” he said, eyes crinkling around the corners with his smile. “We want you to be happy, and you make each other happy.” His cheeks grew pink, and, as if realizing he was being far too sappy, finished with, “Besides, Steve has terrible luck with girls. I was getting tired of watching him embarrass himself.”
“Shut up, man,” Steve rolled his eyes, as you began laughing,
“It is pretty sad to watch, Steve. You’re lucky I gave you a chance.”
You smiled.
Steve's eyes softened at the pure adoration on your features. He threw an arm around your shoulders, pulling you close into his side before pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “Yeah, I am pretty lucky, I guess,” he said, before turning back to Murray, ignoring the grins of everyone around him as he held you close. “You got anything else in there?”
Murray went back to digging through the trunk, and the focus drifted away from the two of you, back into the contents of Murray’s haul.
You'd never realized how heavy, sad, even, keeping your relationship from the rest of them had made you feel. Now, you felt so much lighter—the weight of a secret that never really had to be a secret lifted off your chest. The love of everyone around you took its place, warming you all over.
For all the fears you had about never being enough for the group, never valuable enough, just the girl that Steve dragged around everywhere, you should’ve realized that they saw you as much more than that. That they didn’t let him bring you around because he loved you, but because they loved you too.
With a smile, and tears at the edge of your lashes, ones you held back, you squeezed Steve's hand, conveying all the unfiltered emotions in your heart.
And even though you'd left Hawkins once, searched for something bigger, desperate to get out and away from this town, you'd never doubt again that you were right to come back. Being here, with all of these people, with Steve, even in the middle of a quarantine—you wouldn't trade it for the world.
You were home.
thank you so much for reading! reblogs and comments are always appreciated <3
You're so busy people watching, that you don't notice the way Steve Harrington looks at you.
pairing: steve harrington x reader
words: 5.1k
contains: seaon four steve, fluff, friends to lovers, steve harrington pining, workplace romance, flirty steve, use of y/n, suggestive language, reader is oblivious, steve drunkenly calling reader a pet name, robin being a menace, very small amount of reader x eddie munson (platonic!!) mention of being sick from alcohol (emetophobia warning).
authors note: first Steve fic! teeth rooting fluff to dip my toes in but believe me, the smuts are brewing
to be added to my taglist
“I think they’re on a first date,” you observe quietly as Steve taps on the table top across from you.
“Hm?”
You roll your eyes. Steve was definitely checking out the girl a few tables away—Tracey McEvoy with whom he had went to school with, apparently visiting for Spring Break—and not paying attention to the conversation.
“I said,” you begin, looking at Steve pointedly before nodding your head towards a couple on the other side of the diner, “I think they’re on a first date.”
Steve looks over then.
“What makes you so sure it’s a first date?” He asks, looking back at you, brows furrowed, “they’re like fifty.”
You shrug, a wistful smile on your face, “I just know.”
Steve smiles a little, corners of his mouth twitching. You did this a lot. People watched. Made up stories about strangers and imagined their lives outside of that moment. Steve had thought you were just nosey at first but then he came to understand that you just liked stories. That you couldn’t not think about stranger’s lives. That you knew you would never know these people and that made you curious. You wanted to know. Wanted to know every heartache, every first day at work and every bad date. And so, you made up stories. You were probably wrong at least ninety per cent of the time, but you always sounded so sure that Steve always believed you. Well, most of the time. The story of the man who had definitely just committed a murder was a little far fetched.
“Alright, little miss voyeur, eat your pancakes before we’re late,” Steve says, nodding towards your half-eaten stack, “again.”
You roll your eyes but do as he says.
Sally’s was your go to haunt with Steve before a shift at Family Video. Robin would come along sometimes but the smell of eggs tended to make her heave and so—it was just a you and Steve thing and had been since you started working together nearly six months ago.
You're barely five more mouthfuls of pancakes before Steve finally asks—
"Why do you think it's their first date?"
You smile. You knew he'd ask. You had made Steve curious over the past few months with this particular quirk of yours. He wanted to know what you had come up with. No matter how wrong you may be.
There's a clatter as you drop your cutlery onto the table before turning to look back over at the couple.
"First of all, that's a new dress she's wearing. My mom just bought the same one. Plus, I can see the tag is still attached—you know, in case it doesn't work out, so she can return it. Secondly, he's got this nervous twitch. Keeps fixing his watch. If they've been on multiple dates, why would he be nervous?"
Steve mulls it over for a few moments. "Because they're having an affair and this is their first outing?" he offers with a slight smirk as he leans forward, invested now as his honeyed brown eyes flicker from yours and then back over to the couple. "I mean, it is breakfast. Who goes out for breakfast for their first date? Clearly, they went to pound town last night and he's married. Maybe he didn't tell Miss Label Still Attached and then she’s convinced him to go out for breakfast. And now he's shitting himself thinking someone he knows will spot him."
You look at Steve for a long moment, your eyes narrowing until you were glaring at him. He laughs. Sips his coffee before he leans forward, dipping his finger in the maple syrup on your plate.
"You ruined my story," you scold him, trying to swat his hand away but his middle finger was already dripping with the golden sticky liquid.
"Didn't," he replies, licking his finger clean and smiling at you nonchalantly. "Made it better. Your stories lack spice, (y/n). That couple last week you thought had just been to their twelve week scan? He was definitely was thinking about tearing her clothes off—"
"Steve!"
You're scolding him but you're laughing. But this was so Steve. Always lowering the tone. Always making you laugh.
"Sorry, (y/n) but I know a horn dog when I see one," he replies, winking over at you.
"Because it's like looking in a mirror?" You offer, brow raised and trying not to smile.
Steve looks back at you and returns your smile, “something like that."
It's quiet then for a few moments, you finishing your pancakes and Steve trying to get the waitress' attention for the bill.
"You know, you're good at reading people," Steve says gently after handing the waitress a twenty before you could even blink. You want to argue but you knew it would end with Steve shoving his fingers in his ears and humming loudly. You decide to let it slide this time. Next time maybe, you’ll be quicker at grabbing the bill before him.
"You really think so?" You ask him, tugging on your denim jacket and standing up from the booth.
Steve nods as he also stands up. His fingers brush over the denim as he adjusts your collar. Your eyes flicker down to watch him do so.
He ducks his head down, those warm eyes meeting yours before he smiles, "I know so," he murmurs back before pulling away and patting your head. "Now c'mon, before Robin decides to put on Piranha Part Two as the movie of the day. Again."
You were good at reading people. But you didn't see that Steve hadn't been looking at Tracey McEvoy. You were so busy watching everyone else that you didn't notice how Steve had been looking at you.
There was never a dull moment working in Family Video. Just this morning, Robin had managed to knock over an entire display and nearly broke her arm. Funnily enough, that was not the first time that had happened.
Another thing about working in Family Video? Steve was always attracting attention. Like the pretty blonde who had just walked in. Usually, Steve would entertain it. He had no shame in casually dating while shoving his feelings towards you to the side. But right now? Steve couldn't care less about that fact she was batting her lashes at him and leaning forward so he could plainly see her cleavage. No—he didn't care about that. Not when Eddie Munson was talking to you and had been for the past fifteen minutes. Especially when you were laughing at him and smiling and—
"—so," the blonde says to Steve, twirling a strand of silky hair around her finger. "Are you busy on Saturday? We could go out and then go back to my place and—”
"Busy," Steve mutters, not taking his eyes off you and Eddie—who was apparently having a difficult time picking between renting either Videodrome or The Hunger. "Super busy."
Steve knew logically that you and Eddie were just friends. He knew that. You and Eddie went way back—had been close since you begrudgingly tutored him in English. But when you were laughing with Eddie like that? Steve was wondering if you had ever laughed with him like that before.
"Dude!" Robin scolds Steve two minutes later, smacking him on the back of the head.
"Ow!" Steve exclaims, rubbing the spot where Robin had hit him with a frown. "What was that for?"
"You being a dummy!" Robin retorts as she gestures towards the window where the pretty blonde was getting into her car, dejected over Steve's disinterest. "What is wrong with you? That girl was flirting with you and she was a total babe!"
Steve blinks dumbly.
"What girl?" He asks because honestly? Seeing you and Eddie had made him momentarily forget about the whole ignoring his feelings for you thing. Made him forget other women existed outside of you.
Robin looks at Steve in disbelief and shakes her head. But Steve pays no mind to her. Instead, he takes the opportunity to back over at you. You were still talking to Eddie—at the counter and ringing up his eventual selection of Videodrome.
Robin notices. She doesn't say anything and just—observes. She notices how Steve's jaw clenches. How he stands up a little straighter. How his eyes are locked on the way Eddie leans over the counter to talk to you.
And Robin being Robin? Well, she couldn't help but meddle. Just a little.
"You know," Robin hums as she moves to stand right beside Steve, smiling a little as she does so. "I think (y/n) might like Eddie."
Steve looks at Robin so fast that she was sure he had gotten whiplash.
"What?!" Steve blurts out. "How do you know—"
Robin shrugs, a wry smile on her face. "Just...womanly instinct."
Steve knows that Robin is teasing. That she doesn't know a damn thing about whether you liked Eddie or not. But Steve? Well, on the outside he might appear as an overly confident and at times cocky guy but deep down? Deep down he was convinced that he didn't deserve a girl like you.
He had been an asshole in school. Had been an asshole to you at times, even. It was only when Nancy Wheler had come along, turned his world upside down (literally) and then broke his heart that he had realised that things he thought were important? Popularity, the status quo, his damn BMW—well, they didn't matter. Not one bit. He had let his want for the superficial things cloud his judgement. He became friends with the wrong people—became swept up in the wrong crowd.
These days however? Well, he didn't really give a damn about being popular. But he did want to be wanted, still, even now. He knew people needed him—Dustin needed him to take him to the arcade, Robin needed him to cover her shifts sometimes and the party needed him when the Upside Down came knocking but did anyone really want him? He wasn't convinced. And so, Steve was always the first to jump into danger. He needed to feel useful. Needed that validation still. And so, when it came to you, Steve did not have the guts to make a move. He was certain you deserved better.
But seeing you with Eddie...
"You look awfully distracted, dingus," Robin observes, thumping Steve on his arm to get his attention back.
Steve blinks, apparently lost in his own thoughts. He had spent so long just standing there thinking that Eddie had now left. You were humming to yourself—Steve imagined it would be an ABBA song. You were always humming along to ABBA.
"I'm not," Steve mumbles, his eyes flickering back over to you. You're rewinding tapes—watching an elderly couple browsing the new releases. Steve can only imagine the story you were already cooking up. "Do you think she really likes Eddie?" He asks Robin quietly, his warm eyes flickering between Robin and you.
Robin, being an agent of chaos that she was, just shrugs. "She might," she says, picking up a random tape and considering it. "She might not."
Steve opens his mouth to press Robin further, but your voice carries over the store.
"Steve! Can you help me with the—"
You didn't even have to finish your sentence before Steve is borderline sprinting across the store towards you.
"Oh Stevie," Robin murmurs to herself with a shake of the head. "You got it bad."
The next time you and Steve were at Sally's? Steve couldn't stop wondering about you and Eddie. He couldn't help it. Robin had successfully planted the seed and Steve? Well, Steve was making a mental note of every time you mentioned Eddie. It wasn't a lot, really. But Robin had got to Steve. Got to him bad.
You had just ordered pancakes (again) and Steve an omelette when Steve decides—fuck it—and asks:
"So, you and Eddie," Steve begins with an easy smile. "What's going on there?"
You blink. Genuinely confused. So confused, in fact, that you start to laugh.
"Eddie?" you say, still laughing a little. "You think—what? That I like Eddie?"
Steve shrugs—like it was nothing. Like if you said yes, you did like Eddie, that it wouldn't have cut him open. That it wouldn't feel as painful as a broken arm or being beaten by Russians again.
"Yeah—I mean, Robin seems you think you might."
"Yeah well, Robin is also convinced that Elvis isn't really dead," you point out, deeply amused by the situation.
"Yeah, well in Robin's defence—that customer who said she saw Elvis in a gas station in Hawaii was pretty convincing."
You roll your eyes, though you're still laughing. And when the waitress comes with your pancakes and Steve's omelette, he feels a little lighter. Just a little.
"So, you don't like Eddie?" He asks, needing the clarification as he pokes at the ham and cheese omelette on his plate. Eyes on you.
You look back up at Steve then, midway through a mouthful of pancake, your eyes meeting his. You take your time to chew and swallow your food before finally, you shake your head.
"No," you tell Steve. "No, I don't like Eddie. Not like that."
The relief on Steve's face is noticeable. His features soften and shoulders physically relax.
"Good," he breathes out before he really thought about what he was saying and then? He panics. Eyes widen. Fork dropping from his hand. Omelette pieces flying across the table. "I didn't mean—I just—I meant like—good because um, you know, Eddie's a—he's a drug dealer! And you wouldn't want to be involved with a drug dealer. You know? You could get in trouble and I’m going to have you bail you out and—"
But he stops talking when he realises that you weren't listening. Too busy watching a couple a few tables over—trying to encourage their baby to eat some scrambled eggs. But the baby? The baby was having none of it. Slamming her tiny fits onto the table and playing with the eggy bits instead.
"I bet she's named after Bonnie Tyler," you say and Steve? Well, Steve just hums in agreement and shoves some more of his omelette into his mouth. Because for once he was grateful that you had been too busy people watching to notice his little slip up.
Steve was usually (always) the one to give you a lift. It wasn't that you couldn't drive because you could. It was more that your car was...well, it was just a little bit unreliable. Just last month, it had broken down outside of the movie theatre and before that one of your wheels had nearly pinged off after you dropped your mom off at work.
And so, when Robin had called you one Friday night and asked you to pick her and Steve up from a party, you knew it was because they really, really needed you.
You parked up a little way down the street before getting out of your car and following the noise of the party. Usually, you would have joined Steve and Robin for a party like this but you had needed to babysit your little brother. And so, you had spent your Friday night watching He-Man before your mom had come home.
The party was loud. You could feel the bass from the outside. But thankfully, you didn't have to go inside and search for your friends. Because the moment you step into the front yard, someone very drunkenly yells your name.
You turn and—oh god.
Steve Harrington was drunk. Very drunk.
And he was stumbling towards you with a concerned but tipsy Robin by his side. You barely have time to react before Steve is wrapping his arms around you and pulling you into a hug so tight that for a few moments, you can't breathe.
"Stevie, stopppp," Robin tells him, tugging his arm. "You're going to crush her."
"M'sorry," Steve slurs as he pulls away, though his hands remain on your shoulders as he looks down at you. You see his face is flushed, his eyelids drooping a little and that lazy, drunken smile Steve got. "Just sooooo happy to see you, pretty girl."
He says it so casually that you almost miss it. Almost. But your cheeks burn as the words slowly hit you and you have to tell yourself that Steve was drunk. He didn't have a clear mind. Wasn't thinking straight.
"Yeah, we're really happy to see you (y/n)," Robin chimes in. "Stevie here threw up—"
"Shhhh!"
"What have you guys drank?" you ask, smiling a little at the situation (because it was objectively funny) and ignoring how Steve's fingers were beginning to squeeze your shoulders. How he had called you pretty girl like it was nothing. How it made your stomach feel fluttery.
"The better question is," Robin replies, giggling. "What haven't we drank?"
"Oh god," you groan as Steve hums and start playing with your hair. The action makes you shudder. "If either of you throw up in my car—"
"I won't," Robin insists, hands up in surrender before glancing at Steve. "Not sure about Harrington here—"
"—M'good," Steve mumbles, smiling down at you in a way that plainly told you that he was not good. Not in the slightest. "S'good cause you're here."
Your face burns. You decide to ignore that.
"Okay," you say, putting your hand over one of Steve's and giving him a gentle pat in an effort for him to let you go. He doesn't. Just takes your hand instead. "Let's get you guys home."
Getting Robin to your car was much easier than Steve. Because Steve? Well, he was like Bambi on ice. Stumbling about every two seconds, distracted by for sale signs ("Hey! (y/n)! Robin! Let's go halves on this one!") and a neighbourhood cat ("come here sweet little kitty"). In the end, you had to throw his arm around your shoulder and wrap yours around his waist and practically drag him over to your car.
"Oh, not this death trap!" Steve huffs as soon as he sees your little red VW Beetle. "Why don't you drive—"
"I'm not driving your car," you cut across him before he could even think of suggesting such a thing. "I'll drive you back here to pick yours up tomorrow—"
Steve groans loudly. Like a toddler throwing a tantrum. You wouldn't have been shocked if he started to stamp his feet.
"Shotgun!" Robin yells, racing up to your car with surprising speed for someone who was as tipsy as she was.
And so, you have to wrestle a drunken and now giggling Steve into the backseat of your car by yourself. Robin is too busy in the passenger seat riffling through your cassettes to help.
When you eventually do manage to get Steve in your car, after having to do his seatbelt for him, he smiles at you.
"Thanks, pretty girl," he murmurs back in a drunken whisper. Your breath hitches a little when you see the look in his eyes. And then—
He leans forward and throws up in the backseat of your car.
"(y/n), again I am so sorry—"
"—you've said that about thirty times already, Steve. It's okay."
"No, it's not. Your backseat smells of vomit and I'm pretty sure I got some in your hair too. So let me pay for your seats to be cleaned or—"
And this was how your morning at Family Video was going. Steve was incredibly hungover and full of shame—which had lead him to apologise to you profusely ever since you picked him up to collect his car from the party.
"Steve, really. You don't have to pay for anything," you insist, though you had a feeling that may have to get your backseats reupholstered because Steve was right—even after you had spent a good two hours early this morning scrubbing and cleaning the seats—your car did still in fact, stink of liquor induced vomit.
Steve takes the VHS tapes from your hands, places them on the counter and looks at you—hands on his hips in that way he only ever did to Dustin Henderson or his friends when they would come in and try and rent an 18.
"(y/n)," he begins in a borderline stern voice. "I'm the one who threw up in your car. Let me pay for it."
"But—"
Steve silences you by pressing a finger to your lips and it takes you by such surprise that you do in fact stop talking.
"Let me pay for it," he says softly, tilting his head down a little bit to meet your eyes. "Please."
Your eyes move between his and despite your stubbornness, you find yourself nodding. And Steve? Well, he smiles. Despite the hangover, he couldn't help but feel a little smug when he realised you were letting him take care of you (or rather your car, but still). And well, taking care of you was one of Steve's favourite things to do.
He drops his hand then, pulling away to run his fingers through his hair. Trying to ignore how soft your lips had felt on his finger. Trying to not imagine how it would feel if it had been his lips instead of his finger—
"So, throwing up my guts aside," Steve says as he casually picks up your tapes and hands them back to you. "Did I do anything else embarrassing? Break dance in the street? Recreate that scene from Footloose again?"
He expects you to laugh because usually you would. Usually the mention of that time Steve had gotten so drunk he had tried to recreate one of the dances from Footloose made you burst into laughter. But you don't laugh instead, you flush. Steve notices because of course he does. He notices everything. Everything about you, anyway. He notices when you change your lip-gloss shade. He notices when you get a haircut. He notices when you get a new top. When you paint your nails a different colour. He notices when you're distracted. When you're sad. When you're quiet. And you flushing? Oh, he definitely noticed that.
"Oh no," Steve says, shoulders tensing slightly as his mind went through everything he could have possibly said to you whilst drink. The possibilities ranged from 'your ass looks great in jeans' to 'I had a dream once that we got married in Paris'. All options were equally horrifying. "Wh-what did I say? Was it bad?"
You shake your head quickly because no, it wasn't bad. Not at all. It was sweet. And confusing. Mainly confusing.
"No Steve," you tell him gently. "It wasn't it—you just—you kept calling me pretty girl," you say, laughing a little so he hopefully wouldn't notice your flush deepening. But he does. He notices.
"Oh," Steve says, returning your easy laughter. On the inside? He's planning a quick escape route. Lunch? He couldn't say that at ten in the morning. Keith wanted to see him? Maybe but then he may have to actually interact with Keith to sell the cover and well—nobody willingly talks to Keith. "Yeah—I—um, sorry about that. If I, um—made you uncomfortable or anything—"
"—you didn't," you interject quickly. Too quickly. You swallow—look away for a moment, bottom lip between your teeth. Steve pretends that the sight isn't burned into his irises.
"It was—it was...nice." You finish.
Steve swears the Upside Down could have swallowed Hawkins whole and he wouldn't have noticed a damn thing. Not when you were looking as shy as you were right now. Not when you just admitted that him calling you pretty girl had been 'nice'. Not weird, not creepy, not stupid but...nice. And so, Steve decides to be brave. Which, of course he was. He had fought demogorgons, demodogs, been captured and tortured by Russians—he was as brave as they came. But being brave in front of you? That was different. But he needed to try.
"Well, it's true," Steve murmurs, shrugging as he looks at you. "You are pretty."
He doesn't miss how your breathing quickens. How you look away from him so he doesn't see how your cheeks burn.
"Thanks?" You reply finally with a small, barely there smile.
For a moment—you two look at each other. In the middle of Family Video. You, for the first time, noticing the way Steve looks at you—the way he's always looked at you when you hadn't noticed. And him—he's just looking at you the way he always did. Like you were the only thing that made sense to him. Like you were the eighth damn wonder of the world.
And then—
The bell above the door chimes, signalling the arrival of a customer. The moment between you and Steve breaking. He's the first to look away. To greet the customer while you stand there—wondering what the hell you had missed while you had been too busy people watching.
The next time you two go to Sally's, it was a Saturday. Which meant it was busy. Really busy. Usually, this gave you ample opportunity to watch various people around you—the diner abuzz with all sorts of people. So many stories in one building. But today? Today, you're looking at Steve.
The way he fidgets by tapping his thigh when he orders for the both of you, almost like there was a part of him that was nervous to do so. How he always sips his coffee as soon as it arrives, even if it's still too hot. How he opts for BBQ sauce today with his omelette instead of tomato like he usually did. How he looked at you when you talked. How he looked at you when you weren't talking. How he looked at you when you laughed. How the brown jacket he was wearing hugs his arm. How his hair fell so fucking perfectly it was almost annoying. How handsome he was.
"So," Steve says, leaning back against his side of the booth and stretching out his arms. You notice how his shirt rides up a little. You notice the happy trail. "What stories have you cooked up so far?" He asks you, brow raised and intrigued.
"What?" You ask him dumbly before it clicks. "Oh."
You're quick to recover—making up something about how the man a few tables over looks a little sad and you posit the idea that he had may have been fired since he was wearing a business suit. Steve latches on the story and soon—he's dreamt up this entire narrative that this guy had been fired for an inappropriate relationship with his secretary. That he was here because he didn't know how to tell his wife and kids that they wouldn't be going on holiday to Hawaii this year.
You're nodding along but really? You're staring at the bit of BBQ sauce on the corner of Steve's mouth. You wonder, for a brief moment whether you had been staring at his lips to begin with or whether it was the sauce that had caught your eye in the first place. You had a feeling it was the former and the thought of that makes your stomach churn.
"Alright, what's going on with you?" Steve queries, leaning forward, elbows resting on the table and looking at you carefully. "Usually, you're all over this—what's wrong?"
The question makes your heart pound. Because you weren't entirely sure what was wrong. You felt the same you just were noticing things about Steve—one of your closest friends and your co-worker—that made your heart beat a little faster. And maybe, just maybe, you wanted him to call you pretty girl again.
"Nothing's wrong," you say finally after a few moments. "I just..." you pause, casting around for a way to say what you wanted to say without scaring him off. "You said...the other day you said I was good at reading people."
"Yeah?" Steve responds, evidently a tiny bit bewildered as to why you were bringing up that small comment he had made a few days prior. "You people watch all the time, of course you're good at reading people."
"See, I don't think I am," you say as you begin to fiddle with a loose piece of fabric on your jumper. "I—I notice small moments between strangers, sure but—I'm probably wrong like, half the time."
"And...I'm just thinking of all the things that—that I've missed."
Steve looks at you for a long moment, brow furrowed. "Like what?"
"Like...like how you always drive me to work even if you don't have a shift that day," you say, eyes meeting his across the table.
Steve shifts in his seat. Coughs into his hand. The other reaches for his coffee cup.
"How you always let me put my favourite films on but argue with Robin about hers—"
"Because she has a god awful taste in films," Steve mutters, ears red as a he sips from his still-hot coffee. "Yours are better."
"How you let me borrow your cassette tapes even though you know I won't bring them back."
"—oh, I plan on billing you for them. One day. Soon."
You're starting to smile a little, unable to look away from the guy across the table from you who you wished you had noticed sooner.
"And how you love my stories even though most of them are bullshit."
Steve shrugs. "I like the way you see the world."
You bite back a smile, pushing aside your half eaten plate of pancakes and leaning across the table a little.
"Can I do something?" You murmur quietly to him.
Steve nods and—after a moment's hesitation—he leans forward to meet you halfway.
He is sure you're going to kiss him. So sure, in fact that he closes his eyes.
But then, he feels a wet fingertip wiping the corner of his mouth. He stomach sinks as he opens his eyes.
"You had um, BBQ sauce," you tell him in a whisper.
"Oh," he says slowly, face flushing in embarrassment at his hopefulness, "thanks."
You almost let him pull away. Almost pull away yourself. But then—
Your hands cup his face and you're pulling him towards you, leaning uncomfortably over the table as you press your lips to his and kiss him.
He tastes like coffee and there's still a hint of BBQ sauce there but—as he kisses you back—slow and one of his hands carding through your hair—you don't mind one bit. Not when kissing him felt as good as a summer's day or as thrilling as a damn rollercoaster.
Steve is the first to pull away, just to look at your face. Just to remind himself he wasn't dreaming.
"Glad you finally paid attention to me," he murmurs.
"Shut up, Harrington," you say. And he does shut up—in the best way possible, with another kiss against your lips.
Hi! I’d love to request prompt “I hate you.” “Why are you here then?”
Aged-up (18+) — Reader is Dustin’s older sister. She dated Steve during their junior year and they were deeply in love, but the breakup was messy and ended on really bad terms. Now they’re forced to see each other more often, bc they wanna help out dustin but old feelings resurface, and Steve gets noticeably jealous when he sees that she has a growing connection with Eddie. Lots of unresolved tension, angst, jealousy, and emotional confrontation… ending in smut.
“I hate you.”
Steve Harrington x Henderson!reader
Word count: 9K
Prompt: “I hate you.” “Why are you here then?”
Synopsis: Your little brother is in trouble forcing you to come back to the town you’d fled from. And back to your childhood ex who you couldn’t hate more. 18+!!! [NO UPSIDE DOWN AU]
[a/n: this ended up being way angstier than I planned, so that’s on me, I just can’t help myself. In any case I hope everyone can still enjoy, but please let me know what you think x]
[MASTERLIST]
There’s never good news to be had from a call in the night. You learned that lesson young.
A call in the middle of the night is how you found out that your grandma had taken ill when you were ten. Another when you were seventeen to inform you that your high school boyfriend had cheated on you.
And now, a call to your studio apartment in the city at twenty-four.
It doesn’t wake you with a gentle pull. It's a yanking drag of ice cold dread. The shrilling is like pins and needles across your sleep bitten eye-lids. But you know you’ve got to answer.
Even half asleep, you’re lunging across the glaciers of sheets in the bed you sleep in alone to frantically pull the receiver upward to your ear. You’re only vaguely aware you’re alive because the sweaty clam of your palm is making it hard to keep the smooth surface of the phone from slipping down your hand.
The crackle on the other end is a stabbing reminder that you aren’t dreaming and you have to wince away before you can accept the information being relayed to you.
“Hello?” You croak down the line, hoping that someone had called the wrong number. Willing that some other schmuck was getting bad news.
“Yo.” The masculine voice says tentatively back.
Eddie.
Your heart sinks and you push forward to grab the edge of your alarm clock to confirm that it was in fact 2am. Meaning that nothing could be alright. Eddie would know better.
“Is Dustin okay?” You plead back to him.
You don’t need to ponder what he could be calling about. Your sweet baby brother, who you’d left back in the town you grew up, had been struggling of late.
Eddie was a nice guy that had taken him under his wing in high school. And even though he was closer in age to you than him, you appreciated it. Because it meant that someone could keep you updated on him. Someone who wasn’t Steve assface Harrington.
You hear the wrecked sigh back. “Yeah he’s okay. I’ve just had to peel him off the bathroom floor of the Hide-out though. He’s puking his little guts right now.”
You’re pushing yourself upright in a sitting position, trying to rub the last crusts of sleep from your eyes, cataloguing the troubling information he relays back to you.
“He’s nineteen? Who’s serving him?”
“I don’t know, man. It’s Hawkins. It’s not big like Indianapolis, they need the money.” Eddie replies. “This isn’t the first time in the last couple months, dude. I’ve tried to put off calling you but I’m drowning here.”
Dustin and his friends had suffered a tragedy of sorts in the past year. You’re gnawing the nails of your fingers thinking about it again.
Jane was a precocious neighbourhood kid that the local sheriff had taken in, and she’d passed away in the fall of their senior year.
It had been tantamount to the worst thing that had ever happened to the kids you’d watched grow up. When you went back for the funeral you’d known that it had torn a hole through Dustin. He’d turned down a pretty vibrant scholarship. Had stopped taking your calls. Had stopped doing much of anything other than sleeping and crying.
You’re pushing yourself up before you can think about it, grabbing at discarded jeans from the floor.
“Should I come out to you?” You ask rigidly, already having decided you’d be going anyway.
“I mean… yeah?” Eddie weakly answers. “I dunno, dude. I’m out of my depth here. I’ve had to call Harrington to come help. He’s just so angry.”
You stop short, one leg out of your jeans to mentally eviscerate Steve's image from your head.
You burn through memories of first times, shoulder kisses and locker notes.
You’re scoffing on instinct. “What’s he going to do? Give him tips on how to be an unbearable cunt?”
You can hear fumbling on the other end, you assume Eddie’s moving out of ear shot.
“You’ve not been here. He’s out of control. Since Max, Lucas, and Will left for college it’s been like free falling. I need the help.” He whispers back.
You try to ignore the pull of guilt that the person helping out with your little brother is your ex.
You’d conceded the battle over their strange bond. They’d gotten so close when you’d dated all those years ago that it had seemed like more trouble than it was worth to tell them to stop seeing each other.
But it didn’t stop you from kicking the wing mirror off Steve’s car every time you found it parked outside your house before you moved away.
It was like a game. You’d do something vengeful to Steve and he would pretend not to notice. And your penance for giving in to your rage was not demanding he leave Dustin alone.
“Alright, alright. I’ll relent. It’ll take me an hour to get to you. Is it worth leaving tonight?”
You hear the sound of a violent retch down the phone, and wince.
“I’d say so. Me and Steve want to speak to him when he wakes up tomorrow. I think it’d be best if you were here.”
You swallow back the lump in your throat that you’d have to be in the same room as your ex as soon as an hour from now. You hang up without a further word and think over the years that lead up to your departure.
The things you try not to think about most of the time. And it’s like you’re right back there.
You walk out your front door in 1991, right into your bedroom in ‘83.
–
When Steve had made indications that he was into you in junior year it had been hard not to feel like you’d won some kind of prize.
He seemed so untouchable back then. He still kind of does. But in school it was another level. You weren’t ‘cool’ or whatever you want to call it. You kept mostly to yourself freshman and sophomore year. You had friends but it wasn’t like sitting on fancy cars surrounded by people praising you for merely breathing.
He’d sat next to you in homeroom for two years, without so much as glancing at you. Then one day he spoke to you like he’d never not. There had been a doubtful tiptoeing at first, that became simple giggles and before you knew it you were getting groped in the back of his Beamer between classes.
The first couple times you’d figured that’s all it was. So you kept coming back every time he left you a locker note. Steve wasn’t the type of guy you turn down. Dirty trysts in a car were good enough for you.
But it became so much more. More than you ever could’ve anticipated.
You knew that you loved Steve during your first fight. It had clawed its way up your back, and weighted itself down on your chest while you cried to him that you didn’t want to be a secret. You wanted to be Steve’s girl. You wanted people to know that he liked you. Even if it was just enough that he’d make out with you every day after school.
He never laughed or sneered at the idea that people would find out. Just curled himself around you to whisper pretty promises. And when he followed through, you were a goner.
He held your hands in the hall, scooped you into his chest against lockers to tell you that you looked nice each morning. He ignored the questioning looks of his friends. For a while it felt like he was it for you.
For a while it was safe to surrender to the title of Steve Harrington's girlfriend. Enough that you let him take your virginity. Enough to bring him into your home to befriend your brother. Let your mom nudge you under dinner tables when he’d kiss your cheek and tell her that dinner was delicious.
The summer before senior year was spent making whispered plans of moving away together. Away from the authoritative eyes of his dad that never seemed to be too fond of you distracting his only son. Cicadas would soundtrack long sweaty nights of kissing in his bed. And when he told you he loved you, you didn’t think he was lying. You didn’t wonder if it was all an elaborate farce.
Enter Nancy Wheeler.
You didn’t consider yourself to be a suspicious person. Much less of kind eyed Nancy a year younger than you. So when Steve was paired in a project with her, you didn’t let the possessive monster seep out of your pores.
You didn’t bite his head off when he’d miss dates or let his eyes linger on her just too long in the halls.
You didn’t demand he tell you why you’d found her sweater in the back seat of his car. Or why he never told you looked nice anymore.
You just waited for the moment the unlikely fantasy you’d been living in would be snatched away from you like you always secretly thought it would.
It was Carol who delivered the heinous final blow. You suppose she’d become a friend. In the only way a nasty person like Carol could be. She’d fidget with your clothes if they weren’t sitting right or suggest snidely that you wear a different shade of lipstick. But you were the devil she knew.
She’d called you at midnight on a Friday, from a party you hadn’t been invited to. There was no polite tact. Just mumbled yells over the sound of Duran Duran to inform you that Steve had bedded the priss and it was all anyone in the senior class could talk about.
When you’d arrived back at school on Monday, unslept and swollen from the violent sobs your mom had held you through for two days straight, it wasn’t long before the nasty eyes that had followed you till lunch had found you hidden behind the gym– where Steve had followed to tell you that it really wasn’t you.
It was him. It was her. It was timing. It was right.
He was in love with her.
You were too nice about it after. It wasn’t until weeks later that the resentment built before turning into fiery hatred.
Senior year felt like a decade. When you got into college you left, and you never looked back. You only saw Steve in passing after. He never spoke to you. The message had been clear that you didn’t want him to when you told him to fuck off pretty abruptly in the school hall three weeks after the break-up.
You replay the car crash over and over in your head the whole drive back to Hawkins. The fact that the last words you’d said to him had been venomous. How you never thought you’d have to speak to him again. And now you were going to be caged in with him like a wild animal.
You know he ended up being a high school coach. And that Nancy Wheeler had dumped him in favour of college. You silently cheered her on when she did. You never blamed her for his bad nature and wandering eye. She was never cruel to you. She too had been enamoured by the myth that was king Steve.
Besides you had moved on with your life. Sort of moved on? You don’t let him affect you in the profound way he used to.
But you’ve never trusted anyone again. Not really. Not the way you’d let yourself with Steve. Nothing vulnerable. Nothing real.
Relationships were something to dip your toe in. But it was never allowed to be deep water diving like it had been with Steve. No one had ever known you like that again.
Sometimes you worry that no one ever will.
You try to keep the rock hard wall that you meticulously built up. Remind yourself that you’re going there to help your brother– whose problems dwarf yours. But when you see the truck you know is his parked in front of the trailer in Forest Hill’s, you’re already rigid with boiling rage.
Rage that he held space with your brother. He is who gives him worldly wisdom. He saw your mom more than you did. All because you were too stung by his violation of your good nature to come home for longer than a weekend.
Why would you want to come back to place that turned you into the avoidant, unattached woman you are now. Especially when everyone just loved to remind you how much they love Steve. Lovely Steve. Handsome Steve.
Perfect Steve.
It was his fault that you struggled to get Dustin to open up to you. You know Dustin blamed you for the breakup. And you know he values Steve as a formative male figure, more than anything. Everyone in school knew. That was bad enough. Your pride could only take so much, and admitting to your mom and brother that he’d cheated on you was about all you could take.
So, you don’t. You let them dote on sweet Steve.
But you knew the truth. You knew he never wanted you. He wanted girls who his dad would invite to dinner parties. He wanted permed, pressed women with roses in their cheeks who lived in the nice houses on the edge of town.
Another mark to your name was that you’d left. Dustin was understanding– to a point. And when you didn’t move home the second his childhood friend passed away, he made it clear just how disappointed he was to have you as a sister.
So you’d always be the bad guy. That was your cross to bear. Even when it was Steve who had decemated the implicit trust you’d placed in him as the only person you’d ever truly loved.
You’ll be cordial, you’d decided on the drive. Downright polite– when Dustin’s eyes eventually dance over the two of you in the morning. You’ll work with Steve to convince your brother not to ruin his bright future. But Steve wasn’t going to get the energy it would require to pretend you don’t hate him when no one else was around. That was something you would never give him.
It’s three in the morning when you kill the engine, finally back in Hawkins. The drive was short but it felt like hours.
Reminiscing does that to you. Sometimes you find yourself looking back fondly at the year you were with Steve– the penance for that is that you punish yourself for twice as long with the reminder of all the pain you felt because of it.
There’s a small light glowing from the kitchen window of the motor home Eddie lives in. You imagine the two men crowded inside drinking coffee to keep themselves awake for the intervention in the morning.
You resolve that your small win is getting to see Eddie.
You’d grown more fond of him than you’d thought. Fond in the sense that when you come home the few times a year you bother, you’ll sit in his living room to talk all night. Mostly he’d tell you about this girl he’d been in love with since school. You’ll tell him that loves a suckers game anyway.
You don’t have to knock at Eddie’s place. You are past that now. You walk in like you always do but you’re quiet in your steps in fear of waking Dustin before you have ample idea of what you were walking into.
As predicted they sat opposite each other, staring at a coffee pot on the counter like if they take their eyes away, they’ll fall into a deep fitful sleep.
You catch the back of Steve’s head before he turns around– you assess the broad back he now had. You pointedly don’t gaze long enough to catch his face. Instead you let yourself be engulfed in the deep sigh and wilting hold of your dark haired friend.
“Missed me?” You ask, latching onto his tall frame.
You hear him chuckling softly above you. “Man, you have no idea.” He pushes you back to inspect. You catch the crinkling around his eyes to suggest he’s missed you at least a bit. “Your hair's different.”
Reflexively you flinch up to smooth it down. “I was bored.” You confirm.
Eddie smiles back at you tenderly. “I like it.”
There’s a deep clearing of a throat from behind you guys. You shut your eyes on instinct to pepper waves of calm down yourself before you interact with Steve. Eddie’s sympathetic when he shuffles back to his half full mug, no longer obstructing your view of the handsome man who had once been your beautiful boy.
You expect him to look contrite, considering he had been nothing but a horrible stain on what should’ve been a simple school career. He doesn’t though. He’s covered in whispers of barely concealed contempt.
“Steve.” You bite out bitterly.
“Didn’t know you guys were so close.” He says finally, chewing around the words like they were sharp glass. You raise your brow back at him.
You see Eddie pushing himself forward into his elbows on the kitchen top. He looks deeply uncomfortable. Almost as uncomfortable as you felt.
“Problem?” You ask.
He’s breathless in his snort back. “No, I just would’ve thought if you had time to correspond with Eddie– you’d have time to check in with Dustin once in a while.”
There’s a sour taste rising in the back of your throat. He’d said the exact thing you’d been avoiding facing down in your own head. No one wants to acknowledge their shortcomings. Much less when yours were all seamlessly entangled with your own pathetic anguish over a high school heartbreak.
“Who’s fault is that?” You mutter snidely, ignoring the pang of hurt that grazes over the deep trench of his brow. “How bad is it guys?”
You can see the shoulders of the two men before you sag in a defeated quake. It was the elephant in the room no one wanted to talk about, even though it was what you were here for.
It’s by and large to do with the fact that no one wants to think about a kid dying. And that’s what was causing the brother you once knew as so care free to bend and break.
Steve’s rubbing over the bridge of his nose in what you can only assume is an effort to soothe his own shaking nerves. “He’s a mess. To cut a long story short.”
Eddie pushes up abruptly. “That’s putting it mildly. He needs a reminder that there’s more than drinking yourself silly out in the world for him. Me and Steve can’t fix this alone. We’ve tried it all. We think the shock of seeing you here will be the wake up call he needs.”
You’re nodding to yourself, trying to swallow back the beating of your heart in your throat. “Is he asleep?”
“Finally.” Steve confirms, arms coming round to cage his chest. “We were just waiting for you to get in. We don’t think he’ll be up for a while. He was pretty messed up. We were gonna split for the night and reconvene in the morning.”
It makes sense. You guys would be better resting before trying to crack down on him. You don’t know if you could bear it if you stayed up all night waiting.
“He’s in the spare?” You ask Eddie.
“Yeah. As far as I’m concerned, after all the puke he’s got on the bed, it belongs to him now.” The curly haired man grimaces back at you. “You crashing with me?”
You’re starting to nod back at him. You didn’t really feel much like exposing to your mom the nature of your visit. There was no way you could creep into her house just before dawn without being faced down with a CIA level interrogation.
There’s a slam of a mug on the counter and you find Steve looking straight at you. There’s an air of grievance– outrage at the suggestion. But you can’t for a second imagine why.
“Why aren’t you going back to your moms?” He rudely interrupts.
“It’s three in the morning. Have you met my mother?” You stiffly pinch back. “Besides I always crash here the first night I’m back in town.”
Steve doesn’t say anything back to you. But you can see the deep crimson rise up his neck, and the various clenches of the muscles around his pronounced jaw.
He doesn’t give much in the way of why he feels the need to pry so deliberately into where you sleep at night all these years later. But when he swipes his jacket to announce he’ll see both of you at nine, it doesn’t go unnoticed that he roughly shoves past Eddie, or the purse of his lips as he shuts the door behind him.
The breath that escaped you once the door had shut behind him was a wrecked exclamation. Eddie’s whistling slowly.
“That was awkward.” He says finally, as if it was a surprise.
The huff back you give him is sardonic. It was an understatement. You weren’t expecting his icy tone. Especially because it was him who was the problem to begin with.
“I don't know why I expected him to be any different. Steve’s an asshole, what’s new?” You say pushing into the living room to sit finally.
Eddie remains standing but pulls his hand up to his chin to rub it inquisitively.
“You’ve been gone a while. He’s been… different? I thought we were friends now, but I kind of got the vibe that he was mad at me there.”
You pull your eyebrows together at the idea that Steve would be friends with anyone as controversial as Eddie. He’s the town pariah. ‘The freak’ Munson.
“I wouldn’t take it personally. I seem to bring out the worst in him. He never cheated on Nancy so it must be exclusive to me.” You mutter pulling the throw blanket over your lap.
“He still asks Dustin about you.” Eddie says slowly, like he was thinking about the implication of his words.
Your heart stutters once in your chest. That’s not something Dustin ever mentions on your calls. Not that you guys ever spoke about Steve really. Your calls these past couple years were fleeting– mostly just Dustin asking when you’d be home next, and you disappointing him once more when the answer was further away than he’d prefer.
“Probably just commitment to the bit that he was the good guy in our break-up.” You reply clipped, trying not to show that it made you feel something.
Eddie’s shaking his head when he makes his way over to sit on the armchair next to you. “It doesn’t seem like that to me. I think Nancy dumping him and not going to college like everyone else did humbled him. Maybe this would be a good time for you to bury the hatchet?”
The look you give him is downright dirty. You had zero intention of burying anything with Steve, not unless it’s a tire iron in his windshield. You know it’s petty to still feel this strongly about it years later, but it wasn’t a small relationship to you the way it seemed to be to Steve.
You thought you guys were going to get married. Have kids. The whole nine yards. You spoke about it. Even if you were young, it meant something to you. If he’d broken it off with you before he started up with another girl you’d feel differently.
It would’ve hurt like a bitch, and you’d have still mourned the what-ifs but at least you’d feel like you could trust someone again after. Now when a man tells you he likes you, you look for all the evidence that would suggest he doesn’t. And if you look for something hard enough, everything is a sign.
Everything is a clue that you’re just as unlovable as Steve made you feel.
You shake your head at him with a wild breeze. “I’m here for one thing– one. I’m going to get Dustin’s head right, and then I’m leaving.”
Eddie shrugs weakly with a smile. “Maybe you’ll change your mind.”
You don’t bother to reply because you highly fucking doubt that.
–
You and Eddie don’t bother staying up later than that to talk. Neither of you were in a particularly good mood. When you wake up you could hear the scratch of Steve’s tires on the gravel outside. You’re too anxious to fathom having to be the one who sits around talking to him in the meantime before everyone awakes so you skid across the trailer to Eddie’s room to rouse him from his deep sleep.
You have to smack him over the head with a pillow to get him to shift himself upward.
“Dude. Get. Up.” You hiss from above him. “Steve’s here.”
He’s whining from beneath the mounds of cotton pillow. “So what? The doors unlocked, he’ll just walk in. Go away.”
You grunt back at him but don’t bother arguing. You can already hear Steve shutting the trailer door behind him. You’re mentally still slapping Eddie with a pillow but you relent to slink back to the sitting room where Steve is making himself at home.
If last night was anything to go by, it wouldn’t be a pleasant conversation, but even you are shocked by the look he gives you as you depart from Eddie’s room. You give him the cold shoulder all the way to the kitchen, and you can feel his eyes burning into your back as you go.
Your skin is pricking under his watchful eyes while you brew a coffee.
“Is there any reason where you’re staring at me?” You ask pointedly.
Steve leans back and breathes out shakily. It sounds aggressive. You can see the tension in his arms when he pulls them up behind his head.
“I’m just wondering how long you’ve been fucking Munson.” He finally spits out.
You’re taking a large gulp of coffee while the question ricochets off of you. The confusion translates in the choking on the warm liquid. It catches on the dryness of your throat, causing you to push forward and cough through it.
You have no idea where the question would’ve come from. Or why he thought it was appropriate for him to even ask.
When you get your air back, you’re pushing the mug down on the counter with a clatter. “Excuse me?”
Steve is completely pushed forward now, elbows dug into the material of his jeans. “You heard me.”
“Yeah, I did. I’m just trying to recall when my sex life was any of your business.”
He scoffs back at you sharply. “Your sex life was only my business for a long time once.”
The heat that rises up into your face is uncomfortable. It sits glazed over the swell of your cheeks.
“Do you call Nancy to ask about who she sleeps with these days? Or am I special?”
The second it leaves your lips you regret taking it there. You can see the aftershocks roll in. You hate Steve but you weren’t here to hurt him. It wasn’t worth the energy. The look he gives you back shows you that you’ve more than just offended him. You’d wounded him.
“How long are you going to punish me for a mistake I made when I was seventeen?” He demands, standing up finally. “I’m sorry that I’m not jazzed at the idea of watching my ex-girlfriend sleep with my friend.”
You back yourself up until your butt is hitting the sink behind you. Steve is barely any closer to you but you still feel like you need to protect yourself from his domineering presence.
“I’m not punishing you, Steve.” You croak. “Also, not sleeping with Eddie. But even if I was, it would be a fraction of the cruelty you showed me when we were together.”
You can see the sag hit his shoulders, and the whimper of quiet relief when he digests your words.
“I was a stupid kid. Do you not think I regret what I did? I wake up everyday with the reminder of the monumental mistake I made.” He says, pushing forward to stand almost in the kitchen space. “You’ve never given me the chance to say sorry. You’re just gone.”
There’s no place to move yourself to put distance between you and Steve. You wish you could.
“I gave you Dustin. That’s about all the forgiveness I have for you.” You say firmly.
His brows pull together in biting confusion. “You gave him to me? You were needed here. You are needed here.”
You can feel the sweat pulling at the back of your neck from the twitching anxiety under your skin. The room was feeling tighter around your shoulders, like it was closing in on you.
“Why do you think I’m here? I came here to see him. To help. I don’t need to make amends with you. I don’t want to. I just want to help my little brother so that I never have to see you again, Steve.”
Neither of you hear the footsteps, but you certainly hear the croaking voice from behind Steve.
“Why would I need help?”
You and Steve swivel to find the sickly white face of Dustin standing in the now empty sitting room. Eddie must have heard everything too because he’s battering through, pulling jeans on in a hopping jump from behind the figure of Dustin.
This isn’t how you wanted to start today. You wanted it to be more peaceful than Dustin coming through to you and Steve fighting. But it was just another thing to add to the growing list of regrets you have toward this place.
“Dustin…” you whisper weakly, pushing past Steve to grab at your not-so-little brother.
He cries into the hold you pull him into on impact, wrapping his hands around your shirt to hold you like you’d leave if he didn’t. This was the first time you’d seen him since El’s memorial, and he looked worse today than he did then. You just feel better having him in your arms again.
“I’m so glad you’re here.” He weeps, muffled into the fabric his face is pressed in.
You don’t realise you’re crying until you try to speak, but it comes out in uneven wobbles. “I know, my love.” You pet his head soothing sweeps. “Tell me what’s been going on, yeah?”
–
The four of you talk all morning, and well into the afternoon. Despite all the disturbance it’s brought up for you, coming home was the right thing to do. Eddie and Steve were correct in their assumption that bringing you in would serve as the wake up call Dustin needed.
It’s decided in the mid hours of the day that you guys have talked about the situation inside and out– it wouldn’t be a simple fix. Dustin was going to need time, and you were happy to give it to him. If that meant staying for a couple weeks then that was just the way the cookie crumbled.
You take Dustin back to the house you grew up in at four. You needed to see mom, and Dustin needed a shower. Badly needed a shower.
You and Steve don’t acknowledge each other when you leave. The distraction of Dustin waking up had tempered the will for you to argue with him that day. You’re just thankful to finally be in your house, where your bedroom lay unchanged from the burdens of time.
It’s the same as it was the day you left. Suspended uniquely in time. Your posters remain unchanged, teddies still uniformly rowed, comforter the same burnt orange colour. You don’t need to check but you know there’s a shoebox under the bed filled with items belonging to Steve. It’s comforting that there’s somewhere in the world that doesn’t change, no matter the pulling weight of time.
Dustin and you set up camp in the den, bundled under thick blankets to play a movie that you’d both seen too many times. But you’re just happy to have eyes on him. To know for this one moment he’s safe and well.
Neither of you talk about his drinking, or the pain he felt. He doesn’t ask when you’re going home again. It feels like how it was before the world got big for both of you.
“So you and Suzie broke up? Over the phone?” You wonder aloud, chewing the edges of a fruit roll up.
The shoulders of your brother shake in a shrill laugh. “We broke up two years ago. Did you think we’d just be long distance for the rest of my life?”
You shove at his shoulder weakly. “I don’t know? It happens– some people marry their high school sweetheart.”
“You didn’t.” He whispers pointedly.
You chose to ignore the stabbing in your chest at the reminder, dumping the rest of your snack on the table– suddenly no longer very hungry.
“Evidently not.” You confirm.
“Do you still hate Steve? Is that why you guys were arguing this morning?” The curly haired boy inquires, turning round to lean his back against the arm of the chair. Seemingly studying your face for the micro-expressions you can’t conceal.
You’re sighing before you mean to. “It’s complicated, Dustin. I just wouldn’t go out of my way to be around him, if it were up to me.”
He’s nodding slowly back, like he was dissecting the information intricately.
“Because Steve cheated?” He asks finally.
Your mouth falls agape that he’d worked it out. Or maybe that he’s always known. Maybe little Mike Wheeler had told him. Or he’d heard the whispers of town gossip. Not that any of it mattered. It wouldn’t change that he knew.
“Who told you that?” You turn to push yourself in a more prone position.
“Steve.” He says simply.
It’s hard to comprehend a world where Steve is repentant enough to tell your little brother what he’d done. He never even used the words himself when he dumped you. You’d never heard Steve truly admit what he’d done was wrong. Today was the closest he’d came, but he always managed to turn it around on its head. Saying things like I was young, and stupid. You were young then too, and you’d never have done to him what he did to you.
“Yeah.” You confess eventually. “I find it hard to be around him because of that.”
“But you know he’s sorry, don’t you?” Dustin questions, looking up at you with eyes that make him seem younger than he was now. They were hopeful. Naive.
“How do you know that he’s sorry?” You press.
“We talk about it a lot.”
Your stomach heart is sinking slowly through your torso.
“Well, that’s not appropriate, Dustin. He shouldn’t be talking about that. Especially not with you.” You argue back at him, evasively avoiding the line of questioning about Steve’s repentance.
You can’t really allow yourself to see Steve as a human who can make mistakes like everyone else. If you can understand his actions, it makes it harder to stay angry and hateful towards him. And without those feelings, all that’s left is a gaping wound that you don’t know you could ever fill. You sustain yourself on fires of hate that burn within you.
Without the fire, you’d freeze.
“He needs someone to talk to.” Dustin insists. “I know it might be too much to ask but could you please try to speak to him before you go this time? I think you both need it.”
The look on his face cracks your chest in two. The silent pleading of him makes it hard to find any response other than a weak nod of approval. And when he smiles, going back to watching the movie, you know that you’ll have to honour the promise. You cared too much about him not to.
–
You spend two weeks in Hawkins trying to pull Dustin back from the brink of total self destruct. He doesn’t fight it, which you appreciate. It's pretty evident to you that he was crying out for help. The drinking was a wail of anguish for someone to show him the path out of the pale waves of grief he’d been drowning in.
You take him to a support group out in the city for young people experiencing loss, and you cater to his every whim. If he wants to drive at midnight and listen to purple rain on a loop through the stereo– that’s what you do. You try not to worry that this could’ve been fixed much sooner if you’d made the hours journey home more often.
You don’t see Steve again in the next two weeks. Eddie stops in for visits, sometimes joining you guys for lunch. But there’s no sightings of the hazel eyed boy. You suppose he was giving you space so you could focus on Dustin. But he doesn’t know that the first request he’d given you upon your arrival home was to call a truce of the Cold War between you both.
You consider not doing it. You truly do. The closer you get to needing to go back home for work– PTO days running scanter and scanter with each passing evening– the more you try to talk yourself around what he’d asked. You’d lay in bed, playing different scenarios around in your head.
Sometimes in your head you go out to him, hear his apologies and lie through your teeth that you forgive him. In others, you finally slap him straight across his smug face. It always comes to the same thought though. You just not going out to see him at all. Simply getting in your car on the final day and leaving him in the rear view just like you did all those years ago.
It isn’t until you drop an earring under your bed, and find yourself face to face with the box you’d packed away under there that you decided you would speak to him.
The shoebox is exactly where you remember leaving it, except it’s now covered in a thin layer of dust collected from years of being untouched. It catches a breath in your throat. As if being pulled by some force you drag it out to inspect the contents.
Before you open it you try to remember what you put in there, but you were drawing a continuous blank. When you take the top off your hand is a whimpering shake.
You didn’t realise how many pieces of Steve you’d kept locked away from the harsh winds of time, but there it was laid out in front of you like the perfect analogy.
T-shirts you’d borrowed, photographs of the two of you, love letters that had been left in lockers, movie ticket stubs, wilted rose petals and the shiny empty wrapper of the condom you guys had used your first time. All cramped in this off yellow box.
It was no wonder why you’d never gotten over him. When you were keeping him locked away in this box.
You were keeping his photos in a box. All of them. Still in their frame.
You resolve immediately to take it and drive out to Steve’s new apartment next to Forest Hill’s. You only know he lives there because every time you drive past it, Dustin points and tells you that’s Steve’s place. He tells you it with a beaming grin because he’s proud that his friend had his own place now.
You have to psych yourself up to even get out of the car, but then you’d catch the edge of the box obscured by your coat in the passenger seat, and you remember that the only way out is through.
That’s what they told Dustin at his grief counseling. When he’d come out and told you, you wondered if grief was what you’d been carrying around all these years. Had you been mourning Steve like he was dead? Or were you mourning who you might’ve been had someone not stolen your ability to trust before you even made out into the big bad world?
You carry the box like it’s a loaded weapon up to his door, and before you can knock he’s already opening the door.
He doesn’t seem entirely surprised to see you, but your mouth falls in a sharp ‘O’ to find him greeting you before you've worked up the courage.
“I saw you pull up.” He clarifies from the doorway.
Your throat feels rough when you try to talk. “Can I come in?”
Steve doesn’t say anything, just stands aside to motion you through with a flick of his wrist.
“Sorry for intruding. I’m leaving in a couple days, so I thought I should just get this over with.” You say, inspecting the modestly sized apartment.
It’s nothing like where he grew up. It felt like a real home. It was lived in, instead of the squeaky showroom that was his childhood home.
You turn to see him shutting the door behind him. “You’re not here to kill me, are you?” It sounds like a joke but there’s no heart in it. He seems nervous.
You clear your throat when you sit down on the surprisingly comfortable sofa, placing the box on the oak table in front of you,
“Nope. I found this, and I wanted to return it to you.” You say, tapping the top of it.
You can see his brows pulled together in confusion when he comes to sit next to you. He leaves ample space.
“An old shoebox… you shouldn’t have?” He says.
You sigh weakly and take the lid off to reveal the contents. When he catches sight of it, the breath that escapes him is clipped. Pained almost.
“Dustin said you told him what happened when we were together, and that you’re sorry. I’ve been trying to work out why I can’t find it in myself to get over it. Then I found this.” You explain, “I can’t forgive you because I’m carrying this around with me everywhere I go. It can’t be my burden anymore. So I’m returning it to you.”
Steve doesn’t even seem like he’s listening, he’s dragged the box to him, rifling through the mementos of devotion you’d kept of him. You sit quietly and let him do it.
“You kept all of this?” He whispers finally.
“I didn’t take it with me when I left or anything. But I knew it was there. I couldn’t bring myself to throw it away I guess.” You reply meekly. “I think that’s what pisses me off the most. I can’t bring myself to get rid of it, and you threw me away like it was nothing. I know we were kids. I know it wasn’t that deep for you, but it was for me.”
“I didn’t throw it all away.” He says back, looking up at you with quiet sentiment. “I kept stuff too.”
Your heart stutters up a beat.
“I keep your scrunchie in my bedside drawer. And a whole mess of Polaroids in a book. It didn’t mean nothing to me. I still loved you when I started up with Nancy. I just…” he’s pulling a shaky hand through his hair. “I was a spoiled brat. No one said no to me, I thought I could have whatever I wanted. Deep down, I knew me and her weren’t right for each other. But me and you were so different. I thought I needed to be more realistic. My parents were the popular kids in school, they were prom king and queen, they got married straight out of high school. I thought that’s what I wanted too.”
You’re nodding along with his words because he wasn’t saying anything you didn’t already suspect. You had always known that it was unrealistic. What you and him were doing. It wasn’t sustainable. People thought it was weird, but you thought that just proved how much you guys must have loved each other.
“I get that, Steve. And I feel that for you. But you could’ve just left me be.” You whimper out eventually. “I was fine before I met you. The person I am now…it’s just affected so much of my life. I don’t trust anyone.”
You can see him fiercely swiping away tears.
“Trust me, I’ve suffered for my mistakes.” He confirms shakily. “I’ve never felt the way I felt about you again.”
You don’t feel like the burden is being lifted the way you thought it would. The more he speaks, the more compressed you feel by the weight of the emotions. He tries to reach over to clasp your hand in his, but you snatch it away in favour of standing like he’d scalded you with hot water. You can see the way he dejectedly pulls back.
“I didn’t come here for this kind of resolution.” You say weakly. “That was your own doing. This is me surrendering. You’re off the hook.”
He stands up to close in on you again. You’re still pushing back to head to the front door.
“I’m not off the hook though.” He pleads, following you. “You hating me isn’t half as much a punishment as how I feel about myself. I’ve never stopped loving you, and if I don’t tell you now, I’ll never get the chance again.”
Your body is whipping round to face him, and you find yourself nose to chest with him. You didn’t even realise he was so close until he’d caged in on you completely. You push back to brace yourself at the door.
“Okay.” You say breathlessly. “Well, you’ve told me now, it’s off your chest, you can move on. I’m giving you permission to stop punishing yourself.”
The heat rolling off his body is seeping into yours, you can smell the musk of aftershave and sweet sweat. He’s staring down at you with a deep intensity that you don’t know where to place. You hold his eyeline even though it makes your chest heave and shake.
“I wanted to kill Eddie when I thought you were sleeping with him.” He whispers, standing even closer to you than you thought was possible. He was caging you in. “When you came out of his room that morning, I felt like I was going insane. I couldn’t just reach out and touch you, remind you that you’ll always belong to me.”
You can see his breath fanning over yours, his hands have pressed into the door just above your head. You don’t want to admit the words he’s saying are travelling straight down to your heat. Each one sparking electricity through what was now becoming a damp, clenching cavern of need.
“Steve…” you test. “Don’t do this.”
Your words go in one ear and out the other, probably because he can tell just half-hearted you mean them.
“Tell me you don’t feel the same, and I’ll stop.” He pleads. “Tell me that you’re not soaked through right now at the thought of me fucking you against this door.”
Your body is arched up now, pressing forwardly against his, letting his knee spread your thighs apart so that he can slot in. Your underwear is clinging to you like a second skin, because he was right. He was right about all of it.
“Tell me to stop, and I will.” His lips are brushing yours in a chaste whisper. All you’d have to do is push a centimetre forward and they’d be locked together.
All sense– all will to do the right thing– is already gone. You don’t want him to stop, you want him to do all the dirty things that are crossing your head as he speaks.
“Don’t stop.” You finally beg back, and he closes the gap immediately.
You push back into him, twisting his hair around your clenching hands like it was tethering you to the earth itself. You aren’t thinking about the pain anymore. You’re like a junkie with a fix. You could repent for being weak tomorrow, but right now you want to find the acres of flesh that are hidden beneath his clothes.
He’s pushed his thigh to your aching core, to jam you harder into the wood behind you. You’re gasping into his mouth as it creates a delicious friction between your throbbing clit and the fabric of your underwear. He seizes the opportunity to push his tongue further into your mouth to brush against your own.
There’s no battle for who’s in control. It would always be unfairly balanced in his favour. You were already moldable putty in his hands. His hands that already knew every inch of you with expert precision.
You dance your fingers down to push under his shirt, dragging your nails against the hair just above his waistband, and he grunts harshly against your lips, pulling your entangled body back the way to his couch that seems to be miles away now.
You’re stripping clothes piece by piece as you go, not concerned about where they land as you throw them in your wake. You don’t make it to a lying down position before you’re shoved standing against the back of the couch. He’s kneeling beneath you, dragging your already unbuttoned jeans past your legs, taking your panties with them as he went.
Your whole body seems to be on vibrate, there’s a shake in your legs buckling under the weight of anticipation when he catches sight of your weeping centre. He doesn’t take his eyes off it when he whines.
“You’re still so pretty. Look at you, all wet for me and I haven’t even touched you.”
You crack in two at his words, head thrown back in wanton agony. You need him to touch you.
You feel him drag a finger along you, barely dipping past the lips only to abandon them. You peek down to find him licking the wet off his index finger. It feels like a small death, you don’t think you’ve ever been this worked up before.
“So sweet,” he whines, before pushing forward to latch his tongue straight to the source.
The cry that escapes you is closer to sob, just thankful to feel something other than the violent throb that your cunt had become. You don’t care that it’s Steve, you don’t care that you should know better. All you care about is the precise circling of his tongue on your clit.
You yank at his hair while he’s working you over, nails embedded into his scalp, the ball in your abdomen tightens with agonising pulls. He spreads you out even further, you have to hold onto the structure of the couch to stop from collapsing back, especially when he drags a finger up to sink deep within your walls.
“Steve.” You whimper, trying to grind back down into the flex of his finger and the lapping of his tongue. “Feels so good. Fuck, please more.”
You’re begging now. Pleading for him to either put more fingers in or end your suffering and just fuck you. Fill you up with something.
He unlatches, face damp with the excess of what had been dripping out of you, your lower half is clenching at the sudden emptiness between your walls.
“You want me to fuck you?” He asks tauntingly. If you’d been any less turned on, you’d have told him he was an asshole and left but there was no way you could go now.
“I really need you to fuck me,” you beg, pulling him up to you to violently latch your lips onto his once more. You can taste yourself on him but it doesn’t put you off, just makes you want him more.
He groans at your frantic pleading and pulls away to turn you so that you’re bent over the back of the sofa now. Your fingers curl around cushions beneath in gripping anticipation.
“Gonna fuck you so good, baby. Make you forget your own name. Make you forget about fucking Munson.” He promises, dragging his length up and down your folds.
“Tell me you don’t want him. Tell me he couldn’t fuck you like I could.” He chastises, pushing so that the head is just barely pushing into your depths.
It’s cruel. He knows what he’s doing. He knows there’s nothing between you and Eddie anyway. You try to push back onto the length but he holds you bruisingly by the hips to stop you.
“Say it, and I’ll give you what you want.” He insists.
You’re hiccuping around the words, trying to pull them from deep within you.
“I don’t want him, I never wanted him. I want you, please, I want you. I love you.” You weep from below him, you can feel the twitch in his cock at your words.
“Fuck.” He whimpers and pushes himself forward, dragging half of his thick girth into your still clenching walls.
You’d forgotten how big he is, but you remember now. You remember in the biting stretch– how it hurts so much that it’s good. Your moans are screams, and when he hilts himself fully within you, you can feel his shattered breaths while he peppers kisses down your shaking back.
You can’t focus on anything other the gentle pressing against the spot inside you that blinds your vision, and when he drags himself out all the way to smash back into you, there’s nothing you can do but let him fuck into you how he wants. Your body belongs to him in every way. You just want him to get you where you need to be.
His pace is harsh, he uses the tug of your hair to keep you stationary so that he can pump in deeper with each agonising thrust. It’s better than you remember.
You’re already coming apart at the seams. It doesn’t take much, once his hand closes round you to rub at your clit, you have no choice but to surrender to the sea of euphoria dragging you out.
You bite into your arm as you cum around his length.
You can’t hear his gentle pleas of encouragement or his strangled moans as he cums deep within you. You’re so gone on him that you might as well be in space. There’s nothing there but the battering of your heart against your ribs and the ecstasy slowly melting away from your violent orgasm.
But you come back down eventually. You have to. And when you do he’s pulling out of you gently, causing a sharp intake of breath to rip through you from the sting.
You pull your jeans back up weakly, not turning around to look at him while he does the same. It’s heinously quiet, except from the shuffling of clothes covering skin again.
Once your modesty is back in place you turn to find him with the same guilty look that you must be wearing too.
summary: you’ve only been together for a few months, and when past reputations and first-time nerves collide, panic threatens to take over. steve stays patient and gentle, showing you that slow, careful love can be the safest place in the world.
warnings/tags: anxiety, self-doubt, slow burn, short makeout session, subtle suggestive touches (no smut), reassurance, first boyfriend nerves, emotional intimacy, fluff-heavy, soft steve harrington, established relationship, kinda hurt/comfort, mention of king steve, no spoilers, no use of y/n
wc: ~1.6k
a/n: this was such a cutie request, thank you so much for blessing us with another one of your great ideas. i hope you enjoy! :’)
───୨ৎ───
You’ve only been together a few months. Not long enough for things to feel completely settled, but long enough for everything to feel terrifying and exciting all at once.
Long enough that Steve Harrington has become a constant in your life in a way you never expected, but still not long enough for your brain to stop reminding you of who he used to be.
In high school, Steve “The Hair” Harrington was unavoidable. Even if you tried to keep your head down, even if you stayed in the back of classrooms and walked the longer way between buildings just to avoid the crowded hallways, you knew who he was. Everyone did.
King Steve.
Perfect hair.
Girls hanging off his arms like accessories. A different one every few weeks, sometimes less.
You were the opposite of that world. You were quiet and careful. The kind of girl teachers described as “sweet” and “well-behaved,” the kind of girl that boys overlooked because you didn’t know how to flirt and never wanted to learn. You spent lunch breaks in the library with a book open in front of you, even if you weren’t really reading, just so no one would talk to you.
You graduated untouched, unclaimed, inexperienced, and you didn’t think much of it until Steve Harrington somehow became your boyfriend.
Not the high school version. Not King Steve.
This Steve is softer. He is still confident, still charming, but worn down around the edges in a way that makes him gentler. He listens and he notices the little things. He waits for you to catch up instead of dragging you forward.
And still, he has a past. A past that you specifically don’t have.
You know he’s not a virgin, obviously. You know that in the same way you know the sun will rise: unquestionable, obvious, and impossible to ignore. And most days, you think you’re okay with that. Most days, you tell yourself it doesn’t matter.
But tonight is not one of those days.
───୨ৎ───
The apartment smells faintly like laundry detergent and the dinner you ate earlier. The lights are dim, one lamp on in the corner of the room, casting everything in a warm, sleepy glow. You’re curled into the couch with your legs tucked beneath you, your book open in your hands, finally sinking into the story after a long day.
Steve is beside you, stretched out in a way that takes up more space than necessary. He has one arm draped along the back of the couch behind you, and the other one resting near your knee. He’s been quiet for almost five whole minutes, which is how you know it won’t last.
“Baby,” he says softly.
You hum in response, eyes still scanning over the current page you’re on.
He waits a beat, then tries again, “Honey.”
A smile tugs at the corners of your mouth. “Steve.”
He grins when you finally reply, shifting a little but closer. His shoulder presses into yours and as always, his touch is warm and solid against you. “What? I’m just talkin’ to my girlfriend.”
“I’m trying to read,” you say, though your voice is already betraying you, laughter sneaking in and curling around every syllable.
“Mmhmm.” He leans in, chin dropping onto your shoulder so he can peek at the page. “What’s it about?”
“You don’t actually care.”
“I do too,” he says immediately. “I care about all your nerdy little book things.”
You snort. “You called my book nerdy.”
“In an affectionate way,” he adds quickly, fingers already sliding into your hair. He twirls a strand lazily, absentminded, like he’s done it a thousand times before. “You look cute when you read.”
Your chest tightens, just a little.
He presses a kiss to your cheek. Then another one, but this time it was much slower and lingered for longer. “Missed you today,” he murmurs.
“You saw me yesterday.”
“Yeah,” he says easily. “Still missed you.”
He sighs dramatically, shifting again, his body inching closer until his thigh brushes yours. “You’re really gonna ignore me for a book?”
“It’s a good part,” you protest, laughing and squirming away from his touch as he pokes your side.
He pokes you again. “Baby.”
You squirm. “Stop.”
“Sweetheart.”
“Steve—”
“Okay, okay,” he says, grinning, but he doesn’t stop touching you. His fingers trail down your arm, thumb brushing over your wrist and his head rests against yours now, hair tickling your cheek as he pretends to read along with you.
You’re giggling, trying to focus, heart fluttering in that familiar, dangerous way. The current silence doesn’t last very long though, because he’s moving again.
He sits up and gently reaches across you to grab the bookmark you had placed on the arm of the couch, and slides it bookmark between the pages. “Hold on,” he says softly, taking the book from your hands. “Don’t wanna lose your place.”
He sets it on the coffee table like it’s something breakable. Then his hands are back on you, cupping your face as he leans in and kisses you.
It’s slow and familiar and oh-so-sweet, and you kiss him back easily, melting into it, hands fisting in his shirt. This part doesn’t scare you. This part feels safe. It always stops here.
Until it doesn’t.
His hand drifts down your thigh, just a little higher than usual. His thumb presses lightly, testing. The other hand slips under the hem of your shirt, palm warm against your skin there, barely moving.
Your brain lights up like a warning sign.
This is it.
He wants more.
You’re supposed to know what to do.
Your body freezes before your mind can catch up, and Steve feels it immediately.
He pulls back, brows knitting together in concern. “Hey,” he says quietly. “What’s wrong?”
Your throat closes. Heat floods your face. “I— I’m sorry.”
“What?” He cups your cheeks, gentle but confused. “Why are you apologizing?”
Tears sting your eyes, the familiar feeling of humiliation crashing in. “I shouldn’t have— I don’t know—”
“Hey,” he says again, firmer now but his tone still soft. He wipes under your eyes with his thumbs. “Look at me.”
You try but it’s hard to meet his gaze.
“Did I do something wrong?” he asks quietly, and there’s genuine fear there.
You shake your head quickly. “No. No, you didn’t. It’s just—”
Your voice wobbles and you hate more than anything that it does.
“I’ve never.. I’ve never done that before,” you admit quietly. “You’re my first boyfriend. I don’t know how any of this is supposed to work.”
Your cheeks burn as your hands twist in your lap, the words tumbling out clumsy and embarrassed. “And I know you’ve been with other girls and I keep thinking maybe you expect something and I just— my head won’t shut up.”
Steve’s expression softens completely.
“Oh,” he breathes.
At first you fear he’s going to get up and leave, but then he pulls you into his chest without hesitation, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other rubbing slow circles into your arm. “Hey. Hey. It’s okay.”
You cry quietly against him, the tension finally breaking between you. “I keep thinking I’m just.. what if I’m just another girl to you?”
He stiffens just enough for you to notice.
“Hey,” he says again, pulling back so he can look at you properly. “No. No way. That’s not—” He shakes his head. “That’s not what this is.”
He wipes your tears with the pads of his thumb carefully, like you’re something fragile he doesn’t want to break. “Yeah, I want you,” he admits honestly. “But only if you want me. And only when you’re ready. There’s no clock. There’s no pressure. I swear.”
You sniffle. “Even if it takes a long time?”
He smiles softly, tucking a piece of your hair behind your ear, his soft eyes searching your glassy ones. “Even if it takes forever.”
He presses his forehead to yours. “You know my favorite thing? Just being with you. Sitting here. Bugging you while you read. That’s it, baby, that’s enough for me.”
Your chest aches, but this time it aches in a good way.
“I just missed you,” he adds quietly. “And when I’m with you, I still miss you. That’s how I know this is real.”
You laugh weakly through your tears.
He kisses your forehead, then your nose, then your cheek. “You’re safe with me. Always. Okay?”
You nod, your voice barely above a whisper, “Okay.”
He settles back against the couch, pulling you with him, arms wrapped securely around you. No wandering hands, no expectations—just warmth, quiet, and the steady beat of his heart.
After a while, he reaches for your book again. “You wanna keep reading?” he asks gently.
You shake your head, nuzzling closer. “Actually—no. I was thinking maybe a movie? And we can cuddle?”
His grin softens into something sweeter and his eyes light up as he nods in agreement, setting the book back down before moving closer to you. “A gentle compromise, huh? I like that.”
“Yeah,” you whisper, fingers brushing his. “Just us.”
He presses a soft kiss to your temple. “That’s perfect.. ‘n it’s all I want, baby. Just time with you.”
You settle against him, curling into his chest, and he drapes an arm around your shoulders again, pulling you in closer to him. The quiet stretches around you like a warm blanket, and for the first time in hours, you feel completely safe, completely seen, completely at home in his arms.
Summary: You've always admired how Steve cares for his hair. But will he tell you his secrets?
Drabble, Tooth rooting fluff. I just want someone to play with my hair.
A/N: okay, y'all like soft Steve? You can take him out of my silly little brain. Also I'm accepting requests. So please send me your fluffy head cannons so I can make them real.
Word Count: Idk I wrote this on my phone on break, I'll count later xd
Steve is leaning against his bedroom dresser, fixing his hair in the mirror for the third time today when you finally say it.
It slips out easily, almost absentminded.
“So,” you hum, watching. Steve is leaning against his bedroom dresser, fixing his hair in the mirror practiced flick of his wrist as he sprays and smooths, “are you ever gonna tell me the secret? Or is the hair, like… a government-protected mystery?”
Steve snorts, lowering the hairspray and looking at you through the mirror. “First of all, it’s not a secret. Second of all-” He turns to face you, eyebrow raised, lips twitching. “-you think you could handle this level of responsibility?”
He laughs, real and warm, but it softens when his eyes linger on you-curled up on his bed in one of his sweaters that you stole out of his draw, hair loose and a little messy from the day. Something in his expression changes, fondness settling in his chest.
You gasp, clutching your chest ever the dramatic. “Wow. Rude.”
“…You actually want me to show you?” he asks, quieter now.
You shrug, suddenly shy. “Kinda. Yeah.”
Steve hesitates for half a second before nodding. “Okay. Yeah. Sure. I can-yeah.”
He pulls a chair into the middle of the room, gestures for you to sit, and then freezes when you do.
“Oh god,” he mutters. “Now I’m nervous.”
“You do this every day.”
“On me,” he argues. “You’re… you.”
That shouldn’t make your heart flutter. It does anyway.
He picks up the hairbrush and holds it like it might betray him. “Okay. Ground rules. Tell me if I pull. Or burn you. Or mess it up.”
“You’re not gonna mess it up.”
He gives you a look - questioning. “That’s a lot of faith.”
The first brush through your hair is slow. Careful, he's afraid. He starts at the ends, just like he was taught by his mother when he was younger, movements deliberate. The tension drains from your shoulders almost immediately as you relish the feeling.
Steve notices.
“…Oh,” he murmurs. “You like that.”
You hum in response, eyes slipping closed.
Something warm spreads through Steve’s chest. He brushes again, slower this time but more confident, but as his fingertips graze your neck by accident. He freezes, breath hitching, then continues even more gently, like he’s handling something fragile.
“Your hair’s really nice,” he says quietly. “I mean - I know that’s a dumb thing to say but-”
“It’s not dumb.”
He exhales a small laugh in relief. “You’re just… easy to care about.”
When he’s done brushing, he doesn’t pull away right away. His hand rests on the top of your head, thumb tracing small circles without him even realizing.
“You okay?” he asks softly.
You lean back into him. “Yeah. Just comfy.”
Steve swallows. “Good. You deserve comfy.”
He clears his throat and steps away, reaching for the curling iron - and immediately stares at it like it’s a loaded weapon.
“Okay,” he says slowly, “I have used one of these on someone else before.”
You glance at him in the mirror. “On…?”
He winces. “Nancy... She yelled at me when I accidently burnt her ear.”
“That’s comforting.” you laugh sarcastically.
“I learned from my mistakes,” he insists, plugging it in. “I’m older now. Wiser.”
He sections your hair with surprising precision, tongue peeking out slightly while he concentrates. You catch it in the mirror and smile.
“Don’t laugh,” he warns. “This requires precision.”
“I’m not laughing.”
“You’re smiling.”
“Because you’re cute.”
Steve’s ears turn red.
He wraps a curl carefully, hands steady but cautious. “Is it hot?”
“Yes.”
“Too hot?”
“No.”
“Because I can turn it down-”
“I trust you.”
He pauses.
“…Yeah?” he asks quietly looking for reassurance.
“Yeah.”
Steve exhales, shoulders relaxing, and releases the curl. It falls perfectly.
“Oh my god,” he breathes at little to excited. “I did that.”
He curls the next piece with more confidence, brushing hair away from your cheek, fingertips lingering just a moment too long. Every touch is reverent, like he’s afraid of rushing.
When he finishes, he steps back, hands on his hips, eyes wide.
“…Wow,” he murmurs. “You look-” He stops himself, cheeks burning. “Really nice.”
“You’re blushing.”
“I am not - okay, maybe.”
Then comes the hairspray.
He shakes the can cautiously. “Alright. Hold still.”
He sprays lightly, waves his hand in front of your face immediately. “Sorry. Don’t inhale that. That’s bad boyfriend behavior.”
You smile. “Boyfriend?”
He freezes. He wasn't supposed to say that part.
“…I mean,” he rubs the back of his neck, flustered, “if that’s okay. If not, I can -”
You reach for his wrist. “It’s okay.”
Steve’s shoulders drop like he’s been holding a heavy weight on his chest.
He leans down, resting his chin on your shoulder as you both look at your reflection. He adjusts one curl gently with his fingers.
“Yeah,” he says softly. “I could get used to this.”
You turn your head just enough to kiss his cheek. He smiles like you’ve handed him the world.
“Hey,” he murmurs. “Can I… do this again sometime?”
You nod. “Anytime.”
Steve presses a kiss to the crown of your head, arms wrapping around you, steady and warm. For a moment, nothing else exists - just the quiet comfort of being cared for, and Steve Harrington loving you in the softest way he knows how.
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