Just Pretend - Steve Harrington x Reader
summary: you're happy to ditch college and visit robin on your breaks, especially because she's befriended Steve Harrington and you can't deny he's easy on the eyes. this winter, however, you're asked to play the role of steve's fake girlfriend, because he's kinda sorta told his parents about you, and you kinda sorta have to kiss.
contents/warnings: fem!reader, pining, fake dating, slight angst but resolved to fluff in the end, steve's evil evil parents
wc: 9.8k / navigation / inbox
a/n: another NINE THOUSAND WORD steve fanfiction for you guys. i'm feeding you i'm really feeding you. i hope you enjoy! <333
feedback is greatly appreciated! comment, reblog, talk in the tags, send me a message, tell me what you think!
You’d never have assumed that being high school friends with Robin Buckley would guarantee you shotgun in Steve Harrington’s beemer, but he says he’s sick of seeing her stupid face all the time, so it’s you who slides into her butt-print on the seat. You’re thankful for the leg room as you stretch out from your flight, the winter air clouding the windows with frost that barely moves when Steve runs the windshield wipers. You’re happy to be home for the holidays, but winter in Hawkins bites.
Steve’s usually just a little bit awkward, but today’s something else. He still moves like a lanky teen even though he’s filled out since high school. He’s got a nice build now, shoulders broad and chest to match, and his arms have thickened where they reach for the wheel. You try not to think about it, really- but it’s hard not to when he’s driving you home. You cut yourself off from the thought before it can pinken, hooking your proverbial rose-colored glasses firmly through the neckline of your shirt. He’s drumming his fingers, up and down, up and down, up and down, and he’s biting his lip so fiercely you’re surprised it’s not bleeding. You want to- no, you don’t want to do anything concerning his lips. Robin kicks her feet against the back of his seat, her shoes digging into the fabric, “Go, dingus! Green means go!”
“What? Oh.” Steve’s eyes flick up to the traffic light, and someone behind him lets him know rather rudely that he’d been stalled too long at the intersection by laying on the horn, “Yeah, yeah, okay.”
You’re not sure what’s gotten into him today. You’re not exactly a Steve Harrington expert, seeing as you hadn’t crossed paths in high school. In fact, you’d actively avoided him, and you’d been rather apprehensive to return from college for the summer and meet Robin’s spectacular new coworker. But you’d spent the July days sweating through the backs of your shirts together, laughing and swinging your legs down over the lake where you’d squished onto the dock, three in a row. She was right- he’d changed, and you’d thoroughly enjoyed that summer, that winter, then the next summer with her and Steve.
Now it’s winter break, the fourth span of time you’ll spend tagging along with them, and Steve seems like he’s about to vibrate out of his skin. You’re not sure why- something insecure and withered in the back of your mind suggests that maybe he doesn’t like you as much as you like him. Maybe he’d just been playing nice all of those times, and he’d thought picking you up from the airport today was a real drag. You’d normally take the train, but the journey would have taken several hours, and you’d splurged on a flight to get it over with quicker. The airport is much farther than the train station, and you wouldn’t blame him for being cranky, because it’s nearly a two-hour drive back to Hawkins. You hope he isn’t secretly harboring a grudge against you, though. You hope you’re misreading him- that there’s really nothing wrong at all, but if there is, you hope it’s not to do with you.
You eye Robin in the backseat, who’s abandoned her mission to drill a hole through Steve’s seat with her sneakers and now lays out against the length of the back. She yawns, and you’re reminded that it’s nearly midnight- Steve really wouldn’t be at fault for not being happy about dragging you home from the airport.
“Sorry my flight came in so late,” You murmur, eyeing Steve sideways as his attention snaps to you. He drums on the wheel with his palms now, steadily cruising down an open highway, and he blows air through his lips that nearly hurls spit onto the dashboard.
“No worries. I don’t mind, I’m usually up late on the phone with her anyways.”
He peers at Robin through the rearview mirror too, who looks seconds away from being lulled to sleep by the gentle rhythm of the car, “Or she’s bumming around on my couch and doesn’t leave for, like, three days.”
“It’s not my fault your parents are never home,” She speaks through another yawn, her freckled cheeks scrunching as her teeth gleam in the low light of the car, “And that your couch is super comfy. Hey, drop me off first? I wanna go to bed.”
“It’s gonna be a while,” Steve scoffs, but she’s already dropped her eyes shut, and you offer him an amused shrug when he stares at you like you might be able to offer an explanation for her bratty demeanor. You love the way your friend rattles Steve, but you’d never tell him that.
“Ridiculous. Ridiculous,” He shakes his head, his hair bouncing in place, “Whatever. My parents are actually home, for once, so she can’t laze around until they’re gone again.”
“How long are they staying?” You ask, and Steve’s spine snaps up straight like you’d sparked him with a live wire at the base. You’re not sure what you’ve said- he’d mentioned his parents, after all, but you know they can be a touchy subject. You wait to see if you’ll regret it, and he coughs a little, like clearing his throat in a violent way. You watch him throw three lightning-fast glances your way like you can’t see them, brown eyes despairing as his face pales in some spots and rushes with color in others.
“I actually need to talk to you about that.” He mumbles, watching Robin carefully in the mirror to make sure she doesn’t stir, “Uh- they’re here for a few weeks. Like you.”
“O-kay?” You hedge, your stomach squirming at the mere thought of conflict- you’re pretty sure you’re about to uncover why he’s so fidgety today, “Why does that matter to me?”
“Because I-” Steve breaks off with a scoff, then groans, raking a hand over his face. He turns to look at Robin, stalling for time because you both know the girl sleeps like she’s dead, “I kind of told them- um, they were getting on my case about being a man, and getting a real job and stuff, and I sort of told them that I was seeing someone. Like, seriously.”
“Uh-huh,” You sing again, your voice low and cautious, “And?”
“And it’s you.” Steve grunts, eyes laser-focused on the road, “I told them- I told them you were my girlfriend.”
“What?” You squawk.
“Shh- don’t!” He urges, but Robin only snores, her lips parted as she tosses her head to the side in her sleep. You both watch her diligently, before Steve turns back to the empty road, and you pivot in your seat to face him.
“She doesn't know. I’m sorry.” He insists, his voice tender yet frustrated, “I just figured you’d never be here at the same time as them! They never come home, and you live in another state,” He flings a hand up in desperation, “I didn’t think it would be an issue! And I needed to get them off my case,” He sighs, and that you believe. You’re not sure what exactly they tell their son, but you know none of it is nice. Though you want to be indignant at the lies Steve has been spinning about you behind your back, you can’t help but sympathize with him. And somewhere, there’s a small part of you that’s ecstatic. When asked, Steve Harrington had said your name. He’d thought of you first, even if the role of girlfriend is only pretend, and you’re going to have to try very hard not to let that feed your delusions. He tucks his hair behind his ear with another nervous, twitchy jerk of his arm, and slams it back onto the wheel.
“Okay,” You start carefully, your voice caught somewhere between timid and soothing, “Um, okay. Well- does it matter? They don’t know I’m here.”
“Yes they do,” Steve winces, “Um, my mom was listening in on my phone call to Robin earlier and she mentioned you flying in. So they’ve, uh- they’ve asked you to come over for dinner.”
“Steve.” Your eyes bulge.
“Tomorrow,” He finishes, and your stomach melts into a molten puddle of goop.
“Steve!”
This time, Robin does wake. She groans, stuffing her arms up and over her head and pressing them into her ears, “Enough! Shut up, both of you, I’m trying to sleep.”
You toss your travel pillow into the back, aiming for her face.
She scoffs, but she uses it anyway, and you and Steve each wait three breaths before speaking again, confident that the stuffing will pad her ears until she’s sleeping again.
“Please,” He stares briefly at you, as earnest as it is fleeting, and a lone streetlamp outside of a farm road illuminates his features. He showers in the mornings, and it’s evident that he’s spent his day out and about because his face is slightly shiny with a day’s worth of oil. The bridge of his nose has a red spot on it, a zit, probably, and a mole against his cheek catches your eye as a dark splotch on his light skin. He’s biting his lip again, and he only has mercy on it to speak, “Seriously, I’ll, like, pay you or something. All we have to do is go over there, and I’ll brief you on the stuff I’ve said so you know what our cover story is. Just sit next to me and eat my mom’s horrible cooking, and pretend like we’ve been dating for a year.”
“A year,” You emphasize, and he nods long and slow, head dipping low like he’s about to be hanged, “You’ve been doing this since we met?”
“They interrogated me right at the start of the new year,” Steve groans, “And it was, like, two days after you left or something, and they wanted to know why I still wasn’t enrolled in college, and I said I had a plan, and they asked what it was and I just- I don’t know,” The sound of his blinker is monstrously loud, ticking in between your tense conversation like a bomb. “I told ‘em I was enrolled, but I withdrew because I’d met someone. Someone going to school out-of-state, and I was gonna try to work more to get enough for my tuition there. I mean, they obviously asked for your name,” Steve gestures with a flat hand, palm skyward, and you wonder if he’s realized he’s referring to you like you’re the imaginary girlfriend he’s had for a year, “And I’d thought of the lie because you had to leave for school again anyways, so I just figured I’d use your name. It was perfect,” He scoffs, “They were satisfied, and my dad offered to pay my tuition but I said I wanted to make it myself so that I could- uh,” You swear his cheeks turn rosy, “-so that I could pay for us to get an apartment off-campus. And they’re big into me ‘settling down’,” He swallows, turning towards the road that’ll eventually wind towards Robin’s, “So they were all over it.”
He turns, and you’re back in the city, not busy by any means but you see a few cars out as you pass a gas station. You’re only thirty minutes out from Robin’s now, and you long for the quiet solitude of your bed.
“And I swear,” He continues, the car rumbling steadily along the now-paved roads, “I figured I’d just say it didn’t work out after a while, and I’d come up with something else to get them off my back. But for once in my goddamn life they weren’t looking down on me, and I-” His fists clench around the steering wheel, and he clears his throat when it becomes thick and clogged with emotion. When he speaks again, it’s surprisingly soft, his words escaping on a shaky breath, “I couldn’t pretend we’d broken up. I didn’t wanna go back to the way things were, so I just- I just kept putting it off, and now,” His eyes grow wide, and he gestures again like he’s arguing with himself, “Now they’re here, and now you’re here, and now they know you’re here, and now you’re coming for dinner tomorrow. Hopefully,” He stops at a red light, using the precious seconds to glance over imploringly at you, “Please?”
He’s won.
You hate that he’s won, because you think you have room to be rightfully indignant that Steve’s been showing you off as his girlfriend of a year without taking you on a single date. And if it were anyone else, you’d refuse. But it’s Steve, and you’ve been refusing to admit that there’s anything different about him than about anyone else for a year and a half now, and this situation is bringing you to the grim realization that you can’t avoid the truth anymore.
He’s begging you with shiny brown eyes and his heart on his sleeve, and it’s working on you.
You’re a sucker for Steve Harrington.
You’re not sure when it happened. You’re not even sure it was one incident- it might have been a truckload of things that stacked on top of each other like bricks until they’d built a wall that had completely obscured your sense of reason.
You definitely remember feeling something strange and warm inside of your chest when you’d experimented with a new ice cream flavor and hated it, so Steve had swapped you for his own, much better cone. And one night you remember having to cram so close to him on a bench meant for one that there was nowhere natural for his hand to rest, and he’d spread it over your thigh, warm and heavy. Whenever you’d contribute to the group conversation or pitch a joke he’d rub it against your leg, never breaching any chastity protocol, just smoothing over your jeans and nearly whiting out your vision. Then there was the time when you’d gone to the bathroom at a restaurant and missed getting to order your drink. Apparently, Steve had ordered for you, and your favorite soda had shown up at the table only moments later. Not only that, but he’d snagged a piece of soft-centered bread for you, not even the end piece that’s mostly crust, before the kids accompanying you could steal it from the communal basket. He’d shot you a sly grin out of the corner of his eye and motioned for you to lift your napkin off of your plate- he’d even buttered it for you.
It’s all those times and more, the way that his cologne smells, not too strong but delicious if you’re close enough to breathe it in. It’s the voluminous swooping strands of his hair, so malleable and so willing to curve wherever he wrestles it. It’s the big brown eyes, the large, gentle hands currently hanging onto the wheel, the clumsy feet that have been pressed against the pedals for four hours now, to the airport and back again just for you.
You’ve been banishing all thoughts of feelings from your mind when it comes to Steve Harrington for almost two years now. Because feelings can be so easily hurt, unrequited and stomped on. And the Steve you knew from high school would have absolutely demolished them. But the one you know- this one? This one’s been bragging to his family about you, waxing poetic about his own feelings, however fake they may be. And the thought of sitting beside him at family dinner, being looked at like a unit, holding hands on the way back out the door pushes your feelings so far forward in your mind that there’s no ignoring them. They’re large, lit with fluorescent, flashing lights, arrows pointing towards them and buzzers drowning out your rational thoughts. All that’s there is the way you feel, and you bite the inside of your cheek upon finally admitting to yourself that you’re 100%, prime-time, completely in love with Steve.
And you’ve been given the opportunity of a lifetime: to show it. You’ll get to smile dreamily at him, let him strip your coat off just inside the door, and lean against his shoulder on the couch. You’ll get all of the perks of being in a relationship with him, without the agonizing ordeal of admitting your feelings for him and actually proposing one. The perfect cheat code has fallen into your lap, and you’re happy to play the role of Steve Harrington’s girlfriend for the night.
“Alright,” You nod, trying to sound reluctant at the thought of clutching his hand beneath the dinner table instead of nauseatingly excited, “I’ll go.”
“Thank you!” Steve gushes, looking nearly blue in the face as he almost swerves off of the road, eyes wild and bulging, “Fuck, thank you, you- you have no idea how much of a solid you’re doing me.”
“But-” You start, and he nods along, eager to please so long as you’ll be in his dining room tomorrow night, “Just, please promise me you’ll do the talking? I’m not a very good liar.” You admit, “I’ll blow your cover.”
“I’ve got it,” He assures you, nodding so vigorously his hair bobs with him, “I’ve got the whole thing planned out and taken care of,” He waves his hand across the dash like you can see his intricate web of lies for yourself, spread across the intersection you’re crossing, “And so, um. All I need is you.”
It makes your heart pound. That’s the nail in the coffin, and you settle back in your seat as Steve begins divulging what you two have been up to for the past year.
It isn’t until Steve drops you off at home an hour later, hauling your suitcase out of his trunk with a sheepish grin and a squeeze to your hand, that your giddiness starts to crack.
“Thanks again,” He hums, his voice quiet in the cold night air, “I really appreciate you going along with this. I know it’s… a little awkward.”
Going along.
You feel a hairline fracture etch itself into your delusional good mood.
“No, no,” You soothe him, “It’s- I get it. Yeah,” You bob your head, grappling blindly for the handle of your suitcase, “I guess I get a free meal out of it, so I don’t mind.”
And, of course, you’ve been hopelessly head over heels for the guy since last summer. But that’s neither here nor there. Free food is definitely the draw here.
“Right. Free food,” He huffs out a laugh, blinking at his shoes, scraping one toe against the pavement, “We’ll be in and out in two hours,” Steve vows, “You don’t have to talk, just… hold my hand and pretend we’re gonna move in together next year, and then I’ll take you home.”
Take you home- right, because you’re not really going to be his girlfriend. The title, even fake, had ignited such a sudden spark of elation within you that you’d forgotten you’d be back to the status quo within the span of one night. Yourself, then briefly Steve’s girlfriend, then yourself again. You’ll wake up alone tomorrow, you’ll parade around his house with your hand in his, then you’ll go to sleep alone. But at the very least, for two sacred hours, you’ll be Steve Harrington’s girlfriend, and you swallow your thoughts instead of letting them show on your face.
“Sounds perfect,” You fish your keys out of your bag, grateful that your parents are asleep and you’ll be able to sneak upstairs for uninterrupted existential contemplation, “What time tomorrow?”
“I’ll come get you at five,” Steve offers, “Sound good?”
“Sounds great,” You can’t help but grin at him, hoping it doesn’t show on your face how desperately hopeful the expression is, “See you at five.”
--
What felt last night like a stroke of blinding luck starts feeling like a death sentence you’re being walked towards at around four forty-five. You swipe lip gloss across your bottom lip and rub it against your shiny top one, smearing the color together and catching a stray strand of hair between them. You fish it out, your stomach in knots.
Initially, you’d been so blindly elated by the prospect of getting to play the girlfriend that you’d neglected to consider how you’d feel after dinner. Because he’s not actually asking you to date him, is he? He’s asking you to pretend to, he’s going to hold your hand and show it off to his parents, then drop it the second they leave the room.
You’d been so caught up in the excitement of being chosen by Steve at all, that you’d forgotten you were chosen for an acting role. Now that you’ve slept in your own bed, made small talk with your parents, properly fed yourself, showered, perfumed, styled your hair, and slid into a nice sweater, you realize that what you’ve actually agreed to is torture; long, slow, agonizing torture. Because it’s all going to be fake, and eventually you’re not going to be asked to pretend anymore.
Two hours of smiling at Steve across the table is not going to be worth the months of teary eyes and sniffles as you try to forget the sight of him smiling back at you.
You wonder why you’d even said yes in the first place.
Well- you don’t wonder. You remember why. But you curse yourself for jumping the gun, for acting with your heart and not your head, and agreeing to pretend to be in love with the man who has no idea you’re actually in love with him. You’ll play the part well, but you’re not sure you’ll be able to stop when it’s time to cut.
You’re still excited. You feel your stomach roiling as Steve’s tires scrape your driveway, and you fiddle with the way you’ve tied your hair up. You’re bringing a purse for show, but all it has in it is the lipgloss you’ve got on and a tampon just in case. You look proper and dressed-up, something you hope Steve’s proud to show off to his parents, even if he hates them and you’re not really his girlfriend in the first place.
You swallow down bile as you open the door.
You’d seen him through the windows, so there’s no point in making him knock. You’re three steps down the front walkway when he gets out of his car anyways, a thick bouquet in his hands as he rushes to meet you halfway.
“Woah, woah, you’re not even gonna let me knock?” He asks, and your breath catches in your throat.
He’s dressed up too.
He’s in a nice sweater, maroon and aran knit. There’s a collar peeking out from beneath it, and one edge is folded once more than necessary, an awkward angle that you reach out to smooth before you can catch yourself. You pry the corner out from beneath his sweater, laying it flat over the neckline and pressing it down.
His neck is pudged slightly from where it’s craned to see what you’re doing, and he lets out a soft huff of laughter that washes warmth over your already-chilly fingers. You’d neglected gloves to show off the ring on your pointer finger, something you wouldn’t mind pretending Steve gave to you. But you’re regretting it the more time you spend stuck out in the cold, and Steve weasels the bouquet between the two of you to press it into your chest.
“Get these in some water,” He hums, and you drag in a lungful of floral perfume before you can even tear your hand away from his collar, “The lady at the store said to cut the stems at a diagonal with a serrated knife- so you don’t crush ‘em, y’know?”
“Steve,” Your brows furrow, but your freezing fingers fumble around the bundle of the bouquet regardless. It’s wrapped in paper that crinkles beneath your hands, and there’s a ribbon on it that eerily matches the shade of both your sweater and your lip gloss.
“If I leave these here your parents aren’t gonna see them.”
“Yeah, well, I didn’t get them for my parents,” He rears his head back, glancing out exasperatedly at the street around you and the ice frozen over it, “I got them for you, duh. For doing me a solid, for coming with me, and, uh- y’know.” He clears his throat, and you steal an adoring glance at the way his cheeks and nose flash pink as the cold begins to seep into your bodies, “The whole thing. Now go put these in a vase before your lipstick grows icicles. My dad doesn’t like it when people are late.”
You scurry back up the steps with a bouquet wider than your face, and you’re glad he hasn’t tailed you into the house because you’re grinning like an idiot the entire time you’re carefully slicing the bottoms of the stems off with your knife. He's certainly a good actor- he's even got you fooled.
By the time you make it into the car, the door of which Steve insisted on opening for you, it’s twenty minutes until dinner. Upon a reminder that his parents can’t see him yet, he busies himself with checking the rearview mirror in case anyone else happened to be using your driveway, and reveals that he's actually a rather bad actor.
“I’ve gotta get into the role, okay? If we’re doing shit like fist-bumping before we go inside I’m not gonna be able to seamlessly portray the role of boyfriend. I’ve gotta get in character, I’ve gotta do stuff like open your door and bring you flowers.”
Well, if he insists.
“What about you?” He asks, “Do you need to get any- like, practice in first?”
“I don’t know,” You huff, nerves gnawing at your belly as you peer at yourself in his mirror. He puts the car in reverse, but before backing up he catches you staring at your reflection. He throws his hand over the mirror, angling it away from you and blocking your gaze.
“Hey.” He reprimands, and his voice is firm but gentle, a combination you’re not sure you’ve heard from him before. It’s distinctly dreamy, and your chest lurches at the sound.
“Don’t do that.” He lets go of the mirror, glancing in it to ensure his path is still clear. He finally takes his foot off of the break, and you watch the way he uses the heel of his hand to turn the wheel, slowly and carefully backing out of your icy driveway, “You look great, okay? You look like a million bucks. We’re gonna go in there and we’re gonna yammer about apartments and college tuition and what classes you’re taking and what internships I’m gonna go for and we’re gonna knock ‘em dead. Okay?”
You gulp again, your stomach intent on spilling its contents before you can meet the Harringtons. Steve’s kind, naturally so, and you take his words at face value instead of pleading with them to have a deeper meaning, “Yeah, okay. Okay, we’ve got this.”
“We’ve got this,” Steve grins, offering you a fist bump.
“Shit,” He realises, jerking his hand away from yours when you go after it, “No. Here,” He snatches your hand up, almost roughly, and drags it towards his face to pucker his lips against your knuckles.
“There.” He huffs, “In-character.”
All you can offer is a weak laugh as you settle back into your seat, your chest already starting to ache at the prospect of being fist-bumped goodnight on your porch when dinner is over.
Steve opens your door upon arrival, offers you a hand to get out, and carries your purse over his own shoulder until you reach the door. He pauses there, for a moment after casting a wary glance at the front windows.
“They’re watching.” He murmurs, voice nearly inaudible, “You ready?”
You nod, mouth suddenly dry.
“Good.” He breathes, leaning in and pressing a soft, chaste kiss to your cheek, “Showtime.”
You feel a physical stab of pain standing behind him and waiting for him to get his keys in the lock. Butterflies, too, but they’re already shaded by a dark cloud of regret, something you know will waterlog their wings as soon as you’re in the dark privacy of your bedroom later.
“Hello,” Mrs. Harrington croons, in a voice too high-pitched and gushy when you walk in. Steve leads you through the door first with his hand on your back, and you carefully slip your shoes off before you can trample their rugs with the icy sludge on your soles.
“Hello,” You smile back, keeping your own voice timid but kind, “I’m Y/N, I’m Steve’s-”
You hesitate for only a half-second, but the man behind you is quicker on his feet.
“Girlfriend,” He slings his arm around your waist, his own shoes now resting beside yours, perfectly in line. He sticks his head over your shoulder to peck at your cheek again, and you lean into the contact even though your brain screams at you to save yourself before you drown, “She’s my girlfriend.”
Mrs. Harrington’s smile tightens slightly as she surveys you, and you wonder if you’ve made it up through the bright red haze of her lipstick. You wonder what she’s tense about- if your outfit isn’t fancy enough or if your glossed lips aren’t as bold as hers. Whatever it is, if it was even there in the first place, she shakes it off in record time and offers you a genial hand to shake.
“It’s so lovely to meet you,” She smiles, her pearly-white teeth on full display between her parted, blood-red lips, “Steve’s been telling us a lot about you lately. I’m glad that we caught you when you came home, I thought we’d all have to take a family trip to the university to see you!”
“Oh!” You exclaim, not one of your better lines, but passable as you laugh along, fear shooting up your spine like a bolt of electricity at the thought. “No, I’m here.” You add lamely, and Mrs. Harrington squeezes your hand before releasing it and calling for her husband.
Apparently he’d been finishing dinner on the grill, and when he enters through the back sliding door its with a plate of meat and vegetables in his hands. There’s plenty- it’s nearly spilling off of the platter, and your mouth waters against your will as you watch Mrs. Harrington begin dishing out portions over four plates.
“Hello, Y/N,” Steve’s father nods at you, his smile polite but far from his eyes, “It’s nice to meet you. I was beginning to think Steve had made you up.”
Steve coughs behind you, and you flit towards the table to hand him a water glass that’s waiting there, filled. It’s fancy- not crystal, but a goblet, and you eye the multiple forks at each table setting cautiously.
“Oh, I’m real,” You try for a grin, but you’re not sure it comes across as more than a grimace, and Mr. Harrington seats himself with a wry smile.
“So,” He starts, and you feel a hand on your shoulder. Steve pulls a chair out for you, opposite his father and you let him guide you into it. He scoots you into the table when you’re seated, and brushes his fingers across the back of your neck when he withdraws them from your chair.
You shiver involuntarily, and glue your eyes to Mr. Harrington, brain going haywire.
“You’re studying what, exactly?”
The question is expected, and you launch into a careful explanation of everything you know Steve’s already told his parents about your major. You’re not sure what they’ll like or dislike about any specifics, so you avoid anything Steve hadn’t coached you on in the car last night. You have to admit, you do a fairly good job bullshitting the speech, and both of his parents look satisfied by the time Mrs. Harrington has served everyone and is seated herself.
“She’s my little smartie,” Steve grins around a bite of steak, nudging his foot against yours beneath the table. You kick back, aware that his parents can’t see you both, but glad for the reassuring contact anyways. His comment is so performatively cheesy that it works, and Mrs. Harrington agrees with a triumphant hum.
“That’s a heavy courseload,” She practically sings, “Maybe when Stevie joins you up there, he’ll take after you.”
Steve’s chewing becomes softer, like the food is fighting back. It’s a ridiculous thing to notice, but you find yourself tuned in to Steve like a favorite radio station. This time when you push your foot into his you leave it there, and his own melts against yours.
“Maybe.” You hum, “It’s really hard to manage, though. I can’t work,” You lament, secretly not too torn up about it, “Full-time students aren’t allowed to have jobs unless they’re part-time. And my studies require hours a day anyways, so I can’t get work unless they’re alright with me only working three hours a week.”
Steve’s father hums darkly from his end of the table, and you know you’ve made a smart move.
“Well, he needs a job. Part time students can work?” He eyes you, his gaze narrowed, and when you nod, it softens.
“Good.” He swallows his bite, and Steve gulps his water to avoid pitching in to conversation, “Part time, then, Steve.”
“Part time.” Steve repeats mechanically, and your heart pangs.
The rest of the conversation is so vapid that you’re able to tune it out and begin addressing the mounting plethora of tragedies you’ve gone through so far. First, Steve had been stupidly sweet enough to bring you flowers like he was really taking you on a date. And he’s kissed you four- five? - times now. So many you’re losing count, which is an excellent problem to have until you consider how empty you’ll feel without them. You wonder how you could have grown so desperate for something you’d never known before tonight, but you’ve been pointedly ignoring thoughts of Steve since last summer, so perhaps your heart has been working in secret and planting the desires in your mind anyways.
The domesticity of your evening is killing you. Steve plays the role of boyfriend so well, and you’re so vulnerable to it that it’s working even though you know it’s an act. You’re pretending too, except you’re not, and every press of his lips to your cheek makes you fall even harder for him despite knowing he’ll drop you off in a few hours and neither of you will ever utter a word of it to anyone. But you keep thinking about the way he’d talked you down in the car with shiny eyes and a saccharine voice- much more palatable than his mother’s. And you find it hard to ground yourself in reality when his knee is pressed against yours now, your legs flush beneath the table.
You’re actually glad that Mr. Harrington fills the air with mindless drawling about his job because it means you’re relieved of the burden of talking. You can sink into the background, into your own spiral, and he can drone on and on to his wife while Steve watches warily, wondering when to chime in and when to stay silent.
“We can do the dishes,” You offer up yourself and Steve, reaching for the plate in Mrs. Harrington’s hands when she rises from her seat. She regards you with raised brows and parted lips, and you feel an ounce of pity from the woman who’s so clearly the laborer of the house.
“Oh, no, honey, that’s okay.” She smiles at you, and it’s more relaxed this time, “Steve’s father was going to put on a movie anyways- you don’t want to miss that!”
“Oh,” Steve stands, his silverware rattling against his plate when he lifts it, “Uh- we were gonna go catch a movie, actually, at the theater.”
“It’s six o-clock.” Steve’s father speaks in a tight monotone.
“Yeah the, um, the showtime’s at six-fifteen.” Steve nods, his hair bouncing slightly.
You stand frozen, caught between them, chest tight with nerves.
“So there will be one at nine, too.” His dad’s face darkens with the shadow of a frown, “Steve, you can’t flash your committed, long-term relationship in front of us for forty minutes and run off again. This is a family dinner, and after family dinners we have family time. Tonight we’ll be watching a movie in the den, and you’ll be joining us.”
Steve glances at you with too-wide, panicked eyes. You’re afraid his mother will notice, so you reach for his hand, taking his plate and passing it along the counter towards the sink, “Baby, that sounds good. We can stay here,” You shrug, “A movie’s a movie. We can see the other one tomorrow, if we’re too tired tonight.”
You hope the doting tone you’ve adopted is convincing, because it’s real.
“O-okay.” Steve nods jerkily, pulling you towards the living room and cupping both of your hands in his. Your heart aches again, and you shove it down while Steve leads you towards the den, “Come on, we can get everything set up.”
As soon as the double french doors to the den shut behind you, Steve’s word-vomiting.
“I’m so fucking sorry.”
“It’s okay,” You shake your head, already rushing to talk him down, “Really, all we have to do is sit and watch a movie.”
“Yeah, but it’s probably gonna be a boring, shitty, old one,” Steve reasons, grabbing blankets so that he looks occupied, “And they’re gonna be there the whole time, and we’re gonna have to keep acting like we’re together and that’s more than you agreed to and I’m sorry.”
“Relax-” You start, but Steve hisses, “She’s coming,” And you shut your mouth just in time for Mrs. Harrington to open the doors.
“Steve, honey,” She calls, “Your father wants you in the kitchen. Y/N, go ahead and settle in, we’ll be back shortly.”
You watch the back of Steve’s sweater as he retreats, and only when the door closes do you release the pent-up sigh in your chest. You can’t scrub your hands over your face and scream into your pillow the way you really want to, because the kitchen faces the doors to the den and they’re all-glass panels. But you’re in distress, and you sink into the couch cushions with a silent prayer that they’ll swallow you so that you don’t have to spend two hours pressed to Steve’s side in the dim den.
If you do have to, you’ll certainly enjoy it, but it’ll hurt that much more when you’re shivering beneath your blankets tonight. It’s a slow, agonizing death you’ve put yourself to, and you’re regrettably enjoying it.
Steve returns barely two minutes later, despair written all over his face and popcorn clutched in his hands.
“I got the popcorn,” Steve hands you the bowl, and the glass is warm in your lap, “-and a lecture, about how I should have pulled your chair out from the table at the end of the meal, and about how I should try and fudge my documents to both work and study full-time.”
“Charming parents you’ve got,” You grimace, but when you reach for the popcorn, Steve stops you with a hand that grabs yours.
“And…” Your eyes flit up to his own, and he looks afraid, truly afraid as he stammers, “They’re watching us.”
“Oh.” You hum, swallowing dryly.
“When I was walking out with the popcorn I heard my dad say that he doesn’t think you’ll stay with me for very long.” He admits, his voice slightly shaky, “-because we seem like we’re not very serious.”
“What?” You gawp, but it’s not like you can reassure him. Actually, Steve, there’s no way I’d ever end our fake relationship because I’m in love with you for real!
“I thought we were doing great,” He mutters, eyes flicking back towards the kitchen where you’re sure you’ve got an audience, seeing but not hearing, “But I guess we’re not selling it.”
“I’m sorry,” You mumble, but Steve squeezes your hand- you hadn’t even realized he’d still been holding it, and you don’t want to think about how it felt so natural, so unobtrusive so as to go unnoticed.
“It’s- it’s okay.” He breathes, “Just- can we... will you kiss me?”
You freeze.
You don’t squawk, or yelp, or scream or shout or jump up and spill the popcorn everywhere. You certainly feel like doing all of those things in a mixture of elation and horror, but you remain calm, gazing up at him through your lashes, “What?”
“I’m sorry.” He cringes at himself, “I know, this is, like, totally more than you signed up for. And if not, that’s okay, but I was just thinking- y’know, if they see us kiss and we pretend we don’t know they’re watching, they’ll think- they’ll think you like me.”
Every nanosecond you take before responding feels like a minute, and you watch Steve’s big puppy eyes flicker anxiously back and forth between your own. They’re chocolate-brown and twice as sweet, gooey like they’re melted as he waits for your response.
You selfishly take him in, holding back the yes on the tip of your tongue until you’ve memorized the way that he looks mere inches away from you, clutching your hands like a lifeline and gazing at you so desperately you feel a physical pang of longing in your chest. When you’ve sufficiently painted the image in your mind you exhale shakily, your voice pitifully quiet as you hum, “You can kiss me, Steve.”
He doesn’t answer. Not with words, but he sighs, almost a laugh as his lips curve upwards before parting to let his tongue sweep over them.
He leans in, your hands clasped in his own warm ones that bleed their heat through your own skin. You feel his nose brush yours for a mere second, and his exhale fans over your face as he breathes, “Thank you.”
Then he kisses you, and your chest bursts.
All of the longing wound tightly around your heart, every peck on the cheek and secret footsie kick at the table all snap, rubber bands stretched too tightly around your wild heart. It’s beating too fast, growing and pressing painfully against your ribcage, threatening to eclipse your body altogether and ooze all over the walls like an erupted water balloon.
Steve’s lips are soft and careful, sweet and gentle and oh-so-perfect. He presses his to yours in something so delicately chaste it makes your head spin, somehow more dizzying than if he’d caught you against the hood of his car and tongued you. You may have to try that, too, though, just in case your approximation is incorrect. Maybe his parents will walk you out later tonight and you can put on a big finish to your show.
His mouth is warm and when it parts from yours you almost whimper, your face flushing with shame at the thought. But when Steve backs away he doesn’t go far, and he repeats himself, “Thank you, thank you- fuck.”
“It’s... just pretend.” You breathe, as much to remind yourself as it is to justify his actions and he nods, licking his lips again and surely tasting your gloss.
“Yeah. We’re- we’re just pretending,” He agrees, his voice impossibly quiet and low between you.
The air is tense, and you watch him warily. Then he moves in again.
“Steve-” You gasp, just before his lips meet yours, and he makes a noise that’s so halted and tense against your mouth that you nearly melt.
He breaks away with a sound that’s so close to a whine that it makes your limbs numb, “We’re pretending. It’s pretend.” He insists, lips chasing after yours, “Just- it’s just pretend.”
“Pretend, Steve,” You repeat, unable to force yourself to back away even as he advances on you, his thumbs stroking over your hands he’s still clasping, “We’re- mm,” You’re interrupted by a kiss, “Pretending.”
“Yeah,” He pants, and this time, when he reconnects your mouths, you feel his tongue swipe warm and wet against the seam of your lips, “It’s okay. It’s- we’re pretending.”
You whine against his lips. You mean for it to come out affirmatively, because the only thing keeping you from tangling your hands in his hair and dragging him down on top of you is the last ditch effort by your brain to keep your heart from shattering later. It’s screaming at you, pretend, pretend, pretend!, and you’re holding on to that one single word as Steve drinks in the sound that pours plaintively from your throat.
There’s a light squelching noise as Steve’s lips part from yours, because he’s fit his tongue into the seam of your lips and is blotting it desperately there to get you to part your own. You can’t seem to resist when he moves back in for more, and the second you give him access, his tongue dips into your mouth. You’d feel guiltier in any other context for not kissing back much, but you’re still teetering on a very dangerous precipice here.
As soon as you walk out of his front door, the jig is up. Is it worth it to give in now for all the pain it’ll bring you afterwards?
Then he drops your hands to cradle your face in his palms, and you feel every last ounce of rational reluctance seep out of you like poison fleeing your veins.
It’s better now that you’re not thinking about it. His hands are warm and reverent against your face, slightly rough but so gentle it doesn’t matter. He places one at the hinge of your jaw, bracing his fingers against the back of your neck and sending volts of electricity down your spine. He uses that hand to tilt your head back slightly, his own looming over you as he leverages himself on the couch. The other hand is centered on your cheek, long fingers ghosting over your face as his nose bumps into your skin. He’s hungrier now, no less delicate but faster, more insistent, more desperate. He’s groaning softly, and the sound spills over your tongue that’s finally brave enough to brush against his own, tentatively presenting itself between your lips only to be pushed flat by Steve’s tongue that licks a fat, wet stripe across it. The contact makes you dizzy, and you’re glad Steve is holding your head up.
You whimper, for real this time, and Steve pants against your lips when he reluctantly parts for air, “Fuck. Y/N, I- I don’t wanna watch the movie. I don’t- let’s go. Let’s go and- um,” He loses focus when his eyes drop to your lips again, and he gives in to his urges with a soft curse against your mouth. You get lost in another kiss, tongues swiping against lips and noses brushing cheeks.
“Let’s go.” He decides, springing to his feet and hauling you with him, his hands deftly sliding to your waist. You sluggishly stumble after him, your brain reigniting and smoking slightly from the thrill of it all. You’re sure it’ll begin pouring out of your ears any time now, and you let Steve pull you towards the kitchen to get griped at by his parents.
Except the lights are off, and they’re nowhere to be seen.
Steve spots his mother’s glasses on the countertop, and his father’s wallet.
“They’re upstairs for the night,” He realizes, and you peer silently over his shoulder to see the deserted kitchen, “They- they must have seen us. And left us alone.”
Right. They’d seen you kissing.
Because for the last five minutes you’d been kissing Steve, really kissing him, with tongues and wandering hands and desperate whines. The rational part of your brain powers back on to leer at you, and when Steve tugs you towards the door by your intertwined hands you realize that you night is coming to an end now, cruelly soon.
You’re not ready for the whiplash of a fist bump.
“Come on,” He slips into his loafers, and pushes your own flats towards you with the toes of his shoes, “I’ve got your purse, honey, let’s get out of here.”
“Okay,” You hum, your voice soft and low. You’re trying not to let it thicken, practically fending off your tears with a stick. But they’re looming, and you’re sure one will spill before you can even say goodbye to Steve.
This was a horrific idea.
You should have listened to your brain.
“Come on,” He repeats, his voice breathy as he tugs you out into the chilly winter air as soon as your shoes are on his feet. He’s dragging you to the car like he’s trying to banish you from his home, and you wonder if he regrets letting himself lose control in there, if he regrets taking casual advantage of a convenient situation. You hope it’s not awkward between you now, because you’re finally ready to admit that you’d been looking forward to seeing Steve again more than Robin, and you can’t even bring yourself to feel guilty for it. You’re in love with him, and he’s just kissed the life out of you, and now he’s going to dump you back on your doorstep.
Then your feet slide out from under you, not because of the ice on the pavement, but because Steve’s hands are on your waist. Your back hits the side of his car, not roughly, but you’re pinned firmly in place, and Steve’s mouth is on yours again.
“Mmf-!” You grunt, your eyes blowing wide open as Steve’s hands grab greedily at your face, his tongue licking pleadingly at your lips. You squirm away, barely able to hold him at bay as he strains against your own hands on his face, “Steve, they- they can’t see us anymore.”
“I know,” He groans, and he slips through your grip to slot his lips against yours, “I don’t want them to.”
“Steve,” You breathe, near tears, and he drops a hand from your waist to yank impatiently at the back door of his car. It doesn’t open- locked, of course, and he fumbles for the keys in his pocket. He’s still pinning you against the front door, flush to your body below the waist, and your breath catches in your throat when his hips press forwards into your own.
“There,” He jams the key into the door, the hole just left of your hip. The lock pops, and he pries the back door open, “Get in, babe.”
You don’t move right away, and his hands paw at your hips to help move you along. “Steve, please,” You cry, but your butt hits the seat and you scoot back to accommodate the way he crowds you inside. You’re instantly against the window behind you, the glass cool against your burning face, “Please don’t do this to me.”
Whatever reverie he’d been in shatters. His eyes grow round, hurt shining in them. His hands, which had been readily reaching for you again freeze midair, then drop, and his lips part to let a defeated huff pass through.
“What- do what? I thought,” He swallows, leaning back into his own personal space and fleeing yours, suddenly insecure, “I thought you liked it.”
“I did,” You whimper, tears beading in your eyes, “Steve, I liked it too much. I can’t let you do this to me, I don’t want a casual fling in your car before you drop me off tonight and pretend nothing happened.”
His brows raise, and this time when he exhales, it almost sounds like a laugh, “Casual?”
His fingers fiddle with the hem of his sweater, knotting in the ribbing for something to do, “Casual, that’s- that’s not what I had in mind. I’m not casual about you.”
“Steve,” You force his name from your mouth, your teeth gritted, “Please, this is pretend. We’re pretending, remember?”
“I’m not pretending,” He shakes his head softly, his eyes downcast, “I mean- yeah, I pretended you were my girlfriend. But I’m not pretending to want to kiss you, I- I’ve wanted to kiss you since last summer.”
Your heart hammers, practically in your throat. The back of your head is still firmly pressed against the window, and you watch Steve with a careful gaze as he pants across from you.
“What?”
He groans, his face screwing up, “That’s not how I wanted to tell you. But it’s true. I thought- I don’t know.” He scrubs a hand over his face, rough with his features, “I thought at first I was just being sleazy.” He admits, “Like- like I was just falling in love with every girl I met. But I realized when you came back for winter break that I hadn’t thought about anyone else since you left, and then when you went back to school again I felt so… empty. Like- like I barely knew you at all but I couldn’t stop myself from wanting to be around you. You felt like you were missing, not like something just last-minute added to my summers. And then- y’know, my parents got on me about settling down and I couldn’t think of any other name, anyways. It was pretty convenient that you were away at school, but- I would have said your name even if you lived next door.” Steve chances a tentative glance up at you, his big brown eyes so endearing that your own vision unblurs, your tears receding, “I’m not casual about you. I was trying to be, because I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable, but I said your name for a reason. And I could have told my parents you didn’t have time to meet them or something, but- but I wanted you to?” He scrunches his eyes shut, “I wanted to bring you home and show you off. And I should have told you before, because that’s totally not fair, but I just- I couldn’t- I couldn’t look you in the eyes and say it,” He sighs, “Because I was afraid you’d say no. So I asked you to pretend, even though I wasn’t.”
His eyes are no longer screwed shut, but they’re closed, lashes resting amongst themselves, top and bottom. He’s breathing heavy, his chest heaving in his aran knit and you part your lips, licking them to ground yourself and swallowing the spit you’d nearly drooled at his confession. It’s really a dream come true, having Steve Harrington admit that he’s been yearning over you in secret for a year and a half, especially considering you’ve been yearning over him for just as long.
So you rise to your knees, shuffling across the pleather seats of his bmw, and his only indication that you’re nose-to-nose with him is that your breath fans over his face when you admit, “I wasn’t pretending either.”
His eyes blink open, zeroed in immediately on your own, and you lean in to kiss him.
It’s soft again, like the ones you’d shared in his home. Tentative, like you’re worried he’ll break away but for different reasons this time. Maybe he’d just said all of that to convince you, maybe he’s a player like he was in high school but you doubt it. This is Steve, new Steve, your Steve, and your Steve kisses you back, his lips against yours, his hands reaching for your waist. You let him hold you, you let him lift you into his lap and you let him secure his arms around you, his hands roving your back as he tries pulling you as close as humanly possible.
“Steve,” You hum, speaking against his mouth, “Steve, I- I just want to mm, make sure,” You pull away, slotting your nose against his and resting it there, “You want this? For real? Like, you want to… be with me?”
“Forever,” He whines, his lips moving against your own as he pleads, “We can make it work. Long distance, or- or I’ll take the train to come visit you on weekends, or I’ll really get my ass up and move there, and we can really rent a shitty apartment while I work and you study.”
“Let’s start with a visit,” You’re grinning, you realize, and the expression is audible in your words. Steve kisses it anyways, even though he’s probably hitting your teeth, and you enjoy several short pecks against each other’s mouths like you can’t get enough of them, “Come see me for spring break.”
“You expect me to wait until March?” Steve groans, a hand snaking up the back of your neck and into your hair, resting there warmly, the inverse of the cool window you’d been pressed against mere minutes ago, “Honey, I’m flying back with you. Does your dorm allow couch surfers?”
“No.” You laugh, and Steve’s smile grows at the sound, blinding in the low light of the beemer, “And neither do my roommates. But you could grab a hotel room close by. And I can stay with you.”
“And then we don’t have to worry about roommates,” Steve muses, tightening his arm around your waist and squeezing you closer, forcing your lips against his again. It seems as though you’ll be talking only through kisses now, which you can’t say you’re exactly opposed to, “That sounds promising. Uh- are your parents home tonight?” He asks, suddenly focused as he gazes up at you.
“No,” You shake your head, “I told them I’d be out for dinner so they said they were gonna go to my mom’s work’s holiday party. They usually run late, if you want to come over and watch a movie while they’re gone.”
“A good one,” He verifies, “Not a boring, shitty, old one?”
“Why would we watch a good one?” You ask, your brows scrunched and your nose along with it, “Then we’d have to pay attention.”
Steve’s cautious expression melts, and a smirk fits its way over his mouth, “You’re right. They teach you that at college?”
“No,” You grin, “I learned that one here, actually.”
“From who?” Steve groans, “I’ll kick his ass.”
“Matthew Lancaster,” You recall your junior year of high school.
“Oh, you have terrible taste,” Steve scoffs, but he leans in for another kiss anyways, “‘Should have swooped you up all the way back then so you wouldn’t have to waste your time.”
“Yeah, but you didn’t,” You laugh softly, “You’d never have spoken to me in high school.”
Steve tightens his grip again, pinning your chest to his, and pressing your foreheads together. His eyes soften, and he swallows before speaking, “That’s because I was just as shitty as Matthew Lancaster back then. But I’m better now, and I’m definitely speaking to you now, I mean, you’re practically swallowing what I’m saying and-!”
You kiss him again, and you’re fairly confident that if the Harringtons were to look out the window of their master bedroom, they could see you and Steve trading kisses and giggles in the back seat of his car. But this time it’s not a performance for them, and you’ll gladly trade in your parting fist bump for a goodnight kiss whenever Steve slips out of your window late tonight.
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