desc - growing up, the one dream steve had in life was to have a wife and kids. then he got his heart broken by the only girl he'd ever loved. so fast forward to now, he was utterly hopeless. he no longer believed someone would come around and change his life. did he wish for it? absolutely. when he was out at bars drinking his life away did he sometimes picture being here with someone special? also yes. but, he realised life doesn't always work in his favour. until he met you, that is.
val speaks - AYYY new rm song yk what that means babies !!!!!! a fic loosely based on it! high hopes 3000 has been on absolute repeat and i have my cowboy boots on and everything. anyways i hope u enjoy this !!!!!
word count: 8.6k
steve harrington had spent so much of his life believing that wanting something badly enough would eventually make it real.
when he was younger, it had been easy to imagine the rest of his life as a neat little picture painted in soft colors and warm light.
a house with a porch and a little garden that never quite stayed tidy. a kitchen that always smelled like coffee in the morning and cookies in the afternoon. noisy children running through hallways with scraped knees and bright laughter. a wife who knew him so well she could tell what kind of day he’d had just by looking at him.
a life that felt full.
a life that felt loud in the best possible way.
a life that made the silence in his parents’ house seem like a distant, ugly dream instead of the thing he had grown up inside of.
his parents had always been there, technically. they had paid for the house, the clothes, the school, the kind of life that looked good from the outside if anyone ever bothered to glance their way. but steve had never really felt raised by them so much as maintained. like something expensive that had to be kept in decent condition.
he learned early how to be easy to love in theory and impossible to know in practice. he learned how to smile when people expected it, how to be charming when it suited him, how to become the version of himself that made other people comfortable before he even knew what made him comfortable at all.
so when nancy wheeler came into his life, it had felt like a door cracking open in a locked room.
he had been young, stupid, and desperately in love with the idea of being seen.
maybe that was what made it so dangerous.
maybe that was why he had let himself believe so completely in her, in them, in the future he started building in his head before he had any real proof that it could exist.
he loved her in the loud, awkward, aching way that only teenagers can.
with all the confidence of someone who had never actually been broken before and with all the hope of someone who thought love would fix the emptiness he'd carried around for years.
and for a little while, it had almost been enough.
he imagined her in every version of his future.
the woman beside him at the kitchen counter. the mother of his kids. the person who would finally make the house feel alive. he imagined growing old with her in a way that felt almost sacred, like love was something solid and permanent if you held it tightly enough.
but then the cracks came.
then the lies, the distance, the things unsaid and the things said too late, and suddenly the dream he had been holding in both hands split apart right in front of him.
nancy had broken his heart in a way he never really admitted to anyone, not even to himself, because naming the hurt would've made it real in a way he wasn’t sure he could survive.
so, he boxed it up instead.
shoved it in the back of his mind with all the other things he had never figured out how to say.
he finished high school. barely. he took a shitty job. he let his life narrow into a shape that was easier to manage than hope.
and when the years kept moving and nothing magical happened, steve started to wonder if the dream had died with nancy.
maybe that was what life had decided for him. maybe some people were built for grand love stories and some people were built to watch them from the outside. maybe he was the kind of man who got close to happiness only to be reminded that it was never really meant for him in the first place.
by twenty one, he had learned how to pretend he was fine with it.
he stopped sneaking drinks in sweaty basements and started buying them at bars where the lights were low and the music was loud enough to drown out thoughts if he let it. he bought clothes that fit properly, nice enough to make him look like a guy who had his life together even though he absolutely didn't. he moved out of his parents’ house and into a small apartment that was barely more than four walls and a handful of bad decisions, but it was his.
that mattered more than he liked to admit.
his own furniture, his own dishes, his own front door to close behind him at the end of the day. he should've felt proud of that, and sometimes he almost did.
mostly he felt lonely.
there were nights when he’d come home, keys in hand, shoulders sore from work, and stand in the doorway for a second too long just listening to the silence settle around him.
no television in the background. no soft laughter from another room. no smell of someone else’s shampoo in the bathroom.
just the hum of the fridge, the faint traffic outside and the weight of a life that was technically his and yet still somehow felt unfinished.
-
he still told himself things at bars, of course.
tonight’s the night.
i’m gonna meet someone tonight.
i’m gonna talk to someone tonight.
he said it with enough confidence that he even almost believed it, at least until the moment came and went and he was still alone with his drink, pretending not to notice the couples at the corners of the room. pretending not to notice the girl by the jukebox smiling at some guy who clearly knew exactly what to say. pretending not to notice that he'd become very good at standing in places where something could happen and then leaving before it did.
the worst part was that he wasn’t even sure he was doing anything wrong.
he was trying, he really was.
he was just trying in the way a man tries when he's already started to assume the universe isn't on his side.
that was what made the night you came into his life feel like a mistake at first.
not because you did anything wrong, because you didn’t.
you were just there.
standing in the doorway of a bar he had almost left ten minutes earlier, the cold of the outside air still clinging to your coat, your cheeks faintly pink from the wind.
you looked around like you were deciding whether the place was worth staying in, and for one impossible second steve had the absurd thought that he knew exactly how that felt.
you were carrying a bag over one shoulder and had a look of quiet determination that made you seem like the kind of person who didn’t waste time on things that weren’t worth the trouble.
he noticed that first.
then he noticed the way you tucked a strand of hair behind your ear when you scanned the room, the small crease between your brows when the music got too loud, the way your eyes softened when the bartender pointed you toward an open seat.
it was nothing.
it was everything.
it was the sort of ordinary moment that should have passed by without making any kind of impression and yet somehow lodged itself deep under steve’s ribs before he had even told himself to look away.
he did anyway.
or tried to.
you took the stool near the bar instead of one of the crowded tables, set your bag on the empty seat beside you, and ordered something with the kind of calm confidence steve had always secretly admired in people.
he couldn’t hear what you said over the music, but the bartender smiled like you were a regular, or maybe just the sort of person that was easy to like. you took off your coat. you glanced around again. and then, for the briefest second, your eyes landed on him.
steve froze.
not dramatically, not in a way anyone else would have noticed, just enough for his fingers to tighten around his glass and for some old, painfully familiar instinct to flare up inside him.
don’t get caught staring. don’t be obvious. don’t make it weird.
he’d spent enough of his life being the pretty guy at the center of attention to know exactly how dangerous it was to be seen looking like he wanted something.
but you didn’t look away immediately.
you held his gaze for a beat, maybe two, with a kind of unreadable calm that made his stomach twist in a way he absolutely didn't appreciate.
there was no smile. no flirtation. no embarrassment. just a moment of shared awareness, as if you had both quietly registered the other one and decided, for reasons not yet explained, that the moment meant something.
then you looked back down at your drink.
steve should've left it there.
he should've gone on with his night, maybe ordered another beer, maybe pretended the strange little jolt in his chest was nothing more than boredom.
instead, he found himself watching you again and again without meaning to.
not in a creepy way, he told himself. not like that. just… noticing.
noticing the way you spoke to the bartender with your head tilted slightly to the side, the way your expression changed when the song on the jukebox shifted into something older and sadder, the way you seemed both perfectly at ease and a little far away at the same time.
there was something about you that made him think of winter mornings, of warm light, of doors being opened to places he had never quite let himself hope existed.
which was ridiculous.
steve was not the kind of man who believed in signs. not anymore. not after everything.
but there was something almost insulting about how quickly his attention kept returning to you, as if his own mind had decided to betray him on the first night of a random week in a random bar with a random stranger who had absolutely no business looking that interesting.
you stayed in your seat for a while. long enough for steve to tell himself about six different times that he wasn’t going to say anything. long enough for the bartender to slide your drink across the counter and for you to thank them with a small smile. long enough for him to take one more sip and still not decide what to do with the weird, restless feeling building under his skin.
and then the universe, apparently, got bored of watching him suffer in silence.
because someone bumped into the table behind you, and your bag slipped off the seat with a quiet thud that made your head snap down at the exact same time steve moved to catch it before it hit the floor.
his hand got there first.
yours met his over the strap.
for a second, both of you just stared.
then you looked up at him with a kind of startled politeness that made his heart do something embarrassingly stupid.
close up, you were even prettier than he'd already decided, which felt unfair.
he saw the shape of your mouth when it parted slightly in surprise, the faint shimmer of your eyes under the low lights, the little breath you took like you had just been caught off guard by a very small, very human moment.
“sorry” you said, and your voice was softer than he expected.
“no, uh, it’s fine” steve said at the same time. “you good?”
you blinked once, then looked down at the bag in his hand before looking back at him. there was the smallest ghost of a smile at the corner of your mouth, like you found his question slightly ridiculous in a way that was not unkind.
“yeah,” you said. “i think so.”
he nodded like he hadn’t just lost every coherent thought in his brain.
“cool. great. good.”
you laughed then, quietly, and it was the kind of laugh that hit him somewhere deep and unexpected.
it made him smile before he could stop himself, and suddenly the whole thing felt less like fate and more like one accidental step in the wrong direction that somehow landed on the right path anyway.
“thanks” you said, taking the bag from him.
“yeah, no problem.”
you hesitated, one hand still resting lightly on the strap, and something in your expression shifted as if you were deciding whether or not to keep talking.
steve, who had spent years convincing himself he wasn’t the kind of man to hope too quickly, found himself hoping anyway.
“are you here alone?” you asked.
the question was simple. harmless, probably.
it still made his pulse jump.
“yeah,” he said, “i mean, not like- not because i’m weird or anything. just, you know. alone.”
your smile widened a little. “i didn’t say weird.”
“right. yeah. sorry.”
you turned slightly on the stool so you could face him more fully. it was such a small movement, but it changed the air between you. made it feel less like two people near each other by accident and more like something had quietly begun.
“i’m not judging,” you said. “i just noticed.”
“good to know.”
“are you always this charming, or am i just lucky tonight?”
there it was, the opening.
the small, shimmering crack in the wall he had spent years building round himself.
steve should've taken the easy route. should have flirted back the way he had with dozens of people before, should have made some smooth comment and followed it with that lazy smile he knew worked on most people.
instead, what came out was a little more honest than that.
“i’m usually better at it” he admitted.
you gave him a look that was equal parts amused and curious. “better at what?”
he shrugged, suddenly aware of how much he wanted this conversation to keep going. “talking to people.”
“that sounded suspiciously like a lie.” your laugh came again, and this time it was easier, warmer.
he leaned his elbow on the bar and glanced at your drink. “so what are you drinking?”
you told him.
he ordered you another one before you could object.
and when you opened your mouth to protest he raised a hand and said, “please let me have this. i almost died saving your bag.”
“you did not almost die.”
“emotionally, i did.”
that got another laugh out of you, and steve had the completely unreasonable urge to keep making you do that forever.
it scared him a little, how quickly his mind was leaping ahead, how easily some part of him had started imagining a future that hadn't yet earned the right to exist.
but maybe that was the thing about loneliness.
maybe it made even a brief kind smile feel like a promise.
you introduced yourself then, and when he repeated your name under his breath, he felt something shift in him that he didn't have words for.
maybe the first real crack in all that hopelessness he had worn like armour for years.
the bartender set your drink down between you and steve found himself watching your fingers wrap around the glass.
he tried not to stare. tried not to look too eager. tried not to let the night become more than it was. but you kept talking, and he kept answering, and somehow the hours began to peel away around you both like old paint.
you were funny in a dry, unexpected way that made him catch himself smiling when you were speaking.
you asked questions and actually waited for the answers. you didn’t seem impressed by his name, his looks, his usual empty bravado, and that in itself was almost enough to fascinate him completely.
there was no performance in the way you listened. no fake interest. just steady attention, as if he were a person first and a pretty face second, and steve was so unused to that he almost didn’t know what to do with it.
he found out where you worked. he found out you were new to town, which explained why he hadn’t seen you around before. he found out you hated tequila, preferred colder weather to hot, and had a habit of collecting old books from secondhand stores if the covers looked interesting enough.
he told you about the video store. he told you about robin, making you laugh when he described her as “the most annoying genius i’ve ever met.” he told you about family christmases that felt too large and too empty at the same time, about his apartment, about the long, stupid loneliness of adult life that no one warned you about when you were younger.
you listened to all of it without making him feel pathetic for saying it.
that alone should have been enough to make him fall for you a little.
it almost was.
by the time the bar started thinning out and the music changed to something slower, steve had stopped pretending this night was just another night.
he didn’t know what you were looking for. he didn’t know if you were waiting for someone, if you had come here on a whim, if you were the kind of person who flirted with strangers just because you liked the conversation. he didn’t know if there was any chance at all that what he was feeling was mutual.
but when you looked at him, really looked at him, something in your expression told him he was not imagining the way the air seemed to pull tight between you.
and that was terrifying.
because steve had built his life around surviving disappointment.
he knew how to laugh things off. knew how to make the joke first so nobody else could hurt him with it. knew how to leave before he got attached, how to keep things light, how to turn longing into something manageable.
but you were standing there with your hand around a half finished drink, looking at him like he might actually be worth staying for, and all his old defences started to feel flimsy in the face of something he hadn't let himself want in years.
a person.
a real one.
someone kind, someone warm, someone who might sit beside him on the couch in that tiny apartment and make the silence feel less enormous. someone who might laugh at his terrible jokes and know when he was pretending to be okay. someone who might touch his shoulder in passing and make him feel, for the first time in a very long while, like he wasn't built only for being left behind.
the thought hit him so hard it almost made him angry.
not at you, at himself.
at the stupid, aching hope that had survived in him even after he had spent years trying to kill it.
you were saying something then, something about the record store downtown, and he realized he had missed the first half because he had been too busy staring at the shape of your mouth when you spoke.
he cleared his throat, cursed himself silently, and said, “sorry, what was that?”
you tilted your head. “nothing important. just wondering if you were actually listening.”
“i was listening” he said, too quickly.
you looked at him for one long second, then smiled in a way that made him think you didn't entirely believe him but were willing to let it go for now.
“good,” you said. “because i asked if you’d ever been there.”
“the record store?”
“yeah.”
“uh,” steve said, suddenly scrambling for a memory. “probably. maybe. once?”
“that is the least convincing answer possible.”
“i’m aware.”
you laughed again, and he wondered, not for the first time that night, whether you knew what you were doing to him.
whether you could see the way he kept leaning a little closer when you spoke. whether you noticed how careful he was becoming with every word, as if something in him had started to believe that this mattered.
the thing was, it did.
he didn’t know it yet. not fully. not in the way that would eventually settle deep into his bones and refuse to leave. but something about you had already begun to move through him like the first warm air after a long winter.
and maybe, just maybe, that was how it happened.
maybe love arrived like this instead. in a crowded bar on an ordinary night. with a dropped bag and a crooked smile. with a stranger who didn’t feel like a stranger for long. with a man who had spent years convinced that nothing good was ever going to stay and a person who looked at him like staying might be the most natural thing in the world.
steve didn’t know your name was going to become the first thing he thought about in the morning.
didn’t know your laugh would start living in his head like a song he couldn’t turn off.
didn’t know that one day, when he was standing in his empty apartment again, he would remember the warmth of your hand over his and feel something in his chest answer back like it had been waiting all along.
all he knew was that the night was not over.
and for the first time in a very long time, that didn't feel like a threat.
-
it happened so gradually that neither of you really noticed it at first.
one phone call became two.
two became every other night.
every other night became every night.
and suddenly steve couldn't remember what his evenings had looked like before you.
he'd get home from work exhausted, smelling faintly like dust and videotapes and whatever cheap cologne he'd sprayed on that morning, toss his keys onto the counter, kick off his shoes, and before he'd even fully settled onto the couch the phone would ring.
or he'd call you first.
sometimes neither of you had anything particularly important to say.
those ended up being his favorite conversations.
you'd spend hours talking about absolutely nothing.
books you'd found. movies you'd watched. customers that had annoyed you. customers that had made you laugh. memories from childhood. stupid theories about life. things neither of you had ever told anyone else because they seemed too insignificant to matter.
except somehow they mattered now.
steve had never realized how much loneliness could sneak up on a person until it started disappearing.
for years he'd gotten used to silence. he'd gotten used to empty apartments and eating dinner alone and nobody asking how his day was. he'd convinced himself that was adulthood, that everyone eventually stopped expecting more.
but then there was you.
calling him because you'd found a book with a ridiculous title and needed someone to laugh about it with. calling him because you'd gotten lost on the way somewhere and somehow thought steve harrington was the best person to ask for directions. calling him because your shelf was crooked. calling him because you couldn't decide what to make for dinner. calling him because apparently he was now your designated emergency contact for every minor inconvenience in your life.
and god.
he loved it.
he absolutely loved it.
it became the highlight of his day.
there was something embarrassingly satisfying about hearing your voice say his name followed by some variation of, "i need your help."
sometimes he worried it made him sound pathetic.
robin certainly would've said it did.
but steve couldn't help it.
he liked being needed. liked knowing that when something happened, good or bad or completely insignificant, he was one of the people you thought to call.
one evening he'd spent nearly forty minutes helping you assemble a bookshelf over the phone.
forty minutes.
he hadn't even been there.
you'd read the instructions out loud while he attempted to make sense of them.
"okay," you'd said. "so i've got three wooden pieces left."
"how many are there supposed to be?"
"i don't know."
"what do you mean you don't know?"
"i threw the box away."
steve had nearly choked laughing. "you threw the instructions away?"
"they were confusing."
"the instructions are literally the most important part."
"well that's your opinion."
"that's everyone's opinion."
he could still remember sitting alone in his apartment, grinning like an idiot at nothing while listening to you argue with him.
it had hit him then that he hadn't felt lonely once during that entire conversation.
and maybe that shouldn't have felt so monumental. maybe normal people experienced that kind of comfort all the time.
but steve didn't, he never had.
which was probably why he found himself asking increasingly dangerous questions, questions he wasn't sure he wanted answers to.
does love come around or does one come around to it?
he thought about that a lot, late at night mostly.
when the apartment was dark. when your voice wasn't filling the silence. when he was lying awake staring at the ceiling.
because maybe people talked about love all wrong.
maybe it wasn't lightning, maybe it wasn't destiny, maybe it wasn't some magical thing that appeared out of nowhere and knocked you off your feet.
maybe it was this.
slowly finding yourself looking forward to someone's calls. memorising the sound of their laugh without meaning to. learning their coffee order. knowing exactly what kind of mood they were in from a simple hello.
maybe love wasn't something that arrived, maybe it was something you arrived at.
and god.
if that was true.
he thought he was getting dangerously close.
there were still bad nights, of course. steve wasn't suddenly fixed. you weren't some magical cure for years of disappointment and loneliness.
there were nights when he'd sit in the dark and all those old thoughts would creep back in.
nights when he'd remember every failed date, every conversation that went nowhere, every person who'd eventually left.
there were nights when he'd think maybe he was being stupid again. maybe he was building castles out of nothing. maybe he was setting himself up for another heartbreak before anything had even started.
because really, what was this?
you weren't dating, you hadn't talked about feelings, you hadn't kissed.
hell, you hadn't even properly gone out together.
you were friends, just friends. very good friends. friends who talked every single day. friends who occasionally flirted. friends who somehow knew more about each other than people who'd been together for years.
friends.
right.
and then the next day he'd get home from work, the phone would ring, you'd tell him about some weird book you'd found or ask him for help choosing paint colors or call because you'd burned dinner and wanted sympathy.
and suddenly everything would feel okay again.
you had this strange ability to make life seem manageable.
like maybe it wasn't always working against him. like maybe happiness wasn't some exclusive club he'd never been invited into.
sometimes steve would catch himself smiling in public because he'd remembered something you'd said three days ago. sometimes he'd laugh to himself while stocking shelves because he'd thought of a joke you'd appreciate. sometimes robin would stare at him from across the store and look genuinely concerned.
"you're smiling again."
steve looked up.
"what?"
"that weird smile."
"i don't have a weird smile"
robin narrowed her eyes.
"did she call?"
steve immediately looked away which answered the question.
robin groaned.
"oh my god."
"what?"
"you are so gone."
"i am not."
"steve."
"i'm not."
"you literally just smiled at a copy of ghostbusters."
"it's a good movie."
she'd laughed so hard she'd nearly fallen over.
the problem wasn't that steve liked you, he'd accepted that part, the problem was what came next.
asking you out.
every time he considered it, he immediately talked himself out of it.
what if he made things weird? what if you'd only ever seen him as a friend? what if he ruined everything? what if he finally got lucky enough to have you in his life and then managed to lose you all by himself?
that possibility terrified him more than rejection ever could.
because right now?
he had you, maybe not exactly the way he wanted, but he had you.
he was the first person you called when something happened. the person you trusted. the person you reached for.
and selfishly, desperately, he wasn't sure he could risk that.
not yet.
so for now he settled for smaller victories.
baby steps.
movement.
he started calling first sometimes which had taken an embarrassing amount of courage.
the first time he'd done it he'd spent nearly five minutes staring at your number.
just staring.
before finally dialing.
you'd answered on the second ring.
"hello?"
and immediately every thought had vanished from his head.
"uh."
smooth, very smooth.
"steve?"
"yeah."
a pause.
then a smile in your voice.
"did you call me?"
he'd felt ridiculous. "yeah."
"everything okay?"
"yeah."
"then why are you calling?"
steve had opened and closed his mouth.
because honestly?
he hadn't had a reason, he'd just wanted to hear your voice. which sounded far too pathetic to say out loud so he'd settled on the truth adjacent version.
"i saw something funny and thought you'd laugh."
your silence lasted half a second.
then came the softest, warmest laugh.
"okay."
and somehow that had been enough.
because you hadn't questioned it, hadn't made fun of him, hadn't treated it like it was strange, you'd just stayed on the phone with him for three hours.
three whole hours.
and afterward steve had sat alone on his couch staring at the wall with the stupidest smile imaginable.
because for the first time in years, maybe ever, something in his life felt like it was moving forward.
and maybe he still didn't know how to ask you out. maybe his heart still jumped every time you laughed. maybe he still spent half his time wondering whether he was imagining the occasional flirtation between you. maybe he was still scared.
but for once the fear wasn't winning, for once hope was.
and steve had spent so many years without hope that even the smallest amount felt revolutionary.
especially when it sounded so much like your voice on the other end of the phone.
-
the first time you met steve in person outside of the bar, it was supposed to be simple. that was the lie you both told yourselves.
nothing about the two of you ever stayed simple for long.
at first it was little things, the kind that looked harmless from the outside.
he started showing up where you were with the kind of frequency that was easy to excuse. with coffee, a ride, a book he thought you’d like, a spare key he claimed he was only giving you in case of emergencies.
and then one day you went grocery shopping together, because steve had complained loudly and dramatically enough about needing to do it that you offered to come along just to keep him from whining the entire time. he accepted too quickly, which should.ve been a warning.
it was, in retrospect, one of the strangest and most perfect afternoons of his life.
the store should have been boring.
fluorescent lights, crowded aisles, a list tucked into his pocket, the usual dull tasks of adulthood that most people tolerated and nobody romanticized.
but with you beside him, it became something else entirely. you walked too close when the aisle got narrow, bumped your shoulder into his when you thought he was being too serious about brands of cereal, and laughed at him when he stared at the produce like he was personally offended by every lemon in the bin.
“why are you holding the avocado like that?” you asked.
steve glanced down. “like what?”
“like it might bite you.”
“i don’t trust it.”
you laughed so hard you had to stop walking, and he stared at you for a second too long before turning away with a grin he couldn’t hide if he tried. he hated how easy it was for you to turn a stupid errand into a memory. hated it because he loved it too much.
by the time you reached the cereal aisle, he’d already forgotten half the list. by the time you were arguing over which pasta sauce looked less depressing, he’d stopped caring about the list altogether and started caring about the way you leaned your hip against the cart like you belonged there. like you belonged beside him. like it was the most natural thing in the world.
and maybe that was the problem.
because the more time he spent with you, the more his brain betrayed him.
he stopped doing this years ago. stopped imagining girls in his future. stopped picturing dinners and holidays and apartment keys left in a bowl by the door and someone’s laugh spilling out of the bathroom while they got ready for work.
after nancy, he made a quiet little burial ground out of all those thoughts and called it moving on. he convinced himself it was easier not to hope, easier not to attach pictures to people, easier not to let his head wander into places that only ever hurt him.
but with you, the pictures came anyway.
one second you were holding a box of mismatched screws and telling him the instructions made no sense, and the next his mind had already placed you like that permanently. but instead, in his kitchen, years later, barefoot and annoyed and laughing as he tried to assemble something unnecessarily complicated.
it was so vivid it almost made him dizzy.
the first time you came over to his apartment, you took one look around and made a face.
“wow,” you said, setting your bag down. “this place needs help.”
steve blinked. “hello to you too.”
you looked around slowly, taking in the couch, the shelves, the sad little lamp in the corner, the blank walls.
“no, seriously. this place needs help.”
he crossed his arms. “i didn’t invite you here to insult my home.”
“good,” you said. “because i’m not insulting it. i’m saving it.”
“from what?”
“from looking like a single man with unresolved issues lives here.”
he stared at you. “i am a single man with unresolved issues.”
“right.”
he laughed despite himself, already shaking his head, and before he knew it you were opening cabinet doors, asking where the spare nails were, and telling him he needed better curtains.
he should have been offended. instead, he watched you pace around his apartment like you had an opinion about every corner of it and found himself impossibly, stupidly charmed.
and then you started helping.
really helping.
not the fake sort of help people offered when they wanted to feel useful. actual help. sleeves pushed up, hair tucked back, concentration pinching your brow as you tried to figure out what could go where.
you grunted when a piece of furniture refused to cooperate. you muttered under your breath when a screw dropped under the couch. you asked him for a hand without hesitation, like it was the easiest thing in the world to include him in what you were doing.
that part got him every time.
he would have carried boxes for you across town, fixed anything in your apartment, driven across state lines if you’d asked him with that same open trust in your voice. it felt good. better than good, it felt like purpose.
and the terrible thing was that you seemed to know that.
not in a manipulative way, never that, just in the way you noticed things.
in the way you handed him one end of a shelf and smiled like you were quietly offering him something he didn’t know he’d been missing.
the day stretched long and easy between the two of you.
music played low in the background. a chair got moved three times before you both agreed it looked best by the window. he found an old photograph tucked behind a drawer and made fun of himself for it. you laughed. he made you lunch in the middle of the chaos, and you told him his cooking was surprisingly good, which made his chest feel strange in the best way.
by evening, his apartment looked less empty, warmer somehow. not because of the rearrange, though that helped. because of you moving through the rooms like you belonged there.
that was the part that haunted him afterward.
the fact that you made his place feel lived in.
like a home could be made out of ordinary things if the right person was standing beside him.
and then there were the little surprises.
he’d complain offhandedly about something, barely thinking it mattered, and you would show up later with the exact thing he’d mentioned.
a rug, because he’d laughed once and said the one in his living room had a stain on it that probably counted as a permanent resident. you arrived at his door with a rolled-up rug tucked awkwardly under your arm, nearly toppled by the sheer inconvenience of carrying it, and he had to physically catch the thing before it knocked into both of you.
“are you trying to injure yourself on my behalf?” he’d asked, laughing as he helped you lower it to the ground.
you huffed. “it was on sale.”
“you bought me a rug because it was on sale?”
“because you needed a rug.”
“i didn't need a rug that badly.”
“steve, your old one looked like it had survived a war.”
he stared at you, then down at the rug, then back at you. “you spent money on this?”
you lifted your chin, unapologetic. “yes.”
“you didn’t have to do that.”
“i wanted to.”
that was worse. that was always worse.
because steve could handle kindness from strangers. he could even handle affection from people who liked giving it freely. what he didn’t know how to handle was the kind that felt thoughtful. the kind that remembered offhand comments and turned them into actions. the kind that said i listen to you, i notice you, i want your life to be a little better just because i’m in it.
it made his throat tight.
it made his heart feel too big for his ribs.
it made him think, more than once, that he was going to ruin this if he wasn’t careful.
so he kept trying to be careful.
he kept meeting you halfway, kept letting things unfold one small piece at a time, kept pretending he wasn’t completely undone by the way your smile changed when he opened the door.
he kept telling himself he wasn’t ready to ask you out, that the timing had to be right, that he couldn’t risk messing up something this good, that friendship was still better than nothing.
that he should be grateful for what he had.
and then one day, after a hard shift that left him sore and irritated and closer to snapping at a customer than he liked to admit, he came home and found your name on his answering machine.
he stood in the doorway for a second, key still in hand, just listening.
“hey, steve. it’s me. i figured i’d call and see if you were alive. if you are, call me back. if you’re not, haunt someone else. okay, bye.”
his chest ached.
he called you back before he could talk himself out of it.
you answered on the first ring this time.
“hey.”
and there it was again, that impossible steadiness in your voice. not pity. not obligation. just you.
“hey,” he said, sinking onto the couch. “you called just to check if i was dead?”
“mostly.”
he laughed, long and tired and real. “that’s kind of sweet.”
“don’t tell anyone. i have a reputation to maintain.”
he smiled at the wall, at the ceiling, at the empty room around him that no longer felt quite so empty when you were on the other end of the line. “you busy?”
“not really.”
“good.”
“good?”
“yeah,” he said, then exhaled and let himself be honest. “i kind of wanted to hear your voice.”
there was a pause.
then your voice came back even gentler. “you can always call.”
it was such a simple thing to say which was probably why it wrecked him.
you had no idea what it did to him when you said things like that. how much hope could fit inside a single sentence. how easily you could make a hard day feel survivable. how every tiny kindness from you seemed to settle into his chest and stay there.
a few nights later, you showed up at his apartment in pajamas with a paper bag in one hand and a small smile on your face.
he opened the door, looked you up and down, and frowned. “are you okay?”
you shrugged one shoulder. “you sounded bad.”
he stared at you. “i sounded bad over the phone and you decided to come over in pajamas.”
“yes.”
“with food?”
“obviously.” you walked past him and into the apartment like it was the most normal thing in the world. “you were having a rough night, and i thought you could use company.”
steve shut the door slowly behind you, heart in his throat, and for a second he couldn’t move. couldn’t think. couldn’t do anything but watch you pull takeout containers from the bag and set them on his coffee table like you belonged there, too.
“you do this on purpose” he said quietly.
you glanced up. “do what?”
“show up and act like you know exactly what i need.”
your expression shifted, just slightly. softer now. “maybe i do.”
he looked at you, really looked at you, and something in him finally cracked clean through.
because this wasn’t luck.
this was you.
showing up. staying. making him feel chosen in ways he’d never been chosen before.
and after enough days and nights of that, enough accidental dates disguised as errands and drive thrus and shared meals, enough of you reaching for him without fear and enough of him falling a little harder every single time, steve finally thought fuck it.
if he waited any longer, he was going to explode.
so he asked you out in the front seat of his car with takeout balanced between you, the engine off, the night quiet around both of you.
he had rehearsed it three different ways and forgotten all of them the second he looked at your face.
you noticed him staring. “what?”
he swallowed.
“i need to ask you something.”
you went still.
he almost panicked.
“okay” you said slowly, but you were smiling a little now, like you already knew where this was going and were trying not to scare him.
steve dragged a hand over his mouth, then let it fall to his lap. “i know this is probably going to come out badly, but i, uh..” he laughed once under his breath, nervous and disbelieving that he was really doing this. “do you want to go on an actual date with me?”
your eyes widened.
for one horrifying second he thought he’d ruined everything.
then you smiled, really smiled. the kind that made the whole world narrow down to just your face in the dim car light.
“yes” you said.
steve blinked. “yes?”
“yes.”
he let out a breath he felt like he’d been holding for years. then another. then he laughed, helpless and stunned, and had to lean back in his seat because he genuinely thought he might float out through the roof of the car if he didn’t stay put.
“oh my god.”
you laughed too, delighted now, and he covered his face with one hand like a man trying very hard not to lose his entire mind in front of you.
“that went better than i expected” he admitted.
“you expected me to say no?”
“i expected you to laugh in my face.”
you looked scandalised. “steve.”
“what?”
“i would never.”
he glanced at you through his fingers, smiling despite himself. “you definitely would if you thought i deserved it.”
you pointed at him. “okay, yes, maybe a little. but not about this.”
his heart felt absurdly full.
there were a thousand things he wanted to say after that. a thousand different ways he wanted to tell you how much this meant to him, how much you meant to him, how long he had spent wanting exactly this without daring to reach for it.
instead, because he was still steve and still at least a little terrified of sincerity, he said, “cool.”
you laughed again and nudged his shoulder with yours.
and that was that.
somehow, miraculously, that was that.
-
after that, everything got easier and harder at the same time.
easier because you were no longer pretending. harder because now he had a reason to be afraid of losing you. but mostly it was beautiful in the painfully ordinary way he had once thought only existed in daydreams.
date nights where you ordered two meals and shared because you were both annoyingly indecisive. afternoons spent browsing records, where you’d lean close enough to smell his cologne and he’d forget entire sentences. evenings where you sat on his couch in soft clothes and let the silence rest between you without it feeling empty. mornings where he woke up with your head against his shoulder and had to lie perfectly still because he didn't trust himself not to cry from happiness.
you asked for little.
just enough to let him love you in the ways that came naturally to him.
help carrying things. help with directions. help deciding what to eat. help fixing something small. help choosing between two nearly identical shirts. help with the kind of things that made him feel useful, needed, wanted.
and you asked him on purpose.
“you do that” he said, voice going strange and quiet.
you looked up from the counter. “do what?”
“ask me for things.”
your brow furrowed a little. “i mean, yeah. because i need help sometimes.”
he shook his head, smiling even though his chest hurt. “no, i know. i just.. i know you could do a lot of this stuff yourself.”
you went still, reading the look on his face with a kind of soft intelligence that always made him feel seen right through. “steve.”
he laughed once, shaky and disbelieving. “you do it because you know i like it.”
there was no point trying to hide it from you. not anymore.
you crossed the kitchen slowly and stopped in front of him. your expression had gone warm in that quiet, devastating way it always did when you were being tender. “yeah,” you said. “i do.”
his throat tightened.
“because you deserve to be needed too” you added softly.
that nearly finished him.
he stared at you for a long second, then reached out like he couldn’t help himself and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. you smiled up at him, and he thought, absurdly, that this was what a miracle must feel like.
the gentle, impossible fact of being loved by someone who understood you.
the first time you kissed him, he swears he forgot how to breathe.
it happened at the end of a date that was not technically a date anymore because by then the word didn’t even seem big enough for the way you were together.
the two of you had spent the evening sharing fries, making fun of a bad movie, and arguing over whether a joke in the restaurant had been funny or just deeply stupid.
when he walked you to your door, neither of you seemed in any hurry to say goodnight.
the air between you felt charged with something quiet and inevitable.
you smiled at him from the steps and said his name like you were already halfway to touching him.
“what?” he asked softly.
you looked at his mouth then you stepped closer, and suddenly all the fear, all the years, all the old loneliness that had once lived in him so deeply it felt permanent just fell away.
your hand touched his cheek.
he leaned into it without thinking.
and when you kissed him, it was so gentle it almost hurt. so certain it made every part of him go still.
he felt it down to the marrow of his bones, like the whole world had finally clicked into place and his body had been waiting his entire life for that exact moment.
when you pulled back, he was staring at you like you had performed actual magic.
you laughed softly. “hi.”
he let out a breath that sounded suspiciously like a laugh and a sigh at the same time. “hi.”
“was that okay?”
he stared at you in horror. “okay?”
“i mean, i just-”
he kissed you again before you could keep apologising for something so perfect.
after that, he stopped pretending he was only dipping a toe into this.
he let himself fall.
freely and completely.
and the worst part, the most beautiful part, was how easy it was.
he realised you were his first real love, and somehow you made that fact feel less like a wound and more like a gift.
you knew him in ways he'd never been known before. not because you were trying to fix him, but because you were paying attention. because you loved the parts of him he'd once thought were too much and not enough all at once. because you looked at his softness and his awkwardness and his need to be useful and his habit of filling silence with jokes, and instead of making him ashamed, you made him feel cherished.
he stopped worrying, mostly, about whether you'd leave.
not because the fear vanished entirely. he was still human. still steve. still someone who had been taught by life to brace for loss.
but because you were there.
because you kept being there.
because one night turned into a week, and a week turned into a month, and before he knew it he was waking up beside you and listening to you talk about your dreams before the sun came up, and it didn’t feel temporary. it felt like home.
that was the thing he had always wanted most.
not a perfect life, not a flawless one, just a life that felt full.
with laughter in the kitchen. with your shoes by his door. with your voice in his ear. with your hand in his. with a future that no longer felt like a blank wall he had to stare at alone.
he still thought about marriage sometimes. still thought about kids. still thought about the little house with the porch and the bright, noisy rooms and the warmth that would come from somewhere deeper than furniture or decor or good luck.
but now those thoughts didn't hurt.
now they glowed.
because he knew. he knew, with the kind of certainty that settled quietly and stayed, that he hadn't been doomed to loneliness after all.
he'd just been waiting for you.
and now that you were his, the world felt different.
steve, who had spent years thinking he was unlovable, was loved instead.
and you loved him so naturally that it rewrote everything.
he wasn't lonely anymore.
not when you were beside him talking his ear off in bed. not when you reached for him in the dark. not when you smiled at him over dinner and asked him to pass the salt.
he once thought high hopes were something that happened to other people.
now he knew better.
now he knew they were something he could have, too.
something he could build. something you had built together, one small choice at a time.
and when he looked at you, really looked at you, he felt it with painful, beautiful clarity.
you were his girl. his whole world.
that was not a dream that hurt to hold, it was real.
Those Days Are Over (Don’t Worry, Baby) — Steve Harrington ( 3 )
part one part two part three ᵎᵎ
pairing — steve harrington x fem!reader
summary — four years ago, steve harrington had chosen his future and it wasn’t you. you’d chose to leave hawkins entirely and that worked out fine until it didn’t. now you’re sleeping in your sister’s guest room and picking up your nephew from baseball practice where steve harrington is teaching kids how to slide into home. some things, it turns out, you can’t outrun.
content warnings — 20.4k words. minors dni!!!! sexual content/semi-explicit ( grinding, heavy making out ), established relationship, hurt/comfort heavy, emotional hurt, veryyy unresolved past, exes to lovers, second chance, past heartbreak, insecurity and self doubt, miscommunication, trust issues, anxiety, crying, being emotionally vulnerable, domesticity, tense parental dynamics (towards steve)
author’s note — thank you so so much for waiting so long for this update!!! i’m so excited to share this part even though i’m a little unsure about it. thank god i wanna write a part 4 though as if this isn’t already a 50k word monster; these two genuinely won’t let me go and i’ve decided to stop fighting it
It was strange to hold Steve so tight after years, it almost hurt. Your left arm had gone numb sometime in the night, pinned between your body and his, and when you tried to flex your fingers, they responded with that pins-and-needles static that made you wince. You let them rest there; you didn’t want to disturb whatever fragile peace had settled over the two of you in sleep.
You hadn’t slept like this in four years—pinned and with someone else’s breathing setting the tempo for your own—and your body had clearly decided to make up the deficit all in one night. Steve was a furnace at your back, he always had been. You’d forgotten that the way you’d forgotten a dozen other facts about loving him; he ran hot, he slept like he was braced for the bed to be taken from him, he made a low sound in his throat when you so much as shifted, as though he was some sleeping animal accounting you were still there.
A pipe somewhere ticked as something warmed or cooled. The fridge cycled on, shuddered as it held a note. A car went by below and laid a slow bar of light across the wall, left to right, and then it took away again.
Steve’s hand was open on your sternum, fingers loose as the whole broad weight of them just placed there, rising and falling with you. At some point in the night, it had migrated up from your waist and settled over your breastbone, and you understood that it had gone to your heart. He’d done that as a teenager, too, in his parents’ rec room with a movie neither of you watched; you’d teased him for it because, at that age, you teased the boy for the tender thing instead of letting him just have it. You wished, slightly uncomfortably, that you’d just let him have it.
Steve breathed in differently, nearer to awake. His face was in your hair and you felt the breath go in long and catch slightly at the top like his body was still finding the parts of itself the crying had moved around. The weight of yesterday came back then, the simple physical fact of everything that had been said redistributing itself across your chest.
You couldn’t move your fingers.
It would have been the smallest thing to flex them and get the blood back, to end the bright fizzing ache of them. But that would have meant moving your arm, and moving your arm meant the chance—small, ridiculous, you knew it was ridiculous—that the whole arrangement would come apart, that he’d surface and the light would be wrong and it would turn out you’d assembled all of this out of want the way you used to assemble a future out of apartment listings. So you kept still and let your hand keep hurting, and you readily chose the ache; you tried to not think about how your first thing in the first morning was already to hold something uncomfortable very carefully and not say a single word about it.
Steve’s hand moved, fingers drawing in a fraction against your sternum and going loose again. You felt his breath change behind it, going longer, then held, then a rough exhale that you knew meant he’d decided to awake.
For a moment after the exhale, you felt the stillness arrive in him, as though he was taking inventory of his surroundings. You knew what he was taking into account, you could feel him counting; the math that came with waking up alone for years, and it had not yet been told the equation had changed.
His arm closed, far from gentle, and it contracted as he drew you back into him hard all at once. His hand splayed wide and certain over your ribs as his face pressed down into the nape of your neck like the limit of two bodies was a technicality he could negotiate. His breathing had come apart, going fast and shallow against your skin, and you lay there and let him hold you too tight and breathe wrong against your hair.
His nose dragged up the back of your neck like he was after the actual scent of you. Then his mouth found the top knob of your spine and stayed there, open, not quite a kiss, more a man pressing his lips to a thing to make certain it was warm.
“Don’t,” he said into your skin. His voice was wrecked, gravel-low. “Not yet. Don’t get up.”
“I wasn’t.”
“Good.” His hands slid off your ribs and down, flat, splaying over your stomach to haul your hips flush into his, and you felt exactly how not asleep the rest of him was. You felt it through the thin nothing of what you’d slept in, and he let you feel it—pressed against you slow, unhurried, and almost lazy, as though the point of it was the closeness and the rest was just truth that came attached. “Stay right here. Just—God.” His mouth moved to the side of your throat. “Stay right here so I can—”
You felt yourself let out a small chuckle. “So you can what?”
“So I can be normal about this.” He was smiling against your neck; you could feel the crooked shape of it. “Working on it. Gimme a second. I’m gonna be so normal about you.”
But his hand had started moving again, going up slowly, the broad heat of his palm dragging from your stomach to your ribs and stopping just under the curve of your breast, his thumb resting there. His hips shifted again, a slow press, and the sound that came out of him when you rocked back into it—just slightly, only to see—was low and ruined and so, completely involuntary.
“That’s not—you can’t do that.” He laughed, breathless, mouth still at your throat. “That’s not fair. I just woke up, I haven’t even—” He bit down, almost gently, on the spot below your ear, and you felt your own breath catch and him catching it. “There she is.”
“You’re insane.”
“I’m in love,” he corrected, like it explained the hands and the hips and the mouth. The maddening thing was that out of his mouth, this hoarse and this early, it sort of did. “You want me to be cool about it?” His thumb finally moved, one slow stroke, and your spine arched into it before you could decide. “Not happening. You’re gonna have to let me be a little crazy about you for like—a month. Minimum.”
Despite the gnawing ache somewhere at the bottom of your chest, you felt your chest seize his words. A part too of you, too large to be considered normal either, tucked away his words to the girl who longed to hear them.
“We have to get out of bed at some point,” you said, the words coming out too quiet for your liking.
Steve stilled for a moment, lips pursing against your neck. Then, he let out a low hum, as though he was contemplating. He stayed silent for a while, resting his mouth against the side of your throat, and you could feel him thinking, not thinking, and being there, taking the weight of it all the second time.
“In a minute,” he said. “We’ve earned a minute.”
His arm remained exactly where it was, the dead weight of it across you not loosening even by a degree, and you understood he meant it less as a plan than as a refusal. The world could have the rest of the day, it could not yet have this.
“Thank you,” he said, quieter.
It came out so quietly you hardly heard it, the words pressed flat against your skin, and they sat there being strange. They felt far too small for whatever freight he’d loaded onto them; these words were a thing held for doors, a borrowed pencil, cookies. They weren’t meant for this, and he seemed to know it, for he let the words be insufficient and let you feel him knowing it.
“For—” He stopped. You waited for the rest and the rest never arrived; you felt the sentence simply run out of the road somewhere against the back of your neck, and he didn’t go chasing after it. Steve had never been able to say enormous things head-on. He said them sideways, in pieces, or three years later. “I keep thinking I got away with something,” he said instead, which was sideways, the closest he could get. “Like someone’s going to come here and tell me you’re not for me.”
“Steve.”
“I know.” His mouth found the top of your shoulder and pressed there, apologetic. “I know it’s dumb.” His thumb started up again over your ribs, that unconscious arc, back-and-forth across the same inch of you.
You turned over. Your numb arm came along like luggage, flopping uselessly between you, and your knee cracked into his, and your elbow caught him somewhere soft enough that he let out a low oof. Then, he huffed a laugh against your forehead, and his hand found your hip to guide the last of the turn.
You were facing him, and he found your face like the whole clumsy tangle of limbs had only ever been in service of getting your eyes back in front of his.
He looked like himself in a way that hurt a little. The morning had stripped him down to it; his hair had gone soft and undone, falling forward his forehead in pieces, longer than he’d worn it as a boy, dark where it curled his temple from sleep. His face had filled out the lanky sharpness of seventeen; there was a sharper line to his jaw now, a day of stubble coming in uneven along it. His eyes were swollen at the rim still, lashes stuck into wet points, and there was that total unguarded, slightly stupid attention present in them. A pillow crease raw pink and deep down one cheek.
“Hi,” he said.
“I missed you, Steve,” you said, the words tumbling out of your lips before you could give it a micro-second of thought.
It hit him somewhere you could see. His brows drew in first, a small pull at the center. Then his throat worked, one slow swallow, the shift of it under his jaw a few inches from yours. His eyes had gone bright too fast, the swollen rims of them catching, and he blinked once, hard, like he could send it back down by force and was annoyed he couldn’t. The hand on your hip flexed—closed, opened, closed—gripping on nothing, at the warmth of you through the cotton.
“You—” He didn’t finish the sentence, choosing to kiss you instead. It was four years with the brakes off, his hand coming up hard into your hair, his mouth on yours like the kiss was an answer he couldn’t get out another way. He made a low sound that caught in his throat, and his other arm dragged you in by the small of your back until there was no inch of you he wasn't touching.
“Say it again,” he said against your mouth. “C’mon. Say it again.”
“I missed—”
He kissed the rest out of you, greedy and a little desperate about it, his teeth catching your bottom lip. You felt him smile when your breath went.
“Been so long,” he muttered, complaining, dragging his lips along your jaw, down, to the spot under your ear. “Missed you so much it was stupid. It was actually—” Another kiss, lower. “—embarrasing. Ask anyone.”
You laughed and it came out shaky. He lifted his head at the sound of it, wanting to see it.
His eyes were wet, and he didn’t bother hiding it, too undone to bother. They moved over your face, and his thumb came up and pressed to the corner of your mouth, holding the edge of your smile.
“There,” he said, quiet now, the heat in his voice going soft underneath it. “That. Do that again and keep doing it forever.”
You got off at four because Mrs. Mayer’s root canal had been cancelled and Dr. Feldman had looked at the empty two-thirty and three-fifteen slot and told you, with too much generosity, to just go. So now there was a whole unspent hour in your hands, and the light was going long and yellow and a little nostalgic, laying itself flat across the outfield grass like it had been poured there. You came up the path on the third-base side and the chain-link was warm under your fingers where you trailed them along it, sun-warmed, humming faintly when you pressed. You stopped before you got to the dugout, wanting to not be noticed for just a little longer.
On the mound Steve had a kid by the shoulders, squaring him up to do something, and he was crouched to do it. He was down to the boy’s height, the backwards cap and the whistle and the dirt already worked into one knee of his pants. He was saying something that made the kid nod hard twice. The rest of them were scattered infield in the loose orbit; someone’s glove was on the grass.
That was something that still got you. Younger, Steve had never once in his life folded himself down to someone’s level—his entire being had been built on people looking up—and here he was, one knee on the dirt, down to a child’s height, patient in a way the boy you’d once known wouldn’t have recognized in himself. It was a thing he learned somewhere you weren’t, and you hated, a little, that you hadn’t been there to see him learn it.
It was Carter who found you first. He was out near second, doing something with his glove that had stopped being baseball a while ago—turning it over and inspecting the webbing—and he looked up for no reason and saw you at the fence. His whole face opened, and he didn’t wave so much as throw his arm up, the whole thing, fingers spread, the gesture too big for the small distance.
“Auntie!” he hollered, in case the wave had failed to cover it, and a couple other kids to look at the spectacle of an aunt, found you unremarkable, then looked back.
You lifted a hand, smiled, mouthed a greeting.
Steve turned then, doing an automatic head-count that had likely been woven into his primal instincts as someone who had to take good care of children. His gaze swept and caught on you and stopped. You watched it happen from sixty feet away; his face, mid-instruction, running a scan, it hitting you, and the whole thing went still for a beat, reticulating. His hand was still on the kid’s shoulder, he’d forgotten it was there. The kid looked up at him, waiting for whatever sentence had been happening, and Steve seemed to have forgotten there had been one.
He came back to himself pretty quick, said something quick to the boy, gave the shoulder a pat that was half-apology, and straightened up. His whole face changed, it did it every time and you were beginning to suspect you’d never get used to it. You couldn’t possibly get used to it, not when it brightened, helpless, top-to-bottom, the neutral falling off it. It had only been five days, but he looked at you like it had been considerably longer and also like no time had passed, as though you were both the most expected and least believable thing to have existed in Hawkins.
“Alright—” His voice carried, pitched for the field, as he clapped once. “Two laps and grab your stuff. Two, Daniels, I can count. Carter—” because Carter had already abandoned all pretense of practice and was making for the fence, glove flapping. “—two laps means you, too, bud. Your aunt’s not going anywhere.”
“She might!”
“Trust me, she’s not,” Steve said easily to Carter, but his eyes had come back to you when he said it.
Carter, robbed of his argument, groaned the groan of the deeply wronged and peeled off toward the outfield to serve his two laps, glove still on. You watched him go. You watched, too, the small mutiny of the rest of them.
Steve crossed the infield to you, trying to look like he wasn’t hurrying and failing at the trying. He was still half-turned toward the field as he came, lobbing instructions over his shoulder, his voice running on its own track while the rest of him aimed itself at the fence.
He reached the other side of the chain-link and stopped. For a second, you just had the two of you and the diamond pattern of the wire between, and he looked at you through it, and grinned.
“Hey,” he said.
“Hi.”
“You’re early.” He said, sounding like an accusation he was over the moon to be making. “It’s not—you don’t get him for another half hour.”
“Mrs. Mayers cancelled her root canal.”
“God bless, Mrs. Mayers, then.” He hooked his fingers through the links, up near yours, the backs of them warm against the backs of yours. There was something almost shy in it, the fence still between you, a boy at a school dance unsure of the rules. “She’s getting a Christmas card.”
You let out a small chuckle. “You don’t even know her.”
“Don’t need to.” His fingers shifted against yours through the wire. “Did me a favor.” His mouth pulled. “She gave me a whole extra hour with you, I’m just grateful.”
Then, he added, “Come here.”
“I am here.”
“No, you’re—” He gave the fence a small affronted shake, the whole panel of it rattling. “You’re there. I can’t work like this.”
“You’re supposed to be working anyway. There are children.”
“The children are fine. They’re running laps, it’s the one part of practice that runs itself.” He’d already let go of the wire, though, already started moving down the length of the fence toward the gap where the gate was. He didn’t wait to see if you were following, just trusting it, and you found you were following. The both of you walked your opposite sides of the chain-link toward the one place it would let you be on the same side. “Come around. C’mon. Humor me.”
He reached the gate first and held it, one hand flat on the swing of it, grinning almost ridiculously.
“You’re holding it like a car door,” you said, faintly amused.
He shrugged. “Get in the car, baby.”
You shook your head, chuckling. “You’re gross.”
You still went through the gate, and the second the fence wasn’t a thing between you two anymore, his arms came around you. He hooked you to his side as his arm settled across your shoulders and turned the two of you to face the field. You understood, in the first few seconds of it, that he was going to keep the arm there and you were going to watch the back half of the children’s practice pinned to the coach’s side.
“There.” The whole long line of him eased against you. “Better. Now it’s a good practice.”
You slightly nudged his side, shaking your head. “I don’t know why these kids even like you.”
“They worship me,” he said with a serene confidence like he had never once been worried about it, “because I’m an incredible coach and a positive role model.” Then his eyes cut to you, checking, the certainty thinning at the edges the second the audience narrowed to just you. “You’re not gonna confirm that for me, huh.”
“No.”
“Yeah,” he sighed, expecting nothing better. “That’s fair.”
“Carter thinks you’re the one who decides who goes to the major leagues. You’re just a liar.”
Steve traced its slow arc against your arm where his hand hung off your shoulder. Then, he tipped his chin to rest it on top of yours. “They like me ‘cause I tell them they’re good and mean it. Kid that age, all they need is for someone to tell them they’re good and mean it.”
You let that one sit. There was something underneath it that made you ache to think about, something about a boy who’d grown up in a big cold house with a piano player at Christmas and parents who were always elsewhere, something about Steve knowing the going rate of a grown-up meaning it.
Out on the field, the laps had come apart entirely. Daniels was lying flat in the outfield grass, arms flung wide. Two guys had given up on baseball for a conversation that required their whole bodies to conduct. And Carter had run two laps and was jogging the long way back toward the diamond. You watched the exact moment his course bent and the moment his eyes found the sideline.
Steve felt it too. A small huff went through his chest. “Here he comes.”
Carter slowed and stopped ten feet out, glove dangling from one hand. He looked at the two of you with an open, laboring face, eyes going to Steve’s arm and your shoulder under it. Then Steve’s face and back to the arm.
“Why are you doing that?” Carter asked.
You felt Steve hold down a chuckle beside you. “Doing what, bud?”
“That.” The whole hand came up to point. “Your arm.”
“Free country,” Steve said. “I can put my arm wherever I want.”
“It’s on my aunt.”
“Oh, I know exactly whose aunt it’s on,” Steve said, voice teasing.
Carter made a sound of betrayed outrage in his throat. “I’m telling mom.”
“Please do tell her,” Steve said without missing a beat.
Carter narrowed his eyes at the two of you, holding the suspicion a moment longer. Then, the matter apparently not yielding any more information, he moved on to the part that concerned him. “So, is he—” His gaze swung up to you. “Is Coach Steve gonna be around you?”
You knew Carter meant nothing by it, it was more a logistics question asked by a kid who thought in terms of stuff, of the time you spent with him, of dinners, and the shape of a regular week. He was already half-distracted, picking at the dirt crusted in his glove while he waited on the answer.
You felt yourself hesitate. It was nothing—half a beat, a beat, the space where you should have said yes easily and didn’t. Because the question had reached somewhere Carter hadn’t aimed for it to reach; Carter didn’t know about the ring or the car or the year you’d come home wrong. He’d lived inside the after of his whole conscious life, and now he was standing in the gold light hoping, you could see him hoping, and you understood all at once that this was a part of it all, too. That at twenty-two, being with Steve existed beyond the bubble that the two of you lived in. In many ways, it was the way you had expected you’d live when you were a teenager.
The beat passed, and you opened your mouth to give Carter the easy answer, but you knew Steve had already felt it.
Of course he had, he felt everything about you. The arm around your shoulder stayed there, but some warmth went thin in him, the brightness dimming by a notch you couldn’t possibly miss. He went quiet, a little careful, and you knew exactly what your half-second sounded like in his head.
“Yeah,” you said to Carter, and you made it land right, made your voice do the warm easy thing. “I don’t think we’re getting rid of him.”
Carter accepted this with a warm shrug, likely not realizing the gravity of having Steve around in the manner the two of you were heading toward. He was already gone, jogging off, glove flapping, the whole exchange behind him.
You stood there in the quiet he left, hating, a little, how quickly you'd reached for the patch.
Steve was still beside you, quiet, and once Carter was far enough off, he turned his head. His voice came out quiet and just for you, hesitant in a way he never allowed himself to be. “Hey.” His thumb moved on your arm. “I’m in. You know that, right? Like—” He stopped, then starting again, fumbling toward it. “I know me saying it—it doesn’t prove it. I just need you to know it. That’s all. However slow, I don’t care. I’m not going anywhere.”
You felt the corners of your lips twitch as your body relaxed just slightly. He just set the warmth down in front of you, all of it, asking for nothing back. You felt your chest do a helpless grateful thing as you nodded jerkily.
“I know,” you said and turned to face him, tilting your chin up to meet his eyes. “How about we start with a date?”
“A date,” Steve repeated, and you watched the grin start at the corner of his mouth and lose the fight fast, spreading until it had the whole of his face.
“Yeah. A date,” you confirmed. “Where you—”
“Where I pick you up.” He was already nodding, already somewhere ahead of you with it. “Yeah. Yeah, okay—” and then his hand came up to your jaw and tipped your face up to kiss you, quick and certain, grinning. It was quick enough that none of the kids caught the peck.
“I think I’d like a Steve Harrington date once again,” you said.
“You’re gonna get the best one I’ve got,” Steve said. His thumb moved once along your jaw before his hand dropped. “I’ll figure it out. Something good.”
“I don’t think anything can top the time you drove me to the water tower for my birthday.”
Steve’s grin shifted, and something even more fond entered his expression. “You loved the water tower.”
You had; he’d picked you up at seven with a cooler in the back seat and no information at all, deflecting every question the whole drive. He’d taken one hand off the wheel at the last stretch of the road to cover your eyes so you wouldn’t catch the turn. He'd climbed up first and reached back for you, and there'd been a string of those cheap battery lights he'd looped along the rail, and the cooler had a bottle of something stolen from his parents' garage and a cake from the grocery store. Sixteen, and the whole of Hawkins laid out small and lit-up underneath you, and Steve watching your face the entire time instead of the view, because your face had been the thing he'd built it for.
He watched your face carefully, and whatever it was doing made him pull you in closer. “This is gonna be even better.” When you raised your brows, he immediately said, “And don’t bother fishing. I know you. I won’t tell—”
“Coach Steve!” The voice came from third base. Marcus, a gangly boy with his glove planted on his hip, wearing a posture of pure withering judgement you didn’t even think was possible for an eleven-year-old. The rest of the kids had drifted into the loose disorder of an unsupervised practice, and Marcus had clearly appointed himself shop steward of the situation.
“You’re supposed to be coaching us,” he announced to the field, to the parking lot, to Indianapolis. “You’ve been standing there the whole time.”
Steve’s head turned. “I’m coaching right now.”
Marcus turned to you, raising his brow in question. Despite yourself, you felt yourself shrinking underneath the kid’s judgement, causing you to pull Steve off of you by the elbow, a mortified shove. “Go coach. Steve. The children are angry.”
“They’re always angry.” But he was already losing the argument and he knew it, for Marcus’s stare had the weight of a much older and much more disappointed man. Steve sighed longly for being dragged bodily back to his job. “Fine. Okay, Marcus. You happy? One day you’re gonna like someone and remember this.”
“I will not,” Marcus said immediately with an iron certainty that clearly meant he had never given the idea much thought.
“You will. It happens to everybody,” Steve said, pushing off the fence, conceding the field. His hand caught yours on the way, the last bit of contact, holding on a beat past when the rest of him had left. “Infield. Let’s go.”
He started for the diamond, and he didn’t let go of your hand, so you got towed a full step and a half before you planted.
“Oooookay.” You dug your feet into the ground, causing Steve to turn. “I’m not co-coaching with you.”
Steve looked back at you, then down at the hand he was still holding, then at you again, as though this had genuinely not occurred to him as a problem. “Fine. Just stay here then.”
You realized that this was the first and last time you’d come to watch baseball practice.
The apartment was three-quarters yours already, and that was why most of the gaps in it showed so much. You’d had a week of evenings alone in it before today, trying to convince yourself that you did, in fact, live there despite the lack of furniture. So the rug was down, the good one, the one with the rust-colored border that you'd hauled up three flights by yourself in two trips and a half. The paper lantern you'd hung over the main room glowed even now, mid-afternoon, because the bulb was warm and you'd wanted it warm. There were plants on the kitchen sill in a row, leaning their whole green selves toward the brick-shadowed light, and a record crate by the wall, and a lamp with one of your mother's old scarves draped over the shade, throwing the light amber where it pooled on the floorboards.
The couch wasn’t here yet; it was down in Eddie’s van, and so the main room had a sofa-shaped emptiness in the middle of it the rug was pretending it wasn't there. Your books were in towers along the baseboard, waiting for a shelf that was also in the van. The bed was a frame in four leaning pieces against the bedroom wall. It was a room with a soul and no skeleton, and you’d found that you didn’t mind the order it came in. After four years of the reverse—of furnished rooms that stayed somebody else's no matter how long you slept in them—you were willing to wait on a couch.
You heard a long graceless scrape and thud working its way up the stairwell, punctuated by Eddie’s voice, then Steve’s, lower, the two of them negotiating.
“Pivot—pivot, Harrington. That’s a wall. You’re putting it through a wall—”
“It’s not going through a wall—”
“Yes, it—”
You held the door, smiling as Eddie met your eyes. The couch came through at an angle that defied a few things about geometry, Steve walking backward with the brunt of it and Eddie steering the rear. And then it was in, and then it was down, finally filling the gap. It looked, immediately and completely, like it had always meant to live here.
Eddie straightened up and put both hands at the small of his back like a man twice his age. “That,” he said, “is the worst one. From here it’s all small stuff.” He turned a slow circle, taking the place in. You watched him register it, watched the appraisal land somewhere genuine. “Huh. It’s good in here. You did all this in a week?”
“Yup. Most of it.”
Steve hadn’t said anything yet. He’d done a slow read of the apartment the same way Eddie had done, except Eddie’s circle had ended on liking it, and Steve’s didn’t seem to have landed anywhere at all. His eyes went over the lantern, the rug, the four leaning pieces of the bed frame against the far wall. The single mug by the sink. His hands had gone into his pockets somewhere in the looking.
“It does look really nice,” Steve said finally, and you could hear he meant it. Only, it just came out a half-degree under the pitch the afternoon had been running at.
Then he crossed the room to you, and the thin thing in him from a second ago he seemed to leave behind somewhere on the way. His hands found your waist, turning you a little so your back fit against his front, and his chin came down on the top of your head.
“You decorated so much better than me. I’m sort of jealous,” Steve said.
“Mm. Because you didn’t decorate,” you said. You reached up and pressed your palm flat over the back of his hand where it sat at your waist, and felt him go quiet and pleased above you, and across the room Eddie made a noise of discovery.
“Okay,” Eddie said. “What is this?”
You looked over. Eddie had surfaced from the box marked MISC, holding something up between two fingers, the way you'd hold up something found under a fridge, and it took you a second to place it from across the room.
The first shoes, soft pink leather gone gray and stiff with age, the elastic all but perished, scuffed nearly through at the toe. They were child-sized, which meant absurdly small that didn’t seem like they could ever have been on a real foot. Madame Petrova’s from when you were seven; you’d carried them through the dorm, through places that were even less than temporary, through Devon’s house, through every set of rooms that hadn't been yours, and you had never once been able to explain to anyone, including yourself, why a box always had to have them in it.
“Those are mine,” you said, which answered nothing.
“Obviously. I figured they weren’t Harrington’s.” Eddie turned them over, examined the worn-through toe, the size of them. “These are—Harrington, did you know your girlfriend keeps haunted baby shoes—”
He said it without weight, ‘girlfriend’ just the nearest word his sentence had reached for, already turning the shoes over to find the angle that would explain them. He wasn't waiting on anyone. He didn't notice he'd done anything at all.
But you turned to look at Steve, and he looked at you. You both caught the stalled expression on the other’s face that meant the word had landed somewhere it hadn’t before.
It was true, and that was the almost-funny part, the part sitting between you two, light and a little absurd. It was completely true that neither of you had once said it. Three months in—his razor on your sink and your tea in his cupboard, his arm slung around you in a parking lot in front of the entire Hawkins parent body, a thing so large and obvious it had its own weight—and somewhere in the middle of all of it, the two of you had simply never gone back and picked the small ordinary word up off the floor. You'd skipped it. You'd been busy with the enormous version and forgotten the plain one existed.
“Huh,” Steve said. He was looking at you with his eyebrows slightly up, fighting a smile and losing, like he’d been handed a piece of excellent news on accident. You felt your own face doing something embarrassingly similar.
“Don’t,” you said, trying to bite down the smile that threatened to capture your face.
“I’m not doing anything.”
You gestured at his face, at the pleased expression on it. “We have a bookshelf to work on. You can do this later.”
“I’ll remember that,” he agreed, not remotely chastened. “I’m gonna say it at the worst possible time. At the grocery store. And I’ll say it loudly.” And let you go—but slow, his hands trailing off your waist like they were trying to decide against it.
“I’ll break up with you.”
“Can’t. You’d have to call me your boyfriend first. There’s an order to these things.” He looked insufferably pleased with the loophole. You crossed the room to take the shoes back from Eddie before he could find a worse thing to say about them.
“My shoes are not haunted,” you said, affronted. They weighed almost nothing and you set them on the windowsill instead of back in the box, where the late light came through and showed how thin the layer had gone at the toe.
Eddie watched you do it with mild interest, raising a brow. “Did they make you spin around on sandpaper—” He stopped when you pointed him with a glare, albeit with no heat behind it. He crouched and started working the bookshelf free of its cardboard.
“Thank you,” you said, “for the help.”
Eddie turned his neck to face you, lips curving up into a smile. “Well, I couldn’t have let Harrington do it all. He would’ve broken his back and we both would have had to take care of him.”
Steve huffed out a laugh at the words as he finished the work of pulling the panels of the bookshelf out. “Yeah, I don’t think I’d want you at my bedside, Eddie.”
Eddie patted Steve on the back. “You’d want me there,” he said, and that seemed to settle it for him.
The two of them got down to the shelf. The wrong screws obviously came first, then the right ones, Eddie holding it square while Steve drove the brackets, you reading the instruction sheet aloud to a room that had unanimously decided the instruction sheet was beneath it. The light moved across the floorboards while you worked. Somewhere below, the building did its evening sounds, a door, a faucet, somebody's television.
You watched them more than you read, after a while. They had a shorthand; Eddie said half a sentence and Steve already made a move to meet it, a joke that was clearly the worn-down nub of an older joke, the easy conversation between two people who’d done a hundred dumb tasks together and would do a hundred more together. It was a hollow feeling, in your chest, of standing at the edge of someone’s life and seeing, laid out plain, how much of it had gone on being rich and full and populated in all the years you weren't in it. Steve had become somebody’s person, several somebodies’, a fixture in their lives with their own regulars. You'd felt it once before, in a bar, watching Robin and Vickie fit together like they'd been cut from one piece. You filed it under nothing. You went back to the instruction sheet.
“What time is it?” Eddie said from the floor, hardly looking up from the bracket. “I told Jonathan I’d call him before it got stupid-late. He’s trying to lock down the Philly weekend and won’t let it go.”
“Like five,” Steve said.
“Okay, I’ve got time.” Eddie sat back on his heels and looked over the half-built shelf. “He wants the fourteenth confirmed. You still good for that?”
“Yeah. Tell him I’m in.” Steve fit the last bracket and pressed it flat to check if it held. Then, he looked up to where you stood, figuring out the right place for the lamp. “That’s—yeah. If that’s okay with you.”
You met his eyes. “If what’s okay?”
“Me going. The fourteenth,” he said, like it was obvious. “I don’t have to. If you’ve got stuff that weekend, or you just—want to do nothing. With me.”
“Steve.” You almost laughed. “Go to Philly.”
Steve shrugged, looking slightly offended. “I’m just saying it’s an option. Me, here, doing nothing with you.”
“It’s an extremely sad option. You have to go.”
Later that night, the lamp was the only thing either of you had thought to turn on, and neither of you was going to do anything about it. It would have meant moving, and moving, just then, was unthinkable. So, the bedroom had narrowed to the reach of one light, a scarf knotted over the shade, throwing it low and amber, and everything past the edge of it gone soft and dark and able to wait.
You were already undressed, wound into the warm dark shape the two of you made of a bed, and Steve was over you, braced on one forearm, and there was nothing hurried in him at all. You’d learned that about him in the last three months, that for all the want he carried around like something overfilled, when he finally had you like this, he went slow, almost unbearably so, as though the approach was its own country and he had no intention of passing through it quickly.
His hand was proof of it. It had been moving a while now, unhurried, deliberate, mapping you because he already knew exactly where your breath caught and how. He drew it out of you on purpose. You felt him feel it when your spine gave, when the sound you’d held in came out loose, and you felt the answering move through him. He let out a low, rough exhale against your jaw, his own hips pressing down into the space against your thigh, seeking.
You could read the tightening of his shoulders, the catch in his breath, and you knew the exact register of the sound that meant he was holding himself back from more. You turned your head and put your mouth to his throat, shifting your body down so you could neatly roll your hips against his, just to feel him lose a little bit of the grip. He did. A groan went through his chest as his forehead dropped against yours.
Then, he met your movement, grinding down with explicit, almost hungry intent. You felt the hard line of him press flush against you. He braced his weight on one arm so he could use the other to keep you pinned, and rocked against you with a rhythm that was deliberate and maddeningly slow.
It dragged a sound out of you, and Steve’s mouth curved where it rested against your temple, pleased, the small smug flicker that lived in him even now. He did it again, the same slow grind, and watched your face for what it would do. He'd built whole evenings around your face. He braced harder on the pinning arm, fingers spreading wide and certain over your hip, and the crooked bed frame gave its small complaint beneath the both of you and went ignored.
“Steve—” His name came apart in the middle.
“I know.” His voice had turned to gravel, wrecked and warm against your side. “Not going anywhere.”
And maybe it was that, those words, said into the curve of your jaw with his whole body so achingly familiar over yours. Or maybe it was the lamp, the late hour, and three months of this, of being wanted so completely and thoroughly. But the word came up in you and would not be talked backed down. It had been sitting in you since the early evening, since Eddie had said it, and now, here, with nothing left between you and no one to be anything for, it simply wanted out.
“Hey,” you said. It came out unsteady, even the single word. “Steve.”
“Mm—” His mouth was at the corner of yours, hips not stopping. “Yeah. What—what is it, baby?”
And then the giggle got loose before you could stop it—embarrassed and completely out of your control, the question right behind it and tangled up in it—and you felt your face get warm with the absurdity of what you were about to do.
Steve went still enough to lift his head. His hips slowed but not quite stopped, the rhythm going lazy now, almost absent. The rest of him propped up to look down at you with an expression of pure, undone, mock-wounded suspicion.
“What.” His brow had pulled together. His voice was still rough, but there was a thread of genuine affront laced through it now, for he had been giving this his entire and undivided gravity and had just, apparently, been laughed at for it. “What’s funny? Why are you—” He pressed down against your hips once, trying to make a point about the work he was in the midst of. “I’m right here being—what is so funny?”
“Nothing.” You were still laughing. You couldn’t help it. “It’s nothing. It’s stupid—”
“Now I must know.” He huffed, indignant. His forehead dropped to yours. “You’re laughing at me. Just tell me. C’mon. Tell me what’s funny.”
And so you did, because he'd cornered you into it, because his face was right there waiting and the giggle wouldn't quit and there was nowhere left to put it but into the words.
“Would you like to be my boyfriend, Steve?”
For a second, all of Steve simply stopped. Every part of him went still all at once, the offended expression wiped clean off his face like it had never been there. He lifted his head to fully look down at you, the amber light catching the whole undone wreck of him; pupils blown dark, hair a ruin from your fingers, mouth still parted on a sentence he’d abandoned. And what surfaced underneath that was so soft, so plainly struck, that you felt your own laugh die somewhere in your throat at the sight of it.
“You—” he said, and the word broke off. Whatever had been in his chest pushed out of him instead as a sound—low, wrecked, and something close to a delighted laugh—and his nose dragged along the side of your forehead. “Yeah.”
It came before anything else, just the bare word breathed out against your mouth. The answer escaped him the way the truest things always managed to escape Steve, too fast and ahead of his pride. His hand had come up off your hip to cradle the back of your skull, fingers spreading into your hair, and he was already moving again, the paused rhythm of him resuming low and certain, like the question had only ever been a thing he'd stopped to let through.
“Yeah, I’d like to be your boyfriend,” he said the words into the corner of your mouth, into your cheek, as though he had to imprint them into several places of you to make sure it landed. “Course I am. C’mere.”
You were already there. He kissed you anyway, deep and a little clumsy with how much was in it, and you felt him smiling against it, helpless, unable to hold the shape of a kiss for the grin breaking through it.
He pulled back just an inch, and the betrayal had arrived.
“You weren’t supposed to do that, though.” He tried to seem wounded, but there was no chance for it to pass through with the smile on his lips. “I had a plan. I was gonna ask you. Properly.” He huffed, indignant, pressed his hips down harder against you, as if that was a punishment at all. “And you just said it—”
“You took too long.”
His eyes widened slightly. “Since when did you become so bossy?”
“Since we forgot to put a label on it,” you said immediately.
He laughed then, stopping his movement. “I don’t know how. I’ve got a drawer here.” Then, he tipped his chin down to meet your eyes again. “Girlfriend, huh?”
“That good with you?” you asked, raising your brow.
“Fuck—yeah. Obviously,” he said, all the breath behind it, like the word had cost him something just to get past the want sitting in his chest.
He shifted his weight off the braced arm so he could give you both of his hands, one sliding up your ribs and the other coming to your jaw, tilting your face up to exactly where he wanted it.
“My girlfriend,” he said against your mouth, just to feel the word there. He kissed you on it—once, slow—and then again, deeper, and you felt the shift in him. His hand left your jaw and moved down, splaying flat and certain over the lowest point of your stomach, thumb dragging low, and the sound you made got caught somewhere and he swallowed it, pleased. “I love you so much,” he whispered.
Carter had decided, sometime in the last month, that Steve belonged to him.
It came out in small, administrative ways an eleven-year-old laid claim to a person. It was Carter who’d answered the door, hauling it open before you’d got your hand off the screen, and Carter who performed introductions the house didn’t need—that’s Coach Steve, he’s here, he came—as though Steve were a rare bird he’d sighted. It was Carter who directed him by the sleeve, now, through the den and past the roaring oven fan and the TV, narrating the tour of the house Steve had stood in a hundred times before.
That’s the chair Grandpa won’t let anyone sit in. That’s where the cat throws up. That’s my drawing, the horse, I did the horse.
Steve received each fact with the grave full attention of a man being shown state secrets, ducking his head to look where Carter pointed, asking a follow-up question about the horse that made Carter light up like a struck match.
You stood in the doorway with your coat half-off and watched it. You felt the scene land in you sideways, the way the truest things tended to. Carter was easy with Steve, uncomplicatedly so; there was no reserve in it, no second track running underneath, none of the carefulness the rest of the house would be performing all evening. It took you a moment to place why it made you so uneasy, and the answer sat in your chest like a swallowed rock. Carter had never met the other Steve, the one who existed in this house before, the one with the shadow on him. To Carter, there had only ever been this one—Coach Steve who’d spent months teaching him baseball and was now in his grandparents’ home—a man with no before attached, no wreckage trailing him to the foyer. Carter got to have the simple version.
Your mother came out of the kitchen with her hands still in a dish towel and a smile she’d been wearing on and off since you’d asked if you could bring Steve. It was a real smile, and that was the thing you’d been turning over for two days; that it was real, and that it was also being held, the way you'd hold a glass you'd already dropped once.
“Steve,” she said his name, and you heard the missing ‘honey’ or ‘sweetheart’ that you had once grown so used to her calling him. The names came out easily, without her ever thinking about it. Tonight, it was just Steve, chosen, and that was both a kindness and its own verdict all at once. “Look at you.”
“Hi. Yeah. Hi.” Steve shifted the wine bottle to his other hand and then held it out to her, a beat too quickly. “This is—for you. For dinner. Thank you for having me,” he said to a house he’d once been allowed to walk into without knocking, and you heard the carefulness in it.
Your mother let Steve catch his breath anyway, giving him a generous laugh, and took the wine. She looked at the label for a moment longer than needed. “That’s too nice,” she said. “You didn’t have to bring something this nice.”
“I wanted to.”
“Well.” Your mother turned the bottle so the label faced away, the way she did with anything that threatened to be a fuss. “It’ll be wasted on us. Your father can drink it like its juice.” But she set it on the counter with a small care that said she’d noticed it, and would remember it.
“Where do you want me?” Steve asked, straightening up even further. “I can chop, carry—I’m good at carrying.”
“You’re a guest,” your mother said.
“I can be a guest who helps.”
“Sit down, Steve,” she said, the old warmth creeping into her tone just slightly, and you saw him take the half-inch gratefully, eyes brightening.
He hovered at the edge of the kitchen, and you were about to rescue him from his own posture when your father came in from the den.
Your father came in slow, he never rushed toward anything with feeling in it; he arrived at those the way weather arrived, from a way off, with time to see it coming. He had the newspaper still in one hand, folded, a man holding his place in his own evening. He looked at Steve. Steve straightened, and put his hand out.
“Mr—”
“Steve.” Your father took the hand, giving it one firm shake, and then he held it just a half-beat past where it should’ve ended. He held it long enough that you watched Steve decide to stand inside it and be looked at rather than pull free. “Been a while.”
“Yes, sir. It has.”
You saw your father swallow and let the hand go. “Carter talks very highly of you.”
“He’s starting at second, actually,” Steve said before he could stop himself, the pride in it unguarded, and then—hearing the eagerness, hearing how much he wanted your father to like the answer—he reeled it back a notch. “He’s earned it. He works hard. He’s good.”
He looked at Steve a moment more, and you stood there with your coat finally all the way off and could not, for the life of you, read him, and you had known this man your entire life. “We’ll see how the season goes.”
It was far from unkind, and it was a door left ajar, with a man told plainly that he'd be the one to prove which way it swung. Your father went to fold himself into the chair nobody sat in, snapped the newspaper back to the page he wanted, and the foyer let out a breath.
You found Steve’s hand down low, fingers flexing slightly. He looked at you, and the easy face—the one that came so naturally for Carter—had vanished. What sat in its stead was much younger and barer. His jaw was set a little too hard, working at nothing; his eyes had gone bright and over-busy, doing too much reading of the room, checking doorways; he was breathing like he had to force himself to do so. His hand found yours, but his fingers had gone stiff, almost too cold.
“Hey,” you whispered to him. “You’re doing great.”
You caught a forlorn smile gracing his lips for a moment. He turned his hand to thread his fingers through yours completely and hold on a degree too tight. “I’m okay. I want to be here.”
You knew he meant it completely. You knew he was cold-handed and over-careful and glad. He was glad to be paying it, because Steve had just spent four years in the wrong side of this house, and a guarded welcome was still a welcome, and the loud warm overlit kitchen with the chicken in it was the precise thing he had been working, all this time, to be allowed back into.
He turned to look at you then, as if he could sense your worry for him. “I love you,” he said, “and stop looking so worried. Your face is doing a thing.”
“It’s not.”
“It’s a little doing it.” He squeezed your hand once, and let the easy face come back partway, enough to get the both of you moving toward the noise.
Devon was already at the table, and she, mercifully, did anything but guarded. She did the opposite by appointing herself as the evening’s friction (much to the begging you’d done without telling Steve you’d done it), and she spent the first twenty minutes aiming dry, glancing things at Steve the way you'd lob a tennis at someone to see if they'd catch it. ‘They let you near impressionable youth; how’s that going for the impressionable youth. Are they impressed?’ It was close enough to be standing next to kindness, Devon poking Steve like a brother she was deciding whether to keep, and Steve, who had grown up an only child in a house with too much quiet in it, caught every ball she threw and looked grateful for the bruise.
By the time the chicken came around the table he'd loosened a notch. By the time your father was carving seconds nobody had asked for, the dinner had found a real rhythm.
“And Coach Steve—” Carter was saying.
“Honey, I think you can stop calling him Coach at the table,” Devon said, interrupting him. You were sure it was because she’d heard the word coach thrown around one too many times here, and was probably hearing it every waking hour at home.
Carter looked startled for a moment. “What should I call him, then?”
Devon shrugged. “Steve might be nice.”
“Ste—” Carter made a face like that sounded all wrong. “Coach Steve—” he finished, the compromise failing to reach, “is going to—somewhere. He told us he’s gonna miss a practice.”
“One practice,” Steve said. “I already told you. I’ll be back before the game.”
That appeared to satisfy Carter who returned to his potatoes.
“Where’s the practice you’re missing for?” your mother asked conversationally, keeping the table's small wheels turning. “Somewhere good?”
“Philadelphia.” Steve had a roll halfway to his plate. “Just a weekend thing. Some friends out that way.”
“That’s a haul.”
“It’s not so bad once you’re past Columbus, honestly,” he said it, a fact worn smooth from handling, and you registered that distantly.
It was Devon who turned the conversation to Steve, buttering a roll with most of her attention. “Who’s in Philly?”
“Some people from high school,” Steve said. “We planned to do it couple times a year. Tried to do every month but—” He shrugged, smiling sheepishly. “It’s easy, though. It runs itself at this point if everyone’s available.”
You caught her turning to glance at you before she said, “Sounds nice.”
And it was, that was all that was. There was a shape in these sentences if you’d held them up by light. Every month, a thing he wanted to be monthly. Something several-years-deep with its own regulars and its own drive. Devon asked questions for you, and you let the answers pass over you and reached, instead, for the thing you’d been carrying into this dinner all night, the actual reason your hands had been restless since the chicken.
“I’ve got another thing,” you said. “To say, while everyone’s—” You gestured at the table, the fullness of it. “While everyone’s here.”
The wheels of the table slowed, and you caught Carter looking just a tad betrayed his story was getting delayed even further.
“I mean, it’s not a big announcement.” You were already hedging it, already shrinking it on the way out of your mouth, because that was what you did with the things you wanted most; you brought them out small so the room couldn't drop them. “It’s just. I’ve been—for a few months now—putting money aside. And looking at this space by the food market? It’s by the hardware store and it’s been empty forever.” You turned your water glass a quarter-turn on the cloth.
Devon raised her brow. “You signed something, didn’t you?”
“Not yet,” you said through gritted teeth. “But I’m planning on it. I want to open a studio. A dance studio. Mine. I’ve already, well, talked to some of the parents from rec classes, and I think there’s eleven girls who’d follow me. Their moms said as much, at least. And that’s—that’s almost enough, right? That’s almost a school.”
For a second, the table absorbed the words. Then, your mother’s hand came up to her mouth, and your father set his fork down. Your father, who set his fork down for almost nothing. Your mother was around the table before you'd finished bracing for it, her arms coming over your shoulders from behind, and she didn't say anything for a moment, just held on, and you understood that she was somewhere past words, somewhere back four years ago in a daughter who couldn't fill out a job application, measuring the distance between that girl and this one. Your father was asking the practical questions because were the only language he had for ‘I am proud of you’ and you'd learned to hear them in translation a long time ago. Carter wanted to know if there'd be boys. Devon wanted to know everything else.
When you finally let your eyes land on Steve to gauge his reaction, he was looking at you, jaw set like he wanted to say something that he’d say later, his eyes gone bright and over-fast. He reached his hand out underneath the table and lightly squeezed your leg.
“God help Hawkins,” Devon said, sitting back. “Both of you. Her with the dance kids and him with the baseball kids.” She gestured between the two of you with her wine. “Your kids are going to be insufferably well-adjusted.”
The word sat in the middle of the table, dropped there light and without weight. Devon was reaching for the beans like she hadn’t said anything at all, less of all something with that much weight. You did not look at Steve. Steve did not look at you. You both, very carefully, looked at your plates because you had just been handed a future across a dinner table and were each pretending the other hadn't heard it. Under the cloth, his knee came to rest against yours and stayed.
The studio emptied out in a loud ragged wave, and then all at once. The last of the intermediate girls collected, and then just you and the long mirror and the silence a room filled with movement left behind it. You were doing all the closing things you’d worn into a groove by now: chairs, the schedule for tomorrow, the lights in the back room that you had to leave a minute to warm up. Your hamstrings had a complaint lodged since the third class. There was chalk, somehow, on your wrist.
You knew Steve was back before the bell rang, because you knew the cough of his car settling into a space on the street too small for it, and you’d known it for a few months now. This was the fourth time he’d driven back from Philadelphia and come straight to wherever you were, the weekend coming off of him like weather.
The bell went, and the cold came in with him. The door swung shut and sealed the latter back out, and then Steve, filling the frame of it, a duffel over his shoulder and his hair windblown because he probably drove the last stretch home with the window cracked. He took the studio in a half-second flat, a quick sweep to find you. And then the duffel was sliding off his shoulder, already hitting the bench by the mirror without a single degree of his attention.
“There you are,” he said, movement never slowing as he came toward you. “C’mere. I’ve been in a car for hours, come on—”
He had you then, with no negotiation. His arms came around you and folded you in against the cold front of him, one hand splaying wide between your shoulderblades, the other pushing up into your hair. He made a sound low in his chest, half sigh and half something more wrecked than that.
“You’re freezing,” you said into his jacket.
“I know. Don’t care. Drove with the windows down.” His voice was muffled into the top of your head, his mouth already there, pressing. “You can warm me up or something.” He pulled back far just far enough to find your face, and then let the sentence die, because looking at you seemed to take the sentence out of his hands. His thumb came up to your cheekbone. His eyes went over you like he wanted to read the two days off your face. “Hi.”
“Hey—”
He kissed you, quick first. Then, not quick at all, his cold hands warming by degrees against you, one of them curving around the side of your neck to put his hand over your pulse, and you felt him smile, the kiss going crooked with the grin he couldn’t keep out of it. Making up for the deficit, you assumed. And when he finally let you go enough to speak, he rested his forehead against yours as his thumb moved against your jaw.
“Two days,” he said, complaining. “Two days is stupid. Whose idea was that?”
“I’m pretty sure it was yours.”
His nose dragged along yours. “Thought about you the whole car ride.”
You let out a small laugh, unable to keep the fondness out of it. “That’s very romantic, Steve.”
“It was, actually.” He kissed your forehead, your temple, the corner of your mouth—small ones now, scattered—and only then, with his face still close and his hands still on you, did he lift his head and look past you, around the studio: the chairs half-stacked, the back room dim and warming, a child’s drawing tacked crooked behind a desk. “You’re not done yet. It’s late.”
“Nearly. Give me five minutes.”
“Mm.” He sounded almost disgruntled. His eyes did a slow second circuit of the room, and something moved through his face—light, almost nothing, a small thoughtful quiet—and his hand settled more certainly at your hip. “You hardly ever go home on time.”
You sighed slightly, the breath coming out shaky. “It’s a new studio. I think that’s how it’s supposed to work.”
“You think?”
“It’s my first new studio.” You let the five minutes go. The chairs could wait; the schedules could wait; the back room could continue warming itself. You stayed inside the circle of him instead, your hands flat against the cold front of his jacket, and waited him out. He took the staying as the invitation it was and walked you backward two unhurried steps until your spine met the cool of the long mirror. His hands slid from your waist to brace either side of you against the glass, caging you in there without any hurry about it at all. “Steve, there’s chalk all over the mirror—”
His mouth had found the side of your throat, the cold of him gone warm now where the two of you pressed together, and you felt him talk against your skin more than heard it. “Don’t get to not see you for two days and talk about a mirror.”
“You went on your own—”
“I know. Bad planning. It won’t happen again.” He dragged his nose up the line of your neck, slow, and you felt the studio's quiet close around the both of you and his hand came off the glass to tip your chin up, his thumb at your jaw, and he kissed you properly.
“Come over,” you said. “You’ve been gone two days. I’m not letting you be sad in your own apartment tonight.”
“I gotta go to mine, though,” he said into your hair, reluctant, the words practically dragged out of him. “Just for a second. I haven’t got anything at yours right now—I think. I drove straight here. I don’t even have a shirt for tomorrow.” He plucked at the collar of it, the one that had done four hours in a car. “I’ll have to swing by mine, grab a bag I packed, and then I’ll meet you at yours. It’ll be like forty minutes.”
You made a disgruntled sound.
“Tops.” His mouth found your jaw. “Maybe thirty if I speed. Which I will, for you.” Then, he huffed a laugh against your skin. “It’s a stupid amount of driving to do in one day.”
He pulled back to look at you, his eyes slightly careful now. “This would all be easier,” he said, “if I just lived with you.”
He hadn’t planned to bring it up here, or now even. You could see that his words had surprised him a little, the way that had walked out of him on the tail of a sentence about his shirt. But it was, for what it was worth, out, and he chose to not dress it up. He just held still inside it, his hands gone careful at your waist, watching your face like he’d just flipped a coin and was waiting to see which side it landed on.
“I think—”
He pushed a hand back through his hair. “I keep meaning to do these things right and I keep just—” He breathed, and it came out cleaner. “But I’m basically there all the time. I drive to my place maybe four times a week to pick up stuff, and I drive to yours and that’s—what I think of as home. I don’t know.”
He’d set the whole wish down in the open at last; months of it and a drawer and half a marriage's worth of his things migrated quietly into your kitchen, all of it finally said.
You felt the want lift in you to meet it. The seventeen-year-old who’d agonized over a future she’d been so sure of, she was still there, and she wanted this, wanted the shared address and the one coffee maker and the door that didn't shut between you, wanted it with her whole chest.
And underneath it, in the same breath, the other thing turned over. The small, flat, cold thing that had signed a lease alone and aged six weeks doing it. The part of you that had wanted—needed—one set of rooms in the world that were yours because you decided they would be, after four years of spaces that stayed someone else’s no matter how long you stayed in them. The apartment was the first thing you had chosen. And some part of you, the part you kept the lights off in, did not want to give back the only door you'd ever gotten to stand on both sides of.
Both of them at once, in the same body. Two true things could sit in you.
You sighed. “You’ve been driving for hours.”
You heard your voice reach for a warm register, the soothing one, because it was easier and that was a thing you knew how to do.
“That’s not a no,” he said quietly, going hopeful as he watched you.
“It’s not a no.” You went up and kissed him, soft, and he took it gratefully, probably because this hadn’t ruined anything. “You’ve got road-brain. We can talk about it when you’ve slept and got a real reason to be sure.”
“I am already—”
“We’ll talk when you’ve slept, Steve.”
He looked at you a moment longer, and then he let it go. You watched him fold it back up, the way he folded up the things you weren't ready for, and pulled you in against his chest instead, his chin coming down on the top of your head, the cold of his jacket and the warm of him underneath. “Okay,” he said into your hair. “Thirty minutes. Don’t start the good part of the night without me.”
You got home with your shoes already half-off, one of them surrendered somewhere between the cab and Steve’s door because the night had that loose-jointed quality the good ones got. There was a cake somewhere near you still, THREE MONTHS piped on in a blue that had stained both your tongues. Steve had eaten the corner piece with the most frosting and had been unrepentant about it. He’d done the whole thing at the studio. He’d strung cheap battery lights along the barre when he thought you weren’t looking, the same kind from the water tower a hundred years ago, and you'd pretended not to recognize them so he could have the reveal, and he'd known you were pretending, and neither of you had said so.
Now his apartment was dim and warm around the two of you. You were on the couch with your feet in his lap and his hand around your ankle, thumb moving in absent circles. You were watching him tell you something about Eddie that he kept laughing too early in, ruining his own story, starting it over. The lamp was the only one on. Your jacket had missed the hook. The night felt like it required nothing more, where the day has been gotten safely through and the two of you are just spending what's left of it down to the wick.
“You aren’t even listening,” Steve said, delighted, because you’d been watching his mouth instead of listening to the story.
“I’m listening,” you said, making a vague motion with your hands as if to wave him off. “Eddie. The thing with the thing.”
“The thing.” He huffed, and his hand tightened once around your ankle, fond, and he tipped his head back against the couch to look at you down the length of it, and the lamp did something gold to the side of his face
“Tell me again,” you said. “I’ll listen this time.”
“It’s gone now. You killed it,” he said mournfully, and you laughed, and he grinned at having got the laugh.
He pressed his thumb into the arch of your foot, and you made a sound you didn't mean to make, and he looked unbearably pleased with himself about it.
“Don’t do that.” You nudged him in the stomach with your other foot, lightly, just to feel him catch it, which he did, folding his hand over it like he was collecting the set. “You’re being annoying.”
“It’s called being affectionate.”
“They can look the same. With you.” But you'd already given yourself away, the smile doing the thing it did, and he'd already seen it, and there wasn't much point in either of you pretending you meant the complaint.
He went quiet after a moment, though. His thumb kept its slow work at your ankle. He was looking at you in a way you could feel without checking. “It was a good one tonight.”
You felt your lips twitch up. “I had a lot of fun.”
Something moved through his face, fond and a little undone by itself. “Thank you. For letting me have it.”
You laughed, almost in disbelief. “Thank you for making me celebrate three months of opening the studio. You didn’t have to do that.”
“Yeah, I did,” he said simply. “It’s a long time. Had to put frosting on it.”
“Somebody had to eat the frosting off of it.”
He tipped his head back against the couch again, looking at you down the length of himself, and for a second he didn't say anything else, just looked, and you let him, because you'd gotten better at being looked at.
Then, he shifted reluctantly. “Okay, I’m gross. I’ve been running around all day trying to get everything together.” He moved your feet off his lap and onto the cushion, careful about it. “Five minutes. Stay right here.”
“Yeah, I was planning on going back home,” you said drily.
“You would never.”
You threw a cushion at him. It missed by a wide, unbothered margin and he didn't pretend to dodge it. He grinned, and then the bathroom door, and the pipes shuddering as the water came on, and his voice picking up underneath the rush of it, tuneless and muffled and happy, a song that wasn't quite a song.
You stayed where he'd left you. You kept his spot warm, because of course you did. You lay there with your eyes on the ceiling, smiling at nothing.
The phone rang then. You almost let it go. It was late, and the couch was warm and some lazy part of you was sure it would stop on its own. It didn’t. It ran again, loud in the small apartment over the muffled rush of the shower, and so you got up and crossed Steve’s apartment in your bare feet and lifted the receiver with not one thought in your head.
“Steve Harrington.” A woman, already mid-stride, skipping clean past every formality a hello was built to carry. “I cannot believe you. Jonathan has left you two messages—two—and you can’t manage to pick up the phone? He’s going to drive out there himself—”
The shower ran on behind the wall and you listened to the voice you’d never heard before talk to him—talk at him, easy, exasperated, with a sort of buildup that can only be born out of practice. She’d earned the right to do so, you thought. You waited for her to finish the sentence so you could correct her, feeling no alarm doing it. You want, later, to be able to find the alarm somewhere in that moment and you never can; there wasn't any. There was just you, full of cake, holding a phone.
“Sorry,” you said when she finally drew a breath, voice coming out almost breathless. “Steve’s actually in the shower right now. Want me to pass him a message?”
It went quiet for half a second. “Oh—” Her voice came back scrambling pleasantly, embarrassed at itself. “God, sorry. I just assumed it would be Steve—you must be—” She said your name then, punctuating it with a small chuckle aimed inward. “Sorry. Let me start over. I’m Nancy, a friend of Steve’s.”
Two soft syllables, a stranger being polite on the telephone, and for a whole second it was nothing at all. And then it landed somewhere with a history attached and you felt the floor of the kitchen do a small, slow thing under your bare feet.
You had known the name for years, the way you knew a scar you no longer looked at directly; Nancy, who Steve had seen while he was still holding your hand, Nancy from the part of the story you had folded up and put somewhere high and not taken down. You had never had a voice to go with it. Now you did and it was a nice voice. It was warm and a little flustered and it was being kind to you, and that was somehow the worst available version of it.
“Hi,” you said. You were faintly, distantly impressed by how even it came out.
“Hi,” Nancy said and you could hear her smiling, hear her relax, because she had no idea. “It’s so nice to finally talk to you. God, this is so silly, we’ve never actually—Steve talks about you a ton, though, I feel like I already—” She caught herself, laughed again, light. “Anyway, I won’t keep you. Could you just tell him two things? Jonathan, obviously. Jonathan’s been waiting for a call back; he thought Steve was just ignoring him but I think you guys were probably busy. And tell him that we landed on the weekend, finally, so he doesn’t need to keep holding all of them. It took us long enough—”
She kept talking and you let her. Her voice went on being warm in your ear, small ordinary words with no weight holding onto a single one of them. She was only reciting logistics, and you stood in the middle of them, and felt each one go past you and not stop, and understood—slowly—that you were being told something. The thing you were being told was being handed to you plainly, kindly, and with no idea it was being handed over to you at all. And that you had not known any of it, the size of it; the long ordinary four-year shape of a thing that everyone, apparently, had simply always known about except you.
“—Anyways, I’ll let you go. Sorry about the interruption,” she said, and you caught onto the tail-end of it.
“It’s no interruption,” you said, and it came out warm. Your hands knew how to do this even when the rest of you had gone somewhere cold and far. You'd had years of practice being gracious over things that were costing you something. “I’ll tell him. Jonathan. The weekend. I’ve got it.”
“Thank you, genuinely.” Nancy's smile was still right there in her voice, easy. “It’s really nice to finally talk to you. Okay. I’m letting you go, I mean it this time. Tell Steve I said hi.”
“Will do.”
“Night.”
“Goodnight,” you said, and you waited for the click. It came, and then there was the long flat tone of a line with no one on it, and you stood with the receiver against your ear a few seconds longer than there was any reason to, listening to the nothing, because putting it down meant the next thing and you did not yet know what the next thing was.
You set the receiver back into the cradle the way you'd set down something you didn't trust your hands around, and then you didn't move, because moving was a decision and the part of you that made decisions had stopped reporting in.
You found your hand come up over your mouth and press there. You tried, honestly, to work out the size of what had happened—tried to hold it up and measure it—and you found you couldn’t get a grip on its edges. Was it large? It had to be large; your body had decided it was large. But when you reached for the why of it, the Nancy of it—his ex, every month, all of them—some flat honest part of you turned the answer over and set it back down, unconvinced. That wasn’t it, you knew it. You’d have known if you cared like that.
If it wasn’t that, then why was the floor gone?
You were still standing there with your hand over your mouth, when the water shut off.
You didn’t have time to arrange your face. You had perhaps a minute and you weren’t able to think of a single thing to do with it. You couldn't decide what your face should be, couldn't locate the version of yourself that would walk back to the couch and keep his spot warm. There wasn't one. You just stood where the phone had left you.
The bathroom door opened with its gust of steam. “—okay, I changed my mind. I’m starving again,” Steve said, coming out rubbing the towel over his head, damp, warm-looking. “Do we have anything in the fridge?”
He saw you then, and you watched his face do the involuntary brightening it always did when he found you. You watched it get halfway up and then stop, because the rest of his face had caught up and read yours and could not make it agree with the night he thought he was in. He took the towel off his head.
“Hey,” he said, careful. The good mood had drained out of his voice in real time, draining with a practiced patience. “Hey—what. What is it?”
“Nothing,” you said, and then heard how it sounded, then tried again. You laughed, or at least your mouth reached for the shape of one and a little air came out of you, and you both heard the failed attempt at one. “Um, you’re supposed to call Jonathan back,” you said too quickly, like you were in a hurry. “And they—the weekend, they picked the weekend. I forgot the exact date, so you should probably ask.”
You felt your brows draw together as you spoke, mouth moving on autopilot.
Steve had gone still by the bathroom door. The towel hung from one hand. He was looking at you like he was reading you—and he was good at it, he had always been good at it, years apart had not cost him the knack—and you watched him not be able to make the read come out clean.
“Ohhhh-kay,” he said gently, addressing you like you were a spooked thing. “Okay, hey.”
He started crossing the kitchen to you. He did it in the same way he always did when you were upset, unhurried, without asking for permission because that had never once been a thing he’d needed for this. His hands came over your waist, warm still from the shower, settling there with bone-deep certainty. The gesture worn so smooth between you that it had stopped being a gesture and become a place you lived.
You stepped back without deciding to. There had been no moment you chose, your body simply took a slow half-step out of the circle of this arms and left his hands holding the shape of where you’d been. You felt the surprise of it move through you the same moment it moved through him. You hadn’t known you were going to. You didn’t, even now, know why. You only knew that his hands had come up to you like they had a thousand uncounted times, and that this time something in you needed the inch of air, had reached for it the way you reach for a breath, and had taken it before you could be consulted.
Steve’s hands stayed in the air for a second too long where your waist had been. Then he reluctantly took them down, back to his side.
He looked at the small new distance between the two of you—eight inches of his own kitchen, nothing, a width you’d closed a thousand times—and not understand it, and be frightened by not understanding it. You’d stepped out of his hands. You, who leaned in. You, who’d lain awake for hours in his arms rather than move an inch off him. He stood there with his palms empty and his hair dripping a slow line down the side of his neck and looked at you like the floor had gone out from under him now too, like he'd been handed a thing in a language he'd never been taught.
He shook his head slowly then, lips pursing as he looked at the distance, then your face. “I’m worried,” he said.
“I know,” you said, voice coming out gently. It was just that the level, flattened thing your voice had gone to had a softness on the surface of it, the way deep water looks calm, and you heard yourself be kind to him and could not have stopped it if you'd wanted to.
“I just need a second.” You wrapped an arm across yourself, your hand closing around your own opposite elbow, holding on to something. “I need to—trying to work something out. I need you to let me work it out before—” You stopped, took a deep breath in that felt like your chest constricting on itself. “Just give me a second.”
And the worst part, the part that you felt land on him and felt land on yourself in the same breath, was watching him obey it. Steve—who crossed rooms toward you, who had never once in the entire span of you needed to be told to keep his distance—plant himself by the with the towel still strangling slowly in his grip, and stay.
He stayed because you'd asked. It was visibly costing him, every cell of him angled toward you and held back by nothing but your sentence, and you understood that you had taken the one tool he had and set it down out of his reach, and he had let you, because he could tell—even without knowing why, even with the floor gone under him too—that reaching for you right now would be the wrong thing.
His eyes went down to your arms—at the way they were wrapped tight across your front, your hands fisted on its opposite elbow like you were holding something inside your ribs that wanted out—and you watched his jaw work once around nothing.
“Baby, I’m really worried,” he said, the last word breaking in his voice, coming out uneven. “I really am. Whatever this is, can you just—I’m right here.” His voice had gone careful, every word picked up gently and set down again where he hoped you could reach it. “I’m not going anywhere. I’m just—going to stand here. Tell me, please. Whatever it is.”
His hands had come up again without him meaning to. He noticed this time. They froze halfway and he made a small frustrated sound at his own arms, at himself, and lowered them slowly back to his sides like he was setting down a thing that wouldn't stop trying to be useful.
“I’m scared,” you said, between a shaky breath, because that was the only thing that you could muster up then. You needed to get the words out because, despite it all, you couldn’t take seeing Steve like this. “I don’t wanna say the wrong thing, or do something and have it be the thing that—I don’t want to break it. I don’t want to be the one who—”
“I don’t know what I’m scared of.” Your hand tightened on your elbow. “I’m scared and I don’t know if I’m being—” The word ‘crazy’ almost got out. You bit it back. You would not give yourself that word, not even tonight, not even to him. “I don’t wanna get it wrong. I wanna get it right, and I’m scared I can’t.”
“Hey,” he said, his voice coming out soft. “Whatever you say, you can’t get it wrong. There isn’t a wrong. It’s me.” He took a breath. “It’s me.”
That had always been true. It had been true always. It’s me, coming from Steve, had been the safest sentence in your life. And he’d meant it, and you felt the held shape of you start to give.
Your body decided to move before you could, the way it had when you stepped back from him. One step, and then the next, and then the rest of it, slow, the way you walk toward a thing you can't be sure of and can't make yourself not walk toward. Steve watched you cross. He didn't move his hands. He didn't say anything. He stood very, very still by the bathroom door and let you come.
You stopped just short of him, close enough you could feel the warmth coming off his bare shoulder and the shower-damp of him not yet dried. You couldn’t unwrap your arms from around yourself just yet, so you leaned forward, slightly, until your forehead came to rest against the side of his throat where you used to sit and stayed there.
You felt his breath catch under your forehead, the small unsteady intake of it, and you understood he was going to refrain himself from putting his arms around you and he was killing himself to do so.
You stayed there a long moment, feeling the pulse at the side of his neck creating an unsteady tap against your skin.
“I just realized now,” you said into his throat, into the warmth of him. “That Nancy goes to Philly with you. She—well, Eddie didn’t say, you didn’t say, Vickie didn’t, no one—I just. I picked up the phone and she was—she’s very nice, Steve, and I just—”
The sentence didn’t finish. You just pressed your forehead harder against his and felt him swallow.
His hand came up slowly to tilt your face up off his throat with two fingers under your chin, so, so gentle the way he used to do when there was something he needed you to see in his eyes. He looked at you and his eyes were wet, a small crease formed between his brows as he tucked his lower lip between his teeth in what looked like contemplation.
“Baby,” he started, voice coming out soft. “No, that’s not it. Nancy’s a friend. She has—Robin’s there, everyone’s there, the whole—it’s a group of us. It’s always been a group of us.” He shook his head, thumb moving once at your jaw, certain, soothing. “There’s nothing there. Nothing. I would never, ever do that to you. You know that.”
His whole face was lit with how much he meant it, his eyes searching yours, his thumb steady on your jaw, a man putting his hand into a wound and being absolutely certain he was helping.
You felt something go quiet inside you in a way that was anything but relief. It was worse than that. It was the kind of quiet that arrives when a thing you have been turning over and over without being able to read it finally turns the right way up.
You felt your head start to shake, small, slow, almost not moving. His thumb stilled at your jaw.
“I don’t—” you started, head shaking still. “I do, well, know that,” you said dumbly. “No—God, Steve,” you said, through a breath, in disbelief. “Why is that—why is that what you—”
Steve opened his mouth, brows furrowing further. “I—what did you think then?” It came out faster than he’d meant for it to, and you watched him reel back his words. “I mean—when you said her name, I just thought you—”
You forced yourself to keep your eyes on him. “Why didn’t you just tell me she was there?”
His mouth opened, then closed. “You never asked.”
“I couldn’t have asked, Steve,” you said, voice level. “I couldn’t have known.”
“Okay, but—” He exhaled, the breath unsteady. He was trying to find a way in and there wasn't one. “I told you about Philly. I told you about—”
“I didn’t know there was anything to know.”
His face caved in slowly, and he paused his words for a moment. His thumb stayed on your chin. His eyes had gone glassy again and he was looking at you and you watched, with a clarity that had nothing pleased in it, how lost he looked, unable to figure out how to talk to you, and trying to, and getting it wrong, and trying again, and getting it wrong, and not understanding why.
“You just—” Your voice rose slightly, realization settling. “Assumed I thought you were—what? Cheating?”
Something went out of him by inches; his teeth caught his lower lip, it usually did when he was working up to something, except there was nothing to work up to here. You watched him realize that, watched the bracing collapse into the plain stunned understanding underneath.
“That’s what you thought,” you said, shaking your head slightly.
“I—” His voice broke a little. “Baby, I didn’t want you to—I didn’t want you to feel like this. I didn’t. I didn’t want you to react like—I didn’t want to make you feel bad.”
You felt something in your body give at his words. “Listen to yourself.”
“What?” His voice rose then, out of confusion or disbelief that he was, for once, not able to get through.
You stepped away from him then. “Why would you think that would’ve made me feel bad?”
“Because—obviously—there’s—you know, history there,” he said, words spilling out quick. “And that night—before we started again you—” He stopped his words, like the memory of it all was too much to say.
“I’ve been standing here.” Your voice cracked then. “I’m not hurt, Steve. I’m not—insecure—”
“I never said you were,” he said immediately.
“You didn’t have to,” you said, voice quieter. “You didn’t say anything because you think I am. Because of—what? Because I couldn’t stop remembering everything one night? That’s what made you decide I couldn’t hear that she’s a part of your life?”
He took in a long breath. “You know that’s not true.”
“I don’t know that. Fuck, Steve.” Your voice cracked at the end, on his name, and you watched him step closer.
“I just never wanted to hurt you,” he said quietly. “I love you. I didn’t want to see you hurt.”
You closed your eyes, feeling a tear slip down your cheek. “And I love you,” you said. “But I really, really don’t like how you see me.”
“That’s—” His brows drew together, the wet earnestness on his face cut with something almost wounded. “That’s not how I—” He couldn’t get a sentence out. He shook his head, half-laughing under his breath, small and ruined and without any humor. “You don’t even know. God, you don’t even know how I—”
The sentence trailed off and he held himself back from finding the rest of it. He stood there with his hand half-lifted between you, and you understood, watching him, that he had hit the bottom of whatever he was reaching for. He couldn’t find the next word; You could feel him trying for it and not finding it, the way you'd been not finding things all night.
“I should go home.”
“What?” His head came up, the frozenness going all out of him and being replaced by a feature more panicked. “No. No, baby—no. Don’t do that. You don’t have to.”
You felt your own grip slip as he talked. “Steve.” His name trailed off uneasily.
“It’s late. Stay, come on. We don’t do this.” His hand came up again, the hand that had been half-raised in the air, and reached for you, and you took a step back from it, and his face did something unbearable. “We’re so, so far in. We don’t go to bed like this, we don’t do this.”
“Please, Steve.”
“What do you need?” The words came out fast, scared. “Whatever you need, whatever it is, tell me. I’ll sleep on the couch. I won’t sleep. You stay here—” His voice broke on it. “Just don’t go. Let’s not let it be this.”
You closed your eyes. The please in his mouth was its own knife, because you had been hearing him say it in beds and on couches and in the warm dark for nine months, and tonight it was at his front door, asking you for the one thing you couldn't give him.
“I need you to let me go home,” you said, trying to keep your voice even. “I’m not—I’m not leaving you. I’m leaving your apartment. That’s not the same thing.”
“They feel like the same.”
“I know they do, but they aren’t.”
You could see his chest moving with it, the small unsteady rhythm of a man trying not to come apart in front of you, and you had to look away from it for a second, at the cake, at the towel still on the bathroom floor, at anything else.
“We’re not in the same place right now,” you said, and your voice was almost gentle, because you didn't have the energy for it to be anything else. “We keep talking and we keep—Steve, we keep saying things and they keep meaning different things. I can’t—we can’t fix that by staying. I’ll just say more things, and you’ll hear them wrong. You’ll say more things, and I’ll hear them wrong. And—and one of us is going to say something we can’t take back, and I—I don’t want that. I’m trying not to do that, I’m trying really hard.”
You watched him hear it, not all of it—you didn’t think he had room in him to hear all of it—but enough. He’d heard enough that the reaching hand finally came down. He stood there and looked at you, and you saw, for the first time all night, that he was exhausted; he’d been holding himself up through the whole conversation on terror alone, and that had finally burned through.
You put your hand on his cheek. He made a sound. Small, breathed-out, for he had been waiting an hour and a half to be touched by you, and the touch was goodbye. His eyes closed. His head turned into your palm. The wet of his cheek caught on the heel of your hand.
You let him have it for a moment.
Then you stepped up onto the balls of your feet—the way you used to have to, since you'd been seventeen—and pressed your mouth to his cheek, just once, the spot below the bone where you'd kissed him a thousand uncounted times. He smelled like his shower, the warm of him. He smelled the apartment and the cake and the night that had been your night four hours ago.
You held the kiss for longer than you meant to. Then you came down off your toes and your hand came down off his face, and his eyes were still closed, and you watched him keep them that way, because opening them meant looking at you leaving, and he was buying himself one more second of not having to.
“Can you—” His voice was small. “Can you call me when you get there? Just so I—”
“I will.”
“Just so I’ll know.”
“I’ll call.”
You turned to pick up your jacket from where it had missed the hook hours ago. You found your bag. You found, in the entry, the one shoe you'd lost coming in; it was under the small console table, and you had to crouch to get it. You put it on standing up, one hand braced against the wall.
You kept yourself from looking back at him before you opened the door. You couldn’t, was the thing. If you looked back you wouldn't go, so you didn't look. You opened the door, and the hallway lights were a different color than the apartment lights, cold and fluorescent after the lamp, and you stepped into them, and you pulled the door shut behind you, and you stood for a second in his hallway with your hand still on the knob from the outside.
Thursday came, indifferent to what happened on Tuesday in Steve’s apartment. The drive to the field was the same one you took every Tuesday and Thursday. You sat in the car for a minute after you turned it off because the practice was running a little long, and you watched, through the chain-link, Steve in the middle of the diamond with one hand on his hip and the other moving in the gesture he did when he was explaining a thing for the third time. The kids were standing in a loose half-circle around him. One of them was bouncing on the balls of his feet. Carter was at the back, with his hat askew, doing nothing in particular.
You got out of the car and walked across the gravel to the fence, putting your hands on the chain-link as you waited.
Steve saw you, his body registering your presence before he could even decide to turn to look at you. He finished the sentence he was on with the kids—you watched his mouth move; watched the bouncing kid stop bouncing; watched Carter's hat get pushed back into a more reasonable place by the kid next to him—and then he clapped his hands once, and the half-circle broke up.
He crossed to you with a slower gait than usual, a little hesitant. “Hi.”
It had only been a day in-between now and the night in his apartment, and the only exchange you’d had with Steve was over the phone; the first, to let him know you’d made it back home safely, and the second being yesterday.
The second one had been yesterday, him checking in on you. The way he always had been—calling you at the end of the day for nothing except to put his voice in your ear before you slept, if you weren’t sleeping next to him. Except there had been a reason, and it was sitting in the phone between both of you, and he called anyway, because to not call would have been making a statement you didn’t think he could make, one that you weren’t sure you could take, either. He’d asked how you were doing, and you heard how careful he was being with the ordinary words, like the line might break under any weight at all.
You’d said you were okay and he’d said okay; then you both sat in in the silence you’d never had, not since he’d become a part of your life once again. You'd both spent the last however-many months building something with no room in it for that quiet, and here it was anyway, breathing on the line, sounding exactly like the thing you'd promised each other was over. He'd tried. You’d heard him try—the small intake of breath, the one you knew better than your own—and then nothing, the sentence abandoned somewhere it hurt to leave it. You both said goodbyes that were too quick, then. You'd hung up and sat with the phone in your lap for a long time, and missed him so much it didn't make sense, given that you'd just been talking to him.
“Hi.”
He came around the gate and you met him halfway. His hands found your waist and you put yours on his shoulders. He leaned down and kissed you, his mouth landing where it always did on your mouth briefly, the one you’d calibrated for a fenceful of eleven-year-olds. His mouth was cold from being outside.
Half a second later, his forehead tipped down to yours, his cold nose brushing the side of yours, breathing you in once like he was topping off something that had run low. His hand had slid from your waist to the small of your back somewhere in it and pressed, just barely, just enough to tell you exactly how much of this he was holding still on the leash for the sake of you; his thumb dragged one slow line up your spine before stopping itself. You felt the whole weight of him decide, with visible effort, to behave.
He kissed the corner of your mouth, chaste, a consolation prize to himself. Then he made himself do the small adjustment that ended it, and you made yourself help him do it, the two of you stepping back out of the moment by mutual mechanical agreement.
“Hey, you,” you said, and your voice just didn’t sound right.
“Hey,” he murmured. His thumb did a small swipe at the bone of your hip where his hand had been. “Did good today. Did you see the last drill?”
“Missed it. I was on the road.”
“Carter ate Mason’s lunch. He took the entire—anyway. There’s a whole thing Devon’s gonna find out.”
You laughed lightly. “You’re supposed to make sure he has room for dinner.”
His face flickered slightly. “I’m not getting involved. I’m a coach, not a peacekeeper.”
It was the closest thing to them you'd had in two days, and you watched him hear it land and not push past it, watched him stand there in his coaching jacket with the wind catching the ends of his hair and the late-afternoon light doing something gold to one side of his face, and you understood, with the kind of clarity that arrives in unsupervised moments, that you were not going to be able to keep doing two more days of almost-right. You couldn't. He couldn't. Standing in the parking lot performing okay-ness to each other was going to break something neither of you wanted broken.
Carter showed up at your elbow before you'd worked out how to ask.
“Ice cream today?”
“No,” you said through a chuckle. “I just heard you ate Mason’s entire lunch.”
Carter turned to look at Steve with what looked like betrayal.
“Sorry. Had to tell her.” Steve nodded, grave. “You can’t go around eating other people’s food.”
“You’re not supposed to be on his side.”
“I’m not on anyone’s side, bud.”
You let them go. You waited until Carter had finished cataloguing the day and Steve had finished pretending to take them seriously, and Carter had gotten distracted by a stray ball at the edge of the lot and ran after it. Steve turned back to you and his hands went into his jacket pockets and the off came back into the air immediately, the way it had been getting into and out of the air the entire time you’d been here.
You'd been working it out in your head for an hour. You said it before you could re-litigate the saying of it.
“Hey, do you—do you maybe wanna come with me to drop Carter off?”
Something shifted across his face. “Yeah. Yeah. I—”
“You don’t—I just thought. If, after I drop him at Devon’s, we could—” You couldn't quite finish it, and you watched him not need you to.
“Yeah. Yeah, of course.” He pulled a hand out of his pocket and rubbed once at the back of his neck. “Let me grab my bag. Two seconds. Don’t go anywhere.”
“I won’t.”
He looked at you a second longer than the moment required. The corner of his mouth tried for something and didn't quite get there. He turned and crossed back toward the dugout, and you stood there at the fence in the late afternoon with your hands in your jacket pockets and watched him go.
“Shotgun,” Carter said the second he registered Steve coming back toward the car with his duffel slung over one shoulder, still truly believing saying the word was a legal claim that overrode everything else. He was already moving for the passenger door.
“No,” Steve said flatly, slightly amused, without breaking stride.
“Why?”
“Because that’s my seat, kid.”
It came out matter-of-fact, the way Steve said things that weren't actually up for discussion, and he didn't even slow down. He was already at the passenger door before Carter had finished processing the sentence. He pulled it open with the easy proprietary motion, like he had no intention of pretending otherwise in front of an eleven-year-old.
“You can’t just—”
“Watch me.”
He ducked into the seat with his bag still on his shoulder. Carter, in the small horror of having his entire announced shotgun-call overridden by the largest available adult, stood there with his mouth half-open.
“You can’t be mean to me. You’re my coach.”
“Not right now. I’m off the clock.” Steve was settling in, knee against the glove compartment, one hand reaching back to push the seat the inch he always had to push it because the last person in it had been considerably shorter. He had not so much as glanced at Carter through the open door. “Back seat. Let’s go. Time’s wasting.”
Carter made a sound of pure adolescent grievance—somewhere between a groan and a ‘seriously?’—and stomped around to the back door with his backpack dragging on the gravel.
You got in the driver's side buckled your seatbelt and adjusted the rearview that didn't need adjusting and Steve, in the seat beside you, took up the exact amount of space he always took up, his knee canted toward the console, his arm along the door rest, his attention undivided.
“You’re mean today,” you said to Steve.
You glanced at him. The smugness was still there, lower now, settled in, the version of it that lived in him on Sunday mornings when he watched you stretch in his bed and pretended he was looking at the window. He didn't look away when you caught him. He never did, anymore. There had been a few months early in when he would have, when getting caught had been a thing he had to bear, but somewhere he had stopped pretending he didn't watch you.
Carter, in the back seat, mumbled, “She doesn’t even want you there.”
Devon raised a hand at you from the porch, and you raised yours back. The screen door closed behind Carter and the porch light, which had been on since before you got there, finally registered as the only light on a slate-blue afternoon. You stayed in the driveway. You let the car run a second longer, then reached and turned the key, and the engine quieted, and the car began the small ticking-cooling sounds it made when you'd been driving with the windows up.
Steve was angled toward the passenger window still, hand on his thigh.
You leaned back against the headrest and let your eyes close for a second. The off—the one between you and Steve—came back into the car fully, for there was no Carter to push it back out. The car held it, you held it, he, beside you, was holding it too. You kept your eyes closed; you wanted, briefly, the world to wait.
The world did wait for about fifteen seconds. Then Steve said, quietly, to himself, “Fuck.”
You opened your eyes and he was looking through the windshield at Devon’s porch with his jaw set. His hand had come up off his thigh and was pressed flat against his own forehead, the heel of it dug in over one eyebrow.
“Sorry.” The word came out fast and low. “Sorry. Sorry. I have to say something. I can’t sit here—baby, I can’t do another minute of—” He gestured at the air of the car, at the ‘this,’ the two days, and his voice came apart somewhere in the middle of the gesture. “I really, really can’t.”
He took his hand off his forehead and turned in the seat, his entire body, knee knocking the console, and looked at you. His eyes were wet, they likely had been for a while, and you just hadn’t looked because you were too afraid to find it.
You turned your head against the headrest. The driveway had gone very quiet given that your car wasn’t making its usual white noise. Your pulse was going unevenly under your jaw; it had been doing since Tuesday, a thing you weren’t able to talk your body down from. “Me too,” you said. “I can’t either.”
He made a small sound and his head dropped, his eyes going to his own knee. “Me too’s got a lot of—that could mean a lot of things.” His jaw worked, and he let out a chuckle devoid of any humor. “Just tell me you’re not—” He breathed in shakily. “Because I keep thinking you’ve finally—” He shook his head, like he could maybe get rid of the sentence and the thought entirely. “I don’t wanna say it. If I say it, it’s like—I’m not going to say it.”
“No,” you said too quickly, your hand coming off your collarbone toward him before you'd decided to move it. “No. God, Steve. Not that.”
“Yeah?” His voice came out rough.
“Steve, I haven’t slept.” Your hand had come up off the wheel without your noticing, was pressed flat against your own collarbone. “And I miss you. So much that it doesn’t feel real. And—” You took in a breath. “I have to say some things. Can I—can I just talk? For a minute? I don't think I have it all right. I just—I have to—I have to try.”
He nodded once and reached to lay his hand flat on the console between you, palm up.
You looked at the steering wheel. “I just, I can’t be with someone who thinks I’m going to break.” You forced yourself to keep your eyes forward. You heard him take in a quick, sharp breath, the words sending him into fight-or-flight immediately. “I’m not—I’m not breakable. I’ve been hurt before. I got hurt really badly, by you, actually—” you huffed, and he flinched. “I lived. And I’ll be hurt again. And I—I keep finding out you think I am. Breakable. Insecure.” The word came out with more bite than you’d intended, and that was maybe the small part of you that wanted to fight against the label.
“Baby, I don’t—”
“I know. I know you don’t think you do—”
“I don’t think you are—”
“On Tuesday, you didn’t tell me about Nancy because you thought I’d—”
His jaw worked. “Okay,” he said. “Yeah. Okay, yeah—I hear that,” He dragged a hand down his face. “But I don’t think you’re breakable, or fragile, or insecure—whatever it is you think I think of you.”
You fiddled with your hands in your lap.
“I have never thought that. Not once. I think—you’re the toughest person I’ve ever known.”
You let out a small chuckle then—it sounded almost meanly sarcastic—as you shook your head.
“I’m serious.” His hand on the console opened wider, like he was offering the words on a flat surface.
“I hurt you. Once. And I never—I didn’t ever fix that. I just left and you left and it stayed broke. And now every time I think something might hurt you, I—I want to move it out of your way before you can—” His voice became looser. “I always want to take care of you.” He shook his head, slow, almost disbelieving at himself.
“But it wasn’t that, though. I felt sick when I realized that when you left. It’s never about what you can’t take, it’s about me. I can’t—I don’t want to be the one who does that to you again. So I just, don’t let it near you. Even if it is nothing.” He pressed the heel of his hand to his sternum, hard, the way he did when something hurt there and he wanted it to stop. “I messed up by leaving stuff out rather than risk being the guy who hurt you again. That’s so—it’s been such a shitty thing I’ve been doing to you.”
He turned to look at you then. “I’m sorry. For making you feel that way, for hiding everything. I will—will, if you let me—try harder.”
You watched his hand on the console for a long moment. “I just, I don’t know. I just want to be part of your life,” you said into the console. “I’m scared you’re going to have things I don’t know about and people I don’t know and weekends I’m not in—and one day I’m going to wake up, and your life will just be different. And I’m scared, I think, of being on the outside of you again. That’s—I think that’s what this is.”
“I can’t—” He pressed the heel of his palm to his chest. “You let me back in. That’s the, I broke the whole thing, and you still let me try again. And I keep—” His words shook slightly. “I'm so scared of losing it again I hide stuff from you. Which is the thing that loses it. I know. I know that.”
“Steve.”
And a part of you knew you were talking in circles yet again, that maybe this conversation was a whole front to hide how truly terrified you were.
He shook his head, forcing his eyes away from you. “You being outside; that’s backwards. The four years was the outside. That was me. I don’t—” He stopped, then started, words slowing down. “Now, there’s no part of any of it I want with you not in it. None of it is—it’s just stuff I’m doing until you’re there, too.”
He looked at his own hand on the console. “I think about stuff, with you.” He moved his jaw. “I have been, since I was sixteen. I never stopped, not even when I was being an idiot.” He took a rough breath. “So you’re not gonna wake up outside of me. You’d have to leave. And I’m just gonna be here.” He turned to look at you. “However long you will have me.”
You took in a breath that felt too sharp. “You can’t promise that.”
“No.” It came out fast, like he'd been waiting for you to catch it, almost relieved you had. “No, you’re right. I can’t. I can’t promise you’ll never feel it. I'm not gonna stand here and lie to you, I did enough of that already.” He tilted his head like he was looking for the right words. “But I can work, I’ll work at it so you never have to feel like that. That's the thing I can actually promise. Not that it won't happen. That I'll never stop trying to make sure it doesn't.”
He looked at his hand again. “And you gotta tell me when I’m doing it. Because clearly—” He let out a short laugh. “Clearly I’m not good at seeing it myself. I thought I was protecting you and I was just—so you gotta say it.” He swallowed. “I’ll believe you over me. Everytime.”
You stayed silent for a moment, letting the words soak you up. It was with a sharp, almost comforting feeling you realized that—even if you do end up in this situation a million times over—you would be in, all in. But you stayed quiet a moment longer than that, longer than was comfortable, because the old reflex to fix Steve’s face, smooth the ruin off it, was there. Watching Steve hurt was always the thing you couldn’t sit in, but you forced yourself to sit in it now.
And he let you, waited with his hand open on the console, breathing wrong and letting you take the time. He was doing, already, the exact thing he’d promised ten seconds ago, before the promise had even cooled.
So you did put your hand in his. His fingers closed around yours like he’d been waiting his whole life for the permission to. He made a sound that was in the middle of being broken and relieved; he brought your knuckles up to his mouth and held him there, lips breathing against them.
“Okay,” he said into your hand.
“Yeah,” you said, the word coming out in a breath.
The engine had gone cold under the hood. The porch light was the only thing left of the afternoon, and neither of you moved toward leaving.
“Tell me what you did,” he said eventually, lowering your hand so he was still holding it. “The two days. All of it. What did you do?”
You laughed shortly. “It was a day and a half. We talked on the phone.”
“That doesn’t count.” He made a face. “That was awful. What’d you actually do? Hour by hour. Go.”
“Nothing happened. It was the most normal day and a half of my life.”
“Good. Perfect. Tell me the normal.” He shifted lower in the seat, getting comfortable, settling in for it, your hand kept hostage in his hold. “I missed it.”
“Mm. Went on a date in the morning, looked for a new—”
“You can mess with me,” he said, quieter than the joke deserved with his brows raised. “I don’t even care. I’d still be grateful you’re talking to me right now.”
You blinked at him. “You’re supposed to play along.”
“I know. I can’t. You’re being mean and it’s making me like you more.”
“Oh my god, I hate you so much.”
The corner of his mouth twitched up. “And what’d you do after your date?”
Those Days Are Over (Don’t Worry, Baby) — Steve Harrington (2)
pairing — ex!steve harrington x fem!reader
word count — 16.9k
summary — Four years ago, Steve Harrington had chosen his future and it wasn’t you. You’d chose to leave Hawkins entirely and that worked out fine until it didn’t. Now you’re sleeping in your sister’s guest room and picking up your nephew from baseball practice where Steve Harrington is teaching kids how to slide into home. Some things, it turns out, you can’t outrun.
warnings — (18+ Minors DNI!!!) sexual content, no intercourse, fingering, me also being really bad at writing smut, heavy making out, crying, SO much crying, both of them, multiple times, breakdown during intimacy, ongoing emotional trauma, public emotional moments, alcohol mention, intimacy while intoxicated, breakup scene, second chance romances, he fell first AND he fell harder (eventually), right person wrong time -> right person right time, small town, forced proximity (??), jealous steve. yearner steve. like so badly yearning i’m sorry i got so carried away.
author’s note — this was probably the worst Almost Hookup aftermath. i also got so carried away writing this and i know i’ll look back on it and realize how bad it was lmao but steve is such a yearner in this. i also would loveee to write an epilogue or something for this + drabbles because i’m thinking so much about them and don’t wanna let them go just yet so lmk if that’s of any interest !! ♡
part one part two part three
"Hi," he breathed against your lips.
"Hi, Steve." Your hands found the hem of his shirt, fingers slipping beneath to find warm skin. He took in a sharp intake of breath he tried to hide.
He shuddered, the tremor beginning in his shoulder and rolling down through his chest, his stomach. His hands left your face and slid down to your waist, then lower, fingers digging into your hips so hard you’d feel it tomorrow as he hauled you against him.
“Fuck.” The word punched out of him and he pressed his hips forward, letting out a low groan as he said, Been thinkin’ about this all night.
“Just tonight?”
He pulled back just enough to look at you, and you could feel strands of his hair—softer than it used to be, less product—brushing against your forehead as he lowered his head. His pupils were blown so wide you could hardly see the hazel. His expression was so open it made your chest ache. “Longer.”
Your breath caught. For a second neither of you moved, and you let his eyes bore into your own. “Steve—”
“Since you showed up again.” His thumb found the sliver of skin where your jeans, the Levi’s you’d found in a thrift store near college, sat low on your hip. “Maybe longer. Maybe I never really stopped.”
You should probably tell him not to say things like that. Yes, you should remind him—so you can remind yourself—that this was just scratching an itch, just getting it out of your system. But his forehead was pressed to yours and his hands were warm and solid on your hips and you couldn’t get yourself to care about should.
“Kiss me again,” you said instead.
He wasted no time. His tongue slid against yours and you made a sound you’d be embarrassed about later, pulling him closer by the shirt. The fabric bunched in your fists and you could feel his heart beating against your palms.
“Bed?” you managed to say when you pulled for air.
He kissed along your jaw, down your neck, finding that spot below your ear that made you gasp. "Just give me a second."
"We're still by the door."
“‘m aware.” His hands were pulling your sweater up, impatient in a way that made you smile against his mouth because that was familiar; Steve wanting too much too fast, Steve getting ahead of himself. You lifted your arms to help him and the sweater caught on your necklace—the delicate gold chain with your initial you never took off, the one your mom gave you for graduation —before it came free and dropped to the floor next to your bag. Your keys were probably tangled in the strap and your lip gloss was definitely getting crushed.
Then his hands were on your bare skin, thumbs brushing the underside of your bra.
You pulled at his shirt and he helped you, yanking it over his head in one motion that messed his hair up even more. And then you were both breathing hard, pressed against the door, and you couldn't remember why you'd wanted to move in the first place.
Your eyes traced over him in the dim light from the window. He really had filled out, shoulders broader, arms more defined, the suggestion of actual muscle instead of the lanky basketball-player frame he'd had earlier.
“Hey,” he said, softer this time. His hands cupped your face again as he stroked your cheekbones.
"Hi." You traced the line of his collarbone with your finger, watching goosebumps rise in its wake. "You got broader."
He laughed, surprised. "What?"
“Your shoulders. They’re—” You ran your hands over them, feeling the muscle there. “You filled out.”
"Four years of actually working out instead of just pretending to for basketball will do that." His hands slid down your sides, settling on your waist. "You got—"
"Careful how you finish that sentence."
"—even prettier." He said it simply, like it was obvious. Like there was no other possible word. "I was going to say even prettier."
Something in your chest cracked wide open. "Steve—"
"This is new." He mused as he hummed while his thumb traced the outline of the black lace. "Pretty girl,” he murmured.
“You don’t know that.”
His eyes flicked up, dark and a little smug. “Yeah. I do. I remember all of them.” His thumb dipped beneath the lace, brushing bare skin, and he kept his eyes on your face. “The pink one. The white one with the flowers. The red one you wore for—”
“Okay, okay,” you cut him off, face heating. “Point made.”
“Just saying,” he said, tilting his head as he grinned, that cocky smile that used to drive you crazy. “I paid attention.”
“Clearly.”
“Had to.” He hummed as his fingers came up and around your neck, warm and possessive. “You were my girl.”
Were. God. The word hung between you for a second before he was kissing you again, erasing it, swallowing it, taking it back. His tongue slid against yours and you forgot what you were thinking about, forgot everything except the way his hands were moving you, confident now. Like he was more sure.
“Bedroom,” you said against his mouth. “Steve, we gotta—”
“Yeah. Yeah, okay.” But his hand was already sliding higher, thumb brushing the underside of your breast, and you gasped. “Fuck, you sound—”
“Steve.” Your voice was firmer now.
“Bossy,” he said, smirking as he pulled away from you.
He grabbed your thighs and lifted you. Your legs wrapped around his waist automatically and his hands gripped you tight, fingers digging into your ass as he he walked off. “Show off,” you murmured against his neck.
“You love it.”
“Maybe.”
He let out a throaty laugh. “Definitely.” He squeezed and you bit his shoulder in retaliation, which only made him laugh harder. “Careful. Don’t start something you can’t finish.”
“Who says I can’t finish it?”
His laugh was cut off by a groan you felt vibrate through his chest. “Okay, yeah. We’re—let’s go, before I drop you.”
"I might." But his grip tightened, hands flexing against your thighs as he navigated through his apartment. You could feel every step, the way his muscles shifted, the controlled strength in how he held you. He'd always been strong—basketball had seen to that—but this was different. Deliberate. Like he wanted you to feel exactly how easily he could carry you.
You kissed along his jaw, his neck, finding that spot behind his ear that used to make him crazy. Still did, apparently, because he stumbled slightly, shoulder hitting the doorframe.
"Jesus—" He course-corrected, finally making it through the doorway. "You're the worst."
"You love it."
"Maybe," he said, throwing your words back at you, and then he was setting you down on the bed. Not gently—with enough force that you bounced once, twice, and had to catch yourself on your elbows.
"Smooth," you said, grinning up at him.
"Shut up." But he was grinning too as he braced his hands on either side of you, leaning down until his face was inches from yours. Close enough that you could see the flecks of gold in his eyes, the way his pupils were blown wide. "Hi."
"Hi."
His knee pressed between your thighs, and the grin faded into something more serious and intense. "You good?"
"Yeah." Your hands found his shoulders, sliding down to his chest. You could feel his heart racing under your palm. "You?"
“Yeah. Really good. Just—” He stopped, and something flickered across his face, something more vulnerable. “Can’t believe you’re really here.”
“Where else would I be?”
“I don’t know. Anywhere but here.” He said it like he’d truly thought you’d change your mind somewhere between the bar and his bedroom. “With me.”
Your throat felt tight. “Steve—”
He kissed you before you could finish. His knee pressed between your thighs and you gasped into his mouth. He shifted his weight, pressing closer, and the friction made you both groan. His hand found the button of your jeans. "Can I?"
"If you don't, I'm doing it myself."
He laughed, pleased. "Bossy girl." He was already working the button open, sliding the zipper down with maddening slowness. His knuckles brushed your stomach and you sucked in a breath.
"So sensitive everywhere," he said, more to himself than to you. He traced the path his knuckles had made, watching your face. "I remember that. How you'd get goosebumps when I—" He did it again, firmer this time, and you shivered.
"Steve—"
"Yeah, baby?"
The endearment made your stomach flip. "Keep going."
"So demanding," he said, but hooking his fingers in your jeans, tugging them down over your hips. You lifted to help and they joined the growing pile on his floor. He sat back on his heels, just looking, and you fought the urge to cover yourself.
“What?” you asked when the silence stretched on.
“Nothing. Just—” His hand settled on your thigh, thumb tracing idle circles. “You’re so fuckin’ pretty like this. I mean—” His hands slid higher, fingers running over the edge of the lace of your underwear. “So pretty,” he murmured, this time more to himself. His touch went from teasing to reverent. “Can I take these off?”
He pulled them down slowly, pressing kisses to your hip, your thigh, the inside of your knee. By the time they were gone, you were breathing so hard you felt dizzy.
"Okay?" he asked, settling between your legs again.
"Yeah. Yes. Very okay." You reached for his belt. "Your turn."
"Impatient."
"You're one to talk."
He helped you with his belt, both of you fumbling with the buckle until it came free. Then his jeans were open and you could feel him, hard and hot against your hip through his boxers.
"Fuck," you breathed.
"Yeah." He kicked his jeans off the rest of the way. "That's—yeah."
You laughed despite yourself. "Eloquent."
“Shut up.” He smiled as he kissed you and his hand slid up your ribs, as his thumb found your nipple through the lace and you arched into the touch. “You make me stupid.”
"Pretty sure you were stupid before me."
"Definitely." His mouth found your neck, that spot below your ear. "But you make it worse."His words were muffled against your skin.
His hand moved lower, between your legs, and you stopped caring about conversation entirely. His fingers found you and you gasped.
A corner of his lips kicked up at your sound. “That good?”
“Yeah.”
“Tell me.” His fingers moved in slow circles. “C’mon, baby. I wanna hear you say it.”
“It’s—good—” His fingers kicked up the speed a notch. “Good. Fuck, Steve—”
“That’s my girl.” His voice had gone rough. “Let me make you feel good. That’s all I want.”
His fingers moved faster and you grabbed his shoulder, nails digging into his skin. The tension was building low in your stomach, and you shifted your hips but he held you down with one of his palms.
"Steve—"
"I know. I've got you." His mouth was on your neck, your collarbone, your chest. "Just let me take care of you, baby. I've got you."
Your eyes squeezed shut and your head tilted back and—
And that's when you saw it.
Your eyes had drifted in a haze without meaning to, unfocused, looking for something to ground yourself, and there it was. On the dresser, three feet away. A picture frame catching the amber streetlight that filtered through the closed blinds. There were five people, but the only one who you could focus on was Steve, with his arms around Nancy Wheeler. Nancy was laughing at something, head tilted back, looking carefree and perfect right next to Steve. Nancy, who belonged in that picture. Nancy, who belonged in Steve’s life, on a picture he wakes up to every morning—
Your body went rigid without meaning to. Every muscle locked; your breath caught somewhere between your lungs and your throat. The heat that had been building in your stomach—the want, the need, the almost—all of it just stopped, went cold. Like someone had thrown a bucket of ice water over your entire body.
Steve noticed. Of course he did, the switch was so crystal clear he couldn’t have ignored it even if he wanted to. His hands stilled between your legs and he looked up at you, breathing hard. “Hey. What’s wrong?”
You couldn’t answer. You couldn’t even look at him. Your eyes were still fixed on the dresser. Or maybe they weren’t, you couldn’t really process the information from your eyes to your mind all that well.
It’s fine, you told yourself desperately. It’s just a picture. A picture that tells you nothing about yourself. This is casual anyway. This doesn’t matter. It doesn’t— But your throat was getting tight and your eyes were burning.
“Baby?” Steve’s voice had changed, gone from rough and wanting to worried. “Did I hurt you? Was it too much?”
You shook your head but still couldn't speak. Couldn't look away from the picture.
Just close your eyes. Just ignore it. Just let him keep going. You can do this. You can be normal about this.
But you couldn't. Because Nancy was right there. Nancy who he'd chosen. Nancy who'd been worth leaving you for. Nancy who was still here, in his bedroom, in his life, looking perfect and happy while you were—
“Talk to me.” You didn’t know when he’d retracted his fingers, but his hand was on your face, trying to turn your head towards him. “Please, baby. You’re scaring me.”
The concern in his voice—the genuine fear—was what broke you. A full-body sob came from somewhere deep in your chest, and it sounded like you’d been holding it for four years. The kind that made your shoulders shake and breath come in gasps.
“Shit.” Steve pulled back slightly. “What did I do? What do I do? What happened?”
You pressed your palms to your eyes but the tears kept coming, hot and fast and unending. “I’m sorry,” you choked out between sobs. “I’m so sorry. I’m sorry—”
"Why are you apologizing?" He was hovering over you now, hands fluttering near your arms, your face, like he wanted to touch but didn't know if he was allowed. "Just tell me what's wrong. Please. Did I do something? Did I hurt you?"
"No." You shook your head frantically. "No, you didn't—"
"Then what?" His voice cracked. "What happened? Two seconds ago we were—and now you're—"
You tried to stop crying. You tried to get control of yourself. But every time you almost had it, you'd think about Steve's arm in that picture, about how easy they looked together, and the sobs would start again.
"I'm sorry." You couldn't stop saying it. "I'm sorry. I thought I could do this. I thought—"
"Do what?" He was sitting back now, running his hands through his hair. "I don't understand what's happening."
"This." You gestured between you with shaking hands. "I thought I could—I told myself I could just hook up casually. Just get it out of my system but I—" Your voice broke completely. "I can't. I can't do this."
Steve went very still. "What?"
“I can’t.” You were trying to clutch your face and cover your eyes again. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. You wanted—we were supposed to—and I messed it up by getting emotional—I feel crazy—”
“You’re not crazy—”
“I am.” You finally looked at him and his face was stricken and pale, like you’d said the worst things he could imagine. “I’m crying in your bed about something that happened four years ago and that’s crazy.”
“What—” His voice broke. “What—what are you saying?” he asked carefully, like he was afraid of the answer.
You looked back at the dresser, at the picture. And even through the blur of tears, you could see it perfectly. Nancy's smile. His arm around her. The way they fit together. You’d seen it everyday at school, and now…
Steve followed your gaze. You watched him see it. And you watched understanding start to dawn on his face.
"That's—" He stopped. "That's from Robin's birthday. Last summer. It's everyone."
“Okay.” Your voice was barely a whisper.
“So what’s—” He stopped, then dug his teeth into his lower lip. “It’s Nancy?”
You nodded slowly, fresh tears slipping over.
“We’re friends,” he said slowly. “We’ve been friends for years. That picture is just—it’s all of us. I don’t even really look at it anymore. It’s just there, it’s just been there so long—”
“I know.” You wrapped your arms around yourself, trying to cover your body as much as possible. “You don’t have to explain. This wasn’t supposed to mean anything.”
“Hey, what—” His face changed. “What does that mean?”
You couldn't answer because you couldn't tell him that you'd been lying to yourself all night. That nothing about this felt casual. That being in his bed, under his hands, hearing him call you baby, it all felt like falling back in time. Like being seventeen and in love and believing in forevers.
"Look at me." His voice was gentle but insistent. "Please."
You lifted your head and he was right there, close enough to touch. His eyes were red now too. Wet.
“I didn’t think this was casual,” he said quietly, his head tilted down to look at his bedspread, as he shook his head. “Why would it be?”
“Because—” you started, voice rising. “Because it can’t be anything but casual. It can’t mean anything—”
“Why?” he asked, like there was a point he knew he was completely blind to.
“Because I fucking can’t—” Your breath hitched. “Everytime I close my fucking eyes I see you choosing her. And I know it was so long ago and I should be over it but I’m not.” Fresh tears spilled over. “I’m still the girl who wasn’t enough for you to stay.”
Steve was shaking his head the entire time as you spoke, and you barely caught all the emotions that ran through his features. The pain, the realization, the grief. His mouth opened, but nothing came out. He just stared at you and you watched something crack behind his eyes as they glazed over with dampness.
“Stop saying things like that.” Steve parted his lips, staring at you with unguarded hurt covering his face. “Please.”
“I won’t because I know I wasn’t.” You wiped at your face with the back of your hand. “I know I wasn’t, and I know it now, too.”
"That's not—" His voice broke completely. He pressed the heel of his hand to his chest like something hurt there. "That's not true. That's not what happened."
“Then what did happen” Your voice came out desperate and sharp. “Because from where I’m standing, Steve, you met Nancy Wheeler in AP English and suddenly I wasn’t—”
He was quiet for a moment, and you watched him struggle with something. His jaw worked, his hands flexed, and when he finally spoke, his voice was different. Smaller. “I don’t know.”
You stared at him.
“I don’t—” He pressed his palms to his eyes. “I’ve spent all this time trying to figure it out and I still don’t know. I just—one day, I was with you and everything was good. And then I—” He dropped his hands. His eyes were red. “I started thinking about her. And what it would be like. And I couldn’t stop.”
The honesty of it was worse than any excuse he could’ve given you. Isn’t this what you wanted?
"I tried," he continued, voice cracking. "I tried to stop. To just—focus on us. But it was like—I don't know. Like I'd already fucked it up just by thinking about someone else. And I felt so guilty and I thought maybe—maybe if I just ended things it would be cleaner. Better for both of us."
"Better for both of us," you repeated flatly.
"I know how that sounds—"
"Do you?" Your voice was shaking. "Because it sounds like you got bored. Like you wanted something new and exciting and I was just—what? Comfortable?"
"No—"
"Then what?" You were crying harder now. "What was it about her? What did she have that I didn't?"
"Nothing." He shook his head frantically. "It wasn't about you not having something. It was—I don't know. She was different. New. And I was seventeen and stupid and I thought—" He stopped. "I thought maybe I didn’t need to decide forever. Nobody was—" His voice broke. “And that’s so fucked up. I know that’s fucked up. But that’s what I was thinking.”
The words hit like a physical blow. You couldn’t process what he was saying. You didn’t fucking want to. You couldn’t breathe.
“I know I made the biggest mistake I could’ve,” he said, and he had his hands in the air gripping on nothing as he spoke.
“The only mistake was me loving you too much, Steve,” you said quietly. He opened his mouth to respond, but you continued, “Don’t say it isn’t true. I loved you so much I couldn’t see you didn’t—that you weren’t—” You stopped, trying to hold back another embarrassing sob building up in your chest. Then, you breathed in, then out. “I should’ve known. I should’ve seen it coming earlier.”
“There was nothing to see,” he said, shaking his head frantically. “I loved you. I did. I just—”
“Just not enough to say,” you said through a bitter, final laugh.
He parted his lips, breaths growing faster, and you could see his chest going up, down. Up. Down. He looked like he was running through everything he could say, but nothing came out. “Please.”
The corners of your lips curved downwards, frowning. “It’s okay, Steve,” you said, trying to keep your voice even. You stood up, grabbing your underwear off the bed, putting them on, then standing up to pick up the jeans in the pile on the floor. You moved around without meeting Steve’s face.
As you were buttoning up your jeans, you looked at him from the corner of your eye. There was a single tear running down his cheek and he was frozen to the spot on the bed.
You clipped on your bra quickly. Your sweater was by the door outside, so you’d have to grab that.
You cleared your throat, then turned to look at Steve finally, an arm hugging your torso because you felt just too exposed. “It’s okay, Steve,” you repeated, voice cracking.
“Please don’t go,” Steve said, voice cracking completely. “Don’t—leave like this.” He stood up, hands shaking. “I’ll do anything. I’ll—tell me what to do and I’ll do it.”
“Steve,” you said, and this time there may have been something in your voice that reached all his neurons because he walked closer to you immediately, hurried.
His palms closed over your shoulders as he tipped his head down to look at you. “Hey, hey. Please. Just not tonight. Not right now. It’s late, I don’t want you walking out of here like this.”
You looked up at him and his face was so close. Close enough that you could see every tear track, every red rim around his eyes, the way his bottom lip was trembling slightly like he was trying to hold back more tears.
"I can't stay here." Your voice came out broken. "I can't—I can't be in your bed and pretend this doesn't—"
“I know.” His thumb pressed into your shoulder, grounding. “I know it hurts. But it's—" He glanced toward the window where the darkness pressed against the glass. "It's late and you've been drinking and you're upset and I just—" His voice cracked. "I can't watch you leave like this. I can't."
"Steve—"
"Please." The word came out desperate. "Just—just until morning. That's all I'm asking. Just stay until morning and if you want to leave then, I won't—I won't stop you. I promise."
You wanted to argue. Wanted to push his hands off and walk out anyway because staying felt dangerous. It felt like crossing a line you couldn't uncross.
But you were exhausted. Your whole body ached—from crying, from tension, from holding yourself together when all you wanted to do was fall apart. And the thought of getting dressed, walking home, facing your sister's questions—
"Okay." It came out barely above a whisper.
His eyes closed briefly and you watched relief flood his features. His shoulders sagged and his grip on you tightened for just a second before he seemed to catch himself. "Yeah?"
"Just tonight." You had to make that clear. Had to protect yourself somehow. "And you're—you're sleeping on the couch or something."
"Yeah. Yes. Of course." He was nodding quickly, hands still on your shoulders like he was afraid if he let go you'd change your mind. "Whatever you need. I'll sleep on the couch. You take the bed."
You looked down at yourself. At the bra and jeans that suddenly felt too tight, too constricting. "Can I—" You gestured vaguely. "The sweater?"
"Yeah. Here." He finally let go of you, moved at lightning speed grab the t-shirt from earlier off the floor in the hallway. He held it out. "Take whatever you need."
You took it, pulled it over your head. You were suddenly hyperaware that Steve was still standing there. Watching you with red eyes and shaking hands.
"I'll just—" He seemed to realize the same thing. "Let me grab some stuff and I'll give you privacy."
Steve had stopped at the doorway, pillow and blanket clutched to his chest. He was looking at you with this expression you couldn't quite read. Something between grief and longing and regret.
"Bathroom's right there if you need it," he said, nodding to a door you hadn't noticed. "And uh—there's a spare toothbrush in the drawer under the sink. Never been used."
"Okay."
He stood there for another moment, like he was waiting for something. Or maybe working up the courage to say something else.
"I'm sorry," he finally said. "I know that doesn't—I know it doesn't fix anything. But I'm sorry. For tonight. For all of it."
Your throat felt too tight to respond. You just nodded.
He nodded back, wiped at his face with the back of his hand, and turned to leave.
"Steve?" The word came out before you could stop it.
He froze in the doorway, turned back immediately. "Yeah?"
You opened your mouth, then closed it. You didn't even know what you wanted to say. Just that him leaving felt wrong somehow. That the thought of being alone in his bed while he was on the couch felt—
"Nothing," you said finally. "Never mind."
His face fell slightly but he nodded. "Okay. Well—I'll be right out there. If you need anything. Anything at all."
The door closed softly behind him.
Steve hadn’t been sleeping. Not really. The couch was comfortable enough. The only thing uncomfortable about it was knowing that you were only a few footsteps away, in his bed, and he could do nothing about it. It felt worse from when you were hundreds of miles away for some fucked up reason. It made it impossible for him to relax. Every creak of the floorboards, every shift of the mattress springs through the wall, he heard it all. He was hyper-aware of your presence in a way that made his chest ache.
He’d been staring at the ceiling for hours, watching the shadows shift as maybe three or four cars passed outside. Replaying everything. The picture. Your face when you saw it. The way you’d looked at him like he’d destroyed you all over again.
But he hadn’t, had he? All over again. No, he’d made you hold onto it and carry it for four years like some fucked up souvenier of his cowardice. And tonight, he’d just reopened the wound. He had reminded you exactly why you’d left, why you had to leave this place, why you’d spent four years becoming someone who didn’t need him.
Except you’d come back. You’d walked into the baseball field all those months ago and his entire world had flipped all the way fucking sideways. He’d been picking up bases and thinking about what to make for dinner, and then he’d looked up and there you were. Steve’s brain had entirely stopped working.
You’d looked the same. Different. The same. Your hair was longer, falling past your shoulders instead of the collarbone length you’d had junior year. You held yourself with your shoulders back and chin up. But your eyes were the same. They were the specific shade of colour he’d tried and failed to describe to Nancy once, back when he’d been stupid enough to think talking about you would make it hurt less. It hadn’t worked. Nothing had.
And tonight it happened. Tonight, when you showed up to the bar in that sweater, the cropped one that showed just a sliver of skin when you moved, he’d known that the careful restraint he’d been practicing would dissolve the second you looked at him like you did at the pool table. Like you still wanted him.
And then everything had fallen apart. Because of course it had. Because he’d been living in his apartment for one year and he saw that picture every single day and it had never occurred to him—not once—that you might see it too. That you might see his arm around Nancy’s shoulder and remember.
He pressed the heels of his hand to his eyes until he saw stars.
A sound from his bedroom made him freeze. Soft footsteps and the quiet creak of his bedroom door opening.
His heart jumped like it had its own silly, uncontrollable mind. Maybe you couldn’t sleep either. Maybe you’d come out here to, what? Talk? Yell at him? But the footsteps weren’t heading toward the living room where he laid, they were heading towards the door.
You were leaving.
The realization hit him like a punch. Of course you were leaving. Of course you couldn't even wait until morning like you'd said. Why would you stay with the guy who'd—
His throat felt tight. His chest felt like something was sitting on it.
You'd promised. You'd said you'd stay until morning and you were leaving anyway and he was going to lose you all over again and this time he couldn't even blame you because he'd done this, he'd caused this, he'd—
“You just gonna sneak out?”
You froze by the door, and Steve realized just how naive he’d been all this time. What had he expected? For you to wake up the next morning and have breakfast with him? For you to sleep on it all and come out on the other side forgiving?
You cleared your throat as your palms settled flat against your upper thigh. “I think—” You stopped yourself, letting out a small exhale he could hear from his spot on the couch. “We should pretend like tonight didn’t happen.”
And Steve had faced consequences in life, so much that after skating half his life without them, he was bombarded with a slew of the aftermath of his decisions that were sure to haunt him till time. But this, you. God, Steve had never felt anything that cut through him quite like this did.
“Pretend,” he echoed, like the word was foreign to him.
“Yeah.” You still weren't looking at him, and your hands had moved to grip the doorknob now like it was the only thing keeping you standing and reminding you of your decision. “We just… We forget about it. Move on.”
“Move on.” His voice sounded so hollow. “How—how am I supposed to do that?” His voice cracked. “It was all going so well. We were—”
“I know,” you said, cutting him off, as your voice shook. “I know. That’s why we need to forget about it.”
“I can’t do that,” he said, voice going softer now, as he pushed himself off the couch. You gripped the doorknob tighter. “I’ve spent so long trying to forget you and I can’t. I can’t fuckin’ do it. So how am I supposed to forget tonight?”
“Well, that’s how it works, Steve,” you said, the sharpness of your voice cutting through the thickening air instantly. You turned to look at him, the streetlight from outside catching your face, and he could see the fresh tracks of tears on your cheeks and he just wanted to—he just wanted to fucking help. Do something. But your voice held him back. “That’s how it works. If you could throw away three—three years so quickly, then you can forget about one night now.”
The words hit him like a ton of bricks. He staggered back a step, feeling something twist inside his chest.
“That’s not fair,” he said quietly, shaking his head.
“Fair?” You laughed, and it was the worst sound he’d ever heard, all bitter and broken. “You wanna talk about fair? Was it fair when you left me for someone else? Was it fair when I had to see you everyday after with someone else? Was it fair I had to spend years thinking I wasn’t—” Your voice cracked completely, like the sorrow had manifested into a physical thing and swallowed your words whole. “Don’t talk to me about fair.”
“You’re right.” He held up his hands.
“Stop—stop looking at me like you’re the one this is hurting.” He opened his mouth, hands shaking beside him, but you continued, “Don’t act like I’m breaking your heart when you—when you—”
You couldn’t finish, only stood there swallowing back sobs, shoulders shaking. Steve had never felt more helpless in his entire life.
He shook his head, lips trembling. “I just want you to know how I feel.”
You dropped your hand. “I don’t want to know how you feel. I don’t want to hear about how you missed me or how sorry you are. Or how tonight meant so much to you. None of it matters because you left. You still chose her. And I—” Your voice broke. “I can’t unhear that. I can’t fucking unknow that.”
Steve raised his arms, then dropped them to his sides. You tracked his movement and your palm turned the doorknob. It was like he’d blinked once and you were gone, the door closing softly behind you.
March. Junior year. His BMW was in the parking lot behind the football field.
You’d known something was wrong for weeks, maybe longer. He’d started saying “I’m tired” when you asked him to come over. His hand felt looser in yours when you walked through the hallways. He’d stopped calling the phone in your room before bed. He’d stopped showing up to your locker between classes with a stolen cookie from the cafeteria because he knew you always woke up too late to eat your full breakfast.
Small and tiny things. All things you told yourself you were imagining because Steve loved you and you loved him and that was enough. That had to be enough.
But then he’d asked you to meet him after school in between classes and his voice had been so careful when he said it, like he was testing each word before saying it.
You’d gotten into his car and the heat was too high. It was always too high because Steve ran cold and you ran warm, and usually you’d reach over and turn it down while he protested and you’d compromise on a temperature that made neither of you happy but at least you were together. But that day you just sat there and let the heat blast your face until your eyes watered.
You’d sat in his passenger seat hundreds of times. There were dents left in the leather from the studded jeans you wore. Your perfume was embedded in the fabric. There was a scrunchie of yours in the cupholder. A study guide you’d left in the backseat last week. Evidence of you, it was everywhere.
What confirmed it was him not looking at you. Steve looked at people when he talked to them. It was one of the first things you’d noticed about him, back in eighth grade when he’d asked to borrow a pencil and actually looked you in the eyes. That was probably the first example that stopped translating eye contact as a concept in your mind. But now his hands were on the steering wheel even though the car was stationary, and he was staring at the brick wall of the gym.
There was a coffee stain on his jeans. The dark roast you'd bought him that morning because you'd gotten to school early and wanted to surprise him. You'd drawn a terrible heart on the cup in Sharpie and he'd laughed, real and bright, and kissed you in front of his locker. That had been six hours ago. It felt like a different lifetime.
“Steve,” you said, and your voice came out steady even though your hands were shaking in your lap. You pressed them flat against your thighs. “Just say it.”
“Say what?”
“Whatever you asked me here to say.” You were still looking at him even though he wouldn’t look at you, or couldn’t look at you? “Come on, Steve,” you urged, but your voice was hollow, probably because you didn’t want to hear it. “We’ve been together for three years. You owe me a clean break, at least.”
Steve flinched like you’d hit him. “I don’t—” He breathed through his nose. “I don’t wanna hurt you.”
“Then don’t leave me.”
God. It came out before you could stop it. It was desperate and completely raw. It wasn’t how you’d practiced it. You’d meant to be collected and easy, make this easy for him so he wouldn’t call you dramatic. But your voice betrayed you, cracked right down the middle, and now he was finally looking at you. His eyes were red.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m so fucking sorry.”
Your chest felt like something was sitting on it. You pressed your palms flat against your sternum and felt your heart racing underneath. The heating vents were blasting recycled air.
“Is it Nancy?”
You shouldn’t have asked. You shouldn’t have said her name. But it had been sitting in your throat for three weeks, choking you, and now it was out.
His face almost looked relieved and guilty, like you’d said it before he could, taking the weight off his shoulders. That was answer enough, wasn’t it? But he still said it.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Yeah, it’s—I met someone.”
Your body knew before you brain caught up; your stomach dropped, your hands went numb, your vision went blurry until you could only see his profile, not facing you. Your hand pressed to your chest and you realized you were trying to hold yourself together physically. If you pressed hard enough, you could keep from falling apart.
“How long?” Your voice came out steadier than you expected.
“We haven’t—nothing’s happened—” he said quickly and desperately. “I wouldn’t do that to you. We’ve just been working on this project and talking and I—”
His jaw worked. You watched a muscle jump in his cheek, watched him dig his teeth into his bottom lip the way he did when he was working up the courage for something. You'd seen him do it before free throws, before asking his dad for the car keys, before telling you he loved you for the first time at the quarry with the radio playing and his hands shaking worse than yours were now.
“You what?” You needed him to say it.
“I think I like her.” He said it so quietly, like if he whispered it, it wouldn’t hurt as much. “I didn’t mean to. I swear, I didn’t mean to. It just—happened. I tried to ignore it. I tried to just focus on us, but I can’t—” His voice cracked. “I can’t stop thinking about it.”
You were nodding. Why were you nodding? Maybe because your body needed something to do to process what was happening.
“Okay.”
“Okay?” He finally turned to look at you, confusion cutting through the guilt on his face.
“What should I say, Steve?” You were surprised by how calm your voice sounded. “Should I ask why? Because I know why. She’s smart and pretty and she probably makes you feel different than I do. Should I ask when you realized? Because I felt it weeks ago. I just hoped I was wrong. Do you want me to ask what she has that I don’t? Because I don’t want to know the answer to that”
“You didn’t do anything wrong—this isn’t about you being—”
“Enough,” you finished for him. “Everyone says that. ‘It’s not you it’s me.’ But it is me, isn’t it? Something about me—” Your voice wavered, and you pressed your lips together for a moment. “Something about me made you look somewhere else.”
“No—” He reached for you, like his palms were going to cup your face, and you pulled back. His hand hung in the air for a moment before dropping. “No. That’s not—you’re perfect. You’ve been perfect. That’s almost what’s—” He stopped himself, physically reeling back as he ran his hand through his hair. He pressed his head against the headrest, eyes focused on the roof of the car. “That’s almost the problem.”
“I don’t understand,” you said quietly, shaking your head.
“I don’t understand either.” He pressed his palms against his eyes. “I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t know what I want. And I thought I did. I thought—” He looked at you, and the small crinkle between his brows and the desperation in his eyes made your chest tight. “I thought I wanted forever with you. I really did. But then I met—” He skipped over saying her name. “—I don’t know anymore. And it’s not fair to you. To keep dating you when I don’t know.”
“So you’re breaking up with me because you’re confused,” you said flatly.
"I'm breaking up with you because you deserve someone who's sure." His voice broke completely. "You deserve someone who doesn't have doubts. And I—" The words seemed to cost him something. “I’m not sure anymore.”
You never thought you could do the same things as someone, be in the same position as someone, but be so far apart in your minds. He genuinely thought he was doing you a favor. Thought he was being noble by letting you go instead of stringing you along.
“We had plans,” you said quietly. “We were gonna—we circled schools together. We talked about getting an apartment in a few years.”
“I know—”
“We picked out colors, Steve.” Your voice cracked on his name. “We have a whole folder of apartment listings I printed at the library. You organized them by price.” You breathed through your nose because your chest was getting tight. “You said you wanted to wake up next to me every morning. You said that. Do you remember?”
His face crumpled. “I remember.”
“Then what changed?” You weren’t crying but your eyes were burning. “What changed between then and now? Between you saying you couldn't wait for our future and you not being sure you want one with me?”
“I don’t know—”
You twisted to face him fully. The seatbelt dug into your shoulder but you couldn’t care about it. “Are you scared? It sounds like it all got too real and now you’re looking for an exit.”
“Maybe I am scared!” His voice rose to match yours. “Maybe I am. We’re fucking seventeen. We’re seventeen and you’re talking about apartments and forever and—and you expect me to marry you!”
The words hung in the air like something sharp and jagged that cut both ways.
You stared at him, chest rising and falling through your top. “What?”
He pressed his palms against his eyes again. “I didn’t mean—”
“You expect me to marry you,” you repeated his words slowly. “Like—like that’s a bad thing?”
“That is not what I meant—”
“No.” Your voice had gone quiet. “You said it like it’s some sort of—what? Burden? Like I’ve been forcing you? Trapping you?”
“No—”
“I never asked you to marry me, Steve.” You were shaking now. You could feel it in your hands, legs, voice. “You’re the one who gave me this.” Your index brushed over the promise ring on your left hand as you raised it. It caught the light, the tiny diamond chip throwing a rainbow across the dash. “You’re the one who gave me this eight months ago in front of everyone we know. Your family. My family. You said you’ll replace it with a real one. Not me.”
His face had gone pale as you talked. “I know.”
You were twisting the ring around your finger now, yanking it. It caught on your knuckle. You’d worn it every single day since he’d given it to you and your finger had slightly swelled around it. “Do you know what you did? You made a promise. You looked me in my eyes and you promised me a future. And now you’re acting like I’m the one who made it all up in my head?”
“I’m not saying that.”
“Then what are you saying?” The ring came free suddenly, painfully. You gasped and something lodged in your throat at the empty finger, but you just held it in your palm. This tiny piece of silver and stone that had meant everything. The thing freshman girls would look at and swoon over. “Was I not supposed to expect all of it?”
He opened his mouth, then closed it.
“You know what?” you said, sweat prickling through your skin. “Take it.” You held it out to him. It sat there between you for a moment, tiny and meaningless. Just a piece of jewelry.
“I can’t.” He shook his head, eyes focused on the logo on the steering wheel.
“Take the ring, Steve.” Your voice was steady now. “You’re giving back the promise. So, take the ring.”
“Please—” His voice cracked, shaking his head more forcefully. “Just keep it. Please.”
“I don’t want it.” You pushed your palm toward him, and your arm was starting to feel heavy now. He turned his neck to look at the ring in your palm. “Take it. Take it or I’m throwing it out the window. It’s your choice.”
His hand shook as he reached for it. The movement was so slow and so reluctant, like he was hoping you’d change your mind. But it was happening. His fingers closed around the ring. When his skin brushed yours, you felt nothing. No spark. No electricity. Not even a ghost of what his touch made your whole body light up. The only thing you could feel was the absence of what used to be there.
He pulled his hand back and stared at the ring in his palm. Small compared to his hand. His shoulders were shaking like he was trying to hold something back, and you almost wanted to reach out to comfort him and make this easier.
But you didn’t because he’d done this. He’d chosen this.
“I should go,” you said quietly.
“Wait—” he said as your fingers curled around the door handle. “I—I really hope you find someone. I know you will.”
You smiled bitterly. By tomorrow, everyone would know. By Monday, you’d walk through the hallways and feel their eyes on you filled with pity and curiosity. You didn’t want to tell Steve you weren’t sure you’d ever find anyone again, not when right now, it seemed all the love you had, you’d already given to him. He had become the only person you knew how to love, and that had never, ever been a problem before because you never thought it would be.
“Yeah,” you said, voice hollow. “Sure.”
You pushed the door open. The cold March air rushed in and hit your overheated face like a slap. You could hear the squeak of sneakers from basketball practice, the distant sound of someone's car stereo playing too loud, the ordinary sounds of an ordinary day where your entire world had just ended.
You stepped out. Your legs were shaking so badly you had to grip the car door to stay upright. Through the window you could see Steve still sitting there, the ring clutched in his fist, his shoulders shaking with sobs he was trying to hold back. His other hand was pressed against his mouth like he was trying to keep something in.
You wanted to say something else. Something cutting or final or profound. But there was nothing left to say. He'd made his choice. It was over. So you just slammed the door.
You showed up late on purpose. The plan had been to arrive right as practice ended—5:45 PM—grab Carter, and leave before Steve could do more than wave across the lot. Clean and simple with no prolonged interaction required. Except you’d forgotten how Steve always ran practice five minutes over because the kids never wanted to leave, and he was too nice to cut them off mid-enthusiasm.
So when you pulled into the parking lot, practice was still very much happening.
You could see them on the field, a cluster of middle schoolers in various states of athletic coordination, and Steve in the middle of them with a baseball bat, demonstrating something. His backwards cap was crooked. His coaching jacket had dirt smudged across the shoulder. He was laughing at something one of the kids said, head thrown back, completely unguarded.
Your hands tightened on the steering wheel. You could leave and come back in ten minutes. You could pretend your shift had run late or traffic had been bad or literally any excuse that didn't involve admitting you'd timed this specifically to avoid him.
But Carter had already spotted your car. You watched him point, say something to Steve, and start jogging toward the parking lot.
Steve's head turned. His eyes found your car.
Even from this distance, you saw it happen. The way his whole face lit up for half a second—hope, raw and unguarded—before reality crashed back in and the light died. His expression smoothed out into something carefully neutral. Carefully friendly.
You got out of the car because there was no choice now. Your legs felt unsteady. You'd slept maybe three hours last night, kept waking up with your hand pressed to your chest, trying to breathe through the tightness there.
Carter reached you first, sweaty and grass-stained and completely oblivious to the fact that your entire world had imploded five days ago. “Can I get ice cream? Please? I've been so good and I haven't asked all week—”
“We'll see.” You ruffled his hair, grateful for something to do with your hands. “Go grab your stuff. We gotta get home for dinner.”
“But ice cream could be dinner—”
"Carter." Please.
Fine." He groaned dramatically and jogged back toward the dugout where his water bottle was probably lying abandoned in the dirt.
Which left you standing by your car, very aware that Steve was walking over.
He'd taken his cap off and was holding it in both hands, turning it over and over like he needed something to do. His hair was a mess from the hat, sticking up at odd angles the way it always did. You used to fix it for him. Would reach up without thinking and smooth it down while he smiled at you like you'd done something miraculous instead of just touching his hair.
Your hands stayed firmly at your sides.
"Hey," Steve said when he got close enough. His voice was careful.
"Hey."
The silence stretched out. Two syllables and you'd already run out of words. Four years of not seeing each other, then months of cautious rebuild, then one night that had blown it all apart, and now you were back to hey.
Carter was taking his time gathering his things. Probably trying to negotiate five more minutes of playing catch with another kid.
“How was your day?” you asked, because someone had to say something.
“Good. Yeah. Good. Everyone’s really excited for the game soon.” Steve turned the cap over in his hands. “Think Carter might start that game.”
“That’s great.”
“Yeah.”
Another stretch of no words. Another silence. You could hear everything else. the other kids shouting, a car door slamming in the parking lot, a bird making some kind of aggressive territorial call from a nearby tree. All of it too loud in the space between you and Steve.
“Work?” It sounded like he pushed out the word.
“Fine.” You shifted your weight and crossed your arms, then uncrossed them because that looked defensive. “Benny Ward’s mom came in today, so that was—” You let out a forced laugh at the mention of the boy from your high school year.
Steve sucked in a breath, pressing his lips into a thin line as he shook his head. “Must’ve been a blast.”
“Mhm.” You nodded slowly. “A real ball.”
Carter was finally heading back over, water bottle in hand, chattering with another kid about something. You had maybe thirty seconds before he reached you.
"I should—" you started.
"Yeah, of course—" Steve said at the same time.
You both stopped. The silence was worse now because you'd spoken over each other, created a weird overlap that felt like a physical thing between you.
"You go ahead," Steve said quietly.
"I was just gonna say I should get him home. Devon's probably wondering where we are."
"Right. Yeah. Of course." Steve took a step back. Then another. Creating distance that felt both necessary and completely wrong. "I'll see you Thursday?"
It was framed as a question. Like you might say no. Like you might decide that picking up Carter wasn't worth this—standing in a parking lot making painful small talk with your ex-boyfriend who you'd almost slept with five days ago before having a complete breakdown in his bedroom.
"Yeah," you said. "Thursday."
"Cool. That's—yeah. Cool."
Carter crashed into your side, immediately launching into a detailed play-by-play of every single thing that had happened during practice. You made appropriate noises, nodded in the right places, let him talk while you very deliberately did not look at Steve.
Emily was the only one who'd stayed late.
Most of the kids had filtered out twenty minutes ago, grabbed by parents or older siblings or carpools, chattering about homework and dinner plans. But Emily had asked—voice tentative, hopeful—if she could stay and practice the turn sequence one more time. She almost had it, she'd said. She just needed like fifteen more minutes.
You'd said yes because of course you had. Because she reminded you of yourself at that age, determined and perfectionist and so afraid of letting anyone down.
So now it was just you and Emily in the gym at 6:15 on a Wednesday, the overhead lights humming, the sound system playing the same eight bars of music on repeat while Emily turned and turned, trying to nail the timing.
When the gym doors opened, you expected it to be Mrs. Stone coming back for something she’d forgotten. Instead, it was Steve. He stopped just inside the doorway, one hand still on the handle, like he was already second-guessing this decision. “Mrs. Stone asked if I could move these tomorrow before the assembly. But if you’re still—I can come back—?”
“It’s fine,” you said even though your stomach dropped at the sight of him even though everything had been going perfectly normal between the two of you for the past week. Back to square one, yeah, but normal. “We’re almost done anyway.”
“Cool. Yeah.” He walked in and let the door close behind him. The sound echoed.
Emily had stopped mid-turn, was looking between you and Steve with barely concealed interest. You could practically see the wheels turning in her head. She'd definitely heard things. The whole school had heard things. Everyone know everyone, and someone’s someone must’ve known you and Steve way back when.
“Keep going, Em,” you said firmly. “Show me what you’ve got so far.”
She spun back, but you caught her eyes flickering to Steve.
The music kept playing. Emily turned. You called out corrections—"Spot! Hold your core! Good!"—while Steve very deliberately started moving gym mats across the gym.
It shouldn't have been weird. It was a big space. Plenty of room for both of you to exist in it without interacting. Except you were aware of exactly where he was at all times. You could track his movement in your peripheral vision; lifting a mat, carrying it across the gym, stacking it by the door. The muscles in his shoulders and back flexing under his t-shirt. The way he'd push his hair back when it fell into his eyes.
"I think I got it!" Emily's voice broke through your spiral. She was grinning, slightly out of breath. "Can I show you one more time? For real?"
"Yeah, of course." You reset the music. "From the top."
Emily took her position. The music started.
And she did it, the full turn sequence, properly spotted, held through the end without wobbling. When she finished, she looked at you with this expression of pure joy, the kind that made your chest ache because you remembered exactly what that felt like. The first time you'd nailed something you'd been working on forever.
"That was perfect," you said, and meant it. "Em, that was so good. You've been working so hard on this."
"Really?" She was bouncing on her toes now. "It felt good but I wasn't sure if—"
"Really. I'm proud of you."
Her whole face lit up.
The gym doors opened again.
A man in scrubs walked in, looking apologetic and slightly harried. He was tall, athletic build, probably mid-twenties. He had the same nose as Emily.
“Hey, Em. So sorry—” He stopped when he saw you. “Oh, sorry. Didn’t mean to interrupt. Is practice still?—”
“We’re done,” you said quickly. “You’re good.”
Emily grabbed her bag and was shoving her water bottle into the side pocket. “I finally got it,” she said to him.
“That’s awesome.” He smiled at her, then looked at you and extended his hand. “Tyler Bennett. I’m Emily’s brother. Sorry I’m late—we had this thing at the hospital that ran over and traffic was—anyway. Sorry.”
You shook his hand. His grip was firm and warm. “It’s okay. She did great today.”
“She can’t stop talking about this.” He ruffled her hair and she swatted him away. “I think I’ve heard the soundtrack approximately nine hundred times.”
“It’s good.”
“I didn’t say it wasn’t. I said I’ve heard it too much. There’s a difference.”
You laughed slightly, eyes bouncing between them. Behind Tyler, you could see Steve. He'd stopped moving gym mats. He was standing there holding one, just watching. His face was very carefully neutral but his knuckles were white where he gripped the mat.
"Well, we're all done for today," you said, forcing your attention back to Tyler and Emily. "Same time Friday, Em. Don't forget to practice at home."
"I won't!" She was already heading toward the door.
Tyler lingered for a second, that apologetic smile still in place. "Thanks for staying late with her. I know she’s a bit of a… perfectionist?”
You smiled slightly, shrugging one shoulder. “She’s a hard worker. Makes my job easier, honestly.”
“Well, I appreciate it.” He shifted his weight, hands going to his pockets. “I’m Tyler, by the way. I don’t think I said—I mean, I did—” He laughed slightly, self-deprecating, and shook his head before meeting your eyes again. “Sorry, it’s been a long day.”
“Don’t worry. I’ve seen it before. I’m a receptionist at the dental office.”
He quirked up a brow. “Yeah? Which one?”
“Dr. Feldman’s. Over on—”
“Tyler!” Emily’s voice echoed from the doorway. “Come on, I’m starving.”
“I’m coming!” He turned back to you, still smiling. “Sorry. High schoolers. You know how it is. Thanks again.”
“No problem.”
He started toward the door. Emily was already halfway down the hallway, her voice carrying back as she launched into a detailed explanation of her entire day.
Tyler paused at the door and turned back.
"This is—god, Em's gonna kill me for this, but—” He laughed and ran a hand through his hair. “You seem really nice and I just got out of this thing and I’m apparently horrible at this now, but—would you maybe want to get coffee sometime? Or dinner? Or literally anything that doesn’t involve being at a high school?”
You froze in your spot. You were aware of several things happening at once, from Tyler’s hopeful expression to Emily’s delighted gasp from the hallway, and also the sound of something hitting the floor across the gym.
You looked over and pursed your lips. Steve had dropped the gym mat and it had landed directly on his foot.
“Shit—” He stumbled back, hand shooting down to grab his foot. “Fuck.”
Your eyebrows furrowed at the sight. His face was bright red. He was looking at everything else but you.
Tyler turned at the noise. “You okay, man?”
“Fine.” Steve’s voice came out strangled. He was bent slightly, hands still gripping his foot through his sneaker. “Just wasn’t paying attention.”
Emily’s voice broke the silence from the hallway as she sauntered back in and looked at you mischeviously. “You should totally say yes. Tyler’s like, super nice. He volunteers at the animal shelter on weekends and makes oreo pancakes and he’s been single for like six months, so he’s definitely ready to date—”
“Emily.” Tyler’s ears started turning red. “Oh, my god.”
“What? I’m helping.” She raised her brows like she was confused. “You’re always saying you wanna meet someone who’s not from work—”
“We’re leaving,” Tyler said, grabbing her arm and steering her toward the door. “Right now.”
“But—”
“Now, Em.”
“Fine, but just think about it!” Emily called back to you as Tyler physically dragged her toward the door down the hallway. “He’s got good insurance, too.”
"Emily, I swear to god—"
Their voices faded as they disappeared around the corner, leaving behind a silence so thick you could feel it pressing against your skin.
You were still standing in the middle of the gym. Steve was still standing by the pile of gym mats, favoring his left foot, not looking at you.
“Is your foot okay?” you asked before you could stop yourself.
Steve bent down to pick up the gym mat, moving carefully. When he straightened, you could see him testing his weight on it. Trying not to limp. "Heavy mat. Should've been paying attention."
"Steve—"
"You should say yes." He said it to the gym mat in his hands, not to you. Then, he started walking it over to the pile by the door, that slight hitch in his step that he was trying to hide. "He seems like a good guy."
You watched him stack the mat with the others. Watched the way his shoulders were tight, the way he was moving with too much precision, like if he focused hard enough on the task he could ignore everything else.
"I didn't say yes," you said.
Steve's hands stilled on the mat. "You didn't say no either,” he said quietly, eyes looking down at the ground.
You swallowed harshly, shaking your head. “He asked me out in front of you,” you said softly. “And his sister. I wasn’t going to—”
"You can go out with him." Steve turned around finally, and his face was doing that thing again. He looked carefully neutral and blank. Except his eyes were too bright and his jaw was too tight. "You don't need my permission or whatever. I'm not—we're not—" He stopped and shoved his hands in his pockets. "You should go out with him."
"Why do you keep saying that?"
"Because it's true." His voice was firm now. Almost too firm. "He's probably a good guy. He seems to have his shit together. He’s not—”
He stopped himself but you knew what he was saying. Not like me. Not complicated. Not carrying three years of history and a picture of his ex-girlfriend on his dresser.
You nodded because he was right.
The applause was almost deafening. You stood in the wings with your hand pressed to your mouth, watching the kids take their bows. Sarah’s ponytail had come half undone; Marcus was grinning so wide his face had to hurt; Emily was actually crying, actual tears streaming down her face as she held hands with the freshman next to her, both of them shaking with relief and joy and the adrenaline crash that came after six weeks of work culminating this.
They had been perfect. Almost flawless—Sarah had still dropped her shoulder on the fifth count during the opening, and one of the boys been half a beat behind in the bridge—but they had been together. They’d moved as one organism and told the story exactly how you’d imagined it in your head at two in the morning when you couldn’t sleep, scribbling formations in your sketchbook. You’d done it. You’d actually done it.
Mrs. Stone materialized beside you, her hand warm and gentle on your shoulder. “Get out there, sweetie,” she said, giving you a gentle push toward stage left. “They want you.”
“I can’t—God, I’m not—” you tried to say through a choked up laugh.
“Yes, you can. Go.”
Before you could form another protest, Sarah had spotted you in the wings. She was waving frantically, mascara smudged under her eyes, and then she was shouting your name. Suddenly, all fifteen of them were turning, reaching for you, and Emily was yelling, “Get out here!” and running into the wings.
“Come on,” Emily said, grabbing your hand with both of hers, tugging you hard enough that you stumbled forward. “You have to come out.”
“Em, I don’t think—”
But she was dragging you onto the stage and the lights were too bright, washing everything in white-hot brilliance that made you squint. You couldn't see the audience clearly—just dark shapes and the occasional pinprick flash of a phone camera, the red glow of EXIT signs at the back—but you could hear them. Still clapping, some standing now, and the sound was so big it felt physical.
The kids surrounded you immediately. Sarah crashed into your left side, Marcus your right, and then they were all there, arms around your shoulders and waist, a tangle of sweaty teenagers who smelled like hairspray and stage makeup and pure, undiluted joy.
"You did it!" someone was saying, maybe the freshman who'd been so scared of it all she cried on the first week. "We actually did it!"
“You did it,” you corrected, trying to hug all of them at once, voice thick. “You all worked so hard. I’m so—I’m so proud of you guys—”
Your voice cracked on the last word. You were crying now, too. Couldn’t help it, not a smidge. It was the kind of crying that came from somewhere deep in your chest where you’d been holding tension for years straight.
When they finally released you—when the applause started to fade and the curtain began rolling down—you just stood there for a moment, center stage, trying to catch your breath, trying to hold onto this feeling before it slipped away. You gasped and hiccuped as you wiped your face slightly.
You'd forgotten what this felt like. What it was like to work toward something and have it actually pan out. To put in the hours and the effort and have it mean something tangible, something you could point to and say I did that.
The kids were filing offstage now, high-fiving each other, already dissecting every moment in rapid-fire teenage chatter. You could hear them behind you—"Did you see when I almost fell?" "That was so good!" "My mom is going to freak out—"
Parents were starting to congregate near the front of the stage. Your eyes were scanning the auditorium, searching through the crowd filtering back toward the lobby.
Fourth row. Aisle seat.
Steve.
He was standing, hands in his pockets, and the second your eyes found him, his whole face transformed. The smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes and showed all teeth graced his face. The same smile he wore when he used to wait for you after practice, a cookie and juicebox in hand. The smile that said he was so proud of you, so proud he couldn’t contain it. It was a release from the careful one he’d been giving you for weeks, the one that never quite reached his eyes.
And something in your chest cracked wide open. Your feet were moving before you could make a conscious decision, down the stage steps—you nearly tripped on the second one but caught yourself on the railing—and through the small cluster of parents already making their way forward. Someone had touched your elbow, a congratulations you barely registered, and you mumbled thank you without stopping, without looking away from where Steve was standing.
He'd taken his hands out of his pockets now. His expression had shifted from proud to confused, eyebrows drawing together as you got closer, weaving between seats.
"Hey, that was—" he started.
You crashed into him.
You threw your arms around his neck and hugged him with everything in you, so tight you could feel his surprise in the way his body went stiff and rigid, his breath catching sharply. For half a second, he just stood there, frozen, and your brain caught up with what you were—
Then his arms came up to your waist, pulling you closer, one hand splaying across your back and the other curling around your ribs, and he was solid and warm and completely real. You felt your feet lose hold of the ground as he tightened his arms around you, slightly lifting you in the air and rocking you back and forth for a couple seconds.
Your face buried into his chest, the almost-dried tears probably leaving a stain on the baby blue sweater he was wearing. “Thank you,” you said, words muffled against his body. “Thank you, thank you, thank you—”
“Hey,” he said, voice rough and barely a whisper—you almost forgot there were people surrounding you—and his arms tightened around you even more like he was trying to hold you together. “You don’t have to thank me. You did all the—”
“You made this happen for me.” You pulled back just enough to look at him but didn’t let go, couldn’t let go yet. Your hands were still on his shoulders, his were still on your waist. “You told Mrs. Stone about me. You gave me this. And I just—” Your voice cracked as something lodged in your throat. “Thank you, Steve. For believing I could do it.”
Steve’s eyes had gone too bright, like he was fighting to keep his own composure. His smile had gone softer now, more gentle, and his thumb was moving in tiny circles on your waist, barely perceptible. He opened his mouth to say something, then closed it. One of his hands moved up to the back of your head and he pulled your face closer to his chest and pressed his lips against your hair, lingering for a moment.
“You earned it,” he said quietly against your head. “I knew you’d be incredible at it. I knew the second I remembered you in high school and when I saw you with Carter, breaking down the cartwheel for him, I just—” He stopped and swallowed hard, and you felt his body move with it. “I’m really proud of you.”
The words shouldn't have hit as hard as they did. Shouldn't have made your eyes burn all over again, shouldn't have made your chest feel so full it hurt.
"Steve—" You pulled your head back to meet his eyes.
He smiled softly, hands shaking slightly as they ran over your hair. “You looked so happy up there,” he said, his voice going thick. His hand came to cup your jaw, a ghost of a touch, as his thumb brushed just under your cheekbone. “I remember you tapping your fingers on the desk doing counts. I remember you making me watch you run through combinations in the backyard even though I had no idea what I was looking at or how I could help. I remember—” His hand was still on your face, fingers gentle against your skin like you were something precious he was afraid of breaking. “I remember thinking you were going to do amazing things with it someday. And you did. You are.”
The observation was too much. It was too raw. It was too honest what the two of you were supposed to be now. You stood there for a moment that stretched too long, his hands on your face, your hands on his shoulders, too close and not close enough all at once. People were definitely watching now. You could feel their eyes like a physical weight, hear the whispers starting to ripple through the crowd still lingering near the stage.
But Steve was looking at you like nothing else existed. Like the auditorium had emptied and it was just the two of you in this bubble where history didn't matter and broken promises could be forgotten and four years hadn't passed since the last time he'd held you like this. Since before the breakup and college and all the ways you'd both tried and failed to move on.
“Auntie!”
Carter’s voice cut through whatever moment you were having. You dropped your hands quickly, and his fell from your face and got shoved in his pockets, and the both of you looked to see your nephew barreling toward you through the crowd.
He crashed into your side with enough force to make you stumble. Steve's hand shot out automatically to steady you, brief contact on your elbow before he pulled away.
"That was so cool!" Carter was bouncing on his toes, words coming out in a rush. "All the dancing and all and the girl was so good and there was this part where everyone spun at the same time and it looked like—like a kaleidoscope or something—"
"A kaleidoscope?" You laughed, ruffling his hair even though you were still trying to catch your breath, still feeling the ghost of Steve's hands on your face. "That's a big word."
"We learned it in science. But seriously, that was awesome. Can you teach me how to do that? The spinning thing?"
"You want to learn that?"
"I want to learn how to spin without falling over. That seems useful."
“Hey, kiddo,” Steve said, voice warm and still a little rough from whatever emotion he’d been holding back moments ago. He'd taken a step back to give you space, hands still firmly in his pockets, but he was smiling at your nephew with affection. "Pretty cool what your aunt pulled off, huh?"
"So cool! Did you see it, Coach Steve? Did you see the part where they all jumped at the same time? How do they do that without crashing into each other?"
"That's what she does," Steve said, and you could hear the smile in his voice even though you weren't looking at him. You were very deliberately not looking at him. "Your aunt spent weeks teaching them how to move together like that. It takes a lot of patience."
"Weeks?" Carter's eyes went wide. "That's so long. I get bored after like five minutes of practice."
"Yeah, I've noticed." Steve's tone was teasing, affectionate in that coach way he'd perfected.
Behind Carter, your family was approaching. Devon with her knowing smirk already firmly in place, your mom dabbing at her eyes with a tissue that was definitely beyond salvageable at this point, your dad looking proud in that uncomfortable way he got when emotions were involved and he didn't know what to do with his hands.
But they all stopped short when they saw Steve standing there and noticed the careful distance you'd put between yourselves that somehow still felt too close. They saw the way you were both flushed, eyes too bright, like you'd been caught doing something you shouldn't.
Devon's smirk widened into something absolutely dangerous. "Steve Harrington. Been a minute."
"Hey," Steve's smile was polite, careful, but you could see the tension creeping into his shoulders, the way he straightened his posture like he was bracing for impact. "Good to see you."
"Is it?" Devon's eyes were doing that thing where they cataloged every detail with surgical precision. The way Steve's hair was slightly messed up on one side, from your hands, oh god. The way his sweater had a wet spot on the chest from your tears. The way you were both standing too carefully, maintaining distance that felt deliberate and obvious. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks pretty complicated."
"Dev," you warned, voice low.
"What?" She raised her eyebrows in mock innocence. "I'm just making an observation. The show was great, by the way. Really great." She turned back to Steve, and her smile had teeth now. "My little sister's talented. But you already knew that, didn't you?"
The emphasis on already made your face burn hotter.
"She is," Steve agreed, and his voice was steady but you could see the muscle jumping in his jaw, the tell he'd had since high school when he was uncomfortable but trying not to show it. "The kids were really lucky to have her. Mrs. Stone made a great choice."
"Oh my goodness." Your mom had finally found her voice, and when she spoke it was thick with too many emotions to name. She was staring at Steve like she was seeing a ghost. "Steve? Steve Harrington? Is that really you?"
And here it was. The moment you'd been dreading since you'd thrown yourself at him in front of half the town.
Steve's smile shifted when he saw your mom, became something more genuine despite the clear discomfort radiating off him. “Hi,” he said, addressing your mom. "It's really good to see you."
“I had no idea you were—” Your mom’s eyes were bouncing between you and Steve like she was watching a tennis match. “Are you two?—”
“No,” you said quickly. “No, Mom. Steve teaches at the high school and he coaches Carter’s baseball team.”
“Coach Steve is the best!” Carter interjected, still bouncing with leftover excitement from the show. “He taught me how to slide into base without getting hurt and he always brings orange slices even though they're kind of a pain to peel and he lets us have extra practice if we want and he doesn't even get mad when Toby throws his glove because Toby’s working through some stuff with his parents' divorce—”
"That's great, bud," Devon said, but she wasn't looking at Carter. She was still watching you and Steve with that expression that meant you were in for a very long, very uncomfortable conversation later. Probably in the car on the way home. Probably with her asking pointed questions while you stared out the window and pretended not to hear her.
Your mom stepped closer, and you watched recognition and memory and something complicated flash across her face. She'd liked Steve, back then. She’d invited him to family dinners every Sunday and asked about his college applications and genuinely believed you two were going to make it. She had bought into the fairy tale the same way you had. And then the breakup happened, and graduation, and you'd left for college six hours away, and your mom had spent the first month calling you every night to make sure you were eating and sleeping and not completely falling apart.
You'd lied every time. Said you were fine. Said you were adjusting. Said the breakup was for the best.She'd known you were lying but had let you pretend anyway because that's what mothers did.
Steve cleared his throat, eyes darting to you, wide. “Health,” he squeaked out. His hands were buried in his pockets. You could see him curling them into fists, then relaxing, then curling again. “Also some P.E. classes when the coach needs me to cover. And yeah, I coach middle school baseball.”
“That’s wonderful,” your mom said, smiling brightly. “That’s so different from—” So different from the basketball scholarship you used to talk about. So different from the party boy we all thought you’d be forever.
"Yeah," Steve said simply, and he didn't elaborate.
"And you recommended our daughter for this position?" Your mom's eyes were sharp now, focused.
"I did." Steve glanced at you, and something in his expression softened despite the careful neutrality he was trying to maintain like he couldn't help it. As though his face just did that automatically when he looked at you. "Mrs. Stone was looking for someone to choreograph the musical and I remembered—" He stopped, corrected himself. "I knew she'd be perfect for it. And she was. The kids were really lucky."
Your mom’s face softened and hardened at the same time, if that was possible. She remembered, too. She was remembering Steve picking you up for your dates, promising your dad to have you home by 10:30 on the dot, Steve talking about apartment-hunting. And also the Steve at graduation who could hardly meet her eyes when she hugged him goodbye.
Carter was looking between all the adults like he was trying to figure out why everyone was being weird. Devon was openly enjoying your discomfort now, smirking like this was the best entertainment she'd had in months. Your dad had appeared from somewhere—probably the bathroom, he always disappeared during emotional moments—and was now standing slightly behind your mom, looking uncomfortable and ready to escape.
"Well." Your dad clapped Steve on the shoulder, one of those firm pats that was borderline aggressive, the kind men did when they didn't know how else to communicate. "Good to see you, son. You look well. More grown up than last time."
Last time was graduation. Steve surprising your parents with a different girlfriend. You, with your college decision six hours away, like a lifeline. Your dad had shaken Steve’s hand and said, “Good luck with everything,” in a tone that meant do not ever come near my daughter again, even though the damage was catastrophically done.
Your mom was still doing that thing where she looked between you and Steve, and you could practically see her mental notebook filling with observations.
She was your mother. She'd changed your diapers and taught you to read and held you while you cried over this exact boy four years ago. She knew.
"I should—" Steve gestured vaguely toward the exit, already taking a step back. "Let you guys celebrate. This is a family moment. Congratulations again. The show was—" He stopped, looked at you directly for the first time since your family had arrived. "You were incredible."
You smiled softly as you watched him retreat slowly, with all eyes on him.
“So,” Devon said into the silence. “That was subtle.”
“Dev, I swear to god—”
“What? I’m just saying if you wanted to keep whatever this was a secret, maybe don’t do it in front of a crowded auditorium.” She was grinning now. “Pretty sure half the PTA saw you two basically—”
"We weren't doing anything," you cut her off, face burning so hot you probably looked sunburned.
"Mmhmm. Why your lipstick is smudged?"
“Whaaa—” Your hand flew to your mouth automatically. Devon laughed.
"Got you. Your lipstick is fine. But you should see your face right now."
"I hate you."
"No you don't." She slung an arm around your shoulders, still grinning. "But we are definitely talking about this later. In detail. With wine."
"There's nothing to talk about—"
"Honey." Your mom's voice cut through your protests, gentle but firm. "Can we not do this right now? Not here?"
You looked at her and saw understanding in her eyes. There was just concern. The same concern she'd had four years ago when you'd come home from college for Thanksgiving break and she'd found you crying in your childhood bedroom at two AM.
"Okay," you said quietly. "Yeah. Okay."
She squeezed your arm. "We'll talk tomorrow. Lunch. Just you and me."
"Mom—"
"Tomorrow," she said firmly, but kindly. "Tonight, we celebrate. You did something amazing today. You should be proud."
"I am," you said, and meant it. "I really am."
Carter tugged on your sleeve. "Can we get ice cream? I feel like this deserves ice cream. That was way cooler than my baseball games."
"Hey," your dad protested mildly.
"It was! There was dancing and costumes and the person sitting next to us cried real tears! When's the last time someone cried at one of my games?"
"Last week when you got hit in the face with the ball," Devon pointed out. “I cried because I thought your nose was messed up forever.”
"That doesn't count!"
“Hi, Steve,” you said as the door opened, hands flexing and unflexing by your sides.
He looked like he’d been crying. His eyes were dry and his face was composed, but there was a redness around his eyes and a rawness to his expression that made your chest ache. He was still in the same sweater from the show. His hair was a mess, like he’d been running his hands through it over and over. There was a beer bottle in his hand, barely touched by the looks of it, condensation dripping down the glass.
He stared at you for a long moment, like you were a hallucination. “Hi,” he said finally. His voice was hoarse.
You'd left dinner early and told your family you were tired, that the adrenaline crash was hitting you hard and you needed to sleep. Devon had given you a look that said she knew exactly where you were going, but she hadn't stopped you. Your mom had hugged you and told you to call her about tomorrow. Carter had made you promise to teach him the spinning thing next week.
And then you'd driven here—to Steve's apartment—without letting yourself think about it too hard because if you thought about it, you'd talk yourself out of it.
You'd sat in your car in the parking lot for fifteen minutes, engine off, hands on the steering wheel, trying to figure out what you were doing. What you were going to say. Why you'd come here instead of going home to decompress in your own bed like a normal person.
“Can I come in?” you asked and your voice came out smaller than you’d intended.
Steve stepped back immediately, opening the door wider. “Yeah. Yeah. Of course—yeah.”
You walked past him into the apartment and it looked different than it had a few weeks ago. Or maybe you were just seeing it differently now. The picture was gone from the dresser in the bedroom, you could see through the open door that the surface was bare except for a lamp and some spare change. There was a stack of graded papers on the coffee table, red pen marks visible from here. A half-eaten sandwich on a plate. The TV was on but muted, some late-night show with a laugh track you couldn't hear.
It looked like he'd been sitting here alone, grading papers and not eating.
Steve closed the door behind you but stayed rooted in his spot, watching you.
“Sorry for just showing up,” you said, turning to face him. “I know it’s late. I should’ve called—”
"Don't apologize." He set the beer down on the side table with more force than necessary. "You can show up here whenever you want. I mean—not that you'd want to, I just—" He stopped and ran a hand through his hair which made it worse. "I'm glad you're here."
"Your family. They must be so proud. You should be celebrating with them."
"I was." You shoved your hands in your jacket pockets because you didn't know what to do with them. "We went to dinner. Got ice cream. Carter talked for forty-five minutes straight about the show. My mom cried three more times.”
“Good,” Steve said, nodding. “That’s good.”
"I kept thinking about—about you. About how you were the one who made tonight possible. How you believed in me when I didn't even believe in myself. How you've been showing up even though you didn't have to. How—"
You stopped because your voice was breaking and you weren't sure you could finish the sentence without falling apart.
Steve was staring at you with an expression that looked like hope and pain and disbelief all tangled together.
“I should’ve been there,” he said quietly. “With you guys. I should’ve—” He laughed, all bitter and self-depracating. “But I can’t be there. Because I’m not—we’re not—” He gestured helplessly between the two of you. “I fucked that up four years ago and I keep fucking it up.”
“Steve,” you said, voice trailing.
He shook his head, more to himself than you. “Your dad looked at me like he wasn’t sure if he should punch me.” Steve’s voice was getting louder now, more emotion bleeding through. “Your mom looked sad and it was—like she barely knew me.” He stopped and pressed his palms into his eyes.
You’d never seen Steve like this. Even at seventeen, when he broke up with you, he held it together. Even the night at his apartment, he hadn’t let this much show.
"I sat here after the show," Steve continued, hands dropping from his face. His eyes were red now, wet. “And I thought about everything I missed. You going to college. Your sister’s anniversaries. Every Christmas and Thanksgiving and every birthday party. All those moments where I would’ve been there if I hadn’t just—” He stopped. “And I thought about the life we were going to have that I threw away because I was a stupid kid who didn’t realize how good he had it.”
“Steve—” You took a step toward him.
“No, let—let me—” He held up a hand. “I—when you saw the picture that night, I should’ve told you that it didn’t work out between me and her. It never could. With her or anybody else.” He met your eyes, and your vision was beginning to get foggy. “Nobody I’ve met can be you,” he said quietly. “And I’ve spent so long trying to convince myself it was for the best. That you were better off without me.”
He laughed, and it almost sounded broken.
“But then you came back,” he continued. “And you were just, exactly the same and completely different all at once. And I thought maybe I could handle it all. Maybe I could be a friend. But tonight—when you hugged me—” His voice cracked as he went to lean against the wall. “I can’t be normal about you. I don’t know how to be normal about you.”
You were crying now. You couldn't help it. The tears were hot on your cheeks and you didn't bother wiping them away.
“If I could go back,” he started, neck craning to look at the ceiling as he rubbed a palm over his neck, throat bobbing. “If I could go back, I would do everything we planned. I would follow you wherever you went. I would’ve—”
His voice broke completely and he stopped, hand still on his neck like he was trying to physically hold himself together. You watched his chest rise and fall too fast, watched him try to get control of his breathing.
Steve looked at you then, really looked at you, and his eyes were devastated. "I would've packed up my car and driven to whatever college you got into. Would've gotten some shitty apartment nearby and worked whatever jobs I could find just to—just to be close to you.” He pushed off the wall and started pacing. “I think about it sometimes, about what our apartment would’ve looked like. We probably would’ve gotten that place on Maple Street, no? The one we circled on the map, remember?”
You did remember. You'd circled it together during lunch senior year, sitting in his car, planning a future that felt so real you could taste it.
"I remember," you said.
“I thought—” He swallowed hard. “I thought you were living a whole life without me. I thought you’d done everything you’d wanted and living and doing exactly what you dreamed about. And I was—” He laughed shortly. “I was so happy for you. Even though it killed me.”
He moved toward you and his fingers clasped around your wrist as he meekly gestured to the living room. You followed him in as he walked, completely in a trance from everything that was coming out of his mouth.
You sat on the couch, a short distance away from him, and watched his head lean back as he stared at the ceiling again. “I feel so stupid,” he said into the air.
“Don’t,” you said, trying to get your voice out. “Don’t feel stupid. You—well, you weren’t wrong when you said it was all too much we were planning.” He turned his neck to look at you then, brows furrowing. “I was stupid to think it all could be a fairytale like we planned. It wouldn’t have worked, probably.”
“Don’t say that,” Steve said, voice so broken like you’d just slapped him in the face. “Don’t make what we had smaller just because I fucked it up. It would’ve worked.”
“We were seventeen—”
“I don’t care,” he said, shaking his head, jaw clenching. “I don’t care that we were young and that people say high school relationships don’t last. I don’t care about the odds or anything. It would’ve worked because we would’ve made it work. Because we loved each other enough to—” He stopped abruptly, like something was caught in his throat.
Your mouth was parted, staring at him because you had no idea how to respond.
“I would’ve married you.” The words came out so raw, so desperate, and his eyes were locked on yours now like he needed you to hear the words completely. Your breath caught. “I would’ve married you and stood in front of everyone and promised to love you for the rest of my life. And I would’ve meant it. Every fucking word.”
Your chest felt like it was caving in, and you could feel seventeen-year-old you crawling through your body, shaking and letting the tears fall down your cheeks.
“I know I said—I said it like it was a bad thing when I was breaking up with you but I didn’t mean it. I swear, I didn’t mean it. I’ve spent years wishing I could take it back and said what I actually meant instead of—instead of making you feel like loving me was too much. Like wanting to be with me was something to be ashamed of.”
You were crying now, full-on crying, tears streaming down your face faster than you could wipe them away.
"You made me feel like I was crazy," you said, and your voice was shaking with anger and grief and four years of hurt. "Like I was this—this desperate girl who was trying to trap you into something you didn't want. And I—" Your voice broke. "I spent so long trying to figure out why I was so afraid of wanting things. Of planning for the future. Of—of expecting anything from anyone. Because you made me feel like expectations were a burden.”
"I know." Steve's voice was wrecked. "I know and I'm—I'm so fucking sorry. I ruined that for you.And I—" He stopped, hand coming up to cover his mouth for a second. "I hate myself for that. For making you feel like you were crazy for wanting what we both wanted. For making you doubt yourself when you were—you were right. About all of it. About us. About forever."
"Steve—"
"I would've married you," he said again, and this time his voice was steady. "Fuck, I would've married you right out of high school and I would've been terrified and I probably would've fucked up a thousand different ways but I would've—I would've shown up. Every single day. I would've chosen you. And I'm so sorry I didn't."
Something in you broke completely. Four years of holding yourself together, of telling yourself you were fine, of pretending the breakup hadn't fundamentally changed who you were, all of it shattered.
You were sobbing now, the kind of crying that made your whole body shake, the kind you'd been holding back since the moment you'd seen him at baseball practice for the first time.
Steve moved closer, hesitant, like he wasn't sure if he was allowed. "Can I—?"
You didn't let him finish. You just collapsed against him, face pressed into his chest, hands fisted in his sweater. And he held you, arms tight around you, one hand in your hair and the other splayed across your back, holding you together while you fell apart.
“I’m sorry,” he said against your hair. “I’m so sorry. I’m so fucking sorry, baby.”
"I would've married you," Steve said again, and you could feel his tears in your hair now. "I would've married you and I would've been so fucking proud to call you my wife. And I threw that away because I was seventeen and stupid and scared. And I've regretted it every single day since."
You pulled back just enough to look at him, and his face was wrecked. Tears streaming down his cheeks, eyes red and swollen, expression raw and open in a way you'd never seen before.
“You really hurt me,” you said, your voice coming out broken and accusatory.
"I know." He was crying harder now too. "I know. And I don't—I don't know how to fix that. I don't know how to give you back what I took. But I—" He stopped, hands coming up to cup your face, thumbs brushing away tears that just kept coming. "I want to try. If you'll let me. I want to spend however long it takes proving to you that I'm not going anywhere this time. That when I say forever, I mean it. That you can trust me again."
"I don't know if I can," you whispered.
"I know." His forehead pressed against yours. "I know. But can I—can I at least try?"
"I would've said yes," you said quietly.
Steve's breath caught. "What?"
"If you'd asked me to marry you. At graduation. Or after. Or—or anytime. I would've said yes." Your voice was shaking. "I would've married you in a heartbeat and I wouldn't have cared if we were too young or if everyone said it wouldn't work. I would've—" You stopped. "I would've chosen you. Every time."
Steve made a sound that was half-sob, half-something else, as he pressed his eyes closed. His arms tightened around you.
"I'm so sorry," he said again. "I'm so sorry I didn't give you that chance. I'm so sorry I made you feel like wanting that was wrong. I'm so sorry I—"
You kissed him.
Cut him off mid-apology because you couldn't hear him say sorry one more time, couldn't handle the weight of his regret on top of your own grief. You kissed him and he kissed you back desperately, like you were oxygen and he'd been suffocating.
It was messy and wet with tears and tasted like salt. His hands were in your hair and yours were fisted in his sweater and you were both crying and kissing and trying to get closer even though there was no space left between you.
When you finally pulled apart, you were both gasping for air.
"I don't know how to do this," you admitted. "I don't know how to trust this again."
"We'll figure it out," Steve said, and he sounded more certain than you'd heard him all night. "Together. We'll figure it out together. No more running. No more making decisions alone. We'll—"
"Actually talk to each other like adults?" you suggested, voice watery.
"Yeah." He laughed, and it sounded lighter now, almost hopeful. "That. We'll do that."
You sat there on his couch, wrapped in his arms, both of you crying, both of you acknowledging that this was going to be hard and messy and complicated.
But for the first time in four years, you felt like maybe—maybe—you could find your way back to each other.
“I love you so much,” he said, breaking the silence the two of you had build like a cocoon around you. His voice was soft, barely there.
And your shoulders shook as you realized this was the first time you’d heard him say the words in so long. Because Steve Harrington was saying everything you'd needed to hear four years ago. Everything you'd needed to hear to know you weren't crazy for wanting forever with him. That your expectations hadn't been too much. That loving him the way you had wasn't something to be ashamed of.
You cried against his chest and he held you through it, murmuring apologies and promises and I love yous into your hair until the tears finally slowed, until you could breathe again, until you felt like maybe you could start to believe him.
Those Days Are Over (Don’t Worry, Baby) — Steve Harrington (1)
pairing — ex!steve harrington x fem!reader
word count — 17.1k
summary — Four years ago, Steve Harrington had chosen his future and it wasn’t you. You’d chose to leave Hawkins entirely and that worked out fine until it didn’t. Now you’re sleeping in your sister’s guest room and picking up your nephew from baseball practice where Steve Harrington is teaching kids how to slide into home. Some things, it turns out, you can’t outrun.
warnings — high school sweethearts gone wrong, rekindling, reader and her sister have a 10 year age gap, small town romance, implied past emotional cheating on reader by steve, no demogorgons or veca or anything supernatural but there are still mentioned dynamics canon to the show, hurt/comfort, miscommunication, jealousy, referenced past breakup, alcohol consumption, semi/public makeout, quarter-life crisis, reader’s implied to be mean in the past, cheerleader in high school, job hunting, referenced childhood dance training, friends to lovers to exes to (??), sexual tension, making out, heavy heavyyy petting, cliffhanger ending
author’s note — this got so much longer than intended but i promise the second part is coming so soon. robin and vickie are still together bc i love them!! and eddie and steve in my mind are besttt friends with them and the entire group and everyone is alive! please let me know what you thought feedback is truly the most rewarding part of sharing a fic. i hope you enjoyed this ! ♡
part one part two part three
The baseball diamond at Hawkins Middle School looked just the same as it had when you were twelve, which was comforting or depressing depending on how you wanted to spin it. You were going with comfort today because depressing required a lot more energy than you had, and you’d already spent most of it smiling through your sister’s overly-concerned questions about job applications over breakfast.
Your nephew—Carter, age eleven, gap-toothed and a little shorter than his age—was easy to spot in the cluster of kids near the dugout. He looked exactly like your sister, Devon. He was the one trying to balance the bat on his palm, which seemed counterproductive to actual baseball but probably made sense to his eleven-year-old brain. You told your sister you’d pick him up. Easy favour that took out forty-five minutes of your afternoon in exchange for continued free housing and the implicit agreement that you were trying to get your shit together.
You leaned against the chain-link fence, going through the mental list in your mind of possible next ventures. Three retail positions, two receptionist jobs, one assistant manager role at a mattress store that required "three to five years of customer service experience with a passion for the product." You wouldn’t consider yourself particularly passionate for mattresses nor did you have three to five years of customer service experience.
"Alright, bring it in!"
The voice cut across the field, and it was so familiar that it made your stomach drop before your brain could catch up. You looked in the direction.
Steve Harrington stood near the pitcher’s mound in a faded Hawkins baseball tee and a backwards cap, whistle around his neck, gesturing at the kids to huddle up. For a second—one stupid, depressing second—you thought you were hallucinating. Were you in some weird time-slip situation? Because that was Steve. That was Steve-fucking-Harrington from high school, from makeout sessions in his BMW and terrible milkshakes at Bennys. That was Steve who used to kiss your shoulder while you were sleeping, and that was the cutest possible thing you thought could happen to your sixteen-year-old self.
Except, it wasn’t really. This Steve was older, filled out in the shoulders, moving with confidence that seemed so easy and didn’t require an audience. Coaching middle schoolers apparently, teaching them something. You watched him crouch down to the kids’ level, saying something that made half of them laugh and the other half groan.
Oh, you were so going to kill Devon for so blatantly setting you up with zero warning.
"Good practice today," he was saying as you got close enough to hear. "Really solid work. Daniels, that catch in the outfield?" He made a chef’s kiss gesture. "Carter, your swing's getting better, but you're still dropping your back elbow—we'll work on it Thursday, yeah?"
Carter beamed like Steve had awarded him a trophy.
The kids stared at the scatter, grabbing backpacks and water bottles, and that’s when Steve looked up. His gaze swept across the parking lot the way you assumed it probably did—making sure parents were here and kids weren’t abandoned—and then it landed on you.
He went still for a fractional second, then his face shifted from coach mode to something unguarded and surprised. Then he blinked, and his face did a recalculation and rearrangement into something easy, friendly, and casual, and he was walking over. His hands moved to his pockets. They always did that when he didn’t know what to do with them.
You focused on Carter instead, his backpack dragging and one shoe untied.
"Hey," Steve said, stopping a few feet away. He was close enough that you could see he’d nicked himself shaving, far enough that it was very clear that it wasn’t established whether the two of you could hug. His hands slipped into his pockets again. His voice was lower. Did that happen in high school, and you just didn’t notice? When did any of this happen?
"Holy shit—it is you," he said, and it sounded like he was on the same boat as you, wondering if he’d been imagining things. "You’re back."
"Yeah," you said, aiming for casual and landing somewhere in the vicinity. "Been a couple weeks."
"Couple weeks," he echoed, like he was turning the information over and calculating whether you’d known he’d be here. You hadn’t, but you couldn’t tell if that made it better or worse.
Then his eyes flicked to the kids, then landed on Carter who was zooming toward you with his backpack half-open and dragging on the ground. "I’m assuming this one’s yours."
You chuckled slightly as Carter crashed into your side, sweaty and dirt-streaked and happy.
"Did you see? Coach Steve said my swing’s getting better!"
"I saw," you said, ruffling his hair slightly. "You looked great out there."
Steve was looking at you and you were looking at him, and there was this weird moment where there were about seventeen things you could’ve said and exactly zero ways to say any of them. The last time you’d seen him was at graduation—almost a year after trying to avoid him and Nancy Wheeler in the hallways because you were just that girl who could not move on from a high school boyfriend.
Carter’s beady eyes ping-ponged between you both, his brain clearly working overtime, then his brows furrowed just the slightest.
"Wait," he said, suspicion creeping into his voice. "Do you two know each other?"
"We went to school together," you said.
"We were friends," Steve said at the exact same time.
The word hung there like it was something tangible, something you could touch and would cut if you did.
"Woah." Carter narrowed. "You were friends?"
"Yeah," Steve said, looking at you with eyebrows raised, like he wasn’t sure what the script was here. "Long time ago."
"How come you never told me your friend was my coach?" Carter asked you, accusatory like you’d been withholding critical information.
"I didn’t know he was your coach," you said, letting out a small chuckle as you bopped his nose, which made him scrunch his face up. "I didn’t know he was doing—" You gestured vaguely at Steve and the whistle and the whole situation. "This."
"This?" Steve repeated, and there was a hint of amusement in his voice now.
"You know what I mean."
Carter was still looking at you, and you could practically see the gears turning. "Were you like, actually friends? Or like, friend-friends?"
You subtly shook your head at Steve, but he was indulging Carter now. His fingers were on his chin as he hummed. You knew what he was doing. He always did this, making things lighter when they got too heavy and turned serious into a game. It used to drive you crazy, and it still did.
"What’s the difference?"
"Like, did you hang out and stuff?" he pressed. "Has he been to grandma’s house?"
You’d been fifteen when Steve first said he loved you. At the quarry with the radio playing something you couldn’t remember now, so many it was not all that important as you thought. You’d been seventeen when he stopped.
"Sometimes," you said carefully, shooting Steve a look that he either didn’t catch or deliberately ignored.
The corner of Steve’s mouth twitched, like he was trying not to smile. Your mom would keep his favourite cereal in your pantry; he knew where you kept the spare key. Was he thinking about that, too? How he’d been to your house more times than you could count?
"Did you have classes together?"
"A few," Steve said. "She was waaaay smarter than me, though. She actually did the homework."
Carter was still processing the information, his face scrunched up. Then, apparently, satisfied with whatever conclusion he reached, he shrugged. "Cool. Coach Steve, can I have a snack? I already ate my string cheese."
"You’re supposed to have that after practice, bud."
"I know, but I’m hungry." Carter dragged the word out like it was a medical emergency.
Steve laughed and pulled a slightly crushed granola bar from his pocket. "Here. But don’t tell your mom."
"Yes!" Carter snatched it immediately and tore into the wrapper.
"Seriously, don’t tell her," Steve said, glancing at you with genuine worry. "I don’t wanna be the coach that ruins dinner."
"Your secret’s safe with me," you said, pushing down a smile.
He smiled at that, small and a little crooked, and for a second it was like being sixteen again, that stupid flutter in your stomach, the way he'd look at you across the cafeteria or in the hallway between classes. Except you weren't sixteen anymore, and this wasn't high school, and Steve Harrington was apparently mature enough now to actually look after kids.
"So," Steve said, watching Carter devour the granola bar three feet away. "What brings you back?"
You shrugged, feeling slightly smaller now. "Didn’t work out the way it would, I suppose."
"Yeah," he nodded slowly, like he understood what you said. "I get that."
"Do you?"
He tilted his head like he was thinking about it. "Took a while to come to terms with it. I mean—I’m still here."
There was something in his voice that sounded something in-between regret and acceptance. "It seems like fun, though. Up your alley, too, now that I think about it."
He laughed slightly at that and rubbed the back of his neck. "It is. It’s not what I thought I’d be doing, but it’s—good. The kids are great. They’re weird and gross and they ask the most insane questions during sex-ed, but they’re great." Your eyebrows twitched up and mouth parted as soon as he said that. He beat you to the cut, saying, "Don’t laugh. I’m still getting the hang of it."
"I wasn’t going to," you said, but your voice wavered in a way that said you definitely were going to laugh. "I just can’t imagine you talking to kids about that."
He pointed a loose finger at you as he said, "Well, sit in on one of my classes. Maybe you’ll learn a thing or two."
Your rolled your eyes at that. Carter had finished his granola bar and was now attempting to balance on one of the parking lot curbs like it was a tightrope. You should probably get him home before he broke an ankle. "Carter!" you called, because you needed to break whatever this moment was. "We need to get going. Your mom’s gonna wonder where you are."
"Five more minutes!"
"Now, please."
He groaned but jumped down from the curb, trudging toward you with all the enthusiasm of someone headed to their execution.
Steve shifted his weight, hands sliding back into his pockets. "Hey, I'm usually here Tuesday and Thursday afternoons. You know. If you're picking him up again."
You felt something twist in your stomach. "Yeah. I might be."
He nodded. "Cool. That’s—cool."
The silence stretched between you, not quite awkward but close to it. Carter reached you and immediately latched onto your hand, already pulling you toward the parking lot.
"It was good seeing you," Steve said, and his voice had that genuine quality again, the one that made your chest feel tight.
"You too, Harrington." You smiled softly.
"Steve," he corrected, raising a brow.
You nodded, flashing him one last smile, not trusting yourself to say anything else, and let Carter drag you toward the car.
"Bye Coach Steve!" Carter yelled, waving frantically.
"See you Thursday, kid!"
You didn't look back. Couldn't look back. Just got Carter buckled in, climbed into the driver's seat, and tried to remember how to breathe normally.
Everything sucked. The only jobs in Hawkins were either at this very coffee shop (which felt like admitting defeat in a very public, dimly lit way) or required experience you didn’t have in fields you’d never thought twice about.
You’d taken over the corner table at the Daily Grind because it had an outlet and because Bonnie, who’d been working here since you were in middle school, didn’t care if you nursed the same coffee for three hours. The application in front of you asked you to describe your "passion for customer service excellence" in 150 words or less. You weren’t sure if that was too much or too little. It almost seemed like a dare.
Four years ago, you could’ve written this down in your sleep. You would have talked about forming a "genuine connection" and "creating memorable experiences." You also would’ve been smiling while writing it, already imagining yourself charming the hiring manager in the interview.
You typed, I believe in treating customers with respect and
You deleted it. Your foot started tapping again. You shifted in your seat, crossed your ankles, kept them still.
I believe in
Deleted it again.
Your coffee had gone cold. The cafe smelled like burnt espresso and the cinnamon rolls Bonnie made every morning that were too sweet and somehow always slightly undercooked in the middle. There was a stain on the ceiling that looked like Texas, which felt appropriate given that you’d briefly considered moving there last year with your ex-boyfriend before that had imploded with everything else.
The door chimed. You didn’t look up because looking up meant acknowledging that you were a 21-year-old woman sitting in a coffee shop at 2 PM on a Wednesday, filling out an application for a job you didn't want, in a town you'd sworn you'd never come back to.
"Hey, Bonnie."
You looked up.
Steve Harrington was at the counter in jeans and a Hawkins High sweatshirt—not a recent one, something older and more worn—and his hair was doing that thing where it looked like he’d run his hand through it too many times, but it still somehow looked better than more than half the Hawkins population’s hair. He had a canvas bag over his shoulder, and you could see some papers peeking out of it and the print of a water bottle inside. He was smiling at Bonnie, warm and genuine, completely unaware of how disarming it was.
Or maybe he was aware. He had used that smile to get out of a lot of things before.
"The usual?"
"You know it."
You should look back down at your laptop. You should absolutely look back down and pretend you hadn't seen him, pretend this wasn't the third time in a week that the universe had decided to throw Steve Harrington directly into your path like some kind of cosmic joke.
He turned around, already pulling out his wallet, paying, and saw you.
The smile faltered like he was recalibrating. Like he was running through about six different responses in his head and trying to figure out which one was appropriate for seeing your ex-girlfriend you broke up with four years ago in a car on a Wednesday afternoon.
"Hey," he said, slowly striding towards you.
Bonnie was making his drink—you could hear the espresso machine hissing, the clink of the syrup bottle—and Steve was still standing there, you were still sitting at your corner table with a cold coffee and a half-filled job application, and this was so much worse than the baseball field because at least there you’d had Carter as a four feet and eleven inch tall buffer.
Steve glanced at the empty chair across from you, then back at you, then at Bonnie like she might save him. She didn't. She just kept making his drink with the focus of someone who'd worked in customer service long enough to know when to mind her own business.
"Are you—" Steve gestured vaguely at your table. "Can I—or are you working? I don’t wanna interrupt if you’re—"
You forced a small smile as you closed your laptop. "I’m not working." God, was that an understatement. "Just—job applications. The exciting life of the recently returned."
He smiled at that, small and a little crooked. "Yeah, I remember that. The job hunt thing is always the worst."
"Did you do a lot of it?"
"Enough." Bonnie called his name and he grabbed his drink. Caramel latte, you'd bet money on it, extra caramel because Steve Harrington had never met a coffee drink he couldn't turn into dessert. When he came back, he was holding his cup with both hands and doing that thing with his weight where he shifted from foot to foot. "So. Can I sit, or—?"
"Yeah, course." You gestured at the seat with a wave of the hand, and applauded yourself for how normal you were being in the same orbit as him.
He sat. The table was small enough that when he placed his drink down, his fingers were about six inches away from yours. You moved your hands to your lap.
He nodded towards your closed laptop. "How’s it going?"
"It’s going." You shrugged. "Turns out Hawkins doesn’t have a lot of opportunities for people whose only qualifications are ‘gave up on college and came home.’"
"You gave up on college?" he asked, not able to keep the surprise out of his voice.
Your teeth tugged at your lip as you looked down at your hands, the floor, the table, and literally anywhere else that didn’t include him.
He cleared his throat when you didn’t respond, trying to break the ice. You momentarily felt bad for stalling the conversation and turning sour at the slightest—most normal, in fact—question someone could ask you about yourself right now. "Well, I served ice cream for a while. Then, I worked at Family Video for a while. Then the radio station. You remember Keith? He gave Robin and I the job when someone quit."
You nodded as he spoke, absorbing the new information about him, filling in the gaps in your mind about his life since he’d walked out of yours. "And now you’re a teacher."
"And a coach. Don’t forget coaching." He smiled sardonically. "Which is really me trying to convince middle schoolers that stealing bases is a real thing and not something I just made up."
You laughed despite yourself, feeling the gloominess that had taken over you just moments ago wash away. "Carter’s been talking about you nonstop since that day, you know? It’s ‘Coach Steve said this’ or ‘Coach Steve said that.’ I think Devon’s ready to kill you."
"Why?" He asked, letting out a chuckle. "What did I do?"
"You told him he could be a professional baseball player if he practiced hard enough."
"I mean—" He pulled the corners of his lips down as he shrugged. "He could."
"He can’t tie his shoes properly yet."
"Hey, don’t ruin his dreams," he said, pointing his index at you. "He’s got potential."
"You told a room full of middle schoolers they can be Mike Schmidt, didn’t you?"
"They’re kids! They’re supposed to have potential! That’s like, the whole point of being one." He was animated now, gesturing with his hands, and you’d forgotten how he got excited about things, how he cared in such a unique, unguarded way that made you want to believe anything he was saying was true. "You can’t tell an eleven-year-old he’s bad at baseball. That’s how you give complexes."
"I think Carter already has a complex about trying to be cool enough for you."
Steve's expression softened at that, became something more careful. "He doesn't need to be cool. He's already—he's a great kid. They all are."
His voice went softer when he said it in a way you’d never heard from him before.
"You really like it," you said. "The teaching thing."
"Yeah, I do." He met your eyes, and there was something too honest for you to look at there. "I know it’s not like I’m changing the world or anything. But it’s good. Feels like I’m doing something that matters, you know?"
You didn’t. Not really. But you weren’t surprised he did.
"That’s good," you said finally. "I’m really glad you found it, Steve."
"Yeah." He paused, and you could see him working up to something, the way his jaw tightened just slightly. "What about you? "Can I ask you something?"
"Sure."
"Why’d you come back? To Hawkins, I mean—" He stopped, and seemed to reconsider his words. "You had plans. You were gonna study psychology and everything. Help people."
You should have expected this question, especially from Steve after you’d seen him. He’d known all your plans, he had been part of all your plans. You both would pick schools that weren’t too far from the other’s, meet each other on the weekends and… Well, just be. You should’ve had an answer prepared, but you didn’t, so you just said the truth.
"I don’t know." You looked down at your laptop. "I got to college and realized I had no idea what I wanted, just knew what I was supposed to. And that’s not—not enough, you know?"
Steve was quiet, and when you looked up, he was watching you with this expression you couldn't quite read.
"Sorry," you said quickly. "That's—that's a lot. You asked a simple question and I just—"
"No." He shook his head. "Don't apologize. I asked."
"Still."
"I get it," he said. "I did it, too. You remember? What I thought I was always supposed to." His voice had gone quieter.
You thought about Steve in high school. King Steve with his perfect hair and his basketball jersey and his spot at the top of the social hierarchy that he'd inherited and maintained without ever really seeming to try. You thought about the way he'd smile at everyone, the way he'd been friendly and charming and exactly what he was supposed to be. And then you thought about the Steve sitting across from you now, wearing an old sweatshirt and talking about teaching sex-ed and coaching baseball with this earnestness that you weren’t used to.
And you were happy for him. You didn’t resent his happiness the way you thought you always would at seventeen. But a small part of you reminded he had to physically remove himself from your life to be the person he was proud to be. Why hadn’t you become your own, then? It was a bitter pill to swallow that Steve had done the right thing for himself leaving you.
"You’re different," you said, because you couldn’t not say it. "From high school."
"Yeah?" He smiled slightly, like he was happy you’d noticed. "So are you."
You blew out a breath. "Yeah."
"I don't know. Less—" He made a vague gesture with his hand, like he was trying to shape the words in the air. "You used to smile at everyone like you were running for mayor. You don't do that anymore."
You shrugged. That much was true. "Maybe I’m not happy to see people"
His smile turned crooked, self-aware. "Well, you were also running for class president back then." Then, he added, "I think it’s a good different, by the way."
You had to focus on the coffee cup sweating condensation onto the table or on anything that wasn't Steve Harrington looking at you like he understood exactly what you were too afraid to ask out loud.
The thing was, he probably did understand. That was worse, somehow. That he'd figured himself out and you were still here, filling out applications for jobs you didn't want, living in your sister's house, trying to remember who you'd been before you'd spent four years performing for an audience that had already left the theater.
"I should—" You gestured vaguely at your laptop. "I've got like six more of these to fill out before dinner."
"Right. Yeah. Of course." He stood up, grabbed his bag, and you watched him hesitate. Watched him do that thing where his hand went to the back of his neck and his weight shifted and you knew—you knew—he wanted to say something else but couldn't figure out how to say it.
Then he did anyway, because this version of Steve said the thing he was thinking instead of swallowing them down. "Hey, if you ever need a reference or something. For the applications. I know that sounds weird, but I’m technically a professional now. May look good if they don’t know me that well."
You stared at him for a moment. "You’d do that?"
"Yeah. I mean—why not?" He shrugged, and it was so casual, so genuinely generous that it made your chest hurt in a way you didn’t want to look at. "You're smart. You're good with people. You even put up with me for three whole years. That’s gotta count for something, right?"
The joke landed wrong. More because it was funny than not. It was exactly the kind of thing Steve would say to lighten a moment that had gotten too heavy, except this moment was already heavy and the joke just made it heavier. Four years. He'd said it like it was nothing, like it was just a fun fact about your shared history and not the entire shape of your adolescence, not the thing you'd built your life around until he'd decided he didn't want to be part of that life anymore.
"Steve—"
"Just think about it," he said quickly, already backing away from whatever he saw on your face. "I'll see you Thursday, right? At practice?"
You weren’t planning on going, not wanting to run into him again. "Yeah. Probably."
"Cool." He shifted his bag higher on his shoulder, gave you that crooked smile one more time. "See you then."
The next few times you saw Steve, it was mainly expected. Aside from when you ran into him at Melvad’s or during your run a few mornings, catching him behind the gates of Hawkins High smoking a cigarette and being horrible at keeping it a secret. The two of you had unconsciously—almost involuntarily—formed a routine where you picked Carter up every Tuesday and Thursday, with you staying behind around ten minutes making conversation with Steve that didn’t feel as awkward anymore.
Ten minutes became fifteen. Fifteen became twenty. By the third week, you were helping him pack up equipment—baseball bats into the mesh bag, bases stacked and carried to the storage shed behind the dugout—while Carter ran laps around the parking lot with whatever kid was still waiting for their ride.
"You don’t have to help," Steve said one Thursday, watching you coil up the extension cord he used for the speaker system. "I mean, this is probably half of my job."
"I know."
"So why are you?"
You shrugged, looping the extension cord around your elbow and hand the way your dad had taught you when you were ten. "Carter’s still running around. Might as well be useful."
He smiled at that and—thank god—didn’t question further.
It was easier than you thought it would be, falling into this. The talking, the helping, the standing around in a dusty parking lot while the sun started its slow descent and Carter attempted to teach another kid how to do a cartwheel the same way you’d taught him how to do one.
You watched him demonstrate with arms too loose and legs not quite straight. He’d gotten better since the first day you came back and spent a whole morning in Devon’s backyard breaking down the mechanics. Hands there, then here, push through your shoulders, spot the ground. The same way your ballet teacher had taught you when you were seven.
The other kid tried and collapsed halfway through. Carter laughed and tried to explain differently. You almost walked over to help before you caught yourself. They’d figure it out.
Steve told you about his classes, about a kid who asked whether or not someone could get an STD from public toilet seats and how he’d had to explain, very carefully, that no, that wasn’t how it worked. You told him about the receptionist job you’d snagged at Dr. Feldman’s dental office where you spent eight hours a day answering phones and scheduling cleanings and telling people about proper flossing techniques.
You’d written a thank-you note for Dr. Feldman after your interview using actual stationary, a blue pen, with your mother’s voice in your head about the importance of gratitude. Devon had found it on the kitchen counter. She’d told you that nobody did that anymore. You said you knew. Then she said, "Like, they’re going to think you’re weird," as though you were missing the point she was getting at. You knew that, but you’d mailed it anyway. The alternative was letting go of a habit that actually made you feel like you had control over something. You didn’t want to do that, even if it made you look like you were stuck in an old system of expectations of human interaction.
"That’s the place you got your braces, right?" Steve asked, leaning against the chain-link fence.
"Yeah, and it’s so embarrassing. Mrs. Patterson still works there and she keeps asking if I remember when I was snot-nose crying during my consultation."
He laughed at that. "Well, you got them off right before sophomore year. I’d know."
You rolled your eyes at that. You still weren’t completely comfortable with him bringing up the past so easily, but it made sense for him to do so. He’d made his peace with it. You weren’t sure you ever would. You may have not completed college, but two years had taught you that shit like being left for another girl sticks with a person.
One afternoon, he mentioned Robin and Eddie were coming by after practice to help him move some equipment to the gym for an assembly. You'd heard the names—Robin Buckley and Eddie Munson—but the pairing still felt strange. Robin had been in band, quiet and a little intense. Eddie had been the guy who sold weed behind the school and wore a denim vest covered in patches. And Steve had been—well. Steve.
"Wait," you said, watching Carter attempt to steal second base from a kid who wasn't even holding the ball. "Robin Buckley? From band?"
"Yeah."
"And Eddie Munson? Like, Eddie Munson?" Your voice had a particular lilt to it that said you weren’t sure how you could describe him.
Steve’s expression shifted and turned into something more careful. "Hey, they’re good people."
"I'm not—I didn't mean—" You stopped, recalibrated. "I just meant I'm surprised. You guys didn't really run in the same circles."
"We do now." His tone had a protective edge to it. "They're my best friends."
You thought about Steve in high school, about Tommy H and Carol, about the basketball team and the parties at his house when his parents were gone, about the carefully maintained social hierarchy that had felt so important at the time and so stupid in retrospect. You thought about yourself, too, about the cheer squad and student council and the way you'd smiled at everyone but really only talked to a select few.
"That's good," you said finally. "That you found people like that."
Steve relaxed slightly, and you noticed how his shoulders dropped. "Yeah. They’re—they’re really good. Robin’s in Massachusetts right now. Studying feminist theory or something. She’s way smarter than anyone."
"She was always smart," you mused, nodding as hazy memories of high school conversations started rolling around your mind.
"Yeah. Well, now she’s smart and gone, which sucks. But she visits when she can."
His voice picked up with affection and missing that felt bone-deep. You wondered how that felt, having someone care about you from hundreds of miles away. Having them check in, call on Sundays, come back because they wanted to and not because they’d run out of all other options.
"And Eddie?" you asked, genuinely curious.
"Eddie’s—" Steve laughed running a hand through his hair. "Eddie’s Eddie. He works at the garage on Main and his band’s kicking off and is actually pretty good. He’s kind of insane and loud but he’s—he’s solid, you know? He’s a great person."
Your teeth tugged at your lip. You didn’t really know, but you were glad Steve did. You liked that he’d found people who weren’t constantly trying to be something other than who they were.
The following Tuesday, you showed up to practice and Steve was talking to a guy with long curly and denim vest, both of them laughing about something while they loaded baseball equipment into the back of a van that had seen better days. Eddie Munson, you recognized. Up close, he looked older. He had sharper cheekbones, more tattoos than you remembered from the brief glimpses you’d caught in the high school hallways. He smiled at you; you’d been trained in that smile, the one that looked friendly without completely meaning it.
"You must be the famous high school sweetheart," Eddie said, so matter-of-factly you were mildly taken back at addressing the elephant in the room you had been avoiding pretty seamlessly so far.
Steve made a sound in his throat that may have been a protest, but Eddie was already sticking his hand out to you.
"Eddie Munson. We didn’t really run in the same circles back in the day." His grip was firm, rings cold against your palm. "You probably don’t remember."
"I remember you," you said, because you did. It was pretty difficult to forget the guy who’d walk on tables in the cafeteria and give monologues about—well, about how horrible the entire crowd you ran with had been.
"Yeah?" He looked genuinely surprised, then pleased. "Huh. Usually cheerleaders pretended I didn’t exist. No offense."
"None taken."
He turned back to the van, tossing in another equipment bag. "So, you’re back in town. That’s—how’s that going? The whole homecoming thing?"
You shrugged. "It’s definitely going by."
"Yeah, I bet." He said it while nodding. "Small towns, man. They’re like quicksand. Really, really slow quicksand."
Steve snorted. "Yeah. That’s how it works."
"You know what I mean." Eddie grabbed another bag. "Anyway, Robin's coming back this weekend. Visiting from Massachusetts. We're doing drinks at the Hideout Friday night if you want to come. Low-key, nothing fancy. Just—you know. Hanging out."
"Oh, I don’t know—"
"You should come," Steve said quickly, and when you looked at him, his expression was hopeful and open and slightly terrified. "I mean, if you want, obviously. No pressure. It’s just—it’d be nice. To hang out. Outside of, you know." He gestured vaguely at the baseball field.
You should say no. You should absolutely say no, because going to a bar with Steve and his friends—friends who'd known him after you, who were part of the life he'd built without you—felt like asking for trouble. Felt like stepping into a space where you didn't belong and waiting to be reminded of that fact.
But Steve was looking at you like he genuinely thought it was a good idea, and Eddie was watching you with curiosity, and Carter was running toward you covered in dirt and grinning, and somehow, you heard yourself say, "Yeah. Okay. That sounds good."
"Yeah?" Steve's whole face lit up, and you remembered—God, you'd forgotten this—how his smile could make you feel like you'd done something right just by existing.
"Yeah. Why not?"
"Cool. Friday night, around eight. I can pick you up if—"
"I'll meet you there," you said quickly, because getting in a car with Steve Harrington felt like too much too fast, felt like something that required more thought than you were prepared to give it. "I know where it is."
"Right. Yeah. Of course." He rubbed the back of his neck, and Eddie was smirking now, clearly enjoying Steve's discomfort. "Cool. See you then."
Carter crashed into your side, breathless and happy. "Can we get ice cream?"
"Maybe." You ruffled his hair, already sticky with sweat. "If you don’t get my car smelling like a sock."
"I don't smell!"
"You definitely smell, bud," Steve said, and Carter shrieked with laughter and tried to tackle him, which turned into Steve picking him up and spinning him around while Carter screamed happily and you stood there watching, something warm fluttering in your chest that instantly made you feel nauseous.
Eddie caught your eye and raised an eyebrow, and you looked away quickly, busied yourself with grabbing Carter's backpack from where he'd abandoned it near the dugout.
By the time you got Carter buckled into the car, Steve and Eddie were still working on the equipment, their voices carrying across the parking lot in easy conversation. You sat in the driver's seat for a moment, hands on the wheel, trying to figure out what you'd just agreed to.
Before you went to pick up Carter on Thursday, you ran into Mrs. Perry at the grocery store. She was your old dance teacher, Madame Petrova’s sister, and she lit up when she saw you. "Sweetie! I heard you were back in town. How are you?"
"Good, thanks. How are you?" you asked, pausing to meet her.
"Oh, busy as ever. You know, Linda closed the studio last year? Her hip finally gave out. Such a shame, no?"
Your chest tightened. You’d trained at Linda Petrova’s from age seven to seventeen. Every Wednesday and Friday, sometimes Saturdays. Your mom would drive you twenty minutes because Hawkins didn’t have a real dance studio, just the community center with scratched floors and the mirror that was cracked down the middle.
"No," you said, voice softening. "I had no idea."
"Mm. All students had to find new places. Some just quit completely." She shook her head. "The high school’s still figuring out how to do their musical, though." She looked around the store, then her eyes landed on you.
You weren’t sure if you knew what she was implying, but you smiled.
"Well," she continued. "You’re probably busy with settling in. So, I’ll leave you be."
You smiled, nodded, and said goodbye. You had to pick up Carter.
When you got there, Carter was finishing up drills, you helped pack up, and Steve was talking about the kid who'd asked if masturbation counted as exercise.
"What’d you tell him?" you asked, coiling up the extension cord.
"That technically yes, but it wasn't going to replace actual cardio for him." Steve was trying not to laugh. "His face, though. God. I thought he was going to die of embarrassment."
You laughed at that, eyebrows going up. "If he lives on Loch Nora, his parents are probably gonna give you a talking to."
"I don’t think he’s going to tell his parents what he asked," he said. "So, tomorrow," he said as he noticed you were getting to ready to leave, Carter already halfway to the car. "You’re still coming, right?"
"Yeah. I said I would."
"I know, I just—" He shoved his hands in his pockets. "Robin can be kind of intense at first. And, well, you already met Eddie. I just want you to know if it’s weird or if you want to leave or whatever, that’s totally fine. No pressure."
You looked at him—at Steve Harrington in his coaching jacket with grass stains on his jeans, warning you that his best friends might be too much, giving you an out before you'd even walked in the door. And you thought about how you'd spent four years trying not to think about him, trying not to wonder if he was happy or if Nancy Wheeler had been worth it or if he ever missed you. And here he was, nervous about you meeting his friends, even though the two of you had been nothing but friends—at best—that spent around thirty minutes with each other weekly.
"I'll be fine," you said. "I can handle intense."
"Yeah. You can." He smiled softly. "See you tomorrow, then?"
"See you tomorrow."
When you were in the car, Carter wasn’t hesitant about prodding anymore. "Coach’s really cool," he said, buckling his seatbelt.
"Yeah, he seems like a good coach."
"He let me practice pitching today even though I'm not supposed to until next year. He said I have good form." Carter kicked his legs against the seat. "Are you coming to the game next week? We have a scrimmage against the other middle school."
"Maybe if your mom can make it."
"She always does."
"Then I’ll come, too."
There were maybe only fifteen people scattered around the bar, a Bon Jovi song playing from the jukebox in the corner, and you stood in the doorway for a second too long, trying to remember why you thought this was a good idea. The Hideout itself looked the same as the night of graduation—and the other handful of times when the bouncer was a sleepier man who didn’t check ID—with dim lighting, sticky floors, and it looked like it had no intention of ever changing.
Steve was at the table in the back corner, and you recognized him immediately. He had one arm draped over the back of the chair, laughing at something, you recognized, Robin Buckley was saying. She had short hair and was talking with her hands, fast and animated. Next to her was a girl with strawberry blonde hair watching Robin with all her attention. Vickie. And Eddie was there, gesturing wildly with a bottle of beer, saying something that made Steve shake his head and grin.
Why were you invited? You were sure every single person on that table had one perfectly valid reason or another to not like you. You could give Steve some excuse about not feeling well; he probably wouldn’t even be that surprised.
But then Steve looked up and saw you, and his whole face showed something like relief. Then he was standing up, waving you over, and it was too late to turn back.
"Hey!" Steve said as you approached, and his voice was too loud, too eager. He cleared his throat, as though he was suppressing it. "You made it. I wasn't sure—I mean, I thought you would, but—" He gestured vaguely at the table. "Everyone, this is—well. You guys know her."
Robin looked at you with eyes you could only categorize as indifferent but also assessing. "Hi. I’m Robin." Before you could say that you knew, she stuck out her hand and you shook it. "Steve’s told me about you. Some things. Not like, a lot of things, but—you know. Things."
"Good things, I hope."
"Jury’s still out," she said, but she was smiling when she said it, and you couldn’t quite tell if she was joking or not.
"That's Vickie," Steve said, pointing to the strawberry blonde, who gave you a warm smile and a little wave. "She works at the hospital. And you met Eddie."
"The infamous ex-girlfriend returns," Eddie said, raising his beer in salute. "Want a drink? First round's on Harrington."
"It is?" Steve asked, furrowing his brows together.
"Yup." Eddie was grinning, looking between you and Steve like this was the best entertainment he'd had all week. "So what'll it be? Beer? Something stronger? We're celebrating Robin's weeklong presence in Hawkins before she abandons us again."
"I'm not abandoning you," Robin said. "I'm going back to school. There's a difference."
"Feels the same from here."
Vickie reached over and squeezed Robin's hand, and Robin's expression softened immediately.
"Beer's fine," you said.
"One beer, coming up." Eddie stood, stretched. "Harrington? You want another?"
"Yeah, sure."
"Cool. Don't be weird while I'm gone." He pointed at Steve, then at you, then walked off toward the bar.
You sat down in the chair Steve pulled out for you, hyper-aware of how close Robin was sitting, how her eyes kept flicking to you and then away, like she was trying to figure something out.
"So," Robin said, leaning forward slightly. "You're back in Hawkins."
"For now."
"That's what Steve said. 'For now.' Very noncommittal." She took a sip of her drink, something clear with lime, probably vodka. "What brought you back? If you don't mind me asking. Which you might. In which case, ignore me. I ask a lot of questions. It's a thing."
"Robin—" Steve started, but you cut him off.
"It’s fine. I dropped out of college, and didn’t really have anywhere else to go, I guess."
Robin's eyebrows went up slightly, but she didn't look judgmental. Just... interested. "What were you studying?"
"Psychology."
"And you dropped out because...?"
Your eyes landed on the wall beside the table. "I mean—mainly because it wasn’t what I imagined. And it didn’t get better." You blew out a breath. "What about you? Steve said you’re in Mass."
"It’s good. Really good, actually." She glanced at Vickie and smiled softly. "It’s hard being away from people, but yeah. It’s good."
Vickie squeezed Robin's hand again, and Robin leaned into her slightly, unconscious and natural. You tried not to feel something hollow in your chest at the way they fit together, the ease of it.
And soon enough, the conversation started to move on. Robin was talking about her classes, Eddie was complaining about losing a pick, Vickie was telling a story about a patient who’d come to the ER because he’d superglued his hands together on a dare. By your third beer, the edges had softened. You laughed when Eddie made a joke about Steve's hair.
Steve kept glancing at you, checking if you were okay, if you needed anything, and you wanted to tell him to stop, that you were fine, that you didn't need him to take care of you. But you also kind of liked that he was trying. That he cared enough to worry.
"—I can’t believe you actually wore that to school," Eddie was saying now, grinning at Steve. "That sweater was such a bad joke. The whole school was laughing at you for once."
Steve groaned, dramatically dropping his head in his hands. "Please stop."
"It had a reindeer on it," Eddie continued, clearly delighted at the memory. "King Steve was wearing the ugliest Christmas sweater with a light-up nose on it. People could see you coming from three hallways away."
Robin was laughing. "Please, please say there are pictures."
"There are definitely pictures," Eddie said. "It was in the yearbook and everything."
"It was for spirit week," Steve protested. "Ugly sweater day. That was the whole point."
"Except it wasn't ugly sweater day," you said, and immediately regretted it when everyone turned to look at you.
"What?" Eddie leaned forward, eyebrows raising.
You bit your lip, trying not to smile. "It wasn't ugly sweater day. That was the Friday. Steve wore it on Tuesday."
Steve dropped his head into his hands. "Oh my god."
"Wait wait wait," Robin said, waving her hands. "He wore it on the wrong day?"
"I told him it was Thursday," you said, unable to stop the smile now. "As a joke. Because he'd been insufferable all week about—I don't even remember what. And I figured he'd check the schedule himself, but he just—"
"Showed up in a light-up reindeer sweater on a random Tuesday," Eddie finished, absolutely delighted. "Oh, this is so much better than I thought."
"You told me it was Tuesday!" Steve said, looking at you with mock betrayal.
"I told you it was Tuesday as a joke, Steve. You were supposed to double-check!"
"I trusted you!"
"That was your first mistake," you said, and Eddie nearly choked on his beer laughing.
"So wait," Vickie said, smiling. "Everyone at school thought he was just being weird on purpose?"
"Oh, everyone had theories," you said, warming to the story now. "Some people thought he'd lost a bet. Some people thought he was trying to start a new trend. Tommy H told everyone Steve just wanted to wear it in for actual Christmas day."
"I got so much shit for that," Steve said, but he was smiling now too, shaking his head.
"You wore it on Friday too, though," you pointed out. "For the actual ugly sweater day."
"Because at that point I'd already committed! Everyone had seen it! I couldn't just not wear it again!"
Robin was wiping her eyes. "This is the best story I've ever heard. Please tell me you have more."
You glanced at Steve, who was giving you a look that was half-warning, half-amused.
"I might," you said carefully.
"Oh, you definitely do," Eddie said. "You dated him for what, three years? You've got to have dirt."
"So much dirt," you admitted, and Steve groaned.
"Please," Robin said. "I'm begging you. He never tells us anything funny from that time. And that was when he was doing the most stupid things"
You told them about the janitor’s closet (he'd been hiding from Coach after skipping practice and got stuck for forty-five minutes), and then about the time he'd tried to cook you dinner and set off the smoke alarm at his parents' house, and then somehow you were all trading stories. Eddie talked about Steve at the video store, Robin shared something about Steve crying at a documentary about penguins. And it was good. It was really good.
And when Steve's knee bumped yours under the table and stayed there, warm and solid and what you assumed was deliberate, you didn't move away.
It was when you were telling them the story about Steve’s attempt at serenading you to ‘I Want it That Way’ and how when he’d forgotten the words, he’d tried to rhyme ‘girl,’ ‘squirrel,’ and ‘beautiful basketball pearl, that someone called Steve’s name from across the bar.
You all turned to see Melissa Andrews weaving through the tables, smiling wide, and it only took you a second to place her. Cheer squad, junior and senior year. Always had extra hair ties and let you borrow her good mascara before games.
"Steve! Oh my god, hi!" She reached the table, then her eyes landed on you and lit up. "Wait—oh my god, is that you? I heard you were back!"
You stood up and she pulled you into a hug immediately. "It’s so good to see you," she said, squeezing your arms when she pulled back. "How are you? How long have you been back?"
"A few weeks. I’m good. How are you?"
"Good. Really good. Working for my dad’s firm, same boring stuff." She laughed and then looked at the table, at Steve. "Oh, are you guys here together?"
"Just—with everyone." What else were you supposed to say?
"That's so sweet. God, I can't believe—it feels like yesterday we were all in high school, you know?" She smiled at Steve, warm and familiar. "How've you been? It's been what, like six months?"
Steve's expression shifted, went careful. "Something like that. Yeah."
Six months since what, your brain supplied helpfully, and then immediately answered its own question when Melissa continued.
"I'm glad we stayed friends after—you know." She said it easily, casually, like it was nothing. "You're too nice. And you—" She turned to you again. "We have to catch up." Then, she turned to wave at the table, then disappeared into the crowd.
No one said anything. You picked at the beer label. Robin was looking between you and Steve with barely concealed curiosity; Eddie was picking at his beer label; Vickie looked confused.
"So," Eddie said finally. "Melissa seems nice."
"She is nice," Steve said quietly.
You picked up your beer, took a sip. It tasted like nothing.
Your brain was doing math you didn't want it to do: Melissa. Six months ago. Maybe less. How many dates was "a bit"? Two? Five? Ten? And before Melissa, who else? And after? Now?
How many people from your high school—people you'd known, people you'd been friends with—had Steve gone out with while you were gone?
"So," you said, trying to keep your voice as light as you can. The smile slipped into place. "Melissa. Small world, huh?"
Steve was watching you carefully, tugging at his lower lip like he wasn’t sure what he could say. "Small town."
You nodded, because that much was true. "I mean, Melissa’s great. She was always really sweet in high school, from what I remember." She’d also heard you talk about Steve, hear the intimate details about your breakup, and comforted you throughout it. But that was all the past. Water under the bridge.
Steve opened his mouth to say something, then closed it. "It wasn’t really—"
He didn’t finish the sentence, and after a moment of awkwardness, the conversation picked back up. Eddie was saying something about seeing Karen Wheeler at the grocery store, Vickie was asking if anyone wanted another round. You laughed and you nodded, but you felt separate from it now.
Steve shifted in his seat, knee bumping just slightly into yours. This time, you shifted in your seat to listen to Eddie. You took another sip of beer and tried to focus on what Eddie was saying—something about his band, a gig next weekend—but your brain kept circling back. Steve dated Melissa. Steve dated Melissa six months ago, which meant—what? You weren’t sure. But how many people was it from your past—people you’d run into at the store, or on the street, or at work—that you’d spoken with, caught up with, had dated Steve and you just had no idea?
You finished your beer, set the bottle down carefully on the table. Your hands were steady. That was good. You weren’t sure if they could tell you were drowning in a form of humiliation you hadn’t anticipated, but you had to get out of here.
"I think I'm gonna head out," you said, and it came out easy, casual. "Early shift tomorrow."
"On a Saturday?" Robin asked.
"Dr. Feldman's doing emergency appointments. Someone's got to answer the phones." It was a lie, but a believable one.
"That sucks," Eddie said.
"Yeah, well." You stood, grabbed your jacket from the back of the chair. "It was really nice meeting you guys. Thanks for letting me crash your night."
"You weren't crashing," Vickie said warmly. "It was so nice to meet you."
"Seriously, you should come out again," Eddie added. "Anytime Robin's in town. Or, you know, anytime. We're here a lot."
"I'll keep that in mind." You smiled at them because they'd been nice, because you'd actually had fun before Melissa showed up and reminded you of all the things you'd been trying not to think about.
Steve stood up. "I'll walk you out."
"You don't have to—"
"I want to."
Robin and Eddie exchanged a look that you pretended not to see.
The walk to the parking lot was quiet. Not the comfortable kind of quiet you'd been building toward earlier in the night, but the heavy kind where both people were thinking too much and didn't know what to say.
Your car was parked near the back, under the one working streetlight. When you reached it, you turned around and Steve was standing there with his hands in his pockets, looking at you like he was trying to solve an equation he didn't have all the variables for.
"Hey," Steve said. "You okay?"
"Mm-hm. Just tired." You smiled at him. "Early morning tomorrow."
He was watching you carefully. "Feldman has early appointments a lot?"
"Sometimes. You know how it is." Then, to make the mood lighter, you added, "Some people just get convinced their teeth will fall out over the weekend."
He was nodding along like he wasn’t completely listening. "Yeah, yeah. So—tonight was good, right? Robin, Vickie, Eddie. They thought you were cool. I could tell."
"They’re all really great, Steve," you said. "Thanks for letting me come. I mean it. It was really nice to hang out with more people."
"Yeah, I—" He paused. You’d reached your car and had opened the door without getting in yet. You turned to face him with your hand on the frame. "Was it Melissa?" he asked quickly. "Because she didn’t mean anything by it. The whole ‘staying friends’ thing. We just run into each other sometimes. It’s not—"
"Steve, it’s fine, really. You don’t need to explain anything." And you wish he really, really wouldn’t. "There’s nothing wrong that you did," you said, choosing your words as carefully as you could.
He was staring at you like he couldn’t figure out what to believe. Your words or the voice in his head.
"Okay," he said slowly. "But you’re being weird."
"Am not."
"Are too—"
"Okay," you said, forcing out a chuckle, trying to stop whatever was going on before the conversation turned immature. "I really do need to go. Devon’s probably waiting up. Rain check on the interrogation?" you said lightly.
"I’m not—" He stopped and rubbed the back of his neck. "Yeah. Okay. Rain check."
"Perfect." You got in the car, pulled the door shut before he could say anything else. You turned the window down because he was still standing there. "Thanks again for tonight. Really. Tell everyone I said bye."
"I will." You started the engine. He stepped back from the car, hands going to his pockets. You could feel him watching as you checked your mirrors, put it in reverse.
"Drive safe," he said.
"Always do." You smiled at him one last time and gave him one little wave.
He lifted his hand but didn't wave back. Just stood there as you pulled out of the spot, and you kept your eyes on the rearview as you left, watching him get smaller in the frame. He hadn't moved. Still standing in the same spot under the streetlight, hands in his pockets, staring after your car.
You turned onto the main road and he disappeared from view. Three blocks away, you had to pull into the parking lot of a closed gas station and turn off the engine.
Your hands were shaking. Your palms pressed flat against your thighs. Breathed. In for four counts, out for four. The way Madame Petrova had taught you before recitals when you were thirteen and you thought you might throw up from your nerves.
You were trying your best to avoid Steve during pick up the next Tuesday. Devon had genuinely felt bad about not being able to take over this time after you told her bits and pieces of what you’d heard at The Hideout, but you couldn’t blame her. You’d been voluntarily coming after your shift to pick up Carter at 4:45, recently with a smile on your face at the chance for general social interaction with someone aside from the people at the clinic who knew you from this girl’s sister or that boy’s tutor.
You parked at your usual spot but stayed in the car an extra minute. Practice was wrapping up, kids were scattering across the field, Steve was near the dugout gesturing at something, probably explaining proper sliding technique or why you couldn’t bat after a strikeout.
Carter noticed you first and waved so hard his body shook with it. You got out, locked the door, and smiled at him.
Steve looked up and raised his hand in greeting and nodded. You nodded back.
Carter jogged over, face red and sweaty, backpack half-zipped and dragging. "I made the coolest catch today!"
"Hey, that’s great," you said, smiling down at him as you ruffled his mussed up hair.
Steve was walking over. You started asking Carter if he had his water bottle and his glove and if he needed help tying his shoelaces. He didn’t, which meant his shoelaces were going to stay untied.
"Hey," Steve said as he reached you.
"Hi," you glanced at him, smiling briefly. "How was it today?"
"Good. Yeah. Same old, but they’re getting better." He shifted his weight from foot to foot. "Carter’s been getting amazing at his accuracy, though," he said, moving his eyes to the smaller bystander to this situation.
Carter smiled at Steve then wandered a few feet away to watch two other kids mess around near second base before you could stop him.
He’d left you and Steve to stand there with the silence stretching. There was no reason to stay.
"So, we’re gonna—"
"So, uh—" Steve rubbed the back of his neck. "How’ve you been?"
You planted your feet in the spot again. "Pretty good. Busy."
"Yeah. Cool." He nodded too many times. "That’s good."
After another beat of silence, Steve continued, "Hey, so I don’t know if you’d be interested, but—" He was talking faster now, like he’d been working up the courage to get this out before he lost his nerve. "You remember Mrs. Stone? The drama teacher? She’s kind of freaking out right now because they’re doing the spring recital and she doesn’t have anyone who knows choreography because the dance teacher isn’t dancing anymore, so she’s been trying to figure it out herself but it’s—it’s kind of a disaster, honestly." His voice went lower at the last part, which made you wonder if he’d sat in on one of the rehearsals and seen the disaster in real time.
You looked at him, an eyebrow raised. He kept going.
"And I know you did all those routines for the competitions and choreographed for cheer, and they were always—really good. Like really good. And I just thought maybe you’d want to help? It’s only for six weeks, and rehearsals are on Mondays and Wednesdays and Fridays around this time." He paused. "I don’t know if that’d be a problem with your schedule. But, I—"
"Steve—"
"—And I know you haven’t been doing that anymore, but I thought, maybe—" He stopped himself. "I don’t know. I thought you’d be great at it. That’s all."
There was something so desperate in the way he said it, like he was trying to fix something without knowing what was wrong.
You tried to think over your words. "I don’t know if I’m the right person for it," you said carefully.
"You are. Trust me." He was looking at you now. "Mrs. Stone’s got these kids trying to do a number with flips and it’s—it’s bad. Like, someone’s going to break an ankle bad. They need someone who actually knows what they’re doing."
"I’ve never taught—well, not like that, you know?"
"But you could. You were always—" He stopped, eyes wavering over your entire face like he was reliving the memories. "You were always really good at it all. I don’t think half the dance or cheer team had any idea what to do before you took over."
Your chest felt tight. You looked away from him. "When would she need an answer?"
"Soon, probably. The recital’s in six weeks."
"That’s not a lot of time," you said softly.
"I know. I know, no pressure. But just—" He was fidgeting with his hands now. "Just think about it? That's all I'm asking. Just think about it."
Carter was drifting back over now, curiosity getting the better of him. "Think about what?"
"Grown-up stuff," Steve said automatically.
"That's what everyone always says when they don't want to tell me things."
"That's because it's true, bud."
You watched Steve with Carter and the easy way they talked to each other, the way Carter looked at him like he hung the moon. You thought about those kids trying to choreograph themselves. About the high school cutting the arts and nobody stepping in to fill the gap. About Madame Petrova's voice in your head saying again until you got it right.
"Okay," you said quietly.
Steve's head snapped up. "Yeah?"
"Yeah. I'll—I'll call her. Or you can give her my number. Whatever."
"Really?"
"Don't make me change my mind."
A smile broke across his face—genuine, relieved, the kind that made your stomach flip before you could stop it. "That's—that's great. Really great. She's going to be so happy. The kids are going to be so happy."
"I haven't said yes to her yet."
"But you will. I know you will." He was grinning now, and you hadn't seen him look this pleased with himself before. "You're going to be really good at this."
"You don't know that."
"I do, actually."
Carter was looking up at you now, confused but intrigued. "Wait, what are you doing?"
"Maybe helping with the school musical," you said. "Maybe."
"That's so cool! Can I come watch?"
"We'll see."
"That means yes," he told Steve confidently.
"It means we'll see," you corrected, but you were smiling despite yourself.
Steve was still watching you, something soft in his expression. "Thank you. Really. For doing this."
"I haven't done anything yet."
"But you will." He said it with certainty like he knew you better than you knew yourself. "Mrs. Stone's usually in her classroom after school. Room 204. Or I can just—I'll tell her to expect your call?"
"You can tell her." You shifted your weight, suddenly aware of how long you'd been standing here. How easy it had been to slip back into talking to him. "I should get Carter home."
"Right. Yeah. Of course." He stepped back, hands going to his pockets. "See you Thursday?"
"Mhm."
Carter grabbed your hand, already pulling you toward the car. "Bye Coach Steve!"
"See you Thursday, kid!"
You didn't look back until you were in the car. Steve was still standing there, watching you leave. You lifted your hand off the steering wheel, waved back, and got yourself out of there as soon as possible.
You’d found your bag in a box filled with your things, shoved behind a box of yearbooks and old cheer uniforms. Navy blue with your initials embroidered on the side in gold thread, a sixteenth birthday present from your mom. The zipper was still stuck in the same place, and you found something ironic about that. Inside were a pair of beat-up jazz shoes you’d forgotten you owned, an old water bottle with about fifty stickers from so many different things, athletic tape gone slightly sticky with age, a scrunchie that smelled faintly of the vanilla you’d worn all of junior year.
You’d pulled it out, dusted it off, and before you could think better of it, you’d packed it with newer things. Fresh water bottle. Clean towel. The notebook where you’d started sketching ideas for the choreography when you couldn’t sleep at 2 AM.
After you’d introduced yourself to the high school group, you’d surprisingly managed to dodge most of the questions related to your time in high school (and there were a lot of questions). Who did you assign captain after you graduated? Whose sister won ‘most likely to be famous’ in the yearbook superlatives? How long were you and Steve Harrington together? The latter topic, unsurprisingly, involved the most questions. How did you two start dating? And how did he ask you to be his homecoming date, and how could the boy asking the question ask his current girlfriend to be his homecoming date?
You were heavily reconsidering whether you had it in you to do this after the first run-through. The kids knew the basic steps Mrs. Stone had taught them, but there was no uniformity or energy or sense of music. Two were doing an entirely different dance from everyone else. One girl in the back looked like she was going to cry out of sheer confusion. A boy in the front was clearly making up his own routine as the song went along.
You hadn’t reconsidered, and two weeks later you were sweating through your t-shirt despite the gym’s aggressive air-conditioning. Your voice was hoarse from counting, but they'd run the opening eight-count twelve times in a row without a single person off-beat.
It wasn't perfect. Not even close. Sarah—the girl with the ponytail—still dropped her shoulder on the fifth count. Marcus—the boy who'd asked about Steve—kept forgetting to spot his turns. But they were together. They were listening. They were trying.
"Good," you said, and you meant it. "That's what I wanted to see. We'll pick up here on Wednesday, okay? And I want everyone to practice those counts at home. In the shower, while you're doing homework, waiting in line at the grocery store, I don't care. Just practice."
They scattered—grabbing bags, pulling out phones, collapsing dramatically onto the stage the way only teenagers could—and you bent down to grab your water bottle, your lower back protesting the movement.
You'd been on your feet demonstrating for two hours and your body was already reminding you that you hadn't done this in four years. Your calves were tight. Your shoulders ached. There was a knot between your shoulder blades that wouldn't release no matter how you rolled them.
But it was the good kind of sore. The kind that meant you'd actually done something.
"That was amazing."
You turned andMrs. Stone was standing there with her binder clutched to her chest, looking at you like you'd just performed a miracle.
"It wasn't—I mean, they still need a lot of work—"
"They were flailing around like drunk squirrels before you got here," she said, and you had to fight the urge to laugh at the image. "What you just did in two hours—I've been trying to get them to understand counts for three weeks. You're a natural at this."
The compliment settled somewhere in your chest, filling something. You weren’t quite sure what it was yet.
"Thank you," you said quietly. "I'm just—I'm glad I can help."
On the third week, you were shoving the last of the rehearsal CDs into your bag when you heard the gym door crack open behind you.
"Hey."
You didn’t need to turn around to know it was Steve. You’d developed a sixth sense for his presence over the past few weeks, and could feel the air shift before you heard his voice.
"Hey yourself." You straightened, rolling your shoulders backwards. The knot between your shoulderblades pulled tight and you winced.
He was wearing a maroon sweater that was slightly fraying at the edges. His hair looked like he’d been running his hands through them repeatedly.
"Didn’t know you were still here," you said, bending to grab your water bottle from where it had rolled under the bleachers.
"Had to finish grading papers. Heard music coming from down here." He walked closer, and you tracked his movement in your peripheral vision, noticing the easy lope of his stride, hands sliding into his pockets. "Thought maybe the drama kids were summoning spirits or something."
"Close. Just teaching them to count to eight."
He laughed, and the sound bounced around the gym. "How’s it going? The rehearsals?"
You stood, wiping your palms on your leggings. They were damp from sweat and from that nervous energy that hadn't left you since you'd agreed to do this. "It's... going. They're getting better. Slowly. Very, very slowly."
"But they are getting better?"
"Yeah." You couldn't help the smile. "Yeah, they are. Today we actually made it through the opening number without anyone forgetting which direction stage left is."
"That's huge."
"It's something." You grabbed your bag, slinging it over your shoulder. The weight of it—familiar and grounding—settled against your hip. "One of them asked me today if I'd ever considered teaching professionally. Like, as a job."
"What'd you say?"
You paused, replaying the moment. Sarah with the ponytail had asked it so earnestly, like the thought had just occurred to her and she had to share it immediately. The way sixteen-year-olds asked questions was always unfiltered, and always assumed the answer was simple.
"I told her I'd never really thought about it." You started walking toward the door and Steve fell into step beside you. "But I have now, I guess. Been thinking about it."
"And?"
"And I don't know." You pushed through the gym doors and the hallway air hit you—warmer, staler, smelling like industrial cleaner and teenage desperation. "It's nice, though. Teaching them. Watching them figure it out. This one girl, Emily, she couldn't get the timing on this turn sequence. We stayed fifteen minutes after everyone left and just broke it down, over and over, until—" You stopped yourself, realizing you'd been talking faster. "Sorry. I'm rambling."
"No, you're not." He hit the push bar on the main entrance door, holding it open for you. "You're excited. It's different."
The parking lot was mostly empty now, just your car and his parked three spaces apart, both facing the baseball field. The sun was starting its descent, turning everything orange-pink. That specific late afternoon light that made Hawkins look almost pretty if you didn't think too hard about it.
"You look different, too," he said, and when you glanced over, he was studying your face. "Less..."
"Miserable?" you offered.
"I was gonna say tired. But yeah, that too." He leaned against his car, arms crossed. The whistle swung slightly against his chest. "Looks good on you. The happy thing."
Something warm bloomed under your ribs. You tried to ignore it, but it spread anyway, filling more spaces you'd forgotten were hollow.
"Steve—"
"You wanna get a drink?"
He said it fast, as though he was finding space to launch the question before he could overthink it. His hand went to the back of his neck and you could practically feel him trying to reel it back and make it casual.
"I mean, not like a drink-drink. Or it could be. Whatever you want." He was looking at the parking lot and his shoes and anywhere but your face. "Just thought—you’ve been working hard, I’ve been working hard, and there’s half-price appetizers at the Hideaway on Wednesdays, which is today. Wednesday, so."
You bit your lip, trying not to smile at how completely he was fumbling this. Steve Harrington, who used to ask you out with the kind of confidence that bordered on cocky, now tumbling over the suggestion of french fries and beer.
"So you're asking me out for half-price appetizers?"
"I'm asking if you want to hang out." He finally looked at you again, and there was something vulnerable in his expression. "As friends. Or not friends. I don't—fuck." He laughed, self-deprecating. "I used to be better at this."
"You really weren't."
"I definitely was."
"Steve, your first attempt at asking me out involved you 'accidentally' blocking my locker so I'd have to talk to you."
"That was strategic."
"That was obvious."
"But it worked." He was smiling now, some of that nervousness easing into something more familiar. "So what do you say? The Hideaway? I'll even let you order the loaded fries this time instead of pretending you don't want them."
You shifted your bag higher on your shoulder, feeling the weight of your old dance shoes against your hip. The ones you'd found in a box. The ones you'd thought you'd never use again.
Your car was right there. You could say you were tired—which you were—or that you had an early morning—which you did. You could smile and say rain check and drive home and spend the evening scrolling through apartment listings that you couldn’t comfortably afford.
Or you could say yes to Steve Harrington in a parking lot bathed in orange-pink light, asking you to hang out with all the grace of a teenage boy even though you were both twenty-one and should know better.
"Yeah," you said. "Okay. Let's get a drink."
His whole face changed—lit up in a way that made your chest tight.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah.." You pulled your keys from your bag. "And if you try to pay for my fries, I'm leaving."
"Deal. No—wait. What if I just pay for my fries and accidentally order way too many and you have to help me eat them?"
"That's the same thing."
"It's completely different."
You were already walking toward your car, but you were smiling. Genuinely smiling, and it was the kind that reached your eyes and made your cheeks ache. "I'll meet you there in forty. Gotta freshen up quickly. I’m all sweaty"
"Make it thirty," he called after you. "Those fries wait for no one."
You unlocked your car, tossed your bag in the passenger seat, where it landed with a soft thud, your old water bottle rattling against the new one. Through the windshield you could see Steve still standing by his car, watching you. When you looked over, he raised his hand in a small wave.
You’d ordered an Amaretto Sour while Steve ordered a Jack and Coke. You’d opted for The Hideaway this time because you wanted the fries and were sure you were going to drop dead from your day of answering phone calls, then teaching high schoolers a dance routine, going home to shower, then immediately coming here. You and Steve had claimed the back booth, the one where someone had carved ‘CLASS OF ‘79’ into the table edge where the vinyl was patched with duct tape.
Steve shrugged out of his jacket, and you watched him fold it twice before settling it into the seat beside him. It was a habit you didn’t remember him having. He used to just throw his jacket anywhere. You picked at the cocktail napkin under your glass, peeling it into damp strips while he settled beside you.
"Carter asked me today if I thought he could pitch in the majors." Steve was grinning now, eyes crinkling at the corners. "He wanted to know what age recruiters started looking. The kid who can’t put on his backpack properly at one go is already planning his draft year."
"Oh, my god. Devon’s gonna kill you." You pressed your fingers to your temples. "He’s already asking for more gear for his birthday. She’s gonna start sending you the bills. He’s also gonna start asking for a pitching coach"
"I am a pitching coach."
"A real one."
"Wow. Okay." But he was smiling, the corners of his eyes crinkled ever so slightly. "That’s how it is."
You mockingly tipped your glass in his direction. "That’s how it is."
The conversation started drifting after that, both of you having had. He’d told you how Joyce Byers and former Chief Hopper had moved to Montauk.
"Remember when he tried to arrest you?" You were smiling before you finished your sentence.
Steve’s hands stopped halfway to his glass. "He did no—" He stared at you for a second, mouth opened. "Holy shit, he did. God, I completely forgot about that." He started laughing, the kind of laugh that built slow and then took over his whole body. "It was partially your fault."
"Who told you to park behind a construction site?"
"You did!" He pointed at you with a fry, laughing now. "You specifically said ‘no one ever goes back there.’"
"I said no one goes there during the day."
"That is not—" He was laughing again. "That is not what you said. You specifically said—" He put on a voice, one that was higher than yours ever was. "‘No one ever goes there, Steve. It’s fine’"
"I do not sound like that." You smiled into your straw. "I totally did that."
"I rest my case. You were always the reason for our worst decisions." When you gasped, he continued, "You’re the reason I had to drive for an hour at three in the morning."
"You’re the one who said you were craving IHOP!"
"And you were the one who said ‘lets go right now," he shot back immediately, like the memory was just on the tip of his tongue.
"Because you wouldn't shut up about it!"
The bartender dropped off another round for which neither of you had asked, but you were both nearly done with your drinks, so it worked out. Steve immediately grabbed a fry from the basket that had appeared at some point.
"Okay, but that trip was worth it," you said. "We had an entire diner to ourselves."
"Because it was three in the morning."
"And you spilled syrup all over the seat."
You both were grinning when Steve’s arm draped over the back of the booth as he shifted further into it.
"Hey, I’ve been meaning to ask you—" He scratched slightly at his chin. "Was—is everything okay? About the Melissa thing?"
You cleared your throat, caught slightly off guard by the question. "Yeah. I mean, I said so."
"Yeah, but you’d also been—sort of—avoiding me after."
"I mean, I don’t know what to tell you, Steve." You let out a short laugh, wishing that you could reset and never let this conversation begin. "It was just weird, I guess. I don’t know how to explain it."
"Try?" he said, and you could hear the little uptick in his voice.
"I can’t imagine dating, like, Tommy H. or Benny or any of your old friends, you know? It would feel too weird."
"Well, I hope you don’t date Tommy H., he’s an asshole." Then, he added, "But yeah, I guess I didn’t think of it that way.
"I—I’m not saying you should’ve." You took another sip of your drink. Dutch courage was your way to get through this situation. You traced your glass with one finger. "I think—" You stopped, then started again. "I guess I always thought we were building something. Like long-term. And maybe that was just me being seventeen and stupid, but…" You shrugged. "I guess seeing Melissa just reminded me that for you, it was just—high school."
He was quiet enough that you looked up, and you were fearing that there it was. You’d said it, the wrong thing, and made everything wrong wrong wrong. His jaw was tight, and he was staring at his drink.
"It was serious to me," he said, voice softening as he tilted his head to look at you. "Not just high school or whatever bullshit you’re saying."
"Was it?" you said, trying to keep your tone gentle. Then, you loosely waved a hand. "I was young and dramatic and it was my first real relationship. Of course I spent years thinking it was everything."
Steve shook his head at your words, brows furrowing. "It was everything. To me, too."
"Steve—"
"Hey, I’m just saying. I’m not liking how you’re talking like you’re the only one who cared. Like I didn’t."
"I didn’t say that."
"You kinda did." His hand was still on the booth behind you, fingers drumming absently. "I may have not always—well, treated you that way. But I just want you to know I did care."
The air between you felt too thick now. You smiled tightly. "Yeah," you said, nodding. "I appreciate you saying that."
You took a sip of your drink and he grabbed another fry.
"So, you’re not going to avoid me at practice anymore?"
"I wasn’t avoiding you."
"You absolutely were."
"Maybe a bit." You smiled. "It’s fine now."
"Good." His fingers brushed against your shoulder where his arm was draped, casual and easy. "Because I do like hanging out with you. Don’t want you disappearing on me."
You felt something lodge in your throat and tried to swallow it down. "Okay."
"Good," he repeated, a the corners of his mouth twitching up. "Well, so much about who I’ve been with. What did you get up to?" He raised a brow. "Three years of college must’ve brought someone."
You laughed despite yourself, reaching for another fry. "You really want to know?"
"Fair’s fair, right?" He was watching you with an almost-curious expression.
"There was someone. For about a year and a half."
His hand stilled on your shoulder for a moment. "Year and a half’s pretty serious."
"It was." You chewed on the fry. "He was going to be an investment banker. You know, that type? Patagonia and a trust fund and all that."
Steve’s nose wrinkled. "Sounds like a catch." His thumb brushed against your shoulder.
You continued, "He asked me to move to New York with him after graduation. That maybe I’d want to get a fresh slate in a ‘real’ city."
Steve hummed.
"So I ended it three months before I decided to come back here. He called me a quitter, but it was worth it."
"I think that’s the last thing someone would call you." He took a sip of his drink.
The silence stretched for a moment too long. Somewhere around you, someone fed quarters into the jukebox and Tom Petty started playing. Steve finished his drink in two long swallows.
"You want to play?" He nodded toward the pool table where the couple was gathering their jackets.
You looked at him and the way his fingers were drumming against the table. He needed to move. So did you.
"Pool?"
"Mhm. Unless you’re scared to lose."
You raised an eyebrow. "I’m definitely not scared."
"Prove it."
You slid out of the booth and he followed. His hand briefly touched the small of your back as you walked toward the pool table. The touch was light, and you were wearing a sweater, but it still made your skin warm through the touch.
The previous players had the courtesy to rack the balls. Steve grabbed two cues from the wall rack, testing the weight of each before handing you one. "You break."
"Trying to be a gentleman?"
Steve leaned on the edge of the table, grinning. "Trying to get a good look at your form. See if you’ve gotten rusty."
You lined up your shot, very aware of how he was watching you. The cue also felt familiar in your hands; you’d played enough in high school, usually at parties, and even more at college.
The break was clean and solid cracks of ball scattered across the felt. Two stripes fell.
"Stripes," you said, straightening up.
"Good shit." He moved to stand closer, watching as you circled the table for your next shot. "Remember that time you beat Pat three games in a row and he tried to convince the entire party you were cheating?"
"All of you were such sore losers." You leaned down for your next shot, the 11 ball in the corner pocket. "He kept saying I was distracting him."
"Well." He clicked his tongue.
"I was just playing pool."
"You were wearing that—" He stopped himself and took a sip of his drink instead.
You missed your shot. "Wearing what?"
"My turn." But his ears had gone slightly pink.
He moved around the table, chalking his cue. You tried not to watch the way his hands moved, the way his shoulders shifted under his shirt as he lined up his shot. Tried and failed.
"The purple top," he said suddenly, not looking at you. "With the—the straps."
You remembered that top. Spaghetti straps, low-cut, the one your mom said was too revealing. You'd worn it specifically because Steve had mentioned he liked purple.
"You remember what I wore to a party five years ago?"
"I remember a lot of things about you." He sank the 3 ball, then moved to line up his next shot. "You used to bite your lips when you were concentrating. You’re doing it now."
You released your lip from between your teeth. "I don't—"
"You do." He missed his next shot, stepped back. "You also used to cheat."
"I did not cheat."
"You absolutely cheated. You'd lean over right in my line of sight and—"
"That’s not cheating, that’s being easily distracted."
"Same difference."
You moved to take your shot, very aware now of how you were standing, how he was watching. The 9 ball was an easy shot, straight line to the side pocket. But your hand was less steady than it should be.
"You're thinking about it now," he said from behind you. Close behind you. "About whether you're distracting me."
"I'm thinking about making this shot."
"You're thinking about both."
He wasn't wrong. You took the shot. Made it. Moved to find your next one.
The 10 ball was on the far end of the table. You had to lean across, stretching to line it up properly. You felt Steve move, sensed him coming closer even before you heard his footsteps.
"You're gonna scratch if you hit it that hard," he said, right behind you now.
"I'm not going to scratch."
"Your angle's off."
"It's not."
"It is. Here—" His hand covered yours on the cue, adjusting your grip.
His hand covered yours on the cue before you could argue. His chest pressed against your back, and suddenly you couldn't remember the shot you were trying to make, couldn't remember anything except the way his thumb brushed over your knuckles as he adjusted your grip. He smelled like whiskey and the same detergent he'd used in high school, and you wondered if he knew that, if he'd chosen it deliberately or if it was just habit.
"See?" His breath stirred against your ear. "It’s more to the left."
You felt heavy all of a sudden and couldn’t breathe properly. "Got it?"
"Yeah?" His thumb pressed between the hollow of your knuckles. "You sure?"
Your heart was trying not to escape through your body out your throat. "Steve."
"Mm?"
"You’re not helping."
"I know."
"Let me make the shot, Steve," you said through a chuckle, slightly using your arm to push him off."
He laughed roughly before stepping back.
You took the shot. Sank it. Barely.
"Lucky," he said.
"Skill."
You straightened up, turned to face him. He was closer than you expected, close enough that you had to tilt your head back slightly to meet his eyes.
"Your turn," you said.
"Right." But he didn't move and kept looking at you.
The air between you felt electric. The bar noise faded into background static; someone's laughter, the clink of glasses, a song you didn't recognize playing from the jukebox. All of it distant and muffled compared to the sound of your own heartbeat.
"Steve—"
"Hm?"
"Hi," you said, tilting your head to the side.
A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Hi."
His hand came up, and for a second you were bracing yourself for him to touch your face. But instead he plucked the pool cue from your grip and set it down on the table behind you without looking. His eyes remained on yours.
"I’m gonna kiss you now," he said.
"Okay."
His hand slid to your waist, and there was a pause—just a breath, maybe less— where his thumb hooking through your belt loop and just stayed there. Then, he pulled you in, and you went, the inch of space between you disappearing.
The kiss was soft at first—almost careful—his lips pressing against yours like he was relearning the shape of your mouth through the shape of muscle memory four years old. You felt him hesitate and question in the gentleness, and something in your chest cracked open.
You pressed your lips against his a little harder, just for a second, and then his other hand came up to cradle the back of your head. He kissed you deeper, tongue sliding against yours in a way that almost made you lose your balance. The pool table bit into your lower back as you swayed, and you grabbed onto his shirt, fabric bunching in your fists, just to stay upright.
He pulled back just enough to breathe, nose brushing against yours, foreheads touching. His eyes were still closed. "Fuck."
"Yeah."
Then he was kissing you again, tilting your head back with his hands in your hair. He tilted your head back with the hand in your hair, angling you exactly where he wanted you, and you let him. Let him kiss you like he'd been thinking about this for weeks, months, maybe years. Like he'd been holding back and had finally decided to stop.
You remembered this even through the haze of the alcohol and him and the way the bar had gone blurry around the edges. How Steve kissed you, how he gave it his whole attention, his whole body, like both of you would die if you’d stopped. His hand on your waist slid around to the small of your back, pressing you closer until you were flush against him.
You broke away for air, dizzy, and he immediately redirected, pressing kisses along your jaw. Open-mouthed and deliberate, working his way down to the spot just below your ear that he definitely, definitely still remembered.
"Steve," you breathed, fingers tightening in his shirt.
"Mm." The sound vibrated against your skin. His lips traveled lower, finding the spot just below your ear, and your breath caught audibly. His teeth grazed your pulse point and you gasped, the sound embarrassingly loud even though you could barely hear it over the noise around you.
He smiled against your neck. You felt his lips curve. "Still sensitive there."
"We're—" You had to stop to breathe when he sucked lightly at the spot. "We're in public."
"I know." But he didn't stop. His hand had somehow worked its way under the hem of your shirt, thumb brushing the bare skin just above your hip. "Should probably stop."
"Probably."
His mouth moved lower, to the junction of your neck and shoulder, and his hand on your back pressed you impossibly closer. You could feel him against your hip—hard and obvious—and the knowledge sent a jolt down your spine.
Someone laughed too loud at the bar. A glass broke. The song changed to something with a heavier bass line. None of it mattered.
When you finally pulled away, you were both breathing hard. His lips were red and slightly swollen, hair messed up from where your fingers had threaded through it without you realizing.
"Come home with me," he said.
"Steve—"
"I don’t want this to end tonight." His hand flexed against your back.
You should say no and suggest coffee tomorrow, keeping this slow, not rushing into something that could blow up in both your faces. But this was what it was, casual. Something that was bound to happen. Something you had to get out of your system before it came out during unwanted times.
But his forehead was pressed to yours again and you could feel his breath—quick and uneven—and his hand was still under your shirt, thumb still tracing patterns on your skin. And you'd spent four years trying to be smart, trying to make good decisions, trying to be the person you thought you were supposed to be. Maybe just for tonight, you could want something. Could take something. Could let yourself have this without overthinking it into nothing.
"Okay," you said.
His eyes searched yours. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." You released your grip on his shirt, smoothed the wrinkles you'd created. Your hands were shaking slightly. "Let's go."
His whole face changed—relief and want and something softer you didn't want to name. He kissed you again, hard and quick, then grabbed your hand.
He doubled back without letting go, pulled out a bill, placed it on the table, grabbed his jacket, and you were moving again.
"Wait," you said as you hit the parking lot. The cool air was a shock after the warmth of the bar. "We can't drive. We're—we've had too much."
Steve stopped, turned to look at you. For a second you thought he might argue, but then he nodded. "You're right. Shit. Okay." He ran his free hand through his hair. "I only live like five minutes from here. We could walk?"
"You want to walk?"
"I want you to come home with me." He said it simply. "Walking, driving, fucking teleporting—I don't care. Just—" His thumb stroked your cheek. "Please don't change your mind."
"I'm not changing my mind." You laughed slightly.
"Promise?"
Instead of answering, you kissed him. Rose up on your toes and kissed him there on the sidewalk in front of The Hideaway, and he made this sound—relief and surprise mixed together—and kissed you back.
When you pulled away, you were both smiling.
"Come on," you said, lacing your fingers through his. "Show me where you live."
His grin was immediate, bright enough to compete with the streetlights. The air outside was sharp enough to clear your head a little, the in-between where the air was deciding whether it wanted it to be winter yet. Steve immediately laced his fingers through yours this time and started walking, pulling you along with him.
The streets were quiet. Hawkins on a Wednesday night never had much going on. A few cars passed, some porch lights were still on, but mostly it was just the two of you and the sound of your footsteps on pavement.
"This is weird, right?" you said after a minute. "Walking through Hawkins like this."
"Good weird or bad weird?"
"I don't know yet."
He laughed, tugging you closer until your shoulder bumped his. "Remember when we used to walk home from parties?"
"You mean when you used to walk me home because I wasn't allowed to be out past midnight?"
"Your mom loved me. She never actually cared when you got home."
"She definitely cared. She just liked you too much to say anything."
"See? Loved me." He was quiet for a moment, then: "I used to take the long way on purpose. Make it last longer."
Something warm bloomed in your chest. "I knew you were doing that."
"You did?"
"Steve, your house was in the opposite direction. You'd walk me home then walk like twenty minutes back to yours."
"Worth it," he said simply.
You passed under a streetlight and he tugged your hand, spinning you under his arm without warning. You stumbled, laughing, and he caught you around the waist.
"What are you doing?"
"I don't know. Felt right." He was grinning down at you, and you were suddenly very aware of how close you were standing, how his hands fit perfectly on your waist. "You used to let me do that all the time."
"We were usually dancing."
"We're dancing now."
"We're standing in the middle of the sidewalk."
"Same thing." He started swaying slightly, pulling you with him, and you couldn't help but laugh.
"There's no music."
"So? We don't need music." He spun you out again, this time humming something off-key that might have been nothing at all.
"You're ridiculous."
"You're smiling though."
You were. You were smiling so wide your cheeks hurt, and when he pulled you back in and kissed you—soft and sweet and tasting like whiskey—you were still smiling against his mouth.
"Come on," he said, taking your hand again. "Before I decide to just keep you out here all night."
You walked for another minute in comfortable silence, your hand warm in his, before he spoke again.
"That's where you fell off your bike in eighth grade," he said, pointing to a spot near the Richardson’s driveway. "Busted your knee open. I had to walk you home."
"We weren't even dating yet."
"I know. I still carried your bike the whole way." He squeezed your hand. "And then your mom gave me cookies."
"She always gave you cookies."
"Best part of walking you home. That’s why I always did when we were together."
"The cookies?"
"Well—" He looked at you, something soft in his expression. "Second best part."
Your heart. Stupid, stupid heart. "Steve—"
"That's where Tommy tried to fight that guy from the baseball team," he interrupted, pointing to another corner. "Remember? You had to break it up."
"I didn't break it up. I threatened to call his mom."
"Same thing. You were terrifying." He pulled you closer, arm going around your shoulders now. "Still are, actually."
"I'm not terrifying."
"You made three teenagers cry during rehearsal last week."
"That was one kid. And she was crying because she finally got the turn sequence right."
"Still counts."
You elbowed him in the ribs and he laughed, the sound echoing down the quiet street. His arm tightened around you and yours went around his waist, and walking became this stumbling thing where you were too close together to move properly but neither of you cared.
"This is nice," he said after a moment.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. I missed this. Just—" He gestured vaguely with his free hand. "Being with you. Feels right."
You didn't know what to say to that, so you just pressed closer into his side. His apartment building was visible now, just up ahead, and you felt your stomach flip.
"That's me," he said, pointing to a brick building with external stairs. "Third floor."
"Nice."
"It's small. Nothing fancy." He was rambling now, nervous. "But it's clean. Usually. I mean, I didn't know you were coming over so I didn't—but it should be fine. Probably."
"Steve."
"Yeah?"
You stopped walking, turned to face him. "It's fine. I don't care what your apartment looks like."
"No?"
"Nope." You reached up, fingers curling into the front of his shirt. "Not here for the apartment."
His tipped his head down to meet your eyes as he smiled slightly. "What are you here for?"
Instead of answering, you kissed him. Rose up on your toes and kissed him right there on the sidewalk in front of his building, and he made a small sound as he pulled you closer to him.
When you pulled away, you were both breathing hard again.
"Inside," he said roughly. "We should really—inside. Now."
"Yeah. Okay."
His hands were shaking as he tried to get his keys out of his pocket.
"You're not helping," he muttered, finally getting the keys free from his pockets. One of them slipped from his fingers and clattered on the ground. He bent to grab it, and you pressed against his back, arms sliding around his waist.
"I'm not trying to."
"Yeah, I’m getting that." He was smiling when he straightened, and his hands covered both of yours where they were linked at his stomach. His thumb traced over your knuckle once before he turned the key in the lock.
The stairs were narrow—the kind where you had to go single-file or risk knocking into the railing—and Steve kept your hand in his the entire way up, pulling you behind him. Second floor, third door on the left. He fumbled with the keys again and you almost offered to do it for him, but then the door swung open and he was pulling you inside.
You had a split-second impression of the place—small, wood floors that needed refinishing, a couch that looked like it came from someone's basement, the smell of coffee and laundry detergent and something distinctly Steve that had no specific things you could point to—before he turned and his mouth found yours again.
This kiss was different from the ones at the bar; it felt hungrier. His hands cupped your face and he walked you backward until your spine hit the door, and the sound of it closing was the click of the lock and your bag sliding down your arm to hit the floor.
"Hi," he breathed against your lips.
"Hi, Steve." Your hands found the hem of his shirt, fingers slipping beneath to find warm skin.
You tell Steve that you don't think you're capable of orgasming with a guy. He's determined to prove you wrong.
pairing: steve harrington x reader
words: 4.2k
contains: (18+ smut!! minors dni) mutual masturbation, porn with very little plot, hint of friends to lovers, pet names, steve is packing, female reader, no use of y/n, she/her pronouns for reader.
author's note: request by @djobriens | this is inspired by that scene from off campus!! recently watched it and i am forever changed. this was yet another request that started as a blurb and ended up being way too long.
Telling one of your closest friends that a guy had never made you come had seemed like an okay idea at first. Unless that guy was Steve Harrington who took the news like it was a personal insult.
"What?" He asked, a look of horror on his face as he stared at you as though he was waiting for some sort of punchline. "Never? You're kidding right? This is some sort of sick joke—"
Your face feels hot as you look away from Steve, suddenly regretting telling him about your disappointing date from Saturday night. Suddenly regretting being too honest with him, about the lack of orgasms that you had received from men over the years. You would usually talk about this sort of stuff with Robin but she was on vacation with her family and you needed someone to vent to. And so, you had showed up to Steve’s under the guise of a movie night and general catch up.
But maybe venting to Steve had been a bad idea.
"Forget I said anything," you say quickly, leaning over to grab the large bowl of popcorn that had been sitting on Steve's lap and stuffing a large handful into your mouth just to avoid answering any further questions.
But of course—Steve wasn't going to let you off that easily.
"I'm serious!" Steve says, snatching the popcorn back and placing it on the coffee table before shifting on the sofa to look at you properly. "This is—this is abhorrent. Do you exclusively date selfish assholes or something?"
If you hadn't had a mouthful of popcorn, you would have probably argued with him. But instead you settle for sending him a glare as you chew what was left of the salty popcorn in your mouth.
"Do you finish when you touch yourself?"
You nearly choke on a popcorn kernel.
"Jesus Christ, Harrington!" you gasp out, your face now so hot you were surprised that steam wasn’t rising from your skin. “You can’t just ask me that—”
“—what?” Steve asks, seemingly confused why you were so taken aback by his question. “I’m trying to help—”
“—by asking me about masturbation?”
“I’m just trying to understand the situation!”
You huff because you knew deep down Steve had good intentions. You knew he wasn’t asking to be a creep—he was asking because he genuinely cared about you and wanted to help you with the situation. But talking about something so intimate with Steve made you feel a lot of things that you weren’t quite sure what to do with.
“Yes,” you say finally, determinedly not looking at Steve as you answer. “Yes, I um, I finish when I—you know—”
“—touch yourself?” Steve finishes for you and the words send heat coursing through your entire body. You shift on the couch beside him, eyes on his TV that was currently playing some sitcom you were no longer paying attention to. “C’mon, don’t be coy about it! Masturbation is normal! I do it at least three times a—”
“—Steve!” You scold him, your face somehow even hotter as you turn to glare at him. “I don’t need to know about how many times a week you jerk off—”
“—actually, I was going to say that I do it three times a day.”
You look at him and suddenly, any intelligent thought you had disappears. Because now all you could think about was Steve and what he’d look like fucking his fist with his cock. You would be lying if you said you hadn’t thought about Steve in that way before. He may be a good friend of yours but he was also stupidly attractive and wore jeans that hugged his lower half a little too well. Sometimes, if you had a chance to look at him for long enough, you could see the imprint of his thick cock over the denim. And his ass—
“You know I’m kidding right?” Steve asks you, seeming to take your lack of response as disgust—when in reality it was anything but. “I don’t—that’s just excessive. Few times a week is enough for me—”
“—okay, okay! I get it!” You interrupt, wanting him to stop talking because his words were going straight to your core and you didn’t want your traitorous eyes to shift down to his lap. “I don’t need to know your…schedule.”
Steve smiles a little before nudging you with his elbow. “It’s pretty rigorous, I’ll tell you that—”
“—Steven—”
“—sorry,” Steve grins at you before he finally looks away from you. You pray that he drops the entire conversation, that he doesn’t ask anymore questions so that you could finally take moment to relax—
“So, it’s not you—it’s just the guys that you’re seeing?”
“Steve, can’t we just—”
“—no, we can’t,” Steve says, sitting up and looking at you with a careful expression. “Listen—I know you feel awkward talking about this with me but—I just—I care about you and I care about the way guys treat you. And if they’re not making you come, not taking the time to work out what you want, then they’re not treating you right. I—I just want to make sure that you know it’s not you that’s the problem here. It’s them.”
You swallow because, god, why did he have to be so caring? Why did he know the exact right thing to say? And why did you have the sudden urge to press your thighs together?
“I dunno,” you say finally, your throat a little dry for reasons that had everything to do with the man sitting right beside you. “What if—what if guys just can’t make me come? Like I’m too complicated down there or—”
“—stop right there,” Steve interrupts, not unkindly but in a firm sort of way that shuts you up almost instantly. “What did I just say? It’s not you. You said you can make yourself come so I promise you—you’re not the problem. They are. They’re being selfish. They need to—they need to take the time to learn what your body needs. Ask you what you like, how you respond to what they’re doing to you.”
It was good advice, genuinely. But all you could think about as you listened to Steve was what he’d be like in bed. If he would take the time to learn what your body needed, if he would ask you what you liked, if he’d watch—lips parted and eyes wide—as your body writhed beneath him, as your plushy walls squeezed around his—
“I don’t know Steve,” you say quietly, worrying your bottom lip between your teeth as you try not to think too hard about the image you had of Steve’s head between your thighs, of his lips wet with your slick dripping down to his chin. “I don’t know if it’s just that. I mean—it’s not like what they’re doing is really bad because I get close, I—it’s like right before I get there—I just seize up or something.”
Steve listens carefully, his attention solely on you as you try your best to explain the issue and when you’re done, he takes a few seconds to mull over what you had just told him.
“These guys,” Steve begins, hazel eyes flickering between yours as he studies your expression. “Do you trust them?”
“What?” You ask, a little confused at the question. “I don’t know what you—”
“—do you trust them?” Steve repeats the question, not elaboration or clarification—just a small quirk of his brow as he waits for you to respond. “Do you trust them enough to let yourself go completely?”
The question takes you by surprise and you want to say yes—but the word dies on your tongue and the lack of a response was enough of an answer for Steve. He looks at you for a moment too long, hazel eyes studying you as though he was trying to look inside your brain.
“Do you trust me?”
You don’t even think as you nod—because of course you trusted Steve. You trusted him with your life. After everything that had happened in Hawkins, it was hard not to.
“Of course I—”
“—then make yourself come in front of me.”
The silence that greeted Steve’s words was deafening. You stare at him, eyes wide as you let his words truly sink in. You let yourself come to terms with the fact that you weren’t having some strange sex dream. That your good friend and guy you occasionally had inappropriate thoughts had just asked you to make yourself come in front of him.
“Why?” You ask him finally because though you were shocked—there was a large part of you that didn’t want to say no to his offer.
“I just—I think it might help,” Steve shrugs, trying to appear nonchalant but you notice the way the tips of his ears redden. “I mean sex is pretty fucking vulnerable so you might just need an experience with someone you trust who cares about you. So you know it’s okay to—to let go in front of someone.”
The way he says it—with so much care in his voice that it almost makes you forget about the whole making yourself come in front of him thing. He makes it sound so sweet that you find yourself lost for words again.
“You think it’s weird,” Steve says, shifting away an inch or so away from you on the couch—in your state of shock you had barely noticed that he had begun to inch closer to you. “I know, I know, I shouldn’t have—”
“—n-no, no, no,” you stutter out before you could stop yourself with a subtle shake of your head. “I mean—yeah, it’s weird but—as you said I-I trust you.”
Steve blinks and then—seems to realise that you weren’t completely disgusted by his proposal and sits up a little straighter on the couch.
“Really? You—you’d want to try and—”
“—yes,” you say before he could finish his sentence because you were feeling incredibly turned on by the thought of Steve watching you touch yourself and you didn’t want to let rational thought creep in now. “It could help and if it doesn’t then—”
“—then we just forget it ever happened,” he finishes with a quick nod. “Yeah, totally. Like it never happened.”
You look at each other then, apparently both waiting for the other to back out. But when neither of you do, Steve visibly swallows as he stands up from his couch, holding out his hand out for you to take..
“You wanna—go somewhere more comfortable?”
Steve’s bedroom was surprisingly tidy considering the fact he hadn’t been expecting company. Still, there’s some clothes strewn across his bed that Steve makes quick work of tidying up.
“Sorry,” he mutters as he dumps the clothes onto his desk before gesturing towards his bed for you to sit down.
You glance down at his bed before you look back at him. Because now you felt nervous—now you were thinking about lying on his sheets and fingering yourself in front of him. And perhaps you were just starting to realise how insane that would be and—
“Hey.”
You feel one of Steve’s large hands on your arm and it pulls you back to reality. You hadn’t even realised that you had been staring blankly down at his plaid sheets, already too in your own head about what was about to happen. Steve’s gentle touch, his fingertips brushing over your skin help to ground you—remind you that this wasn’t a stranger you had met at a bar or someone you had been set up with by a mutual friend. This was Steve. Your good, totally platonic friend, Steve.
“You’re okay,” he says gently, thumb rubbing gentle circles in your skin and unknowingly turning your insides into goo. “I’m gonna put on some music, okay? Help you relax a bit. Just take a seat.”
You listen because you did not know what else to do, sitting on the very edge of his bed and watching as he walks over to his vinyl player perched on top of a chest of drawers. You continue to watch him from the back as he sorts through the small stack of vinyls he had, apparently trying to find the perfect record.
A few moments later, the sound of Baby Now That I’ve Found You by the Foundations starts to play and you feel your shoulders visibly relax before Steve turns around to look at you.
“Really?” You ask him with a faint smile. “Is this you trying to set the mood?”
“That obvious, huh?” Steve asks you as he steps towards the bed—towards you.
You watch him, your lips parting as he stands a foot or so away from you now. The room feels five times smaller as Steve’s eyes are on you.
“What if it doesn’t work?” You ask Steve suddenly. “What if there’s something wrong if me or—”
Steve cuts you off by saying your name and the way he says it steals the air from your lungs.
“There is nothing wrong with you,” Steve says firmly, as though he believed every syllable. “Absoluetly nothing.”
You nod, choosing to believe him as you look at his face, the smooth voices of the Foundations putting you a little more at ease. “Okay so—we’re doing this. Okay. Are you just going to watch me or—”
You stop when you see Steve shaking his head. Your body suddenly feels hot, as though all the blood in your body had been replaced by fire. It was almost as though it seemed to know what Steve was going to say before he said it.
“No,” Steve says in a low voice that goes straight to your aching centre. “You’re going to show me. And I’ll show you.”
Everything became very still after that. The both of you just looked at each other—your chest heaving and his eyes flickering over your face as though trying to find any hint of uncertainty. You wanted to be the one to make the first move and you almost do, your fingers curling into the sheets beneath you as you build up the courage to do so. But before you could find the hem of your t-shirt, Steve begins to lift up his top.
The first flash of his soft stomach, of his happy trail and you seemed to forget how to breathe. God, he was gorgeous. Moles and freckles were dotted over his skin, there was a generous smattering of hair over his chest that made your thighs press together and you wanted nothing more than to run your fingers through it. In truth, you could have looked at him for hours.
But instead, you take a deep breath before you very slowly get to your feet.
Steve is watching you carefully as you begin to lift up your own shirt. His eyes on you should have made you feel self conscious, should have made you think twice of the very unsexy bra you were wearing, should have made you think of all the parts of yourself you didn’t like. But there was something about the way he was looking at you as you let your shirt fall to the floor that made you feel the very opposite of self conscious.
And so, before you could second guess yourself—you made the next move before him.
Your fingers fiddle momentarily with the button of your jeans before you unzip them, the sound making Steve’s eyes widen slightly. And when you begin to tug your jeans down over your hips and then your thighs, leaving you in just your mismatched underwear, you watch in fascination as a faint blush creeps up Steve’s neck.
You step out of your jeans, not looking away from Steve for even a second so you didn’t miss a single facial expression. So that you didn’t miss the way the flush had crept up his cheeks and right up to the very tips of his ears, how his breathing had started to become shallow.
“You look—”
“—don’t,” you say, surprised to find that your voice was barely a whisper.
“Why not?” He asks gently, head tilting to the side as he begins to unbuckle his belt.
You lick your lips, eyes still on his face but desperately wanting to shift lower to watch as he unzips his jeans.
“Becuase I might think that you’re just saying it to make me feel better,” you say. “Considering what we’re about to do.”
“I would never lie about how beautiful I think you are,” Steve says simply, his eyes still on you as he finally pulls his jeans down.
You barely have a moment to comprehend Steve calling you beautiful before you catch sight of him in only his boxers. He was—shit, he was perfect. You let your eyes dip down to feast on his delicious thighs, his boxers that had a large, noticeable tent in them that made your core throb.
Your throat felt dry, you didn't quite know what to do. All you knew is that Steve Harrington was hard just by looking at you. The thought sends a hot surge through your body, as though every damn nerve was suddenly burning beneath your skin. And perhaps it was that thought—the idea that you had made Steve hard without really doing anything—that you reached carefully behind you to unclip your bra.
Steve visibly swallows as your breasts spill out, finally seeing your hardened peaks as you let your bra fall to the floor alongside your t-shirt and jeans.
There was a beat and then—
He begins to tug down his boxers.
You had imagined what Steve Harrignton’s cock would look like more times than you cared to admit. But every mental image you had conjured up was nothing—nothing—compared to what was standing to attention right in front of you. His cock was long, thick and heavy, so heavy in fact it had made an audible sound when it had slapped against his soft tummy. His cock was beautiful—he was beautiful. Slightly curved in a way that you knew was made for hitting that spot inside of you just right. The ruddy tip of his cock was already leaking precum, which you shamelessly watch drool along a vein bulging along his length. Your mouth felt incredibly dry as you ogled the sheer size of him, imagining what it would be like for his thick cock to split you open—
You come to your senses just enough to discard your panties. They stick to your cunt briefly due to how fucking drenched you already were and Steve notices—his bottom lip between his teeth as he marvels at how your lips cling to the fabric before giving way, his cock twitching when he sees the damp patch your wetness had caused.
And there you both were, both finally completely bare in front of one another for the first time. Both looking shamelessly at the other’s body, both clearly desperate to touch the other but not dare to do so.
And then, without a word to each other, you sink back down onto his bed while Steve reaches blindly behind him to pull out his desk chair.
It was only now beginning to feel real, as you look at Steve’s face at the same time he looks at you.
“Still with me?” He asks you breathlessly.
You take your time to answer, spreading your legs a little wider and watching with immense satisfaction as his eyes flicker down to your soaked pussy. Another surge of something hot like molten lava surges through you as you notice the way his hand twitches towards his cock.
“Yeah,” you breathe out. “Still with you.”
You could have looked at each other for hours, days even. But your pussy was clenching around nothing and more precum dribbled out of Steve’s cock and you both knew you couldn’t wait any longer.
Steve moved first, one of his large hands wrapping around his thick cock before giving himself one, two gentle strokes. The sound of his own precum wetting his cock was obscene and it was that noise that made you trail your fingers delicately over the skin of your inner thigh before making contact with the soaked, sensitive flesh between your legs.
The relief was instant. You felt your entire body relax, your eyelids flutter for a brief moment before you made sure to look back at Steve. He was already watching you and for a moment you just smile at each other—almost shyly despite the situation—before you both focus back on pleasuring yourselves.
Your fingers glide easily through your folds, your slick allowing you to plunge two fingers inside of yourself. A breathy moan left your lips before you could stop it. You were almost embarrassed by it but then you notice the way Steve’s jaw clenches at the sound, the way he squeezes his cock a little bit tighter.
His words—his filthy fucking words—go right through you. Your cunt clenches around your fingers and you briefly wonder if you had died and gone to heaven, if Steve Harrington was really dirty talking to you right now.
“C’mon pretty girl,” Steve grits out as he pumps his dick that little bit faster, eyes not leaving yours. “Don’t hold back. Please, baby. Don’t you dare hold back on me.”
You could barely believe it, the words that were falling from his lips, the pet names he had just called you. But you didn’t question it—too busy fucking yourself with your slick fingers as you let out another soft, almost pornographic moan.
“That’s it,” Steve murmurs, the schlick, schlick, schlick of him fucking his fist filling the room as he watching your soaked fingers move in and out of your needy hole like it was the best damn thing he had ever seen. “Soak your fingers f’me. That’s so fucking hot.”
You let out a whimper at that, his words having such an impact on you that your hips buck upwards to meet your fingers, your eyes fluttering again as pleasure floods into every pore over your skin.
“Steve,” you mewl out as your fingers pump in and out of your hole, your breasts bouncing with each and every thrust. “Fuck, Steve. Feels so fucking good.”
Steve hadn’t been expecting you to dirty talk but god, had it been the most welcome surprise.
“Yeah? Gonna make yourself come for me, sweet girl?” Steve asks you, now pumping his dick frantically as he watches you roll your hips against his bed—your slick soaking his sheets. “Gonna get my bed all wet? Make me smell you on my sheets for days?”
You whimper and nod desperately as you curl your fingers, hitting that spongey spot inside of you that had you mewling out yet again.
“Gonna touch your clit for me?” Steve asks you, breathing heavily as he tries to hold back as the sight of you pleasuring yourself on his bed was suddenly becoming too much for him. “C’mon, please. Wanna see you lose it, baby.”
It was like Steve knew exactly what you needed, almost as though he knew your body better than you did without even touching it.
Your other hand—the one that had been curled into the sheets beneath you—journeys to between your legs. And that first brush of your fingertip over your swollen, arching clit had you seeing stars. You’re pretty sure you moan out Steve’s name but it also could have been nonsense. All you could focus on was Steve’s own pleasure dancing across his face and the dual sensation of your fingers plunging in and out of your soaked cunt and the other that was circling around your clit.
Pleasure was consuming you—it was white hot and you could feel it pulsing in every nerve in your body. You could feel the blood in your veins burning as the coil in your gut was pulled tighter and tighter while you played with your swollen clit.
“That’s it,” Steve gasps out, his eyes only on you as you neared the edge. “C’mon, baby. Be a good girl and come for me. You can do it, I know you can.”
You wish that you could have held on, that you could have prolonged your pleasure by a few more seconds. But your orgasm had snuck up on you—crashing over you like a tidal wave. Your thighs shook, your toes curled and Steve’s name fell from your lips as you came all over your fingers, your juices soaking Steve’s bed.
And it was that—watching you finally trusting him enough to let yourself go completely that made Steve follow along right behind you. You watch in awe as his toes curl, as his stomach clenches and how his head tilts back against the back of the chair in ecstasy, his release spilling all over that soft tummy of his. Steve lets out a loud groan, followed by your name and you swear, you could have come for a second time from that sound alone.
You withdraw your fingers as you catch your breath, your chest heaving and body still buzzing after the intensity of your orgasm.
Finally, after taking a moment or two to prepare yourself, you finally look at Steve’s face. He was already looking at you and smiling.
“See,” he breathes out. “Nothing’s wrong with you. It’s all about trust.”
“Steve Harrington being right for once?” You say, smiling. “It must be a miracle.”
You both laugh and though you both clean up, get dressed and promise each other nothing will change between you—deep down you both knew that after tonight? Things would never be the same again.
thinking about rockstar!steve harrington falling for the hollywood actress who the press says can’t keep a man.
everyone had told him to stay clear of you. that you were an actress—untrustworthy, fake even. that you couldn’t hold down a boyfriend for longer than a few months, that you were just going to break steve’s heart like you had so many guys before.
but then he met you—at a mutual friend’s party—and steve realised that people could not have been more wrong about you. you were sweet. kind. you weren’t this bombshell the media had painted you out to be. you were just—you. and steve liked that. he liked it a lot.
it didn’t take him long to ask you out. you said yes with a sweet smile that devastated him in the best way possible.
steve took you out to a small, family run restaurant. one that meant a lot to steve. he had arranged for the both of you to go through the back entrance so you wouldn’t draw any attention. he couldn’t help but notice how surprised you were by that.
the date had been nothing short of perfect. it was no surprise that there had been a second date after that—then a third, a fourth, a fifth.
it didn’t take steve long at all to make things official. the press started to catch on. people noticed you at steve’s gigs. they noticed him quietly slip into the seat next to yours at premieres.
and the press did what the press do best—they tried hard to tear a good thing apart.
they went to an ex boyfriend of yours and had him talk in detail about your sex life, they made comprehensive lists of all the relationships you had over the years, they encouraged people to make bets on how long the relationship would last. they were cruel.
and you began to wonder when steve would give up on you. when it would become too much for him. when you would become too much for him. it wouldn’t be the first time and it certainly wouldn’t be the last.
but steve—he didn’t falter. not for a second. he held his head high and held onto you tighter. he showed no signs that he was giving up on you.
another thing that took you by surprise.
“i don’t know if i’m worth all of this trouble, steve,” you say quietly after an attempt of a beach outing had resulted in you and steve being hounded by paps. it had been a struggle getting back into the car safely with the crowd of people who had surrounded you.
steve frowns, glancing at you before focusing back on the road—the beach now abandoned as steve drove you back to his for an evening in. “baby, you’re worth all that and more.”
“but—”
“no buts,” steve interrupts, reaching for your hand so he could grab your hand and lifting it to place a kiss on your skin. “you’re worth it, baby. i mean it.”
he says it so firmly, so sure of himself—of you—that you can’t help but smile. can’t help but believe him.
“if you say so,” you murmur as you squeeze his hand once, twice, third times. a silent i love you.
pairing: steve harrington x fem!reader
summary: you and steve are in a situationship since a few months ago but with latest events in the upside down, steve and nancy are starting to get closer, and you can't help but compare yourself and feel inadequate for him.
warnings: angst, based in the cure by olivia rodrigo, insecurities, reader being insecure by nancy (and robin), set in s4 and later in epilogue s5, happy ending
author's note: soooo first post here, i hope u like it :3
The thing about Steve Harrington was that he loved loudly.
Not through grand gestures or dramatic confessions, but in smaller things. Softer things.
In the way he always reached for your hand under the table without thinking about it. In the way he waited outside Family Video after your shifts just to drive you home even when you lived ten minutes away. In the way he looked for you first whenever something went wrong.
You were never officially together.
No labels. No conversations about exclusivity.
Just something messy and undefined that existed somewhere between friendship and love.
Late-night drives with the windows down. Falling asleep against his shoulder during movie nights. Steve climbing through your bedroom window at midnight with fries because he remembered you forgot to eat earlier.
It should’ve felt secure.
Instead, it terrified you.
Then everything with Vecna started.
Max nearly dying. Sleepless nights. The Upside Down splitting Hawkins apart all over again.
And Nancy Wheeler stepping back into Steve’s life.
At first, you convinced yourself it was nothing.
Nancy and Steve had history. Of course they gravitated toward each other again. Shared trauma had a way of pulling people back together.
Still, you noticed things.
The way Steve looked at her sometimes.
The way Nancy seemed to understand him effortlessly.
The way Robin kept glancing between them like she knew something you didn’t.
And suddenly, you felt sick all the time.
It reminded you too much of Starcourt.
Back when Robin had first started working with Steve.
You remembered watching them laugh together constantly, whispering inside jokes across the counter at Family Video while you stood there pretending it didn’t bother you.
You remembered lying awake at night thinking:
Of course he’d fall for someone like her.
Funny. Smart. Easy to be around.
You spent weeks convincing yourself Steve liked Robin before finding out she was lesbian, and the embarrassment nearly killed you.
So you tried telling yourself this was the same thing all over again.
Another insecurity. Another stupid idea your brain created to hurt itself.
But then Eddie made comments about Steve and Nancy.
Then Dustin.
Then Robin started nudging them toward each other in ways that felt impossible to ignore.
And worst of all, Steve seemed completely unaware of it.
Like he didn’t understand how easy he was to lose sleep over.
One night after returning from the Upside Down, you sat silently on the edge of Steve’s bed while he cleaned blood from a cut on his shoulder.
“You’ve been quiet lately,” he said softly.
“I’m tired.”
Steve looked up immediately.
“No,” he murmured. “It’s more than that.”
You stared at the floor.
He sighed gently before setting the cloth down beside him.
“You know there’s nothing going on with Nancy, right?”
Your chest tightened instantly.
“Yeah,” you answered too fast. “I know.”
“Hey.”
You finally looked at him.
His expression almost made everything worse.
Because he looked so sincere.
So patient.
“I mean it,” Steve said quietly. “There’s nothing there.”
You nodded.
Forced a smile.
“Okay.”
And Steve believed you.
That was the problem.
Because even after that conversation, the thoughts never stopped.
Every glance between him and Nancy replayed in your head for hours afterward. Every accidental touch felt loaded with meaning. Every joke from the others made your stomach twist.
Steve would kiss your forehead and you’d still wonder if he wished it was Nancy standing in front of him instead.
It became exhausting.
The fight finally happened weeks later.
After everything settled down.
No monsters. No panic. No blood.
Just you and Steve standing outside your house while rain soaked through his jacket.
“You still love her,” you snapped.
Steve looked genuinely shocked.
“What?”
“Nancy.”
“That’s not true.”
“Oh my god, Steve, everyone sees it.”
“There is nothing happening between me and Nancy.”
“But you want there to be!”
The second the words left your mouth, you regretted them.
Steve stared at you for a long moment, rain dripping from his hair.
Not angry.
Just hurt.
“I keep choosing you,” he said quietly. “Over and over again.”
Your throat tightened painfully.
“How many times do I have to do that before you believe me?”
And suddenly, something awful settled inside your chest.
Because you realized Steve was telling the truth.
He did choose you.
Constantly.
In every possible way.
And somehow, it still wasn’t enough to stop your brain from tearing itself apart.
The problem had never really been Nancy.
Or Robin.
Or Steve.
It was you.
The horrible certainty buried somewhere deep inside you that one day Steve would wake up and realize he deserved someone easier to love.
A few days later, he showed up at your front door holding flowers.
Pink carnations.
Your favorite.
“I don’t wanna fight anymore,” he admitted softly.
And for a second, you almost let yourself believe love could fix this.
That if Steve held you long enough, reassured you enough, loved you enough, maybe the thoughts would finally stop.
But looking at him standing there — trying so hard to love you correctly — only made your chest ache more.
Because Steve Harrington could love you with everything he had, and it still wouldn’t cure the parts of yourself you couldn’t stand.
The conversation with Steve stayed in your head for days afterward.
Not the fight.
Not the tears.
Not even the part where he told you he loved you.
It was the look on his face when you admitted the truth.
The quiet understanding.
Like he finally realized this wasn’t something he could fix for you.
And somehow, that hurt worse than if he’d yelled.
After that night, things became strangely gentle between you.
Careful.
Like both of you were trying not to reopen a wound that still hadn’t stopped bleeding.
Steve still called sometimes.
Still showed up at your window occasionally.
Still looked at you like his first instinct was always going to be love.
But neither of you knew what to do with it anymore.
Because loving each other had stopped feeling simple a long time ago.
The final decision came quietly.
No dramatic breakdown.
No huge moment.
Just exhaustion.
You were sitting alone in your bedroom one night while rain tapped softly against the windows. Your suitcase sat open on the floor beside you, half-filled with clothes you hadn’t folded properly.
College brochures covered your desk.
Cities far away from Hawkins.
Places where nobody knew you as the girl constantly waiting for something to go wrong.
Places that didn’t smell like smoke and nightmares and memories.
You stared at the acceptance letter in your hands until the words blurred.
And for the first time in months, your chest felt still.
Not happy.
Not healed.
Just… still.
You realized then that if you stayed in Hawkins, you were going to keep drowning in the same thoughts forever.
Every street reminded you of Steve.
Every building reminded you of fear.
Every happy moment felt temporary before it even started.
You needed distance.
Not because you stopped loving him.
Maybe because you never would.
A week later, everyone gathered at the Wheeler house.
Robin was laughing too loudly at something Dustin said. Erica and Lucas argued over the radio. Nancy sat cross-legged on the couch while Steve leaned against the kitchen counter beside you.
Normal.
Everything finally felt normal again.
And somehow, you felt worse than ever.
Steve noticed immediately when you grabbed your jacket.
“You leaving already?” he asked softly.
Everyone looked toward you.
You forced a small smile.
“Yeah,” you murmured. “I’m sorry, guys. I just…”
Your voice caught embarrassingly fast.
Steve stepped closer instantly, concern written all over his face.
“What’s wrong?”
For a second, you almost told him everything.
That you were exhausted from fighting your own mind every second of the day.
That loving him felt terrifying because you could never fully believe someone like Steve Harrington would stay.
That no matter how gently he held your heart, you still expected it to break.
But instead, you just shook your head.
“I don’t feel very good lately.”
The room fell quiet.
Steve reached for your hand automatically, thumb brushing softly against your knuckles.
And somehow that hurt most of all.
Because he loved you.
He really did.
“What happened?” she asked carefully.
The room slowly fell silent.
You looked around at all of them.
At the people who had become your entire life somehow.
Dustin, who still looked at Steve like he hung the stars.
Max curled up under a blanket on the couch.
Nancy leaning against the kitchen counter.
Steve standing closest to you without even realizing he’d moved.
Your throat tightened painfully.
“I’m leaving Hawkins,” you said softly.
Silence.
Complete silence.
Dustin blinked first.
“What?”
You swallowed hard.
“I got accepted into a school out of state.”
Nobody spoke.
Like the words didn’t fully register at first.
Then:
“For how long?” Lucas asked quietly.
You looked down briefly.
“I don’t know.”
Robin’s face fell immediately.
“You’re serious?”
You nodded.
And suddenly everyone started talking at once.
“When did this happen?”
“Why didn’t you tell us?”
“You’re actually leaving?”
But through all the noise, you only looked at Steve.
And Steve only looked at you.
He wasn’t angry.
That somehow made it harder.
He just looked… heartbroken.
Like he’d known this was coming before you did.
Eventually the room quieted again.
Steve cleared his throat softly.
“When?”
“Next week.”
Dustin looked genuinely devastated.
“But— what about movie nights?”
It was such a Dustin thing to say that you almost laughed.
Almost.
“I’ll survive,” you teased weakly.
“No, seriously,” Dustin said, voice cracking slightly. “Who’s gonna bully Steve when you’re gone?”
That did make you laugh then.
A tiny one.
And the sound seemed to break the tension in the room for a second.
But when your eyes met Steve’s again, the ache came back immediately.
Because he still looked at you the same way.
Like leaving wouldn’t change anything for him.
And maybe that was the problem.
Your last night in Hawkins felt unbearably warm.
Steve drove you home after everyone else left the Wheeler house.
Neither of you spoke much during the drive.
The radio played quietly.
Streetlights blurred gold across the windshield.
When he parked outside your house, neither of you moved immediately.
Steve stared ahead for a long moment before speaking.
“You know,” he said softly, “I kept thinking if I just loved you right enough, eventually you’d believe me.”
Your chest tightened instantly.
You looked down at your hands.
“I know.”
Steve laughed quietly, but there wasn’t humor in it.
“That sounds stupid out loud.”
“No,” you whispered. “It doesn’t.”
Silence settled between you again.
Then Steve finally turned toward you.
And god.
That look on his face.
Soft.
Tired.
Still full of love somehow.
“You deserve to feel okay,” he said quietly.
Tears burned instantly behind your eyes.
“So do you.”
For a second, it looked like he wanted to say something else.
Instead, he just reached over and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear carefully.
The gesture nearly destroyed you.
“I think I’m always gonna love you,” he admitted softly.
Your breath caught.
Because the worst part was that you knew you’d always love him too.
But sometimes love wasn’t enough to make staying healthy.
You leaned forward before you could stop yourself and kissed him one last time.
Slow.
Sad.
The kind of kiss people give each other when they already know they’re losing something.
When you pulled away, Steve rested his forehead against yours briefly.
Neither of you said goodbye.
Neither of you could.
Years passed.
Not all at once.
Slowly.
Quietly.
You learned how to exist outside of Hawkins.
Learned how to breathe without constantly waiting for disaster. Learned how to separate love from fear. Learned that healing wasn’t linear and sometimes still missing Steve hurt so badly it felt physical.
But eventually, the ache stopped controlling you.
You thought about him less often.
Then suddenly all the time again.
Some things never fully leave you.
When you finally came back to Hawkins, the town looked smaller somehow.
Softer.
Like the sharp edges had faded while you were gone.
You stood near the football field gripping the graduation invitation tighter between your fingers as students flooded across the grass laughing loudly.
Dustin spotted you first.
And screamed.
Actually screamed.
“Oh my god!”
Before you could react properly, he slammed into you hard enough to nearly knock you backward.
“YOU CAME?”
You laughed breathlessly into his shoulder.
“Hi to you too.”
“You said maybe!”
“I changed my mind!”
Dustin pulled away looking genuinely emotional.
“You look different.”
“You look taller,” you shot back.
“I am taller.”
“You’re also dramatic.”
“Shut up.”
The others gathered quickly after that.
Robin hugging you so tightly you wheezed. Max grinning at you from beside Lucas. Nancy smiling softly while Mike complained that Dustin was being “annoying as hell.”
And for the first time in years, Hawkins didn’t hurt to stand in anymore.
Then you saw Steve. He stood a little farther back than the others. Like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to come closer.
Older now.
Still Steve.
Still looking at you in that terrifyingly gentle way.
For a second, neither of you moved.
Then Steve smiled.
Small.
Real.
And suddenly you were eighteen again sitting in his car while rain hit the windows.
Your chest ached in a completely different way this time.
Not fear.
Not panic.
Just history.
Steve walked toward you slowly once the others got distracted again.
“Hey,” he said softly.
Your heart betrayed you instantly.
“Hey.”
God.
Even after all those years, it still felt easy with him.
Steve shoved his hands awkwardly into his pockets.
“You really came back.”
“Dustin threatened me emotionally.”
Steve laughed quietly.
“Yeah. Sounds like him.”
A comfortable silence settled between you.
Not painful anymore.
Just careful.
Mature.
Like both of you had grown into people who finally understood what happened back then.
“You look happy,” Steve said after a moment.
The words caught you off guard.
Because he sounded genuinely relieved about it.
You looked at him carefully.
“So do you.”
Steve glanced down briefly, smiling to himself.
Then his eyes met yours again.
And there it was.
Not the same love from before.
Not desperate.
Not overwhelming.
Just something softer.
Older.
Still alive.
“You staying long?” he asked.
You hesitated.
“I don’t know yet.”
Steve nodded slowly.
Like he understood there was more meaning behind the answer than you intended.
Behind you, Dustin yelled something incomprehensible across the field.
Robin started laughing loudly.
The sun dipped lower across Hawkins, warm gold spilling across the grass.
And standing there with Steve Harrington looking at you like maybe time hadn’t ruined everything after all, you realized something quietly terrifying.
For the first time, loving him didn’t feel like drowning.
Maybe because now you finally knew how to keep yourself afloat too.
𓏲 ✉️ྀི ׂ 𝓲𝐧 𝔀𝐡𝐢𝐜𝐡 . . . steve loved watching you, so you give him his own private show !
𝓪𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐥 𝔀𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𑄹 fem!reader. kissing. flirting. voyeurism. female masturbation. female orgasm. swearing. dirty talk. talking you through it. praise. suggestive ending. 2.8k words. ꣖ adult content. mdni ꣓
droplets of sweat had gathered on the nape of your neck, pooling in the valley between your breasts, as you danced in the middle of the crowded room. the music was loud, almost too loud, but there was an undeniable electricity in the air. not from the atmosphere or the array of eyes on you from people you had never met. not even the alcohol that coursed through your system, but only between you and him.
him, steve harrington, the only person whose attention truly mattered.
you could feel his deep, lust-filled gaze boring into you from across the room, watching you so intently you were sure you were going to combust. he stood leaning up against the wall in the far corner, one arm raised to steady himself while the other held a cup to his lips. he adorned a recycled halloween costume as robin remained by his side, talking about who knows what, but despite the little nod here and there, all he could focus on was you.
steve loved watching you. he loved watching the way your body moved to the music. he loved watching the way you would meet his gaze, the slightest glint of a smirk tugging at your lips before continuing to pretend that he wasn't even there. he specifically loved watching the way your skirt would hitch up your thighs the same way it would whenever you went into his work.
he was sure he was the reason behind it. no, he knew he was the reason behind it. that you would purposely pull your skirt higher just for him, and even more so when you would bend over in the aisles pretending to look for something on the bottom shelf. being well aware that he was the only one that could see you.
he knew what you were doing - that you knew what you were doing - stringing him along and playing hard to get. you were challenging him. you weren't giving in to him like every other girl that looked his way recently.
you were making him work for it - for you.
except tonight he had other plans.
tonight, he was finally going to get what he wanted.
at least, so he thought.
"listen, i know it was my idea to crash this party, but it's kinda lame," eddie joins you, disrupting your dancing and slowing down your movements. "y'wanna find the others and get out of here?"
eddie was right. the party itself was lame. the only thing giving you any sort of entertainment was the free alcohol and the look on steve's face - steve who had now disappeared from where he stood only a moment ago as you peer over your friend's shoulder.
the munson boy waits for you to answer, your attention now absent from the conversation as you scanned the room rapidly but there was no sign of steve anywhere. he repeats his question, but it's not until he snaps his impatient fingers in your face that you finally return to him.
"c'mon, let's find steve and robin and we'll go back to mine. can finally show you that new riff i learnt on the guitar." he imitates playing his sweetheart, hair bouncing in an unruly mess, as more bystanders begin to stare.
you laugh, giving him a slight nudge, "okay, munson. i'll search upstairs, you search downstairs."
the two of you pan off in different directions, you heading for the staircase by the front door as he began in the kitchen. as you pushed your way through the crowd, weaving yourself to the entryway, you spot robin at the bottom of them, but still no sign of steve.
you call her name, but your voice falls on deaf ears over the music. she twirls around, hands fidgeting with the hem of her shirt when she finally spots you and a relieved smile bestows upon her lips.
"we're gonna go back to eddie's. where's steve?" you raise your voice, leaning towards her ear so that she could hear you.
"he went upstairs. something about needing a moment away from the music,” she gestures upstairs where there were far less people. "i'll go get him."
she turns to head up the stairs but your hand catches her arm before she can so much as put her foot on the bottom step, "it's okay, i'll get him. you go find eddie and we'll meet you at his van."
robin nods, though there seems to be a knowing look in her eyes, a hint of a smirk as if there were some obvious secret only you didn't know about, and she traipses off toward the kitchen in search of eddie.
once alone, you take one look up the large staircase and let out a deep breath. this was it, this was the moment you were finally going to tell steve that if he truly wanted you so bad, it was about time he did something about it.
with each step, your heart seems to beat a little bit faster. the top of the stairs growing further away and when you finally get to them, there are only a couple of small groups of people scattered along the balustrade. you weave your way through the crowd once more to find the bathroom and just as you're about to knock, it opens before your hand can graze the wood with your knuckles.
steve stands on the other side, eyes widening when he sees you, but the sight of him causes the breath in your throat to catch. his dishevelled hair, deep pink lips and dark eyes entrapped by a red tinge - he was truly a sight for sore eyes.
"y/n," your name falls off the tip of his tongue like sweet honey, sending an immediate wave of bumps across your skin. "are you okay?" he looks almost concerned, brows furrowing when it takes you a moment to answer.
"uh, yeah. we're going to ditch the party and, um, and..." you pause for a beat, words turning to a jumbled mess inside your head and all the confidence you had tried to bestill had disappeared. "... um, head back to eddie's. we're going to head back to eddie's." you repeat it a second time for safe measure.
he nods, slowly, his eyes purposely falling to your lips as he exhales and leans back against the doorframe, "yeah. i mean, we could do that..." his words are even slower, pulling you in with each syllable. "or... we could talk about what's really going on here?"
this was it - this was the moment he finally did something about it.
"i have no idea what you're talking about." you lift your right shoulder into a shrug, pursing your lips before gazing up at him through your lashes.
his lips part as he leans in closer, his face so close you could feel his alcohol-saturated breath on your cheek. "so, i'm just imagining you pulling up that pretty little skirt of yours on purpose, huh?"
you almost gasp, throat tightening with need. need for him. "apparently... though, it's nice to know you've been thinking about me."
the devilish grin on your face now infuriates him because, once again, you were in control.
a breathy chuckle leaves his lips, fingers raking through his hair, "what am i going to do with you?"
"i don't know. what are you going to do with me?" a moment of realisation passes through his eyes. you want him to do something about it, want him to finally give in to the urges. all this time, he had been waiting, and now, here you were, allowing him to have what had been torturing him.
while his head races with a million thoughts, in reality, only seconds had passed by, but those few seconds were more than enough to build a wall of tension. his gaze falls to your lips once more, and in a heated movement of passion, he finally takes the leap and presses his to them.
soft moans reverberate through his neck, daring to carry you away as your fingers curl through his hair. you press yourself against him, almost knocking him over, but he answers your neediness and pulls you into the bathroom to close the door and lock it.
all the tension, flirty looks and suggestive gestures that had been building up over the past few months had finally started to unravel in a matter of seconds. igniting you both so much so that you were sure to catch fire.
the kisses seem to last forever, despite feeling rushed, and when he starts to trail his lips down the side of your neck, you're left a hot mess as you try to regain your breath. your core was already aching for attention, throbbing within your underwear, as his hands ran rampant all over your body.
he glides his tongue across your skin, hair tickling your face as he begins to suck lightly, "you've no idea what you've done to me. how badly i've wanted this." he mumbles against you, sparking thought in your mind, and at this, you gently push him away and slide yourself back on the counter.
"is that so?" you breathe heavily. "tell me about it."
there's a glint of confusion in his eyes, brows slightly furrowing, as he stands between your legs. you had so much power over him and you planned to keep it that way.
if you gave in to him so easily, all the long months you had spent teasing and hinting at him would've been for nothing. he needed to know that you weren't going to give yourself up to him just because he wanted it - he needed to earn you.
"d'you really want me, harrington?" your words are low, breathy, sending shivers down his spine as he gazes into your eyes.
"fuck," he nods, the word shakily falling from his lips and he swallows hard. "i want you so bad."
your lips quirk up once again, heart beating so fast it was thrumming in your ears. you lean forward, lips barely grazing his, and whisper, "tell me what you want... while you watch me touch myself." before planting your teeth around his bottom lip and tugging on it.
"w-what?" there's a hitch in his voice as you feel yourself growing wet within the confines of your underwear. he's stunned. eyes wide and jaw taut.
"tell me what you want, and i'm yours, but... touch me, and you lose." your words are barely above a whisper but they're enough to send shivers down his body.
his breath catches in his throat, letting out a small gasp, as his dewy brown eyes bore into you once again. only this time, there was determination clouding them. he wanted you. he wanted you so bad, and he was going to do everything he could to get you - to finally feel you.
he opens his mouth to speak but stops when you lean back against the mirror, hitching your skirt up and spreading your legs before him. revealing the black lace underwear you had worn in anticipation. the same pair that he had only ever caught glimpses of.
"what's the matter, harrington? you like watching me... don't you?" you ask, coyly, batting your lashes.
he groans, lulling his head back to reveal his adam's apple bobbing as he swallows once more. you lift a finger to touch the tip of his chin, letting it trail down his chest before landing between your legs. he watches your hand as if his life depended on it.
you slowly trace the edges of your underwear where your core was barely covered. lips poking out around the thin material, gathering up your wetness when your finger starts to rub small circles over the top of them.
"are you wet?" steve asks, and you nod, brows arching from the touch already.
he shuffles nervously on his feet, pulling at the material around his crotch to give himself more growing space, but his eyes never leave you. not for a second. and they only double in size when you finally move your panties to the side, confirming your answer - your sweetness glistening under the dim bathroom glow.
"holy f-fuck, y/n," he retorts with astonishment, almost falling to his knees at the sight of you before him. "you're killing me here."
"tell me more," you press the tips of your fingers to your tongue, collecting the saliva that had gathered, and gently start moving them across your sweet little bundle of nerves.
"you're so fucking pretty, baby. i bet you're so warm too. i bet your pretty little pussy is so fucking warm," his words caress your ears as your movement starts to speed up, building up the sensation in your core. "i want you so bad. i want to feel you wrapped around my cock. every fucking inch of you."
a small chuckle falls from your lips, as you now press your middle finger into your hole. moaning at the feeling and slowly you begin to fuck yourself, all while steve's eyes remain trained on you. catching a glimpse of you fingering yourself but focusing on your facial expressions and the way you're making your own mouth fall open with ecstasy.
"fuck your little hole, baby," he says, almost demandingly, which again makes you want to prove that you were still in control. so you add another finger. "fucking hell, i want to taste you so bad."
"mmm-yeah? you wanna taste me, harrington? you wanna know what my pretty little pussy tastes like?" your words are slightly muffled, as you continue to penetrate yourself. fingers gliding in and out of your goodness with ease, hitting just the right spot as the top of your palm rubs your clit, causing your hips to buck up a little.
his hand involuntarily falls to his crotch, he didn't think you noticed. but it was a little hard not to when he begins palming himself through his pants as his eyes burned with so much desire. desire for you.
you can feel the coil within your core on the verge of breaking, ready to snap as you near your end. the pleasure of it all becoming too much, as your hips buck more rapidly, face contorting and mouth falling agape. you grab onto steve's jacket with your free hand, gripping the material and bringing him closer.
"f-fuck, i'm gonna cum," your breathing is unsteady, all over the place as you get closer, wrapping your arm around steve's head to grab a fistful of his hair. “make me cum, harrington.”
“show me how you cum, baby. show me how pretty you look when you let it all go. you do that and i’m gonna fill you up so good,” his voice is low as he presses his head to yours. “you want me to bury my cock in you, don’t you?”
"mmm- fuck yeah," your moan is cut off by steve's mouth as he presses his lips to yours once more. immediately gliding his tongue across them for permission and you give it to him, letting his tongue enter.
and just like that, you're overcome with stimulation. a wave of sensation coursing through you but steve doesn't pull away, instead, he muffles your cries with kisses as he takes in the sight of you. completely vulnerable as you chase your high. chest rising and falling at a dramatic pace as your hips twitch and buck, eyes glazed over and brows arched. to hear the sweet noises you made, muffled or not.
it was a sight he had only seen once, but, oh boy, did he want to see it again.
"oh, fuck," you sigh, words split by your panting as you try to regain your breath. you still hadn't stopped fingering yourself, only slowed down the movements as your creamy goodness collected along them.
"i'm that good of a kisser, huh?" steve chuckles, staring down at you still slowly pumping your digits into yourself, eyes unwavering from the wetness that covered them.
"whatever makes you sleep better at night," you smirk, finally pulling your fingers from your pussy at the same time someone knocks on the door. "i guess that's our cue to go. eddie and robin will be waiting for us."
you both slide off the counter, your underwear slipping down to your feet as you quickly wash your hands. but rather than pulling them back on when you’re done, you gather them and scrunch them into a ball.
"what are you doing?" steve asks, confused when you pull the pocket of his jacket open and slip them inside.
"think of it as a parting gift," you smile, patting it closed then lean up to place a soft kiss in his lips, "plus, it's easier access for later."
𝓵𝐨𝐨𝐤𝓲𝐧𝐠 𝓯𝐨𝐫 𝓶𝐨𝐫𝐞 .ᐣ library taglist form guidelines
one of the older kids (boy ot girl), one of their friends hits on reader? or maybe a dad from daycare or something!
wanna see if Steve would agree and then get angry that the friend/man is flirting with his wife
write it however you like! and how you think Steve (and kids maybe) would react!
Summary: Steve knows you’re gorgeous, but it doesn’t stop him from being all pouty when other men (and one bold teenager) who aren’t him flirt with you.
WC: 4.7k
Warnings & What to Expect: hargrove!fem!reader, jealous & possessive Steve (in a healthy way), men/ teenager flirting with reader (which reader pointedly ignores), protective husband trope, kids teasing Steve for being down bad for reader.
Harrington Household Masterlist
currently writing this series based on requests, so if you have any ideas - please feel free to send them my way 🫶🏻
Main Masterlist If Interested
Peach’s Note: hiii anon!! what a fun request!! i included that, but also added in some other flirting scenarios. also kind of added part of this request. hope you enjoy lovie 🩷
tysm to everyone showing love on my works - it means the world. requests are open! feel free to send anything Steve or Gator Tillman related and I can certainly try my best 🫡
need a man like steve to call me gorgeous ⤵️
“Damn, you’re looking fine, Mrs. Harrington,” a voice calls out from the living room as you make your way down the stairs.
Your eyes widen at the words; left hand pausing mid air while attempting to put your last earring in since your toddler is being firmly held up with your right hand - propping her up on your hip.
You’re completely caught off guard from what the teenager sitting on the couch next to your oldest son just said to you.
There’s a collective intake of breath around the lower level of the house - all eyes flashing to Steve for his reaction, who’s frozen by the front door - looking like he’s absolutely ready to strangle the kid.
Your eldest boy looks horrified at his friend’s comment while your oldest girl who’s sitting at the kitchen island working on homework looks disgusted. Your ten year old twins who are lounging on the living room floor pause the board game they’re playing - sensing the sudden tension in the room.
Your four year old boy who was trailing the stairs behind you slams into your legs- not expecting you to have stopped. It causes you to stumble as you’re still two steps above the floor.
You panic instantly, worried about face planting with your youngest babe in your hands - but Steve’s there in a heartbeat, hands slithering around your waist to steady you. The movement forces you into his chest, lone earring clattering to the floor and your boy falls to his butt behind you.
“You alright, baby?” Steve murmurs gently by the shell of your ear, and you nod slightly - pressing your lips to his in a sweet kiss of thanks.
Your boy that’s fallen on the stairs starts crying at the impact, and Steve carefully lets go of you to scoop him up into his arms.
“Why are you crying buddy? You’re the one who nearly steamrolled into Mommy,” Steve teases lightly, thumbs already brushing away his boy’s tears.
“That scared you, huh?” You ask him tenderly, rubbing at his back - knowing he’s physically fine, just startled.
He sniffles and nods, hiding his face in his daddy’s neck.
Your middle girl pushes herself off the floor, comes over and grabs the earring you dropped, “Do you want me to put this in for you?”
“That would be great, babe, thanks,” you smile at her, and she climbs the stairs to stand behind you - securing the piece of jewelry in place.
She steps back before grinning, “You look beautiful, Mommy.”
“She always does, doesn’t she?” Steve agrees, pressing a kiss to your jaw.
Your girl nods before hugging you from behind, “Do you have to go tonight?”
You pat her hands that are linked around your middle, “We shouldn’t be out too late, sweetheart.”
You and Steve were headed to Hawkins High for a banquet that the graduating class of ‘85 was hosting. You’d honestly rather stay in and spend time with your babes, but with Steve being a teacher at the middle school, it was expected that he be in attendance.
Steve looks particularly handsome in his dress pants that hug his legs perfectly, paired with a white long sleeve button up and black tie wrapped loosely around the neckline. If you were alone, you wouldn’t have let him leave the house without getting a taste of the skin that’s exposed at his neck.
You’re practically drooling over him, and the reality of the moment comes crashing back when your oldest boy’s friend stands up from the couch, hands tucked into his pockets and compliments your appearance again.
“I mean really, that dress is killer on you,” he smirks, and Steve’s mouth drops open at the audacity.
You put a hand on Steve’s shoulder, trying to ground him - reminding him not to make any rash decisions.
Steve clears his throat, “I’m sorry, what did you just say about my wife?”
You bite your lip in amusement, because he’s defending your honor against a hormonal teenager that can’t get his emotions in check.
At Steve’s voice, the kid looks a bit meek, but not lacking total confidence when he says, “Like you look great, Mrs. H, stunning even.”
Steve turns to you with a baffled expression before whispering, “Is he serious right now?”
You huff out a disbelieving laugh, “Steve, he’s a child.”
“Bullsh-,” he cuts himself off, remembering the two littles in both of your arms, “He’s seventeen. He’s old enough to know what he’s saying, baby,” he grumbles quietly.
His eyes flick over to the boy - standing there awkwardly now, since it’s obvious that you’re purposefully avoiding his praises, “Ought to teach him a lesson about how to treat women since his parents clearly haven’t done it.”
But Steve doesn’t need to do that, because your oldest boy is already on it, “Dude, are you, are you flirting with my mom?”
“No! No, definitely not,” but the way he’s spluttering the words proves otherwise.
“You totally were,” your girl calls out from the kitchen.
Your twins start giggling at the absurdity of it, and Steve watches proudly as his son reams into his friend.
“That’s my mom, man. Have some respect,” he chides angrily, folding his arms across his chest.
The boy’s mouth flounders, embarrassed now at being called out, “Uh, sorry Mrs. H, Mr. H. I’m just, yeah, I’m gonna go.”
He scrabbles for the exit, leaving the rest of you stunned at the ridiculousness of what just happened.
“Great choice in friends,” Steve quips, raising his eyebrows at your boy.
Your boy defends himself, “How was I supposed to know he was going to say that? You do look really pretty, by the way, Mom.”
You smile, “Thanks, hun.”
“Seriously though, don’t think I want you inviting him back over here,” Steve mumbles, and you laugh lightly before pressing a kiss to his cheek.
With your free hand, you reach up to brush back some of the strands of hair fighting to fall into his eyes, “No need to be all pouty about it, baby.”
“I’m not being pouty, I just don’t need a bunch of teenage boys thinking it’s okay to hit on you,” he says with a frown still on his face.
You smile fondly at him, swiping your thumb over the creases that his drawn in eyebrows are making.
“Whatever you say, babe,” you tease, before walking into the kitchen.
Steve falls quiet as his eyes wander the expanse of your legs as you move, appreciating the view of the tight dress hugging your curves.
“Dad,” your oldest scolds when he realizes what Steve’s doing.
“What?” Steve snaps out of it, recognizing that he’s been caught, “Don’t give me that look. I’m allowed to check out my wife.”
You hand your toddler off to your oldest girl, who puts up a brief fight at you letting her go. You watch your girl bounce and console her younger sister easily - effectively distracting her.
“Are you sure you and your brother got this? The babysitter said she was free tonight,” you ask again, wanting to double check.
The plan was never to purposefully have children with such large age gaps.
Steve’s plan was to always have six if you’d let him, but yours was to take it one at a time before deciding if you wanted more since you had once been unsure about children. When you had your oldest though, you immediately knew you wanted another when you took one look at him - at seeing this perfect little being that you and your husband had created together.
Then your eldest girl came next, and you were pretty sure two was enough - but life happens, and years later your twins came along with the rest of the littles; and soon six Harrington children were filling up the space in your home and the crevices in your heart.
People often joked that the age gap meant free babysitting services - which never failed to make you frustrated for your oldest two, because that was definitely not their responsibility.
You were grateful however, that you had children who loved their siblings deeply. It meant that sometimes your teenagers wanted to take care of the younger babes for you without you having to ask.
“We’ve got it, Mom,” your oldest boy confirms, who’s now holding your youngest boy after taking him from Steve.
Steve catches the emotion clouding your eyes at seeing them together and curls you into his chest - giving you a tight squeeze of affection.
“See, baby? Told you they’d be fine,” Steve hugs you closely, before steering you towards the door - trying to get you out before you change your mind about leaving them. You hug the twins goodbye, pressing a kiss to each of their heads.
“Call us if you need-,” you start, but are interrupted by your oldest girl.
“Anything, we know. Now go, before she starts throwing a hissy fit about you two leaving,” she jokes, stroking softly at her sister's hair.
You finish saying goodbye to all of your kids, and Steve starts tugging your hand to pull you into the night air.
“Really, if you need anything, call,” Steve echoes your previous words.
Once you’re settled in Steve’s truck, you watch as your babes wave to you through the front window, and you lean over the middle console to place a hand lovingly on Steve’s knee.
“God, how did we get so lucky, Steve?” You wonder out loud.
“You mean how did I get so lucky? Shit baby, have you looked in the mirror today?” He says playfully, grabbing your hand that rests on his knee to bring it to his lips.
“Steve,” you smile warmly, feeling the familiar flush of heat creep up your neck.
“Kinda just wanna rip that dress off you and skip this damn thing,” he kisses the palm of your hand, before littering kisses up the span of your arm.
“That would be a lot more fun,” you hum out, savoring the feeling of his lips on your skin.
Steve turns to face you, “Don’t threaten me with a good time, honey.”
He drops his head into the crook of your neck, gently nipping at the skin there and you whimper at the touch.
“Probably shouldn’t be on the verge of making out when our kids are still watching,” you tease, eyes cutting to the window to see the oldest two trying to shield the eyes of your youngest ones.
You cup Steve’s chin, tilting his head so he can look at the sight, which makes laughter spill from those pretty pink lips of his.
“You’re right, we should probably go park down the street first before making out,” he smiles coyly at you.
You push lightly in jest at him, “Just start the car, babe.”
Steve places one last kiss at the sweet spot below your ear before backing out the driveway, “Yes, ma’am.”
The banquet was in full swing, and you and Steve were currently taking a break from the buzz of constant socializing when you make eye contact with Tommy Hagan from across the gym.
“Oh, god,” you mumble under your breath.
Neither of you had seen him since senior year, as Steve had cut off contact with the guy completely, but heard that he left Hawkins and dropped Carol Perkins along the way.
Tommy immediately grins wickedly, before stalking closer to you and Steve.
“What’s wrong, honey?” Steve inquires, arm tightening around your waist.
Your hand that’s hooked around his bicep grips a little tighter, “Incoming.”
Steve follows your gaze and groans in annoyance - doesn’t want to have to deal with the onslaught of surface level questions Tommy will have.
“Harrington! Good to see you, man. What’s it been, like twenty years since graduation? And Hargrove, looking good as always,” Tommy sends a wink your way.
You smile tightly, pressing yourself closer to your husband - uncomfortable with the way Tommy’s eyes drag up and down your figure.
“Hey, Tommy. Yeah, it’s been a while,” Steve forces a small smile, hand that’s on your hip holding you a bit more protectively.
“Didn’t realize the two of you were together,” Tommy notices the way Steve’s arm tucks you towards him.
You hum in acknowledgment, before flashing your left hand at him, allowing him to see the rock next to the wedding band that rests on your ring finger.
“Oh shit, so you’re like together, together,” Tommy’s eyes widened.
The phrase makes you want to laugh, because not only have you been married for seventeen years, but you’ve got six children at home to show for the life you’ve built together.
“Mhmm,” you nod politely, and Steve can’t help but place a possessive kiss to your temple at seeing the way Tommy’s eyes linger on you.
They catch up briefly - jobs, sports, reminiscing about high school. The topic of kids doesn’t come up, which isn’t surprising because Tommy has been droning on and on about his bachelor lifestyle in Indianapolis.
There’s a sudden commotion as a few of Steve’s previous students run up to him; in high school now themselves and are at the event to get volunteer hours with their clubs.
“Uh, sorry to interrupt Coach Steve, but Ms. Kelley asked us to move some tables and we could use help,” one of the boys asks.
It’s clear Steve’s fighting an internal battle, doesn’t want to say no to the kids but also doesn’t want to leave you alone.
“You good, honey?” Steve checks with you.
Tommy answers for you, “She’ll be fine, man. I’ll keep her company.”
Which is exactly what Steve doesn’t want. He ignores the comment, staring intently at you.
“Go help, babe. I’ll be okay,” you assure him, lifting your hand to cup his jaw - thumb brushing delicately against his cheek.
His eyes close briefly at the touch, still hesitating - not sure what to do.
“Come on, don’t leave them hanging, Stevie,” Tommy throws the nickname in as a jab - knew that Steve hated it in high school; which he still does, unless you’re the one saying it.
Steve’s decidedly ticked off with Tommy and makes a point to shut him up by kissing you. He leans forward to slot his lips with yours, pulling you to him by clasping his hands behind your lower back.
You instantly wrap your arms around his neck, enjoying the feel of him pressing his mouth eagerly to yours which makes your head fizzy - bubbles of want pooling in your stomach.
“I’ll be right back, baby,” he breathes out, nose nudging yours, kisses you one last time before going to help the high schoolers.
Tommy stands there a little awkwardly, and you hoped maybe he’d scram after that public display of affection, but he seems to be like a roach you can’t squash.
You watch Steve hopelessly from across the room, desperate for him to come back to you quickly - tired of making small talk with Tommy.
“You and Harrington are pretty serious then?” Tommy wonders.
“Yep,” you reply, tone clipped.
“But I mean, you know he was never the settle down type of guy, right?” Tommy goads, referring to the “King Steve” era.
You huff a breath of irritation - hating that people still put Steve in a box when they know nothing about him anymore, “He was never like that, Tommy. He just needed the right person to love him.”
Tommy barks a laugh, “And that’s you?”
You narrow your eyes into slits at him, blood starting to boil at his flippancy, “Why don’t you ask my six children?”
He chokes on his drink, inhaling it wrong at the shock of that information, “And you’re sure they’re all his?”
“Oh my god, you’re still a pig you know that?” You lash out, turning to storm away, but he follows you.
“Come on, didn’t mean it like that, princess,” he calls out, and you freeze at the name he once taunted you with.
You whip around and seethe, “Do not, ever, call me that again.”
Tommy raises his hands up, “Woah, just trying to make conversation. No need to be so defensive.”
You glare at him, arms crossed, breathing angrily.
“I’m sorry, really. I guess I’m just a little envious," he shrugs.
“Envious?” You ask in disbelief.
“I mean, yeah. Being honest with you, I totally had a thing for you in high school. I just never acted on it because of you know, Billy,” he trails off before continuing, “And seeing you here with my old best friend of all people, guess it just shocked the hell out of me.”
He actually kind of looks bummed out, which makes you feel just a tiny bit guilty - but then he instantly ruins it when he takes advantage of your quietness.
Tommy steps forward, “Don’t you ever think about it?”
“Think about what?” You inquire, confusion lacing your tone.
“Me and you?” He asks smugly, obviously out of touch with reality.
“No, I don’t. I’m happily married,” you refute.
“Sure, but like don’t you ever get bored?” He tries to get you to crack.
You grit your teeth, “Steve loves me, and I love him. What are you not getting about that?”
Tommy steps into your personal bubble, hand sliding down your arm, grabbing onto your wrist, “You know, if I had the balls to ask you out back then, things would’ve been different.”
Your jaw drops at his gall, “They would not be, now let go of me.”
“Admit it, Hargrove. I could’ve made you just as happy,” he replies cockily, and you just about slap him in the face for that when you thankfully feel Steve’s arm snake around your shoulder.
“It’s Harrington, now get your hands off my wife,” Steve roughly bites out, thoroughly done with Tommy’s gross behavior after watching him stalk you from across the gym.
Tommy drops your arm swiftly, “Just making sure she was okay, man.”
“No, you were trying to make a move on a married woman, real classy,” Steve snorts in aggravation.
Steve doesn’t give Tommy the opportunity to reply, simply guides you away - heading straight for the exit sign.
“Wait, Steve, don’t you have to be here?” You ask, trying to get him to stop.
“Don’t care. Not letting you stay anywhere near that pathetic creep any longer,” Steve breathes out sharply through his nose.
He shoves the doors open, hightailing it out of the school, and you’re struggling to keep up in your high heels.
“Babe, slow down, please,” you plead, clutching onto his arm.
Steve notices you’re straggling behind, and he makes the split decision to haul you up in his arms.
He crouches slightly, swiftly brings his left arm up and under your thighs, while his right arm secures itself around your back.
Your arms scramble for purchase around his neck at the sudden movement, “What’s going on in that head of yours, handsome?”
“Shouldn’t have left you alone,” he fumes.
You understand then that he’s blaming himself, “Steve, it’s not your fault.”
“He put his hands on you,” Steve grates out, holding you closer to him.
Your legs sway in the air as he furiously makes his way through the parking lot to get to the car. You hate seeing him upset, but can’t lie that it doesn’t turn you on with how territorial of you he’s being.
One of your hands moves to card through the back of his hair, “You don’t need to be jealous, baby.”
“Oh, I’m jealous all right. But I’m more pissed off that he thought it was okay to touch you, and livid with myself for leaving you with him,” his breathing is erratic from how upset he is.
“Then make it up to me, we don’t have to be home for another hour,” you remind him, tucking your head into the junction of his collarbone.
That’s how you found yourself curled up next to him in a booth at Mel’s Diner, the place you used to frequent when you were still just dating.
You were sharing your favorite - breakfast food for dinner, chatting about Steve’s summer baseball league he was coaching. Your legs are pulled up sideways on the leather seat, and Steve has a hand hooked under the back of your knees.
You were letting him vent to you - loved that you had the privilege of being his safe space to do so, when you’re interrupted by one of the fathers of the children that your son goes to Pre-K with.
He’s a single dad, and you can’t deny that he would boldly flirt with you when your paths crossed - which you were always honest with Steve about.
“Hey! It’s so good to see you outside of day care pickup,” he says enthusiastically, seemingly to purposefully ignore Steve.
Steve swallows harshly, picking up on the fact that this must be the guy who’s trying to weasel his way in between your marriage.
“Um, yeah. Good to see you too. This is my husband, Steve,” you introduce him, and the guy visibly deflates at that, even though he already knew you were married.
“Right, you’re the husband,” he trails off, avoiding eye contact.
Steve rolls his eyes, “Of seventeen years.”
You softly hit him with your elbow, because you don’t want things to be weird when you see the man at your son's school.
“Anyways, you look beautiful, by the way,” the guy tries, even though Steve’s right there.
“Oh, thanks,” you reply cordially, trying not to be rude but also are a little irked that he’s blatantly making a move in front of your man.
Steve clears his throat and makes it obvious he wants him to leave, “We’re kinda in the middle of something.”
“Sorry, my bad. Nice to meet you, man. See you later, beautiful,” he bids you goodbye arrogantly.
Steve’s got a sulky look on his face as he watches the guy leave.
Your lips pull in an amused smile, “What’s wrong, Stevie?”
He groans at the teasing, turns back to you and drops his head into the crook of your neck.
“Baby, you realize that was the third time,” he whines.
You giggle lightly at the feel of his lips on your skin, “Third time for what?”
“The third time you’ve been hit on in one day by someone that wasn’t me,” he grumbles.
“And none of them mattered, because they weren’t you,” you remind him, gently playing with the wedding band on his hand.
Steve sighs in frustration, “Did you see the nerve of that guy though? It’s like I wasn’t even sitting here.”
“Steve,” you say calmly, “I don’t even remember his name, honey.”
He pulls his head up, “Really?”
Your hand comes up to fiddle with his tie, and you yank him closer to you, “Only got eyes for you, baby.”
Steve’s eyes drop from your eyes to your lips, tongue flicking out to wet them, desperate to get you out of the public view to be able to ravish you.
You have the same idea - glancing down at the watch on your wrist before asking, “We still have twenty minutes. Wanna go makeout in your truck?”
“God, yes,” Steve breathes out excitedly, throwing down a wad of cash and nearly trips over his own feet as he books it out the diner with you on his heels.
When you get back home, you find your children spread out on the living room floor, back to playing the board game.
Your toddler is sleeping though - curled up in the lap of her ten year old brother, while his twin has her head resting against your oldest girl's stretched out legs. Your oldest is staring intently at the game - determining his next move, and your four year old is the only one with enough energy to get up and throw himself at you.
You swing him up easily, kissing his cheek, “Hey, buddy. Missed you.”
He mutters out a reply, and as you and Steve move into the room, your children clock Steve’s attitude right away.
“Dad, why do you look grumpy?” your ten year old boy asks him quietly, not wanting to wake up his sister.
Steve looks offended at the comment, “I do not look grumpy.”
“You do,” your oldest chimes in, before scratching his head - still deciding what to do about the game.
“Well apparently, Mom’s got more than just teenage admirers,” Steve says, looking over at his oldest son.
“I swear I didn’t know he had a crush on Mom,” your boy groans.
“Dad, I feel like you should’ve already known that. Mom’s gorgeous,” your eldest girl says it like a well known fact, fingers working on braiding her sisters hair.
“Thanks, sweetheart,” you smile, a little shy at all the compliments you’ve been receiving from your children today.
“I know Mom’s gorgeous, believe me,” Steve smiles, then mumbles something about that being the reason there’s six of them.
“Ugh, Dad, that’s revolting,” your eldest girl complains.
“Why’s Daddy revolting?” Your middle girl asks curiously, blinking sleepily from her spot.
Your oldest boy laughs, “He’s not revolting, he’s just in love with Mom.”
Your children continue to poke fun at their father when you join them on the floor, and you can tell Steve’s mood lifts at the lighthearted atmosphere.
You’re resting against Steve’s bare chest later that night in bed, fingers trailing through the coarse hair there when he finally asks you what’s been bugging him all evening.
“You sure you don’t get bored?” Steve asks you with a trace of worry behind his eyes.
Your lips part in shock, “You heard that?”
“Tommy’s voice carries, unfortunately,” Steve gripes.
You’re about to respond, when your door slowly creaks open, and it’s your youngest babe - clattering in with your high heels on her tiny feet that you’d kicked off in the hallway earlier.
You giggle affectionately at watching her stumble in - hands planting on the floor to catch herself from falling.
“What are you doing out of bed, sweet girl?” You ask her.
You had to get her a floor bed since she was actively climbing out of her crib once she learned how to, which meant she frequently found her way to your room in the evening.
“Mommy, shoes,” she pushes herself back up, smiling cheekily at you.
“Wow baby, you look beautiful in Mommy’s shoes,” you coo at her, sliding off the bed to pick her up - the high heels stay hooked on her toes, dangling from the edges.
She points to them, “Daddy, shoes.”
Steve gets up to join the two of you, “Gorgeous baby, just like your Mama.”
She starts babbling, trying so hard to form full sentences and your heart squeezes at the sight of Steve nodding along, gazing adoringly at her.
You slip your free arm around his naked back, traveling your arm up and down the warm skin in assurance, “Could never be bored with the life we have, Steve.”
Steve leans his forehead against yours, “Thank god, gorgeous.”
There’s a gentle knock that interrupts you, turning to see your oldest, who looks a little guilty.
“Hey, Dad?” He says.
“Yeah, bud?” Steve replies.
Your boy shifts his feet, “I just wanted to apologize for before. I don’t wanna be friends with anyone who’s going to be disrespectful towards you and Mom’s relationship, so he won’t be coming over again.”
You smile sweetly at your boy, knowing he’s got a heart that’s just like his dad’s.
Pride washes over Steve’s face, “That means a lot to me. Thanks, bud.”
“Even though it’s a little crazy that you were jealous over a literal teenager,” he ribs his dad, and it makes you cover your mouth in amusement at the witty remark.
Steve scoffs in jest, “Great, I’m being targeted in my own home.”
“Only because we love you,” you hug him with your toddler squished in the middle, and Steve rests his head against your own.
Your oldest bids the two of you goodnight, and you let yourself melt into Steve’s arms - thankful for a love that still warrants petty jealousy and soft declarations of assurances that you’ll forever be each other’s.
Taglist: I’ve gotten some requests to get a tag list going for this series, so if you’re interested lmk in the comments section or message me!
Thank you for requesting!! both characters are of age :)
Steve could feel his heart hammering against the side of his neck as he stood in line, trying to remain as cool and collected as possible. Then again, how did one act cool when they were in line to kiss someone?
It was for a good reason, some sort of fundraiser that the cheerleading team had set up. He hadn’t quite read up on the entire synopsis before hopping in line, a little too smitten by you. You looked great in your cheerleader uniform, your hair neatly done and your lipgloss shiny.
By the time he’d realized what he’d done it was too late to hop out of line. He didn’t want to be rude and jump out of line, but he didn’t want to be weird either. So now he was stuck.
Normally he was pretty good with girls, terrific with them. He was a smooth talker, knew how to get them flustered and all giggly. However, lately he’d been in a bit of a rut. This certainly wasn’t helping his image either.
“Hey.” Steve introduced himself as he took his step forward, meeting your bright eyes as a slow grin formed on your lips.
“Hi.” Amusement lingered on your expression as you leaned against the booth, eyebrows slightly raised as you looked over him curiously. He’d seen you around before, but he didn’t know you formally. Nor had he ever gotten a good look at you.
God, you were beautiful.
“I’m Steve. It’s a lovely night out.” He winced as he stumbled over his words, doing his best to keep from saying anything stupid. The issue was his tongue. It liked to move even when he hadn’t fully processed his own thoughts.
“Nice to meet you, Steve,” you said before you spoke your name, making his heart flip inside of his chest, “thanks for your donation.” You added, watching the way he dropped the coins into the jar.
Then he froze.
“So do I just-,” he gestured between the two of you, eyes slightly widening as he glanced down at your perfectly shaped lips. How soft and smooth they looked, how glossy they were.
“Kiss me?” You grinned at him, “yeah, that’s kind of how it works.” You were teasing him as a nervous laugh slipped free.
“Sorry, I didn’t see the instructions.” The tension broke then as your eyes twinkled, laughter slipping off of your tongue. You looked a little more relaxed too.
“Funny guy,” you teased, placing your hands on both sides of his face, “and handsome. Lucky me.” You pushed the loose strands off of his forehead softly, making him grin.
Steve’s heart was still flipping inside of his chest as he leaned forward, nose brushing against yours gently. He could smell the bubblegum flavor on you as he pressed himself against you, wishing that there wasn’t a wooden booth between the two of you.
Sparks ignited inside of his tummy as his lips pressed against yours, savoring how smooth and slick they were as he kissed you slow and deep. A little sigh left him as you eagerly dragged your lips against his, your fingertips dragging against the hair on the nape of his neck.
He wasn’t certain how long he’d been kissing you, but it certainly had to be longer than anyone else had. You tasted incredible, felt even better. All he could think about was how long it had been since he’d been with anyone as he melted against you, craving everything you gave him.
“Woah.” He whispered when you pulled away, eyes heavy and skin on fire. He blinked slowly, enjoying the amusement on your features.
“Thanks,” you giggled, “that was nice.” You rubbed your thumbs against his cheeks, making him smile deeply.
“Wait, I wanna make another donation,” he replied cheekily, smiling brightly, “you know, for the betterment of -,” he leaned back, squinting at what he was donating towards, “sea turtles. Yeah. For the sea turtles.”
You didn’t waste any time as you kissed him again, lips fitting against his like a missing puzzle piece. He wrapped his fingers around his wrist as he leaned in closer, trying to savor as much of you as he could.
“Hey, maybe you two should get a room. There’s people waiting.” The tap on his back made him jump, his cheeks slightly burnt as he turned to give you another dazed grin.
“Uh, right. My bad,” Steve briefly glanced over his shoulder, tapping his fingers against the desk, “y’know, I’ll be around for a while. And the hot dog on the stick is pretty great.” He was rambling now, not wanting to miss out on seeing you again. He was hopeful, maybe even pathetic.
But he had to see you again.
“I’d kill for a hot dog on a stick, “you laughed, “I switch in fifteen minutes. Meet me here?” He nodded quickly, agreeing with whatever you wanted.
Thirteen minutes later he had you pressed up against the lockers in the hallway, hands cupping your neck and lips connected heavily. Steve licked away your moans and cries, sighing as he blindly led you into the closest room.
“You’re cute,” you whispered against his mouth, making him whimper as you tugged on his hair gently, “and you’re a really good kisser.” Your words only spurred him on as he pressed into you, sighing at how soft you felt against him.
Your fingers twisted in his hair as you eagerly rolled your hips to meet his movements, little moans of pleasure falling from your lips as he continued to kiss at your lips. It was filthy, hungry as he licked away the drool from your mouth.
Steve’s cock was aching in his pants as you continued to slowly roll your hips up to meet his movements, whining each time his length dragged against your soaked panties. He was just as needy as you continued to grip his hair, pulling and tugging as the pleasure burned deep inside of him.
“God,” he whispered against your mouth, nose pressed into your cheek as he continued to chase the friction, “honey, I can’t, fuck. Oh God, I’m so-, so sorry.” He hissed as he buried his fingertips into your hips, holding onto your flesh tightly as he dragged his cock against your warm cunt twice more.
Then he was spilling into his briefs, whining in a whiny manner as he pressed himself up against you. He imagined that he was cumming inside of you, that your legs were wrapped around his waist and your cunt was squeezing his thick girth.
Little giggles left you as you kissed along his lips, then his cheeks and his nose. He grumbled and whined, a little embarrassed that he’d came in his pants from kissing you.
“How about you call me?” you suggested with twinkling eyes, “I think you owe me anyways.”
stevie accidentally coming inside and you have him make it up to you by eating his own cum out of you!
um this was... such a fun concept, i liked writing this too much, now i shall go bathe in holy water
MDNI//SMUT- [unsafe] vaginal sex, spit, come eating, face sitting
“Steve—Steve—Steve—oh my, oh my fucking god, Steve—”
He’s behind you, hands on your hips, pounding into your pussy. Your shoulders are pressed against your bed, ass up in the air as he fucks you, and you reach down your body between your legs to let your fingers slip against your swollen, throbbing clit.
“Oh, fuck,” Steve says, as soon as you do, and you know why: You just tightened the fuck up around him, your cunt squeezing down on his cock as his hips slap into you. “Fuck, you’re so—so—oh, fuck—”
You feel it as soon as his voice cracks on the last ‘fuck’—his hips stuttering against you, his cock twitching inside you, his come spreading against your walls, filling you up as he rests his weight on you, cock buried deep in your cunt, each shot of come adding to the mess inside you.
“Did you just finish?” you ask, breathless, your fingers still slipping over your clit, even though Steve has stilled inside you, grinding his hips into you as he, very obviously, rides out his orgasm.
“Yeah, I—sorry,” he says, bending himself at the waist too, draping his front over yours, his sweaty chest sticking to your back as he scatters kisses all over your shoulderblades. “You just—” he heaves a sigh, wrapping an arm around your waist to hug you like it’s an apology. “You get real tight when you touch yourself like that.”
You squirm a little underneath him, because you feel too wet and too sensitive and you still haven’t come. He pulls his hips back a little, and you feel his come start to dribble out of you and down onto your fingers, your palm.
“Well,” you say, turning a little to look back at him as he pushes himself off of you. “You know the rule.”
You watch as the smirk flits over his face, because he loves this as much as you do.
“Yes ma’am,” he says, straightening up, pulling out of you, tapping the head of his cock against your gaped slit a couple times, just for fun, watching you tighten up around nothing, more of his release oozing out of you as you do, and then he flops down onto the bed beside you, looking over at you with a grin on his face.
“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you did this on purpose.”
Steve lifts a hand, holds up three fingers, and shakes his head. “No ma’am, scouts honor.”
“Stop calling me ma’am, you weirdo,” you say, but there’s no malice in it. You push yourself up to your knees, move so you’re straddling his chest, and then without any further conversation or fanfare, lower your come-covered pussy to his mouth.
He wastes no time either, parting his lips against you and licking into your folds, tonguing your slit and moaning as he tastes himself on you, in you. His hands come up to grope at your ass, pulling you further onto him, holding you down, wanting his face buried in your pussy. Your grasp at the headboard, holding onto it for support as Steve laps noisily at you, his mouth sucking and slurping his own spend from inside of you, swallowing his release and your arousal both, eyes fluttering closed at the taste of you both combined.
“Steve,” you resume moaning his name, one hand slipping from the headboard as you press it to your clit again, rubbing at the sensitive bead as Steve eats your pussy with abandon, like there’s nothing else he’d rather be doing, ever. His tongue slides into you, your slit slippery with his come and your own fluids, and you shudder as you feel it drip out of you into his waiting mouth.
“Taste so—fucking good,” he manages to utter from between your pussy lips.
“I’m—close,” you tell him, and the wet sounds of his mouth on you resume, the feeling of his lips sucking at your folds, drawing them into his mouth, making you quiver on top of him. “Steve, babe, I’m—”
“Mhm,” he encourages you, tongue moving against you as he squeezes your ass, fingers pressing divots into you as he holds you down, and you grind your cunt down against him.
Your fingers slip over your clit at the perfect angle—finally, you found it again—and you keep doing it, pressing a little harder, moving them a little faster, and then, your body curls up on itself, your other hand leaving the headboard to curl into Steve’s mop of hair, holding tight to him as you tremble on top of him, your cunt squeezing down around nothing but his tongue, still inside of you, fucking into you as best he can while you’re so tight, and you tear your fingers away from your clit because suddenly, suddenly it’s all too much, it’s all way, way too much and you pull up and off of him, falling back and landing roughing on his chest, wetting his chest with your pussy, dripping come and saliva onto his front.
“Mm,” Steve says, and you glance up at him, still breathless. His lips are pursed, and he points at his mouth and then at yours. You slide yourself back, whimpering as his softening cock slicks through your folds, but you end straddling his thighs as he sits up. His hands land on your arms, pulling you close, and he takes your mouth in a searing kiss, lips pressing to yours. You part them, already suspecting what he’s angling for, and once you do, his part too, tongue slipping between your lips, pushing the mouthful of his come and yours into your mouth. You take it in, not pulling away, just kissing him back; you pass it back and forth, swapping spit and come until finally, you let it slide down your throat, the mouthful making you moan against Steve’s lips as the taste of both of you lingers on your tongue, the scent of sex still hanging in the air too.
“Love that rule,” he mutters, and you lean against him, wrapping your arms around him, laughing quietly as you kiss his neck.
Steve Harrington had always looked forward to meeting his soulmate. But you? Not so much.
pairing:steve harrington x mayfield!reader
words: 4.1k
contains: fluff, angst, soulmate au, soulmarks, friends to lovers, brief mention of death of a sibling, mention death of a romantic partner, grief, female reader, no use of y/n (steve calls reader mayfield), she/her pronouns for reader.
author's note: 3k followers special request by @beainabottle2 | first fic for the 3k followers special! i love soulmate au's so i couldn't leave this one as just a blurb! requests are still open until wednesday 28th may 5pm bst. please send in blurb requests here ✨
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Steve Harrington had a habit of noticing everyone's soulmark. He couldn't help it. Ever since he was told about the concept of soulmates, ever since he had learned that there was someone out there destined to be with him, he wanted to find his person. He wanted to find the person whose soul was intertwined was his, the person who had a mark in the shape of an anchor on their wrist that was identical to his own.
He had thought a lot over the years about what the anchor meant. Soulmarks tended to hold significance to where soulmates would first meet and so, Steve first thought that he would perhaps meet his soulmate on a cruise. His parents had taken him on many cruises as a child and so the idea wasn’t completely ridiculous. He had believed in that idea so much that he hadn’t really considered any other options. That was until his first day at Scoops Ahoy!
The moment he had seen the slightly obnoxious bright blue and butter yellow signage, Steve’s eyes were instantly drawn to the red anchor that sat between the S and the A. It was near identical to the anchor that had appeared on his wrist at ten years old. It was then Steve realised he had been dead wrong, that he wasn’t meant to meet his soulmate on cruise at sea. He was going to meet his soulmate here—at the job where he made $3 an hour and where he was forced to wear a sailor uniform.
Steve spent his summer slinging ice cream for kids with sticky fingers, begrudgingly giving Erica Sinclair free samples and checking the wrist of almost every woman who walked into the ice cream parlour. Days slipped into weeks and yet—Steve never lost hope.
And so, when he first met you—Max’s older sister who had been dragged along to buy her sister ice cream—of course his eyes had shifted down in the hopes of seeing your wrist. But you had been wearing an abundance of bracelets and he couldn't see whether or not you had the mark.
Still, he held out hope anyway because you were pretty and he felt a warm, fluttering feeling in his stomach when he was near you. A feeling his mother had once told him that he would only feel when his soulmate was near.
But you gave nothing away—no indication that you felt that feeling too or that you even noticed his own soul mark.
Steve held out hope that one day he'd see it on your wrist.
And he did—at your step brother Billy's funeral.
He saw it only for a few, brief moments as the sleeve of your blouse dipped while you wiped away your tears. But it was there and it was undeniable—the anchor that was identical to his own etched into the skin on your wrist.
Of course he didn't tell you then. You were grieving and it wasn't the right time. Still, he let you cry on his shoulder, he became a friend—just a friend—who was there when you needed him. He helped to get you a job at Family Video when you worried about your family's finances and he became your ride home from work. But still, Steve didn't tell you and it was eating him alive—being friend zoned by his own soulmate. He was just biding his time and maybe, just maybe, Steve Harrington was fucking terrified that you already knew and that there was a part of you that was disappointed that the universe had decided you belong together.
And so, Steve Harrington kept the fact that you were his soulmate to himself. For now.
Max Mayfield usually came along to Family Video with her skateboard tucked under one arm just before closing time. It had become routine for her over the past few months—skating after school and letting the hours slip by and then heading to the video store so Steve could give you both a lift back to the trailer park. It had been a routine ever since you had scolded her for skating home late at night. She had huffed at the time, called you paranoid but still—she showed up to the video store after every skate boarding session and got into Steve’s beamer with no complaint.
Whenever Max would walk into the video store, she would always head straight for the horror section. You had told her, perhaps a hundred times, that there was no way you were going to let her rent The Slumber Party Massacre or Friday the 13th but still—Max just gravitated towards it.
The sound of Cloudbusting by Kate Bush blared through her headphones. Max hummed the words under her breath as she picked up a tape for The Evil Dead, flipping it over to read the back.
“You know your sister isn’t going to let you rent that, right?”
Max only just hears Steve’s voice over her music. She rolls her eyes and doesn’t put the tape away.
“Whatever Harrington," Max replied with a small huff, pulling her headphones down to rest around her neck before casting a quick glance over at Steve who was restocking a nearby shelf. “I can still look, can’t I? Or is that illegal now?”
Steve opens his mouth to reply but honestly—trying to outwit Max Mayfield was something he simply could not do eight hours into his shift.
“Why don’t you check out the more age appropriate films?” He asks, glancing over to the front counter where you were going through the end of shift returns box while Robin talked your ear off about her most recent Vickie update.
“Like what?” Max asked, uninterested. “Annie?”
Steve very nearly laughed but managed to stop himself, pursuing his lips as he placed My Bloody Valentine back onto the shelf.
“Funny,” Steve murmurs, lips twitching slightly as he looks down at Max. “No, I was thinking something more like… The Goonies or—”
“You sound like just my sister,” Max mutters, her blue eyes bright as they flicker over to Steve with a mischievous look on her face. “No wonder you two are soulmates.”
The tapes Steve had been holding all clatter to the floor. Both you and Robin look over at the noise while Max didn’t even bother to hide her amusement.
“Are you good over there, Stevie?” Robin calls out to Steve as he scrambles to pick up all of the tapes he had just dropped, his face burning an impressive shade of red. You meanwhile were looking over at Max in surprise, having only just realised that your sister was in the store.
“Yeah! Sorry—butter fingers!” Steve calls back as he shoots Max a look that plainly says ‘shut up’.
Max sends you a quick smile in acknowledgement before turning to look back at Steve who was now blushing a shade of red that Max did not know he was even capable of turning.
“How did you—”
“—oh, come on Steve,” Max huffs, though Steve can’t help but notice how she speaks in a low voice, eyes flickering back over to you as though making sure you couldn’t hear. “I’m not an idiot, you have the same soulmarks—”
“—I never said you were an idiot,” Steve says quickly as he shoves the last tape back onto the shelf before turning to look at Max fully. “And that’s just a coincidence—”
“—you have an anchor. She has an anchor in the exact same place. You met at Scoops—none of that is coincidence.”
Steve opens his mouth to respond and then quickly closes it again because she was right. When it came to soulmates, there was no such thing as coincidences.
“Plus you act all…pathetic when you’re around her.”
Steve's ears turned red, almost perfectly matching the shade that his cheeks had turned.
“I do not—”
“—you do,” Max tells him with a faint smile. “Really pathetic, actually.”
Steve huffs in response and once again, his eyes shift over to you—mostly so he could make sure you weren’t listening to his conversation with your sister but also because you looked ridiculously pretty. You always did but today you’d done something different with your hair and—
“Exhibit A,” Max says, clicking her fingers directly in his face to snap him out of whatever trance you had unknowingly sent him into. “Staring at her like a lovesick puppy.”
“Well she is my soulmate,” Steve says, his heart thumping in his chest because it was the first—the very first time—he had said those words out loud because he hadn’t told anyone. Not even Robin (though, admittedly that was because Robin had an inability to keep a secret due to the fact she had a tendency to ramble when nervous).
“Surprised you worked it out,” Max says under her breath.
Steve has to force himself to take a deep breath, having to remind himself that Max was going through a lot. Between witnessing Billy’s death, your stepdad leaving, the move to the trailer park and a breakup with her own soulmate, it was no wonder she was a little more brash than usual.
“Yeah well, your sister doesn’t seem particularly fussed about having me as a soulmate,” Steve says finally, looking away from Max and instead looking at the tape still clutched in her hand. “Probably realised it was me and—”
“—it’s not you,” Max interrupts him quickly in a tone so surprisingly soft that he looks back at her. “Trust me she’s just—she’s just skeptical, she doesn’t really—”
“—believe in soulmates?” Steve finishes, jaw tightening because he had always had a feeling that you didn’t by the way your mark was always covered or the way you couldn’t even pretend to be interested when a soul couple would come into the store and share their story.
Steve had never hoped before that he was wrong but as he waited for Max to respond, he prayed he was. But when she says nothing in response—he knew he was right and the feeling that began to burn in his gut could have killed him.
Max, perhaps noticing the heartache written all over his face, quickly adds, “It—it’s a long story but if you talk to her—”
“—no,” Steve says quickly, shaking his head and pulling himself together in the blink of an eye. “I’m not going to make her do something she clearly doesn’t want to do.”
Max’s expression changes, she looks slightly panicked and shakes her head. “No Steve, you don’t understand—”
“—you should put the tape away,” Steve tells her, nodding towards The Evil Dead tape that Max was still holding. “Before your sister sees.”
And with that, Steve heads towards the stock room before Max could see the way his hands were shaking.
You couldn’t help but notice the distance that Steve Harrington had carefully placed between the two of you.
He still gave you a ride home from work, still laughed along with you and Robin at work, still showed up to the trailer unannounced with a bag full of groceries for your mom. But Steve no longer lingered, he stopped calling to tell you about whatever story you had missed from your day off at the video store, he stopped giving you those one armed hugs before he went on his lunch break that had become part of your routine. You were beginning to feel his absence like it was a physical ache.
And so, you sit in the passenger seat of Steve’s beamer after a shift at Family Video and two weeks of distance wondering whether or not to ask Steve if you had done something wrong.
Perhaps your nerves were a little too obvious because barely two minutes into the car journey, Steve was looking over at you.
“You gonna stop bouncing your leg like that?” He asks. “It’s distracting.”
“Sorry,” you mutter quickly, eyes fixed determinedly on the road ahead as you place your hands on your knees to try and stop them from moving.
It’s quiet then—aside from the gentle hum of the radio, Time After Time filling the silence between you and Steve.
“You okay?” He asks suddenly, shooting you a hesitant glance before focusing back on the road. “You’re a little quiet.”
You chew your bottom lip between your teeth as you consider your reply. You could be honest with him—you could tell him that you were worried that you had done something wrong, that you had felt the distance Steve had put between you. How that distance had started to feel like a chasm and you didn’t know what to do.
Or you could lie.
You choose the latter.
“Long shift,” you say finally with an attempt at a smile.
It was a lie and you both knew it.
But Steve doesn’t press you further. That somehow hurt more than the distance.
Your leg begins to bounce before you could stop it. Steve glances at you again.
“You’re doing it again—”
“—did I do something wrong?” You burst out suddenly, the feelings in your gut swirling in a dangerous storm.
Steve’s eyes remain on the road but you see the way his face blanches ever so slightly. “Wrong?” He repeats in a voice of forced composure. “Why would you think—”
“—because y-you’re different, Steve,” you say finally, your heart racing as you turn to look at him fully. “You don’t—you’re treating me differently and I just—I’m trying to understand what on earth I did wrong.”
“You didn’t—”
“—then why won’t you look at me, Steve?”
You can feel the anger beneath your words, a tone that surprised even you. But still, Steve doesn’t say anything and you simply watch as his jaw tightens, as his knuckles gripping onto the steering wheel turn white.
“Because I’m driving, Mayfield.”
You feel cold at the use of your surname. In all the time you had known Steve, he had never called you by your last name. It felt cold and distant and it made something in your gut turn uncomfortably.
“Pull over,” you say suddenly.
“What?”
“I said pull over.”
“Are you insane? I’m not—”
“Pull over, Harrington or I swear to god that I’ll open the door and—”
“Alright!” Steve snaps back, his clipped tone matching your own as he signals before he pulls over into the side of the road. “I’m pulling over, happy?”
You wait until Steve’s car is stationary before you decide to answer him. “Ecstatic.”
And then—without another word, you rip open the passenger side door and climb out of his car without another word.
You make it perhaps ten feet up the road before you hear Steve calling after you.
“Where are you going? Mayfield! Have you lost your damn mind?—”
“—Mayfield?” You repeat, anger flaring as you turn around to face Steve, only to find him barely two feet away from you. You try not to think about the way your stomach turns at that. “Since when do you call me Mayfield, Steve?”
Steve blinks, seeming to realise his misstep as he rubs a hand over his face in frustration.
“I—I don’t know, I just—”
“—can you just tell me what I’ve done wrong? If I’ve pissed you off or annoyed you or—”
“—you haven’t,” Steve says too quickly. “I’m just—”
“—you’re just calling me Mayfield and avoiding me like the plague?”
“I’m not avoiding you, I just—”
“—you’re just, what, Steve?”
“I’m just upset, okay?” Steve exclaims angrily, and the exhaustion in his voice silences you.
You blink, your eyes flickering over his face as you try and understand his anger.
“Upset?” You repeat, confused, hurt and everything in between. “Why are you—”
“Because I can’t be around you anymore!” He snaps, your name cracking at the end of his sentence like a whip.
Your blood starts to run cold. The skin on your left wrist itches.
“Why?” You ask, your shoulders slumping slightly as you look at him, feeling something inside of you break a little.
Steve looks as though he was bracing himself, scrubbing another hand over his face before he takes a deep breath and looks at you properly this time.
“I can’t—I can’t be around you because—I know. I know you’re my soulmate.”
The air in your lungs disappears. The words seem to echo around you as you try to digest exactly what Steve had just said. And your eyes, your traitorous eyes, move down to the exposed skin of his wrist where the anchor identical to yours was etched into his skin.
“How did you—”
“—I saw it. At Billy’s funeral.”
You let out a breath you didn’t realise you had been holding, glancing down to the wrist you had kept covered for years. The mark you had tried to ignore since you were thirteen years old.
“Steve, I—”
“You knew, right?” Steve asks, taking a single step towards you as his eyes hold you captive. “You knew—you knew I was your soulmate, didn’t you?”
You had the urge to lie, to tell Steve that no, you had no idea. But one look in those big, brown eyes and you knew you couldn’t.
You give a small, barely there nod.
“Yeah,” you say quietly. “I knew the day I first met you at Scoops.”
Something in Steve’s expression cracks—a mix of hurt and betrayal that words couldn’t quite explain.
“Then why—why didn’t you say anything?” He asks you, your name falling from his lips at the end of his question like it had always belonged there. “I mean—we’re soulmates and you didn’t say anything.”
You look away for a brief moment, a sense of shame mixing with that fluttering, warm feeling in your gut you had always felt around Steve. The feeling you had tried so hard to ignore.
“Is it me?” He asks you, taking another hesitant step closer to you. You can see the hurt, the desperation in his eyes as he watches you. “Were you—were you that disappointed that it was me who was your—”
“—no!” You say quickly, your throat thick with emotion. “God, no. Of course I wasn’t disappointed. I mean, you—you’re—you’re great. Amazing, actually.”
Steve’s expression softens slightly, eyes slightly glassy as he looks at you. “Then why didn’t you say anything? Is it because you don’t believe in soulmates?”
You flex your fingers before you dig your nails into the skin of your palms, your breathing starts to feel uneven.
“It’s not that I don’t believe in them,” you say finally, swallowing a lump in your throat as you force yourself to look at Steve. “I ju—just—I’m scared.”
“Scared?” Steve asks, perplexed as his eyes flit down to watch the way your nails bite into your skin. His own hands twitch as though he was desperate to reach for you. “Why would you be scared?”
You want to look away, you almost do but something in Steve’s eyes keeps you there.
“Becuase my mom met her soulmate when she was young too,” you tell him in an uneven voice. “And he—something really bad happened to him.”
You don’t elaborate and Steve doesn’t press you further, but you don’t miss the way he looks at you with softer eyes.
“Then she met my dad who hadn’t ever met his soulmate and they fell in love and things were great for a long time. She had me, then she had Max. And we were happy. But then he met his soulmate—some random woman in a grocery store while me and Max were standing right there. And things just—things fell apart pretty quickly after that. My mom met Neil and she—she was never the same. All because she was trying to fill a hole that couldn’t be filled—her soulmate dying. The person she was meant to have forever with only being in her life for two years. Even in the years with my dad that were good, I could tell she—she was looking at my dad and seeing something else, seeing somebody else. An—and when you know what someone goes through when they lose their soulmate—I just—I don’t want to go through that.”
You hadn’t realised that tears had started falling before it was too late, your voice breaking and traitorous tears beginning to slip down your cheeks.
“Baby,” the word falls so naturally from Steve’s lips that it makes your heart feel lighter. A small sob escapes you before you could stop it and Steve doesn’t hesitate this time in taking another step closer, lifting his own hand to wipe away your tears so gently it very nearly took your breath away. “You don’t—you’re not gonna lose me—”
“—you can’t promise that, Steve,” you say, fighting the urge to push him away from you—because the place where his skin was touching yours felt hot enough to burn. “You—I've seen you. You throw yourself into danger without a care in the world! You act as though you’re disposable and I ca—can’t watch it happen, Steve, I can’t—”
“Hey, hey, hey,” Steve hushes you softly, two large hands cupping your cheeks gently and rendering you powerless to his touch. “I know, okay? I can’t promise that—that something bad might not happen to me. Or to you. Or to both of us. Okay? I know that. But—but you’re my other half and no matter how much time we have together, whether it’s seventy years or seventy days, I promise you that I’m in, one hundred per cent.”
“If you need time or space. I’ll give it to you. I swear. But I’m not going to let you throw this away because you’re scared. Baby, I’m scared too. But that doesn’t mean that I’m not going to give this everything I got because—what if we do get seventy years? What if we get seventy great years? You really gonna throw all that away because you’re scared?”
You swallow and you try to look away from him, his words too intense but Steve doesn’t let you—his hands keeping your head gently between palms.
“But what if—”
“—if we don’t get them then what we do get will be beautiful anyway,” Steve tells you in a voice so fierce yet so certain, you found yourself unable to look away from him even if you wanted to. “I can’t promise you a lot, but I can promise you that.”
The fear still lingered in your gut—the place it had lived since you had first walked into Scoops Ahoy! to see your soulmate in a sailor uniform. The fear that kept you up at night, that imagined over and over again what those Russians had done to Steve to leave his face and body black and blue. The fear that kept those bracelets covering your soulmark for years.
But alongside that fear was that feeling that you had never been able to shake—that warm, fluttering feeling whenever Steve was near. The one that made you realise that home wasn’t a place, that it wasn’t Hawkins nor was it California—that home was Steve Harrington.
And in the end, it was that feeling that won.
Your hands move without you thinking too much about it, fisting the front of his vest as you tug him closer. And when your lips met his, it was like two pieces of a puzzle slotting together, like the sea kissing the shore, like everything had finally fallen into place.
Steve’s hands find their way into your hair as he kisses you back with lips so smooth that you couldn’t think straight. Everything else had ceased to exist and all that remained Steve and his lips on yours, You barely even register that you were kissing Steve Harrington on the side of the road—that cars were driving by and honking at the two of you as his other hand rested on your waist to pull you even closer.
It was only when you felt droplets of rain beginning to fall that you finally pulled away from each other.
“Is it really starting to rain?” You ask, laughing as you look up to feel the rain falling onto your skin like a million tiny kisses. “Right now?”
Steve smiles, watching the smile break out onto your face as the rain starts to fall even harder. His fingers gently wrap around your left wrist, tugging down your bracelets to expose your soulmark before lifting it up to press a gentle kiss to the anchor that lived on your skin, the mark glowing golden beneath his lips.
“There’s no such thing as coincidence when it comes to soulmates,” Steve mutters against your skin.
“Maybe you’re right,” you whisper back softly with a faint smile. “Now should we get out of the rain?”
Steve hums, considering your question as he looks back at you. “Maybe just after—”And then before you could even breathe, his lips were back on yours. You let out a gasp of surprise and the rain fell even harder around you, but you didn’t pull away. Because this was right where you and Steve were always meant to be.
Summary : Your sweet husband was supposed to come home hours ago. You're pissed off, anxious, and have to go to bed by yourself. How will he make it up to you?
Warnings : MDNI!!, angst (?) with a happy ending, established relationship (married), Eddie is alive cause I said so (au I guess, no mentions of the upside down or anything), mentions of intrusive thoughts and anxiety, fluff, fingering, p in v unprotected, kinda lazy apology sex (speedbump position), creampie, breeding kink, talks of trying to get pregnant.
A/N : It's finally here! The summer term is kicking my ass, but I finally managed to finish this one. I'm afraid I kinda cooked with this one guys, at least in my opinion. Hopefully you enjoy it as much as I do!
WC : 4,983
************
“God dammit,” you mutter, pacing back and forth in your living room before sinking onto the couch with a huff. Your arm jerks in front of your face, your watch displaying a time that only fuels your anger even more. You let your arm fall back on the cushion as you stare up at the ceiling, your jaw clenching and unclenching in waves of frustration.
It’s dark outside – no moon in the sky, the only soft light coming in through the windows from the lamp posts down the street. The house is quiet. So quiet that it makes the usually unnoticeable ticking sound of your grandma’s grandfather clock annoyingly loud and sinister.
Steve was supposed to be home almost three hours ago. His team of little rugrats had a game that night after school, which sadly you couldn’t attend because of a late shift at work, making you miss out on checking out your hot husband sweating in the sun. Then, after the game, he was going to hang out with Eddie at his trailer for a beer or two. “Home by eleven, honey,” he had told you just this morning.
Now here you are, 1:53 AM being pointed at by that damn clock in an honestly mocking way at this point, with absolutely no pile of brown hair and tan skin to hold you close.
Even though you’ve already tried several times, you get up and stomp over to your pastel yellow phone hanging on the wall. You quickly dial Eddie’s number, knowing it by heart now that you’ve called probably five times already, and wait. It rings and rings and rings and then nothing. “Ughhh…” You snap the receiver back in place forcefully, ire and worry mixing inside you as you slump against the wall.
Being married to Steve had really been a joy. He’s a thoughtful husband, caring, sweet, a little spicy when he needs to be. But sometimes, he gets so excited to be hanging out with his friends that he simply loses track of time. It’s not really his fault, you know that. It’s actually one of the things you love about him, how he gets so enthralled and fully present in the moment that everything else falls away. It’s made you feel like the most important person in the world more than a few times.
But as you have told him time and time again, you just wish he’d call to warn you beforehand. A simple “hey, sweetheart. I’ll be home later than I thought, s’that alright?” Because it’s not like you want to cut his fun short, you know how important his friends are to him and you don’t mind if he’s out late. It’s the not knowing that makes you worry.
When it’s only been fifteen minutes, you can just shrug it off. Maybe he got delayed by a parent after the game, or maybe he stopped at the gas station for a few snacks. But the later it gets with no updates, the less you can easily ignore the thoughts that pop up in your mind. What if he got into a car crash, or what if he’s lying to me and he’s not at Eddie’s. Even though they weren’t always rational, because of course Steve would never deliberately hurt you nor was an accident very likely to happen, those ruminations still buried their roots deep and triggered that buzzing and tight sensation in your chest.
Tonight, it’s no different. Deep down, you know he’s probably in Eddie’s yard, sipping on a beer and talking about God knows what, unable to hear the phone ring inside the trailer over the music they’re listening to. But you still get those intrusive thoughts, and you get pissed off that your husband always forgets to call.
You make your way to your bedroom, slipping out of the sleep shorts you had put on earlier just to be in your comfy oversized shirt you stole from Steve when you were only just dating. An old and softened gray cotton shirt with cracked yellow letters – an almost unintelligible Hawkins High. You slip under the covers, resigning yourself to at least try to sleep. You curl yourself into a fetal position, turned toward your nightstand as you take deep breaths. It takes a few moments to calm your anxiety, but you do eventually fall asleep, the cold darkness of the room cocooning you instead of your husband’s warmth.
Meanwhile, at Eddie’s place, inside the rusty fireplace the metalhead got at a yard sale, the embers are glowing faintly with every soft gust of wind. Steve is talking about his job over the radio, tuned at a station playing nighttime music. He’s been nursing the same beer for over an hour, repeatedly telling Eddie that he needs to leave soon, before they both launch into a new tangent for another thirty minutes.
Eddie’s a night owl. He works afternoons and evenings at an auto repair shop in town, so he doesn’t mind going to bed late.
Steve, on the other hand, finally starts to feel the tiredness. He lets out a yawn before checking his watch. His eyes widen in slight panic, the time having seemingly slipped away from him again. He immediately thinks of you and feels a crushing pang of guilt.
“Shit, man… I’m sorry, but I really gotta go.” Steve says as he gets up and brushes off some dirt from his white baseball coach pants.
Eddie nods and gets up as well, dunking the rest of his beer on the embers to get them to die down even more. “Yeah, no problem, Stevie. S’getting late.”
Steve walks up to Eddie and holds out his hand. The tattooed man shakes it, before he wraps his arm around his friend’s shoulders and pats his back. “T’was good hanging out, man. We should do it more often.”
Steve pulls back with a smile and a slight shove of the other one’s shoulder. “Agreed. Night, Eds.”
“Goodnight, big boy.”
Steve chuckles as he hastily makes his way toward his car. He peels out of the gravel driveway and drives slightly over the speed limit the whole way home, even though he knows he’s way too late for it to actually make a difference. He curses himself internally, his fingers tapping against the steering wheel. Every few taps, the gold band on his ring finger catches against the leather, making the knot of guilt grow tighter inside his stomach.
Later, once he finally gets home, it’s about 2:30 AM. All the lights are off, the only sound that creepy grandfather clock. You’re probably asleep, he thinks, so he tries to be quiet as he removes his dulled sneakers and hangs his 'Coach Steve' jacket on the hooks near your front door.
He softly pads down the hallway to your bedroom. He opens the door and peaks inside – you’re turned away from him, your chest expending and shrinking softly, soundly sleeping. He smiles at the sight. Maybe you had fallen asleep earlier and you wouldn’t even know that he’d gotten home late. The knot inside him loosens slightly.
The door clicks shut as Steve makes his way back down the hall toward the bathroom, in desperate need of a shower. He peels off his coaching outfit, the striped baseball shirt, white pants and the socks that almost go up to his knees. Then his boxers come off, before he immediately puts the pile of dirty clothes in the washing machine for tomorrow.
He looks at himself in the mirror, the dust from the field clinging to the skin of his forearms. Speaking of them, his arms are slightly more tanned than the rest of him – a casualty of teaching kids how to play baseball under the hot sun all day. He turns to the side, eyeing the way his belly is a bit softer than how it used to be when you two first met. His hand goes over it, a nagging feeling of insecurity pulling at his flow of consciousness.
But then he remembers your sweet voice just a few nights ago, whispering in his ear how handsome your husband is as you run your hands over his body, grinding against his stomach. You had told him so many times how hot you found his body, peppering soft kisses down his abdomen and licking through his happy trail. It makes him feel better to think about that, a soft smile spreading on his face.
He then bends over the sink to look at his face more closely. He sees the tiny wrinkles starting to become permanent at the corners of his eyes and close to his nose. He sees the very few gray hairs starting to season his brown hair. For some reason, these additions don’t bother him as much. The shallow crow’s feet, the smile lines, the hair – it all makes him feel like he’s getting wiser. And Steve likes that.
He finally gets into the shower, the warm water washing away the dirt and lingering disappointment of his team losing earlier tonight. He’s not even thinking about the fact he came home late anymore.
Once he’s out and mostly dry, except for his damp hair, he makes his way back to the bedroom, cautious to not make a sound. He reaches into his thankfully already opened drawer for a fresh pair of boxers. He pulls them on before he lazily slides into bed next to you, exhaustion starting to weigh down his limbs.
You feel the solid heat of him press against your back as he wraps an arm around your waist, kissing your shoulder softly in an effort not to wake you. But It’s futile. As soon as your husband gets in bed, it’s like your body knows. You awaken and before you can fully comprehend what you’re doing, you wriggle gently out of his grasp with a soft huff.
Steve lifts his arm and pauses, his brows furrowing. You never were one to refuse cuddles, and for a split second he’s confused. Maybe she’s dreaming. “Honey? You awake?”
You sigh and wrap the covers tighter around yourself. “Mm.”
And then it hits him. You had been up waiting for him, and now you’re mad. Shit. His fingers softly graze your spine under the covers, trying to be soothing. “Come on, baby. I’m sorry, okay? ‘M here now.” His voice sounds wrapped in velvet, attempting to get you to forget it.
You don’t turn, frustration and anger still souring your mood. “Just go to sleep, Steve.”
The use of his actual first name makes him physically recoil. He’s used to pet names and nicknames from you, or at least a cute little ‘Stevie’. But tonight, he’s not getting that, and that makes him get defensive. “Fine. ‘Night,” he mutters, turning to face away from you.
You try to ignore how cold the bed feels with that distance between you as you drift back to sleep.
The morning arrives quietly. A warm limb around your waist. Soft breaths hitting the nape of your neck. A hand possessively splaying over your belly under your shirt.
You wake up slowly, feeling confused for a moment. You’re still turned away from Steve, facing the wall, but it’s like he couldn’t stop himself from reaching out for you and holding on in his sleep. The guilt from getting home late and leaving you in the dark was probably too much, and he needed to feel you close.
A soft sigh leaves your lips. You don’t want to give in so easily, to forgive him in an instant like you always do because of those damn puppy dog eyes that are still the same now at thirty-something-years-old.
But he’s so warm against your back. So solid. So… him. Your loving husband.
Fine, just a few minutes. He’s asleep. He won’t know, you tell yourself, sinking back into his sleepy heat.
It lasts for about sixty seconds before you feel the soft press of his slightly chapped lips against the base of your neck. You don’t move, trying to save face and make it seem like you never woke up at all. It’s pointless though – he felt you lean into him.
His voice is rough with sleep when he speaks, a low chuckle leaving him first. “Not mad at me anymore, baby?”
You huff, sure, but you can’t bring yourself to move. Your mind might be a warrior, but your body is weak. “Still pissed, Harrington.”
He coos and kisses your shoulder, his thumb rubbing arcs over the skin of your stomach. “Aww… you know I’m sorry, honey. What can I do to make it better, hm?”
The slow and syrupy quality to his voice is vibrating against your back and resonating through those empty spots inside you that belong to only him. You still hold your ground, though. Maybe your body is weak, and it wants him, but you can still turn this to your advantage. You deserve it after last night.
You scoot just a few inches away, keeping your tone soft. “You could start with a massage.”
You can’t see it, but you can pretty much hear him smirking. He lets out a breath and shifts to sit up against the headboard. “Fair is fair. Come on, sweetheart.”
You look back at him. And you shouldn’t have, cause now it’s incredibly hard to keep your detached and unbothered attitude intact.
His hair is mussed from sleep, looking soft as it sticks out in every direction. The sheets are pooled around his thighs, but he pushes them away to spread his legs, making room for you. Your treacherous eyes linger over the planes of skin scattered with moles, tracing the shape of him. His strong forearms, biteable biceps, broad shoulders and chest, soft stomach… The patch of hair over his thorax that thins just a bit going down his belly, before it thickens under his navel and disappears into his boxers. And oh. His morning wood looks indecent, straining against the fabric and tempting you like a cookie being dangled in front of a starving dog.
Fuck.
He looks entirely too pleased with himself, but he doesn’t comment on your staring. Relaxation emanates from him, and he actually looks like he’s got no ulterior motives. He motions for you to sit in front of him.
You manage to move, the mattress dipping under your weight as you sit in between his legs, your back to him. Instinctively, you reach up to move your hair from your neck and over your shoulder.
His hand finds your waist as he bunches up the shirt you’re wearing. “Can I take it off? It’ll feel better.”
You hum approvingly, raising your arms so he can slip the worn shirt over your head. His hands are immediately splaying on your skin, starting to rub up and down your back to warm you up.
He doesn’t speak at first. He concentrates on making you relax, on taking out the tension he created by being out so late and causing you all that anxiety. His thumbs knead in those spots between your shoulder blades where he knows you carry the most of it.
Soft little sounds spill from your lips, and you can’t help them from coming out. He’s way too good with his hands.
“I really am sorry, you know.” It’s almost a whisper, sincere and unguarded. “I… lost track of time.”
You nod gently, eyes closed, still focussing on his rhythmic motions. “I know, Stevie. I just wish you’d at least remember to call.”
He hums in acknowledgment, his hands going up over your shoulders and squeezing lovingly. He truly feels awful. “I know, baby… Were you worried?”
You let out a soft sigh and nod, your hand finding his knee and curling over it. “Yeah. You know me.”
He hums again, and this time, he sits up and presses his chest to your back, wrapping his arms around you as he leans back against the headboard. The movement makes you rest back against him, and you let it happen.
He feels warm and reassuring, your head tipping back to meet his pec and shoulder. Comfy. His hands start stroking over your stomach as he speaks against your temple.
“I didn’t mean to make you stress, honey. I never do.” He places a soft kiss against the hair there.
“Then why don’t you call? I don’t mind you getting home late, I just want to know so I don’t have to worry if you’re dead in a ditch somewhere.” Your voice is still gentle, not looking to start a fight, just explaining why you were so frustrated.
You feel his hand wander between the valley of your breasts as the other goes down to your thigh.
“S’not an excuse, but it’s like I get too excited or something and I just forget to call. And I don’t even know how that’s possible ‘cause you’re everything to me.”
His head dips down as he starts leaving soft kisses down your neck. You relax more against him. “You really are just a big puppy masquerading as a man, huh?” You say the inside joke with a small smirk, the anger ebbing out of you at his loving words and touches, being replaced with warmth.
Okay, maybe you’re not that much of a warrior after all.
He chuckles and presses his face against the junction of your neck and shoulder, breathing you in. “Let me make it up to you, yeah?” You feel calloused skin cupping your breast tenderly, kneading it as if you also hold tension there.
You let out a non-committal hum, your eyes still closed. But of course, your legs spread slightly without you even giving them the neurological command to do so. Like a stupid reflex – you’re body being so responsive to him. Not giving in was way harder than it should have been.
“S’that a yes, sweetheart?” His hand that was still on your thigh moves to cup your heat over your panties, feeling the damp patch there. He rubs light and lazy circles over it.
Your breath hitches. “Don’t know if you deserve it yet, Stevie.” You try to sound stern, to have some semblance of control, but you both know it’s futile.
He nips and licks over your neck once. “Oh. No? Even if I said I have a whole apology day prepared?” He presses just a bit harder against your pussy, feeling your lips get puffier through the cloth.
You turn your head slightly toward him, brows furrowing as you open your eyes. “An ‘apology day’?”
He smiles at you and nods, before pinching your nipple between his thumb and middle finger. His voice comes out so unaffected, as if he’s not touching you like that and driving you absolutely crazy. It’s both infuriating and insanely hot. “Mhm. I’ll take you to that diner you like for breakfast.”
Your eyes roll back as he finally dips under the waistband of your panties and finds your wet core. He starts to gently trace up and down, gathering some of your arousal on two fingers to start rubbing gently over your clit.
“T-that’s all?” you ask, moans not leaving you yet as you try to stay composed.
He chuckles and shakes his head. “Greedy girl. But no, that’s not all. Thought we could go to that shop on Fifth Street, you know the one with all the - “
“Lights?” You finish his sentence. He knows how much you like that home decor shop, loving to walk around the aisles and looking at the set-ups, getting ideas for your own house. They have an incredible lights section, and it never fails to amaze you when you walk through it.
He smiles again, looking down at your lips. “Yeah, that one. I’ll let you get anything you want.” He’s still massaging your breast and pinching your nipple, and now you can feel his fingers circling your entrance.
A whimper leaves your throat, your back arching against him like you’ve finally let yourself feel what he’s doing to you. Your thighs spread wider, silently begging for more.
His mouth opens in reverence as he feels you respond, a low and pleased moan rumbling through him. You can feel his thick length pressing against your lower back, neglected. But he doesn’t care.
“But you know what else, honey?” He asks, his cheek pressing against the side of your head as your hips start rolling against his hand.
You whimper as he slowly presses his middle and ring finger inside you. “W-what?”
The pressure starts building low in your belly as he curls his fingers against your front wall, his wrist making slow circles that makes the heel of his palm rub maddening pressure on your swollen clit.
“I’ll do better. I promise you I’ll call in the future. Can’t have my perfect wife worrying over me for no reason.” He kisses the tender spot behind your ear, the one that smells the most like you as he keeps fucking you with his fingers. His other hand leaves your breast to grip your hip instead, helping you buck against him.
The promise and the way he knows exactly how to touch you after all these years – it gets you close to that sweet edge embarrassingly fast, your walls starting to flutter and tighten around his fingers.
“Fuck, Stevie… gonna c-cum.” You moan out, reaching back to grip his hair as your other hand squeezes his thigh.
“Mhmm…” is all he manages, sucking on the skin of your neck and keeping his hand movements steady as you release around his fingers.
Your hips stutter as your whole body relaxes, the force of your orgasm spreading like a wildfire throughout your body, before making way to a slow-moving wave of relief. Your husband’s fingers slowly come to a stop after he helped you ride it all out, whispering soft praises against your skin.
“There you go.” He says simply, almost looking proud of you, as he lifts his slick covered fingers toward his mouth to suck them off.
Now, Steve meant to stop there. Get you off, take you to breakfast, maybe buy you a nice new lamp. He was perfectly content to not get anything in return. This was about you, after all, and how he could make it up to you after his blunder last night. But at the first taste of your pleasure – as soon as your arousal hits his tongue – all his resolve flies out of the window.
His eyes roll back as he hums at the flavor, a needy and breathy “Fuck” is the only warning you have before he closes your legs and flips you on your belly. He wastes no time tugging your panties off and slipping a thin pillow under your hips.
You’re still recovering from your orgasm, face flushed and pressed into the mattress, so it’s no wonder that you didn’t register him taking off his boxers until you feel him straddle your thighs and press his body over top of yours. The hair on his chest tickles your back, and you can feel his hard and leaking cock against your ass, making you push your hips up slightly.
His breath comes out heavy against your ear, his hands tracing your curves reverently. “Still can’t believe you’re my wife, honey. So damn beautiful. Gonna let me have you, yeah?”
“Please, Stevie…” you nod eagerly.
He grins at the nickname and your pleading tone, pressing a gentle kiss on your shoulder. He sits up and brushes the hair away from your upper back, before running his hands down the expanse of skin. When he reaches down past your hips, he squeezes the globes of your ass and spreads you open, marveling at the wetness slicking your pussy and inner thighs from your first orgasm.
“Look at you.” He lets some spit dribble out of his mouth and onto his cock, making himself slippery as he gives it a few strokes. He lines himself up with your slit before slowly sinking his length into you. “Oh my god…” He says breathlessly, like he still cannot fathom that he gets to be the one to do this.
The stretch is always something, even after all this time. You whimper into the mattress, and he knows that it’s a bit much just by how you sound. He stays still, letting you relax around him. His hands start kneading and massaging over your back again. “Relax for me, honey. Let me take care of you.”
The feeling of being filled to the brim while Steve massages your back so tenderly is definitely up there on your very own list of ‘best sensations in the whole fucking world’. Fairly quickly, the slight sting from the stretch goes away and turns into a dull pressure that just makes you want more.
You push your hips back a bit, as much as you can with your husband’s weight pinning you down, making him go just a bit deeper. You whimper – a sound so addictive that Steve would gladly give up listening to music if it meant he could hear it on loop. “Please, Stevie… Move.”
His hands that were steadily working out tension over your shoulders slide down your back until he reaches your hips. He pulls out almost all the way, only leaving the tip in, making you mewl at the emptiness. “Anything for you. Anything.”
He pushes back in and starts a slow pace designed to make you feel every inch of his thick cock splitting you open over and over again. He always knew when to be rough and when to be gentle.
“Taking me so well, honey.”
“Look at that, so perfect for me.”
“Wanna make you feel so good, angel.”
He keeps praising you as his eyes are transfixed on his dick disappearing inside you, your arousal coating his length and leaving a milky ring at the base. The hair there, trimmed but still kind of bushy, is flattened down from the wetness.
Your fingers are clenching the sheets, face buried in them as your moans grow louder. There’s no where you can go when you’re on your belly like this, and you’re more than happy to just take it.
Steve’s moans grow heavier, some sweat starting to bead at his forehead. He pushes his hair back before leaning over you, bracing one hand next to your head as his other keeps holding your hip. The new angle hits that spot inside you, the one that has you seeing stars.
“Oh fuck, Stevie! Right t-there!” You take hold of his wrist by your head, your needy moans sending a shiver up your husband’s spine.
His hips keep a constant, devastating, but still slow enough pace for you to feel everything. “Yeah, baby? Right there, huh?” He moves to sink his fingers in your hair and tug gently, making you turn your head so you can see him.
You nod and whimper, your bottom lip stuck between your teeth as the coil tightens in your belly. You feel your abundant slick drip down on the mattress, but you can’t bring yourself to care.
“D-don’t stop…” You whimper out, your walls tightening around him like they never want him to leave.
Steve curses under his breath, his hand grabbing your hip again to keep you at the perfect angle. “Wasn’t planning on it. Ahh… Fuck, I can feel it. Come for me, baby.”
Your moans get higher, the coil tightening impossibly tight, but missing that little something to catapult you over the edge.
He can sense it, how your walls are starting to flutter around him, his own orgasm getting dangerously close. But no, you have to get yours first. His rhythm falters slightly, his breath shaky. “Gonna fill you up. S’that what you want? Wanna try again?”
Your orgasm crashes through you at his words – the idea of being full of your husband’s cum has always been a kink of yours, so when you had started to try to start a family, that was definitely a huge perk. You gush around him, moaning a broken version of his name as you fall apart.
The rhythmic contractions of your pussy trigger his own release, his cock twitching inside you as he buries himself deep and he coats your walls with his milky spend. “Fuck, baby…”
His body collapses over top of yours, though he braces himself a bit on his elbows so he doesn’t fully crush you. He nuzzles his face into the back of your neck and your shoulder, leaving gentle kisses on your overheated skin.
You sigh contentedly, still feeling him buried inside you, softening slowly. The minutes drag as you soak in the feeling.
“Mmm… you’re forgiven.” You say, reaching back to pat his thigh.
He laughs lowly, slowly lifting himself off of you as he pulls out. His hands stroke reverently over your back as you turn on your side to look at him.
“Still taking you to breakfast. And that store.” He reaches out and cups your neck, pushing some of your messy hair back as he strokes your flushed cheek with his thumb.
You smile at him lovingly, spent and full. “Well, my forgiveness is conditional to that, but still.” You chuckle and turn your head to kiss his palm.
When you look back at him, your breath catches. His eyes are soft, almost glistening in the delicate morning light spilling through the curtains. His hand leaves your neck to splay over your stomach, the golden band on his ring finger shining against his tan skin. “I can’t wait…”
“It’ll happen, Stevie.” You lace your fingers with his. “We just gotta keep doing… that.” You smirk.
He chuckles at your words and pulls you close, tucking your head under his chin. “Anytime, honey.”
************
Taglist! Decided to start one, even though I'm not sure how😅 If you want to be added or taken off, just comment!
Summary: Getting stuck with Steve in the van on crawl nights fucking sucks. Getting stranded in a snowstorm, forced to cuddle up next to the one person you cannot stand, all to share warmth and hopefully survive the night? You’re almost certain you’d rather freeze to death. Almost.
WC: 18k+
Includes: bitchy idiots to lovers. one bed & forced proximity tropes. hurt/comfort. angst w/ some fluff to balance it out. language. steve’s trauma. reader’s trust issues. smut- heavy petting, humping, oral (f receiving), PiV sex, dirty talk. reader has no descriptions beyond breasts & vagina, and she/her pronouns. fic takes place in the winter, pre s5. prob some inaccuracies re: treating hypothermia; everything I researched was conflicting with other info, so for the sake of the fic, pretend any errors work lmao. lmk if I forgot any tags. // MDNI 18+ as always with my fics, please respect that.
A/N: Said I wasn’t gonna even try to write a van fic, the fandom has enough, and then this idea slapped itself permanently into my brain after vol. 1, and unfortunately took me months to finish. So... sorry if you’re sick of the van fics, but here’s one more 😅 title is a lyric from hard - hayley williams, and the fic is loosely (very loosely lol) inspired by the song itself. dividers by @/cursed-carmine.
♪ always ready for the piano to fall / always ready to be left out in the cold / armor’s heavy, never suited me at all / but it’s the devil I know ♬
This has to be the worst night for a crawl yet.
Much to your dismay, you're stuck with Steve in the van tonight.
Dustin's sick with the flu, Will is still restricted from ever leaving Joyce's sight at this point, and you were more knowledgeable on telemetry tracking than Jonathan.
Leaving you- alone- with your least favorite person, for the rest of the night.
Yeah, lucky you.
This isn't the first time you've been paired up with him, nor would it be the last, you're certain. However, tonight's forecast called for snow and plummeting temps; accurate as ever as the evening grew near, with grey-white clouds blanketing the skies, flurries fluffing up by the minute.
You tried warning the others about the weather, understanding that crawls were usually non-negotiable, keeping flexible to the military's burn schedules, unbeknownst to them.
It still had to happen; any chance to find and defeat Vecna is a chance to end this nightmare, once and for all.
And that's never your call to make.
Creaking the passenger side door open, the first greeting that hits you is a miffed grumble, "Jesus, took you long enough."
"Yeah, hi to you too, Steve," you deadpan, careful to climb in backwards, kicking as much snow off your boots as you can before shutting the door.
He gives you a once-over, poorly stifling an ill-fitted chuckle.
Rolling your eyes, you glare over at him. "What?"
"You look like that kid from A Christmas Story with all those layers."
"Ha-ha, very funny." You struggle to cross your arms, puffed up and padded down with your winter coat.
"There's heat in the van, y'know." Glancing over his shoulder, he throws a thumb to the back of the van. "That box of stuff is back there, too, but… kinda just a waste of space, don't you think?"
"Oh, for the love of—" you crawl between the front seats, shoving Steve's shoulder in the process. Reaching the medium-sized cardboard box, you drag a well-loved and worn blanket out. "We've been over this, Steve."
"We get it, your circulation sucks, or whatever. I don't see how that's anyone else's problem."
"If I have to put up with you leaving all those goddamn Boppers wrappers around, you can deal with the emergency box." Holding a hand up, you add, "Which, is for everyone, by the way."
"Yeah, well, a sleeping bag's a little much. And extra socks? A sweatshirt? C'mon—"
"Last week Dustin was glad I packed that sweatshirt when it dropped to 40 degrees at night," you settle in the back, unlocking the wheel on the ceiling. "Because you refused to shut your window."
Exasperated, he throws his arms up. "The cold keeps me awake! Sue me!" Steve turns around, lip curled upward in disgust. "Also it's gross you just… leave socks for other people to use."
"They're new and I wash them if they get used! I wash everything in here, you fucking mor—"
"Hey, guys, you good to go?" Robin's voice through the tinny speaker of the walkie disrupts the insults you had on standby for Steve.
Glaring at Steve while he reflects his own sharp stare, you respond, "As good as we're gonna get."
There's no room for Steve to bite back; you're already tugging the headphones over your ears, focused as you fidget with the knobs. Your main concern isn't him, it's tracking Hopper to keep this as successful and safe of a crawl as possible.
Steve's gaze lingers, but it softens, deflates into one of dejection. You feel his eyes on you, but ignore it, thinking he's still trying to hold out on the sign of animosity; it's not that.
Despondency plagues him whenever you're around, and he resorts to cynicism, trapped in its ugly cycle. You hate him, why should he play nice in return?
It's easier to allow bitterness to keep distance between the two of you. Easier to forget how you and Steve were just in reach of something more.
Until you just… left.
Friendship break-ups are sometimes harder than romantic ones.
No one ever talks about that weird gap, suspended between acquaintances and beyond, falling into potential friendship, drifting back off into something bitter, a bond you only shared, tip-toeing along a jagged edge.
You'd drift in, drift out.
Grew close, just enough for hope to thrive, only to push him away.
In, out.
All while longing for something more, desperate to ride out a wave that drifts back and builds momentum, only to crash ashore into nothing.
So you cough up water, take a few deep breaths, and dive back in again.
Turns out, that shit gets exhausting over time. Especially when you discover a grim truth, hidden from the start.
When you're not treading water to stay afloat, it's swimming through a naval minefield in murky waters; drift into one, and you're blasted into overthinking what went wrong, what stopped the bond from blooming. And all it takes is one 'what if?' to shift course and bump into one these mines, ruining your day completely.
What if you hadn't moved away after Starcourt's explosive demise, deciding on a fresh start by leaving this nightmare of a town behind?
What if you and Steve were able to become more, if not stay friends, and he had just been honest about the Upside Down from the beginning?
What if you allowed that friendship to swell into something more? Standing him up on a date that could've changed everything; a wave ready to ride out naturally, only to retreat. Withdraw like the ocean before returning full force as a tsunami; why follow the tide out just to trap yourself in the path of imminent destruction?
If you stayed… would it have been worth it?
The two of you were star-crossed; Steve was still hung up on Nancy when you discovered your feelings for him. When he moved on, you found someone else. It almost turned into a sad, little game; when one was ready, the other had been redirected elsewhere.
It was even pitiful, the way you two barely had a friendship to build on, because one wasn't ready, and the other got tired of waiting.
Wash. Rinse. Repeat.
Your time outside of Hawkins brought you steps away from turning fully into stone; get hurt enough times, you refuse welcoming anyone and everyone in so easily. One too many soured relationships had you settled on the idea that maybe you just weren't meant to share love like that.
That hurt transforms your body as a shield for your heart, ribs hardening into steel cages as an added last line of defense; you were one heartbreak away from adding electric barbed wire for good measure.
No one would get in again. Not if you could help it. Not like that.
Coming home wasn't an easy choice, but it was the only one that felt right. Your friends were still here, who you loved as family— bonded through unholy tragedies rather than blood, still family all the same; you had to check on them. You couldn't leave them hanging again.
Because your first thought upon hearing of the destruction, was what if any of them died?
Then you return to find out the worst what if came true: someone among the group died; Eddie's gone. And Max? Well… she's closer to a tragic ending than most of you.
You suffocated yourself in distractions, helping your parents to pack up and move out, promising you wouldn't be too far behind, that you needed to check on your friends immediately.
Unfortunately, coming home right before the town went into quarantine was not part of the plan.
Time away had you forget how downright stubborn Steve could be if he set his mind to something, and all he wanted was to break your walls down, at least to find common ground.
That was still far too much give, and not enough take for you. They're not uncharted waters, you just know you're not meant to navigate them, and know damn well Steve would just stand by and watch you sink.
Those what ifs of your past resurfaced, pulling you under, taunting you to open your mouth when there was nowhere to breathe.
The last place you needed to drown in emotions you couldn't afford was in a town under quarantine. Locked in, fenced off from the rest of the world, with someone you barely had a chance to build a friendship with. Someone you always yearned for more with, yet royally fucked up any chances with.
That more, those chances, they're thousands of meters below a rough, choppy surface, down to the pitch-black depths of the abyssal zone; it's just not in reach, and you've protected your heart this long, you didn't need all that effort to go to waste within a impulsive dive, head first into what would certainly make your heart implode.
You can only tread water for so long, though.
"Hop's going as slow as possible tonight, so we don't have to speed, alright?"
Steve only shoves an aggressive thumbs up over his head, tongue prodding into the side of his cheek.
"I mean, it'll pick up if he hitches a ride on a military truck for a while, but—"
"Yeah, yeah, I get it. Don't go fast unless necessary." He grumbles under his breath, "I'm not stupid."
And that stings, because you genuinely weren't insinuating that. In fact, you're certain you've never insinuated that before.
"Steve, I wasn't trying to—"
"Don't." His shoulders tense up, grumbling out, "Unless it's about this crawl, I don't wanna talk. You focus on your job, I'll focus on mine."
His flat tone and curt demeanor makes your stomach churn. Nights like these where you're forced together have you longing for the past. Before you knew of the Upside Down, before he was trapped in a bunker below Starcourt, before you left like a goddamn coward.
Ever since you returned to Hawkins, it's like he resents you for protecting yourself. Your peace. Your sanity.
What the hell was the point of continuing to stick around, pour your heart into a friendship that only opened if you brought the crowbar?
Despite the mutual loathing, you and Steve make a pretty solid team when kept strictly to business.
Keeping up with a telemetry tracker while stuck in a snow storm is tricky, to say the least. Neither of you have a problem blaming the other for what's outside of your control, though.
"Jesus, Steve, slow down." It's hard to sit upright as he keeps his speed— a speed that normally wouldn't be a problem, if it weren't for the slick roads. You hiss under your breath,"Fucking lead-foot."
He hears you, snapping back, "You wanna drive? Huh?" His eyes stay fixated on the road. The windshield becomes more obstructed as the snow gains momentum, falling heavily onto every surface within reach. "By all means, be my guest."
"God, you're such a bitch."
"Me?! Have you ever heard yourself talk for even, like, five seconds?" Steve's tempted to turn around to shout at you, but he keeps whatever cool he has left— which isn't much— and continues driving safely. "You're so fucking rude, and- god- you're so annoying, so fucking annoying."
"That's bold, coming from a pain in the ass like you…" you grumble, trailing off as the signal on the tracker drops; Hopper stopped moving. "Steve. Steve!"
"What?! Christ, can't you shut up—"
"Stop!"
"How come I have to stop, but you can keep bitching and moaning—"
"I meant the van, asshole!"
Steve slams on the brakes, hoping to skid to a stop, but the van keeps moving.
Gliding. Coasting. The van's skating on the slick road, completely out of control.
You throw the headphones aside, scrambling to the front to peer around Steve's seat. "Dude, what the fuck?!"
"Shit, shit, shit!"
Steve's death grip wraps around the wheel, knuckles turning white; he's ready to turn it toward the shoulder to get off the road, but you grab his arm and hold him in place. Eyes darting to the floor, you see his foot is still weighed down on the brake pedal.
"Wait— watch it! Harrington, keep the wheel straight!" Voice trembling from the frenzy. Steve's about to slam his foot down onto the brake when you panic, "Fuck, get your foot off the brake!"
Despite sliding, you don't spin. Snowfall rushes around the van, limiting visibility to just a few feet ahead. Even as the van slows, it fishtails. Steve frantically switches into low gear, breaths heavy and jagged as he releases control.
His right arm shoots out, bridging between the seats to brace himself and create a barrier to hold you back. Alarmed, he shouts, "Stay down!"
You don't move in time before impact, but you're projected into his arm with force, restraining you from hurtling over the seats and into the dashboard. The van's wheels rumble as it veers off the road, the ditch finally slowing you down to a halt.
Adrenaline rushing, you pant as you're frozen against his arm, processing that absolute disaster.
"Shit…" Steve gasps, trying to catch his breath. "… You okay?" Scanning over your figure, unable to find immediate concern beyond the fear on your expression, his shoulders begin to relax.
"Uh-huh," you rasp out, glancing up at him. "You?"
He nods firmly and swallows. "M'okay."
Static harshly shoves into the van, with Robin's voice following close behind.
She drones out, "Angry Lovebirds, do you copy? Hellooooo? Where the hell did you two go?"
You cringe at the code name, wishing you could shrink on the spot and disappear.
"Why the hell does she still call us that?" Steve gripes, running his hands over his face. "We've never— I don't even—"
Her voice drops to a mutter and cuts Steve off, asking as if the others aren't on the same channel, "Please tell me you two didn't kill each other."
"Oh my god," Steve rolls his eyes with a groan, head falling back against the seat.
In reluctant favor of answering Robin, you leave the warmth of Steve's side to grab the walkie. You curse yourself inwardly at the misplaced feelings.
Thumb jabbing in the talk button, you exhale a winded response, "We're good, we, uh…" Your eyes meet Steve's before darting away. "We hit black ice, though."
"Shit! Can you make it back safely?" She adds, "We were trying to get a hold of you guys, 'cus we had to call off the crawl. It didn't work out."
So the two of you slid on black ice… for nothing.
Fantastic.
"Um, hang— h- hold on." Turning to Steve, you noticed smoke rising on the other side from the van's hood. "Oh, fuck."
Steve jerks his head up, jumping into action. He kills the engine, immediately cutting off the warmth from the janky heater. Throwing his jacket on, he flings the driver's side door open and jumps out. Snowfall drifts sideways from the wind, and he winces as it pelts into his face.
"Guys?" Nancy's voice takes over now, concerned with the delay. "What's the status on the van?"
"Uh- well, it's actually—" You forget to release the talk button, shouting after Steve. "Wait! I'm coming with!"
Releasing it, a booming voice immediately floods through the speaker. "What the hell is going on out there?"
Hopper.
Oh, boy.
Meanwhile, Steve stands firm, shouting over the brutal, howling wind, "No, you're staying put!" He bites back on his own shivers, already creeping down his spine as he slams the door shut.
Well, can't say you didn't try.
Flicking your thumb against the talk button, your explanation comes to life with nervous laughter. "Hop! Hi. Soooooo… we're stuck in a ditch."
You can just imagine the drawn out sigh he lets out before responding, pinching the bridge of his nose, and all.
"Okay, where are you exactly?"
The glass of the back door window is freezing as you try to peek out. You huff your breath onto the glass, rubbing your sleeve against it to clear it up. It barely helps, with snow and frost beginning to coat it completely outside.
You squint through the narrow opening between patches of snow, gaze landing on the landmark in the near distance.
Groaning, you punch the talk button with your thumb. "The fuckin' cemetery."
"Language."
"Hey, I'm an adult! Last thing on my mind right now is censoring myself," you grumble into the walkie.
"How the hell did you two end up out there? That's not where I was in the Upside Down."
So, not only did the van throw you and Steve around like rag dolls on a failed crawl, but the tracker was off.
Way off.
"I- I don't know."
A frustrated shout cuts through the whistling squall outside. The van rocks as Steve kicks the bumper, cursing wildly at the shoddy engine.
"I thought you said you could handle tracking?"
Your blood begins to boil. Now's not the time for some trivial debate, not when you're possibly stranded in what's shaping up to be one of the worst snow storms Hawkins has seen yet.
There's no chance to respond when another voice, congested and hoarse, cuts in. "She can, she's actually good at this."
Dustin Henderson is a goddamn good egg, even while battling a cold.
You wish Hopper could see the smug grin on your face right now.
"I personally think Hop lost the tracker—" silence cuts in for a second, returning with Hopper scolding him; they have to be fighting over the damn walkie. "Watch it, kid. I didn't lose shit."
You slam your thumb down onto the talk button within another pause, mocking back, "Hey, Hopper? Language."
Another pause draws itself out, and eventually Robin returns with an exasperated huff. "You and Steve did nothing wrong. Hopper definitely lost the tracker."
"I didn't lose the fucking—"
The talk button is released on her end, abruptly interrupting Hopper's rant.
"Anyway… we're not that far from the station, right?"
"Five miles an hour in that van might take way longer, but you're not making it here on foot in this weather. It's not safe."
Woven into the wind is a muffled "son of a bitch!". The hood slams shut, jostling the van before Steve yanks the van door open, gracelessly stumbling inside.
Snow sticks to his hair, his clothes, slowly melting to leave him like a freezing, wet dog.
"This is fu- fuck, it's cold—!". Steve huffs out a mirthless chuckle, appearing nowhere near amused. "S'fucking ridiculous." His teeth chatter as he gripes, eyes falling on you, then to the walkie. "Give m- me that."
Steve's hand brushes against yours as he snatches the walkie from you, frigid and stiff. It takes a few tries to hit the talk button and hold it in successfully.
"Can anyone come get us? The van's f- fucked." With his jaw this tight, he's about to crush his teeth to dust. For a second, his eyes flicker to you, and you swear there's a flash of something genuine within the hazel. "Leaving the engine run is a d- disaster waiting to happen, so we can't use the h- heat."
There's silence on the other end; lack of an instant answer usually never fares well for any of you.
Scouring through the emergency box, you pick out a small, rolled towel, handing it over to Steve. For once, he doesn't look at you like you're nuts for keeping the damn box stocked.
He accepts it with a trembling hand, murmuring a both grateful yet defeated "Thanks".
"It's too dangerous for anyone to drive out, and way too dangerous for you two to try walking back. The nearest tunnel is at least a mile out from you, give or take on where you two ended up exactly in the cemetery."
Steve exhales roughly through his red, wind-bitten nose, handing the walkie back to you. "You t- take it. M'too pissed off to be nice ri- right now."
Nodding solemnly, you grab it back, responding to everyone. "Okay. We'll just… tough it out. I got some stuff to stay warm, so we should be okay for a few hours at least." Sighing, you glance up at Steve, laying out the now damp towel on the dashboard. "But the second it's safe enough, someone needs to come get us."
Hopper presses the talk button early, releasing a weary sigh first. "We'll try when we can."
That's not good enough, not for you, and not for Steve; the two of you cannot be stranded here overnight.
Together.
Alone.
"No, you'll do it when you can. I warned y'all the weather would be shit. You get us out of this mess the moment this storm slows down. Got it?"
A lengthy pause begins to irritate you the longer the seconds pass.
"Yeah, kid. I got it."
In defeat, you chuck the walkie aside, swallowing down the urge to scream.
It's no use to be angry now; best to bury those emotions and redirect that energy into something useful. Like helping Steve.
Even if he doesn't really deserve your help to begin with.
"Okay, Harrington, here's what's gonna happen." He turns slowly, heavy-lidded with fatigue settling into his expression. "I think the clothes in here are your size—"
"How the hell do y- you know what size clothes I wear?"
Would it kill him to be nice? Or quiet? For just five fucking seconds?
"To keep this shit on hand if we need it, and you're welcome, by the way." You toss a t-shirt with the radio's logo on it, wool socks, and sweatpants his way. "There's a reason I asked everyone what their sizes were months ago."
Steve catches it all, just barely, but he's left dumbfounded. Through chattering teeth, he snaps, "Wh- why the hell do I want these?"
"Are you kidding me? Dude, you can't stay in those clothes. You're gonna get hypothermia."
"Whatever," he starts peeling off his clothes, and you take that as a cue to turn around. A faint comment slips under his breath, "It'd be better than being stuck here."
It's still audible enough to you, clear enough to sting. You feel like a damn fool for thinking Steve was finally presenting something other than hatred, for once.
"You're not the only one who doesn't wanna be stuck here." Rubbing your eyes, you sigh.
There's no way you can last the night in here without killing one another; it's too long to put up with his bullshit.
Unless…
There might be one shred of hope left. And okay, sure, it's more a thin, fraying thread that could lead to nothing, but you won't know until you try.
You bundle yourself back up, zipping up your jacket, winding the scarf around your neck tightly, tugging your hat over your head. Steve notices when you're slipping your hands into a pair of mittens.
"Hey, whoa—" Now comfortably changed, he clambers to the back, a little too close for comfort. "No. What are you doing? You're not going out there."
But you ignore his concern, if it's even real to begin with. "That gas station's still down the road, right?"
"Maybe? I don't— that's not—" Frazzled, he stumbles over his thoughts. "You're not walking down there in the snow." His fingers fight against stiffness, winding around your wrist shielded under your coat. "You need to be safe."
"Why? So you don't get the blame if something bad happens?" Irritated, you yank your hand back. "Just… wait here. I'll be quick."
"Quick? Yeah, right. It's not that close by foot." Steve, still stiff from the cold, clumsily shoves in front of you to block the back doors. "Your circulation sucks, remember?"
His attempted smartass comment fails miserably as concern seeps through the cracks of his tone.
"And you said it wasn't your problem," you retort, shoving him aside. "Look, it's right down the road. Maybe we'll be lucky and they'll have coffee, or something hot. We both could use something like that right now—"
"You brought your thermos! I haven't seen you use it once." He runs a hand through his damp hair, sighing. "And even if they did have coffee, it'd be ice cold by the time you got back."
"Oh, you watching my every move now, Harrington?" Your voice drops low, dry, sick of this conversation. "That's precious."
He doesn't react, only argues, "What if it's closed?"
Your eyes dart away from him, faltering. "T- there's a pay phone outside," you really thought it'd be easier to shake him. "I can call someone to get us out—"
"No. Now you're just being ridiculous." One hand perches on his hip, while the other waves wildly as he speaks. "Who the hell's coming out after curfew? Especially in this?"
You shrug, shrinking into yourself with a weak lie. "… I might know a guy?"
"Cut the shit, what's out there that's worth freezing to death for, huh?"
"I'm trying to leave you the fuck alone, Steve!" Seething, the explosion silences Steve, guilt and shame softening his expression. "I'm not thrilled to be stranded here with you either, but I was willing to play nice! I was willing to get along, but you don't want that, and that—" You bite back tears, ones born of anger, maybe even a hint of rage. "That's fine. Just trying to make it easier for us both, give some space."
"Wh… what?" He's dumbfounded. "When I said I didn't want to be stuck here, that wasn't about you—"
"Oh, please. Like I buy that for a fucking second."
"I wish you would!" He exclaims, voice fracturing with panic. "You really think I want you to freeze to death 'cause we can't get along? That's the last thing I'd want."
"Yeah, well…" your hand lingers over the handle, glaring back at him, returning the jagged comment to sender. "It'd be better than being stuck here."
It's tempting to tack on "with you" at the end, but you bite your tongue. You're not even sure if you'd mean that.
Eyes set forward, you miss his sullen, wounded stare, etched into his features when you exit the van. You're plunging head first into regret once your boots hit the snow. Instead of swallowing your pride and climbing right back in, you feign indifference as you slam the doors shut without looking back.
The doors never reopen, and he never calls for you; it's clear how much of a relief the space is for both of you.
If you tell yourself enough times that it's better than being stuck in that doomed ice box on wheels with Steve all night, maybe you'll begin believing it.
Before the Upside Down, before losing his friends, losing Nancy, losing the cheap crown on his head in his fall from grace— Steve could fall asleep with ease. His head could hit the pillow and he'd be out.
The typical high school blues were enough to send any teenager into stress-induced sleep loss, but the Upside Down's daunting reminder that the fight was only dormant, forced full blown insomnia to become his closest friend.
Exhaustion would lead him to eventually sleep, but he'd fight it off as long as he could; you can only handle the bloodcurdling screams and cries of your friends dying in your dreams so many times before giving up on sleep completely.
Every creak in his house on nights home alone— loneliness all too common in that house— had him holding his breath, waiting for sudden movements to echo out again. Every light bulb, flickering on its way out for good, froze him in fear of who, or what, lay in wait on the other side. And if a detail, no matter how small, is enough to keep him from sleep, that's an open invitation for his mind to spiral.
Tonight, trying to rest in the van, he notices a gap; it's thin and barely noticeable, between the flimsy plywood floorboards underneath the shag carpet. Steve feels it every time he tosses and turns; it always digs into his left hip, slightly uneven from the other board it should be snug against.
He flips to the right, but no, that feels wrong; he's not a right side sleeper. That changed after '84, and he's not exactly sure why, but he sleeps better on the left side.
And on his back? He doesn't even dare, not after a sleep paralysis episode after those fucking bats attacked him. That one and only episode he felt pinned to the bed, like a bat was choking him all over again. His scars ached for hours after, the one around his throat singed through his skin like some god-awful, hellish rope-burn.
So, yeah, Steve can't sleep, clearly not from the cold; turns out, that sleeping bag of yours was a good idea. He won't outright admit that though. Or, how your emergency box actually was, and continues to be, useful.
He tries to rest, flip-flops between sides to get comfortable, but the minutes you're gone only accumulate in his mind to a concerning degree, like the heavy snowfall outside. Every second that ticks past is a second too long without you.
By car, the gas station is a few minutes away. By foot, in weather like this, bundled up in excessive layers? Shit, even he'd struggle to move quickly. He'd definitely get sick, too.
Time passes, snow builds, and Steve continues to overthink. Eventually, he wonders, Am I really that fucking awful to be stranded in the snow with?
What the answer would be to you, he already knows. You think he doesn't give a fuck, and it's not like he's done much to prove otherwise.
To you, Steve's fears to let you go out into the cold were only linked to the clear concept of: if you got hurt, he'd be to blame.
To Steve, though, it goes beyond blame; he's scared, now rueful, that he didn't fight harder to make you stay, because the thought of losing you more than he already had terrifies him.
The possibilities of what could go wrong were endless: you, losing your way, disoriented from the blizzard. What if you froze to death out there? Or got caught being out past curfew? Though, Steve's pretty sure the military doesn't give a fuck about two idiots stranded in the snow.
The wind howls and whistles, whipping around the van as the snow falls diagonally. Every now and then, he opens each door to slam it again, shaking off the snow outside; there's too much buildup to keep an eye out for you.
He checks his watch; you left about an hour ago. The footprints that trailed behind you are now covered over with fresh snow.
Steve's tempted to radio everyone at the station— assuming they stayed in for the night with the storm— but that means admitting he didn't stop you. He didn't protect you.
You're your own person, though. You don't need to be babied, or protected.
Sure doesn't stop Steve's protective side from caring about you.
It's not like anyone could come out to rescue either of you in the first place. But if you're gone and he says nothing, he'd never forgive himself if you got sick. Or worse.
Jesus, what if you're already freezing to death?
In the midst of internal panic, a thud! with fierce force slams against the van outside. Steve jolts upright, startled enough that it clears his damn sinuses while his heart races.
There's another thump, with a few more to follow, inching towards the passenger side door. It flings open, snow sprinkling in as you flop forward, face against the seat.
"Jesus Christ," is all Steve can manage to say, because he's grateful to see you, alive, but also, you're such a fucking idiot.
You crawl into the van, collapsing onto the floor. "'Idn't wanna get th'carpet wet," you mumble through your teeth, jaw rigid, struggling to close the door as the handle slips through your weak grip.
"C'mon, sit up for me." Steve guides you into the seat while you struggle, clumsy like you're intoxicated, yet your limbs are stiff. Under your freezing wet clothes, he can feel you shiver, practically vibrating uncontrollably.
When you're settled up right, he shoots an arm between the seat and wall, barely managing to grab the door handle and slam it shut.
"Ow… S'loud," you groan.
"Shit, sorry." He drags the box over, rummaging through it haphazardly. A pair of sweats and a sweater lay at the bottom, warm and ready to wear. He lays them aside, leaning over the seat to unzip your coat.
"D- damn, a'least flirt with me first," you slur, lips a muted shade from their normal lively color.
It's a joke, but not an invite for playful banter; Steve bites his tongue, quickly helping you out of your coat. He unwinds your scarf and tugs your hat off, dropping all of them to the driver side's floor.
Your clothes are soaked underneath, too. Though you're still pretty covered, he can see how strained your muscles are from stiffening.
Steve peels your puffy vest, hoodie, and sweater off next— Jesus, he forgot how layered you were. And it still didn't help.
"You're an idiot, you know that?" The fondness in his tone sneaks through the disapproval. When the air hits your skin, damp and frigid, gasp, face twisting from discomfort; it feels like sharp needles prickling along your arms.
"M'fine," yet you look far from it— hair tangled and soaked, frozen in spots, skin dull of its usual shine and shade, lids weighed down like you're drunk and sleepy, even a little puffy.
Funny how concerned you were of him getting hypothermia earlier, when you're already there.
And by funny, it's fucking scary, because there's no way to get you to a hospital tonight.
Really, he doesn't think it's that severe, but at any stage, hypothermia's nothing to fuck with; you're still suffering no matter what, and he hates to see you in pain.
Hates that he just admitted that to himself, too.
"Bullshit," he contends as he pulls another small towel from the box— seriously? You thought of everything with this box.
He'll thank you later. Maybe even apologize for being such a dick about it if it saves your asses.
Steve lays the towel over your head, gently tousling your hair against the fabric to help it dry. You shiver violently, "Hey, the sooner you get changed, the sooner you'll feel better."
"Said m'fine," you grit your teeth, attempting to shove him away, but your arms are still weak and stiff. "Jus' put the heat on."
"We can't run the engine, remember?" Steve throws the towel onto the driver's seat; that's a problem for future him. "C'mon, you can't stay in your clothes."
The moment the words leave his lips, he cringes, waiting for you to snidely remark, insinuate he's a pervert, but you're quiet.
Yeah, you're worse than he thought.
"I'm gonna help, okay?" There's no protest from you. He reaches down to the hem of your shirt, tugging up, but pausing before it passes your belly button. "This alright?"
"M'yeah, s'kay."
If you weren't tumbling into a life threatening condition, he'd poke fun at how wasted you sound.
Steve's perceptive, keeping an eye on your reaction, ensuring he's not hurting you. Prioritizing your safety doesn't make the reveal of you, half naked, any easier to deal with.
Shirt thrown to the side, Steve scrunches his eyes shut, scolds himself internally to behave, don't be a creep. He leans from behind the seat, over you to unbutton your jeans— Jesus Christ, why the fuck did you wear jeans? They're practically painted onto your form after all the ice and snow sunk into the denim.
He sucks in a breath, "Uh… can you get them off yourself?"
"S'okay, jus' leave 'em like this."
"It's really not," he sighs, climbing between the front seats and sliding down to the floor before you. The space is limited, incredibly limited, and he's contorting in a way he's never folded before, just to fit here. And for you, of all people.
He finds the chair's lever, shoving it back as far as it can go, though not much of a difference exists.
"Okay, c'mon, boots first."
Steve undresses you with care, tries not to notice the position you're both in, how close his face is to your core. How he's imagined on lonely, late nights, him kneeling for you, while he strokes himself, cock twitching as always while wondering what you taste like.
Every last ounce of self control is gathered up to keep his composure. You're in your underwear. Nothing else.
And your underwear? Yeah. That's wet, too; bra sticking flush to your chest, nipples peaked enough to reveal their shape through the fabric. He dares to take a lower peek when your eyes flutter shut as you sigh— out of concern, not pleasure, he reminds himself— and the fabric against your core is damp, hugging to the shape of your puffy lips.
He scrunches his eyes shut, runs a hand down over his mouth as he thinks … fuck me.
You shiver and twitch and whimper as the near-numbness finally settles into fucking freezing. It shatters whatever trance Steve was falling into.
"Honey," he frowns at himself immediately, because where the fuck did that come from? "You need to warm up."
There's no way to suggest sharing heat without sounding like a total pervert. Every choice of words could definitely be taken as suggestive, at best.
At worst? Steve's coming off as Hawkins' biggest douche-bag.
"Don't wanna," you whine, petulant and pained.
"It's this or freeze to death," he forces himself to deadpan, afraid of coming off as too concerned.
"You'd— bet that'd make y'happy."
He's not sure if he should file that comment under the usual banter the two of you have, or something worse.
"It wouldn't." Steve crawls up, hands gripping the sides of your seat as he tries respecting your space— the little bit left, at least. And still, he stumbles, catching himself right before he headbutts you. "Shit. Ah— shit, I- I'm sorry."
If he makes eye contact with you right now, it is game over. The whine you just released, though likely in pain, doesn't help his already wound-up, touch-starved thoughts.
"Okay. Okay," he sighs, more to himself, finding his balance again. "C'mon, we're gonna use that sleeping bag of yours to stay warm."
You're slow, painfully, agonizingly, moving at a snail's pace, while Steve moves you out of the seat. He's patient, cautious, already trying to press his body against yours to share warmth from the moment you begin trembling.
"Slow, take it easy," he guides you to the carpet while he murmurs softly. It's a miracle you make it to the back safely, considering how frozen stiff your joints are. "Doing okay?"
That's a dumb fucking question.
"Other th- than my t- t- tits freezing off, m'f- fine."
When you flash a curl of a smirk, just the tiniest one, Steve still feels relief. It's a speck of relief, but he'll gladly accept.
About to sit from your kneeling position, he grabs your hips to stop you. Steve clears his throat, awkwardly releasing you.
"Sorry, just, uh… your, uh… the—" he nods vaguely to your chest, eyes lingering for a second too long, wondering how soft you'd feel. By the time he peels his eyes away to drift lower, he gulps. "Those need to come off."
"Wh- why?" You pout, body violently trembling the longer you go without warmth.
"Just work with me, okay? Dry clothes aren't gonna warm you up enough on their own." He huffs, kneeling near you. "M'not trying anything funny, I promise."
Leaning close, Steve's face is near yours while his hands reach around your torso. His fingers skate up your cold skin, bringing about his own shivers, finding your bra clasp and unhooking it.
Poorly strangling a gasp, it still manages to slip past your lips, and he's almost certain it's because you're in pain. Nothing else.
But it sure sounds like it stems from another source.
Hovering his touch, he halts, eyes wide as they dart to meet yours. "Did I hurt you?"
"N- no, just co- c- cold." Teeth chattering, you grab onto his shoulders weakly as he removes your underwear. He bites back the urge to yelp from how bone chilling your touch is.
You hold your balance against him while shifting onto one knee, then the other, to step out of the soaked garment. "'Vry'thing hurts."
He hears you, knows you're hurting, but your panties, soaked and bunched up in his grip, make his cock twitch. The fabric is nowhere near his face, but your scent is dizzying; he wonders if they're only soaked from the snow, or yourself, too.
What stands between him and dirty thoughts is your fragile state; you need help, not him as… some horny creep.
Steve pushes past the tempting thoughts, for your sake.
"I know," he murmurs, heart aching, wishing he could take that pain away instantly. "It's gonna be okay, promise."
He guides you into the sleeping bag, eyes off and away from your figure out of respect. When you're settled, he rips his clothes off, save for his boxer briefs. One glance down his body and he's reminded how scarred he still is. He falters, swallowing thickly; what if you notice them? What if you're disgusted by him?
That's not like you, though; you've never been shallow like that.
Your teeth clatter together so loudly, it breaks him from those looming insecurities. With a deep breath, he finally slides in next to you.
Steve zips the sleeping bag up, arms hooking around your torso to pull you flush against him. He weaves his legs between yours, careful not to press his thigh against your core. He has to throw his thoughts as far away from you as possible; the last thing either of you need is a poorly timed hard-on.
He thinks of the time he broke his arm in sixth grade, falling off the seesaw at recess. Tries focusing on the concept of race cars and the specific tires they use. Forces himself to wonder how broccoli grows, or if it really matters to separate the dark garments from the lights when doing laundry.
That tangled trail of curiosity leads him to wonder what life outside of Hawkins must be like these days, and if they're forgotten to the rest of the world.
The last one's bleak, so he redirects to thinking about aquariums, and if fish sleep— they sleep, right?
God, he really wished he paid more attention in school. Did they even talk about any of this stuff? What the hell does he care if race cars use specific tires?
Whatever.
It's a challenge to keep his thoughts on a steady path away from you, because every time you breathe, your bare chest pushes against his, and that's— no. Just no.
The plush of your breasts squish up against him, nipples poking through his chest hair and into him like an accusing finger, shaming him for fighting off a natural response to a naked figure entwined with his own.
Doesn't make it any easier that your breaths are shallow, because logically, he knows it's because you're freezing. But every so often, you make these faint gasps as you shiver that sound closer to pleasure than pain.
That's not the case, and he feels guilty for letting his mind wander that far.
Okay, focus. Think about… concrete. Sure. That. Must be fascinating to pour that shit for sidewalks and—
"How come your underw- wear is on but not mine?"
Well, that's not fucking helping when you just out right ask it like that.
Steve's face burns up, rushing out, "Didn't wanna make you uncomfortable."
Your heart is pounding so viciously, he can feel the thumping against his own body.
Which, yeah— you have hypothermia. Of course your heart is working overtime. Just from that. Only that.
He reaches outside the bag to throw a worn, knitted blanket over your bodies, hoping for extra warmth while he's zipping the bag back up.
"Please tell me this shit is helping," he murmurs, fighting the urge to gently rub your back; this isn't supposed to be some kind of cute, intimate moment. And rubbing to create heat isn't helpful for hypothermia.
He doesn't remember why, just that it's unsafe for a situation like this.
"S'helpin'," you shudder against his skin, face tucked into the curve of his neck. Your lips brush against one of his sensitive spots, and he gulps, praying you don't notice. "I sh- shouldn't have lef-f- ft."
Steve doesn't scold you, but he doesn't disagree. "I really wish you didn't." He shivers, nowhere near as violently as you have, but exchanging body heat with someone in this state isn't all rainbows and sunshine. "I wish I didn't let you go. I should've gone with you, or had you stay here while I went out."
The words ache with more desperation than he intends.
"I'm a b- bi- big girl, s'my choice," your body involuntarily twitches, rutting into his bulge.
"A- ah—" Steve manages to swallow down the breathy moan before it can fill the van.
"Sor- sorry. Did I h- hurt you?"
He's quick to shush you, gently, rushing out, "I'm fine." One hand wanders to your head, delicately threading your damp hair through his fingers. "How are you feeling?"
"Fu- fucking cold."
"No shit," Steve dryly retorts. "You have hypothermia, dumbass."
You hum out what he thinks was a shaky hum. "Surprised y'even kn-know anything about i- it."
"At least something good came from me being a Boy Scout for one year," he snorts. "That, and I know how to start a fire... which, not very helpful while snowed into a van. Don't know much more than that."
You don't respond. Whenever he's shared something personal of his past, even just a passing comment, you groan and fuss about "learning Harrington lore against your will". The lack of that snarky response is just another sign of how unwell you're feeling.
Shifting cautiously, your arms bend slowly, snaking between the two of you. Steve's breath hitches, wondering what the fuck you're doing.
Your hands travel north, both to his relief and disappointment, cupping over your chest. "M'sorry, m- my tits hurt." And sure enough, the attention is brought to your stiff nipples, harder than minutes ago, brushing up against him through the gaps between your fingers.
Steve doesn't have the chance to panic, not when he fails to stifle a chuckle before it slips out. That comment was the last thing he expected to leave your lips.
"Be n- n- nice!"
"Sorry, sorry!" He relaxes against you again, tries not to dwell on how much of your figure he can feel against his. "Are you getting any warmer?"
"Why? You h- hate this?" Your tone is dry, but he can feel the curve of your smirk against his neck. "Want me to go back outside?"
The lighthearted energy drains quickly; Steve feels his heart drop just at the mere thought of you enduring the blizzard.
Like a fucking fool.
"Don't joke about that," he mutters, daring to speak aloud, "I thought you were dead."
The shrill, whistling wind draws out the lapse in conversation.
"… Didn't th- think you c- cared."
"I do, it's just—" Steve huffs, pausing. "We can talk about it when you're feeling better. Deal?" You nod slowly, sighing. "Do you think you could sit up? Just for a few seconds?"
You were feeling warmer, still cold, still aching, but nowhere near the severity you felt before your return. "Um… I g- guess?"
"Just hang tight okay? Where's your thermos?"
"S'up by th'cup h- holder," you nod to the front. As soon as Steve moves, you begin to harshly shiver again.
He's quick to snatch it, unscrewing the top to pour out whatever you had inside into it. The warm aroma hits him head on. "Hot cocoa? Damn, if I knew that, I woulda' stole some."
"You could h- have some f'ya' want."
"Maybe later, but you need to drink something warm." Steve slides a hand under your back, arm curling around to lift you upright. He tries to ignore the sleeping bag falling off your chest, leaving you exposed. "C'mon, just a few sips."
"N- no, m'cold, wanna get back in."
"I know, honey, I'm sorry." There it is again, a slip up without warning. Like it's natural, familiar.
You manage to sit up, resting against a crate on the shelf behind you. Reaching a shaky hand out, Steve gently pushes it aside. "I got you, try to keep still for me."
He eases the mug top to your lips, cautiously tilting it while you sip on the hot cocoa. It's slow, but Steve's relieved you're not at the severe stage, where you wouldn't be able to drink anything at all. "That's it, a little more… s'good for me."
Oh god. He's one step away from praising you with a 'good girl, and now is not the time or place for that.
"Promise it'll help," he assures, feeling horrible for dragging you out of the warm cocoon of the sleeping bag. Yet he's desperate to try everything, anything, as long as it brings your temperature back up.
You finish off the mug with a gasp. Steve takes it away, watching as that muted tone in your lips begin to fade. It's subtle, but it's a change for the better, nonetheless. A step in the right direction.
"Can't say th- that shit to me," you pant, forcing an airy, uneasy laugh. "I'm gonna start thinkin' y- you're— you like me, or something."
Oh, if only you knew.
"C'mere," Steve murmurs as he gently brings you close. Guiding you back into the sleeping bag, he slides in cautiously next to you, zipping it shut around the two of you. "Don't make this weird, okay?"
"Make wh- what weird?"
Arms winding around your waist, he reels you in, body flush against your own. It's like every goosebump on your skin brushing up along his he can feel. Every shiver runs out of you and into him, like an electrical current.
The gasp that leaves your lips is unexpected and sharp. "Fu— fuck, Steve, m'so c- c- cold."
"I know, sweetheart." He tangles his legs between yours, large hand reaching up to cradle the back of your head. You bury your face into his shoulder, shivering violently. "Just stay close to me."
"M'tryin'," you whimper as your hips shift closer. If Steve didn't know any better, he'd think you were trying to rock your hips against him, as if you're aching for relief, release.
The airy, shattered, "oh, god", sure doesn't help his imagination either. His cock twitches again.
"You're okay," he reassures, not just for you, but for his filthy mind to chill the fuck out. When you roll your hips again, he seizes them, grip tightening to end the attempt. "Don't— hey." You huff as he firmly holds you in place. "Hey, listen to me. No sudden movements."
"S- sorry, jus'thought friction would help," your teeth chatter as you force you words through them. "… Oh my god. Wait. Oh my god, no, wait."
You sound mortified.
"What?" Steve defaults to panic once more. "What's wrong?"
"I- I swear to go- god I didn't mean it like that." You untangle yourself from him, limbs haphazardly knocking into his own with the limited space in the bag. "I just— friction causes he- heat, and I didn't— I wasn't tr- tr- trying to—"
He nervously chuckles, not at you, just— well, shit. How should anyone react in a situation like this?
"S'okay, you're okay." The reassurance seems to help; you relax against him once more, still trembling from the cold in your bones, though. "Can't warm you up too quickly, it could make you feel worse."
"Well that's fu- fucking stupid."
He chuckles, taunting, "You're starting to sound more like yourself again." It's much more endearing than he wanted to sound.
There's no response, just your steady breaths in spite of your jitters. You hum, winding your embrace around his torso, burying your face into his neck again.
Steve's about to lose it; you've got to stop resting your lips on his skin.
Talk about something else. Anything.
"Hey… thanks for helping earlier," he mumbles. You lean back to meet his stare with a perplexed one of your own.
"Hm? Wi- with what?"
"The black ice," he clarifies. "I panicked and blanked out, forgot how to handle it. I could've fucked up real bad… could've wrapped us around a tree, or something."
"We still ended up in a ditch—"
"Alive. It sucks, being stranded in the storm sucks, but we're alive, thanks to you."
You shake your head, cuddling closer to him, still shivering, still unable to shake the cold. It's not warm in the van anymore, but it'd be more tolerable if you weren't recovering.
"You know how to dr- drive this damn t- thing," you quip, shuddering and clinging closer to Steve. "S'like a fuckin' boat."
Steve laughs heartily, tightening his embrace around you. "Guess we make a pretty good team."
"When we're n- not trying to ki- kill each other."
Emboldened, Steve's lips brush against the top of your head; it's not quite a kiss, but it's enough to be noticed. Enough to mean something. They linger as he takes a deep breath, voice rumbling low against your scalp.
"… We don't have to fight all the time," he suggests, fingers skating along the length of your spine. You arch your back, pushing the hardened peaks of your nipples against his chest. He swallows down a moan. "We don't have to hate each other."
"S'jus'easier," you slur, though, he's not sure it's from the cold.
"Yeah? Why's that?" Face still buried into his shoulder, you shake your head. "No, c'mon," he hopes the low, gentle rasp in his voice is enticing. "You can tell me."
It's quiet for a moment, swirling gusts of wind providing filler noise among your shallow breaths.
"'Cus liking you means letting you in," you're shuddering as the van sways, wind strong enough to sneak into the drafty vehicle. "Letting you in m- me- means this is real, and that's just a set up to be let down— be a let down to you, eventually."
He has to be hallucinating from the cold. Or maybe you're still delirious. There's no way you just said that.
"… What?"
Because since when do you care about letting him down?
"You've been hurt enough, I didn't want to add to that hurt." Steve feels you shift with a whimper, has to swallow back the cocky remark he'd make if you felt better. "Your heart's always g- gonna be elsewhere, anyway."
Steve would do anything— hike through this blizzard, move mountains, face a swarm of demo-bats— if it meant he could use a time machine, return to the moment things shattered before they could flourish. He'd do anything to fix it all.
"Even when it was elsewhere, it—" Your trembling brings him to a pause, a reminder how real this all is. After hoping for so long that you'd return, dwelling too much on the anger of you just… leaving, fleeing so quietly, so abruptly— you're here, in his arms. "You were always in it, but I didn't want hurt you, either."
And look where that got the two of you.
Steve's stunned into silence by your confession, tumbling out in unstoppable waves.
You trail off with a huff, tensing up; Steve's unsure if the cold's at fault, or if teasing went too far. "It's hard to… to trust. It scares the hell out of me."
"Scares me too, but look at you. You're trusting now."
"It was that or freeze to death, Harrington."
"Still chose to trust me after everything between us." His voice softens, moving on autopilot— courtesy of his heart— as he cradles the side of your face. His cheeks grow warm as he whispers your name, just loud enough to be heard over the howling winds outside. "Thank you. For trusting me."
The pads of your fingers press into his skin as you tighten your hold around him. "Thanks for not letting me die."
We're not out of the woods, yet, he thinks. But you should be able to keep warm now.
"I used to hate that you couldn't relate to what Robin and I went through last summer," Steve's got no reason to hide this anymore. "Truth is, I was relieved you called out sick that day."
An aching warmth bleeds through his chest with the confession, one that he hopes is enough to warm you up, even a little.
Or, maybe that's just because Steve's bare chest is pressed up against yours, still generating heat like a human furnace for you.
"I still have nightmares, and I—" He chokes up, arms tightening around you. You return the squeeze with reassurance, leaving patience and silence for him. "Sometimes, in them, they're hurting you, too… and I- I can't do anything but watch."
It feels like is heart is caving in all over again; he had done so well ignoring the hurt, but now…
Now he realizes he only bottled it up, shelved it away for darker times.
And dark times have arrived; here you both are, trapped in a goddamn, broken down, radio station van in the middle of a blizzard.
"Then you just… you left. You stood me up. You were gone not even a month later. We were finally getting close—"
"And I f- fucked it up." A sigh rumbles out of Steve; he doesn't agree or disagree, just… acknowledges it. "This is gonna sound so dumb, but I felt… guilty, for calling out that day. I should've been th—"
"No. I mean it. It's a relief you never went through that shit. And then in the spring…" Except, you came back. Right after the destruction, but you came back. Colder, yet braver than you left. "I get it. I don't blame you for leaving. You were scared." He swallows thickly. "… But so was I."
Scared is an understatement.
He's feared for his life before, the year prior, and before that. He was scared for Nancy, hell, even Jonathan, the night they tried to trap the Demogorgon in the Byers' home.
He was terrified in the junkyard, plastering on a brave face for the kids. No way in hell would he let them down; he was gonna succeed or die trying— to Steve, no other choices existed.
He was convinced he'd die down in that cursed bunker with Robin, and if it weren't Erica and Dustin— two children— that anticipated fate would've played out to truth.
And the Mind Flayer— Jesus Christ— that fuckin'… thing. A grotesque terror on monstrous legs; too many damn legs, arms, everything, if you ask Steve. He can't think too hard about what exactly it was made up of, who specifically turned essentially into human jam and—
Yeah. No. He really can't stomach it. Just like the nightmares of losing you leave him shaken for the rest of the waking day.
Most nights, Steve has to double, sometimes triple check the locks on the doors before he goes to sleep. He latches all the windows. Sometimes unlatches just to re-latch, jiggling the window's frame, just to be certain it's closed. Every room, every hallway, holds a night-light's subtle glow for peace of mind.
Peace of mind from what, exactly? A Demogorgon? Demodogs? The Mind Flayer? The Russian guards, and flayed former classmates? All this time later, he hasn't been able to pinpoint which exactly he wants peace from the most. They're all equally fucked up, all royally fucked him up.
Steve knows his efforts are not enough to stave off these fears forever. They never are.
And Vecna? He's still processing that. After all, it hasn't even been one year since it all happened.
Less than one year since Eddie died, slowly killing Dustin with each day that passes without him; the more Steve tries to be there for the kid, the more he's pushed away. It's taking a toll on Steve, trying to be mindful of Dustin's grieving, trying to remind this kid he's not alone.
Less than one year since Max technically, in clinical terms, died, for over a minute; even a second considered dead is way too fucking long, and for a kid her age? Too damn soon. If it weren't for El reviving her, the party would be in shambles— yet they're on the verge of crumbling while Max is in a coma, anyway.
If anything happened to any of these kids, it'd devastate the rest of them. It'd devastate anyone in this little, yet forever growing, found family Steve's tripped and fallen into years ago.
And you.
You— he can't even stomach the idea of your safety being threatened. It only circles back to the nightmares he still has of you. He fears one of these days losing you will come true, and… and—
It hits him like a nuclear missile, dead on.
He didn't want you to leave earlier, to go out into the storm, because he was afraid one of his greatest fears, losing you, again, would come true. This chance to fix everything, at least make peace with what never came to be, has been right in front of you both for months since you got home.
Instead, it's been spent stuck in a cycle of hate, giving and taking sharp glares and words only dripping in venom.
So much wasted time—
"Steve?"
Reality settles in around him again, eyes focusing on you, remorse taking hold of every thought crossing his mind.
Unexpectedly, even to him, Steve blurts out, "I'm sorry." When your brows furrow, the remorse floods out. "I- I'm sorry for not being honest from the start—"
"You were trying to protect me, I get that now." He feels the tension dissolve out of you. "I'm sorry too." Your voice trembles, not from the cold this time. "Can we… start over?"
A smug smirk curls along his face. "Um… we can, but it'd be pretty awkward to start over like this."
"Oh my god, Steve."
"What? I'm just saying!" He chuckles with a shrug. "When we met, I had strawberry ice cream stains on my shirt, and I got, like, maybe three hours of sleep the night before. This seems incredibly different, considering we're both naked."
"You're not the one fully naked." You stifle laughter, rolling your eyes.
"Oh, what, I'm sorry— did you want me to be blunt instead? Because I am really fucking sorry if I get hard." Flustered, he rambles as you blink up at him, wide-eyed. "Seriously, you keep rubbing against me like that and it's- I'm— fuck."
Your hips are rolling into him again as the corners of your lips gradually quirk upward. "Okay," you say simply, not matching your devious smile.
"… Okay?" Steve scoffs.
"I mean… it's not like you're the only one struggling here," you admit, brash and certain. "Can't tell you how wet I've been since you started holding me."
"Oh, trust me. I know." Steve bounces back, stifling a smug chuckle. "Felt it the whole time."
Mortification contorts its way into your face. You hide again, head falling forward to rest on his shoulder.
"Hey, nuh-uh, no hiding. I thought it was hot." His fingers trail down your spine, sweeping to your side. He rests his hand over the curve of your hip, drawing slow circles into your skin with his thumb. "… Still do."
A shrill, piercing whistle whirls past the van, leading in a wave of howling wind, rocking the van. The instant jostle nudges you against him completely, It taunts you and Steve as you dance around you feelings.
The van's frame sways and creaks as the blizzard continues. You shift, trying to get comfortable, until your thigh presses against Steve's bulge and he hisses under his breath.
"Fuck, shit, fuck—"
Yeah. He's hard.
He tangles himself into you, thick thigh flexing against your slick heat. All carnal desires aside, he's sure fucking relieved to feel some part of you completely warm.
Thinking of being warm, and staying that way, leads him to speaking unfiltered. "Might not be the worse way to keep each other from freezing to death."
"Uh-huh…" you sound breathy, the last of your animosity towards Steve long disintegrated by now. "S'good idea." A shiver down your spine sends your hips bucking forward; Steve's curious if it from the cold or not. "S- sorry, m'sorry, I keep—"
Steve shushes you delicately. "Don't be sorry, take what you need."
Your thighs tighten around his, clit throbbing against him. Arousal builds onto his bare skin the more you drag your cunt against him.
"Just go slow, okay?" His reminder is tender, faces close enough to touch, breaths picking up speed. "Slow, slow, sweetheart. I'm not going anywhere."
"Yeah but—" your fingers hook under his waistband teasingly, breaths growing shallower. "Want you n- now—"
Steve grabs your hands, pulling them up within eyesight. He needs you clear-headed. "Hey, I mean it. We gotta be smart about this."
He doesn't expect you to frown, ego visibly wounded in your expression; what did you hear out of what he said?
"We don't have to do anything if you're not into it."
"No, no, I'm—" Steve puffs his cheeks out, exhaling quickly. His arms rope you back in, pressing up against him with a gasp. "You were freezing to death less than an hour ago—"
"Not to death."
"Only 'cause you came back before it was too late." And that he kept you stable, but he's not seeking recognition for that. His hands rise to cradle your cheeks, forcing you to look him in the eye. "Last thing we need is your heart over-exerting itself."
"But you're the one who suggested—" you collect your thoughts with a deep breath. "You're sending mixed signals, Steve. Do you want this or not?"
"I do, but I want you safe and warm. So, let me take care of you, alright?"
"Okay…" Steve looks down as you trail off, noticing your mood shift. Concern draws your brows together, tugs your lips downward and hushes your voice to a whisper. A cold finger traces the scar around his neck, and he gulps. "When did this happen?"
He was dreading this, grateful you'd been so delirious while recovering that you didn't notice the freshly healed skin, taut and pink— now a little purple from the cold, he's sure; this kind of weather always promises to emphasize souvenirs of the past.
"Last year," he trembles; the more he focuses on trying to breathe steadily, the more he shakes. "… Bats."
"The same that…" He hears you hesitate, holding that one, brutal truth on the tip of your tongue, only to soften it for both of your sake. "Same ones that… that attacked Eddie?"
"Yeah, I guess." Steve shakes his head, "I don't know how I survived and he didn't." His voice drops, laden with guilt. "Kinda fucked up if you ask me."
"Do they hurt?" You ask so tenderly, sincerity woven within your words. It pricks hot tears in Steve's eyes, ones he blinks away quickly.
No one ever really asks Steve if he's okay. Not like this. Not when it comes to the Upside Down.
"Yeah," he croaks out. "Sometimes, yeah." Unprompted, he adds, "Not as much as the headaches, though."
"How often do you get them?" You ask, but Steve only shrugs. It's not enough to quell your concern. "Steve…"
He doesn't need you to know just how bad it gets sometimes. The warning signs leading up to a flare— like how his neck aches and stiffens, how his vision doubles, and the ringing in his ears only grows louder.
Steve doesn't want to worry you, or anyone, of the throbbing, consistent pain; how similar it feels to being cracked in the skull with a fist, something he's experienced more than once— one time too many. The agonizing throbbing that morphs into pounding, and sometimes he can feel it behind his left eye, like it's still swollen shut.
Sounds become unbearably sharp and jagged to his brain. Too much light enrages him. They're more than just headaches, he knows that. Yet he bottles it all up, because emotionally, he can't afford to not be okay. He has to show up for everyone else.
Acknowledging him, you hum softly; he's grateful you've never been one to push him too far on a subject he'd rather avoid. "Should I, um—" you clear your throat awkwardly, "avoid them? The scars, I mean."
Not like this one's much easier to talk about.
Steve's shoulder's tighten while his breath hitches, sharp and obvious and shit, he wishes he caught that in time. That wish strengthens when you grimace.
"I'm sorry. That's— I'm not trying to be rude, just wasn't sure since sometimes they hurt—"
"S'okay," he relaxes after a deep breath. "Don't worry about 'em."
You hum, tracing the one along his neck with your finger. The warmth left in the wake of your touch is another reminder he's safe with you.
It's when your fingertips trail up to his face, palm caressing his cheek before resting there, that his heart skips a beat. And when you gingerly sweep your thumb against his cheekbone, his breath hitches.
"Whenever your headaches start… you'll tell me, right?"
When that simple question, loaded with empathy and laced with tenderness, leaves your lips, something within Steve breaks.
"It's… it's okay, I can handle it on my own."
For the first time, those words aren't convincing enough to lie to himself.
"Steve," you whisper, head shaking as the color of your irises bore into the hazel of his. "You don't have to handle anything on your own."
It's so direct, so honest— how can he even respond to that?
There's so much to say— how he'd always put the kids before himself, no questions asked. How he wants to do his part and keep everyone safe, during crawls and beyond. How his trauma, chronic and relentless, stays bottled up and shelved away, only to have manifested into a physical curse on every nerve ending in his entire being— and he still keeps it hidden away.
The past you narrowly escaped while he was beaten to hell and back, that's not yours to carry, it's his.
"I won't let you handle it alone," you whisper, challenging his unspoken thoughts. "Not anymore."
Feelings for you that he forcefully sunk long ago, rush to the surface and consume Steve. It's overwhelming, and words aren't enough; he surges forward, his lips finding yours while you squeak with surprise.
Steve breaks away, presses his lips to your jaw, kisses down your neck while his hands caress the shape of your figure. His touch is gentle, yet sturdy. Firm, yet sweet.
You bite back a moan, teeth pinning your bottom lip down, but you still shiver. He knows he's making you feel good. If you won't say it, he certainly feels it in the way you grab him, anywhere you can find purchase; his hips, his arms, his back, leaving behind little divots from your finger tips, dug into his skin.
He moves lower, one hand pausing on your breast, kneading it tenderly, kissing down your chest to pause at the other side. His lips gently lingering against the sensitive, pebbled peak is all it takes to begin unraveling you.
The gasp that slips out is one beyond what Steve's dreams could even imagine. His cock kicks as he flicks his tongue on your nipple.
"Shit, Steve…"
He sucks softly, a distinct pop! filling the confined space when he pulls back. He looks up with a thread of spit tethering him to your skin, and you look wrecked already.
He can't even wrap his mind around how devastatingly fucked out you'll look when he's through with you.
"Coulda' kept each other warm all this time," Steve breathes, kissing across the valley between your breasts to the other side. His tongue flits out, lazily teasing your nipple while tweaking and pinching the other. "You just had to be stubborn, huh?"
"Only 'cause you- you— a- ah, fuck…" your hips roll up into his, cunt grazing against his clothed cock, sticky and warm and slick and god… if you weren't so fragile right now, Steve would love to ruin you immediately.
If, you know, you were into that.
His cock twitches as his mind drifts, curious as to what the hell you're even into, and if he'll be lucky enough to have more chances to find out.
The two of you just have to survive this night first.
"'Cause I what?" He should be a little softer, a little kinder, but the edge is returning, and only because of your wanton, needy squirming. "Finish the sentence."
You gasp as Steve nudges his knee between your legs, parting them to flex his thigh against your cunt. You're soaked enough to glide yourself effortlessly against him.
Except, Steve grabs your hips, hovering above you while pinning them in place.
"Finish. The. Sentence."
You clamp your legs tight around the one against your core, but he plants his hands on your thighs, pushing them apart to admire your glistening cunt.
"I wouldn't h- have left if you weren't so m- mean!"
"Yet you're a mess right now." He withdraws, only to use his thumbs to part your folds. "Look at you, dripping and pretending like you're not into this."
Steve licks his lips, one thumb casually gliding up from your hole through your folds, resting lightly over your clit. You jolt from even the slight pressure.
"Bet you were this wet before you left."
Your brows knit together. "I wasn't."
"No?" He taunts you, pad of his thumb circling your clit, so close to where you want him, yet so deliberately distant. "Hm… you sure?" Your hips twitch while you gasp, inflating his ego as he simpers. "Seemed like earlier you were pretty fuckin' soaked."
"From t- the snow!" The more flustered you become, the more Steve's confidence grows, bordering onto being cocky. "Jesus, I was outside in a blizzard, in case you forgot."
Steve laughs. He laughs; it's cruel and runs straight to your throbbing clit, adjacent to his teasing touch.
"I don't think so, sweetheart." With a smug grin, he adds, "Doubt the snow would make you smell this damn good either."
"Steve!" You gasp, taken aback. The line's almost tacky, straight out of a bad porno, but Jesus Christ, he can't help himself around you.
"In fact—" he reaches out of the bag, retrieving the garment in question. Reservations long buried under the snow, he brings the pair to his face, eyes rolling back as he huffs in your scent. A guttural groan tears through him, while you're left speechless. "Been wanting to do that all fuckin' night."
Jaw hanging ajar, you whisper, "Holy shit, Harrington."
The smug expression falters, "Too much?"
"No," you breathe out, "fuck, no."
Relief revives his smirk. "Good. I'm far from done with you."
Trailing wet, painfully paced kisses down your body, Steve begins unzipping the sleeping bag; he'd rather not suffocate in that while going down on you. If anything keeps him from breathing tonight, he prays it's only your slick cunt smothering his face.
He's gentle, mindful, caressing your sides slowly to keep you warm. It softens the mean streak he just held out for your sake.
Parting your legs, he glances up to you. "Doing okay?" His lips drag along the plush of your left thigh, gentle, pointed kisses trailing closer to your core. His strong grip digs into your thighs before switching to the right one. "Need to hear you, honey."
"Mhm, yeah, I'm—" Steve parts your slit, moaning softly as he takes you in. "M'good. Promise."
"Good," he husks, leaving a chaste, open mouth kiss over your core. "Don't wanna neglect this pretty pussy."
You huff with an affectionate eye roll. "Swear to god, Steve, if anyone else said shit like this to me, I'd leave instantly."
"So what you're saying is…" Steve's lips linger on your folds, tongue teasingly flitting out, barely meeting your clit. Your legs twitch while you whimper. "I'm the exception?"
"D- don't let it get to your head, Har—" Sharply, you gasp as he spreads your core apart with his thumbs, only to spit on your puffy clit. "Fuck."
He leans in, mouth working languidly as his lips meet your glistening slit. It's already written in stone that the taste of anyone else won't ever compare; you've effortlessly wrecked him.
And he's already ruined you with each drag of his tongue, leading to your clit to suckle tenderly. He looks up, hoping to see you slowly unravel, and he does; your eyes roll back in time while you clench around nothing, rolling your hips to chase his tongue.
The soft sounds from his mouth cause you to throb, feeling every hum and groan, hearing him lave at your arousal. Hooded stare weighed down with lust, he continues watching you fall apart on his tongue.
Steve's moans tremble through you, with gravelly murmurs in between; every oh shit, and fuck, and little praise in between is enough to roll waves of heat through you. He must be able to feel it.
"See? You just needed to get warmed up." Your hips jolt against his mouth as he laps at your clit, while a thick finger circles your hole. He grins smugly. "Be good for me, and I'll keep you warm."
Your clit throbs against his tongue, and Steve moans. It's almost as pornographic as the sound he let out minutes before. His arms hook around your thighs, tugging you flush against his mouth.
"Is this all it takes to shut you up?"
Though drained and still trembling, your fingers tangle through his hair, pulling to trap his mouth against your pussy. He notices the light pressure in your grasp, mindful of his mention of headaches earlier.
"I dunno, I- I should be asking you the same damn thing."
The switch is subtle, tiny, but it's enough to send Steve's eyes rolling back into his head, whimpering as he bucks into the floor of the van.
"Oh…" you grin deviously. "You're into that, huh?"
The ounce of power, that microscopic switch, falls apart instantly as Steve leans back. Warmth withdraws along with him, your hands fall away, and all pleasure ceases. He slides two fingers up the edge of your folds, spreading them apart to spit directly onto your clit; you twitch and gasp.
"Hey!" Exasperated, you yelp, "Why'd you stop?!"
Steve doesn't answer, only runs his hands along the back of your thighs, gently nudging your legs to fold closer to yourself. He reaches your hips, pushing up to throw a nearby blanket underneath your back.
"What— what are you—" His mouth is back on you, tongue delving into your slit, running around your clit before puckering his lips. "Ohmyfuckinggod— Steve—"
You gasp when he mouths sloppily at your cunt, making out with it, taking his time to explore this part of you he's already dreamed so much of.
This part, this sweet, tight, hot part of you that he's fucked his fist to the thought of almost every night since you've moved home.
Not even his wildest dreams could've conceived what you really taste like. Your scent. How soft you are. And pretty, so goddamn pretty.
And as your hardened personality thaws out, the real you— the one Steve's always pined over— finally melts through.
He's missed you. So, so much.
The obscene sounds, all of the slurping and suckling to make you fall apart, fill the van. Walls clenching around his fingers as they barely enter you, your body sucks him in greedily.
"Jesus Christ," Steve breathes, getting sloppier as you get louder. He angles his fingers differently, and with the way he's got you positioned, you're blindsided by an orgasm shattering through you.
"Oh my god, oh my god—" he brushes up against your sweet spot, triggering your legs to shake around his head. "Fuck!"
Your high's barely over as he kisses your inner thighs, eyeing up your puffy, dripping folds.
"Got one more in you?" His lips and chin glisten with your essence in the low light. You nod breathlessly, hand over your chest as it rises and falls rapidly. His demeanor softens. "Hey, look at me."
Dazed, your eyes flutter open. They lock with his, full of concern.
"Should we stop?" You shake your head, but the silent conformation isn't enough. "Need you to say it if you want it," there's a flash of dull pain as he nips at your inner thigh, kissing away the sting immediately. His hand pulls away, leaving you empty and needy.
"I- I want it."
"Want… what?"
Exasperated, you whine while throwing your head back, "Oh my god, Steve."
"C'mon, you can tell me." He begins taunting you, "Usually you have no problem running that mouth of yours."
"You're so fucking insufferable sometimes, I sw- swear to god." The tremble in your voice is more from aftershocks than the cold.
Even when you were nice, you had an edge, and he missed that, too.
Steve crawls over you, nose nudging against your own. His fingers feather and tease along your slit, retreating as you buck your hips to chase his touch.
"There she is," chuckling, he slips a finger back into you, leaning down to murmur against your lips, "There's my girl."
As you gasp, he takes the chance to kiss you, really kiss you this time. Your back arches while he pumps into your slick heat. Lips parted against your own, slotted together, tasting yourself on his tongue while he licks into your mouth— it's all so goddamn dizzying for the both of you.
You break apart when you palm him over his boxers, rendering Steve speechless for a moment.
"Who knew that'd shut you up so easily too," you snicker, giving a gentle squeeze to his bulge, eliciting a sweet gasp from him. "Fuck, Steve. You're…"
Cheeks heating up to a rosy pink, he freezes, eyes darting down between your bodies, then back to you. "What? What's wrong?"
"Nothing! Nothing's wrong. I- I just…" Keeping an airy touch, you trace a finger along his cock. He whines pathetically, head falling forward onto your shoulder. To muffle his sounds, he mouths at your skin. "You're so… big."
He sighs; yeah, he should've expected that.
"It's not a bad thing! No part of you is bad!" You're tumbling into a nervous ramble. "That stuff doesn't matter anyway, y'know, size and whatever. I just- I don't know—" you clear your throat with an awkward laugh, rushing out, "Idon'tknowifyou'llfit."
Steve blinks as the words sink in.
Oh.
"Hey, shh, s'okay," he chuckles softly, confidence flowing back. "We can try, if you want. But there's no pressure."
"I wanna, I really want to, it's— I'm— you—"
He cuts you off with a kiss. There's a soft hum reeled out of you, shaping his lips into a smirk against your own. It's short and sweet, resting his forehead on yours as you break apart.
"One step at a time, okay?"
He's back between your legs as before, allowing you both to relax as he tries to take this slow, almost at a lazy pace, but that lasts all of five seconds.
Because one more taste of you, and Steve's a fucking goner.
Steve juts his face into your cunt, tapering his tongue to fuck into you as you're grinding onto his face. He grants your wordless wish, sinking a finger into you again. In search of that sweet, sacred spot, he curls it, grazing somewhere inside that makes hips rock with desperation while you cry out.
"Harder," he grunts into your core, the rumble of his order going straight to your clit without direct touch. He yanks you closer to his face— as if it's even possible at this point— and his gaze travels away from you, rolling to the back of his head, groaning as you're the only taste on his tongue. In way too deep to speak, he just hums with satisfaction, laced with an air of praise.
Licking into you, the strong bridge of his nose nudges against your clit as it throbs. You buck forward accidentally, but he happily accepts, burying his face between your thighs. He slides another finger into you and smirks as your legs begin to quiver.
"Steve…" You cover your mouth, but he yanks your hand away, while leaning back to spit onto your cunt again.
In between flits and laves of his tongue, he husks, "Wanna hear you again." The vibrations of his gravelly voice are what send you to the edge, but his tender encouragement is what seals the deal. "It's just us, honey. C'mon," he coaxes. "Lemme hear those pretty sounds you make."
Steve works overtime, meticulous in the speed he pumps his fingers, while your essence drips down his hand. The curls and flattening of his tongue between your folds, lapping up every drop you have to offer. Eventually rubbing his nose against your clit while he both tongue and finger fucks you simultaneously.
Bliss rolls through your body, luring out whimpers of his name and babbles of praise.
"Steve—" you gasp, back arching up as your tangled fingers anchor him to you. "Fu- oh my god, fuck—!"
You tremble, you gush, you unravel at the seams, and he'd keep doing this, and only this, all night if you'd let him. Watching you fade into such a fucked out state has his cock throbbing, sandwiched between himself and the van's floor.
Steve feels sticky; that much he expected. But… his boxers are damp, tacky against his skin, along with his tummy, where the tip of his cock lay snug under the waistband.
Oh, no.
"So, uh…" he kisses your core, smirking as it clenches around nothing. Kissing your thigh, he peers up through his lashes at you. "… How hard is it to wash cum out of a sleeping bag?"
Dazed, you're still smiling, dopey and giddy and sighing, "Mmm, dunno. Can't be that difficult—" your eyes pop open before you study Steve, still between your legs. "… Why?"
"No reason, really, just— I'm just curious—"
"Steve."
"M'yeah?" His eyes shift away for a second, guilty.
"Were you— oh my god."
"What?!"
A taunting, victorious smirk comes to life. "Did you hump the fucking floor?"
"Well, when you put it like that…" Steve cringes, blushing intensely. "Kinda?" Your playful stare narrows down at him. "It's not like I was trying to! It just— I— you—" he groans, burying his face into the plush of your inner thigh.
The embarrassment's worth it to hear your laugh, genuine and breathy woven into your comedown. "Better on the damn bag than the actual rug."
He could fall asleep here, so cozy and warm between your legs. You card your fingers through his soft hair, gingerly scraping along his scalp, earning his content hum.
Steve lifts his head to be met with your longing stare, soft, weary smile. It's impossible to hide his own smile. "What?"
"Come back up," you shoot out grabby hands. "M'cold."
"Oh," he snorts, crawling back into your arms. "Is that all I'm good for?"
"Nah, your tongue is pretty great, too."
Rolling his eyes, a smile peeks out as he zips the bag back up, cuddling close to you. Your leg swings over his hip and he reels you in. Fatigue settles in, and it's not long before you're drifting off.
You're not cold anymore, with most symptoms finally fading or completely dissipated; he figures it's safe to sleep. Hell, he could use the rest, too.
It's not until the first, faint snore, that he realizes his goddamn, sticky boxers are still on, and he doesn't have the heart to move you.
A little discomfort is worth it if you're safe and sound in his arms, but… Jesus Christ, this is going to be one long fucking nap.
Steve's unsure when the two of you shifted in your sleep, but with the limited space in the bag, you've ended up spooning him.
It's… kinda nice. He's never been the little spoon before, not with anyone he's ever cuddled with.
By some higher power or sheer, dumb luck, you're warm— fucking finally. You're clinging onto him from behind and nuzzling your face into the crook of his neck.
Steve's breath hitches when your lips graze his neck. He chokes back a whine as you brush your soft figure against his back.
He gently murmurs your name into the dark while your arms tighten around his torso. You hum in return, soft and content.
Splaying out your fingers, they creep down his body, teasing around the waistband, dipping just below the elastic of his briefs.
"Mm—" Steve bites back some kind of pathetic sound. "Baby, what're'y'doin'?"
The pet name blooms heat under your cheeks. He hears you hum, feels you shrug. Your fingers sink a little lower, brushing up against the head of his cock.
"S'okay?"
"It- yeah, but—" Steve gasps when your thumb sweeps over the slit on his tip, still tacky from when he came in his boxers earlier. Now, on top of that, arousal weeps his slit on command by your touch.
"But?"
Your hand begins to retreat, until Steve grabs it, shoving it toward the base of his cock. His hips buck into your palm, groan rumbling deep from his throat.
Whether it's because Steve's been touch starved, or just really, really into you (both. it's totally both), your fingertips tracing down his shaft cause him to twitch.
He can feel himself pulsate into your palm as your grip winds around him. You only pump once, twice, three times, and he's quick to begin unraveling.
"I'm not gonna last if you keep doing that," Steve whines, bucking into your fist. "I can't— ah… f- fuck—" he grumbles, forcing out, "I— dammit, I can't afford to come in my pants again. I only have one pair!"
"Then take 'em off," you giggle. "Need you in me."
Any other circumstance, Steve would allow the teasing to drag on, but he can't take any more tension. He flips over to lean above you, switching positions; you're the little spoon now, and you're flustered from the sudden change.
As you roll to your left side, you lean on your elbow to prop yourself up. Steve hastily plucks a condom from his wallet, still in the crumpled, damp jeans he discarded earlier and within reach.
You keep your legs bent as Steve settles behind you, backside on full display to him. Glancing over your shoulder, you've got a perfect view of him, already reveling in the way he's struggling to keep himself together while rolling the condom down his length.
Hand at the thick base of his cock, he drags the ruddy tip between your folds, teasing your clit before catching at your entrance. He repeats the taunting motion, smirk building with each whimper and whine you set free. One last drag through your slick slit, Steve rests the head at your entrance, pushing in only a little bit.
"Still okay?" He asks, eyes flitting to yours. One might think he sounds groggy from a nap, but he's just pussy drunk already.
"Yeah, mhm," your breathy reply makes his cock kick in his hand and against you. "Ju- just go slow, okay?"'
Steve leans down, planting his lips on your forehead. "Promise I will."
And he does; inch by inch, he slides into you, stretching you out to a limit you've never reached before. In awe, he watches himself disappear inside of you, breath hitching the further he goes.
"Fuck— fuck, you're—" his eyes roll back, twitching against your tight, warm walls. Hips tilting, you push your ass back to help him ease in. All it does is make Steve a total wreck. Pathetically, he strains out through bated breath, "…Might need a minute."
"Yeah?" The teasing edge he secretly loves so much is returning; a sign you're feeling more like yourself. "You look like you could use ten."
"Keep it up," he huffs, "you're gonna need a few days 'til you can walk again."
Steve's hips reel back, dragging out torturously slow as you banter on. He leisurely slides back in, stretching you out. Again, he pulls out, even slower this time.
"We talkin' business days? 'Cause tomorrow's the weekend, and I'd love to not be in recovery—" He slams into you, bottoming out in one thrust. "— Christ, Steve! What the—"
Fully retreating, his shaft caresses your silky, slick walls. Fingers wrapping around the base of his cock, he teasingly glides the tip of his cock through your folds, dipping into your entrance.
With each push back, he pulls out; your desire is only met with taunting, dangling bliss just in reach.
"You done talking logistics yet?"
Though your jaw falls open to quip back, only a gasp tumbles out. With another snap of his hips against yours, he fills you again.
That stretch isn't dizzying on one end only; Steve has to gulp down steady breaths to relax. He's wanted this, wanted you, for years now.
No way is he fucking this up now with a pitifully swift finish.
"N'you were worried you couldn't take me," he patronizes, yet your walls clenching around him mercilessly wipe the smug grin off his face. "Jesus fuckin' christ."
"Maybe you can't take me," you dare to challenge him. The teasing ignites something deep within, and, well, you're the one who started a fire you most likely can't extinguish.
Steve lifts the leg closest to him to rest it against his torso. You roll a little more onto your back as he straddles your leg against the floor; similar to missionary, but the angle hits so sinfully as he sinks back in.
Then, without mercy, void of warning, he relentlessly pounds into you.
Already at a loss for words, all you have to offer are sharp gasps. The plush of your body bounces with each of his thrusts, enticing his grip of one hand to dig into your hip.
What he doesn't expect is your hand to glide down your form, conforming to your curves until your fingertips brush over his knuckles.
Steve's breath hitches, hips stuttering with a faltering pace. Hesitantly, he laces his fingers between yours, and to his surprise, your grip doesn't falter.
It tightens.
Just like the choke-hold his feelings for you have on his heart.
"Don't get sappy on me now," Steve teases, fighting off his own emotions. His eyes flicker down to your hands intertwined, cock twitching inside you when you tighten your hold on him.
The gesture is small, but his heart flutters; what's meaningful to Steve is something you're probably not even thinking twice about. He rolls his hips against you, slow and deep, hoping to distract from his feelings.
"Wouldn't dr— oh!" You gasp, eyes rolling back as he hits the spot that makes you weak. He hears you murmur his name, strung together with expletives under your breath. "W- wouldn't dream of it."
Fog blankets the windows as each thrust rocks the van on its frame. Sweat beads at your brow, and there's relief found in the sight. You feel so warm, only reminding him mere hours ago you were freezing to death.
But you're here, underneath him, closer than he ever imagined to be outside of his dreams. You're here, warm, coherent, safe.
Safe because of him. Alive, because you chose to trust him.
That plucks at his heartstrings, too.
"Steve?"
Your voice is breathy, but concern is laced throughout, tugging him back into the present. He locks eyes with you, but you're blurry. He registers your hand extending to rest on his cheek, instinctively leaning into your tender touch.
"Hey, slow down," you swipe your thumb across his cheek, and it glides against his skin with ease. Too much ease. "Baby, stop for a second. You're crying."
Baby.
Anytime he's been called that, it never felt right. But hearing it from your lips is a whole different story.
Wait, did you say he was crying?
"Sorry, I…" he trails off, glancing away and kissing your palm, panting heavily against it. "M'okay."
"Steve—"
"No, I swear. I'm just—" he shudders out a breath, one with relief. "I'm glad you're okay."
"So much for not getting sappy," you tease, but when Steve only halfheartedly smiles, you fall back into the energy he has. "Hey, I'm not going anywhere. I'm okay."
"I know." He nods, hair flopping in his face. "I know, I know that. I know."
Maybe if he repeats it enough, he'll believe it.
"St—"
He cuts you off abruptly with a kiss, insatiably slotting his lips against yours. His tongue runs along your bottom lip, silently pleading for more. When you oblige, parting your kiss-swollen, wind-bitten lips, he groans, thrusting without warning into you again.
You break the kiss reluctantly, grabbing his face. "Steve. You should—"
"I'm fine, I mean it," he whispers against your lips, sloppily rocking into you. "I'm okay. Promise."
And, really, he is, he just didn't think those emotions would sucker punch him right now.
You gasp again as he hits your sweet spot, eyes falling out of focus into a dazed stare. "M'gonna cum," you rasp out, staving off a strangled moan. "Steve, I'm— I—"
He unsheathes himself from you, and it pains him to do so, whimpering as the chill of the air around erases your warmth. He glances down to your cunt, watching it clench around nothing.
"Why'd you do that?" You're breathless as you manage to ask, and the heartbroken look on your face almost tempts Steve to give in. Instead, he runs a finger through your folds, dripping and enticing as his touch drags over your throbbing clit. "Oh my god, this is the second time tonight you've done that!"
"M'not letting you finish that easy," he teases.
You whine, tossing your head back against the worn pillow, now damp with sweat. He restrains himself from splitting you open again, ignoring how needy his cock is, throbbing, red, and leaking at the tip.
"Up," he orders, throwing the sleeping bag off your tangled forms. Eager for more, you sit up, a little too quickly for his liking. Immediately his tone softens with concern, "Okay, wait. Careful, slow— Don't need you passing out."
Steve's hand finds your cheek, lips planting on yours, kissing you so sweetly. He smiles against your lips before he rolls a blanket up while nodding to the carpet. "You okay on your knees?"
"Okay?" You climb onto all fours, teasing, "I'm pretty fuckin' great on my knees."
Steve shakes his head, though his smile doesn't fade, "Jesus Christ, and I had the bad lines?" He places the blanket under your tummy, hiking your hips up with the extra support. "That help?"
It's a small gesture, one he probably doesn't think twice about, but it sure sticks with you anyway. "Uh-huh." You wiggle your ass, impatiently eager to be filled again.
His large hands slide over the curve of your backside, squeezing and kneading the doughy flesh. Your core glistens with arousal, practically begging for indulgence.
And Steve? He's in a trance, mouth on you for the third time tonight; he can't get enough of you. No one has ever tasted like you. No one's ever felt as soft as you, been as soaked as you. No one sounds like you, or shows the tiny yet impactful levels of intimacy you do with him.
No one's like you. No one could even compare.
"Fuck…" he lowly sighs out, nose nudging between your folds. "Didn't think you'd get this wet again."
"I—" You cut yourself off with a strangled gasp as Steve's tongue flits out, curling at your entrance, but not quite dipping in. "Hhhohmygod."
Thick fingers drag through your folds as he pulls back, teasing in circles around your throbbing clit, never touching it directly. You push your ass back, but he grips your hip firmly, holding you still.
"Steve," you whine.
"I know, I know," he murmurs, leaning in to suck crudely on your clit, one final time. Lining up with your entrance, one hand roams to your hips, the other, guiding himself into you. "Gonna take real good care of you, honey."
You're already clenching with a gasp. "Can't be saying— a- ah!" Steve nudges the tip into you, barely past the head's flare when you whine out. Sinking in, the delicious stretch lures you both under its spell. "S- sayin' sweet shit to me like th- that."
"I mean it," he groans, eyes rolling back as your tight heat envelopes him again. "Every damn time, too."
"What, this isn't a h- heat of the moment kinda th- thing?"
"Not even close, sweetheart." He digs his grip into the plush of your ass, slowly entering you again. Hypnotized, he watches himself disappear inside of you with each thrust. "Jesus Christ… suckin' me right in."
You nudge back into him. Steve chokes on his breath as your ass slams into him. "I- I need more."
"Yeah?" Thumbs on your lower back circle softly on your skin. He watches the goosebumps rise with satisfaction. "How do we ask for more?"
"Jesus fuckin'—" irked, you grumble. You slump against the pillows beneath you, whining, "Please."
"Please… what?"
"Steve, I s- swear to god—"
"Go ahead," he juts his chin out, smirk strong as he feels a power trip within reach. He wishes you could see how smug he is from there. In a slow retreat, he drags himself out of you, leaving you empty, cold, miserable. "Keep up the attitude, we'll see what happens."
"You're such a—" Steve slams back into you, knocking a cry from your lungs. His cock kicks against your tightening walls. "Oh, fuck…" You clap a hand over your mouth, but Steve yanks it away.
He pins that arm behind your back, thrusting hard and deep.
"Such a what?"
"Nothing. Sh- shut up an' fuck me already." When he doesn't move, you breathe out reluctantly, "… please?"
Steve snaps his hips against your ass, bottoming out within you. The sudden stretch shoves a cry out from the back of your throat.
"Aw, see?” He drags himself out, tauntingly slow. “Not so hard to ask for what you need, huh?" He thrusts again, sinking in to the hilt, "Thaaaaaat's my girl." He moans, rumbling deeply as he fills and stretches you all over again.
The condescending comment should be that, only that, but instead your breath hitches. It's one that unexpectedly makes Steve's heart jump, his stomach flip; he wonders if you feel the same.
"I… Yours?"
Though you can't see him in this position, Steve's eyes flicker away, tongue darting out the corner of his mouth as he tries focusing on fucking you instead.
"Mhm, if…" He groans when your free hand reaches between your thighs, underneath you both to grip his balls and massage them. "Oh, shit, honey… s- so good…"
Fatigue still rests heavy in your limbs, and even with the pillow supporting underneath, you begin to sag down to the floor. It's not much help that you're not holding your own balance anymore.
"Hang on, I got ya'." It's such a basic phrase handled with care, passion coupling with his actions; a strong arm winds around your waist as his thrusts slow. He hoists you back into his lap, kneeling back on his heels while you're sat back onto him.
He moves again, and you cry out from the new angle, feeling him even deeper than moments before. It's almost toointense; your trembling legs are a sign of that.
"Hey, hey, shhh," Steve kisses your neck softly, leading up to your jaw. "Need a minute?" You shake your head, breaths rapid and shallow. "Wanna stop?"
"God, no," you nearly sob, tightly clenching around his cock, almost to keep him inside you.
"Okay, okay." He kisses your cheek, lips lingering against you as he demands gently, "Tell me what you need."
"Y- you."
Steve chuckles, nuzzling his nose against your jawbone, unable to keep his lips off of you. If this is the only time he has you, he wants to kiss every inch he can reach.
"I'm right here."
Your lips part, but your breath is taken away with each thrust; you can only manage a nod while you whine and gasp.
The smell of sex hanging heavy above you both, the plap plap plap of skin slapping on skin, filling the van alongside your filthy moans; the two of you could put a porn studio to goddamn shame.
And then, there's the mouth on Steve among all of this.
"This pussy all mine?" His head falls back with a throaty groan, hips twitching off-key as embers smolder low in his belly, a fire that's always been easy to build off of.
It's only fair to match his energy.
"Dunno…" You turn your head as he leans over your shoulder, holding you flush against him while relentlessly, sloppily fucking into you. "This cock all mine, Harrington?" You burst into giggles among the breathy sighs. "Got me saying the dumbest shit, that's h- how much I like you."
He doesn't just twitch inside of you, he kicks, with little room to move within your tight walls. The whimper that pairs is one too delicious to ever imagine once, just once.
No, he'll never get enough of you. Not now. Not ever.
"S'all yours, honey," his nose prods into your cheekbone when he kisses the round, soft side of your grin. Huffing and puffing, thrusting into you relentlessly, he adds, "M'all yours."
Steve drives his cock deep within your cunt, dizzy as the stretch barely lets up. The fingers gripped around your chin ease up, two teasing at your bottom lip, tracing it softly. You're so fucked out already, it doesn't register what he's trying to accomplish. Not until he pushes them past your lips. That's when you take him in.
Even just two fingers are thick enough to softly gag you, while your tongue licks and laves at his digits. Warm and wet, you leave him a wreck as he quietly imagines fucking your mouth instead.
God, he hopes this isn't a one time fling; he wants you like this all the time.
"Fuck, you're unreal."
You try and fail to whimper his name around his fingers, drooling onto yourself and his hand.
Steve's fingers slip away, hands sliding down your neck. He loosely holds, gives a gentle squeeze, pushing you right up to the edge. You lean into his palm, tightening around him as you give into trust. His thumb caresses the side of your neck
"St- Steve, m'gonna— I—" his other hand finds your clit, coaxing you to fall into bliss with a steady, tender touch.
"C'mon, come for me," he husks in your ear while his own thrusts stutter, cock pulsing as he follows you into a shared high. He slurs out, "Thas'it. Fu- fuck—"
He spills into you, and you gush around him, yet it's so much more than that. There's a closeness you've craved, finally satiated as you're intertwined and losing yourselves in well-overdue bliss.
Trying to anchor yourselves to one another, there's desperate grasping in tandem with sounds rooted in indulgence. You've got your arm curled behind to tangle your fingers through his hair. Steve's greedily planting his fingerprints everywhere he can reach, digging pressure into every muscle and curve. You pull, he squeezes; the two of you claim one another through frantically passionate touches.
Beyond the lust, this is what you've always longed for with Steve; even if it didn't pan out the way either of you wanted, maybe it was needed to all fall into place.
Wrapped around one another, sweat still drying, smell of sex finally fading, the two of you revel in the afterglow together. Any walls— built with years of spite, grudges, and loss— between you have been demolished.
That doesn't ease Steve's nerves, though.
"Would you…" Steve trails off as self doubt's choke hold tightens on his heart. You lift your head, chin resting on his chest as your eyes find his.
All animosity in your gaze vanishes; he never thought he'd see the day.
"Would you wanna, uh, go out?" Like he didn't just rail you into oblivion, shyness creeps in. He braces himself for rejection, and maybe this question should've waited until after you're dug out from the snow. "Like, on a date, I mean."
Eager, you tease, "Promise I won't stand you up this time."
"Not like you can leave town this time anyway."
Though you scoff, it's playful. There's a smile he never imagined he'd see again, paired perfectly with your sincere laughter that reassures him.
The light in your eyes that radiates a soothing warmth, like spring sunshine on his skin, is back.
"Not sure I'd leave if I even had the chance," you admit. "Not without you."
And the sincerity in those words, it comforts him. Grounds him. For once, just once, the two of you could have something stable, constant, that isn't a threat to your lives.
There's a comfortable silence between you; the blizzard's howling gusts don't sound so lonely and hollow anymore.
"Might be smart to get dressed before the morning." Steve grimaces, reaching between his legs to slide the condom off. "… and clean up first."
"You would ruin the moment with something like that," you groan as he ties it off, sliding an arm out of the sleeping bag to throw it into a small trash bin nearby. "Besides, we're warm and cozy, and—" he smirks, reaching for the zipper next while you whine. "Ugh, no, c'mon— don't open it!"
Steve shrugs, amused. "Then you can explain to whoever ends up rescuing us why we're naked in the middle of a—"
"Okay, okay!" You grumble, stretching over Steve to zip the bag open. Begrudgingly, you shimmy out, rushing to grab the emergency box for clothes.
Despite your protests, Steve helps you get dressed as you grumble over the soreness, no longer numb from the cold. With teamwork and grace, you're back in warm, dry clothes, and Steve follows suit. He helps you back into the sleeping bag, snuggling up next to you once zipped up.
It's effortless, though mindful, how you tangle yourselves around one another. Your leg is thrown over his thigh while you rest on your side. He faces you, slotting his leg between yours and reeling you into his embrace. You tuck your head under his chin, inviting him to kiss the top of your head— and he does.
"We're taking the weekend off," you murmur. It's not a question, it's a firm statement. "No crawls. Not unless they're absolutely certain we're ending this."
"No crawls," Steve agrees, chuckling softly into you hair. "Stay over this weekend? I know it's not the most ideal first date location, but we don't really have the greatest options right now, and—"
"Okay."
"Oh." He pauses, relieved there was no hesitancy from you. "Okay. Yeah. We'll do that."
This might take some getting used to, the whole not being at each other's throats all the time thing. He can't complain, in fact, it's a welcomed change.
"The others can wait, we got catching up to do," you nuzzle your face into his neck, voice vibrating against his throat. "And we'll be dry this time."
He hums with a chuckle low in his throat. "Not sure you could say that for yourself, but sure, okay."
"Steve."
The two of you are too wrapped up in one another to notice the snow finally slowing to something serene, teasing back and forth like you used to. This banter without venom, it's natural now, and he hopes it stays. He hopes you stay. By the way you're so at ease in his embrace, Steve knows you will.
So I've been thinking Steve x reader summer baby yk she's like pissed that they decided to have a baby in the summer in July and they were spending times in his parents pool till he fits the air conditioner soon she was blaming his ass too 😭😭! When the delivery day came she was hella mad for this fckass heat she was cursing Steve out while giving birth and pushing his baby out (LOL I'VE BEEN THINKING ABOUT THIS IT'S SO FUNNY STEVE DOES NOTHING BUT LISTEN TO GETS AND COMFORT HER SRY IT'S SO LONG BUT IDK BYE😭!)
“summer baby”
☆ steve harrington x fem!reader ☆
hi !! thank u sooo much for this request because this idea is literally the funniest thing ever 😭 english isn’t my first language and i’m still learning, so sorry if there are mistakes or weird sentences <3 requests are open btw !!
summary: you and steve make the horrible decision to have a july baby during the hottest summer hawkins has ever seen. unfortunately for steve, you decide that every single inconvenience is completely his fault.
word count: 3.2K
warnings: pregnancy, labor, reader verbally attacking steve for 90% of the story, fluff, crying, hospital setting, no use of y/n
The summer of 1987 was, according to basically every old person in Hawkins, “the hottest summer since 1955.”
You personally did not care about 1955.
You cared about the fact that you were nine months pregnant in July, sweating through every single outfit you owned, and currently floating in Steve Harrington’s parents’ swimming pool at eight in the morning because it was already too hot to function like a normal human being.
“This is your fault,” you muttered dramatically from the edge of the pool.
Steve looked up from where he was laying on one of the lounge chairs wearing sunglasses and reading a magazine. “Good morning to you too, sweetheart.”
“You got me pregnant.”
“You were there too.”
You glared at him instantly.
Steve slowly lowered the magazine. “Right. Sorry. Entirely my fault. Evil mastermind Steve Harrington planned this whole thing specifically so you could suffer through July.”
“Exactly.”
“Got it.”
The thing was, Steve genuinely tried his best.
He bought you popsicles almost every single day. He drove you around town with the air conditioner blasting directly at your face. He tied your shoes for you when your stomach got too big to bend down properly. He rubbed your back whenever you complained that the baby was “using your organs as furniture.”
But none of that changed the fact that Hawkins felt like actual hell.
Especially after the Harringtons’ air conditioner broke three days ago.
The repair guy kept promising he’d “be there tomorrow,” which apparently meant absolutely nothing because tomorrow kept becoming another tomorrow.
So now you spent most afternoons sitting in the pool while Steve followed you around nervously like an exhausted golden retriever boyfriend.
“You want more lemonade?”
“No.”
“You hungry?”
“No.”
“You want the fan?”
“The fan blows hot air, Steve.”
“Right. Sorry.”
You narrowed your eyes at him from inside the pool. “Why are you breathing so loud?”
Steve blinked. “…I’m sorry?”
“You’re breathing loud.”
“I don’t think I can control that.”
“Well, figure it out.”
He stared at you for a second before quietly lifting the magazine back up to hide his smile.
“Don’t laugh at me.”
“I’m not.”
“You literally are.”
“Baby, I swear I’m not.”
“You think this is funny.”
Steve finally sat up, taking the sunglasses off. His hair was messy from the humidity, little curls sticking near the back of his neck, and somehow he still looked annoyingly attractive while everyone else in Hawkins looked half dead from the heat.
“You’re very cute when you’re angry.”
“I’m not cute. I’m miserable.”
“You’re both.”
You splashed water at him immediately.
Steve laughed, shielding himself with his arms. “Okay, okay. I deserved that.”
“You did.”
“You wanna know something crazy?”
“What?”
“I still wanna marry you.”
You tried so hard not to smile.
Really.
But Steve looked so stupidly proud of himself for making you crack that you rolled your eyes instead.
“You’re obsessed with me.”
“Unfortunately.”
By the second week of July, your patience had completely disappeared.
Everything annoyed you.
Your clothes felt uncomfortable. Your hair stuck to your neck constantly. Your feet hurt. The baby kicked your ribs every five seconds. Steve existed too loudly.
You were laying dramatically across the couch one afternoon with a damp washcloth over your forehead while Steve attempted to fix the standing fan beside you.
Attempted being the important word there.
“There,” he said proudly.
The fan made one horrible grinding noise before immediately dying.
You stared at him in silence.
Steve slowly stared back.
Then you burst into tears.
“Oh my God,” Steve panicked instantly, kneeling beside the couch. “Baby—”
“The fan is BROKEN!”
“I know, honey, I’m sorry—”
“It’s TOO HOT!”
“I know.”
“I CAN’T DO THIS ANYMORE!”
Steve grabbed your hands carefully while you cried into the pillow dramatically.
“You’re okay,” he said softly, rubbing his thumb across your knuckles. “C’mon, hey, look at me.”
“I hate summer.”
“I know.”
“I hate Hawkins.”
“Mhm.”
“I hate this baby.”
Steve’s eyes widened slightly.
Then the baby kicked hard enough to make you gasp.
You immediately frowned. “Okay maybe I don’t hate her.”
Steve snorted so suddenly he had to turn his head away.
“Don’t laugh.”
“I’m sorry,” he grinned. “You switched up really fast there.”
You pointed at him accusingly. “This is your child.”
“Our child.”
“She has your giant head.”
“You haven’t even seen her yet!”
“She FEELS huge.”
Steve leaned down carefully, pressing a soft kiss against your forehead.
“You’re doing really good.”
That made your expression soften a little.
Because underneath all the complaining and heat-induced rage, Steve had genuinely been unbelievable through the entire pregnancy.
Every appointment, he was there.
Every weird craving, he got it for you without complaining once.
Every middle-of-the-night breakdown where you cried because “what if the baby hates me,” Steve stayed awake holding you until you calmed down again.
Sometimes you caught him staring at your stomach with this completely lovesick expression on his face, like he genuinely couldn’t believe this was real.
It always made your chest ache a little.
“You know,” you mumbled quietly, “I still love you.”
Steve smiled immediately. “Yeah?”
“Unfortunately.”
“Wow. Guess we’re soulmates.”
Then, three days before your due date, Hawkins somehow got even hotter.
Which honestly felt offensive.
You were sitting at the kitchen table with your forehead pressed against the cold surface when Steve walked in carrying grocery bags.
“How bad is it?” he asked carefully.
“Evil.”
“That bad?”
“I think I’m dying.”
“You said that yesterday.”
“I meant it yesterday too.”
Steve started putting groceries away while you watched him dramatically.
“You know what’s crazy?” you muttered.
“What?”
“You did this to me and now you’re just walking around normally.”
Steve paused. “…I personally don’t remember forcing you.”
“Oh my God.”
“I’m kidding.”
“You’re lucky I’m too tired to kill you.”
“I actually think that’s the baby talking.”
“Stop blaming her for my emotions.”
“She literally kicks every time you yell at me.”
“She’s supporting me.”
Steve laughed quietly under his breath before grabbing a cold water bottle from the fridge and pressing it gently against your cheek.
You sighed immediately.
“There she is,” he teased softly.
“I’m moving to Alaska after this.”
“I’ll go with you.”
“No. You caused this.”
“You say that like you weren’t obsessed with me.”
You tried glaring at him again, but another sharp cramp suddenly twisted through your stomach.
Your expression dropped immediately.
Steve noticed instantly.
“What?”
You grabbed the edge of the table. “Wait.”
“Baby?”
Another cramp.
Stronger.
“Oh my God.”
Steve froze.
You both stared at each other for one terrifying second.
Then—
“Oh my God.”
“Oh my God,” Steve repeated.
“I think my water’s about to break.”
Steve genuinely looked like he was about to faint.
“Steve.”
“Right. Right okay. Hospital. We need the bag.”
“Steve.”
“The keys. Where are my keys?”
“STEVE.”
“What?!”
“My water literally just broke.”
Steve looked down.
Then immediately looked horrified.
“Oh!”
“Don’t say it like THAT!”
“Sorry! Sorry!”
Unfortunately for Steve, labor did not make you calmer.
It actually made you significantly meaner.
By the time he got you into the hospital room, you were sweating, exhausted, emotional, and fully convinced that Steve Harrington had personally ruined your entire life.
“You did this on purpose,” you groaned through another contraction.
Steve sat beside the bed holding your hand while looking absolutely terrified. “I promise I didn’t.”
“You wanted a summer baby.”
“I said summer would be nice!”
“THIS ISN’T NICE!”
“I know, sweetheart.”
A nurse walked in at literally the worst possible moment.
“How are we doing in here?”
You pointed directly at Steve. “He did this.”
The nurse glanced at Steve.
Steve nodded solemnly. “Yeah apparently.”
Another contraction hit harder this time and your whole body tensed instantly.
“Oh my God,” you whimpered.
Steve’s hand tightened around yours immediately. “Hey, hey, breathe for me.”
“I AM BREATHING!”
“You’re right. Sorry.”
“Don’t tell me what to do!”
“I won’t.”
The nurse was visibly trying not to laugh.
Hours passed.
Actual hours.
And Steve stayed beside you through every single second of it.
Every contraction.
Every breakdown.
Every moment you cried because “I can’t do this anymore.”
At one point, you got so frustrated you shoved his shoulder weakly.
“I hate you.”
Steve nodded sympathetically while rubbing your back. “I know.”
“You’re never touching me again.”
“Understood.”
“I’m serious.”
“You’ve made that very clear.”
“Steve!”
“I’m listening!”
Another contraction ripped through you before you could answer again and suddenly all the anger disappeared into panic.
“Oh my God,” you cried, gripping his hand so hard he almost lost feeling in it. “Steve, Steve, Steve—”
“I’m here,” he said instantly.
“It hurts.”
His expression changed immediately.
All the joking disappeared.
Steve carefully pushed sweaty hair away from your face, eyes soft and worried and completely locked onto yours.
“I know, baby,” he whispered. “I know. You’re okay.”
Tears slipped down your cheeks instantly.
“I can’t do it.”
“Yes, you can.”
“I can’t.”
“You can.”
Steve kissed your forehead gently, still holding your hand against his chest.
“You know what you told me when I was scared to apply for Family Video?” he asked quietly.
You sniffled. “What?”
“You said I could do hard things while being scared.”
Your face crumpled immediately.
“That’s not fair.”
“I know.”
“You’re using my own words against me.”
“Because they were smart words.”
Another contraction hit.
You nearly crushed his hand.
Steve didn’t even complain.
By the time the doctor finally announced it was time to push, you genuinely thought you might die.
And honestly?
Steve looked like he thought he might die too.
“You did this,” you cried again while the nurses moved around the room.
Steve nodded quickly. “Yes. Absolutely. Entirely my fault.”
“You’re never getting another baby out of me EVER again.”
“That’s completely okay.”
“Don’t agree so fast!”
“I’m sorry!”
The nurse beside you laughed openly this time.
Then the contraction hit.
And suddenly you weren’t joking anymore.
The room blurred.
Your hand locked around Steve’s so tightly his ring dug into your skin.
“It hurts,” you sobbed.
Steve was immediately beside your face again.
“I know, honey. I know.”
“I’m scared.”
“You’re okay.”
“I can’t—”
“Yes, you can,” he said firmly this time, forehead pressed carefully against yours. “You can. You’re doing so good. I’m right here.”
You cried harder.
Because Steve looked emotional too now.
His eyes were glassy, hair sticking everywhere from the humidity and stress, his stupid polo wrinkled from you grabbing onto it for hours.
But he never let go of you once.
Not once.
Even when you yelled at him.
Even when you threatened him.
Even when you blamed him for global warming itself.
Steve just stayed.
“You’re okay,” he kept whispering between contractions. “I got you. C’mon, sweetheart. You’re almost there.”
Then finally—
A cry filled the room.
Everything stopped.
Your breathing.
Steve’s breathing.
The entire world.
And suddenly there was this tiny screaming baby being lifted carefully into view.
“Oh my God,” Steve whispered.
You had genuinely never heard him sound like that before.
Like his whole heart had just been ripped open.
Tears spilled down his face immediately.
Actual tears.
“Oh my God,” he repeated shakily, staring at the baby like he couldn’t believe she was real.
And the second they placed her carefully against your chest, every horrible thing about the summer disappeared for a second.
Tiny fingers.
Warm skin.
Little cries.
You started crying instantly.
“She’s so little,” you whispered.
Steve was fully crying beside you now, laughing through it while touching the baby’s tiny hand with complete disbelief.
“She’s perfect.”
You looked up at him.
Steve’s face looked completely wrecked emotionally, eyes red, cheeks wet, smiling harder than you’d ever seen before.
And somehow, even after twelve hours of labor and nearly melting to death for an entire month—
You still loved him so much it hurt.
“You still mad at me?” he whispered carefully.
You stared at him for a long second.
Then looked down at the baby.
Then back at Steve.
“…maybe a little.”
Steve burst out laughing so hard he had to wipe his eyes again.
thank u sooo much for reading 😭 poor steve honestly survived psychological warfare this entire pregnancy LMFAOO requests are always open btw <3
a million little times (that's the thing about illicit affairs)
pairing: steve harrington x fem!reader
summary: you’ve had a crush on steve harrington ever since you were 13 and he had protected you and your friends from the demo-dogs. you told him so when you were 18 and he was driving you and your drunk friends home from a graduation party. now you’re 22 and back in hawkins, and you can’t deny the fact you still have feelings for him. and he doesn’t know how to feel when he realizes he’s beginning to see you differently than he used to.
tags/warnings: steve harrington x reader, set post epilogue, no use of y/n, slowburn-ish, age gap (5 years), angst, fluff, smut, secret relationship, hurt/comfort, dramaaa, friends to fwb/situationship to lovers?, mentions of lumax, byler, henderhop, jancy and jopper, alcohol and alcohol abuse, mentions of cheating and shitty exes, trauma, crying, idk what else to add...
playlist
prologue: " born from just one single glance "
chapter one: " what started in beautiful rooms "
chapter two: " make sure nobody sees you leave "
chapter three: " clandestine meetings and stolen stares "
chapter four: " leave no trace behind, like you don't even exist "
chapter five: " don't call me kid, don't call me baby "
chapter six: " they show their truth one single time "
chapter seven: " but it dies, and it dies, and it dies "
chapter eight: " look at this godforsaken mess that you made me "
chapter nine: " tell yourself you can always stop "
chapter ten: " for you i would ruin myself a million little times "
epilogue: " that's the thing about illicit affairs "
a/n: this is something i've been planning/working on for a little while now and since so high school and the smau are both coming to an end i thought now would be a good time to post this. not sure when the first part will be up but hopefully soon! yes i'll be writing spidey steve again istg just give me time. anyway comment if you'd want to be added to the taglist for this series.
