Synopsis: Steve’s totally cool setting Robin up with his ex-girlfriend, Nance. Robin feels guilty — he has to still have some feelings for her, she insists; she doesn’t want to jeopardise that. That’s where you come in.
Notes: fem!reader + fake-dating, mutual yearning, pining, mentions of Robin x Nancy, a confusing amount of jealousy, no one wants to admit that this totally isn’t fake anymore, tw for cursing and mentions of drinking!
Word count: 11K
Steve groans loudly.
“I’m serious,” he repeats for what feels like the millionth time today. “I want to. She’s getting over Jonathan, you’re getting over Vicky… c’mon — it’s seriously perfect. It’s like the Universe wants you guys to end up together, or something.”
Robin sighs her defeat, peeling her left cheek off the front counter. The sultry, Hawkins’ humidity evades air conditioning; her skin is sticky with heat, and her fatigue an inevitable result of sunstroke. “Will you give it a rest?” She mutters, straightening reluctantly. “I don’t have the energy to argue with you in the middle of a fucking heatwave.”
“Then don’t argue,” Steve says simply, pressing his forearms into the front counter. “Let me set you guys up.”
“Steve, c’mon,” Robin groans, eyeing him warily. She brings two fingers to her temple, rubbing small, soothing circles into the skin there. “Remember our half-cut, bathroom stall deep and meaningful at Scoops? Remember what I asked you? Remember what you said?”
Steve grimaces, drumming his fingers against the side of the cash register absentmindedly. “I used to be in love with Nance. Past tense.”
He pauses then, raising his eyebrows pointedly. “I also remember mentioning a crush I had on some other loser. Who, as it turns out, prefers chics who sing like they’re in a shitty, muppet musical to Tom Cruise lookalikes. Don’t see you bringing up that scandalous little detail every time we have this argument.”
“Oh, shut it,” Robin chides, biting back a bubble of laughter. “You know what I mean, you idiot.”
“No, you shut it,” Steve counters, grinning easily. “I know both of you like the back of my hand — which means I know you’ll be perfect together. C’mon. Think I can’t play cupid with all the recon I’ve done over the years?”
“It’s not about that, though,” Robin sighs, planting her hands on the counter before fixing Steve with a sympathetic look. “Harrington, you used to love her. Like… get married and buy an RV and travel across the country type of love. I couldn’t be with her knowing that. We’re best friends. It wouldn’t be right.”
“But Robin,” Steve presses, eyes widening pointedly. “That’s the beauty of all this. I’m telling you that you can.”
Robin cocks her head to one side, narrowing her eyes suspiciously. “How can you be this sure you’re over her? What if, like, something happens, and you realise that you want her back?”
“It won’t,” Steve says firmly. He leans over the counter and reaches for the box of returns, scooping them up and setting them on the front counter. “Now, if that’s all ironed out —”
“It’s not,” Robin interrupts, holding it in place. Her grip is firm on the neat edges, creates wrinkles where the cardboard hinges. “How?”
Steve frowns, rifling through the pile absentmindedly. “How what?”
“How can you be so sure?”
His eyes remain on the contents of the box in front of him; there’s an alarming number of rom-coms hidden within it, the sort of cheesy, feel-good movies that John Hughes loves to direct. Sixteen Candles, Pretty in Pink, The Breakfast Club —
“Exactly,” Robin says then, satisfied by his silence. “You can’t be so sure, which is exactly why —”
“Because I’m seeing someone else, alright?” Steve blurts out without thinking. He freezes. That’s when the panic sets in.
The silence that follows stretches thin, cuts through the sticky, Hawkins’ air to replace humidity with something thicker. Anticipation.
“You’re — what?” Robin sputters, eyes widening in surprise. “Who?”
Steve keeps his head down as he grimaces, prays to God she can’t sense the way his pulse bounds, the rush of nerves vibrating through his skin. Sweat beads the back of his neck, trickles down his spine till he’s forced to straighten.
“Uh,” he starts awkwardly; his cheeks are warm, uncomfortably warm. “It’s —”
When the front door opens, a familiar ring cutting him off, he’s quite literally saved by the bell. Almost.
Robin’s unperturbed by the sound. She raises her eyebrows expectantly. “It’s… who?”
Several beats away, you scuff your sneakers on the welcome mat. Family Video’s marginally cooler than the bakery where you work; it’s filled with stale air, feels lukewarm on your sweaty skin.
“You guys in here?” You call, dusting off the front of your apron. “I’m on my fifteen! D’you want some half-burnt pastries?”
“Front counter!” Calls Robin’s croaky voice, muffled sweeter by the aisles that separate you. “Yes please!”
You slide two, grease stained paper bags out of your apron pocket; they’re half-squashed, and you salvage what you can before heading toward them.
Steve’s back is to you where he leans against the counter, Robin peeking around his broad shoulder at the sound of nearing footsteps.
“As promised,” you say, waving the bags in the air. You prop them against Steve’s forearm on the counter, and a hollow of grease seeps into his skin. “Managed to snag you a Pain au chocolat, Steven. You’re welcome.”
Steve looks down at you then, though it’s a transient gesture, just short of his usual, devastating charm. There’s a strained, almost panicked expression on his face; it halts his smiles, stops it meeting his eyes.
You frown bemusedly, searching his features for a beat longer than you normally would. It’s only when Robin clears her throat that you stop, turning your head and blinking across at her expectantly. “Sorry, hey. Got you one of those cream donuts with raspberries in the filling.”
Robin nods, and perplexingly, her eyes dart between you and Steve before she responds. “Right,” she says, landing on the latter with an unreadable expression on her face. “Thank you. You’re the best.”
You furrow your brow, attempting to decipher the silent conversation they’re having. “Uh, yeah,” you say after a pause, realising that it’s a fruitless task; you don’t think you’ll ever understand their friendship. “No big.”
You rock back on your heels awkwardly, sending them a fleeting smile each before stepping away. “I’ll see you guys round?”
“Yeah, totally,” Robin says then, shifting back into gear to return the gesture with a grin. “Soon, I’m sure.”
You nod, albeit bemusedly, sending her a mock salute before turning on your heel.
It’s only once the bell chimes, signalling your exit, that Robin pipes up again. “No fucking way,” she exclaims, her bright eyes twinkling. “Gotta hand it to you, Harrington. I would’ve never been able to guess it.”
Steve’s brow furrows in confusion. “Huh?”
“C’mon,” Robin teases, elbowing the solid pillow of his bicep. “‘I managed to snag you a Pain au chocolat, Steven’? When’d you ask her out? Why didn’t you tell me?”
Steve’s hand, which is elbow deep in returned tapes, freezes against the plastic edge of what he’s sure is another rom-com.
He has exactly one second — less than, now — to decide whether he’s going to be sensible about this, or extremely foolish.
Steve chooses foolish. He hasn’t ever been a stickler for the rules, anyway.
“Oh, yeah,” he says, straightening nonchalantly. “Yeah, you caught me. We’ve been seeing each other for a few weeks.”
—
The next day, Steve arrives at work half an hour early. He wastes five, precious minutes fidgeting with the centre console, another three with the air freshener dangling from the rearview. He squeezes his eyes shut, presses his forehead into the steering wheel, and tries his best to think up a way he can convince you to play along.
Sure, you’re kindhearted, boundlessly patient, but this sort of commitment feels like a stretch, even for you. Not to mention that you’re insanely beautiful, and definitely out of his league — what if you’re already seeing someone? What if you don’t want to agree? What if you laugh in his face, tell him he’s gone crazy?
Steve groans, opening one eye to hazard a glance at his wrist watch. When he realises that he’s already wasted ten minutes deliberating over absolutely nothing, he grabs his keys from the passenger’s seat and opens the door.
“Alright,” he mutters to himself, locking the car over his shoulder distractedly. “You’re fine. You’re Steve fucking Harrington. You can do this.”
He cycles through the pep-talk several more times as he heads toward the bakery, wiping a clammy hand on his jeans before placing it on the door handle.
When he opens it, he’s met with overwhelming citrus, fainter vanilla, the crisp smell of fresh bread and sickly sweet pastries.
“Welcome to Better Batter Hawkins’!” You greet automatically, sliding a batch of hot, cinnamon scrolls into an empty spot before standing. “What can I —”
You falter as you recognise the Family Video vest, eyes widening in surprise as they travel to Steve’s familiar face. “— oh, Steve, hey,” you finish, readjusting your straps self-consciously. You’re acutely aware of the flour dusted across your left cheek, the fact that your hair is a little frazzled from the heat. You shove your hands into the front pocket of your apron. “What brings you in?”
Steve grimaces at the question, and your curiosity piques.
“Well,” he starts tentatively, scratching the back of his neck. “The thing is… I need a favour.”
You cock your head to one side, raising your eyebrows questioningly. “A favour?”
“A kinda big one,” Steve adds, stepping forward gingerly. “But it’s for the good of humankind. Trust me.”
A soft bubble of laughter escapes your throat, and Steve grins, his nerves settling just a little. He realises then, as it blooms warm in his chest, that he’s never heard the sound of your laugh, before now. It’s soft and sweet, the sort of gooey that sticks, and he realises he doesn’t want you to stop laughing, ever. Steve’s heart thrums, and his ears grow a delicate shade of pink. He realises he wants to bottle up the peals like sunshine, tuck them into his front pocket so that they’re never out of reach.
“Alright,” you say, smiling with your eyes. “I’m listening. What do you need?”
Steve takes a deep breath in, exhaling the favour as a big, melted mess of words. “Basically… Ineedyoutopretendtobemygirlfriend.”
You blink. “Hm?”
“I,” Steve falters, wincing preemptively, “uh, I need you to pretend to be my girlfriend.”
“Temporarily,” he adds quickly, eyes widening with desperation. “For Robin’s sake, not mine.”
You blink, again, because you definitely didn’t hear that right. “I — what?” You sputter, disbelief transforming your features. “You — I — what?”
“Let me explain,” Steve insists, taking another step forward. His knees knock the front counter as he leans in, startling brown eyes meeting yours in earnest. This close, Steve can see the flour on your left cheek; it highlights the contour, makes you look prettier, somehow. Steve’s breath catches. He feels a strange, overwhelming urge to tell you how much he’d love to watch you bake.
“So,” he continues, tearing his gaze away in order to gather his thoughts. “I’m trying to set Robin up with Nancy Wheeler, right? I think they’re perfect for each other — like, especially when you consider all that opposites attract crap. But, the thing is —”
“Isn’t Nancy Wheeler your ex?” You interrupt, frowning thoughtfully. “Wouldn’t Robin, as your friend, feel totally weird about dating her?”
“Yes, yeah, exactly,” Steve affirms, his elbow bumping into a plate of free samples in his haste. His eyes dart down to it thoughtfully, and he pops a few bites of Bruschetta into his mouth before continuing.
“So,” he says between mouthfuls. “Damn — this is some good shit, by the way. You make these? Anyway — whatever, not important. As I was saying, they’re perfect for each other, right? But Robin thinks like you; she won’t let me set her up with Nance just in case I’m not completely over her.”
You nod slowly, drawing your bottom lip between your teeth. “And are you?” You ask hesitantly. “Over her, I mean.”
“Definitely,” Steve answers, and there’s something about the way he says it — so confidently, so smoothly, so impossibly at ease. It does funny things to your chest. “Ancient history. And I said that to Robin, too, but she just doesn’t wanna believe me.”
Steve pauses then, ducking his head sheepishly. “That is, until I told her I was seeing someone. That got her on board real quick.”
“No way,” you manage to say, heat creeping up your neck. “No way you said you were seeing me.”
“Didn’t have to,” Steve responds, shrugging awkwardly. “She just… you came into the store yesterday to drop off those pastries, remember? She just kinda decided that it was you right after you left.”
You ponder the revelation for less than a beat, realisation dawning alarmingly quickly. “So that’s why she was making that face,” you mutter, more to yourself than anyone else.
“Hm?” Steve asks. “Didn’t catch that.”
“No — I, don’t worry,” you answer distractedly, removing your hand from your front pocket to scrub it over your left cheek. Steve’s gaze travels along your torso as it moves, settles in the curve of your neck where the tie of your apron peeks through. Fleetingly, Steve imagines pulling it loose. Even more fleetingly, he imagines you having nothing on underneath.
Steve swallows tersely, his Adam’s apple bobbing dangerously in his throat. He needs to stop imagining things. He needs to fucking focus.
“So, let me get this straight,” you continue, forcing him out of his reverie. “Robin thinks we’re seeing each other. And you want me to…”
“…play along?” Steve finishes tentatively, rocking back on his heels. “For her sake? For Nance’s? For the sake of true love, even, if you’re into that.”
“Steven,” you say with a sigh, shaking your head slowly. “You’re crazy. You’re absolutely fucking crazy.”
Steve’s lips quirk up a little, the brown of his eyes glowing brighter. “Alright, so that isn’t a no.”
“It isn’t a yes, either,” you argue, jutting out your bottom lip. “And okay, say I decide to do it. How d’you they won’t see right through us? I know you work at a video store, and everything, but me? I am no actor —”
“They’ll believe it,” Steve interrupts without missing a beat. “I know they will.”
You frown, looking up at him intently. “How can you be so sure?”
Steve doesn’t know how to answer that question. He didn’t know when Robin asked him the same thing, yesterday; isn’t entirely certain there exists one right answer to it. All he knows is that he’s just sure — about Nance, about you and him, about the success of this ruse. All he knows is that you just have to say yes; that if you do, that if you agree, he’s dynamite.
“Just,” Steve pauses, and there’s a disarming amount of sincerity in his gaze, “d’you trust me?”
You shouldn’t. You’ve barely known him a few weeks; exchanged a grand total of twenty, pastry-related words in that time. You shouldn’t. And yet —
“Alright, fine,” you sigh, acquiescing after a beat. “Fuck it. I’m in.”
Steve’s expression brightens almost immediately. He lets out a triumphant hoot of laughter, and his pert nose flares, the apples of his cheeks blooming.
“Thank you, thank you, thank you!” He exclaims, hopping up and over the counter in one, swift motion. In his fit of exuberance, of overwhelming relief, he wraps his arms around your waist and picks you up easily. It’s like muscle memory, the way he twirls you around, and you suppress a gasp as his chest rumbles over yours warmly.
“Yeah, no,” you manage to respond, bracing your hands on the solid expanse of his shoulders. “You’re — it’s no biggie. You’re welcome.”
And perhaps it’s the shyness of your words, the way his hands slip to your belt line right after you say them. There’s a silver of bare skin between your apron tie and jeans; his pinky finger brushes over a trail of goosebumps, and it’s only then that Steve becomes aware of what he’s doing. His hold on you is squeezingly tight, and Steve becomes aware of how intently your figure flushes his. You feel devastatingly soft, feminine. Steve swallows. He begins to seriously doubt whether he’s capable of letting you go.
“Shit, sorry,” he mumbles, setting you down clumsily. “Got a little carried away.”
Your skin feels overwhelmingly warm, and yet you find yourself shivering at the loss of his touch. “Don’t mention it,” you say, sending him a fleeting smile.
He nods awkwardly, angling back and running his fingers through his hair. “So, uh, now that we’re in business, we should probably meet up at some point and talk details.”
“Good idea,” you agree, furrowing your brow thoughtfully. “When’re you free?”
“Tonight?” he asks, keeping his hand on the back of his neck. The position accentuates the large pillow of his bicep; he couldn’t have picked a more distracting pose, and you’re unsure whether you want to love or hate him for it. “When do you finish work? We can grab some take-out after?”
“Seven,” you answer, smiling. “You?”
“Seven-thirty,” Steve responds, sending you one of his own. “Come by Family Video when you’re done, and we can go from there, yeah?”
—
You stall till it hits twenty-past, pushing open the door to Family Video with your shoulder.
It nudges the overhead bell into action; a grating ring, but you still manage to catch the last of Steve and Robin’s conversation. You’re sure, through the way it halts expeditiously, that you’ve caught them in the middle of some sort of interrogation. One that involves you, no doubt, and your pulse jolts then, hoping to God that Steve has the common sense to skimp on details.
“That you, babe?” He calls out, smoothly, confidently, with an unfair amount of ease.
You’re only just getting used to the idea of being Steve’s fake girlfriend, so it’s safe to say the pet-name throws you a little. Your heart stutters, and you focus all of your energy on controlling your breathing.
It’s fine. You can totally do this. You can be Steve’s fake babe, sweetheart, whatever; take it a step further, even, call him something cute back.
“Yeah, it’s me,” you answer, deliberating over a pet-name — lovebug, maybe darling, or — “big hair.”
The words escape your lips before you conscious mind can intervene, and you grimace, ducking your head in embarrassment. “Seriously?” You mutter under your breath, fixing your gaze on your sneakers. They trudge across sticky linoleum. “Big hair? What’s wrong with you, you idiot?”
You force yourself to straighten as you near the front counter, catching the last of Robin mouthing “babe?” to Steve over the register. Her eyes are twinkling, and her expression looks equal parts disbelieving and oddly pleased.
Steve turns to face you then, hazarding a glance at his watch before leaning back against the counter. “Hey, don’t worry, we won’t be too long,” he assures. “I’ll just go grab my bag from out back.”
He retrieves a frayed, black lanyard from the pocket of his vest, keys jingling intently as he pushes himself off. When he brushes past you, he murmurs a barely perceptible, “hey, by the way. Hope the babe wasn’t total overkill”. It should be manageable exchange, except that the cedar-wood in his cologne, hints of cinnamon are disarming. You try to shake them off, barely able to respond (“oh, I — hey,”) before he’s gone.
It’s only then that you let yourself meet Robin’s gaze, clasping your hands behind your back and rocking back on your heels. “Uh, how’re you going anyway?” You ask, clearing your throat awkwardly.
You’re a terrible liar — the worst. Perhaps it’s a good thing that Steve’s nice to look at; it’s no secret that you’re attracted to him, so perhaps it’s a good thing that you don’t have to fake that part of being his faux girlfriend.
“Okay,” Robin answers, waving her hand in the air dismissively. “Fine, you know — same old shit with me. How are you? How’s being Steve Harrington’s girl?”
Your eyes widen in surprise, and Robin winces, clamping down on her bottom lip sheepishly. “Shit — I mean, that’s not what I meant — he told me you guys haven’t like, made it official yet —”
“Robin,” you interrupt with a laugh, relieved that she’s just as awkward about this as you are. “You’re totally fine. Don’t worry about it. He — yeah. We’re just seeing each other at the moment. No labels.”
When Robin’s brow furrows in confusion, panic bubbles up your throat. “Not yet,” you add quickly, trying your best to sound demure. “No labels yet, I mean.”
“Oh, right,” Robin says with a nod, decidedly convinced. “Makes sense. It’s only been — what? Like a few weeks since your first date?”
“Yeah, exactly,” you agree, latching onto her line of reasoning eagerly. “We’ve decided to take it slow, you know?”
Robin’s features soften, and her eyes dart over your shoulder before she beckons for you to come closer. “Steve needs slow,” she whispers, and then she pauses, meeting your eye with an endearing amount of sincerity. “Don’t tell him I said that.”
“I won’t,” you murmur back, smiling softly, genuinely. “You have my word.”
Robin returns the gesture, leaning over the front counter discreetly. “Also,” she adds. “How and when did he ask you out? Steve’s being super vague about the deets, which is so weird, because I’m usually the first person to hear about his Skull Rock chics —”
“I’m being vague,” Steve interrupts, coming up behind you and throwing a strong arm over your shoulder. “Because she’s not just another Skull Rock chic, alright?”
He pauses then, and when he looks down at you, you realise he has soft greens, the tiniest specks of ochre within his irises. “She’s different.”
Your breath catches. This is fake, this is fake, this fake, you repeat, over and over, trying to ignore the very real way your poor heart stutters.
“God, your lines are straight out of a fucking John Hughes movie,” Robin chides, but she’s grinning wide, her eyes winking with approval.
Steve rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, yeah — you alright finishing up here?”
Robin nods, watches Steve’s arm slide down yours. You wonder whether she sees the cool trail of goosebumps he leaves.
“I’ll see you later, alright?” Steve says, turning around and sending her a wave over his shoulder.
You do the same, add a sweet smile for good measure, allowing Steve to guide you through the door and back out into the carpark.
“Big hair,” you blurt out as soon as you’re out of earshot. “I’m sorry. I totally don’t know where that came from. You called me babe, and I called you big hair. What did I tell you? I’m totally going to screw this up.”
Steve’s expression reads somewhere between mild amusement and charity; he leans back, he grins, and it holds a disarming amount of confidence. “Hey, don’t worry,” he assures, giving your hand a gentle squeeze. “It was cute, the whole ‘big hair’ thing. I kinda like it. Think it’ll stick.”
“You’re sure?”
“Definitely,” Steve affirms with a nod. “Now,” he pulls away to slide his keys out of his pocket, using them to point to a shiny, red BMW. “D’you wanna meet me there?”
You blink. “I didn’t drive here,” you respond. “I live like, five minutes away. I walked.”
Steve’s brow furrows, and he looks toward the sinking horizon. “You walk home alone after every shift?”
“It’s not that dark when I finish,” you reason, bathed in deep fuchsia as the sky bleeds to velvet. “I usually get home before the sun sets completely.”
“That’s crazy,” Steve insists, walking you to his car. “You should’ve told me. I can drop you home. We work the same shifts.”
“Steven,” you say tiredly. “It’s not a big deal.”
“It is now,” he answers, raising his eyebrows pointedly. “Steve Harrington’s fake girl doesn’t walk home, ever.”
“Does Steve Harrington’s fake girl get a choice in the matter?”
“Absolutely not,” Steve teases, all easy charm and a devastating grin. “Steve Harrington’s fake girl made a deal with the devil. What did she expect? That it’d somehow end fairly?”
—
“Alright,” Steve announces once the waitress disappears, grabbing his burger and a generous handful of fries before continuing. “So, I’ve been thinking it over.”
You nod, tearing open a ketchup sachet and emptying it over your own basket distractedly. “I’m listening.”
“Dude,” he says disapprovingly, making a face at uneven spread of tomato sauce. “That’s gotta be a crime. Half of your fries are gonna be totally dry and sad, you gotta —”
“Steve,” you interrupt sternly, raising your eyebrows. “Focus. What have you been thinking over?”
“Right, sorry, yeah,” Steve answers, unwrapping his burger and taking a sizeable bite. “So, fake-dating 101, we gotta get our story straight. How we met, our first date, whether we’ve gotten past first base, crap like that.”
A familiar, prickly heat makes its way up your neck. “Speaking of,” you say then, clearing your throat awkwardly. “We should probably also set some ground rules, right? Make sure we’re on the same page about, like… fake-dating expectations.”
Steve nods his approval, swallowing down a mouthful of salty fries before continuing. “Alright, yeah. Ground rules.”
“Like,” you continue thoughtfully, reaching for your milkshake. You find yourself hoping that it’s spiked with something a little stronger, “Rule #1. No actually getting past first base in the name of being fake-together.”
Steve’s mouth slackens, and you swear you can hear the cogs in his brain turning. “I didn’t mean to — I wasn’t going to —” he sputters in a panic, and then he falters, features twisting into an embarrassed grimace.
“— that’s not what I meant,” he finishes after a beat, reaching for his own milkshake sheepishly. Beads of condensation drip onto the table as he picks it up.
“Oh, no, I know,” you assure, eyes widening in earnest. “I just wanted to put it out there, s’all.”
Steve nods, taking a sip. “Fair enough.”
“Ground Rule #2,” you continue, chewing thoughtfully. “No telling any parents or siblings. It’ll get too complicated if we involve too many people.”
“My parents are never really here,” Steve assures; he doesn’t seem to mind this fact, but you feel a twinge of sympathy, anyway. “So that won’t be a problem, don’t worry.”
“Okay, good,” you answer, reaching for a fry doused in tangy ketchup. “Last one — you gotta come to a gig I have on next weekend.”
Steve raises his eyebrows curiously, cocking his head to one side. “What is it?”
“Someone I know’s playing at the Slow Lounge on the Saturday,” you answer cryptically, meeting Steve’s inquiring gaze with the little self-preservation you have left. “What?” You add, folding your arms across your chest. “Think you’re the only one who’s allowed to get something out of this deal?”
Steve’s eyebrows soar further upward, as if that’s fucking possible. “Spill it,” he demands, pointing a soggy-looking fry at the centre of your chest. “Who’s the someone you know?”
You frown down at it, deliberating for a moment, another, before you realise lying is fruitless. “Matthew,” you answer with a sigh, dredging up forgotten details with a bashful shake of your head. “Matt Johnson. My ex-boyfriend from way back.”
Steve nods slowly, popping the fry into his mouth. “And you’re putting yourself through the torture of hearing him play live because…?”
Your nose crinkles, and you bite back a smile at his response. “He invited me. Gave me the whole, ‘I’m so glad we’re friends, now,” spiel. I dunno — I guess I just don’t wanna turn up alone. And, I mean, we totally don’t have to play the fake-dating card, or anything —”
“Are you kidding?” Steve interrupts with a grin, his eyes twinkling danger. “Of course we do. We’re gonna give that motherfucker a show.”
The ease of his admission throws you, settles all gooey in your heart like you’re halfway to lovesick. “Yeah?”
“Definitely,” Steve affirms, taking another bite of his burger and chewing thoughtfully. “Alright,” he says through a mouthful of bacon and beef. “Now. Our story.”
You nod, gesturing for him to continue.
He places his burger back onto the plate and folds his arms across the table, giving you his full attention. “So,” he starts, lowering his voice to a sensible whisper, “I’ve been real careful not to get too detailed with Robin. The girl has a fucking photographic memory, I swear — this way, it makes everything less complicated.”
“Okay,” you say. “What have you told her, so far?”
“That I asked you out four weeks ago,” Steve answers, listing things off with a furrowed brow. “That before that, I’d come by the bakery before my shifts at Family Video and grab myself a pain au chocolate.”
“Shit — smart,” you intersect, smiling in approval.
“Right?” Steve agrees, looking immensely pleased. “Okay, so, I also told her that we went to that ice-cream place near new Starcourt on our first date. And that we’ve been to the arcade, and Skull Rock, and you’ve also come over to mine a few times since then.”
You take a thoughtful sip of your milkshake, meditating on everything he’s said so far. “Chocolate chip.”
“Hm?” Steve asks, frowning bemusedly.
“My favourite flavour,” you explain. Your knees knock under the table, then; it’s a tendril of warm touch, but it’s enough to raise the temperature in the room a few degrees. “We should probably know that stuff about each other by now, right? Favourite food, favourite movie, favourite band?”
“Right,” Steve agrees, and then he pauses, his eyes twinkling mischeviously. “Bet I can guess.”
“Bet you can’t.”
“Cinnamon scrolls,” Steve begins to list, pointing forefinger to forefinger for good measure, “probably like, Sixteen Candles or something — am I right? or —” you press the tips of your warm fingers into markedly warmer cheeks, hating how easily Steve fucking Harrington’s seeing through you, “— I totally am, huh? Okay, and favourite band…”
He trails off, leaning in closer with a devilish grin on his face. “…hmm, your ex-boyfriend’s?”
You disguise your laugh as a particular animated scoff, giving his shoulder a playful shove. “Shut up. It’s Duran Duran, alright?”
“See?” Steve says, giving his shoulder an absentminded squeeze. Your touch lingers. “Easy. Your turn.”
“Okay,” you say seriously, clearing your throat before continuing. “Pain au chocolat, Top Gun — don’t give me that look, Steven, I just know you have a man crush on Tom Cruise — and… Bon Jovi. Definitely Bon Jovi.”
Steve raises his eyebrows, mildly impressed. “Risky Business. Very close.”
“Same difference,” you dismiss, waving your milkshake in the air. A fleck of condensation hits your cheek. Steve’s mind drifts to when there was flour in that spot, to when he climbed over the bakery counter, and —
He reaches forward impulsively, swiping it away with his thumb. “Water droplet,” he explains, gaze falling to your lips momentarily. “Don’t worry about it.”
The nerve-endings where he touched you are on fire. You ignore them. “Anything else we need to discuss?” You ask quickly, eager to change the subject.
“Uh,” Steve pauses, brow furrowing in concentration. “Oh — yeah, we gotta talk about this weekend.”
“This weekend? What’s this weekend?”
“Pool party, of course,” he responds easily. “Me, you, Robin, and Nance. Oh — and the gang.”
You raise your eyebrows. “The gang?”
“The gang,” Steve affirms. “Nance’s younger brother Mike and all of his friends. She’ll be the one dropping them off, of course. How else d’you think I’m gonna rope her into spending Saturday afternoon at my house?”
—
It’s as you stand frozen on Steve’s front porch, blinking down at the energetic young boy in front of you, that you realise he’s already broken ground rule #2.
Because there’s no way that this curly-haired stranger, all bright eyes and an animated expression, toothy grin that you’re sure he’s practiced in front of a mirror, isn’t in some way related to Steve.
It’s the only explanation, really, for how quickly he springs into action after you introduce yourself. (As Steve’s girl — in hindsight, it probably shouldn’t roll off your tongue as easily as it does.)
“Shit, of course you are,” he says in a sweet, awestruck sort of voice, his eyes widening as he gives you once-over. “And of course he was being super vague. He didn’t want us to clock how totally out of his league you are, and — okay, how did he do it? High-school him, sure, but the lame-o who takes us to the skatepark like, every Friday? No fucking way. You work at Better Batter, right? So are you like… really good at baking? Steve loves chics who can cook. He’s super American Dream like that, but don’t worry, Robin’s been really good woth straightening him out into a total feminist —”
“Woah,” you interrupt, just. “Slow down, dude. You’re a sentence away from passing out.”
Dustin’s grin widens, and he cocks his head to one side. “Sorry. Dustin.”
“Nice to meet you Dustin,” you say politely, moving your straw-coloured beach bag from one shoulder to the other. It’s leaves a thick, red indent on the bare skin beside your bikini strap. “You going to let me in, or…?”
“Feisty,” Dustin notes, nodding his approval. “That’ll be good for Steve. He’s usually so far up his own ass —”
“Henderson!” calls Steve’s voice from a distance, rich and deep and alarmingly familiar. “What’s the fucking hold-up?”
You spot his impressive head of hair peeking around the corner; his brown eyes come next, and he straightens as soon as he registers your figure.
“Shit, hey,” he greets briskly, breaking into a jog. His shirt isn’t done-up. “I didn’t realise — I would’ve come myself, I just thought it was Mike and Nance.”
“No biggie,” you dismiss easily. As he nears, his hair flops over his forehead. The tips glisten in the sun; his tanned skin does, too. You blink, glancing down at a very amiable looking Dustin. “Got acquainted with your little brother.”
“Little brother?” Dustin and Steve echo in unison, sounding equal parts exasperated and pleased by the claim.
“Sorry,” you say, eyes widening. “I just thought —”
“You told her that you have a little brother?” Dustin interrupts, sending Steve a bewildered glance. “And that it was me?”
“I mean,” Steve falters, eyes darting toward you momentarily, “you basically are.”
Dustin ponders this for a moment, his knitted brow acquiescing. “Fair enough,” he decides. He flashes you one last, cheeky grin, turning around with a cheekier, “I’ll see you two love-birds by the pool, then.”
Steve waits for the younger boy to disappear around the corner before he allows for a sigh of relief.
“Dude,” he mutters incredulously, beckoning you in. “What was that?”
You shrug helplessly, stepping into his side. “I’m sorry, the way he was talking about you… he had the sibling thing down, I swear.”
Steve angles back, surveying you with narrowed eyes. “What did that little shit say?”
The slight movement causes his forearm to knock yours; it’s damp on your bare skin, sunshine warm. “You know,” you tease, looking up at him demurely. “The obvious stuff. How’d you land me, I’m totally out of your league, when am I gonna break it off with you —”
“Stop —”
“— you’re a total lame-o now, I definitely deserve better —”
“I said,” Steve interrupts again, his eyes alive with mirth, “stop.”
“What?” You ask, looking up at him through your lashes. “It isn’t like he’s totally wrong, and — listen, maybe me and you being together is like, too unrealistic for this to —”
Steve cuts you off with a strong arm around your waist, picking you up and throwing you over his shoulder in one, swift motion. “What did I say?” He teases, the smile on his face audible.
“Steve,” you huff out, biting back a laugh. Your hands land on the broad muscles of his back, his on the smooth expanse of skin beneath your dress. You shiver. “You’re a serious man-handler, y’know that?”
“Take it back,” Steve says, gasping dramatically. “I’m being a perfect fucking gentleman right now —”
Someone standing a few steps away interrupts by clearing their throat. Loudly.
Steve’s back is to the stranger, so it’s you lifts her head, squinting slightly as you look toward the source of the commotion. Nancy Wheeler’s on the porch steps with her hands clasped behind her primly, a gangly-looking kid with a towel around his neck standing by her.
“Oh,” you say in lieu of greeting, eyes widening sheepishly. “Hey, you guys.”
Steve turns to face them then, setting you back on the ground carefully. “Mike!” He exclaims, “Nance, hey!”
You separate, and the skin that touched his feels like hot, crackly static.
“You wanna come in for a bit, Nance?” Steve adds, stepping aside so the boy named Mike can get past him. “Robin’s here, too, so it won’t just be us three.”
Nancy’s cheeks grow the faintest shade of pink. “Yeah?” She asks, tilting her head down a little as she nods. “Okay, yeah. I’ll come.”
She walks up the porch steps and follows her younger brother into the hall, sending you a fleeting smile as she passes you.
You and Steve trail behind a few steps, close enough that your knuckles brush electricity intermittently. At the turn, he holds out his arm, halting you mid-step.
“You ready?” He asks, lifting it and throwing it over your shoulder, silky smooth.
You reach up and intertwine your fingers, bumping your hip against his playfully. “I’m ready.”
The outdoor pool is a bustle of energy. Mike’s found his way to the deep end where Dustin and another boy stand, peering over the edge suspiciously. A pretty girl with brilliant auburn hair wades through the shallows; she submerges, and the light reflecting off the water paints it sienna. Robin’s laying on a straw-coloured lounger on your right, scrambling to prop her sunglasses up and greet Nancy as she nears.
Steve sends you an amused “are you seeing this?” look, giving your hand an absent-minded squeeze before guiding you toward the two of them. The callouses on his palm are rough and soft at the same time.
“Robin,” he begins once within earshot. “You remember Nancy, right? Wheeler’s older sister?”
“Yes,” Robin affirms, straightening with an alarming quickness. “Yeah, of course. From that time at the skate-park, right? Hey. I’m —”
“— Robin,” Nancy finishes, smiling with her eyes. “Yeah. I remember.”
Robin chews on her bottom lip nervously, intending to look to Steve for help, but landing on you, instead. “Oh!” She exclaims, sounding pleasantly surprised. “Shit, hey, I totally didn’t see you. What’s going on?”
“Hey Robin,” you greet, mildly amused by her eagerness. “Same old. You?”
“Same old,” Robin returns, and then she pauses, eyes darting to Steve mischievously. “But hey — did Steve tell you about that tourist who came into Family Video the other day? Total disaster, so he probably didn’t —”
“Robin,” Steve hisses through gritted teeth, fixing her with a pointed glare. “Wasn’t there something you wanted to ask Nance, earlier?”
Robin falters, swallowing nervously. “There was?”
“Yes,” Steve says slowly, encouragingly. “Something about how her summer internship?”
Nancy’s lips part in surprise, and she sends Robin a curious glance. “You’re interested in news and media?”
“Oh,” Robin says sheepishly, turning to face her completely. She dangles her legs over the side of her lounger, scuffed knees barely an inch from Nancy’s. “Right, yeah. Not so much interested as… curious? I’m graduating in a year, and I just really don’t know what I wanna do with my life, y’know? And you’ve totally got it all figured out —”
She stops mid-sentence, clamping down on her bottom lip as though she’s said too much already. “— I mean, I just mean —”
“Robin,” Nancy says then, her features softening a little. “That’s sweet. Yeah, of course. What do you want to know?”
Robin’s blush comes roaring back. Steve begins his triumphant retreat.
“We’re just gonna go grab some sodas,” he announces, raising his eyebrows pointedly. “You guys need anything?”
“We’re good,” Robin dismisses, only half-listening, anyway.
Steve nods diligently, turning you around and heading for the deck slider.
“What’d I tell you?” He whispers smugly, untangling from your figure once you’re inside the house. You’re eighty degrees deep in sweltering heat, and you still miss the warmth of Steve’s touch when he separates. “Perfect. For. Each. Other.”
“Yeah, yeah,” you chide, rolling your eyes playfully. “Don’t get too ahead of yourself, Steven. They only just started talking, like, five minutes ago.”
“Trust me,” Steve dismisses airily, leading you into the kitchen. “That conversation? Raw fucking chemistry.”
You bite back a peal of laughter, leaning against the marble counter as he ducks his head into the fridge. There’s a brilliantly transparent window that dominates your left side, filtering through scintilla of light, softer sunshine. It looks out over Steve’s backyard, giving you a clear view of all of his friends.
Giving them a clear view of you and him.
“Steve,” you mutter discreetly, worrying the frayed hem of your dress. “You know, like, everyone’s pretending not to look at us right now, right?”
Steve stands and closes the fridge door, holding two cream sodas in one hand. Condensation drips down the osculate between his thumb and forefinger, along his hand, settles over the pulse point on his wrist.
“Okay,” he says, setting them down on the kitchen counter calmly. “No big.”
And then, he presses firm on the curve of your waist, picks you up and deposits your figure beside the sodas like it’s nothing.
You don’t think it’s nothing. He nudges his way into the space between your thighs, rests his hands either side of you, and you don’t think it’s nothing. The pillow of his bicep ripples over your skin, sends shivers of electricity down your arm, and you definitely don’t think it’s nothing.
His head dips to the shell of your ear, and he whispers, with an unfair amount of ease, “Do ground rules allow me to kiss you on the cheek?”
You want to hate him for how uncomplicated he’s making this all seem. But his warm breath on your skin, the trail of goosebumps it leaves; he’s entirely too close for you think of anything but his proximity.
“I think so,” you answer softly.
Steve’s fairly confident that this is his forte. He angles back so he can lean into your cheek, instead, and there’s a split second where his face freezes in place. He blinks down at you, thrown by how pretty you are up close, and there’s a split second where he begins to doubt that it is. His gaze travels from your wide eyes to your nose, trails to the way your lips part, and he really begins to doubt it.
The split-second passes, and Steve presses a kiss to your cheek. The softness of his lips lingers.
“Okay,” you whisper after a beat, edging forward on the marble counter. “I think we’re good.”
He doesn’t move back right away, and your chest brushes his torso like a fleeting bolt of electricity. The warmth of his skin lingers the same way his lips did.
“Right,” he says, glancing over at the window before clearing his throat. “Of course we are.”
—
“So,” you say with a sweet smile, hopping up on the front counter and dangling your legs over the edge. “We still on for tomorrow night, Steven?”
It’s nearing two weeks since the conception of your ruse, and in your humble opinion, you think you’re really getting the hang of it.
The two of you have managed to slip into a comfortable, almost effortless routine; Family Video rendezvous’, rides home after shifts, the occasional shindig at Arcade, even a couple of double dates.
Not that anyone has the balls to brand them as such, of course; just an almost couple and a fake couple watching movies and eating take-out, at Steve’s, or Robin’s, even yours, sometimes.
“Mm-hm,” Steve nods, tugging the strap of your apron loose. It’s become a signature move, but that doesn’t mean it leaves you any less breathless; Steve leans in, acutely aware that he’s in plain sight, and presses a featherlight kiss to your cheek. It lingers, the way it always does, warm and startlingly soft. “When should I pick you up?”
“Like, seven?” You hazard.
“When,” Robin groans then, hitting her forehead against the edge of the Horror aisle in mock agony. “Is. It. My. Turn?”
Each word is punctuated by a thump that’s firmer than the last, and she ends her dramatics by looking toward the two of you expectantly.
“Dude,” Steve chides, a flicker of amusement crossing his features. “You know all you gotta do now is ask her out, right? She’s totally into you.”
“No, but —” Robin falters, gesticulating between you and Steve wildly. “— but how can you know? We definitely don’t act like this when we’re together.”
Steve’s hand, which rests beside your thigh, trails up to the pulse point of your wrist, giving it an absent-minded squeeze. He does that a lot; almost without realising.
You realise. You always realise.
“What are you talking about?” Steve asks.
“You guys just look… right together,” Robin grumbles, leaning against the aisle and folding her arms across her chest. “Like, just totally made for it. I want that. But I’m so — I’m so awkward every time she’s around —”
“Robin,” you interrupt, trying to ignore the way your stomach flips at her words. “Listen, I mean,” you turn to look at Steve, and — have his eyes always been such a rich shade of brown? “we were totally like that too, at the start.”
Robin ponders that for a moment. “Okay, yeah,” she says slowly, pressing her ear into her shoulder. “You have a point. The only reason I realised what was going on was ‘cause of the nervous energy the two of you used to give off.”
A pocket of oxygen catches in your throat. You wonder whether Steve’s thinking the same thing you are. “Nervous energy?” You echo, chewing on your bottom lip absently. “When?”
Steve wishes you wouldn’t do that. His gaze falls to the soft pillow of your bottom lip, feels an overwhelming urge to reach out and brush the pad of his thumb over it. His grip on your wrist loosens. And then, the column of your throat shifts as you swallow, tempting Steve’s eyes to trail further, and he really wishes you wouldn’t do that.
“That time you got Steve a pain au chocolat,” Robin says, her brow furrowing in thought. “You guys kept bumping into each other accidentally on purpose. And Steve fixed his hair like, ten times in the five minutes you were here.”
“No I didn’t,” Steve defends quickly, a tell-tale blush blooming across his cheeks.
“We weren’t bumping into each other that much, either,” you add meekly.
Robin cocks her head to one side, surveying the pair of you with amusement. “Yeah, you were. It was like you didn’t understand the concept of personal space, or something.”
Steve clears his throat, and you feel your cheeks grow warm, overwhelmingly warm.
“Don’t get all shy now,” she continues, rolling her eyes with a grin. “It was cute, alright? Even if it made me wanna puke.”
She pauses, frowning thoughtfully. “And then fucking die, because I’m totally alone and miserable, and you guys are —”
“Robin,” you and Steve interrupt in perfect unison. Then there’s a pause, sticky silence that stretches with anticipation.
And as if that isn’t enough to turn your knees to jelly, you turn to face each other in perfect unison, too. Steve wonders whether there’s anything else the two of you can do in perfect unison. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, and his eyes travel lower, lower still to the soft skin of your neck, unmarked. Covering you in teeth-scraping kisses isn’t one of them.
“…uh, yeah?”
Steve clears his throat again. “Just ask her out,” he says weakly, and the words have more meaning than he’d like to admit. “She likes you, you like her — what more do you need? Stop complicating it, Buckley. Ask her out.”
—
When you open your front door to greet Steve on Saturday night, his first thought is: the night air is uncharacteristically chilly.
His second: you’re definitely going to freeze in that dress.
And his third, as his gaze travels from the spaghetti straps to the low neck, along the gentle curve of your waist, the spot above your knees where it hems: breathe.
“Shit, hi — hey,” he stutters, stopping just short of your black Doc martens. “You look great.”
Your pulse leaps, and you feel far more giddy than you should. This is fake, this is fake, this is fake, you think, over and over till you’re certain it’ll stick. “Thanks,” you say. “You too.”
Steve grins. You realise that it never will.
“Shall we?” He asks, combing back the hair that’s flopping over his forehead.
You nod in response, following him down your porch steps and toward his BMW. He’s first to the passenger’s side, quick to open the door for you and bow you in.
“You do this for all your fake girl’s, Steven?” You tease, steadying your hand beside his before sliding in.
“No,” he says easily, silky smooth as butter. “Just you.”
And you think, this is fake, this is fake, this is fake, till your poor heart slows again.
The drive to the gig is agonisingly long; big stretches of crackly silence, petioles of touch that feel like those on purpose accidents Robin was going on about.
Steve pulls up beside the Slow Lounge after what feels like forever; you aren’t sure why — there should be this much tension. There’s no pressure to act like you’re together within the confines of his car, right? So why do you still feel as though you’re halfway to breathless, drowning in an anticipation that’s almost electric?
“How long do you want to stay?” Steve asks, turning off the ignition and unbuckling.
“Oh, um, I dunno,” you say. “Not too long, though.”
Steve nods, opening the door and jogging around to meet you on the pavement. He locks the car over his shoulder while you’re walking to the entrance, biceps stretching deliciously against his bomber jacket.
There’s a gush of cool air, and he steps closer instinctively. You’re not sure why the movement sends a shiver down your spine; Steve Harrington is like a broad, welcoming furnace.
“You cold?” He asks nonchalantly, as if it isn’t all he’s thought about since he picked you up.
“I’m okay.”
“Take my jacket.”
“Steve, no, seriously,” you assure, stopping his hand where it’s pulling at the blue sleeve. “I’m okay.”
Steve raises his eyebrows accusingly. “You shivered.”
“Fake shivered,” you counter; you aren’t sure why, but borrowing his jacket feels a step too far. (Your stomach’s a mess, and you think, this is fake, this is fake, this is fake.)
Steve frowns, an unreadable expression crossing his features. “Right.”
“Now, c’mon,” you urge, linking arms and dragging him into the Slow Lounge. “We’re late.”
Steve doesn’t care. His mind strays to how softly your elbow hinges into his bomber jacket, on how the strobe lights make you glow, and he really doesn’t care.
He hazards that your ex-boyfriend’s the drummer on stage; he’s got that effortless, boy-next-door charm that reminds Steve of those John Hughes movies you like so much. He messes with his hair self consciously.
“Dude, slow down,” Steve grumbles, squeezing through the crowd with markedly less grace than you. “This is close enough to the stage, don’t you think?”
You look back at him with a frown, the lights airbrushing you around the edges; a halo. “Fine,” you say, slipping your forearm down his till your fingers intertwine. You give his hand one, last tug. “Come here.”
Steve steadies just short of bumping into you, his eyes darting toward the stage on instinct.
“Think he’s about to look over,” he says softly, watching the drummer shake out his hair, crane his neck a little. And then, before you’re able to whisper your response, he turns you around by the hips and pulls you into his chest.
You startle at the firm pressure, lips parting in surprise. His torso feels solid enough to hold all of your weight, and then some; it makes you feel safe, perplexingly at home. “Shit, you’re right.”
You blink at Matthew in the distance, feeling a surge of satisfaction at the way his brow furrows. It’s transient — he’s quick to plaster on an easy smile, but it’s there enough for your own lips to curve up in triumph.
“Hey!” You call silently, giving him a thumbs up. “Great gig!”
Matthew squints at your mouth moving, sending you a drum stick salute that the whole crowd can see.
That Steve can see. His hold on your waist grows tighter.
He isn’t sure why, but the exchange is doing cruel things to his chest. Something thick and white-hot trickles down the column of his throat, coats the base of his stomach, leaves a bitter taste in his mouth.
And then, there’s that familiar twang that jolts through his heart. He hasn’t felt like that since Nancy Wheeler broke his heart.
“That totally worked,” you whisper then, breaking him out of his reverie. “He did not look pleased.”
Steve turns you toward him and ducks his head, pressing his lips to the shell of your ear. “And now?”
You’re not sure. Your lashes flutter as Steve’s lips trail further, hitting the sensitive spot beneath your earlobe, and you’re really not sure.
“Yeah,” you lie, as if you’re focusing on Matthew’s expression at all. “Definitely not pleased.”
His lips linger for a moment longer before he pulls back and winks, holding you steady as he swivels you back around and pulls you close. There’s a familiar warmth creeping up your neck, blooming across your cheeks till it reaches the tips of your ears. You fidget, worrying the hem of your dress. Why is it so hard to get comfortable when Steve’s hands are on your waist?
You spend the rest of the gig wondering whether time’s moving too slow, or too fast. When Steve’s fingers brush bare skin, when his warm breath raises static, you swear it’s the former — it’s going in slow motion. But when you close your eyes, focus on his big arms, how his jacket smells like danger and overwhelming musk, you’re sure that it’s definitely the other way around. You can’t take it anymore, but you also aren’t sure you want it to stop. And somewhere, deep in the back of your mind, this is fake, this is fake, this is fake, fades into the shitty tune of ex-boyfriend’s songs.
When it’s over, Matt’s quick to find you in the crowd.
“Hey,” he greets breathlessly, tucking his drumsticks into his back-pocket. “You came.”
“I came,” you affirm, accepting his awkward, side-hug. “Great gig.”
He sends you one of those smiles that look like sucking your lips together, allowing the silence to stretch before shifting his gaze to your fake date.
“Steve Harrington,” he acknowledges, cocking his head to one side thoughtfully. “You guys here together?”
“Yeah,” Steve says with a charming amount of sincerity, throwing his arm over your shoulder. “Great drumming, dude. It’s a cool hobby.”
An unreadable expression flickers over Matt’s features. “Yeah. Not a hobby, but yeah.”
“No, yeah, super great,” you blurt out then, leaning into Steve’s side instinctively. “Uh, cool place to come on date night, don’t you think babe?”
You look up at Steve expectantly, and he fights the urge to press his lips to yours.
He almost fails, brushing them against the edge of your cheek at last minute. “Definitely,” he agrees, sending Matt a serene smile. “Listen, we’re probably gonna go grab a bite now. You wanna join?”
Matthew’s gaze travels from your head on Steve’s shoulder, to the hand he has on yours. He’s about to respond, when a chilly draft filters it’s way in. You shiver.
“Are you cold, sweetheart?” Steve asks with a frown, giving your forearm a gentle squeeze before pulling away. He slips off his bomber jacket and throws it over your shoulders, wrapping his arms back around you and pulling you close, closer.
Matt’s eyes dart back to your face. “I’m good,” he mutters, clearing his throat awkwardly. “Uh, you guys go ahead.”
“If you’re sure,” Steve responds, his voice cloyingly sweet. “We’ll see you around, dude!”
“Yeah,” You add, overwhelmingly warm all over. “Thank you again, for the invite.”
Matt sends the pair of you a curt nod, shoving his hands into his pockets before turning on his heel. He slips into the Slow Lounge crowd with the sort of eagerness that should be scalping; it isn’t, Steve’s hands, his jacket, are far more distracting.
“Sorry,” Steve let’s slip once he’s sure Matt’s out of earshot. “Got a bit carried away, huh?”
Yes, you think, this is fake, you think, yes you did, but that’s okay, because this is all fake, including everything you just did.
“No,” you lie. “You were fine — great, even. Totally honoured your end of the favour.”
Steve wonders vaguely if that was even really his intention. “You’re sure?” He asks. His hands are still on your waist
“I’m sure,” you answer, placing your palms over his knuckles. His grip slackens, but the skin beneath it feels charged; hot and bruised and electric, as though his touch has left a mark.
It persists. Long after you separate, walking back toward his BMW with your knuckles brushing, skin aflame. It persists. Long after he drives you home, itches to place his hand on your thigh, kiss you under your dim, porch lights. It persists. Long after a sleepless night, an anticipatory work shift, another twenty-four hours of fake being his. It persists. Two days, five, a week passes, and it persists.
And it’s as you’re waiting on Steve to finish closing, leaning against a ripped poster tacked to Family Video’s front window, that you realise this feeling may persist forever
You swallow nervously, worrying the edge of your bottom lip. It’s clear, painstakingly clear, that you’re beginning to crush on Steve, but how are you going to explain to him that your fake feelings have somehow turned real?
Even thinking it feels pathetic.
He asked you for one simple favour, and you… what? Created a problem for him, instead?
“Oh, there you are,” says Robin’s familiar voice then, sounding sweet, hoarse enough to interrupt your train of thought. “Swear you were by the front counter a second ago.”
You shrug, sending her a weak smile. “Needed some fresh air.”
“Gets super hot in there without the aircon on,” Robin agrees. “Anyway, listen, guess what? I’ve got the greatest news fucking ever to tell you.”
You knit your brow, searching her features a moment. Your gaze darts over her bright eyes, the pleased way her cheeks flush; she’s buzzing with excitement, and that’s when realisation dawns. “No way,” you gasp. “When? How?”
Robin’s about to respond when Steve swings open the door, hair mussed by his discarded vest and voice a little breathless. “Hey,” he greets tersely, giving his shirt collar an absent-minded tug. “What are we talking about?”
You frown. This is the fourth time today that Steve’s done that — turned up out of nowhere and cut Robin off in the middle of a conversation.
Robin grins wide, her pert nose flaring. “Me and Nance.”
Shit, Steve thinks. The cat’s out of the bag.
And then, a shattering sense of longing pulls at his chest. The amount of energy he expends on keeping his face neutral has him clamping down on the inside of his cheek till he tastes metal.
“Oh yeah,” he says, trying his best to feign nonchalance. “Of course.”
Your eyes flicker to his features momentarily, and he wonders whether you feel it, too. His heart aches, his dread builds, and he selfishly hopes that you do.
“So,” Robin continues excitedly. “She came into Family Video yesterday, and I just, like, asked her. Isn’t that insane? I just did it. Right by the chic flick aisle, looked her right in the eye — okay, maybe kind of in the boob — and went, will you be my girlfriend? And she said yes. To me. I — can you believe it?”
Your features soften, lips pulling down in a moue. “Robs, that’s so sweet.”
“Isn’t it?” Robin beams, crinkling her nose affectionately. “Like, I have a girlfriend now — me! I’m in a totally official, totally legit relationship, just like you idiots.”
You breath out a nervous peal of laughter, feeling Steve’s sticky gaze on your cheek. “Yeah you are.”
She rambles on about Nancy for a few more minutes before acquiescing, affording you the luxury of a moment or two to digest all she’s said.
Robin and Nancy are in a totally official, totally legit relationship, which means that you and Steve don’t need to be in a fake one, anymore.
You falter, feeling a wave of disappointment wash over your features. It’s so deep, all-consuming that you aren’t able to focus on anything else; your face falls, and you think, this is fake, this is fake, this is fake.
You don’t think, they got together yesterday. You don’t think, Steve knew that they did. You don’t think, he was trying to keep it from you. And you definitely don’t think, perhaps he wanted to delay the inevitable. Perhaps he wanted to keep up the ruse; perhaps it’s become more than a ruse, for him.
The next time you speak, it’s to bid Robin farewell. She’s giddy with happiness, and it tugs at your heartstrings; Steve’s, too, and perhaps that’s why you both linger back.
It’s only after she’s stepped into her car that he breaks the silence.
“So,” he starts awkwardly, rocking back on his heels. “Robin and Nance.”
You tuck your hands into your apron. “Robin and Nance.”
Steve’s Family Video vest is bunched up in his hand, and it nudges your bare elbow as he angles toward you. When you do the same, when the moonlight bathes your skin iridescent, Steve’s breath catches, and he begins to seriously doubt that you’re real.
In his defence, the two of you are meant to be in a fake relationship, it doesn’t matter that his feelings for you are the devastating opposite. It doesn’t matter that the jealousy, the yearning is all real; you’re the very real girl of his dreams, and it doesn’t matter that he’s only now coming to terms with it.
Because, at the end of the day, your relationship began as a ruse. And so, doing it justice will mean ending it as one, too.
“Guess it’s time to call it quits on the fake-dating thing, then, huh?” Steve asks quietly.
You look up at him through your lashes, trying to hide your disappointment. “Guess so.”
You fail. And as Steve meets your gaze, disarmingly sincere, he realises something. This may be the end of it, but it doesn’t have to be the end of you and him.
His heart leaps.
“Thank you for playing along,” he whispers. His fingers twitch toward yours, the air between you thick with tension.
“No biggie,” you say weakly, eyes falling to the ground. There’s an inch, maybe two, of space between your sneakers and his. Steve shuffles forward until the tips touch.
“You know,” he murmurs, reaching up to trace the line of your jaw. His thumb tucks beneath your chin, and he slowly tilts it upward. “Fake dating you has been real confusing.”
Your eyes widen. Steve’s forearm rests against your sternum, so close to your heart that you’re sure he can feel it quicken. “How so?”
He leans in till your foreheads touch. “Because,” he breathes out, “the way I feel when I’m around you is anything but fake.”
Your breath hitches. “Steve...”
“No, really,” Steve insists. The tip of his nose dots yours. “It’s like, we’re fake together at my pool party, but share a very real moment in the kitchen. I’m your fake boyfriend at that Slow Lounge gig, but I feel a very real amount of jealousy when your ex comes round. I give you fake compliments, but think them over till they’re real. I fake talk about you all the time — except that, no, that’s definitely real, too. Robin told me off the other day because I wouldn’t shut up about how cute you look in this dumb apron.”
He pauses then, flicking the strap at your waist for good measure. “See? Super confusing. Why do you have to be so pretty? It makes fake falling in love really, really confusing.”
“Steve,” you repeat softly, feeling something gooey and warm settle near the base of your stomach. “Really?”
“Really.”
Your heart skips. “D’you think we can fake kiss, now?”
“Shit,” Steve murmurs, moving his hand to cup your cheek. “I thought you’d never ask.”
There’s nothing fake about the way he presses his lips to yours.
Delicate at first, memorising you through pastel kisses, growing firmer, more impatient, with every second that passes. There’s nothing fake about the way he holds you, leaves you breathless; once muted, his kisses gain vivid pigment, brand you his. And he tastes like spicy mint and cream soda, half-burnt pain au chocolats, like something deeply ardent is intermingling with something soft. There’s nothing fake about the way he sets your nerve-endings aflame. Steve kisses you slow, slower, a gently building pressure, and as you wrap your arms around his neck, you’re hit with a very real mess of emotions.
“That,” you mumble when he pulls away, lips curving into a bruising smile. “Was definitely not a fake kiss.”
“Yeah?” Steve teases, his warm breath fanning your cheeks. “Want me to try again?”
He dots another kiss to yours lips, one more so it sticks. “How about those?”
You rest your hands over his chest, feel the warmth of his skin. “Better.”
“Mm,” Steve mumbles, leaning in and grazing over the pulse point on your neck. “Good.”
His lips trail along the column of your throat, press hot kisses on your collarbones, linger over your shoulder. “I have to drop you home, now, huh?”
You lean back to meet his gaze, raising your eyebrows bemusedly. “I mean, yeah. You promised your fake girl an unlimited number of rides home.”
“Yeah,” Steve agrees, nodding sagely. “But you’re my real girl now, aren’t you?”
You feel embarrassingly giddy, warm all over. “Yeah, so?”
“So,” Steve says, grinning devilishly. “I drive my fake girl back to her house, sure. But my real girl? I tend to drive her back to mine, instead.”
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