THE THREE TIMES YOU REJECT STEVE HARRINGTON AND THE ONE TIME YOU DON’T
summary: Three times you reject Steve Harrington out of fear. Three times he takes it gracefully. On the fourth try, you're brave enough to let him in.
pairing: Steve Harrington x Fem!reader
warnings: Idiots in love, angst with a happy ending, fluff, mutual pining, friends to lovers.
You always used to think summers in Hawkins sounded like one long, stretched out sigh, the kind that comes after something big ends and something else hasn't yet begun. High school was done, caps thrown, yearbooks signed, names scribbled in ballpoint ink by people you'd see at the grocery store for the rest of your life. All those messy years behind you, and suddenly the whole town felt like it was in this strange, humid pause between what you were and what you were supposed to become.
The cicadas knew it too. They screamed in the trees like they were angry about it.
And Steve Harrington…
Well, Steve hung in that pause with you.
He wasn't King Steve anymore. That version of him had died somewhere between sophomore and junior year, murdered by his own stupidity and resurrected into something actually worth knowing. He wasn't the guy everyone whispered about in hallways anymore, wasn't the one who'd dated a girl just to prove he could, or made fun of people he didn't understand, or drove around town like he owned it.
He was different now. Better. Real.
He wasn't even the guy who used to take girls to the drive-in every other weekend like it was a sport anymore, though honestly, you'd heard those stories and they made you roll your eyes so hard you thought you might hurt yourself. Apparently he'd had a system. A whole system. The thought of it made your stomach twist in a way you tried very hard not to analyze.
He was your best friend.
The one you spent entire afternoons with in the Family Video break room, throwing popcorn at each other when Keith wasn't looking, and Keith was always looking, always on the verge of having an aneurysm about the "proper handling of merchandise" and "maintaining professional standards." Steve had perfected the art of the innocent smile, batting his eyelashes at Keith while you dissolved into giggles behind the counter, your shoulders shaking so hard you had to grip the edge to keep standing. Keith would turn red and storm off muttering about "irresponsible youth," and Steve would catch your eye and you'd both lose it all over again.
The one who picked you up in his BMW with the windows rolled down and The Cars blaring so loudly the floorboards vibrated and you couldn't hear yourself think, which was exactly the point because whenever you got in that car with him, thinking became difficult anyway. Your hair would whip around your face and he'd reach over and tuck it behind your ear without taking his eyes off the road, and you'd feel something dangerous bloom in your chest.
The one who'd knock on your window at 1 a.m. just to say, "I couldn't sleep and also I'm pretty sure your mom hates me, but do you wanna come get milkshakes?" (Your mom did hate him, initially hated the idea of him, hated his reputation, hated that you spent so much time with him. But he'd brought her flowers once, these goofy sunflowers from the grocery store that were slightly too tall and slightly too cheerful, and she'd nearly fainted. Now she asked about him when you came home. It made your heart do complicated things.)
The one who made you laugh so hard you snorted, and who never let you forget it, and who you loved so much it scared you half to death.
And that fear?
That fear was what caused the first no.
THE FIRST NO: THE ROADTRIP THAT NEVER HAPPENED
It was July, sticky and golden, the kind of day where cicadas screamed in the trees like they were trying to drown out the whole world. You could feel the heat radiating off the pavement in waves, shimmering and distorting everything in the distance. Even the birds had given up and retreated into whatever shade they could find.
Steve was sprawled across the hood of his BMW in your driveway, the one he waxed every weekend like it was a religious experience, seriously, you'd watched him do it and he treated that car like it was made of glass, knocking his heel against the metal in a rhythm that was almost hypnotic. You sat beside him, your legs stretched out in front of you, sharing an orange soda, passing it back and forth like you were sharing secrets. The bottle was already sweating in the heat, leaving rings of condensation on the metal hood.
He looked ridiculously perfect in that way he only ever did around you. His shirt was soft and worn, one of those vintage band tees he pretended not to care about but definitely did, you'd caught him folding it carefully once, and his hair was fluffy from the heat and the humidity, standing up a little bit in the back in a way that made you want to touch it. You didn't. You gripped the soda bottle tighter instead.
His sunglasses were sliding down his nose, and he pushed them up every few seconds with the knuckle of his index finger in a gesture so familiar it hurt. You'd probably seen him do that ten thousand times. You could probably do it in your sleep.
"You busy this weekend?" he asked, wiping condensation from the bottle with the hem of his shirt, which honestly was a weirdly domestic gesture that made your stomach do flip-flops you didn't want to acknowledge.
You tried to ignore it. The flip-flops, the way your pulse had quickened, the way you suddenly felt too aware of how close he was sitting. "Probably not. Why?"
He cleared his throat in that specific way people do when they're pretending to be casual but are definitely, absolutely not casual at all. You'd learned to recognize that sound over the past year. It meant he'd been thinking about something, planning something, rehearsing something. Probably something that involved you in a way that made your chest tight.
"I was thinking…" He hesitated, pushing the sunglasses up again, buying himself time. "Maybe we could take a trip. Just us. Like a real one. Two hours out to this place I found. There's a lake—super pretty, really quiet, perfect for camping or whatever. We could take some music, some food, just hang out and not deal with Hawkins for a weekend. Thought it might be fun."
He said it with that soft grin that always felt like it was aimed directly at your chest, that smile that made your knees weak and your brain fuzzy. And he was looking at you so hopefully, so genuinely, like you were the only person in the entire world who mattered. Like you were the thing that would make the trip worth taking.
That was part of the problem.
You froze completely. Like your whole body had suddenly turned to ice. The soda bottle felt slippery in your hands.
Because the idea sounded perfect.
Too perfect.
The kind of perfect that could tip the balance between friendship and something you didn't even know how to name. The kind of trip that felt like a date, even if he hadn't called it that. The kind of trip that implied intimacy and intention and a level of commitment that went beyond friendship into something deeper and more complicated and so terrifying you could barely breathe. Two hours in a car with Steve. Hours and hours. Alone.
The thought made you dizzy.
And that terrified you so much you wanted to cry.
Your mouth went dry. The world seemed to get very small and very loud at the same time.
So you took a deep breath, steadied yourself, and you made your voice light and casual, a skill you'd been developing all summer, this careful art of pretending, and you said, "Steve… I don't think that's a good idea."
His whole body stilled. It was a tiny movement, barely noticeable, but you felt it like a bomb going off. You'd spent so much time with him that you could read every micro expression, every shift in his shoulders, every change in his breathing. You knew him like you knew the back of your own hand.
"Oh," he said after a few seconds that felt like an eternity, and he nodded like he'd expected exactly this, like he'd been bracing himself for it the whole time. Like he'd rehearsed this rejection in his head before he even asked. "Yeah. Sure. No big deal. It was just an idea."
But his voice had changed. It was higher now, and a little too quick, like he was rushing through the words to get them out before he said something else. Something true. Something that would hurt worse.
"It's not that I don't want to," you said quickly, and you hated how desperate you sounded, trying to soften the blow, trying to make it hurt less. You were making it worse. You were always making it worse. "It's just—"
"Totally," he said, and he was already looking away from you, already putting distance between you that hadn't been there a second ago. You could feel it like a physical thing. "I get it. You probably didn't want to be stuck with me in a car for hours anyway. That would suck. I wasn't really thinking about how boring that would be for you. We listen to the same five albums over and over, we'd probably drive each other crazy."
He was lying. He was such a bad liar and you knew it.
"Steve, that's not—"
"It's fine," he said, but his voice was too bright, too carefully placed, the voice of someone who was lying through his teeth to save face. He sat up a little, shifting his weight. "Really. I'm gonna head out early tomorrow anyway. Work stuff. No big deal."
He swung his legs off the hood of the car and dropped down to the pavement, landing hard enough that you winced. He brushed off his jeans like he was trying to brush away the entire conversation, like he could erase it with enough friction.
"Steve—" you started, reaching for him, your hand landing on empty air where he'd been.
But he was already moving toward his car, already putting up walls, already retreating into the place where he went when he was hurt but didn't want to admit it. You recognized that place. He'd been there before. You hated that place.
"See you later?" he said, and it wasn't a question. It was a period at the end of a sentence that was already finished.
You watched him get in the car. Watched him start the engine. Watched him back out of your driveway with careful precision, like he was trying not to do anything that might make you chase after him. His taillights disappeared down the street, and you felt like you'd just made the biggest mistake of your life.
Your chest was tight, and your throat felt like you'd swallowed glass, and all you could think was that you'd just hurt the person who mattered most to you because you were too scared to take a chance. Because you were a coward.
The first no settled between you like dust.
You sat on that hood for another hour, the metal cooling beneath you, and you didn't move. Your mom called from inside but you didn't answer. You just sat there, replaying the moment over and over, wondering what would have happened if you'd said yes instead.
THE SECOND NO: THE DANCE FLOOR YOU AVOIDED
August hit Hawkins like a fever, like the entire town had caught something infectious that made everyone move slower and sweat more and complain about the weather every five seconds.
The Fourth of July festival had gotten postponed twice because thunderstorms kept rolling through, and when it finally happened, two weeks late, the whole schedule thrown off, people annoyed and restless, the entire town crammed itself into the fairgrounds like they were starved for fireworks and funnel cake and a reason to pretend they lived somewhere exciting.
You and Steve had started talking again. Not about the roadtrip. Never about the roadtrip. He'd called you on a random Tuesday and asked if you wanted to come over and watch a movie, and you'd said yes, and it was fine. It was almost like nothing had happened. Except everything had happened. You could still feel it, hovering between you like humidity.
You walked through the festival crowd with paper plates piled high with curly fries and fried dough, your hands occasionally brushing in a way that felt charged and complicated and stupid. There were people everywhere, families with kids wearing those temporary tattoos, teenagers trying to look cool in groups, elderly couples sitting on blankets like they were at a concert, and you kept running into people from high school. Todd Bradshaw was working a booth. Jenny Pierce was there with some guy you didn't recognize. People who knew you were together all the time, people who probably wondered what was actually going on between you two.
You wondered the same thing.
The band—some cover band from the next town over, trying very hard, started playing something soft. Fleetwood Mac, you were pretty sure. "Dreams." Which was exactly the kind of song designed to make you feel melancholic and nostalgic and desperately aware of how much you wanted something you couldn't have. The singer was doing their best, but the guitar was just slightly out of tune in a way that made the whole thing feel both romantic and sad.
Couples drifted toward the makeshift dance floor under the hanging string lights like they were being drawn by a magnet. The lights were strung up haphazardly, casting everything in this warm golden glow that made everyone look soft and beautiful and like they were in a movie. It was objectively the most romantic thing Hawkins had managed to accomplish all summer, which wasn't saying much, but still. It was nice. It was the kind of thing you'd remember.
Steve glanced at the dance floor for a second.
Then at you.
Then back at the dance floor again, like he was debating something internally, having a conversation with himself that you weren't allowed to hear. You could see the tension in his jaw. Could see him working up the courage.
He licked his lips, set his paper plate down on a picnic table carefully, like it was something precious, like he needed both hands free for what he was about to do, and his eyes found yours again.
"Dance with me?" he asked, voice barely above the music, almost like he was asking permission rather than making an offer. Like he was terrified of the answer.
Your breath hitched so hard you nearly choked on a curly fry. You actually had to cough a little. This was not smooth. This was not cool.
He wasn't cocky about it. He wasn't flashing that grin that he knew made people weak in the knees. He wasn't using any of the moves that you'd heard him practice on other girls (yes, you'd heard them, he'd practiced in his car before dates, running lines like he was in a play, and yes, it made you want to throw up and also laugh and also want to strangle him). He just looked… hopeful. A little nervous. A little vulnerable. Like someone standing on the edge of something and waiting for you to go first, to either take his hand and jump or tell him to back away.
But you couldn't do this. You couldn't cross that line. Not here. Not in front of all these people.
"I… I shouldn't," you said, and your voice came out too high, too thin, like someone was squeezing your throat. Like the words had to fight their way out.
His brow creased, confused. Hurt, maybe, though he was trying to hide it. "Why not?"
"Because it's dancing, Steve."
"Yeah?" He tilted his head, genuinely perplexed, like you'd just said something in another language. "People dance. We've danced before."
"Not like… this," you said, and you gestured vaguely at the dance floor, at the couples swaying close together, at the way people were holding each other, at the intimacy of it all. At how it would look. At how it would feel. "This is different."
His expression softened, painfully, beautifully, like watching the sun come through clouds. Like everything he felt was right there on his face, and you had to look away because it was too much.
"Hey," he murmured, stepping closer, close enough that you could smell his cologne—something woodsy and expensive that his mom probably bought him, and something underneath it that was just Steve. "I'm not trying to make it weird. I just… wanted to hold you for a minute. That's all. Just one song. One dance."
Your whole body lit up like someone had plugged you directly into the electrical grid. Every nerve ending came alive. Your heart rate doubled. You forgot how to breathe, how to think, how to be a normal person.
But you also couldn't say yes.
"Steve," you whispered, shaking your head, stepping back, "I can't."
Just two words.
But they hit him like a physical force, like you'd reached out and shoved him backward. You watched his face cycle through several emotions, hurt, confusion, resignation, something that looked a lot like acceptance. Something that looked like he was getting used to this. To rejection. To being rejected by you.
He nodded slowly, stepping back on his own now, swallowing like it hurt. Like the words were lodged in his throat and he had to physically swallow them down. Like he was swallowing back everything he wanted to say.
"Okay," he said quietly, and his voice was so small. "No problem. Forget I asked."
He said it kindly.
He said it gently.
But his eyes were dimmer for the rest of the night. You could see it. You could see the light going out.
And you got to watch him at the festival from a distance, from a distance you'd put there, that you'd created, saw him helping Mrs. Chen set up a lawn chair, moving it three times to get it in just the right spot in the shade. Saw him buying lemonade for a kid who couldn't reach the counter, talking to the kid while he waited, making him laugh. Saw him being his best self while you stood on the sidelines destroying yourself with regret.
When the fireworks went off at midnight, he was standing next to you but not quite looking at you. His hands were in his pockets. The space between you felt like it had doubled, tripled, become an ocean you didn't know how to cross. You wanted to cross it. You wanted to reach over and take his hand. You wanted to do a lot of things.
You did none of them.
That was your second no.
When he dropped you off at home later, he didn't come inside like he usually did. He just waited for you to get out of the car, gave you a small wave, and drove away. You stood in your driveway watching his taillights disappear, and you felt something break.
THREE — THE THIRD NO: THE NEAR-KISS IN HIS ROOM
September crept in before you were ready for it, sneaking up on you like a thief in the night. One minute it was summer, thick and endless and full of possibility, and the next you were buying new folders for classes and getting your schedule in the mail. Time was speeding up in a way that made your chest tight, like you were running out of something and you didn't know what.
You and Steve hadn't talked much since the festival. Not because you were actively avoiding each other, you weren't that cruel, but because every time you looked at him, you felt that moment all over again. The longing. The weight of the words you couldn't say. The truth you kept choking down like spoiled milk.
He was pulling away. You could feel it. He still showed up to work at Family Video, still went through the motions of friendship, but there was something different now. Something guarded. He was being careful around you, like you were something delicate that might break, or something dangerous that might hurt him.
You hated it.
But then he'd called, just like he always did, his voice careful and neutral on the phone: "Hey. You doing anything tonight? I'm at work until close, but after… maybe you could come over? We could play video games or something. No pressure. Only if you want to."
Only if you want to. Like it was optional. Like it didn't matter either way.
You'd said yes before your brain could stop you, because you couldn't stand the distance anymore. You couldn't stand being separated from him.
He was lying on his bedroom floor when you got there, he'd left the front door unlocked for you, which made your heart twist, with a fan blasting air over both of you while he tried, and mostly failed, to show you how to beat him at Super Mario Bros.
The room smelled like him. Like cologne and clean laundry and something warm and safe.
It was late—later than you meant to stay. His parents were gone for the weekend, as always, off doing some business thing in Chicago or vacation somewhere warm, leaving him alone in the big house like they always did. They'd been doing that since he was a kid. You'd always thought it was sad. You still did.
The house was quiet in that way that made the walls feel bigger and the air feel thicker. You could hear crickets outside, and the hum of the fan, and Steve's occasional frustrated curses when he died in the game.
You were lying on your stomach, chin propped on a pillow, watching him play, occasionally pointing out things he was missing and laughing when he died for the third time in a row. He was surprisingly bad at this game, which was funny because he took it so seriously, his brow furrowed in concentration, his tongue poking out just slightly when he was really focused.
Steve was sprawled beside you, one arm bent under his head, his shirt riding up just enough for you to see the warm line of skin above his jeans, and you were trying very hard not to look at it. You were also trying very hard not to think about how easy it would be to reach over and touch it. How warm it would probably be.
He glanced at you when he lost a life, his fifth or sixth life, you'd lost count, and something in his face changed. It was subtle but noticeable if you knew him well enough, which you did, intimately, in a way that made your heart ache. You knew the shape of his face better than you knew your own. You could probably draw it with your eyes closed.
His expression softened.
Deepened.
Like he was looking at you and seeing something that made him forget all about the video game entirely. Like he was looking at you and deciding something. Like he was finally going to do something he'd been planning.
"What?" you asked, laughing a little nervously, because that look was doing dangerous things to your insides. Things that made you feel like you were falling. "Do I have something on my face? Oh God, did I get cheese puff dust on my cheek? I knew I shouldn't have eaten those—"
"Nothing," he murmured, setting down the controller with careful deliberation. Moving slowly. Moving like he was afraid you might spook. "Just… you look really pretty right now."
It was so quiet and earnest that you forgot how to breathe. There was no charm in it, no attempt at suaveness. He wasn't trying to impress you or seduce you. He was just telling you what he saw, what he felt, and it was terrifyingly honest.
"Steve…" you said, and his name came out soft and confused.
He sat up slowly, moving with deliberate care. You could see his hands shaking slightly. He was nervous. Steve Harrington, who dated girls like it was a hobby, who'd probably done this a million times, was nervous about you.
He reached out and brushed a strand of hair behind your ear with trembling fingers. A touch so tender it made your heart trip and stumble. His hand lingered there, cupping your cheek, and you leaned into it like you couldn't help it.
And then he leaned in.
Just an inch.
Just enough for you to feel the warmth of him, like heat radiating off the summer pavement.
Just enough to smell his shampoo and cologne and something that was just Steve, something you'd know in a crowded room with your eyes closed.
Just enough for your pulse to stutter and your breath to catch and your entire life to shift in one tiny, fragile, earth-shattering moment.
You could see the flecks of gold in his hazel eyes. You could see every eyelash. You could see him waiting.
You could see him hoping.
And you panicked.
Pure, uncomplicated panic shot through you like lightning.
You sat up too quickly, knocking over the pillow, your head connecting with it awkwardly enough that it probably would have been funny if the situation wasn't so devastating. You felt him pull back like he'd been burned.
"A-actually I should go," you said, and your voice came out too bright, too loud, like you'd turned up the volume on yourself. Like you were trying to drown out the sound of your own cowardice. "It's late, and I told my mom—"
"You didn't tell your mom anything," he said quietly, still sitting there, still looking at you like you were his whole world. Not angry. Just… sad. Like he'd known this was going to happen. Like he'd been expecting it.
Silence spread between you like spilled water, thick and painful and impossible to take back.
"I'm sorry," you whispered, grabbing your shoes, reaching for your jacket that you'd left draped over his desk chair. Your hands were shaking. "I can't… I don't know what you want from me."
He looked at you like you had just crushed something delicate he'd been holding in his palms. Like you'd taken the most precious thing he had and destroyed it right in front of him. Like you'd done it on purpose.
"I don't want anything from you," he said, voice rough, and you could hear the hurt underneath every word. Deep down. Bone deep. "I just… I thought you might feel something too."
You stood there in your socks with your shoes in your hands, feeling like the worst person in the entire world. You could feel his gaze on you. You didn't look at him.
"I do," you whispered, and it was true—God, it was so true it was burning you up from the inside. It was eating you alive. "But I don't know what to do with it."
He nodded once.
A small, tight movement.
Like his neck was stiff from tension. Like moving it hurt.
"That's the third time," he said softly, looking down at his hands like they held all the answers. "I'm starting to get it. I'm starting to understand that I'm not what you want."
"Steve, that's not—"
"It's okay," he said, but it absolutely wasn't okay, and you both knew it. He stood up, moving away from you, putting distance between you. "Go home. Get some sleep. I'll see you around."
And that was the thing that destroyed you most—the "I'll see you around." Like you were becoming just another person in his life. Another acquaintance. Another face in the crowd. Not his best friend. Not the person who knew him better than anyone. Not the person he'd been building up the courage to kiss for months.
You wanted to say something. You opened your mouth. Nothing came out.
So you left.
You drove home in your mom's car with the radio off, and you cried the whole way, and when you got home you went straight to your room and didn't come out for the rest of the night. Your mom knocked on your door asking if you were okay, and you didn't answer. You just lay in the dark, replaying that moment over and over, feeling him pull away, seeing his face when you said no.
Three times. You'd said no three times.
How many times would it take for him to stop asking?
FOUR — THE ONE TIME YOU FINALLY DON'T SAY NO
It happened in October, the air crisp and smelling faintly of bonfires and cold leaves and the promise of something ending. The first real cool weather of the season, the kind that made you want to wear sweaters and drink hot chocolate and burrow into the feeling of autumn settling in like it planned to stay forever. The leaves were turning, orange and red and that weird yellowish-brown that leaves turn right before they fall, and the whole town looked like it was on fire.
You and Steve hadn't talked much since the almost-kiss in his bedroom. Not because you were angry with each other, you weren't angry, you just felt guilty, which somehow felt worse, but because every time you looked at him, you felt that moment all over again. The longing. The weight of the words you couldn't say. The truth you kept choking down like something poisonous.
You'd hurt him. Repeatedly. And he was being kind about it, kind in that way that Steve always was, never making you feel bad, never saying "I told you so," never making you feel worse than you already did, but you could see it in his face. The way he didn't laugh as easily anymore. The way he looked at you like he was saying goodbye. Like he'd already made peace with losing you.
It was breaking you in slow motion.
Work was weird now. You'd see him at Family Video and there was this distance, this careful politeness, like you were coworkers who barely knew each other instead of best friends who'd spent practically every day together for a year. Keith had even noticed, which meant it was bad, because Keith was oblivious to most things outside of rewinding procedures and merchandise organization.
Your friends had noticed too. They'd ask why you looked so sad all the time, why you weren't hanging out with Steve anymore, and you didn't know how to explain it. You didn't know how to tell them that you'd pushed away the one person who mattered most because you were too scared to take a chance.
But that night, a random October night when you should have been studying for your college history exam instead of spiraling, you showed up at Family Video just as he was closing. The lights were being dimmed one by one, and you could see him moving through the store in the dimness, putting things back on shelves. Keith had already left an hour ago, probably annoyed that he had to wait for Steve to close instead of leaving early. It was just Steve in the empty store, rewinding tapes and putting them back on shelves with practiced precision, moving like someone going through the motions, like his mind was somewhere else.
Your heart was rattling in your chest like it was trying to escape.
He looked up when the bell above the door chimed, and for a second his expression shifted. Surprise, maybe. Or hope. Or fear. It was hard to tell with Steve anymore because he'd gotten good at hiding what he felt. He did it for you. He did it so you wouldn't feel bad.
"Hey," he said carefully, like you were a wild animal he was trying not to spook. "Store's actually closed. We just locked up."
His voice sounded tired. He sounded tired. You hated that.
"I know," you said, shifting on your feet, hugging yourself because you were cold and also because you thought you might fly apart if you didn't hold yourself together. Your hands were shaking. "Can we talk?"
He nodded slowly toward the door. "Yeah. C'mon."
He locked up, moving through the routine like he'd done it a thousand times, which he had, grabbed his brown leather jacket from behind the counter, the one that made him look like he belonged in a 1950s film noir, and the two of you walked out into the cool October night. It smelled like smoke and pine and something fragile and uncertain, like anything could happen. Like the world was holding its breath.
The parking lot was mostly empty except for his BMW and a beat up Ford that probably belonged to someone's dad, someone who worked late shifts and came home smelling like engine oil and exhaustion. Your car wasn't here. You'd ridden your bike.
"Steve," you began, walking toward his car but not getting in it, just standing there in the darkness, in the cold, hugging yourself so hard your arms hurt, "I… I'm sorry."
He shoved his hands in his back pockets, the leather of his jacket creaking softly. He was looking at the pavement instead of you, looking at a crack in the asphalt that went on for about ten feet. There were weeds growing through it. Dead ones. They'd been dead since summer.
"You don't owe me anything," he said quietly. He sounded resigned. He sounded like he'd accepted this. Like he'd made peace with it.
You didn't want him to have made peace with it.
"Maybe I do," you said, stepping closer, gathering all your courage like it was something you could hold in your hands. "Because I keep pushing you away and I don't even know why except it scares me, and I don't wanna ruin us, and every time I think about crossing that line I feel like I'm gonna explode. Or implode. One of those."
He looked at you then, really looked at you, and you could see something shift in his face.
"You exploded?" he repeated softly, a hint of humor trying to break through his sadness, and God, that almost broke you. The fact that he could still try to make you laugh.
"Yes," you said, exasperated and emotional and too full of everything you'd been holding in, too full of it to contain anymore, "I exploded. I explode every time you look at me like that, every time you make me laugh at something stupid, every time you do something weirdly sweet like bring me Twizzlers when I have cramps—which is mortifying, by the way, I can't believe you remember that, I can't believe you do that, or when you tell me I look pretty when I'm wearing sweatpants and have zero makeup on and my hair is literally in a bird's nest on top of my head. I explode every damn time, Steve, and it scares me because I don't know how to feel this much about anyone."
Your voice was getting louder, more desperate, and you didn't care. You needed him to understand. You needed him to know.
"And every time I look at you I just feel like if I let myself have you, like if I actually said yes and crossed that line, I would mess it up somehow. Because that's what I do. I ruin things. I ruin good things. And you're the best thing in my life, Steve. You're the only thing that matters, and I was so scared of losing you that I kept pushing you away, and I've been so stupid, and I know I don't deserve—"
He stepped closer, and his hand came up to touch your face like he was afraid you might disappear. Like you were something that could vanish if he wasn't careful.
"Then why did you keep saying no?" he asked, and his voice was rough with emotion. With everything he'd been holding back. "I need to understand. I need to know what I did wrong."
"Nothing," you said immediately, and you reached up and grabbed his wrist, needing him to feel how real this was, how much you meant it. "You didn't do anything wrong. It was me. It was always me being scared."
"Scared of what?" he asked, and he wasn't angry, he just sounded confused. Lost. Like he'd been trying to figure this out for months and couldn't quite get there.
"Because if I said yes," you whispered, and this was the truth, the real truth, the thing you'd been too afraid to admit even to yourself, "I wasn't sure I'd ever stop wanting you. And I was scared that it would mess everything up. That we'd try dating and it would be amazing and then fall apart and I'd lose you completely. And you're my best friend, Steve. You're the person I love most in the world and I didn't know how to risk that."
His breath caught so hard you thought he might cry.
"I've been waiting," he murmured, stepping even closer, his hand still cradling your face, his thumb brushing your cheekbone in slow circles, "to hear you say something like that since senior year. Since the day you transferred into our calculus class and sat down next to me and asked if I knew what the hell a derivative was. I didn't, by the way. I still don't know. But I knew I wanted to figure it out with you."
You laughed, breathless, shaking, tears starting to form at the corners of your eyes and spilling over because you couldn't hold them back anymore. Everything was spilling out. All the feelings, all the fear, all the love you'd been bottling up for months.
"I'm sorry it took me so long," you said. "I'm sorry I was such a coward."
He shook his head firmly, and he was crying too, you realized. His eyes were wet. "Doesn't matter now. You're here. You're telling me this. That's what matters."
"I love you," you said, and it came out in a rush, all at once, like you'd been holding it in so long it just exploded out of you. "I'm in love with you, Steve. I have been for months. Since that day you brought my mom flowers and she nearly fainted. Since before that, probably. I don't even know when it started. I just know that I love you and I'm terrified and I don't want to say no anymore."
He was shaking his head, moving closer, his other hand finding your waist.
"Say it again," he whispered.
"I love you."
"Again."
"I love you, Steve. I love you so much it hurts. I love the way you laugh at your own jokes before you even tell them. I love that you're terrible at video games but keep trying anyway. I love that you brought my mom flowers. I love that you knock on my window at 1 a.m I love everything about you and I'm so sorry I made you wait."
And then he leaned in, slow and careful, gentle like the world would end if he did it wrong, and this time, you didn't pull away.
Your hands curled in the fabric of his jacket, gripping like you were afraid he'd disappear. Like if you let go he'd evaporate into smoke and you'd wake up and this would all have been a dream.
His forehead touched yours.
Your breathing tangled together in the cool October air, and you could feel the warmth radiating off him, could feel his heartbeat matching yours.
"Can I kiss you?" he asked, voice low enough to melt you like wax, respectful even in his desire, giving you one last chance to say no if you needed to. He was still giving you an out. He would always give you an out.
But you didn't need to.
"Yes," you whispered, finally, finally, finally. "God, yes, please."
He kissed you like every no had been worth it, slow and warm, testing, gentle. Like he was learning you. Like he wanted to take his time and memorize exactly how your mouth fit against his. Like you were the most important thing he'd ever done. The kiss deepened when you pulled him closer by the collar of his jacket, sighing into his mouth like you'd been waiting a lifetime for this, like you'd been dying of thirst and he was water.
It wasn't rushed.
It wasn't frantic or desperate or clumsy.
It was everything you'd been afraid of and everything you'd secretly wanted, all at once.
When he pulled back, breath shaky, he pressed his forehead to yours and smiled against your mouth—this soft, genuine smile that made your heart feel like it was going to burst right out of your chest. Like it was too big for your body now.
"So… no more no's?" he whispered, his hands still cupping your face, his thumbs brushing your cheekbones in gentle circles. "Because I'm telling you right now, I can't take another no. My heart can't handle it. I don't think I have any more no's left in me."
You laughed, and it was genuine and real and full of relief and joy and love.
"No more no's," you promised, brushing your nose against his, taking a moment just to feel him, to be close to him, to let it sink in that this was real now. That you'd finally stopped running. "I'm all in. I'm completely, terrifyingly, absolutely all in. I'm in so deep I might never get out and that's okay with me. That's more than okay."
He kissed you again, slower this time, deeper, more confident, like he was finally allowing himself to believe that this was real. That you were real. That you weren't going to change your mind in five seconds. His hands moved to your waist, pulling you close enough that there wasn't any space between you, close enough that you could feel his heartbeat against your chest.
When you finally broke apart, you were both breathless and grinning like idiots in the empty parking lot.
"I have to tell you something," he said, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, and his voice was playful now, lighter than it had been in weeks. "I'm probably going to be terrible at this. I'm going to say dumb things and probably mess up and panic sometimes because I've been waiting for this for so long that I'm gonna be weird about it. I'm probably going to overthink everything and text you too much and—"
"Steve," you said, reaching up to cup his face in your hands, his jaw rough with stubble beneath your palms, "I have been saying no to you for three months. I have hurt you repeatedly. I think we're even on the weirdness scale. More than even. You get to be weird."
He laughed this real, genuine laugh that echoed through the empty parking lot—and kissed you again, quick and sweet and full of hope.
"I'm gonna mess this up," he said when he pulled back, but he was smiling. "Fair warning."
"You're gonna mess it up?" you repeated. "Steve, I said no to you three times. I am the person who's gonna mess this up. You're gonna do great."
He laughed again, and God, you'd missed that sound.
"Drive you home?" he asked.
"Yeah," you said, taking his hand, letting him pull you toward the car. His hand was warm and solid and real. "But Steve?"
"Hmm?"
"No more trying to convince me. We're doing this now. No more waiting. No more playing it safe."
He squeezed your hand, and this time when he smiled, it reached his eyes completely. Completely transformed his whole face.
"No more waiting," he agreed, and he meant it. You could hear it in his voice.
And when he drove you home that night, he held your hand the whole way, his thumb brushing across your knuckles, the radio playing softly, and when he walked you to your door, he kissed you goodnight like he'd been practicing it in his head for months, which he probably had. And when you went inside, you could still feel it on your lips.
Your mom was waiting up, sitting on the couch with a cup of tea, and when she saw your face she just smiled. She didn't ask. She just smiled like she'd known all along that this was going to happen.
"Late night," she said.
"Yeah," you said, and you couldn't stop smiling. "It was a really good one."
The next morning, he called you at 8 a.m on the phone and said, "Hi, this is your boyfriend, Steve Harrington, and I'm calling to inform you that I'm picking you up at noon and we're going on that roadtrip. The one you said no to. The one with the lake. Consider this a yes-or-yes situation, because I'm not accepting any more rejection."
You could hear the smile in his voice. Could feel it through the phone line.
"What if I say no?" you asked, teasing, your heart already doing backflips.
"Then I'm coming in through your window and throwing pebbles until you change your mind," he said seriously. "I've got a whole plan. I've been thinking about this for months. I have pebbles ready."
You laughed so hard you nearly dropped the phone.
"Okay," you said. "Yes. Yes to the roadtrip. Yes to everything. Just don't throw pebbles. My mom will kill you."
"Your mom loves me now," he said confidently.
"My mom tolerates you."
"Give it time," he said, and you could hear him grinning. "I'm growing on her."
And you said yes.
You said yes to the roadtrip.
You said yes to him.
You said yes to everything.
Two hours later, he picked you up in his BMW with the windows rolled down and The Cars playing, and you drove out to that lake he'd found all those months ago. It was exactly as beautiful as he'd said it was—quiet and perfect and full of possibility. You camped under the stars and talked until your voice got hoarse, and he kissed you so many times you lost count.
On the way home, he reached over and took your hand without asking, like it was the most natural thing in the world, and you squeezed back and didn't let go for the entire drive.
It was the best decision you'd ever made.
Not the yes.
The deciding to be brave enough to say it.
