summary: soonami studios forces you and keys mckey into a shared apartment as a temporary housing arrangement. at first, it's just surviving each other - the arguments, the competition, the constant tension of being around someone who gets under your skin too easily. but the longer it goes on, the harder it becomes to ignore how naturally your lives start folding into each other. and once someone becomes part of your everyday life, losing them starts feeling a lot more dangerous.
warnings: strong language, marijuana use, enemies to roommates, workplace rivals, forced proximity, keys being jealous of reader, accidental concern, chaos, shirtless Keys
an: tysm for all of the love on the first chapter!! i hope you love this one mwah
The room is still mostly dark, pale morning light barely pushing through the blinds across from the bed. For a second you just lie there staring at the ceiling, trying to convince yourself you’re not actually awake yet. Your body still aches from hauling half your life out of that motel yesterday, and the stiff mattress definitely isn’t helping. Somewhere outside the apartment, a car horn blares. You groan quietly into your pillow, the chaotic city awake before you. Something you’re definitely going to have to get used to. You force yourself upright after another minute, hoodie twisted messily awkwardly around you from sleeping in it. Your sleepy eyes scan the clothes that are half unpacked, chargers that are tangled across the desk, one shoe somehow sitting near the bathroom door for reasons you can’t explain. You were never the messy type, sure sometimes things would get disorganized but nothing was ever this chaotic for you, so this was driving you a bit insane.
You grab your phone off the nightstand to check the time.
7:12 AM.
If you go back to sleep now, you already know you’ll wake up late and humiliate yourself on your second day. So instead, you drag yourself out of bed and shuffle toward the kitchen half awake, rubbing one eye while the apartment is still quiet. At first, it almost feels like you live alone, and god you wish you did. You walk into the kitchen and remember exactly why you don’t. No groceries, no coffee, no food.
You stare into the empty fridge anyway, hoping food will magically appear.
“Jesus Christ,” you mutter.
“Yeah. I checked already.”
His voice makes you physically jump. Keys is leaning against the hallway entrance like he’s been standing there long enough to witness your disappointment in real time. Which you’re sure he was happy by. Glasses on, hair messier than yesterday somehow, black sweats hanging low on his hips and a dark t-shirt that looks wrinkled enough to suggest he slept in it.
“You scared the shit out of me,” you say, pressing a hand briefly against your chest dramatically before shutting the fridge harder than necessary.
“Food isn’t gonna magically appear y’know,” he says dryly as he walks past you toward the cabinets.
“I had hope,” you defend.
“That was your first mistake,” he says.
You narrow your eyes at him immediately. “Do you ever stop talking like that?”
Keys glances over his shoulder slightly. “Like what?”
“Like a condescending asshole,” you answer as you lean against the counter.
Instead of replying, he opens a cabinet.“Okay,” he says after a second, shutting it. “This is actually worse than I thought.”
You cross your arms over your chest. “You didn’t buy groceries, Mr.I-had-somewhere-to-be-after-work?”
He turns toward you slowly, eyebrows lifting behind his glasses like he genuinely can’t believe you just asked that. “Why the fuck would I buy groceries?” he asks. “I got here at like eleven,” he says, grabbing the bottle of water from the counter.
“And?”
“And I went to sleep,” he replies before taking a sip.
You roll your eyes. “Whatever. I’m showering before I pass out from malnutrition.”
You stand there half asleep letting the water hit your shoulders. The muffled sound of cabinet doors opening in the kitchen, grunting coming from Keys’ bratty mouth, footsteps moving across the hardwood floors, Keys dropping something followed immediately by a quiet “shit” from somewhere outside the bathroom door. The water’s barely warm, but it’s enough to wake you up slowly while steam fogs the mirror and curls around the ceiling. You probably should’ve showered after your shift last night, but you just needed a good night sleep.
BANG. BANG. BANG.
You physically jump. “What the fuck?” you yell over the water immediately, whipping the glass door with your hand to see if you can see anything, even though the door is locked.
“Hurry up!” Keys shouts through the door.
You stare toward the bathroom entrance in disbelief. “Oh my god, relax!”
“You’ve been in there forever.”
“It’s literally been ten minutes!”
“It’s been twenty-five!”
The banging on the door continues.
You shut your eyes tightly. “Keys, I swear to god—”
“I still have to get ready too!”
“You’re a man!” you yell back. You roll your eyes hard enough it physically hurts before rinsing conditioner out of your hair and the body wash off of your body faster. You try ignoring him after that, it lasts maybe thirty seconds.
More knocks continue.
“Keys!”
“What?!”
“STOP DOING THAT.”
“You’re taking forever.”
“You’re being insane.”
“This is our first morning living together and you’re already holding the bathroom hostage!”
You blink. “You make it sound like we’re fucking married!”
“I’d rather die.”
“Can you?” you joke under your breath.
Another knock hits the door, then another, then somehow louder ones, leading you to snap. You shut the water off aggressively before wrapping a towel around yourself as fast as possible and storming toward the bathroom door dripping wet and furious.
You yank it open just enough for your head and shoulder to show through the gap. “What is WRONG with you?” you hiss.
Keys is standing there mid-knock with his fist still half raised, and then he freezes. His eyes flick up automatically before darting away almost just as fast, which honestly surprises you considering he’s spent the last few minutes trying to break the bathroom door down.
“You were banging on the door like the building was on fire,” you continue, glaring at him. “Are you incapable of acting normal for even one second?”
Keys clears his throat awkwardly before finally lowering his hand. “I need to piss and get ready.”
“You need to check yourself in.”
Keys rubs the back of his neck briefly, still not really looking directly at you anymore. “You done yelling at me?” he asks finally.
“No.”
“Cool.”
You narrow your eyes immediately. “You’re actually the most irritating person I’ve ever met.”
Keys stares at you for a second longer like he’s debating whether arguing with you is worth the energy this early in the morning. His hair’s still messy from sleep, glasses slightly crooked on his face, one hand braced against the hallway wall while the other rubs tiredly over his jaw.
Then he exhales sharply through his nose.“Can I use the bathroom now?” he asks flatly.
You blink at him once before answering just as flatly. “No.”
You grin sweetly and shut the door the rest of the way in his face.
The second it closes, another knock rattles the wood, and maybe even the whole city of Boston.
Twenty minutes later, the bathroom counter looks like a small explosion and Keys’ worst nightmare. Makeup bags half unzipped, hair products scattered everywhere, one hoop earring missing in action already. Steam still clings faintly to the mirror while music plays softly from your phone beside the sink. You finish your makeup a few minutes later — soft liner, glowy skin, lip gloss. Cute enough to feel put together without looking like you tried too hard, even though you absolutely did.
You grab your outfit off the edge of the sink and change quickly, tugging the dark jeans up your legs before buttoning the white blouse. After comes the jewelry — rings, layered necklaces, earrings after finally finding the missing hoop sitting somehow how on the interesting colored bathroom rug.
When you finally step out into the hallway, Keys is already dressed. He glances up automatically when he hears you, then pauses for like half a second too long.
“So,” you say slowly, grabbing your bag off the couch, “did the bathroom survive your incredibly urgent crisis?”
Keys blinks once before looking away again toward his phone. “Barely, you’re lucky I took a shower last night.”
“You know,” you continue casually, “for someone who was acting like he was moments away from death, you sure took your time getting ready.”
“I get ready fast,” he says simply.
“Yeah. I can tell.”
“You look expensive again.”
You stare at him immediately. “What the fuck does that mean?”
“I don’t know,” he replies, grabbing his backpack off the counter. “You just do.”
“That is genuinely one of the weirdest things anyone’s ever said to me.”
“And yet you understood exactly what I meant.”
You open your mouth, then close it again because annoyingly enough. He was somewhat right, but you weren’t gonna give him that satisfaction. Because the minute Keys Mckey won any argument, you already knew you wouldn’t hear the end of it. Keys notices your silence immediately, and the corner of his mouth twitches slightly like he just won something, but he fucking didn’t.
You point at him instantly. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“That weird little smug nerdy bitch face.”
“I don’t have a weird little smug nerdy bitch face.”
“You absolutely have a weird little smug nerdy bitch face.”
He grabs his keys off the counter. “You’re very judgmental before eight in the morning.”
“And you’re still talking.”
“You’ve mentioned.”
The apartment gets quiet for another second while both of you gather your stuff near the front door. The weird domestic normalcy of it makes something in your chest feel oddly off balance, like this shouldn’t already feel routine. Keys opens the door first, stepping aside just enough for you to walk through.
You pause briefly. “…thank you,” you say suspiciously.
“Don’t make it weird.”
“And there he is.”
You roll your eyes as you walk past him into the hallway, already hearing the apartment door lock behind you. The elevator ride downstairs is quiet for exactly twelve seconds before Keys opens his smart ass mouth.
“You know,” Keys says casually beside you as you both walk down the hallway, shoving his hands into the pockets of his sweater, “I think it’s interesting you called me insane this morning when you’re the one who almost started a hostage negotiation over the bathroom.”
You stare at him immediately. “You were banging on the door like a cop.”
“You were in there forever.”
“I was showering.”
“I don’t wanna know what you were doing in there.”
You scoff loudly as the elevator dings open.“Oh my god,” you mutter while stepping inside. “I was taking a damn shower, bro- just shut up I don’t wanna hear another word come out of your mouth.”
“And yet,” he says easily beside you, “you keep talking to me.”
“That’s because unfortunately we live together now.”
“Temporary tragedy.”
You snort before you can stop yourself. The second the sound leaves you, Keys glances over.
You point toward him dramatically. “Don’t get comfortable. That wasn’t for you.”
“Sure, California.”
“I hate that nickname.”
“I know.”
The streets outside are busier this morning than yesterday. People flooding sidewalks with coffees in hand, crosswalk signals beeping endlessly while traffic fills the intersections. Soonami Studios sits only a few blocks away, the giant glass building catching pale morning light across the windows. Somehow, despite the fact that you met less than twenty-four hours ago, you and Keys already fall into step beside each other naturally.
“You walk really fast,” Keys says after a minute.
“You walk really slow.”
“No, I walk normal. You move like someone’s chasing you.”
You scan the people around you as you and Keys walk. People on their phones, some sitting down at bus stops, some to the side outside of the storefront having conversations. “Oh my god Keys stop chasing me-.”
Keys’ eyes widen instantly from the stunt you just pulled. He speeds up to you, shushing you as if you were going to get him in trouble. “Are you out of your mind?”
You roll your eyes dramatically, you can’t help but let out a small laugh. “You said I moved like someone was chasing me, made it a reality I guess.”
Keys shakes his head in disbelief, his jaw beginning to clench. By the time you both walk into the office building lobby, the studio’s already chaotic and alive with movement. Developers drifting between departments, monitors glowing through glass meeting rooms, coworkers carrying coffees like life support systems.
Kenzie the receptionist downstairs spots both of you immediately. “Oh,” she says slowly, visibly amused already. “You two survived the first night.”
You and Keys answer at the exact same time.
“Barely.”
“We’re filing complaints.”
“You know,” she says, still smiling, “married couples usually fight less.”
Both of you turn immediately. “We are NOT married.”
Keys stupidly adds, “Thank fucking god.”
Kenzie is trying so hard not to laugh now that she physically turns away pretending to organize papers.
The elevator door ding echos throughout the first floor, moments before the double doors slide opposing ways, opening.
You point at Keys while stepping inside. “You’re the worst person I’ve met in this city.”
Keys steps in after you calmly. “Statistically impossible.”
“Emotionally accurate.”
“See?” he says as the doors slide shut. “That one was actually funny.”
You cross your arms immediately. “Don’t compliment me. It feels manipulative.”
By the time you both reach your section of the office, a few people are already there typing away quietly while monitors glow across the room. Parker’s standing near one of the desks talking to another developer when he notices both of you walking in together.
His eyes flick between you once, then he sneaks in a quick smile. You never want to see him do that ever again.
“Well,” Parker says as he walks over, coffee in hand. “You two made it to day two.”
“Barely,” you answer immediately.
“At this point,” Keys adds, dropping into his chair, “I think surviving the apartment should qualify as overtime.”
Parker laughs. “You’ll adjust,” he says easily before setting a folder down onto your desk. “Both of you are helping with interface cleanup today. Same project.”
You and Keys look at each other immediately.
“There’s overlap between backend and visual flow,” he explains. “You’re both good at different things. Figure it out.”
Then he walks away before either of you can argue.
You slowly look toward Keys, he slowly looks towards you. “This feels targeted,” you mutter.
“Extremely,” he agrees.
You sit down heavily in your chair before opening the folder, filled with what you’d expect. Mockups, user flow issues, interface bugs. Honestly? Not horrible.
“Oh absolutely not,” you say immediately.
Keys looks over from beside you. “What?”
You turn the paper toward him. “Who approved this color palette?”
He squints slightly. “It looks fine.”
You stare at him in horror. “Fine?” you repeat.
Keys leans back slightly in his chair. “You care too much about aesthetics.”
“And you don’t care enough.”
“That’s because users prioritize usability.”
“And users also don’t want to look at ugly shit.”
One of the nearby coworkers glances over briefly before immediately pretending not to listen.
“So this is how today’s gonna go?” he asks.
You smile sweetly. “Probably.”
Keys stares at the screen for another second before dragging his chair slightly closer to yours. He taps the side of your monitor. “Okay, look. The layout itself isn’t bad,” he says reluctantly. “The spacing’s just off.”
You narrow your eyes immediately. “Did you just agree with me?”
“Don’t make it a thing.”
For the next twenty minutes, the arguing somehow turns productive. Which feels wayyy more concerning than the arguing itself. You adjust layouts while Keys fixes backend issues beside you, both of you interrupting each other constantly. At one point your hand reaches toward the mouse at the exact same time his does, causing you both to freeze, then immediately pull back like touching each other would result in instant death.
“You go,” Keys says finally.
You narrow your eyes suspiciously. “Why are you being nice?”
“I’m not. You just look attached to the mouse.”
“I hate you.”
“You’ve mentioned.”
A few desks away, one of the developers snorts quietly trying not to laugh. You don’t even notice Parker walking back over until his coffee cup lands softly against your desk. You and Keys look up at the same time, Parker smiles then glances between your screens once.
“…Jesus,” he mutters.
You blink. “Is something wrong?”
“This is the fastest anyone’s fixed this project all week.”
You glance toward Keys instinctively.
“She’s being aggressively controlling about the visuals,” Keys says flatly.
“And he has the design instincts of a tax accountant,” you reply immediately.
Parker looks between both of you again then smiles in realization. “There it is,” he says.
“There what is?” you ask.
“You two stop trying to outdo each other for five seconds and suddenly everything works.”
You and Keys answer instantly. “We are not working well together.”
Parker looks deeply unconvinced. “Mhm,” he says, clearly not listening. “Anyway, keep going.”
You stare at your monitor while Keys stares at his. “…I don’t like when he says things like that,” you mutter eventually.
“Agreed.”
“It feels manipulative.”
“Extremely.”
You nod once then point toward the screen again. “That icon still looks ugly.”
Keys exhales through his nose tiredly. “You’re annoying as fuck.”
Keys opens his mouth to argue again before stopping abruptly when Parker reappears beside your desks. “You two always this loud?” he asks casually.
“Yes,” both of you answer immediately.
Parker snorts quietly before setting another file onto Keys’ desk. “New task.”
Keys picks it up first, scanning over the pages, his eyebrows life slightly.
“What’s up?” you ask immediately.
Parker looks at you. “Need someone to reorganize the asset management system before the end of the day.”
Keys nods once already reaching for his keyboard. “Okay, I’m your guy-”
Parker’s eyes land directly on you, cutting Keys off from speaking. “And I want you handling the interface cleanup solo now.”
You blink. “Me?”
“You’re faster.”
Keys goes still beside you for half a second too long before leaning back in his chair again.
“You finish early,” he continues casually, “you can head home. I know you’re both still settling into the apartment situation.”
You straighten slightly in your chair. “Seriously?”
“You already got more done in an hour than the last team managed all afternoon yesterday.”
You try very hard not to look too pleased with yourself. “Thank you,” you say, already reaching for the folder
Beside you, Keys clicks something onto his screen harder than necessary. Parker finally walks off again after that, disappearing toward another section of the office. Awkward silence is left between you and Keys for a second before you break it.
“Well,” you say carefully, turning slightly toward him, “that was humiliating for you.”
Keys doesn’t even look away from his monitor. “You’re talking a lot.”
“I like talking.”
“You should stop.”
“Why should I listen to you?” you say with attitude.
“You know,” he says calmly, “I think living together is already damaging my psychological health.”
You grin slightly before turning your attention back toward your monitor. “Good. Build character.”
For the next few hours, the office fades into the background while you work. You lock into the project completely, fixing layouts, reorganizing menus, cleaning transitions. Every time Parker walks past your desk, he pauses a little longer. At one point, another designer actually stops behind your chair, including Emilie — the manager of the design department.
Around three in the afternoon, you were able to finish. You stare at your screen for a second almost suspiciously, waiting for another issue to appear, another bug, another broken transition hiding somewhere in the interface. You lean back slowly in your chair, stretching your arms above your head with a quiet groan while the office buzzes around you. A second later, Parker stops beside your desk again, eyes scanning your monitor.
“…holy shit,” he mutters.
You grin immediately. “Good holy shit or bad holy shit?”
“Very good holy shit.”
Parker points toward your screen. “This is exactly what I wanted. Cleaner layout, faster flow, less clutter.” He looks genuinely impressed now. “You did all this yourself?”
You nod once, trying not to look too smug about it.
Across from you, Keys spins slightly in his chair toward Parker. “I helped earlier.”
“You complained earlier,” you correct immediately.
“I contributed emotionally.”
“You actively lowered morale.”
Parker laughs again before shaking his head slightly. “Alright, alright. Either way, good work.” Then he looks directly at you. “You can head out early if you want.”
You blink once. “Seriously?”
“Yeah. Go enjoy having a life before this place destroys you.”
You glance toward Keys automatically which was a mistake, he’s already looking at you. He’s not looking at you with anger, more annoyance.
You immediately smile brighter out of pure spite. “Aww,” you say sweetly while shutting your laptop. “Thank you, Parker.”
Keys narrows his eyes slightly. “You’re laying it on thick now.”
“I earned it.”
“You’re insufferable when praised.”
“You noticed?”
“Unfortunately.”
You stand up slowly, grabbing your bag off the side of your chair while nearby coworkers glance over. “Damn. Day two and she already beat that McKeys guy.”
Keys points at the guy immediately without even looking away from his screen. “You shut the fuck up.”
You physically bite back a laugh. “Oh my god,” you say while sliding your bag onto your shoulder. “You’re actually upset and making more enemies to work.”
“I’m not upset.”
“You’re typing aggressively.”
“I always type aggressively.”
Keys glares at his keyboard like it betrayed him personally. Parker shakes his head slightly before walking away again. You linger near your desk for another second longer than necessary. Part of you wants to keep bothering him, which is probably a bad sign. Put what’s so bad about playing with fire.
“So,” you say casually, leaning slightly against the divider between your cubicles, “what’s your plan for the rest of the day?”
Keys keeps typing. “Working.”
“Ew.”
“Some of us weren’t granted special princess privileges.”
You gasp dramatically. “Are you jealous?”
“No,” he says immediately.
You narrow your eyes.
“…you are.”
“I’m literally not.”
“You’re pouting.”
“I do not pout.”
“You absolutely pout.”
Keys finally looks over at you then, visibly irritated now. “Can you leave? Don’t you have somewhere else to be?”
You grin slowly, “Oh my god,” you say softly. “You’re mad mad.”
“I’m deleting your project.”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
“I absolutely would.”
“You need me.”
“That’s disgusting. Don’t say things like that.”
You laugh again before finally starting toward the elevators. “Bye, Keys!”
The elevator ride down feels weirdly quiet without Keys next to you talking shit every thirty seconds. You lean against the back wall of the elevator while checking your phone, scrolling aimlessly through notifications while the numbers tick lower floor by floor. Your reflection stares back at you in the metal doors, hair still somehow holding up, lip gloss mostly intact, necklaces catching the soft fluorescent light overhead. The second the elevator dings doors open, the city noise hits you immediately. You step outside adjusting your bag higher onto your shoulder before pulling your phone out again.
You stop outside a small corner store a few blocks from the studio, staring through the windows for a second before sighing dramatically and heading inside. Twenty minutes later, you’re walking back out with groceries, the basic needs. The plastic bags dig painfully into your fingers while you walk back toward the apartment building. By the time you finally unlock the apartment door, your arms ache. You kick the door shut behind you dramatically, relief you’re back at home.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” you mutter while dropping the grocery bags onto the counter.
You immediately turn the TV on for background noise while unpacking groceries slowly into the mostly empty cabinets. It still feels weird seeing actual food in the kitchen now instead of just one bottle of water and mutual resentment. You’re halfway through organizing snacks when your phone buzzes against the counter.
At some point over the last few hours, the room stopped looking like a storage unit and started looking like your actual bedroom.
The dresser is filled with your clothes, clothes are hanging in the closet - color coded of course -, makeup is organized across the desk, your jewelry tray sits beside the bed, necklaces untangled for once in their lives, chargers are plugged in, the comforter you brought from home is spread across the mattress instead of the stiff white one the apartment came with.
You pause in the middle of the room, hands on your hips as you look around.
Honestly? For someone who spent the entire day working and then hauled groceries and half her belongings across the city afterward, you’ve gotten a ridiculous amount done.
You pull open the second drawer of your night stand next to your bed slowly, digging underneath a bunch of little trinkets you threw in there in a rush before your fingers find what you’re looking for. “Thank god.”
A small grin pulls at your mouth. Some people kept emergency cash in a drawer around their house, you kept emergency weed.
You pull the stash out and set it on the bed before grabbing your rolling tray from another box, it takes a few minutes to gather everything together. Lighter, grinder, papers. The familiar routine of your nightly smoke sessions settles some of the leftover nerves still bouncing around your chest. You unscrew the lid from the jar and immediately relax a little at the familiar smell. “God, finally.”
You grind everything up absentmindedly, tapping the grinder against the tray before dumping it out carefully. You roll the small piece of cardstock automatically, pinching it between your fingers before setting it at one end of the paper. You sprinkle everything carefully down the center. You stare at it too hard, remove some because you feel like it’s too much, add some back, remove some, add some back. You hold the paper between your thumbs, distributing everything evenly before beginning the familiar back-and-forth motion. You tuck the paper carefully before you roll upward, you give the edge of it a lick then you seal it.
“And that’s how you roll a joint.” you hold it up, praising it.
You twist the end of the container closed before setting it carefully on the tray. You stand and stretch slightly before grabbing your lighter off the nightstand and slipping your phone into your pocket. You slide open the hallway window before carefully climbing onto the fire escape that’s attached to your apartment. The metal groans softly beneath your weight, cool air immediately brushes against your skin. You settle onto the platform, pulling one knee toward your chest while the city stretches out below you.
You place the joint between your lips, shielding the flame with one hand while the lighter sparks. The end of the joint glows orange, you take a slow hit before exhaling toward the night sky.
Then the apartment door slams, causing your body to jump.
Your eyes close immediately. “…go away.” you whisper.
Heavy, careless footsteps move through the apartment. You grin to yourself, looks like someone’s having a bad day.
A few seconds later the window beside you slides open, you glance over at it. Keys appears looking genuinely irritated with the entire world. He had changed his clothes, his hair messy, flowing in the wind.
The second he notices you sitting there, his expression somehow gets worse. “What the fuck are you doing?”
You slowly look down at the joint in your hand, your eyes go back to him, then back to the joint, then back to him. “…smoking?”
His jaw tightens, he clenches his nose from the strong smell, “I can see that, why?”
You blink, “What do you mean why?”
“Why would are you doing that?”
You stare at him for a second, “Oh my god.”
“What?” he shrugs.
“You’ve never smoked before.” you point at him, in disbelief.
His eyebrows immediately pull together, “Yes I have.”
Lying straight out of his ass.
“…no you haven’t.”
“I literally just said I have.”
You point the joint at him dramatically, “You’re lying.”
“I’m not.”
“You absolutely are.”
Keys folds his arms, “Why would I lie about that?”
You shrug then take a hit of the joint, blowing it away from him, “Because you’re weirdly competitive.”
“I’m not competitive.”
You immediately laugh, “Whatever helps you sleep at night.”
“What?”
“You don’t even hear yourself.”
Keys rolls his eyes, “You don’t know anything about me.”
“Okay.” You sit up straighter against the brick wall. “What strain was it, that you smoked?”
His face immediately goes blank.
You smile, “Oh no.”
“It was…” He gestures vaguely. “Weed.”
You burst out laughing, “Weed?”
“Why do you even like that stuff?”
“And why are you even talking to me right now?”
He rolls his eyes, “I came out here because I needed air.”
You glance around the view of the city dramatically, “Well. Congratulations.”
“I’m serious.”
“I know.”
Keys leans against the window frame. “I didn’t know you were out here.”
Keys watches you as you take another hit. Your eyes catch his, causing him to immediately look away. Something about it makes him uncomfortable. The sight is so ridiculous that you start laughing.
“What?” he asks full of attitude.
“Nothing.”
“You laughed.”
You hold the joint out toward him, offering. “Here.”
Keys physically recoils, “What the fuck?”
You laugh harder. “Relax, it’s clean.”
“No.”
“Relax.”
“No.”
“It’s one hit.”
“No.”
You wave it slightly, “Come on, you’ve had a terrible day.”
His eyes narrow, “My day was fine.”
“You’re exhausting.”
“And you’re sitting on a fire escape getting high by yourself.”
“Actually,” you say, glancing toward the kitchen, “I was about to make dinner.”
Keys looks unimpressed, “What does that have to do with anything?”
“The food’s gonna taste incredible.”
Keys stares at the joint for so long that you start wondering if he’s actually considering it.
You take another hit as he watches you.
Finally, he lets out a long breath through his nose, “Fine.”
You nearly choke at his words, “Fine?”
“One hit.”
The fact that Keys McKey, the same fucking man who spent the last ten minutes acting like smoking weed was the end of the world was even considering this feels impossible.
A grin immediately pulls at your mouth, “No way.”
“One hit,” he repeats.
“Keys.”
“One.”
You sit up straighter against the brick wall,“You are absolutely not about to smoke with me.”
“I’m not smoking with you.” His hand extends expectantly - reaching for the joint, “I’m proving a point.”
You laugh, “That’s somehow worse.” You pass the joint to him.
You hold the joint out before he can change his mind. He takes it from your hand, unsure of how to even hold the damn thing.
“This is stupid.”
“You volunteered.”
“I did not.”
“Uh you kinda did.”
Keys rolls his eyes as he brings the joint to his lips. His lips hug the end of the joint, his eye squinting as he slowly inhales the joint between his fingers. Maybe the tiniest hit you’ve ever seen. Keys pulls the joint away from his mouth, looking entirely too pleased with himself. Almost like he’s already preparing an I told you so.
Then he coughs sharp enough to make his eyebrows pull together immediately.
You start laughing, "Oh my god."
Keys waves you off, clearly trying to recover before you can make fun of him. Unfortunately, the movement only makes things worse. Another cough escapes him, then another, basically a cough attack. The coughing comes hard enough that he has to bend forward slightly, one hand coming up to cover his mouth while the other reaches blindly for the fire escape railing beside him. His shoulders shake with every cough, glasses slipping farther down his nose as he struggles to catch a proper breath between them.
Meanwhile, you're laughing so hard tears are already collecting in your eyes, "Keys."
Another cough cuts him off before he can even attempt to say something.
"Keys!"
He points at you accusingly, or at least tries to. The gesture barely lasts a second before another coughing fit takes over completely. His face is already turning red. His glasses have nearly fallen off. His eyes are watering so badly he can barely keep them open. Every time it looks like he's finally getting control of his breathing, another coughing fit hits him out of nowhere and sends him right back to square one.
The knot of concern in your stomach appears before you even realize it.
"Okay."
Another cough comes out of Keys mouth.
"Keys?"
He immediately waves you off like he's fine, to just ignore it. Keys tries taking a breath, which turns into another violent coughing fit.
"Oh." You lower the joint, "Oh shit."
"I can't fucking breathe." Keys says, struggling.
The second the words leave his mouth, you get up. Your body scrambles through the open window so fast you nearly trip over the big frame. The apartment and everything blurs around you as you rush toward the kitchen, immediately regretting every joke you’ve made in the last five minutes.
“Keys, don’t die!” You say, knowing he won’t.
“I’m not—” A coughing fit cuts him off from outside, “Trying to.”
“That’s exactly what somebody dying would say.”
You a cup that was sitting next to the sink under the faucet so quickly water splashes over your hand and onto the counter. By the time you get back to the fire escape, Keys is still leaning against the brick wall looking like he’s trying to catch his breath.
You immediately shove the water into his hands, "Drink."
As Keys drinks the water, you just sit there while he catches his breath, the worst of the coughing finally starting to fade. Slowly, his breathing evens out and the tension leaves his shoulders one inhale at a time.
After another moment, you glance over, “Better?”
Keys keeps staring straight ahead for a second before dragging a hand down his face, “…maybe…thanks.”
The words catch you off guard enough that you blink, “Aw, you just thanked me?”
Keys groans immediately, “I take it back.”
“There he is.”
He rolls his eyes and leans his head back against the brick wall again. The city lights catch briefly on his glasses before he pushes them up his nose. For a minute, neither of you says anything until the corner of his mouth twitches.
“You looked really worried.”
You immediately scoff, “I was not worried.”
“You ran.”
“I did not run.”
“You sprinted.”
You narrow your eyes. “Because if you died on our first day as roommates, I’d have a lot paperwork to fill out.”
“You are unbelievable.”
“I’m practical.”
“No, you’re mean.”
“You’re alive, aren’t you?”
“Barely.”
You stand up before he can keep rambling his mouth, brushing off the back of your shorts. You grab the nearly finished joint from where you’d set it beside you and head toward the window.
The apartment feels a lot warmer after the cool night air outside. Your music is still playing softly from your room, and the overhead light above the stove casts a yellow glow across the kitchen. You head straight for the fridge and pull it open - taking out the heavy cream, chicken, parmesan and garlic.
You tie your hair up without really thinking about it, grabbing a claw clip off the counter and twisting everything out of your face. The oversized Spider-Man shirt slips slightly off one shoulder while you fill a pot with water and set it on the stove. Cooking has always been one of those things that settles your brain, something about having a clear list of steps.
You toss in the pasta and stir it absentmindedly before turning your attention to the chicken. Salt, pepper, garlic pepper, paprika. Gordon Ramsey hates to see you coming!
“Something smells—”
His eyes move from the chicken to the pasta, then to the pan of sauce simmering on the stove.
“…okay,” he says after a second.
You immediately point the wooden spoon at him. “No.”
His eyebrows lift, “I didn’t even say anything,” he says, sounding genuinely offended.
“You were about to.”
“I was not.”
“You absolutely were.”
“I was literally going to compliment the food,” he says.
You narrow your eyes suspiciously. “I don’t believe you.”
You go back to stirring the sauce, pretending not to pay attention to what he’s doing. Behind you, you hear Keys moving around the living room. The sound of a box opening. A curse muttered under his breath when a cable gets tangled. The scrape of the TV stand shifting slightly across the floor.
You glance over your shoulder once.
His backpack is dumped beside the couch, and he’s crouched in front of the television with approximately six different cords spread around him. For someone who works with technology for a living, he somehow looks deeply annoyed by all of it.
You smirk to yourself and turn back to the stove.
A few minutes later, the television flickers to life and the familiar PlayStation startup sound fills the apartment.
You drain the pasta into the sink while the sounds of a game menu begin drifting from the living room. Curiosity gets the best of you, causing you to glance over. “…Seriously?”
You expected him to play something related to whatever weird developer hobby he has.
“…are you playing Call of Duty?”
Keys doesn’t look away from the screen “Maybe.”
You shake your head and turn your attention back to the stove before the conversation can continue. The pasta gets tossed into the sauce, then the chicken follows a minute later, mixed through until everything’s coated. Steam curls up from the pan, carrying the smell of garlic and parmesan through the apartment.
You grab a plate from one of the cabinets and start serving yourself. The weed is beginning to settle in properly now. Not enough that you’re completely gone, but enough that everything feels a little softer around the edges.
Behind you, Keys mutters something aggressively at the television.
“HOW?”
You don’t even turn around, “Skill issue.”
“I wasn’t talking to you.”
“You don’t have to.”
Keys lets out an offended noise somewhere behind you. By the time you’ve got everything balanced in your hands, you’ve already decided you’re not eating out here, you can only handle Keys in little doses - if you can even handle him at all.
You pick up your plate and start heading toward your room.
“Where are you going?” Keys asks without looking away from the television.
“My room.”
“Why?”
You stop in the doorway and look at him like he’s stupid, “Because I like peace.”
The gunfire coming from his television immediately undermines whatever argument he was about to make. You disappear into your room before he can say anything else, shutting the door with your food behind you. You climb onto the bed, settling against the headboard with your plate balanced carefully on your lap.
Outside your room, you can still hear the television and Keys swearing.
God, shut up.
Reaching over, you grab your laptop from the nightstand and flip it open. The screen glows against the dim lighting of your room while you balance the plate carefully on your lap. A few clicks later, the familiar opening of New Girl fills the room.
You’d seen every episode at least three times already, but that’s kind of the point. You can zone out, eat your food, and let Jess Day solve whatever ridiculous problem she’s gotten herself into. And pray that instead of Keys living with you it was Schmidt.
The first joke barely lands before you’re already smiling, the weeds definitely hitting now.
Another muffled, “ARE YOU KIDDING ME?” from the living room.
“Deserved.” you mouth, taking another bite.
You sink farther into your pillows, pull your blanket over your legs, and press play on the next episode while Keys continues losing his mind somewhere in the living room.
You barely make it through half an episode of New Girl before there’s a knock on your door.
You don’t even look up from your laptop, “Go away.”
knock knock
You close your eyes, “Keys, I’m busy.”
knock knock
You pause your show and stare at the door, “What?”
“…can I ask you something?”
“No.”
“Please.”
You set your plate down on the nightstand, “What do you want?”
The doorknob turns before you can stop him, the door slowly cracking open. His head peaks inside, scanning his eyes around the room then turning to you.
The second you actually look at him, you have to bite the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from laughing.
He’s high high.
His hair somehow looks messier than it did earlier, like he’s run his hands through it fifteen times in the last ten minutes trying to figure out why his brain feels weird. His glasses sit slightly crooked on his nose. His cheeks are a little pink from the coughing fit and his eyes, his eyes are completely glassy and bloodshot red. Each time he blinks it gets slower and slower.
“You look ridiculous,” you say, putting your hand over your mouth to refrain you from laughing.
“I look normal.”
“You absolutely do not.”
“I do.”
“Okay,” you say slowly. “So what did you actually come in here to ask me?”
Key blinks a few times, trying to catch up with this thoughts.
“Oh,” his eyebrows pull together, “Right.”
You immediately point at him. “See? You forgot again.”
“I didn’t forget.”
“You absolutely forgot.”
“I remembered just now.”
“That’s not helping your case.”
Instead of arguing with you, he shifts his weight against the doorframe and looks at you with too much seriousness that would’ve been intimidating if his eyes weren’t completely gone.
“…is it supposed to feel like this?”
The question makes you laugh immediately, especially in the tone that he said it in.
His face falls, “That’s not helpful.”
“What does that even mean?” you ask through a grin.
Keys gestures vaguely, like you’re supposed to know what he’s talking about. Which technically you do, you just want to hear him say it.
“Like…” He pauses. “Everything feels weird.”
“Wow.”
“Stop.”
“No, keep going.”
He runs a hand through his already destroyed hair, “The hallway felt longer.”
“The hallway?”
“It did.”
“The living room is right there.”
“It felt longer.”
You bury your face in a pillow, “Oh my god.”
“I’m serious.”
“I know.”
“Why are you laughing?”
“Because you took one hit.”
“It was a very powerful hit.”
“It was not.”
Keys points at you dramatically, “See? That’s easy for you to say because you’re used to being like this.”
You stare at him, “Being like what?”
He gestures again, “This.”
“This isn’t helping.”
“You know exactly what I mean.”
“No, I don’t.”
“You’re all…” He squints. “…calm.”
“It’ll go by, you’re supposed to not freak yourself out. Just enjoy the high.” You shrug.
Keys gives an uncertain nod, as if he wasn’t satisfied with the answer that you gave him. He looks around your room some more, analyzing it. You look down, fiddling with your thumbs.
“So.. can you get out now?”
“I’m just asking questions.”
Keys narrows his eyes, you narrow yours right back at him. Like he’s not getting the hint. Eventually he backs out into the hallway.
“This is hostile.”
“Goodnight, Keys.”
He quietly shuts the door on his way out.
You settle back against your headboard with a satisfied sigh and glance at your laptop again. New Girl is still playing quietly in the corner of the screen, but your attention span is completely gone at this point. Pasta is almost finished and the weed is still doing, but you don’t have the attention span to keep watching something.
Five minutes later you’re sitting cross-legged on your bed playing Dress to Impress like your life depends on it. And that’s what you keep doing for the next 25 minutes.
Eventually your empty plate is sitting beside you and your character has been robbed of first place three separate times by people who clearly don’t understand fashion or who are just voting five stars to only their friends.
You finally drag yourself off the bed with a dramatic groan. You carry your plate toward the kitchen, already preparing yourself for whatever weird thing Keys is doing now. The second you walk around the corner, you stop.
“…what the fuck?”
Keys looks up from the stovetop, with pasta sauce all over his mouth and quite literally all over the counter. The giant bowl you cooked dinner in is sitting in front of him.
“Is that my cooking spoon?”
Keys slowly looks down at the giant wooden spoon in his hand, then back at you. “…maybe.”
You make a horrified noise, “Keys.”
“What?”
“Why are you eating directly out of the bowl?”
He looks genuinely confused, “Because there was pasta in it.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
“It kinda does.”
You set your plate down in the sink and walk closer. The closer you get, the worse it becomes. The man is absolutely demolishing your garlic chicken pasta, but you’re honestly surprised he’s even eating something you cooked.
You point at it, “How much of that did you eat?”
Keys follows your finger, looking into the bowl, “…I don’t know.”
“Oh my god.”
He glances up at you, then back at the pasta, then back to you. His eyes slightly narrow, “You made this?”
You stare, “Yes.”
“I thought you ordered it.”
“You watched me cook.”
“Shhhh…” He says, putting a finger to his mouth sloppily, then continues to eat the pasta.
You point to his shirt immediately, “Wait.”
Keys looks down at himself. “What?”
“Your shirt.”
He blinks, “My shirt?”
“You have sauce all over it, idiot.”
Keys looks down, wow he is a fucking mess. Right there across the front of his gray t-shirt is a streak of garlic cream sauce he apparently managed to get on himself without noticing.
“Oh.”
You wait for him to grab a napkin, or look around for a towel. Instead, Keys just grabs the bottom of his shirt and pulls it over his head, like it was the easiest solution.
Your brain immediately short-circuits. Enough that your eyes immediately drop to the toned stomach that definitely wasn’t there five seconds ago. Enough that the sleeves hiding his arms all day suddenly make a lot more sense. Enough that you instantly understand why Eve called him cute within the first hour of meeting him.
Oh that’s annoying.
Keys tosses the shirt onto the counter and reaches for another bite of pasta, completely unaware and still talking.
“…I still think somebody stole some of this.”
You stare, not as his face - unfortunately.
You immediately look away, “Put your shirt back on.”
Keys pauses, he looks down at himself then looks back at you. “…why?”
Nothing but straight attitude comes out of this guys mouth.
You hate him.
You grab a dish towel off the counter and throw it directly at his chest.
“Put. A shirt. On.”
Keys catches it automatically, staring at the towel.
“…you know this isn’t a shirt, right?”
“Oh my God.”
“It’s a towel.”
“I am aware.”
He looks between the towel and you, his eyes narrow in suspicion. “You looked away.”
You freeze, “No I didn’t.”
“You did.”
“I didn’t.”
“You totally did.”
You point at him, “You’re high off your ass.”
“You’re deflecting.”
“Keys.”
“You looked away.”
He sounds way too pleased with himself.
Somehow the weed has made him more annoying.
Keys leans against the counter, completely shirtless and entirely too comfortable about it.
Then the corner of his mouth twitches, “Oh.”
Your stomach drops, “What?”
A grin starts pulling at his mouth, “You don’t like what you see?”
You both start staring at each other, but Keys looks entirely too proud of himself which makes you laugh.
“You took one hit of weed and suddenly think you’re God’s gift to women.”
His grin gets bigger, “You didn’t answer the question.”
You look around, scanning the kitchen to find something. Your eyes land on the potholder next to you. Something light, but something to shut him up. You immediately grab the potholder throw it at his head.
Keys catches it with one hand, “Interesting.”
“What is?”
“You got defensive.”
“I did not.”
“You did.”
“I think the weed is making you hallucinate.”
“I think you’re avoiding the question.”
You stare at him - his stupid grin - then you stare at the pasta bowl.
“You ate my dinner.”
His smile disappears instantly, “…that’s a good point.”
“Thank you.”
“You know, I forgot about that.”
“I know.”
“That’s unfortunate.”
You fold your arms, “Put your shirt back on, McKey.”
Keys looks down at himself, then back at you.
“…can I finish the pasta first?”
You make a noise that sounds suspiciously like a scream. Keys finally grabs the rest of the bowl and starts heading back toward the living room.
Halfway back to the couch he stops walking, his body slowly turns around facing you. He points at you then back to the bowl, “You make good pasta, California.”
For a second, you think that might actually be the closest thing to a compliment you’ve gotten out of him all day.
“…don’t let it go to your head.” he adds.
You point toward the hallway, “Goodnight, Keys.”
“Goodnight, California.”
“Stop calling me that.”
You finish cleaning up the kitchen before shutting off the lights one by one. By the time you make it back to your room, your laptop is still open on your bed, Roblox waiting patiently where you left it. You crawl underneath the blankets and pull the comforter up to your chin. Outside your room, you can still hear the television faintly through the wall.
Tomorrow you’ll probably argue with him before nine in the morning. Tomorrow he’ll almost definitely find a new way to annoy you. Tomorrow you’ll have to spend a full day with him at work.
Rockstar!Steve Harrington x Reader. Modern-day au.
An: Firstly, sorry for how long this took. I am studying abroad right now. Also got some bad news today that i've been anticipating for a while but hey ho. Life goes on. Let's just say i feel pea's doom and despair. Pls comment and interact!! Also it will get happier after this chapter I swear. Shorter filler chapter of sorts but necessary I fear.
Cw/ tags: swearing, alcohol, sex references, 18+, MDNI, threat, stalking, death threats mentioned, angsty chapter, doom and gloom for reader (for now), Steve is a badboy rockstar, rockstar x nobody!reader, friends to fwb to lovers?, online scrutiny, situationship, crying
Part Nine. Masterlist. 3.1k
Three weeks later
Your hands were wrapped around the handle of your Ikea frying pan that you'd had since freshman year. Your knuckles were white, cold sweat beaded on your forehead. The clock by your bed said it was 3.24am, and once again like every night for the last week you were convinced someone was outside your front door.
A creek, a shadow, a change in atmosphere that made your skin prickle. Sweat beaded on your forehead as you exhaled a shallow breath, the automatic light in the hallway had switched back off again. No one was out there. The motion sensored light simply would not have turned off otherwise.
You forced yourself to breathe to try and still your racing heart and you set the frying pan down with a shaky hand.
Today was Thursday, or rather early Friday morning, and you had not had a night of uninterrupted sleep since Friday night.
You had suspicions that someone was hanging around your apartment since you’d got back from London. The air felt off. Next, you were convincing yourself that your plates had moved from one end of the table to the other. A chair that was out was not tucked in.
You shrugged it off as paranoia, stupidity, even boredom since your new era of unemployment. Then the footsteps in the middle of the night started, and your doormat moved by about three inches to the right.
You didn’t know if they were male or female steps, the same person or different ones. Whether it was some insomniac neighbour of yours or a calculating predator. Were they stalking you specifically? Was it even stalking? Was it because you were a lone young woman, or because of your affiliation with a certain rockstar?
You never got to the peephole in time to check.
Two nights ago you nearly swore it was Steve’s footsteps, your breath hitched at the possibility of your stalker actually being your best friend looking to make amends. No such luck however, because when you opened Steve’s main fanpage you saw that he was actually in Boston attending a Tame Impala gig the very moment you thought you heard him.
Online, Steve’s life looked perfect and untouched, as if you never existed. He smiled for photos with fans, he was papped going in and out of Electric Lady wearing clothes that you didn’t recognise.
Your life however, was unrecognisable. It was as if a hurricane and a flood ravaged every cornerstone of stability and normality for you. Your rent was due in a week and you couldn’t afford it. You couldn’t even afford a plane ticket back to Hawkins. Three weeks of unemployment and the last minute flight from London had ravaged your savings. You had been trying desperately to get rehired by someone, but seemingly each and every employer took one look at your name and threw your CV in the bin. They wouldn’t even give you an interview. In a desperate attempt to keep your apartment and stay in New York you started applying for a bunch of minimum wage jobs but they were also unfruitful.
You were stuck.
Now, with the recent belief that someone insidious was stalking your apartment, it was not just your financial situation that was shoving you out of the city.
—
On Saturday morning you called your mum and told her you were coming home. She was delighted that you’d be back in Hawkins but was worried about you, all you’d ever wanted was to live in a big city and have a successful career. Your dad sent you the money for the flight and reassured you that it would all be okay, and that the job market was terrible this year, ignoring the fact that you were alleged to have dated the biggest name in music.
You didn’t tell them about the potential stalker.
On Sunday at 1.30pm you photographed your entire apartment and the placement of everything before leaving to go on a walk and get groceries. You still wore the cap and glasses, weather appropriate but also in case you were recognised. One mercy since Steve practically told the world that he’d discarded you was that the paparazzi were no longer interested in you, though some of the crazy fans still scared you a bit.
After going to a vintage fair, walking around your neighbourhood, and getting groceries, you headed home. It was shortly after 5pm though the summer sun still shone high in the sky, you were looking forward to changing out of your sweaty clothes and having a shower. You dragged your shopping bags up the many flights of stairs, fishing your keys out of your pocket as you neared your door.
You slung one bag further up your shoulder to free your hand in order to put the key in the door, but as you lifted the key to the lock you realised the door was open. Broken open.
You gently nudged the door fully open with your finger and the sight made you gasp.
Your place had been totally and utterly trashed.
Plant pots scattered the floor and your clothes were strewn out everywhere. Bottles of pasta sauce smashed on the counter, your bin overturned in the corner. Shampoo bottles squeezed out on the floor next to your bed which was now practically dismantled. Smashed plates, broken glasses, empty cupboards.
Your eyes darted from corner to corner in disbelief.
Your boxes that were packed in anticipation of moving back home stood untouched at the end of your bed. One small mercy.
Tears welled in your eyes for the first time since you’d lost your job. You’d really held it together these past few weeks but in this moment it all came out.
Your home had been violated on top of losing every other aspect of your life, all for a boy who didn’t love you like you loved him. You hated Steve, but you hated yourself more for still loving him, because in spite of it all, as you stood crying in your wreck of an apartment, feeling so unsafe and so unsure, you just wished he was there. You wanted nothing more than to cling onto him and for him to make it all better.
You sobbed harder knowing you’d never reach for him again.
You scrambled to find your phone, and called the only person you knew in the city who could come and pick you up.
It rang twice, “Hello?”
You sobbed, “Eddie, can you pick me up from my place please?”
“Hey- shit, are you okay?”
“Eddie, please come pick me up,” your throat tightened on every word.
Eddie said he’d be outside your building in 15 minutes. You waited on the pavement, not wanting to be inside your apartment.
Eddie pulled up and got out of the car and walked towards you, “Hey- hey”, he threw his arms around you and you began to cry again.
“What happened? Are you hurt?”
You shook your head, “Someone’s been stalking me and they- they must have broken in and they’ve t-trashed everything-” you were hiccuping through your words.
Eddie’s eyes were like dinner plates, “You’ve been getting stalked?? Why didn’t you tell me?!”
“I didn’t tell anyone, I’m moving back to Hawkins and honestly I thought I was crazy-”
Eddie gripped your shoulders and muttered your name like a mantra, “-are you fucking serious? Your name and details are all over the internet and every horny 20 year old woman in the tristate area wants you dead and you don’t think to mention that you think someone is casing your house-”
“Eddie, please stop it, I-I know I fucked up,” you sighed as more tears fell, “This has been the most exhausting month of my life and I was just trying to get through each day-” you lost your words in more sobs.
Eddie’s eyes softened and he hugged you and guided you towards the car. Once you were in he turned to you, “Listen, Steve told me you guys fell out. I don’t know what happened but he told me you cut contact…I dunno if what the press was saying was true, I don’t know shit so sorry if this is inappropriate to suggest but I’m gonna drive you to Steve’s-”
“No,” you gritted out, the only thing in life you were certain of. You would not go to Steve.
“Pea, is your beef with him really worth all th-”
“Eddie you’ve no idea what happened in London. It was awful. He was awful,” you turned away from Eddie, not able to maintain eye contact, “He was my best friend since middle school. I trusted him more than anyone. Sometimes I think he knows me better than I know myself and he still-” you swallowed hard, “No. He’s no longer part of my life. He has cost me so much and I won’t go to him for help.”
Eddie sighed and nodded, reaching to start the car, “Okay, I’ll bring you to my place. Jonny is gone for the week so you can crash in his room.”
4 days later
You lay in Jonny’s bed staring up at his ceiling while you could hear Eddie tinkering away on his guitar in his room across the hall. It’s funny, when you think about how the last time you saw Jonny was the very night you first slept with Steve, and how you’d practically lived ten lives since then.
Jonny was at his parents this week which meant you could crash at his and Eddie’s place in Brooklyn.
You honestly liked living with Eddie, apart from that icky boy smell that permeated throughout the apartment and the fact that the guitars, picks, and relentless humming of unfinished melodies reminded you of a certain someone. But Eddie was funny and kind, he had introduced you to the cat that adopted them and came by every other evening, and you and him had got overly invested in rewatching Game of Thrones.
There were cracks in the arrangement, mainly when Eddie’s phone buzzed and you knew it was Steve needing a lift somewhere, often late at night. Your nails dented your palms every time Eddie sheepishly shrugged on his jacket and said he’d be back shortly, and to tell him what happened in the episode you were on, not that you paid much attention to the TV when you kept thinking about where Steve could possibly need a lift to at this hour.
Eddie found you sprawled on the sofa an hour later after you’d had the majority of a bottle of wine. You weren’t crying but your puffy eyelids told him that you had been.
“Pea? Talk to me, what’s up?”
You sighed and screwed your eyes shut, the alcohol made the truth spill out, “It just hurts that I’m so stuck and I’ve lost everything and yet he’s just sticking his dick into anyone…”
Eddie blinked and his eyebrows shot up, “Pea…I don’t drive him to hookups, I’ve been driving him to the studio”.
You opened your eyes, “Really?” your voice came out in a whisper, “I hate myself that I still care…”
Eddie reached out and squeezed your hand, “I don’t know what happened between you two, but I think I can guess. I’m sorry Pea, he’s really dumb sometimes”.
Tears welled in your eyes again, “Does he know I’m here?”
Eddie sighed, “Yes but I didn’t tell him. I don’t tell him anything about you, and that works both ways so don’t you be asking about him. I just corrected you when you said he was hooking up. Well, he might be but I doubt it…”
You nodded, “How does he know I’m here?”
Eddie sighed again, “Well, when Robin so graciously offered to clean out your place for you, she enlisted the help of Dustin who spilled the beans to his highness”.
“What did he tell Steve? Like, did he say what happened?” your heart was beating fast in your chest, what would Steve think of everything that happened?
Eddie rubbed his eyes, “Yeah this is what prompted my rule of not telling you guys about each other,” Eddie huffed, “So he found out, like, two days ago? That you are living here with me and he, like, totally freaked when he heard what happened to your place. He called you, but you have him blocked so then he spiralled about that.”
Your stomach was in knots at the fact he tried to reach out, “Does he know I lost my job? Or that I’m going back to Hawkins?”
Eddie shook his head and you sighed in relief, “All he knows is that your place got trashed and you think you were being stalked for a bit prior to the break in…and now you’re living with me. He was pretty cut up about it. I wasn’t there but Robin said he cried…then the next day when I picked him up he would not stop asking about you and if you were okay and if I would pass on a message.”
“What message?” Your blood was cold. Eddie shook his head, “I dunno because I said I wouldn't”.
You hated the part of you that wished Eddie had said yes.
“Does he think the stalker was a fan of his or unrelated?” you asked.
Eddie shook his head, “I dunno but he’s blaming himself either way”.
“That sounds like him. But I-I can’t reconcile this Steve from the one that said all those things in London, and then that backstage video in Paris I-” you closed your eyes and shook your head, “I need to just get back to Hawkins and get my life back in order. Try and find a job elsewhere, maybe in Boston or Chicago…”
Eddie nodded and squeezed your hand, “I’ll help in whatever way I can, Pea.”
You smiled back at him, “You can start by pouring me another glass”.
3 days later. One week since the break-in, nearly five weeks since you’d seen Steve.
“Right I’ve got my carry-on, my suitcase, and my ID and boarding pass. Sound right?” you stood in the living room while Eddie scrolled on his phone on the sofa.
“Sounds right - what time do you want to leave?”
You whined, “Eddie come on, I told you we need to leave here at 2 so I can get to the airport in time!”
Eddie grinned, “You know I’m messing with you right? I’ll get your bags into the car in a minute”.
“Thanks, Eds,” you huffed as you sank onto the sofa next to him, “I’ll miss you, you know?”
Eddie smiled, “I’ll miss you too Pea, but this isn’t goodbye. We’ll call and I’m sure our paths will cross either in Hawkins or wherever you end up! And hey, if I make it big, I’ll hire you to do the marketing for the band!”
You laughed, “Well get on making it big then, so we both can have some financial security!”
–
Eddie hurled your suitcase into the boot of the car while you climbed in the front to begin the traffic-riddled journey to JFK. The last time you were in JFK was when your world felt as if it had caved in and everyone knew everything about you. You weren’t exactly happy to return to the site of your undoing.
Eddie drummed out beats on the steering wheel and started humming along, undoubtedly cooking up some song.
You stared out the window and tried not to think about everything that had gone wrong that led to this moment, and all that you were leaving behind in New York. A promised new life that just slipped away before you really even felt part of it. You instead tried to focus on the rhythmic drumming of Eddie’s fingers, the smell of city dust and yet also freshly cut grass in the air that was seeping through the car vents. Being back home would be nice in a way, seeing your parents again.
You were pulled from your thoughts by the radio cutting to Eddie’s ringtone. You saw the caller ID come through on the car display:
‘Harrington’
You gulped and Eddie stopped drumming his fingers. He glanced at you quickly.
“I- uh-”
“You have to take it, I know. Just act like there’s no one in the car” you said quickly.
“Right,” Eddie nodded and hit ‘accept’.
“Hey, man,” Eddie’s voice barely sounded steady.
“Hey, it’s me. Can you give me a ride to the studio?” Steve’s voice came through the speakers.
Steve.
Steve.
Your heart practically stopped, god you’d missed that voice. You missed him. He sounded gruff, a little tired maybe? Almost dull…
Eddie spoke up, “Ah, I’m kind of on the wrong side of town. I can be with you in maybe an hour? Maybe more depending on traffic…”
You heard Steve exhale on the other side of the line, “Sure thing. Text me when you’re near.”
“Yep. See ya,” Eddie ended the call and you felt like you could finally breathe again.
“I’m so sorry about that-”
“Don’t be Eddie, it’s fine,” you looked out the window so he couldn’t see the tears in your eyes.
Your mood shifted distinctly since hearing Steve’s voice. You couldn’t shake the sadness that permeated your soul. It followed you in the line for security, in the line for a coffee, while you handed your boarding pass to the attendant.
The flight to Indy wasn’t long, but you fought tears the whole way.
How did it all go so wrong?
Years and years of effort into getting into a good college, into the big city, a job you were proud of. Escaping small town America, getting top grade after top grade, grinning ear to ear at graduations, just to be back at square one. The fierce, fiery independent woman within you had been extinguished and in her place was an unsure, nervous, dependent wreck who could barely get from day to day. Wounded prey that limped from one battle to another.
Then there was the promise of love, a love so pure that it actually started as friendship. True friendship. That was now lost too.
You fiddled nervously with your zipper and necklace and swallowed your tears through baggage reclaim.
They came out in floods by the time you shut the passenger door of your mum’s car.
She held you as best she could as you shook violently.
“Sweetheart, it’s okay-”
“No, no it’s not,” you sighed and sniffed before your voice cracked again, “Nothing will ever be okay again”.
Chapter Warnings: SMUT (unprotected p in v sex, m recieving oral, fingering, masturbation, denial?) slow burn friends to lovers, jealousy, depictions of grief, parental issues
Chapter Summary: as you and steve begin to navigate your new relationship, you have to find a way to reconcile your happiness with your baggage.
Fic Summary: You and Steve can't stand to be around one another... but you have to learn to coexist and raise your goddaughter together in the face of the apocalypse.
The first time you met Steve, you were new to Hawkins.
At nine years old, you had your own friends that you'd miss terribly, and you didn't want to have to meet anyone new. You moved across state lines for the good of your parents' careers and took a box of goodbye letters and friendship bracelets with you.
Your parents became members at the Hawkins Regency Country Club two weeks into moving, a recommendation from the head surgeon at Hawkins Memorial. The first community mixer was held in the event center at the club, a big ballroom overlooking the tennis courts.
You snuck away into the hot summer night knowing that you wouldn't be missed and sat on the patio with your legs tucked beneath your stupid, itchy dress. And, really, you didn't expect to be bothered, but you heard shoes scuffing behind you and knew that your isolation was short lived.
In some part of your mind, you thought you'd always remember that version of Steve— in ugly, corduroy pants and a green striped shirt, holding a plate of hors d'oeuvres. He'd sort of had a bowl cut too, which you suspected was the reason that he didn't keep too many pictures of his childhood around. Not until he had turned eleven and got his hair cut like Lief Garrett, at least.
"I didn't want you to be out here alone," he said. "It's dark."
You shrugged and turned out to face the tennis courts… and the woods beyond. It was so creepy and ugly here. The trees were big, and the woods felt so endless. Like you could just walk and walk and never escape. That's what being in Hawkins felt like.
But Hawkins, Indiana needed a cardiologist and had an opening in neurology with a path for advancement. It was like fate, your parents told you. It was the perfect place for them to go. Perfect for them, but… you weren't so sure.
"Do you… um… like to ride bikes?" Steve asked as he sat next to you. His nails were a little bloody around his cuticles, which you thought was gross, especially because he intended to eat finger foods. He was actively picking at them, which only made it worse, and you wondered why he was making them worse.
"No, I like to roller skate," you answered, nose wrinkling as he picked again and you watched him expose pink, raw skin. "Do you want a band-aid?"
He shook his head. "No, I'm fine." It went quiet then. You heard an animal calling in the woods, nothing you could identify. You wondered if there were entirely different animals here, or if anything overlapped. "I'm Steve. I live on Bradford Street."
"I live on Bradford Street." You turned to look at him, really look at him and gave a tiny smile before you told him your name. "I just moved here with my parents. They're doctors."
Steve offered you a small cocktail weenie. You declined. "I think you're the house next door," he said. "That's where the Thomases lived, but I heard my mom say that Mr. Thomas was having a baby with someone who wasn't Mrs. Thomas, so I guess they moved somewhere that they can all live together."
Your expression wrinkled. That didn't sound right, but Steve seemed so sure, so you jut went along with it. As you sat there, the music from the party was filtering through the crack in the sliding doors. Jive Talking, which you loved. You even had the 45. Steve didn't look particularly amused.
"Well, you live next door, so we can be friends," Steve said. "Maybe next week you can roller skate, and I'll ride my bike, and we'll see who's the fastest."
It was all so simple, it was exactly what you needed. A companion during parties where you were meant to be seen not heard, a friend to spend time with when the world felt so lonely. For a while, you tried to write your friends back home… but then Hawkins became your home.
It felt like all you needed was Steve, but then you got Carol and Tommy too, and that was perfect. You'd lost all of them in different ways, and you got them back in ones you didn't expect.
You woke up on the Friday of Sam's first birthday beside a sleepy Steve with his face smushed into a pillow, listening to the sounds of Sam breathing over the monitor. You moved closer, kissing his shoulder, right above the barely-there pink scars where he'd been dragged across the upside down version of Lover's Lake.
"Mmmph," Steve groaned into the pillow. He didn't bother opening his eyes for a while, but then he rolled over and blinked the sleepiness away. A fond smile played on his lips at the sight of you, even with your messy bed head and granny pajamas. "Morning, beautiful."
You rolled your eyes and laughed. "Good morning," you said with a tiny grin. He started to sit up, but you put a hand on his arm and tugged him back into bed. "Where are you going? I thought Robin cancelled the broadcast today for Peanut's party."
Steve grinned and kissed your forehead once before peeling himself off of you. "Yeah, but it's Peanut's birthday. I'm hosting the morning show so I can record it all on tape and show it to her when she's older."
You grinned and sat up. "That's cute," you replied. "Now I feel like my painted toy box is a stupid idea. It's not sentimental enough."
"No, it looks great and she can keep it forever. And who knows if she'll ever actually listen to the broadcast, y'know?" he insisted.
You followed him into the en suite and sat on the countertop while he got the shower running. He stretched, and your eyes flicked to the dark hair that trailed from his tummy and disappeared into his flannel pajamas.
He caught your gaze when you looked back up at him and rolled his eyes. "No. You're not showering with me." You laughed, cheeks burning hot as you tried to play coy. Just as you opened your mouth, he shook his head. "No way. Not to save water, not because you need one anyway. You're going to make me late."
A slow sigh escaped you. You hadn't actually slept together since the last time a week ago. And that wasn't to say you hadn't gotten close, but Steve kept pulling back before things could get too far, panting into your mouth with a gentle, I think we should slow down.
It was impressive, but generally frustrating. You wanted to sleep with Steve. Frequently. And you were confused about why every time that you tried to move beyond a heated make out, he politely rebuffed you.
I just want us to take our time, or, I don't want to rush.
But you hadn't taken your time. You had slept together after months of silent pining and jealousy and angst, and now… nothing. What good was taking your time when you'd already gone all the way? When, frankly, you'd missed a few bases on your way there?
But something about seeing him, with the grogginess of sleep still clinging to him, all unkempt and domestic… it was really doing it for you. You'd toe the line again and see if an entire week of behaving was slow enough for Steve. "I won't make you late," you insisted. "It's so cold today, a hot shower sounds really nice. And I don't want to go back to bed and be cold and alone."
Steve put his hands on his hips and sighed. A tiny smile played on your lips as he ran a hand through his messy hair and rolled his eyes again. "Fine. But it's just a shower."
Five minutes later, your hands were all over each other as you stood beneath the steaming spray. You panted, gasping into his mouth as he kissed you hungrily. His tongue dipped into your mouth, laving over yours like he was desperate to claim you inside and out.
But just as your hand moved down his stomach, following that dark thatch of hair, he pinned it to the tile. "Steve," you whined as he licked up your throat. "Let me touch you, baby."
And you swore you could feel him shiver against you. "You sound so hot calling me baby," he panted against your skin. And, Jesus, his dick twitched where it pressed against your hip. "But I want us to—" he hissed when you grabbed his ass to pull him closer, making him rut against you, "—to take this slow. Don't wanna cheapen it."
Huh. You'd need to unpack that later. For the moment, you pulled back just to meet his gaze. "Are you telling me that I can't suck your cock?" You asked with a pout.
"Oh, fuck me," he groaned. "No. I mean— not no I'm not telling you that. It's… yes, I'm… not yes as in—" He looked like he was being held at gunpoint, all soaking wet from the constant spray of water over the both of you, as pathetic as you'd seen him.
"Steve," you said, as gently as you could manage. "I am so fine with cheapening the moment. I'm literally begging to suck your dick right now, this is humiliating for me."
You kissed his throat, and he tasted like tap water and the remnants of his shampoo that had rinsed out. "Just…" You planted another wet kiss, sucking softly at the tender skin just beneath his pulse point. "Lemme take care of you. Please?"
He groaned, and you felt his cock twitch against your hip again. For just a moment, he gave in, rolling his hips almost imperceptibly against you. And then he sighed and pulled back to look in your eyes. "Can I take you on a date first?" He asked, tucking your wet hair behind your ear. "It's important to me."
You sighed softly, feeling an annoying sting of disappointment. Maybe he had a point— you'd done everything so backwards, maybe it was smart to cool off until you'd gone on a date and talked things out. So, with an annoyingly understanding and affectionate tug in your chest, you nodded. "Tomorrow," you said, meeting his gaze. "Promise?"
He smiled and kissed you again, slow and deep. Your eyes fluttered as he pinned you against the shower wall, groaning into your mouth. "Turn around, I want to wash your hair."
Steve's fingers moved over your scalp, combing through your wet hair as he massaged in the shampoo. You couldn't help the soft sighs that escaped your lips as he worked the suds through the ends of your curls.
A tiny laugh escaped him and you turned over your shoulder, brows furrowed. "Your perm is all grown out," he mused. "You should let me cut it."
"So you can get your payback?" You asked, raising a brow. He grinned and continued to work the shampoo in, until your eyes were half-closed and your knees felt weak.
He kissed your wet, soapy shoulder fondly once he'd gotten all of the shampoo rinsed. "I know the importance of a person's hair." He parted your hair and placed a gentle kiss at the back of your neck, sweet and tender. You listened as he lathered soap in his hands, then moved them to your slick skin.
A soft, shuddering sigh tumbled from your lips as his big hands massaged the soap onto your tits. One hand feebly grabbed at the slick, tiled wall. "Steve," you panted, almost a warning.
"Mmm?" He let his hands move, lower, sudsing up your tummy and ribs. "Just getting you clean."
Bullshit. His hands moved to your thighs, then squeezed your ass. He kissed the top of your spine again, pressing his forehead to your damp skin. He eased you beneath the spray, so all of the suds and bubbles rinsed down the drain between your feet.
"All better," he said softly. You opened your eyes and smiled up at him, feeling that stupid fluttery feeling that he seemed genetically engineered to instill in you. "Now get your cute ass back to bed. I have to take care of something before I leave."
A sly grin spread across your lips as you cast your eyes down, where his cock twitched, hard and flushed a pretty pink at the tip. You had a pretty solid idea of what that something was, and it wasn't something you really wanted to miss.
"Don't let me stop you," you said, and he groaned as you caught your bottom lip between your teeth and met his gaze once more.
"You're so evil," he muttered. But he couldn't stop his own eyes from wandering, falling from your eyes to your mouth, to your tits, to the soft curls at the apex of your thighs. He huffed and you watched his hand wrap around the base of his cock and squeeze.
His pretty eyes fluttered a bit, but when they locked on you, it sent a shot of pure electricity down your spine. It settled in your stomach, molten hot, and you gave a shaky exhale as his fist began to glide up and down his cock.
Holy fucking shit. Your mouth felt dry, and you swear you got a head rush just watching him. Rivulets of water streaming down his strong arms, the bulge of muscle as his hand worked over his length.
"This what you wanted?" He panted. His palm splayed against the tile beside your head, making him lean even closer to you. He smelled like the sweet honey of his shampoo and the spice of his body wash. You nodded quickly, and he fucking laughed. "Such a perv. Have you always been like this?"
No. God, no. He had a way of bringing out the most degenerate parts of you, it seemed. The angry, jealous rage, the toe-curling, horny need, the sappy, doting affection. So you just rolled your eyes and shook your head. "Shut up."
He tilted his head down, just enough that your noses pressed together and your lips were just barely grazing. Each of his panted breaths puffed over your wet mouth as he worked himself in his hand. You could hear the slick glide of his fist even over the spray of the water.
"Fuck, you look so pretty," he groaned, and his lips brushed yours in a cruel imitation of a kiss. So close, but still not enough.
You laughed weakly, holding his gaze. With his forehead against yours, you couldn't see much beyond the slope of his nose. That close, you could see every tiny freckle there, like pretty constellations.
"Wish you'd just let me touch you," you murmured. He groaned and pressed a sloppy kiss to your lips. He pulled back just to pant and moan, soft against the side of your mouth. "So stubborn."
He kissed you again, hungrier this time. His tongue moved over yours, careless and desperate, until he pulled back with blown pupils and flushed cheeks. "I'm really close," he panted. "You drive me crazy. I want you so bad."
"So bad?" You echoed. He nodded, knocking his nose against yours.
"Mhmm…" His nose nuzzled against your cheek as he sloppily kissed the side of your mouth. "So fucking bad, honey." The moan that escaped him sent a thrill through you— electric right down to your core. You felt his hot cum painting your thighs as he worked himself through his orgasm. It felt so intimate, seeing him come apart like that all on his own, that he'd done that for you, because of you.
His head slumped against your shoulder, wet hair sticking to your face as he huffed like he'd run a marathon. "Jesus christ," he panted. "Fuck." He kissed your shoulder, rinsed you clean, and kissed your forehead for good measure.
You slipped back into the bed and the cotton sheets felt like ice without him there to warm you up. And, frankly, you were still really turned on, enough that you had to slip a hand into your panties and get yourself off just listening to him humming and fixing his hair.
Just imagining him in his tight Levi's with the pudge of his tummy jutting over the waistband, with the dampness of the shower still clinging to the hair on his chest and his shoulders. The sounds he had made echoed in your brain, the smell of him close to you, sweet like honey.
You came embarrassingly fast, biting into the plush of your bottom lip as you worked yourself through it.
Steve stopped by the bed a few minutes later and planted a gentle kiss on your lips, totally oblivious. "Go back to sleep, dummy," he mumbled against your mouth. Then he stood and grinned. "The big broadcast is at eight, so make sure you have the radio on. I'll be back to help before the party, I promise."
Steve's broadcast started at 8AM, right as you eased a hungry Sam into her high chair and turned on the portable radio on the kitchen table. Sammie perked up at the sound of the station's jingle, or maybe it was just that you were bringing her a sippy cup of milk while you got ready to make her scrambled eggs on the stovetop.
Good morning Hawkins, I'm your host, Steve "The Hair" Harrington, and I hope you're ready for a very special broadcast in honor of a very special girl. My girl, my Peanut, turns a whole year old today.
You grinned at the sound of a cheesy cheering sound effect, followed by noisemakers. Even if he had a helping hand, that choice was all Steve.
Sorry to any parents listening, but compared to Peanut, your kids are total duds. She knows three whole words, and she has two teeth, both on the bottom. Her favorite food is oatmeal, and she totally hates all of the gross meat flavored baby food. She can walk a little, but prefers to be carried, and if you turn your head while she's on the ground, she's gone, because she's the fastest crawler on the planet. Her favorite Care Bear is Funshine, and I'm not ashamed to know all of their names.
And, you're probably thinking— Steve, you have a daughter at twenty, you're totally throwing your whole life away. But that's total bull. Honestly, it feels like I was just kind of aimless before I became her dad. I think now, I'm finally seeing things clearly.
Anyway, I hope she's listening to this someday on cassette, or maybe on hologram. Who knows? So Peanut, if you're listening right now or in the future— your dad loves you, your mom loves you— you're probably the most loved kid in the world. Happy Birthday, Sammie. This one's for you.
A dumb smile played on your lips as the bouncy bass riff of My Girl played through the speakers. You glanced over at Samantha, your girl, and felt such a strong tug of affection that your eyes went misty.
Stupid. You'd never been so sappy before now. A perk of motherhood, maybe.
Various party members and their families called in to leave birthday messages— for posterity. Auntie Rob was the first one to say her piece from the studio. And when the calls rolled in, they came in droves. Claudia and Dustin, The Wheeler's, The Sinclair's, Joyce and the boys.
Your girl, your peanut, was adored by everyone who was lucky enough to meet her. She smiled up at you with the few teeth she had as you put her plate down and fed her little bites. And every time she heard her dad's voice on the radio, you swore she looked a little happier.
The birthday party was later that day, with snow still falling in fat flakes that piled up in snowdrifts outside. It was a biting, nasty cold that no one would have wanted to leave the comfort of the indoors for.
And even so, the house was packed full of people who wanted to celebrate her. Soggy boots were left in the foyer, where they melted into snowy puddles that the beach towels on the floor did little to help with. Parkas overflowed the rack by the door and spilled onto Daniel Harrington's desk like it was a coat check at a fancy restaurant.
You'd attempted to frost the cake with little peanut shapes, but they turned into ugly brown blobs. Karen Wheeler stepped in to assist, easing the piping bag from your hands so you could, "enjoy the party."
You were doing your best to do just that, passing from group to group, trying to keep everyone entertained. You passed Sam being held by Mrs. Perkins, who was posing for a Polaroid. It was a full house— a combination of Carol and Tommy's families, yours and Steve's families (with large exceptions), and the family that he had found in the party.
It was nearly elbow to elbow, even in the large house, and it was far too cold for anyone to spill into the backyard. One of Steve's little cousins knocked into your legs as he ran to peek inside the dozens of gift bags that had spilled from the dining table and onto the floor. You hadn't really expected so much, but it was a welcome surprise.
You scanned the room, eyes furrowed, and frowned when you didn't spot either of your parents. They had called to tell you that they would be there, but the party was well underway and they still seemed to be missing. But you couldn't focus on that, just like Steve couldn't really think about his parents' absence, or whether they would have cared to show up in the first place. You just continued through the party, trying to keep things in order.
A smile played on your lips as you passed a table littered with pictures of Sam's first year. In the very middle, in a small metal frame, was a photo of Carol, Tommy, and Sam on the night she was born— red in the face and wrinkly. In a frame beside that was a framed photo of you and Steve holding Sam in her Halloween costume, with her full bucket of candy between you. It felt fair that all four of Sammie's parents were represented, and you couldn't imagine the day without them there in some capacity anyway.
As you passed the snack table, you felt a strong arm loop around your waist and tug you back, until you were held snug against a broad chest and felt lips peppering kisses onto your cheeks. "Hey, beautiful," Steve mumbled against your cheek, punctuating it with a final smack. "Did you fix the cake?"
"Mrs. Wheeler's got it," you answered, turning your face to plant a soft kiss on his lips. "Have you seen my parents yet?"
He sighed and shook his head. "Not yet, but they said they'd be here," he assured. He rubbed his hands over your arms like he and kissed the crown of your head. "And if they don't show up… that's their loss, right?"'
You sighed and nodded, then tilted your lips and accepted another chaste kiss, which was met by loud, exaggerated groaning. With a sheepish smile, you turned to look at Dustin and Robin, who were eating pinwheel sandwiches and peanut butter cookies that Claudia had brought.
"Can you tiptoe around each other again?" Robin asked. "I can't keep down my food."
"Yeah, this mushy shit is nauseating," Dustin said with a grimace.
Your brows furrowed and you tilted your head, a sly smile spreading across your lips. "Yeah? As nauseating as a certain song?" He swallowed, and had the good sense to look abashed. "A certain song about a certain story… It's on the tip of my tongue actually…"
Dustin's expression wrinkled and he shook his head. "You're both seriously evil people, you know that? You belong together." He grabbed the peanut butter cookie from Steve's plate and shook his head. "Don't eat my mother's cookies, you don't deserve them."
You shook your head and peeled yourself off of Steve so you could continue your rounds. The party was there, along with their families. You hadn't realized how much Steve was appreciated until Sue Sinclair was pulling you to the side to talk about how Steve had spent August of '85 practicing with Lucas to prepare him for basketball tryouts. How he'd never missed one of Lucas' games, so they wouldn't have dreamed of missing Samantha's birthday.
And it seemed like every one of the kids and their parents had a similar story. Steve let Mike wait out a storm inside of Scoops Ahoy after closing, and sent him off with free ice cream. He drove Will into the city to check out the one comic book store that had a comic he needed. Claudia had already told you about Steve helping Dustin get ready for every single school dance he's ever attended… and reiterated it any time she had your ear.
You just wished El could have been there. She was an angel in your eyes, and she loved helping with Sam whenever she came to visit. You'd always felt so lonely as an only child— it was part of why you and Steve bonded so quickly as kids— and being around El let you feel like a big sister.
You'd promised to save her a slice of cake for the next time you saw her, but it still felt a bit unfair that she had to hide in the shadows. A girl like her deserved life in the sun.
"There's Mama," you heard a voice say, and suddenly Sam was in your arms again. You weren't even sure who had handed her over, but you bounced her on your hip and carried her over to Steve.
He smiled at the sight of her, expression softening as he leaned in to kiss her forehead. She let out a happy dada, which Steve had been bragging to everyone about. You had definitely heard her say more and hi first, but you weren't going to ruin his fun.
You adjusted her dress and straightened the bow clipped to the tiny ponytail on the top of her head. A camera flash startled the three of you, and you gave Claudia a sheepish smile as she took more photos, until Dustin put a hand on her arm and guided her away.
"Baby parties are kind of boring," you said to Steve as you nodded back to the clusters of people just standing around and snacking. "Maybe we can knock out happy birthday, cut the cake, then open a few presents?"
He frowned. "You don't want to wait a little longer?" He asked. "We can hold out for your parents, if you want me to. I can stall for time, give a big, sappy speech."
Despite everything, you couldn't help but smile. "Yeah, you got that out of the way tenfold this morning," you said. "It was really sweet, by the way. I got a little weepy, which is totally lame. But, she's lucky you're her dad."
Steve's cheeks went a little pinker than they had before— you were around him enough now to notice things like that. And how he swallowed hard at compliments that really meant something, like he had to force himself to accept it.
"Yeah, thanks," he said quietly. "And we're both really lucky to have you. You're so…"
A sight over his shoulder made you stand up straighter, and the sound of whatever he had been saying was muffled in your ears like you'd been submerged underwater.
Because in the middle of the living room, with snow clinging to her hair and a beautifully wrapped gift in her arms was your mother. It was almost impressive, how little you'd crossed paths with her since your brief visit to the Hospital. Sometimes, when you would go with Steve to visit Max, you'd hear her voice down the hallway, but that was the extent of it.
You wondered if the nurses warned her— Maybe avoid that hallway, your whore daughter is visiting the comatose redhead with that boy she lives in sin with.
But that wasn't fair. Well, really, what they had done wasn't very fair either.
"Sorry I'm late. I was hoping your father would be out of surgery by now, but…" She gave a flippant wave of her hand. "I brought a gift for Samantha."
A strained smile played on your lips as you bounced her on your hip. "That's really sweet, Mom," you finally said. "I can go carry that into the dining room with the others. Do you want to hold Sam? She's an easy baby, really calm."
She gave a polite, but firm shake of her head. "You don't need to bother, darling," she insisted. It was her coded way of saying, I'm here, but not for that. So you took a deep breath and watched her disappear into the party again.
You looked towards the front door and let out a heavy sigh. "We should probably just get everything done," you finally said to Steve. "Because if we wait much longer, Sam's gonna get fussy, and people are going to get antsy and…"
Steve planted a kiss on your forehead and ran a thumb between your brows, smoothing the wrinkle there until you laughed softened your expression. He pressed a small kiss right where his thumb had just been. "I'll handle everything, don't even stress."
If there was one thing that Steve was good at, it was taking the burden off of your shoulders and moving it onto his own. So while you got Sammie into her high chair and made sure her bow was clipped on straight and her shoes were buckled right, Steve rallied the troops and brought in the cakes.
Steve counted the room off, and Sam wailed as the crowd around her sang happy birthday. Her face went strawberry red as she cried, so you and Steve had to blow out the single candle on her tiny, baby sized cupcake. It was unclear to you whether or not that counted as a wish, but you had one. Please let this all work out.
That afternoon, when the guests had cleared out and left only a few stragglers to help clean, you took inventory of Sam's haul. With the quarantine in place, the gifts hadn't exactly been top shelf, but there was a clear show of effort that made you happy.
Hand-sewn outfits, hand-me-down toys and books, baby gear that people had no need for and were willing to pass along. The dining room was filled with it all, and you were honestly a little worried about finding space to store everything.
As you counted the number of Care Bears that she had gained (two funshines, one good luck bear, one bedtime bear, and three cheer bears), you felt arms loop around your stomach and you laughed softly as you were tugged against Steve's broad chest.
"You did good today," he mumbled against your throat as he kissed the soft skin there tenderly. "The party was fun, the cake was delicious—"
"I heard Mike say the peanuts on the cake looked like balls."
"Mike's an asshole," he said. "Mrs. Wheeler fixed it either way, and everything was perfect. You're perfect." His palms splayed over your tummy, pulling you tighter against him as he continued to pepper gentle kisses.
"Steve," you murmured softly, as he moved your hair away to suck at your pulse point. For a moment, your knees threatened to buckle, and you couldn't do much more than exhale a shuddery sigh. "Steve, Claudia is right in the kitchen."
He smiled against your throat and you shivered as his teeth grazed over your jaw. "She's occupied." His voice vibrated against your throat, and you sighed weakly.
You laughed softly and turned around in his arms so you could look up at him. "Steve. What about our date tomorrow?" He groaned against you and the ticklish buzz of the sound made you shiver. "If the rules apply to me, they apply to you."
With a sigh, he peeled himself off of you and fixed you with a little pout. "That's too many Care Bears," he sighed. "Way too many. And she already has, like, a million upstairs."
You laughed and held the good luck bear to your chest. "I think you should keep this one," you said. "Put it in the van for the crawls. A real good luck charm."
He ran his fingers over a hand-sewn big bird pillow and laughed softly. "What'd your mom end up bringing, anyway?" He asked, meeting your gaze. "Baby's first MRI?"
You scoffed and shook your head. "No, uh… it was old baby things of mine that were in storage," you answered. "Mostly dusty, old clothes that Sam will never wear. And…"
You reached into the box and pulled out a curly stuffed bear with a big yellow ribbon around it's neck. With a big smile, you held him to your chest. "Do you recognize him?"
For a moment, there was little more than confusion behind his gaze, and then there was a flash of recognition. "Mr. Coco," he said with a grin. "I gave you that when we were, like, ten."
"Eleven," you corrected, squeezing the bear even tighter against your body. The top of its head smelled like the attic— ancient and musty, but it made your heart ache with nostalgia. "What are your parents sending?"
He shrugged. "Well, snail mail and quarantine aren't exactly the best ways to communicate," he said with a wry laugh. "Three months ago I sent a letter with pictures of the three of us to them and reminded them of her birthday. And two weeks ago I got a heavily redacted letter that mentioned that they had shipped us a camcorder as a combo birthday-Christmas gift, with their best wishes for the three of us."
A tiny grimace twisted your expression. "Bleak," you said softly. "But useful? It'll be nice to have some home videos of Sam."
"Yeah, well that's if it makes it through the blockade, or whatever. Ninety-nine percent chance some bozo MP is fucking around with it right now."
Steve wrapped his arms around you again and kissed you slow and sweet, and you felt the tension of the day melt like the snow that dripped from the eaves outside. His hands moved up to your shoulders and you sighed against his mouth as his thumbs worked out the tension there.
"You should bail on cleaning," he said softly, mumbled against the corner of your mouth. "Why don't you go take a really long, really hot bath and relax for the rest of the night, hm? We have a big day tomorrow."
A grin twitched onto your lips as you peered up at him through your lashes. "Are you telling me I need to rest up before our date?" You asked coyly. "What are we gonna do? Run a marathon?"
"Something like that."
Before you could respond, you felt a presence at your left and turned to see a scowling Mike Wheeler. "Gross. Can you two stop sucking face long enough to tell us where the recycling bin is?"
Steve groaned in annoyance and stalked off with Mike in tow, dragging him into the garage where you kept the bins during the snowstorm. In his absence, you slipped into the kitchen and gave Claudia a grateful smile.
"You've done so much for us already, you don't have to clean any more," you insisted. "You should get home, Mrs. Henderson. Let the rest of us pick up the slack."
She looked reluctant, but grateful as she gathered her things and her son and headed towards the car. In the morning, you'd call the florist and send her a thank you bouquet, and even that didn't feel like enough. Without even meaning to, she'd become Samantha's unofficial grandmother, in a way. Whether she'd ever claim that title or not, it made you happy that even with your own and Steve's parents being absent in one way or another, your girl still had a family around her to give her love.
You tidied up what was left of the kitchen, then joined Lucas and Erica in the living room. They were trying to silently pop balloons with tiny pinpricks that they squeezed the air out of, which meant whenever one popped loudly, the offender got yelled at.
"There's a baby asleep upstairs, shithead," Erica snapped and slapped her brother's arm.
"You just popped one!" He argued back.
Nancy, Robin, and Jonathan were trying to make tidying the display of Peanut's baby pictures a three person job. Will was folding up the banners and garlands that he had painted for you to keep, while Joyce sat staring longingly at the snowy patio like she was craving a smoke.
You slipped into your bedroom and smiled at the sight of a tiny present on your nightstand. You chewed on your lip as you took the little box into your hands and read the small note on top.
To the best mom in Hawkins, from the okay-est dad in Hawkins. One year down, seventeen more to go. At least.
Inside the box, you found a little ring rattling about. A pretty gold setting with two little diamonds framing a dainty ruby cut into a heart shape. It fit perfectly on your ring finger, the one on your right hand.
You recognized it immediately— Valentine's Day of '80, Sylvia Harrington got the ring as an apology. Steve told you as much, when you had to sit through the Hawkins Regency Valentine's Day dinner and watch her showing the little ring off to the other ladies.
I heard Mom say he's screwing the secretary again. That's why she got that and not, like… a card and a bouquet.
The next time you went over, you found the ring shoved in the back of the jewelry box and tried it on. Still too big for your fingers, but so pretty that you just wanted to take it home. He said you could, if you wanted, but you knew if your parents caught you with it, they'd drag you over to return it by your ear.
Steve had remembered, after all this time. It was funny, how it had been a thoughtless gift from his father, but meant so much coming from Steve. One woman's sorry-for-cheating present is another's treasure.
You took Steve's suggestion and had a long, hot bath in Sylvia Harrington's pink bathtub. And you figured if you could have her ruby ring, you could use her fancy soaps and bath oils. You stayed in, decompressing until the water went lukewarm and you felt like a lavender-scented raisin.
It was still snowing out— you could see it from the big windows in the bedroom, so you pulled on your comfiest sweatsuit and thickest socks before braving the living room.
"Oh look, Mom's back," Robin said when you walked back in. It made your face heat up still, that stupid nickname. "We're watching Clue, if you wanna join."
You grabbed an extra slice of cake and slid into the free spot beside Steve. The second you were beside him, his arm found its place around your shoulders like it was second nature. And, really, you fit against his side like you belonged there.
No crawls, no monsters, no fears. Just one really good day— the best day. Steve and the rest of the party sprawled around the living room, a stupid movie on TV, your girl upstairs napping.
His lips pressed against your temple and you melted against him. You wished every day could be just like that.
Snow was still falling in fat, lazy flakes as Steve drove you into town the next day. The headlights illuminated them as they drifted down, landing in clumps atop yesterday's snow.
Steve had managed to strike a deal with Mrs. Henderson, or maybe he had just begged until she folded. Frankly, you weren't sure how he pulled it off, but you were baby free until the morning, which was as exhilarating as it was unfamiliar.
Your stomach fluttered with all sorts of strange feelings. Nerves, like any other first date you'd ever been on. Worry, because Sam was staying the night with Claudia and she'd never spent the night anywhere before. Giddiness, because you'd spent most of your adolescence dreaming about a date with Steve Harrington, and it was finally happening.
Enzo's was, as he put it, the only real option for your kind-of-first date. You didn't bring up that your last date had been to Enzo's as well, or how that date had turned out. All he knew was that it went bad, you didn't get to hook up, and he was stupidly smug about it.
The table he'd reserved was a little small, tucked into the corner next to the string quartet they had on Saturdays. They were playing Vivaldi— one of the songs that played from your childhood music box. You kicked Steve's shin as you tried to readjust your legs, and laughed bashfully as you mumbled a quick apology.
"You look so beautiful tonight," he murmured, and you melted a little as he brushed your hair behind your ears. "You got all dressed up for me, huh?"
Truthfully, you'd spent a stupid amount of time getting ready— flipping through Vogue and Cosmo for any inspiration for how to dress up while not freezing to death in the snow. Eventually, you copied an editorial as best as you could— a turtleneck sweater, a mini skirt, red tights, and black boots.
"I wanted to put in some effort," you admitted, a little bashful to have been called out for it. "Most of the time I'm just wearing sweats and a t-shirt covered in baby food, milk, and god knows what else. I thought you deserved me at my best for our date."
His brows furrowed at your words, and he shook his head quickly. "What? You're always at your best. You're— I mean, god, you're perfect all of the time, not just—" He exhaled hard and met your gaze. "I didn't mean to imply that you're… y'know, better, but—"
"Steve," you said gently. "I know what you mean, and thank you. I think you look pretty handsome yourself." He preened at that, and you grinned at his proud little smile as he read over the menu and tried not to look too happy about the compliment.
"Sam said milk today," you said, after a prolonged bout of silence. "Clear as day. So that's word number four."
His expression wrinkled a bit and he shook his head. "No, it's five. She said bye when we dropped her at Henderson's."
You were unconvinced. She'd said buh… and gah, and blew raspberries. But you shrugged and chewed on the crispy breadsticks the waiter had brought out with your waters. No wine— you tried to order their cheapest red and were promptly carded. That's what a fancy establishment got you.
While you waited for your food, the conversation was stiff. Talk about the station, about Sam and her newest milestones. About Robin, apparently dating someone new and totally stealing your thunder as the party's newest couple.
And then you just… sort of ran out of things to say. What was there that you hadn't said already earlier that day? Or that week? Or in the past nine months of living together?
There was so much balancing precariously on the shoulders of the date. It was your first full night away from the baby ever. It was your first real date with Steve. It was the requirement Steve had set before you could have sex again. And, in the back of your mind, it felt like a litmus test for the viability of your relationship.
"So…" you pushed your dinner salad around with your fork and the tomato on your fork mopped up the vinaigrette. "What's a normal first date conversation to have?"
Steve perked up at your attention and gave a small shrug. "I dunno… uh, where do you see yourself in five years?"
A snort escaped you and you couldn't help an amused smile that crept onto your lips. "What, like a job interview?" You laughed lightly as he ducked his head, but humored him. "Um… I would hope I've at least gotten my associates in nursing by then. I might think about trying to get a job at one of the schools when one of the batty, ancient nurses finally retire."
He looked at you expectantly, and you felt your face burn a little. "And in this very optimistic vision, your parents graciously hand over the keys to their place while still paying the bills so we can have a nice place to raise Sam," you joked, because it was the least mushy way you could communicate that he was still in your vision of the future. "What about you? Five years out, what do you want life to be like?"
You watched him think for a moment— brows drawn together, tongue peeking out from the corner of his mouth. A soft, huh, escaped him, like he hadn't thought about what his own answer would be.
"I guess, y'know, I want all of the bad stuff in Hawkins to be over," he began. His thumb ran along your knuckles again, worrying over the ring as he thought. "I'd have a decent job doing whatever the hell I can get hired to do. That part doesn't matter as much as just, y'know, being a good provider for my girls. And Peanut would be in school by then, and she'd be doing really well because we'd be working with her at home too. And, I dunno… I think it'd be nice if she had a sibling or two by then, before she's too big and feels left out when we have more."
Oh. You took a slow drink of your water and tried to pretend like you couldn't feel Steve's eyes on you, studying your reaction. Steve wanted more kids. Steve wanted more kids before you even turned twenty five. Steve wanted to have kids with you. And maybe you hadn't schooled your expression well enough, because his eyes went a little soft and his throat bobbed nervously.
"If we… y'know, have more," he amended. "But have you thought about it? Having more kids, I mean."
"That's a… wild question for a first date," you said with a weak laugh, trying to brush off the seriousness of the question. "I guess I never really thought about it before everything happened, you know? I thought I'd decide whether or not I'd have kids when I was older and had everything else figured out first. But, uh… I guess it got decided for me."
Truthfully, you'd always wondered if you wanted kids at all. It seemed like everyone's parents let them down eventually. Your own, who hadn't ever really seemed interested in raising you in the first place, Steve's who tormented him with both emotional and physical distance. Carol's father whose benders drove her to your house for an escape, and Tommy's father, who pushed him aside to pour all of his attention onto his shiny new step-family.
It just felt like all parents did was fuck their kids up in some way. Whether intentionally, or as an unfortunate side-effect of just existing.
But you'd also seen Claudia doting over Dustin at the dinner table, encouraging his interests and hobbies even if she didn't understand them. You'd heard Steve singing Sam to sleep at three in the morning, exhausted but full of so much selfless love that it didn't even bother him that much. And you'd felt a new part of yourself growing and changing over the past year— like the muscle of your heart expanding to create a new space all for your girl. Full of pride and love and joy for every bit of her that you got to experience.
The odds felt stacked against you, in a way. Most parents messed up; everyone you knew had, at one point, slammed their bedroom door and just screamed into their pillow about how they hated their parents, or they just didn't understand. And you thought that, maybe, the inevitability of it was just part of life that you had to count on.
Because you still remembered how proud your father had been when you clumsily stitched your teddy bear's arm back on, and how your mother had beamed about how beautiful you looked before prom. You remembered Carol's father's slow recovery for his family's sake, and how he'd cried happy tears when they danced at her wedding.
"I guess I don't think it would be the worst thing," you said finally. "More, I mean. Like… two or three including Sam. If the circumstances are right."
"What about four?" He asked, and you couldn't tell if he was joking or not.
So you brushed your hair back and narrowed your eyes with an easy smile. "Do you always ask your dates how many babies they're willing to pop out for you on first dates?"
He scratched the back of his neck sheepishly and laughed. "Sorry, you're right, that's pretty intense, huh? Uh… it's been a while since I've been on a first date," he admitted. "Like a real, sit down, have a conversation date, you know? Not just…"
"Yeah, I know what a first date is," you replied with a tiny laugh. "Who was your last real one? Nancy?"
It was meant to be a teasing jab, but his cheeks went a shade of pink that might have been adorable if it weren't for jealousy roiling around your stomach. Which was stupid, really, but that didn't make it any less present. "I mean, yeah, pretty much," he admitted.
"Huh… Carol told me you were, like, really dating around after I left Hawkins," you said, raising a brow. "Like… constant stream of girls dating around. I guess I didn't realize she meant, like, fucking around."
He glanced at the tables on either side of you, but the string quartet was playing loud enough that it sort of muffled your conversation. "I took most of them out beforehand."
You laughed wryly. "Most of them."
His eyes narrowed, and you could sense defensiveness in the tick of his jaw. "Why are you being so weird about this? You're acting pissed."
You didn't know how to even begin to explain how you were feeling, because it was a weird feeling. This itch under your skin, a resentment. Of the girls, of him. Stupid, nagging, hot jealousy from a very loud, very tender spot you thought you'd outgrown.
"I'm not pissed," you insisted, because you were pretty confident that you weren't. "And I don't know what it is, okay? I just feel crazy when I think about you with other girls. It makes me feel like I'm in high school again."
Unfortunately, you were self aware enough to know where it all stemmed from. Carol's birthday party in the stupid basement closet and your first kiss with Steve (with anyone). How he had immediately confessed that he wished you had been Lisa.
It was watching his endless stream of girlfriends and going to parties where he'd disappear into the nearest door with a lock and walk out unkempt and smug. It was the mental image of Steve with pretty girls who he took on casual dates and hooked up with in his car, the same car that he'd gotten you in the backseat of.
It made you stupidly nauseous to think about. That you were one of many, that there was always a chance that you were being compared to some other girl he'd been with, for better or worse.
Maybe Amy was a better kisser. Maybe Laurie was better in bed. And Lisa had better tits, and Stacey had a better attitude, and, and, and. Maybe the only thing you had going for you was that, for now, he was in love with you.
"Hey, I can see your brain working," he said, and you thought it was sweet how visibly concerned he was, at least. "This isn't like high school, okay? After the wedding it was all just… meaningless. I was looking for something— for someone— that wasn't even in Hawkins."
Your chest fluttered a little at his words. There was a sick sort of pride you felt at being the one in the back of his mind while he was with other girls, just like he had been with you. It soothed that nagging voice in the back of your head, just knowing that you had been the one who he was comparing them all to.
Sure, it was immature and selfish, but it had always been a part of you, that jealousy. "Oh," you said softly, because you couldn't think of anything else to say.
"That's why this date means a lot to me, you know?" He said. His cheeks were dusted with the faintest ruddiness, the softest spray over his freckle dotted face. "I just… I needed this to be different than before, so you don't think that being your boyfriend isn't important to me. I didn't want you to think I just wanted to sleep with you, and that's all that mattered to me, because I wouldn't blame you if you thought of me that way."
You swallowed around a lump in your throat and nodded. "I don't think of you that way, and I know you really care about this," you said, lips twitching with a tiny smile. He took your hand from across the table, his thumb running over the ruby ring on your finger. Your heart was doing a funny, fluttery thing, one that made you feel like you were going to cry or laugh because you were so full of feeling that something had to come out.
You knew what it was, but you couldn't bring yourself to verbalize it. "Hey, about what you said before… I don't want you to just pick whatever job is available so you can be a provider, or whatever," you said. "Isn't there anything you want to do?"
He shrugged, brows knit. "I don't know," he admitted. "Remember that career aptitude test we took in senior year?" When you nodded, he sighed. "It told me I was best suited to be a, like, retail associate, which is just a fancy way of saying a schmuck who folds shirts for a living."
Your lips twitched with the beginnings of a frown at his dejected tone, like he'd given up on ever doing anything he cared about. "Steve, c'mon, they give you, like, twenty suggestions. They weren't all just retail."
He sighed, and the forced nonchalance in his expression was how you knew it really bothered him. "Alright, fine, they also said I should be an elementary school teacher."
Your brow knit. "Well, what's the problem with that?"
His laugh was bitter and dry. "Maybe that I'm a goddamn idiot," he muttered. He looked up and saw pure concern on your face, which made him quickly shake his head and try to look unbothered. "I'm sorry it's just… it doesn't matter what I'm suited for. I just want to be good to you, and good to Sam. I'm happy when I know you're both healthy and happy. And you're both healthy and happy so..."
"You're not an idiot, Steve," you pressed. "And I'm not going to be happy if you're killing yourself every day at some soul crushing job, just for my sake."
Across the table, his nails dug into the soft skin around his cuticles and pulled. It made your stomach turn just to watch it, especially when you had to look at the raw, tender flesh. "Do we have to talk about this?"
"Well, if you can ask how many kids I'm willing to give you, I think I can tell you that I want you to have a job you care about," you countered.
It struck you then that this wasn't a first date. It wasn't even a fiftieth date. While you were avoiding your feelings for Steve, your lives had grown around one another whether you wanted them to or not. Tightly woven, completely inextricable.
Nothing was as simple as just being each other's boyfriend and girlfriend when you'd been playing house since March. Mom and Dad. Samantha's Parents. Hello, this is the Harrington Household, we can't come to the phone right now, but—
Boyfriend felt too casual for what he was to you. It felt small and childlike. You were talking to Steve like your future together had already been written in permanent marker. And, really, you knew that feeling wasn't just about Sam. It was a choice you made daily, that you'd been actively making since March.
A choice to wake up and see things through, to live with hopefulness instead of anger. It was the harder path, you were more than sure of it, but the funniest sense of certainty settled over you as you looked at Steve across the table.
It had never felt so obvious until that moment.
"I think you're smarter than you give yourself credit for," you said finally. "And I think you're funny, and charismatic, and shockingly selfless. And if you ever can't decide on what to do, I vote that you stay a DJ, 'cause your voice sounds really sexy on the radio."
He laughed and shook his head incredulously, but the tiny smile on his lips as he stared at the tablecloth told you that you'd managed to cheer him up a little.
The waiter brought out your plates, which gave you both a healthy buffer to push thoughts of the future aside for another time. The conversation moved away from heavy topics like how many kids will we eventually have and what job will you have to support them and don't be jealous that I was sleeping around before we reconnected, I did it because I missed you, and into safer places like wow, these mashed potatoes are really good and I think the menu actually called it a potato puree.
Your fork dragged against your plate, and it suddenly felt very… calm. Sweet and well intentioned, but so much more grown up than you were used to. It reminded you of being twelve and having a babysitter come over so your parents could go have a date night. They went out, had a nice meal, and got home exactly at nine so they could hand over the cash to the babysitter.
You didn't want to feel like them— not now, not ever. Besides, the mention of a future career outside of interdimensional monster hunting had bummed your boyfriend out.
"Do you wanna do something fun after this?" You asked as you finished your last bite. "Like… maybe we can hit up Big Town and see if that bartender who always sold us drinks still works there."
"Big Town?" He asked, brows furrowing. "You want to go bowling?"
You nodded. "Yeah, why not? When's the last time either of us did anything fun?" Really, your lives had become a series of end-of-the-world emergencies, child-rearing, and brief moments of respite in each other. But fun… the kind of fun that you'd had before the world ended, had been a rare occurrence in your lives as of late.
He gave you a guilty look look, like like a puppy that had just been caught chewing on your favorite shoes. "This isn't fun?"
"No, it's great, Steve, and I appreciate that you planned all of this," you insisted. "But… I think we should take advantage of our baby-free night since it's only, like, half past eight. And I want to see if I can kick your ass in bowling still."
The promise of a little competition lit a spark in his eyes, and his guilty, disappointed expression disappeared. "I always went easy on you," he said with a grin. "And you're right, this isn't the most exciting date of all time. I just wanted it to be kind of fancy, I thought you deserved to be treated to something nice."
You leaned across the small table and planted a soft kiss on his lips, not caring that your blazer was at risk of dragging across your plate. "It's very sweet," you said against his lips. You gave him another slow kiss and sat back. "You're very sweet. And very, very bad at bowling."
Steve flagged the waiter for the check, unable to sit back while his athletic prowess was called into question. On the way to the car, after he had paid for the meal (a meal which you thought was way too expensive, but you weren't going to tell Steve that), you linked your fingers with his and tugged your jacket a little tighter around yourself.
But thoughts about how the conversations inside had gone kept nagging you with each step away from the warm glow from the windows. You didn't want to leave that part of the date with unsaid words or a dark cloud over it.
"Okay, to start, I'm sorry for getting weird about you dating around," you began, pausing at his car. You leaned against the passenger's side door and peered up at him. "It's totally fine that you did, y'know, and I'm not ever going to think lesser of you because you did, or judge you for anything, because that would be totally hypocritical. And it's not even about you it's—"
The soft warmth of a kiss on your cheek made you shut up and take a deep breath. He stepped back and brushed your hair out of your face with a an amused, if not understanding smile. "It just made me think about how much time we've wasted, y'know?" You asked, meeting his gaze. "I don't even know if there's anything we could have done to change how things ended up, or if this is just what we were meant for, but sometimes I catch myself thinking about all of the places we could have fit back together before."
You thought about senior year, and if Steve would've come to your window after Billy beat him senseless— cold tile under your knees as you cleaned the blood off of his face and stuck pink bandaids on the deep cuts. How easy it would have been then to just apologize for your fight before you slept together and things got more complicated.
Or, maybe, Fall break of your freshman year of college, when Carol and Tommy sent you to return a couple of tapes to Family Video. You had thought it was a simple favor because she was way too pregnant to deal with the asshole manager bitching her out about late fees, but, no. Steve was behind the counter like they'd planned it all. Honestly, they probably had.
Maybe if you'd just talked it out then. If he hadn't been so avoidant, if you hadn't been so angry.
"I'm glad it's now," he said finally. "I'm glad you got to stay away from… everything I come with for a little while." His eyes shifted over your shoulder and you turned, looking at the football stadium glow of the military base in the square. A shiver ran through you, not from the snow. "Let's get you in the car, you're freezing. And I don't want you to blame it on frostbite when I kick your ass at Big Town."
A smile played on your lips as you nodded. You stood on your tiptoes and kissed him again, slow and sweet, then got in the car.
Honestly, you didn't hate the Beamer that much anymore. It smelled like Steve's cologne, and a little bit like the strawberry applesauce that you'd spilled into the floor mats in the backseat when you'd tried to appease a crying Sam on the drive home from a doctor's appointment.
The radio was turned to WSQK, as it usually was. As Steve cranked the car, you heard Robin announcing her next track— a throwback by Depeche Mode. Steve made a face and turned the radio up.
"I put her onto that one," he muttered, without much venom at all. He flipped down the visor to check his hair in the mirror and your heart fluttered at the sight of the pictures of you and Sam clipped inside. He brushed his fingers against the pictures briefly, like it was a habit, before he shut the visor and gave you an easy grin.
That was your Steve. The Steve you felt that aching affection for that you couldn't bring yourself to place. He held your hand over the center console and drove into the snowy night.
Big Town Bowling Lanes was the one respite from Steve's carousel of women when you were in high school. It was like it had sacred wards carved into the foundation, forbidding him from bringing annoying skanks along whenever you went bowling with Carol and Tommy.
Or, maybe, it was just because it was four people per lane and Carol wouldn't let him kick you out to bring some girl. Either way, you relished in your weekends spent at the lanes. Tommy and Steve always took it way too seriously, and you always wound up barely edging Steve out in scores.
Darrell, who worked the concessions stand, would pour beers into styrofoam cups so you could pretend they were sodas, just as long as you tipped him nicely. It was a pleasant surprise to find him still behind the counter, and still willing to sell beers to underage drinkers like you and Steve.
A few teenagers were trying their hand at the open mic night while you waited for a lane to open up— singing Madonna and Paula Abdul and a few other top 40 songs. It wasn't the best background music, but the liveliness reminded you of your friends. It was a welcome reprieve from the constant sobriety of the end of the world and parenthood.
"Pinball while we wait?" Steve suggested. You fished around your purse for a couple of quarters and leaned against the machine while he played. Tommy had always been better than him at this exact machine, but Steve knew all the targets and how to get multipliers. Plus, it was nice to look at his handsome face lit up by the flashing lights.
You used a quarter to try the claw machine beside him— another thing Tommy had excelled at. He'd taught you all the tricks to get a prize every time, and even though you were out of practice, it was a bit like riding a bike. While Steve got a second ball in the playing field, the claw caught on a gorilla's arm and carried it to the prize chute. You put in another quarter and won a second one for Sam.
The bowling alley was packed— there wasn't much else to do in a quarantine. To make up time, you signed the two of you up for the open mic, where you fumbled your way through You're The One That I Want from Grease. Steve still hated Travolta, and still had a much better singing voice than you did. When the lanes still stayed full, you sang Don't You Want Me very, very badly.
Darrell poured you both beers, and you were about to just give up and call it a night when the lane you'd been desperately waiting for opened up. Already, enough time had passed that you were itching under your skin with anticipation about getting home, so you weren't exactly focused on bowling.
You watched Steve step up to the lanes each frame as you sipped at your beer, eyes on the way his jeans clung tight to his ass, the way his fingers slid into the bright green house ball. Your pulse fluttered at the sight, and your brain went a little fuzzy.
God, you needed to get laid.
You took another drink as he threw the ball down the lane and the pins crashed at contact. Strike. He spun around, a smug grin on his lips, and marked an X on the scorecard.
"That's three in a row, baby. I'm going for a perfect game," he insisted, smacking a kiss on your forehead. You blinked yourself from your horny stupor and nodded. You took another drink of beer and took your turn.
You were distracted by his stupid hands and handsome face. Frankly, you were regretting bringing up bowling as an option, because you were stupidly needy and eager to get him back home so you could get your hands on him. You knocked down seven pins, then threw into the gutter on your attempt to pick up the spare.
"You're not giving me much competition, honey," he said as you sat back down, grinning smugly. You shook your head and rolled your eyes, leaning into his side, but as soon as you had cuddled up against him, he was back up and on the lanes.
You gave a strained smile and a thumbs up, and watched as, sure enough, he threw a clean strike. His excitement was palpable, as was his ego. He looked like he was back on the basketball court in high school after he'd shot a successful three-pointer.
When he sat down, you leaned into his side and put a hand on his thigh. He kissed your forehead, then nodded towards the lane. "Stop stalling 'cause you know I'm going to beat you," he said, completely oblivious to your intentions.
You sighed and stood, heading back to the lane. This time you managed to get a spare, which was met by a very sarcastic clap from your boyfriend. He stood, not even giving you time to sit beside him before he was up again.
Steve took competition very seriously, and you knew that. He had barely even sipped at his beer so he could keep his focus. Partially, you appreciated that he wasn't going easy on you as a form of flattery, but you also wanted a little more attention.
There was something cute about him getting all worked up and focused about it. The way his tongue peeked out in concentration as he wrote scores, how he'd turn around and give you a smug smile at the end of each frame. You were bowling in a technical sense, but really you were taking it as your opportunity to relish in the ghost of King Steve before you.
"Why don't you help me correct my form?" You asked him as the game neared its end, slipping your fingertips inside the V-neck of his collared shirt. His heart thrummed against your touch, beneath the soft chest hair and spattering of beauty marks hidden beneath. "Hm? Give me a fighting chance."
He swallowed hard, his warm brown eyes going wide. "You want me to… oh! Yeah, I'll just… yeah, I'll help you."
With a grin, you stood and pulled him to the lane and grabbed the ball. "Okay, so… you want to line up with the dots on the ground," he began.
You nodded and sighed contentedly as he fit himself against your back. "Start back here, and you walk to gain some momentum. And before you're at the line, you pull your arm back, and throw."
He guided your motions as best as he could with a twelve pound ball in your hands. But it wasn't the actual advice you wanted— you knew how to throw a bowling ball down a lane— you wanted the close press of his body against yours.
"Got it?" His breath puffed over your ear and you shivered. You nodded and he stepped back. "Show me."
You rolled the ball down the lane and grinned victoriously when nine pins came down. You turned on the balls of your feet and met his gaze, hands clasped behind your back.
He sat back, seemingly less interested in the actual sport of bowling now that he had you blatantly flirting with him, in a cute little skirt and an oversized blazer that you definitely stole from his dad's closet. You'd even put a little brooch on it— two interlocking gold hearts and a dangly little pearl.
"What are you gonna give me if I make the spare?" You asked with a coy smile. "I think I deserve a prize for my hard work."
He shrugged casually and nodded back to the prize counter, where a bored employee sat with her chin in her hand and read Seventeen. "Maybe you can get one of those slap bracelets."
You rolled your eyes. "Hm… not quite what I was thinking."
"I just think it's a waste of a prize if whatever you're asking for is something you're going to get anyway." He gave you a smug smile and you could do little more than laugh and shake your head.
You picked up the spare, and your temporary reward was a slow, hungry kiss when you joined him on the couch. Really, you should have been a little embarrassed by the fact that you were french kissing Steve in the middle of the bowling alley, but you were too drunk on him to care. His hands slid under your jacket, teasing the waistband of your skirt where your sweater was tucked in.
"Hey, I should probably finish this game," he pulled back suddenly, glancing at the lane. His thumb brushed under your bottom lip, tidying up your smudged lipstick. "I'm, like, five strikes from a perfect score."
You sat back, brows furrowed, bottom still tingling from the way he'd bitten it. "Wait, what?"
He held up the score sheet. Sure enough, while you'd been staring at his ass and drooling over the veins in his hands, he'd managed to pull off seven strikes in a row. Fuck… maybe he had been letting you win in high school.
"Wow… sexy," you deadpanned, but he didn't seem to mind. In fact, he looked really proud of himself when he bowled another strike.
"You must be, like, my lucky charm," he said, planting another kiss on your lips. "This is the universe telling me you're the one."
By the time you finally made it back to the car, Steve had his picture framed on the wall of Big Town Lanes, a tiny plastic trophy, and a rainbow slap bracelet he'd asked for from the prize counter.
"Hold out your wrist," he said. With an amused huff, you held out your arm and tensed in anticipation. "C'mon, don't be a baby, it's just a bracelet." He slapped it onto your wrist and you shrieked, yanking your hand back.
"You were right, bowling was fun," he said. "And I did totally kick your ass. I'm gonna have to ask Henderson the odds on bowling a perfect game. Maybe we should go buy a scratcher or something."
You laughed, shaking your head. It was something else you loved about Steve— he was naturally funny. He could make you laugh until your sides hurt, especially now that you weren't denying your feelings for him. Well, not like you were before, at least.
"Alright, champ, let's get home," you said with an affectionate eye-roll. "It's freezing."
The house felt a little less like home when you walked inside. It was cold and still, like a dollhouse. You wondered if it was how Steve felt growing up alone most of the time. You couldn't ask, because Steve hated feeling pitied, but you could wonder.
As you got settled, Steve put his trophy down on the counter and you eased off your coat and went to check the answering machine. "Hi sweethearts. Samantha was a perfect angel. She had some meatloaf and mashed potatoes for dinner, then watched the Care Bears movie on tape with Uncle Dusty. She's just gone down for the night, and I know she can't wait to see you in the morning. Enjoy your night, you two!"
You smiled fondly at the message and turned to face Steve with a smile. "Hear that? We've raised a perfect angel," you said with a tiny laugh. He was pouring glasses of wine into the pretty crystal that typically sat unused in the china cabinet. The deep red looked so inviting behind the etched glass, especially after cheap beer.
"Of course we did, you're a great mom," he said, and handed you the glass. Your fingers brushed against his as you accepted it into your own hand, just for a fleeting moment. "Feels weird having the house empty, huh?"
You brought the glass to your lips and took a slow sip. "Really weird," you agreed. "Not bad, just different."
He nodded and took a drink of his own. You both stood in the dark kitchen, lit only by the street lamps outside the window— a pale yellow glow. You finished your glass and felt a pleasant warmth all over— a buzz under your skin. His parents' wine collection was fancy enough that you actually enjoyed drinking it, unlike the cheap boxed stuff that you and Carol used to share.
"Wanna listen to some music on the couch?" He asked finally. "I have some pretty great mixes. Working at the station means I get access to all of the good stuff."
You snorted at the thought of Steve slacking off and making mixes on the clock. "Your big move right now is asking if I want to listen to music on the couch?"
"Well, it's a really good mix," he insisted with a stupid grin. You shook your head and put your empty glass back on the counter with full intentions to revisit it later.
You knew this move in his playbook, and you were totally shameless about the fact that it was actually going to work on you. So you let him lead you over to the couch, and sat patiently while he messed around with the fancy sound system hidden in the bookshelves.
He clicked the tape into place and joined you on the couch just as the sound of a synth started playing. You bit your lip to stifle a laugh as he slung an arm across the back of the couch, so his fingers brushed against your shoulder. It was just so obvious.
You shivered as his fingers played with the ends of your hair, twirling them around his fingertips. That was the invitation he needed. You grinned as he tugged you into his side, wrapping his arm tight around you. "Cold? Need me to warm you up?"
It was so corny. You figured this was a move of his, tried and true, but you didn't mind. Really, you had always wondered what the Steve Harrington hookup experience was like.
So you nodded and let him pull you into his lap where he was nice and warm beneath you. "'S that better?" He asked. Big hands settled on your arms, moving up and down in a showy attempt to warm you up.
"Mhmm… but maybe I'm a little hot now," you said, playing right into his hand. At that, his expression perked up, and you could sense his excitement in the way his eyes lit up.
"Yeah? Gotta get this off then, huh?" He tugged at the thick fabric of your sweater, right below your ribcage. As soon as you nodded, his fingers slipped beneath the waistband of your skirt and untucked your sweater so he could pull it over your head and toss it mindlessly aside.
It totally fucked up your hair, but neither of you seemed to mind. Steve's eyes flicked to your breasts, the soft flesh encased in delicate black lace. You ran a hand over your unkempt hair in a nervous attempt to make yourself presentable again while he just stared.
"Where'd you get this?" he asked, meeting your gaze. "Did you send Murray out for it?"
Your expression scrunched in distaste. "Ew, no, why would I ever ask him for that?" You muttered. "I got this at school."
He swallowed hard, and you sighed softly as his warm hands moved up your ribs to cup your breasts through the lace. "You wore this for some college guy?"
You really had to steel your expression to keep from grinning. There was something exciting about the hint of jealousy in his gaze, the tiniest tick in his jaw. "I wasn't exactly celibate in college," you said slowly. His fingers flexed and you exhaled shakily as he played with you. "If you'll remember, I was heartbroken and trying to put this total asshole in Hawkins behind me."
His lips turned into what you could only describe as a pout, just before he moved his mouth to your sternum, pressing soft kisses to the flat of your chest. You would never tell another soul, but giving Steve a taste of his own medicine was immeasurably cathartic.
"If the fact that another guy saw this bothers you so much, you can just take it off," you added. He sighed against your skin, and you moaned softly as his lips trailed hot, messy kisses over the thin fabric.
He shook his head, nuzzling his face deeper into your tits. He mumbled something that you couldn't understand and met your gaze. "I'm not jealous," he insisted. "I just feel like they probably didn't appreciate your effort."
You couldn't keep the smug grin from your lips. "No?" You asked, cocking your head. "But you appreciate it fully, right?" He nodded and sucked a bruise onto your exposed cleavage.
"I appreciate it so much." His voice vibrated against your skin, making you laugh softly. When he pulled back from your tits, his pupils were blown with desire. He gave a tiny nod towards your skirt before dragging his eyes back to yours. "Do they match?"
In lieu of a response, you stood up and unzipped your skirt, so it joined your discarded sweater on the floor. Steve groaned at the sight of you in your sheer red tights, barely concealing the promise of more black lace beneath— high cut and pretty.
Before you could slip your fingers under the waistband to roll the tights down, Steve grabbed your wrist. "I've got it," he said. "It's like unwrapping a present."
He kissed your stomach once, twice, then eased the tights down your legs. His hand came under your knee, easing it into a gentle bend so he could pull one leg off your feet, then he repeated for the other.
There was a certain intentionality to every one of his touches— a confidence that showed in the steadiness of his hand as he ran his hand up your thigh. It was gentle and sure— intimate.
His hands slid up your thighs and pulled you in closer, so his mouth was level with your lower stomach. You sighed when he ducked his head and kissed the front of your panties, nice and sweet.
"Wait," you said suddenly. He looked up at you with flushed cheeks and half-lidded eyes, and you swear you got a head rush. "Just sit there for me, okay?"
You swore you could hear his pulse kick when you sank to your knees between his thighs, or maybe that was your own. Your palms slid up his thighs, moving over the dark-wash denim. He was already hard, you could see the thick shape of him straining against the fabric.
"Can I?" You asked. One hand rubbed at the bulge beneath your palm, the other toyed mindlessly with the button to his jeans.
"Fuck— yeah, 'course you can, honey. You can do whatever you want to me."
You smiled prettily up at him and popped the button of his Levi's. He groaned at even the lightest amount of pressure against his dick as you eased the zipper down and freed him from the confines of the denim.
You'd seen his dick before— in the shower, while he was changing, even how it looked in your hand. Even so, you'd never seen it so close before. You spit into your palm before you wrapped your hand around the base of him, relishing in the warm pulse beneath your grip.
With just the slightest glide of your hand upwards, you watched precum dribble from the ruddy tip. He groaned, hips thrusting up into your grasp. He squirmed as he kicked off his jeans and briefs, then tossed his sweater to the side. Your hand caressed his now-bare thigh, soft and downy to the touch.
"You have the cutest little freckle right here," you said with a tiny grin, and relished in the way his cheeks went red with embarrassment. Your lips moved to the base of him, where there was a small beauty mark. He shivered above you as you planted a soft, wet kiss there and looked up at him through your lashes.
"Fuck," he groaned, chest already heaving. "You're killing me, honey."
Your lips trailed up his shaft, until you wrapped your lips around his tip and suckled. He moaned, deep and pretty, head lolling back against the cushions. It was hard to fit much of him inside of your mouth without triggering your gag reflex. Your hand had to pick up your slack, stroking the inches that didn't fit with slick twists.
"God, you're good," he panted. "So good for me." You nearly preened at the praise. His fingers threaded into your curls, twisting your locks into a loose ponytail. Not so he could guide your pace or force you to take him deeper, but to keep your hair from getting in your face.
You pulled off, just to spit the drool that had collected in your mouth back onto his cock. It dripped messily down his shaft and over your fingers, collecting at his base and dripping down his balls. You moved your mouth down to them, licking up the mess you made just to hear him cry out above you.
He swore under his breath as you licked up the underside of his cock once more on your way up, tasting the slick mix of his precum and your spit. You pressed an almost chaste kiss to the head— once, twice before you teased the precum-slick slit with your tongue.
He exhaled sharply through his teeth. hips bucking up towards the wet heat of your mouth. You licked around the tip, teasing a pretty moan out of his lips. When you finally wrapped your lips around him and took him deeper into your mouth, his thighs tensed on either side of you.
You were incredibly grateful that you had the experience you did before Steve, otherwise you'd probably humiliate yourself. Your lips stretched to accommodate him as you tried to take him deeper, and you had the experience to know exactly how to fight your gag reflex as his cock nudged your soft palate.
"Keep going, just like that," he panted, tummy tensing as you let your tongue massage the underside of his shaft. "God, you've got a perfect fucking mouth."
When your jaw began to ache, you pulled back, lips puffy and sticky with spit. You pumped his cock in your fist as you took a second to catch your breath. His free hand moved to your face, where he stroked your cheek tenderly.
You wet your lips before you took him back into your mouth, suckling softly on the head of his cock briefly before you swallowed him deeper.
You were sure the sight was obscene— your lips stretched wide around his girth, spit bubbling around the spot where your mouth and fist met with each messy bob of your head and twist of your wrist. His moans we're constant, and the taste of his precum was heady on your tongue.
When his fingers tightened around your hair, you moaned around him, eyes fluttering. He panted out a pathetic moan at the sound, at the feeling of your own noise vibrating against him. He was so close, you knew it. His thighs tensing, his moans getting breathier, his hips canting up as they tried to bury his cock deep into your mouth.
You looked up, meeting his half-lidded gaze as you swallowed around him, and he was done for. He barely had time to give you a weak warning of, "gonna cum—" before he was spilling into your mouth.
You did your best to swallow every spurt of cum that painted your tongue and work him through every last aftershock. You were panting like you'd run a marathon when you finally sat back and wiped your sticky lips on the back of your hand.
Steve's eyes were closed, one arm tossed over them as he caught his breath, cock flagging between strong thighs as he came down. When he finally opened his eyes, you kissed a beauty mark on his inner thigh and stood.
"Sick of me already?" He asked with a grin. He grabbed your hand and tugged you onto his lap, but you shook your head and leaned back.
"I was gonna grab some mouthwash before we do anything else," you explained with a sheepish laugh. "So it's not gross for you, I mean."
He shook his head and let his arm move to the small of your back to ease you closer. You sighed softly as he pressed his lips to yours, licking slowly into your mouth. "I don't care," he murmured. Then, like he was trying to prove his own point, he licked your pouty bottom lip with a grin. "That's, like, the least gross thing you could ask me to do."
"Yeah?" You asked with a grin. "You're such a slut."
You watched him close his mouth and swallow, pupils blown as his eyes flicked from your lips and back to your eyes. He laughed weakly, but you knew he was so gone that he'd agree with anything you said. You leaned in, laving your tongue over his as you kissed him slow and deep.
It was messy and desperate, but you didn't care. His head tilted back, and you took every opportunity he gave you to kiss deeper, to lick into his mouth and claim the space for your own. His hands slipped down to palm your ass over the lace, squeezing and tugging you closer on his lap.
"Are you gonna let me touch you?" He murmured against your lips. You nodded, and he licked your bottom lip before a smile spread across his lips. "Yeah? I bet you're soaking through your panties right now. Probably why you're sitting up like that— so I can't feel it."
He eased you back so you were laying on the couch beneath him. His mouth went to your throat, suckling softly on the sensitive spot just beneath your ear. With his knee between your thigh, you couldn't help but squirm, seeking a little bit of relief where you needed it most.
You hated to be so easy for him all of the time. You wanted to look a little more composed and in control, but Steve had a way of making your inhibitions melt away and drip down your thighs.
"You drive me crazy, Steve," you murmured, your words little more than desperate pants in his ear. As his hand moved down your torso, you arched into him, seeking the heat of it against your body.
The feeling of his fingers slipping beneath the lace of your panties pulled a whiny mewl from your lips. The rough pads of his fingers rubbed over your sensitive clit, just barely grazing it before dipping down to your slick entrance.
"So wet and I've barely even touched you." His words vibrated against your jaw, and he punctuated them with a soft kiss. He nudged your thighs apart with his knee, giving him better access to toy with you.
A shudder ran through you as he slid his slick fingers up to your clit, only to circle his fingers so he totally avoided giving you any real friction. "C'mon, Steve," you whined. "I didn't tease you."
He laughed, a low, pretty sound that tickled your throat. "You're always a tease."
"You jerked off in front of me yesterday," you panted, bucking your hips with the feeble hope that you might catch the pad of his fingers where you wanted them. "Didn't let me touch you for a week. Fuckin' tease."
You could feel his smile against your skin, but, sure enough, he relented and gave you what you wanted. You gasped softly as he finally rubbed your clit, a pretty noise that he swallowed up in a hungry kiss.
His tongue slipped into your mouth, lapping up each whine and moan as he played with your pussy. Thick fingers rubbing through your slick folds, curling deep inside of your aching entrance.
"That's what you wanted, yeah?" He murmured against your lips. His fingers flexed, curling until your walls squeezed around them. "Mhmm… I can feel it. You're always so sensitive for me."
The sound of his fingers plunging in and out of your sopping cunt made your cheeks burn. It felt pointless, being so embarrassed at the effect that he had on you. He was just as affected by you as you were of him… but you couldn't hear how turned on he was with every single thrust of his fingers inside of you.
You grabbed onto his shoulders with one hand, blunt fingernails digging into the firm muscle there to ground yourself as he fucked you slow and deep with his fingers. Your other hand moved down, squeezing his wrist in an impossible choice of needing more but feeling too much.
The heel of his palm rubbed against your clit, giving you relentless friction and pressure that you couldn't squirm away from. Your thighs trembled, walls fluttering around the intrusion as he brought you closer and closer to the edge.
The lap of his tongue into your mouth kept you from slipping away entirely. Sweet, sensual kisses that kept you there with him, relishing in the full-body high of being worshiped by Steve Harrington.
You felt that warm buzz in the pit of your stomach, a pressure just building and building until you couldn't deny its pull anymore. Gasping into Steve's mouth, you squeezed his wrist and bucked against his hand as he brought you over the edge.
"That's it, pretty girl," he hummed. Your eyes fluttered, rolling lightly as he curled his fingers, toying with you as the final waves of pleasure wracked your body. "That's what you needed, huh?"
When he pulled his hand from your panties, his fingers were slick with your juices. He wasted no time sucking them between his lips, cleaning every trace of you off.
He laid beside you, tracing spit-damp fingers along your tummy as his mixtape played on. You'd been so wrapped up in Steve that the music had gone fuzzy in the background. But now that you were fully back in your body, all fuzzy and content, the sound of saxophones struck you fully. With a giggle, you met his gaze. "Careless Whisper?" You asked with a grin. "You're so corny."
"Hey, it's the best," he insisted. "It's sexy."
You rolled your eyes and grinned up at him before you leaned up an kissed him again. He smiled into it, meeting your lips with the ease and confidence of a man who knew he had all of the time in the world with you.
You didn't want to wait another second. You shifted, pinning him beneath you on the cushions. He was hard already, and you had a feeling he had been for a while. As you stripped off your bra and tossed it aside, you watched his cock twitch where it rested against his stomach.
"Looks like you really want me," you teased, like you didn't want him just as bad. "Do you have it in you, baby?"
He swallowed hard and nodded. "Fuck, yeah I do," he breathed. His hands moved to your hips, and you didn't resist as he guided your hips in a slow grind. It was a little obscene, the sight of your clothed pussy rubbing over his bare cock. Precum beaded then dripped onto his stomach, making a slick little pool beneath the head that only seemed to grow with each lazy rut. "You gonna give it to me?"
Steve's pupils were blown wide as he looked up at you, swallowing up the honey-brown of his irises. He really did drive you crazy. Really, how was it fair that he could just look at you like that? Desperate and doting in equal measure.
You detached from him to wiggle off your panties, balancing against the back of the sofa as you kicked them off, then settled on his lap once more. His big hands went right back to their place on your hips and you couldn't help but give a testing roll of your hips.
Even with that tiny motion, you felt his fingers flex, dimpling your soft skin. Your eyes fluttered at the feeling of the blunt head of his cock nudging your clit, still sensitive from the first orgasm he'd pulled from you. You felt your cunt pulsing with need as you continued to slowly grind down against him.
"You're torturing me," he whined. His eyes were half-lidded and lazy, his mouth parted as he watched your slick pussy gliding along his length. One of your hand rested on his chest for stability as you moved, giving him the perfect view of your tits as they moved in time with your hips. "God, you're so hot, honey. Just wanna make you feel good, baby. You've gotta let me, 'cause I know you need it."
A breathy laugh escaped your lips as you looked down at him. "I barely have to do anything and you're begging," you teased. He groaned, grinding up against you, unabashed in his need.
And, yeah, it would've been fun to keep torturing him, but you were still just as impatient as he was. So you lifted your hips just enough that you could guide his cock to your entrance and begin to slowly sink down.
He felt even bigger with you on top, something you'd blissfully forgotten since your wedding hookup. It made you wonder if he had gone easy on you the week prior and hadn't tried to go all the way in. It felt like a challenge to prove you could take it— every single inch.
Your fingers twitched against his chest, curling into the downy hair there as your mouth fell open. He moved one of the hands resting on your hips to lay on top of yours, frustratingly affectionate. "C'mon, honey, just take it nice and slow."
"Shut up," you panted, which only made him grin up at you. "I've done it before."
It wasn't like riding Steve was some herculean task, even if he was stupidly hung. But you were more than a little out of practice, and after you finally managed to pick up a decent rhythm, you kind of just wanted him to flip you over and fuck you into the cushions.
You weren't a quitter though, and Steve's blissed-out reactions beneath you were all the encouragement you needed to keep going, aside from your body's need for release. Your thighs ached slightly from months of celibacy, but the room filled with a chorus of both of your moans each time you sank back onto him.
"You feel so good, baby," you moaned softly, giving your hips a little swivel that made a drawn out groan spill from his lips. "I love how you feel inside of me. So deep."
It wasn't just to fluff his ego— you swore you could feel every ridge and vein of his cock where it was buried within you. Every pulse, every twitch was just confirmation that he felt as good as you did.
The hand that was gripping onto your hip moved, flattening just beneath your belly button. It's as tender as it was debauched, just like him. His thumb stroked over your soft skin, sweeping back and forth in a display of affection. "Feel me here?" He asked, and it was a marvel that he could look so earnest when asking something so filthy.
You nodded, giving a slow rock of your hips. He was so deep that you could hardly think of anything else except for the drag of his cock against your fluttering walls, the way his tip nudged against your G-spot as you sank down on him again and again.
"Steve," you whined, looking down at him. "I want you to fuck me."
A lazy smile spread across his lips. "We are fucking." As if he was proving his point, he began to thrust up so he could sink deeper into your wet heat.
Your brows knit together as a soft moan fell from your lips. "Yeah, I— fuck, Steve— I know but I just want—" Your eyes rolled back as he fucked you nice and deep, stealing the words and your breath right from your lips.
"I know what you want." You almost regretted asking to switch positions when he pulled out, leaving you empty and wanting. But then he was shifting you beneath him and hooking your legs over his shoulders. "How's this?"
You swallowed hard. "It's good, it's so good," you said eagerly. You could feel the head of his cock nudging your puffy folds as he rutted against you. It would catch at your entrance and you would gasp in anticipation, but he didn't sink in yet.
"Can you bend a little more?" He asked, and moved so he was pressing your thighs into your chest, his body imposing above you. "Is that too much?"
When you shook your head, reached between your bodies and began to slowly push inside. You groaned, head lolling back as he moved. With the way he'd folded you in half beneath him, you felt every inch splitting you open. Thick, stretching you out obscenely around his girth.
"Oh god," he groaned, and you swore you felt his dick twitch inside of you. "You're squeezing me so tight. Perfect fucking pussy."
Your face went hot at his words. "Steve," you whined. He'd never said anything so dirty to you before, and it thrilled you as much as it made you feel a flash of embarrassment.
He grinned down at you, pulling out so he could glide back in nice and slow, just to torture you. "What? You don't want me to talk about how much I love your pussy? 'Cause the way you're gripping me makes me think you do."
"Fuck, Steve," you moaned. "You can't say stuff like that, baby. You're killing me."
"I think you like it," he said, pushing in again, so deep that his balls pressed tight against your ass. "I think you fucking love knowing that I'm obsessed with you."
He pulled out again, only to set a dizzying pace. Hips snapping against yours again and again and again, while you just laid there and took it. Your feet dangled where they rested over his shoulders, shaking each time he bottomed out.
"Oh my god. You're so wet, honey. Sound so fucking pretty."
His words made you conscious of the tacky, slick sounds of his cock plunging into your cunt. The slick sound of your walls swallowing him, the plap plap plap of his balls against you. You didn't particularly think the sounds of him fucking you were pretty. They were pornographic and obscene, sure, but not pretty.
He was heavy on top of you, rutting more than thrusting so each movement made him grind against the sensitive spots inside. Your eyes rolled back and you felt your walls squeezing around his cock. "Steve, just like that—"
"C'mon, beautiful, tell me how it feels."
You whined, toes curling. "So— ngh— so good, baby," you managed. "God, I feel you everywhere."
It wasn't the most coherent description, but it was true. He was inside you, so deep it felt like your body was moving to accommodate him. He was on top of you, pressing you into the bed, into him. Around you, holding you close. It was like your world started and ended where you touched him.
It was so easy to lose yourself to him. His head buried into your shoulder as he ground deeper, harder inside of you. A choked sob slipped past your lips, and you trembled as the pressure built up inside of you. His tip nudged your sweet spot over and over, until you weren't sure you could take much more.
"God, I fucking love you," he panted. Your pussy fluttered around him at those words, and he moaned at the feeling. "Want me to say it again? I love you so much."
It hit you suddenly then. Your cunt clenched around him as euphoria washed over your body. "Oh, fuck, Steve—" you gasped, until your words dissolved into keening moans and whines. You mewled, eyes rolling back as he continued fucking into you as you lost yourself to the pleasure.
He lifted his head just enough to capture your mouth in a messy kiss— tongues sliding against one another, licking into his mouth to swallow each other's cries. His rhythm grew sloppy and clumsy, until he swore into your mouth.
"Oh, fuck, honey, shit— I'm— fuck fuck fuck—" He barely managed to pull out before he was painting your cunt with hot ropes of his cum. His cock twitched with each spurt of cum, until there was nothing left to give. He exhaled sharply, looking more than spent as he eased your legs from his shoulders and caught his breath.
The tape had long since ended, leaving you in silence, save the chorus of your shaking breaths. You giggled weakly and peered up at him with a dopey smile. "Holy shit."
Steve took a shaky breath and met your smile with one of his own— equal parts exasperated and lovestruck. "God, we really can't go raw anymore, baby. I almost didn't make it."
Your heart did a funny little skip at that, but you nodded. "Yeah, probably shouldn't," you agreed. He leaned down to give you one more kiss. "Let's go to bed, yeah?"
Steve couldn't keep his hands off of you, even when you were just washing your face and brushing your teeth. He wrapped an arm around your shoulders and dribbled minty foam down his chin. You hated how endearing you found that.
When you were taking your vitamins and medicine, he stood behind you, chin resting on the top of your head as you washed them down. "You're so clingy," you accused, meeting his gaze in the mirror.
"I just love you," he replied, and kissed your temple for good measure.
You climbed into bed and stared at the ceiling as Steve dozed beside you. The soft cadence of his breath rising and falling. But you didn't want to sleep yet. You just wanted more time with him.
So you grabbed the shabby quilt from the foot of the bed and wrapped it around your body as you crossed the room to your turntable. Behind you, there was the soft rustle of blankets as Steve sat up, rubbing his eyes.
"What're you doing?" He slurred sleepily. You glanced at him over your shoulder, at his half-lidded eyes and his messy hair, and felt such a strong tug of emotion that you had to look back at the task at hand— flipping through your crate of records.
"Trying to find something good to listen to," you replied casually, pausing to eye Purple Rain before flipping onward. "I'm not tired yet— don't really want the night to be over, y'know?" You grabbed your old Super Trouper album and smiled fondly as you set it on the turntable and put the needle to the vinyl.
Steve groaned at the choice in music, but you rejoined him in bed, curling up against his chest with a contented sigh. His strong arms wrapped around you, pulling you closer. His fingers tangled with yours, playing with them as you laid in the quiet of the room.
"I want you to tell me something no one else knows," you whispered. "Even if it's just something small."
He leaned over, kissing the crown of your head briefly. You felt the warm puff of his breath over your scalp as he thought, a hum buzzing against your skin.
"I made you a tape, in case Vecna got in your head and started digging around," he said finally. "This was, like, a month after Hawkins split open, so we thought he might just start popping people into trances all over town. And I was so scared for you, y'know? I didn't want anything to happen to you."
A tiny smile played on your lips. Even when you felt like your whole life had shattered around you, he was still working to make things better, even if you didn't know it. You hated that it had taken you so long to see that, when it was something so beautiful about him.
"What song?" You asked after a beat, brows furrowing.
He laughed softly. "Well, I asked you what your favorite song was over breakfast, you glared at me, asked why I cared, and told me Baby I'm a Star. And I didn't really know if that was true, but I made the tape anyway. And then I made a second one with How Deep Is Your Love, because you used to say if that song was played at your funeral, it'd wake you right up."
A snort escaped you at the memory. You could remember him asking, and it felt like such a cheap attempt to bond that it had soured your mood for the rest of the morning. You felt a world removed from that moment, even though it hadn't even been a year since then.
"It actually would," you agreed. You squeezed his hand and brought the back of it to your lips to plant a soft kiss there. He had a tan line from his watch that was only just starting to fade from the winter gloom. It was so strange, to be so utterly seen by someone, and to see them just the same.
"What's your song?" Your lips brushed against the back of his hand as you spoke. "If you got lost, what would pull you back?"
"Under Pressure," he replied simply. "Sometimes I'll play that tape in the van just 'cause. I could listen to that song forever, y'know? Drives Dustin crazy."
A small laugh escaped you at the image. Maybe it was just that it was late and you were exhausted, but you were endlessly amused by the thought of Steve making Dustin listen to music on replay on top of the monotony of the crawls. "Tell me something else. Talk to me about anything, I just want to hear you."
He sighed, relaxing beside you. He was so warm where he pressed against you, accommodating the nudge of your knee between his thighs and the slip of your arm under his. The soft thud of his heartbeat was like a metronome where your ear rested against his chest.
"Mrs. Wheeler said she'd start babysitting Sam for us, if that's what we wanted," he said. "I was going to tell you tomorrow, after we'd had the date and everything. I know you never wanted to just sit around this big house all day, so I told her we'd talk about it."
You swallowed hard, and felt a strange mix of excitement, gratitude, and the strangest ache in your chest. "I mean… yeah, we could use more money," you agreed. "But I don't even know what I'd do, Steve. Like… bus tables at Enzo's? Work with Murray at Bradley's? Gross."
Both of your bodies shook as he laughed. "God, you're so dramatic. You could do whatever you wanted," he insisted. "You could help us at the station."
You snorted. "Mm… doesn't really solve the money problem, huh?" You curled even closer into him, like you just wanted him to envelop you completely. "And I dunno… maybe I don't want things to change just yet."
Hawkins was like a world frozen while life moved around it. It was all real life with real consequences, and you knew that, but it also felt like you were holding your breath until all of the interdimensional horror was over. Once that happened, the day to day problems would feel bigger.
You didn't want to leave Sam with Mrs. Wheeler during the day, but you knew that was probably best. Rip off the proverbial bandaid and start the slow process of detaching from your routine before things really changed for good. You were never meant to be a housewife forever— it wasn't what you wanted, even if you'd gotten good at playing that role.
Steve kissed the crown of your head and squeezed your hand. "They don't have to change," he insisted. "But they can if you need them to. I just don't ever want you to feel like you're trapped, or you're making yourself smaller to fit here."
"Thanks," you whispered. "I just feel like I need a little more time with her. When things go back to normal, I don't know if I'll ever have this much time again. I feel like she deserves it."
The record played on while you continued to talk about anything you could think of. Steve had been watching the Bulls whenever he could catch a game on TV, and was eagerly trying to explain why he thought this was their year. You told him about the Danielle Steel novel you'd borrowed from Nancy and were totally devouring. He played with the ends of your hair, you planted the occasional kiss to his chest and shoulders.
You closed your eyes, listening to the sounds of ABBA playing from your speakers. "In five years, I want to be doing this exact same thing," you whispered. "Listening to an outdated record, laying in bed, just talking until we run out of things to say."
"Why don't we make it ten?" Steve mumbled against the crown of your head. You smiled and chewed on your lip. Ten could work. Or twenty-five, or fifty. Forever, even.
The needle of the record stopped, raised, and returned to its cradle, leaving the room quiet. "Steve," you whispered. It felt louder in the stillness of the bedroom— breaking through the silence of the house the same way a scream would. "I love you too."
The words hung heavy in the air, and Steve froze at your side, barely even breathing. Waiting for him to say something, anything felt like torture. And you knew you'd squeezed the proverbial toothpaste out of the tube, but really, you didn't mind. Life was already so messy that it felt natural.
"You love me," he echoed. Not a question, exactly, and not self-important enough to be a statement… just sheer disbelief.
And you wouldn't stand for that, so you rambled on. "I was just scared to say it, and I kept telling myself it was too soon because we've only been official, for, like, one week, but, y'know, things are different for us. I don't want to hide behind walls to protect myself anymore, and I know that y—"
Your words were muffled by the pressure of Steve's lips on yours. You barely had time to kiss him back before he leaned away to meet your gaze. "You love me?" He beamed down at you. "You don't have to. I mean— I just didn't expect you to reciprocate so soon."
"How could I not?" You asked gently, meeting his gaze. It was so soft and hopeful, warm enough to melt away your fears and reservations about opening up. "Even when I wasn't saying it, I felt it, y'know? This… rightness. And I felt bad for a while, but I don't want to feel bad anymore."
It was this circular logic that you kept falling into— the idea that fate had brought you to that moment. You'd never been a big believer in anything before, except in yourself, Carol Perkins, and that things usually went wrong for you somehow. Fate was new.
Carol got pregnant with Sam, which meant she had to get married, which is where you slept with Steve and dredged up all of those old teenage feelings again— the yearning and angst. Carol and Tommy made you and Steve godparents, Carol and Tommy died when the rifts opened, you and Steve raised Peanut, you and Steve fell in love.
Good things happened which led to worse things. Horrible, painful things happened that led to beautiful ones. How could you ever move on if you let guilt and anger keep you from being happy?
You believed in a lot more now. You believed that there were good people who would give up their peace thanklessly to save a world that would never even know they needed to be saved. You believed in psychic powers and monsters. You believed that your daughter's near-toothless smile was the best medicine on a really hard day.
And you believed, as corny as it was, that you were always meant to be with Steve Harrington from the moment he sat with you out on that patio.
"Oh my god, you love me," he repeated, smiling even wider. Before you even had time to roll your eyes and insist that, yeah, that's what you just said, he had shifted on top of you so he could kiss you fully. "I mean, I probably should have known when you came just from me saying it, but—"
You rolled your eyes and pulled him in again, relishing in the full weight of his affection as your lips met. You'd worried before that it would feel like a burden on you, some awful weight to carry on your shoulders, but it felt right in a way few things ever had.
A/N: Thank you so much for your patience and continued love for these characters + this fic! As many of you know, I've been getting treatment for my OCD which took a lot of my headspace away from being able to get this out sooner. I appreciate your love and encouragement SO so much and I promise not a single day passed that I wasn't actively working on it!!
I hope you love this chapter as much as I do! Part 6 (the ACTUAL final part) will be a wombo combo of the events of the final season + epilogue from what I have planned now, but I think we all know by now that my plans vs what I actually write don't always align perfectly <3
Worst comes to worst... seven or eight parts. Who knows! But I'm hoping I can tie this story off with a little bow in this next chapter.
Please send me an ask with your thoughts/hopes/opinions on this chapter and the story so far!! Give me a like/reblog/comment if you see fit as well <3 And thank you so, so much for reading! XOXO
A Deal With the Harrington's. Part 4 - Steve Harrington imagine.
(Rich Steve Harrington x fem!reader)
part 1. part 2. part 3
Summary: When you and your mother are on the verge of losing everything, the Harringtons offer you a deal you can’t refuse: marry their son, Steve, in exchange for clearing her debts and saving your home. It leaves you with no real choice but to agree.
word count: 7,072
Warnings: arranged marriage/forced engagement. Harmless bickering like an old married couple. mentions of having kids. slight arguing.
When you woke up the next morning, a familiar sense of unease had already settled in your stomach. It seemed to be becoming a routine in the Harrington house. For some reason, today felt different. Heavier. Like something was waiting around the corner, ready to go wrong. Though, considering everything that had happened so far, maybe "wrong" wasn't exactly new.
You started remembering everything that had happened with Steve last night. Not that anything actually happened. It had just been... weird.
Never in a million years had you imagined you'd end up having a genuine, emotional conversation with Steve Harrington—otherwise known as your future husband, much to your eternal misery.
Yet somehow, there you were.
Maybe life really was like that quote from Forrest Gump. A box of chocolates. You never knew what you were going to get. Although if you were being honest, whoever came up with that saying had clearly never been forced into an engagement with a rich, handsome stranger and moved into his mansion against their will.
Because if life was a box of chocolates, yours seemed determined to hand you the weirdest flavors possible.
Still...
You couldn't stop thinking about the conversation.
About the way Steve had looked when he talked about feeling lonely. About how, for a few minutes, he'd stopped acting like the sarcastic, irritating guy who seemed determined to make your life difficult and had instead looked... normal.
Human even.
Somehow that bothered you more than if he'd just stayed annoying. And every time your mind tried to move on from thoughts of Steve, it only wandered somewhere worse.
Home.
You really missed your uneven dresser drawer that always got stuck halfway open. You missed the posters on your wall. You missed waking up to the sound of your mom moving around downstairs, humming to herself while the coffee maker sputtered loudly because you desperately needed a new one.
Here, everything sounded controlled and lifeless. Even the silence had manners.
And then there was Steve again, taking over any coherent thoughts you could form in your cloudy mind.
You rolled onto your side, tugging the blanket higher over your shoulder as you tried to ignore the uncomfortable weight settling in your chest.
Fragments of last night kept drifting through your mind.
Steve sitting alone by the pool.
His quiet no when you asked if he was okay. The look on his face when his father said his name at dinner. The way he'd laughed when you called his parents awful. The way, for a little while, the two of you hadn't felt like enemies. Or strangers. Or unwilling participants in a future neither of you had chosen.
You didn't know what to do with that.
You weren't naive. You knew exactly how these stories usually went. Two people thrown together. Too much tension. Too many unexpected moments that chipped away at their defenses. Then one day somebody caught feelings, and everyone called it fate instead of a series of deeply questionable emotional decisions.
That wasn't happening.
You were not going to develop a crush on Steve Harrington just because he looked heartbreakingly miserable beside a swimming pool and occasionally remembered how to act like a decent human being.
Absolutely not. If anything that was the bare minimum and you needed to get your head out of the gutter and and man up. You are not falling in love with Steve as much as your head seems convinced to think and sabotage you into it.
You threw the blanket off and sat up.
You had to start remembering the rules you enforced. No feelings. No attachment. No romanticizing forced marriage because the groom happened to have nice hair and unresolved family trauma.
By the time you got dressed and made yourself look presentable enough to survive breakfast with the Harringtons, your nerves had settled into something more manageable. Not calm exactly, but functional.
You could do breakfast. You could survive a few awkward comments. You could pretend last night hadn’t made something shift.
Then you walked into the kitchen and immediately stopped because Mrs. Harrington was sitting at the breakfast table. She had a weird smile plastered all across her face. It was deemed as weird because it wasn’t her normal smile. Not the fake polite one she used at dinner parties or the sharp one she used when Steve said something inconvenient.
This was worse. It was the kind of smile people wore when they were about to ruin your life and expect you to thank them for the privilege.
A large ivory binder sat in the center of the table. Beside it were stacks of magazines, fabric swatches, color samples, invitation designs, and several glossy brochures that looked way too expensive to touch.
Your stomach dropped. “No.”
Mrs. Harrington looked up. “Good morning.”
“No,” you repeated.
She blinked innocently. “Excuse me?”
You pointed at the table. “Whatever that is. No.”
At that exact moment, Steve shuffled into the kitchen behind you, hair still messy, one hand dragging over his face like he’d been personally betrayed by the concept of morning.
“What are we saying no to?” he muttered.
Then he saw the table.
He stopped beside you.
For one glorious second, the two of you simply stood there in silence, staring at the horror show of wedding materials like it had crawled out of the depths of hell.
Steve slowly turned around.
Mrs. Harrington didn’t even look surprised. “Steven.”
He froze. “I was leaving to get coffee.”
“There’s coffee here.”
“I was leaving to get better coffee.”
“Sit down.”
He closed his eyes briefly, like he was asking God for strength. Then he turned back around and looked at you. “You saw it too, right?”
“The binder?”
“The threat.”
“Yes.”
Mrs. Harrington sighed. “It is not a threat. It is a wedding planning binder.”
“That’s worse,” you said.
Steve nodded seriously. “Much worse.”
Mrs. Harrington folded her hands together on the table. “You two are being ridiculous.”
You stared at the binder again.
It had your name written across the front in elegant gold lettering.
Your first name.
Then Steve’s.
Together.
Like a life sentence that you were bonded to forever.
A strange pressure built in your chest. You had known there would be a wedding. Obviously. That was the entire point of this nightmare. But knowing something in theory was very different from seeing it printed in gold on an ivory binder while your future mother-in-law smiled at you across the table.
It looked official. It looked real. And that was awful.
Steve dropped into the chair beside you with a dramatic sigh. “I’m going to be honest. I thought we’d get at least one full day before the wedding ambush.”
Mrs. Harrington poured herself tea calmly. “This is not an ambush.”
“You put our names on a binder.”
“Organization is important.”
“How did you even make that binder overnight?”
“I had help.”
“That makes it scarier.”
You slowly sat down beside Steve, mostly because your legs were starting to feel unreliable. The kitchen smelled like coffee, toast, and expensive perfume. It should have been comforting. It wasn’t.
Mrs. Harrington reached for the binder and opened it.
Steve’s eyes flicked toward you, then back to his mother. “What exactly are we doing?” he asked, his tone lighter than his expression.
“I thought we could start with the basics,” Mrs. Harrington said. “Possible dates, venues, guest list size, colors, general style. Nothing overwhelming.”
You looked at the table. There were at least six magazines. Two appointment cards. Three venue brochures. And what appeared to be a typed guest list already clipped into the binder.
“Nothing overwhelming,” you repeated weakly.
Steve leaned toward you slightly. “She means by Harrington standards.”
“Oh my god.”
“It means if no one cries, it’s considered casual.”
You almost laughed. Almost. But this was not a laughing matter, this was your life about to head to shambles.
Then Mrs. Harrington slid one of the brochures toward you. The front showed a sprawling estate with white columns, manicured gardens, and a ballroom that looked like it had hosted at least three royal scandals.
“This is one of my favorites,” she said. “Elegant, traditional, excellent reputation.”
Steve stared at the photo. “That place looks haunted.”
“It does not.”
“It absolutely does.”
You tilted your head. “No, he’s right. That’s definitely the kind of place where a woman in a nightgown appears at the top of the stairs and warns you to leave.”
Steve pointed at you. “Exactly.”
Mrs. Harrington pressed her lips together. “It is one of the most sought-after venues in the state.”
“Do the ghosts come included or do we pay extra?” Steve asked.
“Steven.”
“What? I’m asking practical questions.”
You should not have enjoyed that as much as you did. You really shouldn’t have.
Mrs. Harrington turned her attention to you, clearly deciding Steve was a lost cause. “I thought you might enjoy something classic. Soft colors. White florals. Maybe blush accents.”
You blinked. “Blush accents,” you repeated.
“Yes.”
“I don’t know what that means.”
Steve leaned over. “It means pink, but expensive.”
You looked at him. “Why do you know that?”
“Hello? I’ve been trapped in this house my whole life.”
“Fair.”
Mrs. Harrington closed her eyes for half a second. “This is exactly why we need to start early.”
“Early?” you asked.
“Yes.”
“How early?”
Mrs. Harrington hesitated just long enough for your entire body to tense.
Steve noticed immediately. His hand shifted slightly on the table, not touching yours, but close enough that you noticed.
Mrs. Harrington turned a page in the binder. “Your father and I were thinking late summer.”
The kitchen went completely still.
Late summer. That was in like… less than 3 months away.
For a second, the words didn’t make sense. They floated there, pretty and meaningless, before dropping straight into your stomach.
Late summer was not some distant, abstract future.
Late summer was soon.
Too soon.
You were eighteen. You still felt like a child pretending to be an adult whenever you had to schedule your own appointments. And now they were talking about late summer like marriage was just another event to coordinate between vacations and charity luncheons.
Steve sat up slowly. “No.”
Mrs. Harrington looked at him. “Steven—”
“No,” he repeated. “Absolutely not.”
You looked at him. His voice wasn’t loud, but it had changed. The sleepy sarcasm was gone.
Mrs. Harrington’s smile tightened. “We are only discussing possibilities.”
“Late summer is not a possibility.”
“It gives us enough time to plan properly.”
“It gives us like five minutes.”
“Don’t exaggerate.”
“She’s eighteen,” Steve snapped.
The words hit the table harder than either of you expected.
Mrs. Harrington went quiet.
So did you.
Steve seemed to realize what he’d said a second after saying it. His jaw tightened, but he didn’t take it back. “She’s eighteen,” he said again, lower this time. “So am I. We don’t need a full wedding in three months.”
Something in your chest twisted painfully. You weren’t sure what you expected from him. Annoyance maybe. Deflection. A joke. Not that. Not him saying the thing everyone else kept ignoring.
Mrs. Harrington set her teacup down carefully. “This arrangement has already been agreed upon.”
“That doesn’t mean you get to shove us down an aisle before we can breathe.”
“Steven.”
“No, seriously.” Steve leaned back in his chair, but there was nothing relaxed about him. “What’s the rush?”
Mrs. Harrington’s gaze flickered toward the doorway.
Just once.
You followed the movement.
Mr. Harrington stood there.
You hadn’t even heard him come in. Of course you hadn’t. Men like him probably entered rooms silently on purpose. He wore a suit even though it was still morning, his tie already perfectly in place, expression calm and unreadable. He looked from Steve to you, then to the open binder.
“What’s going on?”
Steve didn’t look away from him. “We’re apparently getting married before summer ends.”
Mr. Harrington stepped farther into the kitchen. “That was one suggestion.”
“It was a bad one.”
“It is practical.”
You frowned. Practical. There was that word again. Not meaningful. Not traditional. Not exciting.
Practical. That’s all you were to this family. Like this wedding was a business expense. Because rich people don’t believe in marriage for love.
Steve’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Why?”
Mr. Harrington looked at him. “Why what?”
“Why is it practical?”
For a moment, nobody moved.
Mrs. Harrington suddenly looked very interested in rearranging the pages in the binder.
Mr. Harrington’s expression didn’t change, but the air did. It tightened. Sharpened. “Because dragging this out benefits no one,” he said. “Getting it over with will be the right decision.”
You swallowed.
Dragging this out.
As if your whole life was just paperwork on his desk to him.
Steve gave a humorless laugh. “Wow. Romantic.”
“This was never about romance.”
The words landed so bluntly that even Mrs. Harrington looked up.
Your face warmed, though you weren’t sure if it was from embarrassment or anger.
Steve’s expression hardened. “No kidding,” he said.
Mr. Harrington watched him carefully. “Then you understand why there’s no reason to delay.”
A bitter taste filled your mouth. You had spent the last few days trying to make yourself accept this. Trying to tell yourself it was a transaction. A sacrifice. Something temporary in spirit, even if permanent on paper.
But hearing him say it so plainly made something inside you recoil.
This was never about romance.
You already knew that. But apparently some part of you still hated hearing it.
You had never wanted to be the kind of person who married someone for money. Yet here you were, throwing every principle you had aside, and for what? So your mom wouldn't have to come home to an empty house without you.
Maybe that made you selfish, maybe it made you weak but a part of you still believed you would have rather spent the rest of your life working yourself exhausted to pay off every debt than sign your future away like this.
This wasn't freedom. It was just a different kind of cage. A prettier one. A more comfortable one. But a cage all the same, just like Steve had said.
Steve suddenly pushed the binder away from you with two fingers. It slid a few inches across the table. “Why can’t we just do a courthouse wedding?” he asked.
Mrs. Harrington froze.
Mr. Harrington went very still.
You turned toward Steve. “Wait,” you said.
He pointed at you immediately. “See? She gets it.”
You sat up a little straighter. Actually, you did. For the first time all morning, something made sense. “Yeah,” you said. “Why can’t we?”
Steve nodded quickly. “Exactly.”
“It would be faster.”
“Way faster.”
“Less expensive.”
“Barely any planning.”
“No ballroom.”
“No seating chart.”
“No strangers staring at us play pretend.”
“No first dance.”
Steve paused. “Okay, hold on.”
You looked at him. “What?”
“No first dance?”
“Obviously.”
“You’d skip the one part where we get free food and public humiliation?”
“I don’t think you understand the point of weddings.”
“I understand free food.”
Despite everything, you almost smiled.
Then Mr. Harrington spoke interrupting the both of you. “No.”
The word cut through the room.
Steve looked back at him. “No?”
“No.”
You frowned. “Why not?”
Mrs. Harrington opened her mouth, but Mr. Harrington answered first. “Because that won’t work.”
The same strange feeling from last night’s dinner settled over you again.
You looked at Steve. He was already looking at you.
That won’t work.
Not we don’t want that.
Not it would look bad.
Not that isn’t appropriate.
That won’t work.
As if the courthouse option failed some requirement neither of you knew existed.
Steve turned back to his father slowly. “Why wouldn’t it work?”
Mr. Harrington’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. “It is not the right image.”
“Image,” Steve repeated.
“Yes.”
“So it’s about appearances.”
“In part.”
“In part?” Steve laughed once, sharp and humorless. “What’s the other part?”
Steve’s expression flickered. There it was again. That exhaustion from last night. That quiet, worn-down look that made him seem suddenly younger. Not childish. Just tired. So tired of the same fight.
You hated that you noticed. You hated even more that you cared.
Mr. Harrington adjusted his cuff. “A courthouse wedding sends the wrong message.”
“To who?” you asked before you could stop yourself.
Both Harrington parents looked at you.
For a second, you regretted speaking. Then you didn’t. You straightened in your chair, gripping the edge of the table beneath your fingertips. “To who?” you repeated. “Because I don’t really understand why anyone would care this much. If the point is for us to get married, then a courthouse wedding does that. So why does it matter how many people are there?”
Mrs. Harrington’s expression softened in a way that felt entirely practiced. “Sweetheart, weddings are not only about legalities. They are about families coming together.”
You almost laughed. Families coming together? Your mother wasn’t even sitting at this table. Your family had been reduced to a problem they were solving with money and paperwork.
“Right,” you said quietly.
Steve glanced at you. He heard the shift in your voice. Of course he did. He seemed to hear everything now when it came to you, which was becoming incredibly inconvenient.
Mr. Harrington spoke before anyone else could. “There will be a wedding,” he said. “A proper one. The date can be discussed, but the event itself is not negotiable.”
Steve’s chair scraped back. “Of course it isn’t.”
“Steven.”
“No, it’s fine.” He stood, his smile sharp and empty. “Wouldn’t want your investment to embarrass you.”
The kitchen went silent.
Mrs. Harrington’s face paled slightly while Mr. Harrington’s eyes narrowed. You looked between them, heart beating faster.
Investment.
The word had come out too easily. Like Steve had thought it before. Like maybe he had heard it before.
For one awful second, no one said anything.
Then Steve looked down at you, his expression changed immediately, softening just enough to make your stomach twist. “Come on,” he said.
You blinked. “What?”
“We’re leaving.”
Mrs. Harrington’s voice sharpened. “You are not.”
Steve didn’t look at her. “We’re taking a drive.”
“We have plans.”
“We’re postponing them.”
“Steven! You cannot simply walk out every time you dislike a conversation.”
Steve finally looked at his mother.
The silence stretched.
When he spoke, his voice was quiet. “Watch me.” Then he turned and walked toward the door.
You sat frozen for half a second because leaving was rude. Leaving would make things worse. Leaving would probably start another argument. But staying felt like letting the binder swallow you whole.
So you stood.
Mrs. Harrington’s gaze cut to you. “I really don’t think—”
“I need air,” you said, it wasn’t even a lie. Then you followed Steve out.
The morning air hit your face the second you stepped outside. It was warmer than you expected, bright and clean, almost offensive in how normal everything looked. Birds were chirping. The lawn was perfect. Somewhere down the street, a dog barked.
The world had no idea your entire future was being planned inside a kitchen binder.
Steve was already halfway to his car.
You hurried after him. “Where are we going?”
“I have no idea.”
“Oh, that’s real comforting.”
He opened the driver’s side door. “Do you want to go back in?”
You looked over your shoulder at the house. Through the kitchen window, you could see Mrs. Harrington still standing by the table. Mr. Harrington had turned away, a phone already pressed to his ear.
Your stomach tightened. “No.”
“Then get in.”
You did.
- -
For the first few minutes of the drive, neither of you spoke.
Steve kept both hands on the wheel, jaw tight, eyes fixed on the road. The silence in the car was different from the silence by the pool. That silence had felt shared. This one felt like static.
You stared out the window as the Harrington house disappeared behind you. The streets of Hawkins passed in a blur of trees, lawns, mailboxes, and houses that all seemed painfully ordinary. People were living normal lives behind those windows. Making breakfast. Arguing about chores. Getting ready for work. Not discussing forced weddings over tea.
Lucky them.
Steve turned onto a quieter road.
You glanced at him. “So.”
He didn’t look over. “So.”
“That happened.”
“Unfortunately.”
“You called yourself an investment.”
His hands tightened slightly on the steering wheel. For a second, you thought he might dodge the question. Then he exhaled. “Yeah.”
You waited.
Steve’s throat moved as he swallowed. “My dad says stuff like that sometimes.”
Your chest tightened. “To you?”
He shrugged like it didn’t matter. Which, obviously, meant it did.
“Not always directly,” he said. “But yeah. Basically.”
You looked back out the window, suddenly angry in a way that surprised you. “Well, that’s disgusting.”
The corner of his mouth twitched faintly. “You really don’t like them.”
“I’m trying to be polite about it.”
“That’s you being polite?”
“Very.”
He huffed out a quiet laugh, but it faded quickly.
A moment of silent passed, the two of you seemed to take the moment all in then you said, “Thank you.”
Steve glanced over. “For what?”
“For getting me out of there.”
His expression shifted slightly, like he hadn’t expected gratitude. “Yeah,” he said. “Well. That binder was one page away from eating you alive.”
“Did you see it? It had tabs!”
“I saw.” he laughed.
“Color-coded tabs.” you repeated incredulously.
“That’s when I knew we were in danger.”
You smiled despite yourself. It was small but Steve saw it. His gaze lingered for just a second before he looked back at the road.
Your stomach did something stupid.
You ignored it immediately.
No.
Absolutely not.
The drive continued until Steve eventually pulled into the parking lot of a small diner on the edge of town. It wasn’t fancy. The sign flickered slightly. One of the letters looked like it had been replaced with tape and optimism.
Just how you liked it.
You looked at him. “This is where you take girls after emotionally devastating wedding planning?”
“Only the special ones.”
You rolled your eyes. “Gross.”
“I meant especially traumatized.”
“Mhm, that’s better.”
Inside, the diner smelled like coffee, grease, syrup, and old vinyl seats. It was the first place you’d been in days that didn’t smell like money and for some reason that made you love it immediately.
A waitress led you to a booth near the window and handed you menus without recognizing either of you, which felt like a gift from God.
Steve slid into the seat across from you.
For the first time all morning, he looked like he could breathe.
You opened the menu. “I’m ordering pancakes.”
“It’s almost lunch.”
“Your point?”
“None. Just observing.”
“Good.”
Steve looked down at his menu. “I might get pancakes too.”
“Don’t copy me!”
“You order something else, I drove us here and I was emotionally devastated first.”
“You don’t own pancakes, Steve.”
“I’m Steve Harrington. I own everything, apparently.”
You snorted.
The waitress returned, and you both ordered pancakes and coffee. When she left, the silence that settled over the table was easier than before.
Not light but easier.
Steve leaned back against the booth, eyes drifting toward the window. “My mom’s probably losing her mind right now.”
“Good.”
He looked at you, amused. “Good?”
“I just mean… She deserves a little panic after putting our names on a wedding binder before breakfast.”
“Fair.”
You wrapped your hands around the warm coffee mug the waitress had just set down. “Do you think they’ll actually listen? About not doing it late summer?”
Steve’s face changed. Not dramatically. Just enough.
Your stomach sank before he even answered.
“I don’t know.”
That was not comforting.
You looked down into your coffee. “Right.”
“I’ll try.”
The words were quiet.
You looked up.
Steve seemed almost uncomfortable after saying them, like sincerity sat badly in his mouth.
“I mean it,” he added. “I’ll try to slow it down.”
You studied him across the table.
There he was again. That version of Steve that made the entire situation harder. Not King Steve. Not the sarcastic guy who joked his way around every uncomfortable feeling.
Just Steve. Tired. Cornered. Trying anyway.
“You don’t have to do that,” you said.
His brows pulled together. “Yeah, I do.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Yeah,” he said again, softer this time. “I do.”
A quiet understanding settled between you, the kind that comes from recognizing the same frustration, fear, and exhaustion in someone else's eyes. A quiet, terrifying little agreement that neither of you had said out loud. You were stuck in this together and maybe, whether you liked it or not, that meant you had to protect each other.
The pancakes arrived before the moment could become unbearable and awkward.
Thank God.
You immediately focused on cutting yours into pieces like the pancakes had personally offended you.
Steve watched you for a second.
“What?” you asked, your fork already halfway to your mouth with a piece of pancake balanced on the end.
“Nothing.” he laughs.
After swallowing your pancake, you pointed your fork at him. “You're doing that weird staring thing again.”
“I don’t have a weird staring thing.”
“You absolutely do, you’re literally doing it right now. Stop! It’s weird.” a soft giggle escapes your mouth before you can process what you’re doing.”
“I was just thinking.”
“Well that’s dangerous, wouldn’t want your pretty little brain to think too hard.”
He rolled his eyes. “I was just thinking that you’re handling this better than I would.”
You paused for a second and then laughed once, humorlessly. “I’m not handling this.”
“You seem like you are.”
“That’s because I’m sitting down, shoving pancakes in my mouth.”
Steve’s expression softened.
You hated that. You hated when he looked at you like he actually saw you. It made all your defenses feel embarrassingly flimsy.
You set your fork down and leaned back. “Do you know what the worst part is?”
Steve looked at you carefully. “What?”
You stared out the window.
Outside, a woman crossed the parking lot holding a little girl’s hand. The girl was skipping, completely unaware of anything except the fact that she had somewhere to go and someone beside her.
Your throat tightened. “Everyone keeps acting like this is romantic.”
Steve didn’t say anything.
So you kept going. “Your mom talks about flowers and venues and colors like this is normal. Like I’m supposed to be excited. Like I’m supposed to sit there and pick between ivory and champagne or whatever and pretend I’m not terrified.”
Your voice wavered slightly. You hated that too.
You looked down quickly, blinking hard. “I’m eighteen,” you said, quieter now. “I don’t even know what I want my life to look like yet. And they’re talking about where we’ll live after the wedding and what kind of ceremony we’ll have and how many people should
Steve's face had gone still in a way that caught you off guard, not because he looked upset, but because he seemed to be listening to every word.
You swallowed. “And the worst part is that I know why I’m doing it. I know my mom needs the help. I know this fixes things for her. So I can’t even be fully angry without feeling selfish.”
Steve looked down at the table, a long silence stretched between you.
“You’re not selfish,” he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world, and for some reason that made it worse.
You let out a shaky breath and reached for your coffee to give your hands something to do. “I feel like I am.”
“You’re not.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I know enough. Look… I know we haven’t really known eachother that long but I’ve gotten to know you to a degree and I know that you are not a selfish person. A selfish person would never have agreed to this in the first place.
You looked at him, and Steve met your eyes just long enough for it to matter before looking away, his jaw tightening like the words cost him something. “You’re not the only one who feels trapped,” he said.
Your chest tightened.
He stared at his plate like it had suddenly become extremely interesting. “I know it probably seems different for me because it’s my family and my money and my house. But I don’t want this either.”
“I know.”
“No,” he said quietly. “I mean, I really don’t want this.”
The honesty settled over the table.
“I don’t want to become him,” Steve added.
Your throat went dry.
He laughed once, but there was no humor in it. “That probably sounds dramatic.”
“It doesn’t.”
Steve looked up then, and it was clear you meant it. His expression shifted in response. “I don’t want to wake up one day and realize my entire life was just choices he made for me,” he said. “Where I work. Who I know. Who I marry. What I become.”
His eyes flickered toward the window. “And the worst part is, sometimes I think I’m already halfway there.”
You didn’t know what to say. For once, sarcasm felt wrong, and even comfort felt like it didn’t quite fit.
So instead, you said, “I don’t think you are.”
Steve looked at you.
“You don’t know me that well,” he replied.
“No,” you admitted, “but I’ve met your dad.”
That got the smallest laugh from him.
You smiled faintly, “I’m serious,” you said. “You’re not like him.”
His expression softened in a way that made you regret every emotionally sincere word you had ever spoken.
“Yeah?” he asked.
“Don’t make it weird.”
“Too late.”
You kicked him lightly under the table.
He kicked you back. Not hard, just enough to be annoying, and for a second it felt normal in a way that was painfully and dangerously so.
Then the bell above the diner door rang, and both of you looked over instinctively. Nobody important walked in. Just an old man in a cap.
Still, the spell broke.
You both went back to eating.
After breakfast, neither of you seemed eager to return to the Harrington house. Steve drove aimlessly through Hawkins, taking turns without explaining where he was going.
You didn’t ask.
The car windows were cracked open. Warm air moved through the car, carrying the smell of grass and asphalt and late morning.
Eventually, Steve pulled into a small park overlooking a quiet stretch of trees and water. It wasn’t much. A few benches. A walking path. A gazebo that had definitely seen better days. But it was quiet.
You got out without asking questions.
Steve followed.
The two of you walked without direction, side by side, neither close enough to touch nor far enough apart to feel distant.
After a while, you said, “So if you were planning a wedding—”
Steve groaned.
“No just hear me out.” you continue explaining despite Steve’s annoyance.
“No.”
You continued anyway. “If you were planning a wedding you actually wanted—”
“I don’t like this question.”
“—what would it be like?”
Steve glanced at you suspiciously. “Why?”
“I’m curious.”
“That’s never good.”
You shrugged. “Fine. I’ll go first.”
He gestured dramatically. “Please. Enlighten me.”
“I’d want something small,” you said.
Steve’s teasing expression faded slightly.
You looked ahead, pretending not to notice. “Not courthouse small, maybe. But small. Just people who actually care. No random business associates. No one there because they want to be seen.”
Steve was quiet.
You continued, “Maybe outside. Somewhere pretty, but not creepy rich-person pretty.”
“That eliminates half of my mother's binder.”
“Good.”
“No ballroom?”
“No ballroom.”
“No three-hundred-person guest list?”
“Absolutely not.”
“No ice sculpture?”
You stopped walking. “Was that actually an option?”
Steve looked deeply amused. “Probably.”
“I hate rich people.”
“I know.”
You narrowed your eyes at him. “You are rich people.”
“I hate rich people spiritually and emotionally.”
“That doesn’t count.”
“It should.”
You kept walking.“What about you?” you asked.
Steve shoved his hands into his pockets. “I don’t know.”
“Liar.” you teased.
“I’m not lying.”
“Come on. You definitely have opinions.”
“I have opinions on many things.”
“Then have one now.”
Steve sighed dramatically. “Fine. Small too, I guess.”
You glanced at him.
He stared ahead. “I wouldn’t want my parents planning it,” he said. “That’s my main thing.”
“Reasonable.”
“And I wouldn’t want people staring at me like I’m performing.”
“Also reasonable.”
“And I’d want decent music.”
“Define decent.”
“Not whatever my mom thinks counts as elegant.”
You smiled. “So no string quartet?”
“I didn’t say that.”
You looked at him in disbelief. “Steve Harrington wants a string quartet at his wedding?”
“Hey I’m full of surprises and multitudes of fun.”
“You are so annoying.”
“You asked.”
A beat passed, the kind that didn’t feel awkward so much as suspended.
Then, out of nowhere, you asked, “Do you want kids?”
Steve blinked like the question had physically hit him. Then, surprisingly, he smiled a little to himself. “Yeah.”
You narrowed your eyes. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” he said again, more certain this time. “I think so.”
“How many?” you asked immediately.
He didn’t even hesitate. “Six.”
You stared at him. “What.”
Steve shrugged like it was the most reasonable answer in the world. “Six little nuggets.”
“Six nuggets, really? You cannot just say that like it’s normal,” you said, laughing despite yourself.
He looked offended. “What’s wrong with six little nuggets?”
“Everything! That’s a full classroom—Steve, that’s like a whole basketball team. I can’t even…why?”
He leaned back slightly, still smiling. “So what about you?”
You paused, then sighed. “I do want kids. But not six.”
“Coward,” he said automatically.
“I feel bad for your wife,” you continued, ignoring him. “Oh—wait. That was not part of the agreement.”
Steve’s smile widened like he was trying not to laugh.
“You’re enjoying this,” you accused.
“A little,” he admitted.
You shook your head, but you were smiling again.
Stupid.
Dangerous.
Unacceptable.
The path curved toward the gazebo. You stepped inside, grateful for the shade. Steve leaned against one of the wooden posts, watching the trees beyond the park.
For a moment, you could almost imagine it.
Not the wedding.
Not really.
Just a different life.
One where choices were actually choices.
One where you and Steve had met normally. Maybe in school. Maybe because he asked you for help on an essay and you made fun of him until he laughed. Maybe you would’ve hated him first. Maybe he would’ve deserved it. Maybe, eventually, he would’ve won you over.
The thought of it all made your stomach turn and not because it was horrible. Because it wasn’t.
You looked away quickly.
Steve noticed like he always did. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“That’s my line.”
“Well, I’m stealing it today.”
He tilted his head. “You okay?”
You hated how gentle he sounded.
It made the question harder to dodge.
“I just…” You exhaled. “For a second, I forgot this wasn’t normal.”
Steve’s expression changed.
The air between you shifted.
Neither of you spoke.
The silence wasn’t uncomfortable, but it was too much. Too honest. Too close to something neither of you were ready to name.
Then Steve cleared his throat. “Well, for what it’s worth,” he said, lighter now, “I think our imaginary wedding has better taste than my mother’s real one.”
You laughed despite yourself. “Obviously.”
Steve's grin widened. “We’d have pancakes instead of cake.”
“No.”
His face fell in exaggerated offense. “Wow.”
“I draw the line at breakfast-food weddings.”
“Pancakes are not breakfast food. Pancakes are a lifestyle.”
“They are absolutely breakfast food.”
“Not when there’s whipped cream involved.”
You pointed at him. “That makes them dessert.”
“No, that makes them improved.”
“You are impossible.”
“You’re the one rejecting my visionary wedding menu.”
“Your vision is terrible.”
“People would talk about it for years.”
“Yeah, like as an example of disastrous weddings.”
Steve pressed a hand dramatically to his chest like you'd wounded him.
You rolled your eyes, but the smile stayed.
For a moment, it felt easy.
Just two people standing in the shade of an old gazebo, arguing about pancakes instead of wedding contracts and family expectations and futures neither of them had chosen.
The joke faded eventually, but the feeling didn't.
It lingered quietly between you, warm and dangerous, settling into the spaces where all the harder conversations lived. Neither of you acknowledged it. Neither of you knew what to do with it.
So you kept walking.
- -
By the time Steve finally drove back to the house, the sun had shifted lower in the sky, bleeding warm light across the windshield. You both knew you couldn’t avoid returning forever, even if a part of you wanted to stay suspended in the quiet a little longer.
Still, when the Harrington house came into view, your stomach sank the way it always did when something felt inevitable. Steve pulled into the driveway but didn’t turn the engine off right away. Neither of you moved to get out.
Through the front windows, everything looked calm. Too calm, like the house itself was waiting.
Steve tapped his fingers once against the steering wheel. “I’ll talk to them,” he said.
You turned your head toward him. “About the wedding date?”
“About all of it.”
“You don’t have to fight them for me.”
His eyes flicked to yours, steady and a little too serious. “I’m not just doing it for you.”
Something in your chest tightened at that, unexpected and unwelcome, and you looked away before it could turn into something else. “Right.”
A beat passed, heavy but not uncomfortable, just full.
When you finally looked back at him, Steve was already watching you. Neither of you spoke.
It wasn’t dramatic. It didn’t feel like the kind of moment that knew it was supposed to matter. It just happened quietly, like gravity shifting.
Steve’s gaze dropped to your mouth for half a second before lifting back to your eyes. Something shifted in his expression, quiet but unmistakable.
You didn’t move away.
Neither did he.
The silence stretched between you as Steve leaned forward slightly, hesitant enough to stop if you wanted him to, but not enough to hide what he was doing.
Your breath caught.
He was going to kiss you.
But before either of you could close the remaining distance—
The carn horn blared all off a sudden, sharp and sudden interrupting the moment. Both of you flinched apart at the same time.
Steve let out a breath that sounded like a laugh he hadn’t meant to make. “Jesus.”
You stared forward for a second, heartbeat too loud in your ears, then cleared your throat like nothing had happened. “Your car has opinions.”
“Apparently,” he said, still not looking at you fully, “it’s very against whatever that was.”
“Helpful,” you muttered.
And just like that, the moment was gone—except for the fact that it wasn’t, not really, because neither of you got out of the car right away.
Steve turned the ignition off properly this time, like he was forcing the car to behave itself along with everything else.
“Okay,” he said, dragging the word out like it might reset whatever had just happened. “We should probably go in.”
“Probably,” you echoed, even though neither of you moved right away.
The silence between you felt different now. Not heavier exactly, just more aware of itself.
Steve reached for the door handle, then paused again. “Hey.”
You looked at him.
His expression had gone back to something more familiar, but not all the way. Like whatever almost happened was still sitting somewhere behind his eyes. “That didn’t mean anything,” he said, too quickly.
It should have sounded dismissive. It didn’t.
You nodded once. “Right. Of course.”
A beat.
Inside, the house was exactly as you’d seen through the windows. Calm, polished, wrong in its perfection.
The sound of your footsteps on the floor felt too loud, like the house was listening back.
Steve closed the door behind you, not quite gently, not quite anything. He stood there for a second longer than necessary, like he didn’t know where to put himself.
Then he exhaled, short and controlled. “I’m gonna go upstairs.”
You looked at him. “Okay.”
He nodded once, already halfway gone before you even finished the word. “I just need a minute.”
And then he was moving up the stairs, taking the tension with him in uneven steps, leaving it behind in the hallway where it immediately found you instead.
The house settled again after he disappeared from view.
Too quiet now.
You drifted into the kitchen without really deciding to, like it was the only place in the house that made sense to stand without being seen. The counters were too clean, the silence too intentional, everything arranged like it had never been disrupted by anything real in its life.
You leaned against the counter and tried not to think about the car.
About the almost.
About the way he had looked at you like there was a version of this that didn’t end in pretending nothing happened.
The phone rang.
Sharp. Sudden. Out of place in a way that made your whole body react before your mind caught up.
You stared at it for a second.
A landline.
No caller ID. No warning. Just noise cutting through the house like it belonged there more than you did.
For a moment, you didn’t move.
It could’ve been for the Harringtons. It probably was. It didn’t feel like something you were supposed to touch.
It rang again.
Longer this time.
You crossed the kitchen and picked it up.
“Hello?” your voice came out steadier than you felt.
A pause on the other end. Static. Breath. Then a voice, careful and rehearsed.
“Is this—” your name.
Your grip tightened slightly on the receiver. “Yes.”
“This is St. Mary’s Hospital. We’re calling about your mother.”
The words didn’t land all at once. They came in pieces, like your brain refused to assemble them correctly.
For a second, you didn’t hear anything else. Not the house. Not the silence upstairs. Not even your own breathing.
Just the feeling that something had just shifted, and there was no way to shift it back.
this is literally what i look like when i’m reading one of those 20k word fics with the really long lowercase titles that are formatted (like this) and i finally reach the part where the characters both realise they’ve been mutually pining for each other the entire time
annaxmalina
2087
izzy806
pixelskylines
baratheonpilled
dededos
kaledo-art
romaincrisis
