frostandflames

My name's Elowyn (she/her/they/them), but you can call me El or Ellie for short. I'm a 20+ budding writer who's a sucker for angsty romance (apologies in advance). In my free time, I enjoy writing (duh), listening to music, and baking....and, in all honesty, wishing my favorite fictional characters were real. This profile is mainly going to be serving as my "mad science lab" when it comes to writing. Expect to see drabbles, oneshots, and maybe a few longer fics. Some of my favorite fandoms are BBC Sherlock, Marvel, CW Arrowverse, Doctor Who (seen up to Series 8 in the current reboot!) and more recently, Shadow and Bone. I always love talking to other writers and fans of my favorite series/films, so don't hesitate to message me! REQUESTS: CURRENTLY CLOSED || Marvel Masterlists || || frostandflames on AO3 ||

[frostandflamesfanfic]

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So. . .you want to make a fic request. . . While I can't guarantee that you'll receive your fic right away, I do love crafting pieces for others. You will notice, though, I do have some requests when it comes to making my job a little easier. Please note that while requests are CURRENTLY CLOSED, I am more than willing to discuss fic ideas for future requests!

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With this in mind, requests are currently CLOSED and I look forward to chatting with you about your fic soon!

[mcybank]

Those Days Are Over (Don’t Worry, Baby) — Steve Harrington (1)

pairing — ex!steve harrington x fem!reader

word count — 17.1k

summary — Four years ago, Steve Harrington had chosen his future and it wasn’t you. You’d chose to leave Hawkins entirely and that worked out fine until it didn’t. Now you’re sleeping in your sister’s guest room and picking up your nephew from baseball practice where Steve Harrington is teaching kids how to slide into home. Some things, it turns out, you can’t outrun.

warnings — high school sweethearts gone wrong, rekindling, reader and her sister have a 10 year age gap, small town romance, implied past emotional cheating on reader by steve, no demogorgons or veca or anything supernatural but there are still mentioned dynamics canon to the show, hurt/comfort, miscommunication, jealousy, referenced past breakup, alcohol consumption, semi/public makeout, quarter-life crisis, reader’s implied to be mean in the past, cheerleader in high school, job hunting, referenced childhood dance training, friends to lovers to exes to (??), sexual tension, making out, heavy heavyyy petting, cliffhanger ending

author’s note — this got so much longer than intended but i promise the second part is coming so soon. robin and vickie are still together bc i love them!! and eddie and steve in my mind are besttt friends with them and the entire group and everyone is alive! please let me know what you thought feedback is truly the most rewarding part of sharing a fic. i hope you enjoyed this ! ♡

The baseball diamond at Hawkins Middle School looked just the same as it had when you were twelve, which was comforting or depressing depending on how you wanted to spin it. You were going with comfort today because depressing required a lot more energy than you had, and you’d already spent most of it smiling through your sister’s overly-concerned questions about job applications over breakfast.

Your nephew—Carter, age eleven, gap-toothed and a little shorter than his age—was easy to spot in the cluster of kids near the dugout. He looked exactly like your sister, Devon. He was the one trying to balance the bat on his palm, which seemed counterproductive to actual baseball but probably made sense to his eleven-year-old brain. You told your sister you’d pick him up. Easy favour that took out forty-five minutes of your afternoon in exchange for continued free housing and the implicit agreement that you were trying to get your shit together. 

You leaned against the chain-link fence, going through the mental list in your mind of possible next ventures. Three retail positions, two receptionist jobs, one assistant manager role at a mattress store that required "three to five years of customer service experience with a passion for the product." You wouldn’t consider yourself particularly passionate for mattresses nor did you have three to five years of customer service experience. 

"Alright, bring it in!" 

The voice cut across the field, and it was so familiar that it made your stomach drop before your brain could catch up. You looked in the direction.

Steve Harrington stood near the pitcher’s mound in a faded Hawkins baseball tee and a backwards cap, whistle around his neck, gesturing at the kids to huddle up. For a second—one stupid, depressing second—you thought you were hallucinating. Were you in some weird time-slip situation? Because that was Steve. That was Steve-fucking-Harrington from high school, from makeout sessions in his BMW and terrible milkshakes at Bennys. That was Steve who used to kiss your shoulder while you were sleeping, and that was the cutest possible thing you thought could happen to your sixteen-year-old self. 

Except, it wasn’t really. This Steve was older, filled out in the shoulders, moving with confidence that seemed so easy and didn’t require an audience. Coaching middle schoolers apparently, teaching them something. You watched him crouch down to the kids’ level, saying something that made half of them laugh and the other half groan. 

Oh, you were so going to kill Devon for so blatantly setting you up with zero warning. 

"Good practice today,"  he was saying as you got close enough to hear. "Really solid work. Daniels, that catch in the outfield?" He made a chef’s kiss gesture. "Carter, your swing's getting better, but you're still dropping your back elbow—we'll work on it Thursday, yeah?"

Carter beamed like Steve had awarded him a trophy. 

The kids stared at the scatter, grabbing backpacks and water bottles, and that’s when Steve looked up. His gaze swept across the parking lot the way you assumed it probably did—making sure parents were here and kids weren’t abandoned—and then it landed on you. 

He went still for a fractional second, then his face shifted from coach mode to something unguarded and surprised. Then he blinked, and his face did a recalculation and rearrangement into something easy, friendly, and casual, and he was walking over. His hands moved to his pockets. They always did that when he didn’t know what to do with them. 

You focused on Carter instead, his backpack dragging and one shoe untied. 

"Hey," Steve said, stopping a few feet away. He was close enough that you could see he’d nicked himself shaving, far enough that it was very clear that it wasn’t established whether the two of you could hug. His hands slipped into his pockets again. His voice was lower. Did that happen in high school, and you just didn’t notice? When did any of this happen? 

"Holy shit—it is you," he said, and it sounded like he was on the same boat as you, wondering if he’d been imagining things. "You’re back."

"Yeah," you said, aiming for casual and landing somewhere in the vicinity. "Been a couple weeks."

"Couple weeks," he echoed, like he was turning the information over and calculating whether you’d known he’d be here. You hadn’t, but you couldn’t tell if that made it better or worse.

Then his eyes flicked to the kids, then landed on Carter who was zooming toward you with his backpack half-open and dragging on the ground. "I’m assuming this one’s yours."

You chuckled slightly as Carter crashed into your side, sweaty and dirt-streaked and happy. 

"Did you see? Coach Steve said my swing’s getting better!"

"I saw," you said, ruffling his hair slightly. "You looked great out there."

Steve was looking at you and you were looking at him, and there was this weird moment where there were about seventeen things you could’ve said and exactly zero ways to say any of them. The last time you’d seen him was at graduation—almost a year after trying to avoid him and Nancy Wheeler in the hallways because you were just that girl who could not move on from a high school boyfriend. 

Carter’s beady eyes ping-ponged between you both, his brain clearly working overtime, then his brows furrowed just the slightest.

"Wait," he said, suspicion creeping into his voice. "Do you two know each other?"

"We went to school together," you said. 

"We were friends," Steve said at the exact same time. 

The word hung there like it was something tangible, something you could touch and would cut if you did. 

"Woah." Carter narrowed. "You were friends?"

"Yeah," Steve said, looking at you with eyebrows raised, like he wasn’t sure what the script was here. "Long time ago."

"How come you never told me your friend was my coach?" Carter asked you, accusatory like you’d been withholding critical information. 

"I didn’t know he was your coach," you said, letting out a small chuckle as you bopped his nose, which made him scrunch his face up. "I didn’t know he was doing—" You gestured vaguely at Steve and the whistle and the whole situation. "This."

"This?" Steve repeated, and there was a hint of amusement in his voice now.

"You know what I mean."

Carter was still looking at you, and you could practically see the gears turning. "Were you like, actually friends? Or like, friend-friends?"

You subtly shook your head at Steve, but he was indulging Carter now. His fingers were on his chin as he hummed. You knew what he was doing. He always did this, making things lighter when they got too heavy and turned serious into a game. It used to drive you crazy, and it still did. 

"What’s the difference?"

"Like, did you hang out and stuff?" he pressed. "Has he been to grandma’s house?"

You’d been fifteen when Steve first said he loved you. At the quarry with the radio playing something you couldn’t remember now, so many it was not all that important as you thought. You’d been seventeen when he stopped. 

"Sometimes," you said carefully, shooting Steve a look that he either didn’t catch or deliberately ignored.

The corner of Steve’s mouth twitched, like he was trying not to smile. Your mom would keep his favourite cereal in your pantry; he knew where you kept the spare key. Was he thinking about that, too? How he’d been to your house more times than you could count? 

"Did you have classes together?"

"A few," Steve said. "She was waaaay smarter than me, though. She actually did the homework."

Carter was still processing the information, his face scrunched up. Then, apparently, satisfied with whatever conclusion he reached, he shrugged. "Cool. Coach Steve, can I have a snack? I already ate my string cheese."

"You’re supposed to have that after practice, bud." 

"I know, but I’m hungry." Carter dragged the word out like it was a medical emergency.

Steve laughed and pulled a slightly crushed granola bar from his pocket. "Here. But don’t tell your mom."

"Yes!" Carter snatched it immediately and tore into the wrapper.

"Seriously, don’t tell her," Steve said, glancing at you with genuine worry. "I don’t wanna be the coach that ruins dinner."

"Your secret’s safe with me," you said, pushing down a smile. 

He smiled at that, small and a little crooked, and for a second it was like being sixteen again, that stupid flutter in your stomach, the way he'd look at you across the cafeteria or in the hallway between classes. Except you weren't sixteen anymore, and this wasn't high school, and Steve Harrington was apparently mature enough now to actually look after kids. 

"So," Steve said, watching Carter devour the granola bar three feet away. "What brings you back?"

You shrugged, feeling slightly smaller now. "Didn’t work out the way it would, I suppose."

"Yeah," he nodded slowly, like he understood what you said. "I get that." 

"Do you?"

He tilted his head like he was thinking about it. "Took a while to come to terms with it. I mean—I’m still here."

There was something in his voice that sounded something in-between regret and acceptance. "It seems like fun, though. Up your alley, too, now that I think about it."

He laughed slightly at that and rubbed the back of his neck. "It is. It’s not what I thought I’d be doing, but it’s—good. The kids are great. They’re weird and gross and they ask the most insane questions during sex-ed, but they’re great." Your eyebrows twitched up and mouth parted as soon as he said that. He beat you to the cut, saying, "Don’t laugh. I’m still getting the hang of it."

"I wasn’t going to," you said, but your voice wavered in a way that said you definitely were going to laugh. "I just can’t imagine you talking to kids about that."

He pointed a loose finger at you as he said, "Well, sit in on one of my classes. Maybe you’ll learn a thing or two."

Your rolled your eyes at that. Carter had finished his granola bar and was now attempting to balance on one of the parking lot curbs like it was a tightrope. You should probably get him home before he broke an ankle. "Carter!" you called, because you needed to break whatever this moment was. "We need to get going. Your mom’s gonna wonder where you are."

"Five more minutes!"

"Now, please."

He groaned but jumped down from the curb, trudging toward you with all the enthusiasm of someone headed to their execution.

Steve shifted his weight, hands sliding back into his pockets. "Hey, I'm usually here Tuesday and Thursday afternoons. You know. If you're picking him up again."

You felt something twist in your stomach. "Yeah. I might be."

He nodded. "Cool. That’s—cool."

The silence stretched between you, not quite awkward but close to it. Carter reached you and immediately latched onto your hand, already pulling you toward the parking lot.

"It was good seeing you," Steve said, and his voice had that genuine quality again, the one that made your chest feel tight.

"You too, Harrington." You smiled softly. 

"Steve," he corrected, raising a brow. 

You nodded, flashing him one last smile, not trusting yourself to say anything else, and let Carter drag you toward the car.

"Bye Coach Steve!" Carter yelled, waving frantically.

"See you Thursday, kid!"

You didn't look back. Couldn't look back. Just got Carter buckled in, climbed into the driver's seat, and tried to remember how to breathe normally.

Everything sucked. The only jobs in Hawkins were either at this very coffee shop (which felt like admitting defeat in a very public, dimly lit way) or required experience you didn’t have in fields you’d never thought twice about. 

You’d taken over the corner table at the Daily Grind because it had an outlet and because Bonnie, who’d been working here since you were in middle school, didn’t care if you nursed the same coffee for three hours. The application in front of you asked you to describe your "passion for customer service excellence" in 150 words or less. You weren’t sure if that was too much or too little. It almost seemed like a dare.

Four years ago, you could’ve written this down in your sleep. You would have talked about forming a "genuine connection" and "creating memorable experiences." You also would’ve been smiling while writing it, already imagining yourself charming the hiring manager in the interview. 

You typed, I believe in treating customers with respect and

You deleted it. Your foot started tapping again. You shifted in your seat, crossed your ankles, kept them still. 

I believe in

Deleted it again. 

Your coffee had gone cold. The cafe smelled like burnt espresso and the cinnamon rolls Bonnie made every morning that were too sweet and somehow always slightly undercooked in the middle. There was a stain on the ceiling that looked like Texas, which felt appropriate given that you’d briefly considered moving there last year with your ex-boyfriend before that had imploded with everything else. 

The door chimed. You didn’t look up because looking up meant acknowledging that you were a 21-year-old woman sitting in a coffee shop at 2 PM on a Wednesday, filling out an application for a job you didn't want, in a town you'd sworn you'd never come back to.

"Hey, Bonnie."

You looked up. 

Steve Harrington was at the counter in jeans and a Hawkins High sweatshirt—not a recent one, something older and more worn—and his hair was doing that thing where it looked like he’d run his hand through it too many times, but it still somehow looked better than more than half the Hawkins population’s hair. He had a canvas bag over his shoulder, and you could see some papers peeking out of it and the print of a water bottle inside. He was smiling at Bonnie, warm and genuine, completely unaware of how disarming it was. 

Or maybe he was aware. He had used that smile to get out of a lot of things before. 

"The usual?"

"You know it."

You should look back down at your laptop. You should absolutely look back down and pretend you hadn't seen him, pretend this wasn't the third time in a week that the universe had decided to throw Steve Harrington directly into your path like some kind of cosmic joke.

He turned around, already pulling out his wallet, paying, and saw you.

The smile faltered like he was recalibrating. Like he was running through about six different responses in his head and trying to figure out which one was appropriate for seeing your ex-girlfriend you broke up with four years ago in a car on a Wednesday afternoon.

"Hey," he said, slowly striding towards you. 

Bonnie was making his drink—you could hear the espresso machine hissing, the clink of the syrup bottle—and Steve was still standing there, you were still sitting at your corner table with a cold coffee and a half-filled job application, and this was so much worse than the baseball field because at least there you’d had Carter as a four feet and eleven inch tall buffer.

Steve glanced at the empty chair across from you, then back at you, then at Bonnie like she might save him. She didn't. She just kept making his drink with the focus of someone who'd worked in customer service long enough to know when to mind her own business.

"Are you—" Steve gestured vaguely at your table. "Can I—or are you working? I don’t wanna interrupt if you’re—"

You forced a small smile as you closed your laptop. "I’m not working." God, was that an understatement. "Just—job applications. The exciting life of the recently returned."

He smiled at that, small and a little crooked. "Yeah, I remember that. The job hunt thing is always the worst."

"Did you do a lot of it?"

"Enough." Bonnie called his name and he grabbed his drink. Caramel latte, you'd bet money on it, extra caramel because Steve Harrington had never met a coffee drink he couldn't turn into dessert. When he came back, he was holding his cup with both hands and doing that thing with his weight where he shifted from foot to foot. "So. Can I sit, or—?"

"Yeah, course." You gestured at the seat with a wave of the hand, and applauded yourself for how normal you were being in the same orbit as him.

He sat. The table was small enough that when he placed his drink down, his fingers were about six inches away from yours. You moved your hands to your lap. 

He nodded towards your closed laptop. "How’s it going?"

"It’s going." You shrugged. "Turns out Hawkins doesn’t have a lot of opportunities for people whose only qualifications are ‘gave up on college and came home.’"

"You gave up on college?" he asked, not able to keep the surprise out of his voice.

Your teeth tugged at your lip as you looked down at your hands, the floor, the table, and literally anywhere else that didn’t include him. 

He cleared his throat when you didn’t respond, trying to break the ice. You momentarily felt bad for stalling the conversation and turning sour at the slightest—most normal, in fact—question someone could ask you about yourself right now. "Well, I served ice cream for a while. Then, I worked at Family Video for a while. Then the radio station. You remember Keith? He gave Robin and I the job when someone quit."

You nodded as he spoke, absorbing the new information about him, filling in the gaps in your mind about his life since he’d walked out of yours. "And now you’re a teacher."

"And a coach. Don’t forget coaching." He smiled sardonically. "Which is really me trying to convince middle schoolers that stealing bases is a real thing and not something I just made up." 

You laughed despite yourself, feeling the gloominess that had taken over you just moments ago wash away. "Carter’s been talking about you nonstop since that day, you know? It’s ‘Coach Steve said this’ or ‘Coach Steve said that.’ I think Devon’s ready to kill you." 

"Why?" He asked, letting out a chuckle. "What did I do?"

"You told him he could be a professional baseball player if he practiced hard enough."

"I mean—" He pulled the corners of his lips down as he shrugged. "He could."

"He can’t tie his shoes properly yet."

"Hey, don’t ruin his dreams," he said, pointing his index at you. "He’s got potential."

"You told a room full of middle schoolers they can be Mike Schmidt, didn’t you?"

"They’re kids! They’re supposed to have potential! That’s like, the whole point of being one." He was animated now, gesturing with his hands, and you’d forgotten how he got excited about things, how he cared in such a unique, unguarded way that made you want to believe anything he was saying was true. "You can’t tell an eleven-year-old he’s bad at baseball. That’s how you give complexes."

"I think Carter already has a complex about trying to be cool enough for you."

Steve's expression softened at that, became something more careful. "He doesn't need to be cool. He's already—he's a great kid. They all are."

His voice went softer when he said it in a way you’d never heard from him before. 

"You really like it," you said. "The teaching thing."

"Yeah, I do." He met your eyes, and there was something too honest for you to look at there. "I know it’s not like I’m changing the world or anything. But it’s good. Feels like I’m doing something that matters, you know?"

You didn’t. Not really. But you weren’t surprised he did. 

"That’s good," you said finally. "I’m really glad you found it, Steve."

"Yeah." He paused, and you could see him working up to something, the way his jaw tightened just slightly. "What about you? "Can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"Why’d you come back? To Hawkins, I mean—" He stopped, and seemed to reconsider his words. "You had plans. You were gonna study psychology and everything. Help people."

You should have expected this question, especially from Steve after you’d seen him. He’d known all your plans, he had been part of all your plans. You both would pick schools that weren’t too far from the other’s, meet each other on the weekends and… Well, just be. You should’ve had an answer prepared, but you didn’t, so you just said the truth.

"I don’t know." You looked down at your laptop. "I got to college and realized I had no idea what I wanted, just knew what I was supposed to. And that’s not—not enough, you know?"

Steve was quiet, and when you looked up, he was watching you with this expression you couldn't quite read.

"Sorry," you said quickly. "That's—that's a lot. You asked a simple question and I just—"

"No." He shook his head. "Don't apologize. I asked."

"Still."

"I get it," he said. "I did it, too. You remember? What I thought I was always supposed to." His voice had gone quieter.

You thought about Steve in high school. King Steve with his perfect hair and his basketball jersey and his spot at the top of the social hierarchy that he'd inherited and maintained without ever really seeming to try. You thought about the way he'd smile at everyone, the way he'd been friendly and charming and exactly what he was supposed to be. And then you thought about the Steve sitting across from you now, wearing an old sweatshirt and talking about teaching sex-ed and coaching baseball with this earnestness that you weren’t used to.

And you were happy for him. You didn’t resent his happiness the way you thought you always would at seventeen. But a small part of you reminded he had to physically remove himself from your life to be the person he was proud to be. Why hadn’t you become your own, then? It was a bitter pill to swallow that Steve had done the right thing for himself leaving you. 

"You’re different," you said, because you couldn’t not say it. "From high school."

"Yeah?" He smiled slightly, like he was happy you’d noticed. "So are you."

You blew out a breath. "Yeah."

"I don't know. Less—" He made a vague gesture with his hand, like he was trying to shape the words in the air. "You used to smile at everyone like you were running for mayor. You don't do that anymore."

You shrugged. That much was true. "Maybe I’m not happy to see people"

His smile turned crooked, self-aware. "Well, you were also running for class president back then." Then, he added, "I think it’s a good different, by the way."

You had to focus on the coffee cup sweating condensation onto the table or on anything that wasn't Steve Harrington looking at you like he understood exactly what you were too afraid to ask out loud.

The thing was, he probably did understand. That was worse, somehow. That he'd figured himself out and you were still here, filling out applications for jobs you didn't want, living in your sister's house, trying to remember who you'd been before you'd spent four years performing for an audience that had already left the theater.

"I should—" You gestured vaguely at your laptop. "I've got like six more of these to fill out before dinner."

"Right. Yeah. Of course." He stood up, grabbed his bag, and you watched him hesitate. Watched him do that thing where his hand went to the back of his neck and his weight shifted and you knew—you knew—he wanted to say something else but couldn't figure out how to say it.

Then he did anyway, because this version of Steve said the thing he was thinking instead of swallowing them down. "Hey, if you ever need a reference or something. For the applications. I know that sounds weird, but I’m technically a professional now. May look good if they don’t know me that well."

You stared at him for a moment. "You’d do that?"

"Yeah. I mean—why not?" He shrugged, and it was so casual, so genuinely generous that it made your chest hurt in a way you didn’t want to look at. "You're smart. You're good with people. You even put up with me for three whole years. That’s gotta count for something, right?"

The joke landed wrong. More because it was funny than not. It was exactly the kind of thing Steve would say to lighten a moment that had gotten too heavy, except this moment was already heavy and the joke just made it heavier. Four years. He'd said it like it was nothing, like it was just a fun fact about your shared history and not the entire shape of your adolescence, not the thing you'd built your life around until he'd decided he didn't want to be part of that life anymore.

"Steve—"

"Just think about it," he said quickly, already backing away from whatever he saw on your face. "I'll see you Thursday, right? At practice?"

You weren’t planning on going, not wanting to run into him again. "Yeah. Probably." 

"Cool." He shifted his bag higher on his shoulder, gave you that crooked smile one more time. "See you then."

The next few times you saw Steve, it was mainly expected. Aside from when you ran into him at Melvad’s or during your run a few mornings, catching him behind the gates of Hawkins High smoking a cigarette and being horrible at keeping it a secret. The two of you had unconsciously—almost involuntarily—formed a routine where you picked Carter up every Tuesday and Thursday, with you staying behind around ten minutes making conversation with Steve that didn’t feel as awkward anymore.

Ten minutes became fifteen. Fifteen became twenty. By the third week, you were helping him pack up equipment—baseball bats into the mesh bag, bases stacked and carried to the storage shed behind the dugout—while Carter ran laps around the parking lot with whatever kid was still waiting for their ride. 

"You don’t have to help," Steve said one Thursday, watching you coil up the extension cord he used for the speaker system. "I mean, this is probably half of my job."

"I know."

"So why are you?" 

You shrugged, looping the extension cord around your elbow and hand the way your dad had taught you when you were ten. "Carter’s still running around. Might as well be useful."

He smiled at that and—thank god—didn’t question further. 

It was easier than you thought it would be, falling into this. The talking, the helping, the standing around in a dusty parking lot while the sun started its slow descent and Carter attempted to teach another kid how to do a cartwheel the same way you’d taught him how to do one. 

You watched him demonstrate with arms too loose and legs not quite straight. He’d gotten better since the first day you came back and spent a whole morning in Devon’s backyard breaking down the mechanics. Hands there, then here, push through your shoulders, spot the ground. The same way your ballet teacher had taught you when you were seven. 

The other kid tried and collapsed halfway through. Carter laughed and tried to explain differently. You almost walked over to help before you caught yourself. They’d figure it out. 

Steve told you about his classes, about a kid who asked whether or not someone could get an STD from public toilet seats and how he’d had to explain, very carefully, that no, that wasn’t how it worked. You told him about the receptionist job you’d snagged at Dr. Feldman’s dental office where you spent eight hours a day answering phones and scheduling cleanings and telling people about proper flossing techniques. 

You’d written a thank-you note for Dr. Feldman after your interview using actual stationary, a blue pen, with your mother’s voice in your head about the importance of gratitude. Devon had found it on the kitchen counter. She’d told you that nobody did that anymore. You said you knew. Then she said, "Like, they’re going to think you’re weird," as though you were missing the point she was getting at. You knew that, but you’d mailed it anyway. The alternative was letting go of a habit that actually made you feel like you had control over something. You didn’t want to do that, even if it made you look like you were stuck in an old system of expectations of human interaction.

"That’s the place you got your braces, right?" Steve asked, leaning against the chain-link fence.

"Yeah, and it’s so embarrassing. Mrs. Patterson still works there and she keeps asking if I remember when I was snot-nose crying during my consultation."

He laughed at that. "Well, you got them off right before sophomore year. I’d know."

You rolled your eyes at that. You still weren’t completely comfortable with him bringing up the past so easily, but it made sense for him to do so. He’d made his peace with it. You weren’t sure you ever would. You may have not completed college, but two years had taught you that shit like being left for another girl sticks with a person. 

One afternoon, he mentioned Robin and Eddie were coming by after practice to help him move some equipment to the gym for an assembly. You'd heard the names—Robin Buckley and Eddie Munson—but the pairing still felt strange. Robin had been in band, quiet and a little intense. Eddie had been the guy who sold weed behind the school and wore a denim vest covered in patches. And Steve had been—well. Steve.

"Wait," you said, watching Carter attempt to steal second base from a kid who wasn't even holding the ball. "Robin Buckley? From band?"

"Yeah."

"And Eddie Munson? Like, Eddie Munson?" Your voice had a particular lilt to it that said you weren’t sure how you could describe him.

Steve’s expression shifted and turned into something more careful. "Hey, they’re good people."

"I'm not—I didn't mean—" You stopped, recalibrated. "I just meant I'm surprised. You guys didn't really run in the same circles."

"We do now." His tone had a protective  edge to it. "They're my best friends."

You thought about Steve in high school, about Tommy H and Carol, about the basketball team and the parties at his house when his parents were gone, about the carefully maintained social hierarchy that had felt so important at the time and so stupid in retrospect. You thought about yourself, too, about the cheer squad and student council and the way you'd smiled at everyone but really only talked to a select few.

"That's good," you said finally. "That you found people like that."

Steve relaxed slightly, and you noticed how his shoulders dropped. "Yeah. They’re—they’re really good. Robin’s in Massachusetts right now. Studying feminist theory or something. She’s way smarter than anyone."

"She was always smart," you mused, nodding as hazy memories of high school conversations started rolling around your mind.

"Yeah. Well, now she’s smart and gone, which sucks. But she visits when she can." 

His voice picked up with affection and missing that felt bone-deep. You wondered how that felt, having someone care about you from hundreds of miles away. Having them check in, call on Sundays, come back because they wanted to and not because they’d run out of all other options. 

"And Eddie?" you asked, genuinely curious.

"Eddie’s—" Steve laughed running a hand through his hair. "Eddie’s Eddie. He works at the garage on Main and his band’s kicking off and is actually pretty good. He’s kind of insane and loud but he’s—he’s solid, you know? He’s a great person."

Your teeth tugged at your lip. You didn’t really know, but you were glad Steve did. You liked that he’d found people who weren’t constantly trying to be something other than who they were. 

The following Tuesday, you showed up to practice and Steve was talking to a guy with long curly and denim vest, both of them laughing about something while they loaded baseball equipment into the back of a van that had seen better days. Eddie Munson, you recognized. Up close, he looked older. He had sharper cheekbones, more tattoos than you remembered from the brief glimpses you’d caught in the high school hallways. He smiled at you; you’d been trained in that smile, the one that looked friendly without completely meaning it.

"You must be the famous high school sweetheart," Eddie said, so matter-of-factly you were mildly taken back at addressing the elephant in the room you had been avoiding pretty seamlessly so far. 

Steve made a sound in his throat that may have been a protest, but Eddie was already sticking his hand out to you. 

"Eddie Munson. We didn’t really run in the same circles back in the day." His grip was firm, rings cold against your palm. "You probably don’t remember." 

"I remember you," you said, because you did. It was pretty difficult to forget the guy who’d walk on tables in the cafeteria and give monologues about—well, about how horrible the entire crowd you ran with had been. 

"Yeah?" He looked genuinely surprised, then pleased. "Huh. Usually cheerleaders pretended I didn’t exist. No offense."

"None taken."

He turned back to the van, tossing in another equipment bag. "So, you’re back in town. That’s—how’s that going? The whole homecoming thing?"

You shrugged. "It’s definitely going by."

"Yeah, I bet." He said it while nodding. "Small towns, man. They’re like quicksand. Really, really slow quicksand."

Steve snorted. "Yeah. That’s how it works."

"You know what I mean." Eddie grabbed another bag. "Anyway, Robin's coming back this weekend. Visiting from Massachusetts. We're doing drinks at the Hideout Friday night if you want to come. Low-key, nothing fancy. Just—you know. Hanging out."

"Oh, I don’t know—" 

"You should come," Steve said quickly, and when you looked at him, his expression was hopeful and open and slightly terrified. "I mean, if you want, obviously. No pressure. It’s just—it’d be nice. To hang out. Outside of, you know." He gestured vaguely at the baseball field. 

You should say no. You should absolutely say no, because going to a bar with Steve and his friends—friends who'd known him after you, who were part of the life he'd built without you—felt like asking for trouble. Felt like stepping into a space where you didn't belong and waiting to be reminded of that fact.

But Steve was looking at you like he genuinely thought it was a good idea, and Eddie was watching you with curiosity, and Carter was running toward you covered in dirt and grinning, and somehow, you heard yourself say, "Yeah. Okay. That sounds good."

"Yeah?" Steve's whole face lit up, and you remembered—God, you'd forgotten this—how his smile could make you feel like you'd done something right just by existing.

"Yeah. Why not?"

"Cool. Friday night, around eight. I can pick you up if—"

"I'll meet you there," you said quickly, because getting in a car with Steve Harrington felt like too much too fast, felt like something that required more thought than you were prepared to give it. "I know where it is."

"Right. Yeah. Of course." He rubbed the back of his neck, and Eddie was smirking now, clearly enjoying Steve's discomfort. "Cool. See you then."

Carter crashed into your side, breathless and happy. "Can we get ice cream?"

"Maybe." You ruffled his hair, already sticky with sweat. "If you don’t get my car smelling like a sock."

"I don't smell!"

"You definitely smell, bud," Steve said, and Carter shrieked with laughter and tried to tackle him, which turned into Steve picking him up and spinning him around while Carter screamed happily and you stood there watching, something warm fluttering in your chest that instantly made you feel nauseous.

Eddie caught your eye and raised an eyebrow, and you looked away quickly, busied yourself with grabbing Carter's backpack from where he'd abandoned it near the dugout.

By the time you got Carter buckled into the car, Steve and Eddie were still working on the equipment, their voices carrying across the parking lot in easy conversation. You sat in the driver's seat for a moment, hands on the wheel, trying to figure out what you'd just agreed to.

Before you went to pick up Carter on Thursday, you ran into Mrs. Perry at the grocery store. She was your old dance teacher, Madame Petrova’s sister, and she lit up when she saw you. "Sweetie! I heard you were back in town. How are you?"

"Good, thanks. How are you?" you asked, pausing to meet her.

"Oh, busy as ever. You know, Linda closed the studio last year? Her hip finally gave out. Such a shame, no?"

Your chest tightened. You’d trained at Linda Petrova’s from age seven to seventeen. Every Wednesday and Friday, sometimes Saturdays. Your mom would drive you twenty minutes because Hawkins didn’t have a real dance studio, just the community center with scratched floors and the mirror that was cracked down the middle. 

"No," you said, voice softening. "I had no idea."

"Mm. All students had to find new places. Some just quit completely." She shook her head. "The high school’s still figuring out how to do their musical, though." She looked around the store, then her eyes landed on you.

You weren’t sure if you knew what she was implying, but you smiled. 

"Well," she continued. "You’re probably busy with settling in. So, I’ll leave you be."

You smiled, nodded, and said goodbye. You had to pick up Carter.

When you got there, Carter was finishing up drills, you helped pack up, and Steve was talking about the kid who'd asked if masturbation counted as exercise.

"What’d you tell him?" you asked, coiling up the extension cord.

"That technically yes, but it wasn't going to replace actual cardio for him." Steve was trying not to laugh. "His face, though. God. I thought he was going to die of embarrassment."

You laughed at that, eyebrows going up. "If he lives on Loch Nora, his parents are probably gonna give you a talking to."

"I don’t think he’s going to tell his parents what he asked," he said. "So, tomorrow," he said as he noticed you were getting to ready to leave, Carter already halfway to the car. "You’re still coming, right?"

"Yeah. I said I would."

"I know, I just—" He shoved his hands in his pockets. "Robin can be kind of intense at first. And, well, you already met Eddie. I just want you to know if it’s weird or if you want to leave or whatever, that’s totally fine. No pressure."

You looked at him—at Steve Harrington in his coaching jacket with grass stains on his jeans, warning you that his best friends might be too much, giving you an out before you'd even walked in the door. And you thought about how you'd spent four years trying not to think about him, trying not to wonder if he was happy or if Nancy Wheeler had been worth it or if he ever missed you. And here he was, nervous about you meeting his friends, even though the two of you had been nothing but friends—at best—that spent around thirty minutes with each other weekly.

"I'll be fine," you said. "I can handle intense."

"Yeah. You can." He smiled softly. "See you tomorrow, then?" 

"See you tomorrow."

When you were in the car, Carter wasn’t hesitant about prodding anymore. "Coach’s really cool," he said, buckling his seatbelt.

"Yeah, he seems like a good coach."

"He let me practice pitching today even though I'm not supposed to until next year. He said I have good form." Carter kicked his legs against the seat.  "Are you coming to the game next week? We have a scrimmage against the other middle school."

"Maybe if your mom can make it."

"She always does."

"Then I’ll come, too."

There were maybe only fifteen people scattered around the bar, a Bon Jovi song playing from the jukebox in the corner, and you stood in the doorway for a second too long, trying to remember why you thought this was a good idea. The Hideout itself looked the same as the night of graduation—and the other handful of times when the bouncer was a sleepier man who didn’t check ID—with dim lighting, sticky floors, and it looked like it had no intention of ever changing. 

Steve was at the table in the back corner, and you recognized him immediately. He had one arm draped over the back of the chair, laughing at something, you recognized, Robin Buckley was saying. She had short hair and was talking with her hands, fast and animated. Next to her was a girl with strawberry blonde hair watching Robin with all her attention. Vickie. And Eddie was there, gesturing wildly with a bottle of beer, saying something that made Steve shake his head and grin. 

Why were you invited? You were sure every single person on that table had one perfectly valid reason or another to not like you. You could give Steve some excuse about not feeling well; he probably wouldn’t even be that surprised. 

But then Steve looked up and saw you, and his whole face showed something like relief. Then he was standing up, waving you over, and it was too late to turn back. 

"Hey!" Steve said as you approached, and his voice was too loud, too eager. He cleared his throat, as though he was suppressing it. "You made it. I wasn't sure—I mean, I thought you would, but—" He gestured vaguely at the table. "Everyone, this is—well. You guys know her."

Robin looked at you with eyes you could only categorize as indifferent but also assessing. "Hi. I’m Robin." Before you could say that you knew, she stuck out her hand and you shook it. "Steve’s told me about you. Some things. Not like, a lot of things, but—you know. Things."

"Good things, I hope."

"Jury’s still out," she said, but she was smiling when she said it, and you couldn’t quite tell if she was joking or not.

"That's Vickie," Steve said, pointing to the strawberry blonde, who gave you a warm smile and a little wave. "She works at the hospital. And you met Eddie."

"The infamous ex-girlfriend returns," Eddie said, raising his beer in salute. "Want a drink? First round's on Harrington." 

"It is?" Steve asked, furrowing his brows together.

"Yup." Eddie was grinning, looking between you and Steve like this was the best entertainment he'd had all week. "So what'll it be? Beer? Something stronger? We're celebrating Robin's weeklong presence in Hawkins before she abandons us again."

"I'm not abandoning you," Robin said. "I'm going back to school. There's a difference."

"Feels the same from here."

Vickie reached over and squeezed Robin's hand, and Robin's expression softened immediately.

"Beer's fine," you said.

"One beer, coming up." Eddie stood, stretched. "Harrington? You want another?"

"Yeah, sure."

"Cool. Don't be weird while I'm gone." He pointed at Steve, then at you, then walked off toward the bar.

You sat down in the chair Steve pulled out for you, hyper-aware of how close Robin was sitting, how her eyes kept flicking to you and then away, like she was trying to figure something out.

"So," Robin said, leaning forward slightly. "You're back in Hawkins."

"For now."

"That's what Steve said. 'For now.' Very noncommittal." She took a sip of her drink, something clear with lime, probably vodka. "What brought you back? If you don't mind me asking. Which you might. In which case, ignore me. I ask a lot of questions. It's a thing."

"Robin—" Steve started, but you cut him off.

"It’s fine. I dropped out of college, and didn’t really have anywhere else to go, I guess."

Robin's eyebrows went up slightly, but she didn't look judgmental. Just... interested. "What were you studying?"

"Psychology."

"And you dropped out because...?"

Your eyes landed on the wall beside the table. "I mean—mainly because it wasn’t what I imagined. And it didn’t get better." You blew out a breath. "What about you? Steve said you’re in Mass." 

"It’s good. Really good, actually." She glanced at Vickie and smiled softly. "It’s hard being away from people, but yeah. It’s good."

Vickie squeezed Robin's hand again, and Robin leaned into her slightly, unconscious and natural. You tried not to feel something hollow in your chest at the way they fit together, the ease of it.

And soon enough, the conversation started to move on. Robin was talking about her classes, Eddie was complaining about losing a pick, Vickie was telling a story about a patient who’d come to the ER because he’d superglued his hands together on a dare. By your third beer, the edges had softened. You laughed when Eddie made a joke about Steve's hair.

Steve kept glancing at you, checking if you were okay, if you needed anything, and you wanted to tell him to stop, that you were fine, that you didn't need him to take care of you. But you also kind of liked that he was trying. That he cared enough to worry.

"—I can’t believe you actually wore that to school," Eddie was saying now, grinning at Steve. "That sweater was such a bad joke. The whole school was laughing at you for once."

Steve groaned, dramatically dropping his head in his hands. "Please stop."

"It had a reindeer on it," Eddie continued, clearly delighted at the memory. "King Steve was wearing the ugliest Christmas sweater with a light-up nose on it. People could see you coming from three hallways away."

Robin was laughing. "Please, please say there are pictures."

"There are definitely pictures," Eddie said. "It was in the yearbook and everything."

"It was for spirit week," Steve protested. "Ugly sweater day. That was the whole point."

"Except it wasn't ugly sweater day," you said, and immediately regretted it when everyone turned to look at you.

"What?" Eddie leaned forward, eyebrows raising.

You bit your lip, trying not to smile. "It wasn't ugly sweater day. That was the Friday. Steve wore it on Tuesday."

Steve dropped his head into his hands. "Oh my god."

"Wait wait wait," Robin said, waving her hands. "He wore it on the wrong day?"

"I told him it was Thursday," you said, unable to stop the smile now. "As a joke. Because he'd been insufferable all week about—I don't even remember what. And I figured he'd check the schedule himself, but he just—"

"Showed up in a light-up reindeer sweater on a random Tuesday," Eddie finished, absolutely delighted. "Oh, this is so much better than I thought."

"You told me it was Tuesday!" Steve said, looking at you with mock betrayal.

"I told you it was Tuesday as a joke, Steve. You were supposed to double-check!"

"I trusted you!"

"That was your first mistake," you said, and Eddie nearly choked on his beer laughing.

"So wait," Vickie said, smiling. "Everyone at school thought he was just being weird on purpose?"

"Oh, everyone had theories," you said, warming to the story now. "Some people thought he'd lost a bet. Some people thought he was trying to start a new trend. Tommy H told everyone Steve just wanted to wear it in for actual Christmas day."

"I got so much shit for that," Steve said, but he was smiling now too, shaking his head.

"You wore it on Friday too, though," you pointed out. "For the actual ugly sweater day."

"Because at that point I'd already committed! Everyone had seen it! I couldn't just not wear it again!"

Robin was wiping her eyes. "This is the best story I've ever heard. Please tell me you have more."

You glanced at Steve, who was giving you a look that was half-warning, half-amused.

"I might," you said carefully.

"Oh, you definitely do," Eddie said. "You dated him for what, three years? You've got to have dirt."

"So much dirt," you admitted, and Steve groaned.

"Please," Robin said. "I'm begging you. He never tells us anything funny from that time. And that was when he was doing the most stupid things"

You told them about the janitor’s closet (he'd been hiding from Coach after skipping practice and got stuck for forty-five minutes), and then about the time he'd tried to cook you dinner and set off the smoke alarm at his parents' house, and then somehow you were all trading stories. Eddie talked about Steve at the video store, Robin shared something about Steve crying at a documentary about penguins. And it was good. It was really good.

And when Steve's knee bumped yours under the table and stayed there, warm and solid and what you assumed was deliberate, you didn't move away.

It was when you were telling them the story about Steve’s attempt at serenading you to ‘I Want it That Way’ and how when he’d forgotten the words, he’d tried to rhyme ‘girl,’ ‘squirrel,’ and ‘beautiful basketball pearl, that someone called Steve’s name from across the bar. 

You all turned to see Melissa Andrews weaving through the tables, smiling wide, and it only took you a second to place her. Cheer squad, junior and senior year. Always had extra hair ties and let you borrow her good mascara before games.

"Steve! Oh my god, hi!" She reached the table, then her eyes landed on you and lit up. "Wait—oh my god, is that you? I heard you were back!"

You stood up and she pulled you into a hug immediately. "It’s so good to see you," she said, squeezing your arms when she pulled back. "How are you? How long have you been back?"

"A few weeks. I’m good. How are you?"

"Good. Really good. Working for my dad’s firm, same boring stuff." She laughed and then looked at the table, at Steve. "Oh, are you guys here together?"

"Just—with everyone." What else were you supposed to say?

"That's so sweet. God, I can't believe—it feels like yesterday we were all in high school, you know?" She smiled at Steve, warm and familiar. "How've you been? It's been what, like six months?"

Steve's expression shifted, went careful. "Something like that. Yeah."

Six months since what, your brain supplied helpfully, and then immediately answered its own question when Melissa continued.

"I'm glad we stayed friends after—you know." She said it easily, casually, like it was nothing. "You're too nice. And you—" She turned to you again. "We have to catch up." Then, she turned to wave at the table, then disappeared into the crowd.

No one said anything. You picked at the beer label. Robin was looking between you and Steve with barely concealed curiosity; Eddie was picking at his beer label; Vickie looked confused. 

"So," Eddie said finally. "Melissa seems nice."

"She is nice," Steve said quietly.

You picked up your beer, took a sip. It tasted like nothing.

Your brain was doing math you didn't want it to do: Melissa. Six months ago. Maybe less. How many dates was "a bit"? Two? Five? Ten? And before Melissa, who else? And after? Now?

How many people from your high school—people you'd known, people you'd been friends with—had Steve gone out with while you were gone? 

"So," you said, trying to keep your voice as light as you can. The smile slipped into place. "Melissa. Small world, huh?"

Steve was watching you carefully, tugging at his lower lip like he wasn’t sure what he could say. "Small town."

You nodded, because that much was true. "I mean, Melissa’s great. She was always really sweet in high school, from what I remember." She’d also heard you talk about Steve, hear the intimate details about your breakup, and comforted you throughout it. But that was all the past. Water under the bridge. 

Steve opened his mouth to say something, then closed it. "It wasn’t really—"

He didn’t finish the sentence, and after a moment of awkwardness, the conversation picked back up. Eddie was saying something about seeing Karen Wheeler at the grocery store, Vickie was asking if anyone wanted another round. You laughed and you nodded, but you felt separate from it now. 

Steve shifted in his seat, knee bumping just slightly into yours. This time, you shifted in your seat to listen to Eddie. You took another sip of beer and tried to focus on what Eddie was saying—something about his band, a gig next weekend—but your brain kept circling back. Steve dated Melissa. Steve dated Melissa six months ago, which meant—what? You weren’t sure. But how many people was it from your past—people you’d run into at the store, or on the street, or at work—that you’d spoken with, caught up with, had dated Steve and you just had no idea?

You finished your beer, set the bottle down carefully on the table. Your hands were steady. That was good. You weren’t sure if they could tell you were drowning in a form of humiliation you hadn’t anticipated, but you had to get out of here. 

"I think I'm gonna head out," you said, and it came out easy, casual. "Early shift tomorrow."

"On a Saturday?" Robin asked.

"Dr. Feldman's doing emergency appointments. Someone's got to answer the phones." It was a lie, but a believable one.

"That sucks," Eddie said.

"Yeah, well." You stood, grabbed your jacket from the back of the chair. "It was really nice meeting you guys. Thanks for letting me crash your night."

"You weren't crashing," Vickie said warmly. "It was so nice to meet you."

"Seriously, you should come out again," Eddie added. "Anytime Robin's in town. Or, you know, anytime. We're here a lot."

"I'll keep that in mind." You smiled at them because they'd been nice, because you'd actually had fun before Melissa showed up and reminded you of all the things you'd been trying not to think about.

Steve stood up. "I'll walk you out."

"You don't have to—"

"I want to."

Robin and Eddie exchanged a look that you pretended not to see.

The walk to the parking lot was quiet. Not the comfortable kind of quiet you'd been building toward earlier in the night, but the heavy kind where both people were thinking too much and didn't know what to say.

Your car was parked near the back, under the one working streetlight. When you reached it, you turned around and Steve was standing there with his hands in his pockets, looking at you like he was trying to solve an equation he didn't have all the variables for.

"Hey," Steve said. "You okay?"

"Mm-hm. Just tired." You smiled at him. "Early morning tomorrow."

He was watching you carefully. "Feldman has early appointments a lot?"

"Sometimes. You know how it is." Then, to make the mood lighter, you added, "Some people just get convinced their teeth will fall out over the weekend."

He was nodding along like he wasn’t completely listening. "Yeah, yeah. So—tonight was good, right? Robin, Vickie, Eddie. They thought you were cool. I could tell."

"They’re all really great, Steve," you said. "Thanks for letting me come. I mean it. It was really nice to hang out with more people."

"Yeah, I—" He paused. You’d reached your car and had opened the door without getting in yet. You turned to face him with your hand on the frame. "Was it Melissa?" he asked quickly. "Because she didn’t mean anything by it. The whole ‘staying friends’ thing. We just run into each other sometimes. It’s not—"

"Steve, it’s fine, really. You don’t need to explain anything." And you wish he really, really wouldn’t. "There’s nothing wrong that you did," you said, choosing your words as carefully as you could.

He was staring at you like he couldn’t figure out what to believe. Your words or the voice in his head.

"Okay," he said slowly. "But you’re being weird."

"Am not."

"Are too—"

"Okay," you said, forcing out a chuckle, trying to stop whatever was going on before the conversation turned immature. "I really do need to go. Devon’s probably waiting up. Rain check on the interrogation?" you said lightly.

"I’m not—" He stopped and rubbed the back of his neck. "Yeah. Okay. Rain check."

"Perfect." You got in the car, pulled the door shut before he could say anything else. You turned the window down because he was still standing there. "Thanks again for tonight. Really. Tell everyone I said bye." 

"I will." You started the engine. He stepped back from the car, hands going to his pockets. You could feel him watching as you checked your mirrors, put it in reverse.  

"Drive safe," he said.

"Always do." You smiled at him one last time and gave him one little wave. 

He lifted his hand but didn't wave back. Just stood there as you pulled out of the spot, and you kept your eyes on the rearview as you left, watching him get smaller in the frame. He hadn't moved. Still standing in the same spot under the streetlight, hands in his pockets, staring after your car. 

You turned onto the main road and he disappeared from view. Three blocks away, you had to pull into the parking lot of a closed gas station and turn off the engine. 

Your hands were shaking. Your palms pressed flat against your thighs. Breathed. In for four counts, out for four. The way Madame Petrova had taught you before recitals when you were thirteen and you thought you might throw up from your nerves.

You were trying your best to avoid Steve during pick up the next Tuesday. Devon had genuinely felt bad about not being able to take over this time after you told her bits and pieces of what you’d heard at The Hideout, but you couldn’t blame her. You’d been voluntarily coming after your shift to pick up Carter at 4:45, recently with a smile on your face at the chance for general social interaction with someone aside from the people at the clinic who knew you from this girl’s sister or that boy’s tutor. 

You parked at your usual spot but stayed in the car an extra minute. Practice was wrapping up, kids were scattering across the field, Steve was near the dugout gesturing at something, probably explaining proper sliding technique or why you couldn’t bat after a strikeout. 

Carter noticed you first and waved so hard his body shook with it. You got out, locked the door, and smiled at him. 

Steve looked up and raised his hand in greeting and nodded. You nodded back. 

Carter jogged over, face red and sweaty, backpack half-zipped and dragging. "I made the coolest catch today!"

"Hey, that’s great," you said, smiling down at him as you ruffled his mussed up hair.

Steve was walking over. You started asking Carter if he had his water bottle and his glove and if he needed help tying his shoelaces. He didn’t, which meant his shoelaces were going to stay untied. 

"Hey," Steve said as he reached you.

"Hi," you glanced at him, smiling briefly. "How was it today?"

"Good. Yeah. Same old, but they’re getting better." He shifted his weight from foot to foot. "Carter’s been getting amazing at his accuracy, though," he said, moving his eyes to the smaller bystander to this situation.

Carter smiled at Steve then wandered a few feet away to watch two other kids mess around near second base before you could stop him. 

He’d left you and Steve to stand there with the silence stretching. There was no reason to stay.

"So, we’re gonna—"

"So, uh—" Steve rubbed the back of his neck. "How’ve you been?"

You planted your feet in the spot again. "Pretty good. Busy."

"Yeah. Cool." He nodded too many times. "That’s good."

After another beat of silence, Steve continued, "Hey, so I don’t know if you’d be interested, but—" He was talking faster now, like he’d been working up the courage to get this out before he lost his nerve. "You remember Mrs. Stone? The drama teacher? She’s kind of freaking out right now because they’re doing the spring recital and she doesn’t have anyone who knows choreography because the dance teacher isn’t dancing anymore, so she’s been trying to figure it out herself but it’s—it’s kind of a disaster, honestly." His voice went lower at the last part, which made you wonder if he’d sat in on one of the rehearsals and seen the disaster in real time. 

You looked at him, an eyebrow raised. He kept going. 

"And I know you did all those routines for the competitions and choreographed for cheer, and they were always—really good. Like really good. And I just thought maybe you’d want to help? It’s only for six weeks, and rehearsals are on Mondays and Wednesdays and Fridays around this time." He paused. "I don’t know if that’d be a problem with your schedule. But, I—"

"Steve—"

"—And I know you haven’t been doing that anymore, but I thought, maybe—" He stopped himself. "I don’t know. I thought you’d be great at it. That’s all."

There was something so desperate in the way he said it, like he was trying to fix something without knowing what was wrong. 

You tried to think over your words. "I don’t know if I’m the right person for it," you said carefully. 

"You are. Trust me." He was looking at you now. "Mrs. Stone’s got these kids trying to do a number with flips and it’s—it’s bad. Like, someone’s going to break an ankle bad. They need someone who actually knows what they’re doing."

"I’ve never taught—well, not like that, you know?"

"But you could. You were always—" He stopped, eyes wavering over your entire face like he was reliving the memories. "You were always really good at it all. I don’t think half the dance or cheer team had any idea what to do before you took over."

Your chest felt tight. You looked away from him. "When would she need an answer?"

"Soon, probably. The recital’s in six weeks."

"That’s not a lot of time," you said softly.

"I know. I know, no pressure. But just—" He was fidgeting with his hands now. "Just think about it? That's all I'm asking. Just think about it."

Carter was drifting back over now, curiosity getting the better of him. "Think about what?"

"Grown-up stuff," Steve said automatically.

"That's what everyone always says when they don't want to tell me things."

"That's because it's true, bud."

You watched Steve with Carter and the easy way they talked to each other, the way Carter looked at him like he hung the moon. You thought about those kids trying to choreograph themselves. About the high school cutting the arts and nobody stepping in to fill the gap. About Madame Petrova's voice in your head saying again until you got it right.

"Okay," you said quietly.

Steve's head snapped up. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. I'll—I'll call her. Or you can give her my number. Whatever."

"Really?"

"Don't make me change my mind."

A smile broke across his face—genuine, relieved, the kind that made your stomach flip before you could stop it. "That's—that's great. Really great. She's going to be so happy. The kids are going to be so happy."

"I haven't said yes to her yet."

"But you will. I know you will." He was grinning now, and you hadn't seen him look this pleased with himself before. "You're going to be really good at this."

"You don't know that."

"I do, actually."

Carter was looking up at you now, confused but intrigued. "Wait, what are you doing?"

"Maybe helping with the school musical," you said. "Maybe."

"That's so cool! Can I come watch?"

"We'll see."

"That means yes," he told Steve confidently.

"It means we'll see," you corrected, but you were smiling despite yourself.

Steve was still watching you, something soft in his expression. "Thank you. Really. For doing this."

"I haven't done anything yet."

"But you will." He said it with certainty like he knew you better than you knew yourself. "Mrs. Stone's usually in her classroom after school. Room 204. Or I can just—I'll tell her to expect your call?"

"You can tell her." You shifted your weight, suddenly aware of how long you'd been standing here. How easy it had been to slip back into talking to him. "I should get Carter home."

"Right. Yeah. Of course." He stepped back, hands going to his pockets. "See you Thursday?"

"Mhm."

Carter grabbed your hand, already pulling you toward the car. "Bye Coach Steve!"

"See you Thursday, kid!"

You didn't look back until you were in the car. Steve was still standing there, watching you leave. You lifted your hand off the steering wheel, waved back, and got yourself out of there as soon as possible.

You’d found your bag in a box filled with your things, shoved behind a box of yearbooks and old cheer uniforms. Navy blue with your initials embroidered on the side in gold thread, a sixteenth birthday present from your mom. The zipper was still stuck in the same place, and you found something ironic about that. Inside were a pair of beat-up jazz shoes you’d forgotten you owned, an old water bottle with about fifty stickers from so many different things, athletic tape gone slightly sticky with age, a scrunchie that smelled faintly of the vanilla you’d worn all of junior year.

You’d pulled it out, dusted it off, and before you could think better of it, you’d packed it with newer things. Fresh water bottle. Clean towel. The notebook where you’d started sketching ideas for the choreography when you couldn’t sleep at 2 AM. 

After you’d introduced yourself to the high school group, you’d surprisingly managed to dodge most of the questions related to your time in high school (and there were a lot of questions). Who did you assign captain after you graduated? Whose sister won ‘most likely to be famous’ in the yearbook superlatives? How long were you and Steve Harrington together? The latter topic, unsurprisingly, involved the most questions. How did you two start dating? And how did he ask you to be his homecoming date, and how could the boy asking the question ask his current girlfriend to be his homecoming date? 

You were heavily reconsidering whether you had it in you to do this after the first run-through. The kids knew the basic steps Mrs. Stone had taught them, but there was no uniformity or energy or sense of music. Two were doing an entirely different dance from everyone else. One girl in the back looked like she was going to cry out of sheer confusion. A boy in the front was clearly making up his own routine as the song went along. 

You hadn’t reconsidered, and two weeks later you were sweating through your t-shirt despite the gym’s aggressive air-conditioning. Your voice was hoarse from counting, but they'd run the opening eight-count twelve times in a row without a single person off-beat.

It wasn't perfect. Not even close. Sarah—the girl with the ponytail—still dropped her shoulder on the fifth count. Marcus—the boy who'd asked about Steve—kept forgetting to spot his turns. But they were together. They were listening. They were trying.

"Good," you said, and you meant it. "That's what I wanted to see. We'll pick up here on Wednesday, okay? And I want everyone to practice those counts at home. In the shower, while you're doing homework, waiting in line at the grocery store, I don't care. Just practice."

They scattered—grabbing bags, pulling out phones, collapsing dramatically onto the stage the way only teenagers could—and you bent down to grab your water bottle, your lower back protesting the movement.

You'd been on your feet demonstrating for two hours and your body was already reminding you that you hadn't done this in four years. Your calves were tight. Your shoulders ached. There was a knot between your shoulder blades that wouldn't release no matter how you rolled them.

But it was the good kind of sore. The kind that meant you'd actually done something.

"That was amazing."

You turned andMrs. Stone was standing there with her binder clutched to her chest, looking at you like you'd just performed a miracle.

"It wasn't—I mean, they still need a lot of work—"

"They were flailing around like drunk squirrels before you got here," she said, and you had to fight the urge to laugh at the image. "What you just did in two hours—I've been trying to get them to understand counts for three weeks. You're a natural at this."

The compliment settled somewhere in your chest, filling something. You weren’t quite sure what it was yet. 

"Thank you," you said quietly. "I'm just—I'm glad I can help."

On the third week, you were shoving the last of the rehearsal CDs into your bag when you heard the gym door crack open behind you. 

"Hey."

You didn’t need to turn around to know it was Steve. You’d developed a sixth sense for his presence over the past few weeks, and could feel the air shift before you heard his voice. 

"Hey yourself." You straightened, rolling your shoulders backwards. The knot between your shoulderblades pulled tight and you winced. 

He was wearing a maroon sweater that was slightly fraying at the edges. His hair looked like he’d been running his hands through them repeatedly. 

"Didn’t know you were still here," you said, bending to grab your water bottle from where it had rolled under the bleachers.

"Had to finish grading papers. Heard music coming from down here." He walked closer, and you tracked his movement in your peripheral vision, noticing the easy lope of his stride, hands sliding into his pockets. "Thought maybe the drama kids were summoning spirits or something."

"Close. Just teaching them to count to eight."

He laughed, and the sound bounced around the gym. "How’s it going? The rehearsals?"

You stood, wiping your palms on your leggings. They were damp from sweat and from that nervous energy that hadn't left you since you'd agreed to do this. "It's... going. They're getting better. Slowly. Very, very slowly."

"But they are getting better?"

"Yeah." You couldn't help the smile. "Yeah, they are. Today we actually made it through the opening number without anyone forgetting which direction stage left is."

"That's huge."

"It's something." You grabbed your bag, slinging it over your shoulder. The weight of it—familiar and grounding—settled against your hip. "One of them asked me today if I'd ever considered teaching professionally. Like, as a job."

"What'd you say?"

You paused, replaying the moment. Sarah with the ponytail had asked it so earnestly, like the thought had just occurred to her and she had to share it immediately. The way sixteen-year-olds asked questions was always unfiltered, and always assumed the answer was simple.

"I told her I'd never really thought about it." You started walking toward the door and Steve fell into step beside you. "But I have now, I guess. Been thinking about it."

"And?"

"And I don't know." You pushed through the gym doors and the hallway air hit you—warmer, staler, smelling like industrial cleaner and teenage desperation. "It's nice, though. Teaching them. Watching them figure it out. This one girl, Emily, she couldn't get the timing on this turn sequence. We stayed fifteen minutes after everyone left and just broke it down, over and over, until—" You stopped yourself, realizing you'd been talking faster. "Sorry. I'm rambling."

"No, you're not." He hit the push bar on the main entrance door, holding it open for you. "You're excited. It's different."

The parking lot was mostly empty now, just your car and his parked three spaces apart, both facing the baseball field. The sun was starting its descent, turning everything orange-pink. That specific late afternoon light that made Hawkins look almost pretty if you didn't think too hard about it.

"You look different, too," he said, and when you glanced over, he was studying your face. "Less..."

"Miserable?" you offered.

"I was gonna say tired. But yeah, that too." He leaned against his car, arms crossed. The whistle swung slightly against his chest. "Looks good on you. The happy thing."

Something warm bloomed under your ribs. You tried to ignore it, but it spread anyway, filling more spaces you'd forgotten were hollow.

"Steve—"

"You wanna get a drink?"

He said it fast, as though he was finding space to launch the question before he could overthink it. His hand went to the back of his neck and you could practically feel him trying to reel it back and make it casual. 

"I mean, not like a drink-drink. Or it could be. Whatever you want." He was looking at the parking lot and his shoes and anywhere but your face. "Just thought—you’ve been working hard, I’ve been working hard, and there’s half-price appetizers at the Hideaway on Wednesdays, which is today. Wednesday, so." 

You bit your lip, trying not to smile at how completely he was fumbling this. Steve Harrington, who used to ask you out with the kind of confidence that bordered on cocky, now tumbling over the suggestion of french fries and beer.

"So you're asking me out for half-price appetizers?"

"I'm asking if you want to hang out." He finally looked at you again, and there was something vulnerable in his expression. "As friends. Or not friends. I don't—fuck." He laughed, self-deprecating. "I used to be better at this."

"You really weren't."

"I definitely was."

"Steve, your first attempt at asking me out involved you 'accidentally' blocking my locker so I'd have to talk to you."

"That was strategic."

"That was obvious."

"But it worked." He was smiling now, some of that nervousness easing into something more familiar. "So what do you say? The Hideaway? I'll even let you order the loaded fries this time instead of pretending you don't want them."

You shifted your bag higher on your shoulder, feeling the weight of your old dance shoes against your hip. The ones you'd found in a box. The ones you'd thought you'd never use again.

Your car was right there. You could say you were tired—which you were—or that you had an early morning—which you did. You could smile and say rain check and drive home and spend the evening scrolling through apartment listings that you couldn’t comfortably afford.

Or you could say yes to Steve Harrington in a parking lot bathed in orange-pink light, asking you to hang out with all the grace of a teenage boy even though you were both twenty-one and should know better.

"Yeah," you said. "Okay. Let's get a drink."

His whole face changed—lit up in a way that made your chest tight.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah.." You pulled your keys from your bag. "And if you try to pay for my fries, I'm leaving."

"Deal. No—wait. What if I just pay for my fries and accidentally order way too many and you have to help me eat them?"

"That's the same thing."

"It's completely different."

You were already walking toward your car, but you were smiling. Genuinely smiling, and it was the kind that reached your eyes and made your cheeks ache. "I'll meet you there in forty. Gotta freshen up quickly. I’m all sweaty" 

"Make it thirty," he called after you. "Those fries wait for no one."

You unlocked your car, tossed your bag in the passenger seat, where it landed with a soft thud, your old water bottle rattling against the new one. Through the windshield you could see Steve still standing by his car, watching you. When you looked over, he raised his hand in a small wave.

You’d ordered an Amaretto Sour while Steve ordered a Jack and Coke. You’d opted for The Hideaway this time because you wanted the fries and were sure you were going to drop dead from your day of answering phone calls, then teaching high schoolers a dance routine, going home to shower, then immediately coming here. You and Steve had claimed the back booth, the one where someone had carved ‘CLASS OF ‘79’ into the table edge where the vinyl was patched with duct tape.

Steve shrugged out of his jacket, and you watched him fold it twice before settling it into the seat beside him. It was a habit you didn’t remember him having. He used to just throw his jacket anywhere. You picked at the cocktail napkin under your glass, peeling it into damp strips while he settled beside you. 

"Carter asked me today if I thought he could pitch in the majors." Steve was grinning now, eyes crinkling at the corners. "He wanted to know what age recruiters started looking. The kid who can’t put on his backpack properly at one go is already planning his draft year."

"Oh, my god. Devon’s gonna kill you." You pressed your fingers to your temples. "He’s already asking for more gear for his birthday. She’s gonna start sending you the bills. He’s also gonna start asking for a pitching coach"

"I am a pitching coach."

"A real one."

"Wow. Okay." But he was smiling, the corners of his eyes crinkled ever so slightly. "That’s how it is."

You mockingly tipped your glass in his direction. "That’s how it is."

The conversation started drifting after that, both of you having had. He’d told you how Joyce Byers and former Chief Hopper had moved to Montauk.

"Remember when he tried to arrest you?" You were smiling before you finished your sentence. 

Steve’s hands stopped halfway to his glass. "He did no—" He stared at you for a second, mouth opened. "Holy shit, he did. God, I completely forgot about that." He started laughing, the kind of laugh that built slow and then took over his whole body. "It was partially your fault."

"Who told you to park behind a construction site?"

"You did!" He pointed at you with a fry, laughing now. "You specifically said ‘no one ever goes back there.’" 

"I said no one goes there during the day."

"That is not—" He was laughing again. "That is not what you said. You specifically said—" He put on a voice, one that was higher than yours ever was. "‘No one ever goes there, Steve. It’s fine’"

"I do not sound like that." You smiled into your straw. "I totally did that." 

"I rest my case. You were always the reason for our worst decisions." When you gasped, he continued, "You’re the reason I had to drive for an hour at three in the morning."

"You’re the one who said you were craving IHOP!" 

"And you were the one who said ‘lets go right now," he shot back immediately, like the memory was just on the tip of his tongue. 

"Because you wouldn't shut up about it!"

The bartender dropped off another round for which neither of you had asked, but you were both nearly done with your drinks, so it worked out. Steve immediately grabbed a fry from the basket that had appeared at some point.

"Okay, but that trip was worth it," you said. "We had an entire diner to ourselves."

"Because it was three in the morning."

"And you spilled syrup all over the seat."

You both were grinning when Steve’s arm draped over the back of the booth as he shifted further into it. 

"Hey, I’ve been meaning to ask you—" He scratched slightly at his chin. "Was—is everything okay? About the Melissa thing?"

You cleared your throat, caught slightly off guard by the question. "Yeah. I mean, I said so."

"Yeah, but you’d also been—sort of—avoiding me after."

"I mean, I don’t know what to tell you, Steve." You let out a short laugh, wishing that you could reset and never let this conversation begin. "It was just weird, I guess. I don’t know how to explain it."

"Try?" he said, and you could hear the little uptick in his voice.

"I can’t imagine dating, like, Tommy H. or Benny or any of your old friends, you know? It would feel too weird."

"Well, I hope you don’t date Tommy H., he’s an asshole." Then, he added, "But yeah, I guess I didn’t think of it that way.  

"I—I’m not saying you should’ve." You took another sip of your drink. Dutch courage was your way to get through this situation. You traced your glass with one finger. "I think—" You stopped, then started again. "I guess I always thought we were building something. Like long-term. And maybe that was just me being seventeen and stupid, but…" You shrugged. "I guess seeing Melissa just reminded me that for you, it was just—high school."

He was quiet enough that you looked up, and you were fearing that there it was. You’d said it, the wrong thing, and made everything wrong wrong wrong. His jaw was tight, and he was staring at his drink. 

"It was serious to me," he said, voice softening as he tilted his head to look at you. "Not just high school or whatever bullshit you’re saying."

"Was it?" you said, trying to keep your tone gentle. Then, you loosely waved a hand. "I was young and dramatic and it was my first real relationship. Of course I spent years thinking it was everything."

Steve shook his head at your words, brows furrowing. "It was everything. To me, too."

"Steve—"

"Hey, I’m just saying. I’m not liking how you’re talking like you’re the only one who cared. Like I didn’t."

"I didn’t say that."

"You kinda did." His hand was still on the booth behind you, fingers drumming absently. "I may have not always—well, treated you that way. But I just want you to know I did care." 

The air between you felt too thick now. You smiled tightly. "Yeah," you said, nodding. "I appreciate you saying that." 

You took a sip of your drink and he grabbed another fry. 

"So, you’re not going to avoid me at practice anymore?"

"I wasn’t avoiding you."

"You absolutely were."

"Maybe a bit." You smiled. "It’s fine now."

"Good." His fingers brushed against your shoulder where his arm was draped, casual and easy. "Because I do like hanging out with you. Don’t want you disappearing on me."

You felt something lodge in your throat and tried to swallow it down. "Okay." 

"Good," he repeated, a the corners of his mouth twitching up. "Well, so much about who I’ve been with. What did you get up to?" He raised a brow. "Three years of college must’ve brought someone."

You laughed despite yourself, reaching for another fry. "You really want to know?"

"Fair’s fair, right?" He was watching you with an almost-curious expression.

"There was someone. For about a year and a half."

His hand stilled on your shoulder for a moment. "Year and a half’s pretty serious."

"It was." You chewed on the fry. "He was going to be an investment banker. You know, that type? Patagonia and a trust fund and all that."

Steve’s nose wrinkled. "Sounds like a catch." His thumb brushed against your shoulder. 

You continued, "He asked me to move to New York with him after graduation. That maybe I’d want to get a fresh slate in a ‘real’ city."

Steve hummed.

"So I ended it three months before I decided to come back here. He called me a quitter, but it was worth it." 

"I think that’s the last thing someone would call you." He took a sip of his drink.

The silence stretched for a moment too long. Somewhere around you, someone fed quarters into the jukebox and Tom Petty started playing. Steve finished his drink in two long swallows.

"You want to play?" He nodded toward the pool table where the couple was gathering their jackets. 

You looked at him and the way his fingers were drumming against the table. He needed to move. So did you.

"Pool?"

"Mhm. Unless you’re scared to lose."

You raised an eyebrow. "I’m definitely not scared."

"Prove it."

You slid out of the booth and he followed. His hand briefly touched the small of your back as you walked toward the pool table. The touch was light, and you were wearing a sweater, but it still made your skin warm through the touch.

The previous players had the courtesy to rack the balls. Steve grabbed two cues from the wall rack, testing the weight of each before handing you one. "You break."

"Trying to be a gentleman?"

Steve leaned on the edge of the table, grinning. "Trying to get a good look at your form. See if you’ve gotten rusty."

You lined up your shot, very aware of how he was watching you. The cue also felt familiar in your hands; you’d played enough in high school, usually at parties, and even more at college. 

The break was clean and solid cracks of ball scattered across the felt. Two stripes fell.

"Stripes," you said, straightening up.

"Good shit." He moved to stand closer, watching as you circled the table for your next shot. "Remember that time you beat Pat three games in a row and he tried to convince the entire party you were cheating?"

"All of you were such sore losers." You leaned down for your next shot, the 11 ball in the corner pocket. "He kept saying I was distracting him."

"Well." He clicked his tongue.

"I was just playing pool."

"You were wearing that—" He stopped himself and took a sip of his drink instead.

You missed your shot. "Wearing what?"

"My turn." But his ears had gone slightly pink.

He moved around the table, chalking his cue. You tried not to watch the way his hands moved, the way his shoulders shifted under his shirt as he lined up his shot. Tried and failed.

"The purple top," he said suddenly, not looking at you. "With the—the straps."

You remembered that top. Spaghetti straps, low-cut, the one your mom said was too revealing. You'd worn it specifically because Steve had mentioned he liked purple.

"You remember what I wore to a party five years ago?"

"I remember a lot of things about you." He sank the 3 ball, then moved to line up his next shot. "You used to bite your lips when you were concentrating. You’re doing it now."

You released your lip from between your teeth. "I don't—"

"You do." He missed his next shot, stepped back. "You also used to cheat."

"I did not cheat."

"You absolutely cheated. You'd lean over right in my line of sight and—"

"That’s not cheating, that’s being easily distracted."

"Same difference."

You moved to take your shot, very aware now of how you were standing, how he was watching. The 9 ball was an easy shot, straight line to the side pocket. But your hand was less steady than it should be.

"You're thinking about it now," he said from behind you. Close behind you. "About whether you're distracting me."

"I'm thinking about making this shot."

"You're thinking about both."

He wasn't wrong. You took the shot. Made it. Moved to find your next one.

The 10 ball was on the far end of the table. You had to lean across, stretching to line it up properly. You felt Steve move, sensed him coming closer even before you heard his footsteps.

"You're gonna scratch if you hit it that hard," he said, right behind you now.

"I'm not going to scratch."

"Your angle's off."

"It's not."

"It is. Here—" His hand covered yours on the cue, adjusting your grip. 

His hand covered yours on the cue before you could argue. His chest pressed against your back, and suddenly you couldn't remember the shot you were trying to make, couldn't remember anything except the way his thumb brushed over your knuckles as he adjusted your grip. He smelled like whiskey and the same detergent he'd used in high school, and you wondered if he knew that, if he'd chosen it deliberately or if it was just habit.

"See?" His breath stirred against your ear. "It’s more to the left."

You felt heavy all of a sudden and couldn’t breathe properly. "Got it?"

"Yeah?" His thumb pressed between the hollow of your knuckles. "You sure?"

Your heart was trying not to escape through your body out your throat. "Steve."

"Mm?"

"You’re not helping."

"I know."

"Let me make the shot, Steve," you said through a chuckle, slightly using your arm to push him off."

He laughed roughly before stepping back. 

You took the shot. Sank it. Barely.

"Lucky," he said.

"Skill."

You straightened up, turned to face him. He was closer than you expected, close enough that you had to tilt your head back slightly to meet his eyes.

"Your turn," you said.

"Right." But he didn't move and kept looking at you.

The air between you felt electric. The bar noise faded into background static; someone's laughter, the clink of glasses, a song you didn't recognize playing from the jukebox. All of it distant and muffled compared to the sound of your own heartbeat.

"Steve—"

"Hm?"

"Hi," you said, tilting your head to the side.

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Hi."

His hand came up, and for a second you were bracing yourself for him to touch your face. But instead he plucked the pool cue from your grip and set it down on the table behind you without looking. His eyes remained on yours.

"I’m gonna kiss you now," he said.

"Okay."

His hand slid to your waist, and there was a pause—just a breath, maybe less— where his thumb hooking through your belt loop and just stayed there. Then, he pulled you in, and you went, the inch of space between you disappearing.

The kiss was soft at first—almost careful—his lips pressing against yours like he was relearning the shape of your mouth through the shape of muscle memory four years old. You felt him hesitate and question in the gentleness, and something in your chest cracked open.

You pressed your lips against his a little harder, just for a second, and then his other hand came up to cradle the back of your head. He kissed you deeper, tongue sliding against yours in a way that almost made you lose your balance. The pool table bit into your lower back as you swayed, and you grabbed onto his shirt, fabric bunching in your fists, just to stay upright.

He pulled back just enough to breathe, nose brushing against yours, foreheads touching. His eyes were still closed. "Fuck."

"Yeah."

Then he was kissing you again, tilting your head back with his hands in your hair. He tilted your head back with the hand in your hair, angling you exactly where he wanted you, and you let him. Let him kiss you like he'd been thinking about this for weeks, months, maybe years. Like he'd been holding back and had finally decided to stop. 

You remembered this even through the haze of the alcohol and him and the way the bar had gone blurry around the edges. How Steve kissed you, how he gave it his whole attention, his whole body, like both of you would die if you’d stopped. His hand on your waist slid around to the small of your back, pressing you closer until you were flush against him.

You broke away for air, dizzy, and he immediately redirected, pressing kisses along your jaw. Open-mouthed and deliberate, working his way down to the spot just below your ear that he definitely, definitely still remembered.

"Steve," you breathed, fingers tightening in his shirt.

"Mm." The sound vibrated against your skin. His lips traveled lower, finding the spot just below your ear, and your breath caught audibly. His teeth grazed your pulse point and you gasped, the sound embarrassingly loud even though you could barely hear it over the noise around you. 

He smiled against your neck. You felt his lips curve. "Still sensitive there."

"We're—" You had to stop to breathe when he sucked lightly at the spot. "We're in public."

"I know." But he didn't stop. His hand had somehow worked its way under the hem of your shirt, thumb brushing the bare skin just above your hip. "Should probably stop."

"Probably."

His mouth moved lower, to the junction of your neck and shoulder, and his hand on your back pressed you impossibly closer. You could feel him against your hip—hard and obvious—and the knowledge sent a jolt down your spine.

Someone laughed too loud at the bar. A glass broke. The song changed to something with a heavier bass line. None of it mattered.

When you finally pulled away, you were both breathing hard. His lips were red and slightly swollen, hair messed up from where your fingers had threaded through it without you realizing.

"Come home with me," he said. 

"Steve—"

"I don’t want this to end tonight." His hand flexed against your back.

You should say no and suggest coffee tomorrow, keeping this slow, not rushing into something that could blow up in both your faces. But this was what it was, casual. Something that was bound to happen. Something you had to get out of your system before it came out during unwanted times. 

But his forehead was pressed to yours again and you could feel his breath—quick and uneven—and his hand was still under your shirt, thumb still tracing patterns on your skin. And you'd spent four years trying to be smart, trying to make good decisions, trying to be the person you thought you were supposed to be. Maybe just for tonight, you could want something. Could take something. Could let yourself have this without overthinking it into nothing.

"Okay," you said.

His eyes searched yours. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." You released your grip on his shirt, smoothed the wrinkles you'd created. Your hands were shaking slightly. "Let's go."

His whole face changed—relief and want and something softer you didn't want to name. He kissed you again, hard and quick, then grabbed your hand.

He doubled back without letting go, pulled out a bill, placed it on the table, grabbed his jacket, and you were moving again.

"Wait," you said as you hit the parking lot. The cool air was a shock after the warmth of the bar. "We can't drive. We're—we've had too much."

Steve stopped, turned to look at you. For a second you thought he might argue, but then he nodded. "You're right. Shit. Okay." He ran his free hand through his hair. "I only live like five minutes from here. We could walk?"

"You want to walk?"

"I want you to come home with me." He said it simply. "Walking, driving, fucking teleporting—I don't care. Just—" His thumb stroked your cheek. "Please don't change your mind."

"I'm not changing my mind." You laughed slightly.

"Promise?"

Instead of answering, you kissed him. Rose up on your toes and kissed him there on the sidewalk in front of The Hideaway, and he made this sound—relief and surprise mixed together—and kissed you back.

When you pulled away, you were both smiling.

"Come on," you said, lacing your fingers through his. "Show me where you live."

His grin was immediate, bright enough to compete with the streetlights. The air outside was sharp enough to clear your head a little, the in-between where the air was deciding whether it wanted it to be winter yet. Steve immediately laced his fingers through yours this time and started walking, pulling you along with him.

The streets were quiet. Hawkins on a Wednesday night never had much going on. A few cars passed, some porch lights were still on, but mostly it was just the two of you and the sound of your footsteps on pavement.

"This is weird, right?" you said after a minute. "Walking through Hawkins like this."

"Good weird or bad weird?"

"I don't know yet."

He laughed, tugging you closer until your shoulder bumped his. "Remember when we used to walk home from parties?"

"You mean when you used to walk me home because I wasn't allowed to be out past midnight?"

"Your mom loved me. She never actually cared when you got home."

"She definitely cared. She just liked you too much to say anything."

"See? Loved me." He was quiet for a moment, then: "I used to take the long way on purpose. Make it last longer."

Something warm bloomed in your chest. "I knew you were doing that."

"You did?"

"Steve, your house was in the opposite direction. You'd walk me home then walk like twenty minutes back to yours."

"Worth it," he said simply.

You passed under a streetlight and he tugged your hand, spinning you under his arm without warning. You stumbled, laughing, and he caught you around the waist.

"What are you doing?"

"I don't know. Felt right." He was grinning down at you, and you were suddenly very aware of how close you were standing, how his hands fit perfectly on your waist. "You used to let me do that all the time."

"We were usually dancing."

"We're dancing now."

"We're standing in the middle of the sidewalk."

"Same thing." He started swaying slightly, pulling you with him, and you couldn't help but laugh.

"There's no music."

"So? We don't need music." He spun you out again, this time humming something off-key that might have been nothing at all.

"You're ridiculous."

"You're smiling though."

You were. You were smiling so wide your cheeks hurt, and when he pulled you back in and kissed you—soft and sweet and tasting like whiskey—you were still smiling against his mouth.

"Come on," he said, taking your hand again. "Before I decide to just keep you out here all night."

You walked for another minute in comfortable silence, your hand warm in his, before he spoke again.

"That's where you fell off your bike in eighth grade," he said, pointing to a spot near the Richardson’s driveway. "Busted your knee open. I had to walk you home."

"We weren't even dating yet."

"I know. I still carried your bike the whole way." He squeezed your hand. "And then your mom gave me cookies."

"She always gave you cookies."

"Best part of walking you home. That’s why I always did when we were together."

"The cookies?"

"Well—" He looked at you, something soft in his expression. "Second best part."

Your heart. Stupid, stupid heart. "Steve—"

"That's where Tommy tried to fight that guy from the baseball team," he interrupted, pointing to another corner. "Remember? You had to break it up."

"I didn't break it up. I threatened to call his mom."

"Same thing. You were terrifying." He pulled you closer, arm going around your shoulders now. "Still are, actually."

"I'm not terrifying."

"You made three teenagers cry during rehearsal last week."

"That was one kid. And she was crying because she finally got the turn sequence right."

"Still counts."

You elbowed him in the ribs and he laughed, the sound echoing down the quiet street. His arm tightened around you and yours went around his waist, and walking became this stumbling thing where you were too close together to move properly but neither of you cared.

"This is nice," he said after a moment.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. I missed this. Just—" He gestured vaguely with his free hand. "Being with you. Feels right."

You didn't know what to say to that, so you just pressed closer into his side. His apartment building was visible now, just up ahead, and you felt your stomach flip.

"That's me," he said, pointing to a brick building with external stairs. "Third floor."

"Nice."

"It's small. Nothing fancy." He was rambling now, nervous. "But it's clean. Usually. I mean, I didn't know you were coming over so I didn't—but it should be fine. Probably."

"Steve."

"Yeah?"

You stopped walking, turned to face him. "It's fine. I don't care what your apartment looks like."

"No?"

"Nope." You reached up, fingers curling into the front of his shirt. "Not here for the apartment."

His tipped his head down to meet your eyes as he smiled slightly. "What are you here for?"

Instead of answering, you kissed him. Rose up on your toes and kissed him right there on the sidewalk in front of his building, and he made a small sound as he pulled you closer to him.

When you pulled away, you were both breathing hard again.

"Inside," he said roughly. "We should really—inside. Now."

"Yeah. Okay."

His hands were shaking as he tried to get his keys out of his pocket. 

"You're not helping," he muttered, finally getting the keys free from his pockets. One of them slipped from his fingers and clattered on the ground. He bent to grab it, and you pressed against his back, arms sliding around his waist.

"I'm not trying to."

"Yeah, I’m getting that." He was smiling when he straightened, and his hands covered both of yours where they were linked at his stomach. His thumb traced over your knuckle once before he turned the key in the lock. 

The stairs were narrow—the kind where you had to go single-file or risk knocking into the railing—and Steve kept your hand in his the entire way up, pulling you behind him. Second floor, third door on the left. He fumbled with the keys again and you almost offered to do it for him, but then the door swung open and he was pulling you inside.

You had a split-second impression of the place—small, wood floors that needed refinishing, a couch that looked like it came from someone's basement, the smell of coffee and laundry detergent and something distinctly Steve that had no specific things you could point to—before he turned and his mouth found yours again.

This kiss was different from the ones at the bar; it felt hungrier. His hands cupped your face and he walked you backward until your spine hit the door, and the sound of it closing was the click of the lock and your bag sliding down your arm to hit the floor.

"Hi," he breathed against your lips.

"Hi, Steve." Your hands found the hem of his shirt, fingers slipping beneath to find warm skin.

[palmerzy]

thank you robin, of all people, for confirming big dick steve harrington

[bakerstreethound]

@frostandflamesfanfic hehehe

[frostandflamesfanfic]

okay I think we all were thinking it. Some of us just chose not to say anything 😅

[bangaveragewhitewine]

see me after class

Coach Steve x Teacher Reader

word count: 1.4k

note: after an unintended hiatus, Coach Steve was exactly what I needed to start writing again! this is a sweet one, and I hope you enjoy!

more coach/teacher Steve fics | full Steve masterlist | divider by @strangergraphics

Three quiet knocks pull your attention from the stack of worksheets and colouring pages in front of you. 

There is no mistaking the familiar little beat, knockknock-knock. 

You are smiling before you even lift your head, and your stomach swoops pleasantly.

His body fills the doorway, one shoulder leaning against the frame, whistle around his neck and that grin you have quickly grown so fond of on his lips. 

“Inside on such a beautiful day?” Steve asks, tilting his head toward the open windows and the playground beyond. He had done a lap of the school yard and the staff lounge, eager to catch even a glimpse of you. Finding you alone in your sunshine yellow classroom, glowing beneath the bright primary colours and gallery wall of children’s artwork, was like finding treasure.

“No rest for the wicked, Coach.” 

You tap your red pen on the worksheets before putting it down, wiggling your fingers to get the blood pumping again as Steve steps inside your classroom. 

“We can’t all have class outside because the sun is out.” 

Steve’s hand covers his heart, playing at being wounded by your words as he comes to sit on the edge of your desk. The space remains clear of papers and pens, reserved for him in case he called by. Your chair swivels, as if pulled by his magnetism, angled to face Steve and bask in his sunny smile that’s just for you.  

“Well, if the teachers are keeping those kids cooped up all day, the least I can do is put on a little outdoor dodgeball.” 

Steve slides his Ray-Bans from his pocket and lifts his whistle to sit between his shiny white teeth, modelling his sunny-day gym class look for you. His polo shirt is tight around his tanned and freckled biceps, and you know all too well that he debated if it was too early in the year for shorts before settling on his track pants this morning. 

He looks edible. But this is not the time or the place to daydream about him slowly peeling that polo off, or running your hands along those strong arms, the dark fuzz of hair and firm body beneath.

You school your dreamy gaze to that pretend-pissed-off look that makes his stomach feel fluttery and his cheeks warm.

“Mm, we’re the worst. That’s why you’re their favourite.” 

Steve smiles, feigning modesty as he slips his glasses off again so he can see you properly. The tiny reminder of his legend status - how he is once again the most popular guy in school - makes his heart stutter. This time, it means something. 

Kids in every grade from first to sixth worship Coach Steve. He is gentle with them, patient and always with a positive word to say, even when he feels stressed and gloomy. He helps to tie shoelaces and patches up their skinned knees and elementary squabbles, never forgets a name and takes note of the kids who need a little extra help or an extra few kind words of encouragement. He is equally popular with the Middle School basketball team, his gym and health classes.

He is just as sweet with you, sweeter behind closed doors and away from curious eyes and nosy colleagues. In different ways, of course. It started with shared morning coffees in the staff lounge, an apple left on your desk and a sweet sticky note stuck between piles of worksheets, a helping hand with decorating your classroom before the new school year began. It was easy to fall in love with him. 

Now, Steve glances back at the kicked-ajar classroom door, out to the yard beyond the bright windows where the kids' voices and laughter float in on the spring air. There are still a few minutes left of lunch, and students and teachers alike are enjoying the sunny blue sky outside.

His eyes flash, confidently mischievous, and he drops his voice before speaking. 

“Hey, teach. Gimme a kiss?” 

There is a softness in his eyes, contrasting his cocksure smile; Steve can’t hide the enormity of what he feels for you behind the Cool Coach persona. 

Both of you lean a little closer, Steve on his pedestal-perch on your desk, and you in the teacher’s chair. 

“Didn’t anyone ever teach you patience, Mr Harrington? Or your Ps and Qs?”

Steve shrugs, tilts his head as he tees up to tease you a little more, make you smile.

“Maybe I need extra classes. You free after school?” 

He hooks his foot, clad in his classic white sneakers, around the wheeling base of your chair, dragging you close enough to close the too-big space between you. 

“Mm, maybe. I might have a hot date…” 

He is looking at your mouth, remembering the shape and feel of it from the last time you kissed him. His tongue darts out to wet his plush lower lip, a muscle memory that makes you ache with want. 

“Don’t tell me. ‘Mark Papers’? I hate that guy…”

He loves that joke, really. Loves playing up the hatred for his rival for your attention, and hamming up how he could convince you to ditch ‘Mark Papers’ to spend time with him instead.

You are near enough now to smell spearmint lingering on his breath from his contraband chewing gum, and his spicy-fresh cologne with a hint of sweat from the warm day and running laps with the sixth graders. 

“You’ll find yourself in detention if you’re not careful, Coach.”

“Yeah? You going to make me write lines?” he murmurs. 

Steve bends himself almost in half to taste your lips; sweet relief and cherry lip balm. Your cheek leans against his warm palm, and his smiling mouth moulds itself perfectly against yours to share a few soft kisses. 

“You’re trouble, Harrington,” you whisper, brushing a few loose hairs behind his ear. Your smile betrays your teasing.

He cannot resist a second taste and kisses you again until you are both smiling too much to go on. It is all too brief and fleeting for both of you, but it is enough to keep you going for the rest of the school day. 

His consolation for not getting to kiss you again until after the school bell will come when you shepherd your second graders to the yard later for gym class. Maybe you could be convinced to take a break from lesson plans and grading to watch the kids run around during his fun warm-up exercises, to pretend you’re not looking at the dreamy coach behind your sunglasses when he jogs past with a grin and wink. He wants to linger by your spot in the shade when the kids are too focused on throwing and dodging than their teachers' quiet flirtations and secret smiles. 

So gently, you stroke his cheek and press one more lingering kiss to his mouth. The ticking clock on the wall matches the upside-down time on his wrist.

“I need to go collect my kids,” you murmur, feeling pouty about it. You have an exercise on punctuation to teach after lunch, but your whole classroom will be watching the clock until it’s time for gym class with the Coach.

Steve presses one kiss to your head before standing, offers you his hand to help you out of your chair. Your hand feels small in his; you squeeze three times and feel four back in response. He picks up your fresh stack of worksheets as you smooth your skirt.

“One on each desk?” he asks.

“You don’t have to…”

“I know. But let me help anyway.”

Steve shrugs, scanning his eyes along the exercise sheet with a smile before starting a weaving lap around the classroom. Each sheet is placed carefully, and he looks like a giant between the second-grade-sized tables and chairs.

“Thanks, Stevie.”

Your fondness-heavy words make his heart pump faster. 

“Any time. Gotta get myself in the teacher’s good books,” he says, winking at you.

Back to teasing again, you murmur, “Teacher’s Pet,” as you tidy away your lunch box and grading to take home.

All too soon, he is back at your classroom door, and this time, you are right by his side. You squeeze his hand once more before parting ways; you go right towards the playground, and Steve turns left for the gym, both slow-walking backwards so you can keep looking at each other for a moment more.

“See you soon, Coach.”

Steve smiles, puts his hands in his pocket so he doesn’t pull you back in and make a scene in front of the troop of first graders coming back inside with their teacher. They whisper excitedly when they see him; their hero-worship is adorable, completely understandable. They can have his attention and some high-fives, but right now his gaze his fixed on you, committing you to memory until he sees you again in forty-five minutes.

“See you later, Mrs Harrington.”

thank you for reading - I hope you enjoyed it as much as I enjoyed flirting with Steve in my docs! reblogs, comments and likes are loved, cherished and adored!

[roanofarcc]

Steve Harrington angst angst angst plsssss 🙏🙏🙏

DEAD-BED CONFESSIONS

paring. steve harrington x fem!reader

summary. when you and steve become trapped in a melting hawkins lab in the upside down, unsaid feelings have no choice but to bubble to the surface.

warnings. dear death experience; rewrite of the goo-room scene; confessions; believed unrequited feelings (but they indeed are not); angst with a happy ending!

a/n. what if we...confessed our feelings in the goo room?

word count. 2.4k | masterlist

"Help!" you yelled, voice raw and drenched in fear as you prayed someone, anyone, could hear you.

One of your shoes was stuck in the melting substance that coated the floor of the room you and Steve had found yourselves trapped in after being knocked out.

One moment, you were on the far side of the roof of Hawkins Lab, the even worse version of it in the Upside Down. The next thing you heard was the unmistakable shot from Nancy's gun, followed by a brilliant red light that danced over your heads before it exploded, knocking you and Steve unconscious.

From what you deduced, the explosion caused more of the Lab to melt, sinking you and Steve straight through the roof and into one of the many rooms. The walls were drenched in the thick, liquified substance of the melting building, and a good foot of it was on the floor, which made it hard to move and even harder to find a means of escape.

You pressed your lips into a line as Steve continued to call for help.

"Steve," you breathed out. "If they could hear us, they would have been here by now."

He spun around, slowly as he waded through the liquid. It was tangled in his hair and on his clothes; you imagined you didn't look much different.

"No, they're coming," he tried to assure you. "They've got to be."

He had tried to break through the wall but was only met with more of the melting lab pouring into the room. It was like you were trapped in quicksand. You were stuck in a death trap; you were sure of it.

"Steve..." you said again. You hated to stand between him and his optimism, but the outcome looked bleak. The room was melting around you, and the voices of your friends had yet to ring out with a promise of escape.

He looked ready to argue, but as his eyes darted around the room, the furniture already starting to sink, his body deflated.

The only thing left was to buy time. There was a table in the middle of the room, submerged about halfway up its legs. You climbed on top of it, gesturing for Steve to join you. You sat on opposite sides of the table top in an attempt to even out the weight in hopes for a slower sink.

"After everything, I can't believe this is how we're going to die," you said, having no choice but to chuckle.

Steve shook his head. "Don't say that. There has to be a way out..." he trailed off, his eyes looking around the room for the hundredth time, but there was nothing new to observe.

"My money had always been on a Demogorgon," you said.

He shot you a look. "That's how you thought you'd die?"

"Can you blame me? We've all had enough close calls. I always assumed one of them would be what takes me out. But I planned to go down very dramatically in battle, real sci-fi heroine style."

Steve laughed. "Of course you would."

"Drowning in...in melted lab goo isn't exactly flashy."

"Shit," Steve cursed under his breath, any hint of amusement falling from his face. "Usually when we have those close calls, I don't have time to think about it."

"About dying?" Steve nodded, and you swallowed thickly.

After all of the shit you had been through, ever since that night that Will Byers vanished, the concept of death wasn't a stranger, but you somehow, by some miracle, found a way through. It had never felt as hopeless as it did in that moment. You and Steve were just sitting there; two fighters through and through, but it seemed like you both reached the end of your rope.

"At least we're not alone," you said, quietly, but your voice seemed to rattle off the walls.

You and Steve had gotten tangled in the Upside Down by accident. You had been recruited by your neighbor, Lucas Sinclair, to help him and his friends look for Will, and you were the ones they entrusted to tell about the young girl they found in the woods. Since then, you felt responsible for helping them as each year seemed to bring new and bigger threats.

Maybe Lucas and his friends were the same age as you were when it all started, but in your eyes, they were still just kids. You shouldered some of the weight of it all, in hopes of sparing them from holding all of it. That was how you became close with Steve, because he had started doing the same when he was recruited by Dustin to hunt down the baby Demogorgon he found.

It was at the junk yard that night, when Steve stepped off the bus in an attempt to lure Dart into the trap, that you really started to see him as more than some fellow Hawkins High student you passed by in the halls. He found a purpose in helping the kids, just as you had.

From that point on, you found yourself in an unlikely friendship. When there were no threats, anyone could have mistaken you two for some normal friends, spending Friday nights watching movies or Wednesdays chaperoning the party at the arcade.

When danger crept back in, you two worked in impressive tandem. Dustin referred to you two as partners in crime. You didn't understand at the time why that made your face feel hot and stomach in knots. You pushed that feeling down, time and time again.

Because the idea of being 'partners' with Steve, beyond monster hunting, felt impossible. You weren't sure why, exactly. You just didn't think he saw you like that, as anything beyond a friend with whom he occasionally saved the world with.

Of course, with that seed planted in your head, you started to overthink everything he did. Steve was a nice guy, too nice sometimes. And when he'd open the car door for you, or sleep on your bedroom floor when you called him in the middle of the night after a nightmare, your mind was sent into a spiral.

A brush of a shoulder that you once thought nothing of became the subject of late-night overthinking in your bed. When he met your gaze in a crowded room and smiled, the image was stained in your brain for days after, driving you mad.

You never told him, believing it was some one-sided crush that you had to get over, like a cold that you kept catching. But you saw no end of it in sight, not when he talked about the dates he'd gone on or seemed to regard you as nothing more than a friend. It clawed at your chest, and you hated it.

"Yeah," he breathed out. "If I had to die with anyone, I'm glad it's you." His words caught you off guard, but he mistook your surprise as something bad. "Not that I'm glad you're dying! Jesus. No. That's not what I...I just mean, I wouldn't want to spend my last moments with anyone else."

A lump formed in your throat, and your eyes started to sting. He sounded so sincere.

"I'm glad it's you too, Steve."

His eyes started to get glossy as well, but he tried to hide his emotion with a wipe of his face and a deep breath.

"Any deathbed confessions you want to get off your chest before we...melt?"

You laughed again, at the absurdity of your situation and the horror of it all. "I cheated my way through calculus," you admitted in a rushed breath. "I was horrible at it, so I paid some genius freshman who had it first period to give me the answers to the homework and tests."

Steve let out a low whistle. "Ms. A Honor-Roll is a cheater?"

"I'm not proud of it."

"There are worse things you could have done, trust me."

You poked his leg with your outstretched foot. "What about you, Harrington? Any big secrets to get off your chest?"

He looked to think deeply for a moment. "I rigged the eighth-grade science fair so Dustin would win."

You gasped. "How?"

"Some little prick kept making jabs at Dustin that he was going to win, not Dustin. Obviously, Dustin probably would have still won, but I wanted to make sure that little asshole walked away in shame," Steve said, smiling at the amused and bewildered look on your face. "Trust me, if you heard what this kid was saying, you would have 'accidentally' sunk into the school after hours and sabotaged his project."

"Wow," you said. "I was not expecting that."

Steve shrugged. "I've got a lot of secrets. But that one I'm pretty proud of."

There was a short lull between the two of you. You make the mistake of glancing down at the floor, only to realize the liquefied building substance was nearly to the top of the table leg. You had maybe a couple more minutes until the table was submerged, and you and Steve would have no choice but to sink along with the rest of the furniture in the room.

Facing down monsters wasn't a coward's way to go out; that was why it didn't sound like such a bad way to go. At least you'd be remembered for something. But drowning in the melted building wasn't heroic. It was probably the kind of death that was slow and painful.

But you didn't want to be a coward; that's not how you wanted to die. And if you couldn't go out fighting a monster, the next best thing was admitting the crush you had on the boy in front of you.

However, as you looked at Steve, his face pinched in thought as he looked around the room once more.

"Steve," you said, voice quieter than you intended it to be. "I have another confession." He just looked at you, a silent prompt to continue. You forced your gaze onto your lap. "I was surprised when I saw you at the junkyard with Dustin. Out of all of the people in Hawkins, I didn't imagine you being recruited into...into all of this. I was even more surprised that we got along so well. That we do get along so well.

"But somewhere along the line, I guess I started to see you differently."

You paused for a moment, trying to collect your thoughts, only to be met by the worried voice of Steve. "Differently in a bad way?"

Your head shot up at his words, meeting his eyes, swarmed with concern.

Quickly, you shook your head. "No. No, not in a bad way at all. The opposite, actually." His concern turned into confusion. "I started to like you. Not just as a friend, as something more than that. I thought it was just some stupid crush at first, but I never got over it, over you. And if...if we're going to die here, I just want you to know that."

Silence stretched across the room, leaving only the groan of the breaking building to fill the gaps.

"You liked me?"

You sucked in a breath and met his gaze once more. "I like you."

He brought his hands to his face, and you readied yourself for some humiliating rejection. He dragged them down the length of his face and seemed to deflate like a popped balloon.

"We really have impeccable timing, you know that?"

You furrowed your brows. "What?"

"Come on." He said your name softly, like it was something he wanted to treat with care. "You have to know I like you too."

You nearly fell off the table at his response. There was no hint of joking in his eyes or like he was just telling you that as a dead-bed pity lie. No, he looked earnest.

"You do?"

He let out a breathy laugh and started to scoot closer to you on the table, which unsteadied it slightly. You met him in the middle of it, both to even out your weight and to be closer to him.

"Yeah, a lot."

You shook your head. "God, I really wish we weren't about to die." Your voice cracked down the middle, and the tears that had been welling in your eyes gave way, sending some down your cheek.

"Like I said, impeccable timing." He reached out hesitantly at first and wiped away some of your tears. There was a soft smile on his face. You leaned into his touch until your foreheads were touching. He dropped his hand and gripped your waist, his fingers gripping the fabric of your sweater.

You shifted your head just slightly, ghosting your lips over his, testing the waters. But your time was running out. Steve closed the near nonexistent gap, pressing his lips against yours with a certain kind of urgency you'd never experienced before. The kiss was sweet, but desperate. Both of your lips were chapped, and salty tears from both your eyes mingled between. But you were certain it was the best kiss of your life, and the last one.

However, as you two finally broke apart for air, you shifted your hand. When your knuckles grazed the liquid that was level with the table top, it was no longer liquid.

Steve's full attention was on you, his brows furrowing as you pulled away from him. You placed your hand on top of the melted building goo, finding it to be solid under your touch.

"It stopped," you whispered, scared if you said it too loud, the world around you would start melting again.

He touched the surface too before a laugh of disbelief fell over his features. The two of you stood up and slowly crept onto the surface of the solidified melted Lab. It held your weight, and as you gazed around the room, it had stopped pouring in from all sides.

Then, like an answered prayer, you heared the distant, shouting voices of your friends.

You and Steve started to shout as well until your friends' voices were right outside the room. After a couple of moments, they managed to break through a piece of the wall, greeting you with thankful smiles.

As you all made your way out of the Lab quickly, not wanting anyone to get trapped again, Steve slipped his hand into yours. You could still feel his lips on yours, but instead of a goodbye, it felt like the start of something new.

[roanofarcc]

Steve Harrington angst angst angst plsssss 🙏🙏🙏

DEAD-BED CONFESSIONS

paring. steve harrington x fem!reader

summary. when you and steve become trapped in a melting hawkins lab in the upside down, unsaid feelings have no choice but to bubble to the surface.

warnings. dear death experience; rewrite of the goo-room scene; confessions; believed unrequited feelings (but they indeed are not); angst with a happy ending!

a/n. what if we...confessed our feelings in the goo room?

word count. 2.4k | masterlist

"Help!" you yelled, voice raw and drenched in fear as you prayed someone, anyone, could hear you.

One of your shoes was stuck in the melting substance that coated the floor of the room you and Steve had found yourselves trapped in after being knocked out.

One moment, you were on the far side of the roof of Hawkins Lab, the even worse version of it in the Upside Down. The next thing you heard was the unmistakable shot from Nancy's gun, followed by a brilliant red light that danced over your heads before it exploded, knocking you and Steve unconscious.

From what you deduced, the explosion caused more of the Lab to melt, sinking you and Steve straight through the roof and into one of the many rooms. The walls were drenched in the thick, liquified substance of the melting building, and a good foot of it was on the floor, which made it hard to move and even harder to find a means of escape.

You pressed your lips into a line as Steve continued to call for help.

"Steve," you breathed out. "If they could hear us, they would have been here by now."

He spun around, slowly as he waded through the liquid. It was tangled in his hair and on his clothes; you imagined you didn't look much different.

"No, they're coming," he tried to assure you. "They've got to be."

He had tried to break through the wall but was only met with more of the melting lab pouring into the room. It was like you were trapped in quicksand. You were stuck in a death trap; you were sure of it.

"Steve..." you said again. You hated to stand between him and his optimism, but the outcome looked bleak. The room was melting around you, and the voices of your friends had yet to ring out with a promise of escape.

He looked ready to argue, but as his eyes darted around the room, the furniture already starting to sink, his body deflated.

The only thing left was to buy time. There was a table in the middle of the room, submerged about halfway up its legs. You climbed on top of it, gesturing for Steve to join you. You sat on opposite sides of the table top in an attempt to even out the weight in hopes for a slower sink.

"After everything, I can't believe this is how we're going to die," you said, having no choice but to chuckle.

Steve shook his head. "Don't say that. There has to be a way out..." he trailed off, his eyes looking around the room for the hundredth time, but there was nothing new to observe.

"My money had always been on a Demogorgon," you said.

He shot you a look. "That's how you thought you'd die?"

"Can you blame me? We've all had enough close calls. I always assumed one of them would be what takes me out. But I planned to go down very dramatically in battle, real sci-fi heroine style."

Steve laughed. "Of course you would."

"Drowning in...in melted lab goo isn't exactly flashy."

"Shit," Steve cursed under his breath, any hint of amusement falling from his face. "Usually when we have those close calls, I don't have time to think about it."

"About dying?" Steve nodded, and you swallowed thickly.

After all of the shit you had been through, ever since that night that Will Byers vanished, the concept of death wasn't a stranger, but you somehow, by some miracle, found a way through. It had never felt as hopeless as it did in that moment. You and Steve were just sitting there; two fighters through and through, but it seemed like you both reached the end of your rope.

"At least we're not alone," you said, quietly, but your voice seemed to rattle off the walls.

You and Steve had gotten tangled in the Upside Down by accident. You had been recruited by your neighbor, Lucas Sinclair, to help him and his friends look for Will, and you were the ones they entrusted to tell about the young girl they found in the woods. Since then, you felt responsible for helping them as each year seemed to bring new and bigger threats.

Maybe Lucas and his friends were the same age as you were when it all started, but in your eyes, they were still just kids. You shouldered some of the weight of it all, in hopes of sparing them from holding all of it. That was how you became close with Steve, because he had started doing the same when he was recruited by Dustin to hunt down the baby Demogorgon he found.

It was at the junk yard that night, when Steve stepped off the bus in an attempt to lure Dart into the trap, that you really started to see him as more than some fellow Hawkins High student you passed by in the halls. He found a purpose in helping the kids, just as you had.

From that point on, you found yourself in an unlikely friendship. When there were no threats, anyone could have mistaken you two for some normal friends, spending Friday nights watching movies or Wednesdays chaperoning the party at the arcade.

When danger crept back in, you two worked in impressive tandem. Dustin referred to you two as partners in crime. You didn't understand at the time why that made your face feel hot and stomach in knots. You pushed that feeling down, time and time again.

Because the idea of being 'partners' with Steve, beyond monster hunting, felt impossible. You weren't sure why, exactly. You just didn't think he saw you like that, as anything beyond a friend with whom he occasionally saved the world with.

Of course, with that seed planted in your head, you started to overthink everything he did. Steve was a nice guy, too nice sometimes. And when he'd open the car door for you, or sleep on your bedroom floor when you called him in the middle of the night after a nightmare, your mind was sent into a spiral.

A brush of a shoulder that you once thought nothing of became the subject of late-night overthinking in your bed. When he met your gaze in a crowded room and smiled, the image was stained in your brain for days after, driving you mad.

You never told him, believing it was some one-sided crush that you had to get over, like a cold that you kept catching. But you saw no end of it in sight, not when he talked about the dates he'd gone on or seemed to regard you as nothing more than a friend. It clawed at your chest, and you hated it.

"Yeah," he breathed out. "If I had to die with anyone, I'm glad it's you." His words caught you off guard, but he mistook your surprise as something bad. "Not that I'm glad you're dying! Jesus. No. That's not what I...I just mean, I wouldn't want to spend my last moments with anyone else."

A lump formed in your throat, and your eyes started to sting. He sounded so sincere.

"I'm glad it's you too, Steve."

His eyes started to get glossy as well, but he tried to hide his emotion with a wipe of his face and a deep breath.

"Any deathbed confessions you want to get off your chest before we...melt?"

You laughed again, at the absurdity of your situation and the horror of it all. "I cheated my way through calculus," you admitted in a rushed breath. "I was horrible at it, so I paid some genius freshman who had it first period to give me the answers to the homework and tests."

Steve let out a low whistle. "Ms. A Honor-Roll is a cheater?"

"I'm not proud of it."

"There are worse things you could have done, trust me."

You poked his leg with your outstretched foot. "What about you, Harrington? Any big secrets to get off your chest?"

He looked to think deeply for a moment. "I rigged the eighth-grade science fair so Dustin would win."

You gasped. "How?"

"Some little prick kept making jabs at Dustin that he was going to win, not Dustin. Obviously, Dustin probably would have still won, but I wanted to make sure that little asshole walked away in shame," Steve said, smiling at the amused and bewildered look on your face. "Trust me, if you heard what this kid was saying, you would have 'accidentally' sunk into the school after hours and sabotaged his project."

"Wow," you said. "I was not expecting that."

Steve shrugged. "I've got a lot of secrets. But that one I'm pretty proud of."

There was a short lull between the two of you. You make the mistake of glancing down at the floor, only to realize the liquefied building substance was nearly to the top of the table leg. You had maybe a couple more minutes until the table was submerged, and you and Steve would have no choice but to sink along with the rest of the furniture in the room.

Facing down monsters wasn't a coward's way to go out; that was why it didn't sound like such a bad way to go. At least you'd be remembered for something. But drowning in the melted building wasn't heroic. It was probably the kind of death that was slow and painful.

But you didn't want to be a coward; that's not how you wanted to die. And if you couldn't go out fighting a monster, the next best thing was admitting the crush you had on the boy in front of you.

However, as you looked at Steve, his face pinched in thought as he looked around the room once more.

"Steve," you said, voice quieter than you intended it to be. "I have another confession." He just looked at you, a silent prompt to continue. You forced your gaze onto your lap. "I was surprised when I saw you at the junkyard with Dustin. Out of all of the people in Hawkins, I didn't imagine you being recruited into...into all of this. I was even more surprised that we got along so well. That we do get along so well.

"But somewhere along the line, I guess I started to see you differently."

You paused for a moment, trying to collect your thoughts, only to be met by the worried voice of Steve. "Differently in a bad way?"

Your head shot up at his words, meeting his eyes, swarmed with concern.

Quickly, you shook your head. "No. No, not in a bad way at all. The opposite, actually." His concern turned into confusion. "I started to like you. Not just as a friend, as something more than that. I thought it was just some stupid crush at first, but I never got over it, over you. And if...if we're going to die here, I just want you to know that."

Silence stretched across the room, leaving only the groan of the breaking building to fill the gaps.

"You liked me?"

You sucked in a breath and met his gaze once more. "I like you."

He brought his hands to his face, and you readied yourself for some humiliating rejection. He dragged them down the length of his face and seemed to deflate like a popped balloon.

"We really have impeccable timing, you know that?"

You furrowed your brows. "What?"

"Come on." He said your name softly, like it was something he wanted to treat with care. "You have to know I like you too."

You nearly fell off the table at his response. There was no hint of joking in his eyes or like he was just telling you that as a dead-bed pity lie. No, he looked earnest.

"You do?"

He let out a breathy laugh and started to scoot closer to you on the table, which unsteadied it slightly. You met him in the middle of it, both to even out your weight and to be closer to him.

"Yeah, a lot."

You shook your head. "God, I really wish we weren't about to die." Your voice cracked down the middle, and the tears that had been welling in your eyes gave way, sending some down your cheek.

"Like I said, impeccable timing." He reached out hesitantly at first and wiped away some of your tears. There was a soft smile on his face. You leaned into his touch until your foreheads were touching. He dropped his hand and gripped your waist, his fingers gripping the fabric of your sweater.

You shifted your head just slightly, ghosting your lips over his, testing the waters. But your time was running out. Steve closed the near nonexistent gap, pressing his lips against yours with a certain kind of urgency you'd never experienced before. The kiss was sweet, but desperate. Both of your lips were chapped, and salty tears from both your eyes mingled between. But you were certain it was the best kiss of your life, and the last one.

However, as you two finally broke apart for air, you shifted your hand. When your knuckles grazed the liquid that was level with the table top, it was no longer liquid.

Steve's full attention was on you, his brows furrowing as you pulled away from him. You placed your hand on top of the melted building goo, finding it to be solid under your touch.

"It stopped," you whispered, scared if you said it too loud, the world around you would start melting again.

He touched the surface too before a laugh of disbelief fell over his features. The two of you stood up and slowly crept onto the surface of the solidified melted Lab. It held your weight, and as you gazed around the room, it had stopped pouring in from all sides.

Then, like an answered prayer, you heared the distant, shouting voices of your friends.

You and Steve started to shout as well until your friends' voices were right outside the room. After a couple of moments, they managed to break through a piece of the wall, greeting you with thankful smiles.

As you all made your way out of the Lab quickly, not wanting anyone to get trapped again, Steve slipped his hand into yours. You could still feel his lips on yours, but instead of a goodbye, it felt like the start of something new.

[underoospeterparker]

wait shy!reader and its like her having her first kiss with Steve!!

Kiss Me

Steve harrington x shy!fem!reader, 1.1k words

a/n: this is so cute!!! I interpreted this as reader's first kiss EVER btw

There are infinitely many things you love about Steve Harrington.

You love the way he gets two straws when he orders a milkshake. You love the face he makes when he's concentrating, tongue poking out just slightly between his teeth. You love his smile. You love the way he always has a hand on you, always has you tucked into his side, which is where you are now, on his couch, watching a film.

But one thing you absolutely don't love is when he gets quiet.

Steve is never quiet. He's always running a commentary of jokes, impressions, and dramatic sighs. Steve filling the silence is like an unalterable fact of the universe, as constant as gravity.

You tilt your head to look up at him, cheek rubbing against the soft cotton of his shirt. "Steve?"

He blinks, as if pulled from deep thought, meeting your gaze with soft eyes. "Yeah, sweetheart?"

"You're quiet."

He smiles, leaning his cheek against the top of your head. You feel the scratch of light stubble on your scalp. "I'm just thinking."

"That's dangerous," you deadpan, burrowing into his shirt.

Steve chuckles, burying his face in your hair. "Ha, ha. No, seriously. I have a question."

You pull back just enough to look at him, a flicker of nervous curiosity in your chest. "Okay. Shoot."

He hesitates. His gaze drops to your mouth, lingers there for a heartbeat, then lifts back to your eyes. His thumb drifts up to brush gently at your lower lip. The touch is gentle. You almost forget how to breathe with the way he's looking at you, like he's seeing something precious and entirely new.

"Has anyone ever kissed you before?"

You blink at him, wide-eyed, your lips parting on a soundless inhale. His thumb shifts, abandoning its post on your lip to brush soothingly at your cheekbone.

A knowing smile spreads across his face. It's not cocky, exactly. It lacks the sharp edge of his usual bravado. It's more... knowing. "That a no?"

You manage a tiny, frantic shake of your head.

"Yeah," he breathes. The word is full of a warm, reverent satisfaction. He doesn't sound surprised. "Didn't think so." The hand on your cheek shifts to cup your chin, tilting your head up to look at him with a tenderness that makes your throat ache. "That's 'cause you were waiting for the right person, right?" He murmurs. "You were saving it for someone who'd do it right. Who'd take their time. Make it good for you."

It's not a question, but you nod anyway.

Steve smiles, the smile he keeps reserved for you—soft at the edges, blindingly bright in the middle, crinkling in the corners of his eyes. "Can I be that someone, baby?"

Your breath catches. You can only manage another tiny, hopeful nod.

The sound he makes is soft—like he can't believe you'd actually agree to giving him something this vulnerable. A piece of yourself, a first. "Thank you," he whispers. "C'mere, angel."

He lets go of your chin, and for a dizzying second, you miss the contact. But then both of his big, warm hands slide to your waist. He hoists you up into his lap easily, your legs tucked against the cushions.

One of his arms curls around your lower back, holding you securely against him. The other hand comes up to cradle your jaw again, his thumb stroking your cheek.

"You're shaking," he murmurs, his voice a low, soothing hum. His forehead rests against yours. "Don't be scared, baby. It's just me. Just us."

Steve's eyes are so close you can see every fleck of golden brown in the rich hazel. "Just follow me, alright? I'll go slow. Real slow." To demonstrate, he tilts his head a fraction and presses the softest, barely-there kiss to the corner of your mouth. "Like that, see?"

You let out a shaky breath you didn't know you were holding. He smiles against your skin.

"There you go," he whispers. He kisses the other corner. "Just getting you used to it."

Then he brushes his lips against the tip of your nose, making you let out a tiny, startled giggle. The sound seems to make his smile widen.

"Good girl," he murmurs approvingly, his voice thick with warmth. He pulls away just enough to meet your eyes again. "Now, close your eyes for a sec, baby."

You do, lashes fluttering shut. Your fingers tangle in the soft fabric of his sweater.

"Just feel it," he murmurs, right before his lips meet yours.

It's a proper kiss this time, but it's still Steve—which means it's soft. Tentative. Gentle.

His lips move over yours with a patient, coaxing pressure, and when you hesitantly kiss him back, he hums in approval. "Just like that," he breathes against your mouth before reclaiming it. "You're doin' so good, baby. Perfect."

One of his hands drifts up to slide in your hair, tilting your head so he can kiss you better. "That's it," he murmurs between kisses. "No rush, honey. We've got all night."

He tastes you slowly, thoroughly, with a reverence that makes your head spin. He explores the shape of your mouth with a lazy curiosity, his own lips curving into a smile against yours when you tentatively stroke your tongue against his.

You're not thinking anymore. You're just feeling. The softness of his sweater, the little humming sounds of pleasure he makes, the way he seems to breathe you in.

He kisses you until you're pliant and boneless against him, until the only points of existence are the places your bodies connect: his mouth on yours, his hand in your hair, his arm like an iron band around your waist, the heat of him seeping through your clothes.

When he finally pulls back, his eyes are dark, soft, and shining with pure, unadulterated wonder. He doesn't go far. He rests his forehead against yours, his eyes still closed. His breathing is ragged, rough.

For a long moment, he just breathes with you, his thumbs stroking your cheek and your waist. Then, he peppers a dozen soft, fleeting kisses all over your face—on your eyelids, your cheeks, your temples, the shell of your ear, the corner of your smiling mouth.

"See?" He whispers, "told you I'd make it good for you."

He gathers you up in his lap, letting you hide your face in his neck while he rests his chin on the top of your head.

You can officially add one more thing to your never-ending list of things you love about Steve Harrington: the way he kisses you.

[hawkins-losers]

More of steve! He is looking so hot thiis new season

Just a little blurb to feed your hunger

My requests are open, so keep sending them

—

‘’You gotta go. Dustin’s gonna be home in…’’ You checked the time on your alarm clock. ‘’Fifteen minutes.’’ 

Steve made a sound of protest, not moving from where his head was resting on your lower stomach. ‘’Fifteen minutes is plenty of time.’’ 

You ran a hand through his perfectly tousled hair, playing with it gently. You both dreaded the moment Steve had to leave. Even though he’s been there for the past three hours. 

Steve's eyes shut against your stomach, and he sighed, savouring your touch. ‘’And the movie isn’t even over.’’ His fingers traced a slow path along your side, leaving a trail of tingly anticipation along your skin. He wanted to stay there forever. 

‘’The guy dies at the end. I’ve seen it a thousand times,’’ you said, turning off the tv and moving to get up, but Steve grabbed you and pulled you back on the bed. He pushed his face into your neck and kissed it. ‘’Steeeve…’’ 

Your mom was at her bookclub meeting and Dustin at Mike’s for DnD night. His curfew was at 9pm, so he was going to be there very soon. And if you wanted to keep him out of your business for longer, Steve needed to get going. He’ll stall at the door anyway, trying to get another  — and another — kiss or hug, and end up leaving right as Dustin would turn your street. It was always like that. 

‘’Can’t you come to my place?’’ he asked, his arms wrapped around you and refusing to let go. ‘’Robin went out with Vickie and probably won’t be home until late. If she comes home at all.’’ He kissed under your jaw, and up to your lips. 

You kissed him back, unable to deny him. ‘’I can’t. I have work in the morning and if I stay over at your place, I won’t get any sleep.’’ 

He raised an eyebrow at you. ‘’I keep you up all night?!’’ 

“Yes.” 

The last time you stayed over, you only got three hours of sleep. It may be enough for some people, but even with coffee, getting through your day at work was hell. You almost fell asleep behind the cash register twice. 

A smirk curled on Steve’s face. ‘’Can you blame me?’’

—

[sweetlikenonsense]

Day 7: Mistletoe Mutiny

♡ Serves: almosts, hesitations, and one finally-right moment ♡

Summary: Mistletoe was supposed to make things easier. It doesn’t. A soft holiday fic about bad timing, good intentions, and love that doesn’t need permission to happen.

Pairing: Steve Harrington x Henderson!reader

Word count: 4.5k

Baker’s note: As always, thank you for reading - this one was inspired by a second request from the same lovely anon as Day 1 ♡

The supply closet smells like pine cleaner, dust, and something faintly metallic - like regret, if regret came in aerosol form.

Steve notices because he’s standing too still, palms damp, breathing too fast, and his brain is doing that thing where it latches onto irrelevant details instead of the terrifying one sitting square in his chest.

Robin leans against a metal shelf stacked with half-empty paint cans, arms crossed, already smiling like she’s about to enjoy this far too much.

“So,” Steve says. Then nothing.

His tongue feels too big. 

The radio down the hall crackles with some tinny Christmas song, bass thudding faintly through the walls. Somewhere outside, kids shout, laughter bouncing down the corridor. Normal. Festive. Cruel.

Completely mismatched to the internal emergency unfolding in his ribs.

“You dragged me in here like you were about to confess to murder,” Robin says.

He exhales hard and scrubs a hand through his hair.

“Okay, I—just—listen.”

“That’s not comforting.”

He starts pacing. Two steps forward. One back. The floor creaks under his sneakers.

Robin watches for exactly three seconds before clearing her throat. Loudly. Pointedly.

“You’re doing the thing.”

“What thing?”

“The Steve Harrington Pre-Panic Shuffle.”

He freezes. “I am not.”

“You absolutely are. You only move like that when you’re about to cry or apologise to an inanimate object.”

He stops pacing, mortified, and plants his feet like they might try to betray him again.

“Okay. Hypothetically.”

Robin’s smile widens. “Oh no.”

“Hypothetically,” he says, his words spilling faster now, “if someone wanted to tell a girl he likes her—but in a chill way. A normal way. A way that doesn’t permanently alter both their lives—”

“Mmm,” Robin hums.

“—what would be the least terrifying option?”

She studies him, head tilted, eyes sharp and delighted.

“Mistletoe,” he blurts.

She blinks.

Then laughs. Loud. Sharp. The sound ricochets off the metal shelves.

“Mistletoe,” she repeats. “That’s your master plan.”

“It’s not a plan,” he says immediately. “It’s—seasonal misdirection. Low pressure. Festive ambiguity.”

“You are hiding behind a plant.”

“I am not hiding,” he insists. “I am strategically leveraging foliage.”

Robin wipes at her eyes. “Oh my god. You’re going to weaponize Christmas.”

“If she hates it,” he rushes on, “we can both pretend it was a joke.”

“So your romantic strategy is plausible deniability.”

“Yes.”

She snorts. “You’re impossible.”

He tries to laugh with her. It comes out thin and cracks halfway through.

“I just don’t want to mess it up,” he says, quieter.

That shifts something.

Robin straightens, uncrossing her arms.

Steve stares at a dent in the wall like it might save him.

“She’s important,” he says. “And every time I think about just saying it, my brain shuts down. Like—windows error noise.”

The closet feels smaller. Warmer. His heart is absolutely not cooperating.

“I don’t want to corner her,” he adds. “Or freak her out. Or make things weird. Or-” He looks up, catches Robin’s expression, and stops. 

“So,” he finishes weakly, “mistletoe.”

Robin watches him for a long beat.

“You’re scared,” she says.

He swallows. “Yeah.”

The radio changes songs. Bells jingle. Someone yells about hot chocolate like the universe is mocking him personally.

“You really like her.”

“Yeah,” he says immediately. No hesitation. “Like. A lot.”

Her teasing melts away, replaced with something fond.

“Well,” she says, nudging his arm, “that explains why you look like you’re about to pass out.”

Hope sparks. Tiny. Fragile.

“So… not the worst idea?”

She shrugs.

“It’s stupid,” she says. “But it’s your kind of stupid.”

He exhales a shaky laugh.

“I just want it to be nice,” he admits. “She deserves nice.”

Robin smiles. Soft. Genuine.

“Okay,” she says. “You get one mistletoe attempt.”

Relief hits him so hard his knees almost buckle.

“Thank you.”

She points at his chest. “But if this goes badly, I am telling everyone you hid behind a plant.”

“Fair,” he says, grinning despite himself.

She tilts her head. “So. Who’s the girl?”

Steve freezes.

Actually freezes—feet planted, breath caught halfway in, fingers curling into his jacket sleeves like they’re the only thing keeping him upright.

A full system shutdown.

“…It doesn’t matter,” he says too fast.

Robin’s smile turns sharp.

“Oh, it absolutely does.”

“Robin—”

“Nope. Not helping unless you tell me.”

He drags a hand through his hair, pacing again.

“Why do you need to know?”

“Because,” she says, “how am I meant to help if I don’t?”

“Also,” she adds, “I need to emotionally prepare myself.”

He stops.

Stares at the floor.

“Tina?” she guesses.

Nothing.

“Susan—”

“No!” he snaps, voice cracking. “It’s Henderson!”

The name echoes. Twice. 

Steve immediately clamps a hand over his face.

“Shit. I didn’t mean to yell it like that.”

Robin just stares.

“Oh,” she says.

“Don’t,” he mutters.

She doesn’t tease him. Just nods slowly.

“Yeah. That tracks.”

He sighs, shoulders sagging.

“I really don’t want to mess this up.”

Robin smiles—warm, steady.

“You won’t,” she says. “Probably.”

He snorts. “Comforting.”

“One mistletoe attempt,” she repeats.

He nods.

He doesn’t notice the shadow outside the door. Doesn’t hear the bucket shift. Doesn’t see Dustin freeze mid-step, eyes wide with horror.

Steve just exhales for the first time all day, thinking—briefly—that maybe this might actually work.

Dustin storms into the Wheeler’s basement with the energy of a man who has just lost all faith in the universe.

He doesn’t knock. He doesn’t announce himself. He slams the whiteboard down onto the table like a judge calling court to order.

“Emergency party meeting,” he says. “Mandatory attendance. No complaining. Sit.”

The others exchange looks — the oh, he’s lost it again kind — but they sit.

Everyone’s here. Max, Lucas, Mike, Will, El, hell even Erica. All staring at Dustin like they’re confused but deeply, morbidly curious.

Dustin grabs a dry-erase marker and slams it down like a gavel.

“Operation: No Mistletoe.”

El blinks. “What is… mistletoe?”

Mike opens his mouth. Closes it again.

Lucas gestures vaguely upward. “It’s… a plant?” He glances around, like someone else might want to take over.

At the same time Dustin waves it off. “That’s not important.”

El frowns. “Why is plant dangerous?”

Dustin whirls toward the board.

“STEVE HARRINGTON is planning to kiss MY sister. Under mistletoe.”

El’s eyes widen. “Oh.”

She pauses, then leans toward Max and whispers, “Is that bad?” Her whisper carries. Everyone hears it.

Max smirks. “Apparently.”

Dustin spins back to the group, already pacing.

“It’s very bad,” he says. “Because if they kiss—”

He turns to the board and starts scribbling furiously.

“—then they date. If they date, then they do PDA. And if they do PDA—”

He slams the marker down. 

“We all suffer.”

El watches him for a second, processing. “…Okay,” she says quietly.

Satisfied, Dustin nods and keeps going. “Here’s the problem,” he says, jabbing the marker at the board. “Steve is affectionate. She is affectionate. They will hold hands. In public.”

Mike makes a face like he’s tasted something sour. “Do they have to do it where we can see?”

“Yes,” Dustin says immediately. “That’s how it works.”

Lucas squints. “Dude… they’re adults.”

“WRONG,” Dustin snaps. “She is my sister. Steve is—Steve. He says things like sweetheart and honey sometimes. Do you want to hear that? At Christmas? Because I certainly don’t.”

Max snorts. “Wow. You’re really spiralling.”

Erica uncaps a marker she definitely did not have five seconds ago. “I volunteer as head of sabotage.”

Dustin looks at her like she’s just sworn loyalty to the crown. “Excellent,” he says, nodding once. He turns back to the board and starts drawing circles, arrows, and something labeled Mistletoe Avoidance Grid.

“Here’s how this works,” Dustin says. “If she walks under a doorway, you intercept. If Harrington leans, you block. If he flirts—”

“Divert the subject,” Lucas says, catching on.

“Yes,” Dustin says. “If there is a moment—”

“Ruin it,” Max finishes, grinning.

Will raises a hand timidly. “What if they just… talk?”

Dustin stares at him.

“Don’t say that.”

Silence.

Dustin points around the room, assigning roles.

“Max. Stealth operations,” he says. “Casual interference. You appear out of nowhere and make it weird.”

Max salutes lazily, with obvious mockery. “Born ready” 

“Lucas. Physical interception. You block. You redirect. You pretend you need help with literally anything.”

Lucas sighs. “I hate that I’m going to be good at this.”

“Mike. Dramatic diversion,” Dustin continues. “Loud. Emotional. Preferably embarrassing.”

Mike frowns. “Why is that my role?”

“You don't want me to answer that,” Dustin says.

He turns to Will. “Lookout. You see mistletoe, you warn us.”

Will nods solemnly.

Dustin pauses, then looks at Erica.

“You’re the wildcard.”

Erica grins, slow and sharp. “I was born for this.”

“And I,” Dustin says, straightening like he’s putting on an invisible uniform, “am commander of anti-romance warfare.”

A solemn nod passes around the room.

A pact is formed.

A war begins.

You end up beneath the mistletoe without meaning to.

It is taped crookedly to the top of the doorway, exactly where Steve and Robin put it earlier. He remembers hanging it with her. Crooked on purpose, tape barely holding, the dumb little grin she drew on it with a marker.

He remembers rolling his eyes, pretending it was not a big deal. Pretending his heart had not started racing the second it went up.

You are standing just inside the door now, half turned toward the room, half turned toward him. Someone laughs behind you. Music hums through the walls. The house feels full and warm and loud in a way that makes everything else soften at the edges.

Steve knows what is above your head.

He does not look at it.

He looks at you.

You are smiling at something he just said, something easy and unimportant. That is what makes it dangerous. He shifts his weight closer, not rushing, not hovering, just closing the space the way people do when they are about to say something. 

He waits a beat too long.

Not because he is unsure, but because he wants to do it right.

You glance up then, finally noticing the greenery taped overhead.

“Oh,” you say, amused. “They really committed.”

Steve laughs quietly. “Robin’s idea.”

It is the opening. He feels it. The moment is there, waiting for him to step into it. He opens his mouth to say your name.

“Hey.”

Lucas’s voice cuts in from behind you.

You turn immediately.

Lucas is standing a few feet away, holding a roll of tape like it is urgent. He does not look at Steve. He only looks at you.

“Sorry,” he says quickly. “Can you help me for a second?”

You blink. “With what?”

He gestures vaguely toward the next room. “The banner thing. It keeps falling.”

You hesitate just long enough to glance back at Steve.

“Sorry,” you say, already stepping away. “I will be right back.”

Steve smiles because that is what he does. It is polite. It is easy. It costs him more than it should.

“Yeah,” he says. “No problem.”

He steps back to give you room. His hand lifts to the back of his neck, rubbing once as if that will settle the sudden rush in his chest.

You follow Lucas out of the doorway, already distracted by whatever he is pointing at. You do not see the way Lucas exhales the moment you are out of sight.

Steve stays where he is for a second longer.

The doorway is empty now. The mistletoe sways slightly above it, stirred by someone passing down the hall.

Steve looks up at it at last.

He does not feel angry. He does not feel suspicious.

He feels stupid.

Too slow, he thinks. Should’ve just gone for it.

He turns away, folding himself back into the noise of the party, already telling himself that next time he will not hesitate.

Somewhere in the house, Lucas carefully presses a strip of tape onto a banner that was never actually falling.

The next mistletoe is in the hallway.

Steve clocked it the moment he walked in. Robin had hung it earlier, taped above the narrow arch between the living room and the stairs. Another crooked job. Another dumb marker smile - mockingly wishing him luck.

You are standing beneath it, jacket half on, distracted by something someone just said behind you. The hallway is quieter than the rest of the house, the noise dulled by walls and distance. It feels like a pocket of calm.

Steve does not hesitate.

He steps toward you before his brain can get in the way, before doubt can catch him by the collar and drag him back.

“Hey,” he says, soft. He says your name like he has already decided what comes next.

You turn immediately. Open. Attentive.

“Yeah?”

Relief hits him fast and sharp. This is it. He lifts his hand slightly, not reaching for you yet, just enough to show intent. The space between you narrows.

The mistletoe hangs above you, patient.

“Sorry,” Mike’s voice cuts in, breathless and strained.

Steve freezes.

You turn first, concern written across your face. “What’s wrong?”

Mike stands at the bottom of the stairs, hands flapping uselessly. He looks genuinely panicked.

“I messed something up,” he says. “Like, really messed it up. Can you help me? Please?”

You hesitate, torn. Your eyes flick back to Steve for half a second.

He makes the choice for you.

“It’s okay,” he says quickly. “Go.”

You relax at once, grateful. “I’ll be right back.”

You follow Mike up the stairs without another thought, already asking what happened.

Steve stays where he is.

His hand drops back to his side. His chest still feels tight, heart racing with nowhere to go.

He looks up at the archway, at the mistletoe once more. It sways slightly in the draft from someone opening the front door.

He exhales slowly.

Right, he thinks. Not rushing is good. Being considerate is good.

Romance should wait when someone needs help more.

He steps back into the living room, letting the moment go on purpose this time, telling himself that this was the correct choice.

At the top of the stairs, Mike pauses just long enough to let out a quiet breath of relief.

Steve knows where the mistletoe is before he ever reaches the counter.

He put it there himself, taped to the low beam above the snacks. Crooked, like the others. Easy to miss if you were not looking for it. Impossible not to think about if you were.

He does not look up.

That is the lesson now. Do not fixate. Do not force. Just be normal.

You are beside him, leaning back against the counter while you wait for drinks. The room is crowded enough that your shoulders brush, familiar and unremarkable. Steve keeps his focus on you, on the way your mouth curves when you smile, on the sound of your laugh when he says something stupid on purpose.

This feels good.

He talks. He listens. He lets the moment breathe instead of trying to pin it down. His hand rests on the counter near yours, not touching, just close enough to acknowledge what’s between you.

You shift closer without thinking.

Steve does not rush.

You glance up briefly, eyes flicking to the beam overhead. He notices but does not follow your gaze. He keeps talking, keeps the rhythm easy.

This is right, he thinks.

“Hey,” Max says, sliding in at your other side.

Not abrupt. Not loud. Just there.

She leans her elbow on the counter, nudging you a fraction sideways without touching you at all.

“Did you try the punch yet?” she asks. “Because I think Dustin used sugar like it was a challenge.”

You laugh. “That tracks.”

You turn toward her, already answering, already engaged.

Steve shifts automatically, staying with the conversation. He does not pull away. He does not crowd you. He is careful in the way he has learned to be.

Max keeps talking.

About the punch. The cookies. Something Lucas did that was objectively stupid.

As she talks, she edges another half step between you and Steve, casual enough to look accidental. Her shoulder bumps yours lightly, like it just happened that way in a crowded kitchen.

You drift with her.

Not much. Not noticeably. Just enough.

Steve does not realise what is happening until the counter ends and the beam does not.

The mistletoe is behind you now.

Steve does not look up.

He smiles. He nods. He adds a comment once, soft and easy, but Max answers it before you can, already pulling the thread forward.

You laugh again.

Steve laughs too, even though something in his chest feels hollow, like he missed a step without realizing it.

Max finally straightens.

She glances past you, toward the living room, eyes flicking briefly to where Dustin is pretending not to stare.

Under her breath, barely audible, she mutters, “This is ridiculous,” and then, quieter still, “You owe me for this, Henderson.”

Steve does not hear it.

You do not hear it.

Max smiles brightly instead. “I should go check on Erica,” she says lightly. “Before she starts a fire.”

She slips past Steve as she leaves, brushing his arm.

“Sorry,” she murmurs, almost kind.

You turn back to him. “Sorry. What were you saying?”

He blinks, then shakes his head, smile gentle and practiced.

“Nothing important.”

You believe him.

Steve stays where he is for a moment longer, then finally lets his gaze lift. Not to the beam itself, but to the empty space where the moment should have been.

Guess tonight just is not it, he thinks.

Across the room, Max catches Dustin’s eye.

She gives him a look that clearly says: never again.

The mistletoe at Family Video is cheap.

Plastic. Slightly bent. Hung crooked above the counter with too much tape and not enough care. Steve knows exactly who put it up. He did not help this time. He barely commented.

He sees it every shift.

He just does not think it is for him.

You come in during the late afternoon lull, bell chiming softly as the door swings shut behind you. The store smells like plastic cases and old carpet and something vaguely sweet from the candy rack.

Steve looks up automatically.

His smile is easy. Familiar. Safe.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey,” you answer, already moving toward the counter.

You talk while he checks in returns. Normal things. Work. The weather. Dustin complaining about something again. The kind of conversation that has always come naturally between you.

You step closer to read a handwritten sign taped to the register.

That is when you notice the mistletoe.

“Oh,” you say, amused. “You guys really went all out.”

Steve follows your gaze this time.

For half a second, his chest tightens.

Then it loosens.

He does not step closer.

He does not joke about it. He does not reach out. He does not even let the moment linger.

He shrugs lightly. “Yeah. Corporate festive spirit.”

You glance back at him, searching his face for something you cannot quite name.

“Well,” you say, after a beat. “It’s… very on brand.”

He smiles, polite and distant in a way you have not seen before.

“Can I help you find something?”

The question is gentle. Professional. A line he has said a thousand times.

It puts space between you.

You hesitate, then nod. “Yeah. Actually.”

You step back from the counter.

The mistletoe stays exactly where it is.

Steve rings up another customer a few minutes later and does not look up when they pass beneath it laughing.

Later, while he is restocking shelves, he tells himself it was nothing.

He tells himself he imagined the way your voice softened.

He tells himself it is better not to push things.

He tells himself that if it were meant to happen, it would have by now.

And if it has not, then that is probably his answer.

Movie night is loud in the way only the Party can manage.

People are piled on the floor, on the couch, half on each other. Bowls of popcorn get passed and immediately forgotten. Someone argues about whether this even counts as a Christmas movie. Someone else tells them to shut up.

Steve sits on the floor with his back against the couch, knees pulled up loosely in front of him. You’re on the couch above him, legs stretched out so your calves rest over his shoulder, familiar and unthinking.

It feels normal.

Routine. 

The movie plays on. Some overly earnest holiday romance, the kind with snow that never melts and music that swells exactly when it’s supposed to.

Steve laughs at the right parts. Groans at the wrong ones. He keeps his hands to himself.

He’s been doing that a lot lately.

Halfway through the movie, the couple on screen stumbles out into the snow. They stop beneath a doorway. The camera lingers.

Mistletoe.

Someone groans. Someone else mutters, “Oh my god, of course.”

The characters laugh, flustered, and then kiss.

It’s soft. Sweet. Lingering.

Steve feels it before he sees it. That tight pull in his chest, like something twisting just enough to hurt.

His eyes flick up.

Not to the screen.

To the doorway.

There’s mistletoe there too.

The same stupid sprig he and Robin hung days ago. Still crooked. Still smiling its dumb little marker grin. Still exactly where it’s always been.

Steve looks away immediately.

He doesn’t comment on it. Doesn’t stay. Doesn’t let the moment settle.

Instead, he adjusts, subtly scooting back so he’s no longer directly beneath it. Your legs slide slightly with the movement, and he stills like he’s worried he’s done something wrong.

On the couch, you notice.

Not the mistletoe.

Him.

The way his shoulders go a little stiff. The way he suddenly feels farther away even though he hasn’t moved much at all.

You look from him, to the screen, to the doorway.

Oh.

The movie keeps going, but something has settled uncomfortably in your chest. You watch Steve for another minute. He doesn’t look back. Doesn’t tease. Doesn’t even glance your way.

He’s already checked out.

A little while later, during a lull in the dialogue, Steve exhales quietly and shifts again.

“I’m gonna get some air,” he murmurs, mostly to the room.

No one really reacts. He reaches for his jacket and stands before anyone can say anything else, slipping out the back door like it’s something he’s already decided.

You don’t hesitate.

“I’ll be right back,” you say, already swinging your legs off the couch.

No one questions it.

Why would they? This is how it’s always been.

You and Steve.

Steve and you. 

Even Dustin is blissfully unaware, hyper-focused on the screen and the fact that someone is touching his popcorn.

Outside, the cold hits fast.

It’s sharp and clean, the kind that stings your nose and makes everything feel more real. Snow crunches under your shoes as the door swings shut behind you, muting the noise of the house until it feels like another world entirely.

Steve stands a few steps away, shoulders hunched, breath fogging in front of him. His hands are shoved deep into his jacket pockets like he’s bracing against something more than the weather.

He doesn’t turn when you step beside him.

For a moment, neither of you says anything. The quiet stretches, heavy but familiar, filled only by the distant hum of the house and the soft hiss of falling snow.

“You okay?” you ask gently.

He nods too quickly. “Yeah.”

You wait.

Steve exhales, slow this time, like he’s letting something go. “Just needed a minute.”

You glance back toward the house, toward the glow in the windows. “The movie?”

He lets out a soft, humorless huff. “Something like that.”

You study him now. The way he’s not quite looking at you. The way he’s standing just a little too still.

“You’ve been doing that a lot,” you say.

He finally turns. “Doing what?”

“Leaving,” you say. Not accusing. Just honest. “Every time something almost happens, you disappear.”

He opens his mouth. Closes it.

He rubs a hand over the back of his neck, staring at the snow like it might give him an answer.

“I just…” He exhales. “I didn’t want to mess it up.”

You tilt your head. “Mess what up?”

He hesitates, then laughs quietly, the sound edged with nerves.

“I just… didn’t want to get it wrong,” he says. “So I thought—” He trails off, then exhales. “I had a plan.”

You blink. “A plan?”

“Yeah,” he says, the word almost sheepish. “I put the mistletoe up with Robin. Thought it’d make things easier. Low pressure.” He gives a small, self-conscious laugh. “Just… an excuse to say something without having to say everything.”

An excuse to do what, hangs unspoken between you.

“I didn’t want to freak you out,” he adds quietly. “Or make it a whole thing if you didn’t want it.”

There’s no grand declaration in it. Just honesty. Just Steve, finally saying what he’s been carrying.

You stare at him for a second. 

Not because you don’t understand.

But because you do.

And suddenly, it all makes sense.

The timing. The interruptions. Dustin.

“Oh my god,” you say, laughing now. “They sabotaged you.”

Steve blinks. “They—what?”

“My brother,” you say, pointing vaguely back toward the house. “The kids.” 

Steve’s brow furrows as the pieces start clicking into place.

“The banner,” he says slowly. “The way someone always needed you.”

“Yes,” you say. “All of it.”

He lets out a stunned laugh, breath fogging in the cold. “I knew something was off. I thought I was just… bad at timing.”

Your chest tightens at that.

“You weren’t,” you say immediately. “You weren’t missing anything.”

He looks at you then, really looks, like he’s afraid to trust what he’s seeing.

“I kept waiting,” you say softly. “Every time.”

His breath catches. “…You did?”

“Yes,” you say, smiling now. “I thought you were the one backing out.”

For a moment, neither of you speaks.

Then Steve shakes his head, incredulous and fond all at once. “So Dustin declared war on mistletoe.”

You grin. “On romance. On you. On joy, probably.”

He laughs, quiet and disbelieving. “I hung those stupid things everywhere.”

“I noticed,” you say gently.

Something settles between you then. All the near-misses lining up into something that finally makes sense.

Steve steps closer. Not rushing. Not hesitating either.

“Just so we’re clear,” you say, voice steady, “you never did need the mistletoe.”

He exhales, like he’s been holding that breath for weeks.

“Oh,” he says.

And this time, when he leans in, nothing stops him.

He doesn’t rush it.

Steve leans in slowly, like he’s giving you every possible chance to change your mind, like he still can’t quite believe he’s allowed to do this without leaves taped overhead.

You don’t move away.

You tilt your chin up instead, closing the last inch yourself.

When his lips meet yours, it’s gentle. Careful. The kind of kiss that feels like a question finally answered.

His breath hitches against your mouth, a quiet sound he doesn’t even try to hide. One hand comes up, hesitant for half a second before settling at your waist, warm and grounding, like he needs the contact to convince himself this is real.

You kiss him back, slow and sure.

There’s no urgency in it. No desperation. Just relief. Just recognition. Like something that’s been circling for weeks has finally landed where it belongs.

Steve pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, eyes closed, smiling like he’s trying very hard not to laugh.

“Wow,” he murmurs.

You smile too. “Yeah.”

He exhales, shaky and happy, and presses another kiss to your lips. This one a little less careful. A little more confident. Like he’s learning, in real time, that nothing is going to interrupt this moment.

Snow drifts down around you, quiet and unbothered by human timing.

When he finally pulls back, his thumb brushes your cheek, soft and reverent.

“Guess,” he says, voice low and warm, “this works better without an audience.”

You laugh softly. “Told you.”

He grins, wide and unguarded and very Steve, and leans in to kiss you again because this time, he knows he can.

No mistletoe. No plan.

Just you.

♡ Seasonal special from the Hawkins Midwinter Recipe Book

[jjwritesabtfictionalmen]

Scent of you

౨ৎ pairing: Steve Harrington x Reader

౨ৎ summary: The scents you surround yourself with remind Steve of you in ways he can’t ignore, eventually leading to your first heartfelt “I love you.”

౨ৎ warnings: Implied romantic content, cozy/heartfelt themes, teasing, mild fluff, late-night and intimate settings. A whole lotta tooth-rotting fluff. 

౨ৎ word count: 3.9k

౨ৎ note: Here’s a fic filled with so much fluff because I just couldn’t get the idea out of my head. I’m also really tired and exhausted, so I haven’t read through it fully. Consider this your heads-up!

⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀:¨ ·.· ¨: ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀ 

                                              `· . 𐙚

The night has stretched on longer than you meant it to.

Your desk is cluttered in the way late study sessions always are, open notebooks, loose papers, and a pen you keep tapping against the wood instead of using. A single lamp casts a warm circle of light, the rest of your room dim and quiet, wrapped in the low hum of a house settling in for the night.

Behind you, your boyfriend Steve is sprawled across your bed like he’s made himself at home. One arm tucked behind his head, the other draped lazily over his stomach, sneakers kicked off and abandoned somewhere on the floor. He’s staring up at your ceiling, occasionally glancing your way, perfectly content just being there.

You sigh, leaning back in your chair and rubbing your eyes.

“I read something today,” you say suddenly.

Steve hums, not even looking away this time. “Uh oh.”

You turn toward him anyway, excitement breaking through the exhaustion. “No, listen. Apparently if you associate a certain scent with an activity, your brain starts recognizing it. Like, it switches modes faster. Studying, relaxing, sleeping. Your brain just knows.”

That makes him sit up a little, propping himself on his elbow. His mouth quirks into that familiar amused smile. “You’re telling me you’re gonna Pavlov yourself?”

You laugh despite yourself. “It’s a real thing, Steve.”

“Mmm,” he says, nodding like he’s taking this very seriously. “So what, you light a candle and suddenly you’re a genius?”

“That’s not—” you start, already smiling. “I haven’t tried it yet. I want to. I’ve been thinking about which scents would work best.”

That’s when he fully turns toward you, eyes bright with interest now,  not because of the science, but because you’re talking to him instead of staring at your notes.

“Well,” he says, tilting his head back slightly, eyes unfocused,  “studying’s gotta be something sharp. Clean. Like… lemon.” He stretches his arms out above his head, fingers splaying, like he’s physically reaching for the scent in the air. The light from your desk lamp catches the edge of his jaw, highlighting that smirk already forming.

Your eyebrows lift. “Wait, actually—”

“And sleeping,” he continues, lowering his arms but letting them linger in the air a second longer as if reluctant to release the thought, “lavender. Obviously.” He tilts his chin slightly, eyes closing just for a beat, taking in the imaginary aroma, chest rising with a quiet sigh of satisfaction.

You point at him, leaning forward, grin tugging at your lips. “Okay… why are you kind of good at this?”

He opens his eyes and squints at you, cocking one eyebrow, arms now folded across his chest but shoulders loose and relaxed. “Born talented,” he says with a shrug, voice playful but confident, like he knows exactly how endearing he looks right now.

“And for hanging out?” you ask, half-curious, half-testing him.

Steve leans back, letting the weight of his body sink into the bed, fingers brushing the covers, eyes flicking toward the ceiling as he pretends to search the cosmos for the perfect answer. “Motor oil.”

You grab the nearest pillow without hesitation and swing it at him. He catches it midair, letting out a laugh that shakes his shoulders and makes the bed dip where he lands. “I just like when you look at me like that,” he says, voice softening, his grin lingering even as he flops back, playful and almost lazy. “Way better than watching you stress yourself out.”

You roll your eyes but crawl onto the bed anyway, abandoning your desk completely. Shoulder brushing his as you settle next to him, you mumble, “You’re impossible.”

He lets out a soft chuckle, shoulder pressing just a little closer, fingers brushing your arm lightly. “Yeah,” he says, voice warm, teasing, almost intimate. “But you’re not studying anymore.”

And somehow, that feels like the point.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

You don’t tell him when you start.

It slips into your routine so naturally it almost feels like it’s always been there. A lemon candle lit beside your desk one afternoon, the flame small and steady, the scent sharp enough to make your head feel clearer the second it reaches you. You don’t expect anything dramatic. No sudden genius. No cinematic montage.

But an hour passes.

Then another.

And you realize you haven’t once stared at the wall or picked at the corner of your notebook or sighed like the world is ending. You’re just… there. Present. Focused. When you finally lean back in your chair, you feel lighter, almost impressed with yourself.

So you try again.

Lavender the next night, when the house is quiet and the day feels heavy in your bones. You sink into a bath, steam curling up toward the ceiling, and for once your thoughts don’t race ahead of you. They slow. Settle. The world feels softer around the edges.

After that, it becomes intentional.

Something clean and woodsy when you’re cleaning your room, windows cracked open, music low. Something citrusy when you need energy. Each scent starts to attach itself to a feeling, an action, a version of you. Like you’re training your own brain to know what comes next.

Steve notices before you ever explain it.

The first time, he doesn’t say anything right away. He just pauses in your doorway, keys still in his hand, eyes drifting from you at your desk to the little candle flickering beside your books. His nose wrinkles slightly, like he’s filing the information away.

A minute later, casual as anything, he goes, “You studying?”

You blink. “Yeah. How’d you know?”

He nods toward the desk. “Lemon.”

After that, he starts teasing you about it relentlessly: 

Like when he’ll step into your room, take one exaggerated sniff, and announce, “Okay, so today we’re either stressed, or pretending not to be stressed.” Or he’ll flop onto your bed and go, “Nope. Lavender. No big conversations. You’re in relax mode.”

It shouldn’t work as well as it does, but it does.

Sometimes you catch him smiling to himself when he guesses right, like it’s a private victory. Like he’s learned a new language and it’s just yours. And the thing is, he starts adjusting too.

Or when he’ll walk into your room and pause like he’s crossed some invisible line, one hand still hooked around the doorframe. His shoulders lift as he takes an exaggerated sniff, brows knitting together in mock concentration.

He steps into your room like he always does, quiet but not sneaky, keys tossed onto your dresser with a familiar clink. You’re at your desk, shoulders tense, pencil moving fast across the page.

He pauses.

Takes a slow, exaggerated breath through his nose.

You feel it before you hear it, that shift in the room, that Steve’s-about-to-say-something energy.

“So,” he says carefully, leaning against the doorframe. “This one means no distractions, right?”

You glance over your shoulder. He’s watching the candle by your books, mouth tipped into a knowing little smirk.

“Yes,” you say. Flat. Warning.

He hums. “Got it.”

You turn back to your notes. Relief settles in. 

Briefly.

He crosses the room anyway, footsteps light, deliberate. You can feel him behind you now, close enough that his knee bumps the chair, close enough that his warmth bleeds into your space.

“But,” he adds, voice dropping, amused, “I feel like you say that every time.”

You don’t even get the chance to respond. One second you’re reaching for your eraser, the next his hands are on you, lifting you clean out of the chair like it’s nothing. You gasp, instinctively grabbing onto his shoulders as he laughs, low and quiet, like he’s been waiting for this.

“Steve—!” you start, but it dies when he drops you back onto the bed, the mattress bouncing under you as he follows, bracing himself above you.

He looks down at you like he’s pleased with himself. Like this was always the plan.

“No distractions,” he repeats, mock-serious. Then his mouth curves into that familiar grin. “I lied.”

Before you can throw another pencil, he leans down and kisses you, slow, warm, and unhurried like he’s got nowhere else to be.

“You’re such a doofus,” you giggle, shaking your head as he clocked your mood again without even a conversation.

He glances up for a second, corner of his mouth lifting. He shrugs, easy, unapologetic. “Hey. If I know what’s going on in that little head of yours without you having to say it?”

He lets the silence stretch, eyes warm when they meet yours as he continues to kiss the corners of your mouth. 

“That’s kind of a win for me.”

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 

The room is quiet in a way that makes you realize how rarely quiet feels like this,  soft, full of warmth, and completely yours.

You’re sitting on his lap, legs curled against his side, shoulder pressed to his chest, and the steady rhythm of him breathing soothes the tension you didn’t realize you’d been holding. His arm is draped lazily around your waist, fingers tracing tiny circles against your side, warm and steady.

“You remember when Dustin tried to convince Lucas that the Demodogs liked cheese?” you giggle, tilting your head back against him.

He laughs, low and fond, nuzzling your hair. “Yeah, and Lucas fell for it, of course. Classic Lucas.” His nose brushes the top of your head as he shakes his head. “And Mike just yelled at them both… man, those kids…”

You laugh again, letting yourself relax into him completely. He shifts just a little, drawing you closer, lips brushing your temple. “I miss you,” he murmurs softly. “Every single time I leave, I—”

“Steve,” you interrupt, giggling at how earnest he sounds, “we’re literally in the same room.”

“I know,” he says, grin tugging at his lips, “but still… I miss you anyway.”

He leans back slightly to meet your eyes, and you catch that faint shimmer of something softer there, the part of him that’s just Steve for you, without any of the world’s weight. You press a kiss to his cheek, and he hums, satisfied, settling again against you.

Then he pauses mid-breath, nose lifting slightly, eyes narrowing as if trying to place something. “Hey…” he murmurs, voice low, curious. “Is… something different?”

You look at him, eyebrows raised. His gaze drifts from your face to the subtle flicker of the candlelight nearby, as if he’s just noticed it. You can feel him observing, adjusting, already silently taking in the change.

He hums again, lips quirking, like he’s caught off guard by it but also quietly pleased. “What’s that?”

You glance at him, smiling softly. “It’s… gingerbread,” you say, voice quiet but warm. “I thought it’d be perfect for winter. Cozy, you know?”

Steve leans back just slightly, pretending to think it over, then his lips curl into a mischievous grin. “Cozy, huh? All it’s making me feel is… hungry,” he teases, letting out a low chuckle.

You scrunch your nose at him, playful but mock-exasperated. “Hungry? Really? That’s all you got from it?”

“Hey,” he counters, mock-offended, “I’m being honest! I mean… smells like cookies. Warm, sweet… I can’t help it.”

You giggle, rolling your eyes, and poke him lightly in the side. “You’re ridiculous.”

He hums, nuzzling the side of your head as he settles more snugly against you. “Yeah, but you love it.”

You can’t help the grin that spreads across your face as you lean into him, heart warm at how natural and soft he is when he’s like this — teasing, affectionate, completely himself.

A couple days later, your pen hovers over your notebook, the late-night lamp casting a soft glow across the scattered papers. You’ve been going through formulas and notes for hours, and your mind is teetering between exhaustion and determination. The sudden jingle of the phone on your desk makes you start slightly, heart skipping a beat.

You grab the receiver and lift it to your ear, and immediately the familiar warmth of his voice wraps around you.

“Hey, babe,” Steve says, a grin practically audible in his tone. “You want anything before we head over to Robin’s for boardgame night?”

You lean back in your chair, stretching your tired arms over your head. There’s a soft smile tugging at your lips despite the weariness. “Actually…” you begin, letting yourself relax for the first time in hours. “I’ve been craving a sweet treat in the bakery across Family Day? You know the one?”

Steve chuckles lowly, the sound smooth and teasing. “You got it,” he says immediately, his voice bright and playful.

You can picture him now, keys in hand, jacket slung over his shoulder, that easy confident smirk on his face, and it makes your chest feel warm. “Thanks, Steve,” you murmur softly, leaning forward to rub your tired eyes, “I don’t even care what you get me, just anything from that bakery please.”

“Consider it done, baby” he replies, chuckling again, almost like he’s savoring the thought of it. “I’ll see you in a bit.”

The line clicks softly as he hangs up, leaving you with the quiet hum of your lamp and the lingering echo of his voice. Even through a short call, he’s already managed to make the corners of your lips curve into a smile.

Steve pushes open the bakery door, the little bell jingling above him. The warmth of the place hits first, ovens humming, sweet aromas weaving together, the faint chatter of late customers. He’s thinking about your treat, picturing your smile when you bite into it, imagining the way you’d laugh if he brought the wrong one. Muffins? Brownies? Maybe a cinnamon roll just because he knows you’ll squeal.

Then it hits him.

Gingerbread.

Not from the treat he’s holding, not from any display, it’s in the air, drifting softly, and instantly recognizable. His steps slow, shoulders lifting almost unconsciously as he breathes it in. His mind flashes to a few nights ago: you curled into his chest, candle flickering nearby, laughter spilling over stories of Dustin and Lucas being ridiculous, the cozy warmth of the room, the way your head fit perfectly under his chin.

For a second, Steve just stands there, frozen mid-stride, the keys still dangling from his fingers. A slow, surprised grin tugs at his lips. That scent… it’s you. It’s comfort. It’s laughter. It’s warmth.

He realizes it suddenly, almost with a jolt: the theory works. Not just for you, but for him too.

He inhales again, letting the aroma fill him. The memory washes over him, making him ache with a longing he hadn’t expected. He misses you deeply in a way that makes him want to turn around and race straight to your room.

Shaking himself slightly, Steve chuckles under his breath, an amused and tender sound, almost like he’s caught off-guard by his own feelings. Grabbing the treat anyway, he moves toward the counter, holding it a little tighter than necessary. Even amidst the warmth of the bakery, the sweetness of gingerbread, the world feels clearer because it’s tied to you.

A few days later, Steve finds himself standing in the small candle aisle, fingers hovering over the rows of scents. He doesn’t hesitate. Without thinking too hard, he picks up the gingerbread one.

It’s ridiculous, a little silly, but when he gets home, he sets it carefully on his nightstand. The first time he lights it, the soft flame flickers, shadows dancing across the walls of his room. He’s folding laundry, muttering quietly to himself about how he’s somehow managed to turn clothes into a heap on the floor, and the scent drifts gently through the air.

Later, he changes shirts, flops onto his bed, and just sits there. Listening to the faint hum of the street outside, the soft crackle of the candle. It feels… right. Comfortable. Safe.

He doesn’t consciously plan to tell you. He doesn’t mention it when you come over. But each time he lights it, he feels calmer, almost like he’s letting himself carry a piece of you with him.

He doesn’t question why. He doesn’t need to. It’s simple. The scent is warm, familiar, and every time it curls around him, he thinks of your laughter, your shoulder pressed against his, the quiet comfort of the way you fit together in those small, perfect moments.

By the next week, it’s become routine. Folding his shirts, stacking his records, flipping through the movies he’s been meaning to watch, the gingerbread candle burns softly beside him. He lights it the moment he’s home, and it’s a little ritual he doesn’t even realize he’s waiting for.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

“Baby?,” you call, your voice carrying across the quiet of Steve’s apartment. 

“Bathroom!” he replies, just as casual as ever, though there’s the faintest trace of amusement in his tone.

You grin to yourself, weaving past the scattered shoes and board games as you make your way to his room. Everything feels comfortable, familiar. You toss your bag onto the corner of his bed, hang your jacket in the extra hanger he built next to his. The one taller, sturdier, perfect for your coats. The little key holder by the door catches your own, dangling neatly beside his. Your old slippers sit tucked in the corner, waiting for when you want to kick off shoes and socks.

The moment you plop onto his bed, sinking into the familiar mattress and soft blankets, it hits you. A scent, warm and cozy, drifting softly in the air.

Gingerbread.

It’s subtle at first, a faint sweetness that makes your chest tighten with a quiet flutter. But then it hits fully, the warmth, the comfort, the memory of those nights with him: curling together under candlelight, soft laughter spilling across the room, or the way he always found a way to make you giggle even when you were exhausted.

You sit up slightly, breathing it in, and your chest fills with that soft, emotional swell. That homey, safe feeling he always manages to create without trying.

Steve’s footsteps are anything but quiet as he rounds the corner, fresh from the bathroom. Before you can react, he leaps onto the bed with a loud thump, landing on top of you.

“Hey! Steve!” you yelp, caught completely off guard, laughing as he squishes you beneath him.

He grins, eyes sparkling with mischief, but there’s something soft in the way he nudges his forehead against yours. “You missed me, didn’t you?” he murmurs, voice low and needy.

You try to wiggle away, still laughing, but he’s not letting go, hands gently bracing you as he nuzzles closer. His presence is chaotic, but it makes your chest tighten in a warm, fuzzy way.

Then he notices it, the way you’re giggling more than usual, your laughter bubbling over even as you try to catch your breath. His brow furrows slightly, playful curiosity mixing with concern.

“Hey… what’s going on, huh?” he asks, tilting his head, eyes scanning your face. His voice is soft now, but there’s a tinge of that familiar Steve intensity, like he genuinely needs to know.

You can’t stop smiling, and he leans closer, cheek pressed to yours, letting the chaotic energy melt into something sweet, small, and intimate,  all while still sprawled on top of you like the goofy, affectionate mess he is.

“Hey…” you murmur, nudging him lightly, teasing but soft. “What’s that smell?”

Steve freezes mid-movement, eyebrows shooting up. For a moment, he looks… sheepish. It’s subtle, but it’s there, that twitch of embarrassment in his eyes, the way his fingers fidget with the edge of his sleeve. “Uh… it’s… uh…” he stammers, voice quiet, like he’s trying not to give anything away.

You watch him, amused, but your gaze softens when you notice the slight flush creeping across his cheeks. “Steve,” you press gently, poking him in the side. “C’mon. Be honest. Don’t lie to me.”

He exhales, a mixture of a sigh and a laugh, leaning back just enough to bury his face in the crook of your neck. “I… I dunno,” he mutters, voice low, embarrassed. “It’s… it’s nothing. Just… something I like. No big deal.”

You laugh, but it’s tender this time, reaching up to cup his cheek. “Steve… I can tell when you’re lying.”

He freezes again, eyes darting to yours, caught. “I’m… I’m not,” he says, but his pink cheeks give him away. “I mean… I didn’t… I just… it’s… okay, fine. I bought it.”

You grin, delighted, but you press further, leaning closer so your foreheads touch. “And… you like it?”

Steve hesitates, then whispers, voice barely audible: “Yeah… I like it. A lot.” His lips brush against your temple as he buries his face closer into your shoulder

He didn’t even notice at first that he’d been caught. The scent had become routine,  something familiar, comforting, like a background hum he didn’t think twice about. It was just… there, like it had always been, a quiet part of his room and his day.

But the way you looked at him, the teasing sparkle in your eyes, made him pause. And suddenly he realized: yeah, you noticed. You noticed the gingerbread.

He swallows, heart suddenly fluttering in a way it hadn’t in a while. “Okay,” he admits, voice low, hesitant. “I… I light it because it reminds me of you.” His fingers fidget with the edge of the blanket, the little gesture giving away how nervous he suddenly feels. “Not… not just the smell. It’s… you. It’s… warm, cozy… like how it feels to hold you, to sit here with you. It’s… it gives me… butterflies, okay? Right here.” He taps his chest lightly, sheepish.

“I… I light it on the days I can’t see you, or when I’ve been down it’s like a little Y/N fix. My reminder of. . . this.” He gestures between the two of you, fumbling with the words because it’s all a little too much, all a little too real.

You reach out, letting your hand rest on his, and the warmth between your fingers seems to steady him. “Steve…” you whisper, voice soft, gentle, “that’s… really sweet.”

He exhales, a little laugh escaping, nervous but relieved. “Yeah… I guess I’ve been hiding it. But… now you know. And yeah, it’s… it’s exactly how it feels.”

The candle burns quietly beside the bed, the familiar scent wrapping around both of you. It isn’t just gingerbread anymore. It’s you. It’s the way he misses you, the way he thinks of you, the way he’s slowly learning that some habits, the ones that make his chest flutter and his heart beat faster. 

He swallows, heart hammering in a way he can’t hide, and finally lets the words slip, raw and unguarded.

“I love you,” he breathes, soft but certain, like he’s been holding them in for longer than he realized.

You blink, chest tight, and the words tumble out of you before you can stop them. “I love you too,” you whisper, voice shaky but full, and it’s like the air between you shifts, lighter, warmer.

He grins, almost disbelieving, and pulls you closer, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. “God… I’ve been waiting to hear that,” he murmurs, nuzzling against you.

“And I’ve been waiting to say it,” you admit, curling into him, letting the warmth of his body, the steady beat of his heart, and the quiet flicker of the candle wrap around you.

The gingerbread scent fills the room, sweet and cozy, and neither of you says another word — no need. It’s quiet, perfect, intimate. Who would’ve thought that a little candle could finally help both of you say the things you’d been holding onto for so long?

You can’t help the grin tugging at your lips. “So… all this time, I was right,” you tease, eyes sparkling as you tilt your head. “About the candles, about the scent. . .”

He freezes for a heartbeat, pretending to glare, but there’s a glint of mischief in his eyes. “Okay, okay, get over here,” he says, voice low and playful, like a challenge.

And just like that, the room fills with laughter, warmth, and the soft, sweet scent of gingerbread, a quiet reminder of how it all started, how something so small could lead to something so perfectly… chaotic but whole.

[katsu28]

clingy

pairing: steve harrington x reader

summary: in which you and steve can't stand to be apart from each other for more than a few hours. (2.8k)

warnings: no real season 5 spoilers, no use of Y/N, lovely bf steve, robin being the unlucky third wheel

a/n: only steve could pry me from the clutches of rpf for a while. he is my man and will always be my man !!! i could also be persuaded to open requests for him if anyone sends a good one ;)

The WSQK building sticks out from the surrounding grass and woodland hills like a sore thumb.

It's an ugly thing, square hunks of grey brick with all sorts of antennae poking out from the top, one that you wouldn't be caught dead near if not for Steve working there. Now you tolerate it, because you kind of have to if you want to see him at all during the day.

Since the Morning Squawk airs at very specific time every single day, Robin has him on a tight schedule. What that means for you is that the sun has barely risen when Steve's alarm goes off.

He'll pull his face when where it's more often than not buried in the crook of your neck with a soft groan so as to not wake you, but the lack of warmth when he retreats always does despite his best efforts. Then you get ten minutes before the snooze button wears off, and then Steve really has to go.

The way you spend those ten minutes together varies. Most times, you'll just lay there still tangled up in each other, mustering the energy to greet the day ahead.

He's out of the house within the next twenty, though not nearly awake enough and pretty grumpy after having to leave you so goddamn early everyday, and off to pick up Robin, who is always frustratingly chipper for it being the asscrack of dawn.

His words, not yours.

You let your knuckles rap against the heavy metal door of the building, bouncing on the balls of your feet. It isn't uncommon for you not to spend any time with Steve until the both of you get home from work, but you've been feeling a little anxious today. Seeing him always puts you in a better mood.

"Hey!" Steve exclaims, lighting up brighter than a Christmas light display as soon as he pulls open the door. "What're you doing here?"

You hold up the brown bag containing your own lunch with a smile, shoulders lifting in a shrug. "Figured you might want some company for lunch?"

"Yeah! Yeah, here, come on in!" He grabs your hand and pulls you inside with the utmost enthusiasm, letting the door slam shut behind you with a loud thud that rattles the walls.

What you aren't expecting is for him to nudge you up against the nearest wall and kiss you like he hasn't seen you in weeks.

His mouth moves against yours hungrily but still sweet in that way he does best, big hands cupping your face as he presses himself against you. Your fingers curl themselves into the front of his jacket, gripping the material dear life whilst you get the living daylights kissed out of you by your very enthusiastic boyfriend.

Steve pulls back after a while, giving you some time to gain your bearings and catch your breath again.

"Hey," He says softly, stroking a thumb under your ear.

You smile against him, reaching up to smooth back the few swoops of hair that have fallen over his forehead in the heat of the moment. "You greet everyone who comes here like that?"

"Only the really cute ones."

"Ones as in, there's more than just me?" You giggle, feigning shock. Steve drapes an arm over your shoulders, drawing you in close.

"What can I say? Can't keep a man like me tied down."

"Steve Harrington, you wound me!"

"Sorry, sweetheart. Didn't mean for you to find out this way."

The squishy yellow sofa in the common area isn't the most comfy, but it'll do for now as you plop down on it to eat. Time is of the essence here, because no matter how much you want to stay here with Steve and Robin, you're on a schedule here.

Steve takes perch on the armrest beside you, popping one knee up for him to rest his arm on.

"What'd you pack today?" He asks, leaning over so far his head blocks the entire opening of the bag. "Is that the last Bopper?! You said we had no more…"

You swat him on the back of the neck gently to get him to move, stretching your lunch further away from him with a snort. "Yeah, I only said that 'cause I knew you'd eat the last one if you knew! Boppers are a rare commodity around here these days, Steve, you can't just inhale the whole box like you used to!"

"I'm just saying it would've been nice to know, then I could just ask Murray to get another one—"

"Do not make that poor man smuggle more candy into a freaking military zone, Steven!"

"Okay! Alright, jeez. Can I have a bite, at least? You know they're my favorite—"

"Get your feet off the damn couch, Steve! How many times do I have to tell you?" Robin appears in a blur of movement, crossing the floor quickly like a woman on a mission. She doesn't smack his knee when she passes, but you know she would if she felt the urge. Then she spots you and stops right in her tracks, grinning widely. "There's my favorite person! Man, are you a sight for sore eyes. Did you know your boyfriend keeps moaning and groaning about you every five minutes?"

"Uh, no I don't!" Steve shoots back immediately, wrinkling his nose. He turns back to you with a roll of his eyes, giving you a can you even believe this look. "Don't listen to Robin, she's just bitter because Vickie can't hang out tonight."

"Everything okay with you two?" You ask, tilting your head.

"Yeah, yeah, they're fine. She's just ridiculously clingy and can't stand to be away from her for more than a day."

You laugh, amused. "Sounds like someone else I know."

Steve kicks you gently, handsome features morphing into a dramatically offended expression. "I am not ridiculously clingy. I'm a perfectly normal amount of clingy, thank you very much."

"You keep telling yourself that, buddy," Robin snorts from the soundbooth. "Feet, Steve, put 'em on the floor!"

Begrudgingly, he drops into the seat on your other side, muttering under his breath as he picks up your legs and swings them over his lap. Fingers tap along your shins rhythmically, only stopping when you pass Steve half your sandwich (and yes, the Bopper too), and even then, his free hand stays on your knee.

Your lunch break dwindles down faster than you'd like it too, and soon enough, you have to leave, much to Steve's chagrin. He watches with a frown as you gather your trash to throw it away.

"What's the sad face for, Harrington?" You chuckle, clocking the furrow in his brow when you turn around to come back. "Is the riveting world of being a radio station sound guy not thrilling enough for you anymore?"

"You need a longer lunch break."

"You think? Well, you tell my boss that and see how well it goes."

Steve mumbles something unintelligible, hooking his arms around your waist to pull you against him as soon as you're close enough, effectively trapping you in place. He smells like laundry detergent and cologne and the spearmint gum he keeps in his pocket. Nice, like he always does.

"I have to go, babe," You sigh, draping your arms around his neck loosely.

"You don't have to."

"Yeah, I kinda do. My lunch break is fifty-five minutes. It takes fifteen to get all the way out here, twenty to spend with you, and fifteen minutes to get back—and that's all assuming I don't get stopped by any MPs both ways. You know how they are."

"So what I'm hearing is you can stay for five more minutes and you'll get back just in the nick of time."

"Steve!" You exclaim, but even then there isn't any real force behind it. You can never really stay cross with him when he smiles at you the way he is now, all lazy and fond and like he never wants you to leave, ever.

His grin turns teasing as he gives the belt loops of your jeans a playful tug. "C'mon, you love me."

"Who said that?"

"Uh, you did. Multiple times. Just this morning," He says very matter-of-factly, squinting at you. "Which, might I add, was far too long ago."

"A few hours is nothing."

"To you. I feel like I'm dying over here! You wouldn't want me to die, would you?"

"And you say you're not clingy."

"I never said that. I said i was a normal amount of clingy, there's a difference."

"Is there?"

"Oh, shut up."

He takes the chance to press a quick kiss to your lips. Then another to your cheek, and your other cheek, before pulling back to look at you again. He does this a lot, sometimes. The looking at you like he can't quite believe you're real. It used to make you squirm under his gaze, but now you've come to love it.

The walkie talkie on the coffee table crackles to life, and Robin's voice pours from the small speaker.

"As happy as I am to see you both happy, and you know I am, I might need to burn my retinas and corneas if I have to watch you be any more disgustingly sweet with each other."

Steve grabs the walkie, pressing the button rather forcefully. "Then don't look, Rob!" He huffs. At the sound of your giggle, his annoyed facade drops, revealing a small smile. "C'mon, I'll walk you out."

Steve holds your hand all the way to the car, letting your joined hands swing between the two of you on the very short walk.

"Thanks for letting me hang out," You say gratefully, bumping your shoulder against his.

Steve's brows fly towards his hairline, the grin on his face growing. "Are you kidding? Babe, seeing you standing outside that door was the best surprise ever! Come by anytime, seriously. It's way better than me shoveling Pop Tarts and having to listen to Robin gush about her relationship all the time."

"You love her," You insist, giggling.

Steve rolls his eyes playfully, bobbing his head. "Yeah, but not as much as I love you."

"Ew."

"Ew? Ew?! C'mere, you little shit—" Steve drops your hand and lunges for you, managing to grab you around the thighs, and before you know it, you're upside down in the air, having been thrown over Steve's shoulder easily. He takes a few steps, leaning all the way forward to offset the new human sized weight behind him, cackling as you cling to his biceps for dear life. "Take it back. Take it back right now!"

"Okay! Oh my god, fine, I take it back!" You howl, squeezing your eyes shut. "Put me down, you maniac!"

He plants you back on your feet right next to your car with one last chuckle and a satisfied smile. Ever the gentleman, he opens your door for you, bowing you into the driver's seat overdramatically. "Hope you make it back on time."

"Guess I better speed the whole way there."

"Ha. Maybe don't do that." Steve braces his elbows on your open window, leaning into the car. "Be safe, okay?"

"Always am," You say softly, pressing a kiss to his cheek. "See you at home?"

"Best part of the day."

-------

The sun is just starting to set when you finally clock out, sky awash with another one of those watercolor sunsets that you love so much about small town Hawkins. Oranges and pinks and fading blues blend into each other in the most gorgeous picture as you lock up for the night, and you sigh.

Steve is leaning on the hood of your car when you turn around, arms crossed over his chest, one leg over the other.

You beam brightly at the sight of him, mood instantly lifted.

"Fancy seeing you here," He calls, pushing off the hood as you get closer. He's ditched the jacket he'd been in when you last saw him, shirtsleeves pushed up to his elbows, hair a little messier than usual—like he'd been running his hands through it.

You let yourself stop just within arms length from him, smile still present. "I thought we were gonna see each other at home."

"That was the plan, yeah. But then after you left I decided I didn't wanna wait that long." He shrugs, taking your bag from off your shoulder and hiking it over his own. You roll your eyes playfully at his reasoning but step more into his space nonetheless, fiddling with the buttons on the open collar of his shirt, and his smile only grows giddier. "Missed you."

"I saw you at lunchtime, dingus."

"Did you? I don't recall."

"I'm sure you don't."

"Wanna grab dinner? That diner we like?" He changes the subject, draping an arm over your shoulders to steer you towards his car a few spots away. "I don't think we have much of anything in the fridge, so unless you want a bowl full of ketchup…"

"Breakfast for dinner it is."

"I mean, I don't mind squirting ketchup right into your mouth, if you don't want a bowl."

"That's disgusting," You giggle. Then you realize where you're headed and stop in your tracks, tugging Steve to a stop too. "My car."

"Just leave it here. I'll drop you off tomorrow morning."

"You don't have the time for that, babe."

"I'll make time. I'll wake up earlier."

"You can barely wake up on time as it is," You tease.

"Well, someone kept me up last night," He replies pointedly, brows wiggling suggestively. You jab an elbow into his ribs and he grunts, doubling over in pain. "I'm not saying I didn't enjoy it! C'mon. I just wanna spend more time with ya, honey."

Well, when he says it like that—how can you refuse?

Still, you have one request.

"Can we stay here and watch the sun set first?"

Steve smiles like he knew you'd ask and pops the trunk of his car, rifling around in the mess of things before procuring a slightly ratty blanket, laying it out onto the hood of his car carefully. He holds out a hand to help you up before climbing up and settling in himself.

"You're the only one I'd let sit on her, y'know."

You preen, batting your eyelashes. "I feel so special."

"You should. Dustin tried once and I kicked his ass off."

"Yet you let him drill a hole into her."

"Okay, I didn't let him do that!" Steve protests, shoving a large palm towards your face that you manage to push away with a giggle. "And I patched up that hole, thanks. Now, can it and watch the sunset."

To anyone else, this might seem harsh, but Steve's wit and and sass have always been how he shows his love.

You slot into spot under his arm just right, tucking yourself against his side to watch the sky gradually fade.

"You don't think I'm clingy, do you?" You ask quietly, just as the sun sinks below the horizon. Steve shifts under you, rubbing a hand down your arm. "Seriously, babe. Am I?"

"If you think you're clingy, I'd hate to know what you think of me," He snorts. You only blink, waiting for his answer. Then he sighs, intertwining his fingers through yours. "Yes, I think you're clingy."

You can't help the surprised noise that escapes your mouth at his words, completely taken aback. "What?"

"Wait, no—hear me out, hear me out. Being clingy, it's not a bad thing!" He exclaims, though that doesn't reassure you at all. "I just mean, with all the shit we've been through, how many times we've almost fucking died these past few years, we have the right to wanna be with each other all the time. Both of us. All of us."

Oh.

This makes much more sense. Suddenly all your fears that you're being irrational about wanting to be near him all the time seem much, much smaller, and it makes you feel a hell of a lot better.

"Hey, I love you," He says firmly, giving your hand a squeeze. "If you wanna come see me at work, don't even hesitate. If you want me to come see you at work, just gimme a call on the ol' walkie and I'll be there as fast as I can without breaking any laws. Hell, if you want to crawl into my damn ribcage and make a home there, I'd gladly crack open my chest."

You wrinkle your nose, giggling. "Yuck, Steve, that's disgusting."

"I'm just sayin', sweetheart." He presses a kiss to the side of your head, letting his lips linger for his next words. "Never think I don't wanna see you. Because if I had my way, we'd be joined at the hip twenty-four seven."

"That doesn't seem so bad."

Steve smiles. Soft, gentle, fonder than ever. "Doesn't seem so bad at all."

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[levanswrites]

this time last summer (strawberry fields)

pairing: steve harrington x reader summary: once a king, now demoted to ice cream court jester, he wears that sailor hat like it's penance in this neon-lit purgatory you call a summer job. on anyone else, it'd be a joke. but on him? it's a goddamn crown. welcome to scoops ahoy: where dignity melts faster than the soft serve and every road leads right back to steve-motherfucking-harrington. warnings: coworkers to friends to lovers, mutual pining, slow burn, first kiss, retail trauma-bonding, steve's oral fixation (?), steve being good with kids, sir this is a dairy establishment i can't be ovulating, just one big character study honestly, fluff, mild angst, canon divergence | the scoops playlist ♬.ᐟ

It’s the hat.

No, seriously. It’s definitely the fucking hat.

That ridiculous, ill-conceived, maritime disaster of a hat.

White with navy lettering, like it wandered off the set of a 1950s Cold War musical, all sunshine smiles and red-scare patriotism. Like you're stuck in a never-ending loop of "Gee whiz!" and "Golly, mister!" instead of what this actually is—a neon-lit corpse of a mall in the armpit of suburban Indiana, where dreams go to die in puddles of pretzel grease and melted push pops.

And it always sits crooked. Always. Just a few degrees off-kilter, tilted like an afterthought.

But you know better. It's not an accident.

It's a choice. A statement.

A big-ole fuck you in cotton-polyester blend.

And Steve Harrington? He wears that thing like a goddamn crown.

Former high school royalty, alleged lady-killer, owner of the most absurdly perfect hair in a hundred-mile radius.

Once king of the Hawkins High food chain, now demoted to ice cream court jester.

He stands exactly two feet away from you, day after day, under headache-bright fluorescents and a scratched-up sneeze guard, slinging overpriced sludge to sticky-fingered kids and dead-eyed parents.

Six days a week. Eight hours a day.  

And Steve Harrington doesn’t flinch.

Not once.

It’s like your brain commits arson every time you see that sailor hat bobbing around your periphery. Every time you clock the V-dip of the red neckerchief. Those shorts that show way more thigh than any job should legally require.

And god, the way he says "Ahoy."

Announced about a dozen times an hour. Delivered with the kind of forced enthusiasm that sounds like a cry for help, like it physically wounds him every time it leaves his mouth.

It’s not fair. It’s not normal.

But Steve?

He owns it. Every time.

The fake smiles. The playful eyebrow raises. The casual lean over the counter when a herd of teenage girls comes flocking to the register, pretending they came for ice cream and not to gawk at Hawkins’ former prom king doing time in nautical hell. 

And still—still—he doesn’t flinch.

You hate that.

You hate him.  

You hate that he makes it work. That you’re here at all. How this dumbass job in this fluorescent ice cream prison has become your entire summer. How you're trapped here with him, two matching cartoon characters in sailor suits, mopping up toddler puke for minimum wage and the occasional broken cookie.

This is your life now: Scoops Ahoy, where dignity goes to die and all roads lead right back to Steve-motherfucking-Harrington.

But mostly?

You hate that it’s been a month, and you still haven’t figured out a way to stop thinking about him.   ᥫ᭡ He’s late. Again.   

You’ve taken to counting the seconds now, one elbow propped on the register, the other draped across a stack of napkins you were supposed to restock when you clocked in. But no one cares. Certainly not—

Clunk.

The employee door swings open in the back room.

You don’t look up.

“Late again, Harrington.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know—sorry—”

He’s not sorry.

“—but, hey! Look what I brought.”

You glance up just in time to see him bound through the doorway like a Labrador that just discovered a tennis ball. Hair a little damp, polo shirt untucked. And in his hand, held like it’s Excalibur?

A coffee cup.

You narrow your eyes at it, then at him.

“I told you I was quitting caffeine.”

He rolls his eyes, gives you the bitchiest little really? look you’ve ever seen in your life, and sets the cup down on the counter. Slowly rotates it so the logo faces you.

There’s a tea bag string dangling out the side.

He beams. “It’s chamomile! No caffeine. Look at me, being a good coworker.”

You hate that he remembered.

You hate it more that your stomach does a traitorous little flip, and you have to look down at the register to keep from smiling like a loser.

He hums, tapping at the display case. “Strawberry’s low.”

“Wow, look at that. You do work here.”

“Oh excuse me for trying.”

He grins, ducking behind the counter to grab his apron before heading to the back. But then he pauses, just a second too long, one hand on the swinging door.

When you glance over, he’s looking at you.

Staring, more like.

“…What?”

“Nothing, just—” He shrugs. “You replacing it? I gotta change.”

You scoff. “Harrington, the day I replace your precious Strawberry Sailor or whatever the hell it’s called is the day I let you drive my car.”

“Ok, first of all? It’s the S.S. Strawberry.”

“Christ.”

“And second—really? You’d let me drive the Wagoneer?”

“No.”

“Aw, c’mon—”

“It was a metaphor.”

He pouts. Actually pouts. Full lower lip, eyes big and tragic.

“So… that’s a no?”

“Hard no. Stick to your Beemer, pretty boy.”

He grins like it wasn’t the scathing insult you meant it to be. “Oh you think I’m pretty, huh?”     

You freeze, catching his smirk full on, and shove past him so fast you almost send him stumbling. You retreat to the back room before your tongue can betray you with something embarrassing.

The hum of the freezer is loud in the absence of your dignity.

You stare at it, hands braced on cold steel, forehead pressed to the door, trying to ice the thoughts out of your skull.

It takes way too long for your face to stop burning.

Because here’s the thing: 

Steve Harrington is not supposed to be funny. Or sweet. Or thoughtful.

He’s not supposed to remember stupid shit you said two weeks ago while wrestling with a whipped cream canister. He’s not supposed to make you laugh while five-year-olds scream “NO. BLUE. NOW.” in your face.    

He’s not supposed to see you.

He’s supposed to be—

Worse.

He’s supposed to be worse. ᥫ᭡ The thing about working with Steve Harrington is that you learn him faster than the Scoops Ahoy menu.

Which is unfortunate, because the menu is aggressively simple: sixteen flavors, seven toppings, three cone types. One cursed novelty ice cream cake that looks like a Titanic reenactment.

But Steve? Steve’s not simple.

Steve is a mess.

The worst kind. The kind that worms its way under your skin and sticks.

Like glitter. Or day-old gum in your hair.

He grunts when he scoops. Gives himself pep talks under his breath like he’s training for the Dairy Olympics. He gets brain freeze, rubs his forehead like a cartoon character, then immediately does it again like he’s got something to prove.

And also? He hums.

Not good songs. Not cool songs.

The Scoops Ahoy playlist is curated for maximum cheese, and somehow Steve Harrington thinks it’s banger after banger.

Today, it’s “Take On Me.”  

He’s all in: swaying his hips, twirling the scooper like a mic. You’re in the back, elbow-deep in the freezer, pretending not to sneak glances using the pass-through. 

The shorts are still shorting. You’ve made your peace with that.

What you haven’t made peace with is The Straw.

Because Steve has this habit, this thing, where he chews on the end of a plastic straw when he’s bored. Which, in this hellhole, is basically always. He barely drinks the lemonade attached to it. Just chews. Works it between his teeth like it owes him money.

Lips all slick and lazy—he’s got nowhere else to be and nothing better to do but ruin your life one casual jaw flex at a time. There’s frankly an obscene amount of tongue involved for something that’s allegedly absentminded.

You catch him mid-pop, mouth glossy, eyes wandering, like he’s deep in thought about world peace. Or maybe just the words to “Africa.”

You’re three seconds away from swan-diving into the fountain outside.

“Jesus Christ,” you groan, dragging out a tub of rock-solid Vanilla Voyage. “You gonna make out with that thing or what?”

Straw dangling from his lips, he leans in through the window.

“Why, you jealous?”

You slam the tub down like a threat.

“Yeah. Totally. I’ve always dreamed of being tongue-fucked by a guy in a sailor costume.”

Well.

Shit.

Steve blinks. His mouth opens then closes again like his brain short-circuited halfway through a comeback.

Then he lets out a soft snort, shakes his head, and turns back to the register.

You close your eyes. Maybe you could fit inside the deep freezer. Just curl up next to the Ocean Breeze Sherbet and fade into oblivion.

If only you didn’t catch his face right before he turned.

That tiny patch of color, right under his cheekbones:

S.S. Strawberry-pink. ᥫ᭡ Sundays are hell.

By noon, the store turns into a warzone: a hellish cocktail of crying toddlers, sleep-deprived parents, and preteens on sugar benders demanding triple scoops like it’s a constitutional right. Somewhere in the corner, a baby starts wailing. The floor is already a minefield of sticky napkins and waffle cone shrapnel.

And then it happens.

The worst sound in the Scoops Ahoy auditory catalog:

Velcro sneakers slapping tile.

A sea of neon tie-dye floods through the entrance. Tiny gremlins shrieking and giggling like they’ve just escaped captivity, herded by a single, dead-eyed camp counselor trailing behind them.

Steve sighs like he’s being drafted. “Incoming.”

“You take the loud ones,” you mutter, already retreating toward the toppings station.

“They’re all loud.”

“Exactly.”

The first kid beelines straight for the display case and smushes her entire face to the glass, fogging it up. You’re going to have to clean that. Again.

The questions start before anyone’s even picked a flavor.

“Do you have anything that tastes like watermelon but not pink?”

“Can I get a cup inside a cone?”

“My cousin says if I eat too much sugar I’ll explode. Is that true?”

You shoot a glance at Steve.  

He’s already crouched down, eye-level with a kid who’s just slapped a crumpled dollar on the counter with the swagger of a high-stakes gambler.

“I want the biggest ice cream you have.”

Steve raises a brow. “Biggest? You sure, dude? That’s a pretty serious request.”

“I’m eight.”

“Oh, well if that’s the case.” He nods solemnly, then stands, tossing you a grin. “Well? You heard the man. Triple Decker Extravaganza.”

You sigh, reaching for the scooper. “If he pukes, it’s your turn to mop.” ᥫ᭡ The rhythm is second nature now.

He scoops, you top. He wipes down, you ring up. A weird little dance born from too many shifts with someone you pretended not to like for way too long.

It’s seamless. Unspoken. Stupidly easy.

And maybe it’s that. Or maybe it’s the way he’s crouched down again, high-fiving a kid who just declared “Mint chip is for teachers” like it’s the most brilliant thing he’s heard all week.  

But really, it’s this:

The crowd’s changed.

The giggling teen girls that used to swarm the counter? They don’t come around anymore. Novelty burned off like mist.

Turns out, even teenage ridicule has a shelf life.

What’s left now are the kids. The regulars.

The ones who sprint up to the counter asking for Steve. Not you. Not even the ice cream.

Steve.

They beg for tricks—scooper flips, upside-down cones, dumb games where he dares them to pick a mystery flavor. They want him to guess their favorite color, their favorite animal. He almost always gets it right.

Sometimes he’ll be on break, slumped on a milk crate with a half‑eaten banana and a look that says ten more minutes or I quit, and a kid will march up to you and ask, “Can Steve do mine instead?”

You brace for the eye-roll. The groan. The Are you kidding me?

But Steve?

Steve lights up.

He doesn’t just tolerate the chaos, he lives for it. The noise, the mess, the full-sprint joy of it all. Like it feeds something he doesn’t get anywhere else.

And maybe, you think, it’s something a little more than that. More than the hyperactive kids and the excuse to act silly in a cartoonish sailor hat.

Maybe it’s the being needed.

Being seen.

Knowing that someone tiny and honest looks up at him and thinks:

He’ll get it right. He’ll make it better.

You’re watching them now—the summer campers, clawing their way over the vinyl booths, sticky with glitter and sugar and god knows what else—when one of the smallest kids toddles up to the counter.

She’s tiny, maybe six.

She holds something out to Steve.

A drawing.

Crayon-smudged. Sloppy. Wonderful.

It's an ice cream cone wearing a cape and a tiny sailor hat.

“It’s you,” she says. “But like, a superhero.”

And Steve...

Steve just stares. Eyes gone achingly soft in that wide, blinking way.

Then, slowly, he crouches down.      

“Hey,” he says. “This is the coolest thing I’ve ever seen. You made this?”

She nods, twisting her lanyard between nervous fingers.

“Can I keep it?”

She nods again, shy smile blooming.

“I’m gonna hang it up in the back. So I see it every shift.”

He takes the paper like it’s made of glass. Holds it with both hands, cradles it.

And you watch.

You watch him stand there long after she’s gone, tracing his thumb over the crayon lines. Like if he lets go too soon, it might disappear.

And it’s in that moment—somewhere between his smile and the way his fingers linger on every scribble like it matters—that something just… snaps into focus.

It’s like you’ve been squinting at him through a funhouse mirror this whole time. Sailor hat, dorky shorts, dumb jokes.

But now?

Now all of that falls away.

And all you see is him.

Steve.

This dumbass you’ve worked with all summer. The one you swore you wouldn’t like. The one you promised yourself you’d hate.

Because that’s the thing, isn’t it?

The worst part of this job isn’t the sticky counters or the screeching toddlers.  

It’s that you can’t hate Steve Harrington the way you’re supposed to.

Not since he quietly slipped a crumpled five into the tip jar after a family of seven stiffed you. Not since he wrapped your hand with the first-aid kit after that milkshake blender incident, called you a “klutz” but refused to let you near the machine for a month.

Not since that gaggle of overgrown teens—his, even if he’ll never admit it—first showed up demanding free scoops. He always gives in. Even when it comes out of his paycheck. Even when he grumbles the whole time.

You watched him clean chocolate syrup off the curly-haired one’s shirt, muttering, “Dude, c’mon,” while using the hem of his own uniform to wipe the stain away.

You’re not supposed to notice things like that.

You’re not supposed to care.

But summer has teeth.  

And you let it bite you the day you walked into Scoops, saw the guy in the sailor suit with the unfairly pretty eyes, and—instead of turning around—stayed.

Now, here you are. Standing behind the toppings station, plastic spoon in hand, watching him hold that kid’s drawing like it’s proof of life.

It’s there that you feel it.

The shift.

Because when you look back on this summer—when the mall’s gone dark, when the smell of freezer burn fades from your hair, when Scoops Ahoy is just another entry on a long list of bad jobs—

This is what you’ll remember.

This exact second.

The one where you stopped pretending.

The one where you realized you’re screwed.

Utterly and irreversibly fucked. ᥫ᭡ Eventually, the mob clears.

Kids wander off in clumps, half-finished cones dripping down their arms. They wave enthusiastically at Steve, who beams and waves back.

You lean against the counter with a groan. “Pretty sure I pulled something scooping for that last one.”

Steve rolls his shoulders, cracks his neck.

“Worth it.” ᥫ᭡ You’re on break.

Well, technically, you’re not. But Steve scribbled a “Back in 10!” sign on a napkin (complete with a smiley face and what you think is supposed to be an anchor) and slapped it to the glass.

So yeah. Good enough.

Now you're sitting by the mall fountain. The bench is too hot from the sun pouring through the atrium glass, and your legs stick to the plastic like the worst kind of summer betrayal. A tray of lukewarm fries sits between you, salt soggy from condensation. The last of a melting Coke sweats in a cup you’re both too lazy to toss.

Steve’s already stolen most of the good fries.

You’re watching a group of kids toss pennies into the fountain, their faces scrunched with the kind of hope only eight-year-olds can get away with. Like their wishes would end up as anything more than glorified litter headed straight for a clogged drainpipe.

Wordlessly, Steve reaches over and plucks the last decent fry right out of your hand.

You stare at him. “That’s theft, you know.”

He grins mid-chew, a smear of ketchup bright on his bottom lip. “Sharing’s caring.”

"Give me one good reason not to shove you into that fountain.”

He leans back, all long limbs and smugness. “I’d drag you in with me.”

You sigh like he’s the greatest burden you’ve ever endured. He smirks like it’s his greatest achievement.

The midafternoon light pours through the glass ceiling, painting the ends of his hair honey-gold. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows.

And that’s when you notice it.

His fingers, drumming lightly against the bench. Barely audible over the mall noise, but you notice. You notice everything about him these days.

“You okay?” you ask, before you even mean to.

His eyes flick to you, sharp, then soften.   

“Yeah,” he nods. “Just… tired.”

You nod back. Because same. 

The mall hums around you. The whir of the Orange Julius blender dying a slow death. Kids’ laughter. The chatter of bored shoppers. The AC kicking on like distant thunder.

Steve slurps the last of the Coke and tosses the straw into the cup. Then he leans forward, elbows on his knees, staring into the fountain.

After a minute, he says it. Almost too quietly to hear:

"You ever think about just… leaving?"

You blink over at him, surprised.  

His neckerchief’s askew. There’s a smear of chocolate syrup on his sleeve. His sailor hat is crumpled and sitting upside down in his lap.

But out here, outside the awful white fluorescents of Scoops, in this strange afternoon stillness, he looks tired. Older, somehow.    

“Like... Bonnie-and-Clyde it?”   

He snorts, quiet. “No, just like—get in the car. Take off for a bit. Get out of Hawkins.” He shrugs, eyes on the floor as he nudges a scuff mark with his shoe. “Go somewhere where not everyone’s known you since kindergarten, you know? Just… figure out what else is out there.”

You watch him for a long moment. Then you say, voice quiet:

“Yeah. Sometimes.”

He nods, like he’s been holding his breath for your answer.

And because silence makes you squirm, because you’re not brave enough for whatever this is becoming, you flick a soggy fry at his face.

Hard.

It hits him square on the nose.

“Jesus—what the hell?” He scrubs his face, bewildered.

You shrug. “For being corny.”

Steve laughs. A real one. The kind that starts low in his chest and rolls out of him until he’s leaning back, hair flopping into his eyes, grinning like an idiot.

“So much for honesty, huh?”

“It’s overrated.”

His eyes crinkle at the corners in that way you’ve always kind of liked.

Then he flicks the fry back.

It misses by a mile. ᥫ᭡ You’re five minutes to closing when it happens.

You’re wiping down the counter, Steve’s putting away the cones. And then—

Footsteps.

Heavy. Confident. A swagger that doesn’t belong in a mall ice cream shop.

You both look up.

The guy’s around your age. Gold chain. Gum snap. Letterman jacket even though it’s ninety degrees outside. You clock it immediately: The Type. 

Steve sees it too, shoulders pulling back, jaw set. That customer-service smile is already plastered on.

The guy saunters up like he owns the place. “Yo, can I—”

Then his eyes land on Steve.

Double-take.

“No way,” he says, grinning wide. “You’re Harrington, right?”

Steve’s voice is completely neutral. “Yeah.”

“Dude!” The guy laughs like they’re best friends. They’re not. “Man. Steve Harrington. Didn’t you used to be, like, varsity everything? Basketball? Baseball?”

Steve nods, noncommittal. “Yup. Bit of everything.”

The guy whistles low. “Damn. You were the guy in high school. And now you’re, uh…”

He glances around the store. “…here.”

Subtle.

But Steve doesn’t flinch. “Yeah. Summer job, you know? Ice cream’s not gonna scoop itself.”

The guy snorts, gives the uniform a little once-over. “Yeah, no, I get it, man. Hustle and grind or whatever.” 

Then he leans in, like he’s letting Steve in on some great cosmic joke. “Still. Wild, seeing you like this. With the hat and everything.”

Steve doesn’t respond. But you do. 

“Sorry,” you say, syrupy-sweet. “We’re fresh out of Pathetic Dickhead Swirl today.”

Eh, not your sharpest. But it lands.

The guy blinks, regards you for the first time. “What?”

You lean over the display, palms pressed against the icy top. “I said: we don’t serve entitled assholes here. But if you’re hungry, there’s a perfectly good dumpster out back.”

Better.

The jock bristles, forcing out a laugh that’s more teeth than humor. Then he turns to Steve, eyes narrowing like he’s expecting backup. “What, is this your little sidekick?”

Steve’s jaw ticks at that.  

He looks the guy dead in the eye, voice low and even, colder than you’ve ever heard it.

“Hey man. I’m just here to scoop ice cream. You want something or not?”

There’s a pause. The guy blinks, brain clearly working overtime, though you doubt it’s capable of much more than remembering his gym locker combo.

Then he mutters something under his breath and slinks off.

The moment he’s gone, it’s like the pressure in the room drops.

You hadn’t even realized you were holding your breath.

Steve stands rigid, eyes locked on the spot where the guy disappeared.

You glance at him, waiting. Then give his arm a soft nudge. “Want me to go after him? Dump some hot fudge down his pants?”

He blinks, then huffs out a breath. Not quite a laugh, but something close.

“Don’t bother. Waste of good fudge.” ᥫ᭡ Steve Harrington has this way of taking up space.

Not just physically—though, with the way he sprawls across the chair in the break room, you’d think he pays rent on it.

Not just with noise—god knows there’s plenty of that, too: bad puns, worse singing, yawns so dramatic you’d swear he’s suffering more than anyone else alive.

But more like… emotionally. Energetically. Existentially.

He hums when he thinks. Taps when he’s nervous. His presence is a constant, like the freezer fan that never shuts up or the mall Muzak playing ABBA on an infinite loop.

And somehow, people just gravitate to him. To that offbeat, magnetic kind of ease.

Not because he’s smooth or cool or whatever he used to be. He’s not, really. Half the time, he’s fumbling with the register or forgetting where he left the sprinkles tub.

But the way he does it—like it matters, like he’s trying—makes all the difference.

He doesn’t chase the attention. Doesn’t even seem to notice when it’s there.

It just finds him. Rolls on and sticks, like lint on a sweater.

And sure, yeah, maybe you’ve noticed. Maybe you’ve more than noticed.

But you're not supposed to fall for a guy like that.

A guy who wears knee-high socks with tragic levels of pride. Who says things like, “You can’t triple-scoop a double cone” like he’s defending a moral law.

A guy who, despite all that, is still good at the job. Fast on register. Patient with customers. He’s even sharp with inventory, which you’d previously believed to be physically impossible for someone with that much hair and that little visible brain activity.

And if you’re being honest—not that you ever plan to be—the whole Scoops gig would be hell of a lot worse without him. For all his boyish charm and tragic hairspray addiction, he makes the days suck a little less.

Still.

Does he have to look at you like that?

Like today. Like now.

You’re wiping down the display case ten minutes before open, gearing up for another thrilling shift in dairy-based retail hell, when you catch him behind the counter, just… staring.

“What?” you mutter, not looking up.

He blinks, then nods toward the sneeze guard. “Missed a spot.”

You reward him with a face-full of damp rag.

“Hey!”

“You said I missed a spot.”

He tosses it back.

Misses. Again.   ᥫ᭡   Some days, you wonder whether homicide by ice cream scoop would legally count as self-defense.

Today is one of those days.

“Thank you! Now, was that so hard?”

Middle-aged. Over-tanned into leather territory. Wearing sunglasses indoors and radiating that special brand of entitlement reserved for people who’ve never worked a service job a day in their lives.

You bite back a sigh and pass her demon spawn, who’s changed his order four times in under two minute, his cursed request: "The blue one, but no sharks, but also sprinkles, but not touching."

You had the audacity to pause—to make sure the sprinkles weren’t, god forbid, touching—and she’d glared at you like you’d slapped her child.

“Anything else I can do for you?” you smile, teeth grinding.  

“No, just your job,” she hums, then flounces off like she’s solved world hunger with that zinger.

Your left eye twitches. You fantasize about hurling the nearest waffle cone like a ninja star.

That’s when Steve appears at your side, bumping your arm with his elbow.

“Come on. Back hallway. Five minutes.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not.” He plucks the service bell off the window and sets it in front of the register.

Then, before you can argue, he takes your hand.

Threads his fingers through yours. Easy, like it’s no big deal.

And just like that, you follow. ᥫ᭡ The service corridor behind Scoops Ahoy isn’t made for moments.

The walls are an uninspired shade of off-white. The linoleum is scuffed to hell. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead, flickering like they’re one bad day from giving up entirely.

You lean back against the door with a dull thunk, scrubbing a hand down your face.

“I hate people.”

Steve settles in beside you, shoulder to shoulder, thigh brushing yours.

“Yeah,” he nods quietly. “They suck.”

The silence that follows stretches. Thick, but not uncomfortable. Just the kind that says more than any rant ever could.

His hand is still wrapped around yours.

You glance down, then up at him. “Why do you even work here?”

You’re aiming for light. For a distraction.

He shrugs. “I like the hat.”

You snort.  

Then, softly:

“...You.”

You blink, eyes snapping over. “What?”

He doesn’t meet your gaze. Just stares down at his sneaker like they’ve got answers he hasn’t worked out yet.

“I mean… yeah, I needed a job. But you’re kinda the reason I stuck with it.”

You go still.

He’s fidgeting with the hem of his shirt now, jaw tight, shoulders hunched like he’s bracing for impact.

And he looks... god, he looks nervous. You’ve never seen Steve nervous. 

“Steve…” you murmur, unsure.

He exhales sharply through his nose. “You just—you make it feel less dumb. This job. The hat. Like I don’t hate showing up when I know I’ll see you. It’s stupid, right?”

You turn to face him fully.

Your smile wobbles, caught somewhere between amusement and something else entirely.

“You could’ve just told me you like me, Harrington.”

He finally meets your eyes.

There’s no smirk. No sarcasm. Just a quiet breath, and a nod.

“Okay,” he says. “I like you.”   

It hits you like a warm wave. Simple. Honest. Inevitable.

Your smile breaks wider as he steps in.

His hand lifts to your jaw, slow and feather-light, still giving you space to pull away.

You don’t.

You lean in. ᥫ᭡ It starts soft.

A breath. A heartbeat. A question asked with the press of his lips against yours.  

You answer by pulling him close.

One hand slips into his hair, fingers curling at the nape of his neck. The other stays laced tight with his. You can feel the heat pouring off him, his whole body thrumming with tension like he’s been holding this in for weeks.

You exhale softly into his mouth, and something in him gives way.

He presses you back against the metal door, arm sliding around your waist, pulling you flush against him. The chill bites through your shirt, but all you feel is him—his shape, his weight, the low groan vibrating against your lips when you tug at his hair. Cherry syrup and that half-faded cologne he only remembers to wear on good days.

He lifts your joined hands, pinning them gently beside your head. The back of his hand flexes as he adjusts his grip, anchoring you there. His mouth trails lower, brushing along your jaw, down the curve of your throat, each kiss slow enough to make you shiver. Your head tips back, eyes fluttering shut.  

“Jesus,” you breathe, half-laughing, half-dazed. “Y-you must really like me, huh?”

He smiles against your skin, breath hot. “What gave it away?"

You laugh as he kisses you again, deeper this time, thumb dragging slow, dizzying circles along the sliver of bare skin above your waistband. Your free hand slips up under his shirt, palm grazing warm skin, lean muscle. He sucks in a sharp breath, teeth catching gently on your bottom lip.

He pulls back, breath ragged, lips barely leaving yours. "God, I've been—been thinking about this for weeks."

Your stomach jolts. Your knees threaten collapse. You’re halfway to climbing him like a tree when—

Ding!

You both freeze.

He falters for half a second. Then, stubbornly, he leans back in. Kisses you again. Softer this time, like punctuation.  

“Steve,” you murmur, dazed. “The bell.”

He noses at your cheek, still pressed close, still not letting go. “Hm? What bell?”

“Hellooo? Anyone working here?”

You flinch. Steve groans and drops his head to your shoulder.

Still, he pulls back, peeling off your body like molasses, gaze lingering on your face the whole time. His thumb brushes your cheek, once, before he lets his fingers slip free from yours.

Then he’s gone. Back through the door. Back to the register and the endless drone of summer crowds.

You stay behind.

Spine against the wall, lips tingling, chest heaving like you just ran a mile.

It takes five whole minutes for your legs to stop shaking.

You can still taste him.

It’s barely July.

But for the first time all summer, two more months doesn’t feel like nearly enough time.

a/n: this fic will likely have one more part! pt.2 will be a lot angstier 🥲

(liked this fic? let me know! reblogs, comments, and asks are always appreciated. 🫶🍦)

[imsogonesposts]

Paper Rings

|| ao3 || steve masterlist || requests are open!! || an: this was completely inspired by this on this convo i had with my friend starry (@sincerelystarry) LMAO ||

Summary: Steve has a habit of gifting you paper rings. OR 5 times Steve surprises you with a paper ring, and one time he surprises you with a real ring. (wc: 2,542)

1.

One thing about Steve Harrington was that he loved giving you gifts. Whether it be a flower he saw on the ground on his way to work that reminded him of you, or a pretty necklace he had caught you eyeing, Steve loved giving you things. 

So when Eleven and Max came to Family Video one day to return a bunch of movies they had rented out for a sleepover they had the day before, and Steve noticed the small paper rings they had sitting on their fingers, he begged them to teach him how to make a few, spending most of his break in the back of the video store as the girls taught him where and how to fold the paper to get the desired results. Five paper rings with an, albeit wonky, heart in the middle of each. All of them made for you. 

It was a Saturday evening when Steve decided to give you the first of the paper rings. You had decided you wanted to do something, anything, you just didn’t want to be stuck in the walls of your shared apartment for a moment longer, causingSteve to suggest a small walk after telling him you wanted some fresh air. 

Throughout the entirety of the walk, Steve had his arm wrapped snugly around your shoulders, holding you close to him as he walked you through the route he usually went on every morning for his morning run. Ever the gentleman, he made sure he stayed on the side closest to the road throughout the entirety of the walk. 

You’re in the middle of telling Steve about your day at work when his arm around you loosens before ultimately disappearing as he bends down to tie his shoe. You move to push some fallen hair out of his eyes as he rises to his full stature before presenting you with a small pink paper ring. 

“What’s this?” You ask with a smile as Steve takes your hand in his, fitting the ring snugly onto your ring finger. The finger where a wedding ring would go. Hopefully, his wedding ring one day.

Steve raises your hand to his lips as he presses a kiss to the back of it. “A paper ring,” he responds softly. “I made it for you, do you like it?”

He lets go of your hand, letting you raise your hand to your face so you can get a better view of the craft. You can’t help but let out a small laugh with a nod of your head, moving to give Steve a quick kiss as his arms wrap around your waist, pulling you closer to him. 

“I love it,” you say with a wide smile when the kiss finally breaks.

Steve smiles at your affirmation before placing a hand to your chin, gently tilting your head so he could kiss you again. “I love you,” he replies before moving to kiss you again. 

2.

One monthly ritual Steve loved, was to spoil you by taking you on a fancy date to Enzo’s. Half of it was to give you both an excuse to get dressed up, and the other half of it was so he could lovingly stare at you as you sat across the table from him. Steve always thought you were gorgeous, the prettiest girl he’d ever seen, but something about the lighting at Enzo’s just made you seem even more gorgeous than usual. Stunning. Breath-taking. Radiant. Heart-stopping. 

“Baby, can you hand me the car keys?” He asked, knowing you had stuffed them in your purse after he had locked the car. 

You nod, already looking through your bag when you notice a small purple something that you don’t remember seeing before. You pull it out only to notice it’s another paper ring. Identical to the first one Steve had given you just a few weeks ago, minus its color. 

Steve is already looking at you with an expectant smile when your eyes meet his in confusion. 

“When did you sneak this in there?” You question with a laugh. 

Steve’s arm snakes around your waist, pulling you closer to him as he presses a kiss to your temple. “I’m a ninja,” he mumbles before pressing another kiss to your skin, this time to your forehead, before gently taking the ring from you and putting it on your ring finger. He squeezes your hand before dropping it, and waving his fingers in the air, silently asking for the car keys again. 

You shake your head with a laugh, looking for the car keys yet again, while also checking to see if he happened to sneak anything else into your bag without you noticing. 

“Cmon, let’s get you home. I just wanna lie down in bed with you for the rest of the night,” he murmurs, unlocking the car and opening the passenger side door for you when you hand him the keys. 

You kiss his cheek as a thank you. For the door and for another paper ring to join the first one he had given you that was currently sitting on your nightstand, next to a framed picture of the two of you. 

3.

The minute the two of you are home from your date at Enzo’s, you collapse onto the couch, causing a laugh to escape Steve. You love the fancy dates, you love seeing your boyfriend dressed up, and you love dressing up yourself. You do not, however, love the ache in your feet from your heels. 

“Tired?” Steve questions with a small laugh, leaning against the wall as he lovingly watches you. 

You nod, already moving to take your shoes off your aching feet. “These shoes are killing me,” you reply.

Steve shakes his head with a small chuckle before striding towards you, bending down, and gently taking your leg to undo the strap on your shoes, taking them off for you. 

He digs through his pockets before he moves onto the next shoe, handing you a blue paper ring. You take it with a small laugh, noticing the small “I love you” written around the band. 

“How many of these do you have on you?” You question with a smile, placing it snugly on top of the purple ring he had given you earlier that night. 

“Well, there’s one way you can find out,” he teases with a wink, ducking his head to undo the strap of the next shoe, taking it off and placing it on the floor before pressing a quick, soft kiss to your ankle. You’re thankful he misses the flustered look that is undoubtedly on your face from both his teasing and his kiss. 

Steve moves to sit next to you on the couch, wrapping his arm around your shoulders, gently squeezing one, as he pulls you closer to his side, like two puzzle pieces fitting perfectly together. You let him, of course, moving to rest your head over his chest as Steve flips through channels on the TV, looking for something for the both of you to watch. 

“I swear, you have a collection of these things hidden somewhere,” you say with a smile, looking at the two paper rings stacked nicely against each other. 

Steve only shrugs with a smile before moving to press a kiss to the top of your head as he toys with a piece of your hair. “Maybe I do, maybe I don’t,” he teases, pulling you even closer to him, like there being any space between the two of you was a crime that had to be rectified immediately. Like he couldn’t bear to not be as close to you as possible. But, you also knew you couldn’t bear to not be as close to him as possible as well. 

"I told you there's a way to find out," he says with yet another wink.

4.

You woke up to a cold bed, an unusual feeling as you were used to waking up to Steve’s warm body every morning. Usually, when the other side of the bed was cold, it was due to Steve going for a run or making the two of you breakfast, but you didn’t smell any type of food, and by this hour, he would be back from his run. 

You sit up with a yawn when something catches your eye. You turn to your nightstand when you notice a green paper ring with a note lying under it. You smile at the thought of adding another paper ring to your mini collection. You plop the ring onto the jewelry dish Steve had gifted you specifically for the paper rings he had been gifting you before picking up the note. 

Gone fishing with the guys, miss you already. Love, Steve

You sigh at the idea of not being able to spend the morning with your boyfriend, but the sight of the new green paper ring nestled with the other matching ones is enough to bring a smile to your face. 

5.

You’re not sure whose idea it was to head to the local park and take a hike in the middle of the summer, but right now you’re really regretting ever agreeing to the plan. 

“You know, I really hate whoever planned this. I’m way too sweaty, and the sun is too hot, and I feel like I’m going to die,” Robin tells you, voicing your own thoughts out loud. 

You nod your head with a sigh, taking your millionth sip of water as you walk up the trail. “I know,” you tell her, “I feel like my legs are gonna give out soon,” you joke. 

“It’s not that bad,” you hear Dustin say from behind the both of you, though you’re pretty sure the only reason he’s not having as much trouble with the trail as everyone else is because he used to walk up a hill almost every day in the summer to use his cerebro machine to talk to Suzie, as Max had once told you.

What follows after Dustin’s comment is some bickering between Steve and Dustin, causing you and Robin to roll your eyes and laugh at their behavior. All these years later, and they still regularly “argued” with each other, though you knew it all came from a place of love. 

“Hey, babe, I think you dropped something,” Steve comments, causing both you and Robin to turn around as Steve presents you with a yellow paper ring and a smile. 

Despite the glaring sun and the tiredness in your feet, you can’t help but smile at the ring, letting out a small laugh. 

You hear Dustin mutter a “gross” as you move to kiss Steve’s cheek, though, he turns his face so you catch his lips instead. 

“Shut it, Henderson,” Steve comments when the kiss breaks, before placing the ring on your ring finger, just like all the others. “Love you,” he whispers to you, squeezing your hand before letting go so you could continue the trail. 

You move to kiss him again, his cheek this time, before continuing the trail with Robin again. 

“You know he got Max and El to teach him how to make those,” she comments, nodding to the paper ring nestled on your finger. 

You smile at the thought, a warm, fluttery feeling in your chest. “Really?” You ask. 

“Yup,” Max, who was walking in front of you with Lucas, replies, slowing her walk to walk in stride with you and Robin. “We made matching ones, and he noticed when we went to return some movies at Family Video, so he made us teach him how to make them.”

“He was not very good,” El comments from ahead, causing you to laugh. 

You raise your hand to look at the paper ring again, noticing a few small hearts doodled along its band. “I think they came out great,” you reply, meaning it with your whole heart. The thought that he put so much work into them just made you want to kiss him stupid. “I think they’re perfect,” you finish, not able to see the wide grin that overtook Steve’s face as he trailed along behind you. 

+1

“Hey, honey, can you wait a second? I gotta tie my shoe,” Steve mutters, dropping your hand as he bends down to fix the laces on his shoe.

It was a beautiful day out. Far too beautiful to spend the day cooped up inside, so you and Steve decided to take a small stroll around the park. 

You were looking around the park, looking at the pink and orange sunset and the squirrels a few feet away that were scurrying up a tree, when you noticed something out of the corner of your eye– Steve was pulling something out of his pocket. 

You smiled, already expecting another paper ring. It had been a while since he had given you the last one on the hike you had taken with your friends, and you couldn’t help but miss the rings. They might have been pieces of folded paper, yes, but you loved them, loved that Steve wanted to make them for you, wanted to keep giving them to you. 

He clears his throat softly, calling out your name. 

“Yeah,” you say, humoring him as you turn to face him, wondering what color this paper ring would be. But when you face him, he’s down on one knee, holding a velvet box in his hand, and oh–

It hits you all at once. 

“I’ve loved you for as long as I’ve known you,” Steve mutters, reaching to take one of your hands in his free one, his thumb rubbing at your knuckles. You could already feel the tears springing to your eyes. “You’re the best thing that's ever happened to me, honey. I love you so much, and I love getting to tell you that every day, and being able to wake up next to you every morning and fall asleep with you in my arms every night. I love seeing you smile and hearing you laugh, and when I think about the future, all I can really think about is how badly I want you in mine. I can’t spend another day without asking you this, so,” he pauses, opening the box to reveal a beautiful diamond ring. “Will you make me the luckiest guy in the world, and will you marry me?”

You barely give him a chance to finish his question before you’re nodding your head with a laugh and pulling him into a hug, covering his face in kisses, mumbling the word “yes,” in between kisses as Steve’s arms wrap around your waist, pulling you closer. 

He pulls away from your barrage of kisses just enough to catch your lips with his, a hand gently holding the side of your face, the other still holding the ring. 

When the kiss finally breaks, he takes the ring out of the box, sliding it onto your ring finger, where all the paper rings once stood, before raising your hand to his lips and pressing a kiss to the back of your hand. 

“I love you,” he whispers, voice hoarse with emotion. 

“I love you too,” you reply through a small, teary laugh. 

[forevermoreharrington]

You hang from my lips  - S.H

Steve Harrington x female!reader

A glimpse of fall while dating Steve Harrington 

A/n: boyfriend!steve, teasing

Warnings: kissing, strong language 

Word count: 740

Fall, 

Steve was standing outside the house, under soon to be rain clouds and in his jacket that had a hole in the pocket. He tapped the back of his knuckles against the window, apparently he didn’t see much point walking up to the door when he could see her through the glass sitting in the living room. 

She had her legs tucked up and a cosy book in her lap, half being read, half being ignored. She was waiting for him. She knew he was coming over, she knew he would be on time but just in case he was early, she was ready to jump to her feet and open the front door.

She smiled when she spotted him, when she saw the mess of brown hair and warm features standing out in the cold. She pushed the blanket off her lap, instantly missing it, and then she padded over to the window, hands clasped behind her back taking each step as slowly as she could. Teasing him like he always did with her. 

He mouthed something, but of course she couldn’t hear him. She just shrugged my shoulders at him and threw my hands up, trying to contain her smirk as her boyfriend rolled his eyes at her. He tilted his head in the direction of the door. If he wanted to come through the door, he should’ve knocked. 

Their plans were rather loose today, Steve said he just wanted to hang out, make cookies and drink tea, that sort of thing. So there was no need to rush her games. “I don’t understand what you want Steve.” She shouted, softening her gaze like she was as innocent as an angel. 

He looked up at the sky, it was bound to start spitting with rain any second. “Let me in.” He said, bluntly and warningly, reaching for the lock and trying to push open the window. She helped him out there, opening it to let all the cold air creep in along with the scent of Steve’s aftershave. 

“Why?”

“Why?” He repeated, confused but enjoying himself nevertheless. “Because I’m your boyfriend. Because it’s about to rain. Because it’s cold. Because we had plans. Because I’ll climb in the fucking window if you don;t let me through the door.” He was laughing now, mostly at the little smile on her lips and the way her eyes looked so in love but also at how ridiculous she had made him become. There was a ninety percent chance the front door wasn't even locked anyway.  

“You can’t come through the window, your shoes are dirty.” She leaned in to peer at his sneakers, they were dirty, they were the same pair he always wore and they looked best sitting beside her shoes in the hallway. A few taps of rain came through the open window, before a few more hit the back of Steve’s neck. She pouted and furrowed her brows. “And now they’re going to be wet too.”

“Better let me in then.” Steve leaned in pressing a slightly cold kiss to her lips. She wasn’t sure if he had driven over to hers or walked but it was pretty clear now that he had walked over. She liked the image of him walking down the street with his hands in his pockets, on his way over to see her. 

Her hands slipped around his neck as he fulfilled her teenage self's daydreams about kissing boys through windows, the only difference was this wasn’t her bedroom, she wasn’t seventeen and Steve was a man, her man. “Come on.” He muttered against her lips, just coherently enough so that she could hear him. “Let me in.” He reeled back. “This would be so much better if we were both inside the house.”

His hair was getting damp now and as good as he looked with rain soaked curls, she decided enough was enough. She stepped backwards and he watched her until she disappeared out of view. He could get his own back when she opened the door, he would get his own back when she opened the door, that’s why she practically ran to let him in. 

“Oh no Steve you’re all wet.” 

He smirked. “Terrible isn't it?”

[upsidedownwithemmy]

A soulmate AU: Steve Harrington x fem!reader [3.5K] 18+

THE TIMELINE

“I'mma put some goddamn moves on you, babe, I know you need it. Die a double death for you, death for your secrets. I'll find another way for you, wait 'til you see it. Put some goddamn moves on you, God knows you need it.”

- Moves by Suki Waterhouse

VI. AMSTERDAM, THE NETHERLANDS: 1996

It drew you towards it in a way you couldn’t explain.

A shitty hole in the wall dive bar in an alley you had walked past countless times before, never sparing it a second glance. The lights from the restaurants and bars illuminated the canal, the cobblestones busy with tourists and locals alike, all hunting for something that could only ever be found at two am on a Saturday night.

A good time, maybe. Bad decisions, perhaps. A strong drink, a stranger, sex against a bathroom stall door, regret, shoes in your hand as you walked out their door the morning after, possibly.

You weren’t sure which one you wanted. Maybe all of it, maybe one. You should’ve been tired, right down to your bones, because you’d worked a twelve hour shift at the coffee shop three streets over and your feet had ached right up until you pulled your rucksack from your locker.

The black heels you’d worn for Robin’s birthday were still stashed in the back and suddenly you weren’t as exhausted as you had been before. You jammed your rucksack back in, throwing in your apron too before buckling the straps of your heels around your ankle and swiping on some lipstick. The black dress you’d worn to work would do.

Legs out, eyes bright, skin warm from the summer evening balm.

You walked right to it. The place with no sign, only lit up neon from the buzz and glare from the lights from other bars around it. It made your skin aquamarine and magenta, the euros you shoved at the doorman an electric blue in the halo of it. Bare brick scraped your arms as you walked through the narrow doorway, the noise of the street left behind you in a faint hum as a pretty voice filled the space instead.

A dark bar, the lights dimmed to a deep red, flashes of pink bouncing off of a disco ball that hung in the middle of a small dance floor. The place was packed, tables filled with drinks hugged a stage in the corner that was no more than a few pallets stacked together. A girl stood on it, accompanied closely by a long haired man with a red guitar and another behind a small drum kit, fringe in his reddened eyes. She crooned with a smokey voice, the song slow and sensual, making the crowd of the dance floor sway and gyrate against each other with ease.

The tugging feeling in your chest seemed to ease now that you were there, a strange feeling of coming home washing over you. The smoke and music and heat from the other bodies piled at the bar made your shoulders drop, tension leaving your frame.

It took a while, but you felt even better once you had a martini glass in your hand, a far cry from your usual choice of vodka lemonade but something about this night called for something different. There was still that lingering feeling in your chest, in a space close to your heart. It pulled, it urged, it told you something was near, something was going to happen. It made the time turn over slowly, like the night itself was yearning, wanting, pleading.

Waiting on someone.

“Have I seen you before?”

You blinked, swallowing your drink before turning to the voice over your shoulder. A man stood there, grinning at you, seemingly pleased with himself for his less than original line. He was blonde, stocky and not too much taller than you, his white t-shirt glittering with an Ed Hardy bedazzled skull. He had a pair of sunglasses perched on his head, the iced tips of his hair looking candyfloss pink in the light. His acid wash jeans hung too low on his hips, the rumpled checkered print of his boxers puffing out the top of the denim, a try hard attempt at looking like some kind of boy band member.

You squinted at his face, pretty in a cute way, ruined by his over confident smirk. You shook your head, keeping your body turned to the bar, a sure fire sign that he wasn’t welcome. If you were looking for anybody tonight, it wasn’t him.

“No, sorry,” you shrugged, a half hearted smile given. This man wasn’t the reason for you being here tonight. “I don’t think so.”

It took you another fifteen minutes of polite smiles and stilted conversation before he finally left you alone, sullen and sulking that his chat up line hadn’t worked. The girl on stage was still crooning, the people on the dance floor still swaying, hips pressed into hips, the group of twenty somethings on the end of the bar smoking enough cigarettes to generate a haze in the air that made everything feel dreamlike. You nursed another martini, the olive disposed of on the edge of the bar and people came and went like ghosts in the night, all strangers , every face unknown.

You weren’t sure why you were here. You didn’t know this place, this wasn’t your usual spot. The bartender had a kind face, even if it was an unknown one. No one knew your name, no one seemed familiar, until—

“Do I know you?”

Another cliché, another chat up line, another lame attempt at flirting— but you turned and the man standing there was different from the first and when you looked at his face the tugging you’d felt in your chest - deep in your bones - finally loosened. You looked at this stranger and something inside of you clicked, a key turning in a lock, a jigsaw piece slotting perfectly into place.

If the music hadn’t been so loud, maybe you would’ve heard the sky outside thunder.

“Um,” you cleared your throat, so aware that you’d been staring, mouth ajar, eyes wide. “Uh, I don’t… I don’t know. I don’t think—?”

The man shared a look similar to your own and he was easy to stare at, handsome with strong features and pretty eyes, honey coloured in the warm light, beautiful and sleepy looking with long lashes and freckles dotting his cheekbones. Brown hair, curling at the nape of his neck and behind his ears, grazing the collar of the black t-shirt he wore.

Dark slacks, brown belt, t-shirt tucked in, no rhinestones or acid wash to be seen.

“I’m sorry,” he explained, smiling kindly. His cheeks were tinged pink, embarrassment colouring his words. “That was kind of abrupt, my bad. I just meant to say, you look familiar. Like, really familiar.” The man paused, his eyes darting over your face in a way that made you feel naked. You were burning. “Have we met?” He blinked, slow, like he was thinking too hard about something he couldn’t recall. “I think we’ve met?”

You forgot about your drink, turning away from the bar to face the stranger and you saw that he was tall, his build lean and muscular and stubble covered his sharp jaw. A packet of opened cigarettes were tucked into the sleeve of his t-shirt cuff, a pair of gold wire glasses hidden in the chest pocket.

Something buried inside you, in your fucking DNA, told you that you knew this person. It was late, too late, on a Saturday night in the middle of a bar in Amsterdam and everything you were made up of told you that you could trust this man. It wasn’t the martini, it wasn’t the need to be touched, it was something else. Something molecular, something deep, something old, older than the earth.

Maybe it was magic.

Maybe it was some soulmate shit.

That’s why you smiled when you shook your head. “No, I don’t think we have.” The man smiled back, eyes lighting up, cheeks flushed with the knowledge of knowing something exciting was about to happen. The sky was rumbling, the rain was pouring. “But maybe we just can’t remember.”

You said yes when he asked you to dance, your hand fitting inside the expanse of his own, body electric as he pulled yours into his. The girl on stage was still singing, voice angelic, the guitar riff a little dirty, the drum beat slow. The lights were low enough for shadows to dance across the strangers face, lips and cheeks pink in the spotlights, tiny refractions of light dancing across both of you, the disco ball spinning above.

He dipped his face down to yours before he spoke over the music, the bridge of his nose grazing your own, his breath dancing over you lips. He smelled sweet, like pomegrante juice, like fresh linen, like the sea air.

“I’m Steve,” he told you and when you gave him your name back, his smile was blinding. “S’nice to meet you.”

Again, something said. The wind, maybe, a whisper in your ear from you couldn’t see. A ghost, a god. Maybe just the alcohol that nipped at your tongue.

Steve kept his hands on your waist and back, long fingers and strong palms traversing the space there, sliding along your spine to keep you close and dancing became nothing more than swaying as you kept yourself pressed together as much as possible. The room became warmer when his palm touched your neck, rough and calloused as he skimmed over your pulse point and you wondered if he felt the tempo of it pick up considerably.

You wanted to do the same in return, to sweep your hand - no, your lips - over the same spot on his neck, right where two freckles lay, begging to be kissed. You didn’t know this man, Steve. You’d never met him before, you didn’t recognise him, not in the way people would expect. But something else was screaming at you, a voice inside your ribcage, deep in the bones, yelling at you that somehow, you knew this person more than you’d ever understand.

He felt like a part of you when he held you. Like his hands belonged in your own, like his arms were once something that held you together.

They felt a little like home.

But maybe that was just the gin.

Maybe that’s why you took Steve’s hand before the song had ended and led him into the tiny bathroom at the back of the club. He was kissing you before the door had locked, slow and deep and not like the frantic mess you’d expected from a bar toilet hook up. He was careful with how he held you, your jaw between his hands like he was holding something precious as he licked over your lips, tongue pressing against your own in a way that had you moaning something stupid.

The buzz you felt was ridiculous, that kind of fizz that you hadn’t felt since you’d allowed your first real boyfriend to slip his hands down the front of your underwear when your mom thought you were upstairs studying. Steve’s kiss came with a bolt of lightening, his touch enough to make your knees buckle but he caught you, your back against the locked door as your arms wound around his neck.

He was breathing heavy, lips parted as his chest heaved, half lidded eyes staring down at you. Mouth reddened already, hair mussed, you pulled at the collar of his shirt as he yielded easily to you and the feeling in your chest was ready to burst.

It was yearning, wanting, hoping, begging, needing.

It bloomed in you, a new heartbeat ready to errupt, a pulsing between your legs, a heaviness between your breasts.

Steve kissed you and pulled new sounds from your throat, your lips. He gave you some of his own to taste and you swallowed them whole, soft groans and rough sighs, mixed with the sound of your name which had never sounded as pretty as it did coming from his mouth.

When your hand found his belt buckle, the back of it grazed the hard length of him that was trapped against his thigh. Eyes wide and skin hot, you looked up at him from where he still had you pinned between the door and his chest. Blinking, you struggled to clear the haze from your head before you spoke. You didn’t sound like yourself when you said, “I really don’t do this kind of thing.”

“We don’t have to— oh, fuck me—”

Your fingers traced the outline of his cock, long and thick and warm even through his trousers and you were mesmerised at the way his eyes slammed shut, his words turning throaty and rough.

You lifted yourself onto your toes, mouth touching his, teeth tugging at his bottom lip in a way that made his hands squeeze almost too hard at your waist.

“No, I really, really want to.” You swallowed, the movement harsh. “I - fuck - I really want to. I feel like I’m on fire,” you tried to explain, eyes watering at the idea of not being touched by this man. “I don’t understand, it sounds so— so stupid. But I feel like I’m going to die if you don’t touch me.”

Maybe it wasn’t as stupid as you thought because Steve looked serious when he nodded and crashed his lips to yours once more. The rain outside fell harder and if you’d been aware of anything more than the man in front of you, you’d have sensed that something in the air, something big, something unseen, was lingering.

Something bigger than you. Bigger than the world.

“How d’you want me?” You managed to ask between kisses, panting as Steve nipped and sucked his way across your jaw, planting a kiss on your chin before moving down your neck.

He groaned at the scent of you, muttering curses into your collarbone, the space against your throat. “Fuck. Fuck, any way you’ll let me,” he rasped. “Every way, all the ways, entirely, completely, fuck…” he moaned your name into the swell of your chest, nose pressed against the skin there as he kissed above the line of your dress.

You ended up at the sink, perched on the edge of the old counter, the wooden top scarred with names of couples who weren’t together anymore, of email address and MySpace usernames, initials in hearts and dates that didn’t seem as important as right now.

The skirt of your dress hiked high, the folds of it scattered across your thighs as they trapped Steve between them, your hands in his hair as you pulled him down to your height, kissing him like you hadn’t kissed anyone before. It felt like a dance, it felt instinctual, something that didn’t need choreographed, that needed no rehearsal.

Kissing this stranger felt more natural than breathing. In fact, you wondered how you’d managed to live this long without feeling his lips on your own.

He tasted like lemon trees, like the salt of the ocean, like a summer night, like yours to keep.

“I wanna take my time w’you,” Steve murmured, his hands curling around your knees, palms roaming higher higher higher. Heat sunk into your bones, it wrapped around you, it consumed you. “God, I wanna taste you, I wanna make you yell for me.” He sounded desperate, words punctuated with moans and grunts as you tugged at his hair and nipped at his jaw.

You watched his eyes roll, lashes fluttering when you pulled at his belt buckle, cock twitching towards your grasp. He was unravelling, a sight to behold, a sight that seemed so familiar, like you’d seen it before. In a movie maybe, a scene in a TV show that only got played after ten o’clock at night, a dream perhaps.

Another life.

“Just touch me,” you managed to plead. You sounded as tightly strung as you felt, words choked, lips kiss bitten and swollen. “I need you to touch me, fuck, I need you so bad I can’t even cope—”

Steve didn’t waste anymore time, the small bathroom getting warmer the longer you both stayed. The club on the other side of the door was still full, people dancing, laughing, talking. Glasses clinked, the bar was busy and the singer was still crooning, the guitarist playing a riff that made Steve’s touch feel even more electric.

His fingers, two of them, found their way under the elastic of your underwear, sliding into the side to swipe through your folds. He groaned loudly at the slick he found there, silky wet and warm, fingertips nudging at your clit with ease.

He tore his lips from your own, nose bumping yours. He pecked at your cheek, the corner of your mouth, your jaw. “Sit back for me, pretty girl, like that - yeah - fuck, get comfy. Spread your legs, yeah? Please? Lemme see you.”

You did as he asked, as if you’d ever have said no.

He brought his fingertips to his mouth, tongue peeking out from between rosy pink lips to lick at the pads of them, eyes fluttering before he brought them back down between your legs. Somewhere outside the door, on that tiny stage, the girl was still singing. But you closed your eyes and let your head fall back, the dull thunk of it hitting the mirror barely even registering as Steve worked his fingers over your clit again, two of them sinking into you with a slow, tight stretch.

The walls around you could easily have crumbled and you wouldn’t have known. The world outside could’ve sprung into the flames, you wouldn’t have cared. You would’ve let everything burn if it meant this man kept touching you. You felt starved, as if you’d been kept from this feeling for too long. And at first you thought it was the pleasure of it all, that too warm, too much, too good sensation of being filled by something that wasn’t your own fingers but when you opened your eyes and saw Steve watching you, well—

That need grew, it grew into an almighty thing that suddenly felt too much and you remembered what he had said to you only hours before at the bar, his voice all too familiar, his hazel eyes even more so.

“Have we met?”

You were starting to think you had.

Every touch was perfect, too well practiced, toogoodtoogoodtoogood.

The girl outside the bar had stopped singing, maybe seconds ago, maybe too many minutes ago, you weren’t sure. You weren’t sure how loud you were when you came, if you’d muffled your moans well enough in Steve’s shoulder, your teeth pulling at the cotton of his shirt, your eyes squeezed shut, your hands on his biceps, nails digging into skin.

Steve’s heavy breath and soft reassurances in your ear drowned everything else out, the bassline, the drum beat, the clink of glasses from behind the bar, the low, dulled chatter of people talking amongst the music.

You knew how this went, you remembered it now. Like a dream, a wish, another life. It came back to you a little fuzzy, soft around the corners, crinkled like an old photograph. A memory? Maybe. You weren’t too sure.

But when Steve lifted his head and his eyes met your own, there was something in his gaze that reminded you of home. Of the ocean and fruit trees, white bed sheets, sprawling gardens, a marble fountain underneath an olive tree.

You knew that it was too good to last. That all good things came to an end… you just weren’t sure who told you that. Maybe it was just engrained in your bones. Your soul - if you believed in that sort of thing.

So you smoothed down your dress and Steve leaned in for a kiss, one that you gave him happily, greedily, selfishly. You drank him in, let your tongue lick over his, tried your damn best to remember the feel of his lips on yours, the way he tasted underneath the alcohol. Because somehow, you knew that one day you’d have to find him again.

That same kiss, that same look, that same boy.

Your hand found his jaw, sweeping down warm skin and stubble under your palm lingered on his neck, curling around the side until it covered two freckles that were etched there. You memorised them too.

Just in case.

And then, like Steve knew all of this too, he smiled a little sadly and nodded. He stepped back and the tiny bathroom suddenly became a little colder. You could hear the noises outside now, the rush of it coming back. Music and conversation and beer bottles clinking.

And above it all, louder than the world, you could hear thunder. Angry, furious, booming. The strange thing was, by the time you’d walked away from Steve and back outside, the storm had stopped.

Once you’d left Steve behind, there wasn’t any rain at all.

[frostandflamesfanfic]

EMMY!!! YOU ABSOLUTE HEATHEN!! I am so glad I saved this for my pre-sleep routine. Oh my god, what a triumphant return to tumblr. The connection- the dialogue- ack, it’s all so good!

I don’t usually reblog 18+ posts but I had to make an exception for the literal queen of Steve fics. So happy to see you back on the dashboard. Will be re-reading this several times for reasons. God forbid a girl gets her Steve fics somehow. Makes me very excited for S5!

[bakerstreethound]

fic recs! what are ur fav fics that you've read?

vent: I'm going to a party this weekend but first I have to host dnd which I am woefully underprepared for :(

Avo! Hi thanks for dropping by!

Let's see, to be frank, I haven't read much fic lately due to moving jobs and the mayhem of getting settled, but there are three I really like, and I shall list them out here for you! (I can't think of any more off the top of my head 🙈)

Dark Devotion by my beloved @novaracer

That Certain Piece by @sobeautifullyobsessed (I linked my reblog of the work because it's such a well rendered piece of Sherlock and her OC named Tessa!)

Recipe for Family by @frostandflamesfanfic

That party sounds like fun. Is it a birthday party? Dang, that sounds complex. I used to have a D&D group, but we all parted ways but still keep in some contact. I can't imagine coming up with scenes for characters. I wish you all the luck!

Sleepover Weekend

[frostandflamesfanfic]

Aceeeee! 😭 Thank you so much for the rec!

[allthingswhumpyandangsty]

"If you use em dash in your works, it makes them look AI generated. No real human uses em dash."

Imaging thinking actual human writers are Not Real because they use... professional writing in their works.

Imagine thinking millions of people who have been using em dash way before AI becomes a thing are all robots.

REBLOG IF YOU'RE A HUMAN AND YOU USE EM DASH