ɢᴜᴀʀᴅ ᴍᴇ ᴡɪᴛʜ ʟᴏᴠᴇ ─⋆⋅☆⋅⋆─ ꜱᴛᴇᴠᴇ ʜᴀʀʀɪɴɢᴛᴏɴ x ᴀɴɢᴇʟ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ
summary: hawkins without monsters and vecna was supposed to be peaceful, but nightmares still cling and pain still burrows deep - cue a fallen guardian angel with a simple purpose: savlage steve harrington's broken soul. { post season 5, before time jump }
words: 4.5k
warnings: reader uses she/her pronouns, swearing, mentions of death and injury, reader has large scars on her back, indications of steve being depressed without using the word
notes: my first stevie fic, here we go! lowkey going to turn into a soulmate fic i bet but stick with me and we'll see, also took some of the angel lore/descriptions from supernatural bc that's my showww
don't forget to reblog/like from the original source! your op deserves it!
─⋆⋅☆⋅⋆─ ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ ─⋆⋅☆⋅⋆─
The sky had opened up; only this time, it wasn't intertwined with shades of red and black, nor did it harness strikes of chaotic light fractures that exuded nightmares with their unmistakable angry glow. Instead, it wore darkness in shades of grey and was clouded by a strong, dense fog. A natural crack leaking with remnants of a rainstorm that had left a blanket of condensation over the now sleepy town of Hawkins. The town screamed atmospheric misery, but at least it was soft. At least it couldn’t hurt anybody now, unlike a time not too far in the past.
The roads were slick as tyres kicked up flicks of water, a slight sheen visible from the sparse headlights of passing cars. It was late, and Steve Harrington was relieved to finally see the fading neon glow of the WSQK building in his review mirror. It was as if his body anticipated the feeling of loosened shoulders and a well-deserved deep exhale after repeating the same routine nearly every night; Robin, after all, was the true entertainment, and people only listened to personality during the daylight hours, leaving him with the graveyard shift of all things. It was a bittersweet exchange, he often considered. Hawkins had been rightside up and military free for only a few months now, and although the townsfolk had tried to regain their somewhat normalcy, Steve was nothing more than lost among an evolving crowd.
It took a while before he realised he had perfected a facade of smiles and solace - only just managing by the skin of his teeth to convince himself that he is okay, whilst watching his friends gravitate forward with all of the promise this stupidly cruel world could grant them. They were moving on and Steve was stuck. Feet planted. Debilitated. Frozen in place like a statue of the damaged man he just can’t escape from. And what made his late-night radio gig somewhat bearable was the need to escape and wallow, where his cheeks could take a break from the puppet smile he held for too long each day and where he could conserve his ever-dwindling energy.
Steve Harrington had complications thinking about his future, when all he could do was reminisce about the past. He was sure the other members of the party had the same demons he did, and he praised them from afar whenever they seemed to have it handled. They all suffered in such individual ways that it still brought them closer together, and Steve was thankful for that. It wasn’t as if his life before the Upsidedown was perfect by any means whatsoever, but everything shifted dramatically from the very first moment he heard that ‘some Byers kid’ had gone missing. From the word bullshit haunting his self-perception. From the feeling of a rusty nail-decorated bat weighing in his hands. From tasting the acidity of a force-fed truth serum. From being a demobat tasting plate. From defeating Vecna beside the people he loved most. From fucking everything. And shit like that never goes away.
The thought of what he could be doing with his life was always pushed to the back corners of his mind, even when they wanted to wander out uninvited during vulnerable moments like this, in between Steve’s sleepy state and the need to get home as soon as possible. The car he sat in made him shift in discomfort; it was his own, bought with whatever money he managed to save up, but it wasn’t the same as the Beemer. The seat hadn’t moulded to his ass shape yet; nor could he get the steering wheel at an appropriate height, the radio needed a good encouraging whack to turn on, and he was pretty sure the seatbelt was starting to give him a rash whenever it dragged across his shoulder. It wasn’t perfect, but it got him to and from. A perfect metaphor for the life he found himself living.
Steve shifted again for the third time since he hit the road, trying to determine if it was the firmness of his seat or the simple desperation to lie down in bed. Nonetheless, it made him groan briefly before he resumed humming along to a mellow U2 song on the radio from a station that had far better music than his own. The man’s jaw dropped, and his eyes squinted as he yawned ferociously through the car’s cabin, a cause of the blearyness that then clouded his vision. Maybe he shouldn’t have forgone his glasses. He reached up his right hand to weakly drag down the side of his face before his tongue poked out to lap at his dry lips, seriously considering turning up the cold air to prevent him from taking a nap behind the wheel prematurely. It was then that he thought he was seeing things - possibly delirious, probably already asleep. A muddled, fiery glow dropping rapidly from the crack in the sky.
His drowsy eyes left the road to watch it fall.
A blur of light among the darkness of the night.
Only getting faster as gravity pulled with great strength.
Steve forgot the car was still in motion until he saw the phenomenon crash to the tarmac not too far ahead, his foot instinctively slamming down on the brake as his body slid forward from the force. He was awake now and breathing rapidly, his mind trying to catch up with what he saw, to process where he was and what had happened.
He could hear his heart beating as it echoed loudly in his ears, the thumping shaking every joint in his body, pumping every vein, mismatching every breath. He was lucky that the road belonged to him tonight with the lack of small town traffic at one a.m on a Wednesday. His focus realigned properly as he made a slow move to lean out of his car, almost as absentminded as whenever he managed to pop open the door. His eyes were wide with a mixture of shock and curiosity as they remained glued on the heap merely thirty feet or so up the road.
White reeboks squeaked as they walked over the wet surface, journeying through shallow puddles that Steve was less than concerned about at this rate. He lazily tugged his bomber closer around himself due to the chilly temperature, the weather still playing against him. He couldn’t stop the sensation of being pulled forward as if it were drawing him in with grave importance. Magnetising, calling out for him.
The closer Steve got, the more he made out a flurry of ivory-toned feathers, their edges singed with deep onyx shades as they released remnants of smoke flitting to the sky. They were scattered all around the road as if an explosion set them free, the odd couple still falling slowly from above, light and airy with whimsical dances until they eventually fell by his feet. He was stunned - too much so to grasp any sense of comprehension, unable to focus on more than one thing at a time. It wasn’t until he dragged his gaze away from the mess that he finally focused on the figure that lay not too far away.
Saturated fabric embraced a body, hiding it from Steve’s view, provoking him to slightly tilt his head in wonder and scan for any obscurities. His heart picked up even faster now as he heard his blood rush, panic rising in his chest and bubbling to the point of tight discomfort. He was paralysed. A sudden slap against the wet pavement broke the silence of the night, and it was quick when the man jumped, Steve’s gasp soft and personal as his hand held against his chest. With a leaning frame and nervous gulp, Steve moved forward to see a dainty hand now sticking out as if it were reaching for help.
“Holy fuck- “ He muttered, snapping back to consciousness before falling to the ground, his knees hitting the tarmac roughly as hands tangled within the bundle of fabric. He pulled it away as it landed heavily beside him, its wet texture making it slop. Steve reached out but couldn’t move beyond a hover - the fast jerkiness of his breathing had taken a one-eighty, now stopping altogether as he held his breath at the sight before him. A girl with phantom wings embossed onto the slick road.
They were large, the shadowed imprints that bordered a peaceful sleeping figure. They held grand width and detail that would surely leave darkened ash-like residue on Steve’s fingertips if he dared to reach for it. His eyes darted between them and the restful girl, absorbing how tranquil she looked with slightly parted lips and steady breaths. What the hell. Steve was beginning to panic again. I’m asleep, I crashed the car.
But even a pinch couldn’t wake him, not when he felt his heart leap for the tenth time tonight when the girl sat up fast, his name sounding like smooth honey as it escaped past her lips in a gentle whisper. Steve's jeans were soaked through at the knees, the cool air seeping in as he leaned forward again, but he came up short when the figure fell carefully back to the ground.
Steve choked - she knew his name, she came from the sky.
He saw her on fire. A falling fiery heap. Like a star.
And fuck, her voice was just so sweet.
Black. That’s all that could be seen. A tenebrous painting behind closed eyelids, completely void. Thoughts were non-existent, and memories were blank. You tried to struggle, but couldn’t. Warmth was the only thing that could be felt, but the extinguish was as swift as the cascading sensation clinging to the nerves along exposed skin. Wind wrapped around your body as it carried you toward solid ground. It was quicker than a snap of fingers when everything stopped once again, no movement, no wind or warmth, and the silence returned.
It was oddly peaceful until slivers of scenes faded in - as if a cinema pulled back its curtains, ready for the show to start. Legs and arms remained heavy and still, a strong contrast to the liveliness of the segments presented before you. Slowly, you saw melted chocolate first, in the form of two large doe-like eyes that were curtained by long lashes. They were bright and housed soft crinkles in the corners, as if their owner was experiencing joy, laughing. Within a blink, they grew darker, the epitome of pain. You could see the brows now, furrowed with discomfort. It made your chest tight as if you could feel the anguish for yourself. Your focus shifted to a single drop that had gathered on the waterline, the brown colour of the eyes you were so drawn to now clouded with a thin layer of solemn glassiness. Your chest pinched again as the twinge gathered into a lump that bobbed in your throat.
The owner started to step away, eyes facing in a different direction, instead showing you the back of a male frame with soft brown locks that tickled the nape of his neck. You wanted to reach out and run your fingers through it, but you remained immobile, forced to continue watching. It was subtle at first, but your mind filled with a loud snap, a small red line growing with anger and terror. It opened up into a gateway with creatures living across the threshold - years of fighting and misery, loss and agony, seeping from the passage. The male’s head hung low as he continued forward, leaving you behind to step into the red mass, and oh… how you tried to scream.
You wanted to thrash, to cry out, to stop the figure from leaving. It was as if you knew that what lay beyond the gateway was going to lacerate him with a lifetime of tortured cuts, only to fracture his being into a million pieces.
Your arm twitched. The anguish you felt was an attempt to overpower your sedentary position, enough to make your fingertips move. He was getting further away and you tried again to reach forward. When your arm moved again, it was for a mere second before it fell to the side, the sensation of it landing against a hard surface now grazing at your knuckles. His footsteps lessened until you could see the red glow surround his figure, a halo of light that homed nightmares. His figure turned but his face was still slightly covered, his hair dusting over his eyes and against the slope of his cheek. The happiness that you first saw had disintegrated completely and was replaced with emptiness, as if the soul had been broken. Discarded. And it made you want to cry.
With one last push, you tore yourself toward him, breaking free of the invisible binds, your hand now thrown in his direction. In your peripherals, everything returned to black, except for the male and the red glow. Your feet felt like they were trudging through mud as your fingers flexed, desperation now intertwining itself into your limbs as adrenaline filled your veins. You were getting closer, but so were the inching of his feet toward the light. You shook your head, a scream dying in your throat.
So close.
You could feel the light cast over your features.
You could nearly see the milk chocolate eyes.
So. Close.
He moved as you reached him, disappearing before you in time with your fingers curling around his jacket. As he pulled away your hand slipped down to his wrist, to his own warmth, a comfortable feeling that you soon embraced by linking your hand with his. The grip tightened and with a final, exhausted pull, you hauled something back with you. The warmth remained but the figure was weightless. Near transparent. A beautiful golden outline to his body and frame.
You dared to look up at him and see his face, his eyes joyful and crinkled in the corners. You slowly dragged your gaze down to his lips to see a crooked grin, and it suddenly all came back to you. Your purpose. What you needed to do. He was disappearing but you could save him. Him. Who? Oh.
You could see him properly now, in all his glory.
You felt as if you were being pulled forward as your chest rose, his name on the tip of your tongue. So sweet. Just as you knew he was. You smiled, voice quiet under your breath as you finally found your voice.
“Steve.”
“Nearly there”. Steve breathed out; grip tightening as he held your limp body close to him, an arm supporting your back as the other secured under your knees. The weight from the sodden fabric that clothed you was slowing him down, but Steve was desperate to get you out of the elements before you froze to death. He was running purely on anxiety and adrenaline now, which is why he was carrying you to his car whilst kicking through matted feathers as they stuck to the soles of his sneakers.
It was an uncomfortable manoeuvre when he pulled open the passenger side door, hoping that your head would stay tucked in against his shoulder as his hand reached for the seat recliner lever. Suddenly, it flung backward with startling force, opening enough space for your body to slip from his hold as Steve sang his gratitudes.
He placed you inside the car with utter care, gentle to strap you in under the safety of a seatbelt - god forbid he got this far, and something happened to you because he didn't secure you first. After checking that it held you in, his hand reached up to push your hair away from your forehead, the back of it lightly touching your skin before pressing to one of your cheeks. He was surveying your temperature - something he learnt from the school nurse, a caretaker who worried when he was sick, rather than his parents, who sometimes forgot he existed.
Your skin was warming up now against his own, but still dewy, a strange combination from being encased by flames before lying idly among the post-storm condensation. He scanned you for injuries, again, his intense anxieties and past experiences making him overly wary as if fight or flight was now embedded thoroughly into his bones. Steve had to question everything, rarely satisfied until his intuition was fed enough to find even the smallest sliver of contentment. Which is why he was surprised not to see anything worthy of a wound or injury, hardly even a scratch or graze. Something that should have eased those worries and settled any questions - but it only made him raise more.
It was hasty as he rounded the car and slipped into the driver’s seat, forgoing his early thought of turning down the heat as he cranked it right up for your benefit. He started the engine, hand gripping the gearstick, but the car lacked movement. He wasn’t sure where to go. If Steve didn’t already know that ordinary was out of the question, and his small sleepy town once housed science fiction and mythical legends of some sort, then he would be taking you to the hospital. But experience was ringing loud in his ears, and there was something about you that felt safe. Like he could trust you. A privilege that only a few had the chance of receiving, especially after the cruelness that he had faced more than once. You were different, and he didn’t even know you.
Steve muttered a curse within a single breath and drove off, leaving behind a scene that will hopefully be gone by morning, if not otherwise mistaken by a massacre of poultry. Ten minutes in and the heater was settling his shoulders, easing the adrenaline, lulling him into somewhat placidity; as much as he could fall into considering the circumstances and the strange situation that was currently occupying his passenger seat. The radio was playing softly in the background, and Steve found himself humming again, careful not to be too loud and unwilling to disturb you in case you woke panicked and scared.
The creeping of his vehicle down the Harringtons' driveway came to a halt a little after two in the morning. He was glad that he remembered to turn on the porch lights before he left for his shift, the path between his car and the front door lit just enough for him to walk through with you in his arms again.
Steve wasn’t a weak man, per se. He excelled in High School sports, and years of fighting monsters really built up his stamina and strength. But even he struggled as he tried to pry you out of the car, the lack of assistance from your flaccid sleepiness making it difficult for him to hold you properly, but now with an intense fear of dropping you halfway along the path - and even worse, what if someone saw him carrying a body bundled in fabric, unmoving as it fell to the ground?
He was sure Robin of all people would have a field day if that rumour ever got out.
Steve huffed, “Please just work with me here,” as he tried to put your arms around his neck, fingers metaphorically crossing that it would be an easier way to transport you. It was a slim chance that you might cling to him in your unconscious state, like a baby koala, latching onto his frame as he tried to balance the weight. And for a moment, he nearly lost hope until your fingers slowly latched around him as your head lay against his shoulder. What Steve didn’t expect, however, was the small nuzzle you made into his chest when he got you situated, and the way it made his neck and cheeks flood with a rosy blush. Nor did he think that he would like it more than he should.
He was more gentle with you than he was when he kicked his car door closed, a rough nudge that luckily wouldn’t leave a mark, before he attempted to lock it with a nervous thumb on the fob buttons. He sighed in relief as the lights flashed once to signal that he had succeeded, and Steve happily journeyed toward his front door, followed by a still saturated white train that hung heftily from your body.
Steve felt a chill run up his spine as he crossed the threshold - the air inside just as cold as its outside counterpart. He groaned weakly, a softened rumble from his chest at the lack of warmth. He moved into the main living space before his knees slightly bent, and he was placing you with delicate movements onto the plush cushioning of the Harrington’s stupidly expensive couch. It was hard not to cringe at the feeling of sodden cloth as it near-adhered to your skin. You needed fresh clothes and he would be cruel to deny you that right.
Steve’s stance was planted still, even though his mind had already wandered up to his room, thinking of what pair of track pants he had that were the most comfortable, or the knitted sweater he loved that felt incredibly soft all through the winter season. He desired to move, but his gaze drove the force of his feet as it remained on you. Enamoured. Steve had so many questions. Tonight was either an incredibly vivid dream, or the secrets of beyond our world weren’t done with him yet. Regardless, he still released a small sigh, pushing the migraine-creating questions to the side to focus primarily on helping you first. Starting with those damn comfy pants and soft sweater of his.
A long drag of air was inhaled as your eyelids flew open, the gasp deep as if you hadn’t breathed in air for a long time. It ignited your senses and made you hyper-sensitive to your surroundings. You managed to focus on a cream coloured ceiling, offset to a much softer pale orange by a nearby light source that you haven’t located as of yet. For a moment all you could do was blink and listen to the small chirping of crickets outside, their sound ricketing from a window to your right. Your eyes shifted to the side to see a dark coloured cushion staring back at you, the same padding curling underneath your body as you lay upon it. It was comfortable. Your other side captured a furnished setting baked in the shadows of nightfall, the light that you now see from the foyer, not able to reach toward that side of the room. You could still tell that it looked unlived in, to an extent, seats that weren’t used as often anymore, and a table that was nearly forgotten. Their tidiness was too pristine.
It only took a few seconds for you to remember the dream you had, or what you would now see it as, a desired prophecy for your purpose. A broken soul, belonging to a broken boy. Steve.
You gasped again as you sat up fast, ignoring the slower adjustment that your eyes made to being upright and conscious. Legs swung over the side of the couch, wobbling when you stood on them. You weren’t used to walking and it took a moment for you to gain your land legs without wanting to topple over. The first step forward was successful enough but the long material that embraced you was too heavy to make it easy, a frustrated huff pushing past your lips as you reached to your shoulders. Fingers flexed before you pushed it from you, backward and away, the heap making a thumping sound against the carpeted floor. And finally you could breathe without the feeling of suffocation.
The air was chilly and you shivered, shaking as the hairs on your arms stood up, nerves pinching goosebumps across exposed skin. It was then that you felt it properly. The raw sensation. A sting as if tiny pin pricks were pressed into your shoulder blades. It forced your brows to knit in a disquieted manner, and your nose to scrunch up. You could see the light reflecting off a mirrored surface in the foyer like a beacon - calling you over. With steadier steps, you walked toward it, leaving what was your cloak now draped across the living room floor.
You nearly jumped as you saw your reflection. You didn’t remember too much, but how you looked was definitely not one of them. Your mirror-image showed youth, and it tugged roughly in your chest and just what that really meant. But that was something you could deal with later; now, you needed to force yourself to turn around and face reality, to see what was in the mirror. You gulped in preparation.
Your body rotated. Agonisingly slow. A snail's pace compared to how fast your eyes teared up at the two thick, raw lines that now scarred your back. A hand was thrown over your mouth to hold back your shock as eyes flittered over the torn skin just below your shoulder blades, diagonal strokes that once held glorious bouquets of feathers. Beautiful, ivory-toned feathers. Large expanses that you could once feel as they stretched, beating proudly. Now, reduced to stolen memories and sacrifices.
The clash was what you heard first, your stare looking toward the background of the reflection and zeroing in on Steve as he fell against the staircase railing in surprise. The clothes that were only just held in his hands were now scattered on the floor, and his eyes, those milk chocolate swirls, were glued to the image of your back. He tried to speak, jaw dropping and closing simultaneously, before murmuring a hardly audible, “What the fuck?”
Steadily, you spun to face him, a cross between shock and fascination etching deep into his facial features. He was frozen, for the tenth time tonight at least, until you got closer. Now a foot or two standing before him. It felt magnetised when his eyes looked into yours, and nearly immediate when they softened. Properly softened. Steve swallowed back the lump that was preventing him from speaking, his head delicate as it shook in confusion, voice still quiet but more gentle than frightened.
“Who are you?”
Why am I not afraid? It was what he was truly thinking. And you just smiled. Properly smiled. Forgetting your physical loss the moment you saw the boy you were here for.
“I’m your Guardian Angel, Steve Harrington. And I’m here to save you.”
HI GUYS, HELLO! This is it! The beginning! If you like it, I will definitely be up to writing another part, or more, we'll see! But i really truly hope you like this guardian!angel, soulmate, angsty fluffy lovey, steve harrington fic!
also, just a reminder: don't forget to reblog/like from the original source! your op deserves it!
— steve harrington is only scared of two things: clowns and chief hopper’s gun. unfortunately he is also deeply, hopelessly in love with you, hopper’s daughter and convinced he isn’t good enough for you. when he turns you down to 'do the right thing,' you end up heartbroken but after one rainy confession later you both realize the obvious: you were idiots in love the whole time.
🚛 9.1k — steve harrington x fem!hopper!reader, so much narration it's crazy ( but also if you've been here for some time you'd know how much i love narrations ), fluff, erica and dustin being the ultimate life savers, mutual pining but they share one brain cell, yearning steve harrington, steve “i’m not good enough for her” harrington, hopper being overprotective, reader with a very obvious crush, awkward rejection at family video, rain confession trope, kissing fixes everything, friends to lovers, star wars references ( from someone who has never watched it ) because steve cannot help himself
author's note — the result of me being bored of studying economics and procastinating successfully. hope it still makes you cry when i fail the exam. enjoy <3
masterlist : navigation
gif by @acecroft | divider by @/lavendergalactic
Steve Harrington had only been scared of two things his whole life: clowns, and Chief Hopper’s gun.
The clown thing was ridiculous and he knew it. He had known it since he was eight years old and had cried at a birthday party because a man in a red polka-dot suit made a balloon dog and then smiled at him with too many teeth.
It was embarrassing, deeply uncool, and very much the kind of secret that could destroy what little remained of his reputation if it ever got out.
Still, that fear was manageable. Steve could work around clowns. He could avoid circuses, look away from creepy posters, and pretend those terrifying red noses were part of some joke he simply did not get.
Hopper’s gun, on the other hand, was not something he could avoid so easily. Mostly because it was real, loaded with bullete, and always, always being cleaned in Steve’s general direction whenever he came over to your house.
It did not help that Hopper made a whole performance out of it.
Every single time Steve came over, Hopper was suddenly sitting in the living room cleaning the gun. He would take it apart, put it back together, check it, wipe it down, and then look up just long enough to pin Steve with a stare that said, you know what this means.
Steve, for a fact, did not know what that meant, except if it meant him dying by it, then he was pretty sure he knew what it meant.
But you had reassured Steve at least a hundred times that your dad was not actually going to use it. Still, Steve had his concerns. Very valid ones, in his opinion. Because there was intimidating, and then there was Jim Hopper leaning back on the couch with a firearm in his lap while Steve sat on the opposite end trying to keep a respectable three inches between himself and you like that tiny gap was the only thing preserving his life.
The rule, oh god, the rule itself was torture. If Steve’s hand got too close to yours, Hopper cleared his throat. If Steve leaned in to hear you better, Hopper shifted in his seat. If your knee brushed Steve’s for half a second, Steve could actually feel Hopper’s glare hit the side of his face like heat from the sun.
It was not like you didn’t try to defend his honour. You did, every time. You would roll your eyes and tell your dad he was being overprotective, that Steve was nice, that Steve had literally helped save the world more than once, which should have earned him at least a little trust and maybe the right to sit next to his friend without being treated like a criminal.
But Hopper was persistent in the way only fathers of daughters could be, especially daughters they loved enough to terrify teenage boys over. He would grunt, mumble something about manners and boundaries, and continue staring Steve down like he was waiting for him to do one wrong thing.
Steve, for his part, tried very hard to never do the wrong thing. He was so polite at your house it was actually pathetic. He sat up straight, said sir more than he had ever said it in his life, and once thanked Hopper for passing the salt which very clearly was pepper. And the worst part was that none of it helped.
Still, Steve kept coming over.
Because of you.
Because you were, very simply, the most amazing person Steve had ever met. Ever seen, ever heard about, ever talked with, ever laughed with, ever cried with, ever fought monsters beside, ever bled beside, ever stumbled out of the end of the world beside.
You made Steve feel seen in a way that still startled him sometimes. Like you had looked past all the old versions of him, the ones he was embarrassed by and the ones he still did not fully know what to do with, and decided he was worth keeping anyway. It was a terrifying thing, being cared for by you. Not bad terrifying, not Hopper’s-gun terrifying, but the kind that made his chest ache because he wanted to be worthy of it all the time.
Steve, for his part, liked to think of what he felt for you as admiration. Friendly admiration.
The kind a person might feel for someone they happened to enjoy spending every possible second with, someone whose voice he could pick out in a crowded room without trying, someone whose bad moods he could sense before you even said a word.
It was probably just admiration that made him remember every little thing you told him, like how you hated orange candy but liked orange juice.
It was definitely just admiration that made his chest go warm and oddly tight whenever you smiled at him. And if he thought you were the bravest girl he had ever known, if he found himself wanting to make you laugh even when he was exhausted, if every near-death experience only seemed to increase the thought that being near you mattered more than he knew how to explain, well, that was probably still friendly.
Steve was pretty sure. At least, he was sure enough to keep telling himself that, because the alternative felt a little too big to look at directly.
A hand suddenly snapped in front of Steve’s face, dragging him clean out of the mess of his own thoughts.
“Steve. Hey, Steve. Earth to Steven.”
He blinked hard, like he had just been caught doing something illegal, and turned to find you standing there with your eyebrows raised and your mouth twitching like you were trying not to laugh. “Huh? Hey. What?”
You tilted your head at him, amused in that easy way that always made him feel both warm and deeply ridiculous. “I need to go somewhere. It will only take half an hour. Do you want to stay here, or are you going home?”
Steve glanced automatically toward the living room and narrowed his eyes a little. “If I say stay, is your dad going to kill me?”
You huffed out a laugh. “No, I don't think so. And besides, he is not here today.”
And just like that, the relief on Steve’s face was almost embarrassing. His shoulders dropped, his whole expression loosened, and a smile came over him. “Oh. Okay. Then yeah, I can wait here.”
Your eyes brightened at once, pleased in a way that made something in Steve’s chest do a stupid little flip. You grinned at him, quick and pretty and impossible not to stare at. “Okay. I promise I will come quick. Also, Jane may come in between from school, but I think she will leave for Max’s immediately after. Could you just make sure she has her lunch first?”
Steve nodded without hesitation. “All right.”
You smiled even wider. “Thanks. I will be back. Watch a tape in the meantime?”
He gave you a small nod, still looking at you with a loopy smile. “Yeah. Sure.”
Steve had been sitting there for a while, half-watching Star Wars and half-thinking about you (in a friendly way, of course), which was lately how most of his afternoons went.
Then he heard the clicking at the door.
He barely looked up at first, just assumed it was Jane coming in from school. So he kept watching the tape, eyes still on the screen, waiting for the door to open fully. But when it did, the light from outside was mostly blocked all at once, swallowed by a figure much bigger than Jane had any business being, and Steve knew immediately that it was definitely not her.
For one brief, insane second, he secretly hoped it was a demogorgon.
At least with a demogorgon, he knew where he stood.
But the universe was clearly not on his side, because when he turned, it was Hopper.
Steve swallowed so fast it almost hurt and lunged for the remote, pausing the tape just as Hopper stepped inside and shut the door behind him. Hopper’s eyes landed on Steve in that exact way they always did, like he had come home and found a raccoon in his kitchen trying to act natural. He stared for one long second before grunting, “Where are my daughters?”
Steve opened his mouth. “Out.”
The second the word left him, he knew it was the wrong answer. Too vague. Too much like something a guilty man would say right before being buried in a shallow grave. He corrected himself so quickly he almost tripped over the words. “I mean, Jane is at school. Or at Max’s. And, uh, Y/N is out for some work.”
Hopper narrowed his eyes. “What kind of work?”
“I did not ask,” Steve said, trying for honesty and landing somewhere closer to panic.
Hopper kept looking at him for another second, then walked farther into the room. Steve followed every movement.
Hopper came over and sat down on the seat adjacent to the couch, close enough that Steve could smell cigarettes and general parental disapproval.
Steve stood up on instinct almost immediately, because that seemed like the safest thing to do, maybe the smartest, maybe the thing most likely to save his life expectancy.
Hopper looked up at him. “Sit down.”
Steve froze. “What?”
“I said sit down. I want to talk.”
“Cool,” Steve said, nodding too much, as he sat down and looked around. “Cool, cool. Uh, so. Crime, huh? Terrible.”
Hopper did not blink. “I want to talk about my daughter.”
Steve nodded immediately. “Oh, yes. Jane is a lovely girl. Very. . .” He faltered for a second under Hopper’s stare. “Sweet?”
Hopper’s face did not change. “My other daughter.”
Steve’s stomach dropped. “Y/N?” he said, then attempted a smile that came out strained and weird. “Oh, yeah. Y/N is amazing too. Really smart.”
Hopper leaned back slightly, still watching him with that unreadable expression that made Steve feel like he was being measured for a coffin. “There’s the problem.”
Steve stared. “Her being smart?”
“You.”
Steve went quiet, which for him in a bad situation was saying something. Hopper rested his forearms on his knees and looked straight ahead for a moment before speaking again.
“I don’t like you,” he said.
Steve let out one awkward breath. “Yeah, no, I got that.”
“I don’t like you around her. I don’t like how much time you spend here. I don’t like the way she looks at you.”
Steve’s hands tightened together. He looked down at them, then back up, then down again, unsure where it was safest to look. “We are just hanging out. As friends.” He added the last part quickly although he didn't believe it enough himself.
Hopper let out a humorless little sound. “That supposed to make me feel better?”
Steve did not answer, mostly because he had the strong feeling there was not a single correct answer available to him.
For a moment Hopper said nothing. Then, he continued, “You know why I don’t like it?”
Steve swallowed. “Because you think I am a bad influence?”
“No.” Hopper’s eyes moved to him. “Because I think you and me are too similar.”
That, somehow, was not what Steve had expected, and the confusion must have shown on his face because Hopper kept going.
“You walk around like you are trying real hard to be useful,” he said. “Like if you keep helping, keep showing up, keep making yourself necessary, nobody will notice all the things wrong with you. You act like a kid who already decided what kind of man he is and does not think much of the answer.”
Steve opened his mouth and then shut it again.
Hopper looked away for a second, jaw working. “And I know that look because I know what it feels like. Thinking you care about somebody enough should be enough. Thinking maybe if you want to do better bad enough, that counts for something. Sometimes it does. Sometimes it doesn’t.”
Steve’s throat felt dry. “I care about her. . .”
“I know,” Hopper said. “That’s not what worries me.”
Steve frowned a little. “Then what does?”
“Because I'm not good enough for my little girl,” he said. “And if you’re anything like me, then you’re not good enough for my little girl either.”
The words hit hard enough that Steve actually felt his chest go tight. Like he had reached down into the very worst place inside Steve and pulled out the thing Steve already feared most.
Steve laughed once under his breath, except there was nothing funny in it. “Yeah,” he said. “Okay.”
Hopper looked at him then, maybe expecting an argument, maybe expecting Steve to push back, to insist he was better than that.
Steve did not. Because the awful part was, he did not really know how to.
He thought about you laughing with him, trusting him, calling him when things went wrong, smiling like he belonged in your life, and all at once that felt less like something lucky and more like something temporary. Like maybe Hopper was just the first person cruel enough to say out loud what Steve should have figured out sooner.
“I am trying,” Steve said after a long moment. “I mean, I know I screw things up sometimes, but I am trying.”
Hopper shrugged. “Trying is a start.”
That was not comfort. That was barely even mercy.
Steve looked down at the paused television screen, at his own faint reflection in it, warped. “She should get somebody better than me,” he thought to himself.
The front door opened.
Both of them looked up at once just as Jane stepped inside, backpack slung over one shoulder.
“Hello,” she said.
By the time you got back, the first thing you noticed was Steve’s car was gone.
You slowed in the driveway, frowning as you looked at the empty spot where it had been parked earlier, a small, confused crease forming between your brows.
For a second you just stood there with your keys in hand, staring at nothing, like maybe if you looked long enough the car would magically reappear and Steve would climb out with one of his sheepish smiles and some rambling explanation that would somehow make perfect sense because it was him. But the driveway stayed empty, and that strange little disappointment settled heavier in your chest than it probably should have.
When you stepped inside, you could smell the dinner, and the sound of conversation from the kitchen.
You slipped your shoes off and headed in, only to stop slightly when you saw your dad already there with Jane.
You looked at Hopper. “Hey. Uh, Dad, you’re early.”
Hopper just nodded once. “Come sit for dinner.”
You glanced between him and Jane, still half-thinking Steve might somehow appear from another room, but when he did not, you pulled out a chair and sat down. “Right.”
For a minute, you tried to ignore the odd feeling curling in your stomach. Then you leaned a little toward Jane and lowered your voice. “Hey, where’s Steve?”
Jane looked at you, then flicked her eyes over your shoulder in a quick glance toward Hopper before answering. “He left ten minutes ago.”
Your face fell before you could stop it. “Oh.”
It came out smaller than you meant it to. You sat back in your chair after that, quieting down a little, your earlier ease gone fuzzy around the edges.
It was not like Steve had to wait around forever for you, obviously. He had his own life. You knew that. Still, he could have stayed. Or at least left a note. Or told Jane something more than that. The whole thing sat strangely with you, like a sentence missing its last word.
Later, shut inside your room with the door closed, you called him.
The phone rang just long enough for you to start thinking maybe he would not pick up, and then there was the familiar click of the line connecting. “Hey,” you said at once, tucking one leg under you on the bed. “You left.”
There was a pause.
Then Steve said, “Yeah. Uh, Henderson called me with code red.”
You furrowed your brows immediately. That made no sense. You had literally been with Dustin earlier because he had forgotten something at home and needed it at school, and he had seemed perfectly fine. Nothing about him had said emergency.
Still, all you said was, “Oh.”
The word sat there between you, uncertain.
You stared at the wall across from your bed, turning the phone cord around your finger. You wondered, not for the first time, why Steve was lying to you. Because he was. You knew he was.
But you pushed the thought aside, deciding for the moment not to make something out of what might be nothing. Maybe there was a reason. Maybe he had just had one of those weird Steve moments where his brain tripped over itself and produced nonsense.
You took a small breath, already getting ready to ask him about the movie, already knowing the answer was probably Star Wars because Steve’s devotion to those tapes bordered on religious, but before you could say anything else, he cut in.
“Can we talk later?” Steve said quickly. “I need to go somewhere.”
You blinked. “Oh. Uh.”
The disappointment hit sharper this time, quick and stupid and annoyingly difficult to hide, but you swallowed it down anyway. “Okay.”
And before you could say bye, or even soften it with a laugh or ask one more question or make sense of the strange distance in his voice, the line clicked dead.
Your bye stayed there, useless, hanging.
The next day, you told yourself Steve had probably just been tired.
That was the easiest explanation, and the one that annoyed you the least, so you held onto it all the way to Family Video.
By the time you pushed open the door and stepped inside, you had managed to convince yourself that everything was normal, that you were not thinking too hard about the awkward phone call, and that Steve would take one look at you and immediately go back to being his usual sweet, slightly frazzled self.
Robin looked up from behind the counter when the bell above the door jingled. “Hey.”
You smiled and wandered over. “Hey.”
She leaned her elbows on the counter and gave you a look that was far too knowing for ten seconds into a conversation. “You here to see Steve?”
You widened your eyes in fake innocence. “I could be here to see you too.”
Robin raised one brow.
You lasted about half a second. “Yeah, I’m here to see Steve.”
“Thought so,” she said, not even pretending to be surprised. Then she jerked her thumb toward the back. “He’s in the back. You could wait here for some time.”
You nodded. “Okay.”
So you stayed there at the counter, trying very hard to look casual and very obviously failing, because every few seconds your eyes drifted toward the back room like maybe Steve would appear if you stared hard enough.
Robin noticed, of course. Robin noticed everything, which was one of the many reasons she was so deeply annoying.
“You know,” she said after a moment, “you’re not really subtle with your whole crush thing.”
Your head snapped toward her so fast it was a miracle your neck survived. “What crush thing?”
Robin looked at you like you were the dumbest person she had met all week, and she worked with Steve, so that was saying something. “The whole you having a crush on dingus thing.”
You let out an offended laugh that was entirely too loud. “I do not have a crush on Steve. Pfft. You’re delirious, Robin.”
She said nothing and kept looking at you with that patient, unbearable expression of someone waiting for you to finish lying to yourself in public. You crossed your arms, then uncrossed them, then sighed.
“Fine,” you muttered. “Ugh. I have a crush on Steve. Is that what you want to hear?”
Robin’s face lit up in immediate satisfaction. “Totally.”
You groaned, but now that it was out there, the words just kept coming, all tripping over each other in one giant embarrassing rush.
“I mean, it’s not like I planned it, okay? It just happened. He’s just. . .” You exhaled and glanced away, suddenly very interested in the tapes behind the counter.
“He’s Steve. He’s sweet, and stupidly brave, and always there when it matters, and he does this thing where he acts like he’s joking even when he’s being really sincere, and I know people think he’s all hair and idiot energy, but he’s not. Well, he is, a little, but he’s also so good. Like actually good.” Your voice softened without your permission. “And he cares so much. About everyone. About the kids. About me.” A dreamy sigh escaped you before you could stop it. “He just makes everything feel easier.”
Robin stared at you for a long second. “And you see all that in Steve Harrington?”
You frowned at her. “Yeah.”
She made a face. “Disgusting.”
You rolled your eyes, but you were still smiling a little despite yourself.
Then Robin’s gaze shifted past you, toward the back, and her expression changed into one of immediate delight at the chance to make things weird. “Anyways,” she said, “looks like he’s free.”
You turned and there was Steve, stepping out from the back.
You did not even think about it before you started walking toward him.
“Hey, Steven.”
For a second, you thought you imagined it. Hoped you imagined it, really. Because the moment he heard your voice, Steve tensed. Just for a second. A tiny thing most people probably would not notice. But you noticed. Your steps faltered slightly, that strange feeling from yesterday creeping back up your spine.
Steve turned to you, and the tension smoothed out so quickly you almost convinced yourself it had never been there.
“You’re here,” he said.
You nodded, smiling the way you always did when you saw him. “Yes. I wanted to see you.”
Steve blinked once. “Why?”
The question landed strangely, like a step where the ground was not quite where you expected it to be. Your smile stayed in place, but you suddenly felt awkward, unsure what exactly had happened between yesterday and today.
“Do I need a reason?” you asked lightly.
“No,” Steve said quickly. “No, of course not.”
The awkwardness eased immediately hearing his normal response, and you felt your shoulders relax again. That was the Steve you knew. The one who would never make you feel weird for showing up.
Then he added, a little too quickly, “I was just busy today. Rush hour, you know.”
You glanced around the store.
There were maybe five customers total, and two of them were arguing near the Holiday movie section.
You looked back at him. “Five is a rush for you?”
Steve paused. “. . . Yes?”
You tilted your head, concerned now. “Steve, is something wrong? Did I do something?”
His face softened instantly. “No. Of course not. You are perfect.”
The words came out so fast they almost tripped over each other.
You felt heat rush to your face before you could stop it, and you looked away quickly, trying very hard not to blush like an idiot in the middle of Family Video.
Unfortunately, Steve noticed.
Which made him immediately start stammering. “I uh well, I just—” He grabbed a stack of tapes beside him like they had personally called for help. “I just need to organize these tapes.”
You pointed at them. “I could help.”
Steve blinked. “Uhhh. . . okay.”
So the two of you ended up in the back room, standing side by side with shelves of tapes between you and the rest of the store.
At first the conversation was normal. Mostly. You talked about school, about Dustin complaining about science homework, about how Steve had apparently rewatched Star Wars again the night before because he was physically incapable of not doing that at least once a week. For a few minutes it almost felt like everything was back to normal.
But the strange tension never really left.
It hovered there, uncomfortable, like a conversation waiting to happen.
Eventually you took a breath. “Hey, Steve?”
“Yeah?”
You kept your eyes on the tapes in your hands. “Do you maybe want to go out sometime?”
Steve stopped moving.
You continued quickly, words tumbling out before your courage could disappear. “Like a date. Nothing big. We could just get milkshakes or something, or watch a movie that is not Star Wars for once, which I know is a big ask—”
Steve did not say anything.
The silence stretched.
Your stomach twisted.
Suddenly you were not sure why you thought this was a good idea. Or why you thought the signs had meant what you thought they meant. Maybe you had just imagined it all. Maybe you had read too much into the way he smiled at you, the way he always showed up when you needed him, the way he said your name in that soft manner.
You let out a small, nervous laugh. “Or not. I mean, that’s fine too, I just thought—”
“No.”
You looked up.
Steve’s eyes were fixed on the shelf in front of him.
“No?” you repeated quietly.
He swallowed. “We can’t.”
Your fingers tightened around the tape case in your hand. “Why?”
Steve finally looked at you then, and something in his expression made your chest drop. “It’s just. . . a bad idea,” he said. “Us dating.”
“Oh.”
The word felt small leaving your mouth.
Steve looked miserable. “We shouldn’t be more than friends.”
The embarrassment came all at once. You laughed a little under your breath, even though you could already feel your eyes starting to sting.
“Right,” you said quickly. “Of course. That makes sense. Totally makes sense.”
You cleared your throat, trying to blink away the stupid tears that were threatening to show up at the worst possible time.
Steve shifted awkwardly. “We can still be friends?”
Even he grimaced a little when he said it.
You forced a smile. “Actually, I think I’m going to need some space,” you admitted.
Steve took a step toward you immediately. “Hey—”
“No, it’s alright,” you said quickly, waving him off before he could say anything comforting that might make you cry for real. “I just feel a bit silly, that’s all.” You attempted another small smile. “Don’t worry. I’ll get back to normal and we can go back to being. . . friends.”
The word caught slightly in your throat.
You looked down at the tape still in your hands before setting it on the shelf. “I just. . . I need to go.”
And before he could stop you, before he could say anything else that might make it harder to leave, you turned and walked out of the back room.
You rushed past the counter.
Robin looked up instantly. “What did you two finally—”
She stopped mid-sentence when you hurried past her, wiping quickly at the tears on your cheeks.
Robin’s expression immediately shifted to concern and she slowly turned her head toward the backroom.
Steve was standing there just inside the doorway, his head in his hands and Robin sighed at the sight.
“Oh, Harrington, what did you do?”
By the time Nancy came over, you had already cried enough to make your head feel heavy and your eyes sore, but the second you saw her standing in your doorway with two tubs of ice cream and that calm look on her face, it all came rushing back again like you had just opened the floodgates.
Now you were sitting cross-legged on your bed with the blanket tangled around your legs, clutching a spoon like it was the only thing keeping you tethered to reality while Nancy sat across from you with the other tub of ice cream resting in her lap.
“I just feel so stupid,” you said for what had to be the twentieth time, your voice thick as you scooped another bite you barely tasted. “Like actually stupid. It's not even the cute kind of stupid where I can laugh about it later. It's just. . . painfully, humiliatingly stupid.”
Nancy took another spoonful of ice cream, watching you.
“I mean,” you continued miserably, waving your spoon around, “who does that? Who just assumes someone likes them back without actually asking first? Me. Apparently. Because clearly I just decided to invent an entire romance in my head like some delusional idiot.”
“You’re not an idiot,” Nancy said.
“Yes, I am,” you sniffed immediately. “I asked him out. Out loud. With actual words. And he just said no.”
Nancy winced a little in sympathy but let you keep going.
“Like immediately. Just no. Like it was obvious that it was a terrible idea.”
Nancy leaned back against your headboard, passing you another napkin. “Boys are idiots.”
You nodded emphatically, your voice breaking. “Boys are idiots.”
You took another shaky breath and stared down into the melting ice cream. “But he was my idiot,” you said weakly.
That was apparently the breaking point because suddenly your face crumpled and you leaned sideways until your head dropped into Nancy’s lap, clutching the ice cream tub as you started crying again.
Nancy immediately set her spoon aside and started absentmindedly running her fingers through your hair in soothing motions.
“I just feel so embarrassed,” you groaned into her sweater. “Like what if he tells everyone? What if Dustin finds out? Oh my god, Dustin is absolutely going to find out. He’s going to tell Mike and then Lucas and then they’re all going to look at me like I’m some pathetic lovesick idiot who can’t take a hint.”
“He won’t tell them,” Nancy said.
“You don’t know that,” you mumbled miserably. “He might. He might accidentally say something to Robin and then she’ll accidentally say something to someone else and suddenly the entire town knows that I asked Steve Harrington out and he rejected me in the back room of Family Video next to the horror tapes.”
Nancy huffed a laugh despite herself. “It sounds excessive.”
“But it could happen,” you said.
You sniffed loudly and wiped at your face again before continuing.
“And the worst part is that I really thought he liked me,” you said, your voice softening into something more wounded now. “Like actually liked me. I mean he’s always there, you know? And he remembers things I say and he always sits close to me and he smiles at me like. . .” You trailed off, your throat tightening again. “Like I mattered.”
“You do matter,” Nancy said immediately.
“I know,” you said weakly. “But apparently not in the way I thought.”
Nancy sighed softly but kept smoothing your hair.
“And now I feel like every moment I thought meant something was probably just him being nice,” you continued miserably. “Like maybe he was just being friendly this whole time and I turned it into this huge thing in my head and now he probably thinks I’m insane,” you groaned.
Nancy paused. “You just asked him on a date.”
“And got rejected,” you muttered.
There was a quiet moment while you both abe more ice cream and then another thought hit you.
“And he lied to me,” you said suddenly, lifting your head slightly from Nancy’s lap.
Nancy looked down at you. “What?”
“He lied yesterday,” you said, frowning as the pieces rearranged themselves in your mind. “When I called him. He said Dustin called him with some code red emergency.”
Nancy raised an eyebrow.
“But I had literally been with Dustin earlier that day,” you continued, sitting up now, your frustration rising again. “He just forgot something at home and needed it for school. There was no emergency. Nothing was wrong.”
Nancy frowned thoughtfully.
“So he just made something up,” you said slowly, realization dawning in a way that made your chest hurt all over again. “Which means he probably didn’t actually want to stay. Which means he probably left my house on purpose.”
You swallowed hard.
“And I should’ve known,” you whispered miserably. “That should’ve been the sign.”
Nancy reached over and squeezed your hand.
“I mean think about it,” you said, your voice cracking again. “He left early, he lied about it, and then today he basically panicked the second I showed up. I just didn’t want to see it because I liked him too much.”
Nancy squeezed your hand again, her thumb brushing over your knuckles.
“You know,” she said, “we could go out tomorrow. Just the two of us. Get dinner somewhere. Somewhere far away from Family Video and idiotic boys.”
You let out a weak laugh, even though your eyes were still wet. “That’s really sweet, Nance.”
Your voice wobbled halfway through the sentence and suddenly the tears were threatening again, welling up despite your best efforts to keep them contained. You sniffed hard and pressed the heel of your hand against your eyes, shaking your head like you could physically shove the embarrassment away.
“I just can’t believe I asked him out,” you muttered miserably. “I feel like I should move to another country. Or at least another state.”
Nancy opened her mouth to say something else, but the door to your room creaked open slowly before she could.
You immediately buried your face back into her lap as Nancy looked up toward the door. “Hey.”
Jane’s head slowly poked into the room, her expression curious and slightly concerned as she looked between the two of you. “I heard crying.”
You groaned quietly into Nancy’s sweater.
“Why is she crying?” Jane asked.
Nancy glanced down at you before answering, but you spoke first.
“Steve rejected me,” you said miserably, your voice muffled.
Jane blinked. “Oh.”
There was a small pause as she processed that.
Then she turned to Nancy with complete seriousness. “What does that mean?”
You lifted your head just enough to glare weakly toward the doorway, your eyes still red and puffy. “It means he dumped my ass but we weren’t even dating.”
Jane stepped further into the room, clearly trying to piece together the logic of that statement and not having much success after the 'dumped my ass' part which she had learnt from Max.
Nancy gave a small shrug and then patted your shoulder. “She’ll be fine.”
You sniffed loudly.
Nancy turned back to Jane and lifted the ice cream tub slightly. “You want some ice cream?”
Jane’s face immediately brightened, and she opened her mouth to say yes but you suddenly peeked your head up from Nancy’s lap just enough to cut in. “She can’t,” you said hoarsely. “She’s having a cold.”
Jane narrowed her eyes at you instantly. “Buzzkill.”
Nancy blinked. “Did Dustin teach you that word?”
Jane smiled proudly and nodded.
You groaned and dropped your forehead back against Nancy’s leg. “He is a terrible influence on her.”
Nancy glanced between the two of you and smirked slightly. “I don’t know. They look cute.”
Jane’s smile widened at that.
You lifted your head again slowly, squinting at Nancy in disbelief through your tear-streaked face. “Oh my God.”
Nancy raised an eyebrow. “What?”
You stared at Jane like you had just noticed something deeply disturbing about the universe.
“Oh God,” you said weakly.
Nancy frowned. “What?”
You gestured vaguely between Jane and the doorway, your voice cracking again in fresh disbelief. “I just realized my little sister is in a relationship. And I’m not.”
Steve was not doing any better.
He was sitting at Dustin’s desk, elbows planted on either side of a half-finished science project involving wires, cardboard, and something that looked mildly capable of exploding if handled incorrectly.
Dustin had been talking for at least ten minutes straight about voltage and signal amplification and something about how if they adjusted the coil just right it could pick up radio chatter from three blocks over.
Steve had not heard a single word.
He was staring at the same screw on the table. Every few seconds he would pick it up, rotate it between his fingers, then put it back down again like his brain had temporarily lost the ability to perform any more complex function.
Dustin finally stopped mid-sentence and leaned back in his chair and squinted at Steve. “Okay,” he said slowly, dragging the word out. “You have not been listening to a thing I’ve said for the last ten minutes.”
Steve blinked like he had just returned from another dimension. “What?”
“Exactly,” Dustin said, throwing his hands in the air. “What is wrong with you?”
Steve rubbed a hand over his face. “Nothing.”
Dustin stared at him. “Steve.”
“I’m fine.”
Dustin stared harder.
“It’s Y/N,” Steve muttered.
Dustin immediately leaned forward. “Oh, what happened?”
Steve dropped his head back against the chair. “She asked me out.”
“Wait,” Dustin said slowly. “Wait, wait, wait. Y/N asked you out?”
“Yeah.”
“And you look like this because. . . ?”
Steve stared at him. “I said no.”
There was a long, stunned silence, then Dustin slapped both hands on the table. “You what?!”
Steve winced. “Keep your voice down.”
“Why would you say no?” Dustin demanded, his voice climbing an entire octave anyway. “That is literally the opposite of the correct answer!”
Steve rubbed his temples. “It’s complicated.”
“It is not complicated!” Dustin said incredulously. “She’s amazing, you like her, she likes you back, that is what we call a win!”
Steve shook his head, his expression tightening again as the memory of Hopper’s voice crept back into his head. “It’s not that simple.”
Dustin crossed his arms. “Explain.”
Steve hesitated for a long moment before speaking again. “Hopper talked to me.”
Dustin made a face immediately. “Oh great. The chief himself.”
Steve let out a quiet breath. “He told me he doesn’t like me around her.”
“Well that’s obvious,” Dustin said. “He doesn’t like anyone around her.”
Steve shook his head again. “That’s not what he meant.” He leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on his knees as he stared down at the floor. “He said we’re too similar,” Steve said quietly. “That he knows what kind of guy I am because he’s the same kind of guy.”
Dustin frowned.
Steve shrugged weakly, but there was no humor in it.
“He said he wasn’t good enough for his daughter,” Steve continued. “And that if I’m anything like him, then I’m not good enough for her either. And the worst part is I kind of get what he meant,” he said. “I mean. . . look at me, man.”
Dustin frowned immediately.
Steve leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped together like he was trying to physically hold his thoughts in place before they ran off in ten different directions.
“I screw things up,” he said. “All the time. I mean, yeah, I try to help, I try to do the right thing now, but you remember how I used to be. Everyone remembers. Half the town probably still thinks I’m the same idiot who peaked in high school and can’t figure out what to do with the rest of his life.”
Dustin opened his mouth to protest, but Steve kept going. “And she’s. . . ” Steve exhaled. “She’s Y/N.”
He said your name like it meant something big, something impossible to explain in one sentence.
“She’s smart and brave and she actually knows where she’s going in life,” Steve said. “She walks into a room and people listen to her. She stands up to Hopper like it’s nothing. She makes everyone around her feel like things are going to be okay.”
He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck.
“And me?” he muttered. “I work at a video store and accidentally adopt children who get chased by monsters.”
Steve shook his head. “That’s not the point. The point is she deserves someone who doesn’t. . . mess things up.”
Dustin leaned forward, staring at him, frustrated. “So your solution,” he said, “was to break her heart before you had the chance to?”
Steve winced. “I didn’t break her heart,” he muttered weakly.
Dustin stared at him in disbelief. “Steve.”
Steve groaned, dropping his face into his hands. “Okay maybe a little.”
“A little?” Dustin said. “She literally asked you out and you rejected her.”
Steve peeked through his fingers. “I was trying to protect her.”
Dustin threw his arms up. “From what? Happiness?”
Steve rubbed his face again, looking completely exhausted now. “From me,” he said.
Dustin leaned forward again, squinting at Steve with the same expression he usually reserved for explaining extremely basic concepts to Lucas.
“Okay,” he said. “I’m going to explain something to you very slowly.”
Steve sighed. “Great.”
“You are being,” Dustin continued, pointing at him for emphasis, “an idiot.”
Steve didn’t even argue.
Dustin leaned back in his chair, folding his arms. “When Hopper tried to intimidate me,” he said, “I shrugged him off.”
Steve blinked. “You what?”
Dustin nodded proudly. “Yeah. He did the whole ‘I’m a scary dad with a gun’ thing and I just kept dating Jane.”
Steve stared at him. “You’re insane.”
“And guess what happened?” Dustin said.
Steve sighed. “What?”
“He gave up,” Dustin said simply. “Because that’s what Hopper does. He acts scary and protective and eventually realizes he can’t control everything.”
Steve frowned.
Dustin leaned forward again, lowering his voice slightly. “Also, you realize Y/N isn’t Hopper, right?” he said. “She gets to decide who she likes. And she likes you,” he contined. “You like her. The only person ruining this situation right now is you.”
Steve slumped back in his chair.
For a moment he just stared at the ceiling, letting Dustin’s words bounce around in his head along with Hopper’s and your tearful voice and the look on your face when he’d said no.
“I think I really screwed this up,” he muttered.
Dustin nodded. “Oh, absolutely.”
Steve dropped his head back down. “Great.”
“But,” Dustin added quickly, leaning forward with a spark of determination in his eyes, “that doesn’t mean it’s over.”
Steve looked at him warily.
Dustin grinned slowly. “We just need a plan.”
Steve frowned. “A plan?”
“Yeah,” Dustin said, already getting excited. “And I know just the someone who’s great at them.”
Steve should have been suspicious the moment Dustin said that sentence with that much confidence. There were only a handful of people Dustin trusted to solve complicated situations, and somehow every single one of them was either a genius, terrifying, or both.
Which was how Steve found himself half an hour later sitting stiffly on the Sinclair family couch while Erica Sinclair leaned back like a queen being forced to listen to the complaints of particularly stupid peasants.
The moment Steve finished explaining the situation, Erica slowly dragged a hand down her face and sighed the way someone did when their patience had been tested far beyond reasonable limits.
“Oh my God,” she said flatly. “You’re an idiot, you absolute dingbat.”
Steve turned toward Dustin who gave him a small nod that clearly translated to see, I told you.
Steve looked back at Erica. “That was unnecessarily aggressive.”
Erica crossed her arms and stared at him. “No,” she said. “Unnecessarily aggressive would be me throwing you out of my house for wasting oxygen with that story. What I said was a fact.”
Steve sank a little deeper into the couch.
Erica leaned forward slightly, her eyes narrowing. “The girl likes you. You like the girl. And when she asked you out, you said no because some grumpy middle-aged man scared you with his feelings.”
Steve rubbed the back of his neck. “I had other reasons.”
Erica leaned forward slightly. “Were those reasons stupid?”
Steve hesitated.
Dustin answered immediately. “Yes.”
“You made her cry?” she asked.
Steve winced. “Probably.”
Erica clicked her tongue in disappointment. “That’s bad.”
Steve blinked. “Bad?”
“Well yeah,” she said. “I actually like her.”
Steve and Dustin both looked at her.
Erica shrugged like it was obvious. “She’s cool. She brings snacks. And she doesn’t treat me like a child.”
“That’s because you are a child,” Steve muttered.
Erica pointed at him without even looking. “See? That attitude right there is why she deserves better.”
Steve slumped further into the couch.
“But,” Erica continued thoughtfully, tapping her finger against the armrest, “she also clearly has terrible taste in men.”
Dustin coughed to hide a laugh.
“So,” Erica said, straightening up slightly, “I will help you.”
“Okay,” he said cautiously. “What’s the plan?”
Erica leaned forward with a slow smile that immediately made Steve nervous. “The problem,” she began, “is that right now she thinks she imagined everything. She thinks you never actually liked her.”
Steve nodded slowly.
“So the solution,” Erica continued, “is not some big dramatic speech where you try to explain your feelings like a sad puppy because you will mess that up. So what you need,” she said, “is proof.”
Dustin leaned forward eagerly. “Proof?”
Erica nodded. “You’re going to show her that you pay attention to her.”
Steve frowned. “I already do that.”
“Good,” Erica said. “Then this won’t be hard.”
She began counting on her fingers.
“You’re going to bring things she’s mentioned liking before. Specific things. Maybe some flowers or something.”
Steve blinked. “You know a lot about this.”
Erica shrugged. “I read.”
Dustin coughed under his breath. “Nerd.”
“You’re going to apologize,” Erica continued, ignoring him. “And then you tell her the truth.”
Steve hesitated slightly.
Erica narrowed her eyes. “All of it.”
Steve sighed. “Yeah.”
“And if she still wants space,” Erica added, “you respect that.”
Dustin frowned slightly. “That doesn’t sound like a winning-her-back plan.”
Erica rolled her eyes. “That’s because the goal isn’t to trick her into dating him,” she said. “The goal is to prove he’s not the complete idiot he pretended to be.”
Steve looked at her for a moment. “. . . You really think that’ll work?”
Erica shrugged. “If she likes you as much as you claim,” she said, “then yes.”
Steve nodded, hope and nervousness mixing together in his chest in a way that made his stomach flip.
Dustin grinned. “See?” he said. “I told you she’d have a plan.”
Erica stood up and stretched slightly. “Well, that will be a month of free video tapes.”
It had been raining for hours by the time the tapping started at your window.
You almost ignored it at first, buried face-down in your pillow with the lights off, the room dim except for the occasional flash of lightning slipping through the curtains.
You had told yourself you were not crying anymore. Technically that was true. You had stopped. Mostly. But the dull ache sitting behind your ribs had not gone anywhere, and every time you thought about Steve’s miserable expression in that back room, your chest tightened all over again.
The tapping came again.
You frowned into the pillow, lifting your head slightly. For a second your brain, still fuzzy with disappointment and lack of sleep, tried to convince you it was just the rain hitting the glass.
Then it tapped again.
You sat up.
When you pushed the curtain aside and opened the window, you nearly jumped out of your skin.
Steve was halfway through climbing in and he was completely soaked.
Rain clung to his hair, dripping down the ends and onto his jacket, his shirt, the floor under the window. His sneakers made a soft wet sound when he stumbled inside, holding a slightly crushed bundle of flowers in one hand looking like they had barely survived the journey.
You stared at him and he stared back, breathing a little hard like he had run here. “Hi,” he said.
You blinked at him. “You climbed through my window.”
Steve nodded once, like that was a normal thing to do on a rainy night after rejecting someone earlier that day. “Yeah.”
“You’re soaking wet.”
“Also yes.”
You looked at the flowers. “Did you steal those?”
He glanced down at them like he had forgotten they existed. “Technically I paid for them.” He hesitated. “I think the cashier pitied me.”
You stared for another long second, trying very hard to make sense of the situation. “Steve.”
“Yeah?”
“What are you doing here?”
Steve swallowed, suddenly looking much less confident than he had climbing through the window in the rain like some kind of very soggy romantic idiot. He ran a hand through his wet hair, immediately messing it up further. “I messed up,” he said.
You crossed your arms, still sitting on the edge of the bed. “You did.”
“I know.”
He stepped a little closer, careful like you might disappear if he moved too fast. The flowers were still clutched awkwardly in his hand, slightly bent but determinedly bright against the dim room.
“I’ve been trying to figure out how to say this without sounding like a complete idiot,” he admitted. “But it turns out that’s kind of unavoidable.”
You watched him, your heart already starting to beat faster in a way you did not want to acknowledge yet.
Steve looked down at the floor for a second before continuing. “Yesterday. . . your dad and I talked.”
Your brows pulled together slightly.
“And he said some stuff,” Steve went on. “Stuff that kind of stuck in my head. About how I’m not good enough for you. And the stupid part is. . .” He let out a breath that sounded almost like a laugh. “I already thought that.”
Something in your chest tightened.
Steve looked back up at you then, eyes honest and a little raw. “You’re amazing,” he said simply. “Like, ridiculously amazing. You’re brave and smart and kind and somehow still patient with people like me who forget basic things like how tapes work or how to act normal when someone pretty, someone just like you, walks into the room. You save the world and then go home and help your sister with lunch like it’s nothing. And you laugh at my dumb jokes like they’re actually funny.”
Your throat felt tight.
“And I’m just. . .” Steve gestured vaguely at himself. “This guy who spent most of high school being a jerk and now works at a video store.”
“You’re more than that,” you said.
Steve shook his head a little. “Maybe. But when you asked me out today, all I could hear in my head was Hopper saying you deserved someone better. And the worst part was I believed him.”
He stepped closer again, placing the flowers on your table like they were something fragile.
“I said no because I thought it was the right thing to do,” he continued. “Like if I stepped back first, maybe I wouldn’t screw things up for you later.”
Your voice came out softer than you meant it to. “Steve. . .”
“But then you left,” he said. “And you looked so hurt, and Robin spent the next hour telling me I was the dumbest human being alive, which, fair, but also I realized something.”
He took another small step toward you.
“I realized that trying to stay away from you hurts way worse than any mistake I could possibly make.”
Your heart stuttered.
Steve rubbed the back of his neck nervously, water still dripping from the ends of his hair onto the floor. “I like you,” he said, voice almost shy now. “Like. . . really like you. In a way that makes me forget how sentences work and stare at you like an idiot whenever you walk into a room. In a way that makes every near-death monster situation a little less terrifying because at least you’re there too.”
You felt a small, disbelieving smile pulling at your mouth.
“And yeah,” Steve continued, glancing at you again. “Maybe I’m not the guy who deserves you. But if there’s even a tiny chance you’d still want me anyway. . . I’d really like to try to be that guy for you.”
For a moment you just looked at him standing there, soaked through, nervous, holding onto hope with the kind of stubborn sincerity that was so unmistakably Steve.
“You climbed through my window,” you said again.
Steve nodded. “Romantic, right?”
You shook your head a little, smiling now despite everything. “You rejected me six hours ago.”
“I know.”
“In the middle of Family Video.”
“I am deeply ashamed.”
“And now you’re telling your feelings in the rain.”
Steve hesitated, then cleared his throat slightly. “Actually I had a quote prepared.”
You raised an eyebrow.
He shifted awkwardly. “It’s from Star Wars.”
“Of course it is.”
Steve took a small breath, then said, very seriously, “You’re the Obi-Wan for me but in a less mentor and more girlfriend boyfriend way.”
You stared at him. “That’s not even—”
“I panicked,” Steve admitted quickly. “The other one was Han Solo.” He glanced up at you, a little sheepish before adding, “You know. . . the ‘I love you.’ ‘I know.’ thing.” He huffed a small laugh. “But that felt way too confident for someone currently dripping rainwater all over your floor.”
You tried very hard not to laugh.
Steve looked at you with a hopeful little shrug. “What I meant was. . . I can’t imagine a life where you’re not in it.”
Your heart softened so fast it almost hurt.
You stood up slowly from the bed and walked over to him, stopping just close enough that you could see the nervous flicker in his eyes. “You’re an idiot,” you told him.
“Yeah,” Steve said immediately. “That checks out.”
“But you’re my idiot.”
His breath caught slightly.
You reached up and brushed a drop of rain from his cheek with your thumb. “And for the record,” you added, “I never asked you to be perfect. I just asked you to be you.”
Steve looked at you like you had just handed him the entire universe. “You still want that date?” he asked.
You pretended to think about it for a second. “Maybe,” you said.
Steve’s shoulders sagged in relief.
You smiled and leaned forward, closing the distance between you and Steve froze for half a second before kissing you back, one hand lifting uncertainly to rest against your waist like he was still not entirely convinced this was actually happening.
When you finally pulled back, he was smiling in an amazed way he sometimes did after surviving something impossible.
Summary: Steve told you he was into you, so why is he acting like he’s not over Nancy Wheeler?
WC: 5.5k
Warnings & What to Expect: Miscommunication trope, enemies to lovers if you squint, brief mentions of death and grief, reader has a panic attack, happy ending, El being a real one - let’s pretend nothing happens to her 🫠 (do you believe??)
Masterlist If Interested!
Author’s Note: Thank you to everyone who’s shown love on my works. It means the world. I am going to open up my asks to requests if anyone has them. Heads up tho; ya girl is not great at short blurbs (if you read my stuff, you know they’re long 🙈), so no promises that it would be a quick turn around, but yeah feel free to send anything and I can certainly try my best 🫡
It was easy to be when you had inherited your father’s temper. You had the same stubbornness, hot headed tendencies, and emotional outbursts that Hopper frequently displayed.
You were your fathers daughter though, and while you shared his faults, you also had his strengths; loving your people fiercely, unwavering loyalty, and valuing respect more than anything else.
It’s why you were furious at Steve, because he had broken your trust in him.
The night you thought your father had died, just a few hours earlier, Steve had confessed his feelings for you on the disgusting bathroom floor in the Starcourt Mall.
The two of you had just thrown up so much it felt like your throat was on fire, and when it was all out of your system, Steve had slid under the stall to join you; then promptly shared that he thought you might be the one for him.
You had laughed it off at first, trying to protect your own heart, but when you saw the hurt look in Steve’s eyes you knew he was being serious. It made you think of all the times you'd noticed Steve staring at you, never one to shy away when caught, he’d simply grin, gaze lingering lovingly.
Granted, you both had been pumped up with truth serum merely moments before, but you were unsure if Steve meant what he said, or if he was just afraid that the Russians might find you again and finish the job this time.
You had grabbed his hand and said, “Tell me again when this nightmare is over, Harrington.”
He had beamed at you like you just told him the best secret in the world, and he was ready to do just that. But then your dad had supposedly died from the blast the machine had made when Joyce shut it down to stop the gate from opening back up.
You were a wreck the following weeks. The pain of losing your father not only created a hollowness you didn’t realize you could feel, but it also ripped back open the old wound of losing your sister, Sara.
Steve was silently there for you; listening to you tell stories about your dad that he already knew, picking up groceries for you and El when he knew you hadn’t left the cabin in a while, and letting you cry on his shoulder when it got too much to bear alone.
Then one day Joyce had tentatively shared the idea of you and El moving with her and the boys to California for a fresh start. You knew you didn’t have to go with her; you were a legal adult now and could take care of El on your own. But you didn’t know how to support her when you were still in the throes of your own grief, and you knew that you needed to get away from this town for a while if you wanted to heal.
When you told Steve, you had watched as his eyes grew glassy, but he didn’t protest. He had swallowed hard, gave you a short nod of understanding, and wiped your own tears that had started falling.
Saying goodbye to him was one of the hardest things you’d done, holding onto him tightly as the last of the Byers things were loaded into the moving truck. He had whispered by the shell of your ear that he would miss you with an affection that struck you deeply.
He had tried to lighten the mood by joking about you watching out for those surfer boys. You had kissed his cheek and told him that you had no plans to fall for a California boy when you already had an Indiana one. You had hoped that would be enough of a reassurance for him to know that you would wait for him.
California treated you well. You had grown closer to Joyce, starting to see her as a mother figure. Jonathan and Will were becoming like brothers to you, and your relationship with El had only grown stronger. They helped ease the ache in your heart, which was starting to mend, slowly, but healing from being around your new found family.
The only problem? Steve had gone cold on you.
When you first moved, the phone calls and letters from him were frequent. Even when you pulled away on the days you struggled more, he pressed on, assuring you that he was always there for you.
But then one day he wasn't, all communication stopped. His phone left unanswered when you rang him.
You finally reached out to Dustin, because you were confused, but also concerned. Dustin had made up some vague excuse, saying that Steve was just busy lately with his new job at Family Video. You had heard the hesitancy in Dustin’s voice, torn between telling you the truth or covering for his best friend.
When the battle between Henry and El had finished in the makeshift deprivation tub at a random Surfer Boy Pizza in the middle of Nevada, your family decided to travel back to Hawkins while waiting to hear from Joyce.
You planned to confront Steve. Planned to jump out of the godforsaken van you’d been stuck in, march up to him and demand answers for why he was ignoring you.
Your plan immediately fell through when you got to the Wheeler’s house. After receiving bone crushing hugs from Nancy, Dustin, and Robin, you had made eye contact with Steve.
God, he looked devastatingly handsome.
The long sleeve blue henley hugged him just right, paired with his signature jeans and Nikes. His hair was a bit shorter than the last time you saw him, clearly having it cut and tamed a bit more. Your simmering anger that you had felt for his avoidance immediately evaporated from your body. You just wanted him to hold you. You’d give anything to feel yourself wrapped in his arms, inhaling his comforting scent.
When you had taken a step closer to him, you swear you felt your stomach drop when he took a step back. His hands went to his hips as he cleared his throat and said, “It’s good to see you.”
You were hurt by it, not understanding what possibly could have happened to make him distant. Your eyes trailed him like they always did when he was in your vicinity, and you soon came to a horrible realization. While you watched him, he was watching Nancy and Jonathan’s reunion with a look of pure longing on his face.
Your breath picked up, bile rising in your throat, and you had desperately tried to blink away the tears that were rapidly developing. You felt a hand on your arm, and you turned to see Robin, giving you a look of utter sympathy.
You knew Steve didn’t owe you anything. It’s not like the two of you were even together, but surely that moment you shared in the summer meant something.
You knew that distance made people grow apart, but it had only been six months. And for him to want Nancy of all people? It meant that Steve had lied to you that day in the bathroom stall; neither over her or as into you as he claimed he was.
Your hurt had quickly been replaced with fury, which you still felt eighteen months later. It didn’t help that Steve had also developed an attitude, snappier than usual because of Dustin’s own acting out, and you found yourself butting heads with him more often than not.
It was also annoying as hell watching Steve compete with Jonathan for Nancy’s attention, which she clearly didn’t want or appreciate. When it happened, you’d visibly roll your eyes, huff out a breath of irritation, or scoff loudly.
“What’s your problem, princess?” Steve would lash out at your reaction, eyes narrowed at you.
“Bite me, Harrington,” you'd often reply with a glare.
You tried your best to avoid Steve altogether, but it was hard when he played a vital role in the crawls; like the one about to take place now.
You swing open the door to the WSQK radio station and hurriedly take the steps down to the base where the party did the planning. When you enter the room, you quickly realize that the tension is thick, everyone looking a tad uneasy.
“You’re being an asshole, kid,” Hopper barked loudly at Steve.
Seeing your dad always reminds you that it’s a miracle he’s even alive right now. It’s a miracle that not only did he jump far enough away from the explosion of the machine at Starcourt, but he also survived a Russian prison. You’ll forever be thankful to Joyce and Murray for risking their own lives to rescue him.
“Well, I wouldn’t be if she wasn’t biting my head off every time I’m around her,” Steve throws his arms up in exasperation. He’s got his legs kicked up and crossed on the table in the middle of the room, leaning back in one of the surrounding chairs.
You immediately hate the fact that you find it attractive. Hate that he looks delectable in that brown and red long sleeve, hate that the color compliments his skin tone. Hate that you know he was just talking about you in a negative way.
You shove down the hurt from his words and cross your arms defensively, “I wouldn’t be if you weren’t so insufferable.”
Your words make everyone’s attention snap to you. Steve has the audacity to look a little guilty for what he’s said about you, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly.
“She’s going with you, and that’s final,” your dad snaps at Steve, voice hard with definiteness.
“Wait, what are you talking about?” your tone laced with worry about what you’re about to have to do with Steve.
“Inspector Gadget is a no show. Steve needs someone who knows how to work that signal operator while he’s driving and you’re the only one I trust to do it correctly,” Hopper looks at you with an expression that conveys that he doesn’t want to hear any arguing about it. You’re annoyed with him for making that decision for you, but your concern for Dustin wins out.
“Dustin’s not here? Did you try contacting him?” you ask the obvious, but it’s not like him to leave the group hanging like this.
“Repeatedly, with no response from the walkie and his mom hasn’t seen him either,” Lucas catches you up to speed.
“Shouldn’t someone be out looking for him? What if something’s seriously wrong?” you reply, looking around at the group currently gearing up to get ready to go.
“That’s what I said,” Steve grits out, clearly upset about it too. It takes you by surprise that he’s agreeing with you for once. You make eye contact with him, but you both quickly look away.
“No. You know how this operation goes. We need all hands on deck, and we can’t afford to make mistakes because of a lack of men stationed where we need them,” Hopper cuts in, acting like this is a military troop, which it kind of feels like sometimes.
With the decision made and teams ready to go, you drag yourself unwillingly back outside and climb into the van. You’ll need to be ready to go when Steve receives the all clear to get driving.
It catches you off guard when El shows up at the open back doors. She crawls into the van and settles next to you, head leaning silently on your shoulder in greeting. Your heart floods with a rush of adoration for the girl. She hasn’t outgrown her need for you even though she’s older now.
“Hey, you,” you smile at her.
“Sorry about Hop,” she sighs, looping her arm through yours.
“No need for you to be sorry,” you shrug, and tuck a piece of loose hair back behind her ear, “besides, he’s right. I’m the only one who can work this thing closest to the way Dustin could. He taught me how.”
“It’s my fault, why he’s moody. I pushed him for my time,” she says in frustration, and you already know she’s talking about her training.
“Your feelings. For Steve. They’re confusing,” she continues, not giving you a chance to respond about Hopper.
You close your eyes, and let out a soft breath of air through your nose.
“That’s because I’m confused. He confuses me. I don’t understand him much anymore,” you reply sadly, being honest with her.
“He likes you,” El says softly.
“No, he doesn’t. Not anymore. I’m pretty sure he might actually hate me now,” you confide in her, lips trembling just a bit as you admit the ugly truth.
“No, you don’t see. He likes you. He’s worried, not upset about you joining him,” she repeats, pushing the subject.
You shake your head, about to answer when Steve opens the front door and settles in the driver's seat.
“El, Hopper has made it to the tunnels, it’s time to head back in,” he says gently to her. A wave of anguish washes over you at the fact that his tone is warm with her, when it’s been unkind with you lately.
El gives you a small smile, jumping out of the back and closing the doors.
“Friends don’t lie,” she tries to assure you of her words about Steve. You're grateful for her comfort but also know not to believe in a false hope.
You settle yourself in position, putting on the headphones and changing the wheel accurately to where it needs to go.
“You ready?” Steve asks you, voice clipped and composed.
You give him a nod, and the two of you set off into the night to track your father through the world below yours.
It’s hours later, and your legs are dangling from the back of the van, doors thrown open to get some air.
Steve’s currently at the front of the car, waiting for the van to be charged up from the jump you’re currently getting from a girl named Jessica.
The plan had gone to shit. Not only did you lose Hopper just minutes into the crawl, but the generator in the van surged, causing it to stall and die. That’s on top of the fact that a demogorgon attacked the Wheelers and kidnapped Holly.
You and Steve had been sitting in shock at the terrible luck, when a car started to drive by. Steve had hopped out and started flagging the car down. When Jessica got out, you saw Steve’s face change, charm dripping from his features as he sweet talked her into giving the van a jump.
You decided you couldn’t stand the sight of him trying to flirt with her, which is how you found yourself staring into the night sky instead. You couldn’t see him, but you could hear him. It had you reminiscing on when you were the one he used to flirt with.
“Okay, we’ve got the cables connected. This better be quick though. Our good samaritan is turning sour. I think she might’ve placed me,” Steve attempts to joke, coming around the side of the van. You don’t find it funny.
“Placed you from what, Steve?” You ask harshly, already knowing where this is heading.
It’s like Steve remembers who he’s talking to you, because he coughs uncomfortably, “Stood up her sister, multiple occasions.”
“Of course,” you snap at him, remembering who he was as “King Steve” and the trail of girls that had followed him at one point.
“Um, so, did you get a chance to contact Joyce? Any update yet?” he asks, scratching at his ear, a sign that he’s nervous.
“Nancy and Mike made it to the hospital with Lucas. Their parents are alive, thank God, but barely from the sound of it. Ted’s in an induced coma, and Karen is still in surgery,” you breathe out shakily, head reeling from what’s happened.
“Do you think we should go see them? I mean, if we can get this hunk of junk moving,” he wonders out loud, and you look at him incredulously.
He’s got his arm leaning out against the door, causing the bottom of his shirt to ride up a little bit, exposing the soft skin there. You swallow thickly at the sight, heart thumping loudly, and you tear your eyes away from him.
“We need to stick to the plan,” you shake your head at the absurd thought to stop looking for Hopper.
“The hospital is on our route though. We could just like, swing by, bring flowers or something, I don’t know,” Steve trails off, looking anywhere but you.
“You mean give Nancy flowers?” you spit out sarcastically, bitterness creeping up.
“What?” he’s looking at you cluelessly.
“Give it a rest Steve. Ever since I got back from Lenora you’ve been obvious about your obsession with getting her back. Which is one thing in itself, but the fact that she’s literally Jonathan’s girlfriend and you don’t seem to care, is incredibly selfish,” you seethe at him.
Steve’s jaw drops open at your words. You watch as he tries to gather his thoughts. His jaw working, eyes looking at you in disbelief at what you’ve just told him. He opens his mouth to reply when he’s cut off by the incessant honking of a car horn.
It’s Jessica, clearly annoyed that Steve hasn’t tried to turn the van back on yet. Steve’s eyes remain on you for a moment longer, before he finally goes back to the front seat, turning the keys, trying to get the engine working again.
You hear it as it starts up, and you’re suddenly in panic mode. You can’t stop Steve from going to the hospital if that’s what he wants to do. He’s going to leave you here to try to woo Nancy. Or worse, you’ll be carted along to watch while your dad remains lost in the Upside Down.
At the thought of your dad, you start to hyperventilate a bit. You’re now realizing how dangerous this situation is. He’s alone down there with no way to contact any of you. You have no idea where to start looking for him or if the signal would even work now.
Your racing thoughts have you feeling anxious. You jump down from the van and take a seat on the curb of the road, trying to ground yourself.
“Look, I know you think that-,” Steve rounds the corner of the van again and stops short when he sees you're not in the same spot. His eyes grow concerned when he sees the look on your face, watching as you’re breathing hard.
“Hey, what’s wrong?” he inquires, walking towards you. The way he’s speaking has tears spilling out because it’s the first time you’ve heard him be tender with you in awhile.
“Stick to the plan, Steve, please,” you manage to whimper out.
“What-,” he starts, but you interrupt him.
“I can’t - my dad is down there, and I can’t-,” you choke, vision completely blurred at this point. You’re barely able to make out Steve kneeling in front of you, hands hovering over you, unsure of what to do.
“We have to stick to the plan. Hopper - he’s, I can’t lose him, Steve. I can’t lose him again. Please, don’t leave me here,” you’re a rambling mess, lost in your thoughts about the idea of never being able to see Hop again.
“You need to breathe, angel,” Steve whispers to you, and you’re too far gone to even be affected by the name he just called you.
“I, I can’t,” you’re shaking now.
“Can I, um, can I touch you?” he asks the question in the most innocent way.
You nod slowly, and Steve’s hands wrap hesitantly around your elbows, just barely there, feather light.
“Is this okay?” he asks you at the contact. You close your eyes, and have to admit the feel of his grip on you calms you just a fraction, so you nod again.
At your permission, Steve slides his hands to your wrists, “Still okay?”
Your eyes are still clamped shut, but your breathing starts to slow, and you whisper out, “Yes.”
“Would it help if I held your hands now?” Steve says quietly.
“Please,” you murmur, finding his warmth soothing despite the nerves still fluttering in your chest.
His large hands link with yours, and his skin against yours makes your eyes open back up.
“Please don’t leave me, Steve,” you cry out, breath hitching.
“I’m right here with you. I’m not going anywhere,” his thumbs draw circles delicately against the back of your hands.
“You’ve left me before,” you blurt, voice weaved with a pain you didn’t expect.
Steve looks stunned at your words, before his face twists into an expression that can only be described as agony.
“I know, angel, God, I’m so sorry. Let’s-,” he gulps, shakes his head and tries again, “we have a lot to talk about. But let’s do it once we’ve found Hopper. Right now, I just need you to match your breathing with mine, okay?”
Steve gets you to copy his breathing, large inhales and deep exhales. When you’ve finally relaxed, the verge of panic releasing from your body, you can’t help but stare into Steve’s eyes.
You’ve missed him, terribly so. All of the scathing words and actions dissipate from your body, and you just want things to go back to the way they were before you left for California.
You’re about to tell him this, but the moment dissolves when Dustin emerges from the woods with a limp. You hop up from the ground, fawning over him, begging him to tell you what happened. He brushes you off as usual, with a bullshit excuse about crashing his bike. Dustin gets into the van, and you look over at Steve. You expected him to be watching Dustin, but his eyes are already on you.
You’re hugging your father and El fiercely, after being reunited from the Upside Down when your eyes catch Steve’s again. It’s been happening a multitude of times since your conversation earlier, but this time he tilts his head towards the stairs that lead down to the basement of the radio station.
You watch as he makes his way down them. The group just teamed back up and is working on recalibrating the plan, and you know you can risk sneaking away for a moment. When you pull away, Hopper catches where you’re going instantly and stops you.
“Steve?” he raises his eyebrows at you.
“It’s always been Steve,” you shrug helplessly, and Hopper gives a light snort at that.
“I know, believe me. I’ve had the displeasure of watching the two of you pine after one another for years,” Hop says smugly, with a small amount of disapproval mixed in with his words. You don’t think it’s towards Steve though, more so about the fact that he knows his little girl is growing up.
“You like Steve, don’t you?” you ask, wanting confirmation.
“Sure, when he’s not being an idiot towards you. I trust your decisions kid, just be careful,” Hopper puts a hand on your shoulder, squeezes once, before turning to join the others. You know that’s enough of a cue of approval from your rough around the edges father as you’ll ever get.
El grabs your hand, smiling knowingly, “Told you.”
She lets go and follows after Hopper, leaving you alone to make your way after Steve. You find him leaning against the table that still has the map laid out from yesterday’s failed crawl. His arms prop himself up against the table, fingers curling around the edges.
He gives you a timid smile as you move to stand beside him, leaning against the table with him, shoulder brushing his. You glance up at him from under your lashes, thinking you’ll see his side profile, but he’s already got his head turned towards you, eyes trained on you once again. You inch your hand towards his, and at the contact of your fingers against his, words start spilling from his mouth.
“I was falling in love with you,” Steve reveals, shocking you.
At his confession, you somehow stutter out, “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“People always leave me,” he gulps rigidly, like the words are glass coating his throat. Your hand moves to his arm, brushing softly, silently encouraging him to continue.
“When you left for California, I understood why you made that choice, but I knew it meant that things between us would be different,” he proceeds, his sweet brown eyes still refusing to leave yours. You could drown in them if you let yourself.
“My feelings for you were intense, and you scared the hell out of me,” he breathes out, free hand coming up to stroke your cheekbone.
“People always leave me,” he repeats brokenly, “and I couldn’t handle it if you were one of them. I decided to leave you first before you had the chance.”
“And with Jonathan out of the picture, you moved on to Nancy?” you’re afraid of the answer.
He closes his eyes tightly at your words, and shakes his head in defeat like he doesn’t want to say whatever he’s about to.
“Nancy was safe, familiar. I thought I’d get over you if I fooled myself into believing she’s what I wanted,” Steve’s free hand finds your waist, and he pulls you to stand in front of him. He’s got regret written all over his face, and you can’t help yourself when you push back a strand of hair that’s fallen in front of his eyes.
“And is she? What you want?” you prompt, already knowing the answer at this point, but wanting to hear it from his own lips.
“No, I don’t want her,” Steve concedes, both hands on your waist now.
“What’s up with the showing off crap then?” you question, a teasing lilt in your voice. You have one hand dragging through his hair, and the other rests along his neck, fingers splayed around the curve of it while your thumb strokes at the base of his ear.
“Would you believe me if I said it was all for you?” he shares, getting a little shy on you, a light blush dusts his cheeks.
“You don’t have to show off for me, Steve. I just need you to be honest with me,” you tell him tracing the pretty pink color that’s gracing his face.
He nods, hands sliding up your back, “I’m sorry I’ve been an idiot. I’m sorry I’ve made things confusing for you.”
Your brows furrow at his choice of words, not understanding how he knows that you’ve been confused by his actions. He watches the wrinkle form between your brow bones, and he smooths it out with a gentle movement of his thumb; his eyes tracing your expression still - those gorgeous eyes of his still glued to you.
“I um, I heard the conversation between you and El in the van. I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but El is right by the way,” he devulges, and your lips part at his assurance.
“You don’t hate me then?” you smile sheepishly at him.
“Far from it. In fact, I still think you’re the one for me,” he whispers, pulling you close, making your chest nearly pressed to his.
You elate at hearing the words that he once told you before, and you respond the way you had back then, “Tell me again once this nightmare is over, Harrington.”
Steve grins at you, brushes a kiss to your temple, and says, “You better believe I will, princess.”
“We’ve wasted so much time pretending to hate each other. I'm tired of pretending,” you gaze up at him, overcome with the sudden urge to kiss him.
You initiate it, pulling him down towards you and locking your lips with his. Steve responds immediately, lips moving against yours fervently.
The tension that has been building between the two of you melts, and it leaves behind a desperate ache of wanting.
The table is digging into Steve’s lower back, but he couldn’t care less, far too preoccupied with the way your hands start drifting towards his stomach. You can’t help yourself, after seeing the glimpse of skin there earlier, you’re desperate to touch him.
When your bare fingers slip under his shirt to feel him, Steve lets out a sharp gasp, mouth dropping open at the feeling. You continue to press kisses against his open mouth, definitely getting way ahead of yourself, but after years of wanting, it’s hard to ignore the desire you feel for him.
Your fingers splay out against his soft skin, tracing the coarse hair below his navel, and Steve lets out a low moan, pulling away from your mouth, dropping his head into the crook of your neck.
“You’ve gotta stop that, angel,” He pants out, lips moving against your collarbone.
“Why?” you feign confusion, fingers daintily moving further down towards the top of his jeans.
Steve lets out a weak laugh, hand shooting out to stop yours from traveling even lower, “Well for one thing, I really don’t want to be hard around your father when we go back upstairs.”
His words don’t help, instead they light a fire under your skin at knowing that he’s craving you the same way you want him.
“And for another thing, as much as I might want it to, I’m not letting that happen for the first time in the shitty basement of the Squawk,” he says, head lifting from your neck to look at you. His thoughtful words make you want to touch him more, but Steve’s got your hand trapped in his own.
You see a fleeting haze of lust in his eyes, and you pout at him for not giving in to you, but you understand why. When Steve releases his grip on you, you lift your hands to loop around his neck, pulling him down to meet your lips once more, “Why must you be such a gentleman, Steve Harrington?”
Steve sighs audibly against your lips, and his own hands travel to the curve of your ass, contradicting your words, the skirt you have on bunches in his grasp.
“Believe me, I’m trying really hard to control myself,” he whispers against your lips, biting down softly on your bottom one.
You're overwhelmed with need for him and choose to allow yourself to get lost in him for a few moments longer. Your tongue swipes at the seam of his lips, and he opens up easily for you, letting his own tongue tangle with yours.
You let out a whine, tugging him impossibly closer to you, tilting your head to kiss him deeply. Before things can go too far, the door at the top of the stairs bangs open, and your lips part from Steve’s.
There’s a small trail of spit connecting the two of you, and Steve clearly isn’t phased by the open door because his thumb swipes at the fluid, before popping the finger into his mouth. Your eyes blow wide at his actions, and damn if that didn’t make an intense heat pool inside of you.
You’re brought back to reality when a hand tugs at your shoulder, and you turn to see your sister.
“El!” you yelp at her interruption, embarrassment flooding over you.
“Better me than Hop,” she says urgently, gesturing at you to move away from Steve.
You make eye contact with your dad when his heavy footsteps follow El. An intense blush coats your skin, not daring to look at Steve’s facial expression.
Your dad looks between the three of you, Steve trying his best to lean casually against the table and you now standing with El a few feet away from the table.
“Everything good, Hop?” Steve asks the man, and you're impressed at how his voice comes out smoothly.
“You two have been down here awhile, you know that?” Hopper says grimly, eyes darting suspiciously between you two.
“We must’ve lost track of time while talking,” you shrug a little awkwardly. Hopper makes a noise of discontent, telling you that the group needs everyone upstairs. He makes a point of stomping back up the stairs. El grins apologetically at you and Steve, quickly following your dad.
Steve moves towards you, and interlaces one of his hands with your own, pulling you towards the stairs.
“Is that what we were doing? Talking?” he quips at you, nosing your cheek, and you push at his chest lightly.
“God, you’re lucky Hop likes you,” you laugh, grabbing at his bicep.
“I can’t wait to do more talking later, by the way,” Steve whispers by the base of your ear, before placing a swift kiss there.
You’re feeling dizzy at his words, and let him guide you back to the madness the two of you are living in right now.
You can’t help but agree with him; that once this is all over, you can’t wait to do more talking too.
— your fake boyfriend breaks up with you for extremely stupid reasons, and you spend a few miserable days realizing you actually liked being his girl. turns out fake dating is very bad for your sanity but great for finally getting the boy who’s been in love with you the entire time.
🧷 13.1k — steve harrington x fem!reader, fluff, mutual pining but they share one brain cell, fake dating gone painfully real, steve “i’ll just suffer quietly” harrington, reader with delayed emotional processing, fake breakup → immediate overthinking → fix it with kissing, robin has been right since day one, hurt feelings but make it romantic, clingy steve supremacy, best friends to idiots to lovers, small town thinks they’re already married, a scene inspired by rachel and joey from friends
request — [ anonymous ] hiiiiiiiii! if you’re still doing requests, would you be interested in a man’s best friend-centric steve harrington fic? could be maybe based on when did you get hot, manchild, or my man on willpower ??? idk i have a soft spot for sabrina and steve hahaha. kind of down for whatever suits your fancy! your writing rocks :-)
author's note — god this baby is huge. i think this is one of my the fics. anyways, thank you so much for the request, i had the best time writing this because i, too, am deeply attached to both sabrina and steve, which is honestly a dangerous combination for everyone involved. definitely somewhat inspired by 'my man on willpower'. hope you enjoyed reading it as much as i enjoyed writing it. enjoy <3
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gif by @keery-joe | divider by @/lavendergalactic
The first sign that your day was going to go downhill was when Steve Harrington came in before you and Robin, which was usually a reliable omen that something deeply embarrassing was about to happen to him.
You stood behind the counter at Family Video scanning returns. Robin was on the back counter, crouched on a stool and rearranging a tower of cassettes that did not need rearranging but were receiving her full commitment anyway.
Steve, meanwhile, was in the action aisle, moving tapes from one shelf to another. Every few seconds he would pause, squint at a title, then slide it over half an inch as if that would finally bring him peace. He had been like that all morning. Suspiciously productive.
You had already made a note to ask Robin if he was going through some kind of personal growth phase, because those usually ended badly for everyone around him.
The bell above the door chimed and a girl walked in, hovering just inside like she wasn’t entirely sure she wanted to be there. She looked around the store. You straightened from the counter and gave her your best customer-service smile.
“Hey, can I help you with a few tapes?”
She shook her head quickly, hands clasped together. “No, I’m not here to get anything. I actually wanted to talk to Steve. Steve Harrington?”
Robin’s head popped up from behind the stack of cassettes. She squinted at the girl, then at you, then back at the girl with confusion, clearly not buying the idea that a girl was looking for Steve.
“Yeah,” she said. “We’re familiar.”
Then she turned toward the shelves and called out, “Dingus, you got a customer.”
There was a beat of silence, then Steve’s head appeared between two rows of VHS tapes. He blinked at the front counter, clearly not expecting an audience, then pushed himself upright and walked over with the cautious expression of a man approaching a trap.
You tilted your head toward the girl and stepped back slightly, joining Robin at the counter. Both of you leaned casually against it as you looked between the two.
The girl looked relieved and nervous at the same time. “Steve?”
Steve nodded once. “Yeah. Hi. That’s me.”
She shifted her weight from foot to foot. “I’m from Karen Wheeler’s neighborhood. I was just wondering if you would be free for a shift tonight.”
Steve glanced at you and Robin, confused, then back at her. “For what?”
“For babysitting my little sister. Mrs. Wheeler told my mom that you take care of Mike sometimes, so. . .”
The silence that followed was so complete you could practically hear Robin’s brain short-circuiting beside you.
Steve stared at the girl like she had just informed him he was being drafted into a war. His eyebrows lifted slowly in disbelief. Meanwhile you bit the inside of your cheek so hard you were fairly certain you would leave a mark.
Steve turned his head toward you and Robin, eyes wide, silently asking if you were hearing this too. You and Robin, without missing a beat, immediately arranged your faces into identical masks of confusion and shook your heads as if this was brand new information.
Steve faced the girl again. “Actually,” he said, “I don’t babysit. I’m not a babysitter.”
“Oh. Oh, okay. I’m sorry,” she said quickly. “It’s just you’re always hanging around the kids, so. . . ”
Robin leaned forward, resting her elbows on the counter. “They’re his friends.”
You nodded gravely. “Yeah. He is friends with a lot of kids.”
The girl laughed nervously, giving Steve a look that hovered somewhere between suspicious and concerned. She nodded a few times, clearly unsure how to respond to that information, then murmured another apology before backing toward the door.
The bell chimed again as she left, and the moment it clicked shut behind her, the store fell into silence.
Steve stood there, still processing. You and Robin lasted exactly one second.
Then you both burst out laughing.
You had to grab the counter to stay upright as the laughter doubled over on itself. Robin clapped a hand over her mouth and wheezed, sliding halfway off the stool. Steve stared at you two, offended.
“Are you kidding me?” he exclaimed, gesturing toward the door. “Babysitting? Again? Why does everyone think I—”
“You literally drove them to school in your car,” Robin managed between gasps. “You packed them snacks. You have a designated seat for Dustin.”
“It’s called being a good friend,” Steve said defensively.
“You have a car seat indentation in your backseat,” you added, wiping at your eyes.
He pointed at you. “You are not helping.”
Robin leaned against you, still laughing. “I can’t believe someone actually came in to hire you for a shift. Steve Harrington, available weekends and holidays, comes with free hair tips.”
Steve dragged a hand down his face. “I hate both of you.”
You straightened, trying to compose yourself, though the grin refused to leave your face. “No, c'mon. Think about it. You could make extra money.”
“God knows you need it,” Robin said. “That’s how you get girls, you know.”
Steve groaned loudly enough that a customer browsing near the comedy section glanced over. He walked up to the counter and planted himself beside you, dragging a hand down his face again like maybe if he pressed hard enough he could erase the last five minutes of his life.
“Shut up,” he muttered.
Robin grinned, pleased with herself, and gave him a quick pat on the shoulder that was far more patronizing than comforting. “I’m just saying, dingus. You’ve got a niche. Lean into it.”
“I’m going to throw you out,” he said.
“You can’t,” she shot back. “We work here.”
Then she pushed away from the counter and wandered toward the back room, still laughing to herself under her breath.
That left you and Steve at the front counter. You picked up a stack of returned tapes and began scanning them in, sliding each one across the counter.
Steve leaned beside you, shoulder nearly brushing yours as he crossed his arms and stared out at the empty aisles. Then, after a moment, he followed you as you moved around the counter to shelve a tape. And then again when you stepped toward the register. And again when you circled back to the returns bin.
“I just don’t understand,” he began, voice low and indignant. “How did I go from King Steve to some girl walking in asking if I’m free for a shift tonight. A shift?”
You nodded sympathetically, though the corners of your mouth kept twitching upward. “It is a big change.”
“I didn’t change,” he said immediately. “I did not change. I am still the same person. I just. . . happen to know some kids.”
“You drive them everywhere,” you said, moving a tape into its case and snapping it shut. “You helped Will with his project for three hours.”
“That was one time,” he insisted. “And he was struggling.”
You hummed thoughtfully, sliding another cassette into place. “Sounds like babysitting to me.”
He groaned again, louder this time, and tipped his head back to stare at the ceiling. Then he straightened and leaned closer. “I used to be cool,” he said. “I used to walk into a room and people would be like, oh wow, Steve Harrington. Now I walk into a room and people are like, hey, can you watch my kid for a few hours.”
You glanced at him, taking in the slump of his shoulders and the way he looked personally betrayed by the universe.
It was difficult to take him seriously when he was pouting in front of a shelf labeled Family Favorites, but you softened anyway, because beneath the theatrics there was always something earnest about Steve when he got like this.
“You’re still cool, Steve,” you said, nudging a tape flush with the row before stepping back toward the counter. “You’re extremely cool.”
He made a face that said he appreciated the effort but did not believe a word of it.
“Doesn’t feel like it,” he muttered, following you as you moved. “You know yesterday I asked Henderson if he wanted to hang out, and he said he had a meeting with Eddie. This is how it starts, I’m telling you. First they stop needing rides, then they stop calling, then suddenly everyone forgets me and I end up dying alone.”
You leaned against the counter and folded your arms. “Well, that is a bleak projection for your future.”
“I’m serious,” he insisted. “I’m aging out. I can feel it. I peaked in high school and now I’m. . . I don’t know. A former peak?”
You tilted your head. “I’ll tell you what, Steve. Get a girlfriend. That’s always a popularity boost.”
He blinked at you, clearly not expecting that response. “I can’t just date a girl to get popular,” he said, frowning. “That’s disrespectful to her. And also to me.”
You shrugged, entirely unconcerned. “Well, looks like you are in fact going to die alone then.”
He let out an offended noise and turned away from you, pacing a few steps down the aisle. You reached for your water bottle on the counter and unscrewed the cap, taking a sip as he continued muttering to himself.
Then he stopped abruptly.
You glanced up just in time to see him staring at a display near the register, eyes narrowing in thought. He reached out and picked up a copy of Her Cardboard Lover from the return pile, turning it over in his hands. His expression lit up and you immediately felt a sense of dread as you realised he had just had an idea.
“Oh no,” you said, watching him. “That’s never good.”
He turned toward you, still holding the tape, clearly pleased with himself. “I just had an idea.”
You raised your bottle again and took another sip, bracing yourself. “That sentence has never once led to anything positive.”
He stepped closer to the counter, enthusiasm building. “Okay, hear me out. You said I should get a girlfriend, right?”
You nodded cautiously, swallowing your water. “Hypothetically.”
“So,” he continued, gesturing between the two of you with the tape, “you could be my pretend girlfriend.”
You choked.
The water went everywhere. It sprayed forward in a completely uncontrolled burst and hit him square in the chest before you could even process what had just come out of his mouth. You doubled over coughing, clutching the counter for support while trying not to inhale the rest of it.
Steve recoiled, looking down at his now very damp shirt with startled offense. “Okay,” he said, blinking at you. “I see you’re shocked.”
You coughed again, wiping at your mouth and trying to catch your breath. “You—” you started, then had to stop because you were still half choking. “You cannot just— say things like that while I’m drinking water.”
He held his hands up defensively, though he was trying not to laugh. “I didn’t know you were going to—”
“You just proposed a fake relationship out of nowhere,” you said, straightening and grabbing a napkin to dab at the front of his shirt. “That’s not a casual suggestion, Steven.”
He watched you fuss for a second, then shrugged. “It makes sense. You literally just said I should get a girlfriend. This solves the problem. You help me look less like the town babysitter, I help you with. . . whatever you need help with. It’s mutually beneficial.”
You stared at him, napkin still in hand, trying to decide if he was serious. He looked entirely earnest. Hopeful, even. Like he genuinely thought this was a reasonable plan and not the beginning of a very bad plan.
“You are unbelievable,” you said, though there was a reluctant laugh tugging at your voice.
He smiled a little, encouraged. “Come on. It’s not that crazy.”
You stared at him for another second, still holding the napkin against his shirt. “You’re right,” you said. “It’s not that crazy.”
His face lit up immediately, hope flaring so fast it was almost impressive.
“It’s stupid,” you finished. “Completely dumb. I can’t date you.”
His expression fell with equal speed. “Why? What’s wrong with me?”
You blinked at him, caught off guard by the immediate wounded offense. “There’s nothing wrong with you.”
“Then why not?” he pressed. “Are you dating someone?”
“No.”
“Then—”
“It’ll be weird,” you said, gesturing vaguely between the two of you. “And totally wrong. And honestly I’m still not seeing how this is benefiting me.”
He opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. “Uh. By. . . by. . . by—”
He trailed off, clearly searching for a reason and coming up completely blank. You watched him flounder for a moment, then slowly took a breath and leaned back against the counter, thinking maybe that was it. Maybe he would realize it was ridiculous and drop it.
You exhaled, relieved.
Then he straightened abruptly, eyes widening like a light bulb had gone off over his head.
“Your mom,” he said.
You turned immediately toward the front door. “Where?”
“No, not that,” he said quickly. “I meant your mom. You told me she’s always pestering you to get a boyfriend. And I’m in her good books.”
You looked back at him, suspicious. “How do you know you're in her good books?”
He gave you a look that was almost smug. “Sweetheart, she sent me home with leftovers last time I dropped you off and told me to drive safe and call if I needed anything. She literally said that I was the best thing you'd brought to their life.”
You blinked. “She did?”
“That’s not the point,” he said quickly, waving a hand. “The point is, this is a win-win situation. Your mom gets off your back. People stop trying to hire me for babysitting shifts. Everyone benefits.”
You hesitated, chewing on the inside of your cheek. The logic was annoyingly sound. Still, you frowned. “I don’t know, Steve. I mean, won’t people think it’s weird?”
He scoffed immediately. “Oh, please. We’re always together. You know the first thing Max asked me when she met you?”
You narrowed your eyes slightly. “What?”
He leaned in. “She asked how I got someone like you.”
Your head snapped toward him, surprised. “She did?”
“Yeah,” he said, nodding. “Looked at me like I’d pulled off some kind of miracle.”
You stared at him for a second, then folded your arms, trying very hard not to look pleased. “I always knew Max was my favorite.”
He grinned a little, encouraged by the shift in your expression. “See? People already assume we’re together. We just. . . don’t correct them.”
You looked down at the counter, tapping your fingers against the surface as you thought. It was ridiculous. It was definitely ridiculous. But it was also. . . convenient. And maybe a little tempting.
He watched you like he didn’t want to push too hard and scare you off. For once, Steve Harrington was being patient. That alone should have been a red flag.
“You’re really serious about this,” you said.
He nodded once. “Yeah. I am.”
You sighed, tipping your head back to stare at the ceiling for a moment. Then you looked at him again, narrowing your eyes. “This is a terrible idea,” you said.
He brightened immediately. “So that’s a yes?”
You pointed at him with the hand still holding the napkin. “This is temporary. Strictly pretend. And if this gets weird, we end it immediately.”
He nodded quickly. “Deal.”
You drew in a breath. “We should probably set some ground rules. . . before this gets weird.”
He straightened, suddenly attentive in a way that suggested he was taking this far more seriously than he had any right to. “Okay,” he said. “Yeah. Ground rules. Good. Love ground rules.”
You leaned your hip against the counter and folded your arms, already slipping into a very official tone. “Rule number one. This is only for appearances. Public settings, social situations, my mom, your reputation. That’s it. No unnecessary PDA when we’re alone.”
He nodded immediately. “Right. Only when people are watching.”
“Exactly. Rule number two. No using this as an excuse to mess with each other. No embarrassing stories and no making up fake details about my life for fun.”
He held up his hands. “I would never.”
You gave him a look.
“Okay,” he amended. “I would try very hard never.”
“Rule number three,” you continued, ignoring that. “If either of us wants out, we say so. No dragging this on for the sake of appearances.”
“Agreed,” he said.
“Rule number four,” you added, thinking it through. “No over-the-top physical stuff. Hand-holding is fine. Maybe the occasional arm around the shoulder. Nothing that’s going to make this weird.”
He hesitated for a fraction of a second, then nodded again. “Yeah. Okay. Is kissing on the table?”
You gave him a look and he raised his hands in surrender. “Okay, no kissing.”
“Rule number five,” you said, tapping the counter. “We keep this between us for now. We tell Robin, obviously, because she’ll figure it out in five seconds anyway. But no big announcements.”
He nodded. “Right. Slow rollout.”
You took a small breath. “And finally,” you said, “we don’t let this mess up our actual friendship.”
He stilled a little at that, then nodded. “Yeah. Of course.”
From the back room, you heard the faint sound of footsteps approaching.
Steve heard them too. His eyes flicked toward the door, then back to you. “One more rule,” he said.
You raised an eyebrow. “What?”
He held your gaze for a second longer than necessary, like he was making sure you were really listening. “No falling in love.”
You blinked once and then laughed and waved a hand like he’d said something completely absurd. “Trust me,” you said. “That won’t be a problem.”
He nodded, but there was a brief, unreadable look on his face before it smoothed over.
A second later, Robin rounded the corner from the back, arms full of tapes and eyes already narrowed in suspicion. She took one look at the two of you standing a little too close at the counter and stopped mid-step.
“Okay,” she said. “What did I miss?”
Four days later, everything had spiraled in ways you absolutely had not prepared for.
The news that you and Steve were dating had spread through Hawkins like wildfire. You had expected questions. Stares. Instead, people had accepted it with such normalcy that it almost felt insulting.
On your second day walking into Family Video together with his arm slung around your shoulders, you had overheard a girl near the new releases whispering to her boyfriend, “Oh my God, they’re finally official,” only for the boyfriend to shrug and say, “Haven’t they been dating since high school?”
You had nearly dropped the tapes you were holding.
Steve had just stared into the middle distance like he was trying to decide if that was flattering or deeply confusing.
The moms, however, reacted exactly as expected. They stopped asking Steve to babysit. Completely. Instead, they asked about you. Every conversation he had with a suburban mother now began and ended with questions about how you were doing, whether you liked pasta salad, and if you preferred carnations or roses. One of them had even sent him home with a container of cookies “for you both,” which he had delivered to you.
The party knew, of course. You had told them immediately, mostly because Robin insisted that if they found out any other way she would personally sabotage the entire operation. Their reactions had been. . . mixed.
Max had looked between you and Steve, then shrugged and said, “Yeah, that tracks. I would not, for a second, believe it was real.”
Dustin had demanded to know why you had not informed him sooner, because he felt like this was information he deserved as someone who had been “emotionally invested” in Steve’s life for years.
Mike and Will had exchanged one long, knowing look that made you deeply uncomfortable.
Lucas had just smirked. Jane had nodded once, like she had already knew what it would end in.
Nancy had been suspiciously quiet, which somehow felt more alarming than any actual reaction and Jonathan had raised an eyebrow and said nothing.
Eddie had laughed for a full thirty seconds straight and then clapped Steve on the back like he had just accomplished something monumental.
Robin, of course, had been the only one to say what needed to be said.
“This is a terrible idea,” she told you both flatly. “This is going to bite you in the ass. I am going to be there when it does. I will not say I told you so, because I'm going to be wearing a shirt that says that.”
You had both ignored her.
That, in hindsight, might have been a mistake.
Because right now, four days into this arrangement, you were sitting at your family’s dining table with Steve beside you, and the situation had escalated into a level of awkward that even you had not anticipated.
Your mother was thrilled. She had made enough food to feed an entire neighborhood and kept smiling at Steve like he had delivered wonderful news to the household. Every few minutes she asked him if he wanted more pasta, more bread, more salad, more of literally anything.
Your father, on the other hand, was silent, which was actually his worst reaction.
He met Steve’s eyes from across the table and slowly stabbed his pasta with his fork.
Steve visibly gulped.
You saw it out of the corner of your eye. He shot you a quick look. You gave him a small, encouraging smile that you hoped looked reassuring and not at all like someone who was also internally panicking.
Your mother set down another dish with a bright expression. “Steve, sweetheart, do you want more garlic bread?”
“I’m good,” he said quickly. “Thank you. This is great. Really great.”
Your father watched him take a bite of pasta.
You shifted slightly in your seat and, without thinking too hard about it, let your knee bump lightly against Steve’s under the table. He glanced at you again, and this time his expression softened just a little.
“So,” your mother said cheerfully, settling into her seat. “How long has this been going on?”
Steve did not even hesitate. “About two months,” he said at the exact same time you said, “Last week.”
Your mother’s fork paused halfway to her mouth. Your father slowly looked up from his plate.
Steve froze, mid-chew, eyes widening as he realized what had just happened.
You felt your stomach drop straight to the floor, take a brief walk, and then sit down somewhere near the radiator to rethink your life choices.
You both turned to look at each other at the same time.
“Two months,” Steve repeated quickly. “I mean—no. Not two months. I meant. . . we started, uh, hanging out more two months ago. But dating like she said. Last week. Technically. But I’ve—” He stopped, swallowed hard, and then, as if something in his brain simply snapped into survival mode, blurted out, “I’ve just been in love with her for a really long time.”
You blinked at him.
Your mother blinked at him.
Your father did not blink at all.
Steve turned to you with an expression that said please go along with this or I will actually pass out at this table. You nodded immediately, a little too quickly, like a bobblehead that had been shaken with enthusiasm. “Yes. That. He has. For. . . a long time,” you said. “It was very. . . slow burn.”
Your father set his fork down with a clink that sounded like a warning bell.
“Look, Harrington,” he said, and Steve physically straightened in his chair. “Let’s get one thing clear. I don’t like you now. I used to like you when you were just a boy who came over to hang out with my little girl and watch matches with me. You were harmless then. Annoying yes. Very loud. But now that you're dating my daughter I don’t like you.”
“Okay,” Steve said immediately. “Okay. Okay. Okay. Okay. Okay. Okay.” He kept going, nodding faster with each repetition, like if he stopped agreeing he might be escorted out of the house. “That’s fair. Totally fair. I get that. Very reasonable position to have.”
You nudged him under the table, both because he was spiraling and because you needed him to stop saying okay before he said it so many times it lost all meaning. He startled slightly at the contact and glanced at you. You gave him a look.
“Dad,” you said. “Steve is very good to me. You know that. He. . . he never even lets me do any work during our shifts.”
Your father’s head snapped toward you. “Why?” he asked immediately. “I thought you wanted to get a job to be independent. Is he not letting you work? Is that what this is? That’s it. I’m going to get your job changed. Actually, you don’t even need to do a job. You can quit. You don’t need to work there at all.”
Your eyes widened in horror as you realized you had made a catastrophic error. “No, no, no, that’s not what I meant,” you said quickly, nearly knocking your glass over in the process. “I meant he’s helpful. He’s very helpful. Too helpful, actually. Sometimes annoyingly helpful.”
“Honey, calm down,” your mother said to your father, placing a hand on his arm. “She clearly meant that Steve is helpful at work. He helps her. That’s a good thing.”
You nodded vigorously. “Yes. Exactly.”
Steve jumped in with enthusiasm. “Super helpful,” he said. “I am extremely helpful. If helpfulness were a sport, I’d have a trophy. Several trophies. A shelf, maybe.”
Your father stared at him.
You tried again. “He also. . . brings me lunch sometimes,” you added weakly.
“You can bring your own lunch,” your dad said. “You don’t need him bringing you lunch. You’re perfectly capable of bringing your own lunch.”
You closed your eyes briefly. This was going so badly. This was going so, so badly.
Steve must have seen the panic starting to creep into your face because he sat up a little straighter.
“Sir,” he said, and you almost choked because Steve Harrington never called anyone sir unless he was in very deep. “I know you don’t like this. And I get why. I really do. But I care about your daughter a lot. I always have. I. . . I love her. And I’m not going to let you maker her quit her job or stop doing anything she wants to do. I just try to make things easier for her when I can. That’s all.”
Your heart was pounding so loudly you were certain everyone could hear it. You watched your father’s face, searching for any sign of what he was thinking. He held Steve’s gaze for a long, long moment. Long enough that you started mentally preparing a speech about how this was all a misunderstanding and also possibly a joke and no one needed to panic.
Then, finally, your father gave a small, slow nod. He picked up his fork again, twirled some pasta around it, and leaned back slightly in his chair. “All right,” he said.
That was all he said. But the fact that he had not thrown Steve out of the house felt like a miracle.
You exhaled so hard you almost saw stars.
You turned your head toward Steve and mouthed, oh my god I can’t believe that worked.
Steve looked at you, eyes still wide, and mouthed back, me too.
By the time your next shift rolled around at Family Video, the fake dating had apparently entered what Steve liked to call the “method acting” phase.
He held doors open for you, pulled out your chair during lunch, and had started calling you “baby” in a tone that sounded suspiciously natural. You were beginning to suspect he was enjoying this a little too much.
You were sorting through the new arrivals when he leaned against the counter beside you, one arm draped across the surface, looking far too pleased with himself.
Robin stood behind the front counter scanning tapes with the focused expression of someone trying very hard not to get involved in whatever nonsense you two were currently doing.
“Baby, can you hand me that pen?” Steve asked, even though the pen was literally in his own hand.
You stared at him. “You are holding a pen.”
He glanced down, then back up, unfazed. “Right. Just checking if you were paying attention.”
You narrowed your eyes at him. “Why are you pretending right now? There is no one here. We are alone. Robin is emotionally unavailable to both of us and also immune to whatever this is.”
Robin, without looking up from the register, said flatly, “I am not immune. I am suffering. Internally.”
Steve leaned closer, lowering his voice. “We have to stay consistent,” he said. “If anyone walks in, we’re supposed to look couple-y. That’s the whole point. We can’t just turn it on and off like a light switch. That’s how people get suspicious.”
You opened your mouth to argue that no one in Hawkins was conducting a surveillance operation on your relationship, but before you could, the bell over the door jingled.
A woman walked in, scanning the aisles. Steve straightened immediately, posture shifting into what you could only describe as Boyfriend Mode.
Robin plastered on a customer service smile and went to help her find whatever tape she was looking for, leaving you leaning back against the counter while Steve hovered nearby with an air of suspicious fondness.
You were about to move away, because standing this close felt unnecessary and also mildly dangerous to your composure, when Steve stepped forward and placed his hands on the counter on either side of your waist.
You blinked up at him in confusion. He didn’t look away. He was looking at you like you were the most interesting person in the room, which was deeply unfair considering you were currently holding a stack of VHS tapes.
Then you noticed the customer.
She was watching the two of you with open curiosity as Robin searched for her order behind the counter. Her expression had that soft, knowing look people got when they saw something they considered adorable. You realized, with dawning horror, that Steve was performing.
You looked back up at him. He was still looking at you.
His expression softened in a way that did not look entirely like acting. Slowly, he reached up and tucked a loose piece of hair behind your ear. The gesture was so gentle and so unexpectedly real that your brain short-circuited for a full second.
“Want to go on a date tonight?” he asked.
You stared at him. “What?”
He didn’t break eye contact. “I was thinking Enzo’s,” he continued smoothly. “My dad can get us in. Is 8 good for you?”
Your heart did something deeply unhelpful. You knew this was part of the act. You knew there was an audience. You knew this was for show. And yet the way he was looking at you made it feel. . . not entirely like a performance.
“It’s perfect,” you heard yourself say, smiling before your brain had a chance to catch up.
He grinned, that familiar, warm grin that had gotten him out of more trouble than was reasonable.
Your chest felt suspiciously full. Without thinking, you leaned forward and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek.
The moment your lips made contact, your entire brain rebooted.
Your eyes widened. His eyes widened. Time paused.
You pulled back slowly, horror flooding in as you realized what you had just done. Steve looked genuinely stunned, like someone had unplugged him from reality for a second.
You stared at each other, frozen, while somewhere behind you Robin said, “Found it.”
You cleared your throat. “I—um—back room,” you said, to no one in particular.
Then you slipped out from between his arms with speed and walked—very calmly, very normally, not at all like you were internally screaming—toward the back room. The second the door swung shut behind you, you pressed your hands to your face and stood there in stunned silence, heart racing like you had just sprinted a mile.
Out front, Steve remained exactly where you had left him, one hand still on the counter, staring at the space you had just vacated with an expression that could only be described as completely and utterly shell-shocked.
By the time evening rolled around, you had already changed outfits three times and rejected at least six more. You were not nervous about the date itself. You were nervous about the part where you had kissed Steve Harrington on the cheek in the middle of a work shift like a person who had completely lost control of her own motor functions.
You paced once across your room, then again, rehearsing under your breath. “Hey, about earlier,” you muttered. “That was. . . just for the customer. Obviously. Purely professional cheek-kissing.” You paused, grimaced, and tried again. “I’m sorry I kissed your face without warning. That was weird. I am weird. We are pretending. Let us never speak of this again.”
You stopped in front of your mirror and sighed, dropping your shoulders. Nothing you said sounded normal. Nothing you said sounded like something a person who had not impulsively kissed her fake boyfriend would say.
You were mid-practice apology number eight when the doorbell rang.
Your head snapped up. For a second you froze, then you moved quickly, slipping out of your room before your mom or dad could beat you to the door. You smoothed your hair back with one hand as you walked down the hallway, telling yourself to act normal. This was normal. This was a normal fake date with your very normal fake boyfriend whom you had definitely not kissed.
You opened the door and immediately stopped.
Steve was standing on the porch, mid-sentence, apparently delivering a nervous speech to absolutely no one. He had one hand gesturing vaguely in front of him and the other holding a bouquet of flowers that you recognized instantly as your favorites.
He didn’t notice you at first, too busy whispering to himself. “Just say it like a normal person,” he was muttering. “Hi, you look nice. Don’t trip. Don’t say anything weird. Definitely don’t—”
He looked up.
He stopped talking.
For a full two seconds, he just stared at you like his brain had temporarily left the building. You looked back at him, then at the flowers, then back at his face again. He was still staring.
You lifted your hand and snapped your fingers lightly in front of him. “Hello,” you said.
He blinked hard, snapping out of it. “Right. Hey. Sorry. It’s just—” He thrust the flowers toward you. “These are for you.”
You took them, the soft scent of them immediately familiar. “They’re my favorite,” you said, a little surprised despite yourself.
“I know,” he said quickly. Then he paused, rubbed the back of his neck, and added, “You look beautiful. Really. Like, totally out of my league, which you obviously are. Max has told me every single day for the past week. Repeatedly.”
You couldn’t help it. You smiled. You stepped a little closer and leaned in just enough that your voice wouldn’t carry into the house. “You don’t have to compliment me so much,” you murmured. “My parents are in the other room. No one’s watching.”
He looked genuinely confused. “No, what? No. I meant that,” he said, brow furrowing slightly like the idea that he wouldn’t mean it had not occurred to him.
Before you could respond, the sound of footsteps approached from the living room. Your father appeared in the doorway. He looked Steve up and down with the solemn expression.
“Harrington,” your father said. “Have her home by eleven.”
Steve straightened immediately. “Yes, sir. Absolutely. Eleven or earlier. Definitely not later,” he said.
You gave your dad a quick smile, trying not to laugh at how stiff Steve suddenly looked. Your father held his gaze for another long second, then nodded once and stepped back.
You turned back to Steve. He exhaled slowly, like he had been holding his breath the entire time. You adjusted your grip on the flowers and stepped out onto the porch, closing the door behind you.
“Ready?” he asked.
You nodded, still smiling a little. “Ready.”
You sat across from Steve in a booth near the back, the flowers he brought resting in the center of the table between you.
For a moment, neither of you said anything. Steve fiddled with the edge of the menu even though he had already looked at it three times. You traced the condensation on your water glass with your fingertip, trying to decide how to start.
The silence wasn’t awkward exactly, but it was different from your usual easy back-and-forth at work.
You cleared your throat softly. “Okay,” you said, leaning forward a little. “Before anything else, I should probably apologize for earlier. At work.”
Steve blinked at you. “What?”
“The kiss,” you clarified, gesturing vaguely toward your own face. “I didn’t plan that. It just kind of happened. Which is not a sentence people should have to say in general, but especially not to their fake boyfriend.”
He stared at you for a second, then shook his head. “You don’t have to apologize for that,” he said, almost immediately. When you gave him a look, he added, “It was just. . . part of the act. Right?”
“Okay,” you said slowly, smiling a little. “Okay, good. Then we’re good.”
“Yeah,” he said, nodding. “We’re good.”
You leaned back in your seat, and then your smile shifted into something a little more mischievous. “Well,” you said, tapping your fingers lightly against the table. “Since we’re pretending this is a real date. . . I feel like I should get the full experience. Show me. How is Steve Harrington on a date?”
He blinked again, clearly caught off guard. “What?”
“Come on,” you said, gesturing toward him. “You cannot tell me you don’t have moves. You were King Steve. There were definitely moves.”
He scoffed lightly, shaking his head. “I do not have moves.”
You narrowed your eyes. “That is a lie.”
“It’s not a lie,” he insisted. Then he paused, thought about it, and immediately broke. “Okay, fine. I have. . . some moves.”
You leaned forward eagerly. “I knew it. Go on. Impress me.”
He straightened in his seat. “Alright,” he said. “Usually, I start simple. Eye contact. Maybe I lean in a little and say something like. . .” He paused, then tilted his head just slightly and looked at you with a soft, almost shy smile. “I was going to wait until the end of the night to say this, but you look really nice. I can't concentrate on anything besides your eyes.”
You blinked. “Okay,” you said, a little surprised. “That was actually good.”
He looked pleased. Encouraged. “Right? Okay, next one. Classic move. I casually bring up something thoughtful. Like, I remember a small detail you mentioned once. Favorite movie. Favorite snack. Something like that. Shows I’m attentive.”
You rested your chin in your hand, watching him with interest. “You’re very prepared,” you said.
He nodded, smiling at seeing you impressed.
You laughed. “Alright, my turn,” you said. “Let me show you how I work.”
He leaned back, folding his arms loosely. “I’m ready.”
You tilted your head. “So,” you said. “Where’d you grow up?”
He blinked. “That’s your move?”
“Just answer the question,” you said, trying not to smile.
“Hawkins,” he said.
“And were you close to your parents?” you asked, your voice softening just slightly.
He shrugged. “My mom, yeah. But only when I was little. My dad’s. . . around. In theory.”
You nodded sympathetically and reached across the table, lightly touching his wrist. “That must be tough,” you said.
He started to nod along, falling right into it. “Yeah, it is. Sometimes I think—” He stopped suddenly, eyes widening. “Wait. Nice move.”
You grinned. “Thank you.”
He laughed, shaking his head. “Okay, that was good. That was really good.”
You sat back, satisfied. “I’m full of surprises.”
He watched you for a moment, still smiling, and there was something softer in his expression now. You didn’t notice. You were too busy feeling pleased with yourself.
“So,” he said after a second. “What’s your finishing move?”
You tilted your head, thinking. Then you smiled slowly and leaned in just a little. “Well, that is for another time,” you said as you winked.
He froze.
For a split second, he looked completely undone. His mouth opened slightly, then closed again. He swallowed and looked away, trying very hard to recover.
You didn’t notice. You were already reaching for your water glass, entirely unaware of the way he had just melted across the table from you.
You sat perched on one of the tall stools behind the counter, elbows on your knees, stacking VHS tapes into a tower that was already leaning at an angle that suggested it would not survive the next five minutes.
You were in the middle of adding what you were fairly certain would be the final, ill-advised layer when Steve walked in from the aisle, wiping his hands on his jeans. He slowed when he reached the counter, watching you for a second with a look that hovered somewhere between fond and nervous.
“Hey,” he said.
You didn’t look up right away, concentrating as you balanced one more tape on top of the tower. “Hey,” you replied.
He leaned on the counter. “Can I ask you something?”
You nodded, still focused on the tower. “Sure.”
There was a pause. You felt his gaze on you in that way that made it clear he was choosing his words very carefully. “Last night,” he said slowly, “after the date. . . did you feel something?”
You glanced up at him, blinking. “Yeah,” you said.
His eyes widened immediately. “You did?” he asked, a little too quickly. “Because I got home and I was, like, really freaked out. I mean, not in a bad way. Just in a—”
“I think it was the noodles,” you said thoughtfully.
He stopped. “The noodles?”
“Yeah,” you continued, nodding. “They were really weird. My stomach felt weird for, like, an hour after. I thought I was going to have to lie down.”
He stared at you. “Right,” he said. “The food. That was what was weird.”
You hummed in agreement and turned back to your tower, completely unaware of the internal spiral he had just pulled himself out of. He lingered there for a second longer, watching you stack another tape.
Robin appeared from the back a moment later, carrying an armful of tapes. She set the tapes down with a soft thud and glanced between the two of you.
Steve straightened immediately. “Robin,” he said. “Hey. Can I talk to you for a minute?”
She narrowed her eyes. “That tone never leads to anything good, but sure.”
They disappeared into the back room together, leaving you at the counter with your towe. You added another tape. The tower wobbled dangerously.
In the back room, Steve immediately started pacing.
“I think I broke the rules,” he said.
Robin leaned against a stack of boxes, folding her arms. “You think?”
“No, I definitely did,” he admitted. “I have feelings. Like, real ones. And I know we said no falling in love and I wasn’t going to and then I did anyway and now I don’t know what to do.”
Robin stared at him for a long, silent moment. Then she sighed the kind of sigh that suggested she had been waiting for this exact confession for days.
“Finally,” she said.
Before he could react, she shrugged off her jacket and pulled it over her head. Steve blinked in confusion.
“Rob, hey,” he said. “What are you doing?”
She tugged off the short-sleeved shirt underneath, revealing a long-sleeved one beneath it. Then she turned around.
Across the back, in bold marker, were the words: I TOLD YOU SO.
Steve stared. “You seriously had that printed on a shirt?”
She turned back around, looking entirely satisfied. “I like to be prepared.”
“Robin,” he said, dragging a hand down his face. “This is not helpful.”
“This is extremely helpful,” she corrected. “You broke your own ground rules. You made the rules. And then you broke them.”
“I didn’t mean to,” he said. “It just. . . happened.”
She pointed at him. “That is exactly what I said would happen. I said this was a terrible idea. I said fake dating leads to real feelings. I said you two are idiots. And now look at you.”
He groaned. “What am I supposed to do?”
“Well,” she said. “Step one is admitting you like her. Which you’ve done. Step two is figuring out if she likes you back. Which. . . I’m pretty sure she does. Step three is not panicking and making it weird.”
He blinked. “You think she likes me?”
Robin gave him a look. “Steve. She built a rule system for fake dating with you and then kissed your cheek at work. Use your brain.”
He opened his mouth, then closed it again, considering that.
“Okay,” he said. “Okay. Cool. Cool. I get that. I understand what you’re saying. I see why you would think. . . that is a good option.”
Robin narrowed her eyes, already suspicious. “There’s a ‘but’ coming.”
“But,” he continued, lifting a finger, “what I was thinking is that I’m just going to ignore her until the feelings go away. And then, maybe a few years later, when she’s married and I’m still alone, I’ll confess everything and it’ll be, like, a funny story.”
Robin stared at him. The kind of stare that was so long and so flat it felt like it should have been accompanied by a dial tone.
“Why do I even try with you?” she said finally. “I don’t understand. I genuinely do not understand.”
Steve frowned slightly. “Maybe be a supportive friend,” he suggested. “Like I was when I found out you were a lesbian.”
Robin threw her hands up. “I would be supportive if the idea wasn’t idiotic,” she shot back. “How are you even planning on ignoring her? She is your fake girlfriend. Who you have very real, growing-by-the-second feelings for. You literally work together.”
He paused, considering that. His eyes flicked toward the door like he could see you through it. Then his expression shifted as another terrible idea formed.
“Uh,” he said. “Okay. Okay. New plan. I’ll break up with her.”
Robin’s face went completely blank. “You will what.”
“I’ll break up with her,” he repeated, nodding. “End the fake dating. Problem solved. Then I can. . . you know. Emotionally recover in private.”
She pointed at him slowly. “You are on your own,” she said. “I am not a part of whatever idiocy you’re about to pull.”
He took a deep breath, squaring his shoulders. “Okay,” he said. “Wish me luck.”
He started for the door.
Robin watched him go with the expression of someone witnessing a car drive slowly toward a brick wall and choosing not to intervene. As he reached for the handle, she cupped her hands around her mouth and called after him, “I hope she smacks you in the face.”
Out front, you were still crouched by the counter, restacking tapes into something that would hopefully resemble order. You didn’t look up right away when the back room door opened. Steve stepped out, stopped, and then immediately forgot every single word he had rehearsed the moment he saw you sitting there, completely unaware, humming softly to yourself while you worked.
He stood there for a second, frozen in place, the weight of his extremely bad plan settling in.
Steve opened his mouth.
Nothing came out.
He had walked out of the back room with a plan, a very bad plan but still technically a plan, and now he stood there in front of you with absolutely no words available to him whatsoever.
You were crouched by the counter, focused on restacking the tower that looked like it would collapse if someone so much as breathed in its direction. You were humming under your breath, something soft and absentminded, and the sight of you like that made the idea of breaking up with you feel not just impossible but actively stupid.
He swallowed. Tried again.
Still nothing.
You finally glanced up when you felt someone standing there, and your face brightened automatically when you saw him. It wasn’t even a big reaction, just a small, easy smile, the kind you gave him all the time without thinking. It landed somewhere directly in his chest.
“Oh, hey,” you said. “Did Robin finish yelling at you?”
He blinked. “What? No. I mean—yes. I mean, she always yells at me. That’s just. . . baseline.”
You nodded, accepting this as fact, and turned back to your tapes. “Makes sense.”
He stood there another second, staring at you, and then the moment passed. The words he had rehearsed dissolved completely. He cleared his throat, said something about helping at the front, and did not break up with you.
He told himself it was temporary. Just until he figured things out. Just until he stopped feeling like his entire internal system short-circuited whenever you smiled at him.
Except the opposite happened.
Over the next few days, instead of pulling away, he got worse.
Much worse.
He hovered. He leaned. He stood too close. He called you “baby” and “sweetheart” with increasing ease, like the words had always belonged in his mouth. If you moved around the counter, he moved with you. If you reached for something, he handed it to you before you could grab it yourself. He rested his hand lightly at the small of your back whenever customers came in.
You, for your part, shrugged it off as him being very committed to the bit. If anything, you found it impressive. He was excellent at pretending. In fact, he was so good at pretending that somewhere along the way you stopped thinking about the rules as much. You stopped noticing when his hand lingered a second too long. You stopped questioning why he always chose the seat next to you. You stopped wondering why he looked at you the way he did when you laughed.
Instead, you started getting used to it.
Then you started liking it.
You found yourself leaning into his side without thinking. You waited for him to walk in before starting your shift. You caught your reflection in the glass one afternoon with his arm slung over your shoulders and thought, distantly, that you looked. . . happy.
Because that was the strange part. Even though it was fake, even though you knew the entire arrangement was built on a ridiculous agreement behind a Family Video counter, you felt. . . special. Sought after. Like you were the center of someone’s attention in a way that was warm and constant and strangely comforting.
And sure, technically he was the only guy paying you that kind of attention. And yes, technically it was fake. But he was Steve Harrington, and he was very convincing, and after a while the line blurred in a way you didn’t examine too closely.
At group hangouts, it only got worse.
Steve always ended up beside you. On the couch, on the floor, at the counter in the Byers kitchen, leaning against the wall at the arcade. His knee pressed against yours. His arm draped across the back of your chair. His hand resting near yours, close enough to touch.
No one questioned it.
That was the wildest part.
One afternoon, you overheard two people at the grocery store talking about you and Steve like this had been inevitable. Another time, you caught a guy at the arcade nudging his friend and whispering something about Harrington being down bad.
And Steve’s feelings, meanwhile, were not going away. They were not being ignored into submission like he had optimistically planned. If anything, they were growing at an alarming rate. Every time you laughed at something he said, every time you leaned into him without thinking, every time you called his name across a room, something in his chest tightened.
He told himself to cool it. To pull back. To reestablish boundaries.
He did not do that.
Instead, he found himself sitting a little closer. Holding your hand a little longer. Looking at you when you weren’t paying attention and then quickly looking away when you were.
From across the room one evening, Robin watched him resting his chin on the back of your chair while you talked with Max and Lucas. She stared for a long moment, then dragged a hand down her face.
“Unbelievable,” she muttered to herself. “Absolutely unbelievable.”
She stared at Steve for a full ten seconds, watched the way he leaned over the back of your chair like some kind of lovesick housecat, watched the way his eyes followed your face while you talked to Max and Lucas, and then finally made a sharp beckoning motion with her hand.
“Steven,” she said. “C’mon. We need to talk.”
He blinked, pulled from whatever soft, dangerous thought spiral he had been in, and looked at her like she had just spoken in another language. “What? Why?”
Robin did not answer. She just kept staring at him with a look that suggested he had about five seconds before she dragged him out of the room by the collar.
He glanced back at you automatically. You were still talking, laughing at something Max had said. His expression softened for a second, something almost helpless passing through his eyes, and then he stood up.
“Uh. Yeah. Okay,” he muttered.
He followed Robin into the kitchen, and the second they were out of earshot, she spun on him.
“Oh my God,” she said, hands flying up in the air. “Oh my God, Steve. I cannot watch this anymore. I cannot be a witness to whatever this is.”
He frowned, already defensive. “What is what?”
She stared at him. “This. The staring. The hovering. The yearning happening in real time every time she breathes in your general direction. Get your shit together.”
He dragged a hand down his face. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Do not lie to me,” she said immediately. “Do not lie to me in this kitchen where I have supported you through every single terrible romantic decision you’ve ever made. You are down bad. You are embarrassing. You are one soft smile away from writing her a sonnet which you do not even know how to write!”
He opened his mouth to argue, then stopped. Because unfortunately, she was not entirely wrong.
Robin stepped closer, lowering her voice. “You need to either ask her out for real or break up with her. Those are your options. Pick one. I am begging you to pick one.”
He looked past her toward the living room and his shoulders sagged.
“I can’t just ask her out,” he muttered. “What if she doesn’t feel the same? What if this is all just. . . pretend for her?”
Robin stared at him for a long moment, something like exasperated affection flickering across her face. “Steve,” she said, “she agreed to fake date you. She built a whole rule system with you. She looks at you like you hung the moon half the time. And you’re telling me you think she feels nothing?”
He swallowed. “I don’t know. I just. . . what if I ruin it? What if I say something and it gets weird and then I lose her completely?”
“You’re going to lose her anyway if you keep doing whatever this is,” she said. “You’re either going to confess and maybe get the girl, or you’re going to keep fake dating her until one of you dates someone else for real and then you’ll both be miserable and I will have to listen to you pine for the rest of my natural life.”
He let out a long breath, staring down at the floor. His mind ran through every possible scenario, every possible disaster, every possible version of you pulling away from him with that polite smile that would absolutely destroy him.
He knew what he needed to do.
He just. . . didn’t want to do it.
Robin lingered for exactly half a second after him saying it.
When he did not immediately sprint back into the living room and confess his undying devotion or fake-break up or do literally anything useful, she gave him a tight, expectant nod.
“I hope you chose good,” she said, pointing two fingers at her eyes and then at him in a deeply unnecessary gesture. “Like, really good. Because if you mess this up, you're a dead man, Harrington.”
Before he could respond, she turned on her heel and walked off.
Steve stood there for another minute, staring at the floor like it might open up and swallow him whole out of pity. He ran a hand through his hair, then both hands, then rubbed his face in a way that suggested he was trying to physically push his feelings back inside his chest where they belonged. None of it worked. Eventually he let out a long, resigned breath and followed her out.
The living room looked exactly the same as it had five minutes ago, which felt deeply unfair considering his entire life had apparently changed in that time.
You were still on the couch with Max and Lucas, leaning forward as Max told some story about school. You were laughing, shoulders relaxed, completely unaware of the emotional apocalypse currently happening in Steve’s ribcage. The sound of your laugh hit him square in the chest and stayed there.
He stood there for a moment, just watching you, and his expression did something soft and miserable at the same time. It was the look of a man who had found the best thing in his life and was about to hand it back for entirely noble and incredibly stupid reasons.
He cleared his throat, which came out quieter than intended. Then he tried again.
“Hey,” he said, voice a little hoarse. “Uh. . . if you could. . . I mean, if you’re not busy. We need to talk. For a second.”
Max and Lucas both went still in the way people do when they sense drama. You turned toward him immediately, still smiling, like of course you would go with him. The sight of that almost made him abort the entire plan on the spot.
“Yeah, sure,” you said, pushing yourself up from the couch. “Give us a minute?”
Max gave you a very slow look, then glanced at Steve with the kind of suspicious intensity usually reserved for crime investigations. Lucas followed suit, squinting slightly. Steve tried not to visibly panic under the scrutiny.
You didn’t notice any of it. You just walked over to him, still in a good mood, and nudged his arm lightly as you passed.
“What’s wrong?” you asked as you guided him a little farther down the hallway for privacy.
He shoved his hands into his pockets, then took them out again, then shoved them back in like he couldn’t decide where they belonged. For a second he just looked at you, and the words got stuck somewhere between his brain and his mouth.
You tilted your head, smile softening into concern. “Steve?”
He swallowed hard. “Yeah. Right. Okay. So. I, uh. . . I think we should. . . end this. The relationship. The fake one. I mean.”
The words came out clumsy and rushed, like he was trying to outrun them. You blinked once, the smile on your face staying exactly where it was, polite and a little confused.
“Oh,” you said. “Okay. That’s. . . sudden. Did something happen?”
He felt like the worst person alive. “No. I mean, yes. Not bad. Just. . . I think we’ve done what we needed to do, right? For the whole. . . fake dating thing. People definitely bought it. Mission accomplished.”
You nodded slowly, still wearing that same friendly expression. It didn’t quite reach your eyes anymore, but he either didn’t notice or pretended not to.
“Right,” you said. “Yeah, that makes sense. We did a pretty great job, if I do say so myself. Very convincing.”
He forced a small smile that looked like it physically hurt. “Yeah. Exactly. So, we should probably stop. Before it gets. . . weird.”
There was a brief pause. You shifted your weight from one foot to the other, hands clasped loosely in front of you.
“Is that the only reason?” you asked. “Or. . . is there something else?”
He hesitated. This was the part Robin had told him to be honest about. This was the part that was supposed to make it better. He took a breath that felt like swallowing glass.
“I, uh. . . I kind of like someone,” he admitted, eyes dropping to the floor. “For real. And I think it’s. . . I think it’s getting complicated, doing this with you while that’s happening. It’s not fair to you. Or them.”
The words hung in the air between you.
For a split second, something flickered across your face. It was quick. So quick he almost missed it. Then your smile returned, perfectly supportive.
“Oh,” you said again. “Well. That’s. . . good. I mean, not good for me, I guess, but, you know. Good for you. That’s exciting.”
He nodded, throat tight. “Yeah. I mean. I think so.”
You let out a small breath that sounded almost like a laugh. “Wow. Okay. So. We’re breaking up. Fake-breaking up. That we somehow made real enough to need a real breakup conversation for.”
He winced. “Yeah. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to drag it out.”
“It’s okay,” you said quickly. “Really. It’s fine. We always knew this wasn’t permanent.”
Inside, it felt like someone had quietly knocked all the air out of your lungs. He liked someone. Of course he did. Why wouldn’t he? Steve Harrington liking someone was about as shocking as the sun rising. You had always known this would end. You had always known it wasn’t real. Still, the words sat heavy in your chest, confusing.
You kept smiling because that was what you did. You kept it light because that was easier than asking questions you weren’t sure you wanted answers to.
“So,” you said, clapping your hands together once in a bright, slightly forced motion. “We’re good? Still friends? Still. . . video store coworkers who argue about movie recommendations?”
He looked up at you then, eyes a little glassy. “Yeah. Yeah, of course. Always.”
“Great,” you said, nodding. “Then we’re good.”
There was a small, awkward moment where neither of you moved. Then you stepped forward and gave him a quick hug. He froze for half a second before hugging you back, arms tightening just a little too much, like he was trying to memorize what this felt like. You pulled away first, still smiling.
“I’m gonna head back out there,” you said. “Before Max assumes you murdered me in the hallway.”
He huffed a weak laugh. “Yeah. Okay.”
You walked back into the living room like nothing had happened. Max looked up immediately, eyes narrowing.
“Everything good?” she asked.
“Yep,” you said brightly, grabbing your bag. “Just. . . remembered I have to be up early tomorrow. I think I’m gonna head out.”
Lucas frowned. “Already?”
“Yeah. Rain check on movie night. You guys pick something terrible without me.”
Max watched you for a second longer than necessary. “You sure you’re okay?”
You smiled,. “I’m fine. Promise. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
You said your goodbyes quickly, waved once, and slipped out the front door before anyone could press further. The cool night air hit your face and you let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding. Your smile faded the second you were alone.
Inside, Steve stood in the hallway, staring at the spot where you had been. He could hear the front door open and close. Every instinct in his body screamed at him to go after you, to fix it, to say the thing he should have said in the first place. Instead, he stayed where he was, rooted to the floor by his own terrible decision.
He had wanted to do the right thing. He had wanted to be honest. Somehow, he felt like he had just made the biggest mistake of his life.
The next few days were, in a word, terrible.
Not movie montage terrible where everything was set to a sad song and you stared out of rain-streaked windows looking beautiful. It was the much less glamorous version where you stayed in pajamas until noon, forgot to eat actual meals, and kept wandering into rooms only to forget why you had gone there in the first place.
You called in sick to work on day one with a voice that sounded suspiciously normal and then called in again on day two with a voice that sounded even more normal, which made you feel worse somehow, like you were committing a crime against customer service by not showing up.
You told yourself it was fine. It was fake. The relationship had always been fake. This was the plan. It had a beginning, middle, and end, and you had known the end would come.
What you had not known, apparently, was that the end would feel like someone had removed a very specific, very loud presence from your daily routine and left behind an echo that would not shut up.
You missed the way he hovered. You missed the way he reached for your hand without thinking. You missed the way he looked at you like you were the only person in the room even when you were both fully aware that the entire thing was supposed to be an act.
It turned out that fake attention still registered as attention to your brain, and your brain had decided to get extremely attached to it in a very embarrassing fashion.
By day three you were pacing around your room with the phone pressed to your ear, rambling to Nancy.
She had called to check in once and had made the mistake of asking how you were doing, which opened a floodgate that did not appear to have an off switch.
“Okay, but here is what I do not understand,” you were saying, pacing. “He used to be all over me. In a supportive, very attentive fake boyfriend way. He was committed to the bit, Nance. And now suddenly he has this iron willpower and emotional restraint and I am supposed to just. . . adjust? Overnight? It feels like I went from being the most sought-after girl in Hawkins to the least sought-after girl in the land in the span of forty-eight hours.”
Nancy made a soft sound on the other end that might have been sympathy and might have been her trying not to laugh.
“I mean, I know it was fake,” you continued quickly, flopping onto your bed. “I know it. I was there. I signed the fake dating contract in my head. But it turns out that when someone spends weeks holding your hand and looking at you like you hung the moon, your brain does this really fun thing where it goes, oh, this must be real. And then when it stops, your brain goes, wow, you must be deeply unappealing actually.”
“You are not deeply unappealing,” Nancy said.
“I am currently sitting in what can only be described as my most unflattering pajamas,” you went on, staring at the ceiling. “These pajamas are not tempting anyone. And apparently he is out there on some love journey for another girl, and good for him, truly, but also, why now? Why after I got used to him hovering like a very tall, very concerned golden retriever?”
Nancy let out a small laugh. “You miss him.”
You groaned loudly. “I miss the attention. Which is worse. I miss feeling like someone was always a little bit focused on me. Even when I knew it was pretend. And now he is probably being very respectful and very normal and very emotionally mature about this other girl he likes”
There was a pause on the line, then Nancy said, “You could go back to work.”
You buried your face in a pillow. “I cannot. I cannot face him while I am like this. What if I look at him and my face does something? What if he is completely fine and I am the only one acting like we just broke up for real? Which, to be clear, we did not. We fake broke up. From our fake relationship. That somehow managed to hurt my real feelings.”
Nancy hummed thoughtfully. “You know he did not want to hurt you.”
“I know,” you said quickly, rolling onto your back again. “I know that. He was being honest. He likes someone. That is normal. People are allowed to like people. I am not the center of the universe. But also, this feels extremely inconvenient for me personally.”
Silence stretched for a second before you added, “It is just weird. He is not there. He is not hovering. He is not texting me about dumb things or asking if I want snacks. And now I am sitting here realizing that I got used to being. . . wanted. Even if it was pretend. And it turns out I liked it. A lot. Which is humiliating.”
Nancy’s voice softened. “It is not humiliating to like being cared about.”
You stared at the ceiling for a long moment, phone warm against your ear. “Yeah,” you admitted. “Maybe not. Still feels a little pathetic though.”
“I’ll tell you what,” Nancy said. “Why don’t you ask Robin?”
You blinked at the ceiling. “Ask Robin what?”
“I mean,” Nancy continued, warming to the idea, “I honestly do not buy that Steve just suddenly woke up one morning and decided to break up with you because he liked someone else. That feels. . . abrupt. Suspiciously abrupt.”
You pushed yourself up on your elbows, interest sparking through the fog of self-pity like someone had flipped on a light switch. “Wait.”
Nancy kept going, a little triumphant now. “Maybe she knows something. They tell each other everything. If there was a conversation that led to him making that decision, she was probably part of it.”
You swung your legs over the side of the bed, suddenly very awake. “Robin definitely knows something. Steve only decided to break up with me after talking to her. That is extremely suspicious. That is practically a neon sign.”
“There you go,” Nancy said, pleased. “See? Maybe I am good at giving advice.”
You grabbed the phone cord and started pacing again. “Yeah, sure, let’s not get ahead of ourselves, but you might be onto something. I am going to call her right now.”
Nancy laughed. “Okay. Tell her I said hi.”
“Sure, bye, Nance,” you said quickly, already pulling the phone away to dial.
You hung up before she could respond and immediately started punching in Robin’s number. The line rang once. Twice. Three times. You paced a tight circle near your bed, free hand twisting in the hem of your sleeve as your heart did something annoyingly fast and anticipatory. On the fourth ring, the line clicked.
“Hello?” Robin’s voice came through.
You did not bother with a greeting. “Robin, what did you do?”
There was a beat of silence. Then, on the other end of the line, you heard a small, startled noise that sounded very much like someone who had just been caught doing something they were absolutely not supposed to be doing.
“Oh oh,” Robin said.
You pounded on Steve Harrington’s front door like you were trying to break it down. You knew his parents were out of town, which meant there was no one to shush you, no one to open the door halfway and ask you to keep it down. There was only him, and right now that was the entire problem.
You knocked again, your heart thudding in your chest with a mix of anger, relief, and something that felt suspiciously like nerves. For a split second you wondered if he would not answer, and you would have to yell through the door like a deranged person.
Then you heard shuffling on the other side, a thud, a muffled curse, and finally the lock clicking open.
The door swung inward and there he was.
Steve stood in the doorway looking tired and rumpled, hair sticking up in several directions. His T-shirt was slightly wrinkled, his eyes heavy with sleep, and for a brief moment you might have felt a pang of sympathy at the sight of him if you were not currently fueled by the kind of righteous indignation that erased all other emotions.
He blinked at you, clearly trying to catch up. “Sweeth—” he started automatically, then stopped himself mid-word as he realised you two had 'broken' up. “What are you doing here? Is everything alright?”
You did not answer. Instead, you stepped forward and hit him square in the chest with both hands, not hard enough to hurt but definitely hard enough to make a point. He stumbled back half a step, eyes widening.
“You tell me, Steven,” you said. “How is that girl you like doing?”
He stared at you, still half-asleep and entirely unprepared for this conversation. “Good?” he said cautiously, like he was answering a trick question on a test he had not studied for.
You crossed your arms. “Uh-huh. Really? Because I know for a fact that she is doing terrible.”
He blinked again. “I’m. . . confused.”
You leaned forward slightly, eyes narrowing. “You idiot. I talked to Robin.”
The change was immediate. The sleepiness vanished from his face, replaced by dawning horror. “Oh.”
His eyes widened fully now, like someone who had just realized the carefully constructed house of cards he had built was currently collapsing in real time. He opened his mouth, closed it again, then opened it once more.
“Okay,” he said quickly. “Okay, wait, I can explain—”
“Explain what?” you cut in, throwing your hands up. “Explain why you decided to break up with me because you ‘liked someone else’ instead of just saying that you liked me? Explain why you thought the best possible plan was to break my heart and your own at the same time? Explain why you are, in fact, the dumbest person I have ever met?”
He winced at that but did not argue. “I panicked,” he admitted, running a hand through his already messy hair. “I thought if I said it out loud and you didn’t feel the same way, it would ruin everything. I didn’t want to lose you. So I thought if I just. . . ended it first, then at least I could keep you as a friend and not—”
“You thought breaking up with me would make it less likely that you would lose me?” you interrupted, incredulous. “That is your genius plan? That is the master strategy you came up with?”
He looked deeply embarrassed. “In my defense, it sounded better in my head.”
You stared at him, equal parts furious and exasperated. “You should have just told me. You should have just said it. Especially because—” You stopped, took a breath, then glared at him harder. “Especially because I liked you too, you absolute idiot.”
He froze. Completely. Like someone had hit pause on him mid-motion.
“You. . . what?” he said.
“I liked you too,” you repeated, throwing your hands up again. “I was going to apologize for the kiss and then maybe tell you that I didn’t want it to be fake anymore and then you went and broke up with me because you ‘liked someone else,’ which, by the way, is apparently me, which makes this entire situation even more ridiculous.”
He stared at you, stunned, relief and disbelief warring across his face. “I didn’t know,” he said. “I thought you were just. . . being nice. Or pretending really well. Or—”
“Steve,” you said, exasperated. “I kissed your cheek at work. I went on a real date with you. I missed you when you stopped hovering. I called Nancy and spent an hour spiraling about how pathetic it was that I missed your attention. What part of that says ‘just pretending’ to you?”
He opened his mouth again, clearly trying to explain himself for the thousandth time. “I just didn’t want to mess it up,” he said. “You mean a lot to me and I thought if I pushed too hard—”
You did not let him finish. You stepped forward, grabbed the front of his shirt, and kissed him.
He made a small, startled noise against your mouth before immediately kissing you back, hands coming up instinctively to hold your arms like he needed to make sure you were actually there and not some sleep-deprived hallucination.
When you finally pulled back, you were both breathing a little faster, standing very close in the doorway of his house.
He blinked at you. “So,” he said, still holding your arms. “You. . . like me?”
You gave him a look. “Yes, Steve. I like you. A lot. Unfortunately.”
A slow, relieved smile spread across his face, the kind that made his eyes crinkle at the corners. “Okay,” he said. “Good. Because I really, really like you too.”
You exhaled. “Next time,” you said firmly, pointing a finger at his chest, “we are talking about our feelings like normal people. No more terrible plans. Agreed?”
He nodded immediately. “Agreed. Absolutely agreed. I am done with terrible plans.”
You studied him for a moment, then leaned forward and kissed him again, softer this time. He smiled into it, and held your waist, pulling back just for a second.
“I swear if this turns out to be a dream, I'm killing myself.”
i am so nervous (but like excited nervous, so in a good way) to see what happens with mer reader’s cold and how her heat eventually goes as well! love your writing so so much Jade xx
beyond the sea au | suggestive/explicit content | fem, 2k
Steve wakes you on the seventh day of your ebbing flu with a kiss pressed to your nose. In his defence, it was meant to be a secret touch of affection before he shook your shoulders. You blink awake with a frown, your eyes gaussian with sleep.
He smiles, slightly nervous to have been caught.
“Steve?” you grumble, turning onto your side.
“Time to wake up.”
“No…”
“Yeah, Robin’s gonna be here soon, I thought you wanted to come to work with me? Now you’re not as sick.”
You feign a cough. “Still so sick. Lie down and me.”
Steve lays down at your side, his face making a pillow of your bicep. “Not so sick. But I’ll lie down for a bit.”
Your tired frowny face softens, slacks. Steve wraps his arm over your tummy. Today, you’ll take the morning Squawk shift with him and Robin, and Steve will present you with the ‘days wages’ for you to pad your pockets. It’s not much —Steve has to feed you and himself and Dariyay, now, not factoring in gas money or Robin’s best friend tax (treating her to cold lemonade from the WSQK vending machine and burgers after work)— but it’s enough for you to buy snacks, or save up for a new nice blouse to torture him with.
You're currently wearing a t-shirt Robin brought you featuring Tom Hanks and Daryl Hannah from the hit movie Splash that Steve finds achingly on the nose and you clearly love. While Daryl Hannah’s mermaid tail doesn’t look a thing like your own, it is undeniably inspired by real mermaids.
Dariyay explained it to Steve as his intestines turned concrete: humans are objectively aware of merpeople, and have even spotted them recently, but merpeople didn’t have to be as careful with how they were seen until the terrible invention of the handheld camera. “You humans ruin everything,” she’d said, “can barely lure you in now without seeing one of those things. Our cousins are starving.”
Steve doesn’t ask her to specify what she means there.
Your pajama pants are silky soft and too slippery to hold, though Steve would like to try. His fingertips flirt down your abdomen to your thigh to the waistband on your pants. He teases the edge with his pinky finger, then slips his hand upwards, under your t-shirt, his fingers spread over the warm breadth of your tummy.
Your lips part. Steve hears your exhale, but you don’t speak.
He raises his head, hair combed but mostly untouched, his shirt crumpled from a night under your head and chest and arm and hand, wherever you could hold him.
Your unhappy fatigue has waned, replaced by a more genial smile and a light in your eyes Steve could swim in. They feel boundless in a way he’s never experienced before, worse when you turn into him completely and lift your chin, the skin of your noses brushing softly. Steve’s never felt so untethered as he does when you’re staring at him like– like you feel what he feels. Like this is love for you, too, but like you love him, like him, want to be near him. He’s spent long weeks on his knees at the poolside, shorter ones sharing his bed with you every night. Steve doesn’t have to think back long. Three months and he’s at your mercy. He’s always been hopeless when it comes to love, but he has such a particular feeling about you, how couldn’t he?
You press into his space and press a half kiss to his nose. Slowly, you move upward, kissing stretches of his face that haven’t felt the brush of someone else’s lips before, right up the bridge and the curve under his brow, his eyes forced closed as you kiss the start of his eyebrow, then down again, rubbing your nose into his with a speed that suggests total content but a pressure that says fever, like you need it.
Steve’s too afraid to talk. Doesn’t want to remind you that this is real.
You hum under your breath, curling an arm behind his head with your fingers dipping into his hair, scratch of your pearly fingernails like a nip into his scalp.
He shivers in pleasure. His cock stirs at your attention.
You lift yourself up and bear down on him with your face still smushed into his. “Sorry,” you murmur, sounding delicate and somehow thick, too, like you woke up with honey on your tongue, “too lot touch.”
“Not too much.” He’s the opposite of honey, all husk. “Love touch.”
“More?”
“Yeah.” He can barely project. “More touch.”
You push the pillow from under his neck. Steve’s eyes flutter open, concerned, but you’re laying him out all flat. It’s not something a human woman has ever done to him, better when you climb over his stomach and settle yourself over him with surprising care.
“Like like this,” you say.
“What, being in my lap?”
He frames your face in his hands.
Your answer is interrupted by an echoey shout from downstairs. “Steve, will you make breakfast now please?” Dariyay calls.
Her voice pulls you out of things. You lean back against his hips and either ignore or don’t notice the jut of his cock behind you. Which is fine! Totally fine. Steve’s more than used to being turned on by you now, and this is clearly not the time to– what? Show you it? Maybe you have no interest in sex. Maybe–
“Steve, boy?” you ask quietly. “Okay?”
He rubs your chin with his thumb, briefly over your lips, then lets go of you. “I’m okay, honey girl,” he says, which makes you laugh, “we better get you ready for the day, though. Thank you for the–” He struggles to think of what he’s even saying thanks for. “The kisses. Kind of.”
“You are welcome.”
You climb out of his lap. He does a quick manoeuvre wherein his boxers become a trap for sensitive things and wills the dire need to have you under him away. You press your cheek to his arm when he joins you by the dresser, and he helps you pick out a skirt for the day. Glances at the hair on your legs with a suppressed laugh —he didn’t know you could grow hair on your legs, but it’s like the first growth most people get, downy, like fine arm hair. It’ll probably get thicker the longer you have legs? Steve thinks this is a bridge you cross when you come to it.
You catch his amusement but can’t figure out what he’s found funny, pouting at him, but he waves you away. “Why don’t you go make you and Dari some drinks and I’ll be right down?” he asks.
“The chocolate?”
“You gotta wait if you want hot chocolate, babe.”
You throw your hands out a bit at your hips but head for the door. “Dariyay do hair me, you fast, yes?”
“So fast.”
He hits his head into the bedroom wall a couple of times for dramatic affect and gets dressed.
You’re patting your face with a dish towel when he comes downstairs, apparently having elected to wash up in the kitchen sink, which might be Steve’s fault. Dariyay has indeed done your hair for you, leaving you fresh-faced and sweetly twisted up, waiting beside two mugs with an eager kind of pleading about you that Steve rushes into.
He makes Dariyay’s hot chocolate first, if only to get some friendliness out of her. She says Thank you very much Steve and demands he make toast, so Steve puts that in the toaster for her while he stirs the mandatory chunk of chocolate into your own hot chocolate.
Once he’s buttered Dariyay’s toast and handed her the plate, she disappears back into the living room where she’d been watching what Steve thinks is a scratchy horror flick from the sounds of things.
“What do you want for breakfast?” he asks you.
You sip, wince at how hot your drink is, sip again, wince again. “Uh, I want for breakfast… can make chocolate pancakes again?”
“Yeah. Blueberries, too?”
“And syrup, and pod-ridge? Porich?”
“You got it, pancakes and porridge. Coming right up.”
You watch him make the pancakes in one pan, the porridge in another. He adds milk, sugar, honey, and a little more chocolate in the porridge, wonders if breakfast was supposed to be healthy at any point and promises to add more veggies to dinner, then get a plate out for your pancakes, another for his own, three bowls for the porridge. He’ll call Dariyay for it once it’s cooled down.
He leaves the porridge on the stove for now lest it gets too cool before you’re done eating pancakes. When he’s made three thick pancakes each, he plates them, dusts them with some powdered sugar and a square of butter, maple syrup in a pourer on the kitchen table, where he finally sits.
You don’t think too hard before sitting in his lap.
Your feet rest on the floor so as not to put the entirety of your weight on him, but Steve would let you cut the blood flow to every extremity if it meant having you near, your shoulder at his nose. You slouch in his hold, apparently relaxed, fork hitting the bottom of your plate as you slice through your mountain of pancakes with an air of returned fatigue.
Steve pours syrup over his own stack and cuts a slice, using the plate to get a proud, sugary-looking forkful. “Here, baby,” he says, raising the fork to your height.
You pause. Lay your fork down. Look him in the eye, tentative.
“For me?” you ask quietly.
He waves the fork around. “Yeah, for you. Who else?”
You take your bite and immediately lean in to kiss his cheek, unchewed, syrup on your lips. “Thank you,” you say, sounding breathless and sweet at once.
Your arms go around his neck, encouraging a hug he’ll gladly take as you finish your bite.
“It’ll get cold,” he says, patting your lower back.
“Get cold. Not care.”
“It’s nicer when it’s hot the first time, angel, and we have work to go to. I’ll hold you later, a lot, I promise.”
But when you pull back from Steve, the colour in your eyes is gone, leaving dark pupil like dimes in a slim ring of white. Your lips are just parted enough to see you’ve the inside of the bottom one between your teeth, and your breathing has gone strangely deep.
“You okay?” he asks, sitting up straighter.
“Steve…”
“What?”
You tip his head back, mouth open, and kiss him. Powdered sugar and syrup saccharine on your tongue as it presses against his. Wet, and hot.
Your hips jerk forward.
Steve had closed his eyes, but they widen at the movement —at your answering whine, like you’re hurting.
Steve Harrington is out of his depth. A fish out of water. You kiss him so ardently he has to get his arms behind you and squeeze so as not to topple out the chair.
“Ah–” you whine, pained enough to snap him out of it.
“What’s going on?” Steve asks. He encourages you away from him, his spit shining on your bottom lip. “Hey, what’s– are you hurting?”
You shake your head like there’s cotton in your ears. “No, no. Not hurting, not– little hurt, lots need–”
“What do you need?” he asks.
You lean in and mouth at his neck, Steve stiff as a board while heat churns in his stomach. “Need you,” you say into his skin, your teeth scratching dully over his pulse.
Oh, Steve thinks, his head falling back in a guilt-ridden bliss. Oh my god.
gator tillman x fem!reader
summary: gator tillman has had his eye on you for years, waiting for just one god damn change. when he notices that you been dancing with another man, he comes running to your door, begging for you to choose him instead.
word count: 4.5k
cw: 18+ smut, mdni, p in v, oral (f), unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it), slightly dom gator, jealous sex
a/n: requested by a lovely anon! i got a little carried away in spots, but enjoy and feel free to send me more gator prompts <3
There was an unspoken routine set exclusively for Friday nights. You’d clock out of work, call up a friend, grab your boots, and head to the local bar for a night of dancing. There was little to do in your little corner of North Dakota, so the only place to be was the shitty, run-down joint. But the bar promised free drinks and dancing, leaving very little to complain about for at least a few hours each week.
Cowboys and ranchers came and went. Men were typically just passing through town, and with aspirations of your own, you were simply passing time until you could up and leave yourself. Yet there was just one constant to the Friday night regimen — Deputy Gator Tillman. Much like his father, Gator was a man of habit.
Every Friday night, you could almost guarantee that you would see him. If he were off duty for the night, he’d be grabbing a beer inside, waiting to snag a dance with you. There were other nights when he was scheduled to be on patrol, which typically resulted in him being ‘stationed’ in the lot across from the bar. You couldn’t prove that Gator waited there for you to arrive and was keen to watch you leave.
“Deputy’s outside, antagonizing that poor punk that catcalled you in the parking lot,” your friend stated while passing you a drink. “He’s mighty protective of you. Does your boyfriend realize that?”
Your eyes flicked from the beer bottle to the entryway of the bar. They searched as if you would even be able to see him, but deep down, you knew he was out there waiting for you to leave.
“Grant’s not my boyfriend,” You scowled, dismissing the jab, “He’s a family friend. It would’ve been impolite to say no.”
Grant was the guy who had asked you here tonight. He was the son of your father’s business partner, and it was evident to both of you that your parents wanted you to hit it off. He was a nice guy, a stable option, but he didn’t seem to care about whether or not you wanted a career for yourself. There were plenty of girls around the county who’d kill for a guy like that. Though Grant came from a long line of ranchers and land men, he lacked grit and edge.
“But you know he wants to make a move,” Your friend tried to make sense of the situation, “He’s stable, has a future, knows what he wants…”
“No, Grant thinks he wants to be with me because my parents keep presenting me on a silver platter for him,” You corrected, “He’s looking at it like a business strategy, an investment. But I’m not interested in serving his ROI.”
“God, you sound like your daddy,” Your friend huffed, before slamming back a shot, “But I understand your hesitation. I mean, the guy doesn’t exactly scream emotional intimacy or that he has much extended interest in you.”
That perked your ear, “Extended interest?”
The poor girl rolled her eyes at your confusion, “Grant has asked you here three times now. Not once has he offered to pick you up. Both of you invite a friend. He buys you exactly one drink. You give him one dance. He goes to sit and watch the game. You talk to me or dance with other guys until you tell him you're leaving, and he escorts you out. It’s transactional.”
“And this is in comparison to what exactly?” You ask for clarification.
She points towards the entrance of the bar, “Gator Tillman is currently outside those doors, tearing a motherfucker a new one for cat-calling you. He waits like a damn guard dog to watch you arrive and leave safely. And if he isn’t on duty, he’s in here, looking for the next opportunity to ask you to dance or buy you a drink or do anything to take you home.”
You scoff at her explanation, “Gator’s been obsessed with me since high school. I’m just shocked the poor guy hasn’t moved on.”
“No, you’re not,” It was her turn to bring your behaviors into question, “I’ve known you since we were twelve years old. I know you, and I know you like the attention that Gator’s given you for years. Yeah, his father’s the sheriff and an asshole. Sure, your daddy doesn’t like either of them too much, but the fact of the matter is that Gator has been playing the long game, between every boyfriend and rejection. He’s just biding his time, proving himself a little more each day, begging God that one day, you’ll finally say yes to more than a dance or a drink.”
“Well, isn’t that an astute observation?” You shook your head, cutting your gaze over to the dance floor. The question was rhetorical, but her words did make you consider the state of things. There was an unfortunate truth to her words: underlying family expectations, selfish desires, fear of the unknown. There was an obvious choice that was being presented to you. Either a polished future that lacked a desire you craved, or a future that felt messy and raw, riddled with exciting consequences…
Another drink and another dance. Grant had found you first this time. He mentioned that the game was over and that he wanted to walk you to your car. Your friend ordered herself an Uber, and soon you were out the door.
You only saw him in a few brief glimpses, but you knew he was watching. You could feel him watching. Gator had never been one for subtlety.
Grant kept his hand planted on your lower back as he escorted you out of the bar. He walked with a calm confidence, but you could tell the air was charged with something you were nervous to name. His kiss was quicker than you could recall. His lips firmly planted on yours, before they were gone altogether.
But you didn’t think about the fact that Grant had finally made a move and kissed you. You only thought about how Gator forced himself to watch. You heard the screech of tires take off into the night. There was no question in your mind that it was Gator’s cruiser.
— — —
It was half past one when you heard a fist pounding against the front door. You’d been home for a little over an hour or so. Typically, the ranch was quiet at this time of night, and you seldom had visitors over. Most people who came all the way out here went straight towards the larger estate on the property where your parents lived.
You waited another moment before answering, ensuring that it wasn’t the action on the bedroom TV. The knock came again, heavier and urgent. You got to your feet, snagging your robe from the door hook for your own modesty. The knock sounded a third time as you made your way to the front door, “Coming!”
There on the otherside stood Gator, who steeled himself despite the obvious signs of his frustration. His typically gelled back hair was now tousled and fell into his eyes. The vest he was required to wear on duty was gone, replaced by his black bomber jacket and undershirt. But his eyes… You had never seen that look before. Both wild and pleading, silently begging.
“Deputy,” His title rolled off your tongue, sounding more surprised than you intended, “Can I help you—”
“Tell me you’re not seein’ him,” Gator grumbled, his hands pressed on both sides of the door frame.
You blinked at the request, still shocked by his appearance. It was hard to decipher what surprised you more: the fact that Gator seemed so torn up over the situation or the fact that he hadn’t thought your dates with Grant were serious.
You cleared your throat and straightened your posture, “His name is Grant.”
“Surname?”
“Gator,” You gave him a look, “Don’t.”
At your piercing gaze, Gator sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. His hand then nabbed the vape from his coat pocket, quickly inhaling like he was in a rush for relief. When he exhaled, you noted the notes of whiskey on his breath.
“You’ve been drinking,” You stated, your tone becoming firm, “Don’t tell me you went drinking and drove yourself all the way out here.”
Instead of an answer, Gator simply hung his head in shame.
A scoff escaped your lips, and you moved quickly to shut the screen door. Before you could, Gator shot his hand out, prying the rusty metal back open. His fingertips pressed into the mess, indenting the skin there. His chocolate brown eyes slowly raked up your body, drinking in your appearance.
“Do you dance with him?” He asked, his voice wavering at the weight of his question and the implication behind it.
Your brow furrowed as you tilted your head at the question. Just as quickly as you opened your mouth to reply, you closed it, “Gator, it’s complicated…”
“No, it’s not,” He hummed and shook his head, “Do you dance with him…?”
You shifted your weight between the balls of your feet, “He usually takes me out on the floor once. That’s it…”
Gator’s brow twitched, frustration and jealousy painting his handsome features. His hand gripped the door frame as he took a half step closer, “But he doesn’t dance with you… not like I do. He doesn’t spin you and show you off to the whole dance hall, he doesn’t sweep you off your feet, he don’t hold you like you’re his world. Not like I do…”
His words spurred something inside of you, heat pooling in your lower abdomen. He spoke about dancing with you as if it were a privilege.
You cut your eyes back inside, catching the time on the clock, “Gator, it’s late, and you’re clearly a little inebriated.”
“Please…” Gator’s voice cracked as he looked at you with desperation and desire, “I’ve been patient, and I’ve been trying my damndest to prove myself to you. I’d be so good to you. I’ll do anything. I’ll get on my hands and knees right now if you want me to—”
Your eyes widened at the confession, yet you quickly recovered with a shake of your head, “You don’t have to do that, Gator.”
“Then what is it, darlin’?” He asks, voice thick with want. He leans in closer, like you’re the gravitational force keeping him tethered to this world, “What’s he got that I don’t? What do I have to do, honey? Because I— I’ll do it. He wouldn’t love you like I would, he couldn’t cherish you like I can, he can’t protect you like—”
“Gator, it was a date, not a damn marriage proposal.” You firmly cut him off again, fingers rubbing soothing circles to your temple. With a shake of your head, your eyes met his pleading gaze once more.
Yet Gator made no move to leave. He remained firmly planted on your front porch, chest rising and falling with each deep inhalation. The poor bastard looked ready to fall to his damn knees or go hunt down Grant — you were sure that he was considering both options.
“Did he drive you home?” He gritted his teeth, “Is he back in your bed, right now?”
Your brow furrowed at his question, “No, he didn’t, and he isn’t. But it would be none of your business if he were.”
Gator rolled his eyes and sighed with a shake of his head. His hand moved to smooth over his mouth as if he were attempting to hold himself back. The dark of night gave him a dangerous aura, yet the way your porch light illuminated his honey-brown eyes kept him softer. He contemplated the following words carefully before taking a half-step closer, hands resting on either side of your door frame, “I know that I ain’t half the man that you deserve, but neither is he… if you gotta choose somebody, let it be someone who knows how to take care of ya.”
Your heartbeat stuttered at his words, but you pushed yourself to remain indifferent, “And you think you know how to take care of me?”
The corners of his lips spread into a familiar smirk, some of his natural cockiness returning, “Don’t I always? Lockin’ up criminals so that they can’t even think to lay a hand on you, watchin’ you when I‘m on patrol, treating you to drinks and showing you off. I’m a fool in love. A fool for you…”
You blinked at him, feeling a heat ignite in your abdomen and spread beneath your skin. Your eyes flicked between his own and his lips, slightly chapped. Gator leaned in closer, his fingers dancing down the edges of your doorframe. You made no move to stop his advance, not even when his hands settled on the swell of your hips.
His lips were on yours before either of you could deny the truth again. You tried to reason with yourself, or make yourself feel guilty for kissing Gator when you had been on a date with another man earlier that evening. But with each passing moment, everything became clearer. It was always going to be Gator who protected you, not Grant.
Your hands slid around his shoulders before linking around the back of his neck. You lightly tugged him closer, pulling him into your house while the screen door slammed shut behind him. Neither of you attempted to break the kiss. Gator surprised you by swiftly shutting the main door before pressing you back against the wood. It was another moment of tongue and teeth before you’d finally break away to catch your breath. The deputy simply continued to press open-mouthed kisses to the curve of your jaw, thumbs rubbing circles against your hips.
“Gator,” You tried again, the words more breathless than intended. Your finger raked up his neck and through his hair, catching between your fingers as you lightly scratched his scalp. A whimper sounded from his throat as he finally pulled off of you.
“C’mon, honey,” His lips hovered close to your own, staying near just in case this all turned out to be a dream again, “let me take care of ya…”
You couldn’t deny him. Not when he was standing right in front of you, looking at you like you hung the sun and the stars. Gator might’ve been a regular churchgoer, but this was the closest to heaven he ever felt. As you reclaimed his lips in another sensual kiss, his hands snuck under your thighs, his feet braced to lift you up. You tried to pull back and stop him from doing so, but he was quick to haul you up, guiding your legs to wrap around his waist.
“Trying to act like a strong man?” You murmured, making him chase your lips.
“I am a strong man. You expect me not to manhandle my woman a little?” He chuckled, the sound rumbling between your chests.
Gator started walking back toward your bedroom as you antagonized him, “I don’t recall agreeing to be your woman.”
He gently kicked your bedroom door open with his foot. He lightly nipped at your bottom lip, responding, “You’re playing with fire, sweet thing. I’ve wanted you too long only to have you for one night.”
Before you could protest, Gator dropped you back onto your bed. A huff escaped your lips as your back hit the sheet. You watched Gator eagerly shed his jacket and thigh holster before undoing his belt. While he kicked off his shoes, you lifted yourself onto your elbows, “You giving me a show, deputy?”
A smirk twitched at his lips when he chuffed, “Maybe next time, honey, but right now, I want to see what you’re hiding under that robe.”
It was your turn to smirk as Gator excitedly stood over you. You snagged his wrist, guiding it to the tie of your robe, “Why don’t you find out?”
You didn’t have to repeat yourself. Gator swiftly tugged, undoing the knot as the material pooled to your sides. The robe revealed your lack of pajamas, just a simple white camisole and a thin pair of black panties. Gator looked utterly wrecked already as he crumbled to his knees. You had expected a more vocal reaction, but right now, he was just a man of action.
Gator kissed up your calf to your knee, his lips continuing from your inner thigh to the swell of your mound. He continued to press gentle kisses to your clothed core as his hands trailed up your curves. He mouthed at your cunt through your panties, sighing between breaths. You didn’t stop him from his needy actions until his hips bucked against the side of the bed.
“Gator, c’mon,” You whined and swivelled your hips to catch his attention.
At the sound of your complaints, Gator retaliated by nipping your thigh, “I gotta warm you up, sugar. Make sure that this sweet pussy will be ready to take me.”
You tried not to roll your eyes at the statement. It was a sweet sentiment, and you did like that he wanted to make sure you were comfortable. However, there were plenty of guys who were a little quick to hype themselves up, only to provide less than satisfactory results.
“I’ll be fine, babe, just—” The words caught in your throat as Gator promptly pulled your panties aside before diving into you again. His tongue slid up in search of your clit. Once he felt the bundle of nerves, his lips latched around it. When your hips bucked, Gator’s arms circled the joint of your hips to keep your legs pried open. He shifted between sucking at and lapping broad strips over your clit while you clawed at the bed sheets.
Wanton moans poured from your lips, eyes unfocused as he forced you to take the pleasure in the moment. You couldn’t recall the last time someone truly savored your body, touching you like you were a thing to be worshipped. When the knot in your stomach grew tighter, you moved to thread your fingers through his hair, giving it a light tug. You could feel the smug son of a bitch smirk against your pussy, a satisfied hum sending low vibrations to your clit. It was just enough to push you over the edge, your release flooding Gator’s mouth and dribbling down his chin.
Gator helped you through the aftershocks before settling your soaked panties back over your swollen pussy. He playfully tapped your hips as he finally pulled off of you, delighted by himself, “Good job, honey.”
Gator rose back onto his feet while lifting his shirt over his torso. Your eyes trailed from his burly chest hair, down his happy trail, and finally, the noticeable bulge in his camo pants. You eagerly sat up, but whined from the sensitive sensation between your legs. He simply chuckled as his fingers came to tease at the hem of your tank top. You raised your arm in response, allowing him to tug the while material off your skin to reveal your pebbled nipples.
While Gator took a moment to appreciate the vision before
“Y’know, I’ve spent plenty o’ night jerking myself off to the dream of cramming by cock down your throat.” His lewd words made your cheeks heat up. He continued, “But tonight I need to savor you, make you feel the same fire I feel when you so much as look my way.”
Gator gently pressed your shoulders back until your back settled into the sheets. His fingers ghosted down the side of your frame till they came in contact with your underwear. His fingers hooked under the material before moving to pull them off completely. They landed in a corner of your bedroom, forgotten as Gator pressed a chaste kiss to the inside of your ankle.
He leaned forward, one hand settled next to your head while the other guided his cock. The bulbous head slid over the length of your slit, his precum mixing with your slick. His tip nudged at your entrance, Gator’s hips gently rocking as he teased you.
“You’re always so pretty, darlin’,” Gator hummed in admiration, “But god, you're fucking gorgeous beneath me.”
Before you could reply, his tip pushed past your entrance, pulling a surprised gasp from you. His free hand moved to the other side of your head as he slowly sank into you. Gator was bigger than your last couple of partners, but he kept his movements slow while you adjusted to his size. Once he had bottomed out, Gator lowered himself onto his elbow to hover over you. Your breath mingled as he remained still, enjoying the way your cunt pulsed around him while sucking him in.
Gator rolled his hips against your pelvis, nudging your needy clit. One of your hands grasped his bicep, eyes wide with lust as you held his gaze. A moan rumbled from his chest as your nails left crescent idents on the muscle.
Finally, Gator began to pull out a few inches before pressing back in, reaching that little sweet spot that made you gasp for air. He repeated these shallow thrusts while burying his face in the crook of your neck, littering soft kisses to the skin. He wasn’t fucking you, he was treasuring you.
Your other hand cupped his cheek, lifting his head just enough to slot your lips over his. These kisses were less aggressive, but no less feverish. His tongue licked into your mouth, saliva collecting on the corners of your mouth. Gator continued to rock his hips into your cunt while you both exchanged sloppy kisses. As good as the moment felt, you needed more stimulation.
“Gator,” you caught his attention by nipping at his lips, “Mmm, more.”
“More? Sounds like someone’s needy,” He chuckled lowly. Then, he pulled almost completely out before snapping right back into you. Your legs twitched as the fire grew hotter under your skin.
Your reaction made him smirk in satisfaction while he pressed back up onto his palms, “I think I know just what you need, sugar.”
Before you could ask what he meant by that, Gator had pulled out completely. You whimpered at the lack of fullness as he moved onto his knees. His large hands settled onto your knees before pushing them up to your chest and then over to your left side, “Roll onto your tummy, honey. Gator’s gonna make you feel real good.”
You did as he asked, pushing up onto your hands and chest. While you settled into position, Gator swiftly placed a pillow beneath your hips to give a gentle arch. He nudged your right leg out a little to give himself plenty of room to settle on top of you.
Once more, one of his settled by your head while the other guided himself back into your pussy at a new angle. His tip slipped in easier this time, but his cock pressed deeper than before, nudging that spongy spot inside. Both of you moaned in unison as he lowered himself, his chest hair scratching against your back, the weight of him pressing you further into the mattress. His free hand circled your waist, his palm splayed against your lower stomach. The other hand searched to take yours, interlocking your fingers.
With a kiss to your temple, Gator leveraged himself with his strong thighs and knees to pull back before slamming his hips into your ass. The supple flesh recoiled, the sound of skin against skin filling the space between you. As he drilled into your cunt, the smell of sex permeated around you. You lost yourself in the pleasure he provided, eyes screwed shut while small groans escaped your lips.
His palm pressed itself firmly against your lower stomach, and he could feel how his cock stretched you from the inside. Your pussy fluttered around him in response. A feral satisfaction flooded his chest as he continued to pound into you, “You’re taking me so well, darlin’. I knew you would. Just perfect for me.”
Gator’s lips pressed sloppy kisses wherever his mouth wandered over your skin, “This is better than any damn dream. So pretty like this, honey. Only I can love you like this…”
“Gator,” His name left your lips. You couldn’t decipher if you intended it to be a warning or a prayer. The only thing you knew for sure was that you wouldn’t last much longer.
“Yeah, honey? You close?” He asked, kissing each little freckle and beauty mark he could find, “Go ahead, baby. You can come. Gator’s got ya.”
While his thrusts became slightly more erratic, his finger dipped down to toy with your clit. A strangled moan rolled off your tongue, and your hips bucked back. Your thighs began to tremble beneath him while your orgasm overpowered you, baptizing you under a white heat. Gator continued his thrust through your aftershocks, enjoying the way your face scruched up in pleasure.
When the tension in your shoulders released, Gator pulled entirely out of you. He stradled your hips, hand moving to jerk himself off, chasing his own release. Hot white spurts of cum shot from his cock and landed across your lower back. Throughly spent, he flopped down onto his side, landing next to you. A lazy arm wrapped around your waist while he tugged himself against your side.
The next few minutes were spent in silence, save for the dull hum of cicadas outside.
Once he had a moment to catch his breath, Gator got up and tugged his briefs back on. He prodded over to your bathroom and turned on the faucet. He splashed his face with cool water until it was warm enough to run a washcloth under it to clean you up. He was back at your bedside only a moment later, cleaning up his spend and your sensitive pussy.
Gator disappeared back into the bathroom again, allowing yourself a moment of privacy. You pressed yourself up onto shaky arms before sliding beneath your blankets to cover yourself. When Gator returned, his heart flipped at the sight of your disheveled, tired state. A smirk painted his lips as he joined you again, “You feelin’ alright, mama? Need anything?”
“I’m good…” Your mouth felt dry, but you didn’t want to press your luck. “Are you planning on heading out now?”
Gator chuffed, shaking his head as if the idea were ridiculous, “Head out? Are your ears full of cotton, sugar? I told you earlier, I’m here to take care of you. You’re not some one-night girl, and you damn sure ain’t getting rid of me now.”
He moved to join you underneath the blankets, his arm settled around your choulders, and pulled you into his chest. As you both nestled in, your fingers lightly brushed through the hair on his chest, eyes shutting as you settled in to sleep. Gator pressed a few more kisses into your hairline, humming in satisfaction.
𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: gator tillman x reader
𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: you mistake the deputy sheriff of this backwater county for a stripper. cue the most disastrous meet-cute ever. (1.7k)
. * ✦ . ˚ ✦ .
You get invited to a bachelorette party out in some bumfuck nowhere town.
It’s got one supposedly decent bar and a gas station that sells more camo hats and gun decals than a hunting expo. But your friend is getting married and she’s been crying about soulmates and “small-town charm,” so whatever.
The bar is about as charming as the rest of this hellhole. Long wooden counter scarred up with knife marks and cigarette burns, a dusty jukebox cycling early-2000s country music. The drinks are strong and free, though, so you stop caring pretty fast.
Margarita #5 is where things get fuzzy.
Cheap mix, heavy pour, salt crusted thick on the rim. You’re letting loose on the dance floor, plastic tiara sliding sideways in your hair. A sparkly pink ‘Miss Behaving’ sash hangs crooked around your hips.
It gets rowdy. Rowdy rowdy. A girl knocks over a high-top and sends glass shattering across the floor, someone nearly eats shit trying to climb onto the pool table. The bartender starts yelling that y’all need to calm the hell down—
A sharp whistle cuts clean through the noise.
“Alright, ladies! Party’s over. Wrap it up, let's go.”
You groan mid-dance, gearing up to tell whoever this buzzkill is to go shove it.
And in walks this guy.
Tight black shirt, heavy combat boots. Sides of his head shaved clean with two neat, parallel lines etched into one side, the rest slicked back with what looks like about a half a tub of pomade. He’s got a shiny leather jacket and tactical vest to match, a six-point sheriff’s badge clipped front and center.
Your brain fully shorts out.
“Hoooly shit! You guuyss! You hired a stripper?”
Never mind that you’re not even the bride-to-be. Drunk logic decides this makes perfect sense.
“Ohh my god,” you gasp, stumbling toward him. “And he’s hot too.”
“Woah, what the—”
Too late.
You loop the bachelorette sash around his shoulders like a lasso and give it a sharp, sloppy tug, practically launching yourself forward. He grunts as he catches your weight, hands coming up instinctively around your waist. Your palms slide over the slope of his pecs, his shoulders, down his arms, gripping wherever you can reach with zero shame and even less coordination.
Half the party goes dead silent because the locals know exactly who this man is. The other half loses their minds, screaming encouragement like it’s a private show.
For a split second, he looks genuinely stunned.
He's got these big, adorable round eyes the color of dark whiskey, brown with a hazel glint, catching warm gold under the bar lights. They’ve gone wide with shock, his plush, baby-pink lips parted in disbelief.
You take full advantage of his disarmed state, crowding him back against the bar, sliding a hand into his slicked-back hair, fingers curling tight at the nape of his neck.
You manage to get in one good, solid tug before the world flips.
"Oof—!"
You’re spun around so fast your heels skid. Your chest bumps the bar as he bends you over, one broad hand pressed between your shoulder blades. The other pins your wrist to the small of your back in a clean, textbook hold.
The bar erupts into noise, one half clamoring in disbelief, the other whooping and hollering because the show just got a whole lot better.
“Ma’am,” he murmurs, low and close to your ear, voice smooth as sin, “’fraid I’m gonna have to arrest you for that.”
You squirm. It does absolutely nothing. His hips settle in behind you, thighs braced firmly to the backs of yours.
“Other hand. Behind your back.”
And oh, now you’re really laughing. Breathless, heart racing, absolutely fucking delighted because wow, this stripper deserves a raise.
He’s committed. Really milking it, too, taking his sweet ass time pulling out the fake cuffs. You hear the faint jingle as he guides your arms back, drawing you snug against him. Your dress starts riding up your thigh as he presses even closer, not-so-subtly grinding his hips against your ass while he snaps the metal around your wrists.
“Disorderly conduct.” Click.
“Assaulting a law enforcement officer.” Click.
He dips his head, nose brushing against your cheek. You don’t need to see his face to know he’s smirking.
“You gonna behave, or ya wanna keep makin’ this worse for yourself?”
You giggle helplessly, wriggling in a half-hearted attempt to get away.
“I’ll behaaave officer,” you bat your eyes, craning to look back at him. “Wow, you guyss really stay in character, huh?”
...
You’re in the back of a very real police cruiser.
The deputy sheriff of this backwater county is currently crouched in front of you, one big hand wrapped around your ankle as he tries to get your heel back on. The other shoe is long gone—casualty of your refusal to walk. Left behind somewhere on the sticky bar floor because he had to fireman's-carry you out, your cheek mashed into leather and muscle, fists pounding uselessly against his back while you accused him of kidnapping and demanded to know his badge number.
The cold night air has sobered you fast, but not enough.
You kick your feet against his palm again, pouting like a brat, plastic tiara wobbling in your hair.
He catches your ankle mid-swing.
“Careful,” he drawls. “Made 'nuff trouble tonight, don’t’cha think? You want me to slap those cuffs back on?”
“Youu can’t do this. This iss... this is against the law.”
He looks up at you then, smirk curling lazy, smug in a way that makes your skin prickle.
“Listen. I don't know what kinda fancy city you come from, princess, but ‘round here?” He taps the star on his vest. “I am the law.”
You pull a disgusted face, that last shot of tequila churning low in your stomach.
“Bet you’re regrettin’ that smartass comment now, huh?” he sneers. “What was it you called me again?" He cocks his head to the side, squinting in mock thought. "Oh that’s right. ‘Power-trippin’ pig.’ That sound ‘bout right?”
You roll your eyes, crossing your arms tight over your chest. “Whatever... not my ffault y’showed up lookin’ like a discount Magic Mike.”
That earns you a sharp little huff through his nose. His jaw works as he studies you, meeting your glare, eyes dark and unamused.
Then his gaze dips.
Down to your bare thighs, dragging slow and heavy, lingering on that shadowed triangle of space between your legs and the hem of your dress. From where he’s crouched, he’s definitely getting an eyeful of the red lace you’d picked out as part of the whole bachelorette experience.
You hadn’t planned on giving the Stark County Sheriff’s Office a show, but fuck it. Casting pearls before swine, or whatever.
Ha. Swine.
His eyes continue their path upward, shameless. Over the soft curve of your hips, your stomach, your tits, inadvertently pushed up with your bratty crossed-arm pout. They finally settle on your face, glinting with predatory amusement as he takes in the messy aftermath of your night: streaked mascara and smudged gloss, lips stained a deep, cherry-red.
His stare clings to your mouth like he’s picturing exactly what he wants to do with it; you can practically see the degenerate fantasies bouncing around in his pea-sized brain, every sleazy thought leaking through his smug little grin.
“Yeah,” he sighs, clicking his tongue. He releases your ankle with a harsh tug before straightening to his full height. “You keep runnin’ that mouth. See where that gets ya.”
You can think of a few places you’d like your mouth to end up, but you wisely keep that to yourself.
He leans against the roof of the cruiser, forearm braced overhead, eyes roaming the empty road like this is just another stop on a long shift. His night, his town, his rules.
He lets out another sigh, then flicks something out from the pocket of his camos.
Neon-green, flashy and embarrassingly juvenile. He takes a long pull from it, the LED flaring bright. Your nose crinkles when he bends back down, blowing a thick cloud of aggressively fruity vapor right into your space.
He’s close now.
Close enough that the heat of him bleeds through the night air. Close enough you can count the scatter of moles up his neck, notice a faint scar on the underside of his jaw.
His stare is smug and unblinking, steady in a way that’s practiced.
For guys like him, a look is never just a look.
It’s a test.
Sizing people up is how he survives. To see who flinches, who folds first. Chin tipped up so his eyes aren’t level with yours, so you’re forced to look up at him while he peers down over the bridge of his nose.
You hold his gaze.
Longer than most people would dare, you can tell. It’s the faint twitch of irritation in his eyes that gives him away. All that swagger, all that posturing—nothing but a kid playing dress-up. A puppy barking at its own shadow.
But just when you think you’ve won, he moves.
Slowly, deliberately, edging in through the car door until he’s pressed uncomfortably close, his nose hovering a hair’s width from yours.
His hooded gaze slides down to your lips.
Your breath hitches in a soft, traitorous inhale.
Instinctively, you look away first.
That’s when he smirks, slipping past you like nothing happened at all. His arm cuts across your body as he reaches for the seatbelt, pulling it snug over your chest.
His knuckles brush deliberately against your cleavage on the way. Fucker.
“Buckle up, princess,” he smirks, flicking your tiara with one finger. “Gonna be a long night.”
...
He doesn’t actually take you to the station.
The paperwork would take hours, it’s the end of his shift, and he sure as shit isn’t explaining to the guys why he had to arrest you. He just drives around the neighborhood for a bit, ignoring your incessant questions, letting the silence stretch long enough to make you nervous. Figures he’ll take you home after a while, maybe try and get your number if you’re not glaring daggers at him by the end of the night (you did say he was hot, right?).
“Yo,” he says eventually, tapping the wheel, glancing at the rearview. “Princess, where ’bouts do you liv—”
You’re snoring.
Cheek smushed against the window, mouth open. The tiara has given up and slid onto the floor.
vaporwave
ellievsbear
pixelskylines
jbbartram-illu
dailybridgerton
gummygunk
dededos
2087
annaxmalina
yousharknotpass
