junebug ! 19 djo. sabrina carpenter. ethel cain. baking. i forgive it all as it comes back to me fangirl to my core. chocolate. oldest sister. yearner to my core.
“seriously, em, it’s like i’ve got bigfoot in between my legs.” you complained to your friend over the phone. “it wasn’t like this was dalton. my stomach’s way too big to get all up in there, and there’s no way i’m not getting rid of it before i give birth.”
“why don’t you ask gemma?” she hummed. “she’d get it.”
“anniversary.” you grumbled. “italy.”
“ooh nice.”
“not nice!” you said louder than necessary. “i can’t even get on a two hour plane because they’ll think i’ll pop mid air. and now i don’t think they’ll let me on because they’ll think i’m harboring a bear in between my legs.”
emily cackled. “why don’t you ask joe? he wouldn’t mind.”
“ask me what?”
you jumped. “how do you walk so… silently?”
he shrugged, popping dalton’s left over strawberries in his mouth. he waved to the screen. “hi emily.”
she waved back. “hi joe.”
“what were you two talking about?”
your mouth opened and closed. you turned to look at your screen for some help from emily only to find out she had hung up.
traitor.
“i’ve… i’ve grown a bush.” you said quietly.
“mm, i know.” he nodded. “i love it.”
your face turned red. “joe!”
“what! i’m being honest!”
you attempted to cross your arms over your chest, but failed given the planet that is your stomach.
“so what? you two were just talking about your bush?”
“i need it gone.”
his jaw dropped. “you’re getting rid of it?”
“well don’t seem so disappointed!”
“i am!”
you pushed his arm playfully. “it needs to go. can you help? can’t reach.”
“can i help? baby, i’m the designated barber back home. i cut my friends hair for a living.”
you scrunched your nose up and tilted your head. “that can’t be right.”
“let’s go give you a trim.” he stood up abruptly, offering you his hand.
“bald, joe. i want to be glistening. not a single hair left behind. you’ve got to get in between everything. okay?”
he placed his hand on your lower back, guiding you. “i’ll part you like the red sea, baby, don’t worry.”
you turned to look at him only to find him being oh so serious. you burst out in laughter, leaning on him for support.
“how did you even think of that!”
“i’m a natural.” he shrugged, a grin tugging on his lips.
“remind me to tell em later, oh god, joe.” you wiped your wet eyelashes with the back of your index finger. you sighed, recomposing yourself. you put a hand on your stomach and waddled to the bathroom.
“part me like the red sea.” you muttered to yourself, shaking your head ever so slightly. “genius.”
that day, joe walked around with his chest puffed up in pride; he made a woman too pregnant to find anything amusing cry from laughter.
you have nooooo idea how many times i went back to reread your old fics ughhhhh they were just toooooo good !!!! ive been counting down the days til you comeback im sososososoooo happy to hear from u mll
angst angst angst! reader gets injured pretty bad in the upside down on a crawl maybe, blacks out or something dramatic, boyfriend!steve is beside himself with worry. hes pictured their whole lives together, he cant lose her, he cant, he cant. eventually they get to safety, happy ending? thanks love!
જ⁀➴ crawl gone wrong
steve harrington x reader
holy shit i hate this so much 😭😭😭 but idk how much longer i can hold back on you guys 💔 hopefully i get back into writing ASAPPPP
steve felt his heart stop when he saw you go limp in his arms.
the crawl wasn’t supposed to end this way—with you bleeding out in his arms. you were supposed to go in and out unscathed like the dozens of times before.
a demogorgon wasn’t supposed to jump out of nowhere and practically shred your abdomen.
steve wasn’t supposed to see any blood bubbling out of your body. he wasn’t supposed to hear your breathing come to a stop. he wasn’t supposed to feel your heartbeat wither.
none of this was supposed to happen.
you two were supposed to flee hawkins the second the lockdown was over. you two were supposed to travel the world and have kids. you were supposed to settle down in a small town near the countryside and have a huge farm. acres and acres of land.
steve could imagine a life without the farm and the kids, but a life without you? that’s no life worth living.
he pressed his index and middle finger to your neck, right above your pulse. weak, but present.
he let out a relieved breath. “come on, sweetheart. can’t leave me yet.”
he shrugged off his jacket and wrapped it around your torso before picking you back up.
he cut the crawl short and made his way back to the right side up. his every step carried a heavy weight. your life was in his hands, and if he lost it simply because he wasn’t fast enough—
“no.” he shook his head. “stay with me, baby, we’re almost there.”
he pressed his fingers to your pulse once more and it was… stronger? he wasn’t sure if it was his mind playing tricks on him or if there was some sort of miracle, but he really was not complaining. in fact, it only drove him more determined to get back the squawk.
you were not to die in the upside down.
the second he stepped foot into the familiar building and his found family gaped at the damage that had been done to you, his lip trembled and he stood frozen in place.
he became hyperaware of your blood leaking through his jacket, leaving red splotches across the blue denim. he became hyperaware of the dullness that overtook your skin, and the color fading from your lips.
hopper—sprained ankle and all—took three long strides and took you out of steve’s arms.
steve still remained frozen in place, his hands and shirt drenched in your blood. his hands were still outstretched. he looked down and saw how red they were and his stomach turned.
robin placed a hand on his shoulder and guided him to the bathroom. she turned on the sink and pumped soap into his hands.
he turned to look at her, eyes wide and teary. “if she dies—”
she cut him off. “don’t say that.”
“i’m not gonna be able to do it.” he shook his head. “i can’t do this without her. robin, she’s everything—”
“i know. i know that. hop’s got her.” her throat bobbed. “she’s gonna be fine.”
“if i was paying more attention—”
“you can’t do this to yourself, steve.” she said firmly, tugging off the hoodie she was wearing.
she placed her hands on the hem of his shirt. “up.”
she didn’t make any comments or scrunch her face up in disgust at his chest hair—she wasn’t even thinking about that this time around. she tossed the bloodied shirt in the trash and tugged her hoodie over his head.
good thing she was wearing one of her oversized hoodies.
“listen to me.” she grabbed his jaw and forced him to look at her. “you’re gonna go out there and sit next to her. you’re gonna be there when she wakes up, okay? you’re gonna be the first face she sees.”
he nodded wordlessly, eyes still oh so wide.
“and i’m gonna be next to you the entire time.” she added. “come on.”
he found you laying on the couch while hopper tended to your wounds.
his throat bobbed. robin gave him a slight push and his feet took him to stand in front of you.
“sit, don’t hover.” hopper gruffed.
steve immediately brought himself to the floor, hand holding yours.
his eyes were flooded with a mix of worry and tears. he sniffled and hopper sent him a brief glance. “she’ll be fine, kid.”
“really?” he wiped his eye with the back of his hand.
hopper glanced and steve and his own throat bobbed. this wasn’t the former jock he got noise complaints about at least once a week—no, this was a much more vulnerable version. a version of him he last saw when steve was only a kid and frequently called the police station in fear of a break in when his parents were away.
hoppers eyes softened for half a second. “yeah.”
you didn’t wake up after hopper bandaged you up, nor soon after that.
it seemed as though a permanent frown has made its way onto steve’s face. all he could do was give your hand a squeeze every now and then and exhale shakily.
whenever anyone tries to check in on him he simply wouldn’t respond—or, he wouldn’t even hear them to begin with.
he was only snapped out of his trance when eleven placed her hand on his shoulder.
his head snapped to the right, and, upon seeing her, his face softened.
she gave him a soft smile. “hi.”
he turned back to face you, his thumb going over your knuckles in the way you like. “hey.”
“she will be okay.” el said firmly.
“i—how do you know that?” he sighed. “i thought she was a goner, el, you didn’t see her down there—”
“i did.” she cut him off. “i saw it.”
“you-you did?” steve blinked.
eleven nodded and steve’s eyes welled up again for the millionth time. “you saw how bad it was. i mean, her heart gave out on me, el.” he ran a frustrated hand through his face. “fucks sake, i can’t stop feeling how weak her heartbeat was i can’t-i don’t know what i’d do if it happened again, and i mean she lost a lot of blood—”
“i will bring her heartbeat back again.” eleven reassured. “i can’t see her die too.”
steve’s eyes widened and his lips slightly parted. “you did that?”
steve, with his hands and jeans stained with your blood, with his face covered in all sorts of upside down grime, pulled eleven in for the tightest hug she’s ever received. “thank you.”
“i love her too, steve.” she murmured against his ear. only then did he hear the wobble in her voice, and he immediately felt so foolish for not checking up on her sooner. she viewed you as the older sister she never had and seeing you almost die for something she practically brought to life—
“she’s going to wake up soon, i feel it.”
you did not wake up soon. hopper took el back home before you could wake up.
steve fell asleep sitting on the floor, hand holding yours, and his head on your thigh.
when you stirred, he awoke. he brushed your hair back until your eyes peeled open. you let out a pained gasp and his hand dropped to cup your face.
when you spoke, your voice was scratchy and weak. “steve?”
“hey,” he smiled softly. “damn thing got you good, huh?”
“i’m-i’m okay?” you questioned.
he nodded. “hop patched you up.”
“steve, i thought…” you trailed off, shaking your head.
he wiped away a tear you hadn’t known had fell with the pad of his thumb. “doesn’t matter what we thought. you’re here now.”
he watched as a frown made its way onto your face. he couldn’t help but smile. he knew what kind of frown that was. it was your angry frown. the one you got before you cursed someone’s bloodline. “i’m not going down to that shithole again, steve, i swear.”
“no you won’t.” even though it was said through a chuckle, you knew he was being dead serious. “can’t do this bullshit without you.”
you gave him a weak grin. “what—the crawls? i’m sure hop isn’t a bad—”
“life.” he corrected.
“lucky for you i’m not going anywhere.”
and suddenly, the farm with the six kids came back into view. he saw the aching backs and the cracky knees and the gray hairs. he saw it all, and he wasn’t going to let it slip through his fingers ever again.
could u request perhaps a steve x reader fic (hurt comfort) where reader and steve get into an argument prior to a crawl and hes being a little stubborn and avoiding reader but finds out from walkie or another person that shes badly hurt and won’t wake up?
happy ending please 🙏🙏 i know this doesnt fit the timeline of your henderson! reader but i don’t mind it being a standalone one shot :)
Just to keep you satisfied
Pairing: Steve Harrington x fem!reader
⟡ Main Index | ⟡ Archive for Earth-0424
a/n: Suggestions are open for anything, not just Henderson!reader! The fact that my only two ST fics happen to feature that is purely a coincidence, so no worries!
Classification and content warnings: Angst and fluff | Avoidant attachment tendencies, injury, emotional distress related to relationships
Word count: 3,3k
Divider by me ;)
You lived in absolutes, in extremities sharpened by probabilities where every outcome measured against loss, grief and love.
Love most of all.
You had never been optimistic about it. The second something became important enough to lose, your mind immediately began preparing for the damage, so when you and Steve happened, when whatever existed between you stopped being casual and started surviving things that should have destroyed it, your thoughts turned vicious toward yourself.
You questioned every moment of it, every stretch of peace, explaining it away with the town, with trauma and proximity, with the fact that Hawkins had a way of welding people together under pressure until they could not tell the difference between dependence and devotion.
You told yourself it was because you had never seen love done right. Every example you had ever known seemed to rot eventually, becoming bitter, painful or cruel once it settled long enough to harden into permanence. From where you stood, love ruined people, it hollowed them out and left them recognizable only in pieces. You had built your entire life around avoiding that fate, around never needing anyone enough for them to destroy you if they left.
Hyper independence had become religion to you and Steve fought against that without even trying.
The longer your relationship lasted, the more unbearable that realization became since it survived everything thrown at it. Near death, bloodshed, monsters, fear and nights where either of you could have disappeared into the dark and never come back. It stayed standing anyway, stubborn, warm and terrifyingly steady but as long as it stayed exactly what it was, you could breathe through it. As long as nobody touched it, labeled it or pushed it toward something bigger, you could pretend you were still in control but the second the water shifted beneath the boat, the second the future became something tangible instead of implied, bile climbed your throat because the Upside Down had been constant too.
You had spent the entire afternoon preparing for the crawl. Weapons spread across tables, maps pinned down under impatient hands, everyone talking over each other inside the Squawk while tension sat thick in the room like smoke. This time you were going with Hopper. Nobody argued with the choice because every crawl into the Upside Down made the odds worse, every mission sharpening that ugly, unavoidable thought sitting in the back of everybody’s mind.
What if this was the one somebody did not come back from?
By the time the sun began sinking low enough to stain the fields gold and copper, you and Steve slipped outside together, escaping the suffocating planning and worried glances for a little while. The air smelled like dirt and drying grass, warm from the heat of the day but cooling quickly as evening settled over Hawkins.
You watched Steve walk a few steps ahead of you through the field before jogging lightly to catch up. “You think this is it?” you asked.
He glanced over at you, slowing his pace. “That you find Vecna tonight?”
You nodded once.
“The sooner we do,” he said carefully, “the sooner everything goes back to normal.” A grin tugged faintly at his mouth then, teasing something softer into his voice. “We’ll go back to our boring lives…You might actually have to get serious about getting a job.”
You let out a quiet laugh through your nose. “Don’t even know what I’d do with all that safety and time.” Your eyes drifted across the endless stretch of fields around you, the sunset catching along the horizon in bruised shades of orange and pink. “I barely remember what Hawkins was like before all this. Might actually get really boring.”
“We don’t have to stay here,” he said.
There was something careful hidden underneath the words, something almost restrained.
You looked at him sideways. “So what? We escape in one of those shitty getaway cars with the cans dragging behind it and a ‘just married’ sign taped to the back?”
Your tone stayed light, joking but Steve’s expression changed in a way that made your stomach immediately tighten.
He looked at you too long and then he sighed, so quiet you almost missed it but there was relief in it somehow, relief at finally standing near the thing he had clearly been carrying around for a long time.
The look on his face hit you like cold water. He looked hopeful…hopelessly in love.
Your body reacted before your thoughts did. You took a step back instinctively as Steve shook his head gently, almost like he thought moving too fast would scare you off.
“No,” you breathed, pulse beginning to pound hard enough to make your chest ache. Your stomach dropped violently as his stare remained unchanged. “N-no,” you repeated, softer this time, shaking your head.
“You can’t deny something that’s already yours.”
The words landed hard, making your throat tighten. You backed away again while he moved forward slowly, carefully, like approaching something wounded.
You pointed toward the ground between you both as if he had physically contaminated the space with it, with futures, promises and permanence, with things that never lasted for anybody around you no matter how badly they wanted them to.
“You picked a fucked up moment, Steven.”
“We need to make sense of this before you go down there,” he insisted, voice roughening around the edges. God, he was practically begging now. “We’ve had three good years,” he said as he stepped closer again, eyes fixed on yours as if he could hold you there through sheer will alone. “And it’s time we call it what it is.”
You kept shaking your head before you even realized you were doing it, the word ‘no’ falling from your mouth over and over while your feet kept carrying you backward through the field.
“I love you and I have for a long time and you need to hear it.” His voice trembled through the confession even while every word stayed painfully clear, intention unwavering despite the fear cracking underneath it. “I’ve tried to show you and you wouldn’t let me, which is fine, but before you go, before whatever happens down there is out of our hands, I need you to give me an answer because I just can’t…” He stopped for a second, swallowing hard enough for you to see it in his throat. “I can’t keep going like this.”
“Steve, please don’t,” you begged quietly.
But he kept going anyway, because this had clearly been clawing at him for too long to stop now.
“I learned what you couldn’t take and I stopped doing it.” His eyes stayed fixed on yours desperately, trying to hold you still long enough to finally understand him. “And I’m happy I did. It’s fine. And I waited, and I never complained because I...” He broke off suddenly, his expression twisting as his eyes glossed over. “You know, I figured you’d love me.”
The words hit you harder than anything else had.
You kept shaking your head softly, almost unconsciously, hoping he would see the panic written all over your face and stop before either of you said something irreversible.
Instead his voice got louder, never yelling but definitely fuller now, wounded and spilling out too fast to pull back. He looked away from you for the first time, gaze drifting across the field as if he could not bear watching your reaction anymore. It was obvious he was making this part up as he went along, fumbling through raw honesty without a plan, just like the two of you had stumbled through the relationship itself.
“And I realize maybe I messed up somewhere,” he said roughly. “Maybe I fucked the timing completely. Maybe I’m not this changed man everybody keeps saying I am...”
“No,” you cut in, stepping toward him to make him finally look back at you. “Yes, you are.”
Your voice cracked with urgency because none of this changed the fact that he deserved it. He deserved someone capable of holding what he offered without trembling underneath the weight of it.
“You’ve grown into an amazing man,” you said, forcing the words through the tightness in your throat. “Too good for me, and I’m grateful for all of these years and I’m so proud of you.” Emotion climbed too fast into your chest, choking the next sentence apart as soon as it left your mouth. “But I just...” You inhaled shakily. “This isn’t something I know how to keep. I don’t know why.” You shook your head harder, frustrated tears beginning to blur your vision.
“You can’t?” he echoed quietly, brows pulling together.
“No,” you breathed. Then you blinked quickly and kept talking before he could interrupt again, before you lost the nerve to keep hurting him.
“You should be with someone who can actually handle normal life when this is over. Someone who doesn’t flinch every time they’re shown affection and actually knows what to do with it.” Your voice shook despite how hard you tried to steady it. “I’m awkward, and I don’t even understand why we didn’t go wrong already when I’ve been proven over and over again that I ruin things. And I won’t drag you with me past this.” You motioned vaguely around you, toward Hawkins, toward the disaster your lives had become and the rot underneath everything.
“I love you, Y/n,” Steve said in the middle of your spiraling but hearing it again only made your panic sharpen.
“And we’d constantly fight over stupid shit like how I drive your car,” you continued breathlessly, motioning toward the distant shape of it sitting near the road. “We can’t help it even now.” You laughed once, hollow and humorless before your face crumpled again. “You’d end up hating how skeptical I am about everything, and I’d spend every day questioning what you could possibly see in me, and we’d become miserable, Steve. We’d wish we left it trapped here, down there with the demogorgons and all the rest of it, and everything would turn catastrophic.”
The silence afterward stretched painfully long. Only then did you realize Steve was no longer looking at you.
His eyes had dropped toward the ground, jaw tight like he was blaming the dirt beneath his feet, blaming the existence of the Upside Down itself for carving this fear into you so deeply that even love sounded like catastrophe.
“Anything else?” he asked finally. His voice was so quiet you barely heard him.
You bit the inside of your cheek until it hurt before shaking your head. “No. No, nothing else.”
“Alright.” He nodded once, firm and restrained, then turned back toward the Squawk.
The movement made your stomach plunge so violently it almost hurt. You reached for him instinctively. “Except that...”
Steve stopped and turned back toward you again, giving you a small nod to continue.
You froze for a second.
“Steve,” you started weakly, “I don’t think I’ll ever understand how to hold what you tried to give me. This...” You gestured helplessly between you both. “This is safer. Messing it up fatally won’t ruin me this way.”
“I think you’re wrong about that, Y/n,” he replied immediately, voice firm again despite how wrecked he looked.
“I don’t...”
“I think you will find a way,” he interrupted softly. “You’ll find somebody worth risking your heart for, and you’ll love them, and you’ll live and die for them because that’s your way.” His expression tightened painfully as he forced out the rest. “And you will.” He paused. “And I’ll watch.”
You stood there and watched Steve walk away from you while your own feet stayed rooted to the ground. Every instinct in your body screamed to stop him but wanting that and knowing how were two entirely different things and somewhere in the middle of your fear and selfishness you realized you had run out of words to justify yourself with. The reasoning that had always protected you suddenly sounded thin and desperate in your own head.
Still, you let him go.
You kept your eyes lowered when you walked back inside the Squawk, forcing yourself into focus as everybody geared up around you. You concentrated on the plan, on weapons, on timing and routes. You promised Hopper you were fine, focused and ready to go, which were the same lies that had carried you straight toward your own ruin.
You were reckless during the crawl, in small terrible ways that added up fast.
You made decisions that sent adrenaline crashing through your body every few minutes just so you could feel something other than the hollow ache Steve had left behind. It all blurred together quickly after that, dark tunnels of vines, spores and rotting air while demogorgons chased close enough behind you to hear their shrieks echoing against the trees.
You had done this a thousand times before and that was probably the problem.
Your weapon slipped from your grasp while you were running and instead of leaving it behind, instead of following Hopper toward safety like you were supposed to, you slowed down.
You turned back and tried to outsmart it, tried to buy Hopper more time to get ahead…and failed.
The hit came hard and fast, the force of it throwing you violently backward into the trunk of a tree. Pain exploded through your skull the second your head cracked against the bark. Through blurred, tear-filled vision you barely managed to see Hopper firing wildly, injuring the creature enough to force it retreating into the dark.
After that, consciousness came and went in fragments. You felt hands dragging you, voices yelling your name, blood running warm down the side of your face and the suffocating smell of the Upside Down clinging to your lungs.
When you finally forced your eyes open again, you were inside a house you did not recognize, laid out in some dim ruined room overtaken by thick crawling vines spreading across the walls and ceiling.
Hopper’s voice echoed loudly through the haze wrapped around your head as consciousness slowly dragged itself back into place. Your vision swam in and out of focus while you blinked at the ceiling above you, vines twisting across it like veins and watched him pace hurriedly through the room with a walkie talkie clutched tightly in his hand.
He had called in the accident the second you were dragged back to safety.
Steve, reckless in the exact way Steve always was when it came to you, had not hesitated for even a second after hearing Hopper’s voice break over the radio. He had driven straight through the newly opened gate with Nancy, Jonathan and Dustin, tracking a wounded demogorgon deeper into the Upside Down in hopes it would lead them to you. The more Hopper explained what happened, the harder Steve pressed down on the gas pedal, panic swallowing every other thought in his head until even your rejection disappeared beneath the need to reach you.
Now all of them were somewhere out there searching blindly while communication crackled in and out around the interference poisoning the air.
“Steve?” you called weakly, your voice scraping painfully against your throat as you tried pushing yourself upright. The second you moved, agony split through your skull.
Hopper immediately dropped the walkie onto the nearby table and rushed toward you.
“Hey, kiddo, hey.” His hands carefully steadied your shoulders before you could sit fully upright. “Lay back down. You hit your head pretty bad.”
Your fingers instinctively rose toward the throbbing ache near your temple. When you pulled your hand back down, blood stained your fingertips dark.
“It stopped bleeding,” Hopper assured quickly when your breathing shifted unevenly. “But you need to stay down. Help’s coming.”
He guided you gently back against the mattress and this time you let him. Your entire body felt weak and heavy, exhaustion pressing into your bones while pain pulsed behind your eyes.
“I messed up,” you rasped.
Hopper shook his head immediately, even though both of you knew you had. You had broken formation, abandoned the plan and nearly gotten yourself killed. Still, his expression softened instead of hardening.
“We don’t gotta talk about it right now.”
“With Steve,” you corrected shakily, tears burning at the corners of your eyes. “I was too quick turning him down.”
Hopper blinked slowly before exhaling through his nose and lowering himself into the chair beside the bed.
Truthfully, he had guessed as much the second you and Steve walked back into the Squawk earlier that evening. The both of you had looked devastated in entirely different ways and Hopper knew heartbreak well enough to recognize it immediately. He understood now why Steve had seemed ready to tear the world apart before driving into the Upside Down after hearing your name over the radio. Hopper had spent years watching the two of you orbit each other helplessly, stuck in that miserable gray area between fear and devotion, too close to walk away but too terrified to call it what it was.
“Do you love him?” Hopper asked quietly.
You blinked toward the ceiling for a second before answering.
“If he asked me again,” you whispered, swallowing around the knot tightening painfully in your throat, “I think I’d say ‘yes’.” Your eyes finally moved toward Hopper’s. “Do you think he’ll ask me again?”
“But do you love him?” he repeated, firmer this time.
The question settled heavily in your chest. You gave a small nod against the pillow despite the way it made your head pulse violently. Tears slipped freely down your face now, warm against your skin.
“I just don’t want him seeing parts of me he can’t fix,” you admitted brokenly.
Hopper’s expression changed, something deeply understanding moving through his eyes.
Before he could answer, noise erupted from downstairs followed by multiple footsteps and raised voices. Then Steve’s voice cut through everything else as he called your name with enough panic behind it to make your entire body tense.
Hopper watched you react, watched the way your expression changed before you could stop it.
“Upstairs!” Hopper shouted back before slowly standing from the chair. His eyes stayed on you as Steve’s footsteps thundered through the house. “Steve’s a big boy…let him decide that for himself,” Hopper said softly.
Steve appeared in the doorway. His chest heaved violently from exertion, hair damp with sweat and sticking messily to his forehead while his wide frantic eyes landed on you almost painfully fast. Relief and terror crashed across his face so openly it made your chest ache.
He crossed the room. “Oh, my sweet girl,” he breathed.
Steve dropped beside the bed, one hand carefully cradling the side of your head while the other moved shakily over your arms and shoulders like he needed physical proof you were still there. His eyes scanned every visible injury at once, muttering frantically under his breath about getting you out, getting you to a hospital and figuring something out.
“What if you don’t like what you see?” you interrupted weakly, your trembling voice finally pulling his attention fully back to your face.
Steve’s eyes lifted to yours instantly and somehow, in that moment, it felt like he already understood every single thing you meant, like he had seen all the ugly parts already and stayed anyway.
His hand slid slowly to your cheek, thumb brushing carefully over your trembling lower lip while his breathing gradually steadied, his heartbeat finding an entirely different rhythm now that he knew you were alive.
“How deep am I allowed to look?” he asked quietly.
A sob broke from your chest. “As deep as it goes.”
Something in Steve’s expression softened completely before he leaned down carefully and kissed you, deep and warm and maybe a little desperate in a way that felt like breathing after nearly drowning, oxygen finally forcing its way back into your lungs to keep you alive through the pain, the fear and through every doubt that had ever convinced you love would ruin you before it could save you.
a/n: If you enjoyed this, consider saving the archive. More stories are coming, and requests are always welcome! Likes, reblogs and comments help others find my work and mean more to me than you know. Thank you so much for reading 💛
summary: when something happens to your apartment and you need a place to stay, steve, your best friend, is quick to provide it for you. your prolonged proximity forces you both to realize some things.
word count: 13.6k
warnings: childhood bffs to lovers, absolute idiots in love, mentions of a negative relationship with parents, probably inaccurate descriptions of some things but it’s (say it with me) for the plot!!!
a/n: i know it’s been a LONG time since i’ve posted a long fic so thank u guys for ur patience <3 i had so much fun getting back to it and writing these two, and i hope it’s at least a little bit worth the wait!!! ily :,)
𝜗𝜚
Your shoes are still wet as you dial the first number that comes to mind: Steve’s.
He picks up on the third ring. “Hello?”
“Hey, Steve.”
“Hi,” you can imagine him on the other side of the phone, leaning casually against the wall, an easy smile on his face, “what’s going on?”
You’re not quite sure where to start.
Coming home from work earlier, you’d been excited to shower and change and lay around for the rest of the evening, your book hanging open in your lap and some mindless TV filling the silence.
The day seemed to have other plans for you, though, because as you walked down the stairs to your apartment—one in the basement of a sweet, older couple’s house who just never used the space and converted it—the carpet had made an ugly squelch as soon as you stepped on it.
You looked down at your shoe against the carpet, at the way its color was darker than usual from whatever water had gotten into it. Looking up, you found a complete mess. A piece of the ceiling hanging open right above your bed, water still dripping in steady drops from the gap, your bedding ruined among many other things.
You don’t know how long you stood there, hand over your mouth, eyes flickering over the damage like you were hoping it would vanish, like it was only something you imagined.
Unfortunately, it wasn’t.
The couple who owns the house came down when they heard you shout for them, unsure of what else to do. They’d both gasped when they came down, and began apologizing for something that really wasn’t their fault before one ran up to call whoever it was they needed to call to fix this and the other comforted you with a gentle “we’ll take care of it, sweetie.”
You nodded, eyes still roaming your space that was now uninhabitable.
It’s an old house, something was bound to happen at some point, you only wished it wasn’t so inconvenient for you. A small leak, you could have handled, but the ceiling practically caving in?
Yeah, it was a complete fucking mess.
Hours later, with the damage assessed and set to take a few weeks to fix up, you’re on the phone with the one person you’d known would pick up.
You fill Steve in on what happened, and his first response is a sigh of, “Shit.”
“Yeah, shit,” you agree. “And now I’m gonna have to live with my parents for a while and I don’t know how I’m gonna go back into that house, Steve.”
If you’re being honest, the couple you live with now was kinder to you than your parents were. You suppose that’s one of the many things that you and Steve have bonded over.
“Just come live with me, instead,” he offers without hesitation.
Steve says it like it’s obvious, a no-brainer, and you guess it should be, since you’ve slept over at the Harrington’s house countless times before. Only, this is different because you’d be staying for a while, because you’d be needing his help, which makes you feel all awkward and guilty.
He’s been your absolute best friend for as long as you can remember, and you’re one hundred percent sure you’d offer the same thing if the roles were reversed, but that doesn’t make it any easier for you to accept, not when you’re already frazzled from the events of the day.
“No, Steve, I’m sorry I’m just being dramatic,” you say, twisting the phone’s cord around your finger. “I’ll be fine, really. It’s just a month, or so, and I don’t wanna be in your way or-”
“When have you ever cared about being in my way, angel?” The pet name he’s called you ever since your ninth grade Halloween party slips out naturally, the way it always does. “Besides, this house is too fucking big for me as it is, and you know my parents won’t be around to care, either.”
“I can’t ask you to let me move in, Steve.”
“Well then, it’s a good thing you’re not asking. I’m offering. It’ll be like that one week when we were twelve and you stayed over for spring break, only longer. It’s perfect!”
There’s a small smile ghosting across your face as you recall the memory he’s talking about. A blanket fort in their spacious living room, sleeping bags and pillows piled inside it along with two flashlights.
You can picture the way he looks on the other end of the phone, his hair a bit messy from running his hands through it during the day, one strand rogue against his forehead, his shoulder leaned carelessly against the wall the way it usually is when he stands. Like he can’t be bothered to hold himself up, like there’s constantly a weight on him.
“Are you sure about this, Steve? It’s really okay if you’re not. I swear I’ll be fine.”
“As if I’m letting you spend multiple weeks back in your parent’s house. You’re staying with me, alright?” His voice is insistent, yet kind, letting you know that he’s being honest, that he means it. “We’ll order pizzas and watch shitty romcoms, ‘kay?”
“You can call romcoms shitty all you want, but we both know you get teary at every single one.”
“Don't change the subject, angel. Also, fuck off,” he says, though you can hear the smile in his voice. “So, you’re living with me, yeah?”
You don’t think you could say no to him even if you wanted to.
“Yeah, alright, Steve. Thank you so much.”
“None of that. I know you’d do the same.”
There’s something beautiful about the kind of trust and ease that comes with a friendship as long as yours. One where you’ve watched each other grow up, awkward phases and all, and stuck together the entire way. There’s no questioning whether or not you’d be there for each other if you were in need.
It’s known, felt. Like a fact.
“Now,” he continues, “I’ll pick you up, okay? Ten minutes, tops.”
“Okay.”
“You need me to bring boxes for your stuff?”
“I’m not sure how much is worth keeping. It’s pretty ugly in there.”
Your voice goes small at the end, because the gravity of it all is really sinking in. You’ll have to replace a lot of stuff. Stuff you don’t have money for right now.
But, you haven’t let yourself cry just yet, so you swallow it down.
“I’ll bring some anyway, then. We’ll figure it out, angel, don’t worry.”
“Thanks again, Steve. See you soon.”
“Ten minutes,” he assures you, then the line clicks.
-
True to his word, Steve arrives in under ten minutes, which isn’t surprising considering the size of Hawkins, but feels reassuring all the same.
You’re sitting on the curb in front of the house when Steve’s BMW pulls over on the other side of the road, and you stand just as he climbs out and shuts his door, rounding the car and jogging over to you.
His keys jingle as he tucks them into the pocket of his faded jeans, his opposite hand coming up to squeeze your shoulder, “You okay?”
The warmth of his palm seeps through your work shirt that you’ve yet to change out of, and you let your eyes fall shut just for a second before looking at his face, “Guess so,” you nod. “Maybe ask me again after all of this?”
Steve’s arm winds itself over your shoulders, tugging you into his side and dropping a kiss to the top of your head, simple as an instinct. “I’ve got you. We’ll get through this, angel.”
We’ll, he says. A team.
You reach up and squeeze his hand and nod, guiding him to the side-entrance leading to your basement apartment.
“I hope you didn’t wear your good shoes for this,” you say.
Steve looks down at his feet and shrugs, “Shoes can be replaced.”
He lets you lead the way down the stairs, his footsteps close behind yours. You wince when you look at the damage again, even though you’d seen it minutes ago. You can't bring yourself to look at Steve, to see the reaction on his face, because you think it’ll just make it all more real.
He mouths the word ‘fuck’ while you aren’t looking, then claps his hands once. “Okay, let’s figure out what we can save, yeah? Where do you want me?”
You’re grateful for his gentle guidance at what to do. “Maybe the bathroom? Everything in there should be fine, so it just needs to be packed.”
“‘Kay. I’ll just go grab some boxes from my car,” Steve says. He squeezes your hand once before heading up the stairs. “I’ll be right back.”
You decide to tackle the worst spot first. Though the place is more like a studio, the side that houses your bed and your closet is the most affected, so you head over there and try to tune out the squish of the carpet beneath your feet.
You’re opening the sliding doors to your closet when Steve comes back, dropping a stack of boxes by your feet and running his hand down your arm softly before heading over to the bathroom to pack for you.
Even his presence seems to be making things a little bit easier for you, and each time he finds a small way to touch you or speak to you, to remind you that he’s there, you’re glad for it.
Half of your closet is a gross, wet mess, but some things are salvageable, which you take as a win. Things might be damp, but at least it’s only water, you suppose. A cycle in the dryer and most things will be wearable again.
Your dresses that are hung get the worst of it, soaked and smelly, and you decide that it’d be easier to get a couple new ones than to try and save what’s there.
Steve checks in every now and then, poking his head out of the bathroom’s doorway to look at you and make sure you’re doing alright, giving you a thumbs up when you look over to him.
You’re not sure how you’d be managing this if you were alone, and you’re thankful that you don’t have to.
The next time he checks on you, you’re by your nightstand.
Sitting atop of it is a framed picture of you and Steve from summer camp when you were around ten years old, maybe younger. Only now, the picture’s stained with water and the frame you’d decorated all those years ago at camp is a splotchy mess.
Where yours and Steve’s handwriting used to be, is now a blur from the water seeping into the wooden frame, the marker’s colors muddy. You frown, picking it up and running your thumb over the edge.
Before you can stop yourself, you’re tearing up, frustrated and sad and tired. Memories like this one are the most special to you, the ones that have kept you going for so long, and just like that, the picture that’s sat on your nightstand since being taken is gone, and it fucking sucks.
“Hey, angel?” Steve calls.
When all you do is sniffle and mumble an “mhm?” in response, he sets the box he’d been packing on the bathroom counter and walks over to you.
He comes up behind you, resting his hands on your upper-arms and peering over your shoulder at the ruined picture.
“It was my favorite one,” you say, voice breaking a little. You wipe your tear away as it trails down your cheek, your own fingertips too harsh against your skin.
Although it’s soaked and splotchy now, Steve knows which picture it is. The one where you’ve both got your neon summer camp t-shirts on, the one where his cheeks and nose are completely sunburnt and you’re both grinning up at the camera from your seats on the ground.
Steve’s clutching a stick in his hand for some reason, and you’ve got your fist tangled in the sleeve of his shirt.
It feels like no time and forever has passed since then.
Steve grabs the picture and pries it gently from your hands, setting it back onto the table and turning you around in his grip to face him.
“We can fix it,” he tells you, his brown eyes all soft as his hands come up to cup your face, thumbs swiping your tears away.
“But the frame-”
“We’ll fix it, angel. I’ll find a way, okay? We can pack it in one of the boxes and figure it out.”
“Steve-”
“Look at me,” he urges you when your gaze flickers to the ground. You listen. “This fucking sucks, I know it does, but you’re strong and I’m here, and we can handle this.”
His voice is quiet, but sure. You search his face for any trace of a lie and find none. He really believes what he’s saying, and he really believes in you.
“Thank you for being here.” You take a deep breath and drop your forehead against the collar of his shirt. “I’m sorry for crying. I know it’s kinda stupid. Most of this is replaceable, it’s just-”
“It’s not stupid,” he says, letting his chin rest atop your head. “You’re allowed to cry. Hell, I’d probably be kicking and screaming on the floor like I'm back in the terrible twos.”
You laugh wetly into his shirt.
“Now,” he says, pulling back and putting his hands on his hips, “the quicker we pack, the quicker we go home. I’ll even let you wear a pair of my good fuzzy socks.”
A smile tugs at your mouth. “Deal.”
-
Steve wouldn’t let you do much of the work after that.
Instead, he simply held up items for you to assess from where you’d been leaning against the wall and packed it into a box if it was a ‘yes,’ or tossing it aside dramatically just to try and get you to laugh if it was a ‘no.’
Once things were sorted through and packed, you loaded everything into Steve’s car—which wasn’t a whole bunch, considering how much you had to leave behind.
You’d refused to let Steve carry the boxes all on his own, though he tried, but he still managed to open the doors for you whenever you made it to his car, even when his own hands were full, too.
By the time you were finished, you were drained. It felt like you’d lived multiple days in the one. An eight hour shift opening at the store, then coming home to a wrecked apartment. All you wanted to do was shower and lay down and not get back up.
Steve knows you well enough to be able to tell when it’s time to fill the silence and when it isn’t, and on the drive back to his place, while your head was leaned against his window, he knew to stay quiet and give you a bit of space.
He turned the radio on, but not too loud, letting the songs hum through the speakers. At every stop sign, he reached over and gave your thigh a light squeeze. Reassuring, kind, somehow exactly what you needed at the moment. Nothing more, nothing less.
You were no stranger to the Harrington’s house, having been there countless times since you were little, but it feels more intimidating now, knowing you’ll be staying. You feel silly for being worried, but you are. Asking for help makes you feel like a burden.
Steve, however, doesn’t let you entertain that thought for long, parking in his driveway and jogging around to open the passenger door for you. “Honey, we’re home!”
“Dork,” you say, though you accept his hand and let him tug you up out of the car.
Grabbing the first couple of boxes, Steve leads you inside and upstairs, right to the guest room across the hall from his own bedroom. The closest one to him.
The house has at least two guest rooms, though you suppose with how little Steve's parents are around, you could consider there to be three. Three spare rooms and Steve puts you up in the nearest one possible. It makes your heart squish in your chest, how caring he is. He doesn’t even have to try, really, the goodness in him shows even when he tries to keep it hidden.
It only takes a few trips down to his car and back before all of your boxes are stacked against the wall. You decide you’ll deal with them later.
Steve runs over to his room and grabs a set of pajamas that you’d left there, and hands them to you. “I figured you’d wanna wash up.”
“You calling me smelly, Harrington?”
“Shut up, I think you smell nice. Usually.”
“Hey!”
“I’m teasing, angel.” He ruffles your hair. You swat his hand away. “You know where the bathroom is, and there should be soap and stuff in the shower already. Just yell if you need something, okay?”
You do know where the bathroom is. You have your own toothbrush in a cup by the sink, a set of travel-sized skin care products in the cupboard behind the mirror for whenever you end up staying over.
It’s funny, you’ve always felt more at home here than at your own parents house, and though he hasn’t said it to you, Steve much prefers this house when you’re in it. There’s a warmth that comes with your presence that makes him ache when it’s not around.
You nod, “Thank you again for letting me stay, Steve. I won’t be in the way, promise.”
“I want you in the way. You know you’re always welcome. This is no different.” He shrugs, “Plus, it’ll be nice having you around. Place always feels so empty when it’s just me.”
“Maybe I’ll just stay forever, then,” you say, tone light and joking.
Steve, completely serious, says, “I’d let you.”
There’s a zip that goes through you when he says it, quick as lightning, something you’ve never felt—or noticed, rather—around him. It throws you off just a little.
“Anyways,” Steve cuts your thoughts short, “I’ll let you get settled. Pizza will be waiting for you when you’re done.”
He leaves the room before you can thank him again, his footsteps retreating and heading downstairs.
You’ve been to his house a million times, so you don’t really feel the need to ‘get settled’ but you desperately need a shower so that’s where you go.
You stay in for longer than you need to, letting the too-hot water run down your neck and back.
When you finally do step out of the bathroom, now clad in your pajamas, and head downstairs, Steve’s sitting on the couch in the living room, the romcoms he owns sitting out in front of the TV for you to choose from, your favorite blanket resting on your side of the couch, and pizza boxes on the coffee table just as promised.
It’s the best thing in the world, you think, to have a friend like Steve.
-
You’ve been staying at Steve’s for a couple of days already, and time seems to fly by a little quicker when you’re there, especially when you’re around him.
He’s taken it upon himself to have coffee ready in the pot for you every morning, one of your favorite mugs already next to it on the counter. You’ve cooked breakfasts together (pancakes one day, where you’d done most of the work, or something simple as toast when you both have to get to work), ordered dinners, and Steve comes home from his shifts with a new movie to watch almost every day.
It’s been so nice. Almost perfect, actually.
This morning, the first day where your shifts happen to be at the exact same time, he’d even insisted on driving you to work. It was an easy yes, considering it wasn’t out of his way at all.
After a short stint of working together at the grocery store in ninth grade, and your subsequent firing from the job after a month of constantly distracting each other on the clock, Tim, the grocery manager, took it upon himself to warn Hawkins not to hire the both of you together.
Eventually, you’d taken the closest you could get which resulted in you working at the arcade and Steve next door at Family Video.
You share a parking lot. Steve already drives you to work most days. You like to put up a bit of a fight just to annoy him.
Though you haven’t worked together in years, and he isn’t far away by any means, you miss having Steve around on days like this. Where the arcade is quiet save for the sounds of the games in the background, where you’re simply babysitting the desk and cleaning things multiple times to try and make the hours pass by.
If Steve were with you, he’d make stupid jokes that you don’t wanna laugh at but do, or coerce you into playing the games while on the clock with the change you find whenever you’re cleaning.
He’d probably trash talk you, and bump your hip with his while playing pinball, and be a sore loser, and for some reason you want him around so bad.
You chalk it up to getting used to spending hours and hours with him, every single day, these past couple of days. Staying with him has made you miss him more, you think.
That’s it.
Meanwhile, over at Family Video, Steve isn’t feeling too different from you.
He’s spent the morning stocking shelves, memories popping into his head whenever he’d come across a movie you loved or watched together, while Robin’s been manning the desk.
Then, when his cart was empty and put back into the back room, he sat on the chair behind the front desk, spinning around until Robin stopped him with her foot and asked what he was thinking so hard about.
Steve caught her up on what had happened with your apartment (you’d told him he could tell her, because she’s your friend too and would find out sooner or later) and how you’d ended up staying with him in his house.
She raised her eyebrows and hummed in a way that was automatically suspicious, because Robin isn’t very good at hiding things.
“What?” Steve asks.
“Nothing.” When Steve only gives her a pointed look, Robin continues, “Well… are you sure that’s a good idea?”
Now, Robin is one of Steve’s closest friends, and him one of hers, and she supports him in pretty much everything that he does even when she teases him relentlessly along the way, but she cares about both of you and doesn’t want to see anyone hurt.
She can read Steve better than he can read himself, probably, because to Robin, it’s clear that he feels more than friendly towards you. And he doesn’t even know it.
When they became closer, it was clear to Robin, even before meeting you, just from the way Steve spoke of you, that there was a spot reserved for you in his life that couldn’t be filled by anyone else.
He would say it’s that of ‘best friend’ but Robin would call it something even bigger than that. Still, even though she thinks he’s an absolute dingus, she’s trying to let Steve figure it out for himself.
Clearly, it’s taking fucking forever.
He looks confused at her question, “Why wouldn’t it be a good idea?”
Robin sighs and resists the urge to drop her forehead against the desk and decides on, “You know what they say: become friends with your roommates, don’t become roommates with your friends.”
“Whoever they are, they’re dumb as shit,” Steve says. “She’s been over, slept over, hundreds of times. It’s not any different, just longer.”
“I guess so,” she settles on. “The rules of the world never really seem to apply to you two.”
“That’s because the rules of the world are also dumb as shit.”
“How would you know? It’s not like you’ve ever tried following them.”
“‘Cause I’m a rule breaker, Robs.”
Steve wiggles his eyebrows. Robin shoves the rolling chair he’s sitting on with her foot, sending it into the other side of the desk with a thud.
“Don’t think that smoking weed in your backyard is enough to call yourself a rule breaker, dingus.”
-
That night, your routine was pretty much the same.
Steve was already waiting for you in his car when you left the arcade, a smile spreading onto his face when he saw you making your way across the parking lot to him, your skirt swishing a little with the breeze.
Rather than go straight home, you made a stop at your apartment to talk things over with the couple who owned the home. They’d met with a builder and plumber about getting everything fixed and wanted to walk you through it all.
Steve came with you and held your hand, and both of them cooed at him and pinched his cheeks and called him a cutie before getting to the important stuff.
After going over what had to be done (rip out the carpet, replace it, fix the pipes and make sure no others were at risk, replace the ceiling, and more you couldn’t even remember already), they’d assured you that they would be taking care of it all. Covering the entire cost.
You probably would’ve argued if not for how little money was in your bank account, and how stubborn you knew these people to be. Instead, you’d squeezed them both and thanked them while your eyes grew misty with tears.
Steve’s hand stayed in yours and squeezed when you sniffled.
He knew, because he knew pretty much everything about you, that these people were kinder to you than even your own parents. That, if this had happened at their house, they would’ve found a way to blame you for it.
You feel lucky to have found that kind of parental love elsewhere, sad that you didn’t know exactly what it felt like beforehand.
After giving the couple Steve’s phone number to call in case they needed you and giving them both another hug, you and Steve headed back home.
Home, you call it. Like it’s yours.
Sometimes it feels like it is.
Later, after you and Steve have both showered and had dinner and gotten comfy in your sweats, you’re back in the living room, Steve shows you the movie he’s brought back this time.
“Gremlins?” You ask, smiling and shaking your head.
“Hell yeah, angel. It’s a classic.”
Steve sets everything up, joining you on the couch after pressing ‘play’ on the movie and adjusting the volume with your guidance.
“So, how was work?” Steve asks during the opening credits. The two of you have a hard time being next to each other and not talking. It’s why you get dirty looks whenever you go to the movies.
“Weekdays are so boring, Steve,” you say, letting your head fall against the back of the couch. “You’re so lucky you have Robin to entertain you during the day. I think I dusted like, ten times at least.”
“Robin is a pain in my ass.” He says. He doesn’t really mean it, because even when she is, he’s glad to have her around. A different kind of gladness than he feels with you. “She kept pushing me every time I sat in the rolling chair. There’s probably a dent in the desk.”
“That’s because you were probably hogging the chair, Steve.”
“What the fuck!” Steve’s smiling when he says it, lacking any sort of anger. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”
Your smile mirrors his, the way it always does. It’s contagious, you think, the way his eyes crinkle at the corner.
Shrugging, you say, “I don’t know, I’d wanna push you around on that chair too, I think.”
“You’d spin me too much. I’d get sick all over you and then nobody’s happy.”
“Don’t talk about barf while I’m eating, Harrington.”
You throw a piece of popcorn at him. It bounces off his cheek and lands on his lap, and he doesn’t even flinch. Steve just picks it up and pops it into his mouth.
When the bowl’s empty, you lean forward and set it on the coffee table before sinking back into the couch, Steve's shoulder brushing yours. You let the warmth seep through your clothes and shut your eyes.
It’s a little more than halfway through the movie when Steve realizes you’re asleep. You’d been quiet, sure, but Steve only thought that meant you were paying attention to the movie.
That was, until your head slipped and rested against his shoulder.
He looked down at you, at the hair falling across your forehead (he smoothed it away gently, so it wouldn’t be in your eyes or your mouth), your eyebrows relaxed and free of any worry, your chest rising and falling with steady breaths.
He thinks of how tired you must be, after everything. Your apartment and dealing with the aftermath both emotionally and physically, working long shifts most days to keep your bank account full.
Steve, though he doesn’t let himself look too deep into it, also thinks of how beautiful you are. Now and always.
Not wanting you to get a kink in your neck from the position, Steve decides to rouse you from sleep as gently as possible. He slips a hand under your head to keep it steady and maneuvers himself to kneel in front of you.
“Hey, angel,” he almost whispers, thumb dragging across your cheek. “C’mon, let’s get you to bed.”
Your nose scrunches and you grumble, but after some coaxing, you blink your eyes open and squint at Steve. You blame your half-asleep mind on the way you nuzzle into his palm. “Hmm?”
“You fell asleep.”
“Oh, sorry,” you mumble.
Steve laughs softly. “Don’t be sorry, I just didn’t want you to be uncomfortable.”
The warmth of his hand leaves your cheek as he stands and holds his hands out for you to grab. He pulls you up off the couch and starts leading you towards the stairs.
You knuckle at your eyes on the way, a tiny smile gracing your face at how sweet Steve’s being. As if you haven’t fallen asleep on his couch plenty of times before.
Still sleepy, you stumble a little on the stairs, but Steve catches you easily with an arm around your waist and a small “Careful.”
He leaves his arm there the rest of the way to what’s become your bedroom, guiding you over to the bed and lifting the covers for you.
Tomorrow, you’ll regret not brushing your teeth or washing your face before climbing in bed. But today, you don’t feel like risking not being able to sleep again if you wake yourself up further.
You’re practically asleep again by the time you’re settled with your head on the pillow as Steve tugs the blankets over you.
You’re just awake enough to feel the light press of his lips on your forehead and a soft “Goodnight, angel” against your skin before he leaves the room and shuts the door behind him.
-
On a random Thursday that you and Steve both have off, he convinces you to let him take you to the mall.
“We should go shopping,” he says when you walk into the kitchen. It’s a little later in the morning, having slept in since it’s a day off, the sun slipping through the window in warm beams.
You raise your eyebrows at him. “Like, groceries?”
“No, like shopping shopping. You know, the mall?”
You lean against the kitchen island, the countertop cool on your back where it touches the sliver of skin between your tank top and sleep shorts. Steve has his shoulder against the fridge, his arms crossed over his chest, the sleeves of his t-shirt tight against his muscles. Not that you’re looking.
You squint at him, trying to find his motive on his face. “You literally buy whatever the mannequins are wearing to avoid shopping.”
“That’s what they’re there for!” The sass in his voice has you biting back a smile. “You need new clothes,” he continues, “and I need to get out of this house.”
“We can do something else, Steve,” you say. “I thought you hated shopping.”
“Well, I don’t hate you.” There’s a pause, Steve’s eyes lowering to that sliver of skin above your shorts. He flicks them back to your face quickly, hoping you didn’t notice, because even he’s not sure what compelled his eyes to wander. “Plus, Eddie called me a hermit the other day and I really can’t stand for that, can I?”
“Ohhh,” you ignore the way your skin suddenly feels warm beneath his gaze, “so you need to make a public appearance to prove Eddie wrong?”
“Exactly. We’ll replace some of the things you lost and restore my reputation. Two birds, one stone, right angel?”
So that’s how you’d ended up at the mall. After Starcourt burnt down, the closest place was a couple towns over, and Steve (as always) offered to drive.
He lets you pick the music the entire way, sings along when you hold your water bottle by his mouth like a microphone, even attempts to harmonize with you which just ends in laughter because neither of you sounded that great.
You’re a couple of stores in, and Steve’s been complaint-free so far—which makes sense, since this was his idea, but you’ve caught him side-eyeing some things, so you know he’s got some remarks in his head he just hasn’t said out loud—and follows you around as you browse. You try not to take too long, because you can’t imagine that this is any fun for him.
“How about that one?” Steve asks, pointing at one of the dresses hanging along the store’s wall.
He’d seen your apartment, though that was a bit ago, and he remembered what you’d lost the most of, along with the type of stuff you like. He pays attention like that, in small, quiet ways that you think mean the most.
He knows you. He cares enough to know you.
“Yeah, that’s really pretty, actually,” you admit.
At your approval, Steve grabs one in your size (which he also just happens to know) and adds it to the couple of things he’d already been holding for you. Every time you picked something up, he was quick to snatch it from you, telling you it was ‘too hard to browse with your hands full.’
After making your way through the rest of the store, you decided to head back to try things on, holding out a hand for the stuff Steve’s holding. “You can wait out here, I’ll be quick.”
“Hold on,” he says, holding the hangers out of your reach. “Why do you think I’m here, angel? I wanna help you pick.”
“Seriously?”
“Yes, seriously. Give me a fashion show, yeah?”
“Oh my God,” you mumble, letting him follow you to the fitting rooms.
They’re hidden behind the back wall of the store, a hallway painted bright blue with pink changeroom doors on one side, and white benches along the other.
“Hi there,” an employee with auburn hair greets you both, her smile wide and kind, though you know it’s a practiced one. Customer service smile. “How many you got there, darling?”
“Oh, um,” you turn back towards Steve, who’s counting the hangers in his hand. “Five.”
“Perfect!” The girl takes the key hanging around her neck and unlocks one of the rooms for you. She takes the clothes from Steve and hangs them up inside for you, then turns to the two of you and says, “Your man can have a seat right here. We call them the ‘boyfriend benches.’”
“He’s not my-”
“Thanks,” Steve says, cutting off your correction because for some reason he didn’t want you to correct her.
Did he… like the idea of being your boyfriend?
Fuck. No. He just didn’t want you to have to explain the whole situation in your rambly way. That’s all.
The redhead smiles again, “Holler if you need anything,” she says before walking off.
You stand there for a second, something like confusion on your face. Did it look like you were boyfriend and girlfriend?
“Come on,” Steve says, snapping the both of you out of whatever that was. “Show me what you’ve got.”
“I can't believe you’re making me do this,” you say, walking into the fitting room and shutting the door.
You try on a couple of sweaters first, and Steve feels the fabric both times, making sure that it’s not scratchy on your skin. Then, there’s just some basic t-shirts that aren’t all that exciting, but Steve says they look nice anyway.
Finally, you get to the dress he picked out.
It really was pretty. A midi-length with a ruffled hem and straps that tie into little bows on your shoulders. You don’t always feel good in your clothes. Sometimes you wish you could crawl out of your skin when you look into the mirror, but right now, you don’t hate what you see.
You actually like it.
“Well?” Steve calls softly from the bench.
In response, you open the door and step out so he can see you.
Steve’s seen you in plenty of dresses—hell, you went to prom together—but for some reason this one makes his heart beat just a little bit quicker. Maybe it’s simply the fact that it looks great on you, or the way you’re smiling shyly as he looks you over.
Or, maybe it’s because he’s the one who picked it.
He stands up, spinning his finger in the air in a gesture for you to twirl. You roll your eyes but do it anyway, and he can’t take his eyes off of you. The hallway of fitting rooms isn’t very big, so with both of you in it, you’re standing toe to toe, the gold flecks in the middle of Steve’s eyes and the faint freckles that dot his nose are visible from where you stand.
As if he can’t help it, Steve lifts a finger and dips it beneath the strap on your shoulder. Not moving it or undoing it, just gliding along your skin where it sits.
“You look beautiful,” he says. His voice goes all quiet and soft when he says it, and his eyes widen a tiny bit, like he hadn’t meant it to slip out that way. It sounded… more than friendly. He clears his throat and steps back as much as he can in the small space, his finger leaving your skin. “I have great taste. Clearly.”
You blink at him, then shake yourself out of it as much as you can. “Yeah. Don’t let it get to your head.” You lift the tag where it hangs by your armpit and look at the price. You gasp and swat Steve’s arm. “Steve! Why would you let me walk into a place so expensive?”
You probably should’ve looked at the tag beforehand, but here you are. Steve, shrugging exaggeratedly, says, “I didn’t know!”
“Okay, I’m gonna change before she comes back. We can make a run for it.”
“We’re not stealing.”
“I know, but they look at you all judgemental when you try stuff on and don’t buy something. Trust me.”
You turn and go back into the fitting room to put on your own clothes, taking a look at the dress in the mirror one last time before shaking your head at yourself.
Steve, however, takes the opportunity to leave you and head back out into the store. He finds the dress easily and grabs another one in your size from the rack and heads to the cashier.
He’s just finishing up, bag in hand, when you walk out and meet him at the front of the store.
“For you,” he says, holding out the bag for you to take.
“Steve…” You grab it and look inside. Your chest aches when you see the dress, your heart suddenly too full and your stomach fluttering stupidly. “You didn’t have to do that. I would’ve been fine with something from the Gap.”
“I know that,” he says, a hand lifting to scratch at the back of his neck. It’s a nervous tick of his, and the thought of him being nervous right now makes you melt even more. “I wanted to get it for you. You looked too pretty in it not to have it.”
Your eyes catch his, and again, something passes between you that you don’t think you’ve ever felt before. A fizzle, a spark.
You rock back on your feet, looking down at the ground before meeting his eyes again. They’re so fucking soft it makes you wonder how lucky you have to be to have him in your life. Being your best friend, driving you to work even when he doesn’t have a shift, offering you a place to stay, buying you a dress.
He’s the sweetest boy you’ve ever known.
“Well,” you twist the straps of the bag around your fingers just to keep them busy. “Thank you, Steve. This is really nice.”
His knuckle traces down your arm just once, featherlight. “You’re welcome, angel.”
You don’t buy anything else after that, instead stopping at the food court for fries, stealing from each other’s baskets, smiling and slapping hands away.
It’s the best day you’ve had in a while.
-
You don’t think anything you do will convey just how grateful you are that Steve has been so kind to you. Always, but especially now. Letting you stay with him and refusing to let you pay rent. (“I don’t even pay rent, and I live here all the time.”)
But, this morning, you’ve decided you’re gonna try.
Steve’s favorite meal of the day happens to be breakfast, which is funny, considering he usually eats something as simple as cereal. He’d told you once that it was because, as a kid, breakfast was the most peaceful of meals, his parents too busy getting ready for work or wherever they were going that he’d have the kitchen table to himself.
Lunch was usually spent at school, and Steve was never a fan of school to begin with. Then there was dinner, which his parents (when they were home) still wanted to have all together. They’d ask him questions and make backhanded comments about every single answer he gave. He never won at dinner.
So, breakfast was, and has remained, his favorite.
You made sure to get up early enough to give yourself time to get everything ready before he wakes up. Steve’s usually the one making the coffee in the morning, and you figured the least you could do was give him a break.
Yesterday, while Steve had been at work, you went over to the Wheeler’s and asked Nancy if you could borrow their waffle maker. She’d directed the question to her mother, who went and grabbed it for you and handed it over with a smile. You promised to take good care of it and have it back in a couple of days.
By the time Steve walks into the kitchen, you’ve already made the batter and set out the toppings—berries, maple syrup, whipped cream—like a buffet. However, he just so happens to come in as you’re swearing at the waffle maker.
“Stupid fucking thing,” you mutter, trying to open it.
Steve smiles to himself before saying, “Morning, angel.”
You jump at his voice, not having heard him walk in. When you turn around, your heart beats for a different reason.
Steve’s still only in his pajama pants, plaid and soft, hanging low on his hips. And he’s shirtless, his chest smattered with hair and his skin a little tanned from the sun. He’s got beauty marks all over, like a constellation you could chart, and his abs are just visible beneath the soft of his stomach. A trail of hair leading to the waistband of his pants and disappearing beneath them.
You’ve seen Steve shirtless plenty of times. Swimming and sleeping over in the summer, in high school when you used to go to his practices, but it hits you harder for some reason this time.
The way his hair is still a mess from sleep, his eyes a bit heavy. The way it feels to be greeting him in the kitchen, cooking breakfast. Intimate. Domestic.
You clear your throat and turn back around to pry the waffle maker open, revealing a slightly burnt but otherwise good-looking waffle. “I’m making breakfast. Coffee’s already in the pot, too.”
He walks over, his chest close to your back as he grabs a mug from the cabinet above you before heading over to pour himself a cup. He looks at the spread you’ve prepared, “Waffles, huh? What did I do to deserve all this?”
“Just wanted to do something nice for you,” you say as Steve walks over to lean against the counter next to you, his hip barely touching yours. “To thank you, in a way. For letting me stay and the dress and-”
“How many times do I have to tell you to stop thanking me?” He says, though his voice is soft and still a bit rough from sleep. “I like having you around.”
“So you don’t want the waffles then?”
“Oh, I want the waffles. I just don’t want you to feel like you have to do anything for me. It’s not some debt you’ll owe me, angel.”
“Want you to know I appreciate you is all,” you say, pouring a new scoop of batter into the waffle maker.
Steve, unsure of what exactly possesses him to do so, dips in and presses a kiss to the apple of your cheek, his lips a whisper away from your skin when he says, “I appreciate you, too.”
Then he pulls away and moves to set the table. Like it was natural.
And it was, in a way. How you moved around each other in the kitchen. You leaning out of the way when he needed to reach something you were blocking, him putting a hand on your lower back when he walked behind you so you knew he was there.
Your cheek still tingles from where he’d kissed it when you bring the plate of waffles to the table, your skin somehow even warmer under his gaze, like he’s still remembering exactly how it felt, too.
You sit in the chair beside Steve, not noticing the way he tugs it a bit closer to him with his foot before you sit down. Soon enough, both of you are digging in. Steve’s got more whipped cream on his plate than waffle (you tell him as much) and you’ve got your berries on the side the way you always do.
Neither of you work until later in the day, and it’s nice knowing that you can take your time. Steve tells you about the advice he gave Dustin about how to be ‘cooler’ in school (he’d told him that being cool is completely overrated, he knew from experience, and that being himself is the most important). You’d told him he was going soft with age.
You talk about anything at all. How Keith somehow manages both of your places of work, how he also somehow does both terribly. The way he says ‘if you have time to lean, you have time to clean’ while literally having Cheeto dust on his fingers. Laughing at each other’s impressions of him.
What the new highscores were at the arcade, what people were renting from Family Video.
You wonder what it’ll be like when you have to leave. When you’re living alone again.
Logically, you know you’ll still see Steve frequently, because he’s your favorite person and you can’t remember the last time you went longer than a few days without hanging out. Still, it’ll be different than right now, waking up in the same space and sharing breakfast and brushing your teeth side by side in the mirror.
You’ll miss it, you think.
Trying not to dwell on something that’s still a few weeks away, you take another bite of your waffle. Steve catches your chin and wipes off a bit of whipped cream from the corner of your mouth, then pulling away and sucking it off his thumb.
He goes back to his own plate without a thought. Like touching you just now was an instinct.
Then, he teases you, “These are a little crispy, angel. Maybe you should stick to letting me make breakfast in this household.”
You kick his leg under the table. “That’s a funny way of saying ‘thank you,’ Harrington.”
He kicks you back, much gentler than you’d been. “Thank you.”
“That’s what I thought.”
When you look at him, there’s an easy, boyish smile on his face.
A similar one stretches across your own lips.
-
Steve has had the thought pop up into his head a couple of times, that maybe he should’ve just asked you to live with him before you ever bought that apartment. Because having you around feels the most right things have ever felt in his house.
And though the circumstances of your moving in with him (temporarily, he has to remind himself), were far from ideal, he can’t lie and say that he isn’t glad that you’ve ended up sharing his space.
The room across the hall will always be yours, even when you move back to your place.
He knows that you feel indebted to him for all of it, but if anyone owes the other something, he feels like it’s him. For everything you’ve ever done for him. Sticking around even when he was an asshole in highschool, defending him to his parents whenever you’d cross paths, simply being the kind of friend he needed.
Even when you’re not around, he can picture your face, the way your smile spreads slowly until you’re fucking beaming. Worse, the way you cried into his chest that day at your apartment.
He remembers the crack in your voice when you spoke about that picture frame from summer camp. Though he hasn’t seen you cry since, or even bring it up, he’s decided he wants to fix it. He’d told you he would.
Dustin wound up roped into his plan: find a similar frame, decorate it the exact same way, and scour the photo albums in Steve’s room for his copy of that same picture.
When he was younger, the photo albums pissed him off, because they were purely for show. Pictures of his family that were all fake smiles. Now, he’s glad for them, because at least he has some good memories to look back on. To know it wasn’t always all bad.
Steve probably should’ve thought that one through, because when they looked through his albums, he was on the receiving end of relentless teasing from Dustin. (“Dude, you have an insane boogie in this picture.” “I was four!”)
He hopes it’ll be worth it.
Dustin was the one who found the picture they’d been looking for, and he cheered and waved it in Steve’s face as if they’d been racing.
Now, after driving Dustin back home, decorating the frame the way the two of you did as kids, trying to make his handwriting look like it did back then (which wasn’t too difficult, ‘cause Steve’s writing still isn’t that neat), he’s waiting for you to come downstairs before giving it to you.
He’d picked you up after your shift at the arcade not too long ago, but he knows you like to shower and change as soon as you get home from work, so he’d taken the opportunity to wrap the frame and have it ready for you.
Steve can hear you singing in the shower, and he knows you’re done when it goes quiet. A few minutes later you’re walking down the stairs in a baggy t-shirt and silky sleep shorts.
His eyes, for some reason, linger on your legs for a second.
He stands up, frame in his hand, when you walk over. “I have something for you.”
“Steve! Stop buying me things. Seriously.”
“This thing was free, so you can’t even be mad,” he says, smiling almost sheepishly.
Your eyes search his face, flickering between his own and dipping down to his lips and his nose and back to his eyes. He looks… nervous.
Steve’s never nervous around you.
“Okay,” you say, shuffling on your feet. “What is it?”
“Here,” he hands you the poorly-wrapped frame. “Open it.”
You scrunch your brows at him once, because you have no idea what it could be. It isn’t your birthday, or any sort of holiday at all. With zero guesses, you look down at the light yellow wrapping paper in your hands and slowly tear it open.
What you find makes your eyes grow misty, tears pooling at your lash line but not quite falling.
It’s your favorite picture, the one of you and Steve in those stupid neon shirts with messy hair and dirt on your hands. Only now, it’s not water damaged, and the frame is new, but decorated just like the old one. You run your thumbs over the glass lightly, smiling down at little you and little Steve.
When you look back up at him, he’s already looking at you, his brown eyes all warm, his smile kind but also worried, waiting for your reaction.
Seeing his face springs you into motion, jumping forward and wrapping your arms around his neck tightly with the frame still in your hand. “Thank you,” you say into his skin.
Steve’s arms move to hold you around your waist without a thought. A reflex. They squeeze you close to him, his nose pressed into your damp hair, smelling your shampoo.
“It’s not perfect,” he says. “But I know how much you love that picture, and I wanted to fix it.”
“Steve. Shut up. It is perfect.”
“I’m glad you think so,” he says, his thumbs running back and forth against your back.
You hug for what could’ve been minutes, but neither of you moves to pull away first. You’re not sure if it’s still considered friendly to stand in each other's arms, breathing each other in, for so long, but you don’t care at the moment.
This is probably the nicest thing anyone’s done for you in a long, long time.
When you finally do pull away, you don’t go far. Your arms stay slung over his shoulders, Steve’s hands framing your hips. His thumbs still dragging those sweet patterns against you.
“I’m keeping it forever,” you tell him.
“You sure?” he asks.
“Certain. You’ll always be my best friend, Steve.”
“You’ll always be mine too, angel.”
Then, your eyes both move to each other’s lips, yours flick back up in a second, startled at their wandering.
Steve, however, is a bit transfixed. He looks at the slope of your cupid’s bow, the way your lips are shiny from your lip balm. He thinks it quickly, like a gust of wind that can’t be stopped: I really wanna kiss her right now.
Fuck. He wants to kiss his best friend.
He blinks a few times, clearing his throat and pulling back, letting his hands fall from your waist as yours slide off his shoulders. He misses the feel of your touch immediately, but he’s too freaked out and confused to do anything about it.
“What are you in the mood for tonight?” he asks, cutting off his own thoughts. “I brought back a horror and a comedy. Take your pick.”
“Mmm,” he picks up two tapes from the coffee table and holds them up for you to choose from. “Horror. Unless you’re too scared?”
“You’ll just have to hold my hand, then, won’t you?”
“I guess I will.”
You look back at the picture while Steve puts the movie into the player. You smile at it every time you see it, because you can still see parts of Steve in him now that were in him then.
His eyes, always kind, the way he smiles when he laughs, and about a half hour into the movie, the way he holds your hand and squeezes it when he’s scared.
-
You’re having one of those nights. The kind where sleep seems to be fighting you.
You worked a closing shift at the arcade, which usually lasts until late considering how long you’re open plus all of the cleaning you have to do afterwards. Today was no different, and despite how much later you finish than him at Family Video, Steve waited and drove you home. He hung out in the arcade with you until close, actually.
You’d think that after such a long day, the second your head hit the pillow you’d be out and breathing steadily. Today, that is not the case. You fell asleep for maybe an hour before a nightmare woke you up. You can’t quite remember what happened, only that you’d been yelling for Steve and he wasn’t there.
Groaning quietly, you rub your eyes and toss the blankets away. You stand up and head down to the kitchen in the dark, hand trailing along the walls to make sure you don’t bump into anything.
Just as you’re pouring yourself a glass of water, you hear the shuffle of sleepy footsteps coming into the kitchen.
“Holy shit,” he says, walking over to grab a glass, one hand on his bare chest. “I thought you were a ghost or something just now.”
You shift out of the way to let him get some water just like you did, taking the second that he’s distracted to look at him. His hair a mess, wearing nothing but his boxers. You take a big sip from your glass.
“I feel like I should be offended right now,” you say, “if you think I look like a ghost.”
“Shut up,” he says, dragging out the second word. His voice being rough from sleep makes his words sound much warmer than they are. “My eyes aren’t awake yet. Nothing to do with you, angel.”
You shake your head, though there’s a soft smile on your face the way there always seems to be when you try to be annoyed with Steve. You tilt your head at him, asking, “Couldn’t sleep?”
He shakes his head. “Been tossing and turning. Just can’t get comfortable, then I got pissed ‘cause I couldn’t get comfortable and only made it worse.”
“You would get pissed at that. Probably slapped your pillow like it was at fault.”
He folds his lips inwards and blinks at you. Because he did smack his pillow and call it a dipshit. “Why do you know everything? Spying on me?”
“Hate to say it, but you’re getting predictable, Harrington.” You shrug, then move to put your now empty glass in the dishwasher. “I know you too well.”
He looks at you, your hair falling across your shoulders, your pajama shorts riding up a little as you bend down. The moonlight slipping through the window seems to hit you perfectly. Like a halo.
Fitting, he thinks. You’re his angel, after all.
“Yeah, you do,” he agrees. Then, “What about you? Why’re you up?”
“Nightmare. Been forever since I had one.”
“You okay?” he asks, trailing a knuckle over your shoulder, pushing your hair behind it.
“Yeah,” you say, skin tingling where he’d touched you. “I can't even remember most of it, but now my brain won’t let me sleep.”
Steve wishes he could’ve protected you from whatever haunted you in your sleep. It’s silly, he knows, to think he might be able to ward away anything that hurts you, but he wants to, nonetheless.
He thinks about how comfortable he is whenever you cuddle during movie night. Your head on his shoulder or his chest, his hand on your back or waist.
So, he blurts, “Why don’t you sleep over?”
You furrow your brows at him, “Um, I’ve been sleeping over. A couple of weeks now, actually.”
“No, I mean, like in my room with me,” he says, suddenly shy at the idea. He’s grateful for the darkness, because he can feel his cheeks warming up. “A proper sleepover.”
You’ve done it before. Shared a bed a bunch of times, but for some reason your heart jumps when he says it. Your stomach swirls as you say, maybe a little too quickly, “Okay.”
Steve’s eyes widen like he’s surprised, just for a split second, before a soft smile takes over his face. He holds out a hand for you to take, “C’mon.”
Soon enough, Steve’s lifting his navy bedspread for you, letting you slip into bed next to him. He stays further away at first, letting you settle and lay on your side the way he knows you always do.
You blame sleepiness—or, maybe, the lack thereof—for the way you reach behind you for his arm and tug him closer, draping it over your own waist.
He obliges, of course, his arm securing itself across your stomach, palm spread out and warm against your sleep shirt. His chest is only a breath away from your back, though he keeps his lower half a little more distanced.
His thumb runs circles over your shirt, once, twice, three times before stilling, his forehead pressing to the back of your neck.
“Goodnight, angel,” he says into your hair.
Your hand splays itself on top of his. “Night, Steve.”
And suddenly your eyes grow heavier, and sleep doesn’t feel like much of a battle anymore.
-
You wake up the most rested you’ve felt in a while. There’s warmth surrounding you, but not the uncomfortable kind. The kind that feels safe.
Somehow, you and Steve are even closer than you’d been when you fell asleep. His arm is still around your waist, his other outstretched and tucked beneath your head like a pillow. His chest is flush to your back, and you can feel it expand with every breath he takes.
Most differently of all, however, is the way his hips are snug against the curve of your butt. And you can feel him hard against you.
Your skin feels even warmer than before when you notice.
Steve hasn’t woken up yet, you don’t think, because the faintest snores are getting puffed out against your shoulder where his face is tucked. His hand on your stomach has worked its way beneath your shirt, though, and his fingertips press against your skin, like he’s fighting to keep you close.
As if you’d go anywhere even in your sleep.
His knee is tucked between your legs, and you’re quickly realizing that it’d be pretty impossible to get out of bed without him noticing. You’re completely tangled together, a knot of limbs somehow fitting together just right. Like two puzzle pieces.
In his sleep, Steve’s mouth presses against the back of your shoulder, and only when you involuntarily shiver at the contact, does he stir.
It takes Steve a bit to really wake up, mumbling words that don’t make sense, scrunching his eyes shut even further before blinking them open. He’s met with the sight of you right in front of him. Body curved perfectly against his.
“Steve? You awake?” you ask, checking.
“Mhm,” he hums.
Then, something that has his cheeks flushing pink, he registers the feeling of his boner pressed against your ass. He shuffles them back enough so there’s space between you. “Fuck. Sorry.”
“It’s okay,” you say. Because he can’t control the way his body reacts while he’s asleep.
“I didn’t think-” he cuts himself off, because he’s not quite sure how to say I didn’t think about the whole morning wood factor or that I’d fucking plaster myself to you when I suggested a sleepover without sounding stupid. Instead, he just repeats, “I’m sorry.”
You twist yourself around to face him, sheets crumpling and twisting as you move. When you settle back onto the pillow and look at his face, at the redness on his cheeks and the tips of his ears, you squeeze his hand that’s now laying between you.
“I don’t want you to think I invited you to sleep in here for some pervy reason,” he says, scrunching his nose when he says it.
“I don’t think that at all,” you tell him. You squeeze his hand again. “We’ve shared a bed like, a hundred times by now. If anything I’m surprised this hasn’t happened already.”
“Oh my God,” he groans, shutting his eyes and pushing his face into the pillow.
“Steve,” you drag out his name, fighting a giggle at the way he’s acting. He’s got a reputation, after all, and how shy and embarrassed he seems to be doesn’t reflect the things you heard about him in high school. He’s changed a lot since then. “It’s seriously fine. We can pretend it never happened. Promise.”
Steve pulls his face from the pillow, eyes catching yours as his fingers squeeze yours back in appreciation. He lets his eyes wander a bit, at the messy bits of your hair around your face from sleeping, the marks in your cheek from the pillowcase, the way your sleep shirt has fallen off your shoulder.
He feels lucky to get to see you this way, right after you’ve woken up. Vulnerable, unguarded, beautiful.
It’s during this small stretch of silence that you realize how close your faces are now. You’re sharing a pillow, his nose not even an inch from yours. Shift forward the slightest bit, and they’d be touching. Your eyes trail down to his mouth, to the visible patch of chest hair and the freckles that dot his skin. He’s already looking right at you when your eyes flick back upwards.
You know Steve, could tell what he’s feeling just from the look on his face, but this is one you’ve never seen before. At least, not directed at you.
Steve moves first, his eyes a little darker than usual, shifting forward slightly, then looking at you. Daring you to make the next move.
“What if we didn’t forget about it?” he says. Quiet and scratchy.
You don’t have time to think before you move forward a bit, too. Your noses brush. “What would that mean?”
Steve doesn’t answer with words. Rather, he moves forward the final bit and brushes his lips against yours in a question mark of a kiss, giving you time to pull away.
You don’t.
Instead, the hand of yours that isn’t still holding his comes up to the back of his neck, gently encouraging him to do it again. His free hand tightens at your waist as he dips in a second time.
It isn’t as tentative now that you’ve urged him on. His lips meet yours more sure, more firm, but still soft against you. Neither of you cares one bit about morning breath, or about what this might change. As if the morning’s haze slows time, minds still a little sleepy.
You’re simply acting on instinct. And this feels too right to stop.
Soon enough it grows more heated, Steve shifting to hover over you, his elbows pushing into the mattress to hold himself up, his tongue sneaking out to lick against the seam of your lips for permission.
Just as you open up for him, the blaring sound of Steve's alarm cuts you off, pulling back with a gasp. He simply leans up on one arm and slams the snooze button—and you laugh, you laugh, at how hard he hits it—before diving back into you.
You feel hot all over, where one of Steve’s hands has moved to cup your jaw, his thumb running delicately against your face as his mouth moves against yours, practically devouring you. Where the blankets are still over your lower halves, trapping in heat. When he pulls back, looks into your eyes, fucking smiles all dopey and pretty, and then kisses you again.
It’s so good, you’re almost angry at yourself for not kissing him sooner.
You kiss until his alarm goes off again and Steve's forced to pry himself away from you, groaning about being on his ‘last tardy warning’ from Keith.
Still, he takes the time to kiss your forehead on his way out, Family Video vest slung over his shoulder, calling a sweet, “bye, angel,” on his way out. His hair’s still a mess from your fingers, and he doesn’t even seem to mind.
You stay in his bed longer than you probably should, blinking up at the ceiling, fingers pressed against your lips like you’re searching for physical proof that everything was real.
What the fuck just happened?
-
It’s been a couple of weeks, and Steve can’t stop thinking about that kiss. He doesn’t know it, but you can’t stop thinking about it either.
Neither of you have brought it up, and things have faded back to normal as if it had never happened. But you and Steve are both thinking the same things without knowing it. How good and natural and easy it felt, how, every now and then, you think about doing it again.
You talk and joke and watch movies and eat meals together the same way you always have, and it’d be so easy to stay that way, to never kiss again. But then, what if you could stay that way and kiss? Wouldn’t that be something close to perfect?
You lay awake thinking about it every few nights. Because, when you really reflect on your life and how intertwined it is with Steve’s, you realize that you’ve sort of always acted like a couple, minus the kissing and sex aspect. You go on what could easily be classified as dates—the movies, lunch or dinner—you cuddle on the couch almost nightly, and you’ve never shied away from physical touch with one another. Held hands, a palm on your back.
You haven’t brought it up with Steve because you haven’t even come to terms with it yourself. Feelings are so fucking confusing and messy and you’d like to have a better idea of what’s going on in your own head before asking him about his.
Meanwhile, Steve has allowed himself to come to terms with it. He’s in love with you.
He’s pretty sure he has been for a while. Months, maybe even years.
It hadn’t come easily, though. It was nights spent similarly to yours, running through interactions you’ve had and the way he felt that one time in senior year when you went on a date with some guy from your math class. Even then, a part of him felt wrong about it, that pit in his gut.
Then there were his shifts with Robin at Family Video where he’d practically spilled everything just to get her opinion. She looked up and sighed “thank you” before saying that it was nice of him to finally catch on.
Had he really been that obvious? All this time? And had he really been that oblivious to his own feelings?
Steve can’t answer those questions. He can’t say when his love for you changed from platonic to romantic, he just knows that it has and he doesn’t think he’ll ever come back from it.
You’re his best friend in the entire world, the prettiest girl he’s ever seen, and he can’t picture himself loving anyone but you so wholly.
He’s fucking terrified of losing you, but he’s also terrified of never telling you how he feels and testing that what if.
So, like a desperate idiot, he knocks on the door to Eddie’s trailer.
Eddie opens it after a minute and what sounded like him stubbing his toe, “oh, hey Harrington. More weed?”
“No, shut up. I need your help.”
“You,” Eddie points at Steve, then at himself, “need my help for something? Are you ill?”
“Okay,” Steve, dramatic and bitchy as usual, sighs and mutters something about this being a stupid idea and turns to leave.
“Come on,” Eddie laughs, “I’m just joking. What’s up?”
Soon enough, Steve’s sitting on Eddie’s couch, Eddie pacing in front of the coffee table like this is a very serious matter, and telling him pretty much everything. Your kiss, the train of thought it sparked.
“Basically I’m in love with her and I have no clue what to do,” Steve finishes, sinking back into the couch cushions. It squeaks as he shifts.
Eddie pauses, tugging at his bottom lip between his fingers, then looks at Steve and says, “You know I’ve never dated anyone in my life, right?”
Steve groans into his hands, “Why do all of my friends have to be losers with no dating lives.”
Eddie ignores that, because he can tell how affected Steve actually is by all of this. How much he cares. He walks over and sits down on the opposite end of the couch. “Have you ever thought of, I don’t know, telling her how you feel?”
Steve rests his elbows on his knees, leaning forward and letting his head hang for a moment before picking it up. “Of course I have, but I’m fuckin’ scared.”
“What’s the worst that could happen?”
“Um, she could reject me and not feel the same way and everything would be awkward because I ruined it and I’d lose my best friend in the entire world.”
“What if she does feel the same?” Eddie asks.
He’s both yours and Steve’s friend, he’s been around the both of you together. He’s seen the way you look at each other. Eddie might not be an expert, but it’s always looked a lot like love to him. He’s pretty sure the chances of you feeling the same are quite high.
“What do you mean?”
“What if she does feel the same and you never figure it out because you’re too afraid?” Eddie says. “Man, don’t you think that risk is worth taking?”
Steve thinks about it, and as much as he hates to admit it, Eddie’s right. He’d hate to always wonder, to lose out on the chance to really be with you when he knows it could be so good.
You are worth the risk to him.
“When the fuck did you become so wise, Munson?”
“Dunno,” Eddie shrugs. “Wanna smoke?”
Steve laughs, “Yes I do.”
-
With Steve gone at work and you off for the day, there’s been too much room for your thoughts to creep in. Too much silence.
You’ve already been thinking about things so much. Thinking about him so much, that in his absence, your mind seemed to work overtime to fill in the gaps.
You thought about the day he picked you up from your apartment, how quick he was to drop whatever he’d been doing and come over and help you and take you home with him. The day he took you shopping and bought you a dress because he thought you looked pretty in it, the way his fingers fiddled with the strap on your shoulder when you tried it on for him.
The day he gifted you a remade version of your favorite picture from summer camp because he knew how much it meant to you, the way you held on to each other afterwards.
How you’d been waiting for him to get home that night he went to Eddie’s, just to make sure he was okay. How when he came in, he smiled at the sight of you curled on the couch, and he kissed your cheek when he walked by like it was the easiest thing in the world.
Your brain knew he was high, you could smell the weed mingling with his cologne on his clothes when he leaned in close, but your heart didn’t care about that. It thumped in your chest the second he leaned in closer, even worse when his lips touched your cheek.
The realization hits you now like a shock, a quick zip of electricity running through your system. You fucking love him.
Sure, you’ve loved Steve practically your whole life, but this was different. You love him, love him. Like, you want to kiss him when he comes home from work and in the morning. You want him to introduce you as his girlfriend and to be able to call him your boyfriend.
You feel stupid for not realizing it sooner, because looking back on things now, knowing how you feel, you can see it written throughout your entire friendship. Holding hands and kissing foreheads and hands pushing hair away from faces.
For a second, you’re purely happy, because you get to be in love with your best friend and it feels as warm and sweet as sunlight. Then, the fear creeps in, and you’re scared. Scared of losing him, of making things weird, of change and doing the wrong thing.
So scared that you start to panic and pack up some of your things in your bag like you’re running away.
Truthfully, you’re not sure what else to do. You’ve never been in love before, you’ve never known it this way—so kind and unconditional. And your parents sure as hell didn’t set a good example for you. They’d fight, and someone would leave with the slam of a door, and then they’d be back and the cycle would continue.
You’re scared and confused and your instincts are telling you to run away even though the only place you really wanna be is with Steve. In his arms.
You’re stuffing clothes into your bag just to keep your hands busy, breathing hard and fast, when you hear the front door open and close. Steve’s quick to find you, his eyes scanning your room and then looking at you. “What are you doing?”
You feel like you might cry just looking at him. His brown eyes worried but warm as always, his hands stuffed into his pockets like he’s nervous.
“I thought you weren’t supposed to be home until later,” you say, hoping he can’t hear the shake in your voice.
“It was dead, so Keith let me off early. I-” Steve furrows his brows, “are you leaving?”
You nod. “I’ve been in your way long enough.”
“I told you, you’re never in my way.” Steve knows you, and he loves you, and he can tell that there’s something going on. That you’re panicked and trying to get away from whatever it is. He cares too much to let that happen. “I want you to stay.”
You want to stay, too. You just don’t know what comes next, and that unknown, the lack of control, of familiarity, it makes your hands shake.
Your mind doesn’t work the same when you’re afraid.
“Give me one good reason why I should stay, Steve. I’ve been taking up your space for weeks and-”
“Because I love you.” Steve cuts you off. He hadn’t planned on telling you this way, he wanted it to be romantic and perfect but he can’t wait any longer. Especially not when you’re trying to run away. “I’m in love with you. And I want you here.”
You immediately stop in your tracks, blinking up at him like you’re not sure you’d heard him correctly. “You- what?”
“I love you. Romantically. And I think I have for a really long time.”
“You’re not high again, are you?” You ask, your eyes a little misty.
Steve walks over to you and grabs both of your hands in his, making sure you’re looking at him, at the sincerity written all over his face, when he says, “Completely sober. I fucking love you and I want you to keep living with me, because this house doesn’t really feel like home unless you’re in it.”
“What about when my apartment is ready?”
He squeezes your hands. “Stay then, too. Stay forever.”
You look up at him, his hair falling over his forehead, his eyes so honest, a tentative smile on his mouth. The only boy you’ve ever loved.
You feel silly for trying to escape this when this is how it’s turning out. Steve had been brave just now, telling you he loves you and he wants you to stay, so you decide to be brave, too.
It’s easier than you thought it would be to say: “I love you, too, Steve. I feel the same. I only just realized it and freaked out. I’m so scared of losing you, is all.”
“You won’t. Not ever.”
You tip your chin up to kiss him after he says it, because you can. You pour your feelings into it, and Steve returns your kiss as if it’s one he’s known for years. It’s slow, and deep, and sweet, and so full of love you’re practically overflowing with it.
The two of you only pull away when you need a breather. Steve doesn’t go far, resting his forehead against yours.
“So what happens now?” You ask.
“Well, we’ve been acting like a couple for a while, I think, so we stay the same. Mostly. Except now I get to call you my girlfriend-”
“Um, I’m pretty sure you’re supposed to ask me first.”
He lets go of one of your hands and pushes a loose strand of hair behind your ear, his knuckle running lovingly across your cheek. “My angel girl, will you be my girlfriend?”
Your grin is wide and lovesick and cheesy and you don’t care one bit. “Yeah, yes I will. Boyfriend.”
“And, being your boyfriend means I get to do this.”
He kisses you once more. And you don’t ever want to not be kissing him again.
𝜗𝜚
thank you guys so much for reading!!! it would mean a whole bunch if you would consider leaving a comment or a reblog and letting me know what you think!! it helps more than you know <3