@justaspeachy - Tumblr Blog

this time last summer (strawberry fields)

pairing: steve harrington x reader summary: once a king, now demoted to ice cream court jester, he wears that sailor hat like it's penance in this neon-lit purgatory you call a summer job. on anyone else, it'd be a joke. but on him? it's a goddamn crown. welcome to scoops ahoy: where dignity melts faster than the soft serve and every road leads right back to steve-motherfucking-harrington. warnings: coworkers to friends to lovers, mutual pining, slow burn, first kiss, retail trauma-bonding, steve's oral fixation (?), steve being good with kids, sir this is a dairy establishment i can't be ovulating, just one big character study honestly, fluff, mild angst, canon divergence | the scoops playlist ♬.ᐟ

It’s the hat.

No, seriously. It’s definitely the fucking hat.

That ridiculous, ill-conceived, maritime disaster of a hat.

White with navy lettering, like it wandered off the set of a 1950s Cold War musical, all sunshine smiles and red-scare patriotism. Like you're stuck in a never-ending loop of "Gee whiz!" and "Golly, mister!" instead of what this actually is—a neon-lit corpse of a mall in the armpit of suburban Indiana, where dreams go to die in puddles of pretzel grease and melted push pops.

And it always sits crooked. Always. Just a few degrees off-kilter, tilted like an afterthought.

But you know better. It's not an accident.

It's a choice. A statement.

A big-ole fuck you in cotton-polyester blend.

And Steve Harrington? He wears that thing like a goddamn crown.

Former high school royalty, alleged lady-killer, owner of the most absurdly perfect hair in a hundred-mile radius.

Once king of the Hawkins High food chain, now demoted to ice cream court jester.

He stands exactly two feet away from you, day after day, under headache-bright fluorescents and a scratched-up sneeze guard, slinging overpriced sludge to sticky-fingered kids and dead-eyed parents.

Six days a week. Eight hours a day.

And Steve Harrington doesn’t flinch.

Not once.

It’s like your brain commits arson every time you see that sailor hat bobbing around your periphery. Every time you clock the V-dip of the red neckerchief. Those shorts that show way more thigh than any job should legally require.

And god, the way he says "Ahoy."

Announced about a dozen times an hour. Delivered with the kind of forced enthusiasm that sounds like a cry for help, like it physically wounds him every time it leaves his mouth.

It’s not fair. It’s not normal.

But Steve?

He owns it. Every time.

The fake smiles. The playful eyebrow raises. The casual lean over the counter when a herd of teenage girls comes flocking to the register, pretending they came for ice cream and not to gawk at Hawkins’ former prom king doing time in nautical hell.

And still—still—he doesn’t flinch.

You hate that.

You hate him.

You hate that he makes it work. That you’re here at all. How this dumbass job in this fluorescent ice cream prison has become your entire summer. How you're trapped here with him, two matching cartoon characters in sailor suits, mopping up toddler puke for minimum wage and the occasional broken cookie.

This is your life now: Scoops Ahoy, where dignity goes to die and all roads lead right back to Steve-motherfucking-Harrington.

But mostly?

You hate that it’s been a month, and you still haven’t figured out a way to stop thinking about him. ᥫ᭡ He’s late. Again.

You’ve taken to counting the seconds now, one elbow propped on the register, the other draped across a stack of napkins you were supposed to restock when you clocked in. But no one cares. Certainly not—

Clunk.

The employee door swings open in the back room.

You don’t look up.

“Late again, Harrington.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know—sorry—”

He’s not sorry.

“—but, hey! Look what I brought.”

You glance up just in time to see him bound through the doorway like a Labrador that just discovered a tennis ball. Hair a little damp, polo shirt untucked. And in his hand, held like it’s Excalibur?

A coffee cup.

You narrow your eyes at it, then at him.

“I told you I was quitting caffeine.”

He rolls his eyes, gives you the bitchiest little really? look you’ve ever seen in your life, and sets the cup down on the counter. Slowly rotates it so the logo faces you.

There’s a tea bag string dangling out the side.

He beams. “It’s chamomile! No caffeine. Look at me, being a good coworker.”

You hate that he remembered.

You hate it more that your stomach does a traitorous little flip, and you have to look down at the register to keep from smiling like a loser.

He hums, tapping at the display case. “Strawberry’s low.”

“Wow, look at that. You do work here.”

“Oh excuse me for trying.”

He grins, ducking behind the counter to grab his apron before heading to the back. But then he pauses, just a second too long, one hand on the swinging door.

When you glance over, he’s looking at you.

Staring, more like.

“…What?”

“Nothing, just—” He shrugs. “You replacing it? I gotta change.”

You scoff. “Harrington, the day I replace your precious Strawberry Sailor or whatever the hell it’s called is the day I let you drive my car.”

“Ok, first of all? It’s the S.S. Strawberry.”

“Christ.”

“And second—really? You’d let me drive the Wagoneer?”

“No.”

“Aw, c’mon—”

“It was a metaphor.”

He pouts. Actually pouts. Full lower lip, eyes big and tragic.

“So… that’s a no?”

“Hard no. Stick to your Beemer, pretty boy.”

He grins like it wasn’t the scathing insult you meant it to be. “Oh you think I’m pretty, huh?”

You freeze, catching his smirk full on, and shove past him so fast you almost send him stumbling. You retreat to the back room before your tongue can betray you with something embarrassing.

The hum of the freezer is loud in the absence of your dignity.

You stare at it, hands braced on cold steel, forehead pressed to the door, trying to ice the thoughts out of your skull.

It takes way too long for your face to stop burning.

Because here’s the thing:

Steve Harrington is not supposed to be funny. Or sweet. Or thoughtful.

He’s not supposed to remember stupid shit you said two weeks ago while wrestling with a whipped cream canister. He’s not supposed to make you laugh while five-year-olds scream “NO. BLUE. NOW.” in your face.

He’s not supposed to see you.

He’s supposed to be—

Worse.

He’s supposed to be worse. ᥫ᭡ The thing about working with Steve Harrington is that you learn him faster than the Scoops Ahoy menu.

Which is unfortunate, because the menu is aggressively simple: sixteen flavors, seven toppings, three cone types. One cursed novelty ice cream cake that looks like a Titanic reenactment.

But Steve? Steve’s not simple.

Steve is a mess.

The worst kind. The kind that worms its way under your skin and sticks.

Like glitter. Or day-old gum in your hair.

He grunts when he scoops. Gives himself pep talks under his breath like he’s training for the Dairy Olympics. He gets brain freeze, rubs his forehead like a cartoon character, then immediately does it again like he’s got something to prove.

And also? He hums.

Not good songs. Not cool songs.

The Scoops Ahoy playlist is curated for maximum cheese, and somehow Steve Harrington thinks it’s banger after banger.

Today, it’s “Take On Me.”

He’s all in: swaying his hips, twirling the scooper like a mic. You’re in the back, elbow-deep in the freezer, pretending not to sneak glances using the pass-through.

The shorts are still shorting. You’ve made your peace with that.

What you haven’t made peace with is The Straw.

Because Steve has this habit, this thing, where he chews on the end of a plastic straw when he’s bored. Which, in this hellhole, is basically always. He barely drinks the lemonade attached to it. Just chews. Works it between his teeth like it owes him money.

Lips all slick and lazy—he’s got nowhere else to be and nothing better to do but ruin your life one casual jaw flex at a time. There’s frankly an obscene amount of tongue involved for something that’s allegedly absentminded.

You catch him mid-pop, mouth glossy, eyes wandering, like he’s deep in thought about world peace. Or maybe just the words to “Africa.”

You’re three seconds away from swan-diving into the fountain outside.

“Jesus Christ,” you groan, dragging out a tub of rock-solid Vanilla Voyage. “You gonna make out with that thing or what?”

Straw dangling from his lips, he leans in through the window.

“Why, you jealous?”

You slam the tub down like a threat.

“Yeah. Totally. I’ve always dreamed of being tongue-fucked by a guy in a sailor costume.”

Well.

Shit.

Steve blinks. His mouth opens then closes again like his brain short-circuited halfway through a comeback.

Then he lets out a soft snort, shakes his head, and turns back to the register.

You close your eyes. Maybe you could fit inside the deep freezer. Just curl up next to the Ocean Breeze Sherbet and fade into oblivion.

If only you didn’t catch his face right before he turned.

That tiny patch of color, right under his cheekbones:

S.S. Strawberry-pink. ᥫ᭡ Sundays are hell.

By noon, the store turns into a warzone: a hellish cocktail of crying toddlers, sleep-deprived parents, and preteens on sugar benders demanding triple scoops like it’s a constitutional right. Somewhere in the corner, a baby starts wailing. The floor is already a minefield of sticky napkins and waffle cone shrapnel.

And then it happens.

The worst sound in the Scoops Ahoy auditory catalog:

Velcro sneakers slapping tile.

A sea of neon tie-dye floods through the entrance. Tiny gremlins shrieking and giggling like they’ve just escaped captivity, herded by a single, dead-eyed camp counselor trailing behind them.

Steve sighs like he’s being drafted. “Incoming.”

“You take the loud ones,” you mutter, already retreating toward the toppings station.

“They’re all loud.”

“Exactly.”

The first kid beelines straight for the display case and smushes her entire face to the glass, fogging it up. You’re going to have to clean that. Again.

The questions start before anyone’s even picked a flavor.

“Do you have anything that tastes like watermelon but not pink?”

“Can I get a cup inside a cone?”

“My cousin says if I eat too much sugar I’ll explode. Is that true?”

You shoot a glance at Steve.

He’s already crouched down, eye-level with a kid who’s just slapped a crumpled dollar on the counter with the swagger of a high-stakes gambler.

“I want the biggest ice cream you have.”

Steve raises a brow. “Biggest? You sure, dude? That’s a pretty serious request.”

“I’m eight.”

“Oh, well if that’s the case.” He nods solemnly, then stands, tossing you a grin. “Well? You heard the man. Triple Decker Extravaganza.”

You sigh, reaching for the scooper. “If he pukes, it’s your turn to mop.” ᥫ᭡ The rhythm is second nature now.

He scoops, you top. He wipes down, you ring up. A weird little dance born from too many shifts with someone you pretended not to like for way too long.

It’s seamless. Unspoken. Stupidly easy.

And maybe it’s that. Or maybe it’s the way he’s crouched down again, high-fiving a kid who just declared “Mint chip is for teachers” like it’s the most brilliant thing he’s heard all week.

But really, it’s this:

The crowd’s changed.

The giggling teen girls that used to swarm the counter? They don’t come around anymore. Novelty burned off like mist.

Turns out, even teenage ridicule has a shelf life.

What’s left now are the kids. The regulars.

The ones who sprint up to the counter asking for Steve. Not you. Not even the ice cream.

Steve.

They beg for tricks—scooper flips, upside-down cones, dumb games where he dares them to pick a mystery flavor. They want him to guess their favorite color, their favorite animal. He almost always gets it right.

Sometimes he’ll be on break, slumped on a milk crate with a half‑eaten banana and a look that says ten more minutes or I quit, and a kid will march up to you and ask, “Can Steve do mine instead?”

You brace for the eye-roll. The groan. The Are you kidding me?

But Steve?

Steve lights up.

He doesn’t just tolerate the chaos, he lives for it. The noise, the mess, the full-sprint joy of it all. Like it feeds something he doesn’t get anywhere else.

And maybe, you think, it’s something a little more than that. More than the hyperactive kids and the excuse to act silly in a cartoonish sailor hat.

Maybe it’s the being needed.

Being seen.

Knowing that someone tiny and honest looks up at him and thinks:

He’ll get it right. He’ll make it better.

You’re watching them now—the summer campers, clawing their way over the vinyl booths, sticky with glitter and sugar and god knows what else—when one of the smallest kids toddles up to the counter.

She’s tiny, maybe six.

She holds something out to Steve.

A drawing.

Crayon-smudged. Sloppy. Wonderful.

It's an ice cream cone wearing a cape and a tiny sailor hat.

“It’s you,” she says. “But like, a superhero.”

And Steve...

Steve just stares. Eyes gone achingly soft in that wide, blinking way.

Then, slowly, he crouches down.

“Hey,” he says. “This is the coolest thing I’ve ever seen. You made this?”

She nods, twisting her lanyard between nervous fingers.

“Can I keep it?”

She nods again, shy smile blooming.

“I’m gonna hang it up in the back. So I see it every shift.”

He takes the paper like it’s made of glass. Holds it with both hands, cradles it.

And you watch.

You watch him stand there long after she’s gone, tracing his thumb over the crayon lines. Like if he lets go too soon, it might disappear.

And it’s in that moment—somewhere between his smile and the way his fingers linger on every scribble like it matters—that something just… snaps into focus.

It’s like you’ve been squinting at him through a funhouse mirror this whole time. Sailor hat, dorky shorts, dumb jokes.

But now?

Now all of that falls away.

And all you see is him.

Steve.

This dumbass you’ve worked with all summer. The one you swore you wouldn’t like. The one you promised yourself you’d hate.

Because that’s the thing, isn’t it?

The worst part of this job isn’t the sticky counters or the screeching toddlers.

It’s that you can’t hate Steve Harrington the way you’re supposed to.

Not since he quietly slipped a crumpled five into the tip jar after a family of seven stiffed you. Not since he wrapped your hand with the first-aid kit after that milkshake blender incident, called you a “klutz” but refused to let you near the machine for a month.

Not since that gaggle of overgrown teens—his, even if he’ll never admit it—first showed up demanding free scoops. He always gives in. Even when it comes out of his paycheck. Even when he grumbles the whole time.

You watched him clean chocolate syrup off the curly-haired one’s shirt, muttering, “Dude, c’mon,” while using the hem of his own uniform to wipe the stain away.

You’re not supposed to notice things like that.

You’re not supposed to care.

But summer has teeth.

And you let it bite you the day you walked into Scoops, saw the guy in the sailor suit with the unfairly pretty eyes, and—instead of turning around—stayed.

Now, here you are. Standing behind the toppings station, plastic spoon in hand, watching him hold that kid’s drawing like it’s proof of life.

It’s there that you feel it.

The shift.

Because when you look back on this summer—when the mall’s gone dark, when the smell of freezer burn fades from your hair, when Scoops Ahoy is just another entry on a long list of bad jobs—

This is what you’ll remember.

This exact second.

The one where you stopped pretending.

The one where you realized you’re screwed.

Utterly and irreversibly fucked. ᥫ᭡ Eventually, the mob clears.

Kids wander off in clumps, half-finished cones dripping down their arms. They wave enthusiastically at Steve, who beams and waves back.

You lean against the counter with a groan. “Pretty sure I pulled something scooping for that last one.”

Steve rolls his shoulders, cracks his neck.

“Worth it.” ᥫ᭡ You’re on break.

Well, technically, you’re not. But Steve scribbled a “Back in 10!” sign on a napkin (complete with a smiley face and what you think is supposed to be an anchor) and slapped it to the glass.

So yeah. Good enough.

Now you're sitting by the mall fountain. The bench is too hot from the sun pouring through the atrium glass, and your legs stick to the plastic like the worst kind of summer betrayal. A tray of lukewarm fries sits between you, salt soggy from condensation. The last of a melting Coke sweats in a cup you’re both too lazy to toss.

Steve’s already stolen most of the good fries.

You’re watching a group of kids toss pennies into the fountain, their faces scrunched with the kind of hope only eight-year-olds can get away with. Like their wishes would end up as anything more than glorified litter headed straight for a clogged drainpipe.

Wordlessly, Steve reaches over and plucks the last decent fry right out of your hand.

You stare at him. “That’s theft, you know.”

He grins mid-chew, a smear of ketchup bright on his bottom lip. “Sharing’s caring.”

"Give me one good reason not to shove you into that fountain.”

He leans back, all long limbs and smugness. “I’d drag you in with me.”

You sigh like he’s the greatest burden you’ve ever endured. He smirks like it’s his greatest achievement.

The midafternoon light pours through the glass ceiling, painting the ends of his hair honey-gold. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows.

And that’s when you notice it.

His fingers, drumming lightly against the bench. Barely audible over the mall noise, but you notice. You notice everything about him these days.

“You okay?” you ask, before you even mean to.

His eyes flick to you, sharp, then soften.

“Yeah,” he nods. “Just… tired.”

You nod back. Because same.

The mall hums around you. The whir of the Orange Julius blender dying a slow death. Kids’ laughter. The chatter of bored shoppers. The AC kicking on like distant thunder.

Steve slurps the last of the Coke and tosses the straw into the cup. Then he leans forward, elbows on his knees, staring into the fountain.

After a minute, he says it. Almost too quietly to hear:

"You ever think about just… leaving?"

You blink over at him, surprised.

His neckerchief’s askew. There’s a smear of chocolate syrup on his sleeve. His sailor hat is crumpled and sitting upside down in his lap.

But out here, outside the awful white fluorescents of Scoops, in this strange afternoon stillness, he looks tired. Older, somehow.

“Like... Bonnie-and-Clyde it?”

He snorts, quiet. “No, just like—get in the car. Take off for a bit. Get out of Hawkins.” He shrugs, eyes on the floor as he nudges a scuff mark with his shoe. “Go somewhere where not everyone’s known you since kindergarten, you know? Just… figure out what else is out there.”

You watch him for a long moment. Then you say, voice quiet:

“Yeah. Sometimes.”

He nods, like he’s been holding his breath for your answer.

And because silence makes you squirm, because you’re not brave enough for whatever this is becoming, you flick a soggy fry at his face.

Hard.

It hits him square on the nose.

“Jesus—what the hell?” He scrubs his face, bewildered.

You shrug. “For being corny.”

Steve laughs. A real one. The kind that starts low in his chest and rolls out of him until he’s leaning back, hair flopping into his eyes, grinning like an idiot.

“So much for honesty, huh?”

“It’s overrated.”

His eyes crinkle at the corners in that way you’ve always kind of liked.

Then he flicks the fry back.

It misses by a mile. ᥫ᭡ You’re five minutes to closing when it happens.

You’re wiping down the counter, Steve’s putting away the cones. And then—

Footsteps.

Heavy. Confident. A swagger that doesn’t belong in a mall ice cream shop.

You both look up.

The guy’s around your age. Gold chain. Gum snap. Letterman jacket even though it’s ninety degrees outside. You clock it immediately: The Type.

Steve sees it too, shoulders pulling back, jaw set. That customer-service smile is already plastered on.

The guy saunters up like he owns the place. “Yo, can I—”

Then his eyes land on Steve.

Double-take.

“No way,” he says, grinning wide. “You’re Harrington, right?”

Steve’s voice is completely neutral. “Yeah.”

“Dude!” The guy laughs like they’re best friends. They’re not. “Man. Steve Harrington. Didn’t you used to be, like, varsity everything? Basketball? Baseball?”

Steve nods, noncommittal. “Yup. Bit of everything.”

The guy whistles low. “Damn. You were the guy in high school. And now you’re, uh…”

He glances around the store. “…here.”

Subtle.

But Steve doesn’t flinch. “Yeah. Summer job, you know? Ice cream’s not gonna scoop itself.”

The guy snorts, gives the uniform a little once-over. “Yeah, no, I get it, man. Hustle and grind or whatever.”

Then he leans in, like he’s letting Steve in on some great cosmic joke. “Still. Wild, seeing you like this. With the hat and everything.”

Steve doesn’t respond. But you do.

“Sorry,” you say, syrupy-sweet. “We’re fresh out of Pathetic Dickhead Swirl today.”

Eh, not your sharpest. But it lands.

The guy blinks, regards you for the first time. “What?”

You lean over the display, palms pressed against the icy top. “I said: we don’t serve entitled assholes here. But if you’re hungry, there’s a perfectly good dumpster out back.”

Better.

The jock bristles, forcing out a laugh that’s more teeth than humor. Then he turns to Steve, eyes narrowing like he’s expecting backup. “What, is this your little sidekick?”

Steve’s jaw ticks at that.

He looks the guy dead in the eye, voice low and even, colder than you’ve ever heard it.

“Hey man. I’m just here to scoop ice cream. You want something or not?”

There’s a pause. The guy blinks, brain clearly working overtime, though you doubt it’s capable of much more than remembering his gym locker combo.

Then he mutters something under his breath and slinks off.

The moment he’s gone, it’s like the pressure in the room drops.

You hadn’t even realized you were holding your breath.

Steve stands rigid, eyes locked on the spot where the guy disappeared.

You glance at him, waiting. Then give his arm a soft nudge. “Want me to go after him? Dump some hot fudge down his pants?”

He blinks, then huffs out a breath. Not quite a laugh, but something close.

“Don’t bother. Waste of good fudge.” ᥫ᭡ Steve Harrington has this way of taking up space.

Not just physically—though, with the way he sprawls across the chair in the break room, you’d think he pays rent on it.

Not just with noise—god knows there’s plenty of that, too: bad puns, worse singing, yawns so dramatic you’d swear he’s suffering more than anyone else alive.

But more like… emotionally. Energetically. Existentially.

He hums when he thinks. Taps when he’s nervous. His presence is a constant, like the freezer fan that never shuts up or the mall Muzak playing ABBA on an infinite loop.

And somehow, people just gravitate to him. To that offbeat, magnetic kind of ease.

Not because he’s smooth or cool or whatever he used to be. He’s not, really. Half the time, he’s fumbling with the register or forgetting where he left the sprinkles tub.

But the way he does it—like it matters, like he’s trying—makes all the difference.

He doesn’t chase the attention. Doesn’t even seem to notice when it’s there.

It just finds him. Rolls on and sticks, like lint on a sweater.

And sure, yeah, maybe you’ve noticed. Maybe you’ve more than noticed.

But you're not supposed to fall for a guy like that.

A guy who wears knee-high socks with tragic levels of pride. Who says things like, “You can’t triple-scoop a double cone” like he’s defending a moral law.

A guy who, despite all that, is still good at the job. Fast on register. Patient with customers. He’s even sharp with inventory, which you’d previously believed to be physically impossible for someone with that much hair and that little visible brain activity.

And if you’re being honest—not that you ever plan to be—the whole Scoops gig would be hell of a lot worse without him. For all his boyish charm and tragic hairspray addiction, he makes the days suck a little less.

Still.

Does he have to look at you like that?

Like today. Like now.

You’re wiping down the display case ten minutes before open, gearing up for another thrilling shift in dairy-based retail hell, when you catch him behind the counter, just… staring.

“What?” you mutter, not looking up.

He blinks, then nods toward the sneeze guard. “Missed a spot.”

You reward him with a face-full of damp rag.

“Hey!”

“You said I missed a spot.”

He tosses it back.

Misses. Again. ᥫ᭡ Some days, you wonder whether homicide by ice cream scoop would legally count as self-defense.

Today is one of those days.

“Thank you! Now, was that so hard?”

Middle-aged. Over-tanned into leather territory. Wearing sunglasses indoors and radiating that special brand of entitlement reserved for people who’ve never worked a service job a day in their lives.

You bite back a sigh and pass her demon spawn, who’s changed his order four times in under two minute, his cursed request: "The blue one, but no sharks, but also sprinkles, but not touching."

You had the audacity to pause—to make sure the sprinkles weren’t, god forbid, touching—and she’d glared at you like you’d slapped her child.

“Anything else I can do for you?” you smile, teeth grinding.

“No, just your job,” she hums, then flounces off like she’s solved world hunger with that zinger.

Your left eye twitches. You fantasize about hurling the nearest waffle cone like a ninja star.

That’s when Steve appears at your side, bumping your arm with his elbow.

“Come on. Back hallway. Five minutes.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not.” He plucks the service bell off the window and sets it in front of the register.

Then, before you can argue, he takes your hand.

Threads his fingers through yours. Easy, like it’s no big deal.

And just like that, you follow. ᥫ᭡ The service corridor behind Scoops Ahoy isn’t made for moments.

The walls are an uninspired shade of off-white. The linoleum is scuffed to hell. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead, flickering like they’re one bad day from giving up entirely.

You lean back against the door with a dull thunk, scrubbing a hand down your face.

“I hate people.”

Steve settles in beside you, shoulder to shoulder, thigh brushing yours.

“Yeah,” he nods quietly. “They suck.”

The silence that follows stretches. Thick, but not uncomfortable. Just the kind that says more than any rant ever could.

His hand is still wrapped around yours.

You glance down, then up at him. “Why do you even work here?”

You’re aiming for light. For a distraction.

He shrugs. “I like the hat.”

You snort.

Then, softly:

“...You.”

You blink, eyes snapping over. “What?”

He doesn’t meet your gaze. Just stares down at his sneaker like they’ve got answers he hasn’t worked out yet.

“I mean… yeah, I needed a job. But you’re kinda the reason I stuck with it.”

You go still.

He’s fidgeting with the hem of his shirt now, jaw tight, shoulders hunched like he’s bracing for impact.

And he looks... god, he looks nervous. You’ve never seen Steve nervous.

“Steve…” you murmur, unsure.

He exhales sharply through his nose. “You just—you make it feel less dumb. This job. The hat. Like I don’t hate showing up when I know I’ll see you. It’s stupid, right?”

You turn to face him fully.

Your smile wobbles, caught somewhere between amusement and something else entirely.

“You could’ve just told me you like me, Harrington.”

He finally meets your eyes.

There’s no smirk. No sarcasm. Just a quiet breath, and a nod.

“Okay,” he says. “I like you.”

It hits you like a warm wave. Simple. Honest. Inevitable.

Your smile breaks wider as he steps in.

His hand lifts to your jaw, slow and feather-light, still giving you space to pull away.

You don’t.

You lean in. ᥫ᭡ It starts soft.

A breath. A heartbeat. A question asked with the press of his lips against yours.

You answer by pulling him close.

One hand slips into his hair, fingers curling at the nape of his neck. The other stays laced tight with his. You can feel the heat pouring off him, his whole body thrumming with tension like he’s been holding this in for weeks.

You exhale softly into his mouth, and something in him gives way.

He presses you back against the metal door, arm sliding around your waist, pulling you flush against him. The chill bites through your shirt, but all you feel is him—his shape, his weight, the low groan vibrating against your lips when you tug at his hair. Cherry syrup and that half-faded cologne he only remembers to wear on good days.

He lifts your joined hands, pinning them gently beside your head. The back of his hand flexes as he adjusts his grip, anchoring you there. His mouth trails lower, brushing along your jaw, down the curve of your throat, each kiss slow enough to make you shiver. Your head tips back, eyes fluttering shut.

“Jesus,” you breathe, half-laughing, half-dazed. “Y-you must really like me, huh?”

He smiles against your skin, breath hot. “What gave it away?"

You laugh as he kisses you again, deeper this time, thumb dragging slow, dizzying circles along the sliver of bare skin above your waistband. Your free hand slips up under his shirt, palm grazing warm skin, lean muscle. He sucks in a sharp breath, teeth catching gently on your bottom lip.

He pulls back, breath ragged, lips barely leaving yours. "God, I've been—been thinking about this for weeks."

Your stomach jolts. Your knees threaten collapse. You’re halfway to climbing him like a tree when—

Ding!

You both freeze.

He falters for half a second. Then, stubbornly, he leans back in. Kisses you again. Softer this time, like punctuation.

“Steve,” you murmur, dazed. “The bell.”

He noses at your cheek, still pressed close, still not letting go. “Hm? What bell?”

“Hellooo? Anyone working here?”

You flinch. Steve groans and drops his head to your shoulder.

Still, he pulls back, peeling off your body like molasses, gaze lingering on your face the whole time. His thumb brushes your cheek, once, before he lets his fingers slip free from yours.

Then he’s gone. Back through the door. Back to the register and the endless drone of summer crowds.

You stay behind.

Spine against the wall, lips tingling, chest heaving like you just ran a mile.

It takes five whole minutes for your legs to stop shaking.

You can still taste him.

It’s barely July.

But for the first time all summer, two more months doesn’t feel like nearly enough time.

a/n: this fic will likely have one more part! pt.2 will be a lot angstier 🥲

(liked this fic? let me know! reblogs, comments, and asks are always appreciated. 🫶🍦)