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melt with you

pairing: steve harrington x curvy!reader

summary: during a summer of heatwaves, arguing, and a chance encounter with your high school bully, your least favorite coworker ends up being your biggest supporter. in more ways than one...

wc: 17.5k (promised you guys a long one)

cw: coworkers to enemies to friends to lovers, curvy!reader, bisexual!reader, good ally (but slightly oblivious) steve, slight homophobia, talks of queerbaiting and bisexual fetishization, college burnout, feelings of inadequacy from both parties, TENSION, slowburn, maybe too many inner thoughts about steve in that slutty little uniform, making out, dirty talk, teasing, body insecurity (on both parts tbh), oral (f recieving), bigdick!steve, grabbing that mans ass because we need more of it, p in v sex, fluffy ending, cuddling

love notes: yet another long curvy!reader x steve harrington fic because i love him so very much. off the bat i want to make it clear that this reader is bisexual and its a large part of the story. i've always dealt with a lot of these struggles as a hyperfemme curvy queer woman and this was really cathartic to write about. i hope you all enjoy it as much as i did writing it, even though it took me forever. i'll just say half the reason is because sometimes its hard to think about writing when you have to picture him in those stupid little shorts... (⸝⸝♡﹏♡⸝⸝) (also, not a face reveal but the photo on the banner is me in my Robin cosplay since pinterest was a failure on finding anyone curvy in the scoops cosplay. when in doubt, be self indulgent i guess!)

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A small bead of sweat started to roll from Steve's forehead to his brow as he slumped into one of the backroom chairs. He could see you grimace as he wiped it away with that stupid hat before dropping it on the table.

"What?" his exasperated tone was laced with heat exhaustion, "Am I not allowed to sweat in front of you?"

"No, by all means, sweat all you want," your fingers twitched around the straw in your drink, the plastic crinkling under the pressure, "Just try to get more on your uniform. It adds to the… aesthetic."

He rolled his eyes in that bitchy way you'd come to almost admire.

"Yeah well maybe if I get sweat stains all over the hat, I won't be forced to wear it anymore."

You give a fake pout after taking another sip. "And the heats already ruining that perfect hair, your life is so difficult."

He leaned forward, propping his chin on his hand, the blue of his uniform making his hazel eyes look impossibly more brown, "You have no idea."

The door swung open, letting in a blast of mall air that did little to cool the room.

"Eugh!" Robin practically wretched from the doorway. "Can you guys get rid of that rancid trash? I'm pretty sure there's kiddie puke in there and the heat is not helping."

It was true. The break room smelled horrendous. The freezers and the sale floor were cold to protect the product, but back here was a stuffy, sticky coffin of recycled air.

One of the mall's maintenance guys was supposed to fix it this morning but he hadn't been back yet. And to be honest, he looked a little sketch. No tools, very short sentences, and a vaguely Russian accent.

"It's your turn, Buckley," Steve grumbled without moving.

"Nuh-uh. I did it yesterday. You two can duke it out but it's not gonna be me."

The swinging door to the shop floor shut behind her and she was gone.

Great.

You didn't even need to look at him to know he had that stupid, lazy grin on his face.

"You two can duke it out," he mimicked in a higher pitch, still slumped in the chair, clearly having no intention of moving.

"Look, there's two bags already, we can each just take one. For once this summer, I don't have the energy to argue with you. I'm sweating from way too many places I'd rather not be, I think my deodorant gave up hours ago, and my drink is already mostly water."

With a dramatic sigh, you pushed yourself up from the chair, the red vinyl sticking to the back of your thighs with an embarrassing noise. Steve watched, an unreadable expression on his face, as you went to the corner by the door where the offending bags sat.

"What?" you echoed his earlier tone. "I can't help it if the shorts don't come in a bigger size."

You yanked one of the black plastic bags from the pile, and Steve finally stood up. The shorts they had you wear were ridiculous on your frame, a size too small, digging into your hips and thighs. Usually you didn't care, but today, with the heat melting everything in the mall to a sticky pulp, you felt like you were suffocating.

"Trust me, I'm not looking," Steve said. But he was.

He grabbed the other bag, his arm brushing yours. The contact lasted less than a second, but it sent a jolt through you that had nothing to do with the oppressive heat. You blamed it on static, on the friction of the plastic bags, anything other than some pretty boy in a sailor suit. He was the antithesis of everything you were supposed to like.

You made it to the employee entrance at the back of the mall, near the loading docks. The heavy metal door groaned open, and a blast of real, unconditioned air hit you.

The groan Steve let out was dramatic, even for this heat. "It's worse out here."

You couldn't argue. The air smelled of hot asphalt and distant trash. The sun beat down on the concrete as you trudged toward the giant green dumpster, the plastic bag scraping against the pavement.

"Let's just get this over with," you mumbled, more to yourself than to him.

Steve tossed his bag in with a lazy heave. It landed with a sickeningly wet thud. You did the same. As you turned to go back inside, you tripped over a deep crack in the pavement.

"Fuck!" you grunted out, turning to take a look at your knee, which was now stinging and bleeding. You ripped your knee away from the searing concrete and inspected the damage.

A deep scrape, a little bloody but more dirt and grime than anything else. You huffed out a frustrated breath, your already frayed patience wearing even thinner. You lay back on the hot pavement, one knee propped up, and awaited the sweet release of heat induced death.

"Looks like someone hasn't gotten her sea legs." Steve stood over you, blocking the sun in his eyes with his hand, the other settled on his hip. "Oh, shit, that actually looks bad..."

"Brilliant observation, Captain." you snapped, the pain making you sharper than usual.

He crouched down, the shorts stretched tight across his thighs. This uniform was truly ridiculous, but the way it fit him was… infuriating. Being near eye level with his crotch was not helping matters.

"You're bleeding," he said, his voice softer now. He reached out as if to touch your knee, then thought better of it, letting his hand hover for a moment before dropping it.

"Again with the astute observations. You missed your calling, Harrington. Should've been a detective."

"C'mon." he rolled his eyes again, extending a hand to help you up. "Let's get you back to the break room. We've got a first aid kit in the stockroom. I'm pretty sure I saw it when I was looking for places to hide the day they made us film that embarrassing commercial."

You ignored his hand and pushed yourself up, your palm stinging on the hot pavement. He gave you a raised eyebrow and you sighed before reluctantly taking his help. His grip was firm and warmer than you expected. You tried to pull away as soon as you were standing, but he held on for a beat too long, steering you toward the door.

The break room was still a sauna, but at least it wasn't the blazing sun. He sat you down in the same chair you'd vacated earlier and rummaged through a cabinet, finally emerging with a white plastic box with a red cross on it.

"Alright, tough guy," he said, kneeling in front of you. "Let's clean this up."

"I can do it myself." You protested, but he was already wordlessly cleaning the wound.

He was really good at this, you thought. Much more than you expected someone like him to be.

"What, did you patch people up after you and your jock friends threw them against lockers or something?"

It was an unnecessary jab, but you needed to say something to break the otherwise tender moment.

He looked up at you with an almost hurt expression as he ripped the gauze packet open with his teeth. The motion was quick and efficient.

"Yeah, that was me," he said, not looking at you, focusing on cleaning the scrape with an antiseptic wipe. "King Steve. Got the T-shirt and everything."

He sounded so bitter, like the name tasted wrong coming from his lips.

"Sorry," you mumbled, feeling a pang of something you didn't want to name. "That was..."

"Forget it," he cut you off, but his touch gentled even more. "People are allowed to think I'm an asshole. I was an asshole."

You stayed quiet as watched him gently pressed the fabric to the cleaned wound, noticing how such big hands could be so precise. How someone who you knew could be a clumsy, arrogant moron could now have a look of intense focus.

He's quiet for a long moment, before glancing up at you again. "Had my ass kicked more than a few times. You learn a few things. Like how to clean a scrape."

There was something more there, something in the way he said it that you couldn't quite place. He wasn't talking about a simple schoolyard scuffle. But you didn't have the energy to press.

"Well if they didn't build this mall so fast maybe all the pavement wouldn't be cracking..." you muttered, both embarrassed by your fall and desperate to move on from an impending heavier topic.

He lets out a short, amused breath of air and he's taping a fresh piece of gauze over your knee. He's so close you can smell him, a clean scent of soap and a tinge of sweat. It's a musky, surprisingly comforting smell that has no right to be this intoxicating.

"All done, think you'll survive."

He pats your good knee and sits back on his heels, surveying his work before looking up at you, as if asking with his eyes if there's anything else you may need.

It was a cruel joke seeing him like that, practically on his knees in front of you. His hair was sunkissed, brushed slightly more away from his forehead. His eyes were unfairly puppy dog-ish and you swore he had to actively put balm on his lips with how pouty and shiny they always looked.

Steve was pretty, and you hated it. You hated how easy he was to look at.

"Guess I'll have to." You push the chair back and stand. "Thanks, I guess. For the medical attention and not, you know, leaving me to die out there."

"Yeah, well, Buckley would have my head if I came back without you." He stands too, his height suddenly imposing in the small space. "Can't have you bleeding out on my watch. Bad for business."

He walked over to grab his hat and did a little trick where he flipped it onto his head. You tried to look unimpressed, but a ghost of a smile tugged at your lips.

"C'mon, Harrington, don't flatter yourself. My death would probably improve sales."

His laugh was real this time. "I disagree. We'd have far less preteen boys trying to order extra scoops just to get you to lean over the counter."

You paused, your hand on the panel of the swinging door. That was… new. A warmth that had nothing to do with the weather spread through your chest. You risked a glance back at him.

He looked as if he was surprised at himself, too. He was leaning against the table again, trying to regain that careless facade, but something had shifted. You saw it in the slight tension in his shoulders, in the way he couldn't quite meet your eye for a second.

"The shirt." he gestured, clearing his throat. "It's, y'know, tight."

Any hint of flirtatious energy inside you evaporated at that. You were suddenly acutely aware of the way the company mandated top stretched across your stomach and chest. The casual, almost clinical observation stung more than any deliberate insult could have.

Steve could practically feel an icy chill when you wordlessly pushed through the door and it had nothing to do with the AC from the sales floor.

"Shit..." he muttered to himself, relaxing against the table with a deep sigh, running a hand down his face. He knew that look. He had said the wrong thing. Again.

The rest of your shift was a special kind of hell. The soft serve machine seemed determined to only dispense melted soup, the toppings station was a sticky mess that no amount of wiping could fix, and the endless loop of corporate-approved pop hits drilled directly into your skull. Every interaction felt like a performance. Your smile for the customers was a brittle mask, your sarcastic remarks to Robin were forced and thin.

"Are you good?" she asked when it was close to closing and the Friday rush had died down.

"Yeah. Fine."

Your words were short as you marked your clipboard for the nightly inventory.

"Okay... well you're practically putting your pen through the paper there..." She gestured with her scoop, "and you haven't made a single joke about the mall cop that looks like Tom Selleck if he was raised by wolves."

You glanced at the man leaning against one of the columns outside the store, sporting a truly glorious yet questionable mustache. You shrugged and went back to your clipboard.

You could feel her looking at you before letting out a dramatic sigh and going back to her duties.

Steve didn't try to talk to you. He worked with a quiet efficiency, wiping counters, restocking syrups, avoiding your line of sight.

Eventually Robin shut the gate and you counted the money in the till.

"You missed a twenty."

It comes from over your shoulder, not in a malicious way, but a simple statement of fact. The fact that it was his voice though, that made you clench your jaw.

"No I didn't." Your reply was clipped.

"Yeah, you did. It's stuck to the back of the tray." He reached over you, not quite touching you, but close enough that the scent of him - that faint musk- washed over you again.

His thumb brushed the bill loose from its hiding place. He set it on top of the stack without another word and turned to wipe down a spotless display case.

The silent ride home with Robin was just as bad. Your hands gripped the wheels a little too hard.

"He's not that bad." Robin finally said from your passenger seat.

"Who? Tom Selleck wolf-cop? No, I think he's probably a pillar of the community." The sarcasm was so thick it was nearly solid. You knew exactly who she meant.

"No, Steve."

You sighed, letting your shoulders slump as you pulled into her driveway.

"I mean, he's a total dingus, sure, but he's not malicious, you know?" She was unbuckling her seatbelt, gathering her bag. "He's just… post-prime Steve Harrington. He's still figuring out the new manual."

"It's weird of you to defend him."

"It's weird of you to get your panties in a twist over a stupid sailor boy." She shot back with a grin, hopping out and leaning back in through the open window. "Look, all I'm saying is... don't take whatever dumb shit he says to heart. He's probably just scared of your... you-ness."

You raised an eyebrow.

"Anyway," she said with a yawn. "I have the morning shift tomorrow so I need sleep."

"Wait... you're not closing on a Saturday?"

"Nope. You're on your own with Captain Hair Care." She wiggled her fingers in a wave. "Don't let him get under your skin."

She was gone before you could formulate a decent comeback, a skip in her step as she trotted toward her front door. You watched until she was inside, the porch light flicking on. Alone with the quiet hum of your car's engine, you leaned your forehead against the steering wheel.

Robin's words bounced around your head. Scared of what? Your tendency to swear like a sailor? Your less-than-perfect figure in a ridiculous uniform? Your ability to form complete sentences without the word 'like'? The thought of the former King of Hawkins High being intimidated by you was so absurd it was almost funny.

But it was the last thing she said that stuck. Don't let him get under your skin.

Too late. He was already there, a low-grade fever you couldn't sweat out, even in this miserable heat. The image of him kneeling in front of you, his focused expression, the gentle pressure of his fingers on your knee... It played on a loop behind your eyelids.

Right next to all the annoying shit. Forgetting to restock the cherries. Leaving sticky rings on the counter. The way he tried to charm every mom who came to the counter. And that comment. The clinical, almost detached observation about your shirt being tight.

He was under your skin alright, like a parasite.

Saturday afternoon arrived with the subtlety of a jackhammer. The heat was worse. It shimmered off the asphalt in visible waves, ready to fry an egg or melt your skin off.

You walked into Scoops Ahoy at 1:59 PM, a minute before your shift. The blast of frigid air of the mall was a welcome shock. When you clocked in, Steve was already behind the counter, wiping down the surface that was already immaculate.

"It's been surprisingly dead for a Saturday," he said without looking up, breaking the silence. He sounded tired. "Guess everyone's at the pool."

"Smart people are at the pool," you mumbled, tying on your own ridiculous apron. The uniform felt like a punishment, the fabric scratching at your already overheated skin.

Robin popped out from the back, changed in some normal summer clothes.

"Lemme guess," you sigh. "The pool."

"Right you are my fellow corporate slave! Some of the band kids are getting together, and I cannot miss an opportunity to make fun of Brad Johnson's new haircut." she beamed. "You two have fun. Don't burn the place down."

She gave you a pointed look, then one at Steve, before she disappeared out the front with a jaunty little wave.

"I would give anything to have the morning shift right now," you grumbled to no one in particular.

"You and me both," Steve sighed, finally looking up at you. "I could be at the pool right now, seeing how the summer is treating the female population of Hawkins."

A familiar irritation sparked in your chest.

Of course.

That's where he'd be. Scoping out chicks in bikinis. The thought made your stomach clench for a reason you refused to examine.

Instead, you grabbed a rag and started wiping down the already clean topping bar.

"I already did that..." he started.

"Don't you have a pool of your own?" your voice came out judgey and sharp, but you didn't look at him.

"Uh, yeah... I do. But it's no fun by yourself." He gestured vaguely with the rag.

"I'm sure you have a rolodex of numbers you could call."

There. The perfect jab. Annoying, bordering on cruel, and it would hopefully shut him up for a few hours.

"Right," a bitter, short little laugh escaped him. "Look, could you just... not do that?"

"Do what?"

"That thing you do. Where you act like you know everything about me."

Your hands stilled on the counter.

"I don't. I'm just making conversation based on the public record."

"Look, I know what my 'public record' is, alright?" His voice wasn't angry, just... weary. "You've made it pretty clear you think I'm some shallow, womanizing douchebag. But maybe..."

He trailed off, tossing the rag into the sink behind the counter with a wet slap.

"You know what? Never mind."

The silence that followed was thick as the hot fudge congealed in the drip tray.

A few hours went by and the after dinner rush finally slowed.

You managed to have a civil, albeit short, conversation about the best Muppet. You argued for Animal, obviously. He was a Kermit man through and through. It was the most you'd talked to him without the conversation taking a sharp, veiled turn.

As the night progressed, just a few hours left of your shift left, you both found yourselves people watching in between customers.

"Oh shit, that's Stacey Carmichael," Steve said, a little too loud, a spark of that old King Steve charm suddenly igniting. He instinctively ran a hand through his hair. It was a reflex. "She, uh, she used to be a cheerleader."

You rolled your eyes as you watched the tall, gorgeous blonde talking with a group of other equally gorgeous girls in the food court.

"Yeah, I'm aware. She was in my class."

"Oh shit... yeah you were a couple years ahead, right?" he looked at you with genuine curiosity, which somehow was more annoying.

"A gap year and then the failed college stint," you said, quoting the air with your fingers. "I was supposed to be a sophomore this year."

"So what happened? If you don't mind me asking..."

"Another gap year." was all you offered. You didn't want to get into the messy details of your spectacular failure. Of the crippling anxiety and the pressure of it all. How you'd locked yourself in your dorm room for three days before finally calling your parents in tears to come get you.

He seemed to understand this was a door you didn't want to open. He nodded, his eyes drifting back to Stacey, who was now laughing at something her friend said, a bright sound that carried across the food court.

"She turned me down for prom, you know," he said, a thoughtful look on his face. "Her prom. My sophomore year. I was so sure I had it in the bag. I'd just gotten my car."

"And already going for senior girls, huh?" you couldn't help but poke, a genuine, small smile gracing your lips. "A real legacy player."

He flushed, a deep pink creeping up his neck. "Shut up. She was... mature. For her age." He winced at how that sounded.

"Code for: she had boobs and long legs. Still does." you summarized, taking a sip of the soda you'd poured yourself a while ago.

"Yeah, well," he leaned against the counter, mirroring your posture. "She's still pretty."

"So go talk to her." The words were out before you could stop them. "You're a changed man now and all."

He looked at you like you'd just suggested he go wrestle a bear. "No way. Not now. Not... not here."

"Why not? She'd probably still swoon for the old Harrington charm."

"I'm in a sailor suit," he deadpanned, gesturing down at himself with a look of utter revulsion. "The magic's kind of gone when you're asking for their order of banana splits instead of asking them to dance."

You had to stifle a laugh.

"Girls aren't that complicated. If she's still shallow like she was in school, she already peaked anyway."

"You really think that?" He looked at you, and for a moment, the usual smirk was gone, replaced by a genuine, searching expression. "That people just... peak?"

"I think some people do," you said quietly, your gaze drifting to Stacey's group again. "She once asked me in English class if my hair was a 'political statement'. So, yeah. I think her peak was probably getting crowned queen of the winter formal."

The corner of Steve's mouth twitched.

"You had that pink streak in the front, right? That was cool."

Your eyes snapped back to his. Cool?

Coming from him, that felt like a betrayal of the natural order.

"Principal Higgins would disagree. He called it a 'deliberate act of insubordination' and threatened to suspend me if I didn't wash it out."

"He was a dick," Steve said with surprising vehemence. "He gave me detention once for a week when Mrs. Click caught me and Tommy H. trying to see how many pencils we could fit in the ceiling tiles."

You made a disgusted look at the mention of Tommy Hagan. That was a name you could have happily gone the rest of your life without hearing again.

"You were a child of privilege, Steve," you said, your tone light but sharp, trying to steer the conversation back to safer, more familiar territory.

He picked up a stray cherry that had rolled onto the counter and popped it into his mouth. The way his lips closed around the small red fruit was distractingly... something. "I think I was a bored little shit with too much time on my hands. There's a difference."

Seriously, why were his lips so—

"And now you're a bored little shit in a sailor suit," you shot back, grabbing the cherry stem from his fingers and throwing it in the trash. Your fingers brushed his lips only just slightly. A current ran up your arm that you blamed on the static from the stupid poly-blend uniform.

You turned back to see Stacey and her friends heading to the ice cream parlor.

"And, sailor, here's your cue."

You leaned against the back counter, a gesture that forced Steve to take the lead and serve them. He straightened up immediately, that lazy, charming smile sliding into place like a well-worn mask. He was good at it, you had to give him that.

"Welcome to Scoops Ahoy, ladies. What's your pleasure?"

Stacey giggled, flipping her hair over her shoulder. "Steve Harrington? I haven't seen you in ages. You work here?"

"Just for the summer," he said with a casual shrug that was anything but. "Living the dream. So, what can I get for you? On the house, for old times' sake."

Her friends tittered. You rolled your eyes so hard you were worried they'd get stuck.

You busied yourself with wiping down yet another spot on the counter that was already perfectly clean, trying to ignore the easy way he worked them.

You heard that sickeningly sweet voice say your name and you looked up at Stacey. Her perfect pink lip curled a little as she looked at you. "You're still doing... this?" She gestured vaguely, an all-encompassing wave that clearly meant your entire existence— your curvy frame in the too-tight uniform, the dark eyeliner that was slightly smudged at the end of the day, your complete lack of interest in her conversation.

A hot prickle of shame and anger started at the back of your neck. Until you looked up at her and noticed a familiar tell you'd only seen from a few girls in your college.

It was less judgmental curiosity and more... interest.

You held her gaze and gave her a slow, deliberate smile before leaning over the counter. You knew exactly what this did to the uniform top.

"Yep. But now I have a deep and abiding passion for corporate-mandated polyester and the art of the perfect swirl," you said, your voice dripping with mock sincerity, giving her exactly the right amount of sarcasm and confidence.

To your left, you heard the soft clink of a metal scoop hitting a ceramic bowl.

Steve had stopped.

Stacey's perfectly composed mask wavered for a second, a flicker of... something in her eyes.

"Oh. Well. Good for you," she said, her smile becoming more genuine.

Steve, bless him, was clueless. He made an attempt to steer Stacy's attention back to him. As if he was doing you a favor. Getting you away from her taunting.

"Alright ladies..." he started, trying to regain control of the situation, but he didn't understand.

You already had it.

Stacey's friends lost interest and started ordering their sundaes.

While Steve was occupied, Stacey leaned a little closer to you, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.

"Hey, so, me and some friends are having a little get together tomorrow night. A bonfire, out at Lovers Lake. You should come."

‘Little get together’ was code for summer rager. You knew the type. Keystone lights and weed stolen from older brothers.

She was watching you, waiting. Not mocking. Expectant. And in that moment, the pieces clicked into place without any apprehension. Her initial judgment wasn't about you being beneath her. It was about her trying to figure out if you were like her.

A packed party meant no one was looking too much at any two people slipping off into the woods. A bonfire at Lovers Lake was prime real estate for secret encounters.

Steve's head popped up from behind you, a look of pure confusion on his face. He was completely lost.

"A party?" he asked, trying to smoothly join the conversation he wasn't a part of. He turned to Stacey. "Cool. Who's all going?"

Stacey didn't even look at him. Her gaze was fixed on you.

"We're not really advertising," she said, her tone dismissing him so completely it was almost masterful. "But... you're both welcome to join. Just some of us who are home for the summer. Hanging out."

The offer was still aimed at you. Steve was an afterthought, a necessary addition to extend the invitation to the other half of the current Scoops Ahoy duo.

He didn't seem to realize that Stacey Carmichael, the girl who had turned him down for prom, the girl who represented the peak of the very social hierarchy he used to rule, had just completely shut him out to talk to you.

"We'll think about it," you said, your voice casual, as if you got invited to ragers by reformed mean girls every day of the week. You gave her another slow smile, this one with a little more teeth.

"Cool. Hope to see you there," she said, finally turning to collect her sundae from a flustered-looking Steve. "Thanks, Stevie. It's... cute. The uniform."

The name 'Stevie' was the final twist of the knife. She sauntered away with her friends, their laughter echoing back from the polished linoleum.

You let the silence hang in the air for a solid ten seconds after they were gone.

"I think that went well," he said, crossing his arms and nodding his head. "She did a little volley there by mentioning the party to you and then looped me right back in. Classic misdirection. She's interested."

You stared at him. He was genuinely analyzing this like it was a sports play.

"Steve," you said, your voice dangerously quiet.

"Yeah?"

"She wasn't interested in you."

"What are you talking about? She was totally flirting. I think she wants me to go to that party tomorrow." The hope in his voice was pathetic. "She even called me Stevie. That's pretty straightforward."

"That's not what was happening." You leaned forward, lowering your voice even though you were completely alone in the ice cream shop. "She wasn't interested in you."

The gears in his head were turning visibly.

"Okay...?" He drew out the word. "So... she was just being nice?"

"Let me spell it out for you, Captain. Her invitation wasn't for you. It was for me."

He blinked. The full, glorious impact of your statement seemed to short-circuit his brain.

"So she wants to be friends after bullying you in high school? Yeah, right."

"I didn't say she wanted to be friends." You met his bewildered gaze head-on, your own expression a mixture of pity and amusement.

And then, you saw it. A flicker of something in his eyes. A lightbulb, dim and far away, but it was on.

"Oh," he breathed out. He leaned against the counter, taking off his hat and running a hand through his hair. "Oh. Wow."

He looked from you, to where Stacey's group had disappeared, and back to you again, as if trying to solve a complex equation.

His gaze settled on your face, not your body, not your clothes, just your eyes. He was looking at you differently.

Not as a coworker, not as a friend of Robin's, not as the girl who made sarcastic comments. He was looking at you as a person with a secret, a life beyond this stupid counter.

"So she's...?" he trailed off, unable or unwilling to finish the sentence.

You just gave a simple nod.

"Holy shit," he whispered, a slow grin spreading across his face. It wasn't the cocky, practiced smile he used for customers. "Okay, now the prom thing makes so much more sense."

You couldn't help it. An honest-to-god laugh escaped you, echoing slightly in the empty shop.

"So that's what you get out of all this? An explanation for your bruised teenage ego?"

"What did you want me to say?"

It wasn't rude or judgemental like a small part of you had suspected he may be. He was confused and you had thrown a lot at him all at once.

"I was prepared for you to be an asshole, honestly."

"I can be," he said, shrugging on a surprising wave of vulnerability. "But, you know, not about... that." He gestured vaguely between you and the direction Stacey and her friends had left. "It's not... I don't see why it's a big deal."

Your laugh was a little softer this time. "You're the last person I expected to have that reaction."

His smile was a little softer now, something unreadable in his eyes as he cleared his throat a little. He busied himself with grabbing the clipboard and starting the closing inventory checklist before he spoke again.

"So are you, uh, also..." he didn't look at you as he spoke, focusing hard on counting the boxes of cones like they held the secrets of the universe. "...like Stacey?"

"Gay?" you finished for him, the word feeling foreign and loud in the quiet shop. "No. Not... exclusively."

You watched the back of his neck turn pink as he nodded, processing the new information.

"Okay," he said to the inventory sheet. "Okay. That's... fine."

"Wow, Harrington," you deadpanned. "Don't get too excited. You might pull something."

He finally turned to look at you, and the smile was back, but it was different. It was real. "Sorry. My brain is just... rebooting. You know, Steve, circa '83, probably would have had some deeply stupid and offensive thing to say right about now."

"Yeah, well," you leaned against the counter, trying to act casual, but your heart was hammering against your ribs. "He's not here right now. Just the sailor."

"Good," he said, his gaze holding yours for a beat too long. "The sailor is much better company."

The last hour of your shift passed in a strange, comfortable silence. It wasn't tense or awkward, just...

Unnerving?

You kept catching him watching you. Not staring, not leering, just... watching. When you'd catch his eye, he'd look away quickly, a faint blush creeping up his neck, and pretend to be intensely fascinated by the nutritional information on a can of whipped cream.

"I'm not interested in Stacey." You finally say, much more casually than you feel, as you count the till.

Steve looked up from where he was sweeping the floor, leaning on the broom. "I figured."

"Did you?" Your tone was laced with skepticism.

He shrugged, pushing a stray sprinkle into a dustpan. "Yeah. I mean, you called her 'shallow'. You don't seem like the kind of girl to go for people you think are shallow."

He paused, then added, "Even if they do have incredible legs."

A small, unexpected laugh bubbled out of you. "Okay, fair point. Her legs are pretty great."

He grinned, a genuine, easy thing that made your stomach do a little flip. "See? We agree on something."

"Miracles do happen," you said, bagging the cash. "I just genuinely can't believe you didn't pick up on what was happening. I thought you were supposed to be the expert on girls."

"Former expert," he corrected, a wry twist to his lips. "My certification expired. Turns out, knowing how to get a handjob in the back of your car at a party doesn't exactly make you an authority on the female mind. Or... you know. Any mind but your own, really."

You made a disgusted noise. "Charming."

"I'm just being honest," he said, resting the broom against the wall and leaning against the counter opposite you. "It was all a game. And I was good at the game. But that's all it was. It was all... surface."

The words hung in the air between you, until he added the most vulnerable part. "You know, until Nancy."

You stopped counting the cash. This was the most he'd ever said about Nancy Wheeler outside of a few offhand comments you'd overheard, and it felt significant. Nancy Wheeler, the quiet, smart, headstrong girl who had brought Steve Harrington to his knees in a way that no cheerleader or social climber ever could.

"Surface?" you prompted gently.

"Yeah," he said, looking down at a worn spot on the linoleum. "She... she wasn't... She cared about things. Like, real things. The newspaper, and... college, her family and friends, and the future. And she saw right through the bullshit. Through me. It was... terrifying. And also maybe the best thing that ever happened to me."

The sincerity in his voice was disarming. He wasn't performing. He was just... talking. To you.

"And I'm guessing it didn't end so well," you said, finishing up the till and sliding the tray into its slot.

His smile was sad, a ghost of the easy charm he usually wore. "I, uh, didn't handle some things well. After her best friend went missing... I didn't... I wasn't there for her the way I should have been. I was still playing the game. And then... Jonathan Byers happened."

You knew Jonathan Byers. The quiet, intense photographer with the difficult home life. Another one of Hawkins High's outliers.

"Let me guess," you said, leaning on the counter, mirroring his posture. "They're together now?"

"I'm not angry," he said, and to your immense surprise, he sounded like he meant it. "I was, for a while. I was an asshole about it. But... they make sense. They actually, like, talk to each other. He gets her in a way I never figured out how to."

The only sounds were the low hum of the freezers and the distant muzak trickling from the mall's main speakers. You watched him, this boy you had so neatly categorized and dismissed, and saw the edges of the caricature start to fray.

"You're not so bad, Harrington. For a washed-up jock."

He looked up, a flicker of that old, lazy grin returning. "Coming from you, that's practically a marriage proposal."

"In your dreams," you scoffed, but the retort lacked its usual bite.

"You're right, my legs aren't nearly as good as Stacey's," he let out a dramatic sigh.

You couldn't help the way your eyes glanced downward to see what he was talking about. The uniform shorts, while stupid, did little to hide how strong his legs were. How much they must've been toned from years of sports. How they hugged his thighs just right. How they hugged his--

"You're staring."

Your head snapped up so fast you nearly gave yourself whiplash. "I was not."

"Were too," he sing-songed, that stupid, completely gorgeous grin spreading across his face. "Don't worry, I get it. The uniform is a lot to handle."

"I was admiring the craftsmanship of how the seam is coming undone on your left thigh," you shot back, your face feeling hotter than the summer pavement outside. "Shoddy workmanship. I should report it to corporate."

He looked down, genuinely inspecting the seam in question. "Oh, hey, you're right. The thread's all popped." He fingered the loose string. "Huh. Probably from when I had to haul that new container of sprinkles out of the back. Nearly gave myself a hernia."

You internally were grateful for his complete obliviousness to your real line of sight and rolled your eyes. "Yeah, a real hero. The sprinkles would have been lost without you."

He shrugged, unbothered. "A hero's work is never done."

The weekend went by without much issue. You didn't go to the party. Something about getting high with a bunch of vapid teens you went to high school with, while trying to pretend you weren't having a mid-college crisis, felt about as appealing as licking the floor of the ice cream shop.

Instead, you’d stayed home, listened to records on repeat, and tried to write a short story that was going nowhere.

Tuesday night was when you always closed with Steve.

It was dead. A Tuesday night in Hawkins in mid-June was the definition of purgatory.

You both did your closing duties with practiced ease, a silent, efficient rhythm that you'd fallen into. He'd sweep, you'd wipe.

"So, like... the other night..." Steve started as he swept, his tone betraying the fact that it had been weighing on his mind.

Him speaking had broken the zoning out you were currently doing.

"What about it?" you asked, feigning disinterest as you scrubbed at a stubborn spot of dried fudge on the counter.

"Did you, uh..." He paused, leaning on the broom. "Did you and Stacey...?"

"If you're asking if we had some secret girl on girl rendezvous at Lovers Lake, the answer is no," you said, not looking at him. "I didn't go to the party."

He let out a small breath, and you couldn't decipher if it was relief or disappointment.

"Oh. Okay."

"It's not like porn, you know," you said, glancing over your shoulder at him. "The concept isn't a free-for-all for any man's viewing pleasure."

He bristled, his brow furrowing. "That's not what I was asking. I was... curious."

"What, wondering if we would go back home and wear silky pajamas and hit each other with pillows?" The sarcasm was a familiar armor, and you pulled it tight around yourself.

He almost looked angry now. He slammed the dustpan down on the counter a little too hard. "Why do you do that?"

"Do what?"

"Assume the worst of me. Every single time. I ask a simple question and you turn it into me being some kind of... of..." He struggled for the word.

"Scumbag?" you offered helpfully. "Caveman? Horndog?"

"I was going to say moron," he shot back, his voice low and surprisingly hurt. "But I'm not that guy. And it's... it's getting really fucking tiring trying to prove it to you."

You were silenced for once, before you let out a deep sigh and put the rag down for a minute.

"Look," you started. "College was... hard for me. On like, so many levels. I guess I thought the one way it would be easier is that I didn't have to hide certain parts of myself like I did here. And then I quickly realized that there were new reasons it was hard being... like me."

You couldn't bring yourself to put a label on it. You hadn't quite figured out what one worked and that was okay.

"But anyway, one of the biggest hurdles, and maybe the most surprisingly common reaction I got from both men and women was to... treat it like it was for them. That it was a performance."

"Okay," he said, leaning against the counter, listening.

"You know, I’d meet a girl at a party and we'd chat and flirt and once it got to anything more than that, anything physical, she was usually just trying to catch the eyes of some pervy frat guys." You let out a self depreciating sigh, a little embarrassed to be telling him all this.

"And then if I tried to start something with a guy, they acted like it was a free pass for a threesome. It wasn't genuine interest in me, you know, just in what I could offer them. What my... existence could do for their sexual fantasy."

Steve watched you, his eyes soft and serious. There was no smirk, no hint of judgment.

"So when you get that look in your eye-like you're trying to work out some kind of complicated puzzle that would probably earn you a prize if you solve it, it's... hard not to assume. So I'm sorry. That I was an asshole. It's an ingrained defense mechanism."

The confession left a raw, buzzing silence in its wake. You had laid a piece of yourself bare on the grimy linoleum floor, a piece that you'd been holding on to since you decided to take a gap year, and it was in front of him of all people.

"Okay," he finally said, his voice quiet. "Okay, I get that. I'm sorry that happened to you. That's... shitty. People are shitty."

He looked down at the floor, kicking at stray sprinkles before looking back at you.

"For what it's worth, I'm not asking for a show." he said, a little sadly. "I don't... I wasn't picturing that."

He paused. "I just... I was just trying to figure it out. Figure you out."

You looked at him, your heart giving another one of those little, painful flips.

He cleared his throat and picked up the dustpan. "The good thing is, I'm a very slow study. So you'll have plenty of warning before I solve any of your complicated puzzles."

You watched as he fell back into the rhythm of sweeping. You noticed the way the muscles in his back moved under the thin fabric of that ridiculous shirt. How the shorts rode up just a bit as he bent over. How the back of his neck, where his hair started to curl with sweat, was surprisingly vulnerable-looking.

You were humanizing this man. You were seeing him as Steve. A guy who worked a shit job, who had a complicated past, who seemed genuinely, achingly lonely sometimes. A guy who, for some reason, was putting in the effort to be decent to you, even when you were a complete bitch to him.

"Why do you want to figure me out?" You asked, busying yourself with meaningless cleanup to hide the softness in your own voice.

He finished with the dustpan, straightened up, and leaned against the broom handle again. He looked out over the deserted food court, at the mall security guard making his slow, predictable rounds.

"I don't know," he said after a moment. His gaze was distant, fixed on the flashing lights of the arcade. "I guess I've realized there's more to people than I thought. A lot more. And I feel like I spent years… just not seeing any of it."

He turned to look at you, and the sincerity in his eyes was so disarming it almost felt like a weapon.

"You're interesting. And you don't like me. I'm trying to figure out what I did. And... maybe if I do, I can stop doing it."

The honesty of it was a punch to the gut. He wasn't trying to charm you, wasn't trying to get anything from you. He was just a guy trying to understand why he kept failing.

"I—" you started, but no words came out.

He saved you by pushing off the counter and grabbing the clipboard for the closing checklist. "Alright, what's next on the shutdown protocol?"

He was letting you off the hook, changing the subject, giving you space. And you were ridiculously grateful for it. But you also didn't want to take it.

"You didn't do anything, Steve," you said, the words quiet but firm.

He paused, pen hovering over the checklist. "Come on. Every time I talk to you, I feel like I'm putting my foot in my mouth."

"That's not your fault," you clarified. "I don't dislike you. I dislike the idea of you. The version of you that lived in my head. The guy who had it all. The guy who never had to try."

You gestured vaguely around you. "The guy who was probably going to get a sports scholarship and have a summer fling and never think about the people who had to clean up after him."

Steve finally looked at you, really looked at you, a small, frown line appearing between his brows.

"Little fun fact? I am trying. All the damn time," he admitted. "And the summer fling? Not exactly panning out. And the sports scholarship..." He scoffed, a short, bitter sound. "Let's just say my dad and Coach had a little talk about my 'priorities' last year and I didn't listen. I don't think college is in my future."

You felt a strange pang of something in your chest. It almost felt like guilt. You had built this whole narrative in your head about him, this perfect, easy life, and here he was, chipping away at it with every quiet, honest word.

"Oh," you said, brilliantly.

"Yeah, 'oh'," he mimicked, a ghost of a smile on his lips. He set the clipboard down, moving to the back to start emptying the sanitary bins. "The universe has a funny way of kicking you in the teeth. Turns out I'm not as special as I thought I was."

"But!" He turned to you and pointed, before pushing the door open with his back. "I'm kind of okay with that now."

You watched the door swing shut behind him, waiting a beat before following.

"Well, I guess I'm sorry for underestimating-"

You're suddenly chest to chest with him in the back room. He'd forgotten the trash bag. He'd turned right around and you walked straight into him.

"-you." you finished, your breath catching in your throat.

One of his hands was braced on your waist, grabbing to steady you. You could feel the warmth of his palms seeping through your uniform. You could smell him again, that clean, soapy, slightly sweaty scent that was becoming infuriatingly familiar.

"Whoa, easy there," he said, but his voice was lower than usual. He didn't move away, the softest smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

Your eyes, almost of their own accord, flicked down to his lips. They were slightly parted. And in that split second, you wanted to know what they tasted like.

This was bad. This was so, so bad.

You pushed gently against his chest. "Personal space, Harrington."

He blinked, the spell broken. He let go of your arm and took a half-step back, running a hand through his hair in that nervous way he had.

"Right. Sorry." He looked anywhere but at you. "My fault. Should've worn a bell..."

It had been four days since the almost-kiss. It's all you could think about, but neither of you spoke about it.

The silence that settled between you now was different. Before, it was laced with tension and disdain. Now, it was charged with something else.

Luckily, the busy Saturday night crowd had left you both too busy to think about anything but orders and cash. You moved around each other in the small space with a new, careful choreography, your hands brushing, your shoulders passing close, each touch a tiny jolt.

A mother with three screaming kids finally left, leaving a sticky trail of melted strawberry ice cream across your clean counter.

Robin was at the register, her head in her hands.

"I swear to God, if one more kid asks for gummy worms on their chocolate ice cream, I'm going to scream."

"It's a culinary revolution, Buckley. Don't stifle their creativity," you said, scrubbing at the sticky spot with maybe a little more force than necessary.

"It's gross." Steve chimed in, wiping down the scoop well.

You both looked at each other at the same moment before quickly looking away.

Robin's head shot up, eyes narrowed. "You two have been weird all week. Weirder than usual. What's going on?"

"Nothing," you both said in perfect, damning unison.

"Oh, my God," she breathed, a look of dawning, horrified comprehension on her face. "You had sex."

Steve dropped his scoop. It clattered into the metal well with an almost ear-piercing clang.

"No!" he yelped, his face turning a shade of red you'd only previously seen on a sunburned tourist.

"No!" you echoed, your voice slightly higher than you intended. "What the hell Buckley!"

You both looked at each other again, this was the last person you wanted to be in this interrogation with.

Robin stood up straight, planting her hands on her hips. She looked back and forth between your panicked faces with a gleeful expression.

"Relax, you two. I'm messing with you," she said, waving a dismissive hand, although her eyes still held a speculative glint.

Robin was too good at her job, her specialty being pattern recognition. She had you two pinned, at least enough to know something had shifted in whatever weird, antagonistic ecosystem you and Steve inhabited.

Steve picked up the scoop, wiping it on the side of his apron. "Hilarious. In no world would that ever, in a million years, happen."

The words were a slap in the face, even if they were said in a panicked attempt to deflect Robin's teasing. You felt a hot surge of anger, but you didn't even have the energy to fight him on it. You just bit the inside of your cheek, focusing intently on scrubbing the last of the sticky pink sludge from the counter.

"Yeah, Steve only goes for girls of a certain pedigree, isn't that right?" The words came out sharper, more acidic than you intended, but you were hurt. "He has standards to maintain."

Robin looked between you two again, her grin faltering as she sensed the shift from playful banter to something real.

Steve winced, physically recoiling from your words as if you'd slapped him. He looked at you, his expression a mess of regret and pleading, but your back was to him.

"Alright, I think I've overstimulated the weird little... whatever you two have going on here," Robin said, grabbing her bag from under the counter. "I'm taking my break before I have to witness an extinction-level event."

She gave you both one last, inscrutable look before disappearing through the swinging door, leaving you and Steve alone in a silence that was so loud it hurt.

You kept scrubbing at the counter, the rough texture of the sponge a welcome, painful distraction. Your shoulders were tight, a knot of anger and humiliation lodging itself right between your shoulder blades.

"You know that's not what I meant," he finally said, his voice quiet, rough.

"Wasn't it?" you shot back, not turning around.

A customer came to the counter just then— a worn out looking dad with two kids hanging off his legs— and you had to switch on your customer service face. It felt like a mask that was cracking. You took their order with a brittle cheerfulness that you knew Steve could see right through.

He took over making the sundaes while you worked the register, a silent, tense dance. His hands were clumsy, fumbling with the hot fudge pump. He was off-balance.

When the family left with their ice cream, the silence descended again, heavier this time.

The line picked up again and the two of you were too busy to even look at each other. He made the ice cream, you rang it up. There was no room for error or emotion. It was the most efficient you two had ever been.

Robin had the mid shift, so you and Steve closed yet again. For the last hour, the only sounds were sloshing of the mop bucket and the click clacks of the calculator.

The cleaning was almost done. You'd wiped down every surface, emptied the sanitizing buckets, and were now in the backroom hunched over the final inventory sheet. The numbers swam in front of your eyes.

You couldn't wait for your day off tomorrow. Maybe you'd hit up the pool or see if a new album had dropped at the record store. Anything to get out of this polyester prison and away from the suffocating silence.

"I'm not going to apologize for saying something dumb to Robin to get her to back off," he finally said, his back to you as he restacked the crates we had been counting. "Because I didn't mean it. I think you know I didn't."

"Why do you think I care if you meant it or not?" you said, not looking up from the clipboard. "It doesn't matter to me who you do or do not want to sleep with."

"Because I hurt your feelings," he stated, simply, matter-of-factly. He wasn't asking. He knew.

Your head snapped up. "You have a high opinion of yourself, don't you?"

"No," he said, turning to face you. "I just feel like every time I get close to saying something right, I trip over my own feet and say something monumentally stupid instead."

He took a step closer, the backroom suddenly feeling much, much smaller.

"Look, I'm not sorry for trying to get Robin off our backs," he said, his voice low. "but I am sorry for how I did it. That's all. End of story."

He stood there, waiting. He wasn't pleading or demanding. He was just... present. He was holding himself accountable, and it was maybe the most attractive thing you'd ever seen him do.

You slammed the clipboard down on a crate before turning around, the noise echoing in the small room. "Why do you even care?"

"Because!" he burst out, his frustration finally boiling over. He ran both hands through his hair, messing it up. "Because for some insane reason I can't figure out, I like being around you! And I'd rather do that without you looking at me like you want to set me on fire!"

The confession held more weight than you realized, your breath hitching slightly at his earnestness.

You stared at him, truly and completely speechless for the second time that week. This whole conversation had careened wildly off the rails you'd laid.

You didn't know what to say. So you just watched him pace in the cramped space. He was like a caged lion, all restless energy and barely contained frustration.

"I've had my life fall apart, okay?" he said, stopping to face you. "My girlfriend left me for a guy who's probably a better person than I am, my dad looks at me like I'm a monumental disappointment, and my crowning achievement is a hairdo that gets compliments from either freshman girls or lonely housewives."

You didn't mean to laugh, but a small hysterical sound escaped your lips. It wasn't mocking; it was just the pathetic honesty of it.

"And then you show up," he continued, taking a step closer, a wild, desperate light in his eyes. "You're smart, and you're funny, and you're... you just don't give a shit about any of the stuff I spent my whole life trying to be good at. You see right through it, and it's infuriating. And it's... good. It feels real. For the first time in a long time, something feels real."

He was so close now. The space between you was humming with a new tension.

"So, yes. I care. Not because I see you as some novelty or a challenge or whatever fucked up things you think guys like me think. I care because you're the most interesting person I've talked to in months. And because I said something stupid that made you look at me the way you looked at Stacey Carmichael and I can't stand it."

You couldn't move. You could barely breathe. Every carefully constructed wall you'd built around yourself was crumbling, brick by brick, at the blatant sincerity pouring out of him.

"Do you always give romantic movie speeches or is it a special occasion?" The words came out quiet, stripped of their usual bite.

He didn't even smile. "I'm not trying to be romantic. I'm trying to be honest."

Oof. You should say something. You should deflect. But he spoke again before you could.

"Not that... I mean, not that you're unattractive because you're very much..." he trailed off, gesturing vaguely at you. He was so close you could feel the warmth coming off him, see the way his throat worked as he swallowed. "You know."

"Squished into this uniform?" you offer with a laugh that has zero humor to it.

"What? No!" he frowned. "You look… good."

Now it was your turn to blush, a heat creeping up your neck that you prayed he couldn't see.

"Yeah, well, you'd look good in anything," you admitted, the words slipping out before you could stop them. "That's your whole... thing."

You didn't want to admit it before, but you knew. Even in this stupid uniform he was handsome, but there was something else there.

Steve's smile was lopsided and soft.

"So you forgive me? For being an idiot in front of Robin?"

"I'll consider it."

He took another step closer, and this time you didn't back away. The fabric of your uniforms nearly brushed. You were close enough now that you had to tilt your head back to look at him.

"What, are you gonna kiss me or something? To seal the deal?"

It was meant to be a joke, a final test. A way to push him away and see if he'd flinch. You expected him to laugh, to roll his eyes, to step back into the familiar safety of sarcastic banter.

He didn't.

He just looked at you, his eyes searching yours, and the lighthearted air in the room vanished. Your bravado evaporated.

His gaze dropped to your lips, and then back to your eyes.

"I might," he said, his voice a low murmur. "If you wanted me to."

Your breath hitched. This was a bad idea. A terrible, no-good, very-bad idea.

"Do you want to?" you whispered back, the words barely audible.

He answered by closing the final inch of space between you.

His lips were softer than you imagined. It was a careful, searching kiss, nothing like the confident, performative smooches you'd witnessed him bestow on girls in school hallways.

You responded in kind, a soft sigh escaping you. Your hand, as if of its own accord, came up to rest on the nape of his neck, your fingers tangling in the soft hair there. That seemed to be the permission he was looking for.

The kiss deepened. His hand came up to cup your jaw, his thumb stroking your cheekbone. He tasted like mint toothpaste and a faint, lingering sweetness from the strawberry flavoring he'd been ‘testing’ earlier.

Your free hand found its way to the front of his ridiculous shirt, your fist clenching in the fabric. He was solid, warm, real. Not the caricature you'd built in your head.

He angled his head, the kiss becoming more insistent, more desperate, his free hand steadying on your waist. He pulled you flush against him, and you gasped into his mouth as you felt his body against yours.

The rational part of your brain, the part that was still screaming about what a monumentally bad idea this was, went completely silent. All that was left was the feeling of him. The smell of him.

You were tentative as your hands trailed down his torso, palms flat against his toned pecs to the softness of his stomach and back up to his strong shoulders. You wanted to feel him.

"Hey," he murmured against your lips, a slight smile in his voice.

You pulled back just enough to see his face, your fingers still curled into the fabric of his shirt. His hair was a mess from your hands, his lips were swollen and wet, and his eyes were dark, pupils blown wide with want.

"Hi," you breathed back.

"This is," he started, then seemed to change his mind, leaning in to kiss you again, a soft, brief press of lips. "This is not a good place for this."

"No," you agreed, your brain slowly coming back online. "Not really."

He looked past you, towards the door that led out to the shop floor. "We need to go before that weird mall cop comes by."

You were suddenly acutely aware of your surroundings. The scent of dry goods, the hum of the freezers. You could still faintly smell the disinfectant and the sickly-sweet cherry flavoring.

"I'll go lock the gate and we can leave through the back." He kissed you again quickly and practically jogged out of the room, not giving you a chance to respond.

You took a minute to try and calm your racing heart before grabbing your bag. You could hear the heavy clank of the metal gate from the front of the shop.

You met him by the back door, the silence between you now charged with a different kind of electricity. You followed him out into the oppressive heat of the Hawkins night.

The air was wet, clinging to your skin. The parking lot was a sea of asphalt, shimmering under the orange glow of the mall lamps. The cicadas were screaming their summer song from the trees beyond the lot.

"Which one's yours?" he asked.

"The blue shitbox over there." You pointed to your car.

"Classy." He grinned, shoving his hands in the pockets of his ridiculously short shorts. "Mine's the Beamer."

"I know."

He walked with you to your beat-up car, the silence stretching out between you. You could still feel the ghost of his kiss on your lips.

"So," he said, stopping next to your door, his proximity making it hard to think. "Now what?"

You looked up at him, at the hopeful, uncertain look in his eyes. "Aren't you the expert in this stuff? Master of the..." you trailed off, not knowing what to call this.

"Post-shift makeout session in a stuffy back room?" he supplied, a lopsided smile playing on his lips. "Yeah, kind of a new one for me, too."

He wasn't trying to play a part, not with you.

You leaned back against the warm metal of your car door. "Do you work tomorrow?"

"You don't have my schedule memorized yet?" he asked, a flicker of the old Steve in his tone. You decided you liked this version better. "I'm off. So are you, according to the board."

"Right."

"So," he said again, rocking back on his heels. "Do you wan--"

"I don't do hook ups." The words tumbled out of your mouth, blunt and defensive. It was your last line of defense, a final test to see what he'd do with the rejection. “Not… any more. Since, you know.”

He stopped rocking, his smile fading. He just looked at you, his expression unreadable in the lot’s lights.

"Okay..." he said, his voice quiet as he drew out the word. "I wasn't asking for one."

You winced internally. You hadn't meant for it to come out so harshly.

"I just mean, I don't..." you struggled to explain yourself, the heat from the asphalt and the heat from your blush making it hard to breathe. "I'm not that girl."

"I know," he said simply. "I wouldn't be standing here if I thought you were."

The certainty in his voice was disarming. He stepped closer again, crowding you against the car door.

"Is that what you thought this was?" he asked, his voice a low murmur that sent a shiver down your spine despite the humid air. "That I'd kiss you in the back room and then expect to... what? Come home with me and...?" He didn't finish, just let the question hang in the heavy air.

You almost hated that you wanted to be more than a forgotten hook up.

The idea that the one guy you've been trying not to want for weeks, might see you as just another notch on a bedpost, was a rejection that would sting more than anything else.

"I mean... I wouldn't want to get fired," you deflected. "Hypothetically, workplace fraternization would be very frowned upon by our corporate overlords at Scoops Ahoy."

God, that was weak. He knew it, too.

A lazy grin spread across his face. "If I did bring you home with me, hypothetically, it wouldn't be a hook-up."

And that, that right there, was what made you feel lightheaded. The casual certainty in his voice. He wasn't just trying to get you into bed. He was trying to get you.

"I mean... I'd be lying if I said I'm not thinking about it, or that I'd be against something happening..." he admitted, his gaze dropping to your lips again. "But I'm also thinking about seeing you tomorrow. And the day after. And maybe taking you somewhere that doesn't require a sailor hat."

You felt a smile tugging at your own lips, unguarded. "Oh yeah? Like where? The food court?"

"Even better," he said, leaning in, his lips ghosting over yours. "The movie theater."

You couldn't help it. You laughed. "Wooing me with all the high-class hotspots, Harrington."

"I aim to please," he whispered, and then he kissed you again. "I can also do restaurants, if you're feeling particularly adventurous. Maybe even that fancy Italian place out by the highway if I save up my tips for a month."

You were smiling against his mouth. "A whole month of Scoops for a plate of spaghetti? You drive a hard bargain."

"I like you." He said it like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Simple. Direct. A fact.

He pulled back just enough to look you in the eye. "That's all this is. It's not a game. It's not a hook-up. I just... really like you."

You held his gaze, feeling the warmth fill your body.

"Do you like diner food?" you whisper.

"Is that a serious question? Of course, I like diner food." The hopeful, ridiculously bright look that came back onto his face was worth more than you thought it would be.

It gave you the confidence to be bold.

"I could... follow you home. And maybe in the morning you could take me to the diner for pancakes."

He blinked. "Seriously?"

"I'm not into hook-ups, Steve." The words were a little shaky, but you were sure of them. "But I'm not a nun, either."

He blinked again, trying to process. "So... you're coming home with me?"

"I'm following you home," you corrected, your own lips curving into a smile. "My car is my escape route. Don't make me use it."

"I won't," he promised, his voice dropping into that low register that made you want to melt into a puddle on the asphalt. "I won't."

He leaned in for one last kiss in the parking lot, a sweet press of lips that tasted like promise.

Following his BMW through the darkened streets of Hawkins in your hammydown car was one of the more surreal experiences of your life. The juxtaposition was almost funny. His clean, expensive car cutting through the night, you rattling along behind it, engine groaning in protest.

You'd driven by his house plenty of times. Large, sprawling, and dark. The kind of house that was meant for a family that was whole and happy, but instead there was an emptiness to it that you could feel from the driveway, a silence that had nothing to do with the late hour.

You hadn't asked if his parents were home, you already knew the answer. It was common knowledge that the Harringtons were never really around. You'd assumed he loved it. An endless party house. But seeing the stark reality of it, not even a single light on at the entrance, the cavernous windows all dark, you felt a different kind of understanding. A strange wave of pity and protectiveness washed over you. He was all alone in that big, echoing house.

He parked in one of the garages.

(Seriously, why were there so many?)

You had to park yours in the drive, a small, rebellious speck of automotive failure in the middle of all that success.

Steve must have gone in through the garage, because he was opening the front door as you got out of your car. You didn't miss the way he was still a little nervous about this whole thing. The confidence he had in the mall parking lot had retreated behind a wall of shyness that you had yet to see.

You walked up to where he was waiting at those red double doors.

"It's huge," you managed, feeling small.

"Yeah, well. My mom likes to entertain," he said, the words flat and devoid of any real emotion. He wasn't bragging; he was just stating a fact of a life that didn't feel like his.

He led you inside and locked the front doors as you toed off your shoes. The stairs were right by the entry way, carpet over wooden slats, the hall into the living space on the other side.

He turned a small lamp on by the wall before turning to you, hands on his hips and looking at the floor, trying to break the silence.

"Alright," he said, finally looking at you. "This is it. Casa del Harrington. Don't touch anything."

You could hear the smile in his tone.

"Wow, what a tour. So many highlights," you played along, your own lips tugging into a grin.

"I'm saving the best for last," he said, grabbing your hand. His was warm and a little sweaty, and your fingers linked together like they'd been doing it for years. He led you upstairs.

The hallway was long, half balcony, half doors to other rooms. One floor was bigger than your whole family home.

He pushed open a door at the end of the hall. "And this," he announced with a flourish, "is my room. The grand finale."

It wasn't what you expected. It was... plaid. Like, beige and black plaid walls and matching curtains.

"I swear I have a personality," he said, noticing your amused expression. "My mom's interior decorator did not get the memo."

"It's very... masculine," you managed, looking around the random items. A bowling pin on the desk, a poster of a car, a poster of a bikini clad woman he clearly flinched at when you saw.

The king-sized bed, the sheets on top slightly rumpled from this morning, seemed to take up half the room.

It felt... intimate. Not in a threatening way, but in a way that made you feel like you were seeing a part of him no one else was supposed to. The messy pile of clothes on a chair, the photo on his dresser of him and a younger boy with curls and a goofy smile, a half-empty bottle of cologne.

"I'm gonna..." he cleared his throat. "Go change from this... stupid uniform." He gestured down at himself before turning to the door.

"Don't!" The protest slipped out before you could stop it.

Shit.

"Uh... I mean..."

He turned back slowly, his eyes wide, surprised. "Don't what? You afraid to be alone in here?"

"No, it's not that," you said, feeling your cheeks flush. You bit your lip, trying to find the words that wouldn't make you sound like a complete lunatic.

"I mean, don't... not because I don't want you to," you stammered, your gaze dropping to his chest. "It's just... I've been looking at that stupid uniform all summer. And I have this stupid image in my head of you in it and I..."

You trailed off, mortified. What were you even saying?

A slow grin spread across his face, a flicker of the cocky Steve Harrington you knew, but it was tempered by something softer.

"Oh," he said, the understanding dawning in his eyes. He took a step back into the room, closing the door behind him. "So... this is a thing for you, then?"

"It's not a thing," you denied, but your voice was weak and embarrassed. "It just... fits...well?"

That was also a bad choice of words.

You wanted the floor to swallow you whole, but then he started walking towards you with a slow, deliberate pace.

"Fits well?" he asked, his tone low and teasing. He stopped directly in front of you, so close you could feel the heat radiating from him. His gaze was heavy, searching your face. "You think so?"

You couldn't speak. You just nodded, your eyes locked on his.

"Is it the shorts?" he asked, his voice a low rumble. "Or does the dumb little scarf thing get you going?"

"Steve," you whispered, a pathetic attempt at shutting him down.

But instead of backing off, he took a hold of your waistband, tugging you flush against him. His hands were confident but not rough.

"Because, you know…" he continued, leaning down so his lips were right next to your ear. "I was thinking the shorts are a little short. Show a little too much thigh."

You let out a shaky breath, your hands coming up to rest on his chest. You could feel the steady, rapid beat of his heart under your palm.

"I take all my nice words back, you are actually evil."

He chuckled, the sound a deep, warm vibration against you. "Only a little bit."

One of his large hands found the red tie of your own uniform and played with it a little, not quite touching your chest, but his eyes were there.

"You're one to talk, you know..." he confessed. He traced the collar of the blue and white striped top. "Gotta say, I'm more than a little curious to see what's underneath. Not really leaving much to my imagination here, sailor." He says pulling at it a little to see your neck line.

"You're the one who said it was tight on me last week," you reminded him, your own hands slowly, nervously sliding up to wrap around the back of his neck, your fingers brushing the soft hairs there. "Wasn't really a confidence booster..."

"Is that why you were quiet the rest of the day? You thought it was, what, an insult?" He was genuinely confused. "It wasn't. I was trying not to stare, god, I was trying so hard not to stare."

Your fingers stilled in his hair. "Really?"

"Yeah," he breathed, leaning in again. His lips brushed your jaw, a fleeting, warm touch. "I spent the rest of the shift trying to think up ways to get you fired, just so I didn't have to look at you in this stupid uniform anymore."

The laugh that escaped you was half-shock, half-desire. "That's the most romantic and simultaneously psychopathic thing anyone has ever said to me."

He nipped at your earlobe, and a full-body shudder wracked its way through you. "God, when I was patching up your knee? And you kept flinching and your shorts were riding up your thigh and I could feel you shaking... you have no idea what I was thinking."

"I have a pretty good idea," you gasped as his lips trailed down the column of your throat. His hand was still on the ridiculous scarf-thing, one thumb stroking the skin just above your collarbone.

"No, you don't," he murmured against your skin. "But I'll show you. If you let me."

You didn't answer with words. You answered by tilting your head back, giving him better access, and by pulling him closer until there was no space left between your bodies. He took the invitation, his kisses becoming open-mouthed and hungry against your throat.

His hands finally moved to the hem of your uniform top, warm fingers brushing against the sliver of exposed skin on your stomach. You sucked in a sharp breath. His touch was a brand.

"Is this okay?" he breathed against your skin, pausing.

You answered by grabbing the hem of your own shirt and pulling it over your head in one smooth motion, tossing it to the floor.

Your eyes were searching his face, trying to gauge his reaction, half-expecting a flicker of disappointment or the detached calculation you'd imagined from the old Steve. Instead, you were met with clear want.

"Wow," he breathed, his gaze sweeping over you. He looked dazed. "Wow."

"Stop," you said, but it was a weak protest.

"No, I mean it," he said, his hands coming up to rest on your waist, his thumbs stroking the soft skin there. "Those are... wow."

He was looking at your breasts like he'd just discovered a new continent, but it was the reverence in his expression that did it for you.

"They're boobs, Steve," you said, your voice shaky with a nervous laugh.

"They’re great boobs," he countered, leaning in to kiss you again. This kiss was different. Deeper, more possessive. One of his hands slid up your back, his fingers tracing the clasp of your bra.

It was a simple, utilitarian, beige thing. Nothing lacy or special. You suddenly felt a pang of self-consciousness.

"This is the least sexy bra in the history of the world," you murmured against his lips.

"I'm not really looking at the bra," he said, a smile in his voice. He deftly unhooked it with one hand and you felt the straps fall loose.

He pulled back just enough to slide the bra down your arms and let it join your shirt on the floor. The cool air of the room on your bare skin made you shiver.

"Jesus," he breathed, his eyes wide, devouring the sight of you. He looked like a kid in a candy store who'd just been told he could have whatever he wanted.

He didn't say anything else. He just looked, his gaze hot and heavy, and it was somehow more intimate than if he'd touched you. You'd never had anyone look at you like that. Like you were a masterpiece.

Then he was kissing you again, and this time his hands were on you, warm and sure. They weren't tentative or clumsy. He knew what he was doing.

One hand cupped your breast, his thumb brushing over the nipple, and a jolt went through you so intense you gasped into his mouth. He swallowed the sound, deepening the kiss, as he rolled the sensitive peak between his thumb and forefinger.

You pulled his shirt up, your hands flattening against the warm, bare skin of his back. You could feel the muscles there, tense and solid. He helped you pull the stupid uniform shirt over his head, and then it was your turn to look.

His chest was smooth and defined, a patch of chest hair trailing down to a soft tummy that you wanted to lick.

"Got a little soft from all the ice cream," he said, a self-deprecating note in his voice.

"I like it," you said, and you meant it. You leaned in, pressing a kiss to the center of his chest, right over his heart. His breath hitched. "You're hairier than I thought though."

He let out a surprised laugh, a real, genuine burst of sound that rumbled through you.

"You been thinking about my hair distribution a lot?" he teased, his hands settling on your hips.

"You'd be surprised," you murmured, kissing your way up to his collarbone.

"Let me get my hands on you before I explode" he whispered, and he was tugging you towards the bed. He sat down on the edge, pulling you to straddle him. His hands roamed over your back, your hips, your ass, appreciating your shape.

Your breasts were pressed against his chest, the coarse hair a delicious friction. You threaded your fingers through his hair, tilting his head back. You kissed him, a slow, deep kiss that you felt all the way down to your toes.

"God, you feel good," he breathed against your lips, his hands squeezing your ass.

He was hard, you could feel it through the layers of fabric between you, a rigid, insistent pressure against you.

"Steve," you whispered, rocking against him. The friction was maddening.

"Tell me what you want," he said, pulling back to look at you, his eyes dark and serious.

You took a shaky breath. You weren't used to this. Guys usually just took what they wanted, assuming they knew.

"Touch me," you said, your voice barely a whisper. "Everywhere."

He smiled, a slow, dangerous curve of his lips. "My pleasure."

He guided you onto the bed, your back sinking into the plush comforter. He followed you down, settling over you, propping himself up on his elbows so he wasn't crushing you.

He started slow. His lips traced a path from your jaw down to the hollow of your throat. His hands mapped your body, savoring every curve.

"I can't believe this is happening," he murmured, mostly to himself.

"Me neither," you admitted, your hands stroking through his hair as he kissed a path across your collarbones.

When he finally took one of your nipples into his mouth, you arched off the bed with a choked gasp. He swirled his tongue around the sensitive peak, his other hand coming up to toy with its twin.

"Look at these... God," he said, pulling away with a wet pop. His thumb and forefinger rolling the sensitive nub, pulling a little making your hips buck. "Fucking perfect."

The compliments, the reverence, it was overwhelming. It was too much, but also exactly what you needed. He wasn't treating you like a conquest. He was worshiping you. You were the only thing in this cavernous, lonely house that mattered.

He shifted, moving down your body, pressing open-mouthed kisses to your stomach, your hips.

"Can I show you what I was thinking about when I patched you up?" he asked, his gaze flicking up to meet yours from his position above your shorts. His fingers were hooked into the waistband, teasing the elastic.

You nodded, unable to speak, your throat tight with anticipation.

He grinned, that wicked, knowing grin, and slowly, torturously, peeled your shorts down your legs. He tossed them aside, leaving you in nothing but your plain cotton underwear.

He settled between your thighs, pushing them apart. His gaze was heavy, and you felt a fresh wave of self-consciousness wash over you. You started to close your legs, to hide, but he held you in place, his hands firm on your thighs.

"No," he said, his voice a command. "Don't you dare hide from me."

He leaned down, and you felt his breath, hot and damp, through the thin cotton of your panties. Your hips bucked, a silent plea.

"God, you're already so wet for me," he murmured, his thumb pressing against your clit through the fabric.

You whined, a high, desperate sound you didn't recognize as your own. Your hands fisted in the comforter.

He took pity on you, hooking his fingers into the waistband of your panties and sliding them down.

"Look at you," he breathed, spreading you open with his thumbs. "Pretty. So fucking pretty."

He didn't wait. He leaned in and licked a flat, broad stripe up your center.

The world tilted on its axis. Your back arched, a strangled gasp tearing from your throat as you fought to keep your eyes open. He looked up at you from between your legs as he did it again, slow and deliberate, savoring the taste of you. His perfect nose nudged against your clit. He groaned, a low, rumbling sound of pure, unadulterated pleasure, and the vibration of it shot through you like lightning.

"Steve... oh, god..."

"That's it," he encouraged, his voice a rough whisper against your sensitive skin. He settled in, alternating between broad, lazy strokes of his tongue and focused, precise circles around your clit. His hands held your thighs apart, his grip firm and grounding. He wasn't trying to impress you with some frantic, porno-worthy performance. He was trying to make you feel good. He was paying attention.

He watched you, his eyes dark and intense, cataloging every reaction, every twitch, every gasp. When your hips started to cant up, meeting the rhythm of his tongue, he knew he'd found it. He sealed his lips around your clit and sucked.

"Fuck!" you cried out, your hands flying from the bedspread to tangle in his hair, holding him to you. "Don't stop. Please, god, don't stop."

He didn't. He doubled down, flicking his tongue against the sensitive bundle of nerves in a relentless, perfect rhythm. He slid one finger inside you, then another, curling them in a 'come here' motion that made you see stars.

"Steve," you whimpered, his name a prayer on your lips. "I'm... I'm..."

He knew. He could feel it. The fluttering of your walls around his fingers, the way your thighs were starting to tremble uncontrollably. He was good at this. He'd learned a thing or two, a quiet voice in the back of your mind supplied, before the thought was obliterated by the coiling tension in your stomach.

And then you were falling. The world shattered into a million pieces. Your back bowed off the bed and a long moan was torn from your throat as the orgasm hit. He didn't stop, didn't let up, working you through it until you were a boneless, panting mess beneath him.

He finally lifted his head, his face glistening, a satisfied grin on his lips. He crawled up your body, pressing a kiss to your lips. You could taste yourself on him, the intimate flavor making your head spin.

"Your thighs are shaking," he whispered, the words a warm puff of air against your cheek. His hand came up to stroke your hair tenderly.

"Blame the sailor uniform," you managed, your voice hoarse. Your brain felt like it had been scooped out and replaced with cotton candy.

"And let it take all the credit? No chance. That was all me, baby."

Baby.

"You're insufferable," you whispered, but you were smiling, pulling him down for another kiss. You could feel him, still hard against your hip through the fabric of those ridiculous shorts.

"You don't seem like you're suffering too much." He rocked his hips against you, a deliberate, delicious friction that made you gasp.

"Conceited, too," you retorted, your hands coming down to cup his ass, pulling him tighter against you. The muscles were firm and perfect in your palms.

The move must have surprised him a little because he flinched away. Not in a bad way, he looked confused by the feeling of your hands there.

Truthfully, you hadn't been with a guy in a while, and your reflexes were a little rusty on the male body.

"Uh...sorry..." You whispered as you moved your hands back to the bed.

He just shook his head. "No, no. You just surprised me is all." The look on his face was a mixture of confusion and awe. "I... uh..." He was stammering again, which was weird.

"I'm not used to girls... well, touching my ass," he admitted with a little laugh. "Usually it's just been about what I can do for them."

You hadn't even thought about it. You'd been more interested in the feeling of him.

His smile was gone, replaced by that serious, searching look again. He was watching you, his brow furrowed in concentration.

"You've definitely had girls touch you before, Steve." You whisper, hands impatient back on his lower back.

"Yeah... yeah. Just not like this." He leaned down, kissing your shoulder. "Not where it's about... me."

He had no right to look so vulnerable. Not with the reputation he had around Hawkins. Not with everything you'd heard. But as he hovered above you, all you saw was a boy who was used to being wanted for what he could provide, not for who he was.

"Also it's... been a while for me." he admitted, his lips against your neck again like it would help hide the confession.

The idea that you were the one to make him this nervous, this unsure, was the most intoxicating thing you had ever experienced.

Your hands roamed over his back, feeling the muscles tense and flex under your touch. You wanted to memorize the slope of his shoulders, the ridge of his spine, the dip at the base of his back.

"I like it, for the record." He says after a moment of your hands playing with the waistband of those shorts, lost in the feeling of your hands on him. "I like how handsy you get when you're turned on."

You smile and your hands move back to his ass to push him more firmly against your core, you let out your own moan against his lips. He was still so frustratingly clothed.

"It's your turn," you breathed, your hands tugging at the fabric. "Lose the shorts."

He kisses you quickly before pulling back to take them off. There was a significant wet patch on the front from where he'd been pressed against you. You watch his eyes trail down to it.

"Oops..." you whisper with a smirk.

He just shakes his head with a chuckle before he finally, finally slides them and his boxers down in one go, kicking them to the floor.

And then he was naked. All of him. And your brain had to recalculate.

You'd heard the rumors, of course. Locker rooms were a breeding ground for exaggerated gossip. But seeing him in the flesh... seeing the hard, thick length of him, curving up towards his stomach... the rumors hadn't been exaggerated. They'd been an understatement.

He followed the path of your eyes, and you watched a flicker of something- pride, maybe, or just deep-seated insecurity- cross his face.

"You're staring," he said, a nervous edge to his teasing tone.

"I can't imagine a person who wouldn't."

You reached for him, your curiosity overriding any lingering shyness. He was deliciously heavy in your hand, the skin velvety soft. He let out the prettiest moan as you gave a slow, tentative stroke, your thumb smearing the bead of moisture at the tip. His hips stuttered forward, an involuntary movement.

"Jesus," he breathed, his head falling back. His hands braced on the mattress on either side of your head, caging you in. "Okay. Yeah. That's... okay."

He looked wrecked already. His hair was a mess, his cheeks flushed, his lips parted. It was a heady kind of power.

Your other hand slid up the back of his thigh, over the firm curve of his ass. You gave a little squeeze and he swore again, his hips bucking into your fist.

"Tell me what you want, Steve," you murmured, your voice low and sure.

He looked down at you, his eyes dark, a muscle working in his jaw. He's never been asked that. Not like this.

"Jesus Christ," he said again, as if that were the only coherent thought he could form. "I want... everything."

"Be more specific," you pressed, your thumb swirling over the head of him.

"I want to be inside you," he ground out. "I need to be inside you."

"Good," you whispered, pulling him down for a kiss. "Get a condom."

He blinked, then nodded, a flicker of disappointment in his eyes at the loss of your touch. He rolled off you, rummaging in the drawer of his bedside table. He came back with a little foil packet, tearing it open with his teeth.

You watched him roll it on, your own body revving with anticipation. He hovered over you again, one hand braced on the bed, the other lining himself up with your entrance.

"Just... go slow..." you say with a steadying breath. "I'm eager, yeah, but like I said, it's been a minute for me too. And you're... not exactly... small."

He looked genuinely relieved that you'd acknowledged it. "Yeah. I know. It's... it's a lot sometimes, for people. I'll be careful, I swear."

The vulnerability was back, but this time it wasn't about your reaction. It was about the act itself. He was scared of hurting you.

He pressed forward, and you felt the stretch, the welcome pressure of him entering you. It was a slow, deliberate push, and you felt him inch by inch. You let out a shaky breath, your hands coming up to grip his biceps.

He paused, giving you a moment to adjust. "You okay?"

"Just...really love touching you," you gasped out in lieu of a real answer. And it was the truth. Your hands were on him, feeling the toned muscle and the warm skin and the slight tremor in his arms as he held himself still. "You can keep going."

He kissed you, a slow, sweet kiss, almost overwhelming feeling of him filling you. He started to move again, shallow rocking that gradually built into a deeper rhythm.

"God," he breathed against your lips, burying his face in your neck. "You feel... you feel incredible."

Your legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him deeper, silently begging for more. The feeling of your plush, soft thighs around his hips made Steve lose all train of thought. He was breathing into your neck and making these small helpless sounds, like he couldn't believe this was really happening.

He set a pace that was both leisurely and deep, rolling his hips in a way that made you see stars. One of those strong arms made its way under you when you arched into him, pressing your chest to his. The movement shifted you, and he slid deeper, hitting a spot inside you that made you cry out.

"Right there?" he asked, a smug satisfaction in his tone. He rolled his hips again, deliberately, grinding against that spot.

"Steve..." you whimpered, unable to form a coherent thought.

"Say my name again," he commanded, his voice a low growl against your ear. His lips moved along the shell of your ear, nipping gently. He was chasing the praise you gave him, hungry for it.

"Steve," you repeated, louder this time, your hands tangling in his hair.

"You feel incredible, fuck you're so soft everywhere" He panted.

He was losing control, the careful rhythm faltering as his hips began to snap harder, more erratically. Your hands slid down his back, your nails trailing just enough before grabbing onto his ass to keep him deep inside you. You didn't want this to end, but you were already climbing again, that coil of heat tightening in your belly.

"I'm..." you started, but you couldn't finish. The words caught in your throat as he shifted, hooking one of your legs over his shoulder. "Holy fuck..."

The new angle was putting his cock impossibly deep, hitting that spot with every thrust. His name became a mantra on your lips, a prayer to the only god you currently believed in.

"I know, baby, I know," he panted, his face buried in your neck. "Doing so good f'me... taking it so good."

The praise was your undoing. Your world went white. You clenched around him, your orgasm ripping through you with a force that left you breathless and shaking. A cry tore from your throat, needy and real.

The feeling of your walls closing in around him, the sound of you crying his name, it was too much. He drove into you once, twice more, a whimper tearing from your own lips at the overstimulation. Then he stilled, burying himself deep as he came with a long, shuddering groan against your neck.

For a moment, you both just lay there, a tangle of arms and legs and heavy breathing in the oppressive heat of the room.

Slowly, he lowered your leg back down to the bed, but not before kissing the inside of your knee like a silent 'thank you'. He brushed a sweat-damp piece of hair from your forehead, a gesture so soft and tender it made your heart clench. He was still breathing heavily, each pull almost leading in so a loft laugh.

"Usually I can last longer than that." he's quiet, confessing something you didn't even ask for. "You just..."

He didn't finish.

You just what?

You wanted to ask, but the words wouldn't come. You were too spent, too content. He carefully pulled out of you, and you both winced at the sensation. He dealt with the condom, tossing it in the small trashcan by the desk with perfect aim.

You expected him to roll over, to put some space between you. That's what the other guys had done. A moment of awkward silence, then the shuffle of sheets and a mumbled 'I'll be right back'. But he didn't. He shifted, pulling you into his arms until your head was resting on his chest, right over his heart. The beat was still fast against your ear.

His arm wrapped around your shoulders, holding you close. One of his legs tangled with yours, a possessive but gentle weight.

"Your chest hair is sweaty." you mumble against him, but your teasing tone gave away that you didn't actually mind. In fact, you kind of liked it.

"I'm aware," he laughed. "You did this to me."

"Oh, so this is my fault?" You laughed with him, your fingers tracing abstract patterns on the soft skin of his stomach.

"Entirely," he confirmed, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

The comfortable silence that settled over you was warm.

"So," he started, his voice quiet in the dim room. "Diner pancakes in the morning. You still on for that?"

You propped yourself up on an elbow, looking down at him. His hair, which you now realized was grown out a bit more than usual and slightly sunkissed, was fanned out on the pillow, a complete mess. His eyes were soft in the low light, a perfectly warm mix of green and brown.

"You're so beautiful." The words slipped out.

A faint blush crept up his neck, coloring his cheeks. He turned his head for a moment, a boyish gesture that was so at odds with the confident way he'd been looking at you earlier.

"Was that weird?" You asked, suddenly self-conscious. You hadn't meant to say it out loud.

"No," he said, turning back to you, his gaze catching yours. "Just... not what I'm used to hearing."

He reached up, his thumb stroking your cheek. "The girls I'm used to... they'd call me hot, or tell me they liked my car. They wouldn't say that. Don't really think I'd like it from them anyway."

"Maybe you've been talking to the wrong girls," you whispered, leaning into his touch.

"I'm starting to realize that, yeah," he agreed, his hand sliding around to the nape of your neck, pulling you down for a slow, gentle kiss.

You shifted, settling more fully against him, your leg draped over his. Your body was pleasantly sore, a lingering reminder of the way he'd touched you, the way he'd moved inside you.

You were both slick with a cooling layer of sweat in the humid, still air of the bedroom. The window unit was rattling away, doing a valiant but ultimately futile battle against the heatwave and your combined body heat. The sheets were twisted around your legs.

"Your parents aren't, like, gonna come home, are they?" you asked, a flicker of anxiety cutting through the post-coital bliss.

He let out a soft, bitter laugh. "No. My dad's in Chicago until August. My mom's on some retreat on the east coast. Supposed to 'celebrate the woman within' or some phony shit." He paused, tracing the line of your spine. "I think the only thing within her is a tanned tennis instructor named Todd."

"Ouch," you murmured, kissing his collarbone.

"It would be, if my dad didn't spend so many late nights at the office with just his secretary," he said, the words devoid of any real emotion. It was just a fact of life. "This house has been a revolving door for their issues for years. But I'm used to being alone here."

He squeezed your shoulder. "So, no. We're not going to get interrupted."

You felt the weight of that admission, the casual mention of a loneliness so profound it had become normal. It explained a lot about him, the desperate need for attention, the endless parties. He was just trying to fill the silence.

"We could... spend more time together tomorrow. After pancakes," you offered, your own nerves fluttering. "If you wanted."

He went very still. You could feel the change in his breathing, the way he held it.

"Yeah?" he asked, his voice a little rough. "You'd want to?"

"Do... you want to? I don't want to get in the way of you, like, hanging out with your friends or..."

"At this point my friends are a group of preteen nerds I was forced to babysit," he said, a small smile in his voice. "I think I'd rather hang out with you."

"Preteen nerds?"

"It's a long, very weird story," he said. "Involved a lot of digging and a very big bat."

"A bat? What, were you playing baseball?"

He huffed a quiet laugh against your hair. "Something like that. If you keep seeing me, maybe I'll tell you all about it one day."

"Are we seeing each other? Is that what this is?" You tried to keep your tone light, but your heart gave a little lurch at the prospect of putting a name to this thing between you.

"I'd like to," he said, so quiet you almost missed it. "If you would."

"I would," you whispered back, the answer easy and true.

He rolled onto his side, shifting so he was facing you, propping his head up on his hand. The little bedside lamp cast a warm, golden glow over him, highlighting the soft curve of his lips, the earnestness in his eyes.

"Good," he said, a slow, lazy smile spreading across his face. "So, pancakes in the morning? Then maybe we could go to the lake? It's supposed to be even hotter tomorrow. We could go for a swim."

"Trying to see me in a swim suit?"

"Is it working?" he teased, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

"Maybe."

"Should I try to convince you?"

"You're welcome to try…" you challenge.

A slow, predatory grin spread across Steve's face. He leaned in, capturing your bottom lip between his and giving it a gentle, suggestive nip. "I think," he murmured against your lips, "I can be very convincing..."

'ahoy, ladies!' [steve taglist]

@keer-y @aecd27 @snoopyharrington @mutual-future-repeat @djosfools @subtlesposts @cpnsteverogers @britt-mf @alimoiii @remorsefuul @bing72 @thehairharringtonsideblog @powerpuffedbjtch @ali-r3n @enchantedsharddetective @moonstoneandmoonlight @windowsshifts @bunnybunnns @cosmicjamieee @nowandajenn @cciessuzi @dreamerjj @calelundaa @nicherthanu @djobug @purplequeen64-stuff @starrlovee @ghostlyriddles @oohgeminii @ross-bunnybrew @micheledawn1975 @flashmountaindjo @buckyandlokirunmylife @argentinemango @mmmunson @winterwheeler @whatdjomeann @gutsnhugs @maaaachiii @treebabe @m-art000

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