summary: when you join the FBI, everybody on your team is so welcoming except for steve harrington. when your team is placed on an undercover case, you're partnered with the one person you can't stand. your ability to work together will be detrimental to the case to save as many lives as possible.
current word count: 11k
pairing: agent!steveharrington x femagent!reader
notes: i miss criminal minds and steve harrington so i put them together </3
warnings: no use of y/n, enemies to lovers, eventual smut, fake dating, forced proximity, some violence + graphic cases will be mentioned, core four <3, everybody is here, slowish burn, SO angsty, kind of mayfield!reader (she's adopted), will add more as i think of them
my thoughts will echo your name until i see you again!
summary: while steve, dustin and you try to locate a russian in starcourt mall and are on the verge of being caught, you tell steve to kiss you to blend in with the crowd; but steve is adamant that he can’t, not like this! (inspired by jess and nick’s first kiss in new girl)
warnings: scoops ahoy!steve harrington (yay), season 3 canon, steve's pov for a chunk of it, fluff, kissing, you're dustin's sister, tiny embarrassment (but it's lit a 'new girl' plot it's expected), lowk copied the kiss scene in my johnny fic shut up idk, no angst for once (...idk how i wrote a fic without one...), bestie robin, sorry it's short & not proof read don't hate me plsssss !!!
also i don't think i ever thanked u all for 4,000 followers (????????????!!!!!!!!!!!!!!) so thank u so so so much it means the absolute world to me love u all endlessly🥺🥺🥺
word count: 3.6K
masterlist.
steve harrington x henderson!reader
"𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐒𝐄𝐄 𝐀𝐍𝐘𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆?" Dustin nudged Steve as he squinted his eyes into the binoculars, craning his neck to see past the plants that the pair were hiding behind. “Uh, I guess I don’t totally know what I’m looking for.” Steve mumbled.
Dustin shook his head, “Evil Russians.” He said it as if it was simple. Steve adjusted his grip on the binoculars, “Yeah, exactly. I don’t know what an evil Russian looks like.”
The pair's eyes scanned over the mall, ignoring the bustling teenagers running into their favourite shops with their arms linked with their friends. “Tall, blonde, not smiling.” Dustin listed, “Also, look for earpieces, camo, duffel bags, that sort of thing.”
Steve nodded, “Right, okay, duffel bags.” He tilted his head upwards to scan the second level of Starcourt mall, precisely where you were also scanning the area after Dustin had insisted they needed an extra pair of eyes besides the bottom floor.
“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.” Steve mumbled as his sight landed on you. You were leaning one arm against the railing and angled your body towards your former classmate, smiling politely as he delved into a story to keep your eyes on him.
Dustin snapped his head towards Steve, “What?” He couldn’t decipher if the groan that left Steve’s lips was of pure disgust or loathing, “Your sister’s talking with that meathead Mark Lewinsky.”
Dustin sighed and glanced up to where you were standing, noticing how you were standing firm in your place and subtly rejecting his clear advances. It was almost funny to your brother that the first time all summer that Steve Harrington wasn’t practically man-marking you, insistent that he wasn’t harbouring this major crush on you, that guys finally mustered up the courage to see if they had a chance.
“She’s just being nice,” Dustin scoffed, “And if you’re not gonna focus, just gimme the binoculars.”
“Jesus Christ,” Steve ignored your brother and tightened his grip on the binoculars as he watched you laugh as the man mimicked his (rather poor) basketball skills, one that he knew wasn’t genuine, “Whatever happened to standards? I mean, Lewinsky never even came off the bench!”
Dustin shook his head beside Steve, whose face had screwed up in judgement, “Dude, you are the worst spy in history, you know that?” He leaned over and snatched the binoculars out of Steve’s hands, “Give me those.”
Steve muttered in protest but kept his eyes locked onto your figure across the mall, watching as you said something to the man opposite you and how his smile faltered slightly.
“Besides, I don’t know why you’re complaining,” Steve furrowed his brows and looked at your brother, “You’ve had all summer to ask out the most perfect girl for you.”
A sigh escaped Steve’s lips as he tore his gaze away from you, “Seriously, if you’re trying to set me up with your sister again--”
“I know you like her.” Dustin cut him off, a small smirk etched across his face. Steve’s cheeks blushed a faint pink as he shook his head rapidly, “No, don’t. No.”
Dustin raised his eyebrows as Steve quickly became nervous, “Since the Snowball, you’ve made it painfully obvious. And that you’ve been flirting with her all summer.”
Steve snapped his head towards Dustin, “You haven’t been here all summer.” He furrowed his brows and tried to catch your brother out.
“Yet, you didn’t deny it.” Dustin smiled brightly, watching Steve’s face fall and mutter curses under his breath for falling into the trap. “Everyone thinks you’re dating anyway, so why not--”
“Stop, no, no, no. Man, she doesn't like me like that." Steve rubbed his temples, trying to get the domestic image of you being his girlfriend out of his mind before he spiralled more than he has already.
“Come on, you’re perfect for each other--” “No, man--” Steve tried to cut him off.
“She likes you too, you know?” Dustin’s words made Steve tense up and his gaze flickered between you, now standing alone on the second floor, and your brother who had told him earth-shattering news.
Steve’s eyes widened, “Really?” His voice involuntarily broke before he looked back at you. Your eyes scanned the floor before they landed on Steve crouched behind the plant, dressed in his stupid Scoops Ahoy uniform that made your heart skip a beat.
You smiled at him from across the mall and Steve felt his stomach coil in anticipation, taken aback and lost from words just at the sight of you. You lifted your hand from off the rail and offered him a subtle wave, one that he reciprocated when Dustin whacked him on the back of the head, mumbling something about his staring problem.
When you finally removed your gaze from Steve, he slowly turned his head to look at your brother who sported an unimpressed face, “You’ve got to be kidding me.” He laughed lightly and lifted the binoculars to search for the Russian again before Steve placed a harsh hand on his shoulder and tugged him to face him completely.
“Henderson, this is more serious than any of this end-of-the-world bullshit, does she actually like me?” Steve said seriously which caused Dustin to take a deep breath to suppress a laugh.
“You’re hopeless.” Dustin huffed out and Steve scoffed, “You think you’re some genius now? Because of some stupid shit you learned at Camp… Know Nothing?”
Dustin rolled his eyes, “Camp Know Where, actually. And no, it’s shit I learned from life.” Steve mockingly nodded at his friend, “Instead of making those ridiculous heart-eyes at my sister, why don’t you just bite the bullet and ask her out? You’re basically dating now without the labels.” He shrugged, “Like me and Suzie.”
Steve raised his eyebrows, “Oh, Suzie. Yeah, you mean, ‘hotter than Phoebe Cates.’ Yeah, that Suzie.” Dustin squeezed his eyes shut in frustration as Steve continued, “And, uh, let’s think about how exactly did you score that beautiful girlfriend? Oh, yeah. With my advice!”
“Because that’s how this works, Henderson. I give you the advice, you follow through. Not the other way around, all right, pea-brain?” Steve ranted before looking back at where you stood, unknowingly making his heart beat out of his chest at the mere sight of you.
Steve cleared his throat and nudged Dustin lightly, “But, uh…” He sniffed and wiped the sweat off his palms and only the blue shorts, “She really likes me?” He nodded in your direction.
When Dustin didn’t answer, Steve tore his gaze off you and elbowed his friend, “Dude, I asked a question--” “I know. Shut up.” Your brother mumbled, craning his neck forwards as he adjusted the binoculars against his face, fixated on someone walking across the mall
“Seriously?” Steve squinted, “You make a big deal about me and your sister, and now--” “Target acquired.” Dustin cut him off and Steve immediately swerved his train of thought, “Where?”
“Ten o’clock. Sam Goody’s.” Dustin rushed and quickly shoved Steve the binoculars, “Give me that.”
“Shit.” Steve cursed under his breath as he watched a tall man with long blonde hair, sporting an all black attire and carrying a-- “Duffel bag.”
Steve lowered the binoculars and turned to Dustin, “Evil Russian.” They both said in unison before quickly jumping to their feet, pushing each other out of the way as they rushed to follow him.
Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Steve and Dustin scramble to leave their spot behind the plants. You furrowed your brows as you watched the pair try to subtly jog towards the escalators, while Dustin threw his hands in the air, waving them around like a maniac in your direction.
You squinted at your brother's antics, “What?” You mouthed as he began to break a sweat and shove innocent bystanders out of the way, not even sparing them an apology as he rushed to reach you. You would’ve laughed at how Steve apologised to the people on behalf of your brother, but you were hell-bent on trying to understand your brother's signal.
You watched the pair sigh dramatically and mouth, “Evil Russian!” Your eyes widened and you scanned through the group of people bustling to get into each shop.
Steve and Dustin sprinted up the escalator and approached you in a haste and Steve gently grabbed your upper arm. “Which one?” You turned to your brother.
Dustin bent over to catch his breath quickly before straightening up and pointing to a retreating figure in front of you, “The one with blonde hair. Go, go, go!” He pushed you and Steve forwards, ignoring your protests.
Not following where Dustin’s finger was pointing, you thought you had spotted the person he assumed was a Russian, “The blonde? Dustin, that’s my friend from high school!”
Your brother covered his face with his hands and repressed the urge to scream out loud, “No, Jesus!” He exclaimed and grabbed your hand, pointing it in the correct direction this time. “That guy! The guy that looks like a Russian! Come on!”
Your face morphed into understanding as breathed out, “Oh.” Steve placed his hand on the small of your back and encouraged you after Dustin who was steps ahead, “It’s alright. Easy mistake.”
Dustin, in front of the two of you, mocked Steve’s words causing the older boy to stick his leg out and catch the back of your brother’s heel, making him stumble off his feet slightly. “Watch it, dickward!” Dustin shot back loudly. Loud enough that the supposed Russian heard and stopped in his tracks.
The three of you froze as the Russian slowly turned around. Dustin rushed towards the telephone and pretended to be on a rather monotonous call. You felt Steve’s hands pushing you backwards by your waist before you even had time to think of a cover up.
Your back collided with the wall as Steve’s body pressed against your own, looking painfully suspicious and out of place in a packed mall as the Russian’s eyes crept towards your own.
Without thinking, you grabbed the collar of Steve’s shirt, making his head snap towards your own with wide eyes, “Steve, kiss me.” You blurted out.
Steve’s cheek instantly tinted pink and his mouth opened and closed a couple times, trying to form a coherent sentence before settling on a choked out, “What?”
You tightened your grip on Steve’s Scoops Ahoy shirt and tugged his body closer to yours as you tried to avoid the lingering stare of the man you were technically stalking. “It’s a good cover up! Public displays of affection make people very uncomfortable!” You stuttered despite your heart beating out of your chest at the close proximity.
Steve swallowed hard as he fought between looking at your eyes or lips, “Cover up?” He said, exasperated. “Yes! We’re just a couple at the mall doing PDA. He won’t look, trust me.” You pleaded.
“No, I’m not gonna kiss you.” Steve forced out and you shook your head, angling your body so the decorative features of the mall would hide your figure at the least. “Kiss me!” You said through gritted teeth.
“Honey--” The nickname left his lips before he could even process it, but luckily your insistence to not get caught by a potential Russian made the moment go over your head, “It’s not a big deal.” You shook your head.
“God! Harrington, just kiss me already!” You raised your voice and stared at Steve’s face torn between longing and reality.
“No! Not like this!” Steve blurted out, his hands gripping your waist so your body was flush against his own.
Silence enveloped the pair of you as you tilted your head at him, a small smile gracing your face as you watched Steve stumble over his words, blinking rapidly as if he could erase the words that fell from his lips, “That, that…”
“What? What does that mean?” Your voice came out quieter than you had intended and Steve mentally cursed you for looking so beautiful as you stared into his eyes, trying to pry the meaning of his words out of him with one simple look.
Steve fiddled with the hem of your shirt and avoided your eyes, “No, I didn’t… Nothing!” You pressed your lips together to stop a chuckle leaving you as he grew more flustered, “I just, I didn’t mean it like that.”
You furrowed your brows and nodded along teasingly, “That’s not…” Steve fumbled with any words that sprung to his mind, “Do you know? Like… It’s very, like, you don’t…”
You squinted your eyes, “You’re not making any sense.” A small laugh left your left and Steve sighed in defeat, ducking his head down and letting it rest on your shoulder.
Both of you were snapped out of the moment as Dustin slammed the phone back in the receiver, casting a look your way before wafting a hand to follow him, “Come on!”
Steve reluctantly lifted his head from your shoulder and removed his hands from your waist. You watched in amusement as they hovered around your body, unsure of where to settle them as his words stained the tip of his tongue still.
He settled for quickly patting you on the head and muttering a barely audible, “If you’ll excuse me.” And turned, leaving you dumbfounded against the wall.
You watched as his shoulders hunched into his body as he walked away, recoiling from the embarrassment of his words and how he left the situation with you. Perhaps, if he worked smarter and not harder, he would’ve kissed you right then and there instead of wallowing in the hole he had just dug himself with three simple words.
You didn’t even bother to follow him on the hunt for the Russian, still trying to comprehend the meaning behind his words while trying to not get giddy over his flushed face. Damn you, Steve Harrington.
You slowly pushed yourself off the wall and followed the trail back down to Scoops Ahoy, pushing the door open to the backroom despite you not working there, the colleagues had seen you enough to assume you were only here for the likes of Steve and Robin.
Speaking of, Robin was perched on top of the table with the translation book settled in her lap. Seeing you enter the room, she peeled off the headphones and offered you a smile, “How’d it go?”
You pulled the chair out and sat beside her, your head clearly someplace else. Robin snapped her fingers in front of your face and you blinked up at her, “Alright,” She turned to face you, “What did Harrington do this time?”
You laughed at your friend, “Nothing… actually.” You answered and furrowed your brows as you replayed the scene over and over in your head.
Robin squinted her eyes at you, “He did… nothing?” You hummed in agreement. The woman rolled her eyes and pushed herself off the table, walking towards the ‘You Rule / You Suck’ board and picked up the pen.
You chuckled at her actions, “You didn’t even know what he did!” Robin turned back to you and drew a generous line on the ‘You Suck’ side, “I know Harrington. And that’s enough.” She said and tossed the pen back onto the table, sliding you the headphones to help her with the Russian translation.
𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐕𝐄 𝐒𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐄𝐃 𝐀𝐒 he yanked off the Scoops Ahoy hat, tossing it onto the counter as the final customer of the day left. He ran his hands through his hair and pushed open the back doors, ready to collect his stuff and head home for the day.
He was taken aback as he saw you gathering your things and stuffing them into the bag you brought with you. You looked up as he entered the room and offered him a sweet smile.
“Hey,” Steve said gently, “You’re still here?” He gestured to the translation book you were holding.
You nodded, “Yeah, just finished the translation for the day. Anything to be those American Heroes, you know?” You chuckled and placed it into your bag, zipping it up and deeming it a problem to fix tomorrow.
Steve nodded stiffly at your words, “Right…” He moved to collect his own things and fiddled with the keys to his car, “I’m sorry about what I said earlier.” He turned around to face you, watching as you stopped in front of the doorway.
You crossed your arms over your chest and chuckled, “Oh! No, no! Don’t be.” Steve furrowed his brows at your answer, “No?” He repeated.
“No, it’s fine.” You smiled at him and his heart swelled. Steve looked down at his shoes and scuffed the material against the flooring.
“Good,” He mumbled and scratched the back of his neck, “Because I’m not sorry.”
Your chest tightened and your heart raced as Steve slowly approached you, his eyes never leaving your own. He stopped in front of you, his hands resting at his side gently brushing your own and his height towered over you. A soft smile graced his face as he stared at you, resisting the urge to pull you into his arms.
You cleared your throat, diffusing the tension, “I should probably get going. Dustin’s waiting for me.” You whispered.
At the mention of your brother, Steve noticed his lack of presence in the room. It was the first time since he had accidentally blurted out that he couldn’t kiss you in rushed circumstances that he had you alone, and his heart clenched at the thought of it.
“He’s not here?” Steve’s voice matched your quietness, the room felt like it was closing in on the two of you and the silence was suffocating. “No, he’s in the car.” You breathed out.
Steve hummed in response, his fingers toying with your own as his face itched closer to yours. You placed a hand on his chest and pulled back from his proximity slightly, “Good night, Steve.”
He smiled at you and watched you turn your back to him, “Good night.” As you were about to exit the door, Steve didn’t think before he moved again.
His hand grasped your upper arm and tugged you backwards, you turned your head and furrowed your brows to ask him what was wrong, but your thoughts were silenced as he pressed his lips against your own.
You gasped into his mouth and one of his hands cupped the back of your head, while the other squeezed your hip. Steve’s lips were soft against your own as he sighed into the kiss, as if he had been waiting for this moment for ages, like he had been holding himself back.
Your hands immediately threaded through his thick hair, the softness of it making you tug at the strands, forcing Steve to envelop you deeper into the kiss. The hand that was on your hip slipped under your shirt, brushing against your bare skin.
His hands wandered your body, palms flat against your back. You felt him smile into the kiss as it grew more desperate. You had to pull yourself from him to catch your breath, smiling as he chased your lips with his eyes pleading.
You rested your forehead against his own, allowing him to pepper a handful more chaste kisses on your lips, understanding that he’d never get over the feeling of your own against his.
Steve’s nose nudged your own as he broke the silence, “I meant something like that.” The whispered confession made you lift your hands to cup the sides of his face, yearning to stay in that moment forever.
“I told you she liked you.” Dustin’s voice made the two of you flinch and push each other away as if you had been caught doing something you shouldn’t.
“Jesus, Henderson!” Steve groaned and ran his hands through his hair, trying to replicate the feeling you had given him when you did the same. “What the hell are you doing? Get out!” You shouted at your brother who was leaning against the wall, a smug smile on his face.
“'She doesn’t like me like that!'” Dustin mocked Steve, deepening his voice and adjusting his stance to try and mimic the older boy.
Steve’s face screwed up, “I don’t sound like that!” Dustin laughed from across the room and crossed his arms over his chest, “You kinda do.”
Before the pair could bicker between themselves, you tossed Dustin your bag and shooed him out of the room, “We’re going. Wait in the car.”
Dustin rolled his eyes and shot you a look as he turned his back, “Alright, mom!” You groaned, “Go!”
As you heard Dustin’s footsteps scurry away, you turned back to Steve who was standing closer to you than you had remembered.
You cleared your throat and looked up at him, “I’m gonna go…” He nodded at you and lifted his hands to cup your face, tracing your features with the tip of his fingers, “Yeah, you should probably…”
His words trailed off as he brought you into another kiss, much softer this time. The gentle graze of lips that recognised this was the start of something new, something meaningful. His lips slotted against your own as if that was its only use.
You pulled away at the same time and smiled at each other, “Good night, Steve.” You said once more, standing on your tiptoes to peck his lips one last time before leaving the room, grinning over your shoulder at the boy blushing in his Scoops Ahoy uniform.
Steve lifted one hand to gently press his fingers to his lips, trying to understand if everything that had just happened was real and whether he should revel in it. A wide grin adorned his face as he looked over at the board that sat in the corner of the room.
He shuffled towards it and picked up the blue pen, drawing a bold, straight line down the ‘You Rule!’ side of the board; including a messy smiley face scribbled at the bottom. He picked up his belongings and headed home, knowing that tomorrow morning, when he got to work, he would be greeted with the board and the friendly reminder that his dream was something he currently lived through.
their kiss btw😩😩😩😩
for the cuties who wanted to be reminded love uuuuuu
a steve harrington miniseries: pregnancy plot, fem!reader, season five adjacent, angst, eventual smut. no real timeline, open to scenario suggestions and requests ◡̈
NO TAGLIST
[this series will include a pregnant reader, discussion of pregnancy, abortion and pregnancy symptoms, i.e vomiting and nausea. please protect yourself and do not read if you would find anything listed upsetting]
Summary: Steve promised you he’d take a break from dating only to break that promise within two weeks, unaware of the false hope he had given you.
CW: fluff, angst
Word Count: 3k
Directory Masterlist Taglist
The apartment was warm and loud in the best way. Full of overlapping voices, clinking glasses, and the kind of easy laughter that only happens when people have known each other for a lifetime.
Fairy lights ran along the windowsill, reflecting off half-empty bottles of wine and a bowl of eggnog that Argyle had definitely spiked when no one was looking. The coffee table was covered in snack wrappers, mismatched plates, and a half-finished jigsaw puzzle that no one had touched in the last hour.
Robin was perched on the arm of the couch, legs swinging, telling the story everyone had already heard a dozen times.
“—and then this guy, this absolute gremlin of a man, tries to tell me that The Goonies is ‘just for kids.’ I said, ‘Sir, with all due respect, Chunk’s truffle shuffle is high art and you are not worthy of it.’”
The room erupted. Argyle threw his head back and cackled so hard he nearly slid off the beanbag. Dustin wheezed from his spot on the floor, clutching his stomach.
“High art,” Jonathan repeated, grinning as he leaned against Nancy on the loveseat. “I’m putting that on a shirt.”
Nancy swatted his arm playfully. “You’re not allowed to make merch out of Robin’s customer rants anymore. We still have three ‘Dingus of the Day’ mugs in the cabinet.”
Steve, sprawled in the middle of the big couch with one arm slung over the back, laughed loudest of all. “She’s not wrong, though. The truffle shuffle is sacred.”
You were curled up on the opposite end from Robin, close enough that Steve’s fingers occasionally brushed the sleeve of your sweater when he gestured. Every time it happened, you felt it like a spark. It was stupid, you thought.
You’d been in love with him for so long it felt like background noise in your life. Something you only noticed when it suddenly stopped.
Robin pointed at Steve dramatically. “Speaking of sacred, Harrington, how many times have you made us watch Risky Business just for the sliding-in-socks scene?”
“Zero comment,” Steve said, holding up both hands. “That’s classified information.”
“Liar,” you teased, nudging his ankle with your foot. “It was at least four times last winter alone.”
The group ooohed like you’d dropped a bombshell.
Steve turned to you, mock-betrayed. “Et tu, best friend? I thought we had a pact.”
You grinned. “I don’t think pacts apply when you force me to watch Tom Cruise dance in his underwear at 2 a.m.”
Everyone lost it again. Even Lucas, who’d been quietly demolishing a plate of cookies in the corner, snorted.
Argyle lifted his glass. “To chaotic friendships and questionable movie choices.”
“To never growing up,” Nancy added, clinking her cup against Jonathan’s.
Robin leaned over and stole a sip of your drink. “And to the fact that Steve still can’t parallel park to save his life.”
“That was one time!” Steve protested.
“Four times,” you, Robin, and Nancy said in unison.
Steve groaned and dropped his head back against the couch, but he was smiling. He always smiled like that around you, as if you were the safest place in the room.
You tried not to read into it. You’d been trying not to read into it since junior year.
Jonathan pulled out his camera at some point and started taking candid shots. Robin mid-eye-roll, Argyle making a peace sign with a candy cane, Dustin trying (and failing) to balance a cookie on his nose. When he aimed it at you and Steve, you instinctively leaned into Steve’s side for the photo.
Steve didn’t move away. He just tilted his head toward yours, grinning for the flash.
“Perfect,” Jonathan murmured. “You two look like an old married couple.”
Heat rushed to your face. Steve laughed it off, but you felt his arm shift so it rested more solidly behind you. Robin caught your eye across the couch and raised an eyebrow.
For those few minutes, everything felt perfect. Like maybe this was enough. Like maybe being his best friend, the one he pulled into his side and shared inside jokes with, was all you’d ever need.
Then Nancy clapped her hands together, flushed and happy. “Okay, but we have to do this again the night before New Year’s. Movie night? Ice skating? Something.”
Ideas bounced around the room. Robin claimed Steve as her skating partner. Dustin voted for pizza and no horror movies.
Steve rubbed the back of his neck, that sheepish little smile creeping in.
And that’s when he said it.
“Uh… actually, I can’t that night. Got plans.”
Robin tilted her head. “Plans? Like…?”
Steve shrugged, casual as ever. “Date plans.”
You blinked, forcing your face to stay neutral while the conversation rolled on around you. Robin immediately launched into teasing mode.
“Ooh, Harrington’s back on the prowl,” she crowed, reaching over to ruffle his hair. “Who’s the lucky victim this time?”
Steve ducked her hand, laughing. “She’s cool, okay? We met at the video store. She actually likes Back to the Future unironically.”
Dustin made a gagging sound. “Gross. Romance.”
Nancy smiled indulgently. “Good for you, Steve.”
Everyone else chimed in with playful jabs and questions. Who was she, where was he taking her, was this one going to last longer than two dates? Steve answered easily, shrugging, grinning that charming, self-deprecating grin he always used when talking about his love life.
You sat very still, fingers curled tightly around your cup. Two weeks ago, in the dim light of his BMW, parked outside your apartment after way too much alcohol, he’d looked at you with tired eyes and said, ‘I think I’m done for a while. All of it feels… pointless.’ You’d nodded, heart hammering, and told him you got it. You’d believed him.
Now he was going on another date like none of that conversation had ever happened.
You tried to laugh when everyone else did. You even managed a weak “wow, speedy recovery” that no one seemed to notice was strained.
But Steve noticed.
He glanced over at you mid-laugh, brow furrowing just slightly. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” you said quickly. Too quickly. “Totally.”
He didn’t look convinced, but Robin was already dragging the conversation elsewhere, demanding details about this mystery girl’s taste in movies.
A minute later, when there was a brief lull, Steve leaned toward you a little, voice low so only you could hear. “You sure? You’ve gone quiet.”
You met his eyes, those stupid warm brown eyes, and felt the hurt bubble up before you could stop it.
“I thought you were taking a break,” you murmured, keeping your voice light, casual. Like it was no big deal.
His eyebrows shot up. “I… was. But this just kinda—”
“Happened,” you finished for him, a bitter edge slipping in despite your best effort. “Right. It always just kinda happens.”
Steve frowned, sitting up straighter. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing.” You looked away, pretending to watch Argyle attempt to balance a candy cane on Dustin’s head. “Forget it.”
“No, seriously.” His voice was still quiet, but sharper now. “If you’ve got something to say—”
“I don’t.” You forced a tight smile. “Have fun on your date.”
He stared at you for a second, confusion flickering across his face. “Why are you being weird about this?”
“I’m not being weird.” Your tone was too clipped. You could feel the others starting to notice.
Steve lowered his voice even more. “You are. We talked about this—”
“Yeah, we did,” you whispered back, anger flaring hot and sudden. “You said you were done and I believed you.”
He recoiled slightly, like you’d slapped him. “It’s one date. It’s not—”
But Jonathan was looking over now, and Robin’s eyebrows were practically in her hairline. You felt everyone’s attention shift, the easy energy in the room dipping. Your cheeks burned. You couldn’t do this here. Not in front of everyone.
You stood up abruptly, setting your cup down harder than necessary. “I’m just— gonna grab something from my room real quick.”
Steve started to stand too. “Hey—”
You were already moving, weaving past the coffee table and down the short hallway to your bedroom. You slipped inside and closed the door softly, leaning your back against it, heart racing.
You heard the muffled continuation of conversation in the living room as if nothing happened and then footsteps. Quick, familiar ones followed by a soft knock.
“You okay?” Steve’s voice, low and worried through the door.
You didn’t answer but he opened the door anyway. He stepped in and closed it behind him, the click loud in the sudden quiet between you.
“Okay,” he said quietly. “Talk to me. What the hell is going on?” Steve stood there in the doorway of your bedroom, arms crossed, looking more frustrated than angry.
You leaned against the edge of your dresser, arms wrapped around yourself. “I just… needed a minute.”
“A minute from what? From me announcing a date?” He let out a short, incredulous laugh. “Come on. It’s not that big a deal.”
Your jaw tightened. “It is to me.”
He threw his hands up a little. “Why? You’ve never cared before. You’ve teased me about every girl I’ve ever gone out with. You’ve helped me pick outfits, for God’s sake.”
“That’s different.”
“How is it different?” His voice rose slightly. “Tell me, because I honestly don’t get it. It’s one date. One. I thought I was taking a break, yeah, but this girl, she asked me. It’s not like I’m proposing.”
You looked away, throat burning. “You told me you were done. You looked me in the eye and said it felt pointless.”
“And I meant it at the time!” He stepped closer, exasperation clear. “People change their minds. Things happen. I don’t see why this is worth you storming off in the middle of a party.”
“Because I’m tired, Steve!” The words came out sharper than you meant, louder. “I’m tired of pretending it doesn’t bother me.”
He froze, eyes narrowing. “Pretending what doesn’t bother you?”
“You going out with everyone else!” you snapped. “Every single time. Every new girl. Every story. Every ‘this one might be different.’”
His mouth opened, then closed. “I’ve always told you about—”
“Yeah, you have!” Your voice cracked as it rose. “You’ve told me everything! And I’ve sat there and smiled and listened and acted like it was fine!”
Steve’s face shifted—confusion turning to defensiveness. “If it wasn’t fine, why didn’t you ever say anything? You’re my best friend— you could’ve told me it bugged you!”
“Because it’s not just that it bugs me!” you shouted, finally losing the thin grip you had on your control. “It’s that I wanted it to be me!”
The room went dead silent.
Steve stared at you, mouth parted, like the words hadn’t fully registered. You were breathing hard, tears stinging your eyes, anger and hurt boiling over.
“What about me!?” you yelled, voice raw. You stared at him, hurt and furious.
“I’ve been right here,” you said, voice shaking but loud. “Since high school. I’ve been by your side through everything. Every breakup, every new crush, every time you came over at midnight because some girl ghosted you. I listened. I waited. I sat there hoping, God, hoping that one day you’d look at me and realize I was already here. That I’ve always been here.”
His face went pale.
“I thought…” You laughed bitterly, wiping at your eyes. “I thought maybe after that night in your car, when you said you were done dating around, that you meant it because you were finally seeing me. But you weren’t. You never were.”
Steve looked like he’d been punched in the chest. His mouth opened, but nothing came out.
“And now you’re going on another date,” you said, quieter now, but the words cut deeper. “And I can’t do it anymore. I can’t keep sitting by and watching and pretending I’m okay with being the best friend who fixes you up after every heartbreak. Because it’s tearing me apart, Steve. It hurts too much.”
He stood there, frozen, eyes wide and horrified. The color drained from his face. His mouth opened and closed once, twice, like a fish gasping for water. When he finally spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper, cracked and unsteady.
“When— why didn’t— what—” He couldn’t even finish the questions. They tumbled out half-formed, tangled in shock.
You swallowed hard, the anger draining out of you, leaving only this aching, exhausted honesty.
“I’ve liked you since high school, Steve,” you said quietly, staring at the floor because it was easier than looking at him. “Since we were juniors and you lent me your jacket after that stupid game in the rain. I never said anything because… because you were my best friend. The most important person in my life. I was terrified that if I told you and you didn’t feel the same, I’d lose you completely. So I stayed quiet. I watched you date everyone else and told myself it was enough to just be near you.”
You risked a glance up. He hadn’t moved. His eyes were wide and horrified, like he was replaying every moment of your friendship through a completely different lens.
“And then after graduation,” you continued, voice trembling, “that night in your car… we’d both had too much to drink, and we were parked outside my parents’ house for hours just talking. You were so close. Your arm was around my shoulders, and you tilted your head toward mine. And you said you were tired of it all.. of chasing girls who didn’t really see you. You said you thought maybe you’d stop dating around for a while. Take a real break.”
A ghost of that night flickered in your mind: the warm haze of alcohol, the soft glow of the dashboard lights, the way his fingers had brushed your hair back without thinking.
“I let myself hope,” you whispered. “For the first time, I really thought maybe you were starting to see me the way I’d always seen you. That maybe I’d finally have a chance.”
Your throat closed up. Tears slipped down your cheeks now, hot and unstoppable. “But tonight… hearing you talk about this new date like it was nothing… I realized I was wrong. You didn’t mean it that way at all. And now I’ve gone and said all of this, and I’ve probably ruined everything anyway. Our friendship—”
Steve moved.
His hands came up to cradle your face gently but urgently, thumbs brushing away the tears on your cheeks, and then he kissed you. A fierce, desperate kiss that stole your breath and silenced every doubt racing through your head.
You made a soft, startled sound against his mouth, hands flying to his wrists, gripping tight like you were afraid he’d vanish if you let go. But he didn’t pull away. He deepened the kiss, stepping closer until there was no space left between you, pouring years of unspoken something into it.
When he finally broke away, you were both breathing hard, foreheads pressed together. His hands stayed on your face, trembling slightly.
“I’ve been in love with you since high school too,” he said, voice rough and low, the words tumbling out like they’d been locked up for years. “That night with the jacket in the rain? I didn’t lend it to you because I was just being nice. I did it because I wanted an excuse to be close to you. I’ve liked you, God, more than liked you, for so long I can’t even remember a time when I didn’t.”
You stared at him, stunned.
“But I never said anything,” he continued, eyes searching yours, raw and vulnerable. “Because you were… you. Smart, kind, funny, way too good for a guy like me back then. King Steve? The guy who peaked in high school and had no idea what he was doing with his life? You deserved better. Someone who had their shit together. Someone who wouldn’t drag you into all my bullshit.”
He let out a shaky breath. “So I bottled it up. Dated other people to try and get over you. Every single girl, it was me trying to prove to myself that I could move on. That I could stop wanting the one person I couldn’t have. Because I was terrified if I ever told you, I’d scare you away. Lose my best friend. The only person who actually saw me.”
His thumbs traced gentle circles on your cheeks. “That night in the car after graduation… I meant every word about being tired of dating. But I didn’t say the rest. That the reason it all felt pointless was because none of them were you.”
Your heart stuttered.
“I’m an idiot,” he whispered. “I thought I was protecting us. Protecting you. But I was just hurting you. And I hate myself for that.”
He leaned in and kissed you again softer this time, lingering, like he was making up for lost time.
“I’m not going on that date. I’m not going on any more dates. Ever. Unless they’re with you.”
A tear slipped down your cheek, but this time it wasn’t from pain. He brushed it away, smiling faintly. “I’m right here,” he said quietly. “And I’m yours. If you’ll have me.”
You don’t answer him right away. You can’t. Your heart is hammering so hard it’s drowning out every rational thought, and all you can do is stare at him while the words he just said sink in.
He’s yours.
He’s been yours all along.
Steve’s hands are still framing your face, thumbs stroking slow, reverent paths along your cheekbones like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he stops touching you. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide, and the way he’s breathing tells you he’s just as wrecked as you are.
“Say something,” he whispers, voice low and rough. “Please.”
You reach up, fingers curling around his wrists, and finally find your voice. “Yes,” you breathe. “God, yes. I’ll have you.”
The relief that floods his face is almost painful to watch. His eyes flutter shut for a second, forehead dropping to rest against yours again.
“Thank fuck,” he mutters, and then he’s kissing you again.
Outside your bedroom door, you can faintly hear Robin’s voice rising in mock outrage about someone eating the last gingerbread cookie, followed by Dustin’s indignant protest. Life going on, oblivious.
summary: steve has a big secret and convinces himself he needs to stay away from you to keep you safe. that’s tough to do when you’re his neighbour.
word count: 8.2k
warnings: spider-man!steve au, some violence (r is attacked and a pocket knife is mentioned but nothing major happens), blood/injuries, strangers/sort of friends to lovers (ish?)
a/n: i really liked writing this one and i hope u guys like it too!!! spidey!steve is something i’ve wanted to try for a while and here it is!!!! he’s my baby <3
/ᐠ(๏‸๏)ᐟ\
When Steve moved to Indianapolis, not once did he think he’d get bit by some radioactive spider and gain super powers. Yet, here he is, swinging through the city like something out of some comic book. Sometimes he doesn’t even believe it’s real, and it’s his life.
On his way home, he spots his building easily, the route embedded in his head. The corners to turn, the spots to shoot his webs.
Stuck to the wall beside his window, he tries to open it and realizes he left it locked. “Idiot,” he grumbles to himself.
With a groan he jumps down, landing in the alley. He throws his clothes over his suit and makes sure nobody’s around before slipping the mask off and into his bag. For once, he uses the actual door to enter the building.
He opts for the stairs and when he makes it to his floor he sees you in the hallway. He resists the urge to go back down and wait a couple of minutes.
His door is across from yours, and when he walks over, you’re quick to send him a smile and a ‘hello.’ He nods at you and faces his door, unlocking it quickly and going inside.
It’s not that he doesn’t like you, it’s that he doesn’t want to involve people in his life when it’s gotten so complicated. He has Robin in the city and that’s about it. And he already worries enough about her. If he’d met you pre-bite, things would be much different.
He’d return your kind smiles and greetings, he’d tell you when he likes your outfit or thinks your hair looks really nice (which is pretty much every time he sees you, even when you think it’s awful).
He’d rather not put you in any danger, though, so he doesn’t. He just thinks you’re pretty and keeps it to himself.
You don’t know any of that, however, so you’re convinced that Steve doesn’t like you and you have no idea why. Every time his only response is a nod or a limp wave, you wait until he’s out of sight to frown, to scrunch your eyebrows.
You try to think about what you might’ve done.
You first met Steve when you moved into the building, your hair held away from your face with a clip, baby hairs sticking to your damp forehead, and your sweatshirt hanging off your shoulder. Not your best look.
He must’ve heard the thump of boxes hitting the ground, the mumbled curses you kept uttering. Knuckling at his tired eyes, he opened his door and peeked his head into the hallway.
“What the-”
He shut right up when you turned around, smiling (almost wincing) at him.
“Hi,” you introduced yourself, and he repeated your name so quietly you didn’t even hear it. “Sorry about the noise. I have a lot of stuff.”
He nodded, looking at the few boxes in the hall, “you’re moving in?”
“Yeah.”
“You need some help?”
“Seriously?” He half nodded, half shrugged. “That would be great. Thank you so much.”
“Sure. ‘M Steve, by the way.”
Steve. He’s pretty, you thought. Brown, fluffy hair and soft eyes, a mouth you think must look even better when he smiles.
He carried the heavier boxes without complaint or breaking a sweat. His arms flexed with the actions, but his face was completely unaffected. You were amazed. And probably stared at him too much.
When every box was inside your apartment, you’d thanked him, and he’d brushed it off saying it was no problem and went back inside his own place.
No problem, like he didn’t carry box after box for you because you couldn’t afford movers.
Now, with your back against the inside of your door after seeing him in the hallway, you replay that meeting once again. You can’t figure out what you did. Worse, you think, maybe you didn’t do anything at all and you’re just someone who’s easy to dislike.
Maybe it wouldn’t matter so much if he wasn’t so good looking. If he didn’t make you nervous whenever his eyes glanced over you, if you had actual friends to occupy your time, if you didn’t want him to like you so bad.
If, if, if.
You try to stop thinking about it and pick up the book you’d left on your coffee table. You have to reread passages, distracted and unfocused.
-
The bookstore’s been slow today.
You’ve been keeping yourself as busy as possible, even with an empty store. Dusting shelves, re-organizing sections that looked fine before, switching displays around. Eventually you gave in and sat behind the counter with a book, watching people pass by the front windows.
The sun set at some point, sinking behind buildings and leaving the city lit by streetlights and warm glows seeping through windows.
As boring as it can be, you wouldn’t be doing much different if you were at home. Finding things to do to pass time, sitting around aimlessly. At least here, you get paid for doing it.
When it’s time to close up you’re not sure if your sigh is from relief or disappointment. You’re lonely often, but it’s harder to ignore it when you’re all alone at home, no people around at all, even if they’re mostly just passing by on the sidewalk.
You go through the list, sweeping, setting the alarm, shutting off the lights, and locking the door.
The night air is cool, light wind blowing at your cheeks, ruffling your hair. The usual sounds surround you. Honking horns and tires rolling against pavement, indistinguishable voices and the click of the bookstore door locking.
You keep your keys in your hand while you walk home, one of them sticking up between your knuckles. Just in case.
One foot in front of the other, again and again, you walk along the sidewalk. Your footsteps a steady rhythm, hands tucked in your pockets to keep them warm, head bent to avoid making eye contact with any other pedestrians.
Only a couple of minutes from your place, you can hear someone walking along behind you. You shake your head, telling yourself they’re probably just headed in the same direction.
That reassurance disappears when the stranger whistles at you.
You don’t look up, you don’t turn around, you just keep your head down and walk faster, your heartbeat speeding in your chest. You’ve seen stories of what can happen to someone walking home alone. You never thought you’d have one of your own.
“Hey, cupcake! Where you going?” His voice is scratchy and scary. You pick up your pace even more.
At your ignorance, the man speaks again, “I’m talking to you.” His hand grabs your sleeve when he says it.
More afraid than you’ve ever been, you jerk your arm from his grasp and stupidly turn down an alleyway as a shortcut. It’s a horrible decision, but when you’re scared like that, it’s really hard to think straight.
You feel bad for being annoyed with people in horror movies. You get it now.
You’re almost jogging now, but it doesn’t deter the man. No, he catches up and grabs your wrist, twisting you around and pushing your back roughly into the brick wall of the building behind you.
Your wrist is slammed against it where he grabbed you, no doubt scratching your skin and making you flinch, your keys falling from your grasp.
This is it, you think. I’m gonna die here. Alone.
Your eyes water, a tear drips down your cheek and the man laughs in your face. You try to break away from his hold but he doesn’t let up. The only thing you manage is to knee him in the thigh, but it doesn’t do much.
“Nice try, cupcake. I’ve got you now.” he says. That’s when you notice the glint of a pocket knife in his hand.
“Please. Don’t,” is all you can say, trying and trying to get your arms out of the man’s tight hold. Tight enough to bruise.
Steve’s hair stands at the back of his neck, on his arms. Until now, his patrolling had been quiet. Easy fixes like an elderly woman not crossing the street quick enough or a man who’d locked his keys in his car.
Now, his instincts tell him this thing isn’t so small.
Without a second thought, he jumps from where he’d been perched at the ledge of a building and swings in the direction his senses take him. In your direction.
One second, you’re squeezing your eyes shut, thinking it’s the end, and the next, there’s the sound of someone landing in the alley and the thwip of a web.
The man is pulled off of you so fast you can barely keep up. There’s a flash of blue and red, hints of webbing being shot, and just like that, your attacker is knocked out and stuck to the opposite wall.
Your chest heaves and your back slides down the wall, landing on your bum on the pavement.
Steve turns around now that the man’s been dealt with and he thinks his heart stops for a second. He hadn’t realized it’d been you. You and your sweet smile, now turned to tears streaking your cheeks.
He thought, without him, you’d be better off. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe he should’ve been keeping an eye on you. For now, he’s sort of glad he hasn’t spoken to you much, only because there’s a better chance you won’t recognize his voice.
Steve moves to crouch in front of you, “are you okay? Did he hurt you?” His hands hover by the sides of your face, like he’s holding himself back from touching you. Restraining himself.
Spider-man is in front of you. Spider-man with his suit and white-eyed mask who just saved your life is right there in front of you. So much for a slow day.
You shake your head and wipe your cheeks with your palms, “no. No, just- um, just my wrist, I think.”
“Can I look?”
You hold out your arm for him to see, and he moves his hands down, one tugging back your sleeve and the other holding your wrist gently. The fabric of his gloves brushes against your skin lightly, careful not to touch you where you’re hurt.
“Doesn’t look sprained. Just scraped,” he says. He looks up from your arm to your face, the eyes on his mask narrowing ever so slightly. “You’re sure you aren’t hurt anywhere else?”
He sounds genuinely worried. Like, you can hear it in his voice. It makes you want to cry all over again. You’d always thought that when Spider-man dealt with the bad guys, he’d just move on. Now, you can see that he cares a lot more than that.
You shake your head, “I’m fine.”
As fine as you can be after what just happened.
He nods and stands, offering you his hands to help you up. You pick up your keys and accept, slipping your hands into his. He pulls you up and squeezes your fingers before letting go.
“Will you let me take you home?” He asks.
You’re sort of in shock, and you’d rather not walk anymore. So, you agree.
He opens his arms for you, picking you up easily with a single arm wrapped around your waist. Your own arms go around his neck, legs tentatively wrapping around his waist.
“Ready?”
“Yeah,” you almost whisper.
He hears you loud and clear, your mouth close to his ear, his senses seemingly even more heightened than usual with you around.
“Hold on,” he says.
Then, you hear the whip of his webs and you’re in the air. Your limbs tighten around him.
“Oh my god. Oh my god.”
The wind rushes all around you. In your ears, your hair, your jacket. The city does, too, lights flickering by and buildings growing distant over his shoulder. You squeeze your eyes shut.
“You okay?” He asks over the wind.
“Maybe!”
You can feel his chest rumble with a chuckle. You wish you could’ve heard it, too.
He swings you towards your building when he remembers he’s not supposed to know where you live, “where to?”
You tell him, yelling over the noise not realizing he can hear you just fine normally. You don’t know about those superpowers, focused on the ones that have him transporting you home.
He gets you there quickly, landing just outside the front entrance. You stay wrapped around him for a second before you realize you’ve stopped moving. You remove yourself from him so quickly he has to steady you with hands on your upper arms so you don’t fall.
“You okay from here?” He checks, his head lowering to catch your gaze.
“Yeah. Thank you for…” Saving my life, making sure I’m okay, taking me home. Everything since you landed in the alley.
“Just doing my job.”
“Right. Thanks again,” you turn to head inside.
“Goodnight. And take care of your wrist!”
“Goodnight, Spider-man.”
-
Steve sees you more often after that night. He thinks the universe might be punishing him. Making him see you more, making him work harder to keep his distance.
He tossed and turned the entire night after bringing you home. He wondered if you were actually okay, trying to listen in case you were crying or having a nightmare. He worried so much more than he would have if it had been any other person and he hated it.
He saw you the next morning. You were checking your mail at the same time as him. Your sleeve had ridden up, exposing the scratches on your wrist from the brick wall, the faint bruises of fingerprints, your eyes tired.
“Are you okay?” He couldn’t help but ask, gesturing limply at your hand. Maybe if you give him a convincing yes, he can finally stop thinking about you so much.
You look down at your arm when he asks, quickly tugging your sleeve back down to cover it up. “Oh. It’s nothing.”
It’s not nothing. He knows it isn’t because he was there and he saw at least a part of what happened to you. He can’t let you know that, so he just nods and turns to his mailbox, listening to your footsteps as you walk out of the mailroom and back up to your apartment. His fingers twitch by his side.
Steve’s used to feeling protective over people, that’s not new, but to feel so protective over someone he barely knows hasn’t happened before. That night haunts him. Your tear-streaked face, the blooming bruises on your arm. He never wants to see you hurting again.
Maybe that’s why he starts returning your greetings in the halls, actually pausing to ask how you are, to smile back at you (they’re tight-lipped smiles, but it’s something).
He’s trying to be kind without getting any closer. No matter how much he wants to know you.
One day, as Steve’s heading out for the late shift, you’re just getting home from your own job, it seems. The clip in your hair has loosened since you put it in, strands falling freely around your face. For a second, Steve has the urge to tuck them behind your ears.
He pushes that down.
“Hi,” he says, his door shut behind him.
“Hi, Steve.”
“How are you?”
“Okay, thanks. Tired,” you fiddle with the frayed hem of your knitted sweater. “Had the opening shift today.”
“Ah. Any plans?”
“Probably just gonna take a nap.”
He nods. For a second you think he might’ve asked because he wanted to do something with you. It’s a stupid thought and you push it away.
“Have a good nap, then,” he gives you the close-mouthed smile that’s become more common between you, and heads towards the stairs.
The shift in his behavior towards you hasn’t been huge, but it’s been enough for you to notice it. He talks to you sometimes—always briefly, but still—he doesn’t turn away from you as soon as he gets the chance like he used to.
It’s confusing, but you’re happy about it anyway. Maybe he just needed some time to warm up to you a bit. Maybe he doesn’t hate you after all.
Inside your apartment, you change into sweats and practically collapse onto your couch, playing something mindless on the TV and pulling a blanket over yourself.
You really are tired, but it’s not only from working early. Lately, your dreams have been haunted by rough hands, dark alleys, and flashes of blue and red. You constantly feel like there are eyes on you, and when you walk home from closing shifts, you always search for a certain superhero at the tops of buildings.
You fall asleep at some point, and by the time you wake up, it’s dark outside.
-
Days seem to blur together. Repetitive and tiring all the same. The only thing you have to look forward to lately is your short conversations with Steve in the halls.
You’re not sure how many days later it is when you fall asleep on your couch again. This time, you’re woken up by noises coming from the hallway, right by your door. You get up slowly, feet hitting the cool floors as you walk over to your door.
You don’t know what time it is, but from the darkness of your apartment and the random game show that plays on your TV, you know it’s late.
Peeking through your peephole, you see Steve, fumbling with his keys and almost limping. You open the door.
“Steve?”
He shuts his eyes when he hears your voice, all sleepy and worried.
Like an idiot, he’d left his window locked again and had to use the door after a night of patrolling. A worse night than usual.
You gasp when he spins to face you, one of his eyes swollen shut, a cut on his eyebrow, his nose bleeding, and another cut on his lip.
“Oh my god,” you step forward a little, leaving your door open. “What happened?”
“I’m fine. Sorry for waking you.”
“You’re bleeding,” you say. “Come on. Let me help you.”
You grasp his arm lightly in both of your hands, and when he doesn’t protest, lead him into your apartment.
Steve’s suit feels tighter now, scratching his skin where it sits because he worries you’ll see it despite his layers on top of it. Still, he could use some help. And he can’t bring himself to be upset that you’re the one helping him.
“You don’t have to,” his voice is scratchy.
“I want to help you, okay?”
You bring him into your bathroom, making him sit on the toilet lid. You leave him there for a bit, coming back with some ice in a dish cloth.
“Here, for your eye.” He takes it from you and sucks in a breath when he presses it against his swollen skin.
“Thank you for doing this.”
“‘Course.”
You pull out your first-aid kit from under your sink, setting it on the counter and taking out what you need. You grab another cloth, wetting it in the sink.
“Here,” you stand between his legs, using a bent finger to tilt his chin up towards you. You wipe the dried blood from his skin in silence, Steve’s eyes shut, yours running all over his face.
You’re surprised he trusts you enough to let you do this. You wonder if this is why he’s so closed-off. If maybe he’s involved in something that gets him hurt. Often.
An underground boxing ring, debt with bad people, so many possibilities cross your mind, not a single one being the truth.
Once his face is as clean as it can be, you move on to disinfecting the cuts by his eyebrow and lip. “This might sting a little.”
“S’okay.”
His face pinches a little bit when you dab away at his cuts, but he doesn’t make any noise. All you can hear is his deep breaths and the small sound of his leg bouncing.
His nose hasn’t bled anymore since you cleaned it, and he keeps the ice over his eye the entire time. The cut by his lip looks much smaller when there’s no blood surrounding it.
Only his eyebrow needs a small bandage, which you grab and unwrap. “Last step.”
He feels you press the bandage on, your fingers lightly pushing the sides onto his skin to make sure it’s stuck. The process, he finds, hurts much less when you do it.
He misses your warmth when you step away from him. “Thank you.”
“Are you in trouble, or something? What happened to you?”
“It’s not a big deal. I swear.”
He hates lying to you, but he convinces himself it’s better this way. For your own good.
You don’t look convinced but you drop it. “Okay.”
“I should go,” he stands from where he’d been sitting and waivers a little, leaning on the counter.
“You shouldn’t be alone right now.”
“I’m fine, just got dizzy.”
“You can take the couch, if you want. It’s not a problem, really.”
“I live across the hall, I’m sure I’ll be fine.” He steps towards the doorway and has to pause again. “Or maybe I’ll stay. If you’re sure.”
“I wouldn't have offered if I wasn’t.”
You walk him to the couch, letting him lean on you whenever he needs to along the way. He sits down, and you go to get him a pillow and blankets.
This is the longest amount of time you’ve ever spent with Steve, and it pinches at your heart that he’s hurt during it. That he only needed help, not company. Even so, you fight a smile when you come back to the living room and find him laying down, already half asleep.
You spread the blankets over him. You take the pillow you’d brought him and guide him to lift his head. You’re convinced he’s asleep, so you let yourself push the hair off his forehead just once.
When you turn to go to your room, he catches your hand in his.
“Thank you, honey.”
Honey. That’s new.
-
Steve was already gone when you got up the next day. The only evidence of his visit the blankets he’d left folded up on your couch and the washcloth stained with his blood you used to clean him up.
Every time you pass his door you think about knocking and checking on him. About making sure he’s okay.
You’ve been worrying a lot more ever since the night you were attacked and saved by Spider-man, and that goes for more than just yourself. You worry about every person you see walking alone, about Steve being hurt again, about noises you might be imagining at night.
You probably look over your shoulder fifty times on your way home from the grocery store, your hands too full with your bags to be able to defend yourself if anything happens.
You breathe out when you make it in front of your door. You’re safe, you’re fine, you have to tell yourself.
In your rush to get your keys from your pocket, you drop two of your bags. “Shit.” Boxes and cans thump against the floor.
Steve hears everything, all of the time. He hears you curse and the sound of your stuff hitting the ground. He blames the fact that he heads to the door on boredom and nothing more.
“Need some help?” His voice startles you.
“Oh! Hey, Steve. It’s fine, just dropped some stuff.”
You set the rest of your bags down, kneeling to pick up things that fell out of the ones you dropped. Embarrassed, you keep your head ducked.
Steve can sense it, the way your pulse jumps a little around him. He doesn’t know whether to be glad or worried that he makes you nervous. Either way, he bends down beside you, helping you pick things up.
A bag of apples, a can of soup.
You both reach for the bags at the same time, fingers brushing before pulling away. Like there was a shock, a little spark where your skin met for the briefest second.
Before you can, Steve picks up the bags. “I got ‘em. You get the door.”
“I- Okay.”
You turn around and fumble with the lock, opening your door and walking inside. Steve follows you and puts your bags on your kitchen counter.
“Good?” He checks.
“Yeah. Thank you, Steve.”
“No problem, honey. Think of it as payback for you patching me up.”
Honey. Last time he said it, you chalked it up to his tired state. That excuse can’t be used this time, and the term warms you.
“Right,” you look him over. His injuries are almost gone and it’s only been a couple of days. At least, you think it has. “You’re feeling better?”
“You did a good job,” he says.
“I’m glad.”
He nods, rocks back onto his heels once, “so, um, I’ll see you around.”
“Yeah. Thanks again.”
He nods again and heads out, shutting your door behind him. With every conversation you have, Steve seems to warm up around you just a bit more. You don’t want to hope too much, so you push your hair from your face and turn to put your groceries away.
That evening, when you’re getting ready to cook dinner—a simple spaghetti and meatballs—you realize you’ve never seen Steve bring groceries into his apartment. Not once.
He must eat, you know that, but you wonder if he eats well, or enough. You cook for two without realizing until it’s finished. There’s extra of everything.
It’s probably stupid, maybe weird, but you make a bowl and head out into the hall. You knock on Steve’s door, three little taps of your knuckles against the wood.
He hears the knocks right away, listens closer to hear your voice mumbling to yourself. He knows your voice well. Sometimes, he can hear you humming to yourself in your apartment. He doesn’t try to listen in on you, but it’s like his ears subconsciously seek you out.
Steve opens the door and sees you in the same clothes as earlier, a shy smile on your face, and a bowl of spaghetti in your hands.
“Hey. What are you…?”
“I accidentally made too much food, and I thought maybe you’d want some?”
Actually, you made too much food for him, but he doesn’t need to know that.
“Oh,” his heart does a stupid jump in his chest. You’re so kind and you don’t even seem to be trying. If anything, you seem to be embarrassed about it, like it’s a fault. “That’s really nice.”
“It’s just pasta. You want it?”
“Sure,” he takes the bowl from you. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. And I promise it’s not, like, poisoned or anything.” You wince at yourself, “I don’t know why I said that.”
“Well, I’m glad it’s not poisoned.”
You laugh awkwardly. “Okay. Um, enjoy.”
He stands in his doorway while you go back inside, his smile spreading as soon as your back is turned to him. He heads inside after you do, kicking his door shut.
He’s never smiled at a fucking bowl of pasta the way he does. It’s getting harder and harder to make himself avoid you, avoid that light in his chest that seems to brighten when he sees you.
He’s in trouble.
-
You bring him dinner often. At least twice a week, on days you don’t work or when you’re pretty sure he’s home.
He thanks you every time with a close-mouthed smile and brings back your dishes the next day, perfectly clean.
It feels like, over time, with every dish you bring him, a chip falls away from the walls he’s built up around himself. You can tell there’s a lot of them, and that they’re tall, but you don’t mind waiting for them to lower piece by piece. He’s worth that wait, you think.
You’re happy to cook for him—you’re cooking for yourself already anyway—and you’ve grown closer because of it. Something like friends, almost. The conversations seem to grow longer each time you see him.
Sometimes, on good days, he even invites you inside to eat with him.
You aren’t very close, but right now, he’s the only friend you have (besides your coworkers, who really only hang out with you because they have to). You’d think the way you get excited to see him would be sad if it weren’t for how nice he is, for how he makes you feel.
He listens to you when you speak, his eyes don’t stray, either. He always tells you he likes your cooking when you know it isn’t all that great. He even hugged you before you left his place once, his arms around your waist, hands running over your skin delicately before he pulled away.
“Thank you for dinner,” he’d said. “Again.”
“I like making it for you. Makes me feel useful.”
“Still. Thank you, honey,” he’d surprised you with it, moving close before you could really process it.
“Oh,” you’d stupidly let your arms hang limp for a second before wrapping them shyly around his neck. “I don’t think my cooking is this good.”
“It’s not just your cooking,” he’d told you.
He pulled away after that, leaving your body warm and your smile difficult to suppress.
You’re well aware you have a crush on him, but you don’t want to let it ruin the beginnings of the friendship you’ve built.
Steve’s not sure what the pull he feels towards you is, like one of his webs is tethered to you even though he can’t see it. It’s something his senses can’t tell him, no matter how much he focuses on them.
He thinks you’re the sweetest person and you don’t even try, all shy smiles and soft gestures. He likes how when you talk, he can really hear how you feel about something in your voice. He trusts you, despite not knowing you too well.
He also thinks you’re really pretty, but that’s not important.
Steve had another rough night patrolling. Some guy decided to play Wolverine—he’d made gloves with blades and everything—and scratched Steve pretty good on his upper arm. It hurts like a bitch, even though it’ll heal quickly. And he’ll have to sew up his suit.
He got the guy, which is something, at least.
Luckily, he actually remembered to unlock the window this time, so he’s able to sneak into his place with ease. He stripped out of his suit and took a shower before anything. Maybe not the smartest decision while actively bleeding, but he felt gross.
Afterwards, clad in plaid pajama pants and a plain cotton t-shirt, he searches his bathroom for his first-aid kit while keeping a towel pressed to his arm. A dark stain blooms on the fabric the longer he keeps it against his wound.
“Yes,” he cheers to himself when he finds the small white box.
He sits on the tile floors, back against his sink cabinets, and the kit in his lap. He opens it with one hand, the other too busy trying to slow the bleeding. When he gets it open, he’s disappointed with what he finds.
“Fuck,” he says. There’s barely anything left. A roll of gauze, a box of bandaids, and one tiny alcohol wipe. That’s it. He really needs to remember to refill this stuff.
He pushes himself to stand, winces when he has to use his injured arm.
There’s only one person close by that he knows for sure has a first-aid kit that has what he needs, because he’s seen it pretty recently. That person is you.
He hates that he’s dragging you into this again, that he’s gonna ask a favor of you that he really shouldn’t. One he doesn’t even think he deserves. He needs the help, though, so he walks to his door, into the hallway, and a few steps to your place across from his.
He knocks, his towel more red than its original color by now.
The sound doesn’t exactly wake you up. It’s late, and you’d been in bed, but you’d been having a hard time falling asleep. You were tossing and turning, staring at the ceiling.
You sit up, push your hair out of your face, and head to the door. You should, but you don’t even look to see who it is before opening it, keeping your body behind the door and peeking your head around. You certainly weren’t expecting this.
Steve stands in front of you, his hair damp and a mess, falling over his forehead. His face is pale and, when your eyes flicker down, you find that his arm is bleeding. A lot.
“Holy shit. What happened to you?”
He ignores your question. “Can you help me?”
You move away from the door. The cold air from the hallway combined with the way Steve’s eyes look down before quickly looking back at your face remind you of your attire. A sleep shirt and underwear.
“Fuck! Sorry,” you go to shut the door but remember that he’s literally bleeding. “Come in, you know where the bathroom is. I’ll just- um. Let me put some pants on.”
He’d laugh at the way you pretty much sprint into your room if he wasn’t so focused on the pain of his arm. He’d also be thinking a lot about the way your legs looked just then.
You meet him in the bathroom, legs now covered in a baggy pair of sweatpants. Steve’s sitting on the shut toilet just like he did the first time you helped him. You haven’t touched your first-aid kit since then, finding it exactly where you left it then.
“Sorry about that,” you tuck your hair behind your ears quickly before opening up the box, turning to him afterward. “Can I see?”
“Yeah.”
You take the towel from Steve’s hand, slowly moving it away from his wound to see how bad it is. Steve’s hands twitch where they sit atop his thighs. He’s holding himself back from touching you.
Three gashes break his skin. The outside of his arm, just below his shoulder.
“Do these need stitches?” You ask, the concern is clear in your voice, in how it shakes a bit. “Maybe you should go to the hospital-”
“No. Please. No hospital.”
“I don’t know how to do stitches, Steve. I don’t know if I can help you.”
“I don’t need stitches, I swear,” the look on your face makes him feel awful. The sadness in your eyes, the small frown you try to hide. “I ran out of bandages. That’s all I need.”
“Are you sure?”
He can’t tell you that his skin will mend on its own, that he’ll be fine in just a couple of days. “Positive.”
You nod and grab a different towel than the one he’d been using, pressing it against his arm to make sure the bleeding stops. He groans quietly when you do. “Sorry,” you whisper.
“I’m alright.”
When you’re almost 100% sure that the bleeding is done, you pull the towel away. You hold it under the sink, wetting a part of it that didn’t soak up his blood. You use it to clean away the dried blood on his arm, apologizing every time he sucks in a breath through his teeth, hissing at the pull on his cuts.
One of your hands holds his arm up, the other occupied with the towel. You’re bent close, stood between his legs, your loose hair tickling his skin.
“Steve?” You whisper, still focused on his gashed arm.
“Mm?” He hums, watching you help him with the most careful touch he’s ever felt.
“Who’s hurting you?”
“It’s nothing.” He says it in a way that tells you it really isn’t nothing. “You don’t need to worry about me.”
Maybe you don’t need to worry about him, but you do. You worry constantly. Anytime there’s a bandaid or scrape on his skin you wonder if it’s the same people that gave him that black eye and split lip weeks ago.
You worry because he’s so good. He’s a soft person under the invisible armor he protects himself with and he doesn’t deserve to be hurt. His skin is too delicate for it, his face too pretty.
You pull away and grab the roll of bandages you have in your kit. When you look at him again, his eyes are set on you, scanning your face.
“Please don’t worry about me,” his voice is quiet, and you hate the way it breaks on the first word.
He hates it, too.
“I’ll try my best,” you force a small smile at him, trying to lighten things as much as you can given the situation. You look back at his arm, wrapping it slowly. “Is that good?”
He looks at his arm, his wounds now covered with white wrappings. He looks back at you, “thank you, honey.”
“It’s not too tight?”
He shakes his head, standing when you step back to give him the space. You stand toe-to-toe, his head bent down to look at you, yours titled up.
“It’s perfect.”
Your breaths mingle in the air between you, growing thicker. Before you let yourself hope for something you shouldn’t, you move to the counter and grab the rest of the bandages you have.
“Here,” you hold them out to him, “for when you need to switch it.”
“You won’t need it?” He asks instead of telling you that by the time it needs switching, it won't be an open wound anymore.
“The most I use from that kit is the regular bandaids. I’ll survive without it.”
He takes the bandages from you, his hand brushing yours.
“I’m sorry for showing up the way I did.”
“I’d rather that than have you bleeding out in your apartment,” your eyes flick over to the bloody towels on your floor, your heart pinching in your chest. “If you need to talk to someone, or anything, I’m here.”
He leans closer, pushes a gentle peck into your cheek, and speaks with his lips still brushing your skin. “I don’t deserve your sweetness.”
He drops his head into your shoulder, just for a second, before moving away from you.
“Wha-”
“Bye, honey. Thank you,” he says, walking out of your bathroom.
You stand there, a hand lifting to press against your cheek in the spot his lips did. You pull it away and look at your fingertips, like you’d been expecting to see a physical residue of the kiss. Flecks of glitter, or the soft pink of the sky at sunrise.
You just see your skin, painfully normal.
-
After thinking and thinking and thinking, you determine that maybe Steve likes you more than you thought he did.
The way he calls you ‘honey’ in that voice of his, the softness of his eyes that he can’t hide no matter how cold he tries to keep his exterior, the way he kissed your cheek and let his lips linger when he spoke.
All of those things make you hope that maybe he likes you at least a little bit in the way that you like him, but if not, at the very least, he likes you more than you thought.
You think he tries to hold himself back from getting close to you at all, and you really don’t know why. All you know is that his shoulders were slightly slumped when he forced himself to leave after you'd bandaged his arm, after he told you he doesn’t deserve you.
There’s something in his life that makes him think that way and as much as you wanna know what it is, you hope that the best you can do is prove him wrong.
That’s one of the reasons you’re cooking dinner for two once again tonight. You also feel like, since this is sort of what brought you closer, the dinners are a tradition for you and Steve. Something completely yours.
It’s nice to have something like that with another person. You knew you were lonely, but you never noticed how much until you started talking to him more. With each meeting, the string between you both shortens.
You’ve never cooked this meal before. You’re extra attentive with it, tasting it to make sure it’s right, keeping your eyes on things closely to avoid burning it at all.
When everything’s done, Steve’s meal packed up nicely and your ponytail now a loose mess, you head to the bathroom to look at yourself in the mirror. The most you do is fix your hair before feeling silly for caring so much about your appearance.
He’s seen you tired-eyed and pantless. This is better than that, at least.
You haven’t brought Steve a meal since you patched him up and he thanked you with a kiss on the cheek and possibly, maybe, loaded words. You’ve seen him, yes, but this is different than a two minute conversation in a hallway or the mailroom.
It’s your way of checking on him.
Your door shuts with a click behind you, his meal in your hand as you step into the hall. You knock on Steve’s door in quick, small taps. You’re not sure why you’re nervous to be doing it this time.
The doorknob twists and you’re met with Steve’s smiling face. Like actually, fully smiling. You don’t think you’ve ever seen that from him before. Not like this. It’s like a beaming ray of sunshine, warm and beautiful.
You’d like to be the one to make him smile like that.
“Hi, honey,” he says. It’s then you notice his cheeks are slightly flushed, little pink blooms on his skin.
“Hey. I made you dinner again,” you hold the container up awkwardly to show him.
“You don’t have to keep making me dinner.”
“I like doing it.”
He nods. Steve knows that you do it as an excuse to see him, and if he were braver, or less concerned about involving you in his impossible life, he’d tell you that you don’t need to have food to knock on his door.
He’d tell you that you could knock whenever you wanted, that he’d happily open the door for you.
“Steve!” A voice—a female voice—calls from inside the apartment. “Who’s at the door?”
Fuck. Okay, he has a girlfriend. You probably interrupted something, you think, looking at his flushed cheeks, thinking about the smile he wore that most definitely was not for you.
You’re embarrassed for even thinking that he could like you, embarrassed for having read everything wrong, for hoping too much.
“Oh. You have company. I’ll just-” you pivot on your heel to leave and realize you’re still holding his dinner. You turn back around and hand it to him, awkwardly turning towards your door again and heading inside.
Steve stares at your door for a couple of seconds before going back inside. He sets his food on the counter and sits back on the couch.
“So, who was that?” Robin asks.
Robin, his best friend and the only person in the world who knows pretty much everything about him. Spider-man and all.
“My neighbor. She was bringing me dinner.”
“It was her? And you didn’t let me say hi!”
Yeah, Robin knows all about you. She knows that you make Steve dinner, that you’ve taken care of him without digging too deep for answers, that Steve thinks you’re the ‘prettiest girl ever.’ His words.
“She left pretty fast after you yelled.”
“Oh no.”
“What?”
“Nooo. I scared her off!” Steve is clearly very confused, so Robin huffs and continues, “she heard a girl’s voice in your apartment.”
“And?”
“God, you’re such a boy sometimes, it’s insane. She thought I was your girlfriend!”
“Why would that scare her off?”
“I know you don’t get out much, dingus, but seriously?” She literally facepalms. “She likes you! Why else would she be making you dinner and shit? She likes you and thinks you’re dating someone.”
“Oh. Oh. No, she doesn’t like me. Not like that.”
“You’re an actual dingus.”
Steve doesn’t want to think about that possibility because it’ll make it much, much harder to keep you at arms length. Though, even now, that arm is mostly bent, losing resistance.
“So what if she does like me? I can’t do anything with her.”
“Why not.”
“Because I’m Spider-”
“Spider-man, yes, I know. Who cares? You can't live your whole life ignoring every single romantic feeling you have because of that.”
“I don’t wanna drag her into this.”
“Did you ever consider that maybe she would want to be dragged into this?”
“I guess not.”
He goes quiet after that, and Robin, knowing him so well, drops the subject.
-
Steve thinks about what Robin said even after she leaves.
It’s hard for him to believe that you’d like him enough to worry that Robin was his girlfriend. You, a dream girl, liking him, with his unexplained injuries and past grumpiness towards you. There was no way.
But, on the slightest chance that it did matter to you, Steve decided he wanted to explain.
His crush on you isn’t something he should explore, isn’t something he wants to let grow because, despite what Robin says, his life is dangerous and you already worry about him enough without knowing that.
Still, the thought of you being upset because you think he isn’t single is enough to make him head across the hall.
While Steve wondered what he’d say, you stewed in your embarrassment. You’d sat on your couch in your sweats and tried to forget the girl's voice or the smile on Steve’s face. You were unsuccessful.
The knocks on your door have become a familiar sound—there’s only one person who actually comes to your apartment.
You walk over and muster up a smile that you hope looks genuine, “Steve, hey.”
He scratches the back of his neck and looks at you, “can I come in?”
“Oh, yeah. Sure.”
You move aside as he walks in, shutting the door behind him. The apartment feels smaller with him in it, you think. His presence takes up space for you, it draws your focus.
“Thanks again for dinner,” he says.
“You’re welcome-”
“That wasn’t my girlfriend, by the way. The voice you heard,” he cuts you off because he worries that if he doesn’t say it now, he never will. “I mean, she’s my friend, and a girl, but we’re not dating. Her name’s Robin, she’s my best friend, that’s it. Promise.”
You’re not sure whether to be even more embarrassed at how obvious you were with your concern, or to be relieved that he’s not taken like you thought. You settle for a bit of both.
“You don’t have to- I know I was weird earlier but you don’t have to explain yourself to me,” you tell him, tugging at the ends of your sleeves with your fingers.
“I wanted to make sure you knew.”
There could be a lot of weight in that sentence, if you let yourself look hard enough.
Rather than reply you confess, “you know, I used to think you hated me. Or, didn’t like me. Before we talked and stuff.”
Steve’s standing really close to you. Has he always been this close? You can smell his soap and feel the light puffs of air leaving his lips. It’s almost dizzying—like, if someone poked your shoulder, you might fall over.
You notice a lot about him from this close, especially when there’s no blood on his face. He has the lightest dusting of freckles over his nose, his eyelashes are dark, framing his brown eyes.
Steve reaches out with a hand to link his fingers with yours, loosely and slowly, like he doesn’t want to startle you. They fit together easily. His other hand brushes his knuckles against your cheek before cupping it gently in his palm.
His touch is so gentle, so much less guarded than his usual actions. You blink up at him and without even thinking, you push yourself into his touch, just a little.
“I never hated you,” he says. A murmur between your mouths.
“Oh,” is all you can say.
Steve’s strong, inhumanely so, but he isn’t strong enough to stop himself from kissing you.
The first brush of his lips on yours is so light that you think you might be dreaming. When you don’t pull away, he kisses you more firmly, his lips a little bit chapped but still soft as they land on yours.
You haven’t kissed a lot of people but you’ve never felt one like this. One that you’ve been dancing around for longer than you ever realized.
Steve’s hand squeezes yours, his thumb running back and forth against your cheek, his mouth moving with yours like a dance. He probably shouldn’t have let himself kiss you, because there’s no way he can fight whatever this is after feeling your lips on his.
He pecks you once, and twice, before pulling away. If he kept kissing you, the single thread left holding him back from you would’ve snapped. A clean break.
He leans his forehead against yours, and whispers so quietly you would’ve missed it had he not been so close to you. You could almost feel the words being spoken, lips still a breath apart.
“Never hated you.”
/ᐠ(๏‸๏)ᐟ\
if you enjoyed, please reblog and/or let me know what you thought!!! it would mean a whole bunch <3
Steve Harrington x Fem!reader 2K. A choose your own adventure fic.
I LIKE TO THINK OF YOU AS MINE: APARTMENT TWO
He wasn’t here.
It was just passing midnight and he still wasn’t here.
Did you care? You weren’t sure. You thought you were supposed to. But maybe that burning annoyance in your chest was more to do with the pitying stares your guests were giving you rather than your boyfriend’s actual absence.
The apartment was full, almost too full, of people. Friends, colleagues, old classmates, probably some strangers. The balcony door was open, people lingering inside and out as the warm summer air made the living room feel even fuller. Music was playing, just loud enough that your landlord wouldn’t throw a fit and the lights were low, the lamps casting a warm haze against the brick walls. Empty pizza boxes lay on the coffee table and bottles of alcohol were piling up on the counters, a sea of red cups on the island that separated the kitchen from the living room. The sink that was once full of ice and beer was now a slurry of water and other questionable substances, a pie crust floating on top like a tiny boat.
You looked at the door but it didn’t open. In fact, it hadn’t opened since Robin had taken in the tower of pizzas two hours ago.
He wasn’t coming. And that was fine.
Someone you knew from high school bumped your shoulder as they drunkenly staggered to the bathroom, mouthing an apology as they went. You smiled and tried not to glare at the couples that were cosied up in various corners of the room, girls sitting on laps, men’s arms draped around their significant other, people who had only met that night kissing in the places the light didn’t reach.
If you found out someone had hooked up in your bed that wasn’t you, you’d throw the entire thing off the balcony.
You weren’t sure how long you’d been standing in the kitchen corner but by the time you’d taken another sip of your gin, it was too warm. Screwing your nose up, you dumped it in the sink and tried to avoid looking at the oven clock. Robin was on the sofa with Nancy, both of them curled into each other, nose to nose as they whispered, exchanging kisses like secrets. Jonathan was on the balcony, his joint a ruby red dot in the dark as he passed it to Argyle.
You sighed, you looked at the clock. You could help it. Twelve twenty six. With everyone this tipsy and preoccupied, there was a good chance you could make it over to your bedroom door. It was too loud to sleep but maybe you could slip on your Walkman and zone out until everyone left—
“What’s with the face?” A finger poked at your cheek.
You swatted it on instinct, frowning as you turned to hide the expression you could seem to shift. “What’s with your face?” You retorted childishly and you heard a laugh that only deepened your scowl.
You hopped onto the kitchen top before reaching for the half empty bottle of wine someone had seemingly forgotten about. Not bothering with a glass, you flicked the lid off and watched it land over by the stereo, draining most of the drink in one gulp.
“That bad, huh?” Steve was leaning onto the counter and peering up at you from beneath his lashes, cheeks pink from the heat and the alcohol. “What time did he say he was comin’?”
You chose not to answer, finishing off the lukewarm wine instead. Your wrinkled your nose at the sour notes it left on your tongue, silently blaming Robin for her cheap taste in drink. You felt rather than saw your roommate soften, Steve leaning in close like he always did, an overfamiliar feeling of comfort washing over you. He smelled like the same cologne he’d worn since he was sixteen, the laundry detergent you both used. His elbow bumped your knee, his face close to your own despite you sitting up higher than him.
“He’s a dick. Anyone called Kyle is a dick,” he told you softly but matter of factly. The kitchen was emptier now, the guests sprawled over the couches and crowding around the dining table to play beer pong. “I dunno why you’re with him.”
You’d heard the same sentiment from Steve’s lips a million times before. And maybe a few months ago, you’d have done more to defend your boyfriend and his actions. You would’ve sat up a little straighter, spoke a little louder, been a little bolder. Maybe even sounded like you were in love when you argued his corner for him.
Now? Now you just shrugged. ‘Cause you really didn’t have an answer. But still, you moped. Mostly because you were drunk and it was too warm and everyone else seemed to having more fun in your own apartment than you were.
“C‘mon,” Steve groaned, moving to stand between your legs. “You look too sober.” He was too tactile when he was drunk, more so with you than anyone else, Robin liked to note. An overgrown puppy, all messy hair and pink lips that were pouting at you. His brown eyes were too familiar, as glossy as his mouth, both due to the beer, the whisky, the wine. “Have some fun. Play w’me.”
You warmed at the suggestion, ears burning as Steve grasped at your knees, his hands hot even over the denim of your jeans. If he’d have been anyone else, you’d have brushed him off, pushed him away with the toe of your shoe but you didn’t. It was Steve.
Your Steve.
So you pretended that you hated it anyway, head thrown back as you groaned and mumbled something about being tired and then Steve was whistling towards the balcony door, gesturing to Jonathan and suddenly there was a joint in his hand and the sweet, heady smell of weed was under your nose.
“Steve,” you warned.
Not for his sake, but for yours. You didn’t do great when stoned, you got silly and sloppy and needed someone to hold your hand and make sure you had access to hot Che-
“There’s a bag of Cheeto’s at the back of the cupboard,” the boy mumbled, too busy cupping his hands around the joint that was balanced between his lips. He was looking down at it, the flick of the lighter he’d taken from his back pocket making the planes of his face glow amber, long lashes casting shadows across his cheeks. “I hid them for you earlier.”
You swallowed thickly at his words.
He looked at you as he took a long draw, hair falling over his eyes, a smirk playing in the corner of his mouth. He blew out towards the ceiling, held the joint out to you in offer. “It’s fine, I’ll look after you, you know I will. You gotta loosen up, enjoy yourself, yeah?”
You took it, sullen, offended at the insinuation that you didn’t look like you were having fun at all. Which was an entirely correct observation, and clearly sulking in your own kitchen proved that too well. You brought the roll up to your lips, brows furrowed and your eyes still glancing at the door, hoping, waiting. Then Steve’s hands were back on your legs, a little higher than your knees now, thumbs brushing the outside of your thighs and—
“Fine, fuck it,” you mumbled and you took a hit, lungs filled, eyes closed and you could hear Steve chuckling, the sound filled with an affection you’d heard time and time again.
Steve watched as you took a draw, much shorter than his own, and his hands were on your thighs the whole time, the heat of his body too close to your own. If anyone was looking, you would’ve looked much more than roommates, too much for best friends. He was leaning in, smiling, cheeks rosy for the warmth in the apartment, eyes trained on the way your lips were wrapped around the joint and when you blew out, he laughed, congratulating you with a gentle butt of his forehead against your own.
“Atta girl,” he murmured and you wouldn’t have heard him over the music and the laughter and the chatter of your friends but oh my god, he was so close. Had he been that close the entire time? “C’mon, let’s go play.”
It was a lot easier to leave the corner of the kitchen once the weed had settled in your chest. It didn’t clear your head, not exactly, but it pushed out any thought of your boyfriend and replaced it with a fuzzy feeling, a blurry kind of softness and it made you enjoy the music more, it made your shoulders drop and god, Steve’s hand was so much bigger than your own.
You let him tow you around after him, his smile matching your own in that dopey, sleeping kind of way. You swayed into each other when you both hollered at someone’s shit joke, your hand clasped in Steve’s, your heads touching as you leaned into him to talk, lips brushing his ear and suddenly the night was so much better. Your body bumped against his as you both moved between your friends, laughing too hard at things that were all too stupid and when Steve grabbed another beer, he offered you one too. But you wrinkled your nose and shook your head, leaning into his side instead and Steve smelled so nice and he was so warm, his shoulder the perfect height for you to rest your head against.
He grumbled when you took his drink from him a few minutes later, sipping at it for something to do because Argylewas talking about the new guitar he’d just bought and you had no idea what any of the words meant, but Steve was nodding along animatedly. He still had a hand on you, his fingertips playing with the waistband of your jeans, just at the back of your hip where your shirt had begun to ride up a little. His thumb brushed and pushed at the denim, a mindless, drunk-stoned action but it made your skin buzz and fizz and—
“Babe?”
You turned, the apartment a little off kilter, or maybe that was just you. It spun in slow motion, the old sofa blurring into the floor and the brick walls and suddenly the kitchen was upside down and your boyfriend was standing on the ceiling.
Wait, no. No he wasn’t.
He was right in front of you, all pressed slacks and blue button down shirt, the collar loosened and his brow creased with what looked like annoyance. Steve’s hand dropped from your waist, too casually, too slowly. He was looking at your boyfriend too but Kyle was staring at where Steve’s hand had been.
The weed and wine and gin and beer - Jesus Christ - it swirled in your stomach, an overwhelming sense of disappointment lurching into your chest at the fact that not only was Kyle almost four hours late, but that he’d actually still turned up. It was a horrible feeling of intrusion, like he’d interrupted something and when Steve raised his brows at him and leaned over to take his beer back from you, you felt the shame heat your neck.
Kyle pulled a face at you and held out his hands, as if waiting, as if he was confused as to why you hadn’t already jumped into them. You moved forward, a little slowly, your feet feeling heavy and behind you, Steve took a drag from the beer you’d been sharing, still making too much eye contact with your boyfriend. You could feel them staring at each other even as you hooked your chin over Kyle’s shoulder, his arms around your waist as you hugged him in greeted and his hands found the same spot Steve had, expect his fingers were much colder.
And then, without much else said, not an apology, not a reason, not even a kiss, Kyle swung an arm around your shoulders, pulling you into him in a way that was possessive, not loving. “So, you coming to mine or what?”
You blinked, confused, almost… offended? But Kyle grinned and you blinked again, the weed and the wine making your mouth feel fuzzy or maybe you were just speechless at the audacity the man seemed to have and then god, no, oh fuck—
Steve was frowning, brows furrowed but his lips were curved into an amused smirk and he opened his mouth, something withering or insulting sitting on his tongue and Argyle walked away with wide eyes before it came out.
THE SUMMER I TURNED PRETTY 3.05
"Conrad reached out and wiped my chin with his shirt. It was maybe the most intimate thing anyone had ever done to me. I felt lightheaded, unsteady on my feet. It was all in the way he looked at me, just those few seconds." - We'll Always Have Summer
