confetti on the floor
summary: Steve's new year resolution is to finally tell you how he really feels about you, because being friends with benefits isn't enough for him. word count: 11.0k+ pairing: steve harrington x fem!reader notes: who wouldn't want to be friends with benefits with steve? especially now that he's a baseball coach and a sex-ed teacher ajdlksfjoiwjer. i mean... i never had sex-ed class so i could use some teaching😏 warnings/tags: takes place before season 5, fwb, fluff, smut, unprotected piv, creampie, oral (f!receiving), steve loves to kiss you, steve yearns, idiots in love, a tad bit of miscommunication, slight angst, happy ending, not proofread 12 days of christmas masterlist
The station feels different at night, quieter but not empty, like it’s holding its breath between songs. WSQK’s main lights are off, leaving the place washed in the low amber glow of desk lamps and blinking panels. The soundboard hums softly, a constant companion, and somewhere in the walls there’s that familiar rattle that Steve swears is the antenna settling, even though it never does this during the day.
There’s confetti on the floor. Not a lot, but enough that you notice it every time you shift your feet. Tiny bits of silver and neon paper are scattered around the booth and the hallway, crushed into the carpet from when the kids were here earlier, when someone had decided New Year’s deserved streamers and noise and way too much sugar. Steve said he’d vacuum it later. He always says that. Somehow, it never happens.
You’re perched on the edge of the console desk, legs crossed, headphones hanging loose around your neck. The air smells faintly like cold pizza and ozone, that sharp electric scent that always clings to the equipment after a long night. You tilt back in the chair just enough to watch Steve without making it obvious, because watching him has become second nature.
He’s on the other side of the booth, messing with the patch cables near the transmitter rack, shoulders hunched in concentration. His jacket is tossed over the back of a chair, sleeves of his sweater pushed up to his forearms. There’s a smudge of dust on his cheek, probably from crawling around under the console earlier, and you fight the urge to reach out and wipe it away.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he says without turning around, voice casual, like he hasn’t been clocking your attention for the past five minutes. “I’m fixing it.”
“You said that ten minutes ago,” you reply, smiling despite yourself. “And fifteen minutes ago. And earlier when Robin was still here.”
“This time I mean it,” Steve says, glancing back at you with a crooked grin. “I just don’t want it to cut out again in the middle of a song. People get weirdly emotional about that.”
“People get emotional about everything,” you say. “Especially at midnight.”
He snorts, going back to his wires, but there’s something tight about the way his shoulders stay raised, like he’s bracing for something. The clock on the wall ticks closer to twelve, each second loud in the quiet. Outside, beyond the darkened windows, you can hear distant pops and cracks from fireworks, muffled by the quarantine perimeter and the trees. Hawkins still finds a way to celebrate, even when it probably shouldn’t.
You push off the desk and wander closer, careful not to crunch too loudly on the confetti. One piece sticks to the sole of your shoe and trails behind you. Steve notices and laughs under his breath. “Guess we’re finding that for weeks,” he says. “Dustin went way too hard.”
“You let him,” you point out, stopping beside him. “You handed him the bag.”
“That’s because he looked at me like I’d ruin his life if I said no.”
You lean your shoulder against the rack, close enough that your arm brushes his when he reaches for another cable. It’s familiar, this easy closeness, the way your space has blended with his over the past few months until neither of you really remembers when it happened. The contact sends a quiet ripple through him, subtle but there, and you feel it anyway.
For a moment, neither of you speaks. The radio fills the silence, a soft instrumental track bleeding through the monitors, something slow and nostalgic that makes the air feel heavier. The clock clicks over to 11:59.
Steve clears his throat. He straightens up, then immediately leans back against the rack, hands shoved into his pockets like he doesn’t trust them. He stares at the clock, jaw working, and you follow his gaze. “You big on New Year’s resolutions?” you ask, half-teasing, half-genuine.
He laughs, short and a little breathless. “Me? No. I’m bad at promises. Kinda my thing.”
“Wow,” you say dryly. “Comforting.”
He glances at you then, really looks at you, and something unspoken flickers in his eyes. It’s not new, exactly, but it feels sharper tonight, like the edge of a blade instead of the flat of it.
“I mean,” he adds, softer, “I’m bad at promising stuff I’m not sure I can keep.”
The clock hits midnight. Fireworks bloom somewhere far away, distant enough that the sound arrives dull and late. The song on the radio swells, and Steve reaches out automatically to adjust the volume, fingers steady despite everything else about him not being that way at all.
You clap once, halfhearted, nudging him with your hip. “Happy New Year, Harrington.”
He huffs out a laugh. “Happy New Year.” Then, quieter, like it’s just for him, “yeah. New year.”
Confetti sticks to the back of his sweater as he moves, and you reach out without thinking, brushing it away. Your fingers linger there, warm against him, and he stills under your touch. For a second, you think he might turn around and kiss you right there, between the humming machines and the empty coffee cups, like he has so many other nights. Instead, he closes his eyes and exhales through his nose, like he’s steadying himself.
“You okay?” you ask, lowering your hand but not stepping away.
“Yeah,” he says quickly, too quickly. “Just… tired.”
You nod, even though you don’t entirely believe him. There’s a lot he doesn’t say these days, things that sit heavy in the quiet moments. You’ve learned not to push, not when the world outside WSQK feels like it’s always one bad signal away from falling apart.
Steve opens his eyes again and looks at you, something resolved settling into his expression, subtle but unmistakable. His mouth curves into a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “This year,” he says, voice low and steady, “I’m doing some things different.”
“Oh yeah?” you reply lightly. “Like vacuuming?”
He laughs, genuine this time, and shakes his head. “Like… not chickening out.”
Before you can ask what he means, the phone line lights up, and the moment slips sideways, postponed but not gone. Steve reaches for the receiver, but as he does, his hand brushes yours, fingers curling briefly around your wrist. It’s just a second. Still, it’s enough.
By the time you lock up WSQK, the night has settled into that deep, in-between quiet Hawkins gets after celebrations burn themselves out. The confetti stays where it is, scattered like evidence of something softer that happened earlier, and Steve doesn’t comment on it again. He just flips switches, double-checks the doors, and grabs his jacket with the same practiced motions he always uses, like routine is the thing keeping him upright lately.
The walk to the parking lot is cold enough that you shove your hands into your sleeves. Steve notices without saying anything and drapes his jacket over your shoulders anyway, settling it there like it belongs. You don’t argue. You never do.
His BMW coughs when he turns the key, that familiar rattling protest filling the silence before the engine finally catches. You slide into the passenger seat, tucking your legs up slightly like you always do, knees brushing the cracked leather. The dashboard clock blinks the wrong time, permanently stuck an hour behind no matter how many times Steve swears he fixed it.
“Locked?” he asks, backing out.
“Locked,” you repeat. “Unless the Upside Down learned how to use keys.”
“Don’t even joke about that,” he replies, grimacing. “I am not dealing with a demodog that understands security systems.”
The drive is quiet, but not awkward. It never is. The radio stays low, some late-night talk show bleeding static between sentences. Streetlights pass in slow intervals, washing the inside of the car in yellow, then shadow. Steve keeps one hand on the wheel, the other resting on his thigh, fingers tapping like he’s counting something only he can hear.
You watch him out of the corner of your eye, the way his focus softens when he’s driving you home, like the road demands less from him than everything else does. He glances over once, catches you looking, and raises an eyebrow. “What?” he asks.
“Nothing,” you say, smiling. “You just make that face when you’re thinking too hard.”
“Do not.”
“You absolutely do.”
He scoffs, but the corner of his mouth lifts. “Okay, maybe. Occupational hazard.”
By the time you pull into his driveway, the tension that always hums between you has settled into something heavier, thicker, like fog rolling in. His house is dark except for the porch light, and the quiet out here feels different than it does at the station. Less mechanical. More real.
Inside, the air is warmer. Steve kicks his shoes off near the door, nudging yours aside with his foot so you don’t trip over them. You hang his jacket on the hook by muscle memory, even though it started the night on his shoulders. He watches you do it, leaning against the counter, arms crossed. “You want anything?” he asks. “Water, soda, whatever that weird juice Robin left in the fridge?”
“I’m good,” you say. “Unless you’re secretly hoarding something better.”
“Wow. Accused in my own house.”
You drift further in, perching on the edge of the kitchen counter like you’ve done a hundred times before. Steve opens the fridge anyway, stares inside like the answer to his problems might be behind the leftover Chinese containers, then closes it with a sigh. “This is becoming a thing,” he says, gesturing vaguely between the two of you. “You know. Us just… ending up here.”
You shrug, swinging your legs lightly. “It’s closer than my place. And you’ve got better heating.”
“That’s not why,” he says, too quick, then clears his throat. “I mean. Yeah. It is. Mostly.”
The silence stretches, comfortable but charged. You can feel it in the way his eyes keep flicking back to you, like he’s checking you’re still there. This is how it always goes — shared spaces, shared time, shared exhaustion. Nights where the world feels too loud and this house feels like a pause button.
You slide off the counter, padding closer, stopping just short of him. Not touching. Not yet. The air between you feels electric anyway. “Rough night?” you ask quietly.
He exhales, nodding. “They all kind of are lately.” His voice drops. “But… this helps. You being here.”
It’s not a confession. Not really. Just a truth he lets slip like it doesn’t matter, like it hasn’t been sitting heavy in his chest for a while. You meet his gaze, steady, grounding.
“Yeah,” you say. “Same.”
Steve shifts his weight, hands uncrossing, like he’s not sure what to do with them. He steps aside, gesturing toward the living room. “C’mon,” he says. “You wanna sit? Or— I mean, we don’t have to—”
“We can sit,” you reply, already moving past him. “I’m not in a rush.”
His shoulders relax just a fraction as he follows you into the living room, the old house settling around you both, floors creaking under your steps. You leave the hallway light on out of habit, spilling a golden stripe across the carpet. Steve’s hand lingers at the small of your back for a moment as you pass him, his touch casual but charged. Neither of you says anything about it.
You collapse onto the couch, sinking into the cushions, and Steve sprawls next to you, one arm thrown across the backrest, legs stretched out until his foot bumps against yours. For a while, there’s just the low hum of the fridge, the faint tick of the clock, and your breathing syncing up in the hush. Steve stares up at the ceiling, fingers drumming an absent rhythm on the fabric, but his gaze keeps drifting to you when he thinks you’re not looking.
You stretch, letting your head fall back, closing your eyes for a second. “I’m never getting used to this shift,” you murmur. “My brain’s still buzzing.”
He grins, soft and sideways. “That’s because you’re thinking too much. You gotta let it go.” Then, quieter, “That’s what I do, anyway. Just… let it fade out.”
“Is that what we’re doing here? Fading out?” you ask, glancing over. You mean it as a joke, but something in the way you say it turns it softer, makes Steve look at you a little too long.
“Not really,” he says, voice low. “Feels more like catching my breath.”
You move closer, shoulder to shoulder, and you can smell his aftershave, the faint metallic tang of the radio station clinging to his skin. Steve looks at you, his eyes dark and searching, like he’s reading something between the lines you aren’t saying out loud.
“You always do this,” he says, a slow smile curving his lips, “come in here and take over my couch, my radio, my life.”
“And you always let me,” you shoot back, nudging his knee with yours. Your laughter rolls into a comfortable quiet, and for a minute the world outside the windows—Upside Down, crawls, quarantine, all of it—just isn’t real.
His gaze drops to your mouth, and he doesn’t hide it this time. “You’re not tired?” he asks, but there’s no real question in it, only invitation.
“I’m not tired,” you say, your voice steady, and it’s the truth. The air between you goes charged, electric, every nerve aware of where he is and what could happen if you just move one inch closer.
He leans in. The couch creaks under his shifting weight as you turn to face him, knees brushing, and the look in his eyes is as familiar as it is dangerous, a silent promise of what always happens next. He waits for you to close the gap, always letting you make the choice, but tonight you’re the one who breaks first. You press your lips to his, soft, then hungry, all that built-up tension unraveling in a rush.
Steve’s hands come up, one cupping your jaw, thumb brushing the edge of your cheek. He tastes like mint gum and late-night adrenaline, mouth warm and urgent against yours. You don’t bother with slow; you’ve never been any good at that with him, not when the world outside always feels like it might end.
His fingers trail down your neck, tracing the line of your throat, and you shudder under his touch. He knows just how to press, just how to tilt your chin to draw out the sounds he likes, the ones only he gets. The heat builds fast, his other hand finding your hip, pulling you across his lap until you’re straddling him, knees braced against the worn cushions. Your jacket slips off your shoulders, pushed aside by his hands, and you shrug out of it with a little laugh that gets lost in his mouth.
Steve breaks the kiss just long enough to look at you, eyes dark and intent, searching your face for any sign to stop. He always does this—always checks, always waits for the smallest hesitation, even when you’re already half undressed in his lap. You thread your fingers through his hair, tugging him back, and that’s all the answer he needs.
His mouth trails down, hot and wet, over your throat. You arch for him, hands sliding under his shirt to feel the heat of his skin. Steve’s breath is rough, shaky, his voice a low growl against your collarbone. “God, you drive me fucking crazy,” he murmurs, teeth grazing your pulse. You let out a gasp, hips grinding down, feeling him hard beneath you, and the friction makes you both swear softly into the darkness.
He stands suddenly, catching you in his arms, lifting you off the couch with an easy strength that never fails to make your pulse jump. Your legs wrap around his waist, instinctive, and he carries you down the hall, mouth never leaving your skin, pressing kisses and little nips along your jaw, your neck, your shoulder. The door to his bedroom bangs open, but neither of you cares.
He sets you down at the edge of the bed, hands already tugging at your clothes, peeling your shirt over your head, dropping it somewhere behind you. You work his sweater off, nails scraping over his stomach, and he sucks in a breath that’s half curse, half moan.
The rest of your clothes hit the floor in a messy, hungry rush. Steve’s hands are everywhere—palming your breasts, sliding down to grip your ass, pulling you up against him. His mouth covers yours again, deeper, more desperate, and you answer him with a needy sound that makes his hips jerk against you.
He pushes you back onto the bed, climbing over you, settling between your legs. His fingers trail down your body, teasing, lingering just enough to make you squirm, to make you beg for more. “Tell me what you want,” he says, voice rough, lips ghosting your ear. You shiver, arching up to meet him, and you don’t hesitate, not with Steve, not when you trust him to give you everything you ask for and more.
His fingers slip between your thighs, finding you wet and ready, and he groans, low and filthy, at the way you gasp, at the way your hips stutter up into his hand. “Fuck, you’re always like this for me,” he breathes, pressing his forehead to your shoulder, his breath hot on your skin.
You reach for him, pulling him closer, nails digging into his back, and he laughs against your throat, the sound shaky, on edge. “God, you feel so good,” he mutters, and you can hear the way he’s holding back, trying to drag it out, wanting to make it last.
But you’re done waiting. You reach down, guiding him to you, and he sinks into you with a slow, deep thrust that knocks the air from your lungs. The stretch is perfect, the heat unbearable, and you cling to him, legs wrapping around his waist, drawing him deeper.
Steve moves slow at first, hips rolling, every stroke measured, deliberate, his eyes locked on yours, searching for every flicker of pleasure, every breathless moan. He knows your body, knows every sound you make, every way you like to be touched. He whispers your name, over and over, like a prayer, like a promise, and you answer him with gasps and bitten-off cries, the room spinning around you.
He picks up the pace, thrusts turning rougher, needier, and the headboard thuds quietly against the wall with every movement. Your nails rake down his back, and he hisses, loving the sting. His mouth finds yours again, swallowing your moans, his hand slipping between your bodies to circle your clit, coaxing you closer, higher, until you’re trembling beneath him, desperate and undone.
You come with a shuddering gasp, clenching around him, dragging him over the edge with you. He groans, deep and raw, hips stuttering as he spills inside you, burying his face in your neck, breath hot and ragged.
You both stay tangled together, bodies slick with sweat, hearts pounding in the dark. Steve’s forehead rests on your shoulder, his arms locked around you like he’ll never let go. You feel the weight of him, the warmth, the way he presses soft, lazy kisses to your skin as you both come down, neither of you willing to move, not just yet.
He doesn’t say anything for a long moment, just breathes you in, his thumb tracing slow circles on your hip. It’s quiet, peaceful, the chaos of the world outside held at bay by the walls of this room, by the way he holds you, by the way you fit together, perfectly, hopelessly, inevitably.
It doesn’t happen all at once. That’s the thing you notice first, once you start paying attention. Steve doesn’t wake up one day different; he just… slips, little by little, like someone losing their footing on loose gravel and trying not to make it obvious.
At WSQK, it shows up in the small spaces. Shared shifts turn into Steve hovering behind your chair a little longer than necessary, leaning one hand on the backrest while you cue up tracks, his knee brushing yours every time you swivel even an inch. When you glance up at him, he looks away too fast, like he’s been caught staring at something he wasn’t supposed to touch. Other times, he doesn’t look away at all, just watches you with that softened focus that makes your stomach flip before you can stop it.
Robin notices before you do. She’s slouched in her chair across the booth, boots up on the console, chewing on a pen cap while pretending not to watch the two of you circle each other like idiots. Every time Steve drifts closer, every time his fingers nearly brush your shoulder when he reaches past you, she lifts her brows and gives him a look that says really? without ever opening her mouth.
Steve ignores her. Or tries to. He’s bad at it.
“You know,” Robin says one afternoon, spinning her chair to face him, “there is such a thing as personal space. It’s very popular. Big fan base.”
Steve doesn’t even pretend he doesn’t know what she’s talking about. He just shrugs, leaning back against the counter, arms crossed. “I’m standing.”
“Menacingly,” she replies flatly.
You laugh, shaking your head, eyes still on the playlist in front of you. “He’s not that close.”
Steve’s gaze flicks to you, sharp and almost hopeful, before he schools it back into something neutral. “See? I’m fine.”
Robin’s eyes flick between the two of you, tired and knowing, but she lets it drop. For now.
The requests line lights up halfway through the afternoon shift, the little red bulb blinking insistently. You point it out, and Steve reaches for the receiver like he always does, voice slipping automatically into that easy, charming radio tone he wears like armor. “WSQK, you’re on the air,” he says. “What can we do for you?”
There’s a pause. Static crackles softly through the speaker, then a voice comes through, older, a little shaky, asking for a love song. Something slow. Something meaningful. Something for “someone who’s been there through a lot.”
Steve listens, nodding along even though the caller can’t see him. His smile is gentle when he answers. “Yeah. Yeah, we can do that.” He cues the track with steady hands, but when he leans into the mic to dedicate it, something catches. “This one’s for—” His voice falters, just barely, but enough that you notice. Enough that Robin notices too, straightening in her chair. Steve clears his throat, cheeks coloring. “For someone who… makes things feel a little less heavy. You know who you are.”
The booth goes quiet except for the song rolling out over the airwaves. Steve steps back from the mic, jaw tight, eyes fixed on the floor like he’s bracing for impact. You blink, then glance at him, a smile tugging at your mouth. “Wow,” you say lightly. “Getting sentimental on-air now? Didn’t think you had it in you.”
Robin snorts, not even trying to hide it. “Truly shocking behavior.”
Steve laughs, but it comes out thin. He rubs the back of his neck, ears going red, refusing to meet your eyes. “Shut up. It was just a dedication.”
“Uh-huh,” you reply, still smiling, but something about his reaction makes you pause. He’s blushing. Not his usual half-assed embarrassment, not his joking deflection. Real, deep color creeping up his neck, the kind that only shows up when something actually matters. You tilt your head, studying him. “Hey. You okay?”
He looks up then, finally, and the look on his face knocks the breath out of you just a little. It’s open, exposed, like he said something out loud before he meant to. “Yeah,” he says quickly. “Yeah. I’m fine. Just… hot in here.”
“It’s January,” Robin deadpans.
Steve shoots her a glare that has no real heat behind it, then turns back to the board, busying himself with unnecessary adjustments. You watch his hands shake just slightly as he reaches for a dial.
The storm rolls in fast, the way they always do lately, like Hawkins doesn’t bother easing into bad weather anymore. One second the sky outside the WSQK windows is bruised purple, the next it’s split open with white light, thunder cracking so close it rattles the glass. You glance up from the board just in time to see Steve tense, shoulders lifting instinctively, like he’s bracing for something more than noise.
Then the power cuts. Everything dies at once—the monitors, the overhead lights, the low hum that usually fills the station like a second heartbeat. For a split second there’s nothing but darkness and the echo of thunder, and then the emergency lights kick in, bathing the booth in a dim, ominous red. The equipment racks glow faintly, LEDs blinking like watchful eyes.
“Shit,” Steve mutters, already moving. “Okay, okay, it’s fine. Generator’ll catch in a minute.”
You swivel in your chair, heart thudding a little harder than it should. “You sure?”
“Yeah,” he says, but there’s a crack in it, just enough to make you notice. “It always does.”
The rain pounds harder against the roof, a relentless drumming that fills the silence left behind by the dead equipment. Steve crouches near one of the racks, checking cables out of habit more than necessity. After a moment, he exhales sharply and drops to sit on the floor, back against the metal frame. “Guess we’re waiting,” he says.
You hesitate for half a second, then slide out of your chair and sit down too, settling between the racks opposite him. The floor is cold through your clothes, but the closeness helps, knees brushing, your legs angled toward each other without either of you commenting on it. The red light makes everything feel unreal, like you’ve slipped into a different version of the station where things are allowed to be said.
Steve stares at the floor, elbows braced on his knees, fingers laced together. He looks tired like this, stripped of his easy charm, all the noise and distraction gone. The storm booms again, closer this time, and his knee presses a little more firmly into yours. “Hey,” he says quietly. “I’m sorry.”
You blink, turning toward him. “For what?”
“For… being weird lately.” He huffs out a short, humorless laugh. “Which I realize is not super specific.”
You study him for a moment, the way his jaw tightens as soon as the words leave his mouth, like he regrets them already. “Okay,” you say slowly. “Why are you being weird?”
The question hangs between you, heavy and fragile. Steve’s breath catches. He lifts his head, meets your eyes, and for a second it feels like the storm has gone quiet, like the whole world is waiting.
His mouth opens, then closes. He swallows hard, Adam’s apple bobbing, and his knee presses harder into yours, grounding himself. You can see it in his eyes—the way they flick over your face, searching, calculating risk, fear, hope all tangled together. He looks like someone standing at the edge of something steep, trying to decide whether the fall will kill him or set him free.
“I just—” he starts, voice rough. He drags a hand through his hair, fingers catching, tugging a little too hard. “I don’t wanna mess things up.”
Your chest tightens. “Mess what up?”
His gaze drops to where your knees touch, lingers there like it’s safer than looking at you. “Us.”
The word lands heavier than it should. You shift slightly, not pulling away, just adjusting so your leg presses back against his. “Steve,” you say softly, “you can’t mess up something if you won’t even tell me what it is.”
He laughs under his breath, but it sounds close to breaking. “Yeah. That’s kinda the problem.”
Another flash of lightning illuminates his face stark white for a split second, and you see everything he’s trying not to show—the fear, the longing, the way his shoulders are drawn tight like he’s holding himself together by force. He looks back at you, really looks, and his expression changes, something fragile surfacing. “I think I—”
The door slams open. “Okay! Generator’s back online, crisis averted, we all lived, gold stars for everyone,” Robin announces, voice echoing way too loudly in the small space as the main lights flicker back on. The red glow vanishes, replaced by harsh white fluorescence, and the moment shatters like glass.
Steve jerks back like he’s been burned, scooting away from you, scrambling to his feet with an awkward laugh. “Oh. Great. Perfect timing.”
Robin freezes mid-step, eyes darting between the two of you on the floor, the tension still hanging thick in the air like ozone after lightning. Her mouth presses into a thin line. “…Did I interrupt something?” she asks.
“Nope,” Steve says too fast, already turning toward the board. “Just, uh. Power stuff.”
You push yourself up more slowly, brushing off your hands, heart still pounding like it hasn’t caught up to the room yet. “Yeah. Power stuff.”
Robin squints at you both but doesn’t push, moving past to reboot the systems. The familiar hum returns, screens lighting back up one by one. Normalcy snaps back into place with brutal efficiency.
Steve doesn’t look at you again for the rest of the shift, but you can feel him there, every movement careful, contained. Whatever he was about to say stays lodged between you, unresolved and aching, echoing louder than the thunder ever did.
It’s a few days later when the station fills up again, and the change is immediate the second the door starts slamming open. WSQK isn’t built for crowds, not really, but somehow everyone squeezes in anyway. Backpacks end up stacked in corners, jackets draped over chairs, someone knocks over a chair and pretends it didn’t happen. The familiar hum of the equipment is almost drowned out by overlapping voices, the sound of people who’ve learned how to exist in crisis together.
Dustin is the last one through the door. He lingers in the doorway longer than the others did, shoulders hunched, eyes scanning the room like he’s not sure he belongs here anymore. His hat is pulled low, brim shadowing his face, and he doesn’t say anything at first. No loud greeting. No dramatic entrance. Just a quiet step inside, hands shoved deep in his jacket pockets.
Steve notices instantly. “Hey,” he says, softer than usual, moving toward Dustin without making it a big thing. “C’mon in. You’re blocking the good echo.”
Dustin snorts faintly, barely there, but he does step further into the room. “Didn’t realize this was a VIP-only establishment.”
Steve smirks, but there’s something careful underneath it. “You kidding? This place runs on chaos and unpaid labor.”
That earns a small huff from Dustin, and Steve counts it as a win. Will, Mike, and Lucas have already claimed spots near the wall, sitting on the floor with their backs against the equipment racks like they’ve done it a hundred times before. Nancy leans over the desk, scanning a stack of scribbled notes, while Jonathan hovers nearby, camera hanging from his neck out of habit more than necessity.
You’re perched on the arm of a chair near the board, watching it all settle into place, watching Steve move through them like this is exactly where he’s supposed to be. He checks on everyone without making it obvious, passing out sodas, nudging backpacks out of walkways, steadying the energy in the room with quiet touches and easy jokes.
Robin drops into the chair beside you, eyes flicking between Steve and the group, then back to you. “So,” she murmurs, “should I be concerned that this looks like the prelude to something bad?”
“Always,” you reply quietly. “But less bad than usual.”
The meeting, if you can call it that, starts loosely. They talk about crawl schedules, about weird fluctuations in the signal, about things that feel off in the air lately. Steve listens more than he talks, arms crossed, nodding along. Every now and then, his eyes drift to you, like he’s checking you’re still there, still real.
Dustin stays quiet through most of it. When he does speak, it’s clipped, practical, stripped of the enthusiasm he used to bring into every room like a wildfire. He suggests adjustments to antenna placement, mentions something about interference patterns, and then goes quiet again, retreating into himself.
At one point, Steve hands him a soda, setting it down beside him without comment. Dustin stares at it for a long moment before picking it up. “…Thanks,” he mutters.
Steve shrugs. “Hydration’s important. Heroes drink water.”
Dustin almost smiles. Almost.
The room feels heavier than usual, weighted with everything unsaid. Eddie’s name never comes up, but it doesn’t need to. He’s there in the empty space Dustin leaves beside him, in the way everyone avoids looking directly at the Hellfire sticker peeling off his backpack.
You catch Steve watching Dustin when he thinks no one’s looking, jaw tight, guilt and protectiveness warring in his expression. When Dustin rubs at his eyes like he’s tired, Steve steps in, gently redirecting the conversation, keeping things moving so no one has to sit too long in that quiet.
At some point, Nancy straightens, tapping the desk. “Okay. We should probably get going before it’s dark.”
“It’s already dark,” Robin points out.
“More dark,” Nancy amends.
Everyone starts gathering their things, the energy shifting again. Chairs scrape. Zippers buzz. Steve walks them out one by one, clapping shoulders, offering rides, making sure no one leaves alone.
Dustin hangs back again. You’re near the door when Steve crouches in front of him, lowering himself to Dustin’s level like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “You good?” he asks gently.
Dustin shrugs, shoulders tight. “I don’t know.”
Steve nods like that’s an acceptable answer. “Okay. That’s okay.”
The silence stretches, fragile. Dustin nods once, then turns and heads out with the others, leaving the station quieter than it’s been all day. When the door finally clicks shut, the absence feels louder than the crowd ever did. Steve exhales slowly, dragging a hand down his face. He turns, finds you watching him, and for a second that careful mask slips. Whatever he was holding back all day presses closer to the surface.
Robin watches the two of you, arms crossed, eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “…You guys wanna talk about whatever that was?” she asks, gesturing vaguely between you and Steve.
Steve opens his mouth, then closes it again, glancing at you like he’s measuring the distance between now and whatever he almost said on the floor during the storm. “Yeah,” he says finally, quiet. “Just… not yet.”
Steve’s place is warm when you step inside, the kind of heat that clings to your skin and settles low in your belly, and not just because the thermostat’s cranked too high again. He shrugs his jacket off, tosses it over the banister like he always does, and you trail after him into the kitchen, shedding your own coat along the way, moving like gravity's strongest here.
He opens the fridge, bends at the waist, and asks, “pizza or leftover Chinese?” without turning around.
You lean against the counter, eyes trailing the curve of his back, the stretch of denim over his thighs. “Do we ever not choose pizza?”
He glances over his shoulder, smirking. “You say that like we’re consistent.”
You raise an eyebrow. “We’re consistent about eating shit and not talking about anything important.”
He snorts, shaking his head. “Ouch. Call me out harder, why don’t you.”
It starts like it always does—jokes and microwave beeps, the clink of bottles as he grabs two beers from the door tray. He hands you one and you take it without comment, brushing fingers too long in the exchange. He hesitates just long enough for you to notice, then backs off like it didn’t happen. But you’re both already glancing at the couch.
You end up there in five minutes flat, paper plates balanced on knees, your legs folded up and tucked to the side, his thigh warm beside you. Some old movie flickers across the screen, ignored. Conversation wanders in loops—Robin’s latest weird theory about Upside Down tremors, Lucas being a better liar than anyone expected, Dustin’s fake-casual curiosity about exorcisms, “for research.”
Steve laughs too hard at that one, head tipping back against the couch cushion, throat exposed, and you feel your gaze catch. There’s a moment, just a beat, where you both go still.
And then he turns his head.
And then he kisses you.
It starts slow, mouths brushing, both of you testing for heat that’s never really gone cold. His hand finds your jaw, thumb stroking beneath your ear, and your fingers knot in the front of his shirt without meaning to. The kiss deepens with each breath, lazy at first, then hungrier, your bodies shifting toward each other like they’re sick of waiting.
You climb over his lap, straddling him, your knees sinking into the cushion on either side of his thighs. He groans low into your mouth, hands slipping beneath your shirt, dragging up your back, fingertips tracing skin like he’s not sure he’ll be allowed again tomorrow. His lips trail to your jaw, your neck, down the side of your throat, and you gasp when his teeth scrape just hard enough to leave heat blooming.
“Bedroom,” he says against your skin, voice ragged. You nod before he finishes.
He stands with you wrapped around him, your legs around his waist, your back hitting the hallway wall once when he stumbles, laughing through his teeth, the kind of sound that’s too fond for what this is supposed to be. The bedroom door swings open, and you don’t even remember him kicking it.
The bed is unmade, but you don’t care. He drops you onto the mattress and follows, kissing you again like he’s starving for it, his body heavy over yours. You pull his shirt off with fumbling hands, nails raking his stomach on the way up. His jeans are next, kicked off without ceremony, and then his mouth is on you again, trailing down your chest, your ribs, the curve of your stomach.
He settles between your legs like it’s where he was always meant to be. You’re already soaked—he must’ve known, must’ve felt it pressed against him when you were grinding into his lap on the couch—and he doesn’t waste time asking if this is what you want. He already knows. Still, he catches your eye, one hand smoothing up your thigh, the other planted firm on your hip, holding you open for him.
“You good?” he murmurs, voice rough.
“God, yes,” you whisper, breathless.
His mouth drops, warm and wet, and he drags his tongue over your clit in one long, slow stroke. You gasp, hips jerking before he tightens his grip, keeping you in place. He groans against you like he feels it too, like he’s not just eating you out—he’s devouring. His tongue moves in slow circles at first, teasing, every flick sending electricity up your spine. You clutch the sheets with one hand, the other buried in his hair, tugging when he sucks, hard and perfect, right where you need him.
“F-fuck, Steve,” you moan, thighs trembling around his head.
He hums, tongue lapping over you, greedy and focused, like this is the only thing he’s ever wanted. He licks you open, soft and relentless, mouthing at you with practiced, intimate confidence. Every sound you make just spurs him on, and he’s locked in, ravenous, like he can’t stop until you’re falling apart.
Your stomach tightens, back arching off the bed as the pressure builds. He senses it, tilting his head, licking with that exact rhythm that always makes you come fast, wet, messy, mind-numbing. Your hand tugs hard at his hair and he groans again, sucking your clit into his mouth, tongue flicking, circling, pushing you right to the edge.
You’re panting now, toes curling, whole body pulled tight like a bowstring. And then it hits—hard, overwhelming, your orgasm crashing over you with a cry that rips from your throat. “Oh fuck—Steve, fuckfuckfuck—” Your thighs clamp around his head as you grind into his mouth, chasing every last wave, and he doesn’t pull away, not until you’re squirming from the sensitivity, gasping for air.
He pulls back slowly, dragging his mouth from you with one last kiss to your inner thigh, lips slick, eyes heavy with heat. You’re still catching your breath, body flushed and shaking, when he climbs up over you, sliding into the space between your arms, bracing his weight on his elbows.
You reach up and cup his face, fingers tracing his cheek. His skin is warm, lips swollen, eyes locked on yours.
“Jesus,” you whisper, voice wrecked.
Steve smiles, and it’s a little shy, a little cocky, but there’s something underneath it that wasn’t there before. He leans in, presses a kiss to your forehead, then one to your mouth—soft, slow, tender. Like something’s cracking open, something he’s not ready to name. His hand finds yours on the pillow and laces your fingers together without a word.
There’s something different in the way he moves now, softer but deeper, as if he’s savoring every second—like he knows this could be the last time before everything changes and he refuses to let any of it slip away unnoticed.
He breaks the kiss just long enough to look down at you, eyes searching your face for a sign, like he’s memorizing everything. His hand cradles your cheek, thumb brushing your skin, gentle and reverent, and his gaze is so open you almost can’t stand it.
“You sure?” he whispers, his voice quiet and rough with emotion, hips cradled between your thighs, the head of his cock brushing against you, waiting.
You slide your arms around his shoulders, nails digging in, not to hurt but to hold. “God, yes, Steve. Please.”
He nods, and for a moment just holds you there, foreheads pressed together, breathing the same air. Then, slow—achingly slow—he pushes inside you. The stretch is perfect, a shivering fullness that has you arching up to meet him, wrapping your legs around his hips, drawing him deeper. He groans softly, the sound rumbling through his chest as he sinks in all the way, filling you in a way that feels both desperate and impossibly sweet.
He starts to move, rocking his hips in a steady, gentle rhythm, every thrust deliberate, as if he wants to feel every inch of you, every pulse and flutter. His hand stays at your face, holding you steady, his thumb catching the tears that prick at the corners of your eyes—not from pain, but from the overwhelming ache of being seen, of being held like you matter.
His lips meet yours over and over, never hurried, each kiss melting into the next. His name spills from your lips, soft and helpless, and he answers you with a murmur, his voice gone so tender it makes your heart ache. “Fuck, you feel so good,” he breathes against your mouth. “You’re everything, you know that? Everything.”
You gasp, rolling your hips up to meet him, chasing the heat curling low in your belly, your whole body singing with it. Steve leans down, kissing your eyelids, your cheeks, your jaw, like he can’t get enough, like every piece of you is precious.
He doesn’t rush, just keeps rocking into you, the rhythm stretching out between you, slow and deep, his hips pressed snug to yours with every thrust. Your hands roam over his back, his arms, feeling the tremble in his muscles, the way he’s holding himself together.
Every time you look at him, his eyes are already on you, dark and shining, the raw need there undercut by a devotion so fierce it leaves you breathless. His hand cups your face, thumb stroking your cheek as he moves, his other arm curling around your waist, pulling you impossibly closer. “Stay with me,” he whispers, voice thick. “Just… stay, okay?”
You nod, a choked sound escaping you, and he kisses you again, swallowing your moans, your whimpers, every gasp. The pleasure builds slowly, the tension winding tight, every roll of his hips coaxing you higher.
You break, trembling under him, coming apart with his name in your mouth and his hand cradling your face, grounding you in the swell of it. He groans, the sound muffled against your lips, and you feel him pulse deep inside you, his whole body shuddering as he follows you over the edge.
He stays pressed to you, both of you breathing hard, your bodies tangled together in the warmth and the hush. His thumb still brushes your cheek, his kisses growing softer now, lingering on your skin, your lips, your temple.
You don’t let go. Neither does he. His forehead presses to yours, breath mingling, and for a while the world outside the four walls of his room doesn’t exist, every worry banished by the way he holds you—close, gentle, like you’re everything he’s ever wanted and he’s terrified to let you slip away.
Morning doesn’t arrive gently.
You wake to the sound of footsteps that don’t belong to dreams, soft but restless, pacing back and forth across the bedroom floor. Your eyes blink open slowly, still heavy, still warm, the sheets tangled around your legs and his pillow indented beside you. For half a second, you expect to find him there, sprawled and half-asleep, arm thrown out like he always does.
Instead, Steve is standing near the dresser, already dressed, pulling on his jacket like it’s armor. His hair is still a mess, curling at the edges from sleep, but the rest of him is tight, wound too thin. He runs a hand through it, mutters something under his breath you can’t quite catch, then turns and freezes when he realizes you’re awake. “Oh,” he says quietly. “Hey.”
Your chest tightens at the sound of his voice. “Hey,” you answer, pushing yourself up on your elbows, the sheet slipping down your waist. You don’t bother covering yourself more than that. You shouldn’t have to.
There’s a pause that stretches too long. Steve shifts his weight, looks everywhere but at you, like the walls might have answers he doesn’t. “I—” He exhales hard and scrubs a hand over his face. “I’ve been thinking.”
That alone sends a little spike of dread through you. You sit up properly now, drawing the sheet around yourself, trying to steady your breathing. “Okay.”
He nods, pacing again, words tumbling out too fast. “About last night. About us. About… all of it.” He stops, turns to you, eyes red-rimmed like he didn’t sleep much at all. “And maybe this isn’t a good idea anymore.”
The words land heavy and sharp, knocking the air from your lungs. “Oh,” you say, because it’s the only thing you can manage.
Steve’s face twists instantly, panic flashing across it. “No—shit, that’s not—” He crosses the room in two strides, hands out like he’s trying to catch something mid-fall. “I didn’t mean it like that. I mean, I did, but I didn’t, I just—fuck.”
You swing your legs off the bed, feet hitting the floor, grounding yourself in the cold. Your hands shake as you reach for your clothes, folded neatly over the chair like he always does after. You keep your eyes on them, on anything but his face. “It’s okay,” you say quickly, too quickly, your voice a little too steady. “I get it.”
He shakes his head, frantic. “No, you don’t. That’s not—God, I hate this.” He reaches for your arm, then stops himself, fingers curling back into his palm. “I just… things feel different. And I don’t want to screw it up. Or hurt you. Or lose—” He cuts himself off, jaw clenching hard.
You swallow, throat burning. “Steve.”
He looks at you then, really looks, and whatever he sees on your face makes him pale. “Shit,” he whispers. “You’re upset.”
“I’m not,” you lie automatically, grabbing your shirt and pulling it over your head. The fabric snags for a second and you fight it, blinking hard. “I mean. I am. But it’s fine.”
“That’s not fine,” he says, voice breaking just a little. “I shouldn’t have said anything like that.”
You tug your jeans on, fingers clumsy. “You meant it.”
“I didn’t mean it like that,” he insists. “I don’t want you to go.”
You pause with your hands on the button, breathing in through your nose, out through your mouth. The room feels too small, too tight, like the walls are pressing in. “Then what do you want?” you ask quietly.
Steve opens his mouth. Closes it. His shoulders slump like something inside him just gave up. “I don’t know,” he admits, barely above a whisper.
That hurts worse than anything else. You nod once, sharp, like you’ve made a decision even if you don’t feel it yet. “Okay.”
He flinches at that, at the way you say it, clipped and final. “Okay?” he repeats.
“Yeah,” you say, pulling on your shoes, refusing to let your eyes water. “Okay.”
You grab your jacket, sling your bag over your shoulder, movements too fast, too practiced, like if you stop you’ll fall apart right there in front of him. Steve follows you to the door, hands hovering uselessly at his sides. “Hey,” he says softly, desperate. “You don’t have to leave like this.”
You pause with your hand on the doorknob, heart pounding so loud it feels like he must hear it. You turn just enough to look at him, really look, and it almost breaks you. He looks wrecked. Scared. Like he’s already regretting everything. You force a small smile that probably doesn’t fool either of you. “I think I do.”
The door clicks shut behind you, the sound echoing down the hallway, and as you step out into the cool morning air, the first crack of panic settles deep in your chest. The quiet realization that something has changed, that you might be losing him, and you still don’t know why.
You don’t go home. You don’t really know where you’re going at all, just that if you stop moving, if you let yourself sit still with what just happened, something in you is going to split open and you won’t be able to put it back together. Your feet carry you on instinct, down familiar streets, past houses that look too normal for how wrong everything feels. The morning air is cold enough to sting your lungs, and you welcome it. It gives you something else to focus on.
You end up at the park without consciously choosing it. It’s quiet in that early, in-between way, the kind of quiet that only exists before kids show up and before the day fully wakes up. The swings creak softly in the breeze, chains rusted and tired. The grass is damp, soaking through the seat of your jeans when you drop down on one of the benches near the playground. You sit there with your elbows on your knees, staring at the ground like it might offer answers if you look hard enough.
Your chest aches in that dull, hollow way that doesn’t fade no matter how many times you tell yourself you’re fine. You replay his voice over and over in your head. Maybe this isn’t a good idea. The way he panicked right after, the way he backtracked, like he’d already lost control of whatever was happening between you.
You press your thumb into the heel of your palm, grounding yourself, breathing slow. You don’t cry. Not yet. You refuse to give him that power over you, even when it feels like you’re bleeding out quietly from the inside.
The sun creeps higher. Time passes in chunks instead of minutes. At some point, you hear footsteps crunching over gravel, fast and purposeful. You don’t look up right away. You already know who it is by the way they stop short, by the sharp intake of breath like someone’s relieved and annoyed at the same time.
“There you are,” Nancy says, hands on her hips. “Do you have any idea how hard it is to find someone when they just… vanish?”
You close your eyes for a second, then look up at her. She’s wearing a jacket that’s too thin for the weather, hair pulled back in a rushed ponytail, worry written all over her face like she hasn’t bothered to hide it.
“I didn’t vanish,” you say quietly. “I just… wasn’t there.”
She studies you, really studies you, and whatever she sees makes her expression soften. She steps closer, stopping in front of the bench. “You didn’t show up at the station,” she says. “Steve said you weren’t feeling well.”
That makes your stomach twist. “Oh,” you reply. “Did he.”
Nancy sighs, dropping down beside you without asking. “He’s a mess,” she says bluntly. “Has been all morning.”
You huff out a humorless laugh, eyes dropping back to the grass. “Good.”
Nancy bumps your knee gently with hers. “That didn’t sound convincing.” Silence settles between you, thick but not uncomfortable. Nancy’s good at this, at sitting in the quiet without forcing it. Finally, she speaks again, more careful this time. “Do you wanna tell me what happened?” she asks. “Or do you want me to just… sit here and pretend we’re watching the ducks?”
You glance toward the empty pond, then back at her. Your throat tightens, and you have to swallow before you can speak. “I think… I think I messed something up.”
Nancy tilts her head. “You don’t usually talk like that.”
“Yeah,” you admit. “Neither does he.”
That’s all it takes. Nancy exhales slowly, nodding like something’s clicked into place. “Okay,” she says. “So it’s a Steve thing.”
You don’t answer, but you don’t have to. She leans back on the bench, arms crossed loosely, gaze fixed on the playground. “You know he’s terrible at saying what he actually means, right? Like, catastrophically bad.”
You pick at a loose thread on your sleeve. “That doesn’t make it hurt less.”
“No,” she agrees softly. “It doesn’t.”
Another stretch of quiet passes. Somewhere nearby, a bird takes off, wings flapping loud in the stillness. Nancy shifts, turning toward you fully now. “He cares about you,” she says, firm. “A lot. Enough that it scares him. And Steve Harrington does not handle fear well.”
You let out a shaky breath. “Then why does it feel like I’m the one getting left behind?”
Nancy doesn’t answer right away. When she does, her voice is gentle. “Because when people are scared, they push first and think later.”
You stare ahead, jaw tight. “I don’t know if I can just… wait around while he figures it out.”
She nods, understanding in her eyes. “You shouldn’t have to.”
Nancy glances back toward the path that leads out of the park, then back at you. “C’mon,” she says. “Let’s get you back to the station. Or at least somewhere warm. You can sit. You don’t have to talk. You don’t have to see him if you don’t want to.”
You hesitate, heart thudding. The idea of going back, of seeing Steve’s face, makes your chest tighten all over again. But sitting here alone isn’t helping either. “…Okay,” you say finally.
Nancy smiles, small but real, and stands, offering you a hand. You take it, letting her pull you up from the bench, your legs stiff but steady.
As you start walking back towards the station, the knot in your chest doesn’t loosen. If anything, it tightens. Because you know this isn’t over. Not really. And whatever comes next is going to hurt just as much as it matters.
Back at WSQK, the station feels wrong without you. Steve notices it the second he steps inside, like the air’s been knocked off-balance. Your chair is empty. Your jacket isn’t slung over the back like it always is. The coffee mug you forgot to take home is still sitting by the board, cold and untouched, and the sight of it makes his chest ache in a way he doesn’t have a word for.
Robin watches him clock all of it. He pretends he doesn’t. He checks the dials, flips switches that don’t need flipping, straightens a stack of papers that were already straight. He keeps expecting the door to open, keeps expecting your voice, casual and familiar, asking him if he messed with the playlist again.
“You’re pacing,” Robin says eventually, leaning against the counter.
“I’m not,” Steve replies automatically, dragging a hand through his hair for the fifth time in as many minutes.
“You are,” she says. “And you look like you kicked a puppy and then realized the puppy was your best friend.”
Steve winces. “That’s… graphic.”
“It’s accurate.”
He opens his mouth to argue, then the door opens. Lucas steps inside quietly, shoulders squared, jaw set in that way that means he’s holding himself together by force. He looks older lately. All of them do, but Lucas carries it differently—like he’s braced for impact at all times. “Hey,” Steve says, softening instantly. “What’s up, man?”
Lucas hesitates, fingers curling into the strap of his backpack. “Can you… uh.” He swallows. “Can you drive me to the hospital?”
Steve doesn’t hesitate. “Yeah. Yeah, of course.”
Robin’s eyes flick between them. “I’ll hold down the fort,” she says gently. “Go.”
The drive is quiet. Steve keeps both hands tight on the steering wheel, knuckles white, the road stretching ahead of them like a long, narrow tunnel. Lucas stares out the window, knee bouncing, breath shallow. Steve doesn’t push. He’s learned when silence is better.
When they reach the hospital, the building looms gray and heavy against the sky. Steve kills the engine but doesn’t get out right away. “You don’t have to come in,” Lucas says quietly.
Steve looks at him, really looks, and shakes his head. “Yeah, I do.”
Inside, everything smells like antiseptic and quiet fear. The halls echo with soft footsteps and murmured voices. Lucas leads the way like he’s memorized every turn, every corner. Steve follows, hands shoved into his jacket pockets, heart pounding for reasons that have nothing to do with Max and everything to do with the weight of love he’s been avoiding naming.
Max’s room is still. Machines hum softly, steady and indifferent. She looks smaller than Steve remembers, pale against the sheets, hair spread out on the pillow like she might wake up any second if someone just calls her name loud enough.
Lucas freezes in the doorway. Steve stops just behind him, close enough that their shoulders brush. He watches Lucas step forward, sees the way his hands shake when he reaches for Max’s, sees the way he leans down and whispers to her like she can hear him. “I’m here,” Lucas says softly. “I’m not going anywhere.”
The words hit Steve like a punch to the chest. He backs up a step, leaning against the wall, giving Lucas space. He watches the way Lucas stays, unwavering, saying things he’s probably said a hundred times already. Apologies. Promises. Memories. Hope spoken into the quiet like it might stick.
Steve’s thoughts spiral, unwanted but relentless.
I don’t want you to go. Then what do you want? I don’t know.
The shame burns hot.
He thinks about you standing in his doorway, holding yourself together with shaking hands. The way you said “okay” like it didn’t tear something out of you. The way you left because staying would’ve hurt more.
He thinks about how he held your face like you were something precious, how natural it felt to kiss you slow, to stay close, to mean it. He thinks about how fear made him push anyway.
Lucas straightens after a while, wiping at his eyes with the heel of his hand. He turns and catches Steve watching, something raw and exposed on his face. “She hates hospitals,” Lucas says quietly. “She always said if she ever got stuck in one, I had to sneak her out.”
Steve nods. “She’s gonna yell at you for not doing it.”
Lucas huffs a weak laugh. “Yeah.”
They stand there together, side by side, looking at Max, and Steve feels it settle in his chest with sudden, brutal clarity. Love isn’t safe. It never has been. But avoiding it doesn’t protect anyone—it just leaves them alone. Steve exhales slowly, the truth heavy and undeniable. He doesn’t want to lose you because he was too scared to say what’s already written all over him.
When they finally leave the room, Lucas pauses in the hallway. “Thanks for coming in,” he says.
Steve nods, voice low. “Anytime.”
As they walk back toward the exit, Steve already knows what he has to do next. He doesn’t know how you’ll take it. He doesn’t know if it’s too late. But for the first time since New Year’s, he knows one thing for sure. Running isn’t an option anymore.
He finds you the way Steve always does when it matters most: not because he planned it perfectly, but because he followed the ache until it led him straight to you.
You’re sitting on the low steps outside the station when he pulls up, knees drawn in, arms wrapped around yourself like you’re holding something together that keeps trying to come apart. The sky has gone soft with late afternoon, that dull gold light that makes everything feel suspended, and you don’t look up at first when you hear the car door shut. You assume it’s Nancy coming back for you, or Robin checking in, or someone else trying to be gentle.
Then you hear his voice. “Hey.”
It’s quiet. Rough around the edges. Like he’s afraid volume alone might scare you off.
You freeze. For a second, you consider pretending you didn’t hear him. Consider staying still, small, unseeable. But your heart is already hammering too loud for that, and when you finally lift your head and look at him, you see it immediately: the way his shoulders are tight, the way his eyes are red like he’s been scrubbing at them, the way he looks at you like he’s already lost you and is trying not to say it out loud.
Steve steps closer, slow, like he’s approaching something fragile. He stops a few feet away, hands flexing uselessly at his sides. “I can’t keep pretending this is nothing,” he says.
The words aren’t smooth. They break on the way out, like he tripped over them, like he almost swallowed them back and failed. His chest rises and falls hard, and he swallows like it physically hurts to keep going.
You don’t say anything. You don’t trust your voice.
Steve runs a hand through his hair, pacing one step and then stopping again, turning back to you. “I tried,” he admits. “God, I really tried to just… keep it where it was. Easy. Simple. But it’s not. Not for me.”
Your throat tightens.
“I made this stupid resolution,” he continues, voice cracking just enough that it makes your chest ache. “New Year’s. I told myself I was gonna tell you how I feel. Like, actually tell you. And every time I get close, it’s like something locks up right here.” He presses his palm flat to his chest. “Like if I say it out loud, it becomes real. And if it’s real, I can lose it.”
He looks at you then, eyes searching your face, terrified. “I was so scared you only wanted… what we were doing. That it was just convenient. Comfortable. And if I asked for more, I’d ruin it.”
You stare at him, stunned, and then something sharp and breathless breaks out of you that might be a laugh if it didn’t hurt so much. “Steve,” you say, voice shaking despite yourself, “you are such an idiot.”
He flinches. “Yeah. I know.”
“No,” you insist, standing up now, closing the distance between you. Your hands are trembling, but your eyes are steady on his. “I mean it. You’re a complete idiot if you thought I didn’t want more.”
He freezes, hope and fear warring across his face. “What?”
“I wanted you to say something,” you confess, the words spilling now that you’ve started. “I thought you didn’t because you didn’t feel it. I thought I was just… easy. Familiar.”
Steve’s breath hitches, sharp and wounded. “That’s not—”
“I know,” you cut in softly. “I know that now. But I didn’t then.”
The space between you feels electric, fragile, like one wrong word could snap it. Steve lifts his hand, hesitates, then cups your face gently, like he’s afraid you might disappear if he lets go. His thumb brushes beneath your eye, reverent, grounding. “I’m so in love with you,” he says quietly. “And it scares the shit out of me.”
The honesty in it knocks the wind out of you. You lean into his touch without thinking, your hand curling around his wrist. “You don’t get to say that and then run,” you whisper.
“I’m not,” he promises immediately. “I’m right here.”
You search his face, looking for cracks, for hesitation. All you find is him—open, terrified, sincere in a way that makes your chest ache. “Okay,” you breathe.
He lets out a shaky laugh, something relieved and overwhelmed all at once. “Okay?”
“Yeah,” you say. “Okay.”
Steve smiles, soft and disbelieving, and then he leans in, slow enough to give you time to pull away if you want to. You don’t. When his lips meet yours, it’s gentle, careful, nothing like the heat and hunger of before. This kiss lingers, deepens slowly, like a promise being written instead of a spark being lit.
When you pull back, his forehead rests against yours, eyes closed, breathing you in like he’s grounding himself. “Guess I finally kept my resolution,” he murmurs.
You smile, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes, and press another soft kiss to his lips.
everything: @clxt-lamb1 @person-005 @bookoffracturedescapes
steve harrington: @miffysoo @obsessivelyadoring @sparklediscoladybug @chansmai @ruwaidahmulla @beaflowersfly @yellowbirdbluetoo @emmswcn @iladamercedes @kkittykiss
