My woke take, as someone who has worked in both a public library and a school library, is that we desperately need both more books that are at a higher reading level but a less mature subject matter, and more books that are at a lower reading level but a more mature subject matter, because 8 year olds who are advanced readers are still 8 year olds and don't want to read about graphic violence and torture, and teens and adults who have learning difficulties or who are just later readers for whatever reason are still teens and adults and don't want to read about Billy the Bunny going to school or whatever the hell.
Shoutout to people in the notes also mentioning people learning the language, I should've mentioned that really, given that I've been stuck reading German picture books myself while learning German.
— your best friend shows up at your house after breaking your heart a little, only to fix it a lot. turns out the boy you thought you lost is actually the boy who’s been in love with you this whole time.
🧢 5.6k — steve harrington x fem!hopper!reader, fluff, steve is the definition of pretty-boy delusion, reader cries once ( maybe twice ) but it’s character development, mutual pining so obvious, accidental heartbreak → immediate fix-it, best friends who refuse to use their brain cells, surprisingly competent romance, steve getting flustered like it’s his full-time job, angst like a lot, robin and dustin trying ( and failing ) to matchmake the two
author's note — okay so hi this is my first ever steve harrington fic and i swear i have not known peace since that man showed up on my screen. i love him so much it’s genuinely concerning. anyway here’s me coping through writing because i physically cannot concentrate on anything else when he exists. my requests are open. enjoy <3
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gif by @emziess | divider by @/lavendergalactic
Your milkshake was melting. You’d been staring at it for — God, you didn’t even know how long. Long enough that the whipped cream had started to slide off like it, too, had given up on you. Not that you could blame it. It was hard to focus on anything when your brain insisted on looping the same thought over and over again: Steve Harrington smiled at you today. And okay, fine, he smiled at everyone, but this one felt different. Hopefully.
You leaned your cheek against your hand, curling into the booth. It was stupid, honestly, being this far gone over someone who didn’t even know you were drowning. But every time he grinned at one of the kids, or spun the Scoops Ahoy hat around his finger, or said your name like it wasn’t just a word but something he liked having in his mouth… yeah. You were sunk. Completely, irreparably, down-bad sunk. It was embarrassing, actually. Almost impressive how thoroughly your heart betrayed you whenever he was in a six-foot radius.
“Hello? Earth to dingus number two?”
You jerked so hard your knee smacked the underside of the table. “Mother of all holy! Robin! You don’t do that to people!”
She was already grinning, already settling into the booth beside you with her chin propped on her palms, in the exact same pose you’d been in not ten seconds ago. Perfectly mocking you.
“Oh my God,” you groaned, dragging both hands down your face. “I was thinking about him again, wasn’t I?”
Robin leaned over, grabbed your milkshake, and took a obnoxiously loud sip through the straw. “I genuinely don’t know why you don’t just ask him out,” she said, licking whipped cream off her lip. “It’s not like he can do better than you. Actually, scientifically speaking? He cannot.”
You opened your mouth to argue but Robin’s eyebrows shot up. “Speaking of the dingus,” she muttered, turning her head toward the counter.
You followed her gaze just in time to see Steve swinging his ice-cream scoop. A gaggle of ten-year-olds watched with awe as he attempted some kind of Scoops Ahoy–themed trick.
He spun it once. Twice.
On the third swing, it slipped straight out of his hand and clattered across the floor. The kids burst into laughter. Steve just stood there, hands on his hips like that had been the plan all along.
Robin pointed with the straw still between her fingers. “Really? That guy? That guy is the one you’re down bad for?”
A soft, helpless smile tugged at your lips before you could stop it. “Yeah,” you breathed, chin dropping into your hand again. “Isn’t he amazing?”
Robin jabbed you in the ribs with her elbow. “C’mon,” she said around another mouthful of your milkshake, “go. Hit your chance before the universe smites you for being a coward.”
“You really think—?”
“Yes,” she said, nodding so aggressively her hair bounced… though the effect was slightly ruined by how she was giving you a distracted thumbs-up while still sipping through the straw.
You pushed yourself out of the booth before your brain could stop you, smoothing your shirt. By the time you reached the counter, the ten-year-olds had dispersed, leaving Steve standing alone.
“Cool trick,” you said, leaning an elbow on the counter because Robin always claimed it made you look ‘effortless.’
Steve brightened immediately. “Would you like to set sail on this ocean of flavor with me?” he intoned in that ridiculous nautical voice.
You couldn’t help but laugh, matching his grin. “Depends, sailor. What flavor do you recommend sailing on today?”
His eyes flicked to where Robin was sitting with your half-finished milkshake.
“Uh—why don’t you just… have that one again?” he said, rubbing the back of his neck.
You tried again, leaning in just a bit. “But you haven’t told me your favorite. C’mon, what’s your go-to?”
“But you didn’t even finish that one,” he said, gesturing vaguely toward Robin with a soft frown. “You should try it properly this time.”
God. He really didn’t get it.
You watched his brows pinch in that soft, boyish confusion—like he thought he was helping, like he genuinely believed he’d cracked the code of what you wanted. And maybe that was the worst part. That he cared enough to try but not enough to see.
Your smile faltered for half a second. “Right,” you said quietly. “Yeah. I’ll… I’ll just have that again.”
“Great!” Steve said, already turning to gather ingredients.
You turned your head just enough that Steve wouldn’t notice, giving Robin the smallest shake. Robin’s face fell around the straw. She mouthed what happened?but you only shrugged, because how were you supposed to explain something that felt stupid and small and somehow enormous all at once?
Your eyes drifted back to Steve, watching the easy way he moved behind the counter, the way his stupid hat bobbed with every step. He looked so completely unbothered, so far from the storm brewing in your chest. And the thoughts started piling up like dominoes you couldn’t stop tipping over.
Maybe he just didn’t see you like that, maybe he never had. Maybe every smile you’d memorized and every laugh you’d tucked away like a pressed flower had been nothing more than… friendliness. Harmless, casual affection he gave to everyone. Maybe you’d taken crumbs and convinced yourself they were a meal.
You tried to steady your breathing, tried to focus on anything else, but your brain wouldn’t shut up. It kept pulling threads until everything began to unravel.
Maybe he wasn’t ready for someone new. Maybe his heart was still snagged on something old, someone familiar. You remembered the way his voice softened every time Nancy’s name slipped into conversatio. How he never talked about her, not really, but the silence said more than any words could.
Robin had sworn up and down he’d moved on, but maybe she only said that because she hated seeing you hurt. Because she was trying to protect you from the obvious truth.
Because why else would he look so confused by your flirting? Why else would he never meet you halfway?
Your fingers curled against the countertop. Suddenly the whole picture felt painfully, humiliatingly clear. Of course Steve didn’t notice. Of course he didn’t see you trying. Of course he wasn’t picking up on hints, he wasn’t looking for any.
He was still in love with Nancy.
Steve turned around with a blinding, boyish grin and set the milkshake on the counter
“Here you go!” he said, like he hadn’t just unknowingly stepped on every fragile feeling you’d spent months trying to hide.
You forced your lips into something resembling a smile. The kind that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Thanks, Steve.”
You carried it back to the booth, sliding into the seat across from Robin without a word. She sat up straighter, ready to ask a hundred questions, but you just nudged the milkshake toward her with two fingers.
“I’m… not in the mood anymore,” you muttered.
Robin stared at the glass, then at you, her expression softening as your gaze drifted somewhere far away. You tried to drown out your thoughts, tried not to replay every moment of confusion on his face, every hint he’d never picked up, every dream you’d apparently made up alone.
“Hey, Steve!”
Nancy Wheeler’s voice cut through the air like a needle scraping off a record.
You closed your eyes for half a second, exhaling through your nose. Of course. Because the universe didn’t just hate you, it wanted to make you suffer.
You looked over just in time to see Nancy walk up to the counter, and Steve—God, Steve—lighting up in that easy, familiar way. Like slipping into a jacket that used to fit perfectly.
You watched them talk, your heart deflating in slow, measured beats. That was it then. The conclusion you’d spiraled into was right, he wasn’t confused because he was oblivious. He was confused because he wasn’t looking for anyone. Because he’d already loved someone with everything he had once, and even if he wasn’t stuck in the past, he definitely wasn’t stuck on you.
“Rob?” you said softly, reaching for your purse.
She startled, glancing up. “Wait, where are you going?”
You stood, forcing another weak little smile. “I’ll… see you later, okay?”
You walked away, hearing Robin mutter Stupid dingus under her breath but you ignored it. Cause maybe this time, you were the stupid one.
You lay sprawled across your bed, the landline cord wrapped twice around your wrist because you kept fidgeting with it. Down the hall, your dad and El were in the middle of World War III over… cereal? curfew? Who knew. Their voices rose and fell like badly-tuned radio static behind Robin’s sighing in your ear.
“I don’t know, Rob,” you said, rubbing your temple. “Maybe he just… hasn’t moved on from Nancy yet. And even if he had, what’s the guarantee he’d ever like me?”
Robin made a noise like she’d just been stabbed. “Oh my God, I can’t do this. I’m actually aging, I hope you know that. I have wrinkles now. Actual wrinkles.”
“And besides,” you continued, ignoring her dramatics, “I don’t even think I’m his type.”
Robin sucked in a breath so sharp you could practically picture her clutching her imaginary pearls. “Not his—not his type? Are you kidding me? What type do you think he has? Do you think his type is ‘random girl who breaks his heart in a bathroom’ because that didn’t exactly work out for him!”
“I’m being serious,” you argued softly, curling onto your side. “He deserves someone… I don’t know. Someone like Nancy. Someone who fits.”
“You fit!” Robin practically shouted, then lowered her voice when she remembered your dad could be lurking. “You fit so stupidly well it makes me want to scream. I promise you, he—ugh—he likes you. Like, capital-L likes you.”
“Then why doesn’t he act like it?” you shot back, voice small. “If he really liked me, wouldn’t he… I don’t know… notice when I’m flirting? Or maybe flirt back? Or at least look at me the way he looks at—”
“Nancy?” Robin groaned. “Oh my god. We are back to Nancy. We’ve made a full lap.”
You hugged your pillow tighter, eyes stinging. “He still lights up around her, Rob. I saw it today. The way he smiled? It was so easy. Like they still just… clicked. And I—”
“You click with him too!” Robin argued. “Better than Nancy ever did! He goes dumb and sparkly around you!”
Your laugh came out tired and hollow. “He goes dumb around everyone. That’s Steve’s natural state.”
“That is true,” Robin admitted. “But he’s sparkly around you.”
“How can you even say it so surely?” you whispered, a pathetic little laugh catching in your throat. “You don’t know what he feels.”
“Yes I do!” Robin insisted, voice pitching high. “Because he to—”
A door slammed somewhere in the house, loud enough to rattle your bedroom window. You winced, pulling the phone slightly away from your ear.
Robin’s voice fuzzed on the other end, drowned out as Hopper’s booming bass echoed down the hall and El shouted back, something about ‘you never listen’.
You sighed, pressing your eyes shut. “Rob,” you murmured, “I’ll… talk to you later, okay?”
“No—wait, don’t you—”
But you’d already clicked the receiver back into its cradle.
Robin was already waiting for you the next morning at Scoops Ahoy, pacing behind the counter. You barely stepped through the door before she lunged at you, grabbing your shoulders like she was about to deliver life-changing news .
“Okay,” she whispered urgently, dragging you behind the counter so fast you nearly tripped over a mop bucket. “Today is the day. Today. I’m doing this. I’m setting you two up, and I’m not letting you run away, and I’m not letting him be an idiot, and if anyone tries to stop me—God help them.”
You blinked at her, still emotionally hungover from everything you’d spiraled through last night. “Robin… what are you talking about?”
She held up a finger. “Don’t. Don’t even start.”
You opened your mouth and Robin slapped her hand over it. “Shh. Do not ruin this for me. I am dying. A shell of a woman. But I will go out with dignity and possibly a concussion when I knock your two thick skulls together.”
Before you could respond, Steve emerged from the back room, hair perfect, swinging his keys around his finger like he’d never been the source of ninety percent of your emotional turmoil.
“Hey!” he chirped brightly when he saw you. “You’re early today.”
Robin lit up like a nervous bomb. She shoved you forward, “Yeah, because we have something to ask you.”
“Robin—” you hissed, mortified.
But she marched on, committed to the bit. “So! Dingus! She and I were thinking, you know, since you’re free tonight—”
“Oh!” Steve cut in, his face lighting up even more, if that were possible. “Right. I actually meant to tell you guys. I’m… uh… I’m not free tonight.”
You froze.
“Oh?” Robin said tightly, voice straining like a crack in glass. “Why not?”
Steve leaned casually against the counter, cheeks slightly pink. “I have a date.”
Your heart stuttered. Like something inside you tried to stand up and then immediately sat back down.
“A… oh,” you said, throat suddenly too small. “A date?”
Robin went rigid beside you. You could practically hear her internal screaming.
“Yeah!” Steve continued obliviously, grinning like he hadn’t just punched a hole through your ribcage without noticing. “She’s really cool. So I figured why not?”
Why not. Why not. The words echoed inside you, mocking, hollow, sharp around the edges.
Robin stared at him like she was seriously, genuinely contemplating committing a felony. “You… have a date,” she repeated, as if her brain needed time to reboot.
Steve nodded enthusiastically. “Yep! And actually—” He turned to you with that same bright, easy smile he always gave you, the one your heart stupidly stored like a treasure. “I was actually hoping you could help me get ready?”
The world tilted. Painfully.
“You… want me to—”
“Well yeah!” he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the universe. “You’re good at that stuff. You always tell me when my hair’s doing that weird flippy thing, and you know what shirts make me look less like a suburban dad, so I figured you could help me pick something out?”
Robin made a sound beside you that could only be described as the noise someone makes when witnessing a slow-motion train wreck.
You swallowed, smiling even though it burned. “Sure,” you said softly. “Yeah. Of course.”
His grin widened. “You’re the best.”
And with that, he went back to reorganizing cones like he hadn’t just peeled another layer off your already bruised heart.
Robin pulled you aside the second his back was turned, gripping your shoulders.
“I’m going to die,” she whispered. “I’m actually going to die. I can’t do this anymore. I’m retiring from matchmaking. I refuse to witness this level of obliviousness for one more day—”
You barely heard her. Because your brain was looping one thought, over and over, louder and heavier each time:
Of course he had a date. He wasn't in love with Nancy anymore. Of course he moved on. Just… not with you.
And you were going to help him get ready for her. You were going to stand in his room and pretend your heart wasn’t folding itself into smaller and smaller shapes just to survive being near him.
Robin stared at you, eyes softening into heartbreak for you and secondhand exhaustion for herself. “Please,” she murmured, “for my sanity, tell me you’re not going to make this hurt worse.”
But you already knew you would. Because it was Steve.
And loving him hurt no matter what you did.
Steve’s room looked exactly like you would think a boy-in-denial-about-his-feelings room would look. He held up two shirts—one blue, one a softer green—and looked at you with that expression that always, always managed to knock the wind out of you.
“Okay, so… which one says ‘cool but not trying too hard’?” he asked, brows raised, lips pursing.
You swallowed and pointed at the green one. It made his eyes brighter. Made him look unfairly good. Made your stomach twist into something sharp and stupid and agonizing.
He grinned, delighted, and tossed it onto the bed. “Knew you’d pick that one. You have good taste.”
“Yeah,” you murmured, fingers curling in your palms, “sometimes.”
He didn’t hear the wobble in your voice, of course he didn’t. Steve could hear a twig snap in the woods from twenty feet away and mistake it for Nancy calling his name, but he couldn’t hear you cracking right in front of him. He turned back to the mirror, running a hand through his hair, fussing with the collar, stepping back and forth like he was trying to solve himself.
And there you were behind him, reflected in the glass, sitting on the edge of his bed holding a pair of his sunglasses you’d been fidgeting with. You looked like someone pretending to be composed. Someone pretending they weren’t guiding the boy they loved into someone else’s arms.
You cleared your throat lightly. “So… what’s the plan? For the date.”
He nervously ran a hand through his hair. “Dunno yet. I want it to be good, though. Like… memorable? Y’know?”
Your heart turned over so painfully you had to look down at your hands. “Well,” you said, keeping your voice light and steady despite the ache climbing up your throat, “if it were me… I’d want something easy. Something that doesn’t feel like a performance.”
His eyes flicked up to the mirror, catching yours. He listened the way he always did. It almost made you dizzy.
“Like what?” he asked.
You shrugged, swallowing hard. “Just… I dunno. Something small. Ice cream, maybe. Or records. Or a late drive with the windows down. Stuff that feels like you… not something you read in a magazine last minute.”
He grinned again. “Yeah. That sounds good. That sounds really good actually. She’d probably like that.”
She. Of course.
You nodded, trying not to let your smile—or your chest—collapse. “Yeah. Most girls would.”
He turned back to the mirror, adjusting the chain around his neck. He had no idea that you were cataloguing every piece of him, burning each detail into your memory like you’d need it later, like you were preparing for a life where you didn’t get to see him like this anymore.
Your mind spiraled again, like it had been doing for days now. You thought about the way he would look at the girl when she would enter the room, how effortlessly they would talk. You thought about how easy it must be for someone like her to be loved. How simple it must be to be the girl Steve Harrington never had to question wanting.
You thought about yourself in comparison. You’d always been the backup dancer in your own life, and standing here next to him, watching him dress for a date with a girl who wasn’t you, made that sting with humiliating clarity.
He turned then and held out two jackets.
“Okay, so—help me out here. Denim or the bomber?”
You took a breath so deep it hurt your ribs. “Bomber,” you whispered.
He laughed like you’d made his night.
“God, what would I do without you?” he asked, slipping into the jacket with a grateful grin.
The question lodged itself in your throat. You knew the answer. He’d live just fine. You were the one who’d fold without him, not the other way around. But he looked at you with such fondness, such blinding affection, that you couldn’t force the truth out. You could barely breathe around it.
You stood. Smoothed the hem of your shirt. Wiped away any stray emotion that might’ve clung to your face.
“Well,” you said softly, keeping your tone tight and controlled, “you look great. She’s lucky.”
Steve blinked at you, something in his expression flickering—confusion? Or maybe that was just your wishful thinking trying to make itself useful. “Thanks,” he said finally, nudging your shoulder with his. “Seriously. You always know how to make me feel… I dunno. Like I’m doing something right.”
Your laugh came out thin and brittle. “I try.”
He grabbed his wallet, checked the time, and with a nervous energy you’d never seen him carry for anyone else, he made for the door. He didn’t notice the way your hands shook. Didn’t notice the way your breath stuttered. Didn’t notice the way you stayed in his room long after he’d left, staring at the empty space he’d occupied like if you stared long enough, maybe you’d figure out how to unlove him.
But you couldn’t.
Because you did. Too much.
You wiped at your cheek before the tear could fall, furious at it for slipping free. You refused to cry in Steve Harrington’s room. You refused to cry in the room of someone who couldn't see you hurting. You refused to cry anywhere except the one place where you could fall apart without witnesses.
The walk home felt endless and directionless all at once. Your feet moved on instinct, carrying you block after block while your brain played a highlight reel of every moment you’d ever mistaken for something more.
You hugged your arms around yourself, the cool evening air stinging your skin as if trying to keep you awake, keep you from spiraling any further. But your thoughts swarmed, relentless and hungry. You pictured him sitting across from some girl wearing the jacket you picked out, smelling like the cologne you told him suited him best, using the words and plans you knowingly crafted for someone who wasn’t you.
By the time your house came into view, something tight and exhausted inside you snapped. You slipped your key into the lock and stepped inside, shutting the door quietly behind you as though gentleness could keep the heartbreak contained.
And then the tears came.
Hot, furious, humiliating tears spilling over faster than you could wipe them. You pressed your back to the door, slid down until you were sitting on the floor with your knees tucked up, and sobbed into your palms. You cried like you’d been holding it in for weeks. Maybe you had. Maybe loving someone who didn’t even notice had been carving quiet, invisible cracks into you for so long that tonight was the first time you finally shattered.
You were grateful—so stupidly, overwhelmingly grateful—that the house was empty. If your dad had been home, he would’ve gone full protective-parent-mode, pacing the living room with a baseball bat, swearing vengeance on whoever broke you. If El had been home, she’d have gone full telekinetic vendetta before you could even choke out a name.
But it was just you. Alone with your aching ribs and your blotchy face and the sound of your own heart cracking in your ears.
You scrubbed at your cheeks, trying to get the tears under control—slow, shaky breaths, the kind that made your nose sting and your chest hiccup. You forced yourself back onto unsteady feet, ready to drag yourself upstairs and collapse face-first into a pillow.
And that was when you heard it.
A knock.
Your breath caught mid-inhale, your fingers freezing on their way to brush the last tear from your jaw. You stood there for a second, swaying where you stood, heart thumping unevenly as another knock followed.
You wiped your face with your sleeve, pushed your hair out of your eyes, and slowly turned toward the door, panic climbing your spine.
Your hand trembled on the doorknob as you cracked it open.
And then you froze.
Steve Harrington stood on your porch, shifting nervously from foot to foot, hair a little messed up from the wind, and in his hands—held awkwardly, like he wasn’t sure he had the right to hold them—was a bouquet of your favorite flowers.
Your favorite. Down to the exact shades you always stopped to look at whenever you passed the florist downtown.
Your eyebrows pulled tight. Your breath hitched. “H-hey,” you managed, voice thin and scratchy from crying. “What are you… what are you doing here?”
Steve blinked, swallowed, then cleared his throat. “Uh… hey. Um, is your dad home?”
You shook your head slowly, confusion knitting deeper into your face. “No. He took El out to the carnival tonight.”
“Oh.” Steve nodded. Then nodded again. Then nodded a third time like he didn’t know what else to do with his body. “Okay. Cool. Cool, cool, cool.”
You stared at him. He stared at you.
And then his eyes darted down to the flowers, and he jolted like he’d forgotten he was holding them.
“Oh! Right! Sorry, these are, uh… here.” He thrust them at you with both hands, almost dropping them in the process.
You automatically took them, looking down at the petals, then back up at him, utterly lost. “Steve… what? Why? You don’t have to give me flowers for helping you get ready. Seriously. You really don’t.” Your voice cracked in the middle, but you pushed through it. “It’s… it’s what a friend would do.”
The word friend tasted like metal in your mouth. You felt it slice something inside you just saying it.
Steve’s face twisted into the most baffled expression you’d ever seen on a human being.
“Uh, what?”
You hugged the bouquet closer to your chest, shrugging helplessly. “Friends help friends. You said you needed help, so I helped. And you don’t owe me anything for that, okay? I don’t need flowers, Steve.”
He blinked once. Then twice. Then his eyes narrowed, offended on a molecular level.
“Are you dumb?”
Your mouth fell open, outrage flaring hot. “Excuse me?!”
He winced immediately, raising both hands. “Wait—no—okay, that came out wrong. Really wrong. Horrifically wrong. Let me try again.”
You glared at him, still clutching the flowers like a shield, waiting.
“I meant,” he said, stumbling over his words, “are you… not smart? Like, in this one, extremely specific scenario? Because clearly something is not connecting here.” He gestured wildly between you and the flowers. “Because I’m not giving you these as, like— a thanks-for-the-fashion-tips thing. Or a hey-buddy-pal-champ thing. Or a cool-friends-being-cool-friends thing.”
You stared at him.
He stared back, exasperated, cheeks flushed, chest rising and falling like he’d just sprinted here.
You kept staring at him, brain buffering like a TV stuck between channels. Your fingers tightened around the stems of the flowers.
“Okay,” he said, dragging a hand down his face like he was seconds away from yanking his own hair out. “Right. I’m just, I’m gonna say it. Directly. Straight up.”
You nodded in the world’s slowest, most confused motion.
“I’m taking you out on a date,” Steve said.
For a heartbeat, you forgot how to breathe. Your mouth opened a fraction, mind blank except for a single thought: He didn’t say that. He did not say that. You hallucinated it. You’re dehydrated from crying. You’ve finally snapped.
“I… you… I—what?” you stammered, every neuron in your brain collapsing in on itself like a dying star.
Steve stared at you. You stared at him. His expression shifted from hopeful to confused to offended in under three seconds.
“I thought you’d get that,” he said helplessly, gesturing to the flowers like they were supposed to speak for him. “I mean, this is what people do, right? They show up at your house with flowers and ask you out and Dustin swore this would make sense!”
Your brain hiccupped. “I’m sorry— Dustin? Dustin Henderson? You took date advice from a thirteen-year-old?!”
Steve flinched like you’d physically slapped him with the truth. “Okay, probably not my best decision,” he admitted, waving his hands defensively. “But in my defense, he was very confident, and he used, like… charts! And color coding! And this whole thing about emotional wavelengths I didn’t fully understand!”
“That’s the worst decision ever,” you blurted out, too shocked to filter anything. “Who does that? Who goes to a middle-schooler for romantic guidance like he’s some kind of love guru?!”
“Apparently me!” Steve nearly shouted, equally mortified. “Can we maybe not focus on how much of an idiot I am right now? Can we circle back to that later? Like way later? Preferably never?”
You just stared, stunned and speechless and unbelievably overwhelmed. The flowers felt heavier in your hands. The knot in your chest loosened just slightly, like it wasn’t sure if it needed to hold on anymore.
Steve took a breath, steadier than before, and met your eyes with something soft and earnest that made your stomach flip.
“What I’m trying to say,” he said quietly, “is that I like you. And I’ve liked you for a while. And I… I really want to take you out. Like… properly. Like a real date. With me. And you. And not Dustin.”
You made a strangled sound that might’ve been laughter. Or maybe a sob. Hard to tell.
Steve stepped closer, but slow, like he didn’t want to spook you. “So… would you mind, um… getting ready? Really quickly? So we can go? Before I completely lose my nerve and Dustin ends up writing a breakup flowchart for me on Monday?”
You stood there in stunned silence, heart thundering, tears drying unevenly on your cheeks, flowers clutched to your chest like a fragile truth you’d been waiting your whole life to hold.
And for the first time all night, you didn’t feel like the universe was plotting against you.
It felt like it had just… finally let you catch up.
You didn’t even realize you were moving until your head was nodding. A breathy, startled laugh escaped you. And then you were smiling, the first real one you’d managed all day, the kind that warmed your cheeks and loosened your shoulders.
Steve blinked at you, wide-eyed and nervous, as if he wasn’t sure whether your reaction was good or bad. And before he could spiral into whatever anxious loop Dustin clearly trained him into, you stepped forward and wrapped your arms around him.
His breath hitched.
For half a second, he stood frozen. And then, with this tiny, disbelieving exhale, he melted. His hands found the small of your back pulling you in like he’d been waiting for permission. His chin nudged your shoulder; you felt the smile pressed against your neck. He smelled like the cologne you picked, and something distinctly, stupidly Steve.
You held him tighter, burying your face against his collarbone. The flowers were still clutched in one hand, crushed slightly between you, but you didn’t care. For the first time that night, you didn’t feel like you were pretending or trying or reaching for something unreachable. You felt… held. Wanted. Seen.
When you pulled back, your palms skimmed the sides of his neck, thumbs brushing barely-there along his jaw. His breath stuttered again, like you’d short-circuited whatever brain cells he had left. His eyes flickered between your eyes and your mouth.
You leaned in, barely a whisper of space between you, and murmured against his lips, “I like you too, Steve Harrington.”
He made a sound that punched straight through your ribs.
And then you kissed him.
Slow at first, because you were afraid if you pushed too fast you’d wake up in your room and realize this was all a grief-induced hallucination. His lips were warm, hesitant, a little clumsy, like he wasn’t used to wanting something this much. His hands tightened at your waist, pulling you closer, and something inside you sparked.
When you tilted your head and deepened it just slightly, Steve responded like he’d been waiting his entire life for that exact moment. His fingers curled into the fabric of your shirt. His breathing went uneven. His lips moved with this stunned kind of reverence that made your legs feel like water.
Somewhere in the back of your mind, a hysterical thought flickered: Oh my god, he’s so hot. Which was insane because you already knew that, had known it for months, but apparently kissing him turned the volume up on that realization by about a thousand.
You pulled back just enough for your lips to brush his cheek, warm and flushed and stupidly soft, and pressed a quick kiss there. Steve made a noise that he immediately tried to swallow and failed miserably.
His face went pink. Actually pink. Steve Harrington looked completely undone and flustered and like his brain had officially left the building.
You smiled up at him, breathless and glowing in a way you could feel all the way in your fingertips. “I’ll be right back,” you whispered, brushing your thumb once more along his jaw before stepping away.
He froze again, watching you like you’d just rewritten the laws of physics in front of him. “O—oh. Yeah. Cool. Cool. I’ll just—um—stand here. Not move. Or breathe. Or… whatever people do when they’re not… doing anything.”
You bit back a laugh, gave him one last kiss to the cheek and slipped inside to get ready.
Behind, you heard him exhale shakily and mutter, “Henderson is never gonna let me live this down.”
“Neither is Robin.” You called back and he visibly groaned.
Oh excuse me for this stupid question! But do you know if Coryosbaby has a new account on Tumblr?I missed for her work sm😭
Oh my gosh, I haven’t looked for that blog in quite some time. I haven’t heard of any new accounts unfortunately but I will definitely keep an eye out ☹️
(If anyone knows if they have a new account pls lmk!!!)
since becoming a barista i have noticed a few very distinct typologies among my customers. such as:
the woke left: young and fashionable. visible tattoos. often enjoys matcha, lavender flavoring, oat milk, and cold foam. pretty decent customers.
sweet old man: drinks very sweet iced lattes, pays in cash, puts all of his change in the tip jar. sometimes orders hot coffee and i get scared that his shaky old man hands will spill it and he'll get burned but that has not yet happened and god willing never shall.
evil old man: only wants drip coffee and declares it ridiculous that any other form of coffee exists. some variants only want americanos and these variants are even scarier. watch out.
sweet old woman: might need her daughter's help to order but is very bubbly and open to trying new things. compliments baristas freely and frequently.
evil old woman: does not want coffee and only wants sweet tea or soda. will not tip even if she spends three hours in the shop repeatedly asking baristas to fetch things for her.
errand husband: either stiltedly recites an order to you or shows you the order in their texts/notes app. needs to step out of line and make a phone call if you ask any follow-up questions.
grindset girlie: always wearing scrubs, an apron, and/or a name tag. orders the exact same thing every day and knows the exact change she'll need to pay for it. her regular order is both extremely caffeinated and extremely sweet.
#mamabear: is actively wrangling two to four children while ordering. order changes repeatedly because the children cannot decide if they want a muffin or a cookie or apple juice or chocolate milk etc. for some reason these women are always wearing an article of clothing or carrying some personalized item that says "mama" on it.
schoolchildren: band of two to eight adolescents hanging out after school. extremely indecisive but generally quite polite and tip well.
amnesiac in love: grown adult who needs their partner to tell them what they like. gets asked a question about their own preferences and turns to their partner to answer for them. generally acts like a shy child looking to their guardian for behavioral cues if you try to interact with them and only wants to talk to mommy i mean their wife.
this of course is not an exhaustive list but those are just some of the most consistent Types i get. ok bye xoxo
academic dishonesty is not something you can spin as moral lol i do not want to share a career field let alone a social sphere with a bunch of chatgpt using ass bitches
