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Yeah, I Thought So - Steve Harrington x Reader ~ One Shot

Your buddy Steve Harrington is determined to prove that whatever's between the two of you, you aren't "just friends".

{based on a random TikTok I saw about Steve Harrington (by @ h4rringt0n.st) that was like “bro's the type to pin you against the wall and kiss you then whisper "yeah... I thought so" like he knew the tension was there all along" - & that visual hasn’t left my brain so I wanted to make it happen}

wc: 3.9k

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The faint neon buzz of the Family Video sign was the only thing keeping the store from feeling like a deserted tomb.

It was a Tuesday night. Boring and dead quiet. The kind of shift where you could practically hear the dust settling on the VHS cases.

You were sitting on the floor, idly sorting all the new releases, trying very hard not to look at one Mr. Steve Harrington. And it was, unfortunately, a losing battle.

He was leaning against the front counter, hips jutting out just enough to be distracting, sleeves of his navy sweater pushed up to his elbows. Even though there were other movies that needed sorting and reshelving, Steve was, instead, tapping a rhythm on the laminate with his knuckles.

Tap tap tap.

Pause.

Tap tap tap.

Pause.

Tap tap tap.

"You're ignoring me.” Steve stated. It wasn't a question. He had that tone. The one that said he knew he was right, and was just waiting for you to admit it.

"I’m working," You corrected him, not turning around as you focused intently on a copy of Clue: The Movie. "Which is way more than I can say for other people that work here."

"I'm on break.”

“Your break ended ten minutes ago.”

“Well, Keith isn't here, so I’m stretching it."

You heard the squeak of his sneakers on the linoleum as he pushed off the counter. He shifted, moving closer. You stiffened, gripping the plastic case harder.

"Besides," Steve continued, his voice dropping an octave, sliding into that smooth register that always made your stomach flip. "You haven't made eye contact with me since that guy in the ski jacket came in twenty minutes ago."

You stood and turned around slowly, an excuse at the ready, but the look on his face stopped you. He was watching you with a lazy, half-lidded gaze, his mouth curved into a smirk that was equal parts charming and infuriating. He knew. He always knew.

"He was a customer, Steve. And I was doing my job."

"He flirted with you, and then he was looking at your ass." Steve said bluntly.

Your breath hitched as a hot flush made its way up your neck. "He was looking for Top Gun."

"Oh he found Top Gun. And then he spent five minutes pretending to read the back of the box while staring at you." Steve took another step closer, almost invading your bubble of space. "Did you see the way he smiled at you when you rang him up at the register? Like he won a damn prize."

"I was being polite."

"He was undressing you with his eyes." Steve countered, rolling his eyes so hard you thought they might get stuck. Honestly, one day, you hoped they might. "And you just ate it up. Smiling. Laughing at his dumbass joke about the VCR eating tapes."

You felt a spark of annoyance and it cut through the tension. It was easier to be mad at him than to deal with the way your heart was hammering against your ribs.

"So what? I'm supposed to be rude to any customers you don’t like? Unlike some people, I actually care about this job, and would like to keep it."

"I care plenty.” Steve scoffed. "I just have standards. And I don't like random guys thinking they have a shot with you just because you’re trapped here on the clock and wearing that."

Your brow furrowed as you glanced down at your own sweater and jeans, paired with the Family Video-issued vest. "What’s that supposed to mean?"

"It means..." Steve stepped into your personal space, forcing you to tilt your head back to look at him. He smelled like sandalwood and that distinct, clean scent that was just… Steve. "It means you look good. And you know it. And I know it. And before you know it every asshole in Hawkins knows it."

“That makes no sense, and you know it.”

“Makes plenty of sense to me. Do you want some parade of horny guys coming through here?”

“You have a parade of pretty girls in and out of here every day, Steve.”

“So?”

“So it’s a double-standard.”

“There’s a difference between cute girls and predatory guys.”

The air between you felt thick and charged with something akin to electricity. There was the line you two had been toeing for months. The invisible barrier between best friend/coworker and something else. You’d known him for years, but the idea of ruining your friendship seemed ill-advised. But lately, something seemed to have gotten under Steve’s skin when it came to you. He was like a dog with a bone.

You tried to step back, to put some distance between you and the warmth radiating off him, but the shelf was right behind you.

"Steve," you warned, your voice coming out a bit breathier than you intended. "Don't start this."

"Don't start what?" He raised an eyebrow, placing a hand on the shelf beside your head, half-caging you in. His forearm brushed against your shoulder, the contact sending a jolt through you. "I'm just making conversation."

"This isn't conversation. This is..." You gestured vaguely between the two of you, your hand brushing against his chest. You felt the solid muscle beneath the sweater, and you quickly snatched your hand back. "This is… Weird. We work together. We're friends."

"Friends." He repeated, testing the word like it left a bad taste in his mouth. He leaned in closer, his face inches from yours. His eyes darted down to your lips, then back up to your eyes, dark and intent. "Is that what we are? Just friends?"

"Yes."

“What if I don’t want that?”

“And what if I do?” You crossed your arms. “You can’t get territorial because some rando looked my way.”

Steve let out a short, dry laugh. "It's not just him. It's the guy at the arcade last week. It's the delivery guy from last month. It's everyone." His gaze dropped to your lips again, lingering. "I see the way they look at you. And I hate it."

"So, you're jealous?" Apparently you were the only one trying to keep a normal friendship alive..

"Yeah." Steve admitted, without a shred of hesitation. His honesty knocked the wind out of you. "I am. Because I'm standing right here. And you're busy looking at literally anyone else."

"I'm not -"

"You are." He leaned in, his forehead almost touching yours. The tension was pressing in on your chest. You could feel his breath, warm and minty, fanning across your cheek. "You can pretend all you want that we're just buddies. But I know you feel it too."

“Feel what?”

“This. The heat. The potential.”

"Christ. Steve, move."

He didn't budge. Instead, he braced his other hand on the shelf, trapping you completely. The heat of his body was overwhelming. You were suddenly acutely aware of how close his lips were to yours. Just a tilt of the head… A slight lean forward…

"Why?" he murmured, his voice a low rumble that sent a strange warmth through your chest. "Because if I don't move you might do something stupid? Like kiss me?"

Your heart skipped a beat. "Don’t flatter yourself. I wasn't going to kiss you."

"No?" He smirked. "You sure about that? Because the way your pupils just got super big says otherwise."

The bell above the door chimed, shattering the moment like glass.

“Hello? Are ya’ll open?”

Steve froze. For a split second, he didn't move, his eyes locked on yours, frustration flashing across his face. Then, slowly, he pulled away. The loss of his warmth was instantly chilling. He pushed off the shelf, taking a step back, running a hand through his hair.

"Be right there!" Steve called out, his voice sounding rough. He glanced at you. The intensity in his eyes hadn't faded. If anything, it had only hardened.

"We're not done," he said quietly, just for you to hear.

He turned and walked toward the customer, leaving you leaning against the shelf, legs trembling, wondering how the hell you were going to deal with Steve Harrington.

The weeks that followed were a test of your resolve, to say the very least.

If Steve had been hovering before, now he was practically glued to your side. It was subtle things initially. For one, he adjusted your nametag every morning. That was a new routine.

"It's crooked," he’d say, stepping into your space. His fingers would linger on the plastic, brushing against your chest ever so slightly, sending an involuntary shudder down your spine that had nothing to do with the store’s air conditioning. "Can't have the customers thinking we're unprofessional, can we?"

He said it with a smirk, his eyes dropping to the exposed skin of your neck before snapping back up to your face. It seemed like it was a game to him. He was purposefully pushing your buttons, daring you to react.

"Do you have Fast Times in?" A customer asked one rainy afternoon.

"I think someone checked out our last copy this morning -" you started, turning to check the computer.

Steve materialized beside you, leaning over your shoulder to check the screen. His chest pressed against your back. You could feel the heat of him through your shirt, and his breath against your ear.

"Actually," he drawled, his breath making you shiver. "I think we have a copy in the back. Isn't that right? In that one dark, cramped little room?"

Your fingers hovered above the keyboard. "I'll check."

"Don't take too long," he murmured, just low enough that the customer wouldn't hear. "I get worried when you're out of sight."

“Stop.”

“Make me.”

“Steve -”

“Just admit you feel someth-”

You slammed the door to the back room, cutting off his words. You leaned against the metal shelves and took a deep, shaky breath. He was doing this on purpose. Ratcheting up the tension for fun, twist by twist, waiting to see when you’d snap. Just to try and prove a point.

It wasn't just the words. It was the touches.

He started finding reasons to guide you with a hand on your lower back.

"Coming through," he’d say as he passed you in one of the narrow aisles. His fingers splayed wide against your lower back, pressing you against the shelf as he squeezed by. He’d tuck a stray lock of hair behind your ear, brushing his knuckles on your neck. He’d steal your pen, then hold it just out of reach when you reached for it, forcing you to lean across him, your faces inches apart.

The breaking point came on a Friday night. The store was bustling with the weekend crowd, a chaotic mess of teenagers looking for horror movies and parents looking for Disney classics. You were trying to re-shelve a stack of returns, your arms full.

Steve appeared out of nowhere, cornering you near the Comedy section.

"You missed a spot," he said, nodding toward an empty space on the shelf above your head.

"I'm getting to it," you snapped, patience wearing thin. "Go help the people at the counter, Steve."

"I am helping." He reached up, placing a hand on the shelf right next to your head. He didn't move to grab a tape; he just leaned in so his body blocked you from the rest of the store. It was a shield, and a cage.

"You're hovering," you hissed. "You're being impossible."

"I'm being attentive." Steve looked down at you, his gaze roaming over your face like he was memorizing it. "You look tired."

"I am tired.”

“You should get some sleep. Don’t work so hard.”

“I'm tired of this game you're playing." You turned towards him.

"What game?" He shifted his weight, forcing you back against the shelf and bringing his leg forward to settle between your knees. A startled gasp left your throat.

"Steve" you whispered, gesturing between the two of them. "We’re friends. I can’t... I can't do this."

Steve leaned down, his face barely an inch from yours. The noise of the store faded into the background. The resolve to keep your friendship intact was crumbling.

"Yes, you can," he said softly. "You just don't want to admit that you like it."

He reached out, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers traced the line of your jaw, agonizingly slow. You leaned into his touch despite yourself, your eyes fluttering shut.

"You're shaking," he observed.

"Because I'm angry."

"No." His thumb brushed over your bottom lip, pulling it down slightly. "Because you want me to stop - and you want me to keep going. All at the same time. Real head-scratcher, huh?"

You opened your eyes, meeting his gaze. The arrogance was gone, replaced by a raw, hungry intensity that terrified and thrilled you. He was reading you like an open book, stripping away your defenses one by one.

“We’re friends, Steve.”

“Maybe I don’t wanna be your friend anymore.”

“Don’t -”

Suddenly, a voice cut through the haze. "Hey! Steve! Man, come check this out, the machine is jammed again!"

Steve froze. He closed his eyes for a second, letting out a frustrated exhale. He pulled his hand away from your face, the loss of contact leaving you inexplicably frustrated.

"Coming!" He called back.

He looked at you one last time, his eyes dark. "Go take your break," he waved you away, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Before I do something that gets us both fired."

He turned and walked away, leaving you slumped against the shelf, heart hammering against your ribs. You watched him go, your body aching with a frustration that mirrored his own.

You couldn't keep doing this. The pretending. But what would happen if you opened yourself up, only to have him ditch you for some other girl who caught his eye? Or if he was just doing all this to get a rise out of you?

Either way, the dam was about to break. And when it did, there was going to be a flood.

The final straw wasn't a touch, or a look. It was the proximity.

It was twenty minutes to close. The store was empty, the fluorescent lights humming in a way that usually gave you a headache but tonight just made you want to scream. You were balancing on a step ladder, trying to properly alphabetize the 'R' section, when Steve appeared.

He didn't say anything. He just stood there at the base of the stool, watching you.

"You're in the way," you muttered, refusing to look down at him.

"I like the view from here," he replied, his voice casual, but you heard the smirk in it.

You turned to snap at him and the ladder wobbled precariously. In a split second, Steve’s hands were on your legs. Not on your knees or calves - high up on your thighs, his thumbs pressing into the denim, hot through the fabric. He steadied you, ostensibly to keep you from falling, but he held on for a second too long.

"Careful," he murmured, his face level with your waist. His eyes were still on your face, trying to look innocent but failing miserably. "Wouldn't want you to slip. I'd have to catch you."

Your breath hitched, a jolt of electricity shooting straight to your core. You gripped the shelf until your knuckles turned white. "Get your hands off me, Steve."

"Gonna make me?" He didn't move.

If anything, his grip tightened slightly, his thumbs rubbing small, maddening circles against your inner thighs. He was doing it on purpose. Pushing and pushing, enjoying the way you were fighting with yourself, and the way he could make you fall apart with just a look and a touch, all while maintaining that façade of your friend. He seemed to be playing a game you didn't know the rules to. And by that logic, he was winning.

"I'm done." you said, voice shaking. You hopped down from the stool, expecting him to look surprised. Maybe apologetic. Instead, he looked amused.

"Done with what? Working?"

"With this." You gestured wildly between the two of you. "With you. With the comments, and the touching, and whatever you're doing. I'm done."

"It's just banter," he said, crossing his arms, leaning back against the shelf. “That’s what friends do, right?”

"It's not banter!" You shouted, the sound echoing in the empty store. "You're messing with my head and using me because you're bored or jealous. Whatever your problem is, I’m not the solution."

"Using you?" His voice dropped, the amusement gone. "Is that what you think I'm doing?"

"I know that's what you're doing." You ripped your vest off, throwing it on the counter. "I'm leaving. Deal with the closing duties yourself."

You didn't look at him. You couldn't. If you looked at him, you might cry over losing your friend because he decided to blur the lines. Or worse, you might grab him by that stupid vest and kiss him. Ruin the friendship yourself.

Shoving the front door open, you stormed out into the cool night air.

You made it maybe ten feet.

"Hey!"

You ignored him, beginning to jog towards your car.

"Stop."

You heard his footsteps pounding on the pavement behind you, gaining on you easily. Before you could reach your door, his hand shot out, gripping your arm. He didn't yank you hard, just enough to spin you around.

"Let go of me." you spat, trying to pull free.

"No." He stepped into you, backing you up until your spine hit the brick wall of the building. He maneuvered you into the narrow alleyway beside the video store, shielding you from the street. "Not until we talk."

“Are you ever going to stop pushing me against things? It’s getting a little old.”

“Why are you fighting the fact that we like each other?”

"You don't get to dictate my feelings," you shot back, shoving his chest. "You don't get to treat me like... Like I'm some toy you can wind up and watch spin."

"I'm not treating you like a toy." He was frustrated now, maybe even angry. His eyes were dark, boring into yours. "You’re just pretending I don't exist half the time, and it’s driving me crazy."

"I haven't -"

"Yes, you have! You act like this is just some fun little friendship we have, like I don't spend every shift thinking about how much I want to -”

He cut himself off, his chest heaving. He seemed to be trapped in his own tornado of frustration, and he was taking you for a spin with him.

"You want to what?" You challenged him, your voice rising. "Say it, Steve. Since you're so brave all of a sudden."

"I want us to stop pretending!" He shouted, the words exploding out of him. "I want to stop acting like I don't care about that Top Gun guy, or the delivery guy, or anyone else who looks at you."

He moved closer, eliminating the last inch of space between you. His body was pressed against yours.

"I hate it," he whispered, his voice cracking. "I hate it that you smile at them. I hate it that you laugh with them.”

“Why, Steve? I know you. You get obsessed, and in a few weeks then you’ll get bored and move on to another girl who loves your stupid hair and dumb puppy eyes and -” You took a deep breath. “So why do you hate me smiling at other guys? Spit it out.”

“Because I want it to be me."

Your resolve snapped.

"It is you," you cried, the truth tearing out of you. "It’s always been you, idiot. And I can't be just your friend when I'm in love with -

You cut yourself off. For a second, neither of you moved. You stared at him, panting, your chest heaving, terrified of what you’d just sort of admitted.

Steve didn't speak. He didn't ask if you were sure. He didn't hesitate.

He surged forward, grabbing your face with both hands and crashing his lips against yours.

It wasn't a particularly gentle exploration. It was a release of weeks of pent-up frustration and desire. He kissed you hard, bruising your lips, his tongue sweeping into your mouth with a desperation that matched your own. You moaned into his mouth, your hands flying to his hair, tugging at the strands, pulling him closer.

He pushed you harder against the wall, his thigh slotting between your legs. The friction was delicious, agonizing. You ground against him, seeking relief, needing to feel him everywhere all at once. One of his hands left your face, sliding down your side, gripping your waist, then your hip. He pulled you into him, his fingers digging into your flesh.

You could feel the hard line of him through his jeans, hot and demanding against your stomach. He rolled his hips, dragging a ragged gasp from your throat. His hand slipped under your shirt, his warm palm skating up your ribcage, his thumb brushing the underside of your breast. The sensation was overwhelming, a white-hot spark that short-circuited your brain.

You broke the kiss, gasping for air, tilting your head back against the brick. Steve didn't stop. He trailed his lips down your jaw, nipping at the sensitive skin of your neck, sucking hard enough to leave a mark. His other hand tangled in your hair, tilting your head to give him better access.

"Steve," you breathed, your fingers clutching his shoulders.

"I've waited so long for this."

Steve kissed you again, swallowing your protests, his hand moving higher, cupping your breast, his thumb brushing over your nipple. You arched into his touch, a helpless whimper escaping you. The world narrowed down to the feel of his hands, mouth, the weight of his body pinning you to the wall. The alleyway, the store, the fear that he was just doing all this for kicks - it all melted away. There was only this. Whatever this was.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity and yet not nearly long enough, he pulled back.

He didn't go far. He rested his forehead against yours, his breath coming in ragged gasps that matched your own. Both of his hands were still on you, one under your shirt, one gripping your waist, like he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go.

You kept your eyes closed, trying to steady your racing heart. You felt dizzy, drunk on the taste of him, the sheer force of his presence.

Slowly, you opened your eyes.

Steve was looking at you, his face flushed, his lips swollen and red. He looked wrecked, but underneath the hunger, there was a familiar smugness. A deep, satisfied knowledge that settled in his bones. He took a small step back, just enough to look at you properly, but his hand remained on your waist, grounding you. With his other hand, he smoothed down the front of your shirt where he’d rucked it up, his touch lingering.

He looked at your kiss-bruised lips, then up to your dazed eyes, and a slow, arrogant grin spread across his face.

"Yeah," he breathed, his voice rough. "I thought so."

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