Billy Hargrove ⋆˚࿔ purple rain vanilla and gasoline
Steve Harrington⋆˚࿔ We don’t talk anymore (scraped lol) 00 001 ⋆˚࿔ in between 02 ⋆˚࿔ laugh like you mean it ⋆˚࿔ former ladies man ⋆˚࿔ Came back to me series - 01 02 03
℘1 - ℘2 ⋆˚࿔ m.list⋆˚࿔ steveharrington x henderson!reader
You avoid Family Video entirely after the fight.
Not intentionally at first.
The first day afterward, you tell yourself you’re just tired.
That you don’t feel like dealing with fluorescent lights and movie shelves and Robin making knowing faces at you from behind the counter. You tell yourself you’ll go tomorrow instead once the knot in your chest settles into something manageable again.
It doesn’t.
If anything, it gets worse.
Because now every quiet moment leaves too much room to think.
And every thought circles back to Steve eventually.
The argument replays constantly in your head in sharp fragmented pieces that refuse to leave you alone no matter how hard you try distracting yourself.
Because watching you with these guys sucks.
You don’t get to act possessive over me when you’ve never actually wanted me.
I thought it was obvious.
That part ruins you most.
You thought it was obvious.
The words echo around your skull for hours afterward because what the hell was that supposed to mean?
Obvious how?
Obvious that Steve cared about you?
Obvious that all those looks meant something?
Obvious that every late night conversation and every lingering touch and every moment that felt too intimate to just be friendship actually wasn’t all in your head?
The possibility tears straight through you because if that’s true, then the last few months suddenly become unbearable to think about.
Every date.
Every time you forced yourself to pretend someone else was enough.
Every night spent lying awake convincing yourself Steve could never actually want you like that.
All of it suddenly feels humiliating.
Because maybe you were both standing on opposite sides of the same misunderstanding this entire time.
But then another thought crashes into it immediately afterward.
If Steve really felt something, why didn’t he stop you?
Why didn’t he say it?
You replay the moment over and over again while lying awake in bed that first night, staring blankly at your ceiling while moonlight spills faintly across your room.
You remember the look on his face after you said he never wanted you.
Like you’d reached into his chest and pulled something out barehanded.
Your stomach twists painfully at the memory.
Then you remember what happened after.
The way he just let you leave, didn't follow you or stop you.
Didn’t say the words you desperately needed him to say.
And that hurts worst of all, because now you know enough to ruin yourself properly. Now you know there was something there.
Meanwhile Steve spends those same three days feeling like someone physically removed his internal organs and forgot to put them back.
He barely sleeps the first night.
Every time he closes his eyes, he sees your face in the video store again.
The confusion turning into anger, then that horrible wounded expression right before you left.
Steve’s never hated himself more than he does in that moment replaying endlessly through his head at three in the morning.
Because how did this happen?
How did he spend months loving you so obviously in his own mind while somehow completely failing to make you feel wanted?
The realization genuinely wrecks him.
He keeps thinking about your voice when you said
“You don’t get to act possessive over me when you’ve never actually wanted me.”
And Jesus Christ... The fact that you believed that.
The fact that somehow you spent all this time thinking his feelings weren’t real makes Steve feel sick with guilt.
Because to him, loving you became as natural as breathing somewhere along the line.
He forgot you couldn’t actually read his mind.
Forgot that not everyone interprets devotion through stupid little things the way he does.
To Steve, it felt obvious.
Of course he loved you.
He looked for you first in every room. Memorized your coffee order. Drove across town at midnight whenever you called. Spent entire conversations staring at your mouth without realizing it. Let you touch parts of him emotionally nobody else had seen in years.
In his head, he’d been loving you loudly for months.
But he never actually said it.
And now he understands that maybe you needed him to.
The second day is somehow worse, Because now you’re fully avoiding him
No calls. No stopping by Family Video. Nothing.
The absence of you feels violent suddenly.
Steve never realized how much of his life revolved around you until your silence settled over everything.
Even Dustin notices almost immediately.
“You guys had a fight or something?” he asks while climbing into Steve’s car after school.
Steve grips the steering wheel tighter automatically.
“No.”
Dustin snorts.
“You’re both acting weird.”
Steve says nothing.
Because he doesn’t even know where to start explaining this.
How does he tell Dustin that somewhere between movie nights and summer drives and hearing you laugh from another room, he accidentally fell so deeply in love with you that now functioning like a normal person feels impossible?
Instead he just drives in silence while Dustin keeps glancing at him suspiciously from the passenger seat.
“You know y/n’s being weird too, right?” Dustin says eventually.
Steve’s heart immediately betrays him.
“What do you mean?”
“She keeps asking if you stopped by.”
Steve goes still.
Dustin notices instantly.
“Oh my God,” he says slowly. “You’re in love with my sister.”
Steve nearly swerves into another lane.
“I am not—”
“You totally are!”
“Dustin.”
“No way.” Dustin sounds genuinely delighted now. “This is disgusting.”
Steve groans and drops his forehead briefly against the steering wheel at the next red light while Dustin cackles beside him.
But even through the embarrassment, Steve’s chest still aches at the thought of you asking about him.
Because you miss him too.
At least a little.
That thought becomes the only thing keeping him sane for the next twenty four hours.
By day three, Robin is fully losing patience with him.
Steve’s been standing in the middle of the action aisle for almost five straight minutes holding the same tape without moving while his brain replays the argument again for probably the hundredth time.
Robin watches him from behind the counter with growing irritation.
Finally she slams the register drawer shut loud enough to make him flinch.
“If you stare dramatically into the distance one more time,” she says flatly, “I’m calling a priest.”
Steve barely reacts.
Robin narrows her eyes.
“That wasn’t a joke. I think your soul left your body yesterday.”
Still nothing.
Which immediately tells her this is worse than she thought.
Robin walks over slowly, arms crossing over her chest while Steve continues staring blankly at nothing.
“You gonna talk to her?”
Steve laughs once under his breath.
“She hates me.”
“She absolutely does not hate you.” Robin’s expression softens slightly.
“You didn’t see her face.”
“I did actually.” Robin leans against the shelf beside him. “You both looked like someone shot your dog.”
Steve shuts his eyes briefly.
Because that’s exactly how it felt.
Robin watches him carefully for another second before speaking again.
“What exactly happened after I went into the back room?”
Steve hesitates before telling her, not everything but some.
Robin physically recoils.
“Oh my God, you idiots.”
Steve drops his head into his hands.
“I know.”
“No, like actually. This is so painful to witness.”
Steve laughs weakly despite himself, but it disappears almost immediately.
Because underneath everything else, one thought keeps eating through him relentlessly.
You thought he didn’t choose you.
After all this time, somehow you still believed he wouldn’t.
Robin sighs beside him.
“Steve”
He looks up tiredly.
“Go talk to her”
“What am I supposed to say?”
“The truth?” Robin says like it’s obvious. “Crazy concept, I know”
Steve looks away again immediately.
The truth is that Steve loves you enough to rearrange his entire life around your existence without noticing he’s doing it.
The truth is that every future thought in his head somehow includes you automatically now.
The truth is that seeing another guy touch you made him feel physically sick because somewhere deep down, some selfish broken part of him already thinks of you as his even though he’s never had the courage to ask if he could be yours too.
How is he supposed to say all of that out loud without completely falling apart?
Robin watches panic flicker across his face in real time and immediately understands.
“Oh,” she says quietly.
Steve swallows hard.
“Yeah.”
For a second neither of them speaks.
Then Robin nudges his shoulder lightly.
“She’s probably just as scared as you are, you know.”
Steve thinks about your face in the video store again.
And suddenly something inside him snaps into place painfully hard.
Because maybe Robin’s right, Maybe you’re hurting too.
Maybe this entire thing only happened because both of you were too terrified of losing each other to admit what was already there.
Steve exhales shakily.
Then grabs his car keys.
The drive to your house feels longer than it actually is.
Steve keeps both hands locked tightly around the steering wheel the entire time like if he loosens his grip even slightly, he might lose his nerve and turn the car around before he gets there.
Streetlights blur past the windows in soft streaks of yellow while the radio hums quietly in the background, low enough that he can barely hear it over the sound of his own heartbeat.
Everything in him feels restless, like his chest physically cannot hold another second of this.
Because Robin’s right.
He has to talk to you.
And honestly, Steve’s not sure what scares him more anymore, telling you the truth or spending another day pretending he can survive without you.
His thoughts keep circling back to the same horrible realization over and over again.
You thought he didn’t choose you.
After everything.
After every look and every touch and every moment where he practically handed you pieces of himself without realizing it, somehow you still believed he didn’t want you enough.
That thought alone makes him feel sick.
Steve pulls onto your street just after midnight.
Most of the houses are dark already, quiet in that specific late night suburban way where everything feels softer somehow. The air outside is warm when he steps out of the car, carrying the smell of summer pavement and distant rain that never actually came.
Your bedroom light is off.
For a second he just stands there staring up at your window feeling sixteen again.
Then he bends down, grabs a few small rocks from beside the curb, and throws one lightly against your window.
Nothing happens.
Steve exhales sharply and tries again.
Still nothing.
By the third rock, he’s starting to feel genuinely insane.
“Great,” he mutters under his breath. “Fantastic plan, Harrington.”
Then finally your curtains move slightly.
Relief hits him so fast it almost knocks the air from his lungs.
A second later your window slides open and there you are, sleep rumpled and exhausted looking down at him with immediate disbelief written all over your face.
Your hair’s messy from bed.
There’s a crease pressed lightly into your cheek from your pillow.
And somehow Steve still thinks you’re the prettiest thing he’s ever seen in his entire life.
“What are you doing?” you whisper harshly.
Steve shoves his hands into the pockets of his jacket mostly so you won’t notice they’re shaking.
“I need to talk to you.”
“At one in the morning?”
“I was emotionally spiraling.”
Despite yourself, your mouth twitches slightly.
Steve notices immediately because of course he does.
The tiny almost smile disappears just as fast though, replaced by something more guarded.
The last three days are still sitting heavily between both of you.
You glance behind you into your dark room for a second before looking back down at him carefully.
“You couldn’t have called?”
Steve laughs softly under his breath.
“You haven’t answered the phone in three days.”
Fair point.
Silence stretches for a second.
The warm night air presses softly against your skin while Steve looks up at you with an expression so openly nervous it makes your stomach twist unexpectedly.
Because Steve doesn’t usually look unsure of himself around you.
Not like this.
“Can I come up?” he asks quietly.
Your heart stumbles hard enough to hurt.
Part of you wants to say no purely on principle.
Because he hurt and confused you.
Because you’ve spent three straight nights replaying that fight until your chest physically ached from it.
But another part of you—the bigger part unfortunately—has missed him so badly it’s become unbearable.
You missed his voice. You missed his stupid commentary during movies. Missed the way he fills space in your room like he belongs there naturally.
Three days without Steve feels wrong in ways you don’t even know how to explain to yourself yet.
So eventually you sigh quietly and step back from the window.
“Fine.”
Steve’s relief is immediate and impossible to miss.
It moves across his face so fast it almost looks painful, like he’d been fully prepared for you to shut the window in his face and leave him standing out there alone with everything he should’ve said days ago.
His shoulders loosen first.
Then his expression softens in that quiet unguarded way you only ever catch accidentally, usually late at night when he’s too tired to hide what he’s feeling properly.
For a second neither of you says anything.
You just step back from the window silently while Steve looks up at you like he can’t quite believe you still let him in after everything.
The guilt from that alone settles heavily in your chest.
Because no matter how upset you were these last few days, some part of you always would've opened the window for him anyway.
That’s the problem.
It’s Steve.
And apparently your heart has never learned how to deny him anything for very long.
A minute later you hear the quiet scrape of his shoes against the side of the house followed by the familiar thud of him climbing through your window with significantly less grace than he probably imagined in his head.
Normally you would’ve laughed.
Normally Steve would’ve made some sarcastic comment about risking his life for you while dramatically dusting himself off afterward.
Tonight neither of you does.
Steve catches himself against the frame awkwardly before stepping into your room, and suddenly the atmosphere shifts so sharply it almost steals the air from your lungs.
Because the room feels different with him in it again.
Like the last three days left behind an absence you only notice now that it’s gone.
Your bedroom had felt too quiet without Steve in it.
Too still. You didn’t realize how used to him you’d become until he disappeared and took half the warmth in your routines with him.
Now he’s here again standing near your window in faded jeans and a denim jacket thrown hastily over a gray tshirt like he got dressed too quickly to think properly. His hair looks messy from running his hands through it too much, and there are dark circles beneath his eyes that make something ache deep in your chest because suddenly you wonder if he slept as badly as you did.
Your pulse becomes unbearable immediately.
You sit cross legged near the end of your bed mostly because your legs suddenly don’t feel steady enough to trust standing anymore while Steve lingers awkwardly by the window like he’s unsure whether he’s still allowed to take up space here.
That more than anything almost breaks your heart.
Because Steve has always belonged in your room.
He used to walk in carelessly, all easy confidence and lazy smiles while stealing hoodies off your chair or collapsing dramatically across your bed like he lived there half the time.
Now he looks careful.
Like one wrong movement might make you ask him to leave.
The realization hurts far more than you expect it to.
Steve glances around your room briefly, and you can physically feel the tension radiating off him in quiet waves. His hands flex once at his sides before disappearing into his jacket pockets again, a nervous habit you only started noticing recently because apparently you notice everything about him now too.
The silence between you stretches softly.
Your bedside lamp casts warm gold across the room while summer wind drifts lazily through the still open window behind him, stirring the curtains slightly. Somewhere downstairs the house creaks quietly, your mom probably asleep in front of the television again, completely unaware that your entire life feels seconds away from changing permanently upstairs.
And Steve—
God.
Steve keeps looking at you like he’s trying to gather the courage to say something that might ruin him completely depending on how you react.
Finally, the silence becomes too much to sit inside anymore.
You pull your arms tighter across yourself like it might somehow steady the mess happening in your chest and force your voice to come out even despite the way your pulse keeps climbing higher the longer Steve looks at you like that.
“Well?”
The word lands softly between you, but it still feels sharp enough to split something open.
Steve drags a hand back through his hair immediately, fingers catching for a second like he’s already frustrated with himself for not knowing how to start this properly. You watch his throat move when he swallows hard, eyes flicking away from yours before finding them again almost helplessly.
And suddenly he looks younger somehow.
Not physically but, stripped down in a way you’ve never seen before.
No easy grin to hide behind.
No carefully timed sarcasm to soften whatever he’s actually feeling.
It’s just Steve standing in your bedroom at one in the morning looking terrified enough to ruin you completely.
Then quietly, almost like the words hurt coming out
“I think I’m in love with you.”
Everything inside you stops.
Your heartbeat stutters once so hard it almost feels painful, and for a second your brain genuinely refuses to process what he just said because the sentence itself feels too impossible to exist outside your imagination.
You’ve spent months wanting this.
Months replaying tiny moments over and over again wondering if they meant as much to Steve as they did to you.
And now he’s standing in front of you saying the exact thing you trained yourself not to hope for too much.
Steve lets out a quiet breath afterward, but it sounds uneven around the edges. Wrecked, almost. Like even saying it out loud physically shook something loose inside him.
Then he shakes his head once immediately after, eyes dropping toward the floor.
“Actually, no,” he says softly, correcting himself before you can even react.
“That’s not true.”
Your chest tightens instantly.
Steve looks back up at you then, and the expression on his face nearly undoes you on the spot because there’s nothing uncertain left in it now.
“I know I’m in love with you.”
The room goes so quiet afterward that you can hear the soft buzzing of your bedside lamp and the faint sound of cicadas outside drifting through the open window behind him.
You just stare at him.
Because what are you even supposed to do with that?
Part of you feels almost detached from your own body suddenly, like this entire moment exists slightly outside reality. You’ve imagined versions of this conversation so many times over the last few months that now it’s actually happening, your brain can’t catch up fast enough.
Steve looks at you for so long afterward that it almost becomes unbearable to sit inside.
Like now that the words are finally out in the open, he doesn’t know how to pull himself back together again.
Your room feels painfully quiet around him. The warm light from your bedside lamp catches against the exhaustion written across his face while summer air drifts softly through the curtains behind him, and suddenly you realize something that makes your chest ache immediately—
Steve didn’t come here tonight planning to protect himself.
He came here planning to tell the truth even if it destroyed him afterward.
The realization settles heavily into you while he stands there searching your face nervously, like he’s trying to figure out whether he already ruined everything by saying too much.
Then finally he laughs once under his breath.
“You know what’s insane?” he asks quietly.
You shake your head before you even realize you’re doing it.
Steve’s eyes stay fixed on yours when he speaks again.
“I genuinely thought I was being obvious.”
The words hit you hard enough to hurt.
Because now that he’s saying it—now that you’re looking back through everything with this new understanding—the signs suddenly feel everywhere.
The staring, the jealousy, the way he always reached for you first without thinking.
The way he’d show up at your house even when Dustin wasn’t there.
The softness in his voice whenever he said your name.
You swallow hard while Steve drags a tired hand down across his face.
“I didn’t even realize when it happened,” he admits. “That’s the worst part.”
His voice has gone quieter now.
Like each sentence is pulling something deeper out of him against his will.
“One day you were just…” He exhales slowly. “Dustin’s sister. The girl who insulted me in your kitchen while I bled all over the floor.”
Despite everything, a small breath of laughter escapes you.
Steve’s mouth twitches faintly at the sound before softening again almost immediately.
“And then suddenly you were the first person I wanted to tell things to.”
Your chest tightens painfully.
Steve glances away for a second, jaw shifting slightly like he’s trying to steady himself enough to keep going.
“I started looking for you without realizing it,” he says quietly. “Everywhere.”
The honesty in his voice feels almost unbearable now.
“If I walked into your house and you weren’t there yet, it ruined my mood instantly. If something funny happened during my day, I’d catch myself thinking about how you’d react before I even thought about telling anybody else.”
His eyes find yours again.
“And then you started dating people.”
The sentence lands differently.
You physically see the hurt move across his face this time.
Steve laughs softly under his breath again, but it sounds exhausted.
“God, I hated it.”
Your heartbeat jumps.
Steve shakes his head once immediately afterward.
“Not because you did anything wrong,” he says quickly. “I know you didn’t. I know you were allowed to date people and live your life and whatever, but every time some guy picked you up, I felt…” He stops abruptly, frustrated with himself already. “I don’t know. Like somebody was slowly replacing me without me noticing.”
The confession cracks something open in your chest.
Steve takes another step closer unconsciously while he talks, like his body keeps drifting toward you no matter how hard he tries controlling it.
“I’d sit there listening to you talk about dates pretending I was okay while feeling completely insane inside.” His expression twists slightly, embarrassed now. “And then afterward you’d still lean against me like nothing changed.”
His voice softens at that.
“You still trusted me.”
You can barely breathe properly anymore.
“Even after other guys,” Steve says quietly, “you still came back to me.”
The room goes still around the two of you.
neither of you expected that sentence to sound as intimate as it just did.
“That’s when I knew it was bad,” he admits.
You stare at him.
“Bad?”
Steve huffs out a faint laugh.
“I’m trying not to completely scare you off here.”
“You’re doing a terrible job.”
“I know.”
But neither of you are really joking anymore.
Steve’s eyes stay locked onto yours while he speaks again, quieter this time.
“I knew I loved you the night you fell asleep on my shoulder after that date.”
Your pulse stutters violently.
Steve looks down briefly like even admitting this still embarrasses him somehow.
“You were half asleep complaining that I smelled like cigarettes.” A soft smile pulls faintly at the corner of his mouth. “And I remember sitting there thinking I could do this forever.”
Your throat tightens instantly.
Because you remember that night too.
You remember leaning against him without thinking.
Remember how safe it felt.
Meanwhile Steve was apparently sitting beside you realizing he loved you enough to ruin himself over it.
“I started thinking about stupid things after that,” he admits quietly.
“What stupid things?”
Steve laughs once under his breath, looking genuinely shy for maybe the first time you’ve ever seen.
“Like… grocery shopping with you.”
You blink.
He shrugs helplessly.
“I told you they were stupid.”
“No,” you say softly before you can stop yourself. “Keep going.”
Something changes in his expression after that.
Like your answer gave him permission to finally say the things he’s been swallowing down for months.
Steve steps even closer until he’s standing directly in front of you now, close enough that your knees nearly brush against his jeans where you sit at the edge of the bed.
His voice drops quieter.
“I’d think about stupid domestic things all the time,” he admits. “About driving over here after work and finding you asleep on the couch. Or arguing with you in grocery store aisles over cereal. Or hearing you laugh in another room while I was making coffee.”
Your chest starts aching now because steve’s not talking about wanting you temporarily, He’s talking about building a life around you so naturally he didn’t even notice he was doing it.
“I’ve never felt like this before,” he says honestly. “Not even close.
“You got so important to me so fast that it actually scared me,” he admits. “suddenly every good part of my day somehow involved you. And every bad part got easier if I could talk to you afterward.”
Your eyes burn slightly at that.
His expression softens with something almost heartbreaking.
“And then at Family Video,” he says quietly, “when you said you thought I never wanted you…”
He stops there. Swallows hard.
You watch emotion move visibly through him before he forces himself to continue.
“I don’t think I’ve ever heard something hurt that bad in my life.”
Steve shakes his head faintly, eyes still fixed on yours like he physically cannot look away anymore.
“I wanted you so badly it was ruining me,” he says softly. “I just didn’t know how to say it without risking losing you completely.”
The room goes completely still after that.
Just quiet in the kind of way that feels fragile, like even breathing too loudly might crack the moment apart before either of you are ready for it to end.
Steve’s standing so close now that you can see every tiny shift in his expression as it happens. The nervousness still lingering around his eyes. The exhaustion pulled into the corners of his mouth from too many sleepless nights. The vulnerability he’s making absolutely no attempt to hide from you anymore.
Steve has always been beautiful, everybody and their mothers know that.
But this version of him standing in front of you now—messy hair, tired eyes, voice rough from honesty—is the prettiest thing you’ve ever seen in your life.
Steve watches you carefully, like he’s trying to read your reaction before you even speak. You can tell he’s bracing himself for something. Rejection maybe. Hesitation. The possibility that he’s already said too much and there’s no taking it back now.
And the awful thing is that part of you understands exactly why he’s scared. You’re scared because suddenly this thing between you is real now. Tangible. Sitting openly in the middle of your bedroom where neither of you can hide behind almost anymore.
For months everything lived safely underneath the surface.
Lingering looks could still be accidents.
Jealousy could still be explained away.
Late night window visits and stolen touches and the way Steve looked at you like you were something worth protecting could all still exist in that blurry space between friendship and something else.
But now?
Now Steve’s standing in front of you admitting he imagined grocery shopping with you.
And somehow that feels infinitely more intimate than if he’d just said he wanted to kiss you.
You look down at your hands because suddenly your eyes burn in a way that feels embarrassing.
Immediately Steve’s expression changes.
Concern flashes across his face so quickly it almost startles you.
“Hey,” he says softly.
The gentleness in his voice nearly ruins you.
“I’m sorry if this is too much.”
Your head snaps up instantly.
“What? No.”
Steve studies your face carefully.
“You look upset.”
A laugh escapes you before you can stop it, shaky and quiet and completely overwhelmed.
“I am upset.”
His face falls immediately.
“No, not because of—”
“I know.”
You press your lips together briefly, trying to steady yourself enough to explain properly. “I’m upset because I spent months convincing myself you could never feel this way about me.”
“Are you serious?” he asks quietly.
You let out another weak laugh, looking away again because saying this out loud feels humiliating now that you know the truth.
“Steve, do you know how many times I talked myself out of reading too much into things?”
His eyebrows pull together slightly.
“What things?”
You stare at him in disbelief.
“What things?” you repeat. “Are you kidding?”
“I genuinely don’t know.”
“Oh my God.”
The words leave your mouth with exhausted affection threaded through them, and Steve actually looks confused enough that despite everything happening right now, part of you wants to laugh again.
“You’d look at me for like…” You gesture vaguely. “Entire conversations.”
Steve blinks.
“I was listening.”
“You were staring.”
“I can do both.”
You shake your head immediately.
“No, because then you’d touch me all the time and act jealous every time I went out with somebody, and then two seconds later you’d flirt with some waitress at the diner like it was nothing.”
Steve groans softly and drops his head back toward the ceiling.
“Oh my God, not the waitress thing again.”
“It was devastating for me, actually.”
That makes him look at you again instantly.
And suddenly something shifts.
Because that sentence slipped out too honestly.
Steve’s eyes search yours carefully.
“You were jealous?”
Heat rushes into your face immediately.
“No.”
“That was literally a confession.”
“It was not.”
“You just said devastating.”
You cover your face with both hands instantly while Steve lets out the first real laugh you’ve heard from him in days.
You missed that sound so much.
“I cannot believe this,” he says, still laughing quietly under his breath. “We’re actually idiots.”
“You are definitely more at fault here.”
“Me?” Steve points toward himself in genuine disbelief. “You dated like four guys.”
“Because I thought you didn’t want me!”
“I thought you didn’t want me either!”
You stare at each other for half a second.
Then both of you start laughing at the exact same time.
Not because any of this is actually funny.
Mostly because the emotional tension sitting between you has become so huge that something had to break eventually.
Steve’s laughter fades first.
You watch the exact moment it happens.
Watch his expression soften again while he looks at you sitting there on the edge of your bed smiling for the first time in days.
And suddenly the atmosphere changes all over again.
The space between you feels charged in a way it never has before because now everything is out in the open. Every lingering touch from the last few months suddenly means something different.
Your pulse starts climbing again almost immediately when Steve steps closer.
This time neither of you pretends not to notice it.
He stops directly in front of you, knees brushing lightly against yours where you’re sitting at the edge of the mattress, and the contact alone sends warmth rushing all the way up your spine.
It’s ridiculous.
Steve’s touched you a thousand times before.
His hands on your waist guiding you through crowds.
His arm slung around your shoulders during movies.
Your legs tangled together in the passenger seat during late night drives.
But this feels entirely different now.
Now you know what it meant to him and, you know what it meant to you too.
Steve looks down at you quietly for a second, something almost disbelieving still lingering in his expression like he hasn’t fully processed the fact that you feel the same way yet.
“You really tried getting over me?”
You nod once.
Steve watches you carefully.
“How bad was it?”
You laugh weakly under your breath. “Pretty bad.”
“Yeah?”
“Steve, I literally went out with other people because I thought maybe eventually I’d stop comparing everybody to you.”
That wipes the remaining traces of amusement off his face instantly.
His expression turns almost unbearably soft instead.
“You compared people to me?”
“All the time.”
That confession makes something flicker visibly across his face.
Like the idea matters to him far more than it probably should.
“How come?” he asks quietly.
You look down briefly because admitting this suddenly feels terrifying in a completely different way now that he’s standing so close.
But Steve waits patiently.
He just stays there looking at you like whatever answer you give him might become the most important thing he hears all night.
So eventually you tell him the truth.
“Because nobody else ever felt safe the way you do.”
Steve’s breath catches softly.
You keep going before you lose your nerve.
“With other people, I always felt like I had to perform a little.” Your fingers twist nervously together in your lap. “Like I had to be interesting enough or pretty enough or say the right thing all the time.”
Steve’s face tightens slightly at that.
“But with you…” You finally look back up at him. “I never really had to think about it.”
The room feels impossibly quiet now.
Steve stares at you like you just reached directly into his chest and touched something fragile there.
Then after a second he shakes his head faintly, almost in disbelief.
“You have no idea what you do to me,” he says softly.
The way he says it nearly melts every coherent thought left in your brain.
Steve’s eyes drop briefly to your mouth before catching himself.
But this time neither of you ignores it.
Your breath catches instantly.
And suddenly all those months of tension settle heavily into the space between you at once. Every almost moment. Every lingering glance. Every touch that lasted slightly too long.
Steve notices your pulse jump in your throat.
You know he notices because his expression changes immediately afterward, softening into something careful.
“Tell me to stop,” he says quietly.
The words send warmth rushing through your chest so fast it almost hurts.
Because even now, after everything he’s still making sure.
Still giving you a choice.
You stare at him for a second too long before whispering
“I don’t think I could.”
That’s all it takes.
Steve exhales shakily like he’d still been preparing himself for rejection anyway before he leans in slowly, carefully enough that your heart starts pounding impossibly hard against your ribs.
And when he kisses you, it feels nothing like you expected.
Soft in a way that immediately makes something inside you melt completely because Steve kisses you like you’re something precious to him. Like he’s been thinking about this for so long that now he’s terrified of getting any part of it wrong.
His hand slides gently to the side of your neck while your fingers instinctively curl into the front of his jacket, pulling him slightly closer without even realizing you’re doing it.
Steve makes the quietest sound against your mouth at that.
The kiss deepens slowly, natural and careful and achingly sweet in a way that makes your chest feel painfully full.
suddenly it makes sense, why nobody else ever felt right, why every room felt different when steve walked into it, why being around him always felt a little dangerous in the best possible way.
When steve finally pulls back, neither of you move
His forehead rests lightly against yours while both of you try catching your breath in the quiet afterward.
“Oh my God.”
You let out a breathless laugh.
“What?”
Steve opens his eyes enough to look at you.
“That was actually worse than I imagined.”
You blink at him in confusion.
“Worse?”
“You know.” His mouth twitches slightly. “For my emotional stability.”
You laugh again, and the sound seems to physically brighten something in his face.
“There’s my girl,” he murmurs without thinking.
The words hit both of you at the exact same time.
Steve freezes immediately afterward.
Then very slowly, heat creeps up the back of his neck.
“I didn’t mean to say that out loud,” he admits.
You stare at him for another second before smiling despite yourself.
“I didn’t hate it.”
The look Steve gives you after that nearly stops your heart entirely.
Then suddenly he’s smiling too, and it’s different from the smiles you’re used to from him. Less practiced somehow. Less aware of itself.
The realization sends warmth flooding through your chest.
Steve leans down and kisses you again before either of you can say anything else, quicker this time but no less careful, and you can feel him smiling slightly against your mouth halfway through it.
“You know what’s humiliating?” he says quietly afterward.
“What?”
“I had an entire speech prepared in the car.”
You burst out laughing immediately.
“No you didn’t.”
“I absolutely did.”
“I’m serious.” He groans softly, dragging one hand over his face. “Robin made me rehearse things.”
“Oh jeez”
“She said if I came over here and said something stupid, she’d legally disown me.”
Your laughter gets louder at that, and steve watches you with the kind of expression people only get when they’re looking at something they love too much.
The thought hits you suddenly and hard enough to steal your breath for half a second.
He loves me.
Steve loves you enough to lose sleep over it.
The weight of it settles warmly into your chest.
You reach up without thinking and brush your fingers lightly through the messy front pieces of his hair.
Steve goes completely still.
Your hand pauses immediately.
“What?”
He just shakes his head faintly.
“No, it’s just…” A soft laugh leaves him. “You have no idea what you do to me.”
Your stomach flips embarrassingly hard.
“You say things like that and then expect me to function normally afterward?”
“Nope.”
“Great.”
Steve grins properly then, all warmth and affection and relief tangled together now that the worst part is finally over.
Then his expression softens again when he looks at you.
“You know,” he says quietly, “these were probably the worst three days of my life.”
You snort softly.
“That feels dramatic.”
“I’m deeply serious.”
“You survived demodogs.”
“Yeah, but this was super upsetting.”
You roll your eyes, but your smile gives you away immediately.
A comfortable silence settles between you after that while Steve sits beside you on the bed now, shoulders pressed together naturally like the distance of the last few weeks never existed at all.
Outside, summer night stretches quietly around the house while the clock beside your bed creeps closer toward two in the morning.
Neither of you seems interested in sleeping.
Steve absentmindedly traces shapes against your wrist while you lean against his shoulder, and every once in a while one of you looks at the other and starts smiling all over again for no reason besides this still feeling unreal.
Eventually Steve presses a kiss softly into your hair and murmurs against the top of your head,
“You know Dustin’s gonna be insufferable when he finds out.”
You groan immediately.
“Oh, he’s never letting us live this down.”
“Nope.”
Steve’s arm tightens slightly around you before he speaks again, quieter now.
“I really am in love with you, by the way.”
Your chest aches warmly at the sincerity in his voice.
You tilt your head enough to look up at him properly. “I know.”
Steve smiles softly.
Then he kisses your forehead like he’s been wanting to do that for months too.
⋆˚꩜｡ my inbox are always open for recommendations!
℘1⋆˚࿔ m.list⋆˚࿔ steveharrington x henderson!reader
Steve spends the rest of the drive pretending he’s listening while Dustin talks, but every thought in his head keeps circling back to you in ways that are becoming genuinely impossible to control. It’s pathetic, honestly. He knows it is. He’s twenty years old and acting like a lovesick idiot over a girl who still has absolutely no idea she’s slowly destroying him from the inside out.
The worst part is that you’d probably laugh if you knew.
Not cruelly. Never cruelly.
You’d just blink at him with that surprised little expression you get sometimes and go, “Steve Harrington is in love with me?” like the concept itself sounds unrealistic.
And maybe that’s his fault.
Because Steve has spent so long making everything feel easy around you that you never noticed when it stopped being casual for him.
You still think his constant touching means nothing because Steve touches everybody.
You still think the flirting is harmless because Steve flirts with everyone.
You still think the long looks and soft voices and late night window visits are just part of who he is instead of what he’s become around you specifically.
Meanwhile Steve feels like he’s standing chest deep in something he can’t survive anymore.
By the time he drops Dustin off at school, his mood has somehow gotten worse instead of better.
“Are you coming over later?” Dustin asks before getting out of the car.
Steve opens his mouth automatically to say yes before stopping himself.
Because you’ll probably be there.
Which is exactly the problem.
“Maybe,” he mutters instead.
Dustin narrows his eyes immediately. “You literally always come over.”
“Yeah, well.” Steve shrugs tightly. “Maybe I have a life.”
“That’s definitely not true.”
Normally Steve would argue back. Today he just flips Dustin off tiredly while the kid laughs and slams the door shut behind him.
Then Steve sits there in the school parking lot for another full minute staring blankly ahead because the idea of seeing you right now feels dangerously overwhelming.
Which is ridiculous.
You’re still just you.
Still the same girl who steals fries off his plate and falls asleep against his shoulder and calls him pretty boy sarcastically whenever he’s annoying you.
Nothing has actually changed.
Except now Steve knows he’s in love with you, and suddenly every interaction feels loaded with terrifying new meaning.
He tries avoiding you for exactly one day.
It goes horribly.
By noon he’s already wondering what you’re doing.
By three he catches himself driving toward your street out of pure instinct before swearing under his breath and turning around again.
By evening he’s sitting beside Robin at Family Video looking so miserable that she eventually tosses a pack of Twizzlers at his head without even glancing up from rewinding tapes.
“You’re being weird,” she says flatly.
Steve catches the candy automatically. “Thanks.”
“You’ve sighed seventeen times in the last ten minutes.”
“You counted?”
“I was trying to figure out if you were dying.”
Steve groans softly and drops his head back against the counter while Robin finally looks over at him properly.
And immediately pauses.
Because Robin knows Steve better than almost anybody now.
Knows the difference between his normal dramatic behavior and something real.
Her expression shifts slightly.
“Oh my God,” she says slowly.
Steve closes his eyes immediately.
“No.”
“Oh my God,” Robin repeats louder this time, sounding delighted. “You’re in love with her.”
Steve nearly chokes.
“I am not—”
“You are absolutely in love with her.”
“I’m literally not.”
“You look one inconvenience away from throwing yourself into traffic.”
Steve presses both hands over his face while Robin stares at him with growing disbelief and amusement.
“This is insane,” she says. “Steve Harrington finally falls in love and suddenly acts like a Victorian widow.”
“I hate you.”
“No you don’t.” Robin grins. “Wait—does she know?”
Steve laughs once.
A genuinely miserable sound.
“No.”
Robin’s smile fades slightly at that.
“Oh.”
“Yeah.”
For a second neither of them speaks.
The fluorescent lights buzz softly overhead while customers wander through aisles nearby, completely oblivious to the emotional crisis currently happening behind the counter.
Then Robin squints at him.
“Why not?”
Steve lowers his hands slowly.
And there it is.
The real problem.
Because how is he supposed to explain this without sounding insane?
How is he supposed to admit that somewhere between late night conversations and stupid movie marathons and hearing you laugh from another room, he accidentally built an entire future around you inside his head without permission?
How is he supposed to explain that losing your friendship feels terrifying enough already, let alone risking something bigger?
“She doesn’t look at me like that,” he says quietly after a long moment.
Robin blinks.
“What?”
Steve swallows hard before looking away.
“You know how some people…” He struggles briefly for the words. “You can tell when they want somebody back?”
Robin stays quiet.
Steve laughs softly again, though there’s no humor in it this time.
“She doesn’t.”
And maybe that’s the part hurting him most.
Because you love him. Steve knows you do.
Just not in the way he wants.
You trust him.
Need him.
Lean into him without hesitation.
Call him whenever something goes wrong.
Look for him first in crowded rooms the same way he looks for you.
But Steve has spent months convincing himself those things meant more than they actually do, and now he doesn’t know how to untangle friendship from hope anymore.
Robin studies him carefully for a second before asking, “Did something happen?”
Immediately Steve thinks about your neck.
About bruises beneath soft yellow bedroom light.
About another guy touching you while Steve sat there pretending his chest wasn’t actively splitting open.
His jaw tightens slightly.
Robin notices that too because of course she does.
“Oh,” she says again, quieter this time. “That serious, huh?”
Steve rubs tiredly at his face.
“I think I’m actually losing my mind.”
Robin softens a little then.
Not teasing anymore.
“You know,” she says carefully, “for someone supposedly good with girls, you are catastrophically bad at communicating.”
Steve scoffs weakly. “Thanks.”
“I’m serious.” She leans against the counter beside him. “You’ve been acting like her boyfriend without ever actually telling her how you feel. That’s confusing.”
Steve frowns slightly.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Robin gives him a look.
“You drive her everywhere. You stare at her like she invented oxygen. You literally climb through her bedroom window at night.”
“When you say it out loud it sounds—”
“Insane? Yeah.”
Steve drops his head onto the counter with a groan.
The worst part is she isn’t wrong.
Because somewhere along the line he got comfortable living in the almost of this.
Comfortable with your head on his shoulder.
Comfortable with your fingers absentmindedly hooking through the sleeve of his jacket.
Comfortable being the person you call first.
And now the idea of wanting more feels selfish somehow.
Dangerous.
“What if I ruin it?” he asks quietly.
Robin’s expression softens immediately because Steve almost never sounds genuinely afraid like this.
“You won’t.”
“You don’t know that.”
“No,” she admits. “But I know you. And honestly? I think you’ve been ruining yourself over this girl for months already.”
Steve laughs weakly into the counter.
“Cool. Awesome.”
Robin nudges his shoulder lightly.
“Just talk to her.”
Steve lifts his head enough to look at her.
“That sounds terrible.”
“It probably will be,” Robin agrees. “But you can’t keep silently yearning yourself into an early grave either.”
Steve snorts despite himself.
Then immediately stills because the bell above the store door jingles softly.
And there you are.
Warm evening sunlight spills through the glass behind you while you step into the store wearing one of those oversized sweaters Steve likes too much and an expression that brightens instantly the second your eyes find him behind the counter.
There’s no hesitation in it.
No uncertainty.
Just immediate softness.
“Hi,” you say.
And Steve’s entire heart betrays him on the spot.
Because God.
Robin sees it happen too.
Sees the way his face changes the second you walk in.
Sees the way his posture straightens automatically.
Sees the helpless warmth that floods his expression before he can stop it.
Her eyes widen slightly like even she didn’t realize it was this bad.
You glance between them curiously.
“What?”
“Nothing,” Robin says immediately, looking way too entertained now.
Steve wants to kill her.
You walk toward the counter slowly, setting a videotape down in front of him.
“You disappeared today,” you say casually.
Steve’s chest tightens embarrassingly fast at the fact that you noticed.
“Uh.” He clears his throat. “Busy.”
“You?” You narrow your eyes suspiciously. “Busy?”
Robin physically turns away to hide her smile.
Steve glares at the side of her head before looking back at you.
“Can I help you with something?”
“Wow,” you say flatly. “Rude.”
But you’re smiling slightly.
Always smiling slightly around him.
It’s killing him.
You lean your elbows onto the counter comfortably while Steve tries not to focus on how close you are standing.
“You missed dinner,” you tell him.
Steve blinks.
“What?”
“My mom made lasagna.” You shrug lightly. “Dustin complained about you abandoning him emotionally.”
Despite himself, Steve laughs softly.
Then your expression shifts just a little as you study him more carefully.
And suddenly your smile fades.
“Wait,” you say slowly. “Are you okay?”
The concern in your voice hits him harder than it should.
Steve opens his mouth.
Nothing comes out.
Because you’re looking at him with genuine worry now, brows pulling together slightly while the entire video store seems to blur softly around the edges.
Robin goes very still beside him.
Steve can practically feel her realizing in real time that this conversation is about to become catastrophic.
“Steve?” you ask again, quieter this time.
And God, that’s it.
That’s the thing that finally breaks him a little.
Because every time you say his name with that soft worried look on your face, Steve feels something inside him cave in a little.
Steve opens his mouth again, but before he can force out an answer, you straighten slightly like you suddenly regret asking in the first place.
It’s subtle.
Most people probably wouldn’t notice it.
But Steve notices everything about you now.
The tiny retreat in your posture. The way your expression smooths itself back into something lighter before he can look too closely at it. Like concern is dangerous if it lasts too long.
You do that a lot lately.
Feel something too deeply, then immediately bury it under humor before anyone can touch it.
“I mean,” you say casually, glancing away, “you just look tired.”
Robin looks between both of you like she’s watching a hostage situation unfold in real time.
Steve swallows hard.
“Yeah,” he says finally. “Didn’t sleep much.”
Your eyes flick back toward him for half a second too long.
Something unreadable passes through your expression before disappearing completely.
“That makes two of us.”
And there it is again.
That strange ache sitting quietly beneath everything between you lately.
Steve feels it constantly now. Like there’s another conversation happening underneath every normal one the two of you have. Something unspoken and heavy and terrifying sitting just below the surface where neither of you are brave enough to touch it directly.
Robin suddenly claps her hands together loudly.
“Well,” she says with painful fake enthusiasm, “I’m gonna go reorganize the horror section before I throw myself into traffic.”
Steve glares at her immediately.
You blink in confusion while Robin walks away muttering something about emotional incompetence under her breath.
Then it’s just you and Steve again.
Which somehow feels worse.
You lean against the counter quietly for a second while Steve pretends to focus on rewinding tapes behind the register even though he’s very aware of your eyes still lingering on him.
“You sure you’re okay?” you ask eventually.
Steve exhales softly.
“Yeah.”
You tilt your head slightly.
“Liar.”
The word lands gently between you.
Not teasing.
Not accusing.
Just honest.
And for one dangerous second Steve almost tells you everything.
Almost says I’m in love with you and it’s becoming unbearable.
Instead he just shakes his head once.
“You’re dramatic,” he mutters weakly.
A small smile finally pulls at your mouth again, but it doesn’t fully reach your eyes this time.
Because the truth is you know something’s changed too.
You’ve known for weeks now, maybe longer.
You just haven’t let yourself think about it too hard because thinking about Steve Harrington for too long has become genuinely dangerous for your emotional stability.
It started slowly.
Too slowly to notice at first.
One day he was just Dustin’s annoying older friend constantly invading your house, and the next you were measuring your evenings around whether his car would pull into the driveway.
You started listening for him without realizing it.
Started feeling strangely disappointed on days he didn’t show up.
And then somewhere along the line it became worse.
You started noticing things you shouldn’t.
The way his voice gets quieter when he’s tired.
The way he automatically reaches for your wrist when guiding you through crowds so you don’t get separated.
The way he looks at you when he thinks you aren’t paying attention.
God.
That’s the part that really ruined you.
Because Steve looks at you too much.
Like he’s trying to memorize things without permission.
And sometimes—sometimes—you catch expressions on his face that make your entire chest tighten painfully before he smooths them away again.
Which should mean something.
Except Steve is still Steve.
Beautiful and affectionate and naturally magnetic without even trying.
You’ve seen girls flirt with him your entire life. Seen the way people melt under his attention. Half the time he doesn’t even notice he’s doing it.
So eventually you convinced yourself that whatever was happening between you only felt significant because you wanted it to.
And wanting Steve feels humiliating sometimes.
Not because of him.
Because of you.
Because he’s become this soft vulnerable thing hidden right in the center of your chest, and you don’t know what to do with feelings that deep except hide them before they can embarrass you.
So you date other people instead.
You tell yourself it’s normal.
Healthy, even.
Maybe if you force yourself forward enough, eventually your feelings for Steve will fade into something manageable again.
Except every date keeps ending the same way.
You compare them to him without meaning to.
The way Steve laughs harder at your jokes.
The way conversations with Steve feel effortless while everyone else sounds rehearsed somehow.
The way Steve pays attention to tiny things nobody else notices.
Nobody touches you like it matters the way he does.
Nobody looks at you long enough to make your heart start acting stupid.
And worst of all, no matter who drops you off at home at the end of the night, somehow you still end up wanting Steve afterward anyway.
Which feels deeply unfair.
The hickeys last night were almost accidental.
Not the date itself.
Not the guy.
Just the decision to let someone kiss you while part of your brain kept wondering whether Steve would care.
You hated yourself for that immediately afterward.
Because what kind of person does that?
What kind of person sits through a perfectly decent date secretly thinking about somebody else the entire time?
The answer apparently is you.
And judging by the expression Steve wore in your bedroom last night, part of you thinks maybe he did care.
Which is terrifying.
Because if you let yourself believe that for even a second, you might actually say something reckless.
You might finally ask why Steve touches you like you already belong to him.
You might ask why he stares at you like he’s trying not to.
You might ask why every room feels different after he walks into it.
So instead you hide it.
Better than he does, apparently.
You joke. You flirt back lightly. You pretend your pulse doesn’t jump whenever he leans too close.
And Steve—poor Steve—still somehow thinks he’s the only one drowning here.
“You’re staring again,” you tell him quietly.
Steve blinks immediately like he got caught doing something illegal.
“I’m literally working.”
“You haven’t moved for like thirty seconds.”
His ears turn slightly pink.
It almost makes you smile for real this time.
God, he’s pretty when he gets flustered.
The thought hits hard enough that you immediately look away before your face can betray you.
Dangerous.
This whole thing feels dangerous lately.
Steve clears his throat awkwardly behind the counter.
“So,” he says carefully. “You uh… got plans tonight?”
The question sounds casual.
Too casual.
Like he practiced making it sound casual.
Your stomach twists a little.
“Maybe.”
Steve’s jaw tightens almost invisibly.
“With that guy again?”
There’s the smallest pause.
Too small for most people to notice.
But you notice because suddenly your heartbeat is too loud.
“Maybe,” you repeat softer this time.
Something flickers across his face then.
Gone almost immediately.
But it looks suspiciously like disappointment.
Your chest aches unexpectedly.
Because suddenly you don’t want him imagining you with someone else anymore.
You don’t want anyone else.
You just don’t know what to do about that yet.
Steve forces a small nod like the answer doesn’t bother him at all.
“Cool.”
The lie sits awkwardly between both of you.
After that conversation at Family Video, something between you and Steve changes so quietly at first that neither of you can pinpoint exactly when it started hurting.
Nothing dramatic happens.
No fight.
No line crossed badly enough to destroy things outright.
It’s worse than that somehow.
Because everything still looks normal from the outside.
Steve still comes over to your house after work sometimes, still lets Dustin drag him into arguments about movies and comic books and whatever new obsession the kids picked up that week. He still sits at your kitchen counter while your mom talks to him like he belongs there already, still steals sodas from your fridge without asking, still throws lazy sarcastic comments in your direction whenever you walk into a room.
But now there’s hesitation inside every interaction.
Tiny pauses where there never used to be pauses before.
Like both of you suddenly became too aware of each other.
You notice it immediately because noticing Steve has become second nature to you at this point.
You notice he doesn’t sprawl across your bed during movie nights anymore. Before, he used to make himself comfortable instantly, all long limbs and lazy confidence while he stole space beside you without thinking twice about it. Half the time his head ended up in your lap eventually anyway while he complained dramatically about whatever terrible movie Dustin rented.
Now he sits at the edge of your desk chair instead.
Like he’s afraid of getting too comfortable.
Like he’s physically stopping himself from drifting toward you out of habit.
And somehow that hurts more than if he’d stopped showing up entirely.
You notice he doesn’t touch you casually anymore either.
No more absentminded hands brushing your waist when squeezing past you in the kitchen.
No more fingers hooking around your wrist while crossing streets.
No more knees pressed against yours in the car for entire drives without either of you acknowledging it.
The absence of it becomes unbearable almost immediately because you hadn’t realized how much of Steve existed in physical closeness until he suddenly took it away.
And God.
You miss him.
Not just Steve himself.
You miss the easy version of him.
The version that gravitated toward you naturally without overthinking every movement first.
Now every interaction feels painfully deliberate instead.
Like he’s constantly catching himself right before doing something instinctive.
Like he wants to reach for you and is actively deciding not to.
Which unfortunately only makes you think about it more.
One night he comes over while Dustin’s upstairs showering, leaving just the two of you alone in the living room with the television humming quietly in the background. Steve sits on the opposite end of the couch for the first time in literal months, one arm stretched along the cushions while he pretends to focus on the movie.
You hate it instantly.
The distance between you feels enormous and wrong.
You glance at him twice before finally saying, “You know this couch is big enough to survive you sitting normally, right?”
Steve looks over.
“What?”
“You’re like…” You gesture vaguely between him and the empty space separating you. “All the way over there.”
A slow smile pulls at his mouth, but it looks tired somehow.
“Sorry.”
And that’s it.
No teasing comment afterward.
No smug grin.
Just sorry.
The quietness of it makes your chest ache unexpectedly.
Because Steve Harrington has never been careful with you before.
He used to lean into your space like he belonged there.
Now he acts like touching you accidentally might ruin something.
You start noticing other things too after that.
Steve looks away faster whenever you catch him staring now, even though he still does it constantly.
Sometimes you’ll glance up from a book or from painting your nails or from talking mid sentence and find his eyes already on you with an expression so soft it physically steals the air from your lungs for half a second.
Then he catches himself.
Every single time.
His face closes immediately afterward like he accidentally showed too much.
It drives you insane.
Because now you know something is there.
You just don’t know what.
And Steve still refuses to say it.
Which means your brain starts filling in the blanks on its own in the worst ways possible.
Maybe he realized you liked him and got uncomfortable.
Maybe he noticed things were getting too intense and started pulling away before it became a problem.
Maybe Robin said something.
Maybe you imagined the whole thing from the beginning.
That last possibility crawls under your skin most often late at night when you’re alone with your thoughts and missing him in ways that feel genuinely embarrassing.
Because maybe Steve was always just affectionate naturally.
Maybe you built meaning out of ordinary things because you wanted him too much.
Maybe all those moments that replay constantly in your head never mattered the way they mattered to you.
The thought makes your stomach hurt every single time.
Then two weeks later, you make a terrible decision.
Not intentionally terrible.
Just emotionally immature terrible.
Because Steve has spent fourteen straight days acting like he wants something from you before immediately retreating the second you get too close to figuring it out, and honestly? You’re exhausted.
You’re tired of feeling insane around him.
Tired of overanalyzing every glance and every touch and every weird moment that never becomes anything.
So when a guy from work asks you out again, you say yes mostly because you want one night where you don’t spend the entire evening emotionally orbiting Steve.
Which is exactly why bringing him into Family Video turns out to be such a catastrophically bad idea.
You don’t even realize Steve’s working at first.
The bell above the door jingles softly as you step inside laughing at something your date says while warm evening air follows you into the store.
And then your eyes land on Steve behind the counter.
Immediately, your smile falters.
Not visibly enough for your date to notice.
But Steve notices.
Of course he does.
He’s halfway through shelving tapes when he freezes completely.
His stomach drops so fast it almost makes him dizzy.
Because you’re standing there beside another guy again.
Close enough that your shoulders brush when you walk.
Close enough that Steve instantly hates him for breathing near you.
And the worst part—the truly unbearable part—is that you look beautiful tonight.
Not overly dressed up.
Just soft.
Comfortable.
Your hair slightly messy from summer humidity, oversized sweater slipping off one shoulder a little while you laugh quietly at something the guy beside you says.
Steve feels sick immediately.
Robin looks up from behind the register, sees the expression on Steve’s face, and physically winces.
“Oh no,” she mutters under her breath.
Your date wanders toward the horror section while you linger awkwardly near the counter.
Steve still hasn’t moved.
The atmosphere between you feels strange instantly.
Tight.
“You work tonight?” you ask softly.
Steve laughs once.
Short and humorless.
“Apparently.”
Your eyebrows pull together slightly.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing.”
But it very obviously isn’t nothing.
You glance at him more carefully then.
His jaw looks tense.
Eyes darker somehow.
And suddenly you realize he’s staring at the guy currently browsing movies three aisles away.
Your chest tightens unexpectedly.
“Steve.”
“What?”
“You’re being weird again.”
That snaps something.
Steve sets the tapes in his hands down too hard against the counter before finally looking directly at you.
“Weird?” he repeats.
You blink slightly at the sharpness in his voice.
“Yeah.”
He stares at you for another second like he’s trying very hard not to say something dangerous.
Then quietly:
“Do you even like these guys?”
The question catches you so off guard that you actually laugh once in confusion.
“What?”
“I’m serious.”
You stare at him.
“I barely know what that means.”
Steve runs a hand through his hair harshly, visibly frustrated now in a way you’ve genuinely never seen directed at you before.
“You go out with these random idiots constantly and half the time you don’t even seem interested.”
Your confusion immediately shifts toward irritation.
“Okay, first of all—rude.”
Steve ignores that entirely.
“Do you actually even want to be here right now?”
“What is your problem?”
The words come out sharper than you intended.
Steve’s expression flickers.
Like he’s surprised you snapped back.
But then he looks toward your date again and something ugly flashes briefly across his face before he looks back at you.
“I just don’t get it.”
Your heartbeat starts speeding up now for reasons you don’t fully understand.
“Get what?”
“This.” Steve gestures vaguely between you and the rest of the store. “You keep going out with these guys and then acting miserable afterward.”
Your eyes narrow instantly.
“You’re seriously doing this right now?”
“Doing what?”
“You don’t get to interrogate my dating life, Steve.”
“I’m not interrogating you.”
“You literally are.”
The tension between you feels thick enough to choke on now.
Across the store, Robin very slowly disappears into the back room because she wants absolutely no part in whatever emotional disaster is currently unfolding.
Steve lowers his voice slightly.
“I just think maybe you deserve better than random assholes who don’t even know you.”
“And you do?” you shoot back immediately.
The second the words leave your mouth, Steve goes completely still.
So do you.
Because suddenly the conversation feels dangerously close to something neither of you are ready for.
Your pulse pounds hard in your throat.
Steve stares at you for a long second before speaking carefully.
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Then what did you mean?”
His jaw tightens.
You can practically see him fighting with himself.
And suddenly anger starts rising hot in your chest because none of this feels fair.
He doesn’t get to act jealous.
Not after months of confusing you into emotional ruin while never actually wanting anything.
Not after making you feel crazy for reading too deeply into things he probably never meant in the first place.
“You know what?” you say suddenly, voice quieter now but sharper somehow. “I genuinely don’t understand why you’re upset.”
Steve laughs once bitterly.
“Seriously?”
“Yes, seriously.”
His eyes flash.
“Because watching you with these guys sucks.”
The confession lands between you hard enough to steal the air from your lungs for a second.
But then immediately confusion crashes into it.
Because what?
“What does that even mean?” you ask.
Steve opens his mouth.
Stops.
And that hesitation hurts your feelings more than the actual argument.
Because there it is again.
Always almost something.
You take a small step backward.
“No, seriously, Steve.” Your voice shakes slightly now despite your best efforts to stop it. “You don’t get to act possessive over me when you’ve never actually wanted me.”
His expression changes instantly.
“What?”
“You heard me.”
“That’s not—”
“Then what is it?” you interrupt, suddenly angry enough that you can’t stop now. “Because from my perspective, you flirt with everybody. You touch everybody. Half the time I can’t tell if you even realize you’re doing it.”
Steve looks genuinely stunned.
You laugh softly in disbelief.
“You think I’m supposed to magically know what you mean when you’ve never said anything?”
“I thought it was obvious,” he says before he can stop himself.
The words hit you like physical force.
For one horrible second both of you just stare at each other.
Because suddenly the entire foundation underneath your friendship feels unstable.
Obvious?
Your chest hurts.
“Obvious?” you repeat quietly. “Steve, I spent months convincing myself I imagined all of this because I genuinely thought there was no way you could actually feel that way about me.”
Something cracks visibly across his face then.
“Forget it,” you mutter quietly, though your voice sounds wrong even to yourself now. Too tight. Too fragile around the edges.
Steve’s expression shifts immediately after the words leave your mouth.
Like he wants to stop you.
Like there’s something sitting right there behind his teeth fighting to get out.
For one awful second, you genuinely think he’s going to say it.
That he’s finally going to grab your wrist or pull you aside or look at you the way he used to before everything between you became so confusing and terrifyingly careful.
Instead he just stands there.
Completely still.
Your chest aches painfully as you look away from him first because suddenly holding eye contact feels impossible. The entire store feels too bright now, too crowded, fluorescent lights buzzing faintly overhead while your heartbeat pounds hard enough to make you feel sick.
Your date says something beside you — asking which movie you wanted again maybe — but you barely hear him.
All you can feel is Steve standing a few feet away not stopping you.
Not fighting for you.
Not saying the thing you desperately needed him to say.
And, maybe that’s your answer right there.
Because if Steve really wanted you the way part of you has secretly hoped for months now, wouldn’t he do something?
Wouldn’t he finally say it?
Instead there’s just silence stretching painfully between you while his eyes stay fixed on your face with an expression you can’t even begin to untangle anymore.
Hurt.
Regret.
Fear.
You don’t know.
You’re suddenly too emotional to tell the difference.
So you force yourself to step backward even though every instinct in your body is screaming at you not to.
Steve’s jaw tightens immediately at the movement.
Still, he says nothing.
And that tiny hesitation completely shatters something inside you.
Because you’ve spent months convincing yourself not to want this boy too much. Months trying to ignore the way your entire body reacts whenever he walks into a room. Months pretending his touches didn’t linger afterward, pretending his attention didn’t feel different from everyone else’s.
And now here you are standing in the middle of Family Video realizing maybe you imagined all of it after all.
The humiliation burns hot behind your ribs.
You laugh softly under your breath, but there’s absolutely no humor in it.
“Yeah,” you whisper mostly to yourself. “Okay.”
Steve’s expression flickers with immediate panic.
“Wait—”
But now you’re angry too.
Not at him entirely.
At yourself.
For hoping.
For reading too deeply into every look and every almost moment until you built something beautiful out of scraps that maybe never meant what you thought they did.
You shake your head once before he can finish whatever he was about to say.
“No, it’s fine.”
The words come out sharp and shaky at the same time.
You hate that he can probably hear the hurt in your voice.
Your date glances awkwardly between both of you now, clearly realizing something uncomfortable is happening but not understanding enough to interrupt.
Steve notices him looking and immediately closes himself off again.
Like a door slamming shut.
And somehow that hurts worst of all.
Because there it is again.
Every single time things start becoming real between you, Steve retreats.
Your throat tightens painfully.
So before he can watch your composure completely fall apart, you turn toward the front door and force yourself to walk away.
The bell above the entrance jingles softly as you push outside into the humid summer night air, but even the warmth outside feels cold suddenly compared to how hard your chest hurts.
m.list⋆˚࿔ summary ⁀➴ steveharrington x henderson!reader
➺ Steve Harrington never meant for it to become anything serious until she slowly became the center of every late night drive, lingering glance, and thought he couldn’t shut off. Meanwhile, she’s convinced he’s just naturally charming with everyone.
The first time Steve Harrington walks into your house, he’s bleeding from the forehead, arguing with Dustin, and carrying three grocery bags full of junk food like he’s been personally victimized by the existence of children.
“I’m serious,” Dustin complains, stomping into the kitchen ahead of him. “You cheated.”
“I did not cheat,” Steve argues immediately. “You just suck at arcade games.”
“You distracted me!”
“By existing?”
You look up from the counter where you’re cutting strawberries, already exhausted.
“Can one of you die quietly?”
Dustin gasps dramatically. “See? This is emotional abuse.”
Steve laughs at that.
He really laughs.
Head tipping back slightly, shoulders relaxing, the sound rough and easy and completely unguarded.
And for some reason, that’s the first thing he notices about you.
Not that you’re pretty—though you are.
Not even that you’re Dustin’s older sister.
He notices that you look at him like he’s normal. Like he’s just some guy standing in your kitchen bleeding onto the tile floor instead of Steve Harrington, former king of Hawkins High, owner of a reputation half the town already thinks they understand.
“Your face is gross,” you tell him casually.
“Wow,” he says, pressing a hand to his chest. “You know, most people are nicer to me.”
You shrug without looking up. “Most people want something from you.”
Dustin makes a loud choking sound while Steve just stares for a second.
Not offended. Not angry.
Surprised.
Then slowly, something amused curls into his expression.
“Ouch,” he says softly.
You hand him a dish towel. “Try not to drip blood everywhere, pretty boy.”
And that should’ve been it.
Really.
It should’ve stayed simple.
You were Dustin’s sister. Steve drove Dustin places sometimes. The kids dragged him around constantly now, which somehow meant he spent more time at your house than his own lately.
It wasn’t unusual after that for him to show up halfway through the afternoon carrying takeout or knocking against your window because Dustin forgot his backpack or slumping dramatically across your couch complaining about his day.
You didn’t think much of it.
Steve Harrington was charming with everyone.
That was just who he was.
He flirted with waitresses and cashiers and moms buying groceries. He smiled too easily. Leaned too close. Talked like every conversation was private even when it wasn’t.
You assumed none of it meant anything.
So when he starts aiming that attention toward you specifically, you barely react at all.
And unfortunately for Steve, that’s exactly what gets him.
At first, he thinks you’re funny.
That’s all.
He thinks it’s entertaining that you don’t care about his reputation. Entertaining that you roll your eyes when he flirts with you instead of blushing. Entertaining that when he sprawls across your bed stealing fries off your plate, you smack his hand away without hesitation.
“You know,” he says one evening, grinning lazily up at you from where he’s lying across your carpet, “you’re kinda mean to me.”
“You’ll survive.”
“Debatable.”
“Steve.”
“y/n...”
You snort despite yourself. He notices that too.
Steve notices everything about you long before he realizes it matters.
He notices you hum under your breath when you’re reading.
He notices you always leave the crusts of sandwiches behind.
He notices you tap your fingers against cups when you’re anxious.
He notices you reread the final pages of books before you finish them because you hate endings.
He notices you tuck strands of hair behind your ear when you’re lying.
He notices way too much.
And slowly, without meaning to, he starts looking for you first.
When he walks into your house, his eyes find you automatically.
When he hears your voice from another room, he listens.
He starts showing up even when Dustin isn’t home once or twice, pretending he forgot something.
“You know Dustin’s at Mike’s, right?” you ask the third time it happens.
Steve leans against your bedroom doorway, completely unashamed.
“Yeah.”
You narrow your eyes slightly. “So why are you here?”
His smile turns crooked.
“Maybe I came to see you.”
You laugh immediately, not even looking up from your magazine.
“You use that line on everybody?”
And for some reason, that answer bothers him more than it should.
Because he doesn’t know how to explain that it’s different.
He doesn’t even understand why it’s different yet.
So instead, he shrugs and says lightly, “Only the pretty ones.”
You throw a pillow at his face.
He catches it easily, grinning.
That becomes your thing after that.
Banter. Constant banter.
Steve teasing you just to hear your reactions.
You insulting him without mercy while he acts deeply wounded by it.
He leans too close when he talks to you. You stop noticing how often your knees touch in the car. His hand starts finding the small of your back automatically when guiding you through crowds.
He grows comfortable around you in a way he hasn’t been with anyone in years.
It sneaks up on him slowly.
He starts measuring his days around whether he’ll see you.
He pretends he’s visiting for Dustin even though Dustin usually disappears upstairs within five minutes anyway, leaving the two of you alone in the kitchen while summer storms rumble outside and the radio plays softly in the background.
“You’re staring again,” you tell him one night.
Steve blinks. “What?”
You glance at him over the rim of your soda can. “You do that.”
“Do what?”
“Zone out and stare at me like I said something life changing.”
His ears go slightly pink.
“Maybe you do.”
You grin. “You’re ridiculous.”
But Steve feels strangely embarrassed after that because the worst part is—you’re right.
He does stare. He stares because you fascinate him.
You move through the world so differently than the people he’s used to. You never perform for attention. Never flirt just to flirt. You talk to him like he’s a person instead of a story people tell about him.
And somewhere along the line, Steve stops flirting casually and starts flirting because he genuinely wants your attention.
The problem is, you don’t realize there’s been a shift.
You still think this is just Steve being Steve.
So when you mention other guys, you do it carelessly.
“This guy at work asked me out today,” you say absentmindedly one evening while sitting beside him on the hood of his car.
The Hawkins night air is warm. The grocery store parking lot glows gold under flickering lights. Steve’s cigarette burns between his fingers.
“Oh yeah?” he asks lightly.
“Mm hm.”
“You gonna say yes?”
You shrug. “Maybe. He’s cute.”
Steve smiles.
He even laughs a little.
“Cool.”
Inside, something ugly twists sharply in his chest. But he ignores it.
Because he’s Steve Harrington. He doesn’t get jealous.
He definitely doesn’t get jealous over a girl who still thinks he flirts with everybody.
Then you actually start dating people and Steve discovers he hates it.
The first time another guy picks you up from your house, Steve is sitting on the Henderson porch steps beside Dustin pretending not to watch.
“He looks like a douchebag,” Dustin mutters immediately.
Steve squints at the car. “Yeah,” he says before he can stop himself.
You laugh from the doorway. “You guys don’t even know him.”
“I know his face,” Steve says. “That’s enough for me.”
You roll your eyes affectionately before heading toward the car.
Steve watches the guy touch your lower back while opening the passenger door and suddenly feels irrationally angry for reasons he absolutely refuses to unpack.
He acts normal about it afterward though.
That’s the worst part.
He still teases you. Still drives you around. Still lounges across your bed talking about nonsense while you paint your nails.
He never says a word about the jealousy eating him alive.
You honestly don’t notice.
Because Steve’s always touching you anyway.
Always close. Always looking at you too long.
You assume he’s like this with everyone.
But then the hickey thing happens.
And afterward, nothing feels casual anymore.
You got home late that night. The house is quiet in the way only late summer nights are quiet. The television downstairs hums faintly from where your mom must’ve fallen asleep on the couch, and somewhere outside cicadas drone lazily in the dark.
Your bedroom window is open just enough for warm air to drift through the curtains.
You kick your shoes off near the door with a tired sigh, already reaching to pull your earrings out when there’s a soft thud from outside your window.
You don’t even jump anymore.
At this point, steve climbing through your bedroom window has somehow become normal.
He stumbles inside gracelessly, one hand gripping the frame while the other holds a VHS tape above his head triumphantly.
“There’s actually something deeply wrong with your family,” he whispers dramatically.
You glance at him through the mirror while unclasping your necklace.
“You came here at midnight for a movie?”
“No,” Steve says immediately. “I came here because Dustin accused you of stealing from him, and apparently I’m the designated problem solver now.”
You snort softly.
Steve kicks the window shut behind him and looks up properly for the first time.
And then he sees them. The marks scattered along your neck. Faint purple bruises disappearing beneath the collar of your shirt. Another just below your jaw.
His entire body goes still.
It’s almost physical, the feeling that hits him.
Like missing a step in the dark.
You don’t notice right away.
You’re still talking casually, fingers moving through your hair while you stand in front of the vanity mirror.
“He actually wasn’t terrible,” you admit with a small laugh. “Which honestly surprised me.”
Steve stares.
Not at your face.
At your neck.
At the evidence that someone touched you there.
Someone kissed you there.
Someone leaned close enough to leave marks on your skin like they belonged there.
His stomach twists so sharply it almost makes him nauseous.
Because suddenly he can see it too clearly.
Some random guy making you laugh.
That same guy touching your waist.
Leaning down toward you.
Your hands against somebody else’s shoulders.
And Steve hates it.
God, he hates it.
Not the guy specifically.
Not even the date.
Just the fact that somebody else got there first.
The fact that someone else touched you in places Steve has spent months carefully avoiding looking at for too long.
He swallows hard.
“Wow,” he says finally, though his voice sounds strange even to himself. “High praise.”
You laugh quietly.
“Right?”
Steve forces his eyes upward.
Your reflection catches his for half a second through the mirror, and he prays you can’t see whatever’s happening on his face right now.
Because he feels insane.
You aren’t his.
That thought keeps slamming into him over and over again.
You aren’t his.
He has absolutely no right to feel this sick over a few bruises on your neck.
But he does.
He really, really does.
You move past him toward your bed, still talking.
Steve barely hears any of it.
Something about the restaurant.
Something about the guy making a joke you actually liked.
Something about maybe seeing him again.
Steve sits down slowly on the edge of your bed because his legs suddenly feel unsteady.
The mattress dips beneath his weight.
You don’t notice how quiet he’s gotten yet.
Your room smells faintly like perfume and laundry detergent and summer air drifting through the window. There’s a lamp glowing softly beside your bed, casting warm gold across your skin.
And those marks.
Jesus Christ.
Every time you turn your head, Steve sees them again.
He tries not to stare.
Really.
But his eyes keep dragging back.
Like touching a bruise with your fingertips even though you know it hurts.
You sit cross legged beside him eventually, absentmindedly reaching for the tape in his hands.
“You okay?”
Steve blinks hard.
“Hm?”
“You’re weirdly quiet.”
“I’m always weirdly quiet.”
“That is objectively not true.”
Normally he’d tease you back instantly.
Normally he’d grin or flick your forehead or say something cocky just to hear you laugh.
Tonight he just watches you for a second too long.
Your eyebrows pull together slightly.
“What?”
His eyes flick downward before he can stop them.
Your expression shifts immediately in understanding.
And for one horrifying second, Steve thinks maybe you’re going to mention it directly.
Maybe you’re going to laugh awkwardly and say yeah, sorry about that.
Maybe you’re going to tell him details.
He thinks that might actually kill him.
Instead you just tilt your head slightly.
“Steve.”
He forces a smile so quickly it almost hurts.
“Nothing.”
You study him for another second, unconvinced.
Then finally you shrug it off.
And somehow that makes it worse too.
Because to you, this is nothing.
Just another date.
Just another guy.
Meanwhile Steve feels like somebody reached into his chest and wrapped a fist around his lungs.
You keep talking softly while flipping the VHS tape over in your hands, completely unaware of the war happening inside the boy sitting beside you.
Steve notices everything now.
The way your lip curves when you smile to yourself thinking about something.
The faint smudge of mascara beneath your eye.
The way you absentmindedly scratch at your wrist when you’re tired.
He notices too much.
And suddenly all he can think about is the fact that somebody else got this version of you tonight.
Someone else got your laugh.
Someone else got close enough to leave marks behind.
The jealousy crawling through him feels ugly.
Not angry.
Not possessive in the cruel way.
Just aching.
Deep and humiliating and impossible to ignore.
Because Steve doesn’t even know when this happened.
When you stopped being harmless.
When he stopped flirting for fun and started looking at you like you were something precious.
When seeing another person touch you started physically hurting him.
He looks away before you can catch whatever’s on his face.
You yawn softly beside him.
“Tired?” he asks automatically.
“Mm.”
His chest aches again at the sleepy sound.
You lean against his shoulder without thinking about it.
Just naturally and comfortably.
And Steve nearly loses his mind.
Because even now—even after another guy spent the night kissing your neck—you still lean toward Steve instinctively.
You still trust him with your softness.
He sits perfectly still beside you, terrified that if he moves too suddenly, he’ll ruin something.
Your head rests lightly against his shoulder while warm air drifts through the open window.
Neither of you speaks for a minute.
And Steve realizes with awful clarity that he is completely, catastrophically gone for you.
Not a crush.
Not flirting.
Not temporary.
Gone.
The realization settles heavily into his chest.
You mumble something sleepy against his shoulder.
“What?” he asks quietly.
“I said you smell like cigarettes.”
Steve laughs softly despite himself.
“Sorry.”
“You should quit.”
“You sound like Robin.”
“She’s smarter than you.”
“Debatable.”
A tired smile pulls softly at your mouth, and steve feels something inside him shift so suddenly it almost startles him. The expression barely lasts more than a few seconds before you tuck your face more comfortably against his shoulder again, but it lingers in his head immediately like something precious he’s terrified of forgetting later.
It isn’t a performative smile or a polite one or even the kind you usually give people during conversations without realizing it. This one is slower, softer around the edges, weighed down by sleep and comfort and trust in a way that makes his chest ache unexpectedly. Steve stares at it longer than he should, watching the way the warm yellow light from your bedside lamp catches against your skin while the rest of the room settles into quiet around the two of you, and eventually he has to force himself to look away because suddenly the feeling inside him is becoming too big to ignore anymore.
The terrifying part isn’t that he wants to kiss you because Steve has wanted to kiss you for months now and has done a decent job pretending otherwise. The terrifying part is that somewhere along the line his feelings stopped being physical at all, stopped being simple enough to explain away with attraction or flirting or temporary infatuation. Sitting here beside you now, with your weight resting naturally against him and your bedroom window letting in warm summer air that stirs softly through the curtains, Steve realizes with horrifying clarity that he wants things he’s never really wanted before.
He wants mornings where he wakes up beside you tangled in sunlight and blankets while you complain sleepily about him stealing the pillows.
He wants late night grocery store runs and arguments over music in the car and your shampoo bottles cluttering up his bathroom sink someday.
He wants this exact feeling stretched out endlessly in front of him, your head resting against his shoulder while you slowly drift toward sleep completely unaware that you’re quietly ruining him.
The realization settles heavily into his chest because Steve Harrington understands relationships that burn hot and disappear fast better than he understands anything else. He knows how to flirt effortlessly and keep things shallow enough that nobody gets hurt too badly when it ends, and for years that’s been enough because shallow relationships are easy to survive.
They don’t ask for vulnerability or permanence or honesty in the terrifying ways real love does. But this thing with you feels deep enough to split him open if it goes wrong, and that thought scares him more than he wants to admit even to himself. He’s never cared this carefully before, never noticed someone so constantly that their absence physically changes the atmosphere around him whenever they leave a room.
He glances down at you carefully after a minute, unable to stop himself even though he knows staring is becoming a problem lately. Your eyes are closed now, though not completely asleep yet, and your breathing has gone softer and slower against his shoulder while your fingers curl loosely against the sleeve of his jacket.
There’s something so painfully trusting about the way you lean into him that Steve’s chest tightens hard enough to almost hurt because you genuinely have no idea what you’re doing to him.
Another guy kissed you tonight. Another guy got close enough to leave marks on your skin and probably thought he had a chance of becoming important to you afterward, and somehow you still ended the evening here beside him like this was the safest place you could think to be.
The thought completely undoes him because it feels too intimate somehow, too vulnerable in ways he doesn’t think you even realize.
He notices every tiny thing now because apparently being in love has turned him into the kind of person who memorizes details without permission. He notices the faint crease between your eyebrows whenever you’re overtired and trying not to show it.
He notices the way your breathing changes slightly right before you fall asleep and the way your fingers twitch absentmindedly against him whenever you’re comfortable.
He notices that your hair smells faintly like shampoo and summer air and whatever perfume you sprayed on before your date earlier tonight, and God, even that thought twists painfully inside him because somebody else got to see you dressed up like that before Steve did.
Jealousy keeps crawling through him in ugly sharp waves that make him feel guilty immediately afterward because none of this belongs to him, not your attention or your softness or the quiet affection you hand him so naturally. But wanting you has become instinctive now, impossible to shut off no matter how hard he tries to remind himself that he doesn’t have any right to feel this possessive over things that were never his in the first place.
You shift suddenly beside him, your hand sliding briefly across his chest as you stretch slightly in your half asleep state, and Steve’s entire body goes rigid for one embarrassing second because even the smallest touches from you affect him too much these days. Your palm only brushes him for a moment before settling again, but his heart reacts violently anyway, beating hard enough that he’s convinced you’ll hear it if you stay pressed this close.
He remembers every touch from you now whether he wants to or not because they replay constantly in his head afterward like scenes from a movie he’s incapable of shutting off.
Every lazy hug.
Every accidental brush of fingers while reaching for the same thing.
Every time your knees bumped together in the car and neither of you moved away afterward. Back then he thought those moments were harmless, but now each memory feels charged with meaning he was too oblivious to understand at the time.
You blink your eyes open slowly after a minute, clearly catching him staring again despite his best efforts to hide it, and your voice comes out rough with exhaustion when you mumble,
“What?”
Steve immediately looks away like he’s been caught doing something embarrassing, which unfortunately is exactly how this feels now every single time he gets too lost watching you.
He mutters a quick “Nothing” under his breath
but you narrow your eyes at him tiredly before accusing softly,
“You keep looking at me weird lately,”
and the casual observation nearly stops his heart entirely. Because if he tried explaining the truth right now, if he admitted that he’s staring because he thinks he might actually love you enough to ruin himself over it, he honestly believes he might combust on the spot from humiliation alone. You’d probably just look surprised more than anything because in your mind Steve is still Steve: beautiful and charming and effortless and incapable of falling apart over somebody this badly.
Meanwhile he feels like one genuine conversation away from a complete emotional collapse.
Because the awful truth is that he finally understands why he notices everything about you now, why your moods affect his entire day and why seeing someone else touch you felt like swallowing broken glass earlier tonight. It isn’t fascination anymore or even infatuation dressed up as obsession. Somewhere along the line it became love, real terrifying love, the kind that sneaks up slowly enough that by the time you recognize it, you’re already drowning too deep to save yourself. And as steve watches you settle comfortably back against him again without hesitation, trusting him completely while summer wind drifts softly through your curtains, all he can think helplessly is that he has absolutely no idea how he’s supposed to survive this if you never feel the same way back.
The next morning starts badly and somehow continues getting worse from there because Steve cannot stop thinking about you long enough to function like a normal person.
He burns his toast because he’s staring blankly out the kitchen window remembering the feeling of your hair brushing against his jaw, and then he spends ten straight minutes standing beside his car with his keys in his hand because he got distracted imagining another guy making you laugh during your date.
Every thought he has eventually bends back toward you no matter where it starts, which would probably be humiliating if he weren’t already too far gone to care anymore. By the time he picks Dustin up, Steve already feels exhausted in the way people do after spending an entire night fighting with themselves unsuccessfully. Dustin notices immediately because of course he does, and the second he climbs into the passenger seat he squints at Steve suspiciously before saying,
“You look like you got possessed by something,” with the kind of blunt honesty only fourteen year old boys are capable of.
Steve grips the steering wheel a little tighter than necessary while pulling away from the curb, mostly because he can already tell he doesn’t have the patience for Dustin’s energy today and also because he hasn’t stopped replaying the image of your neck in his head since midnight.
Normally Dustin talking nonstop barely registers anymore because Steve’s gotten weirdly used to the constant noise the kids bring into his life, but today every sentence feels like someone knocking repeatedly against a headache. Dustin keeps rambling about some campaign Mike ruined and a new comic book he wants and whether Steve would survive in a zombie apocalypse, while Steve responds automatically without actually hearing most of it because all his focus is tied up somewhere else entirely. At one point Dustin starts complaining about being hungry even though he’s holding an entire bag of donuts in his lap, and Steve snaps back so sharply that the inside of the car immediately goes quiet afterward.
The silence stretches awkwardly between them for several seconds before Dustin slowly lowers the donut he’d been reaching for and says, with genuine concern now instead of annoyance,
“Okay, seriously, what is wrong with you?”
Steve exhales harshly through his nose and runs one hand through his hair while stopping at a red light, but even that familiar motion doesn’t calm him down the way it usually does because he feels like every emotion inside him has been dialed up too high overnight. He wants to tell Dustin to drop it, wants to brush everything off with a joke like he normally would, but instead he just stares out through the windshield while morning sunlight spills across the dashboard and says nothing at all. The problem is that Steve himself doesn’t fully understand what’s happening to him yet because he’s never been in love slowly enough to watch it happen in real time before.
Usually feelings arrived fast and burned bright and disappeared just as quickly, but this thing with you crept up on him in tiny harmless pieces until suddenly it had rooted itself into every part of his life without permission. Somewhere between movie nights and late drives and sitting too close beside you on your bed, Steve had crossed a line he didn’t even realize existed, and now he had absolutely no clue how to go back to being normal around you again.
⋆˚꩜｡ hi guys missed ya!!! ill post a p2 to this soon, hope everyone is doing well!! :)
I know it's been a while, but life kind of sucks rn. YOU KNOW WHAT THAT MEANS!! TIME FOR MORE RECS FOR THE PEOPLE!! Read the warnings in the original posts⚠️
Have fun reading!! <33
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☆MY PERSON by @beeewee
☆comfort after a long day by @yeah-iveheardofbears
☆steve saves you from vecna by @gothicwhorror [ex's au]
𝓶.𝓵𝓲𝓼𝓽 ⋆˚࿔ steve harrington x wheeler!reader .𖥔 ݁ 01 here
The morning stretches longer than it should, suspended in that fragile, crystalline space between what was and what might be. Time feels elastic here, malleable, like you could reach out and shape it with your hands if you only knew how. The sunlight filters through your curtains in pale golden strips, dust motes dancing lazily in the beams, and you watch them drift and swirl while Steve's heartbeat thuds steady and sure beneath your ear. Eventually, inevitably, the house begins to wake around you. The creak of floorboards in the hallway, familiar and distinct—your father's heavy tread, different from your mother's lighter step. The distant sound of water running through pipes, the groan and shudder of old plumbing protesting the morning routine. Your mother's voice drifting up from the kitchen, muffled but present, calling for someone to come down for breakfast.
Steve tenses slightly against you, reality reasserting itself with all its complications and consequences. His arms tighten around you for just a second before loosening, like he's trying to hold onto this moment even as it slips away.
"I should probably go," he murmurs, though he doesn't move. His voice is rough with sleep and reluctance.
You nod against his chest, feeling the warmth of his skin through the thin fabric of his t-shirt. "Probably."
Neither of you shifts for another long moment, stretching the inevitable goodbye as far as it will go. Then he exhales slowly, deliberately, and loosens his hold. The absence of his warmth is immediate and sharp, like stepping from a heated room into winter air. He sits up carefully, the mattress dipping and creaking beneath his weight, and runs both hands through his hair in that familiar gesture that's half habit, half armor—the same motion you've watched him make a thousand times before basketball games, before tests, before any moment that requires him to be Steve Harrington instead of just Steve. You watch him locate his jacket draped over your desk chair, his shoes kicked off near the window, the pieces of himself he'd shed the night before in his desperate need to be close to you.
When he turns back to you, there's hesitation in his expression, uncertainty written in the furrow between his brows. Like he's not sure what the rules are now, what's allowed in the harsh light of morning versus the forgiving darkness of 2 AM.
"I'll call you later?" he offers, and it comes out more like a question than a statement.
"Yeah."
He crosses back to the bed, movements careful and deliberate, leaning down to press another kiss to your forehead. This one lingers a second longer, maybe two. His hand cups the side of your face with a tenderness that makes your chest ache, thumb brushing your cheekbone in a gesture so gentle it nearly undoes you.
"Thank you," he says quietly, and there's weight behind those words. "For last night. For… everything."
Your throat tightens around all the things you want to say but can't quite articulate. "Always."
That word again. It settles between you like a promise, like a vow, heavy with implication and hope.
He climbs back out through your window with more grace than he'd entered with hours ago, his movements practiced from years of sneaking in and out of places he shouldn't be. He drops to the grass below with practiced ease, landing in a crouch before straightening. You watch him jog across the lawn to where his BMW is still parked down the street where he'd left it in his haste, hands shoved deep in his pockets against the morning chill that's settled over Hawkins like a blanket.
He doesn't look back. But you see him smile to himself, small and private, just before he slides into the driver's seat. That smile stays with you long after the sound of his engine fades into the distance.
When you finally leave your room, showered and dressed in clothes that feel too normal for how different everything feels inside your chest, Nancy is already at the kitchen table. She's nursing a cup of coffee, still in her pajamas—the blue ones with the small flowers that she's had since middle school. Her hair is pulled into a messy ponytail, pieces falling loose around her face. She looks small. Tired. The kind of tired that comes from crying, that settles into your bones and makes everything feel heavier.
Your mother is at the stove, humming softly—some song from her youth that she never remembers all the words to as she flips pancakes with practiced efficiency. She glances up when you enter, her expression brightening the way it always does when she sees her children.
"Morning, sweetheart. Hungry?"
"Yeah," you manage, sliding into the chair across from Nancy, the wood cool against your legs.
Your sister doesn't look up. She traces the rim of her mug with one finger, eyes fixed on the dark liquid inside like it might offer answers to questions she hasn't figured out how to ask yet.
The silence stretches, thick and uncomfortable, filling the kitchen like smoke.
Your mother plates pancakes with a practiced hand and sets them in front of you both, the plates warm and the smell of butter and maple syrup filling the air. She kisses the top of Nancy's head absently, maternal and automatic, before moving back to the stove to finish the batch.
"You girls sleep okay?"
"Fine," Nancy says automatically, the lie smooth and practiced.
You nod, not trusting your voice, afraid of what might spill out if you try to speak.
When your mother leaves the kitchen to wake Mike and Holly, her footsteps receding up the stairs, the silence becomes unbearable. It presses against your eardrums, makes your skin feel too tight.
Nancy finally looks up. Her eyes are red rimmed but dry now, like she's cried herself empty during the long hours of the night. Like there's nothing left inside her but exhaustion.
"I know he was here," she says quietly, and her voice is flat, emotionless.
Your stomach drops, plummeting somewhere in the vicinity of your feet.
"Nancy—"
"I heard him," she continues, each word careful and measured. "Last night. Climbing through your window."
You set down your fork carefully, pulse hammering against your ribs, in your throat, behind your eyes.
She doesn't sound angry. She sounds defeated. Hollowed out. And somehow that's worse.
"I'm not mad," she adds, though the words feel hollow, like they're missing something essential. "I don't… I don't have the right to be."
You study her face, searching for the trap, for the accusation that must be coming. For the explosion of sisterly betrayal and hurt feelings. But there's nothing there except exhaustion and a resignation that makes her look years older than she is.
"I meant what I said," she whispers, and you have to lean in to hear her. "At the party. I just… I didn't mean to say it like that. In front of everyone."
"Nancy—"
"I don't love him," she says, and the confession lands heavily between you, solid and immovable as stone. "Not the way he deserves. Not the way…" She trails off, eyes flickering to yours, and in that look you see everything she's been carrying. "Not the way you do."
The acknowledgment steals your breath, leaves you gasping like you've been punched.
"I saw it," she continues, words coming faster now, like a dam breaking. "I've always seen it. Even back in middle school, the way you'd look at him. The way you'd light up when he walked into a room. I just thought… I thought maybe if I tried hard enough, I could feel what he felt. What you felt." She shakes her head, ponytail swinging. "But I can't manufacture that. I can't force myself to feel something that isn't there, no matter how much I want to."
You don't know what to say. Part of you wants to comfort her, to smooth away the pain etched into her features. Part of you is still angry that she chose him knowing how you felt, that she walked into this relationship with her eyes open. Part of you just feels sad for all three of you, caught in this messy triangle none of you asked for, hurting each other without meaning to.
"I'm sorry," she says finally, and her voice cracks on the words. "For not telling you. For not… handling it better. For being selfish."
You nod slowly, processing. "I'm sorry too."
"For what?"
"For not being honest. For letting it get this far without saying anything. For loving him when you were with him."
She offers a weak smile, barely there, just a ghost of her usual expressions. "We're a mess, aren't we?"
"Yeah," you agree softly, returning the smile with one just as fragile. "We really are."
The moment doesn't fix everything. It doesn't erase the hurt or the awkwardness or the fact that you'll be navigating this new reality under the same roof, sitting at the same dinner table, sharing the same bathroom. But it's a start. A fragile truce built on exhaustion and honesty and the stubborn love that exists between sisters even when everything else is complicated.
"Are you…" Nancy hesitates, teeth worrying at her bottom lip. "Are you going to…?"
She doesn't finish the question, but you understand what she's asking. What she needs to know.
"I don't know," you admit, and it's the truth. "We didn't… we're not rushing anything. We're just… figuring it out."
She nods, and you see relief flicker across her face like sunlight through clouds. "Good. That's… that's good. He deserves that. You both do."
The conversation ends there, unfinished but sufficient for now. You both return to your pancakes, eating in silence that feels less hostile than before, less charged. When Mike thunders down the stairs moments later demanding breakfast with all the subtlety of a stampeding elephant, the tension breaks entirely, swallowed by the ordinary chaos of Sunday morning. Holly follows in her wake, dragging her favorite stuffed rabbit, and your mother returns to orchestrate the controlled chaos that is breakfast with the Wheeler family.
But later, when you're alone in your room, door closed against the sounds of your family, the phone rings. The sound is sharp and sudden in the quiet.
You answer on the second ring, heart already knowing who it is.
"Hey."
Steve's voice is warm, slightly uncertain, like he's testing the waters.
"Hey," you echo, smiling despite yourself, despite everything.
"So," he begins, and you can hear him shifting on the other end, can picture him pacing his room. "I was thinking… do you want to do something today? Just us. Nothing fancy. Maybe just… drive around? Get out of town for a bit?"
Your heart lifts, expanding in your chest. "Yeah. I'd like that."
"Cool. I'll pick you up in an hour?"
"Okay."
There's a pause, and you can hear him breathing on the other end, the soft static of the phone line connecting you. You can feel him working up to something.
"I'm really glad I came to your window last night," he says finally, words tumbling out in a rush.
"Me too."
When he picks you up exactly an hour later—punctual in a way that's new for him, like he couldn't wait a minute longer—he's wearing the same jacket from the night before, hair still slightly damp from a shower, smelling like his cologne and laundry detergent. He opens the passenger door for you, a gesture that feels both familiar and newly significant, weighted with intention.
You drive with no destination in mind, no plan or purpose beyond being together. He takes backroads out of Hawkins, the kind of winding country roads that locals know and tourists never find, windows cracked to let in the cool autumn air that smells like dying leaves and distant woodsmoke. The radio plays low, some song you half recognize from the summer, and his hand rests on the gear shift between you, close enough that your knuckles brush every time he changes gears.
The third time it happens, he glances at you, quick and questioning.
"Can I…?"
You don't make him finish. You slide your hand into his, fingers lacing together naturally, like they were designed to fit this way.
He exhales like he'd been holding his breath, waiting for permission.
"This okay?" he asks, thumb already moving across your knuckles.
"Yeah."
He squeezes gently, thumb tracing absent patterns against your skin—circles and figure eights and shapes that might be letters if you concentrated hard enough.
You drive for miles, the landscape changing gradually from suburban sprawl to rural farmland. He tells you about the fight his parents had last week, voices carrying through the too-big house about his father's business trip and his mother's bridge club and all the ways they talk past each other instead of to each other. You tell him about the book you're reading, the one with the complicated family dynamics that hits a little too close to home right now. He complains about Tommy being an ass at practice, making comments he thought were jokes but landed like punches. You complain about your English teacher assigning another essay on symbolism when you're barely keeping up with the last one.
It's easy. Familiar. The comfortable rhythm of conversation you've built over years of friendship. But there's a new undercurrent now, something electric humming beneath the surface of every word, every glance, every touch.
Eventually, he pulls off onto a dirt road that leads to the old quarry, the path rutted and overgrown. It's deserted this time of year, too cold for swimming, too isolated for most people to bother with. The popular months are summer, when the water sparkles and teenagers come to jump from the cliffs and drink warm beer. But now, in late October, it's abandoned. He parks near the edge, engine ticking as it cools, and for a moment you both just sit there in the quiet.
For a moment, you both just sit there, hands still linked, staring out at the gray water below. It looks cold and uninviting, the surface ruffled by wind.
"I don't know how to do this," he admits quietly, and there's vulnerability in his voice that makes you turn to face him.
You turn to look at him, really look at him. "Do what?"
"This." He gestures vaguely between you with his free hand, the movement encompassing everything—the hand holding, the charged silence, the weight of possibility. "Be… real. Without the performance."
You understand immediately. Steve has spent so long crafting the version of himself that Hawkins expects—confident, charming, effortlessly cool, King Steve in his castle of popularity—that stripping it away feels like standing naked in front of a crowd. It's vulnerability without armor, honesty without protection.
"You don't have to perform for me," you say gently, squeezing his hand. "You never have."
He swallows hard, Adam's apple bobbing. "I know. That's what scares me."
"Why?"
"Because what if the real version isn't enough?" The question comes out small, almost broken. "What if you see all of me—all the messy, complicated, fucked up parts and decide it's not worth it?"
The vulnerability in that question, the raw fear behind it, nearly breaks you.
You reach up with your free hand, cupping his face and turning him to look at you fully. His skin is warm under your palm, slightly rough where he needs to shave.
"Steve," you say firmly, holding his gaze so he can see the truth in your eyes. "The real version is the only one I've ever wanted. I've been seeing the real you for years—the one who hides behind jokes when he's nervous, who cares so deeply it terrifies him, who climbs through windows at 2 AM because he can't be alone with his thoughts. That's the version I fell for."
His eyes search yours, looking for doubt, for hesitation, for any sign that you're just saying what he wants to hear. He won't find any because you mean every word.
"I don't know how to be someone's boyfriend without trying to be perfect," he confesses, and there's shame in his voice. "With Nancy, I was always… performing. Trying to be what she needed. What I thought she wanted. And it still wasn't enough."
"Then don't be perfect," you reply, thumb brushing his cheekbone. "Just be you. The you who pretends to hate horror movies but watches them anyway because you know they're my favorite. The you who cares so much it terrifies you. The you who's sitting here right now, scared and honest and real."
He closes his eyes briefly, leaning into your touch like he's starved for it, like this kind of acceptance is foreign and precious.
"What if I mess this up?" he whispers, and you can hear the fear of losing something before he's even really had it.
"Then we'll figure it out. We'll talk about it. We'll work through it."
"What if I hurt you?"
"Then we'll talk about that too. Steve, I'm not asking you to be perfect. I'm just asking you to be honest."
He opens his eyes again, and there's something raw in his expression, something stripped bare and vulnerable. Something that looks like hope.
"I don't want to lose you," he says for the second time in twelve hours, and it sounds like a prayer.
"You won't," you promise again, and you pour every ounce of certainty you have into those two words.
This time, when he leans in, it's not to kiss your forehead or your temple. He pauses just before your lips, breath mingling with yours, giving you space to pull back, to change your mind, to reconsider. You don't. You close the distance yourself, pressing your mouth to his in a kiss that feels like coming home and starting an adventure all at once.
It's soft at first. Tentative. A question being asked and answered. His hand comes up to cradle the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair with careful reverence. Your hand slides from his face to his shoulder, gripping the fabric of his jacket like an anchor. When you part your lips slightly, he makes a small sound in the back of his throat, something between relief and wonder, and deepens the kiss.
When you finally pull back, both slightly breathless and dazed, he rests his forehead against yours. You can feel his heart racing, matching the tempo of your own.
"Okay," he murmurs, and his voice is rough.
"Okay?"
"I think I can do this. With you. I think I can try."
You smile, feeling it spread across your face like sunrise. "Good."
You stay at the quarry until the sun begins to sink lower, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink and deep purple. You talk about everything and nothing—childhood memories, future dreams, fears you've never voiced to anyone else. You kiss more, learning the shape and taste of each other, the way your bodies fit together in the front seat of his BMW. When he finally drives you home, his hand finds yours again automatically, like it belongs there, like there's no other place it should be.
He walks you to the door this time instead of dropping you at the curb, another small shift in the landscape of your relationship.
"I'll see you tomorrow?" he asks, and there's still that thread of uncertainty, like he needs reassurance that this is real.
"Yeah."
He kisses you again, quick and sweet and promising, before jogging back to his car with a lightness in his step that wasn't there this morning.
You watch him drive away, hand lifted in a wave, heart full in a way it hasn't been in years. Maybe ever.
Monday morning arrives with the weight of inevitability, like a storm you can see gathering on the horizon. You know the moment you step into school, everything will shift. Hawkins High thrives on gossip the way plants thrive on sunlight, and the dissolution of Steve and Nancy's relationship—the golden couple, the king and the rising queen will be prime material. It'll spread through the hallways like wildfire, growing and changing with each retelling.
You dress carefully, not trying to make a statement but aware that people will be watching, analyzing, judging. When you arrive at your locker, Steve is already there. Waiting. The hallway hasn't filled yet—it's early, still that quiet period before the rush but there are enough people around to notice. To see. To start talking.
He's leaning against the metal door, hands in his pockets, hair perfectly styled in that way that looks effortless but you know takes time. But when he sees you, his expression softens into something genuine, something that's just for you.
"Hey," he says, and the word carries weight.
"Hey."
He doesn't reach for you. Not yet. Not here in the harsh fluorescent light with eyes already turning your direction. But his eyes hold yours a second longer than they used to, and there's a warmth there that makes your stomach flutter.
"You okay?" he asks quietly, and you know he's really asking.
"Yeah. You?"
"Getting there." He offers a small smile. "Better now."
Tommy appears at the end of the hallway, Carol at his side like always, matching letter jackets and carefully maintained popularity. They spot Steve immediately, and you see the exact moment Tommy registers that he's standing at your locker instead of Nancy's. His eyebrows rise toward his hairline. Carol whispers something behind her hand, and you don't need to hear it to know it's about you.
Steve notices too. His jaw tightens slightly, shoulders squaring, but he doesn't move away from you. Doesn't put distance between you like you half expected him to.
"Let them talk," you murmur, keeping your voice low.
He glances at you, and something grateful flickers in his expression, softening the tension around his eyes. "Yeah?"
"Yeah."
Tommy reaches you both, smirk already in place like it's painted on, that particular expression he wears when he thinks he's about to get good gossip. "Harrington. Didn't expect to see you here."
Steve shrugs, the picture of casual indifference. "Why not?"
"Just figured after Saturday…" Tommy trails off meaningfully, eyes sliding to you with obvious curiosity. "Thought you'd be laying low. Licking your wounds. You know."
"I'm good," Steve says evenly, and there's a note of finality in his voice.
Carol leans in, voice dripping with false sympathy that barely masks her excitement at being in the center of drama. "We heard about you and Nancy. That's so sad. You guys were so perfect together."
You resist the urge to roll your eyes at the performance of it all.
Steve's expression doesn't change, doesn't give them anything to work with. "Yeah, well. Things happen. People change."
"They sure do," Tommy agrees, gaze flickering between you and Steve with barely concealed curiosity, trying to piece together a story from fragments. "So what's going on here?"
The bell rings, sharp and loud, saving you from further interrogation. Steve pushes off your locker, and for a brief moment, his hand brushes yours. Intentional. Grounding. A private reassurance in a public space.
"See you later," he says, and it sounds like a promise.
You nod, watching him walk away with Tommy and Carol flanking him like guards. He glances back once before turning the corner, and you catch the small smile he's trying to hide, the one that's just for you.
The day unfolds in a series of whispers and sidelong glances, like being watched through a microscope. By lunch, the rumors have multiplied exponentially, each version more elaborate than the last. You hear fragments as you move through the hallways, people not bothering to lower their voices much.
"…heard she dumped him at Tina's party…"
"…in front of everyone, can you imagine…"
"…completely humiliated…"
"…saw him talking to her sister this morning…"
"…that's kind of messed up, right? Dating your ex's sister?"
"…I heard they've been sneaking around for months…"
You keep your head down, focusing on getting through each class, on taking notes and answering questions when called on and pretending the weight of all those eyes isn't crushing. In English, Nancy sits two rows ahead of you like always. She doesn't turn around. Doesn't acknowledge you. But her shoulders are tense, posture rigid, and you can see the way her pencil grips the paper too hard, like she's holding onto control by her fingernails.
When the lunch bell rings, you make your way to the cafeteria with measured steps, not rushing but not dragging your feet either. The room is already buzzing with energy when you enter, that particular frequency of teenage social politics that's somewhere between a hive and a courtroom. You spot Steve immediately—it's become instinct, knowing where he is in any room. He's at his usual table, but the dynamic has shifted in subtle ways. Tommy is talking animatedly about something, hands gesturing wildly, but Steve looks distracted. His eyes scan the room methodically, and when they land on you, something in his expression eases, like he's been holding his breath.
He stands.
The table goes quiet. Conversations stutter and stop.
"Where are you going?" Carol asks, her voice sharp with surprise and something that might be concern.
Steve doesn't answer. He crosses the cafeteria with purpose, weaving between tables, ignoring the stares that follow him like spotlights. Conversations quiet in his wake, whispers rising like smoke. When he reaches you, he doesn't hesitate, doesn't second guess himself.
"Sit with me?" he asks, and it's not a demand. It's an invitation. A choice he's giving you.
It's not a demand. It's an invitation.
You glance past him at his table, at the social ecosystem he's inviting you into. At Tommy and Carol watching with barely concealed shock. At the empty space where Nancy used to sit, now conspicuous in its vacancy.
"You sure?" you ask quietly, giving him one last chance to reconsider.
"Yeah," he says, and there's no hesitation in his voice. "I'm sure."
So you follow him back across the cafeteria, aware of every eye tracking your movement. The cafeteria noise dims slightly as people register what's happening, the shift in social dynamics playing out in real time. Steve pulls out the chair beside him, the one Nancy used to occupy, and you slide into it, heart hammering.
Tommy recovers first, leaning back with a lazy grin that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Well, this is interesting."
"Shut up, Tommy," Steve says without heat, but there's a warning in it.
Carol's eyes narrow slightly as she studies you, calculating, measuring, trying to figure out where you fit in their carefully maintained hierarchy. "So, are you guys like… together now? Is this a thing?"
"We're figuring it out," Steve replies evenly, and you're grateful he doesn't make it sound casual or dismissive.
It's not a confirmation. Not a denial. Just honesty.
Tommy whistles low, the sound cutting through the tension. "Fast work, Harrington. Nancy dumps you on Saturday and by Monday you're with her sister? That's cold, man."
Steve's jaw tightens, and you feel his hand find yours under the table, hidden from view. He squeezes once, grounding himself, reminding himself why he's doing this. "It's not like that."
"Sure it's not."
You feel Steve's patience fraying, can sense the anger building beneath his careful composure. You speak up, keeping your voice quiet but firm. "It's really not. We've been friends for years. This isn't… we didn't plan this."
"Right," Carol says, tone suggesting she doesn't believe you, that she's already constructed her own narrative. "Friends."
The conversation moves on eventually, shifting to safer topics—basketball practice, upcoming tests, weekend plans but the tension lingers like smoke in the air. You eat in relative silence, hyper aware of every glance, every whisper from surrounding tables, every moment of scrutiny. Steve's thumb traces absent patterns against your palm under the table, a private reassurance in the midst of public scrutiny, and you focus on that sensation, on the warmth of his hand, on the fact that he chose this. Chose you. Despite everything.
When lunch ends, he walks you to your next class like it's the most natural thing in the world. In the hallway, away from Tommy and Carol's watchful eyes and the cafeteria's judgmental audience, he finally speaks.
"Sorry about that," he murmurs, and there's genuine regret in his voice.
"For what?"
"For… all of it. The questions. The looks. Tommy being an ass."
You shake your head, adjusting your books against your chest. "I knew what I was signing up for."
He stops walking, turning to face you fully, and students stream past on either side like water around a stone, but he doesn't seem to notice or care.
"I meant what I said," he tells you, and his voice is low, intense. "About not rushing. About doing this right. About taking our time."
"I know."
"But I also don't want to hide you," he continues, and there's determination in his eyes. "I don't want to act like you're not important to me. Like this isn't real. I did that before, with Nancy, always worried about what people thought, and it made everything worse. I don't want to make that mistake again."
The honesty in that statement, the rawness of it, undoes you.
"Okay," you whisper, throat tight with emotion.
He smiles, small and genuine, before continuing down the hallway. His hand brushes yours as he walks away, fingers trailing across your palm, a promise of more to come when there aren't dozens of eyes watching.
The rest of the week unfolds in a strange new rhythm, like learning to dance to unfamiliar music. Steve still shows up at your locker every morning without fail, but now he lingers longer, no longer rushing off to meet Nancy or maintain appearances. Now his goodbye includes a kiss pressed to your temple when he thinks no one is watching, and sometimes even when he knows they are. Now his hand finds yours in the hallways between classes, fingers lacing together for brief moments before you have to separate and head to different rooms.
You study together in the library after school, heads bent close over textbooks and notebooks, sharing whispered explanations and stolen glances. He drives you home most evenings, deliberately taking the long way so you have more time together, routes that add fifteen or twenty minutes to the drive but feel necessary, precious. He climbs through your window twice more that week, not because he's running from something or escaping some crisis, but because he wants to be near you, to talk in the darkness where honesty comes easier.
Nancy maintains her distance with careful precision. She's civil when necessary, passing you the salt at dinner without comment or asking to borrow a sweater with forced politeness, but the easy sisterhood you once shared feels fractured, like a bone that's broken and will heal but never quite the same. The comfortable intimacy of late night conversations and shared secrets has been replaced by careful courtesy and lots of space. You catch her watching sometimes, expression unreadable, and you wonder what she's thinking. If she regrets her honesty. If she resents you for stepping into the space she vacated. If she's hurting more than she's letting on.
One evening, nearly two weeks after Tina's party and everything that came after, she knocks on your bedroom door. The sound is soft, tentative, so different from her usual confident knock that you almost don't recognize it.
You're lying on your bed, phone cord stretched across the room like a lifeline, talking to Steve about nothing important—he's telling you about the movie he watched with Dustin Henderson earlier, something about aliens that the kid insisted he had to see. When you hear the knock, you sit up, surprise flickering through you.
"Can I come in?" Nancy asks through the door, and there's a vulnerability in her voice you haven't heard in weeks.
You cover the receiver with your palm. "Yeah."
She enters slowly, closing the door behind her with a soft click. She looks uncertain, younger somehow in her oversized sweater—one of Jonathan's, you realize—and bare feet. Her hair is loose around her shoulders, and she's wearing her glasses instead of contacts, which she only does when she's tired or stressed.
"I'll call you back," you tell Steve, reluctant but knowing this conversation needs to happen.
"Everything okay?" he asks immediately, concern sharpening his voice.
"Yeah. Nancy just needs to talk."
"Okay. Call me later?"
"Promise."
You hang up and gesture for Nancy to sit. She perches on the edge of your bed, hands folded carefully in her lap like she's at a job interview.
"I've been thinking," she begins carefully, words measured. "About everything. About what happened. About… all of it."
You wait, giving her space to find her words.
"I was wrong," she continues, and the admission seems to cost her something. "Not about breaking up with Steve. That was… that was the right thing. For both of us. But I was wrong about how I handled it. And I was wrong to act like you didn't have feelings. Like they didn't matter."
"Nancy—"
"Let me finish," she interrupts gently, looking up at you with eyes that are bright with emotion. "Please. I need to say this."
You nod, falling silent.
"I knew. I've always known." She takes a shaky breath. "About how you felt about Steve. I saw it years ago and I chose him anyway because I thought… I thought I could make it work. I thought if I tried hard enough, I could feel what I was supposed to feel. What everyone expected me to feel."
She looks up, and now there are tears threatening to spill, clinging to her lashes.
"But I couldn't. No matter how hard I tried, no matter how much I wanted to, I couldn't make myself love him the way he deserved to be loved. And that's not your fault. It's not his fault either. It's just… the truth. The unfortunate, messy truth."
You reach for her hand, squeezing gently, offering comfort even though you're not sure she wants it from you.
"I don't want to lose you," she whispers, and a tear finally escapes, trailing down her cheek. "You're my sister. My best friend. We've shared a room, shared clothes, shared secrets. And I know things are weird right now—they're so weird and uncomfortable and I don't know how to fix it—but I don't want this to break us. I can't lose you too."
"It won't," you promise, squeezing her hand tighter. "We'll figure it out. It might take time, and it might be awkward for a while, but we'll figure it out."
"Are you sure?"
"Yeah. We're sisters. That's not going to change."
She nods, swiping at her eyes with her free hand, trying to regain composure. "He's good for you, you know. Steve. I see it now, the way I should have seen it before. The way he looks at you… he never looked at me like that. Not really. And I think I always knew, deep down, but I didn't want to admit it."
The admission hurts and heals simultaneously, like cleaning out a wound.
"I'm sorry," you say again, because it feels necessary, even if you're not entirely sure what you're apologizing for anymore.
"Don't be." She squeezes your hand back, harder than before. "Just… be happy. Both of you. You deserve that. After everything, you both deserve to be happy."
When she leaves, closing the door softly behind her, you sit in the quiet of your room for a long moment, processing the conversation, the forgiveness offered and accepted. Then you pick up the phone and dial Steve's number, fingers moving automatically across the familiar pattern.
He answers on the first ring, like he's been waiting.
"Hey," he says, and you can hear the concern still lingering in his voice. "Everything okay?"
"Yeah," you reply, and you're surprised to find yourself smiling despite the tears threatening to spill from your own eyes now. "Everything's okay."
"Nancy?"
"We talked. Really talked. Actually said everything that needed to be said."
"And?"
"And I think we're going to be okay. Eventually. It'll take time, but… I think we'll get there."
You hear his exhale of relief, long and shaky. "Good. That's… that's really good. I'm glad."
"Yeah."
There's a comfortable pause, the kind that only exists between people who are learning to be comfortable in silence together.
"So," he says eventually, voice dropping into something softer, more playful. "What are you wearing?"
You laugh, surprised and delighted by the sudden shift. "Steve."
"What? I'm just asking. Genuinely curious."
"You're ridiculous."
"You love it though."
And the truth is, you do. You love his terrible jokes and his unexpected vulnerability and the way he's learning to be himself without the armor he's worn for so long. You love that he still climbs through your window even though he could probably just use the front door now. You love that he holds your hand in the hallways without hesitation and that he's not afraid to be seen choosing you, consequences be damned.
"Yeah," you admit quietly, settling back against your pillows. "I really do."
The line goes quiet for a moment, weighted with everything you're both still learning to say, all the feelings that are too big for words yet.
"I'm falling for you," he confesses suddenly, and the words rush out like he's been holding them in too long. "Like… really falling. Hard. And it's terrifying and amazing and I just needed you to know. I needed to say it out loud."
Your heart expands in your chest, too full for your ribs to contain, pressing against your lungs until it's hard to breathe.
"I'm already there," you whisper back, and it's the truest thing you've ever said.
And in the darkness of your room, phone pressed to your ear, blanket pulled up to your chin, you can hear him smile. You can hear the joy and relief and wonder in the sound of his breathing, in the way he laughs softly, in the comfortable silence that follows your confession.
You talk for hours, about everything and nothing, until your mother knocks on your door to tell you it's late and you need to sleep. Even then, you're reluctant to hang up, to sever this connection.
"Tomorrow," he promises.
"Tomorrow," you agree.
And when you finally hang up and curl into your pillow, you fall asleep smiling, heart full of possibility and promise, dreaming of all the tomorrows stretching out before you.
hiiii lovely! I love your work sm 🤍🤍 I was wondering if I could request a steve harrington x reader fic? something like the reader being murrays niece and appearing during the starcourt mall events. afterwards everytime steve sees her around town and at family video he becomes super shy and nervous which is so unlike him. robin always teases him for it since he is such a ‘ladies man’ then eventually leading to confessing feelings? no worries if not 🤍
Former Ladies’ Man | Steve Harrington
𝓶.𝓵𝓲𝓼𝓽 ⋆˚࿔ s3!steve harrington x bauman!reader .𖥔 ݁ omgg I actually love this idea, ty for requesting! i hope u enjoy <3
The fluorescent lights of Starcourt Mall flickered and hummed overhead as you followed your uncle Murray through the maze of service corridors, your heart hammering so violently against your ribs you thought it might bruise. Joyce Byers walked ahead of you, her shoulders rigid with tension, her movements quick and purposeful despite the fear you could see in the set of her jaw. Chief Hopper brought up the rear, his heavy footsteps echoing off the concrete walls, his hand resting on his holster in a way that made your stomach clench with dread. The narrow corridors seemed to close in around you with each step, the walls pressing closer, the air growing thicker and harder to breathe. You couldn't shake the feeling—the bone-deep certainty—that everything Murray had told you, everything that had sounded absolutely insane when he'd laid it all out in his cluttered bunker, was about to be proven horrifyingly, devastatingly true.
"Stay close," Murray muttered over his shoulder, his voice tight with anxiety, and you nodded even though he couldn't see you in the dim lighting. Your uncle had always been paranoid, conspiracy obsessed, living in that underground bunker of his surrounded by maps and newspaper clippings and red string connecting dots that no one else could see. He'd spent years being dismissed as crazy, as the family embarrassment, the uncle who showed up to holidays ranting about government cover ups and secret operations. But this time, when he'd called you in a panic at three in the morning, his voice shaking as he begged you to come to Hawkins immediately, something in his tone had been different. This time, beneath the usual paranoia and urgency, you'd heard something you'd never heard from Murray before: genuine, unadulterated terror.
The door at the end of the corridor burst open with a bang that made you jump, and suddenly you were stumbling into the harsh brightness of the food court, blinking against the fluorescent lights and the chaos unfolding before you like a scene from a nightmare. There were kids everywhere—teenagers, really, but they looked so young, their faces pale with fear and streaked with dirt and what looked disturbingly like blood. A girl with short brown hair was gesturing wildly at something you couldn't see, her words tumbling out in a frantic rush. A tall, lanky kid with dark hair and an anxious expression was trying to calm everyone down, his hands raised placatingly, though you could see his own hands were shaking.
"Murray!" A boy with wild curly hair and a baseball cap spotted your uncle first, relief flooding his features so completely that he looked like he might cry. "Thank God, we thought you weren't going to make it, we thought—"
"Where is it?" Hopper interrupted, his voice sharp and commanding, cutting through the chaos like a knife. Every head turned toward him. "Where's the gate?"
And then you saw him.
He was standing slightly apart from the group, positioned protectively between the younger kids and whatever danger lurked beyond, wearing a ridiculous sailor uniform complete with a jaunty neckerchief and a name tag that read "Steve" in cheerful red letters that seemed absurdly, almost offensively out of place given the circumstances. His hair was perfect despite everything—impossibly, inexplicably perfect, actually styled in a way that must have taken effort even though he was clearly in the middle of some kind of crisis. Even from across the food court, even through the chaos and the fear, you could see the sharp line of his jaw, the warm brown of his eyes that seemed to scan the area constantly, always watching, always protecting. He was holding a baseball bat studded with nails—an honest to God baseball bat with nails hammered through it like some kind of apocalyptic weapon which should have looked threatening or even ridiculous, but somehow just made him look fiercely protective, like he'd fight anything and everything that dared come near the kids clustered around him.
Those eyes found yours across the space between you, and something shifted in the air, something electric and undeniable that made your breath catch.
Steve Harrington had seen a lot of impossible things in the past two years. He'd fought interdimensional monsters with too many teeth and not enough regard for human life. He'd been beaten up by actual Russian soldiers in a secret underground base, which still seemed insane even having lived through it. He'd watched his entire worldview crumble and rebuild itself into something stranger and more terrifying than he'd ever imagined possible, had learned that the world was so much bigger and darker than Hawkins High School and basketball games and the petty dramas that had once seemed so important. But nothing, absolutely nothing in his experience fighting the Upside Down and its horrors had prepared him for the sight of you walking into the Starcourt food court beside Murray Bauman, looking scared and confused and so beautiful it physically hurt to look at you.
The world seemed to slow down, which was stupid and dangerous because there were literally Russian soldiers somewhere in the building and probably monsters too, and he should be focused on keeping everyone alive, on protecting the kids, on making sure Dustin and Erica and Robin made it out of this nightmare in one piece. But all he could think, all his brain could process, was that you were the most beautiful person he'd ever seen. Your hair was disheveled, falling out of whatever style you'd had it in, and your eyes were wide with fear and confusion, darting around the food court trying to make sense of everything. There was a smudge of dirt on your cheek, and your clothes were rumpled like you'd been dragged here in a hurry, but God, you were stunning. The kind of beautiful that made his chest ache and his brain short circuit, that made him forget how to form words or think coherent thoughts.
"Steve?" Robin's voice cut through his thoughts, sharp and concerned. "Steve, are you listening? This is important. Steve!"
He tore his gaze away from you with effort, feeling heat creep up his neck and spread across his cheeks. "Yeah, yeah, I'm listening. Russians. Gate. Got it."
Robin followed his line of sight, her eyes tracking across the food court until they landed on you, and her eyebrows shot up so high they nearly disappeared into her hair. "Oh no," she said, a grin spreading across her face despite the dire circumstances. "Oh, this is going to be good. This is going to be so good."
"What are you talking about?" Steve hissed, but he could feel his face getting hotter.
"You're blushing," Robin said gleefully. "Steve Harrington, former King of Hawkins High, is blushing like a middle schooler. Who is that?"
"I don't—I mean, I don't know. How would I know? I've never—" He was stammering, actually stammering, and Robin looked like Christmas had come early.
The next hour was a blur of frantic explanations and desperate planning. You learned about the Upside Down, about how it was a parallel dimension full of monsters and decay, a dark mirror of the world you knew. You learned about Eleven and her powers, about how she could move things with her mind and open gates between worlds. You learned about everything that had been happening in Hawkins while the rest of the world remained blissfully ignorant, living their normal lives with no idea that monsters were real and lurking just beneath the surface. Murray stood beside you through all of it, occasionally squeezing your shoulder as if to ground you in reality, though reality itself seemed to have become negotiable, something fluid and uncertain.
Steve kept stealing glances at you throughout the planning session. You caught him looking more than once, and each time he'd quickly look away, a flush creeping across his cheeks, his hand coming up to run through his hair in what seemed to be a nervous habit. It was endearing, actually, surprisingly endearing, the way this boy who carried himself with such casual confidence, who'd apparently been the king of his high school, seemed suddenly unsure and almost shy. Like you made him nervous in a way that Russian soldiers and monsters apparently didn't.
When Hopper finally laid out the plan—who would go where, who would do what, breaking everyone into teams with military precision, you found yourself grouped with the kids and Steve and Robin, tasked with creating a distraction on the main floor while the adults handled the more dangerous work of actually closing the gate. Steve had protested immediately and vehemently, arguing with increasing desperation that he should be the one going into danger, that he'd fought these things before, that he could help. But Hopper had shut him down with a single look, the kind of look that said the discussion was over.
"You keep them safe," Hopper had said, his voice leaving no room for argument as he gestured to the kids clustered around Steve like ducklings around their mother. And then his eyes had flickered to you, something knowing in his expression. "All of them."
Steve had nodded, his jaw tight with frustration but his resolve clear, his grip tightening on that ridiculous nail bat until his knuckles went white. You'd felt something warm and unexpected unfurl in your chest, watching him accept the responsibility without further complaint, watching him turn to the kids with determination written across his features.
The battle that followed was chaos incarnate, pure adrenaline fueled madness. You'd never been so terrified in your life, had never known that fear could be so all consuming, so physical. You'd never moved so fast or screamed so loud, your throat going raw with it. But through it all, Steve was there—pulling you out of the way when debris fell from the collapsing structure around you, his hands strong and sure on your arms, shouting your name above the noise to make sure you were okay, his voice cutting through the chaos like a lifeline, positioning himself between you and danger with an instinct that seemed bone deep, automatic, like protecting people was just something he did without thinking about it. When it was finally over, when the Mind Flayer was defeated in a way you didn't fully understand and the gate was closed once more, you'd found yourself sitting on the curb outside the burning mall, your whole body shaking with adrenaline and shock, your mind unable to fully process what you'd just experienced. Steve had sat down beside you without a word, close enough that your shoulders touched, his presence solid and grounding in a world that suddenly made no sense.
"You okay?" he'd asked, his voice rough with smoke and exhaustion, and when you'd turned to look at him, you'd seen that his face was streaked with soot and there was a cut above his eyebrow that should probably be looked at.
You'd nodded, not trusting yourself to speak without breaking down completely, and he'd smiled—a small, tired smile that made your heart skip despite everything and said, "Yeah. Me neither."
That should have been the end of it. One crazy night, one shared trauma, one impossible experience, and then you'd go back to your life in the city and he'd go back to his in Hawkins. Ships passing in the night, connected only by this one bizarre chapter in your lives. But Murray had decided to stay in Hawkins for a while, helping with the "cleanup" and the cover up, making sure all the loose ends were tied up and the story the government was spinning held together. And since your apartment lease had just ended and you were between jobs anyway, since you'd been feeling stuck and uncertain about your path forward, you'd decided to stay too. Just for a few weeks, you'd told yourself, just until things settled down and you figured out your next move. Just until you were sure Murray was okay.
Hawkins was smaller than you were used to, so much smaller than the city you'd left behind, the kind of town where everyone knew everyone else's business and strangers were noticed immediately, their presence remarked upon and discussed. You'd gotten a temporary job at the library, helping to reorganize the collection and repair damage from what the official reports called "earthquake damage," though you now knew the truth was far stranger and more sinister. You'd found a strange comfort in the quiet routine of it, in the smell of old books and the simple task of organizing shelves. Murray was staying with Joyce, the two of them spending long hours discussing things you only partially understood, strategies and contingencies and the paranoid preparations that, it turned out, weren't so paranoid after all. You'd rented a small room above the hardware store on Main Street, a tiny space with slanted ceilings and a window that looked out over the street below. It was simple, peaceful even, if you didn't think too hard about what lurked beneath the surface of this seemingly ordinary town, if you could push aside the knowledge of what you now knew existed in the shadows.
You saw Steve around town more often than you'd expected, more often than probability suggested was mere coincidence. Hawkins was small, sure, but it felt like more than chance, like the universe was conspiring to throw you together. He was at the grocery store when you were buying coffee, standing in the cereal aisle with a confused, almost comically bewildered expression as he compared two identical looking boxes, his brow furrowed in concentration. He was at the gas station when you were filling up Murray's car, fumbling with the pump at the next station over, his hands clumsy in a way that seemed unlike him. He was at the diner when you stopped in for lunch, sitting in a booth with Robin, and when you'd walked in, when the bell above the door had chimed and he'd looked up and seen you, he'd knocked over his water glass, sending ice and liquid cascading across the table in a small flood. Robin had laughed so hard she'd nearly fallen out of the booth while Steve had scrambled to clean up the mess, his face bright red.
Each time you saw him, he seemed almost startled, like he hadn't expected to run into you even though Hawkins only had so many public places. His usual easy confidence, the self assured way he'd carried himself that first night at the mall, would evaporate the moment he saw you. He'd stammer through greetings, his words getting tangled up, his cheeks flushing that endearing shade of pink. His hands would fidget with whatever he was holding—cereal boxes, the gas pump, his car keys, anything to keep them busy. It was so different from the boy you'd seen that first night, the one who'd faced down monsters with steady hands and a determined jaw, who'd protected those kids without hesitation. This Steve seemed vulnerable, uncertain, almost shy in a way that made your heart do complicated things in your chest.
"Hi," he'd said at the grocery store, then immediately dropped both cereal boxes, which bounced off his feet and rolled under the shelf. "I mean, hey. Hi. You're—you're shopping. For groceries. At the grocery store. Which is, uh, that's where you do that, so…" He'd trailed off, looking like he wanted the floor to swallow him whole.
You'd smiled, bending down to help him retrieve the runaway boxes, your fingers brushing his as you handed one back. "Looks like you are too."
"Yeah, I just—Dustin wanted me to get him this specific kind, something about the sugar content being optimal for sustained energy during their D&D sessions, but I can't remember if it was the one with the marshmallows or the one with the—anyway, it doesn't matter, you don't care about cereal." He'd run a hand through his hair, messing up that perfect style, making it stick up in odd directions. "How are you? Are you—are you staying in town? I heard you got a job at the library, which is cool, libraries are cool, books are—I'm making this worse, aren't I?"
"For a while," you'd said, answering his actual question and ignoring the adorable rambling, and his face had lit up in a way that made your stomach flip, genuine joy replacing the embarrassment. "I'm helping them reorganize after the… damage."
"That's—that's great. Really great. Not the damage part, obviously, that was bad, really bad, but you being here, that's—" He'd cleared his throat, clutching the cereal boxes like they were life preservers. "Maybe I'll see you around?"
"Maybe," you'd agreed, and he'd smiled so wide you thought your heart might burst right there in the cereal aisle of Hawkins' only grocery store.
At the gas station, he'd been even worse, more flustered and clumsy. He'd been so focused on you, so distracted by your presence, that he'd squeezed the pump handle too hard and gasoline had splashed out, getting all over his shoes and the concrete beneath his feet. He'd cursed—"Shit, shit, shit!"—and jumped back, nearly tripping over the curb in his haste to get away from the spill, his arms windmilling comically as he'd fought for balance. You'd bitten back a laugh, pressing your lips together to keep from smiling too obviously as he'd looked at you with mortified eyes, his expression that of a man who'd just humiliated himself in front of someone he desperately wanted to impress.
"Smooth," he'd muttered, more to himself than to you, shaking his head in disgust. "Real smooth, Harrington. Very cool. Very impressive."
"Happens to everyone," you'd offered kindly, even though you'd never actually seen anyone spill gas on themselves before, even though it was clearly a lie and you both knew it.
"Right. Yeah. Totally normal. Common occurrence. Happens all the time." He'd cleared his throat, straightening up and attempting to regain some dignity despite the gasoline soaking into his sneakers. "So, uh, how's the library? Is it—are you liking it? The books and the, uh, the Dewey Decimal System and all that?"
You'd been surprised he knew where you worked, pleasantly surprised that he'd apparently asked about you or paid attention to town gossip, but you tried not to let it show too obviously on your face. "It's good. Quiet. Lots of books."
"Books. Yeah. Those are—those are good. Important. Very… wordy." He'd nodded like he'd said something profound, and you'd had to look away to hide your smile, had to press your lips together to keep from laughing at how ridiculous and endearing he was being.
Steve Harrington was losing his mind, and Robin was enjoying every single second of it with the glee of someone watching their best friend spiral.
"You're a disaster," she said, sprawled across his couch in the Harrington living room while he paced back and forth like a caged animal, wearing a path in the carpet. "An absolute disaster. A trainwreck. A catastrophe of epic proportions. You've talked to hundreds of girls, Steve. Hundreds. You had a different date every weekend for like two years of high school. You were the king, remember? King Steve, who could get any girl in school with just a smile and some hair product. And now you can't even form complete sentences around Murray's niece? You spilled gasoline on yourself. Gasoline, Steve!"
"I can form sentences," Steve protested weakly, but even he knew it was a pathetic defense, knew he was lying to both of them. "I just—I don't know what's wrong with me. My brain stops working when she's around. She looks at me and I forget how to be a person."
"You like her," Robin said, like it was the simplest thing in the world, like she was commenting on the weather. "You actually, genuinely like her, and it's freaking you out because you're not used to it meaning something. You're not used to caring whether someone likes you back."
Steve stopped pacing and stared at his best friend, his expression somewhere between offended and thoughtful. "That's not—I've liked girls before. Lots of girls. I dated Nancy for over a year, remember? I cared about her."
"Have you though?" Robin sat up, her expression softening with understanding, with the kind of gentle honesty that only best friends can offer. "Or did you just like the idea of them? The way they looked at you, the way they made you feel about yourself, the validation they provided? This is different, Steve. I can see it. Anyone can see it. You look at her like she's the only person in the room, like she's the sun and you're just orbiting around her, and it scares you because what if she doesn't look back? What if this time, being Steve Harrington isn't enough?"
He sank onto the couch beside her, dropping his head into his hands with a groan, his fingers digging into his scalp. "When did you get so wise? When did you become the person who understands my feelings better than I do?"
"I've always been wise. You just never listened before. You were too busy being 'The Hair' and dating girls who didn't actually know you." She bumped her shoulder against his affectionately. "For what it's worth, I think she likes you too. I've seen the way she smiles when you make a fool of yourself. It's not pity—it's fondness. It's the smile of someone who thinks you're adorable when you're flustered."
"Great," Steve mumbled into his hands. "She thinks I'm adorable. Like a puppy. That's exactly what every guy wants."
"It's a start," Robin said cheerfully, ignoring his sulking. "And it's better than King Steve, trust me. That guy was kind of an asshole. This version of you? The one who gets nervous and knocks over water glasses? He's much better. He's real."
The next time you saw Steve was at a gathering at Joyce's house, about a week after the gas station incident. Murray had insisted you come, had practically dragged you there himself, saying something about how you were part of the group now, whether you liked it or not, and how these people needed to stick together. The house was crowded with people despite its small size—Joyce and Hopper, who were clearly together now even if they weren't explicitly saying it, their body language speaking volumes. Jonathan and Nancy, who kept exchanging loaded glances that suggested they were having entire conversations without words, the kids, who were sprawled across the living room floor arguing loudly about something involving dice and dragons and a character named Vecna, and Steve and Robin, who were standing in the kitchen helping Joyce with food preparation.
Steve saw you the moment you walked in, the moment the front door opened and Murray ushered you inside. You watched his eyes widen, watched his whole body straighten up like he'd been shocked, watched him immediately knock into the counter behind him, his hip colliding with the edge hard enough that it had to hurt. Robin said something you couldn't hear from across the room, something that made Steve's face go bright red, and you felt your own cheeks warm in response.
"You made it," Murray said, appearing at your elbow with a glass of wine that looked suspiciously like it wasn't his first. "Good. These people need more normal influences. Too much trauma, not enough regular human interaction."
"Uncle Murray, I don't think anyone here qualifies as normal anymore. Including us. We literally fought Russian soldiers and extradimensional monsters."
He grinned, his eyes twinkling with something that might have been pride. "Fair point. Go mingle. Try the dip—Joyce made it and it's surprisingly edible, though don't tell her I said 'surprisingly.'"
You made your way through the house, saying hello to everyone, marveling at how this strange collection of people—different ages, different backgrounds, thrown together by impossible circumstances had become something like a family. Dustin launched into an enthusiastic explanation of some scientific concept involving electromagnetic fields and dimensional barriers, his hands waving expressively as he talked, and you nodded along even though you couldn't quite follow all of it. Lucas and Max argued about something that had happened at the arcade earlier that day, their bickering affectionate rather than hostile. El sat quietly beside Hopper, a small, peaceful smile on her face as she watched everyone interact, and you were struck by how young she looked, how young they all looked to have been through so much, to carry such heavy knowledge.
"Hey." Steve's voice came from behind you, and you turned to find him holding two cups of punch, one extended toward you. "I thought you might want something to drink. It's not alcoholic or anything—there are kids here, obviously, and Joyce is very firm about the no alcohol around minors rule but it's good. Well, it's okay. It's mostly just juice and ginger ale and—I'm doing it again, aren't I?"
You took the cup, your fingers brushing his, and smiled up at him. "Doing what?"
"Rambling. Robin says I ramble when I'm nervous. Actually, she says I ramble when I'm nervous around you specifically, which is—" He winced, realizing what he'd just admitted. "And now I've told you I'm nervous, which is probably not the cool thing to do. Very unKing Steve of me."
"I don't mind," you said softly, meaning it completely. "I think it's sweet. I think you're sweet."
Steve looked at you like you'd just told him something profound and life-changing, his eyes searching your face like he was trying to memorize every detail. "Yeah?"
"Yeah."
"Steve!" Dustin's voice shattered the moment like glass breaking. "Steve, come here, you have to settle this argument about—"
"Can it wait?" Steve called back without taking his eyes off you, his tone suggesting he really, really didn't want to leave this conversation.
"No! It's important! It's about the statistical probability of—"
Steve sighed deeply, his shoulders slumping in defeat, and you laughed at his obvious reluctance. "Go," you said, gesturing toward where the kids were gathered. "Settle the important argument about statistical probability."
"Will you still be here when I get back?" he asked, and there was something vulnerable in the question, something that suggested he was afraid you might disappear if he looked away.
"I'm not going anywhere," you promised.
His smile was like sunrise, warm and bright and full of promise, transforming his whole face. "Okay. Good. Don't move. Seriously, just—stand right here. Don't even shift your weight."
You watched him walk away, watched him get immediately absorbed into the chaos of teenage debate, Dustin's hands waving animatedly while Mike and Lucas chimed in with their own opinions. Steve listened patiently, asking questions, playing referee, and you felt Robin slide up beside you like a ghost, appearing at your elbow so silently you jumped.
"He's not usually like this, you know," she said conversationally, sipping her own cup of punch. "The stammering, the nervousness, the knocking things over and spilling gasoline on himself. Usually he's all hair and charm and terrible pickup lines that somehow actually worked in high school."
"I've heard about the pickup lines," you admitted, grateful for the chance to talk to someone about this confusing situation. "Murray mentioned them. He seemed to find them hilarious."
Robin laughed, a genuine sound full of affection. "They were pretty bad. 'Did it hurt when you fell from heaven?' levels of bad. 'Are you a parking ticket? Because you've got fine written all over you' type stuff. But here's the thing—those lines? They were never real. They were Steve performing the role of Steve Harrington, ladies' man, king of Hawkins High, the guy who was supposed to be smooth and confident and never show weakness. This?" She gestured to where Steve was animatedly explaining something to Dustin, his face lit up with genuine enthusiasm, completely unselfconscious in his passion for whatever point he was making. "This is real Steve. The one who drives kids around like he's their mom, who keeps that nail bat in his trunk just in case something crawls out of the Upside Down again, who can't talk to you without tripping over his own tongue because he actually cares what you think of him. Because your opinion matters in a way that none of those high school girls' opinions ever did."
Your chest felt tight, your heart beating too fast. "Robin—"
"I'm not telling you what to do," she interrupted gently, her expression serious now, sincere. "I'm not trying to pressure you or make you feel obligated or anything like that. I'm just telling you that my best friend is falling for you—has already fallen for you, honestly he's terrified, and maybe you should know that before you decide what to do about it. He's been hurt before, and he acts like it doesn't matter, but it does. So if you're not interested, if you're just being nice, it's better to know now."
She walked away before you could respond, leaving you standing there with your cup of punch and a heart that was beating far too fast, your mind racing with implications and possibilities.
The evening wore on, and you found yourself drawn into the warmth of this strange, makeshift family, this group of people who'd been through hell together and come out stronger for it. Joyce told you stories about her boys, about Jonathan's photography and Will's art, her eyes soft with fierce maternal love. Hopper grumbled good-naturedly about paperwork and government cover ups and how he was too old for this shit, but he couldn't hide his smile when El laughed at something Max said, couldn't hide the way his whole face softened when he looked at Joyce. Nancy asked about your life before Hawkins, genuinely interested, and you found yourself telling her about your job in the city, your apartment that never quite felt like home, the normal life that seemed so far away now, almost like it had happened to someone else.
And through it all, you were aware of Steve. He was always somewhere in your peripheral vision, looking after the kids with practiced ease, joking with Robin, helping Joyce carry things from the kitchen. Every so often, your eyes would meet across the room, and he'd smile—that soft, genuine smile that seemed reserved just for you, the one that made you feel like you were the only person in the world who mattered.
As the night wound down and people started to leave, parents collecting sleepy children and Murray getting into an animated discussion with Hopper about some conspiracy theory or another, you found yourself helping clean up. Joyce protested that you were a guest and shouldn't be working, but you insisted, carrying plates and cups to the kitchen while she halfheartedly tried to shoo you away. Steve was at the sink, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows as he washed dishes, soap bubbles clinging to his forearms, and you set your stack down beside him.
"You don't have to help," he said, but he looked pleased that you were there, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Seriously, you should be relaxing. You're a guest."
"I want to." You picked up a dish towel and started drying the clean plates he was setting on the rack. "Besides, many hands make light work, right? That's what my mom always said."
You fell into an easy rhythm, working side by side in comfortable silence broken only by the clink of dishes and the running water. It felt domestic, natural, like you'd done this a thousand times before instead of it being the first. Steve handed you a plate and your fingers touched, lingering longer than necessary, and neither of you pulled away as quickly as you should have. The kitchen felt warm, intimate, like you were existing in your own little bubble separate from the rest of the world.
"Can I ask you something?" Steve said suddenly, his voice quiet and hesitant. He'd stopped washing, his hands still in the soapy water, his eyes fixed on the sink. "And you can totally say no, or tell me to mind my own business, or—"
"Steve," you interrupted gently, setting down the towel and turning to face him fully. "Just ask."
He took a deep breath, his hands finally emerging from the water, dripping suds onto the floor that neither of you noticed. "Why did you stay? In Hawkins, I mean. Murray said you were just supposed to visit for a few days, help him with something, but it's been weeks now. Almost a month. Why are you still here?"
You considered the question carefully, considered all the easy answers you could give, the safe responses that wouldn't reveal too much. The job at the library, the cheap rent on your tiny room, the desire to help your uncle after everything that had happened. All of those things were true, genuinely true, but they weren't the whole truth. They weren't the real reason you kept extending your stay, kept telling yourself "just one more week" every time you thought about leaving.
"I don't know," you said finally, then corrected yourself. "No, that's not true. I do know, I'm just scared to say it out loud. At first, it was just supposed to be temporary, just until Murray didn't need me anymore. But then I started to like it here. The town, the people, the way everyone looks out for each other even though they don't talk about it. It feels like—like I'm part of something, you know? Like I matter, like my presence makes a difference. I never felt that way in the city. I was just another person in another apartment, going to another job, living another unremarkable life."
"You do matter," Steve said immediately, turning to face you fully, his wet hands dripping forgotten onto the kitchen floor. His voice was intense, fervent, like he needed you to believe him. "You matter a lot. To everyone here. To Murray, obviously, but also to Joyce and Hopper and the kids. To Robin. To—to me."
Your breath caught in your throat. "Steve—"
"I know I'm not good at this," he continued, the words tumbling out like he'd been holding them back for too long, like a dam finally breaking. "I know I get all weird and awkward around you, and I can't seem to say the right thing, and I'm probably making a complete idiot of myself right now. I spilled gasoline on my shoes because I was looking at you instead of watching what I was doing. I knocked over an entire glass of water in front of everyone because you walked into the diner. But I can't—I can't keep pretending I don't feel this way. Every time I see you, it's like everything else just disappears. The Upside Down, the monsters, the nightmares I still have about what happened—none of it matters when you're around. You're all I can think about, and it's driving me crazy because I don't know what to do about it. I'm not King Steve anymore. I'm just… me. And I don't know if that's enough."
You set down the dish towel with shaking hands, your heart pounding so hard you could hear it in your ears. The kitchen was quiet except for the sound of your breathing, the distant murmur of voices from the living room where the others were still talking. Steve stood before you, vulnerable and hopeful and so achingly sincere that you felt something crack open in your chest, something that had been locked away and protected finally breaking free.
"What do you want to do about it?" you whispered, because your voice wouldn't go any louder, because you were afraid that speaking too loudly might break whatever spell had been cast over this moment.
He stepped closer, his eyes searching yours with desperate intensity, close enough now that you could see the flecks of gold in his brown eyes, could see the faint scar above his eyebrow that was still healing. "I want to take you on a date. A real date, not just running into you at the grocery store or making an idiot of myself at the gas station. I want to take you to dinner, or a movie, or anywhere you want to go. I want to get to know you—really know you. What you like, what you dream about, what makes you laugh, what keeps you up at night. I want to know your favorite color and your least favorite food and what you wanted to be when you were a kid. I want—" He stopped, swallowing hard, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides like he didn't know what to do with them. "I want a chance. If you'll give me one. I know I'm a mess, and I know I'm not what I used to be, but I'm trying to be better. I'm trying to be someone worth knowing."
The kitchen was quiet except for the sound of your heartbeat in your ears, the blood rushing through your veins. Steve stood before you, vulnerable and hopeful and so achingly sincere that you felt something crack open in your chest, felt every wall you'd built around your heart crumbling to dust.
"I stayed because of you," you whispered, the admission falling from your lips before you could stop it. "I told myself it was for other reasons, made up excuses about the job and Murray and wanting to be useful, but really, it was because I couldn't stand the thought of leaving and never seeing you again. Every time I ran into you around town, every time you got all flustered and sweet and knocked things over, I liked you more. I kept hoping you'd actually ask me out instead of just stammering through conversations in the cereal aisle. I kept finding excuses to go places where I thought you might be, kept hoping for another 'coincidence.'"
Steve's face transformed, hope blooming into joy so pure it was almost painful to witness. "Really? You're not just saying that because I made some pathetic confession and you feel bad for me?"
"Really." You reached out and took his hand, lacing your fingers through his, marveling at how perfectly they fit together, like your hands had been made to hold each other. "So yes, Steve Harrington. I'll go on a date with you. I'll go on as many dates as you want. I'll go on dates until we're both sick of dating and have to find something else to do."
He laughed, the sound bright and disbelieving and full of relief, and then he was pulling you closer, his free hand coming up to cup your cheek with surprising gentleness. "Can I kiss you?" he asked, his voice rough with emotion. "I've been wanting to kiss you since the moment I saw you walk into that food court, and I know this is probably too fast, I know we haven't even been on a date yet, but—"
You answered by closing the distance between you, pressing your lips to his in a kiss that felt like coming home, like finding something you hadn't known you were searching for. He made a soft sound of surprise and then he was kissing you back with desperate enthusiasm, his hand sliding into your hair, his other arm wrapping around your waist to pull you flush against him like he was afraid you might disappear if he didn't hold on tight enough. He kissed you like you were precious, like you were everything he'd been waiting for, and you felt yourself melting into him, your hands fisting in his shirt to keep yourself steady, to keep yourself grounded in this moment that felt too perfect to be real.
When you finally pulled apart, both breathless and slightly dazed, Steve was grinning like he'd won the lottery, like Christmas had come early, like every good thing had happened to him all at once.
"Wow," he said eloquently. "That was—wow. I mean—just—wow."
You laughed, feeling giddy and light and happier than you'd felt in longer than you could remember. "Very eloquent. Real smooth, Harrington."
"You scramble my brain," he said, pressing his forehead to yours, his eyes closed like he was savoring the moment. "I can't think straight when you're around. Robin says it's because I actually like you, like really like you, and it scares me because I don't want to screw this up. I don't want to be the guy who ruins everything good that comes into his life."
"You won't," you promised, meaning it with everything in you. "We'll figure it out together. We'll take it slow if you want, or fast if that feels right. We'll make mistakes and fix them. But we'll do it together, okay?"
"Together," he repeated, like he was testing out the word, like he was trying to believe it could be true. "I really, really like the sound of that."
From the doorway came a loud, exaggerated cough that made you both jump apart like teenagers caught by their parents. You and Steve sprang apart to find Robin standing there with the biggest, most self satisfied grin you'd ever seen plastered across her face.
"Finally," she said, drawing out the word. "Do you know how painful it's been watching you two dance around each other for weeks? Weeks, Steve! I was about to lock you in a closet until you figured it out. I was drawing up plans. I had a whole strategy."
"How long have you been standing there?" Steve demanded, his face bright red, his hand still holding yours like he was afraid to let go.
"Long enough." She winked at you, her expression delighted. "He's a good kisser, right? He better be, with all that practice he had in high school with half the female student population."
"Robin!" Steve groaned, but he was smiling, unable to hide his happiness even as he pretended to be embarrassed by her teasing, his hand still holding yours.
"I'm just saying, all those girls, all those terrible pickup lines, all that King Steve nonsense, and you finally find the one person who makes you forget how to form sentences. It's poetic, really. Beautiful. I should write a sonnet about it." She grabbed her jacket from the back of a chair. "I'm heading out. You two kids have fun, but not too much fun—Joyce is still in the next room and she has very good hearing."
She left with a wave and a laugh, and you and Steve looked at each other and burst out laughing, the tension breaking into something warm and comfortable.
"She's never going to let me live this down," Steve said, shaking his head but still grinning. "Never. She's going to bring this up at my wedding."
"Your wedding?" you teased, raising an eyebrow. "We haven't even been on our first date yet and you're already planning a wedding?"
His face went even redder. "I didn't—I wasn't—I just meant hypothetically, in the future, if there was ever—you know what, I'm going to stop talking now before I make this worse."
"Don't stop," you said, pulling him closer again. "I like when you ramble. But she's right about one thing."
His eyes darkened with interest. "Yeah? What's that?"
"About the kissing thing. You're very good at it." You smiled up at him. "But maybe you should kiss me again, just so I can be sure. You know, for consistency."
"For consistency," he echoed, his voice dropping an octave. "Yeah, that makes sense. Very logical. Very scientific. We should probably test it multiple times, actually, just to be thorough."
"Multiple times," you agreed. "For science."
And then his lips were on yours again, and the dishes were forgotten, the cleaning abandoned, and nothing existed except the two of you in Joyce Byers' kitchen, finally, finally finding each other after weeks of awkward encounters and stolen glances and hearts that beat too fast.
Later, much later, when the kitchen was finally cleaned and everyone had left or gone to bed, Steve drove you home through the quiet streets of Hawkins. The town was dark and peaceful, no signs of the horrors that lurked beneath its surface. He held your hand the entire drive, his thumb tracing gentle circles on the back of your hand, occasionally lifting it to press a kiss to your knuckles when he stopped at red lights.
He walked you to your door like a gentleman, climbing the stairs to your room above the hardware store, and when you reached your door, he kissed you goodnight under the dim hallway light. It was soft and sweet and full of promise, full of all the dates to come and all the conversations you'd have and all the moments you'd share.
"So," he said, his thumb tracing your lower lip gently, his eyes dark and warm. "Dinner tomorrow? There's this Italian place in the next town over that's supposed to be really good. They have candles on the tables and everything. Or we could do a movie, or mini golf, or literally anything you want. I'm not picky. I just want to spend time with you. We could sit in a parking lot and count cars and I'd be happy as long as you were there."
"Dinner sounds perfect," you said, your heart feeling too big for your chest, like it might burst with happiness. "Very romantic. Very official first date."
"Yeah? Okay. Great. Amazing." He was grinning again, unable to contain his joy. "I'll pick you up at seven? Is seven okay? We could do earlier, or later, whatever works for you. Or six thirty. Or seven thirty. Really, any time that ends in a number is fine with me."
You kissed him again, just because you could, because you wanted to, because the ability to do so felt like a gift. "Seven is perfect."
You watched him walk back to his car, watched him turn and wave enthusiastically before getting in, watched him sit there for a long moment with the biggest smile on his face before starting the engine. He gave you one more wave before driving away, and you stood there in the hallway long after his taillights had disappeared, just trying to process the fact that this was real, this was happening, Steve Harrington liked you and wanted to take you on dates and had kissed you like you were the most precious thing in the world.
You'd come to Hawkins expecting danger and monsters and things that went bump in the night, expecting to help your paranoid uncle with whatever conspiracy had finally turned out to be real. You'd found all of that, sure. The Upside Down was real, monsters were real, Russian soldiers and secret bases and government cover ups were all horrifyingly real. But you'd also found something else, something you hadn't been looking for but desperately needed, something that made all the terror and confusion worthwhile.
You'd found Steve Harrington, with his perfect hair and his terrible pickup lines that he never used on you because you made him too nervous to be smooth. With his fierce protectiveness and his soft heart that had been bruised and battered but still remained open, still remained hopeful. You'd found a boy who fought monsters with a nail bat and drove kids around like a soccer mom and got so nervous around you that he forgot how to speak, who looked at you like you were the answer to every question he'd ever asked.
And somehow, impossibly, miraculously, he'd found you too.
Inside your small room above the hardware store, you got ready for bed with a smile you couldn't wipe off your face no matter how hard you tried. Tomorrow there would be a date, a real date with candles and Italian food and Steve in something other than a sailor uniform or jeans. And the day after that there would be another one, and then more days stretching out before you like a promise, like a future you were suddenly excited to step into. There would be challenges, certainly—there always were in Hawkins, a town built on top of darkness and secrets. But you'd face them together, you and Steve and this strange, wonderful family you'd stumbled into.
You fell asleep thinking about brown eyes and gentle hands and the way Steve had looked at you like you were the answer to a question he'd been asking his whole life, like you were the missing piece he hadn't known he was looking for. And in the morning, you'd wake up in Hawkins, Indiana, in this small town with its dark secrets and its fierce hearts, and you'd know with absolute certainty that you were exactly where you were supposed to be. Because sometimes the best things in life are the ones you never see coming, the ones that blindside you when you're looking the other way. Sometimes you have to walk through fire and face down monsters and watch the world turn inside out to find the person who makes you feel like home. And sometimes, if you're very lucky, very blessed, that person is a boy in a sailor uniform with a nail bat and a heart big enough to hold the whole world, big enough to hold all your hopes and dreams and fears. Sometimes, that person is Steve Harrington, with his dorky smile and his nervous rambling and his absolute inability to be cool around you no matter how hard he tries. And sometimes, if the universe is kind, he looks at you the way Steve looked at you in Joyce Byers' kitchen—like you're magic, like you're everything, like he's been waiting his whole life for you to walk through the door and turn his world upside down in the best possible way. You'd come to Hawkins for your uncle, because Murray had called you in a panic and you'd never been able to say no to family, even when they were asking you to believe in impossible things, but you'd stayed for Steve, for the way he made you feel, for the promise of something real and true and worth fighting for.
You don’t even try to be funny, which is probably the most offensive part to Steve Harrington. He’s seen funny. He’s friends with Robin Buckley, for God’s sake—weaponized sarcasm in human form. He’s survived Dustin Henderson’s dramatic retellings of literally anything. He knows what a joke looks like when it’s trying. But you? You’ll just be sitting there on the hood of his BMW outside Family video, legs swinging, heel tapping absently against the bumper like you own it, sunlight catching on your shoelaces and the little crease between your eyebrows when you’re thinking too hard about something that absolutely does not deserve that level of thought. And then you’ll say something so painfully dumb—so objectively unremarkable—that he chokes on his own spit laughing like you just delivered the tightest stand up set of the century.
It’s never the joke itself. It’s the way you say it. Completely serious. Like you’re presenting peer reviewed research. Like the fate of Hawkins hinges on whether or not the Demogorgon could be accurately described as a “weirdly aggressive overcooked lasagna.” You even gesture a little, outlining an invisible pan in the air, nodding thoughtfully as if you’re waiting for applause. Steve will stare at you for half a second, brain short circuiting as he tries to figure out if you’re kidding. Because you don’t look like you’re kidding. You look deeply invested. And then it hits him. The image. The sincerity. The absolute stupidity of it. And he’s gone.
Head thrown back. Hand on his chest. That loud, unfiltered laugh that starts as a bark and dissolves into something breathless and helpless. The kind of laugh he used to suppress in high school because it wasn’t cool, because King Steve didn’t double over in public. But this Steve? The one who’s been through Russian secret bases under Starcourt Mall, who’s gotten his ass handed to him by things with too many teeth, who’s realized popularity is a joke? This Steve laughs like he doesn’t care who’s watching. People in the parking lot glance over. Robin pauses mid rant about movie late fees and just sighs. Because there it is again.
You blink at him like he’s malfunctioning.
“It wasn’t that funny.” You sound almost concerned.
And he tries—he really tries to get it together. He wipes at his eyes, still grinning, still looking at you like you’ve personally brightened the entire miserable Midwest sky.
“No, no, it was,” he insists, voice cracking a little from laughing too hard.
“You’re insane. That was genius.”
And you roll your eyes, muttering something about his standards being in hell, but there’s a tiny smile tugging at your mouth because he’s looking at you like that again. Like you hung the moon. Like you could say anything and he’d treasure it.
It’s worse after everything that happened at Starcourt. After the battle and the smoke and the realization that the world can almost end and still expect you to show up to work the next week. You’ll be behind the counter with him and Robin, the neon lights humming overhead, and you’ll casually mention that if the Mind Flayer had possessed you, at least you’d finally have an excuse for your bad handwriting. And Steve, who still has nightmares about that night, about Billy’s face, about the heat of the mall burning, he just bursts out laughing. It catches him off guard every time. How easy you make it. How you can take something that nearly broke them and twist it into something light. He watches you while he laughs, like he’s studying the mechanics of it. Like he’s trying to understand how you do that. How you make things feel survivable.
He thinks about it more than he should. About the way you never treat him like he’s fragile, even though you know he’s been through hell. You tease him about getting knocked out again. You call him “designated concussion victim.” And instead of feeling embarrassed, instead of feeling like the screw up who couldn’t protect anyone properly, he just laughs. Because when you say it, there’s no judgment. Just affection. Just that glint in your eye that says you trust him anyway.
Sometimes it’s quieter. Like when you’re all crammed in the Wheeler basement and Dustin is rambling about Cerebro, and you lean over and whisper that if you had superpowers, you’d use them exclusively to slightly inconvenience people who chew too loud. Steve snorts before he can stop himself.
Dustin pauses mid sentence, offended. “What?”
And Steve just shakes his head, still smiling at you, because you’re biting your lip trying not to laugh at your own joke. He shouldn’t find it that funny. It’s barely a joke. But it’s you. It’s the way you glance at him first, like you already know he’ll get it.
And Steve just shakes his head, still smiling at you, because you’re biting your lip trying not to laugh at your own joke. He shouldn’t find it that funny. It’s barely a joke. But it’s you. It’s the way you glance at him first, like you already know he’ll get it.
And that’s the thing that gets him. You look at him first. Like you expect him to understand. Like you’re sharing something with him specifically. He’s not used to being someone’s first look. Not after Nancy. Not after realizing he was always a little out of sync with the people he thought he was supposed to impress. But with you, there’s no performance. You say something ridiculous and your eyes flick to him, waiting. And he delivers. Every time. Laughing too loud, too hard, too much.
He knows it’s obvious. He’s not stupid. He’s seen the way Robin watches him when you’re around, her expression hovering between fond and exasperated. He can practically hear her internal commentary. He tries to tone it down sometimes. He really does. He’ll press his lips together, determined not to react when you compare Vecna to “a dramatic theater kid who took method acting too far.” He’ll hold it in for exactly three seconds before he’s wheezing into his hand, shoulders shaking. You beam at him like you’ve accomplished something monumental. And he feels it then—that warm, blooming thing in his chest that has nothing to do with humor and everything to do with you.
Because the truth he doesn’t say out loud, the truth he barely lets himself think, is that it’s not just that you’re funny. It’s that you make him feel lighter than he’s felt in years. Like he’s allowed to be soft. Allowed to be ridiculous. Allowed to laugh without checking who’s watching. You sit on the hood of his car, declaring monsters to be sentient pasta dishes, and he laughs like it’s the best thing he’s ever heard. And somewhere between the punchline and the way you grin at him, he realizes he’d listen to you say absolutely anything, forever, if it meant he got to feel like this.
summary: You and Steve crash on the couch after a long night of babysitting the kids, and when you wake up, the two of you are cuddled up together.
word count: 10.1k+
pairing: steve harrington x fem!reader
notes: friends to lovers that don't even realize they're in love with each other because they're idiots???? yes please i'll take ten
warnings/tags: no use of y/n, friends to lovers, oblivious idiots, fluff, unintentional cuddling, thunderstorm, the kids are done with you and steve, robin trying to meddle, uhhhh idk what else
The Wheeler living room is already loud by the time you and Steve step through the door, the kind of loud that rattles the picture frames and probably traumatizes the furniture. Will and Eleven sit cross-legged on the floor sorting pieces, Mike and Lucas are arguing over the rule book, Max lounges sideways in an armchair like she owns the place, and Dustin—Dustin is the one who spots you first, eyes bright with relief because backup has arrived. He practically launches himself across the carpet. “Finally! Reinforcements! Do you know how long I’ve been trying to stop them from killing each other? Mike insists the rules don’t apply to him—”
“That’s not what I said!” Mike shoots back from the floor without looking up. “I said they don’t apply in this version.”
“That’s even worse,” Lucas mutters, flipping a game card toward him.
Steve nudges your shoulder with his, a soft laugh slipping out. “You sure we signed up for this voluntarily?”
Dustin answers for you both. “Yes. Absolutely. Because you love me.” He wags his eyebrows with a confidence that deserves its own award.
Steve groans but ruffles Dustin’s curls anyway. “Yeah, yeah. Just don’t start any fires.”
You follow the chaos toward the couch, thinking you might sit at one end while Steve stays somewhere in the middle. The kids, however, have other plans. Eleven immediately takes the armchair beside Max and pats the cushion pointedly as if to say, these seats are taken, adult or not. Will sits closer to the coffee table, lost in arranging tiny tokens, and Dustin drops straight into the last open chair like he’s claiming territory.
That leaves the single space on the couch, a narrow sliver between two throw pillows. Steve glances at it, then at you, then back at it. “Guess we’re getting cozy,” he says under his breath, trying for casual but landing somewhere near hesitant.
You sit first, tucking your legs to one side to make room. Steve squeezes in beside you, his knee brushing yours, warm even through denim. The couch dips under his weight, pulling you closer than you meant to be, but the moment feels harmless—comfortable, even. The kids’ bickering rises again, filling the room with a familiar, buzzing energy that makes the closeness feel almost necessary, like the two of you are sharing the last quiet corner in a storm.
Mike slams the rule book shut. “We’re just going to play it how we played last time.”
Max rolls her eyes. “Last time you cried.”
“I did not cry,” he snaps, cheeks reddening.
“You absolutely cried,” Lucas insists. “You—”
You let your head fall lightly against the back of the couch, exhaustion settling through you like sand. Steve notices immediately. “You okay?” he murmurs.
“Just tired,” you admit, half-smiling. “Didn’t know babysitting involved this much diplomacy.”
“Diplomacy?” Steve scoffs. “These gremlins haven't known peace since third grade.”
Their argument grows more animated, and the low warmth in the room lulls your brain into a haze. You feel yourself drifting, not fully asleep but hovering right beneath it. The kids fade into background noise, their voices blending with the lamp hum and the whisper of cards shuffling.
That’s when you feel it—light pressure over your shoulders, the soft weight of a blanket being eased around you. The movement is gentle, almost instinctive. Steve doesn’t make a show of it; he doesn’t even look at you while he tucks the corner behind your arm. He just settles back beside you, close enough that his shoulder brushes yours again.
The warmth mixes with your drowsiness, and you lean just a little into his side without thinking. He doesn’t move away. You’re not sure how long the peaceful moment lasts, because a sudden knock at the front door jolts the entire room. Mike groans. “If that’s another pizza flyer—”
But it isn’t a flyer. A familiar voice calls out, “your favorite coworker is here to liberate you!”
Robin strides into the living room like she lives there, hands on her hips, eyebrows already raised. She takes in the scene—Dustin mid-rant, Max smothering a grin, Eleven’s serious concentration, Steve tucked against you under a shared blanket—and something playful sparks behind her eyes.
She doesn’t comment. Not out loud. But she absolutely smirks, slow and knowing, like she’s mentally taking notes for future teasing ammunition. Steve stiffens at her expression, shooting her a warning look that only makes her smirk widen. Robin plops onto the floor beside Eleven. “So. Who’s winning?”
“No one,” Will sighs softly. “We haven’t even started.”
“That’s because someone won’t read the rules correctly,” Dustin says pointedly.
Mike glares. “Everybody shut up and let me—”
Their voices climb again, and Robin leans back on her hands, glancing between you and Steve with the quiet satisfaction of someone who just walked into a scene she fully intended to gossip about later.
Steve shifts slightly, adjusting the blanket so it covers both of you more evenly, pretending not to notice his best friend’s smug stare. His arm brushes yours again, warm and steady. You can feel him fighting the urge to explain himself—explain the blanket, explain the closeness—but Robin doesn’t ask. She doesn’t need to.
You settle deeper into the cushion, the room bright with noise and energy, and Steve’s presence at your side grounding you in a way you don’t question. Not yet.
By the time the last game piece clatters into its box, the kids have moved past the argument stage and straight into the collapse phase. Max is the first to fold, grabbing a pillow from the couch arm and dropping onto a sleeping bag like she’s been waiting hours for gravity to win. Mike mutters something about unfair rules before he flops down beside Will, whose eyes are already half-closed. Lucas arranges his blanket with unnecessary precision, as if he’s preparing for a military inspection. Eleven curls up beside him, and Dustin, in true Dustin fashion, declares he isn’t tired a single second before he faceplants into his pillow.
The room finally settles into something quieter, soft breaths replacing chaotic chatter. Empty cups sit on the coffee table. The lamp glows low. The chicken-shaped kitchen clock ticks faintly in the background. For the first time all night, you and Steve aren’t being pulled in ten different directions.
You stretch your legs out on the couch, your back sinking into the cushions. Steve slumps beside you, shoulders dropping, head falling back as he exhales a long, weary breath that sounds suspiciously like relief. His knee bumps your thigh again, though this time he doesn’t bother to shift away. You feel the warmth of him, steady and familiar in a way you didn’t expect. “You think they’ll actually stay asleep?” he asks quietly, voice rough with exhaustion.
“They better,” you murmur. “If I hear one more debate about whether Mike was cheating—”
“He was cheating.”
“You can’t cheat a game that doesn’t have real rules.”
Steve snorts a tired laugh, head tipping toward you. The sound pulls a smile from you before you can stop it.
For a while neither of you speaks. There’s no reason to. The silence feels earned, warm, comfortable. The kids breathe softly on the floor, the kind of peaceful that only comes after burning off every last ounce of energy. The blanket Steve offered earlier still rests over your lap, and you tug it higher, letting your fingers graze the fabric.
Your eyelids feel heavier than you want to admit. You didn’t plan on staying much longer. You definitely didn’t plan on falling asleep here. But the mix of exhaustion and the steady presence beside you makes it hard to keep your thoughts sharp.
You feel your head tip slightly toward Steve before you realize you’re moving at all. He doesn’t startle. He doesn’t shift away. Instead he leans just a little nearer, enough that your shoulders brush again, enough that it feels intentional even if neither of you says anything. He whispers, “you okay?”
“Mmhmm,” you breathe, already sinking. “Just tired.”
“You can sleep if you want.”
“You first.”
“I’m not falling asleep,” he says, which is bold considering his voice sounds like he’s half unconscious already. “I’m just resting my eyes.”
“Sure you are.”
He gives a sleepy huff of a laugh, and then the quiet wraps around you both again. His arm settles along the back of the couch, close enough that the warmth radiates through you. You try to stay awake, you really do, but the mix of his closeness, the blanket, and the leftover warmth from the room finally pulls you under.
The last thing you feel is Steve’s shoulder steady beneath your cheek.
The next thing you know, sunlight is leaking through the Wheeler curtains, pale morning gold painting stripes across the room. Your eyes blink open slowly, vision fuzzy, mind slow to piece together where you are and how you ended up with an arm snugly wrapped around your waist.
His arm.
You freeze for a second, breath held. Steve is still asleep beside you, his chest rising and falling in soft, even patterns. His nose is tucked near your hair, lips ghosting warm against the top of your ear. One of his knees slots gently against yours like you two figured out puzzle-piece positions sometime in the night and just… stayed there.
You’re wrapped in him. Entirely. And it feels impossibly natural.
Then Steve stirs. His breathing changes, body tensing slightly as he shifts. You feel the moment realization hits him—a small, startled inhale, followed by stillness. His arm tightens once in a reflexive squeeze, then he jerks it back like the couch suddenly caught fire. “Sorry—sorry, I didn’t—uh—” he mutters, scrambling upright so fast he nearly elbows a pillow off the couch. His hair sticks up wildly, his face flushed.
You push yourself upright too, clutching the blanket like it might hide how warm your face is. “I must’ve… I didn’t mean to—uh—lean on you all night.”
“No, no, it’s fine,” he says quickly. “Totally fine. Couch is small. Happens all the time. Not all the time. I mean—whatever. It’s cool.”
“Yeah. Cool.” You each sit there for an awkward heartbeat too long, both pretending you didn’t almost cuddle through the entire night.
A voice rises from the floor. “Oh my god,” Dustin groans dramatically, sitting up with all the energy of someone three seconds from combusting. He rubs his eyes as he peers toward the couch. “Did you guys seriously fall asleep together again?”
“Again?” Steve chokes.
Lucas rolls over, hair a mess. “They were basically on top of each other after the Snow Ball. Remember?”
Max sits up and smirks. “This is honestly not surprising.”
Mike points at both of you like he’s solving a mystery. “You always gravitate toward each other. It’s, like, magnetic or something.”
Eleven blinks sleepily at the scene, then nods once in agreement. “Yes. Always.”
You stare at the group, then at Steve, whose ears are turning a shade of red no human should naturally be capable of. Dustin flops back onto his pillow with the world’s heaviest sigh. “Unbelievable. I’m going to pull a muscle from how hard I’m rolling my eyes.”
You grab the blanket, suddenly too warm, while Steve runs a hand through his hair like he wants to hide inside it. The kids start packing up their sleeping bags with varying degrees of chaos, and you and Steve sit stiffly on the couch, avoiding each other’s eyes because neither of you knows how to handle the truth that, yes, you had gravitated toward each other—without even realizing it.
And somewhere in the middle of the mess, Dustin mutters, “I swear, one day you two are going to give me an aneurysm.”
A week passes, but the memory of waking tangled against Steve doesn’t fade as easily as you hoped. Every time you pass each other in the halls of Family Video, every time he hands you a VHS or brushes by you to reach the rewind station, there’s a flicker of that morning—sunlight on his face, his arm still wrapped around your waist like he belonged there. You keep pretending it’s no big deal. He keeps pretending he’s not thinking about it at all. Robin, on the other hand, has turned pretending into an Olympic sport.
Which is how you end up outside Family Video on a chilly Saturday morning, helping them haul in overstock boxes because Keith “accidentally” ordered three months of inventory at once. The air is colder than you expected, autumn biting a little sharper than last week. You try to hide the way you rub your arms for warmth, but Steve notices instantly.
He’s halfway to the door with a box when he glances over and blurts, “here.” Before you can respond, he shrugs off his jacket in one smooth motion and drapes it over your shoulders like it was already decided.
You blink at him, surprised. “You don’t have to—”
“It’s fine. I’m not cold,” he says too fast.
“You’re definitely cold.”
“Nah, I run hot,” he insists, though the goosebumps on his arms say otherwise.
Robin freezes mid-step, one eyebrow lifting with the kind of slow, deliberate judgment she usually saves for customers who return tapes that smell like cigarettes. She watches Steve for a long, amused second before speaking. “Smooth,” she drawls, lips twitching. “Very subtle.”
Steve glares at her, which only makes her grin wider.
You’re still adjusting the jacket on your shoulders, and the moment you settle into it, you feel Steve go very still. His eyes drag over the sight of you in his jacket—soft from wear, smelling faintly of piney cologne and Family-Video-cleaner—and something in his expression falters. It’s a full-body stutter: shoulders stopping mid-breath, hands freezing around the box he’s holding, mouth parted like words abandoned him.
Robin’s eyebrows climb so high they might actually leave her face. “You good?” she asks, deadpan.
Steve jerks back into motion. “Yep. Totally. Fine. Why wouldn’t I be fine?”
“Right,” she says, but the sarcasm drips enough to fill a swimming pool.
Inside, the store is a battlefield of cardboard towers. You help them stack boxes in the back, all while Steve keeps glancing at you like he’s trying not to, always looking away a second too late. Robin catches every single slip.
At one point, as you’re helping sort new releases, a customer wanders in—a woman in her thirties, cheerful, the type who probably owns matching holiday sweaters for her dog. She points at Steve, then at you. “You two are adorable,” she says warmly. “How long have you been together?”
You nearly drop the stack of VHS cases you’re holding. Steve goes rigid beside you. “We’re not—uh—we’re not together,” he stammers, waving his hands in front of him so wildly he nearly smacks a cardboard cutout of Tom Hanks.
The woman blinks. “Oh! Sorry, you just look like—well, you know. A couple.”
“No, yeah, totally fine,” Steve rambles. “We’re just, you know, coworkers. Friends. Normal friends. Nothing weird. Nothing romantic. Not that romance is weird or—I’m gonna stop talking now.”
The woman gives you a sympathetic smile before heading toward the rom-com aisle. Robin doesn’t even wait until she’s out of earshot. “Romance isn’t weird,” she mimics under her breath. “Wow. He’s really killing it today.”
Steve shoots her a glare so sharp it could slice through VHS plastic. “Can you not?”
“I can’t not,” she whispers, smug as ever. “This is better than cable.”
You try to keep your focus on stacking movies, but your cheeks feel uncomfortably warm. And the worst part? You don’t hate the assumption. You don’t hate the idea of being seen with Steve like you’re something more than coworkers and accidental couch cuddlers. But you don’t let yourself think too hard about it. You’re not sure your heart is ready for that.
The day goes on like that—little moments that shouldn’t mean anything but somehow do. Another customer asks if you and Steve are “movie-night regulars.” A teenager asks if you’re trying to “impress your boyfriend” with your horror recommendations. Steve denies it every time, and every time he gets a little pinker.
At one point, you’re shelving tapes near the back, Steve standing so close beside you that his arm brushes yours when he reaches for the top shelf. You swear he hesitates before pulling his hand back. “You sure you’re warm enough?” he asks softly, looking at his jacket wrapped around you.
“I’m warm,” you say, and you mean it. His smile is small but real.
From the counter, Robin mutters, “un. Be. Lievable.” You glance over to see her shaking her head, chin resting on her palm, smirk carved into her face like she’s witnessing the world’s slowest love story unfold in real time.
“What?” Steve snaps defensively.
“Nothing,” she says, sing-song and utterly unconvinced. “Just enjoying the show.”
Steve groans into his hands. You focus very hard on straightening a stack of VHS cases that absolutely do not need straightening. And yet despite the embarrassment, despite Robin’s commentary, despite customers assuming something neither of you have dared to name, you don’t take off Steve’s jacket.
Not even once.
Movie nights at the Wheeler house always start the same way: spilled popcorn, someone arguing about who gets the couch spot closest to the snacks, and Dustin insisting on an unnecessarily complicated projector setup that takes twice as long as it should. Tonight is no different. The kids have claimed most of the blankets, the lights are low, and Steve is fiddling with the VCR like it personally offended him.
You settle onto the couch, Steve’s jacket still wrapped around you from earlier that afternoon. You told yourself you’d give it back when the temperature evened out. You told yourself you’d hand it over once you got inside. You told yourself you’d return it when he asked.
He never asked.
And now, curled into the corner of the sofa, you can’t bring yourself to shrug it off. It’s warm. It’s soft. It smells like him in a way you absolutely refuse to think about too hard.
Lucas is the first one to notice. He stops dead in front of you, a bowl of pretzels in hand, eyes narrowing like a detective who’s just discovered a clue. “Whoa, whoa, hold on.” He points dramatically. “Why are you wearing Steve’s jacket?” You don’t even get a chance to answer. Lucas raises his voice—not a little, not gently—but with the subtlety of someone announcing the end of the world. “Are you two, like, dating now?”
The room goes still for exactly half a second before exploding. “What?!” Steve blurts, spinning around so fast he nearly pulls the VCR out of the wall. His face goes beet red immediately. “No. No! We’re not—there’s nothing—we’re not dating!”
“Sure,” Max says from the armchair, her tone so dry it could start a brushfire. “That’s why you keep staring every time the jacket moves.”
You choke on your own breath. “He’s not—”
“He absolutely is,” she cuts in. “Do you see his face right now?”
Steve, now floundering, tries to regain control. “Guys, it’s just a jacket. She was cold. I gave it to her. That’s it.”
Lucas doesn’t look convinced. “Yeah, but she never took it off. She’s still wearing it, man.”
“I’m going to,” you say quickly, even though you definitely don’t plan to. “Just… later.”
Max snorts and leans back. “Yeah, later. Sure.”
Dustin appears beside the couch, popcorn bowl tucked under his arm, shaking his head like he’s watching a soap opera he’s far too invested in. He leans toward Mike, who’s sitting cross-legged on the carpet. “This is painful to watch,” he whispers loudly enough for all of you to hear.
Mike nods solemnly. “Agreed.”
You want the couch to swallow you whole. Steve looks like he wants the entire house to collapse around him. He gestures vaguely toward your shoulder. “If it’s weird, I can take it back. Or you can—uh—give it back. If you want. Unless you don’t. I mean—whatever. No pressure.”
You stare at him, then at the collar he’s now fidgeting with between his fingers, picking at a loose thread like it’s a lifeline. “Steve,” you say slowly, “I’m fine. It’s fine.”
“Right,” he says, smoothing the fabric a little too carefully. “Okay. Cool.”
Max watches the whole exchange with narrowed eyes, elbow resting on the arm of the chair like she’s collecting data for a thesis. Lucas takes a handful of pretzels and throws himself into a beanbag with a dramatic sigh, muttering to Dustin, “they’re totally dating.”
Dustin doesn’t miss a beat. “No, they’re something, and it’s driving me insane.”
Eleven, sitting beside Mike, studies you with that serene, thoughtful look she gets when she knows more than she says. “Friends can share clothes,” she offers gently. You smile at her, grateful—until she adds in a quieter, almost conspiratorial voice, “but you both look happy.” Steve nearly drops the remote.
Mike groans. “Can we just watch the movie before this turns into a group therapy session?”
Everyone grumbles in agreement, and the chaos shifts as the kids rearrange themselves for the opening credits. But even as the room settles, the teasing dies down, and the screen flickers to life, Steve stays close beside you on the couch. His arm rests along the back, just near enough for your shoulder to brush his if either of you shifts even slightly.
And every once in a while, he glances over—not long enough to get caught again, but long enough to make your heart beat faster. You pretend you don’t notice. But you really, really do.
Domestic moments sneak in the way sunlight creeps through blinds—quiet at first, barely noticeable, then suddenly you’re surrounded by them, warmed before you even realize what’s happening.
It starts with something small. You’re at Melvald’s picking up snacks for the kids’ weekend hangout when you bump into Steve in the cereal aisle. He’s holding a box of Lucky Charms, looking deeply conflicted, like the fate of the universe depends on marshmallow distribution. You tease him about it, he complains about Dustin’s “freakishly specific snack expectations,” and before either of you know it, you’re pushing your carts side by side, arguing over which brand of chips is superior. He ends up tossing an extra pack into your cart with a casual shrug that is anything but casual, and you don’t point out the smile tucked into the corner of his mouth.
The next time, it’s laundry. Your washer breaks spectacularly—a bit of flooding, awful noises, the works—and you’re left holding a basket of clothes with nowhere to put them. Steve just happens to call that afternoon, checking if you’re joining a movie night later. You mention the washer situation without thinking.
He shows up twenty minutes later with the trunk of his car popped open, leaning against it like he’s posing for a magazine cover called Accidental Heroics. “Laundry day?” he asks, totally nonchalant, except his voice is a little too bright with excitement.
“Are you offering your washer?”
“I’m offering my whole laundry room,” he says, then winces. “That sounded weird. Ignore that. Just—I don’t mind. Seriously.” You don’t ignore it. You smile instead, because of course he doesn’t mind.
Inside the Harrington house, you watch him gather detergent, fuss about water temperature, and act like this isn’t the domestic equivalent of a date. At one point, he stands beside you, arms folded, leaning on the counter while the washer rumbles softly behind you both. You talk about nothing in particular—movies you haven’t seen yet, the way Robin accidentally told a customer to “have a tolerable day,” Mike’s latest dramatic meltdown over homework—and you’re too aware of how close he is.
He’s comfortable. Relaxed. A little messy-haired from the humidity. Familiar in a way you’ve learned to accept but not examine too closely. His house echoes less when he’s speaking, less still when you laugh. You find yourself wondering how often he’s lonely in this big place, and the thought lingers longer than it should.
A few days later, he beats you to the familiar routine. You stop by Family Video on your way to the arcade with Max, planning on grabbing a few tapes. Steve spots you before you even make it past the counter. “Hey,” he says lightly, but then he’s already moving toward the break room. “Do you want coffee?”
“What? I didn’t even ask.”
He shrugs, awkwardly endearing. “You sort of have a look. Like a ‘please save me with caffeine’ look.”
Robin snorts from behind the counter. “Translation: he makes one pot and pretends it was my idea.”
Steve glares. “It was your idea!”
“I didn’t even want coffee.”
“Details,” he mutters.
But he hands you a mug anyway, warm and freshly poured, and the moment your fingers brush his, something in him softens. His eyes linger a second too long. The mug smells like vanilla creamer. His smile is small but real, the kind that sneaks up on you. “You make it good,” you admit.
He lights up more at that than at anything he probably should.
You catch him holding open doors for you without thinking. You find him saving the last bag of your favorite candy on movie nights. You realize he’s started keeping an extra soda in the fridge at Family Video “just in case.” You catch yourself smoothing the collar of his jacket before he leaves for his shift. You watch him wash dishes with the sleeves of his shirt rolled up, humming off-key like he’s completely unaware of how easy he is to fall into step with.
Robin sees everything, of course. She sees the way Steve leans closer when you talk. She sees the way your hand rests near his without moving away. She sees the way you say his name a little softer lately, and how he straightens slightly every time you do. “You two are a disaster,” she mutters during a quiet shift, shaking her head like she’s dealing with toddlers. “A cute disaster, sure, but still a disaster.”
You pretend you don’t hear her. Steve pretends he isn’t listening. But the way he glances at you afterward, shy and hopeful, tells you both that she’s right. And little by little, something between you and Steve begins to settle too—warm, gentle, and too natural to be ignored forever.
Max and Eleven aren’t subtle when they ask for help with a school project. In fact, they aren’t asking at all—Max shows up at Family Video with a binder the size of a phone book, Eleven trailing behind her with glitter glue stuck to her sleeve. They plant themselves in front of the counter like a two-person intervention. “We need an adult,” Max announces.
Steve looks offended. “I’m an adult.”
“You’re barely an adult,” she counters.
Eleven nods, solemn. “You need supervision.”
You’re standing beside the display of horror tapes, trying not to laugh. Max turns to you next. “You’re the reasonable one,” she says. “We need help building this model of the solar system. It’s due Monday. It’s almost Monday.”
“It’s Saturday,” Steve mutters.
“Almost Monday,” Max repeats, giving the kind of look that says she will absolutely guilt you into this if she has to.
So the four of you end up at the Harrington house, the dining table buried under poster board, foam balls, paint cups, and construction paper. It’s the kind of chaos that looks innocent but will absolutely destroy the floor if left unattended. You settle into a chair, Steve drops into the one beside you, and Max drags over a lamp like she’s setting up a crime scene investigation.
For the first half hour, everything goes surprisingly well. Eleven carefully paints Saturn’s rings, Max supervises the glitter application with the authority of a seasoned general, and Steve handles the hot glue gun with far more confidence than he deserves.
But then Mars rolls off the table. The glitter gets everywhere. Steve burns his finger a little. Max shouts, “why is Jupiter bigger than the sun?!” and Eleven insists the sun looks lonely without a smiley face. The whole project devolves into laughter, complaints, and paint smudges across the poster board. And somehow, despite the mess, you end up enjoying yourself more than you expected.
By the time the solar system finally looks like a solar system—and not an arts-and-crafts explosion—the clock reads well past midnight. Max and Eleven are exhausted, the kind of slow-blinking tired that makes them stretch out on the floor with blankets and mutter about “five minutes” that quickly turn into sleep.
Steve runs a hand through his paint-flecked hair, sighing with the kind of relief that comes after surviving mild chaos. “I’m too tired to drive anyone home,” he admits quietly.
“They’ll be fine here,” you say, watching the girls curl closer under their blankets. “They did great.”
“You did great,” he counters, and the warmth in his voice catches you off guard.
The house feels different at night—quieter, softer, full of pockets of shadow and the faint hum of the refrigerator down the hall. The dining table is a disaster zone of art supplies. Max mumbles something in her sleep. Eleven shifts, tucking her hands under her cheek. The girls look peaceful, and the sight makes something inside you settle too.
You and Steve drift toward the living room, neither of you saying it aloud, but both heading there like it’s the only place your bodies want to go. He collapses onto the couch with a groan, sliding down until his head touches the back cushion. You drop beside him, fully intending to stay awake, to keep some distance, to not repeat history. The moment your head brushes the cushion, your whole body sighs in surrender. Steve notices immediately. “Hey,” he murmurs, voice soft around the edges. “Don’t fall asleep on me.”
“You sound like you’re already asleep.”
“Not true. I’m extremely awake.”
You turn your head just enough to see his eyes half-lidded, his lips curled in a sleepy smile. He tries to sit up straighter, fails, and ends up leaning slightly toward you in a way that feels familiar. Natural. Like some quiet part of him gravitates to you without hesitation. You let your shoulder rest lightly against his. It’s not planned. Not something you think through. It just happens, the same way breathing does. And he doesn’t move away. If anything, he shifts a little closer. “You comfy?” he asks, barely above a whisper.
“Maybe.”
“That’s good,” he says, and the softness in his tone makes your heart stutter.
The hum of the house fades into a warm nothingness. You feel the rise and fall of Steve’s breathing beside you. His head drops slightly until it rests against yours. You think about pushing yourself upright, about creating some polite distance so history doesn’t repeat itself… but the thought dissolves before it finishes forming. You’re tired. You’re warm. You’re comfortable. And Steve’s presence feels like a blanket all on its own.
The couch dips gently as he shifts again, and before you know it, you’re leaning into each other. His shoulder fits beneath your cheek. His arm settles near your side. His breath slows. Yours matches it without trying. You don’t plan to fall asleep. He definitely doesn’t plan to fall asleep. But the quiet wraps around you both like a spell, and somewhere between one blink and the next, your eyes close.
When you wake, it’s to soft morning light filtering through the curtains and the warmth of an arm around you—his arm, draped over your waist in a way that feels far too right. His nose brushes your hair. Your body is half against his. You’re wrapped in each other again, held by an instinct neither of you meant to let slip out.
You inhale sharply, and that’s what stirs him. Steve shifts, groggy, confused, then suddenly alert as he realizes exactly where—and how—you ended up. His hand flinches at your waist, and he sits up too fast, eyes wide, hair a spectacular disaster. “I—I didn’t mean—” he stammers. “I wasn’t—I didn’t know I—”
You sit up too, heat crawling up your neck. “It’s okay. We were just tired.”
“Right,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Tired. Long night. Glue fumes, glitter poison. Makes sense.”
You’re both doing the thing where you avoid each other’s eyes, talking too quickly, pretending your heart isn’t still racing. It would almost work—if not for the two quiet figures who suddenly stir on the floor. Max lifts her head from her blanket, squinting. “Are you kidding me?” she croaks.
Eleven blinks awake, following Max’s gaze. “Again?” she asks, perfectly calm.
You feel your soul disintegrate. Steve covers his face with both hands. “Oh my god.”
Max sits up fully, pointing at the couch like she’s presenting evidence. “This is a pattern. A weird one. A very obvious one.”
Eleven nods, rubbing her eyes. “You always sleep close.”
Max snorts. “You don’t just ‘accidentally’ cuddle twice.” Steve makes a noise somewhere between a groan and a plea for the universe to swallow him whole. You can’t tell if you want to laugh or hide under a cushion. Max lies back down, pulling her blanket over her face. “Whatever. Just admit you’re into each other so I can sleep in peace next time.”
Steve chokes. You stare at the ceiling. Eleven simply closes her eyes again, satisfied that she has spoken truth into the world. And despite the embarrassment, despite the chaos, despite every reason you should deny it—you can’t help the small, traitorous flutter in your chest at the thought that maybe, just maybe, they see something you’ve been too scared to name.
The shift doesn’t happen all at once. It creeps in quietly, disguised as small, awkward moments that pile up until pretending nothing is wrong takes more effort than admitting something is.
Steve is the first to spiral. You notice it at Family Video before you really understand it. He stops leaning against the counter when you talk. He keeps a careful half-step of distance between you in the aisles. When you laugh at something dumb he says, his smile falters, eyes flicking away like he’s afraid he’ll give something away if he holds your gaze for even a second too long.
He starts overthinking everything. If your hand brushes his while passing a tape, he freezes like he’s done something wrong. If you smile at him, he smiles back a second too late. If you linger near the counter after your shift ends, he finds something else to do—restocking shelves that absolutely don’t need it, rewinding tapes that were already done.
Robin notices in approximately five minutes. She corners him behind the counter during a slow afternoon, arms crossed, expression sharp with concern and zero patience. “Okay. Explain.”
“Explain what?” he says too quickly, eyes on the register.
“Why you look like you’re one thought away from short-circuiting every time she breathes near you.”
“I don’t—”
“Steve.”
He exhales, shoulders slumping. “I just don’t want to mess things up.”
Robin blinks. “Mess what up?”
“Everything,” he mutters. “What if she didn’t mean to fall asleep like that? What if I crossed some invisible line? What if I make it weird and she stops wanting to hang out?”
Robin stares at him, unimpressed. “Buddy. You are already making it weird.” He winces. She sighs, softer now. “You like her. A lot. That’s not a crime.” He opens his mouth to deny it, then closes it again. His hands curl into the edge of the counter, knuckles pale. Robin leans closer. “You don’t panic this hard over people you don’t care about.”
The words hit deeper than he wants them to. He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have to.
Meanwhile, you’re spiraling in your own way. You’re sitting on the front steps of the Wheeler house with Max one afternoon, watching clouds roll lazily across the sky. She kicks at the concrete with the heel of her shoe, quiet for a moment longer than usual. “So,” she says eventually, glancing sideways. “How long are you and Steve planning on pretending you’re not together?”
You choke on air. “We’re not—”
“Yeah, yeah,” she interrupts. “That’s what he says too.”
You groan, dropping your head back against the railing. “Everyone keeps saying that.”
“Because everyone thinks that,” she replies simply. “You act like a couple. You fall asleep like one. You fight like one without actually fighting. It’s kind of obvious.”
You stare at the sky, heart thudding. “What if I’m reading it wrong?”
Max shrugs. “Then you’ll survive. But I don’t think you are.”
Her honesty sits heavy in your chest long after she goes inside. From there, things only get worse. You and Steve start orbiting each other like nervous planets, always close but never colliding. Conversations turn stilted. Touch becomes something you both overthink instead of instinctively reach for. You miss the easy closeness more than you’re ready to admit.
He hands you coffee without meeting your eyes. You thank him too brightly. He smiles and looks away. Robin watches from the counter like she’s witnessing a slow-motion train wreck. At one point, you both reach for the same VHS tape and jerk back at the same time, muttering apologies in perfect sync. It would be funny if it didn’t hurt a little.
The kids notice too. Of course they do. Dustin squints at you across the table during lunch one day. “Why are you both acting like divorced parents at Thanksgiving?”
Mike nods. “It’s uncomfortable.”
Lucas frowns. “Did you fight?”
“No,” you say quickly.
Steve says, “no,” at the same time.
Max sighs loudly. “That’s worse.”
Every interaction feels charged now. Every glance you don’t hold lingers longer than it should. Every step back feels heavier than stepping forward ever did. At night, you lie awake thinking about the way Steve’s arm felt around you. About how natural it was. About how careful he is now, like he’s afraid you’ll break if he touches you the wrong way. Across town, Steve lies awake doing the exact same thing—only instead of wondering if he should reach for you, he’s convinced himself that wanting you at all might be the problem.
The weather turns without warning. One minute you’re at Steve’s place helping him reorganize the basement—because somehow that’s become a normal thing now—and the next, the sky outside cracks open with a sharp boom of thunder that rattles the windows. Rain slams down hard enough to sound angry, like it’s taking something personally. You pause mid-step, box balanced in your hands, heart jumping even though you tell yourself it’s just a storm.
Steve notices immediately. He always does. “Hey,” he says, too quick, already moving closer. “You good?”
“Yeah,” you lie, shifting the box onto a shelf. “Just surprised.”
Another crack of thunder answers you, louder this time. The lights flicker once, twice—then the entire house drops into darkness. “Shit,” Steve mutters at the same time you gasp.
The sudden quiet is heavy, broken only by the rain and the distant rumble of thunder. The basement feels smaller without the lights, shadows pressing in around you. Steve swears softly again and reaches out, his hand brushing your arm as he fumbles for the flashlight he definitely meant to put batteries in weeks ago.
Before either of you can say anything else, the wind howls outside, a violent rush that rattles the door at the top of the stairs. Something bangs against the side of the house—maybe a branch, maybe something worse—and your nerves snap all at once.
You don’t even think about it when you let out a gasp. Steve turns toward the sound, instinct kicking in, and you step into him at the exact same moment. His arms come up automatically, wrapping around you, pulling you tight against his chest like it’s the most natural thing in the world. You grab onto his shirt, fingers curling into the fabric, breath shaky as thunder crashes again overhead. “It’s okay,” he murmurs immediately, voice low and steady near your ear. “It’s just the storm. I’ve got you.”
The words undo you more than the thunder ever could. You cling to him, forehead pressed into his shoulder, listening to his heartbeat thudding strong and fast beneath your ear. He holds you without hesitation, one hand firm at your back, the other cradling the back of your head like he’s shielding you from the world itself.
The rain pounds harder as the wind screams. The house creaks and groans, but inside Steve’s arms, everything feels quieter, safer. You don’t realize how long you stay like that until the thunder fades into a distant rumble and the rain softens into something steady instead of violent. The moment stretches, then stretches some more—and you still don’t let go. Neither does he.
His grip loosens eventually, not pulling away but easing, like he’s checking if you’re okay before daring to move. You breathe him in, familiar and grounding, and realize with a sudden, aching clarity that this is exactly where you want to be.
You pull back first, just enough to look up at him. He looks wrecked. Not scared—focused. Protective. His hands linger at your sides like they’re reluctant to leave, his thumb brushing your hip once without meaning to. His eyes search your face, worried, intense, softer than you’ve ever seen them. “You okay?” he asks again, quieter now.
You nod, swallowing. “Yeah. Thanks.”
“Of course,” he says quickly, stepping back like the space between you is suddenly dangerous. “Anytime. I mean—I didn’t even think. I just—”
“It’s fine,” you interrupt, though your voice comes out thinner than you want. “I didn’t mind.”
He nods, running a hand through his hair, clearly overthinking it already. “Right. Good. I just… yeah.”
Another silence settles between you, thick and awkward and heavy with everything you didn’t say while his arms were around you. The storm keeps raging outside, but inside, neither of you knows how to move forward from the way you just fit together so easily. A few minutes later, the lights flicker back on, the sudden brightness feels almost intrusive. Steve clears his throat. “Power’s back.”
“Yeah,” you say, though you haven’t moved.
He steps away fully this time, grabbing the flashlight like he needs something to do with his hands. You hug your arms around yourself, already missing the warmth you’d been wrapped in seconds ago. The storm keeps going, but the moment is gone. And neither of you knows how to bring it back—or how to pretend it didn’t mean something at all.
The storm drifts farther away, thunder fading into something distant and dull, like it’s finally run out of things to say. The house settles with it, creaks softening, the air feeling heavy but calm. Steve turns off the overhead light and leaves only the lamp in the corner on, dim and warm, like the room is exhaling after holding its breath too long.
Neither of you suggests sitting on the couch again. Instead, you end up on the floor without really deciding it, backs against the couch, legs stretched out in front of you. Steve grabs his jacket from where he tossed it earlier and drapes it over your shoulders before you can object. This time, you don’t even try.
You tug it closer around yourself, fingers curling into the fabric. It smells like him and comfort and something steady you didn’t realize you’d been craving all night. Steve sits close—close enough that your knees brush, close enough that the warmth of his body seeps through the space between you.
The house is quiet. No voices. No teasing. No interruptions. Just the soft tick of the clock on the wall and the hum of the refrigerator down the hall. It feels different without an audience. You rest your head back against the couch, staring at the ceiling. “That was… intense,” you say softly.
“Yeah,” Steve murmurs. “Didn’t realize storms could still get to me like that.”
“Me neither.”
Another pause stretches between you, but it isn’t awkward this time. It’s thoughtful. Careful. Like both of you are finally letting the moment exist instead of trying to rush past it. Steve shifts beside you, slow and deliberate. You feel the movement before you see it—the way his shoulder nudges yours, the way he hesitates, then leans just enough for his head to rest lightly against your shoulder. Not heavy. Not demanding. Just there.
Your breath catches for half a second. Then you lean into him. It’s instinctive, the way your shoulder angles slightly to support his weight, the way your head tips toward his without thinking. You fit together easily, like you’ve done this a hundred times already and only now stopped pretending it was an accident.
Steve exhales softly, tension leaving him in a way that feels almost tangible. His hand rests near yours on the floor, close but not touching, fingers flexing once like he’s fighting the urge. “You don’t have to,” he says quietly, almost unsure. “If you’re uncomfortable, I mean.”
“I’m not,” you answer just as softly. “I’m… comfortable.”
The word feels important. Real. He hums under his breath, something like relief. His head settles more fully against your shoulder, and you feel the warmth of him seep deeper into you. The jacket slips a little, and he reaches out to tug it back into place, careful and gentle, like he’s afraid to break the moment.
You let your eyes close. Minutes pass. Maybe longer. Time feels strange in the quiet, stretched thin and soft around you both. The rain becomes background noise, steady and harmless now. Steve’s breathing evens out, slow and calm, and you realize with a flutter in your chest that he trusts you enough to relax like this.
It makes something ache behind your ribs. You shift just enough to rest your head against his, temple to temple, and he responds by sliding his hand a fraction closer, your pinkies brushing.
Neither of you moves away. If anyone walked in right now, there would be no excuses. No scrambling. No pretending this is just another accident. But no one does. The house stays quiet. The moment stays yours. And for the first time in a while, you’re not overthinking it. You’re just there, wrapped in his jacket, his presence steady and warm beside you, leaning into him like it’s the most natural thing in the world—because maybe, finally, it is.
A few days pass, and the tension doesn’t fade the way you half-expect it to. It doesn’t explode either. It just… sits there. Quiet. Heavy. Following you through grocery aisles and movie shelves and half-finished conversations like a shadow neither of you knows how to outrun.
So when Steve asks if you can come over to help him reorganize the basement—again—you say yes without thinking about it too hard. His basement smells faintly like dust and cardboard and the lemon cleaner he used upstairs, the combination oddly comforting. Old boxes line the walls, some half-open, some still taped shut, relics of a life that keeps trying to move forward while dragging pieces of the past along with it. Steve hands you a stack of things to sort, apologizing like it’s a personal failing that he owns so much stuff. “You don’t have to do this,” he says, already tugging open another box. “I can finish it later.”
“You’ve been saying ‘later’ for months,” you point out, kneeling beside him. “I’m here. It’s fine.”
He smiles at that, small and grateful, and it makes your chest feel tight in a way you don’t bother fighting anymore.
You work for a while in companionable quiet. Dust clings to your hands. Your legs get tired from crouching. At some point, you give up and lay flat on the carpet, stretching your arms over your head with a soft groan. “I forgot how exhausting cleaning is,” you mutter.
Steve laughs and drops down beside you, back hitting the carpet with a thump. “Yeah. It’s a scam. Someone should warn people.”
You turn your head toward him, smiling, and for a moment you just look at each other. He looks tired. Comfortable. Real. There’s a faint smudge of dust on his cheek you fight the urge to wipe away.
You don’t lie down together at first. Not really. There’s a careful space between you, enough distance to pretend you’re not thinking about how easily it would disappear. You talk instead—about stupid things, important things, everything in between. He tells you about his latest nightmare of showing up to work in roller skates. You tell him about the song you can’t get out of your head. You talk about how strange it feels when life is quiet after everything you’ve all been through.
The words get slower as time passes. Sentences trail off and thoughts drift. At some point, you realize your eyes have been closed for longer than a blink. That your breathing has synced with his. That the space between you has shrunk without permission being asked. You don’t mean to fall asleep. Neither does he.
When you wake, it’s gradual. Warmth first. Pressure second. Awareness last. You’re curled against him, your face tucked into his chest, his arm wrapped securely around you like it’s been there forever. His chin rests lightly against the top of your head. Your hand is fisted in his shirt, knuckles pressing into fabric like you anchored yourself there in your sleep. You don’t pull away.
Steve stirs a second later, breath hitching slightly when he realizes you’re awake. You feel the moment he becomes aware of the position you’re in, the way his arm tightens just a fraction instead of loosening. “Hey,” he murmurs, voice rough and low.
“Hey,” you answer.
Neither of you moves. The silence stretches, but it’s not awkward. It’s fragile. Honest.
Steve’s fingers shift, brushing your knuckles gently, like he’s testing whether the moment will break if he acknowledges it. When it doesn’t, he threads his fingers through yours, slow and deliberate. “I don’t know when this started,” he admits quietly, staring at your joined hands like they might give him answers. “I don’t know when I started… wanting this. These moments. Being close to you like this.”
Your heart beats hard against his chest.
“I just know,” he continues, thumb brushing over your knuckles in a soft, nervous rhythm, “that I don’t want it to stop. And I’m scared to say that out loud because I don’t want to mess things up. But I think pretending nothing’s happening is worse.”
You lift your head enough to look at him, really look at him. His eyes are open and vulnerable, fixed on you like this matters more than anything else in the room. “I’ve been wanting this too,” you say quietly. “For a while now. I just didn’t know if I was allowed to.”
His breath leaves him in a shaky exhale, relief softening his features instantly. His hand tightens around yours, grounding, certain. “You are,” he says immediately. “You always have been.”
You smile, small and real, and lean back into him like you belong there. This time, there’s no pretending it’s an accident. No excuses. No scrambling away when the moment settles. He pulls you closer, forehead resting against yours, and you let yourself stay.
Because this time, when you fall asleep tangled together again, it isn’t a mistake.
It’s a choice.
Movie night at the Wheeler house should come with a hazard warning. There are pillows everywhere, blankets in increasingly questionable piles, and snacks disappearing at rates that defy the laws of physics. You and Steve barely sit down before the chorus begins.
“We’re out of pretzels!” Lucas announces like an alarm.
“Popcorn’s gone,” Mike adds, peering into the bowl like it betrayed him.
Max holds up an empty chip bag. “Tragic.”
Dustin clasps his hands together. “If someone doesn’t refill the snacks in the next thirty seconds, I’m going to pass away dramatically on this carpet.”
Eleven nods in agreement. “More chocolate.”
You and Steve exchange a look—one of those looks you’ve been trading far more often lately, the kind that’s half can you believe them? and half come on, let’s just do it. You both reach for the empty bowls at the same time and stand in perfect sync.
Mike gestures at the two of you heading toward the kitchen. “See? I told you. They’re like… a domestic relay team.”
Dustin nods solemnly. “It’s disturbing how coordinated they are.”
You don’t hear any of this because Steve holds the swinging kitchen door open for you, hand grazing the small of your back in a way that still sends a warm spark up your spine no matter how many times he does it now.
Inside, the kitchen is quiet, lit only by the overhead fixture. Bowls line the counter, the chip bags waiting to be opened. Steve sets his bowl down beside yours, fingers brushing yours in a way that feels far too intentional to be chalked up to coincidence anymore.
He doesn’t pull his hand away this time. Instead, he lets his fingers trail lightly along your wrist, soft and slow. You inhale, surprised by how bold he’s suddenly become, though the warm flush in his cheeks says he’s feeling the moment just as intensely as you are. “You good?” he asks softly, trying for casual but sounding like he cares a little too much.
You smile up at him, leaning slightly closer without thinking. “I’m good.”
“Good,” he says, relieved. His thumb brushes your wrist again, and he steps into your space just enough that you feel the heat of him… not touching you yet, but close. Very close.
There’s a small pause, and then he reaches up and brushes your cheek, fingers lingering a moment too long—just long enough to make your breath catch. You don’t look away, and he doesn’t either.
The room goes still around you, the storm from a few days ago replaced with something quieter, warmer, but just as electric. His gaze flicks down toward your lips, then back up to your eyes, and you know—know—that he’s seconds from leaning in.
You’re seconds from meeting him halfway. Which is, of course, the exact moment the kitchen door slams open so hard it hits the wall.
“What the hell is taking so long?” Max demands, then freezes the second she actually sees you and Steve standing way too close, hands basically touching, faces definitely not far enough apart to be innocent. Behind her, the rest of the Party piles up like a traffic jam.
Dustin’s eyes nearly pop out of his skull. “I knew it!”
Lucas points dramatically at both of you. “This! This is exactly what I’ve been saying!”
Mike claps a hand over his face. “Oh my god, you were about to kiss. You were—oh my god.”
Eleven tilts her head, serene as ever. “They like each other,” she says simply, like she’s announcing the weather.
Will tries valiantly to stay neutral but fails, biting back a grin. “This is kind of adorable.”
You and Steve jump apart—or try to. He bumps the counter, you bump him, and the pretzel bowl nearly takes a dive before he catches it with reflexes that would impress even Hopper. Your face burns. Steve looks like he wants to crawl under the table and live there permanently. “We—we were just—snacks,” he stammers, holding up the bowl like proof in a trial.
“Yeah,” you add weakly, grabbing a bag of chips with shaking hands. “Just snacks.”
Dustin folds his arms, unimpressed. “If that’s what you call that, then I’ve been misusing the word ‘snacks’ my entire life.”
Max squints at Steve. “Are you seriously blushing? You’re blushing.”
“I’m not,” he lies terribly.
Eleven steps forward and gently pats your shoulder. “It’s okay,” she says sweetly. “We won’t tell Robin.”
“Oh my god,” Mike groans. “Please, please tell Robin. She’ll have a field day.”
Steve shoots him a murderous look. “Don’t you dare.”
But the damage is done. The kids are buzzing like they just discovered national treasure. They herd you and Steve back into the living room with far too much glee, and when you sit down on the couch, Steve hesitates for exactly one second before sitting close—closer than before, shoulder pressed to yours in a way that feels like a decision.
Max leans toward Lucas. “Told you. They were definitely a thing.”
Lucas smirks. “I’m just glad we got to witness it.”
Dustin sighs dreamily. “I’m so proud of them.”
Steve groans into his hands and you hide your smile in the popcorn bowl. And despite the chaos, despite the embarrassment, despite the kids narrating your love life like a nature documentary, Steve’s fingers find yours under the blanket, brushing softly before settling into a gentle, certain hold. This time, you hold on without hesitation.
The first time you realize everything has shifted for good, it’s over something stupid. You’re standing outside Family Video on a quiet evening, the sky soft with fading light, waiting for Steve to lock up. You’re wearing his jacket again—same one, same familiar weight on your shoulders—but this time no one’s questioning it. No teasing. No deflecting. No internal monologue about whether you’re allowed to want this.
It just is.
Steve finishes with the door, turns, and catches sight of you leaning against the railing, jacket collar pulled up against the breeze. His mouth curves into that easy, fond smile that still makes your chest tighten, like your body hasn’t quite gotten used to how good this feels yet. “You stealing my clothes again?” he asks, but there’s no edge to it. Only warmth.
“You keep offering them,” you reply. “Sounds like a you problem.”
He laughs and steps closer, fingers catching the lapel of the jacket without hesitation. He tugs you gently into his space, close enough that you can feel his warmth through the fabric, close enough that the answer to everything feels obvious.
Robin clears her throat loudly from the doorway. “If you two are about to do something nauseating, I want at least ten seconds’ warning.”
Steve doesn’t even look at her. He tips your chin up just a little and kisses you—slow and unhurried—right there in front of her. It’s soft and familiar and so easy it almost makes you laugh into it.
Robin makes a gagging noise so dramatic it echoes. “I hate this. I waited years for this and I still hate it.”
Steve pulls back just enough to grin. “You’re welcome.”
“You’re both disgusting,” she mutters, but she’s smiling when she turns the lights off inside.
Later, it’s movie night again. Same couch. Same blankets. Same pile of bowls that somehow always ends up empty too fast. The difference now is that there’s no pretending you don’t gravitate toward each other. You sit together on purpose. His arm goes around you without hesitation. Your legs tangle with his because you want them to.
The kids complain briefly—about the movie choice, about snacks, about literally everything—then settle in, the room filling with familiar noise and warmth. Steve drapes the blanket over both of you, tugging it snug around your shoulders, and presses a kiss into your hair like it’s instinct.
Halfway through the movie, you’re curled fully against him, cheek resting on his chest, his arm firm and secure around your waist. You can feel the steady rhythm of his breathing, the gentle rise and fall beneath your ear. His fingers trace absent patterns on your arm, slow and soothing, like he’s memorizing you. “You comfy?” he murmurs.
“Very,” you whisper back.
“Good,” he says, and the word carries more weight than it should.
You fall asleep like that. Not by accident. Not because you’re too tired to move. But because you want to. Tangled up under a shared blanket, surrounded by quiet laughter and the soft glow of the TV, the world finally feels calm in a way you didn’t know you were missing.
Steve presses his forehead to yours when he feels your breathing slow, his hold tightening just slightly, protective and sure. Everything feels easy now; warm, real. And for the first time in a long while, you’re not bracing for something to go wrong.
𝓶.𝓵𝓲𝓼𝓽 ⋆˚࿔ s2!steve harrington x wheeler!reader | 𝓈𝓊𝓂𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓎.𖥔 ݁ You’ve been Steve Harrington’s best friend since middle school before the hair, the parties, and the heartbreak. But as high school changes everything and feelings you’ve buried for years refuse to stay quiet, you start to wonder if the boy you’ve always stood beside might finally see you the way you’ve always seen him.
The summer before seventh grade ended in a thunderstorm that knocked the power out across half of Hawkins, and you met Steve Harrington by the flicker of emergency lights and the smell of rain rising off hot pavement. He was sitting on the low brick wall behind the middle school, shoulders hunched, one sneaker tapping anxiously against the concrete. His lip was split, bright red against skin that would later tan golden and effortless. Back then, though, he looked young. Unfinished. All elbows and uncertainty. You hadn’t meant to approach him. You had been cutting through school grounds on your way home from the library, hugging your books to your chest while the sky threatened to split open. But he glanced up when he heard your footsteps, and something about the way he tried to straighten... tried to look like he hadn’t just been knocked down, made you stop.
“Hold still,” you said, setting your books beside you and tugging the sleeve of your denim jacket over your hand. “You’re bleeding.”
“I’m fine,” he muttered, though he didn’t pull away when you dabbed gently at his lip.
“You’re not.” You tilted your head, assessing the damage with clinical seriousness. “Tommy Hagan?”
His mouth twitched despite the sting. “How’d you know?”
“Tommy thinks he’s intimidating. He’s just loud.”
A laugh slipped out of him—small, surprised. It softened his whole face.
That was the first crack in the armor he would later build so carefully.
You became friends in the slow, ordinary way that real things tend to form. You started sitting beside each other in math class. He nudged your elbow when the teacher asked a question he didn’t understand. You rolled your eyes and whispered the answer. When the other boys made comments about you being “Wheeler’s weird older sister,” he told them to shut up. When girls started whispering about how Steve Harrington was getting cute, you rolled your eyes and told him not to let it go to his head. Once, He walked you home when it rained, pretending it was "on his way."
One afternoon in eighth grade, you find him lying flat on his back on the basketball court, staring up at the sky.
“What are you doing?” you ask, shielding your eyes from the sun.
“Thinking.”
“That’s dangerous.”
He grins. “You think I could be good at something?”
“You are good at things.”
“Like what?”
You don’t hesitate. “You’re good at listening. You’re good at making people laugh. You’re good at pretending you don’t care when you actually care a lot.”
He turns his head to look at you, and for a moment the joking slips.
“You see too much,” he says.
“Somebody has to.”
He doesn’t say it then, but you feel the shift. The tether forming. You become the person he calls when his parents fight. The person who knows he hates olives and loves bad horror movies and is secretly afraid he’ll never be more than the town expects him to be.
It was a habit in eighth grade. By freshman year, it was ritual.
He changed when high school found him. He grew taller over one summer, shoulders broadening, jaw sharpening into something magazine worthy. His hair developed that deliberate messiness that made girls in the hallway whisper. Tommy and Carol gravitated back to him with renewed enthusiasm, as though they’d been waiting for him to become someone worth orbiting.
You watched it happen the way one watches a storm build over distant fields—aware it’s coming, unsure whether it will pass over or settle in. He learned to laugh louder than the joke required, head tipping back just enough for the sound to carry down the hallway. Learned to clap someone on the shoulder in passing, to make it look effortless like belonging had always been this easy. He perfected the lazy half smile that made girls glance twice and boys straighten instinctively. Learned how to hold eye contact just a second longer than necessary, long enough to feel intentional.
The way he started walking a little slower down the hall so people could fall into step beside him. The way teachers softened when he turned on that practiced charm. The way Tommy and Carol flanked him like courtiers reclaiming their throne.
He wasn’t pretending, not exactly. The confidence fit him. But sometimes, when you caught him alone before class, there was a flicker in his expression that told you he was still figuring out how to wear it without it wearing him first.
But every morning, no matter how late he’d been out or how crowded the hallway became, he still leaned against your locker before first period. Like gravity pulled him there.
You’d be mid sentence in your notes, highlighter uncapped, when his shadow fell across the metal door. You didn’t need to look up to know it was him.
“Got gum?” he’d ask, casual, like he hadn’t been scanning the hall for you.
“You don’t even like gum,” you’d reply automatically.
“Yeah,” he’d shrug, pushing off the locker just enough to stand closer. “But you always have it.”
There was something deliberate in that. Not gum... the routine.
You would slide a piece into his open palm without lifting your eyes from the page, pretending not to notice how his fingers brushed yours just slightly longer than necessary. Pretending not to notice how his voice dropped when he talked to you, softer than the version he used with everyone else.
He’d grin like you’d just handed him something rare. Like it was the best part of his morning.
Sometimes he lingered. Asked about your English essay. Complained about practice. Told you something stupid Tommy said the night before, his tone shifting, less performance, more confession.
And for those few minutes, the hallway noise faded. The version of him that belonged to everyone else receded.
It was just you and the boy from the cracked basketball court.
Then the bell would ring. Someone would call his name. He’d straighten, grin widening, shoulders squaring as he stepped back into the role waiting for him.
“See ya,” he’d say, already halfway turned away.
You’d watch him go, the crowd parting easily to let him through.
And you told yourself the fact that he always came back to your locker first before the noise, before the attention, before the performance, meant something. You held onto that like proof.
When Nancy began lingering by the phone in the evenings, you noticed. It started small. She would hover in the hallway after dinner, pretending to flip through the mail while her eyes flicked toward the kitchen clock. If it rang, she’d move too quickly—composure slipping just enough to give her away. If it didn’t, she’d drift back to the living room with a distracted hum, fingers tucking hair behind her ear in a gesture you recognized as anticipation. You noticed because you had grown up noticing her. Nancy had always been easy to read if you knew what to look for. She loved quietly but intensely. When she wanted something, it rearranged her posture. Her breathing. The cadence of her voice.
When she started asking about parties, about Tina’s, about Carol’s, about who would be there, you noticed that too.
“Do you think Steve actually likes those things?” she asked one night, sitting cross legged at the foot of your bed.
You didn’t look up from your book. “He likes feeling like he’s supposed to.”
She frowned slightly. “That’s not what I meant.”
You turned a page you hadn’t processed. “Then what did you mean?”
She hesitated, and that hesitation said everything.
“He seems different lately,” she murmured. “More… real.”
Your chest tightened at the word.
Real.
You had known the real Steve since he was twelve and bleeding behind the gym. You knew the version who hated olives and loved bad horror movies. The one who got quiet when his parents fought. The one who pretended not to care about being liked but watched carefully for signs of approval anyway.
“Yes,” you said evenly. “He is.”
She smiled faintly, like she’d been handed confirmation she was hoping for.
You noticed the new blouse she wore to school the next week. The way she straightened when she saw him at the end of the hallway. The way her laugh pitched just slightly higher when he waved.
And you noticed the way he looked at her. It wasn’t the look he gave you—familiar, unguarded, easy.
It was something sharper. Curious.
You told yourself it didn’t mean anything. You did not allow yourself to interpret.
Because interpreting would mean admitting the quiet fear beginning to take root in your stomach. It would mean acknowledging that something had shifted in the air between the three of you. And you had always been the steady one. The rational one. The one who didn’t spiral over glances and possibilities. So you folded the fear neatly and tucked it away.
The first night he climbed through her window, you were awake. The house had settled into its usual nighttime rhythm, the low hum of the refrigerator, the faint creak of cooling pipes. Your parents’ bedroom door had shut hours earlier. Nancy’s light had gone dark around eleven.
You were reading, half absorbed, when you heard it.
A dull thud against the siding.
Your heart stopped before your mind caught up.
There was a pause. Then the faint scrape of rubber soles searching for purchase against painted wood. A small grunt. The careful, deliberate slide of glass.
You sat up slowly.
Your room faced the front yard. Nancy’s faced the backyard. The sound had come from behind the house.
Your body recognized it before your thoughts did. The weight of it. The pattern. You had heard him throw pebbles at your window once in eighth grade, when he’d forgotten his house key and needed somewhere to wait. You knew the cadence of his presence.
You rose from your bed and crossed the room on unsteady legs.
When you lifted your curtain just enough to peer through, the street was quiet and dim beneath the glow of the single working lamppost. And there it was.
His BMW, parked halfway down the block. Headlights off. Engine dark. Deliberately inconspicuous.
He had never parked down the block for you. He had never needed to sneak.
Your throat tightened.
You stood there for a long moment, watching the stillness of the car as though it might disappear if you blinked. As though you might wake up and realize you’d imagined the sound.
Maybe he was dropping something off. Maybe he had come to talk to your dad. Mayb-
The faint click of Nancy’s window sliding shut drifted through the night air.
The hope collapsed quietly inside you.
You stepped back from the curtain as though the glass had burned you.
In the silence that followed, you became acutely aware of everything, the ticking clock on your nightstand, the way your pulse thudded too loudly in your ears, the hollow space opening slowly in your chest.
You told yourself it could still be coincidence. You told yourself you were being dramatic. You told yourself that even if it wasn’t, it didn’t matter.
He was allowed to like your sister. Nancy was allowed to like him. You didn’t own him. You had no claim beyond years of shared lockers and gum wrappers and inside jokes.
But that was the problem. You had built something with him that felt foundational. Something steady and quietly sacred. You had believed foolishly, maybe—that whatever else high school rearranged, that piece would remain untouched.
Now, standing in the dark with the curtain falling back into place, you realized how fragile that belief had been. Because he hadn’t come to your window. And the part of you that had always waited for him to choose you, openly, clearly, without prompting—understood, in that still Indiana night, that he hadn’t.
The next day in the cafeteria, the truth does not arrive gently. It arranges itself in fluorescent lighting and plastic trays and the hum of a hundred overlapping conversations. It sits in plain sight, unapologetic.
You’re halfway through the lunch line when you see them.
Nancy is already seated at the long table near the center of the room—the one Steve usually claims with Tommy and Carol. She isn’t across from him. She isn’t perched awkwardly at the end. She’s beside him. Close enough that her shoulder brushes his arm every time she moves. Close enough that there’s no space left to question what this is.
For a moment, your brain refuses to process the image. It feels misaligned, like someone shifted the furniture in a familiar room. Then you notice his hand. Resting at the small of her back. It isn’t accidental. It isn’t uncertain. It’s settled there like it belongs. Protective. Claiming. Intimate.
Your tray suddenly feels heavier. The clatter of dishes around you grows distant, warped, like you’re underwater. You can see Tommy laughing at something across the table. Carol leaning forward eagerly. Nancy’s hair falling over her shoulder as she tilts her head toward Steve. And Steve—He’s smiling. Not the exaggerated grin he uses for the hallway. Not the loose, easy smirk he flashes at strangers. This one is softer. Focused.
He says something near Nancy’s ear, low enough that only she can hear it. She laughs, cheeks pink, and instinctively leans into him.
The gesture is small. It shatters something anyway.
You hadn’t prepared for the physicality of it. For how naturally they fit together in that space. For how practiced it already looks. Had it been building this whole time? Had you missed it?
You shift your weight, the line inching forward, but you can’t look away. You’re cataloging details without meaning to. The way his thumb moves absently against her side. The way she doesn’t flinch from it. The way the space he used to leave open beside him. Unspoken, saved, no longer exists. Then he looks up.
And he sees you.
The moment stretches thin.
Recognition flashes across his face first, then something else. Hesitation. A flicker of something that might be guilt. Or maybe just awareness.
You hold his gaze.
You don’t let your expression change.
He lifts his hand slightly, a half wave, casual. As though this is normal. As though nothing fundamental has shifted beneath your feet.
“Hey!” he mouths across the room.
Like yesterday didn’t exist. Like the years behind the gym and at your locker and in your bedroom watching horror movies didn’t carry weight.
You manage a smile. It feels carved into place.
You lift your own hand in return, nodding once, as if to say "Of course. This is fine. I understand."
Nancy follows his gaze and spots you.
Her expression flickers—surprise, then something guarded. She straightens slightly but doesn’t move away from him. Doesn’t remove his hand.
She offers a small wave too.
You don’t know which hurts more, that she looks apologetic, or that she doesn’t look apologetic enough.
The lunch lady calls your name, snapping you back into your body. You move forward automatically, accepting your tray without really seeing what’s on it.
There’s an empty seat at their table. You see it. Right across from them.
You could walk over. You could slide into it like nothing has changed. You could force the old dynamic into place and pretend the air isn’t charged with something new and sharp.
But the thought of sitting there, of watching his hand rest against her back from two feet away makes your throat tighten.
You turn instead. There’s a smaller table near the windows, half in shadow, occupied by two juniors you barely know. One seat is open. You walk toward it before you can reconsider.
Each step feels deliberate, measured, like you’re crossing an invisible line. You sit.
The plastic chair scrapes loudly against the tile. You focus on arranging your napkin. On unwrapping your sandwich. On anything that isn’t the pull in your chest.
Across the cafeteria, laughter erupts at Steve’s table. It’s louder than usual. Or maybe you’re just listening differently now. You don’t look up again.
Not when you feel the weight of his gaze flicker toward you once more. Not when Nancy leans closer to him.
You don’t look at them again for the rest of lunch. Not because you don’t want to but because you know, with a quiet certainty, that if you let yourself watch too long, something inside you will give way in a way you won’t be able to recover from gracefully.
So you sit at the smaller table by the windows, half in shadow, and focus on details that don’t matter. The condensation sliding down the side of your milk carton. The faint crack in the laminate of the table beneath your fingertip. The hum of the fluorescent lights overhead, steady and indifferent. Across the cafeteria, Steve laughs.
It slices through the noise.
Your body reacts before your mind does. Your shoulders tense. Your breath catches for half a second.
You know that laugh. You know the exact shape of it.
It starts low in his chest, almost a hum before it spills upward, bright and unguarded. When it’s real, he ducks his head slightly, like he’s surprised by how much something amuses him. When it’s practiced, it’s louder, sharper, meant to carry.
This one is real.
You don’t need to look to know it. Because you had spent years memorizing the shape of his laugh.
You memorized it the afternoon he missed a shot on the cracked basketball court and dramatically blamed the wind. You memorized it in your living room during terrible late night horror movies when he pretended not to be scared. You memorized it in the quiet spaces between classes when it was just the two of you leaning against your locker, sharing jokes that weren’t meant for anyone else. You knew the difference between the laugh he gave the hallway and the one he gave you. And now that laugh belongs to a table you are not sitting at.
Your fingers curl slightly around your fork. You hate that this hurts. You hate even more that it makes sense. Because you had loved him since you were thirteen and had never once believed you were brave enough to reach.
You had loved him in small, practical ways by listening when he needed to vent, by defending him when Tommy pushed too far, by reminding him he was more than whatever reputation he was building. You had loved him in the spaces where no one else was looking.
But you had never said it. Never risked it.
You had told yourself it was enough to be chosen first in the mornings. Enough to be the person he came to when things felt too heavy. Enough to be the one who saw through the performance. You had believed that meant something solid. Now you’re not sure what it meant at all.
The bell rings, shrill and abrupt, and the cafeteria erupts into motion. Chairs scrape loudly against tile. Conversations fragment mid sentence. Bodies shift and surge toward the exits.
You stand slowly, steadying your tray, keeping your eyes forward.
As you step into the flow of students, you feel it... The magnetic pull of his attention flicking toward you. You don’t know if he’s actually watching or if your body is just trained to expect him.
You don’t look. You don’t trust your face.
In the hallway, the noise multiplies. Lockers slam. Someone shouts about practice. A group of sophomores rushes past, nearly knocking into you.
You reach your locker and spin the dial with practiced precision.
You wait. Out of habit. Out of muscle memory.
You expect his shadow to fall across the metal door. Expect the familiar rhythm of his voice at your shoulder. You even slide a piece of gum halfway out of the pack in anticipation. The hallway shifts around you. No shadow. No voice.
You close your locker slowly and glance down the corridor.
He’s there halfway down the hall, walking beside Nancy.
Her hand is looped easily through his arm, fingers tucked into the fabric of his jacket like she’s testing how it fits. He leans down slightly to hear her over the noise, his expression soft in a way you’ve only ever seen up close. She says something. He laughs again.
Your stomach tightens.
Jealousy does not arrive dramatically, It does not crash through your chest or demand to be named. It settles, in small, insidious ways. In the way your stomach clenches every time you see them standing too close at their lockers. In the way you stop saving him a seat in class, even though you used to leave your backpack on the chair beside you without thinking.
In the way you pretend not to notice when he begins canceling plans with you for her.
“Can’t tonight,” he says one afternoon, leaning against your locker but not quite meeting your eyes. “Nancy wanted to study.”
Study.
You nod like it’s reasonable. “Yeah. Of course.”
He lingers a second, like he expects you to say more. To tease him. To make it light.
You don’t.
He pushes off the locker with a small nod. “Rain check?”
“Sure.”
You go home and sit cross legged on your bedroom floor with the horror movie you’d planned to watch together queued up in the VCR. You let it play anyway, though you don’t absorb any of it. The empty space beside you on the carpet feels louder than the television. It becomes a pattern. He shows up later and leaves earlier.
Your conversations shrink. He still asks if you’re okay but it feels automatic now. A checkpoint rather than a pause. You tell yourself this is normal.
This is what happens when people date. This is what happens when someone finally reaches for something instead of waiting.
Nancy confronts you one evening in your room, you're reorganizing books you don’t need to reorganize for the third time that week, when she appears in the doorway. Her arms are crossed—not defensive exactly, but braced.
“You’re mad,” she says from the doorway.
You don’t turn around. “I’m not.”
“You are.”
You slide a book into place a little too precisely. “You could’ve told me.”
“I was going to,” she insists. “It just—happened.”
You close your eyes briefly.
Nothing ever just happened with Nancy. She analyzed. She calculated. She chose.
“You chose it,” you say quietly.
Her jaw tightens. “So what if I did?”
You turn then, meeting her eyes fully.
“I didn’t think you’d care,” she adds, softer now.
That lands harder than you expect.
You stare at her, trying to reconcile the version of yourself she sees with the one you actually are.
Why wouldn’t I care?
Because he was yours first, in every way that wasn’t official. Because you had been there before the hair and the parties and the version of him the school adored. Because you knew the boy underneath. Because you had loved him quietly and consistently and without asking for anything in return. Because you knew the shape of his laugh before she ever noticed it.
But you can’t say any of that.
Instead, you cross your arms and shrug lightly. “Why would I?”
Nancy studies you for a long moment, as though she’s waiting for something to crack.
When it doesn’t, she nods slowly. “Okay.”
After Nancy leaves your room, the house feels quieter than it ever has before.
You sit on the edge of your bed for a long time, staring at nothing in particular. The late afternoon light slants through your window in thin gold stripes, catching dust in the air. Down the hall, you can hear the faint sound of the television turning on. Nancy reclaiming the living room like nothing has shifted.
You chose this, you tell yourself again. You chose not to reach. But knowing that doesn’t dull the ache.
The next few days pass in a strange, suspended state. Nothing dramatic happens. No arguments. No confrontations. Just small, quiet adjustments that feel larger than they should. You stop waiting at your locker in the mornings. Not consciously, at first. You just linger less. Arrive a little later. Keep your head down a little longer when you spin the dial.
Sometimes he still shows up.
Sometimes he doesn’t.
When he does, there’s a faint awkwardness to it now. A half second delay before he speaks, like he’s recalibrating the dynamic.
“Got gum?” he asks one morning, offering you a tentative smile.
You hand him a piece without meeting his eyes.
“You okay?” he adds, more softly.
“Yeah.”
It’s automatic.
He studies you like he wants to say something else. Like he’s searching for the version of you who used to fill the silence easily. But Nancy appears at the end of the hall, and his attention shifts instinctively.
“I’ll see you,” he says.
And then he’s gone.
Jealousy continues to settle, layer by layer. It shows up in the way your stomach tightens when you see them walking shoulder to shoulder, fingers brushing like magnets. It shows up in the way you choose seats at the far end of the classroom instead of beside him. It shows up in the way you pretend not to flinch when he says, “Nancy and I were thinking—” as if the two of them are a unit now.
You become careful. Careful with your expressions. Careful with your tone. Careful not to let the bitterness slip into your voice when he talks about her.
Because the last thing you want is to become the villain in your own silence.
He notices your distance eventually. Of course he does.
You’re in the parking lot after school when it happens. The late afternoon sun is harsh, reflecting off windshields and chrome. You’re digging your keys out of your bag, focused on the small, mechanical task of unlocking your car.
“Hey.”
His voice comes from behind you, closer than you expected.
You stiffen slightly before turning.
He jogs the last few steps to catch up, hair wind tousled from practice, jacket slung over one shoulder.
“You okay?” he asks.
The question isn’t casual this time. There’s something searching in it.
You force a small smile. “Fine.”
His brows draw together. “You’ve been weird.”
You let out a quiet breath through your nose. “Have I?”
“Yeah.” He shifts his weight, studying you like he’s trying to piece something together. “You don’t hang out as much. You don’t—” He gestures vaguely. “You just feel… far.”
Far.
The word lands heavier than it should.
You turn back to your car, sliding the key into the lock. “You’re busy.”
“With Nancy,” he says, supplying the name carefully.
You glance at him then.
“Yeah.”
He exhales slowly, running a hand through his hair. For a second, the confident hallway version of him slips, replaced by the boy who used to sit beside you on the basketball court and ask if he was good at anything.
“I didn’t want it to be… weird,” he admits.
You swallow.
The truth is that it is weird. It’s strange and sharp and nothing like the steady rhythm you built together over years. But you can’t say that. Because saying it would mean admitting why.
“It’s not,” you lie smoothly.
He watches you for a long moment, like he knows you’re not telling him everything.
“You can tell me if it is,” he says quietly.
The invitation hangs between you.
You could. You could tell him that every time he says her name it feels like something scraping against your ribs. That watching him hold her hand feels like losing something you never officially had. That you’ve been trying so hard to be mature about this that it’s exhausting. Instead, you shrug.
“It’s fine, Steve.”
He looks unconvinced.
“She’s your sister,” he says after a moment, as if that explains the tension. “I just didn’t want you thinking I was, I don’t know… ditching you.”
You almost laugh at that.
Ditching.
As if this is about scheduling conflicts.
“I don’t think that,” you say carefully.
But you do feel replaced. Not erased entirely—he still seeks you out sometimes, still asks if you’re okay but shifted. Demoted. Moved from center to perimeter.
He steps a little closer.
“You know you’re still my best friend, right?”
The words should soothe you. Instead, they twist.
Best friend. The title feels heavier now. More limiting.
“Of course,” you reply, keeping your voice steady.
He studies your face, searching for cracks. For a second, you think he might press further. Might step past the surface and ask the question neither of you is brave enough to name.
But then a familiar voice calls his name from across the lot.
“Steve!”
He turns instinctively toward the sound.
You watch the shift happen in real time, the subtle straightening of his posture, the softening of his expression.
He looks back at you.
“I’ll see you later?”
“Yeah,” you say.
He hesitates, like he wants to say more. Then he jogs backward a few steps before turning fully toward her. You stand there a moment longer, hand still resting on your car door. Across the parking lot, Nancy reaches him. She smiles up at him, slipping her hand into his like it belongs there.
He smiles back.
And you realize that this is what it feels like to love someone quietly while they’re learning how to love someone else out loud.
You slide into your car and close the door gently, as if sudden movement might fracture something further. As you pull out of the parking space, you don’t look in the rearview mirror. You’re not sure you’re ready to see what you’re leaving behind.
The tension doesn’t explode all at once. It tightens first slowly, almost invisibly like a wire being pulled too taut.
By the time Tina’s party rolls around, you can feel it humming beneath everything. The house is already loud when you arrive. Music rattles the windows. Laughter spills out the front door in uneven bursts. The air smells like beer and something sweet burning in the kitchen. Someone has strung Christmas lights across the ceiling in a lazy attempt at atmosphere.
You hadn’t wanted to go. Nancy insisted.
“It’ll be fun,” she said, already halfway out the door.
You spend most of the night near the kitchen, plastic cup in hand, watching.
Steve is in his element at first. Laughing loudly. Tossing an arm around someone’s shoulder. Kissing Nancy’s temple like it’s instinct. But there’s something tight beneath it, something rehearsed. Nancy drinks more than she usually does.
You notice because you always notice.
Her cheeks flush deeper than normal. Her movements grow less measured. Her laughter comes a second too late, too sharp at the edges. Steve notices too. He hovers.
“Hey,” he says gently at one point, leaning close so he doesn’t have to shout. “Maybe slow down a little?”
“I’m fine,” she snaps, though she sways slightly when she shifts her weight.
You see the flicker of hurt cross his face.
He tries again later, softer this time. “Nance, you don’t have to—”
“Stop,” she interrupts, frustration bleeding into her voice. “Just stop acting like I can’t handle myself.”
You’re standing near the kitchen doorway now, plastic cup warm in your hand, heart beating a little too fast. You can feel it building. People start watching. Tommy is watching from across the room, smirk barely concealed. Carol whispers something to the girl beside her. You feel heat crawl up your neck.
Steve straightens slightly, jaw tightening.
“I’m not saying you can’t,” he says, trying to keep his tone even. “I just—”
“You just what?” Nancy demands, louder now. “You just want me to be perfect?”
The music feels too loud. The room too small. You step closer without meaning to.
“That’s not what I—” Steve begins.
“You think I don’t see it?” she continues, words tumbling over each other. “The way you look at me like I’m some kind of trophy?”
The accusation hangs in the air. His face goes pale.
“That’s not fair,” he says quietly.
Nancy laughs, but it’s brittle. “Fair? You want to talk about fair?”
The argument spills into the kitchen, voices rising over the music. A small crowd gathers at a careful distance, pretending not to stare. You follow. Not close enough to intervene. Close enough to hear.
“I thought you cared about me,” Steve says, and there’s no performance left in his voice now. Just confusion. “I thought this was—”
“It is,” she cuts in, then falters. “It’s just—”
“Just what?” he presses, desperation creeping in.
She shakes her head, pushing hair out of her face with unsteady hands.
“This is bullshit,” she mutters.
“Nancy.” He says her name like a plea. And then it happens.
“bullshit”
The words land hard and sharp, cutting through the music, through the murmurs, through everything. Silence follows.
Not total silence, the party doesn’t actually stop but the space around them feels vacuum sealed. Steve doesn’t move at first. It’s like the words haven’t registered. Or maybe they have, and he’s just trying to stay upright under the weight of them.
“What?” he asks finally, voice barely audible.
Nancy’s breathing is uneven. Her eyes are glassy not just from alcohol.
“were bullshit” she repeats, softer now but no less devastating.
You watch his face change. The confidence drains first. Then the defensiveness. Then whatever fragile hope he’d been clinging to. He looks younger suddenly. Smaller.
You’ve seen Steve perform a hundred emotions, charm, indifference, amusement but you’ve never seen this. Raw. Unshielded. The boy from behind the gym resurfaces in an instant.
He swallows hard. “You don’t mean that.” But there’s no conviction in it.
Nancy looks away. The silence stretches.
“I thought—” he starts, then stops. His throat works like he’s forcing down something sharp. “I thought we were… good.”
Her shoulders slump slightly, the fight draining out of her as quickly as it flared.
“I don’t know what we are,” she admits.
The crowd begins to disperse, discomfort outweighing curiosity. You remain rooted in place.
Steve nods once, stiffly. It’s the smallest movement, but it feels monumental.
“Okay,” he says.
Just that. Okay. As if he’s accepting something inevitable. He doesn’t yell. He doesn’t lash out. He just steps back.
For a brief second, his eyes flicker across the room and land on you.
It’s not intentional, maybe. Or maybe it is. But in that glance, you see it all.
Shock. Humiliation. Heartbreak.
He looks like he’s been hollowed out from the inside. You’d never seen Steve look small until that night.
He leaves without another word. The front door slams.
Nancy sinks down against the kitchen counter, sliding to the floor like her bones can’t hold her up anymore. The party noise resumes around you, distorted and distant.
You stand there, heart pounding, caught between them. Between the sister who just detonated her relationship. And the boy you’ve loved quietly for years walking out into the dark alone.
It was past midnight when you heard the familiar tap against your window.
Not Nancy’s. Yours. You had not been sleeping. You had been lying on your back staring at the ceiling, tracing the faint cracks in the plaster like constellations, replaying the party over and over in your head. The way Nancy’s voice had cut through the music. The way Steve had stood there, stunned and silent. The way he had looked at you before he walked out. The tap comes again. Softer this time. Hesitant. Your heart stumbles.
You already know who it is. There has only ever been one person in Hawkins who uses your window like a front door. You sit up slowly, pulse loud in your ears, and cross the room. When you lift the pane, cold air rushes in, biting at your cheeks. He’s standing there in the dark, hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets. His hair... usually so carefully styled is wind-tossed, flattened on one side. His eyes look darker than usual. Not angry. Empty.
“Hey,” he says softly.
It’s the same word he used at the party. It sounds different now. Smaller.
You don’t ask why he’s here. You don’t ask if he’s okay. You just step back and let him climb in. He moves slower than usual, less graceful. When his shoes hit your bedroom floor, he lingers by the window like he isn’t sure what he’s allowed to do next. You close the pane carefully. The room feels smaller with him in it. Warmer. Charged.
For a moment, neither of you speak.
The only light comes from the streetlamp outside, filtering through your curtains in pale strips that cut across his face. You can see the tightness in his jaw. The faint redness around his eyes.
He doesn’t look at you. Instead, he studies the floor.
“I didn’t know where else to go,” he admits finally.
The confession lands gently between you.
You nod. “You don’t have to explain.”
His mouth twitches like he might try to smile, but it falters before it fully forms.
“she doesn’t love me,” he says.
There’s no dramatics in his tone. No bitterness. Just disbelief.
You lean back against your desk, arms folding loosely, not defensively, just to keep yourself steady.
“She was drunk,” you offer carefully.
He shakes his head.
“No.” His voice cracks slightly. “She meant it.”
Silence stretches.
You don’t rush to fill it. You’ve learned over the years that Steve talks more when he doesn’t feel cornered.
He exhales slowly, dragging a hand through his hair.
“I keep replaying it,” he murmurs. “Trying to figure out when it changed. Or if it was ever… real.”
“It was real,” you say before you can stop yourself.
He finally looks at you.
Your chest tightens under the weight of it.
“You think so?” he asks.
You nod.
“She cared about you.”
He swallows. “But not enough.”
The words are quiet. Fractured.
You cross the room then, unable to keep the distance any longer. You stop just in front of him, close enough to see the faint freckle near his left eyebrow. Close enough to feel the heat radiating off him.
“Hey,” you say softly, echoing his earlier greeting. “This doesn’t mean there’s something wrong with you.”
A humorless breath leaves him. “Feels like it.”
You hesitate, then reach for his hand. It’s instinct. Familiar.
His fingers lace with yours automatically, like they’ve done a hundred times before during horror movies or thunderstorms or moments that required silent solidarity.
But this feels different. He squeezes tighter than usual.
“I tried,” he says. “I really tried to be what she wanted.”
You know he did.
You saw it in the way he bit back comments he would’ve once made. In the way he defended her even when it cost him socially. In the way he looked at her like she was something precious and fragile.
“I know,” you whisper.
His shoulders slump.
“I just—” He shakes his head. “I thought if I was good enough, she’d stay.”
There it is. The fear beneath the heartbreak. You step closer without thinking.
“You are good enough,” you say firmly.
His eyes flicker to yours again.
For a moment, the air changes. Something shifts.
He studies your face like he’s seeing it clearly for the first time—not as Nancy’s sister. Not as his childhood best friend. Just you.
You feel exposed under that gaze. Because you have spent years memorizing the shape of his laugh. Because you have loved him since you were thirteen and had never once believed you were brave enough to reach.
You clear your throat gently. “You can stay here tonight.”
The offer is simple. Careful.
He hesitates. “Your parents—”
“Asleep.”
“And Nancy—”
Your stomach tightens at her name, but you keep your expression steady. “She won’t come in here.”
That’s enough for him. He nods once.
You sit on the edge of your bed first, kicking off your slippers. He follows more slowly, removing his jacket and draping it over your desk chair.
He looks uncertain again when he stands beside the bed.
You pat the space next to you.
“Steve,” you say softly. “It’s me.”
That does it. He lies down stiffly at first, staring up at your ceiling like it might offer answers. You turn off the lamp, plunging the room into soft darkness broken only by the streetlight’s glow.
There’s a careful space between you.
An inch. Maybe two.
You can feel the heat of him. His breathing is uneven.
“You think I’m stupid?” he asks suddenly.
“For what?”
“For not seeing it sooner.”
You turn onto your side, facing him. “No.”
He exhales slowly.
“I didn’t want to lose her,” he admits. “I didn’t want to fail.”
“You didn’t fail,” you say again.
He’s quiet for a long moment. Then, hesitantly, he turns onto his side too.
Now you’re facing each other fully. His eyes search yours in the dim light.
“Thanks for letting me come here,” he murmurs.
“Always,” you reply without hesitation.
Something softens in his expression at that word.
Always.
He shifts slightly, and without thinking too hard about it, you close the small gap between you. Your shoulder brushes his chest. He stills. Then slowly, like he’s asking without words he lifts his arm and drapes it around you.
It is not romantic. Not overtly. It is familiar. Protective.
His hand rests between your shoulder blades, warm and steady. You can feel his heartbeat through the thin fabric of his shirt.
It’s fast at first. Gradually, it slows.
You rest your forehead lightly against his collarbone. His chin dips until it brushes the top of your head.
Neither of you comment on it. Neither of you pull away.
Outside, a car passes. The house creaks softly as it settles into the early hours of morning.
He tightens his hold just slightly.
“Don’t go anywhere,” he mumbles, half asleep already.
Your throat tightens.
“I’m right here,” you whisper.
And you stay. Wrapped up in the quiet aftermath of someone else’s ending. Listening to his breathing even out. Feeling the weight of him trust you enough to sleep.
And sometime before dawn, still tangled in each other’s warmth, you drift off too.
The Morning arrives slowly.Not with noise. Not with chaos. But with warmth.
You wake before you open your eyes. Before you fully remember where you are. There’s weight at your waist. Heat pressed firmly along your spine. A steady, even breath against the back of your neck.
For a split second, you think you’re still dreaming. Then his arm tightens instinctively around you. And you remember.
The party.
Your bedroom window.
The way he folded into you like you were something safe. Steve is behind you, one arm draped securely over your middle, his chest solid and warm against your back. Your bodies fit together in a way that feels almost accidental like you’ve done this a thousand times, even though you haven’t. Not like this.
His face is half buried in your hair. His breath is warm and steady, ghosting across your shoulder. His hand rests just below your ribs, fingers curled slightly into the fabric of your sleep shirt like even in unconsciousness he’s afraid you might disappear.
You don’t move. You don’t want to break whatever this is. You can’t remember the last time you slept that deeply. No tossing. No overthinking. No replaying moments until they turned into something sharp.
Just warmth. Just him.
He shifts slightly behind you, tightening his hold for a second before settling again. A soft exhale brushes your skin. He’s still asleep.
You study the faint morning light stretching across your room, heart beating a little too loudly in your chest.
This is dangerous, you think. Not because of him. Because of you. Because this... this quiet, unguarded version of Steve has always been yours in ways no one else ever saw.
You close your eyes again, letting yourself exist in it for one more minute.
Eventually, he stirs.
It’s subtle at first. A small inhale. A slight tightening of his fingers at your waist. His forehead shifts against the back of your head.
Then his voice—low and thick with sleep.
“…You’re still here.”
You swallow softly. “Yeah.”
There’s a pause. A quiet recalibration.
And then, slowly, he becomes aware of the position you’re in. Of his arm around you. Of the way you’re tucked against him.
He stills. For a second, you think he might pull away. He doesn’t. Instead, his hold adjusts, not loosening. Steadier. More intentional.
“Did I—” His voice is rough from sleep. “Did I keep you up?”
“No,” you say honestly. “You didn’t.”
Another pause.
“I slept,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “Like… actually slept.”
You can’t help the small smile that touches your lips. “Me too.”
The admission hangs there. It feels significant.
He shifts again, just enough to press closer, his nose brushing lightly against your hair as he inhales.
“You smell like that shampoo you’ve used since middle school,” he mumbles.
You huff a quiet laugh. “That’s not creepy at all.”
“It’s familiar,” he corrects softly.
The word does something to you.
Familiar.
He finally loosens his arm enough for you to turn carefully in his hold. It’s slow, cautious like neither of you wants to snap whatever fragile thread is holding this moment together.
When you face him, the proximity steals your breath.
He’s close. Too close.
Morning light softens his features, erases the sharp edges of last night’s heartbreak. His hair is a mess. His lashes cast faint shadows against his cheeks. He looks younger like this. Less guarded.
His eyes open fully now, meeting yours.
There’s no confusion in them. No embarrassment. Just something steady.
“You stayed,” he says quietly.
“I said I would.”
His gaze lingers on your face longer than it usually does. Not scanning. Not distracted. Seeing.
“You always do,” he murmurs.
Your throat tightens.
There’s so much you could say. So much you’ve never said.
He studies you like he’s piecing something together.
“You know,” he begins slowly, “when I figured… when i figured she didn’t love me…”
You brace yourself.
“It hurt,” he continues. “But not just because of her.”
You frown slightly. “What do you mean?”
He exhales.
“I think I’ve been trying to make something work because I thought I was supposed to. Like if I checked all the boxes—pretty girlfriend, parties, the whole thing then that meant I was doing high school right.”
You don’t interrupt.
“I kept thinking if I was good enough, she’d stay,” he says. “But last night… when I left…”
His eyes soften.
“I didn’t want to go home.”
You know.
“I wanted to come here.”
The words land carefully between you.
“Because you’re safe,” he says simply.
Safe.
You nod slowly. “You don’t have to earn that.”
He swallows, something shifting behind his eyes.
“I think I’ve been blind,” he says quietly.
Your heart stumbles.
“Blind?”
“To what’s been right in front of me.”
The air in your room feels thinner.
You try to keep your voice steady. “Steve…”
He lifts a hand slightly, brushing a loose strand of hair away from your face. The touch is gentle. Unhurried.
“I don’t know what this is yet,” he admits. “And I don’t want to mess it up by rushing it or saying the wrong thing.”
Your pulse pounds in your ears.
“But I know,” he continues, voice steadier now, “that when everything fell apart last night… you were the only person I wanted.”
Your breath catches. He doesn’t look away.
“I don’t want to lose you,” he says.
The vulnerability in that confession nearly undoes you.
“You won’t,” you whisper.
He searches your face like he’s waiting for something more.
You take a breath. You’ve spent years swallowing it. Years convincing yourself that loving him quietly was enough. But lying here, wrapped up in the best sleep you’ve had in months, with his hand still resting warm against your waist. You’re tired of being quiet.
“I’ve loved you,” you say softly.
The words are almost swallowed by the morning light.
He stills. Not recoiling. Not shocked. Just listening.
“Since we were thirteen,” you continue, voice barely above a whisper. “I just… never thought you’d see me that way.”
Silence fills the room.
It stretches long enough that doubt begins creeping in.
Then his thumb moves—absently tracing the curve of your hip like he’s grounding himself.
“You idiot,” he says gently.
Your heart drops. Then he shakes his head, a small, almost disbelieving smile touching his lips.
“Not because you loved me,” he clarifies. “Because you thought I didn’t see you.”
Your breath stutters.
“I’ve always seen you.”
He leans his forehead lightly against yours.
“I just didn’t know what I was looking at.”
The admission is soft. Honest.
“I don’t want to jump from one thing into another,” he says carefully. “And I don’t want to use you as some kind of rebound. You deserve better than that.”
You nod.
“I know.”
“But I also know,” he adds, “that whatever this is… it’s not new.”
It isn’t. It’s years of shared glances and late night phone calls. Of inside jokes and quiet loyalty. Of hands reaching for each other in the dark without thinking. It’s history.
He squeezes your waist lightly.
“Can we just… start here?” he asks. “No labels. No pressure. Just us.”
You smile softly.
“Yeah,” you breathe. “Just us.”
There’s no dramatic kiss. No sweeping declaration. Just his hand sliding up to cup your cheek. Just his thumb brushing lightly beneath your eye. Just the quiet understanding that something has shifted into place.
Down the hall, a floorboard creaks. Reality inches closer.
He exhales slowly. “We’re going to have to talk to her.”
You nod.
“I know.”
It won’t be easy. Nothing in Hawkins ever is. But for the first time in a long time, you don’t feel uncertain.
He presses a gentle kiss to your forehead. Not rushed. Not desperate. Intentional.
Then he pulls you back into him, arms wrapping securely around your waist again as if he’s not ready to let go of the quiet just yet. You let yourself sink into it. Into the warmth.
Into the steady rhythm of his breathing. Into the knowledge that this time, he didn’t come to you because he was broken. He stayed because he finally saw you.
And when you close your eyes again for just a few more minutes, tangled together in morning light, it doesn’t feel like the aftermath of something ending.
𝓶.𝓵𝓲𝓼𝓽 ⋆˚࿔ s3!soft Billy Hargrove x girlygirl!reader x coworker!Steve .𖥔 ݁ Billy is very much alive in this universe;)
𝓈𝓊𝓂𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓎.𖥔 ݁ You find yourself drawn to a boy who defies every rule you've ever lived by. As secret glances and stolen moments build into something undeniable, you discover sides of yourself you never knew existed. Caught in the quiet orbit of this dangerous charm, you never notice the one who has quietly loved you all along.
You’ve always liked things neat. Neat handwriting. Neat ponytails tied with satin ribbons. Hawkins loves you because you’re easy to understand. Teachers love you because you never turn work in late. You're the girl who raises her hand before the question is finished. The girl who color codes her planner and thanks the bus driver and never, ever breaks curfew. Your parents introduce you to neighbors with a proud hand on your shoulder. “She’s our good one,” they say, half joking, fully serious.
You don’t mind it. You like being good. You like the certainty of it.
It’s late fall, the year after Billy moves to Hawkins. The air smells like damp leaves and cold pavement, You’re sitting on the cold metal bleachers behind the football field with a paperback in your lap, highlighter tucked neatly in the spiral binding. Practice ended twenty minutes ago. You’re waiting for your dad. You always wait exactly where you’re supposed to.
You hear the engine before you see him. It’s loud. Unnecessarily loud. It breaks the quiet like it has something to prove. You glance up, mildly annoyed, just in time to see a dark blue Camaro pull into the nearly empty lot. It doesn’t park in a space. It slides into one.
You roll your eyes and look back down at your book. You expect him to stay in the car. He doesn’t.
The door slams. Heavy boots hit pavement. You feel his presence before he speaks, like static crawling across your skin.
“You always sit out here alone?”
You don’t look up immediately. You finish the sentence you’re on. Then you carefully close your book and lift your eyes.
Billy Hargrove stands at the bottom of the bleachers, hands on his hips, jaw sharp, expression unreadable.
“I’m not alone,” you reply calmly. “There are at least three security cameras pointed at this field.”
One corner of his mouth lifts.
“That so?”
“Yes.”
He studies you like he’s trying to figure out if you’re serious.
You are.
You go back to your book.
Most girls in Hawkins either stare at him too long or avoid eye contact completely. You do neither. You treat him like he’s mildly inconvenient. It unsettles him. He climbs the bleachers without asking, the metal creaking under his weight. He doesn’t sit next to you. He sits one row below. Close enough to be felt. Not close enough to be invited.
“What’re you reading?” he asks.
You hesitate, then turn the cover slightly so he can see.
He squints at the title. “Sounds boring.”
“It isn’t.”
“Bet it is.”
You sigh, close it again, and look at him fully for the first time.
“You don’t have to sit here.”
“You don’t have to be here either.”
“I was here first.” That earns you a real smirk.
There’s something in his eyes when you hold his gaze. Not challenge. Not exactly. Something quieter. Curious.
You expect him to say something cocky. Something cutting.
Instead, he says, “You don’t seem like you’re from here.”
“I was born here.”
“Yeah,” he says. “But you don’t feel like it.”
The comment catches you off guard.
Before you can respond, headlights sweep across the lot. Your father’s car.
You stand immediately, slipping your book into your bag. “That’s my ride.”
Billy watches you descend the bleachers.
“You always do what you’re supposed to?” he calls after you.
You pause at the bottom. “Yes.”
“Must be nice.”
You don’t understand what he means yet, but you think about it the entire drive home. From that day on, you start noticing him everywhere. Leaning against lockers. Smoking behind the gym. Sitting in the back of class, boots propped against the desk in front of him.
He starts noticing you, too.
He notices how you raise your hand even when you’re not sure of the answer. He notices how teachers smile at you differently. He notices how you laugh softly, like you’re trying not to take up too much space.
The second time you talk is in the library.
You’re at your usual table, index cards spread neatly in front of you. He walks in like he doesn’t belong there. Because he doesn’t.
He doesn’t ask permission before sitting across from you.
“You follow me in here?” you ask without looking up.
“Maybe.”
“You don’t read.”
“Don’t I?”
You glance up at him then, and he holds up a random book he grabbed from the shelf. It’s upside down.
You reach across the table and flip it the right way without thinking.
Your fingers brush his knuckles.
The contact is brief. Accidental. But neither of you pulls away immediately. His eyes flick down to your hand.
“You’re not scared of me,” he says quietly.
“No.”
“Why not?”
You consider that. “You haven’t given me a reason to be.”
It’s the first time someone in Hawkins hasn’t already decided who he is. That’s when something shifts. Something quiet. Something that makes your pulse quicken for no reason other than him being there.
After that, the rest of the year builds in stolen moments. He starts showing up more often. Not obviously. Not enough to cause gossip. Just enough.
He walks you halfway to your bus once. Claims he was heading that way anyway.
He hands you a cassette one afternoon without explanation. “Don’t judge it till you listen.”
You do listen. In your room. Low volume. You don’t hate it.
You start leaving him notes inside returned library books. Small corrections to the margins of pages you know he didn’t understand. He never mentions them. But the next time he checks out a book, the difficult words are already underlined. With him, there’s no performance. No expectations. Just… dangerous, careful attention.
He doesn’t flirt with you the way he flirts with other girls.
With you, he’s… careful. But, you don’t tell anyone, because you already know what they would say.
The following summer in Hawkins feels different when Billy is around. The air itself seems thicker, warmer, like it knows it doesn’t belong. Even the mall smells different. Fluorescent lights, popcorn, faint bleach. You wear your Scoops Ahoy uniform and tie your hair back neatly, the sailor hat perched just so. Everything about you is controlled, precise, as if the crisp lines of your uniform could hold the edges of your world together.
Billy doesn’t care about precision. He struts through the sliding doors like he owns them, leather jacket creaking at the shoulders, Dirty blonde hair falling into his eyes, boots clicking against the tile. You see him out of the corner of your eye before anyone else does, every shift, every day. Steve notices too, though he pretends not to, pretending it’s casual observation. It isn’t. He notices how your hands shake ever so slightly when you hand Billy a cone, the way your eyes linger on him longer than necessary, how your smile changes when he says something small and teasing, like it’s a private joke you alone share.
“Vanilla,” he says one day, leaning against the counter with that insufferable smirk.
“You don’t even like vanilla,” you reply before thinking. The words are sharper than intended.
“Maybe I changed my mind,” he says, and you feel the weight of his gaze, curious, measuring, and somehow intimate.
You scoop carefully. You always scoop carefully. Perfect spheres, like the world will make sense if you do it precisely enough.
Behind you, Steve mutters under his breath, “Oh my god,” before shoving a stack of cones into the freezer.
You pretend you don’t hear him. You don’t look at him.
After your shift ends, the mall parking lot is empty except for the occasional flickering light and the lingering echo of footsteps. Your car refuses to start, a familiar betrayal, and then you see the blue Camaro waiting across the lot, engine off. You hesitate. Heart racing. Part of you wants to run, part of you wants to dive into it.
He doesn’t honk. Doesn’t call attention. He just waits. Like he’s been there forever, like he knows exactly how long it would take for you to panic.
“Car trouble?” he asks, hands stuffed in his jacket pockets, eyes scanning you like a question he’s not ready to answer.
“Yes,” you admit. “I didn’t mean for it to—”
He cuts you off with a small shake of his head. “I’ll fix it.”
You want to protest. You want to tell him you don’t need help, you never need help. But the engine sputters again. And then it’s silent.
He crouches under the hood, hands sure and skilled, working in silence. You watch him, noticing every movement—the curve of his neck, the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw sets in concentration. It’s different from the arrogance he wears on the surface. Beneath it, there’s… focus. Care. Attention. And he’s giving it all to you.
“You always do what you’re supposed to,” he says quietly, almost to himself.
“Yes,” you answer. “Always.”
“Ever wanna not?”
The question hangs between you. Dangerous. Tempting. You want to walk away, want to retreat into the safety of your predictable life. But something in his eyes stops you. Something in the air tells you that even for one night, this could be… different.
The first time you sneak out, it’s an ordinary Tuesday that suddenly becomes extraordinary. You slide out your bedroom window, shiver at the chill, and hear the low hum of the Camaro idling down the street. He doesn’t speak for the first few minutes. The world passes by too fast to be caught in words.
“You’re late,” he says after a stretch of silence.
“Two minutes,” you say, breath catching in your chest.
“Still,” he says, and it’s teasing, but softer, warmer than it ever should be.
He drives without destination. Windows down. Music low. Somewhere in the hum of the engine and the wind brushing against your cheeks, you start to talk. About college, books, dreams far beyond Hawkins. About fears you’ve never said aloud.
He listens. He always listens.
There’s a pause in the conversation, and the world seems to hold its breath. Everything around you, the wind rustling through the trees, the distant hum of the lake, the faint, muffled noises from the town fades into a quiet blur. The edges of reality soften, like someone has painted over the harsh lines with watercolors. His eyes are on you, not with curiosity, not with challenge, not with the casual arrogance he shows everyone else, but with something entirely different. It’s quiet, insistent, like he’s trying to memorize the way your eyes catch the light, the curve of your jaw, the delicate tremor in your lips when you realize he’s looking that closely.
You feel exposed, but not in a bad way. Not like he’s judging. It’s more… intimate. Electric. The kind of tension that prickles along your spine and makes your chest beat faster without a single word being spoken. You want to speak, to say something safe and measured, but your throat goes dry. And then, before you can overthink it, he moves closer. Not aggressively, not forcefully, just… closer.
His hands reach for your shoulders, and his jacket falls over them, heavy and warm, the scent of him, leather, sun, something untamed surrounding you. The weight is grounding. You’re not cold anymore, though the night air nips at your fingers and nose. The warmth of him presses in like a shield against the world.
He cups your face, thumbs brushing your cheekbones, fingertips lingering near your jawline, as if he’s afraid you might disappear if he doesn’t hold you carefully. Your breath hitches. You’ve never felt this simultaneously safe and untethered. His gaze drops to your lips for a fleeting moment, then back to your eyes, searching, asking, waiting for permission.
When his lips finally touch yours, it’s nothing like the reckless, consuming kisses you’ve imagined in movies or read about in novels. There’s no desperation. No hurry. No pressure. It’s careful, deliberate, tentative, an unspoken question in the soft press of his mouth against yours. And when you respond, leaning in just enough to match his caution, the world doesn’t spin wildly out of control. Instead, it tilts gently, just enough for you to notice, but your feet stay grounded. Your heart races, but you can still think, still feel the wind against your skin, still hear the whisper of water against the quarry’s edge.
The moonlight ripples across the lake behind him, scattering silver across the water’s surface. The reflection dances over his face, highlighting the sharp angles of his jaw, the curve of his lips, the dark intensity in his eyes that’s so rarely reserved for anyone. And you realize, in a moment of startling clarity, that this boy, the one who’s been the epitome of danger, of defiance, of chaos is choosing to be gentle with you. All of you. Here. Now.
Time stretches, elastic and pliable. You feel his heartbeat through his chest, the warmth of his hands holding you steady, and it’s intimate in a way that words can’t touch. Every second is magnified. The brush of his thumb against your cheek, the quiet hum of the night, the smell of pine and leather mingling in the air. You notice every detail because your body is tuned entirely to him.
When he finally pulls back, just enough for you to see his face clearly, his expression is softer than anything you’ve seen from him before. Vulnerable, almost unreadable, but entirely sincere.
“You okay?” he whispers, voice low, cautious, like he’s still checking if this is real.
You nod, unable to speak at first, because words would ruin it. They would cheapen the enormity of the moment. Instead, you let your lips curve into a small, trembling smile, and he leans in again, forehead to forehead this time, as if promising silently that you’re safe, that you belong here, with him, in this fragile, perfect moment.
And you understand, in a way that chills and thrills you all at once maybe the world can tilt. Maybe it can crash and burn around you. But right here, right now, with him holding you so carefully, so deliberately, you are grounded. You are steady. And this... this boy, this stolen moment, this quiet, breathtaking connection is enough to make everything else fade.
Nights like this become routine, yet they never feel ordinary. Windows down, wind tangling your hair into careless knots, the Camaro humming beneath you like a living thing, the faint smell of gasoline mingling with grass, distant lake water, and the lingering warmth of asphalt from a day spent in the sun. Conversations stretch long into the dark, drifting like smoke around the edges of things too small for words but too heavy for silence. You never tell anyone what happens here. Billy doesn’t either. Hawkins doesn’t know. Your parents couldn’t understand. And you like it that way. It’s yours.
Sometimes, he’s distant. A hand on the dashboard, jaw tight, eyes fixed on the road as if the world beyond the headlights doesn’t exist. Sometimes, he’s soft almost painfully so like the way he lets his fingers linger over yours on the seat, or the small, careful way he brushes a strand of hair from your face, the motion so gentle it makes your chest ache. You feel both extremes at once, the dangerous edge that makes your pulse race and the quiet warmth that makes your heart catch every time he looks at you.
You know you shouldn’t fall for him. Everyone says it’s a bad idea. And yet, you can’t stop thinking about him. About how he memorized your coffee order, how he flips through books he reads because you suggested them, how he waits outside the Camaro without a word, just engine idling, watching, patient, like he’s guarding a secret he’ll never share with anyone but you. You can feel the weight of it in your chest, the thrill and the danger, and the fact that you’re completely, helplessly addicted to it.
Steve notices. He hates himself for noticing. He hates how his stomach twists and his hands curl into fists when he sees the way your lips twitch into a small, unguarded smile at something only Billy said. He hates the ache that blooms in his chest every time your shoulders relax in Billy’s presence, every time your eyes soften like you’re seeing someone only you are allowed to see. He feels late to a fight he never signed up for, a fight for something that’s never been his to claim, watching you slip farther and farther into someone he can’t reach, someone dangerous, magnetic, and entirely yours.
Billy leans a little closer, shoulder brushing yours, and it’s electric. You feel it in the small prickling at your neck, the flutter in your stomach, the way your breath catches just for a moment. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t need to. Everything he communicates is in the subtle movements, the tilt of his head, the soft brush of his fingers against yours, the way his gaze lingers on yours for a heartbeat too long. It’s private. Sacred. Yours.
And Steve, from across the parking lot, or standing behind the counter at Scoops, or wherever fate happens to have placed him, sees it all and feels powerless. Every small glance, every brush of hands, every laugh too soft and intimate, it’s a reminder that you’ve chosen a world he can’t step into. That you’ve chosen him.
The night stretches, long and unbroken. The world is quiet except for the hum of the engine, the distant lapping of water at the lake, and the faint rustle of leaves stirred by the wind. You feel the Camaro shift beneath you as Billy’s hand brushes yours again, deliberately slow, and it’s enough to send a shiver up your spine. You melt into it, heart thudding in a rhythm that feels like it belongs to him, not you.
And somewhere in the shadows of the streetlights, Steve swallows hard, jaw tight, chest aching. He can’t stop looking, can’t stop feeling, can’t stop wondering how he lost before he even began. And you, oblivious to his silent suffering, lean back slightly, head tipped toward the moonlight, hair tangled, heart racing, and let yourself be completely, utterly captured by the boy beside you—dangerous, soft, infuriating, and perfect in ways you’ll never admit aloud.
⋆˚࿔
The summer stretches over Hawkins like a golden haze, sticky with heat, buzzing cicadas, and the faint scent of ice cream from the mall. Nights belong to you and Billy now. Stolen moments that feel infinite and impossible, as if the world itself is holding its breath for just the two of you. The Camaro hums beneath you as he drives, hands on the wheel but eyes constantly flicking toward you. The thrill of his attention, the quiet electricity in the space between you, makes your chest ache and your stomach twist with every glance.
Billy has changed. Not in the way everyone expects, he’s still sharp, wild, dangerous but softer, more careful around you. You see it in the little things. The way he adjusts his jacket to keep you warm, the small smiles he lets slip when you joke, the quiet hum of a song you both hum together as he drives. He’s still the bad boy of Hawkins, the boy everyone whispers about, but in these moments, he is yours.
And yet, Billy is learning the meaning of longing. He feels it in the spaces between your words, in the pause before you speak, in the way you glance at someone else and immediately look away. Jealousy coils in him, tight and sharp, though he’d never admit it aloud. He wants to protect you, not just because he’s possessive but because every moment without you feels like a risk. He hates knowing the world can touch you when he isn’t around, hates knowing your smile could be for someone else, even if it’s only fleeting.
“You’re quiet tonight,” he murmurs one evening as you drive past the lake, headlights catching the water like fire. His voice is low, rough, pulling at something deep in you.
“I’m… thinking,” you reply, voice soft, head resting against the seat. “About… us. About this.”
He reaches out, brushing a strand of hair from your face, and it’s enough to make your chest seize. “I think about you too,” he says, almost too quietly to hear, but the weight in his gaze says everything. "Every laugh, every look, every little thing—she’s mine" he thinks. "And I can’t let her forget it."
Sometimes, in the quiet of these drives, he talks. About himself, about his past, about the way he’s never understood love until he felt it for you. And you listen, heart tight, chest swelling, realizing that the boy everyone warns you about, the dangerous, untouchable Billy is utterly yours in these moments.
Other nights, you tease him. A hand on his shoulder, a smile that makes him falter, a laugh that echoes against the hum of the engine. He growls softly, playful but dangerous, hands tightening slightly on the wheel.
“Don’t think I don’t notice,” he murmurs. “Every little thing. You think you’re subtle, but I see it.”
And you grin, leaning closer, heart racing. “Maybe I want you to notice,” you whisper, fingers brushing the side of his arm, sending sparks through the air.
Billy had sensed Steve’s presence before, though he never mention it. He didn't need to. The threat is real enough in his chest, the knowledge that someone else has been quietly watching you, longing for you and it sharpens his need to claim every moment. Each smile, each laugh, each secret shared in the dark of the Camaro becomes sacred, fiercely guarded. He’s possessive, yes, but more than that he’s desperate, hungry, utterly captivated. "I can’t lose her", he thinks every night, every quiet pause, every gentle brush of her fingers. "I’ve never wanted anyone like this."
One evening, you sit on the hood of the Camaro, Billy beside you, the two of you sharing the silence that feels heavy with everything words could never capture. He leans back, one arm draped across the windshield, fingers brushing your hand in a careful, deliberate rhythm. He doesn’t need to speak, the comfort of him, the warmth radiating from every line of his body, says more than words ever could.
“I never thought…” he murmurs, voice low, rough with emotion, “…I never thought I’d find someone who gets me. Who… sees me. And yet, here you are.”
You turn toward him, eyes soft, heart swelling in your chest. “You’re not impossible,” you whisper, brushing a strand of hair from his face. “You’re just… you. And I… I’m glad I found you, Billy.”
He swallows, jaw tightening, a rare vulnerability flickering across his expression. “I’m not gonna lie,” he admits, voice husky, “I was scared. Scared I’d mess it up, scare you away, or that you’d pick someone safer… someone like Steve.”
Your heart falters, not from jealousy but from knowing just how much he cares, how much he’s willing to risk, how deeply he’s opening himself to you. “Billy…” you murmur, leaning into him, “I don’t care about safer. I care about you. Only you.”
A small, almost shy smile tugs at his lips, and the rare softness that only you get to see spreads across his face. “God… I’ve been waiting to hear that,” he says, voice catching. “To know it’s real. That I’m not imagining this, or that I didn’t scare you off.”
You laugh softly, a warm, light sound that makes the tension in his shoulders ease. “You didn’t scare me,” you insist, brushing your fingers across his. “You’re… you. And I love you for it.”
Billy’s eyes darken with emotion, stormy and tender all at once. He leans closer, forehead against yours, and for the first time in months, he lets himself feel everything without holding back. “I love you too,” he whispers, voice low, trembling with the weight of months spent hiding it. “I’ve loved you longer than I realized. Longer than I should’ve let myself.”
You close the last distance, lips brushing his in a kiss that’s gentle and fierce all at once. It’s a promise, a seal on everything that’s built between you over countless stolen nights, quiet confessions, and tentative touches. Your hands curl into the fabric of his jacket, holding him close, memorizing the warmth, the roughness, the heat, the weight of him against you. Billy deepens the kiss, not out of urgency but devotion. Every brush of lips, every whisper of breath, every slow, deliberate movement says what words cannot
You are mine. I am yours. Always.
The world outside, the fading sunlight, the quiet hum of the Camaro, even Steve’s distant, unspoken longing melts away. For this moment, for these quiet golden nights, nothing exists except you two.
And as the sky deepens into twilight, casting everything in shades of amber and violet, Billy rests his forehead against yours, hands holding yours like he can never let go. “I promise,” he murmurs, voice low, fierce, tender, “I’ll always be here. I’ll always fight for you. Always.”
You smile, heart full, chest aching in the best way possible. “I know,” you whisper, leaning in for one last kiss as the stars begin to peek out. “And I’ll always be yours.”
For the first time, the world feels simple, perfect, and endless. The chaos, the warnings, the judgments, they all fade. There is only the two of you, the quiet strength of love that has been built in glances, in touches, in moments no one else could see. And that is enough.
Billy presses his lips to yours one last time as the Camaro hums beneath you, a promise of stolen nights, endless summers, and a love that neither time nor circumstance can touch.
Here are some more Joe Keery Fics I have really enjoyed! Sending lots of love these to these amazing authors ♡
WARM LIGHTS, WARMER HANDS | @djowrites
sometimes love is a late-night routine, a shared sink, and learning how to take care of each other.
LIVE LOVE NEW YORK | @/djowrites
inspired by fin's snl moments. write about reader hosting SNL and there are sightings of the cast and joe being there for you. and maybe u could give snippets of the after party.
WHEN THE CLOCK HIT ZERO | @/djowrites
you’ve known joe keery your whole life without ever really knowing him. family friends, shared spaces, missed conversations. years later, a new year’s eve reunion in chicago brings everything you never said back into light. one special moment however, can change everything.
BETWEEN THE FLASHES | @/djowrites
paris fashion week is loud. the cameras never stop flashing, the world never stops watching. but somewhere between the runway lights and the noise, you and joe find small, gentle moments that belong only to you. fixing each others outfits. intertwined hands. love that doesn’t need to be loud to be seen.
jealous type | @piece0fgarbag
Watching Sabrina arrest Joe awakens a fierce jealousy inside you—time to remind your boyfriend who he belongs to.
golden globes’ disaster duo | @/piece0fgarbag
Co-presenting an award with your boyfriend Joe should be easy, but nerves and sex send your night spiraling into disaster.
Jealousy, Jealousy! | @luvv4maddie
When an interviewer can’t help but bring up the fact that your boyfriend made a song for Charlie— Aka “Charlie’s Garden” you can’t help but go on a rant again..and again..!
not so secret affairs | @hanwritesthings
joe keery x musician!reader (smau) | @/hanwritesthings
Ruin the friendship | @bluetimeombre
You and Joe have been friends ever since you joined the cast in season two- best friends. By the time season five comes around, everyone knows it's not just a friendship anymore.
I’M STARTING A RUMOR ! | @/bluetimeombre
HE’S JUST KEN ! | @/bluetimeombre
The ‘hat’ thing… | @/bluetimeombre
gap tooth smile | @stonemeffext
God, How Lucky Can A Simple Man Be? | @eli0eli0
Golden Globes | @prettybutaching
A chance encounter stirs feelings long buried as Y/N and Joe cross paths again at the Golden Globes 2026
jealousy on set | @/prettybutaching
“lets start off by adressing the elephant in the room” | @djx0com
WHEN a interviewer asks how you and your co-workers feel about “Charlie’s Garden”, not knowing who the love songs Djo wrote were about you
“WHERE IS MY HUSBAND!” | @/djx0com
WHEN y/n and joe have been dating since the first season of stranger things, and still no ring
Fluff | @witchhkitty222
Half-packed bags, damp hair, chaos everywhere. Joe stops you. No spectacle, just a choice he makes every day.
Joe keery’s headcanons/mini scenarios | @/witchhkitty222
Just little scenarios of you and Joe being together, the soft moments, the teasing, the jealousy, the intimacy. Some are fluffy, some are hot, some are both all of them are just what loving him would feel like.
photos by y/n | @loversagile
game night | @/loversagile
Children | @/loversagile
pregnant polaroids | @/loversagile
i do | @/loversagile
Vhs | @csi-junkie
survivor (a not so guilty pleasure) | @/csi-junkie
for your eyes only | @/csi-junkie
dating joe | @/csi-junkie
❝ gossip ❞ | @svinz55
you’re a friend of the stranger things cast and following the end of the series, you find yourself closer and closer to joe – and the fans pick up on it instantly.
I dare you to try me | @liasinthemoon
it’s their joint birthday party and they end up giving each other the perfect birthday gift
joe keery x stylist!reader | @djo-slut
being a celebrity stylist was your dream job and you’d worked really hard to get there. you were extremely professional but you had your favorite clients. you usually had no problem, except for one joe keery.
Basic Not Being Basic | @bweeeb
When your spiraling thoughts convince you that you’re just “too basic,” Joe makes it his mission to prove—right in front of everyone—how extraordinary you actually are.
jealousy on set | joe keery, jacob elordi & actress!y/n
-⤷ p1 here | p2 here | p3 here ˎˊ˗
—
The truth doesn’t settle all at once.
It lingers.
It lives in the quiet spaces between conversations, in the way Joe watches you like he’s afraid the moment might slip through his fingers if he doesn’t stay fully present. It lives in the careful distance Jacob keeps now, respectful but aching, like someone who knows exactly what he’s losing and chooses dignity anyway.
The days after Joe’s confession felt unreal. Not explosive… muted. Like the world keeps moving at the same speed while something fundamental has shifted beneath your feet.
You and Joe don’t label anything out loud yet. You don’t have to. It shows in the way he reaches for your hand when no one’s looking, in the way he checks your face before you go into interviews, in how you instinctively lean toward him like gravity has finally decided.
Behind the scenes, it’s quiet intimacy.
Joe sitting on the floor of your trailer, back against the couch, pretending to scroll while actually just listening to you talk.
His fingers brushing yours when he passes you in tight hallways, the contact brief but intentional.
None of it is for the cameras.
Jacob notices all of it anyway.
He notices the way you smile differently now softer, steadier. The way your attention drifts to Joe without effort. The way your body turns toward him even when he’s across the room.
It hurts more than Jacob expects.
Not because he thought he owned you but because he let himself hope, quietly, foolishly, that timing might bend in his favor. That whatever existed between you during those early weeks of filming hadn’t been just circumstance.
He doesn’t confront you. He doesn’t press.
Instead, he gives you space.
On set, he’s professional to the point of precision. Friendly, but contained. The jokes are fewer. The proximity deliberate only when the scene requires it. When the director calls cut, he steps back first.
You see it. You feel it.
One afternoon, while the crew resets lighting, you catch him alone near the monitors, staring at playback with a distant expression.
“Jacob,” you say softly.
He turns immediately, offering a practiced smile. “Hey.”
“You don’t have to disappear,” you tell him gently.
He exhales through his nose, the smile fading. “I’m not disappearing. I’m just… adjusting.”
You nod, heart heavy. “I care about you. I just need you to know, my feelings are clear. It’s Joe. It’s always been Joe, even when I didn’t understand it yet.”
Jacob holds your gaze, swallowing hard. “I know.”
There’s a beat of silence.
“I still care,” he admits quietly. “That doesn’t just shut off. But I’m not going to make this weird. You deserve to be happy. And we still have a movie to finish.”
Relief and sadness tangle in your chest. “Thank you.”
He gives a small nod. “We’ll be good.”
and he means it.
The internet, meanwhile, is anything but.
Speculation hasn’t died, it’s evolved. The DeuxMoi post continues to circulate, stitched into TikToks and Twitter threads dissecting timelines like evidence boards. Fans argue over who came first. Who matters more. Who lost.
You don’t engage.
Joe doesn’t either.
Instead, you grow closer quietly, deliberately. You learn how to exist together without performing it. Joe tells you about the years he convinced himself he was being patient instead of scared. You tell him about how you mistook familiarity for clarity, how easy it was to overlook the person who had always felt like home.
One night, after a long shoot, you sit together on the floor of your hotel room, backs against the bed, pizza boxes between you.
“I don’t want this to be hidden forever,” Joe says carefully. “But I don’t want it to feel like we owe anyone proof either.”
You smile, resting your head against his shoulder. “What if we just… let it be soft?”
Joe hums. “I like soft.”
A week later, on a rare day off, you post a photo dump.
yourusername some things feel like home
No tags. No explanation. Within minutes, it explodes. Fans scramble.
user1 WAIT WHATTT IS THAT JOE???
user2 bro i thought she was with jacob wth😭
user3 stop what ab jacob???!?!
user4 they lowk make more sense…
user5 ok ok i’m liking this WAY more
user6 oh so jacob did not stand a chance😬
djotime wowwwww
| yourusername wowwww you🤫
nattyiceoffical youre mind blowing y/n/n
| yourusername are you kidding me YOURE mind blowing
daallherr who’s that handsome man
| yourusername that’s kind of a secret dude
—
Jacob sees the post alone, sitting on his hotel bed, phone balanced in his hand. He stares at it longer than he should. It hurts but it also settles something inside him.
You look happy.
Not performative happy. Not chaotic happy.
Steady.
He locks his phone, exhales, and for the first time in weeks, lets himself accept that this isn’t a loss it’s an ending.
On set the next day, things are different. Lighter.
The tension that once threatened to fracture everything has softened into understanding. You and Jacob work well together… better, even because there’s nothing unresolved left to trip over.
Joe visits set once, staying discreet, chatting with crew members, keeping his presence lowkey. When you catch his eye across the room, he smiles. not possessive, not worried. Just certain.
And for the first time since the internet decided your life was a story it could own, you feel like you’ve taken it back. Not loudly. Not defensively.
But honestly.
—
The morning after your post goes viral, Joe wakes before his alarm. He lies there for a moment, staring at the ceiling of the hotel room, the soft light just beginning to creep through the curtains. His phone is face down on the nightstand. He knows what’s waiting there, notifications, speculation, messages from people who suddenly feel entitled to a piece of his private life.
For once, it doesn’t scare him.
What scares him is how easily this could’ve never happened. How close he came to losing you without ever telling the truth.
He reaches for his phone and sees your name at the top of his notifications.
y/n still asleep?
Joe smiles to himself, a quiet, unguarded thing.
joe just woke up. you okay?
He can picture you on the other end, probably curled up in bed, hair a mess, phone too bright against the morning. That image steadies him more than any reassurance ever could.
—
Across the city, Jacob is already awake.
He didn’t sleep much. Not because of the headlines, those are familiar territory but because the finality of the post has settled in fully now. There’s no ambiguity left to hide behind. No imagined alternative where timing rearranges itself if he just waits long enough.
He scrolls through the comments once, carefully, like touching a bruise to see how tender it still is.
Some people are confused.
Some are disappointed.
Some have already rewritten the narrative to make it make sense.
he closes the app.
He thinks about the early days of filming, the nights that blurred into each other, the closeness that felt accidental but wasn’t. He hadn’t planned to fall for you. He’d told himself it was temporary, circumstantial. Something that would fade once the cameras stopped rolling.
He’d been wrong.
But he also knows this isn’t something he can or should fight.
—
On set later that day, Joe stays close without hovering. He watches you between takes, notices how you seem lighter now, less guarded. The way you laugh without checking who’s watching. The way you reach for him without hesitation when he steps closer. It still surprises him, sometimes. That he gets to be here. That choosing honesty didn’t cost him everything.
He also notices Jacob.
The way Jacob keeps his distance just enough to be respectful. The way he avoids lingering glances. The way he hands off lines and cues cleanly, professionally.
Joe doesn’t feel threatened.
If anything, he feels grateful.
Jacob notices Joe too.
He notices the steadiness. The absence of performance. The way Joe doesn’t try to assert himself or mark territory. The way your body language changes around him and relaxes.
There’s a sting there. There always will be but there’s also clarity.
Jacob catches Joe near craft services late in the afternoon, when the set has gone quiet in that strange in between lull. Crew members are resetting lights, voices low and distant, the kind of pause where real conversations accidentally happen.
“Hey,” Jacob says.
Joe turns, surprised but not guarded. He straightens slightly, instinctive, like he’s bracing for something even though he doesn’t know what. “Hey.”
There’s a moment where neither of them speaks. The air feels heavier than it should, weighted by context neither of them asked for.
Jacob shifts his weight, running a hand through his hair. “I wasn’t sure if I should say anything. But it felt weird not to.”
Joe nods slowly. “Yeah. I get that.”
Jacob exhales. “I just wanted you to know- I’m not mad. At either of you.”
Joe studies him carefully. “I appreciate that.”
Another pause…
“I didn’t plan on feeling anything,” Jacob admits. His voice stays even, but there’s no denying the honesty in it. “When we started filming, it was supposed to be casual. You know how it goes. Long hours, proximity, everything intense all at once.”
Joe nods. He does know. Too well.
“But then it wasn’t casual anymore,” Jacob continues. “At least not for me.”
Joe swallows. He doesn’t interrupt.
“I saw the way you two looked at each other before I ever knew what was happening,” Jacob says quietly. “I didn’t want to admit it. It’s easier to believe timing is the only thing that matters.”
Joe lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “I waited too long,” he says. It’s not defensive just factual. “I convinced myself I was doing the right thing by staying quiet.”
Jacob gives a small, almost rueful smile. “Self sacrifice can look a lot like fear.”
Joe huffs softly. “Yeah I figured that out a little late.”
Silence stretches again, but it’s less tense now. More contemplative.
“She chose you,” Jacob says at last. Not bitter. Not resentful. Just acknowledging reality. “And I can live with that.”
Joe looks at him, something earnest and vulnerable breaking through his usual restraint. “I never wanted to hurt you.”
“I know,” Jacob replies immediately. “And I don’t think she did either.”
He hesitates, then adds, “But it still hurts.”
Joe nods, jaw tight. “Yeah.”
Jacob glances toward the set, where you’re laughing with a crew member, completely unaware of the conversation unfolding nearby. His expression softens despite himself.
“She deserves someone who won’t keep her guessing,” Jacob says. “Someone who chooses her out loud.”
Joe feels the weight of that sentence settle into his chest. “I’m trying to be that.”
Jacob meets his eyes. “Then don’t waste it.”
There’s no challenge in his tone. Just conviction.
“I won’t,” Joe says quietly.
Jacob straightens, the moment clearly reaching its end. “For what it’s worth, I’m glad it’s you.”
Joe blinks, surprised. “You don’t have to say that.”
Jacob shrugs. “Maybe not. But it’s true.”
They stand there for another beat, two people bound by the same person for very different reasons, before Jacob extends a hand.
Joe hesitates only a second before taking it.
The handshake is firm. Brief. Final.
“No weirdness,” Jacob says.
Joe nods. “No weirdness.”
Jacob steps back first, already slipping the professional mask back into place, but something lighter sits beneath it now—acceptance, even if it still aches.
As Jacob walks away, Joe watches him go, the conversation replaying quietly in his mind.
For the first time, Joe understands something clearly
Choosing love doesn’t just mean being honest with the person you love. Sometimes it means being honest with the people who had to let go.
And when Joe turns and sees you looking for him across the room, smiling when your eyes meet his, he knows without doubt that he won’t make the mistake of silence again.
—
Jacob doesn’t go far after the conversation.
He tells his assistant he needs a minute, ducks into the narrow hallway behind the soundstage where the noise fades into a dull hum. The walls are lined with old production posters, corners curling, colors washed out. He leans his shoulder against the cool concrete and stares at the floor.
He hadn’t said everything.
He hadn’t said how it felt to watch you slowly turn toward someone else while pretending it didn’t hurt. Hadn’t said that he replayed moments from the beginning, late nights, stolen laughter, the way you’d looked at him like the world was briefly simple and wondered if he’d imagined the depth of it.
He hadn’t said that part of him wanted to fight. Not loudly, not publicly, but in the quiet ways that count. To linger longer. To remind you of the history you shared. To ask what might’ve happened if circumstances had been different.
But wanting isn’t the same as choosing.
Jacob presses his palm flat against the wall, grounding himself. He knows himself well enough to recognize the fork in the road. He could hold on to the ache and let it harden into something bitter or he could let it be what it was. Proof that he’s capable of caring deeply, even when it doesn’t end in his favor.
That matters.
He straightens, exhales, and lets the feeling settle without feeding it. He won’t punish you for choosing happiness. He won’t punish himself for feeling something real.
When he walks back onto set, he’s lighter not healed, but resolved. He meets your eyes briefly from across the room and gives a small, genuine nod. Not an ending. Not a promise.
Just peace.
—
Later that night, Joe knocks softly on your hotel door.
You open it barefoot, surprise flickering across your face before softening into a smile. “Hey.”
“Hey,” Joe says. He steps inside, closing the door behind him, suddenly unsure where to put his hands. “Can we talk for a minute?”
You nod immediately. “Of course.”
You sit together on the edge of the bed, close but not touching. he stares at the carpet for a moment, gathering his thoughts.
“I talked to Jacob today,” he says finally.
Your chest tightens. “About us?”
“Yeah.”
Joe looks up at you now, eyes earnest. “I wanted you to hear it from me before anything else.”
You wait, heart thudding.
“He was… kind,” Joe continues. “More than he had to be. He said he wasn’t mad. That he understood. That he could live with it.”
Your shoulders sag slightly in relief, though guilt still tugs at you. “I never wanted to hurt him.”
“I know,” Joe says softly. “He knows too.”
he hesitates, then adds, “He told me not to waste this. Not to waste you.”
Your throat tightens.
“I’ve spent a lot of my life thinking staying quiet was the same as being respectful,” Joe admits. “But today made me realize something. I don’t want to be the person who steps back when it matters.”
He reaches for your hand then, tentative but sure. You lace your fingers through his.
“I choose you,” he says simply. “Out loud. Every day.”
You lean forward, resting your forehead against his, emotion pressing dangerously close to the surface. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Joe exhales, relief and certainty washing through him all at once. He pulls you into his arms, holding you like he’s grounding himself in something real.
Outside, the city keeps humming. The internet keeps speculating. Stories keep being written.
But in this quiet room, nothing feels uncertain anymore.
jealousy on set | joe keery, jacob elordi & actress ! y/n
-⤷ p1 here | p2 here | p4 here ˎˊ˗
—
Joe sends the text at 9:47 p.m. The number sticks in his head because it feels intentional, like the last honest thing he’s done in weeks.
Joe Can we talk tonight? I really need to see you.
He watches the message deliver and immediately locks his phone, like if he doesn’t look at it, the anxiety won’t spike. His hands rest uselessly on his thighs. His chest feels tight in that familiar way, the one that’s been haunting him since the headlines stopped being theoretical and started feeling personal.
Across the city, you’re still on set.
Filming has stretched late, the air heavy with artificial night lighting and exhaustion. You and Jacob sit side by side on folding chairs between takes, shoulders brushing, scripts forgotten in your laps. It’s comfortable. Too comfortable. The kind of ease that invites interpretation.
The director watches you both from behind the monitor, smiling.
“Whatever you two did to get this chemistry,” he says, “keep doing it.”
Jacob laughs. You manage to crack a little smile.
You don’t tell him that chemistry isn’t always a choice… it’s often just unresolved history resurfacing when you’re tired enough to stop guarding yourself. When filming finally wraps, you retreat to your trailer, wiping makeup from your face, when Joe’s text comes through.
Your chest tightens immediately, instinctively, the way it always does when something important is about to happen.
Y/n Yeah. I’m heading home, you reply, almost immediately, before you can overthink it.
As soon as joe sees your reply he exhales in his car, breath shaky, like his body has been waiting for permission to finally react.
You don’t know yet that the internet has already decided something for you.
Joe sits in his car, engine off, scrolling mindlessly through Instagram to kill time before driving over, when Dalton’s name pops up in his notifications not a text, just a tagged post.
He taps it without thinking. The screen loads.
DEUXMOI anonymous tip received 👀 Spotted Y/n and Jacob Elordi hooking up early in filming. This was WAY before the current press tour. Seems like this wasn’t just ‘chemistry’👀
Joe’s stomach drops. He clicks through the comments before he can stop himself.
user1 So THIS is why they’re so close now
user2 plsss joe never stood a chance lmaoo
user3 receipts don’t expire
He zooms in on the photo. Studies your face. The ease. The intimacy. The version of you he didn’t know existed while at the same time jacob was memorizing your coffee order, your habits, the way you laugh when you’re trying not to cry.
His chest tightens painfully. It isn’t jealousy that hits first. It’s displacement.
Realizing there were chapters of your life unfolding parallel to his that he never had access to because he never asked for it.
He drives to your house on instinct, not anger. Not accusation. Something closer to grief.
You open the door barefoot, hair still damp from the shower, Joe’s name already sitting heavy in your chest. One look at his face and you know.
“You saw it,” you say.
Joe nods once, jaw tight. “yea.”
He steps inside slowly, like he’s afraid sudden movement might break something irreparable.
“How long?” he asks quietly.
You swallow. “Early on. When filming started. It wasn’t serious. It ended.”
“But it happened,” he says.
“Yes it did”
those words lands like a bruise. “I always knew something happened,” he admits quietly. “I just told myself it didn’t matter. That as long as you were in my life, it was enough.”
Your chest caves inward.
“It didn’t mean what you think,” you say desperately. “It was before—before everything felt this complicated.”
he runs a hand through his hair, pacing. “I keep telling myself I don’t have the right to be upset. That I never said anything. That I stood back and called it respect.”
His voice cracks slightly. He hates that it does.
“But seeing it like that—finding out from strangers—it makes me feel stupid. Like I imagined my place in your life.”
You step toward him. “You weren’t imagining anything.”
“Then why didn’t I know?” he asks, not accusing but lost.
“Because I didn’t think it mattered,” you say honestly. “Because I didn’t know you felt the way you do.”
He stops pacing.
“What way do you think that is?”
You hesitate. Then, quietly, “Like you love me.”
Joe laughs once, sharp and broken. “of course I do.”
The room goes still.
“I love you,” he repeats, softer now. “I’ve loved you so long I forgot what it feels like to say it out loud. I convinced myself being close was enough.”
Tears spill before you can stop them.
“I didn’t know,” you whisper. “And if I had—”
“You might’ve chosen differently,” he says gently. “That’s the part that kills me.”
“no.no,” you say immediately. “I would’ve chosen you.”
Joe looks at you like he’s afraid to trust that.
“Don’t say that just because you feel bad,” he murmurs.
“I’m saying it because losing you feels unbearable,” you reply. “Because whatever Jacob and I were—it was easy. But you? You matter”
Joe closes his eyes, breathing through it.
“I found out through a gossip page,” he says. “Do you know how small that makes me feel?”
You reach for him, hands trembling. “I’m so sorry.”
He pulls you into his arms, finally, and for a moment the world narrows to the sound of breathing and the quiet grief of almosts.
He leaves shortly after. Not because he doesn’t want to stay but because everything needs space to settle. In the car, Joe spirals quietly. He replays every moment he chose silence, every time he thought love was something you endured instead of claimed. He wonders how close he came to losing you forever. He promises himself he won’t disappear again.
Meanwhile, Jacob sits alone in his hotel room, phone face down after seeing the same post. He knows immediately how it looks. How it complicates everything.
When you see Jacob the next morning on set, you feel it immediately.
Not tension, exactly. Not hostility. Something heavier. More deliberate.
The crew moves around you both like nothing has changed, lights adjusting, grips calling cues, assistants laughing softly over coffee but the space between you and Jacob feels newly defined. Measured. Like a boundary that didn’t exist yesterday and now has to be learned in real time.
He doesn’t look at you at first.
He’s standing near the monitor, arms crossed, jaw set, listening to the director talk through the day’s first setup. He nods where he’s supposed to, professional and focused, but there’s a tightness to him you recognize. Not anger. Restraint.
You catch his eye by accident.
He holds your gaze for a second longer than necessary, then gestures subtly with his head toward the far end of the soundstage, away from microphones and curious glances.
“Hey,” he says quietly when you reach him. “Before we start—can we talk?”
Your stomach twists. “Yeah. Of course.”
He leads you a few steps away, stopping near a stack of unused equipment cases. The hum of the set dulls just enough to give you privacy without isolation. It feels intentional. Considerate.
“I saw the post,” Jacob says, not meeting your eyes at first. “The one from DeuxMoi.”
You inhale sharply. “I’m so sorry. I swear I never—”
He lifts a hand gently, stopping you mid-sentence. His voice stays calm, even. “Don’t.”
You pause, startled.
“Don’t apologize for something that already lived its life,” he continues. “What we had was real. I’m not pretending it wasn’t. But it was brief. And it ended exactly where it needed to.”
There’s no bitterness in his tone. That almost makes it harder.
You study his face, searching for cracks. “Are you… okay?”
Jacob exhales slowly, like he’s been holding something in for a while. “I won’t lie and say it didn’t sting. Seeing it all resurface like that out of context, flattened into a headline.”
He finally looks at you then. Really looks.
“But I’ve also been watching you,” he adds quietly. “The last few weeks. The way you light up when his name comes up. The way you pull back when things get loud.”
Your throat tightens.
“I care about you,” Jacob says. “Enough to know when I’m standing in the way of something that’s already chosen.”
You swallow. “I never wanted to hurt you.”
“I know,” he replies immediately. “And that’s exactly why I’m not going to fight this.”
There’s a beat of silence. The kind that presses gently instead of crushing.
“I could,” he admits. “I could lean into the narrative. Let the internet carry it. Let it turn into something bigger than it ever was.”
He shakes his head once. “But I won’t. I won’t be the guy who competes with a love that’s already written all over your face.”
Your eyes sting. “Jacob—”
He smiles faintly, a little sad, a little relieved. “It doesn’t make what we had meaningless. It just means it served its purpose.”
A PA calls out that cameras will be rolling in five.
Jacob steps back, already putting the professional distance back into place.
“We’ll be good,” he says. “Good coworkers. Clean lines. No mess.”
You nod, emotion lodged in your chest. “Thank you. For handling this the way you are.”
He gives a small shrug. “It’s the least dramatic ending possible. Hollywood doesn’t get enough of those.”
Then, softer almost too soft to hear he adds, “Take care of him.”
You watch him walk back toward the set, posture steady, expression neutral again. The chapter closes without fanfare. Without spectacle.
Just truth, handled carefully.
And when the cameras roll minutes later, the chemistry is still there but now it belongs only to the work.
Nothing more. Nothing unfinished.
And when your phone buzzes in your pocket
Joe i meant what I said.
you smile softly, knowing you chose the truth before it was too late
—
kind of a short one sorry for the wait guys but also my inbox is open pls pls pls shoot some ideas that you guys wanna see in these chapters!!
jealousy on set | joe keery, jacob elordi & actress ! y/n
- ⤷ p1 here ˎˊ˗
—
Joe didn’t mean to disappear. It just… happened. Quietly. In inches. He stopped texting first. Stopped lingering after your calls ended. Started telling himself that giving you space was the same thing as doing the right thing. Self preservation, he decided, sounded better than jealousy. He watched interviews of you and jacob from hotel rooms and tour buses, laptop balanced on his knees, volume turned low like that might dull the ache.
You sat beside Jacob on a late night couch, angled toward him, knees brushing. You laughed easily, freely—your shoulders brushing with his.
The host teased, “You two seem very comfortable.”
Jacob smiled. “We got lucky. Chemistry’s kind of everything.”
The camera cut to you, nodding. “Yeah. We really trust each other.”
Joe shut the laptop.
Trust.
The word felt heavier than it should’ve.
—
Jacob had learned, early on, how narratives worked. You didn’t have to write them. you just had to not correct them.
At first, the shipping amused him. It was harmless. Strategic, even. Studios liked it. Interviewers leaned into it. Publicists smiled like they’d won something.
And you…
you didn’t seem bothered.
But somewhere between junket city number three and a red carpet in Milan, it stopped being funny.
He started noticing things.
How you checked your phone more than usual.
How your smile faltered whenever Joe’s name came up.
How you’d look just past Jacob during interviews, like someone might be watching from the wings. Jacob liked you. That was the truth he kept folded neatly behind his ribs. And yeah he liked being shipped with you too, liked the way it felt to be wanted openly, liked that the world assumed you could be his without question.
But there was another truth.
You weren’t looking at him when it mattered.
°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･later on set °❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:
tmz_tv JACOB ELORDI CAN’T HIDE IT? INTERNET LOSES IT OVER INTIMATE NEW PHOTOS WITH Y/N
Hollywood, we’ve got a situation.
New black and white photos from the set of Y/N and Jacob Elordi’s upcoming film are lighting up the internet tonight, and fans are convinced they’re not just looking at “co-stars with chemistry.” In the now viral shots, Elordi is seen sitting close to Y/N, body angled fully toward her, eyes locked in with an intensity that has social media asking one big question: “Why is he looking at her like that?”
And yeah. it’s not subtle.
While Y/N looks focused downward mid conversation, Jacob’s gaze tells a different story. Soft. Intent. Almost… unguarded. The kind of look fans swear you don’t give unless there’s something going on behind the scenes.
Within minutes of the photos dropping, fans flooded comments with theories
view all comments
user1 tell me they’re not together without telling me
user2 joe fumbled BAD
user3 he’s down bad, You don’t sit like that with someone you’re just friends with
user4 soft launch loading…
user5 She’s GLOWING. Let Joe go.
Others were quicker to connect the dots, pointing to their increasingly cozy press appearances, shared laughs during interviews, and the fact that neither has shut down the dating rumors.
—
Joe sees the headline three times before he actually reads it. Once as a notification banner that flashes and disappears. Once when Dalton’s name lights up his phone and he ignores it. And finally, sitting alone in the driver’s seat of his car, engine off, hands still on the wheel like he’s bracing for something physical.
He tells himself he’s prepared.
He isn’t.
The photo loads in pieces. Grainy. Black and white. Like something pulled from an old memory instead of yesterday afternoon. Jacob leaning in. His posture open. His attention unmistakable.
Joe zooms in before he realizes he’s doing it.
It’s the look that does him in.
Not proximity. Not touch.
That look — soft, focused, like nothing else exists.
Joe exhales slowly through his nose, like he’s trying not to spook himself.
“Okay,” he mutters. “Okay.”
He scrolls.
the words blur together chemistry, can’t hide it, behind the scenes. He recognizes the rhythm immediately. He’s lived inside headlines before. Knows how little truth they need to feel convincing, but this one lands differently.
Because it isn’t just about Jacob.
It’s about absence. About how easily the world assumes there’s space for someone new when you’ve stepped back far enough to look gone.
he leans his head against the seat as he thinks about the last time he saw you. How you smiled like you always do — warm, familiar and how he’d felt that sharp pull to say something. Anything. And how he didn’t. because he didn’t want to complicate your life. Because he didn’t want to be selfish. Because he thought loving you quietly was better than risking being the reason you hurt.
He rubs a hand over his face.
self preservation, he’d told himself.
Respect.
Now it just feels like cowardice with better PR.
His phone buzzes again. Dalton, this time with words.
Dalton You good?
Joe stares at the screen. Types. Deletes. Types again.
Joe Yeah. Just tired.
The lie feels thin even to him.
He opens the comments, a mistake he makes anyway.
People speak in absolutes. They always do.
user6 joe rlly missed his chance
user7 this makes so much senseeee omg
user8 you can tell when somethings real
Joe scoffs quietly at that last one. If that were true, he thinks, he wouldn’t be here. He wouldn’t have spent years learning how to fold his feelings smaller. Wouldn’t have convinced himself that being close was enough. Wouldn’t have waited for the “right” moment that never actually existed.
The worst part isn’t the jealousy. It’s the grief.
Grief for a version of himself that might’ve been braver. For conversations he rehearsed and never had. For the possibility that you’ll believe this narrative simply because he gave it room to grow.
He locks his phone and lets it fall onto the passenger seat. For a long moment, he just sits there.
Breathing.
Existing.
Feeling the quiet weight of a truth he can no longer outrun. If he tells you now, it will change things. If he doesn’t, they’ll change anyway.
And the realization settles deep and irreversible
Silence used to feel safe. Now it feels like loss.
—
The trailer was too quiet. That was the first thing you noticed. The hum of the AC louder than it should’ve been, the world outside muffled like it was happening underwater. You were meant to be studying tomorrow’s scripts, but your phone buzzed against the table, insistent.
A notification preview flashed:
tmz_tv JACOB ELORDI CAN’T HIDE IT? INTERNET LOSES IT OVER INTIMATE NEW PHOTOS WITH Y/N
your stomach dropped.
You told yourself not to open it. You told yourself you already knew how this went. But curiosity had teeth, and guilt made you reckless.
You tapped.
The photo loaded slowly, pixel by pixel, like the universe giving you time to back out. It didn’t help. It was harmless. Embarrassingly so.
Jacob looking at you. You beside him, body angled in his direction like gravity had made the choice for you. It looked intimate in the way still images always did—frozen context, cropped reality.
You scrolled as you read some of the top comments.
user5 She’s GLOWING. Let Joe go.
your thumb slowed.
Then stopped.
You hadn’t realized you were holding your breath until your chest started to ache.
Let Joe go.
The words pressed somewhere tender, somewhere already sore.
You scrolled further, because self control had never been your strength when it came to punishment.
user9 joe was always the placeholder
user10 jacob suits her wayy betterrr
user11 joe is probably punching the air rn
You flinched.
Not because they were cruel, tmz comments always were but because they were loud in a way your private fears already had been.
You locked your phone, then unlocked it again.
Like maybe the words would rearrange themselves if you looked twice.
They didn’t.
Your reflection stared back at you in the black screen for a second. eyes glassy, jaw tight, expression caught between disbelief and something dangerously close to grief.
—
joe didn’t call anymore.
Not the way he used to… like random voice notes throughout the day, half formed thoughts, jokes meant only for you. his face surfaced in your mind uninvited, soft smiles, familiar laughter, the way he used to look at you like the world quieted when you entered a room.
When you guys did talk, he sounded careful. Measured.
Like he was holding something back.
You told yourself he was busy. Touring. Recording. Living his life.
But you could feel it.
That slow, devastating shift where someone becomes memory instead of presence.
You were trying so hard not to hurt him that you didn’t notice you were already losing him.
You opened your texts.
Joe’s name sat there, untouched.
No new messages. No missed calls.
A hollow opened in your chest.
You thought of every time you’d chosen silence because it felt safer. Kinder. Less complicated. You wondered when silence had turned into distance. And whether the internet had noticed the gap before you did.
Your phone buzzed again—another notification, another article, another story being written without your consent.
you didn’t open it this time.
You set the phone face down and pressed your palms to the table, grounding yourself in something solid. Somewhere between the comments and the quiet, a truth settled painfully into place
You weren’t just being shipped with someone else.
You were already losing joe and not because of jacob, but because of your own hesitation. The fear wasn’t about headlines anymore.
It was about timing
—
The bar was almost empty, the kind of place that forgot it was supposed to close. Neon hummed softly above the counter. Joe had been nursing the same drink for longer than he’d admit. Dalton watched him from across the table, elbow propped, expression unreadable.
“You know,” Dalton said finally, “I’ve seen you shut down like this before with maika.”
Joe didn’t look up. “I’m not shut down.”
dalton snorted. “You’re so shut down you’re practically on airplane mode.”
he rolled his glass between his palms. Ice clinked. “I’m just… letting her live her life.”
“That’s the story you’re telling yourself,” Dalton replied. “I’m asking what’s actually happening.”
Silence stretched. Joe’s jaw tightened.
“I don’t want to be another guy who gets in the way,” Joe said. “She’s got this movie, the press, the attention. Jacob. All of it. I don’t want to complicate things.”
“It is,” Dalton said calmly. “Because you didn’t ask her what she needs. You decided for her.”
he finally met his eyes. “She looks happy.”
“On camera,” Dalton corrected. “You’re confusing public joy with private certainty.”
he exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand over his face. “You don’t get it.”
“Then explain it,” Dalton said. “Because from where I’m sitting, you’re hurting yourself and calling it respect.”
he laughed weakly. “What am I supposed to do? Walk up and say, ‘Hey, I’ve been in love with you for years, sorry I waited until the internet decided you’re with someone else’?”
Dalton didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”
Joe stared. “That’s insane.”
“What’s insane,” Dalton said, voice gentler now, “is pretending silence is safer than honesty.”
Joe’s shoulders sagged. “If I tell her now and I’m wrong—”
“You won’t be wrong about how you feel,” Dalton interrupted. “You’ll just finally be honest about it.”
Joe swallowed hard. “What if it ruins everything?”
Dalton leaned forward, forearms on the table. “bro, everything’s already changing. You’re just choosing not to participate.”
Joe shook his head. “I don’t want to pressure her.”
Dalton sighed. “You’re not giving her the truth. That’s not protection — that’s control.”
The words landed heavy.
Joe stared down at his drink like it might answer him. his throat tightened. “I don’t know if I can survive hearing no.”
Dalton’s voice dropped. “You’re already surviving worse. You’re watching her drift away and calling it dignity.”
Joe’s eyes were glassy now, though he blinked fast, stubborn.
“She used to call me when something good happened,” he said quietly. “Not for advice. Just… to tell me. And now I find out things about her from interviews.”
Dalton nodded slowly. “That’s not space, man. That’s distance.”
Joe pressed his lips together, jaw trembling. “I didn’t want to be another regret.”
Dalton reached across the table, resting a hand over Joe’s wrist. “You’re going to be one if you don’t say something.”
Joe let out a shaky breath. “What if I waited too long?”
Dalton met his gaze, honest and unflinching.
“Then you say it anyway. Because timing isn’t an excuse it’s just the cost.”
he closed his eyes. he let himself feel it — the jealousy, the fear, the want he’d been trimming down into something polite.
When he opened them again, his voice was barely there.
“I think I love her,” he said.
Dalton squeezed his wrist once. “Yeah. I know.”
—
Back in his hotel room, the silence was unbearable.
Joe sat on the edge of the bed, phone in his hands, thumbs hovering.
Joe I miss you.
Delete.
Joe I think I’ve been making a mistake.
Delete.
Joe Can we talk? I mean really talk.
He stared at the screen until it dimmed.
Because what if the truth arrived too late?
he locked his phone and set it facedown, chest tight with words he finally had but didn’t know how to deliver without breaking something.
—
hope u guys enjoy this one as much as i enjoyed writing it:) if u have any suggestions for this fic please put them in my requests! more parts are coming 🤗🤗
jealousy on set | joe keery, jacob elordi & Actress ! y/n
—
joe learned about you and jacob elordi the same way he learned about most things that hurt by accident, too early in the morning, with coffee going cold in his hand. The headline was already halfway across his phone screen before he could stop reading.
“Hollywood’s New It Duo? Jacob Elordi Spotted Laughing with Rising Star Y/N.”
There were photos. Of course there were.
You, sunglasses on, looking up at jacob smiling and not with your camera smile or your polite one but the softer version Joe knew belonged to moments that felt easy. Jacob, all height and easy confidence, leaned in like he belonged there. Like it was natural. Like it made sense.
It twisted something sharp inside him as he stared longer at his phone than he should have.
He told himself immediately that it didn’t mean anything. That you were costars. That people loved inventing narratives out of nothing. That he was being stupid. But the familiar ache settled anyway, low and persistent, just beneath his ribs.
—
The rehearsal space smelled like dust and old amps, the same way it always did. Post Animal was halfway through a run through when Joe’s focus slipped for the third time.
“Dude,” Dalton finally said, cutting the sound. “You good?”
Joe blinked. “Yeah. Sorry. Just—did we start over or…?”
Dalton exchanged a look with Wes.
“You’ve been staring at the floor like it personally offended you.”
Joe huffed a breath of a laugh and rubbed his hands over his face. He hadn’t meant to bring it here. Hadn’t meant to let it bleed into this space. But they were his friends. And they knew him too well.
“Okay,” Dalton said, softer now. “What’s up?”
Joe hesitated, then unlocked his phone and slid it across the amp case.
Wes whistled low. “Ohhh. That’s her.”
Joe nodded once. He didn’t need to say your name.
“Elordi, huh?” Dalton added. “Tall guy. Australian. Looks like he belongs in a cigarette ad.”
“It’s nothing,” Joe said quickly. Too quickly. “They’re staring in something together. Paparazzi just—do their thing.”
Wes raised an eyebrow. “You don’t usually spiral over ‘nothing.’”
Joe leaned back against the wall, arms crossed tight. “I don’t spiral.”
Dalton laughed. “Buddy, you are the human embodiment of internalized spiraling.”
That earned him a reluctant smile, but it faded fast.
“I just—” Joe exhaled. “We’re bestfriends. She would’ve told me if something was going on.”
Silence settled.
Wes shrugged. “Or she doesn’t think it’s a thing worth mentioning.”
That landed harder than Joe wanted it to.
—
you were in your trailer when joe texted you.
Joe: You busy?
You replied almost instantly.
Y/N: Not really. Just hiding from wardrobe. What’s up?
When he showed up on set an hour later, you looked exactly the same as always. comfortable, familiar, real. Sweatpants. Messy bun. That soft, unguarded smile that always made his chest do something stupid.
“Hey,” you said, stepping into him for a hug.
he hugged you back, a beat longer than necessary, before pulling away.
“Can we talk?” he asked.
You tilted your head. “That sounds ominous...”
“Not ominous,” he said quickly. “Just…clarifying.”
You laughed. “Okay, now I’m intrigued”
Inside the trailer, Joe paced while you leaned against the counter, arms crossed loosely, waiting.
“So,” he said, finally. “You and Jacob.”
Your eyebrows knit together. “Me and—oh.”
you laughed then, actually laughed.
“Oh my god,” you said. “Is this about the photos?”
Joe stopped pacing. “So you’ve seen them.”
“Unfortunately,” you sighed. “I forgot how dramatic the internet can be.”
He studied your face carefully. “So it’s not true…?”
You didn’t answer fast enough, and he noticed this.
Your throat tightened. “No,” you said finally. “no it’s not true, we’re not together.”
Joe searched your face. “Not at all?”
You shook your head. “It’s… completely platonic.”
The lie slid out smoother than you expected.
Relief hit him first—sharp and dizzying.
Then something else crept in.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked, softer now.
You frowned. “Tell you what? That I was…existing near a coworker?”
Joe opened his mouth. Closed it. Raked a hand through his hair.
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “I guess I just—when I saw it, it felt like I was the last to know.”
“You’re not last to anything. There’s nothing to know.”
Joe swallowed.
“Okay,” he said. “Good.”
But the word didn’t feel like enough.
when he left, you sank onto the couch, heart pounding, because the truth was messier. Because Jacob’s hand had rested at your waist the night before. Because you’d kissed him once or twice, you told yourself it was harmless, fleeting, convenient. Because none of it touched the place Joe lived in your chest.
—
The thing Joe didn’t say, the thing he never said was how long he’d been standing exactly where he was outside your trailer. Close enough to be trusted. Far enough to be safe. He watched the way Jacob laughed with you on set later as jealousy gnawed at him, though he told himself jealousy wasn’t fair. You weren’t his girlfriend. You’d never been anything official. You were just…you. The person he texted first. The one who knew his bad days before he said a word. The only person who had ever felt like home without trying. Still, every photo of you and Jacob burned. Not because he thought Jacob was better but because he was there. Because he could touch you openly. Because he didn’t have to pretend his feelings were casual And Not because Jacob meant something to you. But because Joe had meant something quietly, patiently, for a long time and he was terrified of discovering that patience didn’t count for much in a world that moved fast. Joe watched you across the set, laughing again. free, brilliant, completely unaware of the quiet war he was fighting inside himself. And for the first time, he wondered if staying silent was no longer the kind thing. Maybe it was just cowardice dressed up as loyalty.
GUYSSS i kinda love this plot with my two fav white boiisssss, should i continue this with multiple chapters?? Let me know if ure interested in the comments;)) lowk looking forward to this one hehe
