Billy Hargrove âËàż purple rain vanilla and gasoline
Steve HarringtonâËàż We donât talk anymore (scraped lol) 00 001 âËàż in between 02 âËàż laugh like you mean it âËàż former ladies man âËàż Came back to me series - 01 02 03
Summary: You see Steve Harrington as the conceited golden boy everyone knows him to be, but when you are forced to tutor him, you see a different side of him and start to soften towards him, so much so that you fall for him. But when he has a perfect girlfriend he loves, and friends that see you as a joke, you know that you donât stand a chance.
Content: fluff, angst, slow burn, s1 Steve so heâs a bit of an asshole, mentions of shitty dads, a few uses of y/n, opposites attract, popular boy x nerdy tutor girl (Iâm such a sucker for this trope I had to do it), the timeline for s1 in this fic is a bit inaccurate but letâs go along with it for the plot please. Lmk if I missed any! (Pictures are not intended to reflect the reader)
Word count: 14.4k words
From the moment one of your classmates had asked you to tutor them in your freshman year, you quickly learned that you loved tutoring people.
Perhaps it was because you had always been a helper, and it felt good knowing that people were comfortable enough to come up to you and ask for such help.
But what you really loved about it was the outcome.
When the person you helped came to you afterwards and excitedly told you how they had aced their test, or how they had gotten a good mark on their assignment, it filled you with a quiet sense of pride. Not exactly for yourself, but for them. For their success, for their improvement. And because you had done that, you had helped them get to that success.
So naturally, you signed up to become an official tutor at the Hawkins High School Tutoring Centre.
It became apart of your routine. Staying after school to tutor someone, or having to come to their house to do so. Either way, you never really minded. All that really mattered was that you helped them not to dread class so much anymore, to help them to not have to scratch their head while looking at the work because they just didn't get it.
So of course, now in your sophomore year, you didn't mind when the coordinator of the centre informed you that a new person had been added to your roster. However, you didn't know who this person was because the arrangement had been last minute since the person's original tutor had been unable to do so, so he wasn't officially on your schedule yet. All that you knew was that he was a guy in the year above who had apparently been holding off getting tutored for a long time. This made you assume this guy was going to be a bit hard to work with, but you were always able to manage.
It had been thirty minutes since school ended when you sat in the library, waiting for this person to show up with your stationery already set out on the table. This person was already late, and should have already been at the table with you fifteen minutes ago.
You were thinking about the meatloaf you were going to have for dinner tonight when the doors of the library swung open, abruptly cutting off your thoughts and startling you. You looked up as the librarian glared at the culprit at the door, pressing a pointy finger to her lips.
And the culprit was the last person you expected to walk into a library of all places.
Steve Harrington.
As in Steve "The Hair" Harrington, also known as King Steve.
The kind of person who threw a raging party every Saturday, the kind of person who misbehaved in class because they knew there would be no real consequences, and the kind of person who would only ever be at school after hours for basketball practice.
So why the hell was Steve Harrington in the library of Hawkins High after school hours?
And why was he looking straight at you?
He didn't look happy by any means. He was obviously annoyed by whatever was plaguing him, and you grew nervous as he approached you while still wearing his irritated expression.
He came to a stop in front of your table, and you swallowed anxiously under his intimidating stare, starting to fiddle with the ends of your sleeves as a nervous habit.
"Are you Y/N L/N?" He asked flatly.
You blinked. "Yes. Can I help you?"
"You're supposed to apparently, you're my... tutor," said Steve, his face scrunching up as if the word physically hurt him.
Somehow, you had known from the second he had walked in with that look on his face, yet your stomach still dropped with dread when he said it.
You were happy to tutor anyone, but anyone didn't include Steve Harrington. It was something you had never worried about, because how were you supposed to assume that one day you would have to tutor King Steve out of all people?
You schooled your expression to the best of your abilities, and you recollected yourself as you nodded. "I see. Well... sit down, and we can get started."
You tried to say it kindly, but you immediately regretted doing so when he mumbled something grumpily under his breath as he reluctantly sat on the same table on you, pointedly choosing the seat furthest from you. You resisted the urge to roll your eyes, and you had a feeling that was an urge you would need to resist often.
You cursed the coordinator of the centre for setting up this arrangement. Clearly, this person didn't know anything about how you and Steve couldn't be any more different, because you truly were polar opposites.
While he played beer pong at house parties, you were studying. While he goofed off in class, you paid attention and completed all of your work. While he was at basketball practice, you were tutoring. While he always had a rowdy table at lunch, you had a quiet and calm one.
There was a spectrum, and you both sat at the opposite ends of it.
You just hoped you could swiftly help Steve pass a test so that it would be over as soon as possible.
***
After just one week, you could tell you were going to be tortured with tutoring Steve Harrington for a while.
To put it nicely, he... lacked concentration, and perhaps lacked a lot more. You really didn't think he was stupid, he just couldn't focus on what he needed to.
Only after two sessions, you had noticed that while you talked, he simply didn't listen and clearly didn't even try to. He always had a faraway look in his eyes, like he was thinking about the party he was throwing that weekend, or what he was having for dinner. Sometimes he was clearly present in the moment, he just still chose not to take in a single word of yours. One time, he started to balance a pencil on his nose while you were explaining the math equation he needed to solve, and it had taken him ten minutes to realise you had stopped talking.
He was already by far the most difficult person you had tutored, and so far, you were lost on how to get through to him.
You didn't even know how or why he was in the tutoring program. He had made it clear since day one that he didn't want to be tutored by you, and he hadn't once shown an ounce of effort in any of your sessions. Maybe he had gotten pressured by his parents, that wasn't an uncommon reason behind kids coming to the tutoring centre. But then you had heard rumours that his parents was always out of town and that's why he was always able to throw parties, so if they were never there, why would they pressure him to do such things?
You didn't know, and you didn't really want to. You had no interest in Steve Harrington's life, no matter how handsome or charming he was. He wasn't all that interesting.
Nevertheless, you were still being forced into his life one way or another, so much so that you ended up with plans to go to his house on Sunday.
It had been during the usual tutoring session tucked away in the corner of the library, you overviewing your notes for your own work while he was supposed to be reading the textbook laid out in front of him. Of course, he was instead staring out of the window longingly, like he wished to be outdoors instead of stuck inside with you.
"Do we always have to do this in the library?" He asked suddenly, breaking the silence.
You looked up, frowning. "What do you mean?"
"I mean, is it necessary to be in the library for all of this stuff?" He rephrased.
"Well... yeah. A library is the best place to study and get work done," you said, confused on why this wasn't obvious to him.
"Yeah, but... someone could walk in," he said quietly.
Oh, so that's what it was about. He didn't want someone to walk in and see him actually studying, something that was considered weird and nerdy for people like him. Or more specifically, he didn't want to be seen with you.
You sighed, and propped your chin on the palm of your hand. "Then where do you suggest we go if not a library?"
"I don't know, just like... not at school," said Steve, avoiding your gaze.
"Well, you could come to my house or I could come to yours. I've done that with other people when they weren't able to study at school either," you said.
He blinked. "You want me to come to your house?"
"Yeah, so I can tutor you. If that doesn't work, then we can go the public library or-"
"No, just..." he trailed off, seeming to consider it before sighing, running a hand through his hair that you couldn't help but look at. "My parents are out of town this weekend. You can come over on Sunday if you really want."
You were secretly glad he suggested his house. You didn't want Steve coming over and judging your house that was very much not a mansion like his probably was.
"Sounds like a plan," you said dryly. "What time do you want me to come over?"
"I don't know like... two o'clock?" Said Steve.
"Works for me," you said unenthusiastically, and he seemed just as eager as you were as he ripped some paper from his notebook and wrote his address on it, giving it to you.
"Don't take this the wrong way but can you please not tell anyone about this?" Steve asked.
You didn't resist this time, and let yourself freely roll your eyes. "Don't worry, I don't want anyone knowing about this either Harrington."
His eyes flashed with surprise, and you tried not to feel too satisfied as you had clearly startled him with that.
The rest of the week passed quicker than you would've liked it to, and before you knew it, you were climbing onto your bicycle with your bag on your back and his address in your hand. It was a longer ride than you had anticipated, and you soon realised why your houses were so far away from each others as you entered his neighbourhood, which was lined with rich houses and fancy cars in driveways, a stark contrast to your neighbourhood that was filled with actual life instead of excessively big, soulless properties.
You finally pulled up to Steve's house, and suddenly the nerves inside you increased tenfold. You certainly didn't want to be alone with Steve Harrington in his house that was go-to place for high school parties you were never invited to. But you were a tutor, this was your job, so you had to pull through. You were determined to get Steve to at least pass one of his subjects.
You took a deep breath before you approached the house and knocked on the door. You stood there for a few minutes with no answer, so you knocked again, and only a minute after that, the door swung open.
Steve looked like he had just rolled out of bed with rumpled clothes and hair that was tousled, out of its usual polished state, a sight that felt a bit shocking to see as he was well known for his perfect hair.
He blinked as if he was surprised to see you, and then he said, "I forgot you were coming."
Despite your nerves, you were able to remain cool and unbothered on the outside as you shot him a deadpanned look, sarcastically replying, "flattering."
He sighed. "I didn't mean it like that, I just- sorry, I know you've come all this way, but I can't do the whole tutoring thing today. I've got a killer headache, so I'm in not in a good state to study."
You actually did believe that he had a headache, but you had a feeling he was leaving out some details.
"Are you hungover?"
A pause.
"No," Steve scoffed.
But his hesitation had already answered your question.
"Have you made a hangover smoothie?"
He frowned. "Hangover smoothie?"
"You don't do that sort of stuff? My sister always did when she was in high school," you said. "Do you have a blender?"
"I... don't think so?"
"God, for someone who always goes to parties, you don't seem well equipped for your hangovers," you said quietly, but he heard it all the same, and he looked at you incredulously.
"I can't study," Steve repeated firmly, probably a way of trying to get you to leave.
But you only tilted your head. "I think you can."
"What?"
"Just drink lots of water, and we can get started," you said with a sweet smile.
"This is ridiculous, you can't-"
"But I can, because I'm your tutor, and you can be as difficult as you want, but I'm not giving up on you. So, are you going to let me in, or should I tutor you at school this week?" You asked.
Steve stared at you in bewilderment, like he couldn't even fathom the fact that someone was saying no to him, that someone was going against what he wanted.
He seemed to realise that you weren't going away anytime soon, so he widened the door, and you smiled with satisfaction as you stepped into the threshold, shoulder brushing against his as you walked further into his house.
Your confidence diminished as you followed Steve into his fancy kitchen, awkwardly standing in silence while he had a water in a glass that had probably been expensive, like most items likely were in the house by how everything looked, but you tried not to pay too much attention to it all.
He then led upstairs to his bedroom, and you tried not to show your surprise at the size of it, at the king-sized bed in the middle of the room, the shiny basketball trophies that lined the shelves, and the ensuite connected to the room.
It reminded you of how much of a typical jock he was, and how you were supposed to tutor this certain jock.
"Get started with it then," said Steve unenthusiastically, flopping onto his bed. When he noticed you weren't moving, he said, "you can sit down, y'know."
You cleared your throat awkwardly before sitting on the edge of his bed that you noticed immediately was very soft. Still, you didn't let yourself get too comfortable as you shifted your bag to your lap, undoing the zip and starting to unload your stuff.
Soon enough, there were books and pens scattered on the bed, both of you sitting opposite each other. He at least had a notebook opened in front of him with pen in his hand, but that was where it ended, while you explained the key points of the Civil Rights Movement for his history class.
"Are you hungry?" He interrupted you to ask. "I am."
You gave him a confused look. "Um... I guess I could eat, why?"
"I'll go get a snack!" He said eagerly, jumping up from the bed, "do you like potato chips?"
"Yeah...?"
"Great, I'll be back," said Steve, bounding out of the room, leaving you confused by his sudden hospitality.
When he was gone for longer than necessary just to get chips, you realised he was just making an excuse to not do his work, and it made your irritation grow. You needed to come up with a new strategy to get the information for the work through his head.
He eventually came back with a bag of chips that he sat between you so that you could share, but he still ate most of them as you focused on trying to make him learn. It became even more annoying to do so when he kept crinkling the bag obnoxiously and chewing excessively, all while sat in a stupid position on his side while leaning on his elbow.
And then you got an idea.
Just as he reached out for more chips, you snatched the bag out of his reach and placed it next to you.
Steve looked at you, clearly affronted. "You didn't have to take the whole thing if you wanted some."
"I made some flash cards for you," you said, ignoring what he said.
"Oh, great," he said sarcastically.
You shot him a look as you reached into your bag to pull out the pile of flashcards stuck together with a paper clip.
"Here's how we'll do this. For every answer you get right, you get a chip," you told him. "If you get it wrong, well, you just won't get anything."
He narrowed his eyes. "That's just stupid. I could easily get those back."
"Okay, then go ahead."
He held your challenging gaze before moving abruptly to try and startle you, reaching for the bag. But you were faster, taking the bag before he could touch it and placing it on your other side.
His mouth parted. "That was good luck."
"Just answer the flash cards Harrington, and you can get as many as you want," you said. "Only if you get them right though."
Steve groaned, running his hands over his face before he said, "fine, then shoot."
You smiled, pleased, and read out the first flash card. "What does the atomic number of an atom tell you?"
Steve was silent for a moment. "Uh, say that again?"
You repeated it, then he narrowed his eyes at you suspiciously.
"I thought we were doing history," he said accusingly.
"We were, but now we're doing science. I guess I didn't think you'd realise since you don't listen to anything I say," you said coolly.
Steve raised his eyebrows, and got off his elbows, sitting up. "Alright, so we're not holding back today."
"Why would I? I'm serious about tutoring you, Steve," you said while looking into his eyes, saying his first name for the first time without realising it. A smirk then tugged at his lips, and he subtly grew more confident.
"Atomic number... um... it tells you how heavy the atom is, or something?" He guessed.
"Incorrect," you said flatly, "but at least you tried. The atomic number of an atom tells you how many protons there are in the nucleus."
Steve frowned. "What does that even mean?"
"The nucleus of an atom is the centre of the atom, and it consists of the protons and neutrons," you explained, and at his lost expression, you added, "I can draw you a diagram-"
"No, just... next question," said Steve with a slight grimace.
You obliged, and went to the next card. "How many electrons are found in the first, second and third shells of an atom?"
"Jesus Christ," Steve murmured, rubbing his temple.
Feeling a stab of sympathy for him, you said softly, "want a hint?"
"Obviously."
"There are two found in the first shell, and the second and third are the same," you told him. "Well, it depends on which rule you're using, but we'll just use one for this one."
"I don't know, okay?" Steve snapped, still rubbing his temple. "We both know I don't know shit."
You deflated at his outburst, and you bit your lip, reading over the flash cards.
"Let's try this one, it's easy," you said gently. "What is the central part of an atom?"
Steve shot you a glare. "I don't-"
"I just said it," you told him encouragingly, "when I was explaining the answer to the first question. Think back on what I said."
Steve furrowed his eyebrows, "I..."
"I offered to draw a diagram of it."
You waited patiently as Steve went into deep thought, and then he blurted out, "the nucleus!"
You grinned. "Yes! That's right?"
Steve's eyes widened. "Really?"
"Really! Good job, Harrington, I knew you had it in you," you said happily.
"Thanks. Now, can I have my chips back?â
"Oh, right," you handed the packet back to Steve, and he took it back eagerly, digging into the bag enthusiastically. You snorted, and he sent you a sharp look with no real bite.
"You haven't had any yet, have some," Steve offered, holding it out.
"I'm fine, thank you," you said politely.
"You said you could eat, so eat," Steve insisted, and you let out a little laugh before giving in and taking one.
"You know, it's not that you don't know shit, it's that you don't pay attention," you said. "If you just simply did that, you would know much more."
"Yeah, yeah, whatever. Tell me more about it later," said Steve, bored by school talk. "What's your favourite chip flavour?"
To your own surprise, you went along with the change of topic. "Salt and vinegar."
His face scrunched up in disgust. "Are you serious?"
"What's wrong with salt and vinegar?" You said defensively.
"Everything. It makes my tongue feel weird, and I hate the smell," said Steve. "It's disgusting."
"No it's not! What's your favourite then if you're such an expert?" You inquired.
"Chicken's good."
It was your turn to grimace. "Yeah, you're the last person who should be judging my favourite flavour."
Steve's jaw dropped. "You don't like chicken?"
"It's got a weird smell to it," you said.
"Salt and vinegar is the one with a weird smell!" Steve said furiously, and instead of snapping back at him, you couldn't help but burst into laughter.
Surprise flickered across his face at your laughter, before he was unable to stop himself from laughing with you. It felt so out of the ordinary to be genuinely laughing with Steve Harrington on a Sunday, a moment that you felt like you shouldn't have belonged in.
And when the ring of the telephone on his bedside table cut through the sound of your combined laughter, the moment vanished, and you no longer belonged.
"I'll get that," said Steve, sobering and jumping off the bed to reach the phone, taking it off the stand and holding it to his ear.
The awkwardness crept back into you as you sat in silence, trying to mind your own business as you looked down at the books set out in front of you. Still, you couldn't help but pay attention to Steve's conversation.
"Oh, hey Nance!" He said eagerly, and you blinked at the change in his voice. "Mhm... yeah, of course, I would love to. How could I ever say no?" He laughed then, and you could hear the muffled voice on the other end. "Yeah, I'll be there in fifteen minutes. See you then."
You were picking at the skin on your fingers by the time he put the phone back down on the stand, and you reluctantly looked up as he turned to you.
"Hey, so uh-"
"You have plans with your girlfriend?" You said it before he could, raising your eyebrows.
"Well... yeah," said Steve sheepishly. "So unfortunately, we're going to have to cut this short."
"I don't think you find that unfortunate," you said knowingly, getting off the bed and starting to gather your stuff.
"Yeah, I don't," he admitted shamelessly. "No one does homework on a Sunday anyway."
"People with good grades do," you said pointedly, and Steve's eyebrows furrowed at the jab. Yes, it was a little harsh, but you had realised by now that you needed to be harsh if you wanted to get your point across. You straightened up, looking him in the eyes. "Harrington, you can't cut a tutoring session short just because your girlfriend wants to hang out with you."
Annoyance spread across his face. "Why not?"
"Because that's not how it works," you said snappishly, getting irritated with his obliviousness. "We were finally getting somewhere, and then you just ditched it with no second thought. You signed up for this, so you need to pull your head out of your ass and go through with it."
Steve scowled. "For the record, I didn't sign up for this, my dad did, so you should know I'm not doing this willingly. Even if I was, I'm not going to ditch my girlfriend to be tutored by another girl in my own house."
"Doesn't she know you're getting tutored?"
"No, no one does!" He blurted out, and you blinked. "The whole thing's pointless. Seriously, you really don't need to do this. You know my girlfriend is really smart? She can just tutor me instead, and she's happy to do so."
"Maybe you should've told your dad that before he signed you up," you said coldly.
"You don't think I- you know what, it's none of your business. You should just give it up, because you should know by now that this isn't going anywhere," said Steve heatedly, and you clenched your fists, biting your tongue so that you wouldn't say something you'd regret.
You packed the rest of your stuff and zipped your bag with an angry sigh. You hoisted your bag onto your back and went for the door, desperate to get out of the house.
But then you paused by the door, gripping the doorframe tightly as you looked at Steve who was glaring at the ground.
"You don't understand that I'm not giving up, Harrington. This might be an arrangement neither of us like, but I'm going to help you no matter what, because that's what I do. You shouldn't doubt yourself so much," your voice became quieter the more you spoke, suddenly feeling embarrassed.
You turned before you could see him look at you, and you hastily left the house.
***
The next tutoring session in the library was awkward and mostly silent. You had tried to explain the work to him for the first fifteen minutes, but when you realised he was never going to listen, you stopped talking and looked at your notes instead. You gave him a textbook that you told him to read even as that was something the both of you knew he wasn't going to do. You spent the whole session trying to think of what to do about him, how you could get him to just listen to you.
It was at the end when he broke the silence.
"About the other day..." he started, and you looked at him too quickly, with too much hope. "I just... you know who my girlfriend is, right?"
Oh, so it was just about his girlfriend instead of an apology. You didn't know why you were expecting more.
But of course you knew his girlfriend. Nancy Wheeler, a pretty, smart girl who nearly beat your top grade in the class, and sometimes did when you lagged behind on work due to tutoring. She was quiet but kind, and never did a thing wrong it seemed. You weren't friends with her, but you liked her with the exception of the times she got a higher mark than you, and jealousy would flare up inside you without being able to help it.
You didn't know how someone like her was able to put up with Steve.
"Yeah. She's really nice," you replied.
Steve smiled, a soft look in his eyes you had never seen before. "Yeah, I know."
You resisted the urge to roll your eyes.
"I just want to ask you to not tell her about this... whole tutoring thing. Or anyone, for that matter. I don't want her to know because it's a bad look for me to be spending so much time with another girl," he explained.
"But I'm just tutoring you," you said with confusion.
"Yeah, but still," Steve shrugged.
You didn't hold back from rolling your eyes this time.
"And I don't want anyone knowing I'm getting tutored either. They might think I'm a nerd," said Steve, and then gave you an apologetic look. "No offence."
"None taken," you said sarcastically.
"Anyway, is that all okay?" He asked.
You sighed. "Yes, it is. I haven't told anyone anyway, and I don't plan to. My goal is just to get you to pass one test, and then you can be free."
"One test?" He repeated.
"Yes."
"It doesn't have to be an A or anything?"
"No, just a pass, even if barely," you said.
Steve nodded like he was accepting a challenge, leaning back in his seat. "Deal."
You hated how a small smile twitched at your lips. "Deal."
That next Sunday, Steve came over to your house instead. Leading up to it, you had been a nervous wreck.
People came over to your house all the time for tutoring, it had become normal for you, and you never minded it. But it was different with Steve, because he was different from all of the other people you had tutored. You had seen his big house, you knew he was rich just by looking into his driveway, so he was more likely to judge.
It wasn't that you were poor. You and your family were comfortable, but not rich, and you had a feeling Steve had only ever been around rich. You were the type of person who still only had a bike because you were saving up for a car, while he was the type to have his car bought for him.
You also just had wildly different interests, so yeah, you were pretty fucking scared.
You sat in your kitchen while your mum moved around you, biting your nails while you waited for Steve to come. You had deep cleaned your bedroom, and cleaned other parts of the house just to be safe.
You hated how much Steve Harrington was stressing you out.
"I think your new student is here," your mum said, looking through the window.
You jumped up at once, and joined her by the window, spotting Steve's burgundy BMW parked outside of your house.
Your mum raised her eyebrows. "He must be borrowing his dad's car.â
"No, that's his car," you said weakly.
She blinked. "Oh, wow. Okay."
You watched Steve get out of the car, subconsciously observing the navy jacket he was wearing over a polo shirt, along with his famous jeans that always fit him just right.
You blinked, startled by your own thoughts, and distracted yourself by heading for the door to greet Steve.
"Don't be weird!" You called out to your mum.
"I'm never weird!" She called back. That was a lie.
You opened the front door before Steve even reached it, and you internally winced at your eagerness.
He seemed to notice it by the slight raise of his eyebrows, but thankfully, he didn't say anything.
"Hey," he said casually as he approached you.
"Hi," you said blandly.
A smile tugged at the corners of his lips, and you were about to ask him what was funny until he spoke. "You know, you always speak in this tone."
You frowned. "Tone? What tone?"
"Like, this flat tone, and you're blunt too," he explained. At your skeptical look, he rushed to say, "not in a bad way, it doesn't have to be bad. Except for when you're like, insulting me."
"I don't insult you."
"You literally did this time last week."
"Just because someone's saying the truth, doesn't mean it's an insult Harrington," you said sweetly.
He clicked and pointed at you. "See? That's it, right there!"
"That wasn't an insult."
"No, but it was blunt."
You rolled your eyes, albeit a smile tugged at your lips against your will.
"Just come in, we've got work to do," you said, widening the door and stepping aside for him to come through.
"Yes ma'am," said Steve, stepping into the threshold, and you failed to keep your smile from widening.
Your smile dropped when you were reminded of your fears as you noticed him looking around your home, and you started to pick at your fingers.
"My bedroom's just upstairs," you said quietly, about to lead him to your room until your mum appeared with a wide smile.
"Hello! You must be Steve!" Your mum greeted brightly. She introduced herself by her first name, and you wanted to sink into a hole.
"Nice to meet you," said Steve politely, seeming taken aback from your mum's energy. But there was nothing judgemental on his face, just... surprise.
"I don't know how long you plan to stay over for, but no matter the time, if you want a drink or some food, feel free to come down and ask! Or just get some yourself, she can show you," your mum said kindly, referring to you. "If she lets you out of the room, that is..."
"Mum," you warned.
"I'm just playing around honey! She's just a strict tutor, she's determined," your mum told Steve.
"He knows, mum. I've been tutoring him for a few weeks," you said with annoyance. At least, you had been trying to. "We're going up to my room now."
"Okay. Good luck, Steve!" Your mum said playfully to Steve, and you groaned as you urged him along while he laughed, seeming heavily amused by your mum.
"I'm sorry," you said once you were out of earshot. "I told her not to be weird, and I guess she heard a completely different thing."
"She's not weird," Steve smiled. "She's... really nice."
He wore a strange expression when he said it, one you couldn't read, so you just looked away and dismissed it.
You swallowed nervously as you entered your room, Steve stepping in behind you, and you rushed over to set up the stationery on the floor, as if starting as soon as possible would give him less time to look at your room.
You called him down to sit, and your face felt hot as he sat down without saying anything, glancing at your posters with an unreadable expression.
Your focus was on English today where Steve had to write an essay. You didn't think it was particularly hard, but that was always different for Steve. So you went into it thinking that he would be ignorant to it as always, that he would just get distracted by something stupid again.
But he proved you wrong.
Because when you looked at him, his eyes were already on you, and they weren't glazed over with the other thoughts he usually had running through his mind. He seemed... focused, and it startled you. Especially so when he asked a question about the topic.
So you let him write the introduction of the essay himself, sitting in silence as he wrote. Both of you had your backs pressed up against your bed, the supplies laid out in front of you while you sat a respectful distance from each other.
You tried to mind your own business, but then you couldn't help but stare at him while he wrote something that you'd probably have to give some constructive criticism on. Either way, it felt oddly personal to see him like that. King Steve sitting in your bedroom, writing an essay after apparently listening to the tips and information you gave.
You noticed how his eyes slightly narrowed while he wrote, his tongue sticking out slightly while he concentrated. The small vulnerability was definitely strange to witness, but... nice to see.
You snapped out of your daze, and looked away from him.
You spent the next whole hour working on the essay. There were many scrunched up balls of papers by the end of the hour, all that had come from a frustrated Steve every time he made a mistake. You had to gently remind him that it wasn't his final copy, that these were only his drafts.
He ended up with an introduction he was somewhat satisfied with, and a written starting sentence for the next paragraph.
You never thought you'd say it, but you were actually proud of him. Proud of him for finally putting in the effort, for swallowing his pride and taking your advice.
Your mum came at the perfect time with a plate of chocolate chip cookies just as you had decided to give Steve a break. They were leftovers from the batch she had made only a few days ago, and while Steve had been politely thankful, you could see the delight in his eyes.
After your mum left, he took his first bite of the cookie, and stopped masking his joy.
"I love your mum," he said blissfully, throwing his head back as he savoured the cookie.
"Don't go throwing that sentence around please," you said with a small grimace.
"But I do! I swear, these are heavenly," he said solemnly, holding up the cookie like it was a trophy. "This is exactly what I needed after the worst hour of my life."
You snorted. "Uh oh, Steve Harrington's actually done schoolwork and now he's dying."
"I am," he said seriously, and you laughed, making him grin.
You fell into a relaxed silence as you grabbed a cookie for yourself, and it felt strange to feel so comfortable around Steve, to just eat cookies with him in silence like you were friends who did this all the time.
After a few minutes, Steve interrupted the silence as he nodded towards something on the wall, asking, "do you have siblings?"
You followed his gaze to the photos of you and your family hung up on your wall, one of which included a younger you surrounded by older kids that were in fact your siblings.
"Yeah, quite a few actually," you answered. "But they're all either moved out or at college right now, so I'm basically an only child at the moment."
"So... you're the youngest?" Steve inquired, and you weren't expecting the genuine curiosity in his voice.
"That I am," you said with a bashful smile.
Steve hummed as he stared thoughtfully at the picture of you and your siblings.
"I've always wondered what it would be like to have siblings," Steve said like it had been a thought in his head more than something he'd meant to say out loud, and that seemed to be the case by the way his face fell after he realised what he had said.
But you didn't pay any mind to it, continuing the conversation normally, "it's loud when the house is full. It can also be really annoying when I want some quiet privacy, because that always get disrupted. Well, I guess I get time to myself all the time now, but that's going to change when they come back for the holidays."
You hadn't meant to ramble, and heat rushed to your cheeks once you realised, but Steve
showed anything but judgement. If anything, he seemed invested in your words, a faraway look in his eyes like he was imagining the scene for himself.
"Sounds nice," he said so quietly you almost didn't catch it, and you decided not to let him know that you had heard it, because you somehow knew those words had only been for himself. He cleared his throat, seeming to recollect himself as his voice returned to its usual confident, slightly cocky state. "So, do you plan to go to college like them? Your siblings?"
"Yeah, I'm actually really excited to. It'll be nice to get out of Hawkins," you said with a smile, "what about you?"
Steve shrugged. "I guess. My dad wants me to. But anyway, I probably can't get in with the way I'm going," he gestured to his incomplete essay.
"How many times do I have to tell you that you really do have it in you, Harrington? And either way, it's up to you whether you want to go to college or not. Don't let your dad decide for you," you said lightly, popping a small piece of a cookie into your mouth.
Steve blinked, and something vulnerable flickered in his expression for a few seconds before it smoothed over, his walls coming back up.
He seemed to be in a rush to lighten the unspoken weight that now hung in the air, so in his haste, he grabbed another cookie and took a reckless bite of it, spilling crumbs onto your carpeted floor.
"Stop it, you're getting crumbs on my carpet!" You complained, grimacing as you picked the crumbs out of your carpet and sprinkled them back onto the plate.
When Steve let out a laugh, your expression soured and you decided to take a different approach, gathering more crumbs in between your fingers before throwing them at him.
He let out a sound of disbelief as he held his hand up to shield himself, and he narrowed his eyes at you before he picked some of the crumbs out himself and threw them at you.
"You jerk!" You laughed, swatting his arm before the two of you fought over the last few pieces of crumbs in the floor to toss at each other.
You both ended up in a fit of laughter that made your stomachs hurt from the sheer absurdity of it, and that was what you counted as the first successful tutoring session.
***
The tutoring sessions with Steve changed after that day. Instead of it being something in your schedule you dreaded, it became something you actually looked forward to, because the times with Steve became enjoyable.
You both came to an agreement of doing tutoring twice a week, since you had other people to tutor and he had basketball practice. Wednesdays at his house, Sundays at yours.
You grew to favour Wednesdays and Sundays.
What it was, was that he was finally listening to you, and he was finally getting schoolwork done. There were many things about the work from each subject that you always had to explain to him multiple times so that he would understand, but you never lost your patience. He seemed surprised by this every time, looking at you like he was waiting for you to get angry after sheepishly asking for another explanation.
But you never did. You never saw any reason to.
It was not only that he was finally getting assignments done, but there had also been a shift in the dynamic between you. At the beginning, it had all been awkward silences and irritated glares, until you started to talk instead of letting the silences settle, until you laughed instead of throwing annoyed words and looks at each other, and the glares became playful instead of real. It began to feel less like a chore, and more like a fun hangout.
You considered Steve Harrington as a friend now, which felt ridiculous while simultaneously feeling right, because why wouldn't he be your friend? Sure, he didn't acknowledge you at school, and sometimes he talked about his girlfriend too much when he should've been studying, but he was kind. He was extremely nice to your parents, he complimented your home in a way that you knew he meant it, and he was always offering you food and drinks whenever you went to his house, or bringing them over whenever he came to yours.
You had even grown to like him so much that you started making hangover smoothies for him every Sunday when he came to your house, because he was pretty much always hungover on Sundays. You told yourself that you did it because you wanted him feeling well enough to be tutored, but deep down, you knew it was more than that.
Sure, he had his flaws, but Steve wasn't nearly as bad as you had initially thought him to be. Because you had seen a different side of him, a softer and more vulnerable side he never showed in public, in front of his popular friends and the girls that fluttered their eyelashes at him despite knowing he was taken. You wondered if he even showed that side to Nancy Wheeler.
It had especially shone through on one Wednesday when he came to your house instead of his. He had called you immediately after school to beg you to not come to his house, to have him come to yours instead just for that week. He hadn't told you why, but you had said yes anyway, because all you needed to hear was the urgency in his voice to know that it was important.
You hadn't asked when he arrived, even when he looked down more than usual. You still didn't ask when he wasn't nearly as talkative as he usually was, almost silent the whole time as you talked him through the history paper he had to write.
You were forced to finally do something about it when you noticed him doing nothing after you left him to do it on his own, his eyes glued to the paper with a distant look in his eyes, mindlessly tapping his pencil on his knee. It was easy to see as you were working in your living room, sat at either ends of the couch. You didn't want to push him as he clearly wasn't in a good mood, but unfortunately, giving him a push was what you were there to do.
"Steve," you said softly, bringing him back to the moment and capturing his attention. "Are you struggling to start the next sentence?"
He blinked. "Huh?â
"On the paper," you said, nodding towards it.
"Oh," he said, looking at it like that was the first time he had noticed it there. "Um... no. Just thinking."
"You've been thinking for a long time," you pointed out gently, and you swallowed when he fixed his hard gaze on you. "I just- if you need me to go through it again, you know not to be afraid to ask me-"
"For god's sake, I already know I'm stupid so can you just leave it alone for a second?" Steve snapped, and you jerked back a little, taken by surprise. "I don't need you talking to me like I'm some slow kid."
"I wasn't-"
"You were. You always do!" Steve said out of frustration, running a hand through his hair.
You stared at him for a moment, processing his words before you leaned back into your spot on the couch, accepting defeat.
"Work at your own pace then, Steve," you said flatly, not bothering to hide your annoyance as you shifted your body away from him, focusing on your own notes.
You didn't look at him for a few minutes, but the tension in the air was palpable as you felt Steve's gaze burn holes into you. He said your name after at least ten minutes had passed, and you looked at him to find his guilty expression.
"I'm sorry," he said quietly, looking at the ground. "You're not doing anything wrong, I'm just an asshole. I don't even know why I'm acting like one when I literally wanted to come here."
You frowned. "What do you mean?"
"The last place I wanted to be at was my house tonight, and for some reason, your place was the first thing that came to mind for an alternative," Steve admitted softly, and your heart skipped a beat. "I was so relieved when you said yes to me coming here instead."
The admission slammed into your chest, and it made your breath catch. Your house had been the first place he had thought of for an escape? Not Tommy Hagan's house? Not even Nancy Wheeler's?
Steve blinked as if snapping out of it, and frantically said, "sorry, that was a weird thing to say. I don't know why I- just forget that ever came out of my mouth."
"Don't be sorry. I think it's nice," you said softly, turning your body back to him as he looked at you curiously, "that you thought of my house as a better place to be. I didn't realise you liked it that much."
"How could I not? It's the place that holds the outcomes of your mum's glorious baking," Steve joked, and you laughed quietly, shaking your head at him. Steve smiled, but his face quickly sobered as he looked at you questioningly. "By the way, you haven't asked me anything."
"About what?"
"About what happened at my house, why I prefer to be here," said Steve bluntly.
You shrugged. "Not my business, is it? It's up to you if we talk about it."
Steve seemed taken aback by that, and you didn't know why he did. Was he used to people prying in his personal business that clearly upset him?
"But... don't you want to know?" Steve pushed.
"I guess I'm a bit curious, but I'm not going to force you to say anything," you said as if it were obvious.
Steve opened his mouth just to close it again, and narrowed his eyes. "You're weird."
You arched an eyebrow. "Or I'm just not nosy."
"Or that," Steve agreed in defeat, and you huffed out a laugh. You didn't expect anything more from him, but when he started talking again in a weaker tone, you listened. "My dad's just an asshole, and... is it really bad to say that I prefer my parents being away on a work trip to them being home?"
You didn't respond momentarily, staring ahead thoughtfully before you softly spoke. "I think you're allowed to feel however you want to, and you shouldn't be so quick to invalidate yourself."
You looked at Steve to find him staring at his lap with his eyebrows knitted together into a small frown, picking at his fingernails as he went into deep thought, probably taking in your words.
Neither of you mentioned it again after that. His asshole of a dad and his unstable home, that was. Every time his parents were home on a Wednesday, you always changed the plans around for him to come to your place instead. You never made a big deal out of it, never talked about the reason why, because you never felt it was necessary to make Steve explain himself more than he had to. It was something Steve appreciated more than you could realise.
It was a Friday night when your parents were in need of some last minute groceries. Your dad had been about to go get them himself before you had offered to get them instead. Your parents had both just come home from a whole day of working, and it had worn them down enough to the point you could see the exhaustion on their faces, so you had been generous enough to take a small weight off their shoulders. They had been hesitant to let you with the recent disappearance of a young boy named Will Byers, but they had been too tired to argue with you, so they let you go with minimal argument.
You weren't old enough to drive on your own yet, so you took your bicycle as you always did with a flashlight. The grocery store wasn't far away anyway.
You quickly popped in and out, getting what you needed with the cash your parents had given you. You took your bicycle out of park and struggled to juggle the full grocery bag in your hands while trying to get onto your bike safely, only having the fluorescent lights of the store behind you to help.
You heard a car pulling up to the curb in front of you, and didn't look up as you thought nothing of it, thinking it was just someone else coming to the grocery store until they suddenly honked. You jumped in surprise, almost dropping the bags as you looked up.
The headlights of the car blinded your vision for a moment, and you blinked rapidly as you squinted to see who was sitting in the drivers seat of the car. When you realised who it was, bewilderment washed over you.
The window rolled down, and Steve tilted his head to meet your gaze from the drivers seat. "What are you doing?"
You blinked, and shot him a look of disbelief. "What am I doing? What are you doing, honking at me like some idiot?"
"That's not very nice."
"Am I usually nice, Harrington?"
Steve snorted. "No. But seriously, what are you doing?â
"What does it look like? You do know what groceries are, right?" You asked sassily.
"I know that! But why are you... you're trying to get onto that bike while you're holding a bag that looks very full."
"Yes?" You said, confused on why he was pointing out the obvious.
Steve returned your confused look. "Didn't you bring your car?"
You gave him a deadpanned expression. "I don't have a car."
Steve didn't react for a moment as he comprehended what you had just said, and then his eyes widened. "You- you don't have a car?"
You looked at him with irritation. Of course a rich boy like him couldn't believe such a thing. "No, because not all of us are rich like you, Harrington."
Steve blinked, eyes flitting from you to your bicycle as he slowly seemed to understand. "Right... but you couldn't even bring your parents' car?"
"I can't drive yet. I'm a year younger than you, remember?"
"Then why-"
"Can you stop interrogating me and just get to the point of why you're here right now? Or have you just come to make fun of me for not having fancy transportation like you?" You snapped more harshly than you meant it, and a tense silence followed your outburst, making embarrassment flood through you.
"I didn't come to make fun of you," said Steve quietly. "I was going to ask if you wanted a ride back home."
Your face changed, not expecting that. "Oh."
"Yeah, um... well, do you? Want that ride?" Steve asked.
"Is it still up for grabs after I just bit your head off?" You said sheepishly.
Steve let out a laugh, and answered your question wordlessly as he got out his side of the car and walked around the BMW to approach you. He stopped in front of you, looking into your eyes for a second before he took your bike out of your hands.
"You're not about to throw my precious bike to the side of the road, right?" You asked, half joking.
He snorted. "No, I'm putting it in the trunk. You can get in the passenger seat, Iâll be there in a second, I just gotta put the seats down first."
You were about to speak up to say that he didn't have to go through so much trouble and that you could really just pedal your way home, but he was too swift in his movements as he opened the car door, leaning in to adjust the backseats of his car.
You tentatively got into the passenger seat, balancing the grocery bag in your lap. You glanced at Steve through the rearview mirror, and felt a weird fluttery sensation in your chest.
You stared ahead with a warm face as you listened to Steveâs movement before you could hear the sounds of him handling your bike. You looked over your shoulder this time, and watched the way he put in extra effort to make sure your bike was in a safe position before he closed the trunk. You turned back to the front, the fluttering in your chest intensifying as your cheeks started to burn. God, why were your cheeks burning?
You didn't move as Steve got back into the car and started up the engine again. After a moment of silence, he said, "you can put your seatbelt on, y'know."
"Right! Sorry," you said, your cheeks burning even hotter as you scrambled to put your seatbelt on.
Steve pulled out of park after putting his own seatbelt on, and you deliberately kept your gaze on the window while keeping a tight grip on the bag in your lap.
"You also don't have to keep that bag on your lap. You can put it on the ground," Steve added.
You might as well have been on fire at that point. You carefully placed the bag on the ground, avoiding his gaze. "Sorry, it's just... a nice car. Don't want to ruin it."
"Groceries won't ruin the car," Steve chuckled, and you smiled sheepishly. In your defence, it was a really nice car. "So, why were you on your own? Getting groceries, I know, but your parents didn't want to come?" Steve asked, genuinely curious.
"They were going to get groceries, but I decided to do it to let them rest. They're tired from working all week, so I just wanted to give them a little break," you explained bashfully.
Steve hummed. "That's really nice of you."
"Unheard of, right?" You joked.
"Not really," said Steve so quietly you were sure you imagined it, glancing at him to find that infuriatingly unreadable expression on his face again. "Still dangerous to be going out by yourself at night, though. Especially since that kid's just gone missing."
You did a double take, unsure if you had heard him right the first time. His tone was casual as he said it, but his jaw was tight. He surely didn't care, did he?
"Well, that kid was eleven, and I'm sixteen. I'm capable," you replied.
"Sixteen's not that much older."
"Oh come on, don't act all high and mighty just because you're a year older."
"I'm not. I'm just saying you need to be more careful because I- you don't want something bad to happen you," his voice grew quieter with each word, barely inaudible at the end of his sentence, but you were still able to catch what he said.
You shot him a confused look. He was acting weird tonight, you thought. There was that softer side of him showing that he never displayed in public, but it wasn't that. There was something about his energy that lacked its usual spirit, something dejected. Had it been his parents again, you wondered? You certainly weren't going to ask, though.
The rest of the drive to your home was silent and quick. The grocery store was only a short way from your house anyway.
When you arrived, Steve got out of the car with you to take your bike out of the trunk, being kind enough to park your bike where you directed him as you held the grocery bag.
"Thank you, Steve. For the ride and doing... all of this. You really didn't have to," you said sincerely as he leaned on his car.
Steve smiled weakly. "No worries. Couldn't have just left you there, could I?"
"You could've," you said calmly.
"I'm not that bad, L/N," said Steve teasingly, and you chuckled.
"Goodnight, Steve," you said softly, sending him a small smile.
He mirrored your smile, saying goodnight to you back with your name. You turned on your heel, starting the walk to your house as your heart raced in your warm chest.
When Steve called out your name, you turned around too quickly, making it seem as though you had been waiting for him to call you back. Perhaps you had been.
Steve scratched his neck, seeming nervous as he hesitated. "Um, sorry to be a bother but can I just ask for some advice?"
"Yeah, of course," you said, walking back over to him.
"Since you're a girl and all," said Steve quickly. "It's about Nancy."
You froze.
Oh. You forgot about Nancy.
Your chest twisted suddenly, nearly winding you and making you stumble, but you kept your composure and faced him with your chin up.
"Yeah, what's up?" You said airily.
"She's not happy with me right now. I invited her and her friend over to a party at my house, and she stayed over without her friend and now she hasn't seen her since, and she's really worried," Steve explained. "And I guess I was just more concerned about getting in trouble than her friend, and she got pissed off at me for it and... I don't know, I just don't know how to make it up to her."
You frowned. "Wait, her friend? Like, Barb?"
"Yeah, her. You haven't seen her around, have you?"
"No, not since Tuesday," you said.
"Well shit, that's the night she went missing..." said Steve, and your eyebrows drew together with concern. Just like Nancy, you weren't friends with Barb, but you had always thought she was nice. "Anyway, Nance isn't talking to me so I thought that you, a girl, would know how to fix it."
"Right," you said uncomfortably. "Why don't you ask your friend Carol? She's a girl."
"Yeah, but she's too... I just think you're someone who gives better advice," said Steve honestly.
You didn't know how to take that, and you hated how a smile twitched against your lips.
"Well, it seems simple. You just go up to her, apologise, and help her look for Barb. Or just be there for her. She's obviously distraught if her best friend is nowhere to be seen," you told him.
Steve nodded along, listening intently. "Yeah, okay... thanks."
You smiled weakly, "no problem."
Steve sighed. "I just... I really like her, and I don't want to mess it up, y'know?"
Your chest twisted even further, and you bit your lip, looking away from him.
"Yeah, that's understandable. Well, I hope it works out between you, but I have to go to bed now. My parents will get worried," you said briskly, already starting to talk away.
"Yeah, okay. Goodnight," he said.
"Goodnight," you said quietly over your shoulder, and basically sped to your house, not looking behind you as you went back inside the safety of your home where he couldn't reach you.
That was the night you realised you had developed feelings for Steve Harrington.
But it didn't matter, because his heart only belonged to Nancy Wheeler, and you didn't stand a chance.
***
You were zoned out as you absentmindedly stored some of your books into your locker, your mind in a different place to your physical body.
Annoyingly enough, all it ever seemed your mind could stay on these days was the thought of Steve.
You knew it had been a bad idea to tutor him from the very start for many reasons, and now your worst fear had actually happened. Just like every other girl at Hawkins High, you had developed a schoolgirl crush on Steve Harrington, and he plagued your mind completely without permission.
It had been two weeks since you came to your realisation, and every tutoring session with Steve since then had been torture. It didn't help when he was his usual sweet self, bringing your favourite snacks when he came to your house, telling you how one of the posters in your bedroom looked cool, getting along with your parents, and listening to you with that concentrated look he had that was frustratingly handsome.
And it certainly wasn't helping that he now insisted on giving you a ride home every time you went to his house. He had asked you about your method of transportation to his house since he found out you weren't able to drive, and he seemed to take it personally when you told you just took your bike every time. Sometimes, you even got into small arguments about it, because you didn't like making him go through the effort of putting your bicycle into his car every time, but it made you learn that Steve didn't take no for an answer when to came to those sort of things.
Every ride home made your heart beat a little faster for him, and your feelings grew stronger with each time you both talked nonstop for the whole ride. It wasn't fair that he was able to make you feel such a way.
You used to judge those kind of girls before, the ones who batted their lashes at him in an attempt to get his attention, the ones who stared longingly at him in the hallways. Now you were one of them, and you felt so pathetic. You wanted to defend yourself by acknowledging that you had actually spent quality time with him and had gotten to know him as more than just a popular jock, that you had seen what was under the mask he always hid behind at school.
But did it even matter when he had never once remotely showed interest in you? When you technically weren't even friends, just acquaintances? You were his tutor for goodness' sake, of course you weren't supposed to feel this way. You had never even come close to feeling the same about anyone else you had tutored.
Of course Steve had been the one to capture your heart out of all of it. Him and his stupid soft smile that almost seemed reserved for you, him and his stupid jokes that made you genuinely laugh, and him and his stupid kindness in giving you a ride back to your house that night, putting your bike in his car without you having to ask him to do so, the implications of him caring about you when he expressed a concern for your safety.
All before he had asked you for advice on how to make it up to his girlfriend.
Even if you could've, you wouldn't. You certainly weren't the type to barge into a relationship, a very happy one at that.
You were snapped out of your daze when you heard someone call your name, and you perked up, looking into the direction of the voice.
A boy named Tyler came up to you, a student in your year that you tutored for maths and history. He had an excited expression on his face as he approached you with a piece of paper in his hand.
"Hi, Tyler," you greeted with a warm smile. "What's up?"
He grinned at you. "I have news. Good news."
"What is it?"
He held the piece of paper up to your face, showing you the contents. All you had to do was look at the B circled on it to know what it was.
"I got a B on my maths test!" He told you happily.
"That's amazing!" You said with a wide smile, pride blooming in your chest upon seeing the joy in his eyes. "I told you you had it!"
"I couldn't have done it without you," he said. "Seriously, thank you so much. You saved me."
You laughed sheepishly. "I'm just glad it worked out for you."
"I mean it, you're the best! I hope you're getting good credit for all of this tutoring you do," said Tyler earnestly. "You deserve it."
You smiled. "Thanks."
"I'll see you around. Hopefully I'll ace my history test next!" He said hopefully as he walked off, and you gave him a thumbs up before he fully turned away.
You turned back to your locker with a smile, your chest filled with warmth. That was why all those hours of tutoring was always worth it at the end of the day. The extra credit was a bonus, but it was helping others that really mattered for you.
You jumped at the sudden bang on the locker next to yours, followed by a familiar voice saying, "who was that?"
You turned your head in surprise, and your face morphed into an expression of disbelief as you saw him.
Because here Steve was, his body completely facing you while it leaned against the locker next to yours, his arms crossed and his eyes focused on you while everyone moved around you, all easily able to see the interaction between you two. The interaction between the most popular guy in school and some quiet girl who tutored people.Â
It was the first time Steve had ever even looked at you in the school hallways, let alone talked to you, so it took you a moment to respond to his question as you processed your current situation.
And god, you hated how your chest started feeling warm in a different way when you looked at him.
"Um- uh- just a guy I tutor," you said bashfully.
"What were you talking about? He seemed very happy about something," Steve asked, and you quietly grew confused at his curiosity.
"He got a good grade on his test. He came to me because I helped him study, and he really thought he wasn't going to do a good job, but I told him he would, and I was right," you said with a proud smile.
Steve narrowed his eyes at you, his expression unreadable. "Hm, interesting. You seem to like him."
You blinked. "Um... yeah, he's a nice guy."
"So, do you have a thing for him?" Steve said suddenly with a smirk.
Your face dropped. "What?"
"What? It's just a question. You can tell me, I promise it'll stay between us. If it helps, it seems like he might like you too," Steve lowered his voice and leaned in a little, causing heat to rush to your cheeks.
You tried to hide your flustered state by rolling your eyes and slamming your locker shut. "No, Steve. I don't have a thing for him."
"But wouldn't he be your type? Like, smart guys?"
You looked at him incredulously. "No offence to him, but he's not exactly a smart guy if he needs tutoring. God, Steve, just because I get along with him, doesn't mean I like him. I'm his tutor, and that's it."
His infuriating smirk didn't falter, his eyes shining with amusement as he said, "if you say so."
You sighed while rolling your eyes again. "You're so annoying."
"Your eyeballs will get stuck in the back of your head if you keep rolling them."
"Then stop doing things that make me roll my eyes, idiot."
Steve opened his mouth to continue the banter both of you would never admit you thoroughly enjoyed, but the next words never got to leave his mouth as you were suddenly approached by two certain people, one of which threw an arm around Steve.
"Couldn't find you for a second there Harrington, you disappeared on us," said Tommy Hagan, while Carol Perkins stood beside him, chewing gum obnoxiously while assessing you with her eyes.
Then, a smirk spread on her lips, her voice laced with amusement as she asked, "who's your friend, Steve?"
Tommy looked at you like he hadn't noticed you were there, and immediately started sniggering even though you hadn't done anything.
Steve's face fell, something more guarded taking over his expression at the presence of Tommy and Carol while panic flickered faintly in his eyes, and you noticed it. Meanwhile, your stomach churned uncomfortably as Tommy and Carol stared at you like you were some form of entertainment.
When Steve didn't answer Carol, you took it into your own hands and hesitantly said your name. She snorted, arching an eyebrow at you.
"I wasn't asking you," she said.
"Well you were looking at me when you said it, so maybe you should've been clearer about who you were talking to," you shot back coldly, and Steve's eyes widened while Tommy whistled.
Carol's face hardened, chewing her gum more aggressively.
"Sassy, aren't you? Honestly Steve, since when did we start stooping so low for new friends? We shouldn't be welcoming this kind of crowd," she said, looking at Steve with a scoff.
"We're not," said Steve quickly, and you frowned. "She's not my friend. She's just..."
He trailed off, catching your sharp gaze. He held it for a few moments before looking away, looking at his actual friends, "sheâs a stranger to me."
Your heart dropped.
A stranger.
Not a friend, not even an acquaintance, just a stranger. That's all you were.
âThen why are you even talking to her?â Carol snorted.
âBecause, um⊠she dropped something and I was just giving it back to her was all,â said Steve hastily, talking about you like you werenât even there.
Carol raised her eyebrows, unconvinced, and god, you wanted nothing more than to just shove her face into the locker like she deserved.
"As fun as this is, I'm hungry man, let's go eat!" Said Tommy, slapping Steve's back before letting go of him. He briefly glanced at you, his voice mocking as he said, "see you later... uh, whatever your name is."
Carol giggled, "yeah, see you sweetheart."
Tommy burst into another fit of sniggers, and your eyes caught it immediately as Steve let out a laugh, albeit it sounded a little more uncertain than the others.
But you were probably just imagining that just to make yourself feel better, because when the three of them walked away, Steve didn't look back at you once.
Your cheeks burned as he left you standing there, feeling like an idiot who had just been picked apart by a group of people who deemed themselves superior to you just because you weren't popular.
As if that hadn't already ruined your day, as if Steve hadn't already made your heart hurt enough, something happened at the end of your science class.
The class was pleasantly rowdy as everyone either did their written science work or talked with their friends about their plans for the weekend. You were one of the people doing their work, and was the first to walk up to the teacher to hand in your completed work.
"Well done, Y/N. I look forward to grading this, you never fail to impress me," your science teacher said, and you smiled sheepishly, thanking her quietly. "So, how's that tutoring of yours going?"
"Really good," you said, hating how Steve crossed your mind.
"I'm sure it is, I've even seen the evidence of it. You know, I never thought I'd see the day where Steve Harrington would be able to understand anything in my class, but proving by his recent results on his last test, it seems as though I have made it to that day," she told you with a smile.
You stilled. "What do you mean?"
She tilted her head at you. "Hasn't he told you? He passed his science test the other day. I even almost gave him a B."
You narrowed your eyes, "the other day? I- did you give him these results?"
"Yes. I know he tried to hide it, but I could see how happy he was."
Your blood started to pump in your ears, the realisation slowly dawning on you as you comprehended what she was saying.
"I even heard he got a good grade on his English assignment too. I don't know how you've done it, but you've worked wonders on him," she said. "Good job."
You didn't say anything for a moment before collecting yourself enough to say quietly, "yeah, that's good."
You went back to your seat after that, the noise around you fading to the background as the gears turned in your head.
He had been passing tests and getting good grades on assignments, and hadn't told you? He had been keeping it from you?
Your jaw tightened, and you clenched your fists, something hot stirring in your stomach.
You were going to kill him.
***
You thought it had been apart of your dream at first, then you thought it was just some animals playing around outside. But when the persistent tapping kept on going every time you thought it would stop, you finally woke up, and investigated.
When you saw nothing was happening to your window, you went over to it anyway, looking outside to see the source of the noise.
It was much worse than an animal. It was Steve throwing rocks at your parents' window, the morning sun shining down on him and highlighting the small cuts on his face along with the purple bruise on his left cheek.
You gasped softly upon seeing his beat-up face, concern flooding you against your will as you worried about who did something like that to him. You stared at him in disbelief before rushing to put your dressing gown and slippers on, tidying your hair as best as you could before hastily making your way out of the house, not even bothering to be quiet since Steve was being noisy enough anyway.
You walked around your house to meet Steve now crouched, gathering more rocks to throw. You stood there for a moment, gazing at him with folded arms while he didn't notice you, lost in his own world. You reminded yourself that you needed to be hostile, that he still hadn't given you an apology for what he did a few days ago.
When he rose to his feet, you finally spoke up.
"Trying to wake my parents up?" You asked, and he jumped, whirling around to you with wide eyes. He blinked at your words, looking back to your parents' window as you clarified, "that's their room, genius. I know you like my mum's food, but you surely can't be that desperate."
Embarrassment flickered across his face at your words, and he looked back to you with shame. "Shit. Sorry."
You shrugged. "That'll depend on how grumpy they are this morning."
A short silence followed your words, and Steve sighed, running a hand through his hair, and you watched him closely, eyes lingering on his bruises. The injuries looked fresh, and it made you wonder why he was here instead of resting at home.
"Are you okay?" You asked gently before you could stop yourself.
Steve looked at you in surprise. "Huh?"
"Your... face," you said, gesturing to your own. "Seems like you're hurt. Are you alright?"
"Oh, I'm fine, but that doesn't matter," he said quickly, seeming ashamed of whatever it was. "What matters is what I came here to do, which is to say sorry for the other day."
You raised your eyebrows. "What did you do the other day?"
"You know, when we were talking and Tommy and Carol came over," said Steve, confused on why you were asking about the obvious until he realised you weren't playing dumb, you just wanted him to admit what he did wrong. "And then they were being assholes and I didn't do anything about it."
"Is that it?"
Steve's eyebrows knitted together as he seemed to search his mind for anything else. "I think so?"
You hummed quietly, keeping your face blank as you looked him over. You quickly noticed how something about him was off â not just the bruises and cuts on his face, but the way he held himself, the defeated look in his eyes that wasn't there before. You couldn't put your finger on it, but something in the air around Steve had shifted, and it made your curiosity grow stronger about whatever the hell had happened in the past few days that caused that and the bruises.
Steve sighed, his head hanging low as he said, "look, I know I messed up. I know that wasn't right of me and it wasn't fair to you, and you had to defend yourself which you shouldn't have had to because I shouldn't have let them treat you like that in the first place. If it's any help, it didn't feel good during that moment."
You scoffed. "It didn't feel good for me either."
The guilt in Steve's eyes strengthened, and he looked at you sorrowfully. "I'm really sorry. You didn't deserve that, after everything you've done for me-"
"Actually, it's okay Steve. We're not friends anyway, you don't owe me anything," you snapped.
Steve's face fell slightly like you had struck him. "That was stupid of me to say. I was trying to get them to back off of you, you know? They wouldn't have taken it well if I said yes, they would've been even worse."
"That's such a lame excuse. They were going to make fun of me no matter what you said, so you're just telling yourself that to feel better," you said sourly. "You're just like... I don't know, ashamed of me or something?"
Steve shook his head. "I'm not-"
"Then what do you call it? You're only nice to me when we're alone, and you're embarrassed to be seen with me in public. That's why you didn't want me to tutor you in the library. You literally said it yourself, you didn't want anyone to walk in and see," you poured out what had been pent up inside you through this whole ordeal. "You never acknowledged me in public until that moment for some reason, and even then, you said I was just a stranger."
"I know, I know, it was shitty of me. I shouldn't have- I'm really sorry," said Steve, and the worst part about it was how sincere he sounded, how real the apology seemed to be.
But you knew it would go back to normal after this, and with the last few days having given you room to think about it, you knew you couldn't go for any longer. Not with your feelings for him growing stronger everyday.
"I don't think this arrangement is necessary anymore," you said with a tight throat, avoiding his gaze as you said it. But even in your peripheral vision, you could see how his face dropped.
"What? But I still need to be tutored! I- I still need your help," said Steve frantically.
"There are other tutors at school, you can just go to them if you really need help," you said. "Also, didn't you say you could get your girlfriend to tutor you? She'll be happy to help."
Steve's expression shifted into something more hurt as he looked at his feet. "I'm not sure that's so true anymore. I'm not her favourite person right now."
Your chest tightened, and you finally looked at him, reading his crestfallen expression. Was that the reason why he looked like that? Because him and Nancy were arguing? You had a nagging feeling that there was much more to it, but you weren't going to push. You were too mad at him to do so anyway.
"Even then, I'm not the only tutor in the world. Besides, from what I've heard, you'll be just fine without tutoring anyway," you said bitterly.
Confused spread across Steve's features. "From what you've heard?"
"Yes. I'm not sure why I had to hear it from someone else that you had literally passed your science test, and got a good grade on your English assignment."
Steve's eyes widened slightly. "You- who told you that?"
"The science teacher."
"Why would she even tell you that? Oh my god..." Steve murmured, pressing his hands to his face.
"That doesn't matter, Steve. What matters is that for some reason you decided to hide the fact that you were improving," you scolded. "You neglected to tell your literal tutor that you had passed in two subjects!"
"I... forgot," said Steve unconvincingly.
You snorted humourlessly. "I don't think you did, and I don't even want to ask why you didn't tell me because you'll probably just give me another stupid excuse."
You were mainly pissed off at Steve for the way he had treated you in front of Tommy and Carol the other day, that was what drove the wedge between you two in the first place, but him not telling you about his good results had been the final straw. Because those had been moments he was meant to share with you, because you had been the one to help him. He was supposed to approach with you excitement like Tyler had done, and he was supposed to brag about his results to you with a wide smile while you were silently proud of him.
You had been eager for that moment between you and Steve, but because of some reason that was unknown to you, he hadn't told you, and had robbed you of that moment.
So yeah, you were very pissed.
"So you're ditching me because I didn't tell you about two decent grades I got?" Said Steve, and you couldn't help but notice the hurt that seeped through his voice. You hated how it sparked guilt in you.
Yet, you stood your ground. "I told you that all you needed to do was pass one test, and you could be free of me. Did you just forget that?"
Steve's Adam's apple bobbed, his jaw tight. "No."
"Then why didn't you just tell me? I know you hate being tutored, so why did you drag it out?" You asked heatedly, your pent up frustration spilling out. You stared at him expectantly, impatiently waiting for his answer.
But he only stared back at you, his mouth opening uselessly with nothing coming out, his eyes holding a desperate look that tugged at your chest, that almost made you give in. But you fought back against it, and scoffed at his silence.
"There's no reason to keep doing this, Steve," you said, your voice weaker.
"But I still need help with my other subjects," said Steve quietly.
"You know how to study now, and you can help yourself. I've given you a little push, so now you can be independent," you reasoned. "And look at the bright side, you'll have free time on Wednesdays and Sundays now."
"But I..." he trailed off, and your heart skipped a beat as you thought he was finally about to speak, finally about to admit something.
But he chose not to say it, and continued with his silence.
You gazed at his face, taking in each detail of his features, memorising it for when you would think about him at night, when you wouldn't see him anymore. The softness of his dark hazel eyes, the moles scattered on his face, and his stupid perfect hair that you longed to feel with your own fingers.
"It really was nice tutoring you Steve, but I've done my job now," you said softly, sending him your first smile of the day, and your last for a while.
He looked at you with sadness, something close to devastation, but not quite there. Because maybe Steve Harrington was fond of you in the way he was fond of your mother's cookies, but he nowhere near cared about you in the way he cared about Nancy Wheeler.
And that's why you turned your back to him, walking inside your house without looking back at him, even when you heard the small, desperate "please," leave his lips.
Warnings: pure fluff, pining, oblivious to feelings, friends to lovers, love triangle,
Steveâs spent months trying to show his best friend he loves her, then Eddie enters the picture and turns it into a battle into who can win you over, all for the heart of one very oblivious girl
Steve didnât bother knocking anymore, pushing the front door open just enough to call your name. He found you exactly where heâd expected, standing on a chair in front of the highest cabinet, reaching so far for a mixing bowl he was convinced you were about to topple over.
âWoah, alright.â He hovered his hands on either side of you, protecting you from falling.
You only sighed, keeping your eyes on the prize. âThe chair gives me height.â Though before you could protest, Steveâs hands settled around your waist. âWhat are youââ
He lifted you off the chair like you weighed nothing, set you safely on the floor, and reached up himself. The bowl came down with ease that made you pout.
You accepted it begrudgingly from his hands. âYou know, one day I'll be able to reach for things myself.â
âNot while Iâm around,â he said without hesitation, before nudging your shoulders. âSoâŠwhat are we making?â
âCookies!â You grinned, already moving to pull the sugar and eggs.
Steveâs brows lifted. âOh no, youâre going to bake again?â He said solemnly.
âWhatâs supposed to mean?â You pointed a wooden spoon at him threateningly.
âOnly that the last time you attempted baking, you almost burnt the whole house down.â
âWell,â you ignored his words. âYou can either help or leave.â
âIâm helping.â He quickly rushed out, pushing his sleeves up. âI canât stand around and watch as you turn the kitchen into your own disaster zone.â That earned a laugh out of you, leaning against the counter to catch your breath.
And Steve couldnât help but stare for just a second longer than he should have. God, there it was againâthat laugh, like somehow the whole room got brighter because you smiled at him.
He busied himself before you could catch him staring, turning his gaze onto the items in front of you. You bumped your shoulder with his. âYouâre such a good best friend.â
The words hit him like a brick, but he smiled anyway. If being your best friend meant spending every Saturday morning in your kitchen, stealing excuses to make you smile and hoping, just once, that youâd catch one of the countless hints heâd been dropping, he would gladly do it.
Steve wasnât exactly subtle, he hadnât been for a very long time. He didnât just know the broad things about you that everyone should know, he remembered the tiny details most people missed. How you always forgot to bring a jacket with you so heâd make sure to wear one to slip around your shoulders. The books that held a special place in your heart, the name of your childhood dog, he even noticed when you trimmed your hair only an inch.
He did all the gentleman-y things without being yours, walking on the outside of the sidewalk to protect you without thinking, pulling your chair out before you sat down, door handles held open before you could reach them. Absentmindedly holding your hand to help you over puddles, only letting go once he knew you were steady.
Robin had called him out on it more than once. âYou know youâre basically acting like her boyfriend, right?â
âWhat if she doesnât see it that way?â Doubt crept into his voice.
Robin stared at him for a long moment before sighing. âThen sheâs either blindâŠor choosing not to see it.â
Steve prayed the second one wasnât true. He convinced himself at first that perhaps you didnât feel the same. That you simply saw him as your best friend, nothing more, nothing less.
It stung more than he could admit aloud, but he had made peace with it. Though during fleeting moments, every now and then, heâd catch you staring at him. Not when he was talking, or when everyone else was laughing, just looking like you were studying him.
Your eyes would linger for a heartbeat too long before your gazes would lock, looking away with a sheepish smile. And every single time, a glimmer of hope unfurled in his chest. Maybe there was something there after all, maybe he wasnât imagining the way your face softened whenever he gave you a small smile, maybe the lingering glances meant what he desperately wanted them to mean.
He just hadnât figured out how to make you realize he wasnât looking at you that way because you were his best friend. He was looking at you that way because heâd fallen hopelessly and irrevocably in love with you.
Eddie Munson entered your life the way most things did in Hawkins, completely by fate. When you had initially wandered into Family Video to visit Steve during his shift, you ended up arguing with the long haired metal head over The Texas Chainsaw Massacre.
âIâll telling you, itâs unnecessarily disgusting.â You scrunched your nose, horror movies having never been up your alley.
Eddie looked personally offended, slapping a hand over his chest dramatically. âItâs art.â
âItâs about a man chasing people with a chainsaw to murder them.â You crossed your arms, the back and forth was strangely endearing.
Steve had watched the entire exchange from behind the counter, staying silent. You walked out that evening with a movie tape tucked under your arm, and somehow, a new friend,
At first, Steve didnât think much of it, you deserved more than one friend, and you had plenty of love to go around. Besides, Eddie was funny, you laughed around him the same way you laughed around everyone you cared about. It was fine, really.
Then the little things started, Eddie began showing up more often, swinging by your place âjust because.â Heâd offer to walk you home if Steve was working late, bring rock and roll cassette tapes he swore youâd love, though Steve told himself it wasnât a competition, he was only doing the same things he did.
That was the problem he realized, he was acting exactly like Steve. âYou remembered my favorite candy?â You smiled so brightly at Eddie that Steve nearly dropped the glass cup in his hands.
Eddie rubbed the back of his neck nonchalantly. âYou mentioned it once.â
Steve had also said those same words a hundred times whenever you questioned how he always remembered your favorite everything, his stomach sank.
A few days later, Eddie held the library door open for you, Steve frowned at the sight, that was his thing. Then he gave you his leather jacket when the weather turned chilly, that was Steveâs job.
By the end of the week, Steve had watched Eddie insist on paying for your milkshake, and unconsciously position himself between you and a speeding bicycle, never known to be the careful one.
Steve sighed. âOh.â
Robin glanced upwards from where she was supposed to be alphabetizing returns. âWhat now?â
âI think Munson likes her.â He really didnât want to speak those words into existence.
The worst part was how Robin didnât even hesitate. âYeah, for like, two weeks.â
Steve groaned, slapping his forehead onto the counter underneath. âAnd what am I supposed to do?â
Robin tilted her head knowingly. âI donât know, Steve. Maybe ask her out?â She deadpanned.
He looked horrified. ââŠOr,â she continued. âKeep staring at her like a lovesick puppy, while Eddie does the same exact thing. Whatever this weird mating ritual is, keep me out of it.â
Steve couldnât help comparing himself, Eddie was everything he wasnât. Eddie naturally attracted attention, he played the guitarâwell at that, he may be a high school dropout but he was not shy of being himself. Steve? He worked at a video store and got nervous whenever you got a little too close.
âMusonâs cooler than me.â The thought lingered longer than heâd liked. Then another thought followed, convincing him to try harder, Steve mightâve fallen into second place, but he was still in the game.
If Eddie was bringing you music to fall asleep to, Steve was showing up in the morning with blueberry muffins straight out of the oven.
If Eddie complimented your outfit, saying it was, âvery metal,â Steve was already telling you your smile looked pretty before he could even realize the words left his mouth.
Steve dropped by your house one night after work, you swung open the door at the first knock. âThere you are!â You beamed. âIâve been waiting for you.â
His heart immediately forgot how to function. âYouâyou have?â
âMhm!â You quickly pulled him inside, excitement written all over your features. âCome here,â you dragged him all the way to the living room, where the thousand-piece puzzle youâd been working on all week sat proudly on the coffee table.
Only, there wasnât missing a single piece, Steve blinked. âYou finished it?â He asked.
You nodded triumphantly. âI finished it.â You confirmed. âAnd look, I finally figured out that impossible section.â
Steve leaned over, trying very hard not to smile too much, you meant the section Steve helped you with once you had given up. You looked so ridiculously proud of yourself that Steveâs eyes sparkled with pride. âYou did good.â He praised.
Your face lit up. âReally?â When he nodded surely, without thinking you threw your arms around him, Steve hugged you back automatically.
Then, just as quickly, you angled your head and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek. âThanks for helping.â You said it like it was the most natural thing in the world, before turning back to admire your work.
Steve, on the other hand, stopped functioning. His hand drifted to the spot on his cheek, his throat closing up and skin flushed. As you left towards the kitchen to grab a drink, Steve remained rooted to his spot, busy replaying those last two seconds in his head.
Not even a day later, Steve spotted you in the trailer park, Eddie having just finished saying something that made you laugh.
You stepped forward and wrapped your arms loosely around his neck, burying your face against his shoulder for a second as you inhaled his strong masculine scent.
Steve stopped walking, the smile heâd been wearing since last night faltered. You hadnât done anything wrong, you hugged everyone, but never after he had allowed himself to think the kiss on his cheek meant something.
Across the park, Eddie met Steveâs eyes over your shoulder, neither of them looked away. A slow infamous grin spread across his face while Steveâs brow twitched, message received. Things were far from over.
Meanwhile, you finally pulled away, completely oblivious to the silent rivalry unfolding right next to you. âSo,â you looked between them brightly. âWho wants ice cream?â They both raced to pay for it at the register.
Steve had finally had enough, he was no longer going to stand around and wonder whether there could ever be a possibility of something between you.
After standing in front of the florist for an embarrassingly long time, he settled on a bouquet of pale pink carnations, and white lilies. He didnât buy them because he thought theyâd make you fall in love, it was just what he remembered seeing in movies where the boy attempted to be romantic.
The entire drive over, he rehearsed the words in his head like a mantra, he desperately didnât want to mess up, but he needed to communicate all the thoughts heâs been holding in for the past months.
Once he approached your driveway, voices drifted through the air, coming from right in front of your house.
ââŠCan I tell you something?â It was Eddieâs voice, he realized. Steve froze in his tracks. âI think itâs kind of obvious by now,â he chuckled nervously.
Steveâs heart stopped, it seemed like he wasnât the only one who thought today was the day.
âI like you.â The words made him go pale, looking down at the flowers in his hand. He was too late, youâd pick Eddie.
âI know.â You finally spoke gently. Steve squeezed his eyes shut, regretting he had come all this way for nothing. âButââ
You paused, he listened closely. âI donât feel that way.â You lowered your tone. â I think youâre incredible, Eddie. Really, anyone would be lucky to have youâŠthat someone just isnât me.â
You smiled sadly. âYouâre my best friend, andâmy heartâs already somewhere else.â
A laugh escaped Eddie, shaking his head amusingly. âI had a feeling.â You stepped closer, wrapping him a hug.
âIâm sorry.â You whispered. As he turned to the side, his eyes landed on Steve, holding flowers, and looking like someone who deserved you more than he ever could.
âDonât be.â Eddie replied, smirking. Steve snapped back to reality as he walked over, clapping his hand shoulder on the way. âYour turn, Harrington.â
Steve stared at him for a moment, then toward where you were heading for your front steps, then back at the flowers. âOh, screw it.â
He hurried around the side of the house just as you stepped onto the porch, your eyes widened. âSteve?â You exclaimed.
âHi, uh,â he looked at you nervously, suddenly forgetting his whole speech. âI brought you flowers.â He pushed them into your chest unexpectedly.
You looked at them and smiled sweetly. âI can see that, thank you, Steve.â
âButâŠâ he cleared his throat. âI didnât bring them just because, I brought them because I wanted to tell you thatââ
âThat?â You raised your brows, waiting for him to finish.
âThat Iâm in love with you.â He pulled the trigger, immediately his breath afterwards.
Your mouth dropped, for a moment, all you could was stare. âYou areâŠ?â
Steve laughed nervously, running his hands through his hair. âYeah.â He swallowed. âAnd I know thatâs probably not what you were expecting, considering weâre friends and allâand if you donât feel the same, I understand. I justâI really couldnât keep pretending anymore.â
You blinked twice, then a strange look took over your features, weirdly affectionate. âSteve.â He braced himself. âIâve been waiting for you to say that.â
His brows knitted together. âYouâve been waiting?â He repeated.
You laughed softly. âI mean, you showing up right now is quite the surprise. But,â your smile turned shy. âIâve been waiting for this.â
Steveâs mouth opened, then closed, then opened again. âI donât understand.â He said breathlessly.
âSteve,â you sighed. âYouâre the only one who knows me better than I know myself. And, Iâve never wanted anyone else.â
âI just thought,â you shrugged, cheeks warming. âYou were waiting until you were ready.â
Steve let out a disbelieving laugh, shaking his head. âI was trying to show you all this time.â
âI wanted to hear you say the words.â You suddenly stepped closer, until all that separated you were a few inches.
His eyes searched yours, comforting silence settled between you. âSo, do you love me too?â He whispered.
âIâve been waiting for you, remember?â Then you reached up, cupping his face in your hands, and instead of your kiss landing on his cheek, it aimed straight for his lips.
âI love you too, Steve.â You giggled against his lips. As it turns out, the race had been over long before he realized.
summary: your home situation is rougher than youâve initially told steve. on a particularly hard night, steve comforts you when you show up in his bed in the middle of the night
warnings: angst, arguing, mentions of alcohol/alcoholism, reader doesnât have a good relationship with her dad, crying, reader honestly gaslights herself, allusions to abuse, steve is a sweetheart
word count: 2.8k
from jen: before you read, make sure you read the warnings and that itâs not something triggering to you. if you are going through a similar situation, youâre not alone and youâre not crazy. i know how youâre feeling and thereâs nothing wrong with you. i love you all and hope this can bring someone else comfort like it did as i wrote it. <3
In the grand scheme of things, you can consider yourself lucky. Luckier than most, at least.
Your parents are still married, you have a roof over your head and clothes on your back. You werenât the richest family in the town, but you were comfortable. On the outside, you and your family truly were the picture perfect family of Hawkins.
You really shouldnât complain.
But on nights like tonight, itâs hard to hold that sentiment.
The lock sitting on your desk ticks as the minutes pass closer to 2AM. You locked yourself in your room hours ago â more specifically after you heard the second pop! From the beer can opening downstairs. You knew it was only a matter of time and you were right.
It starts small. A drink at dinner. Another one to watch the game. A third one when his team starts to lose. A fourth after the game. A fifth because, well why not? Then it becomes a sort of game â how many more can he drink tonight than he did the night before?
It never stays small. Once the drinks settle, the arguing begins. Your parents â well mostly your father â scream all night. Itâs not her fault, sheâs just as stuck as you are. The house never looks good enough, the food is never good enough, her attitude is never good enough. You know itâs just as exhausting for her than it is for you, more actually.
Tonightâs worse for some reason. Earlier that week, your family had attended a small party in the neighborhood. According to him, your mother was flirting with one of the other husbands around and for a reason you didnât even know, youâd spend the whole night embarrassing him.
When the argument really heightened, you made the mistake of stepping out. You dished out some of your own words youâve kept bottled up, and then slurred words shot from his mouth and landed harsh against your skin.
Youâre ungrateful.
Youâre spoiled.
Youâre an embarrassment.
Youâre nothing without him.
Youâre just like your mother.
Still, as hurt and scared as you were, you kept your head held high. You learned a long time ago showing fear meant he won and you werenât going to give him that power. Your mother stood between you, earning back his anger to reflect on her as she silently begged you to go back upstairs.
Part of you wanted to stay and scream until your throat was raw. The other part knew whatever you did would come back worse on her. So you relented and left.
Now itâs two hours later and it doesnât even seem close to being over.
It wasnât always bad. Granted, you didnât spent much time during the week actually talking to him and you never spent alone time together but I mean, he was there. He provided for your family.
Truly, it ended there.
But that should be enough, right?
Youâre sitting in the middle of your bed, knees hugged to your chest and your back leans against the wall. The four walls around you do very little to suppress the sound of the argument downstairs. The walkman Steve got you for Christmas last year sits on the floor, broken last weekend by your dad.
Steve.
Your mind wanders to him at the memory of the gift.
You peek out your window across from you and see his. His blue curtains are pulled shut tight and there hasnât been any movement from inside his bedroom since 11PM.
You and Steve have been best friends since elementary school. Through every awkward and stressful phase you can think of, you two were like glue. Growing up neighbors will make sure it stays that way. Heâs your closest friend â and the boy youâre so helplessly in love with.
He knows about the hardships between you and your dad. Sort of. He knows youâre not the closest knit family he tries to pretend you are. He knows your parents bicker. But he doesnât know just how bad it really is.
On the rare occasions youâve confided in Steve about it, he would talk about his dad so you didnât feel alone. In a lot of ways, they were similar. Good financial providers, working men, emotionally absent from their kids. But Steveâs dad stopped at borderline neglect. Yours didnât stop even at physicality.
As you sit curled in your blanket, you want nothing more than to climb through his window like youâve done your whole life and curl into him instead. Away from the arguments, away from the house, away from him.
But itâs late and showing up now means waking him up. Which means telling him the truth. Which means making yourself emotionally naked and youâre not even sure youâre ready to do that.
Itâs unfair to him â burdening him with your issues when heâs sound asleep.
And maybe you were being dramatic. Itâs not like your dad ever hit you. Some people have it worse; some people die because of their shitty parents. You can handle a few harsh words thrown your way every weekend.
Maybe he was right. Maybe you were ungrateful.
Every doubt in your mind is thrown out the window when you begin to hear glass shattering downstairs. A string of slurred curse words and brutal comments echo through your house and you know then, you canât take it anymore.
You slip on your ridiculous bunny slippers (also gifted to you by Steve) and your legs guide you to your window on their own accord. Thankfully, thereâs a large oak tree between your houses. The two of your have used those branches to climb onto your own roofs to get to the others.
As you climb onto the tree, to the roof, and to his window, all thatâs on your mind is Steve.
How you know heâll comfort you even if he has a million questions. How good itâll feel to be in his presence again. How his house is always quiet and on days when he hates it, you love it.
You thank the past version of Steve for leaving his window unlocked and slightly cracked open. Like he knew youâd need him later. One hand holds onto the molding of the window and the other carefully slides the glass up just enough to fit through.
Youâre still thankful Steve decided to put a lounge chair next to the window and that softens your fall through the sill. Sure enough, itâs deathly silent in his home. The only sound comes from the spinning ceiling fan above him. His room is dark and a little messy â some clothes thrown over his desk chair and a few random things undoubtedly left by Dustin strewn across the floor.
But you can make out his figure on the bed. Heâs shirtless and the blankets are kicked to only cover his legs. He lays on his back, one arm tucked under his head and the other lazily resting along his stomach.
He looks so peaceful you almost turn back around so you donât disrupt him. But with the window still open, you can hear the distant and faint sound of arguing still coming from your still open window and thereâs no more fight left in you.
So instead, you tiptoe over to his bed and gently slide into the other side.
Sharing a bed isnât weird for you two. Nothing between you two is weird anymore â itâs almost everyday someone new assumes you two are already together and you really wish that were true. Him offering comfort as a best friend is great but youâve always wondered what the boyfriend version would feel like.
Honestly, probably not that different. The way he is with you is drastically different from anyone else. Even when he was with Nancy. Itâs why your feelings for him are so intense.
You shuffle closer to him without the purpose of waking him up but when your foot accidentally nudges his shin, Steveâs eyes flutter open. You freeze as he blinks around his dark room, landing in the ceiling first and then the clock, then his widow and then finally to you.
His tired eyes widen just a bit when he recognizes you. You suddenly feel really small and you regret even coming. He says your name quietly, thick with sleep and confusion.
âHey, whatâre you doing here?â Itâs not unkind, simply confused.
Youâre unsure what to say at first. Itâs not exactly a good time to unload every family secret youâve kept from him.
âI couldnât sleep,â You finally land on.
Itâs silent for a moment. You lay on your side facing him, hands clasped and under your cheek. Steve still lays on his back but he faces you.
He takes in your answer. When he looks at you, itâs clear he doesnât exactly believe you â or at least that itâs the whole truth but whatever else he sees in your eyes is enough for him to drop it.
Steve doesnât respond before he shifts to lay on his side and gently pulls your hands from where they are under you. He holds both of them in one hand and tugs you into him. One hand slides beneath your neck, curling and gently rubbing your back. The other rests over your hip.
The warmth of him consumes you immediately. Itâs exactly what you needed. You hadnât even realized youâd been shaking until your skin meets his and every nerve in your body finally relaxes.
Steve is all too aware of the rigidness of your body and the way you melt into his hold. Your arm wraps around his middle, your nails almost digging into the skin of his back but he doesnât mention it. You face gets buried into the skin of his neck.
Your throat burns at the feeling of just .. relief. It feels like youâve been denied air for a thousand years and heâs finally that first breath of fresh air. He offers you the comfort youâve been wanting to seek for years now but have been too ashamed to ask for.
Your body canât even hold back when the tears begin to flow. Steve feels them soak his skin first, and then he feels the shaking of your back and shoulders, and he knows. He knows without you even saying it.
Steveâs known for a while that the story youâve given him about your dad isnât exactly true. Not that itâs a lie but itâs a more than filtered version. He also knows what itâs like to feel judged, or labeled ungrateful for mentioning it, so he never pressured you.
As he holds your crying frame in his arms, he begins to regret that decision.
Steve gently shushes you, his lips pressing soft kisses across your temple and into your hair. Youâre not sobbing and thatâs somehow worse. Itâs small, helpless whimpers and cries muffled into his neck.
He lets you cry as long as you need, holding you just as tight as you hold onto him. When you finally catch your breath, he cups your cheek in his large palm and gently pulls your face from where it almost sticks to his skin.
Itâs a little hard to see in the dark but his eyes adjust to take you in. Your eyes are still closed when he looks down at you. Your thick lashes are wet and stick to your cheeks, tear stains trailing beneath them. Your lips are parted, sucking in short and sporadic breaths. His heart breaks at the sight of you.
He places another kiss to your forehead and itâs so achingly tender, your hand reaches up to grip his wrist that holds your face. He lets you without hesitation.
âWhat happened?â He murmurs gently.
Your bottom lip wobbles and you inhale a shaky breath.
âI hate being there, Steve,â You confess and once that happens, it all begins to spill out. âI hate hearing them argue. I hate hearing him say those kinds of things about me and my mom,â
Steveâs heart pinches. His thumb strokes across the apple of your cheek. âWhat kind of stuff?â
Thatâs when you hesitate.
Because what if you say it and Steve agrees? What if you tell him everything and he confirms every bad thing your dad has ever said about you? What if â
Steve pulls you from your thoughts. âYou can tell me anything, okay?â He whispers. âAnything, honey,â
He speaks to you with such gentleness and grace. Heâs soft and tender with you that it makes your heart bleed. It cracks every hard foundation youâve built around yourself.
You pause for a second, trying to find your words and to talk without crying again. âHe..He says that Iâm ungrateful, and that Iâm a dis-disappointment, and sel-selfish. That Iâm the reason he is the way he is and that â that Iâll never be any-anything without him.â Your voice breaks all throughout the confession of tonight. More tears fall from your eyes and down your cheeks, sliding over his thumb. You pull your face away from his hold and duck under him, nuzzling into the pillow under you.
âThatâs not true.â His response is quick and final. âNone of that is true. Youâre none of those things, honey. Youâre kind and so smart and so damn caring of everyone around you.â
His words bring more tears to your eyes but for a completely different reason. This time itâs relief and tenderness filling your chest.
He keeps talking. âYou can be anything you want to be and thatâs because of you. Not him.â He shifts to pull you back to him, and encourages you to look at him. He coaxes you to open your eyes and look at him. Your name sounds like a melody when it comes out of his mouth. âYouâve spent years listening to him say all these bad things about you and now I want you to listen to every good thing Iâm about to say to you.â
You blink up at him, speechless now.
âYou are kinder than anyone Iâve ever met. Youâre so patient â with me and with every one of the kids weâre stuck with,â Another tear slips down your skin. âYouâre so smart, smarter than you give yourself credit for. Youâre the bravest person I know. Brave enough to fight of alien monsters and Russian soldiers,â Steve gives you a sad smile and a gentle laugh slips past your lips. âAnd you are not selfish. You have always put everyoneâs needs above your own, even when you shouldnât.â
He leans his forehead to rest against your own. One of his hands moves to grab yours that rests on his chest and intertwines his fingers with yours. He raises it to his mouth, planting a kiss to the center of your palm.
âEverything he said to you was because he canât deal with himself. Youâre not to blame for any of his actions. I donât care how many times heâs said to you, he doesnât know you like I do. And if he canât see the most beautiful and loving girl right in front of him, then that just proves what I already knew â and thatâs that he doesnât deserve you, he never did.â Steve keeps your gaze fixed on him and by the time heâs finished, you feel like a puddle at his feet.
His words had the exact effect on you that he intended. For every terrible comment your dads instilled in you, is replaced by the sweet words Steve gave you.
Your brows pinch again and before you know it, your burying yourself against Steve again. He accepts you immediately. His arms circle your waist and he holds you close to his chest.
âI love you so much, honey. If you ever think of the things heâs said, think about that instead. How much I love you,â
His confession is more than just the friendship âI love youâs the two of you have shared over the years and you both know it. Even if now isnât the right time to delve into what it means and how your relationship should change, itâs everything to you.
He is everything to you.
You nod against his skin and for the rest of the night, he holds you tight. Until you fall asleep and even after, all the way until morning and even after then.
The insecurities your father spent years planting in your head disappear as you lay in his arms, his words echoing in your head. Steve is nothing like your father and everything youâll ever need.
FIGURE MY HEART OUT Steve harrington x fem!byers!reader
â You shouldâve ended things there. Told him you were glad to have helped, but not offered to help him with anything else. You may be tutoring Steve Harrington, but there was no universe in which the two of you could be friends. â
Chapter Two. WC 2K
a/n: a little tension in this one... just setting the scene for next chapter hehe it's a good one!!!
Fic Masterlist
Robin threw her head back in laughter, the sound so endearing that it made you want to laugh too. But you couldnât. There was nothing comical about this situation at all.
âSo he called your house just⊠out of nowhere?â She asked, still chuckling.
âYeah! He got my number from Nancy.. said heâs tried everyone and heâs desperate!â
âHow long do you think youâll last before he pisses you off and you quit?â Your best friend smirked, moving to lie beside you on your bed.
âIâm already irritated!â You exclaimed, covering your eyes with your hands before sliding them down your face. Robin chuckled and you gave her a stern look.
âI do need the money though..â You worried your bottom lip between your teeth, biting down so hard it was almost painful. âAnd the extra credit.â
You let out an exasperated sigh, staring up at your ceiling and letting yourself get lost in The Clash album that was spilling from your record player.
âSurely it wonât be that bad.â Robin replied, not sounding entirely convinced herself.
ââââ
It in fact was that bad.
Steve had arrived at your meet up spot in the back of the library fifteen minutes late, usually perfect hair unruly and panting like heâd just run a marathon.
âSorry Iâm late- coach made me stay back for skipping last week.â
You huffed out a laugh, your first session already off to a great start.
âJust.. sit down.â You gestured to the empty seat beside you, trying not to let your distaste for this situation blatantly obvious. âLetâs start before we lose more time.â
You pulled out your worn copy of To Kill A Mockingbird, placing it on the table in front of him. He looked at it like it was a completely foreign object, twisting his pen between his fingers.
âWhich part are you struggling with?â
âAll of it.â He answered quickly, eyes wide.
âHave you even read the book?â You scoffed, partly in disbelief.
He shook his head and gave you a shy smile. You tried to keep your composure, though your cool demeanour was cracking a little.
âJust- take my copy and read it, okay? It has all the annotations and everything.â You flipped through the pages, showing him the highlighted sections and colored sticky notes youâd added, before pushing it towards him.
âWeâll start with character analysisâ You pulled out your notebook and he mirrored you. âOr at least you can learn the names.â
ââââ
After 20 agonising minutes youâd finally made a somewhat decent mind map, half of it in Steveâs oddly neat handwriting and the rest scrawled down by your iron grip on the pen.
You leaned back in your chair, finally looking over at him.
âYouâre off the hook, Harrington. I need to be on time for my shift.â
He nodded, keeping that intense eye contact that was kind of his trademark.
âThank you, really.â He pulled a crumpled 20 dollar bill from his backpack and handed it to you, his face more sincere than youâd ever seen it.
You found yourself lost for words briefly, lips curling into a smile before you remembered who you were talking to.
âJust⊠read the book okay? Iâll see you next week.â
With that you, gathered your things, b-lining towards the double doors before he could walk alongside you.
ââââ
The next session was a little better.
âDid you read it?â You asked, taking a seat across from the boy who had already been sat waiting for you. At least he looked a bit more put together today, clad in those too-tight jeans and a maroon sweater.
âYep! Well⊠most of it.â
âYou learn anything?â You replied sarcastically and he just hummed in response, pushing the book towards you on the desk and prompting you to open it.
You did, flipping through the pages to find highlighted sections and added notes in that damn cursive writing. It shocked you that heâd actually tried, and you felt something akin to pride swelling in your chest. You didnât let it show though - didnât give him the praise he was so used to receiving.
âYou take notes?â
He opened his notebook, proudly showing you a few pages of analysis heâd written.
âWow.â You replied, the words coming out less sarcastic than youâd intended them. âMaybe you do have a shot at graduating.â
He chuckled at that, dipping his head almost shyly. You hated it - hated that it was endearing.
âOkay.â You straightened up, taking a deep exhale. âNow letâs do themes. Clickâs test is on Friday so youâre gonna wanna prepare.â
You spend the next 15 minutes reading excerpts and explaining the symbolism behind them, watching from the corner of your eye as he took notes as quickly as he could. When you finished reading, silence fell upon you and he took the opportunity to finally open his mouth.
âYou donât give yourself enough credit.â He muttered, and you hummed in question even though youâd heard him perfectly.
âYou said your grades arenât that good, but youâre really smart. You donât give yourself enough credit.â He repeated, more sure of himself now.
You parted your lips but no sound came out, not sure how to respond to his unprompted comment. Part of you thought you could say the same about him.
âThanks.â You forced, âI donât really get time to study all that much, soâŠâ You trailed off, weirded out by the strangely personal nature of the conversation.
âWhy?â He replied sharply.
âWell I work. A lot. And my Mom works all the time so I have to take care of my brother a lot of the time-â The last syllable came out in a gulp; you were suddenly aware that youâd just told him to much.
He looked almost sorry, and you swallowed back the feeling that invoked. You hated being pitied, especially by Steve Harrington. He must have seen the way your expression soured, because he looked back down at his work, not daring to pry further into it.
âWell if it counts for anything, I think youâre smart.â
It doesnât you wanted to say, but deep down, it did.
ââââ
Robin was waiting by your locker when you finally made it out of there, still dressed in her band uniform and carrying that comically large trumpet case.
âIt go well?â She asked, pushing off the wall with her foot and giving you a smile.
You just let out a huff of air in response, standing dejected as she came to walk by your side.
âYou wanna go get ice cream? Iâm not working tonight.â
She accepted instantly, and the pair of you made your way to your beater where Robin hauled her instrument into the trunk.
You rounded the car to the driver door, pulling on the handle when a familiar laugh stopped you in your tracks.
You turned to come face to face with Tommy H and Carol, who stood smugly against a familiar maroon beamer. Steve himself wasnât there, but they were leaning up against the car like they owned it.
âYou going anywhere nice?â Carol chimed as Robin shut the trunk with an unsatisfying thump that shook the whole car.
âYou better be careful that piece of shit doesnât explode in the middle of the highway.â Tommy added, laughing as cigarette smoke curled from his lips.
You just climbed in and shut the door, refusing to even engage. Robin rolled her eyes beside you, immediately fiddling with the radio dial as soon as you put the keys in the ignition.
âAssholesâŠâ She muttered, the two of you watching as Steve came into view, greeting Tommy with a pat on the back.
You whipped out of the lot as fast as you could, the scene a sudden but needed reminder of who Steve really was. An asshole.
ââââ
Your car faintly smelled sickly sweet - the aroma of chocolate and strawberry mixing with the permanent oil smell in the front seat.
Robin laughed around her ice cream, almost choking as she struggled to finish the rest of her story.
â-Then Jennifer practically lit her hair on fire with the bunsen burner⊠and Kaminski was sooo pissed you should have seen it.â
You giggled, adjusting your feet on the dash as you indulged in your own cone. The laughter died down, leaving nothing but the two of you and the thick evening air in the parking lot of the diner.
âSoooâŠâ You started, narrowing your eyes at your best friend. âDid you talk to Tammy yet?â
Robin let out a strangled sigh, slamming her head down onto the dashboard in frustration.
âIâll take that as a no then.â
She nodded, barely lifting her head.
âSheâs a total dud anyway.â You shrugged, and she peaked over at you.
âShe is not!â
âOh yes she is!â
Robin sat up straight, staring out into the sunset with an almost glazed over look in her eyes. She clearly wasnât in the mood to joke.
âRob? HeyâŠâ You reached out and rubbed her back, sensing something was up just from the lack of words leaving her mouth.
âSheâs obsessed with that dickwad.â She spat the last word out like sheâd been chewing on it for hours.
âWho?â
âSteve.â
You sighed at the mention of his name.
âYeah well⊠you can do so much better anyways. That girl is tone-deaf.â You attempted at lightening the mood and Robin shot you a stern look despite the smile growing on her face.
âI donât wanna talk about that anymore.â She said sharply, suddenly straightening up and resting her body against the passenger door to fully face you. âActually, speaking of Ste-â
âOh god.â It was your turn to cover your head with your hands now. âIt was so weird.â
âWeird?â She laughed. âWeird like bad weird?â
âYeah. He randomly was like⊠telling me how smart I am and being like⊠Nice?â
Robin shot you a confused look, still clearly finding this comical.
âUh oh.â She responded, her face suddenly serious.
âUh oh?â You panicked.
âHeâs using his charm on you.â She broke out into laughter again.
âHe is not!â You shot back.
âSo is!â
You gave her a playful shove, your face turning a little red despite yourself.
âAnd itâs workingâ She giggled, ducking when you aimed another jab at her.
âShut up!â You replied, offended that she would even suggest that. âHeâs an asshole!â
âMhmâ She hummed, shoving the last of her cone in her mouth smugly.
ââââ
The next day, you were halfway through dinner with Will when the sound of the phone cut you off mid-bite. You slammed your fork down into your macaroni and headed to answer it, expecting just a call from your Mom at work or maybe Robin or a coworker. Either way, they had called in the middle of dinner and royally pissed you off.
The moment you put the receiver to your ear a frantic voice rang out.
âI need you to help me.â
âSteve?â
âMy Dadâs gonna fucking kill me if I donât pass this test.â Before you could even muster up a response he spoke again.
âCan you fit an extra session in before Friday? Please?â
You sighed, rubbing your temple as you considered your options.
âHello?â
âOkay..â You huffed out, not exactly sure why you were helping him. âTomorrow at lunch.â
âI canât. I have practice.â
âJust skip it!â
âI canât! Itâs our big game on Friday!â He shot back, voice growing even more desperate. If you werenât so irritated, you might have enjoyed the sound of the over-confident king Steve begging on his knees.
Your patience was wearing thin now, and you were acutely aware of your TV dinner getting colder by the second and your little brother who was listening to this whole conversation.
He took note of your silence, because of course he did.
âPlease, Byers.â
Another beat.
âOkay. Fine.â You replied reluctantly, partly just because you wanted to get off the phone. âI have some time after my shift. I finish at 7.â
âGreat. Thank you- just- shall we study at yours then?â
You worried your bottom lip between your teeth, gaze wandering to your little brother who was just happily munching away, then to the clutter that surrounded him.
âI- I donât think-â
âYou can just come here.â He cut you off before you even had to think of a shitty excuse, and you were partly grateful, but also annoyed by the prospect of having to go to Steve Harringtons house. In the one class you shared, math, he hadn't even acknowledged you above a smile since this whole tutoring thing started; now he wanted you at his house?
âIâll see you then. Thanks. Bye.â He added, and just like that the line went dead before you could even give him any kind of response.
You placed the phone back in its holder, your little brother wasting no time in asking questions.
FIGURE MY HEART OUT Steve Harrington x fem!byers!reader
Chapter One. WC: 3K
â You shouldâve ended things there. Told him you were glad to have helped, but not offered to help him with anything else. You may be tutoring Steve Harrington, but there was no universe in which the two of you could be friends. â
Fic Masterlist
a/n: hey guys!! first chapter yippie!! this is pretty slow so apologies, but it just sets the scene for whats to come... timeline lowkey inaccurate but reader and steve are both in their senior year in 1983, and so are robin and nancy. this might be a little messy as not proofread fully!!
The slow hum of the old rotating fan in your room had become something of a comfort to you in the silence of the early hours of the morning, the sound representing your last few minutes of peace before your pesky alarm clock signaled the start of the day. It was October 6th, 1983 and sure enough, at 6 am sharp, that god-awful shrill noise rang out. You reached an achy arm out and slammed your hand down on the off-button, cutting it off promptly before it could do any further damage to your eardrums.
You practically pealed yourself out of bed, the cold air from the window you'd forgotten to shut immediately hitting your bare legs and peaking goosebumps all over your body. You'd barely slept - your shift at the Hawk theatre had ran overtime and you'd clocked out just before one AM.
The curtains rattled with the force of the breeze outside as you pulled on a pair of washed-out blue jeans and your favorite knit sweater. Your eyes were still heavy with sleep but you coated your lashes in mascara and applied some eyeliner to your waterline before applying a little gloss to your lips.
Your Mom was likely just about to leave for her shift and Will didn't need to be woken up for another 10 minutes, so you took the opportunity to dig your nearly empty packet of Marlboro Reds out of your underwear drawer and perched on the ledge by the open window.
6:30 came around faster than you would've liked, and you made your way into your brother's room to wake him up for school. Will had an irritating habit of staying up to late reading his x-men comics or talking to Mike on his walkie, and often slept through his alarm or just forgot to set it at all. He protested groggily when you turned on the light, but you just told him to get up and dressed as you headed to the kitchen to make him breakfast.
------
Will had just-about swallowed the last chomp of his pop tart when you began urging him out the door, him falling back to sleep already leaving you behind schedule.
Your car was a beater by all accounts - an old Ford Galaxie that had once belonged to your mother, but it got you from A to B with a decent amount of willpower and rumbling engine. You usually enjoyed driving Will to school, but your lack of sleep and the imminent chemistry quiz left you a little down and irritable. Your brother hummed along to the radio in the passenger seat, fingers tapping on the window ledge as he watched the streets go by.
"Could you pick me up from Mike's at 8 tonight?"
You shook away your worries about the incoming school day, responding with a simple 'yeah' before turning your attention back to the road. Unlike you, Will was lively and very much awake.
"I'm going right after school. We're doing this really cool campaign and Nancy even said she might dress up for it again!"
You let out a chuckle at that, the thought of your Nancy dressed as some kind of mythical creature snapping you out of your tired haze.
"That's cool, just make sure you're actually done by 8 this time." You mumbled, pulling into the middle school and grinding to a halt outside of the entrance.
"8... 15?" Will pushed, looking at you with those puppy dog eyes he'd gotten from your mother.
"8 sharp." You confirmed, laughing a little at his antics.
He nodded slowly, giving you the impression that your words had gone in one ear and out the other.
"Have a good day, dingus." You said through huffs of giggles, ruffling his hair as he opened the passenger door.
ââââ
Today was one like any other; students rushing and fraternizing in the dank hallways of Hawkins high, girls clustered together in the back of class talking about who was screwing who and what kind of dresses were acceptable for winter formal; a cacophony of voices you would rather ignore. The early eighties had brought with it an array of interesting fashion trends- bright colors and acid washed whatever, so dressing in a series of beat up biker jackets and flannels earned you negative attention from all kinds of mind-numbed cheerleaders. Youâd never really considered your style to be particularly outlandish, it was just what was affordable on a movie-theatre salary with a family of 3 to partially support.
Suburban small town America had become excessively obsessed with appearances, decorated with huge white double fronted houses, each one with a quaint picket fence and an American flag on the porch. Your house was nothing of the sort, standing on the edge of town with its badly fitted wood paneling and perpetually grimy windows. This was butt-fuck nowhere after all - no matter how many perfectly trimmed bushes and unnaturally perfect paint jobs you put over it. A pig in lipstick is still a pig.
ââââ
You made it through first period without having to make conversation, Mrs clicks strict âno talkingâ rule being a blessing for a grouchy Monday morning. You weaved your way through the crowded corridor to study hall, entering the large classroom early to unpack your binders and books.
You picked your usual seat in the back corner by the window, pulling your walkman over your eyes and pressing play on your talking heads cassette. You paid no mind as the students began pouring into the room and taking the seats beside you, too wrapped up in your music to really care. The minutes droned on and you remained blissfully unaware, right up until you felt something hit the side of your head.
A paper plane fell and crumped at your feet and you pulled your headphones down abruptly to be met with the voice of the boy you hated the most.
âHey freak! I was talking to you!â
Tommy H.
You kept your cool, turning to face him and his snickering friends. They looked like something out of a chick-flick; Carol perched on Tommyâs lap, twirling her gum between her fingers and snapping it back into her mouth with a wet pop, Steve Harrington leaning back in his chair beside them, running a hand through his perfect hair.
âWhat do you want?â You replied, irritation dripping from your words.
âI want you to do my history homework!â He laughed, Carol and Steve snickering along.
You werenât even a nerd - your grades were decent but not decent enough to warrant this kind of teasing. Tommy H and his clique knew nothing about you, only that you didnât go to parties and kept to yourself.
âFuck off Tommy.â You shot back, turning to face your work again in an attempt to block him out.
Steve let out an âooooâ sound at your attitude, finding the situation humorous - Carol on the other hand did not.
âWho do you think you are?â She practically spat, her tone hyperbolic like she was just looking for a reaction out of you.
You didnât give it to her.
âHuh, Byers?â
You turned back to face them, twirling your pencil in your hands in an attempt to cool the rage that was burning under your skin.
âCan you just shut up, Iâm trying to focus.â
Carol just scoffed in response, crossing her arms as her boyfriend huffed out a laugh. Steve turned his eyes back to his paper.
âYou know what, you can be a real bitch.â Tommy started, learning towards you.
You just rolled your eyes and once again tried to block him out, hands rising to your headphones, ready to pull them back over your ears.
âMaybe if you were nicer your Daddy wouldnât have skipped town!â
You froze, his words hitting like a blow to the chest no matter how hard you tried to hide it. You didnât look at him for fear of him seeing the way your eyes were beginning to glaze over.
You could see a sharp smack to Tommyâs side in your peripheral.
âDonât be an ass. Shut up.â Steve warned, Tommyâs lips curling tightly as he leaned back towards is own desk like the obedient lapdog he was.
You shoved your headphones back over your ears and cranked your music up to full volume, getting lost in the track again to prevent your thoughts from intruding.
ââââ
Ms. Kelleyâs office was starting to feel like a second home to Steve. He swung on his heals, rocking his chair back and forth as he pinched the bridge of his nose in defeat.
âSo youâre telling me⊠I could not graduate?â
Ms. Kelley hummed, wetting her fingers before flipping through the pages of his record.
âYou have a C- minus in chemistry, Steve, youâre on the brink of failing english.â
âWell what about my extracurriculars? Canât I just.. get a basketball scholarship or something?â
She shook her head firmly, eyes leaving the paper to stare up at him.
âIf you donât get your grades back on track you can kiss that goodbye. You need to maintain a decent GPA to stay on the team.â
He sighed heavily through his nose, his swinging coming to a complete halt as he racked his brain.
"What can I do? My dadâs going to kill me I canât get kicked off the teamâŠâ
âWell there are optionsâ She replied and he cocked his head in a plea for her to elaborate.
âYou could stay after school to pick up some extra credits and study in the library-â
âNo can do. I have swim practice after school twice a week and basketball runs over on Thursdays.â
âOkay, you can find a tutorâŠ"
He lulled over that idea in his head for a bit. He could have droves of girls just desperate to tutor him.
âOkay.â
ââââ
ââŠAnd then he actually told Tommy H to shut up, it was so weird.â
Robin scoffed from her spot beside you in the yard, face twisted like that was the most revolting thing sheâd ever heard.
âTommy H is a douche. Even his own friends are getting sick of him.â She retorted, eyes rolling.
Before you could agree, the shrill sound of the bell ringing cut through your conversation and Robin let out a heavy sigh.
âCalculus.â She mumbled, shrugging her backpack further up her shoulder and turning back towards the building. âYou coming?â She shot you an almost warning look over her shoulder.
You shook your head, much to her distaste.
âThink Iâm gonna stay out here. Canât handle that god-awful seating plan.â
âSeriously?â Your best friend sighed and you nodded. âSuit yourself I guess.â She added before turning fully on her heal and walking through the double doors.
You were no stranger to skipping, and with your almost perfect track record you could get away with it. You made your way to the back of the building, heading towards the alleyway behind the gym - your favorite spot for a private smoke break. It was out of the way of prying eyes and it was last period - you doubted anyone would come looking anyways.
You lit a cigarette between two fingers, your bag long discarded on the floor beside you as you pressed your back to the wall. That first drag always felt heavenly, and you relished in the feeling hitting the back of your throat.
Before you could take another drag, a voice startled you almost making you drop it all together.
"You're not supposed to smoke on school grounds y'know"
You turned and came face to face with none other than Steve Harrington, clad in those ridiculous basketball shorts and the matching shirt that was currently drenched in sweat. He wore that teasing grin, the one you'd seen far too much of in your four years of highschool.
You screwed your face up in disgust, exhaling the smoke in his direction before telling him to promptly fuck off.
"You're in my spot." He replied, still smirking like you hadn't just cussed him out.
"Your spot? Aren't you supposed to be playing basketball right now anyway?"
He shrugged, leaning back on the wall opposite you, much to your distaste.
"Got benched - so I left."
"I don't think that's how your supposed to play the game." You replied with an eye roll, dropping your cigarette and stamping it out on the floor beneath you.
"What are you the police? You're supposed to be in class right now too."
"I just think your a bad sport." It was your turn to be smug now.
He let out a frustrated huff of air as he crossed his arms tightly to his chest, silence washing over the pair of you as you lit another cigarette and began smoking it.
"Look, I'm sorry about Tommy, okay? He can be a dick sometimes." He finally spoke, the words leaving his mouth quickly like he was forcing himself to say them.
"Sometimes?" You grumbled, staring down at your shoes.
"You know what I mean. What he said about - about your Dad was out of line."
You exhaled your smoke at the ground before stamping out your second cigarette.
"Just forget it Harrington." You said through gritted teeth, swinging your bag over your shoulder and walking out of the dingy alleyway. You'd have to find a new place to skip, or better yet a new school.
-------
The rest of the week went by in a blur of late night shifts and early classes, and by Friday you were exhausted. You'd called Robin and asked her to hang out, which was to no avail, so you stayed at home with your Mom and Will for family movie night. Fridays were one of the only nights a week your Mom didn't work late, so the ritual was sacred to your little brother.
You rested on your elbows, watching the popcorn bag spin in the microwave as your Will decided on whatever sci-fi fantasy bullshit the three of you would be watching. After a few minutes you crossed the fresh-hold with 3 bowls of popcorn in hand as the beginning of Star Wars: A new hope played from the TV.
You weren't all that familiar with the Star Wars franchise, and by the middle of the movie you could tell your brother had had enough of your questions. You accepted your fate, leaning back in the arm chair and watching in pure confusion as your Mom and Will giggled and yelled at the screen.
The piercing sound of the phone ringing broke through the cacophony of sounds from the television and you exchanged confused looks with your brother as your Mom stood up to answer it. No one ever called at 9PM on a Friday night. Will turned his attention back to the TV, invested as you listened to your mother answer the call with a simple 'Hello' and then an 'Okay' a few moments later.
"It's for you. And it's a boy!" She gestured for you to come over, pressing a hand to the receiver, an act you were certain hadn't blocked out much sound at all.
You furrowed your brows in confusion, pulling yourself up from the arm chair and walking towards the phone's spot on the wall. You didn't really have male friends, so maybe it was Pete from work or some kind of prank.
"Hello?" You spoke into the receiver, twirling the cord between your fingers anxiously.
"Hey, It's Steve."
"Steve who?" You were almost certain which Steve it was by the deep voice coming from the other line, but you almost didn't want to believe your worst suspicions.
"Harrington."
What the fuck.
"Why are you calling me?" You hissed, genuinely confused, pulling the phone in closer to your ear. You cautiously turned to see your Mom and Will still engrossed in the TV and chatting about the movie. "How'd you get my number?"
"Nancy gave it to me." He responded blankly, as if this wasn't the weirdest call you could've possibly received. Nancy was your friend, sure, mainly because Robin and Barb were close.
"I wanted to ask a favor" He continued, and you gulped so loud you were sure he could hear it. Before you could even muster up a response, he spoke again.
"Will you tutor me?"
"What-" You started, but he cut you off again.
"Please, I'm almost failing. Ms Kelley said I needed a tutor." He sounded desperate.
"And you called me why?"
"I've called like - everyone." He sighed into the phone, "And you're like smart and stuff so..."
"My grades aren't even that brilliant, Steve I-"
"They're better than mine for sure. Didn't you get an A in that last english paper?"
English was your best subject, how he knew that you weren't too sure. You leaned your head against the wall the audible smacking sound making your Mom and Will turn their heads.
"And what's in it for me? Why should I help you?"
"I'd get Tommy and Carol to lay off you?" He replied, like he wasn't so sure of it himself.
You sighed into the phone.
"And I'd pay you!"
Your ears perked up a little at that; he was, like, the richest kid in school and you really could use that money. You went silent for a while, weighing up your options. You could get extra credit for tutoring, which would certainly improve your chances of getting into NYU, but you weren't sure if you could stomach spending more than an hour in the presence of Steve Harrington.
âHello?â He muttered from the other line, and you pressed the receiver tightly into you shoulder.
âFine.â You blurted, already regretting the words leaving your lips. âBut only once a week. And in the school library.â
His triumphant âyesâ was near deafening and you winced at the sheer hyperbole of the situation. Then came the thank youâs, repeated so many times you were debating just hanging up right then and there.
âDonât make me regret it.â You replied sternly, voice trembling a little despite the harsh words.
â1 - â2 âËàż m.listâËàż steveharrington x henderson!reader
You avoid Family Video entirely after the fight.
Not intentionally at first.
The first day afterward, you tell yourself youâre just tired.
That you donât feel like dealing with fluorescent lights and movie shelves and Robin making knowing faces at you from behind the counter. You tell yourself youâll go tomorrow instead once the knot in your chest settles into something manageable again.
It doesnât.
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 donât get to act possessive over me when youâve 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 wasnât all in your head?
The possibility tears straight through you because if thatâs 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 didnât he stop you?
Why didnât 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 youâd 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.
Didnât 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.
Steveâs 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
âYou donât get to act possessive over me when youâve never actually wanted me.â
And Jesus Christ... The fact that you believed that.
The fact that somehow you spent all this time thinking his feelings werenât real makes Steve feel sick with guilt.
Because to him, loving you became as natural as breathing somewhere along the line.
He forgot you couldnât 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, heâd 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 youâre 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.
âYou guys had a fight or something?â he asks while climbing into Steveâs car after school.
Steve grips the steering wheel tighter automatically.
âNo.â
Dustin snorts.
âYouâre both acting weird.â
Steve says nothing.
Because he doesnât 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.
âYou know y/nâs being weird too, right?â Dustin says eventually.
Steveâs heart immediately betrays him.
âWhat do you mean?â
âShe keeps asking if you stopped by.â
Steve goes still.
Dustin notices instantly.
âOh my God,â he says slowly. âYouâre in love with my sister.â
Steve nearly swerves into another lane.
âI am notââ
âYou totally are!â
âDustin.â
âNo way.â Dustin sounds genuinely delighted now. âThis is disgusting.â
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, Steveâs 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.
Steveâs 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.
âIf you stare dramatically into the distance one more time,â she says flatly, âIâm calling a priest.â
Steve barely reacts.
Robin narrows her eyes.
âThat wasnât a joke. I think your soul left your body yesterday.â
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.
âYou gonna talk to her?â
Steve laughs once under his breath.
âShe hates me.â
âShe absolutely does not hate you.â Robinâs expression softens slightly.
âYou didnât see her face.â
âI did actually.â Robin leans against the shelf beside him. âYou both looked like someone shot your dog.â
Steve shuts his eyes briefly.
Because thatâs exactly how it felt.
Robin watches him carefully for another second before speaking again.
âWhat exactly happened after I went into the back room?â
Steve hesitates before telling her, not everything but some.
Robin physically recoils.
âOh my God, you idiots.â
Steve drops his head into his hands.
âI know.â
âNo, like actually. This is so painful to witness.â
Steve laughs weakly despite himself, but it disappears almost immediately.
Because underneath everything else, one thought keeps eating through him relentlessly.
You thought he didnât choose you.
After all this time, somehow you still believed he wouldnât.
Robin sighs beside him.
âSteveâ
He looks up tiredly.
âGo talk to herâ
âWhat am I supposed to say?â
âThe truth?â Robin says like itâs obvious. âCrazy concept, I knowâ
Steve looks away again immediately.
The truth is that Steve loves you enough to rearrange his entire life around your existence without noticing heâs 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 heâs 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.
âOh,â she says quietly.
Steve swallows hard.
âYeah.â
For a second neither of them speaks.
Then Robin nudges his shoulder lightly.
âSheâs probably just as scared as you are, you know.â
Steve thinks about your face in the video store again.
And suddenly something inside him snaps into place painfully hard.
Because maybe Robinâs right, Maybe youâre 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 Robinâs right.
He has to talk to you.
And honestly, Steveâs 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 didnât 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 didnât 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, heâs starting to feel genuinely insane.
âGreat,â he mutters under his breath. âFantastic plan, Harrington.â
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 hairâs messy from bed.
Thereâs a crease pressed lightly into your cheek from your pillow.
And somehow Steve still thinks youâre the prettiest thing heâs ever seen in his entire life.
âWhat are you doing?â you whisper harshly.
Steve shoves his hands into the pockets of his jacket mostly so you wonât notice theyâre shaking.
âI need to talk to you.â
âAt one in the morning?â
âI was emotionally spiraling.â
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.
âYou couldnât have called?â
Steve laughs softly under his breath.
âYou havenât answered the phone in three days.â
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 doesnât usually look unsure of himself around you.
Not like this.
âCan I come up?â 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 youâve spent three straight nights replaying that fight until your chest physically ached from it.
But another part of youâthe bigger part unfortunatelyâhas missed him so badly itâs 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 donât even know how to explain to yourself yet.
So eventually you sigh quietly and step back from the window.
âFine.â
Steveâs relief is immediate and impossible to miss.
It moves across his face so fast it almost looks painful, like heâd been fully prepared for you to shut the window in his face and leave him standing out there alone with everything he shouldâve 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 heâs too tired to hide what heâs 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 canât 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.
Thatâs the problem.
Itâs 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 wouldâve laughed.
Normally Steve wouldâve 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 itâs gone.
Your bedroom had felt too quiet without Steve in it.
Too still. You didnât realize how used to him youâd become until he disappeared and took half the warmth in your routines with him.
Now heâs 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 donât feel steady enough to trust standing anymore while Steve lingers awkwardly by the window like heâs unsure whether heâs 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 Steveâ
God.
Steve keeps looking at you like heâs 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.
âWell?â
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 heâs 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 youâve never seen before.
No easy grin to hide behind.
No carefully timed sarcasm to soften whatever heâs actually feeling.
Itâs 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
âI think Iâm in love with you.â
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.
Youâve 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 heâs 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.
âActually, no,â he says softly, correcting himself before you can even react.
âThatâs not true.â
Your chest tightens instantly.
Steve looks back up at you then, and the expression on his face nearly undoes you on the spot because thereâs nothing uncertain left in it now.
âI know Iâm in love with you.â
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. Youâve imagined versions of this conversation so many times over the last few months that now itâs actually happening, your brain canât 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 doesnât 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 immediatelyâ
Steve didnât 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 heâs trying to figure out whether he already ruined everything by saying too much.
Then finally he laughs once under his breath.
âYou know whatâs insane?â he asks quietly.
You shake your head before you even realize youâre doing it.
Steveâs eyes stay fixed on yours when he speaks again.
âI genuinely thought I was being obvious.â
The words hit you hard enough to hurt.
Because now that heâs saying itânow that youâre looking back through everything with this new understandingâthe signs suddenly feel everywhere.
The staring, the jealousy, the way he always reached for you first without thinking.
The way heâd show up at your house even when Dustin wasnât there.
The softness in his voice whenever he said your name.
You swallow hard while Steve drags a tired hand down across his face.
âI didnât even realize when it happened,â he admits. âThatâs the worst part.â
His voice has gone quieter now.
Like each sentence is pulling something deeper out of him against his will.
âOne day you were justâŠâ He exhales slowly. âDustinâs sister. The girl who insulted me in your kitchen while I bled all over the floor.â
Despite everything, a small breath of laughter escapes you.
Steveâs mouth twitches faintly at the sound before softening again almost immediately.
âAnd then suddenly you were the first person I wanted to tell things to.â
Your chest tightens painfully.
Steve glances away for a second, jaw shifting slightly like heâs trying to steady himself enough to keep going.
âI started looking for you without realizing it,â he says quietly. âEverywhere.â
The honesty in his voice feels almost unbearable now.
âIf I walked into your house and you werenât there yet, it ruined my mood instantly. If something funny happened during my day, Iâd catch myself thinking about how youâd react before I even thought about telling anybody else.â
His eyes find yours again.
âAnd then you started dating people.â
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.
âGod, I hated it.â
Your heartbeat jumps.
Steve shakes his head once immediately afterward.
âNot because you did anything wrong,â he says quickly. âI know you didnât. I know you were allowed to date people and live your life and whatever, but every time some guy picked you up, I feltâŠâ He stops abruptly, frustrated with himself already. âI donât know. Like somebody was slowly replacing me without me noticing.â
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.
âIâd sit there listening to you talk about dates pretending I was okay while feeling completely insane inside.â His expression twists slightly, embarrassed now. âAnd then afterward youâd still lean against me like nothing changed.â
His voice softens at that.
âYou still trusted me.â
You can barely breathe properly anymore.
âEven after other guys,â Steve says quietly, âyou still came back to me.â
The room goes still around the two of you.
neither of you expected that sentence to sound as intimate as it just did.
âThatâs when I knew it was bad,â he admits.
You stare at him.
âBad?â
Steve huffs out a faint laugh.
âIâm trying not to completely scare you off here.â
âYouâre doing a terrible job.â
âI know.â
But neither of you are really joking anymore.
Steveâs eyes stay locked onto yours while he speaks again, quieter this time.
âI knew I loved you the night you fell asleep on my shoulder after that date.â
Your pulse stutters violently.
Steve looks down briefly like even admitting this still embarrasses him somehow.
âYou were half asleep complaining that I smelled like cigarettes.â A soft smile pulls faintly at the corner of his mouth. âAnd I remember sitting there thinking I could do this forever.â
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.
âI started thinking about stupid things after that,â he admits quietly.
âWhat stupid things?â
Steve laughs once under his breath, looking genuinely shy for maybe the first time youâve ever seen.
âLike⊠grocery shopping with you.â
You blink.
He shrugs helplessly.
âI told you they were stupid.â
âNo,â you say softly before you can stop yourself. âKeep going.â
Something changes in his expression after that.
Like your answer gave him permission to finally say the things heâs been swallowing down for months.
Steve steps even closer until heâs 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.
âIâd think about stupid domestic things all the time,â he admits. âAbout 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.â
Your chest starts aching now because steveâs not talking about wanting you temporarily, Heâs talking about building a life around you so naturally he didnât even notice he was doing it.
âIâve never felt like this before,â he says honestly. âNot even close.
âYou got so important to me so fast that it actually scared me,â he admits. âsuddenly every good part of my day somehow involved you. And every bad part got easier if I could talk to you afterward.â
Your eyes burn slightly at that.
His expression softens with something almost heartbreaking.
âAnd then at Family Video,â he says quietly, âwhen you said you thought I never wanted youâŠâ
He stops there. Swallows hard.
You watch emotion move visibly through him before he forces himself to continue.
âI donât think Iâve ever heard something hurt that bad in my life.â
Steve shakes his head faintly, eyes still fixed on yours like he physically cannot look away anymore.
âI wanted you so badly it was ruining me,â he says softly. âI just didnât know how to say it without risking losing you completely.â
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.
Steveâs 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 heâs 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 nowâmessy hair, tired eyes, voice rough from honestyâis the prettiest thing youâve ever seen in your life.
Steve watches you carefully, like heâs trying to read your reaction before you even speak. You can tell heâs bracing himself for something. Rejection maybe. Hesitation. The possibility that heâs already said too much and thereâs no taking it back now.
And the awful thing is that part of you understands exactly why heâs scared. Youâre 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 Steveâs standing in front of you admitting he imagined grocery shopping with you.
And somehow that feels infinitely more intimate than if heâd 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 Steveâs expression changes.
Concern flashes across his face so quickly it almost startles you.
âHey,â he says softly.
The gentleness in his voice nearly ruins you.
âIâm sorry if this is too much.â
Your head snaps up instantly.
âWhat? No.â
Steve studies your face carefully.
âYou look upset.â
A laugh escapes you before you can stop it, shaky and quiet and completely overwhelmed.
âI am upset.â
His face falls immediately.
âNo, not because ofââ
âI know.â
You press your lips together briefly, trying to steady yourself enough to explain properly. âIâm upset because I spent months convincing myself you could never feel this way about me.â
âAre you serious?â 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.
âSteve, do you know how many times I talked myself out of reading too much into things?â
His eyebrows pull together slightly.
âWhat things?â
You stare at him in disbelief.
âWhat things?â you repeat. âAre you kidding?â
âI genuinely donât know.â
âOh my God.â
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.
âYouâd look at me for likeâŠâ You gesture vaguely. âEntire conversations.â
Steve blinks.
âI was listening.â
âYou were staring.â
âI can do both.â
You shake your head immediately.
âNo, because then youâd touch me all the time and act jealous every time I went out with somebody, and then two seconds later youâd flirt with some waitress at the diner like it was nothing.â
Steve groans softly and drops his head back toward the ceiling.
âOh my God, not the waitress thing again.â
âIt was devastating for me, actually.â
That makes him look at you again instantly.
And suddenly something shifts.
Because that sentence slipped out too honestly.
Steveâs eyes search yours carefully.
âYou were jealous?â
Heat rushes into your face immediately.
âNo.â
âThat was literally a confession.â
âIt was not.â
âYou just said devastating.â
You cover your face with both hands instantly while Steve lets out the first real laugh youâve heard from him in days.
You missed that sound so much.
âI cannot believe this,â he says, still laughing quietly under his breath. âWeâre actually idiots.â
âYou are definitely more at fault here.â
âMe?â Steve points toward himself in genuine disbelief. âYou dated like four guys.â
âBecause I thought you didnât want me!â
âI thought you didnât want me either!â
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.
Steveâs 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 youâre sitting at the edge of the mattress, and the contact alone sends warmth rushing all the way up your spine.
Itâs ridiculous.
Steveâs 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 hasnât fully processed the fact that you feel the same way yet.
âYou really tried getting over me?â
You nod once.
Steve watches you carefully.
âHow bad was it?â
You laugh weakly under your breath. âPretty bad.â
âYeah?â
âSteve, I literally went out with other people because I thought maybe eventually Iâd stop comparing everybody to you.â
That wipes the remaining traces of amusement off his face instantly.
His expression turns almost unbearably soft instead.
âYou compared people to me?â
âAll the time.â
That confession makes something flicker visibly across his face.
Like the idea matters to him far more than it probably should.
âHow come?â he asks quietly.
You look down briefly because admitting this suddenly feels terrifying in a completely different way now that heâs 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.
âBecause nobody else ever felt safe the way you do.â
Steveâs breath catches softly.
You keep going before you lose your nerve.
âWith other people, I always felt like I had to perform a little.â Your fingers twist nervously together in your lap. âLike I had to be interesting enough or pretty enough or say the right thing all the time.â
Steveâs face tightens slightly at that.
âBut with youâŠâ You finally look back up at him. âI never really had to think about it.â
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.
âYou have no idea what you do to me,â he says softly.
The way he says it nearly melts every coherent thought left in your brain.
Steveâs 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.
âTell me to stop,â he says quietly.
The words send warmth rushing through your chest so fast it almost hurts.
Because even now, after everything heâs still making sure.
Still giving you a choice.
You stare at him for a second too long before whispering
âI donât think I could.â
Thatâs all it takes.
Steve exhales shakily like heâd 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 youâre something precious to him. Like heâs been thinking about this for so long that now heâs 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 youâre 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.
âOh my God.â
You let out a breathless laugh.
âWhat?â
Steve opens his eyes enough to look at you.
âThat was actually worse than I imagined.â
You blink at him in confusion.
âWorse?â
âYou know.â His mouth twitches slightly. âFor my emotional stability.â
You laugh again, and the sound seems to physically brighten something in his face.
âThereâs my girl,â 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.
âI didnât mean to say that out loud,â he admits.
You stare at him for another second before smiling despite yourself.
âI didnât hate it.â
The look Steve gives you after that nearly stops your heart entirely.
Then suddenly heâs smiling too, and itâs different from the smiles youâre 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.
âYou know whatâs humiliating?â he says quietly afterward.
âWhat?â
âI had an entire speech prepared in the car.â
You burst out laughing immediately.
âNo you didnât.â
âI absolutely did.â
âIâm serious.â He groans softly, dragging one hand over his face. âRobin made me rehearse things.â
âOh jeezâ
âShe said if I came over here and said something stupid, sheâd legally disown me.â
Your laughter gets louder at that, and steve watches you with the kind of expression people only get when theyâre 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.
âWhat?â
He just shakes his head faintly.
âNo, itâs justâŠâ A soft laugh leaves him. âYou have no idea what you do to me.â
Your stomach flips embarrassingly hard.
âYou say things like that and then expect me to function normally afterward?â
âNope.â
âGreat.â
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.
âYou know,â he says quietly, âthese were probably the worst three days of my life.â
You snort softly.
âThat feels dramatic.â
âIâm deeply serious.â
âYou survived demodogs.â
âYeah, but this was super upsetting.â
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,
âYou know Dustinâs gonna be insufferable when he finds out.â
You groan immediately.
âOh, heâs never letting us live this down.â
âNope.â
Steveâs arm tightens slightly around you before he speaks again, quieter now.
âI really am in love with you, by the way.â
Your chest aches warmly at the sincerity in his voice.
You tilt your head enough to look up at him properly. âI know.â
Steve smiles softly.
Then he kisses your forehead like heâs been wanting to do that for months too.
â1âËàż m.listâËàż steveharrington x henderson!reader
Steve spends the rest of the drive pretending heâs listening while Dustin talks, but every thought in his head keeps circling back to you in ways that are becoming genuinely impossible to control. Itâs pathetic, honestly. He knows it is. Heâs twenty years old and acting like a lovesick idiot over a girl who still has absolutely no idea sheâs slowly destroying him from the inside out.
The worst part is that youâd probably laugh if you knew.
Not cruelly. Never cruelly.
Youâd just blink at him with that surprised little expression you get sometimes and go, âSteve Harrington is in love with me?â like the concept itself sounds unrealistic.
And maybe thatâs 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 heâs become around you specifically.
Meanwhile Steve feels like heâs standing chest deep in something he canât survive anymore.
By the time he drops Dustin off at school, his mood has somehow gotten worse instead of better.
âAre you coming over later?â Dustin asks before getting out of the car.
Steve opens his mouth automatically to say yes before stopping himself.
Because youâll probably be there.
Which is exactly the problem.
âMaybe,â he mutters instead.
Dustin narrows his eyes immediately. âYou literally always come over.â
âYeah, well.â Steve shrugs tightly. âMaybe I have a life.â
âThatâs definitely not true.â
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.
Youâre 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 heâs annoying you.
Nothing has actually changed.
Except now Steve knows heâs 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 heâs already wondering what youâre 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 heâs 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.
âYouâre being weird,â she says flatly.
Steve catches the candy automatically. âThanks.â
âYouâve sighed seventeen times in the last ten minutes.â
âYou counted?â
âI was trying to figure out if you were dying.â
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.
âOh my God,â she says slowly.
Steve closes his eyes immediately.
âNo.â
âOh my God,â Robin repeats louder this time, sounding delighted. âYouâre in love with her.â
Steve nearly chokes.
âI am notââ
âYou are absolutely in love with her.â
âIâm literally not.â
âYou look one inconvenience away from throwing yourself into traffic.â
Steve presses both hands over his face while Robin stares at him with growing disbelief and amusement.
âThis is insane,â she says. âSteve Harrington finally falls in love and suddenly acts like a Victorian widow.â
âI hate you.â
âNo you donât.â Robin grins. âWaitâdoes she know?â
Steve laughs once.
A genuinely miserable sound.
âNo.â
Robinâs smile fades slightly at that.
âOh.â
âYeah.â
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.
âWhy not?â
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?
âShe doesnât look at me like that,â he says quietly after a long moment.
Robin blinks.
âWhat?â
Steve swallows hard before looking away.
âYou know how some peopleâŠâ He struggles briefly for the words. âYou can tell when they want somebody back?â
Robin stays quiet.
Steve laughs softly again, though thereâs no humor in it this time.
âShe doesnât.â
And maybe thatâs 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 doesnât know how to untangle friendship from hope anymore.
Robin studies him carefully for a second before asking, âDid something happen?â
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 wasnât actively splitting open.
His jaw tightens slightly.
Robin notices that too because of course she does.
âOh,â she says again, quieter this time. âThat serious, huh?â
Steve rubs tiredly at his face.
âI think Iâm actually losing my mind.â
Robin softens a little then.
Not teasing anymore.
âYou know,â she says carefully, âfor someone supposedly good with girls, you are catastrophically bad at communicating.â
Steve scoffs weakly. âThanks.â
âIâm serious.â She leans against the counter beside him. âYouâve been acting like her boyfriend without ever actually telling her how you feel. Thatâs confusing.â
Steve frowns slightly.
âWhatâs that supposed to mean?â
Robin gives him a look.
âYou drive her everywhere. You stare at her like she invented oxygen. You literally climb through her bedroom window at night.â
âWhen you say it out loud it soundsââ
âInsane? Yeah.â
Steve drops his head onto the counter with a groan.
The worst part is she isnât 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.
âWhat if I ruin it?â he asks quietly.
Robinâs expression softens immediately because Steve almost never sounds genuinely afraid like this.
âYou wonât.â
âYou donât know that.â
âNo,â she admits. âBut I know you. And honestly? I think youâve been ruining yourself over this girl for months already.â
Steve laughs weakly into the counter.
âCool. Awesome.â
Robin nudges his shoulder lightly.
âJust talk to her.â
Steve lifts his head enough to look at her.
âThat sounds terrible.â
âIt probably will be,â Robin agrees. âBut you canât keep silently yearning yourself into an early grave either.â
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.
Thereâs no hesitation in it.
No uncertainty.
Just immediate softness.
âHi,â you say.
And Steveâs 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 didnât realize it was this bad.
You glance between them curiously.
âWhat?â
âNothing,â 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.
âYou disappeared today,â you say casually.
Steveâs chest tightens embarrassingly fast at the fact that you noticed.
âUh.â He clears his throat. âBusy.â
âYou?â You narrow your eyes suspiciously. âBusy?â
Robin physically turns away to hide her smile.
Steve glares at the side of her head before looking back at you.
âCan I help you with something?â
âWow,â you say flatly. âRude.â
But youâre smiling slightly.
Always smiling slightly around him.
Itâs killing him.
You lean your elbows onto the counter comfortably while Steve tries not to focus on how close you are standing.
âYou missed dinner,â you tell him.
Steve blinks.
âWhat?â
âMy mom made lasagna.â You shrug lightly. âDustin complained about you abandoning him emotionally.â
Despite himself, Steve laughs softly.
Then your expression shifts just a little as you study him more carefully.
And suddenly your smile fades.
âWait,â you say slowly. âAre you okay?â
The concern in your voice hits him harder than it should.
Steve opens his mouth.
Nothing comes out.
Because youâre 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.
âSteve?â you ask again, quieter this time.
And God, thatâs it.
Thatâs 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.
Itâs subtle.
Most people probably wouldnât 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.
âI mean,â you say casually, glancing away, âyou just look tired.â
Robin looks between both of you like sheâs watching a hostage situation unfold in real time.
Steve swallows hard.
âYeah,â he says finally. âDidnât sleep much.â
Your eyes flick back toward him for half a second too long.
Something unreadable passes through your expression before disappearing completely.
âThat makes two of us.â
And there it is again.
That strange ache sitting quietly beneath everything between you lately.
Steve feels it constantly now. Like thereâs 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.
âWell,â she says with painful fake enthusiasm, âIâm gonna go reorganize the horror section before I throw myself into traffic.â
Steve glares at her immediately.
You blink in confusion while Robin walks away muttering something about emotional incompetence under her breath.
Then itâs 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 heâs very aware of your eyes still lingering on him.
âYou sure youâre okay?â you ask eventually.
Steve exhales softly.
âYeah.â
You tilt your head slightly.
âLiar.â
The word lands gently between you.
Not teasing.
Not accusing.
Just honest.
And for one dangerous second Steve almost tells you everything.
Almost says Iâm in love with you and itâs becoming unbearable.
Instead he just shakes his head once.
âYouâre dramatic,â he mutters weakly.
A small smile finally pulls at your mouth again, but it doesnât fully reach your eyes this time.
Because the truth is you know somethingâs changed too.
Youâve known for weeks now, maybe longer.
You just havenât 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 Dustinâs 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 didnât show up.
And then somewhere along the line it became worse.
You started noticing things you shouldnât.
The way his voice gets quieter when heâs tired.
The way he automatically reaches for your wrist when guiding you through crowds so you donât get separated.
The way he looks at you when he thinks you arenât paying attention.
God.
Thatâs the part that really ruined you.
Because Steve looks at you too much.
Like heâs trying to memorize things without permission.
And sometimesâsometimesâyou 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.
Youâve seen girls flirt with him your entire life. Seen the way people melt under his attention. Half the time he doesnât even notice heâs 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 heâs become this soft vulnerable thing hidden right in the center of your chest, and you donât 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 itâs 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 heâs 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 doesnât jump whenever he leans too close.
And Steveâpoor Steveâstill somehow thinks heâs the only one drowning here.
âYouâre staring again,â you tell him quietly.
Steve blinks immediately like he got caught doing something illegal.
âIâm literally working.â
âYou havenât moved for like thirty seconds.â
His ears turn slightly pink.
It almost makes you smile for real this time.
God, heâs 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.
âSo,â he says carefully. âYou uh⊠got plans tonight?â
The question sounds casual.
Too casual.
Like he practiced making it sound casual.
Your stomach twists a little.
âMaybe.â
Steveâs jaw tightens almost invisibly.
âWith that guy again?â
Thereâs the smallest pause.
Too small for most people to notice.
But you notice because suddenly your heartbeat is too loud.
âMaybe,â 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 donât want him imagining you with someone else anymore.
You donât want anyone else.
You just donât know what to do about that yet.
Steve forces a small nod like the answer doesnât bother him at all.
âCool.â
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.
Itâs 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 thereâs 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 doesnât 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 heâs afraid of getting too comfortable.
Like heâs physically stopping himself from drifting toward you out of habit.
And somehow that hurts more than if heâd stopped showing up entirely.
You notice he doesnât 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 hadnât 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 heâs 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 Dustinâs 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, âYou know this couch is big enough to survive you sitting normally, right?â
Steve looks over.
âWhat?â
âYouâre likeâŠâ You gesture vaguely between him and the empty space separating you. âAll the way over there.â
A slow smile pulls at his mouth, but it looks tired somehow.
âSorry.â
And thatâs 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 youâll 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 donât 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 youâre 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? Youâre exhausted.
Youâre 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 donât 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 donât even realize Steveâs 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.
Heâs halfway through shelving tapes when he freezes completely.
His stomach drops so fast it almost makes him dizzy.
Because youâre 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 partâthe truly unbearable partâis 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 Steveâs face, and physically winces.
âOh no,â she mutters under her breath.
Your date wanders toward the horror section while you linger awkwardly near the counter.
Steve still hasnât moved.
The atmosphere between you feels strange instantly.
Tight.
âYou work tonight?â you ask softly.
Steve laughs once.
Short and humorless.
âApparently.â
Your eyebrows pull together slightly.
âWhatâs that supposed to mean?â
âNothing.â
But it very obviously isnât nothing.
You glance at him more carefully then.
His jaw looks tense.
Eyes darker somehow.
And suddenly you realize heâs staring at the guy currently browsing movies three aisles away.
Your chest tightens unexpectedly.
âSteve.â
âWhat?â
âYouâre being weird again.â
That snaps something.
Steve sets the tapes in his hands down too hard against the counter before finally looking directly at you.
âWeird?â he repeats.
You blink slightly at the sharpness in his voice.
âYeah.â
He stares at you for another second like heâs trying very hard not to say something dangerous.
Then quietly:
âDo you even like these guys?â
The question catches you so off guard that you actually laugh once in confusion.
âWhat?â
âIâm serious.â
You stare at him.
âI barely know what that means.â
Steve runs a hand through his hair harshly, visibly frustrated now in a way youâve genuinely never seen directed at you before.
âYou go out with these random idiots constantly and half the time you donât even seem interested.â
Your confusion immediately shifts toward irritation.
âOkay, first of allârude.â
Steve ignores that entirely.
âDo you actually even want to be here right now?â
âWhat is your problem?â
The words come out sharper than you intended.
Steveâs expression flickers.
Like heâs 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.
âI just donât get it.â
Your heartbeat starts speeding up now for reasons you donât fully understand.
âGet what?â
âThis.â Steve gestures vaguely between you and the rest of the store. âYou keep going out with these guys and then acting miserable afterward.â
Your eyes narrow instantly.
âYouâre seriously doing this right now?â
âDoing what?â
âYou donât get to interrogate my dating life, Steve.â
âIâm not interrogating you.â
âYou literally are.â
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.
âI just think maybe you deserve better than random assholes who donât even know you.â
âAnd you do?â 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.
âThatâs not what I meant.â
âThen what did you mean?â
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 doesnât 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.
âYou know what?â you say suddenly, voice quieter now but sharper somehow. âI genuinely donât understand why youâre upset.â
Steve laughs once bitterly.
âSeriously?â
âYes, seriously.â
His eyes flash.
âBecause watching you with these guys sucks.â
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?
âWhat does that even mean?â 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.
âNo, seriously, Steve.â Your voice shakes slightly now despite your best efforts to stop it. âYou donât get to act possessive over me when youâve never actually wanted me.â
His expression changes instantly.
âWhat?â
âYou heard me.â
âThatâs notââ
âThen what is it?â you interrupt, suddenly angry enough that you canât stop now. âBecause from my perspective, you flirt with everybody. You touch everybody. Half the time I canât tell if you even realize youâre doing it.â
Steve looks genuinely stunned.
You laugh softly in disbelief.
âYou think Iâm supposed to magically know what you mean when youâve never said anything?â
âI thought it was obvious,â 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.
âObvious?â you repeat quietly. âSteve, 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.â
Something cracks visibly across his face then.
âForget it,â you mutter quietly, though your voice sounds wrong even to yourself now. Too tight. Too fragile around the edges.
Steveâs expression shifts immediately after the words leave your mouth.
Like he wants to stop you.
Like thereâs something sitting right there behind his teeth fighting to get out.
For one awful second, you genuinely think heâs going to say it.
That heâs 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 â asking which movie you wanted again maybe â 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 thatâs your answer right there.
Because if Steve really wanted you the way part of you has secretly hoped for months now, wouldnât he do something?
Wouldnât he finally say it?
Instead thereâs just silence stretching painfully between you while his eyes stay fixed on your face with an expression you canât even begin to untangle anymore.
Hurt.
Regret.
Fear.
You donât know.
Youâre 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.
Steveâs jaw tightens immediately at the movement.
Still, he says nothing.
And that tiny hesitation completely shatters something inside you.
Because youâve 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 didnât linger afterward, pretending his attention didnât feel different from everyone elseâs.
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 thereâs absolutely no humor in it.
âYeah,â you whisper mostly to yourself. âOkay.â
Steveâs expression flickers with immediate panic.
âWaitââ
But now youâre 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.
âNo, itâs fine.â
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.listâËàż summary â⎠steveharrington x henderson!reader
âș 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 couldnât shut off. Meanwhile, sheâs convinced heâs just naturally charming with everyone.
The first time Steve Harrington walks into your house, heâs bleeding from the forehead, arguing with Dustin, and carrying three grocery bags full of junk food like heâs been personally victimized by the existence of children.
âIâm serious,â Dustin complains, stomping into the kitchen ahead of him. âYou cheated.â
âI did not cheat,â Steve argues immediately. âYou just suck at arcade games.â
âYou distracted me!â
âBy existing?â
You look up from the counter where youâre cutting strawberries, already exhausted.
âCan one of you die quietly?â
Dustin gasps dramatically. âSee? This is emotional abuse.â
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, thatâs the first thing he notices about you.
Not that youâre prettyâthough you are.
Not even that youâre Dustinâs older sister.
He notices that you look at him like heâs normal. Like heâs 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.
âYour face is gross,â you tell him casually.
âWow,â he says, pressing a hand to his chest. âYou know, most people are nicer to me.â
You shrug without looking up. âMost people want something from you.â
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.
âOuch,â he says softly.
You hand him a dish towel. âTry not to drip blood everywhere, pretty boy.â
And that shouldâve been it.
Really.
It shouldâve stayed simple.
You were Dustinâs 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 wasnât 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 didnât 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 wasnât.
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, thatâs exactly what gets him.
At first, he thinks youâre funny.
Thatâs all.
He thinks itâs entertaining that you donât 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.
âYou know,â he says one evening, grinning lazily up at you from where heâs lying across your carpet, âyouâre kinda mean to me.â
âYouâll survive.â
âDebatable.â
âSteve.â
ây/n...â
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 youâre reading.
He notices you always leave the crusts of sandwiches behind.
He notices you tap your fingers against cups when youâre 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 youâre 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 isnât home once or twice, pretending he forgot something.
âYou know Dustinâs at Mikeâs, right?â you ask the third time it happens.
Steve leans against your bedroom doorway, completely unashamed.
âYeah.â
You narrow your eyes slightly. âSo why are you here?â
His smile turns crooked.
âMaybe I came to see you.â
You laugh immediately, not even looking up from your magazine.
âYou use that line on everybody?â
And for some reason, that answer bothers him more than it should.
Because he doesnât know how to explain that itâs different.
He doesnât even understand why itâs different yet.
So instead, he shrugs and says lightly, âOnly the pretty ones.â
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 hasnât been with anyone in years.
It sneaks up on him slowly.
He starts measuring his days around whether heâll see you.
He pretends heâs 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.
âYouâre staring again,â you tell him one night.
Steve blinks. âWhat?â
You glance at him over the rim of your soda can. âYou do that.â
âDo what?â
âZone out and stare at me like I said something life changing.â
His ears go slightly pink.
âMaybe you do.â
You grin. âYouâre ridiculous.â
But Steve feels strangely embarrassed after that because the worst part isâyouâre right.
He does stare. He stares because you fascinate him.
You move through the world so differently than the people heâs used to. You never perform for attention. Never flirt just to flirt. You talk to him like heâs 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 donât realize thereâs been a shift.
You still think this is just Steve being Steve.
So when you mention other guys, you do it carelessly.
âThis guy at work asked me out today,â 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. Steveâs cigarette burns between his fingers.
âOh yeah?â he asks lightly.
âMm hm.â
âYou gonna say yes?â
You shrug. âMaybe. Heâs cute.â
Steve smiles.
He even laughs a little.
âCool.â
Inside, something ugly twists sharply in his chest. But he ignores it.
Because heâs Steve Harrington. He doesnât get jealous.
He definitely doesnât 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.
âHe looks like a douchebag,â Dustin mutters immediately.
Steve squints at the car. âYeah,â he says before he can stop himself.
You laugh from the doorway. âYou guys donât even know him.â
âI know his face,â Steve says. âThatâs enough for me.â
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.
Thatâs 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 donât notice.
Because Steveâs always touching you anyway.
Always close. Always looking at you too long.
You assume heâs 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 mustâve 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 thereâs a soft thud from outside your window.
You donât 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.
âThereâs actually something deeply wrong with your family,â he whispers dramatically.
You glance at him through the mirror while unclasping your necklace.
âYou came here at midnight for a movie?â
âNo,â Steve says immediately. âI came here because Dustin accused you of stealing from him, and apparently Iâm the designated problem solver now.â
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.
Itâs almost physical, the feeling that hits him.
Like missing a step in the dark.
You donât notice right away.
Youâre still talking casually, fingers moving through your hair while you stand in front of the vanity mirror.
âHe actually wasnât terrible,â you admit with a small laugh. âWhich honestly surprised me.â
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 elseâs 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.
âWow,â he says finally, though his voice sounds strange even to himself. âHigh praise.â
You laugh quietly.
âRight?â
Steve forces his eyes upward.
Your reflection catches his for half a second through the mirror, and he prays you canât see whateverâs happening on his face right now.
Because he feels insane.
You arenât his.
That thought keeps slamming into him over and over again.
You arenât 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 donât notice how quiet heâs gotten yet.
Your room smells faintly like perfume and laundry detergent and summer air drifting through the window. Thereâs 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.
âYou okay?â
Steve blinks hard.
âHm?â
âYouâre weirdly quiet.â
âIâm always weirdly quiet.â
âThat is objectively not true.â
Normally heâd tease you back instantly.
Normally heâd 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.
âWhat?â
His eyes flick downward before he can stop them.
Your expression shifts immediately in understanding.
And for one horrifying second, Steve thinks maybe youâre going to mention it directly.
Maybe youâre going to laugh awkwardly and say yeah, sorry about that.
Maybe youâre going to tell him details.
He thinks that might actually kill him.
Instead you just tilt your head slightly.
âSteve.â
He forces a smile so quickly it almost hurts.
âNothing.â
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 youâre 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 doesnât 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 whateverâs on his face.
You yawn softly beside him.
âTired?â he asks automatically.
âMm.â
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 nowâeven after another guy spent the night kissing your neckâyou 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, heâll 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.
âWhat?â he asks quietly.
âI said you smell like cigarettes.â
Steve laughs softly despite himself.
âSorry.â
âYou should quit.â
âYou sound like Robin.â
âSheâs smarter than you.â
âDebatable.â
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 heâs terrified of forgetting later.
It isnât 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 isnât 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 heâs 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 youâre 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 thatâs been enough because shallow relationships are easy to survive.
They donât 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. Heâs 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.
Thereâs something so painfully trusting about the way you lean into him that Steveâs chest tightens hard enough to almost hurt because you genuinely have no idea what youâre 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 doesnât 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 youâre 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 youâre 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 doesnât 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 Steveâs 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 heâs convinced youâll 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 heâs 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,
âWhat?â
Steve immediately looks away like heâs 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 âNothingâ under his breath
but you narrow your eyes at him tiredly before accusing softly,
âYou keep looking at me weird lately,â
and the casual observation nearly stops his heart entirely. Because if he tried explaining the truth right now, if he admitted that heâs 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. Youâd 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 isnât 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, youâre 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 heâs 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 heâs 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 werenât 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,
âYou look like you got possessed by something,â 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 doesnât have the patience for Dustinâs energy today and also because he hasnât stopped replaying the image of your neck in his head since midnight.
Normally Dustin talking nonstop barely registers anymore because Steveâs 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 heâs 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 heâd been reaching for and says, with genuine concern now instead of annoyance,
âOkay, seriously, what is wrong with you?â
Steve exhales harshly through his nose and runs one hand through his hair while stopping at a red light, but even that familiar motion doesnât 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 doesnât fully understand whatâs happening to him yet because heâs 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 didnât even realize existed, and now he had absolutely no clue how to go back to being normal around you again.
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 postsâ ïž
Have fun reading!! <33
âFreaky Saturday | Steve Harrington <3 by @hexyissy [x henderson!reader] [basketball! captain Steve x cheerleading captain!reader]
âBox of Memories by @embeanwrites [x henderson!reader]
âsworn by @dearest-nell [knight!steve x princess!reader]
âShe said what? by @bemygelatinmode [dad!steve x mom!reader]
âWho's he? by ^^^ [dad!steve x mom!reader]
âHappy Birthday? by ^^^
âdetour by @voidreynolds [x byers! reader]
âFather's Day by @kandyscorner
âFAMILY LINE by @moonstoneandmoonlight [x byers!reader]
âwalking on sunshine by @levanswrites [x mom!reader]
âa sign to let go by @firelilyfox [x henderson!reader]
âit's no use, wheeler by @hearts4steve [x wheeler!reader]
âsteve when you get your wisdom teeth out by @milliesfishes
âhold me until i find the nerve by @luv-alwyz [childhood friends au]
âLeave on the light for me by @erule [x henderson!reader]
âFormer Ladies' Man by @prettybutaching [x bauman!reader]
âMY PERSON by @beeewee
âcomfort after a long day by @yeah-iveheardofbears
âsteve saves you from vecna by @gothicwhorror [ex's au]
đ¶.đ”đČđŒđœ âËàż steve harrington x wheeler!reader .đ„ Ę 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 distinctâyour 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 armorâthe 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 pajamasâthe 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 softlyâsome 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.
"Nancyâ"
"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."
"Nancyâ"
"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 wayâŠ" 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 youâŠ" Nancy hesitates, teeth worrying at her bottom lip. "Are you going toâŠ?"
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 laterâpunctual in a way that's new for him, like he couldn't wait a minute longerâhe'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 skinâcircles 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 everythingâthe 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 expectsâconfident, charming, effortlessly cool, King Steve in his castle of popularityâthat 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 meâall 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 yearsâthe 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 nothingâchildhood 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 relationshipâthe 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 yetâit'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 SaturdayâŠ" 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.
"âŠheard she dumped him at Tina's partyâŠ"
"âŠin front of everyone, can you imagineâŠ"
"âŠcompletely humiliatedâŠ"
"âŠsaw him talking to her sister this morningâŠ"
"âŠthat's kind of messed up, right? Dating your ex's sister?"
"âŠI heard they've been sneaking around for monthsâŠ"
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 immediatelyâit'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 topicsâbasketball 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 importantâhe'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 sweaterâone of Jonathan's, you realizeâand 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."
"Nancyâ"
"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 nowâthey're so weird and uncomfortable and I don't know how to fix itâbut 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 đ€đ€ 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 âladies manâ then eventually leading to confessing feelings? no worries if not đ€
Former Ladiesâ Man | Steve Harrington
đ¶.đ”đČđŒđœ âËàż s3!steve harrington x bauman!reader .đ„ Ę 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 feelingâthe bone-deep certaintyâthat 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 everywhereâteenagers, 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 thoughtâ"
"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 everythingâimpossibly, 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 nailsâan 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'tâI mean, I don't know. How would I know? I've neverâ" 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 planâwho 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 thereâpulling 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 smiledâa 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 holdingâcereal 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'reâyou're shopping. For groceries. At the grocery store. Which is, uh, that's where you do that, soâŠ" 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 justâDustin 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 theâanyway, 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 youâare you staying in town? I heard you got a job at the library, which is cool, libraries are cool, books areâI'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'sâthat's great. Really great. Not the damage part, obviously, that was bad, really bad, but you being here, that'sâ" 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 cursedâ"Shit, shit, shit!"âand 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 itâare 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 areâthose 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 justâI 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 notâI'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 pityâit'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 sizeâJoyce 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 dipâJoyce 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 peopleâdifferent 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 anythingâthere 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 andâI'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 isâ" 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 aboutâ"
"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 ofâ"
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, justâstand 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 thingâthose 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. "Robinâ"
"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 youâhas 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 smileâthat 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, orâ"
"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 likeâlike 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. Toâto me."
Your breath caught in your throat. "Steveâ"
"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'tâI 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 happenedânone 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 youâreally 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 wantâ" 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, butâ"
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 wasâwow. I meanâjustâwow."
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 funâJoyce 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'tâI wasn'tâI just meant hypothetically, in the future, if there was everâyou 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, certainlyâthere 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' kitchenâlike 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.
đ¶.đ”đČđŒđœ âËàż random lil blurp hehe
You donât even try to be funny, which is probably the most offensive part to Steve Harrington. Heâs seen funny. Heâs friends with Robin Buckley, for Godâs sakeâweaponized sarcasm in human form. Heâs survived Dustin Hendersonâs dramatic retellings of literally anything. He knows what a joke looks like when itâs trying. But you? Youâll 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 youâre thinking too hard about something that absolutely does not deserve that level of thought. And then youâll say something so painfully dumbâso objectively unremarkableâthat he chokes on his own spit laughing like you just delivered the tightest stand up set of the century.
Itâs never the joke itself. Itâs the way you say it. Completely serious. Like youâre presenting peer reviewed research. Like the fate of Hawkins hinges on whether or not the Demogorgon could be accurately described as a âweirdly aggressive overcooked lasagna.â You even gesture a little, outlining an invisible pan in the air, nodding thoughtfully as if youâre waiting for applause. Steve will stare at you for half a second, brain short circuiting as he tries to figure out if youâre kidding. Because you donât look like youâre kidding. You look deeply invested. And then it hits him. The image. The sincerity. The absolute stupidity of it. And heâs 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 wasnât cool, because King Steve didnât double over in public. But this Steve? The one whoâs been through Russian secret bases under Starcourt Mall, whoâs gotten his ass handed to him by things with too many teeth, whoâs realized popularity is a joke? This Steve laughs like he doesnât care whoâs 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 heâs malfunctioning.
âIt wasnât that funny.â You sound almost concerned.
And he triesâhe really tries to get it together. He wipes at his eyes, still grinning, still looking at you like youâve personally brightened the entire miserable Midwest sky.
âNo, no, it was,â he insists, voice cracking a little from laughing too hard.
âYouâre insane. That was genius.â
And you roll your eyes, muttering something about his standards being in hell, but thereâs a tiny smile tugging at your mouth because heâs looking at you like that again. Like you hung the moon. Like you could say anything and heâd treasure it.
Itâs 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. Youâll be behind the counter with him and Robin, the neon lights humming overhead, and youâll casually mention that if the Mind Flayer had possessed you, at least youâd finally have an excuse for your bad handwriting. And Steve, who still has nightmares about that night, about Billyâs 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 heâs studying the mechanics of it. Like heâs 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 heâs fragile, even though you know heâs been through hell. You tease him about getting knocked out again. You call him âdesignated concussion victim.â And instead of feeling embarrassed, instead of feeling like the screw up who couldnât protect anyone properly, he just laughs. Because when you say it, thereâs no judgment. Just affection. Just that glint in your eye that says you trust him anyway.
Sometimes itâs quieter. Like when youâre all crammed in the Wheeler basement and Dustin is rambling about Cerebro, and you lean over and whisper that if you had superpowers, youâd use them exclusively to slightly inconvenience people who chew too loud. Steve snorts before he can stop himself.
Dustin pauses mid sentence, offended. âWhat?â
And Steve just shakes his head, still smiling at you, because youâre biting your lip trying not to laugh at your own joke. He shouldnât find it that funny. Itâs barely a joke. But itâs you. Itâs the way you glance at him first, like you already know heâll get it.
And Steve just shakes his head, still smiling at you, because youâre biting your lip trying not to laugh at your own joke. He shouldnât find it that funny. Itâs barely a joke. But itâs you. Itâs the way you glance at him first, like you already know heâll get it.
And thatâs the thing that gets him. You look at him first. Like you expect him to understand. Like youâre sharing something with him specifically. Heâs not used to being someoneâs 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, thereâs 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 itâs obvious. Heâs not stupid. Heâs seen the way Robin watches him when youâre 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. Heâll press his lips together, determined not to react when you compare Vecna to âa dramatic theater kid who took method acting too far.â Heâll hold it in for exactly three seconds before heâs wheezing into his hand, shoulders shaking. You beam at him like youâve accomplished something monumental. And he feels it thenâthat warm, blooming thing in his chest that has nothing to do with humor and everything to do with you.
Because the truth he doesnât say out loud, the truth he barely lets himself think, is that itâs not just that youâre funny. Itâs that you make him feel lighter than heâs felt in years. Like heâs allowed to be soft. Allowed to be ridiculous. Allowed to laugh without checking whoâs watching. You sit on the hood of his car, declaring monsters to be sentient pasta dishes, and he laughs like itâs the best thing heâs ever heard. And somewhere between the punchline and the way you grin at him, he realizes heâd 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 DustinâDustin is the one who spots you first, eyes bright with relief because backup has arrived. He practically launches himself across the carpet. âFinally! Reinforcements! Do you know how long Iâve been trying to stop them from killing each other? Mike insists the rules donât apply to himââ
âThatâs not what I said!â Mike shoots back from the floor without looking up. âI said they donât apply in this version.â
âThatâs even worse,â Lucas mutters, flipping a game card toward him.
Steve nudges your shoulder with his, a soft laugh slipping out. âYou sure we signed up for this voluntarily?â
Dustin answers for you both. âYes. Absolutely. Because you love me.â He wags his eyebrows with a confidence that deserves its own award.
Steve groans but ruffles Dustinâs curls anyway. âYeah, yeah. Just donât start any fires.â
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 heâs 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. âGuess weâre getting cozy,â 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 harmlessâcomfortable, even. The kidsâ 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. âWeâre just going to play it how we played last time.â
Max rolls her eyes. âLast time you cried.â
âI did not cry,â he snaps, cheeks reddening.
âYou absolutely cried,â Lucas insists. âYouââ
You let your head fall lightly against the back of the couch, exhaustion settling through you like sand. Steve notices immediately. âYou okay?â he murmurs.
âJust tired,â you admit, half-smiling. âDidnât know babysitting involved this much diplomacy.â
âDiplomacy?â Steve scoffs. âThese gremlins haven't known peace since third grade.â
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.
Thatâs when you feel itâlight pressure over your shoulders, the soft weight of a blanket being eased around you. The movement is gentle, almost instinctive. Steve doesnât make a show of it; he doesnât 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 doesnât move away. Youâre not sure how long the peaceful moment lasts, because a sudden knock at the front door jolts the entire room. Mike groans. âIf thatâs another pizza flyerââ
But it isnât a flyer. A familiar voice calls out, âyour favorite coworker is here to liberate you!â
Robin strides into the living room like she lives there, hands on her hips, eyebrows already raised. She takes in the sceneâDustin mid-rant, Max smothering a grin, Elevenâs serious concentration, Steve tucked against you under a shared blanketâand something playful sparks behind her eyes.
She doesnât comment. Not out loud. But she absolutely smirks, slow and knowing, like sheâs 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. âSo. Whoâs winning?â
âNo one,â Will sighs softly. âWe havenât even started.â
âThatâs because someone wonât read the rules correctly,â Dustin says pointedly.
Mike glares. âEverybody shut up and let meââ
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 friendâs smug stare. His arm brushes yours again, warm and steady. You can feel him fighting the urge to explain himselfâexplain the blanket, explain the closenessâbut Robin doesnât ask. She doesnât need to.
You settle deeper into the cushion, the room bright with noise and energy, and Steveâs presence at your side grounding you in a way you donât 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 sheâs 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 heâs preparing for a military inspection. Eleven curls up beside him, and Dustin, in true Dustin fashion, declares he isnât 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 arenât 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 doesnât bother to shift away. You feel the warmth of him, steady and familiar in a way you didnât expect. âYou think theyâll actually stay asleep?â he asks quietly, voice rough with exhaustion.
âThey better,â you murmur. âIf I hear one more debate about whether Mike was cheatingââ
âHe was cheating.â
âYou canât cheat a game that doesnât have real rules.â
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. Thereâs 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 didnât plan on staying much longer. You definitely didnât 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 youâre moving at all. He doesnât startle. He doesnât 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, âyou okay?â
âMmhmm,â you breathe, already sinking. âJust tired.â
âYou can sleep if you want.â
âYou first.â
âIâm not falling asleep,â he says, which is bold considering his voice sounds like heâs half unconscious already. âIâm just resting my eyes.â
âSure you are.â
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 Steveâs 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.
Youâre 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 himâa 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. âSorryâsorry, I didnâtâuhââ 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. âI mustâve⊠I didnât mean toâuhâlean on you all night.â
âNo, no, itâs fine,â he says quickly. âTotally fine. Couch is small. Happens all the time. Not all the time. I meanâwhatever. Itâs cool.â
âYeah. Cool.â You each sit there for an awkward heartbeat too long, both pretending you didnât almost cuddle through the entire night.
A voice rises from the floor. âOh my god,â 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. âDid you guys seriously fall asleep together again?â
âAgain?â Steve chokes.
Lucas rolls over, hair a mess. âThey were basically on top of each other after the Snow Ball. Remember?â
Max sits up and smirks. âThis is honestly not surprising.â
Mike points at both of you like heâs solving a mystery. âYou always gravitate toward each other. Itâs, like, magnetic or something.â
Eleven blinks sleepily at the scene, then nods once in agreement. âYes. Always.â
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 worldâs heaviest sigh. âUnbelievable. Iâm going to pull a muscle from how hard Iâm rolling my eyes.â
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 otherâs eyes because neither of you knows how to handle the truth that, yes, you had gravitated toward each otherâwithout even realizing it.
And somewhere in the middle of the mess, Dustin mutters, âI swear, one day you two are going to give me an aneurysm.â
A week passes, but the memory of waking tangled against Steve doesnât 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, thereâs a flicker of that morningâsunlight on his face, his arm still wrapped around your waist like he belonged there. You keep pretending itâs no big deal. He keeps pretending heâs 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 âaccidentallyâ 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.
Heâs halfway to the door with a box when he glances over and blurts, âhere.â 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. âYou donât have toââ
âItâs fine. Iâm not cold,â he says too fast.
âYouâre definitely cold.â
âNah, I run hot,â 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. âSmooth,â she drawls, lips twitching. âVery subtle.â
Steve glares at her, which only makes her grin wider.
Youâre 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 jacketâsoft from wear, smelling faintly of piney cologne and Family-Video-cleanerâand something in his expression falters. Itâs a full-body stutter: shoulders stopping mid-breath, hands freezing around the box heâs holding, mouth parted like words abandoned him.
Robinâs eyebrows climb so high they might actually leave her face. âYou good?â she asks, deadpan.
Steve jerks back into motion. âYep. Totally. Fine. Why wouldnât I be fine?â
âRight,â 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 heâs trying not to, always looking away a second too late. Robin catches every single slip.
At one point, as youâre helping sort new releases, a customer wanders inâa woman in her thirties, cheerful, the type who probably owns matching holiday sweaters for her dog. She points at Steve, then at you. âYou two are adorable,â she says warmly. âHow long have you been together?â
You nearly drop the stack of VHS cases youâre holding. Steve goes rigid beside you. âWeâre notâuhâweâre not together,â he stammers, waving his hands in front of him so wildly he nearly smacks a cardboard cutout of Tom Hanks.
The woman blinks. âOh! Sorry, you just look likeâwell, you know. A couple.â
âNo, yeah, totally fine,â Steve rambles. âWeâre just, you know, coworkers. Friends. Normal friends. Nothing weird. Nothing romantic. Not that romance is weird orâIâm gonna stop talking now.â
The woman gives you a sympathetic smile before heading toward the rom-com aisle. Robin doesnât even wait until sheâs out of earshot. âRomance isnât weird,â she mimics under her breath. âWow. Heâs really killing it today.â
Steve shoots her a glare so sharp it could slice through VHS plastic. âCan you not?â
âI canât not,â she whispers, smug as ever. âThis is better than cable.â
You try to keep your focus on stacking movies, but your cheeks feel uncomfortably warm. And the worst part? You donât hate the assumption. You donât hate the idea of being seen with Steve like youâre something more than coworkers and accidental couch cuddlers. But you donât let yourself think too hard about it. Youâre not sure your heart is ready for that.
The day goes on like thatâlittle moments that shouldnât mean anything but somehow do. Another customer asks if you and Steve are âmovie-night regulars.â A teenager asks if youâre trying to âimpress your boyfriendâ with your horror recommendations. Steve denies it every time, and every time he gets a little pinker.
At one point, youâre 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. âYou sure youâre warm enough?â he asks softly, looking at his jacket wrapped around you.
âIâm warm,â you say, and you mean it. His smile is small but real.
From the counter, Robin mutters, âun. Be. Lievable.â You glance over to see her shaking her head, chin resting on her palm, smirk carved into her face like sheâs witnessing the worldâs slowest love story unfold in real time.
âWhat?â Steve snaps defensively.
âNothing,â she says, sing-song and utterly unconvinced. âJust enjoying the show.â
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 Robinâs commentary, despite customers assuming something neither of you have dared to name, you donât take off Steveâs 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, Steveâs jacket still wrapped around you from earlier that afternoon. You told yourself youâd give it back when the temperature evened out. You told yourself youâd hand it over once you got inside. You told yourself youâd return it when he asked.
He never asked.
And now, curled into the corner of the sofa, you canât bring yourself to shrug it off. Itâs warm. Itâs 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 whoâs just discovered a clue. âWhoa, whoa, hold on.â He points dramatically. âWhy are you wearing Steveâs jacket?â You donât even get a chance to answer. Lucas raises his voiceânot a little, not gentlyâbut with the subtlety of someone announcing the end of the world. âAre you two, like, dating now?â
The room goes still for exactly half a second before exploding. âWhat?!â Steve blurts, spinning around so fast he nearly pulls the VCR out of the wall. His face goes beet red immediately. âNo. No! Weâre notâthereâs nothingâweâre not dating!â
âSure,â Max says from the armchair, her tone so dry it could start a brushfire. âThatâs why you keep staring every time the jacket moves.â
You choke on your own breath. âHeâs notââ
âHe absolutely is,â she cuts in. âDo you see his face right now?â
Steve, now floundering, tries to regain control. âGuys, itâs just a jacket. She was cold. I gave it to her. Thatâs it.â
Lucas doesnât look convinced. âYeah, but she never took it off. Sheâs still wearing it, man.â
âIâm going to,â you say quickly, even though you definitely donât plan to. âJust⊠later.â
Max snorts and leans back. âYeah, later. Sure.â
Dustin appears beside the couch, popcorn bowl tucked under his arm, shaking his head like heâs watching a soap opera heâs far too invested in. He leans toward Mike, whoâs sitting cross-legged on the carpet. âThis is painful to watch,â he whispers loudly enough for all of you to hear.
Mike nods solemnly. âAgreed.â
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. âIf itâs weird, I can take it back. Or you canâuhâgive it back. If you want. Unless you donât. I meanâwhatever. No pressure.â
You stare at him, then at the collar heâs now fidgeting with between his fingers, picking at a loose thread like itâs a lifeline. âSteve,â you say slowly, âIâm fine. Itâs fine.â
âRight,â he says, smoothing the fabric a little too carefully. âOkay. Cool.â
Max watches the whole exchange with narrowed eyes, elbow resting on the arm of the chair like sheâs collecting data for a thesis. Lucas takes a handful of pretzels and throws himself into a beanbag with a dramatic sigh, muttering to Dustin, âtheyâre totally dating.â
Dustin doesnât miss a beat. âNo, theyâre something, and itâs driving me insane.â
Eleven, sitting beside Mike, studies you with that serene, thoughtful look she gets when she knows more than she says. âFriends can share clothes,â she offers gently. You smile at her, gratefulâuntil she adds in a quieter, almost conspiratorial voice, âbut you both look happy.â Steve nearly drops the remote.
Mike groans. âCan we just watch the movie before this turns into a group therapy session?â
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 overânot long enough to get caught again, but long enough to make your heart beat faster. You pretend you donât notice. But you really, really do.
Domestic moments sneak in the way sunlight creeps through blindsâquiet at first, barely noticeable, then suddenly youâre surrounded by them, warmed before you even realize whatâs happening.
It starts with something small. Youâre at Melvaldâs picking up snacks for the kidsâ weekend hangout when you bump into Steve in the cereal aisle. Heâs 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 Dustinâs âfreakishly specific snack expectations,â and before either of you know it, youâre 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 donât point out the smile tucked into the corner of his mouth.
The next time, itâs laundry. Your washer breaks spectacularlyâa bit of flooding, awful noises, the worksâand youâre left holding a basket of clothes with nowhere to put them. Steve just happens to call that afternoon, checking if youâre 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 heâs posing for a magazine cover called Accidental Heroics. âLaundry day?â he asks, totally nonchalant, except his voice is a little too bright with excitement.
âAre you offering your washer?â
âIâm offering my whole laundry room,â he says, then winces. âThat sounded weird. Ignore that. JustâI donât mind. Seriously.â You donât ignore it. You smile instead, because of course he doesnât mind.
Inside the Harrington house, you watch him gather detergent, fuss about water temperature, and act like this isnât 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 particularâmovies you havenât seen yet, the way Robin accidentally told a customer to âhave a tolerable day,â Mikeâs latest dramatic meltdown over homeworkâand youâre too aware of how close he is.
Heâs comfortable. Relaxed. A little messy-haired from the humidity. Familiar in a way youâve learned to accept but not examine too closely. His house echoes less when heâs speaking, less still when you laugh. You find yourself wondering how often heâs 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. âHey,â he says lightly, but then heâs already moving toward the break room. âDo you want coffee?â
âWhat? I didnât even ask.â
He shrugs, awkwardly endearing. âYou sort of have a look. Like a âplease save me with caffeineâ look.â
Robin snorts from behind the counter. âTranslation: he makes one pot and pretends it was my idea.â
Steve glares. âIt was your idea!â
âI didnât even want coffee.â
âDetails,â 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. âYou make it good,â 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 heâs started keeping an extra soda in the fridge at Family Video âjust in case.â 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 heâs 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. âYou two are a disaster,â she mutters during a quiet shift, shaking her head like sheâs dealing with toddlers. âA cute disaster, sure, but still a disaster.â
You pretend you donât hear her. Steve pretends he isnât listening. But the way he glances at you afterward, shy and hopeful, tells you both that sheâs right. And little by little, something between you and Steve begins to settle tooâwarm, gentle, and too natural to be ignored forever.
Max and Eleven arenât subtle when they ask for help with a school project. In fact, they arenât asking at allâMax 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. âWe need an adult,â Max announces.
Steve looks offended. âIâm an adult.â
âYouâre barely an adult,â she counters.
Eleven nods, solemn. âYou need supervision.â
Youâre standing beside the display of horror tapes, trying not to laugh. Max turns to you next. âYouâre the reasonable one,â she says. âWe need help building this model of the solar system. Itâs due Monday. Itâs almost Monday.â
âItâs Saturday,â Steve mutters.
âAlmost Monday,â 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. Itâs 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 sheâs setting up a crime scene investigation.
For the first half hour, everything goes surprisingly well. Eleven carefully paints Saturnâs 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, âwhy is Jupiter bigger than the sun?!â 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 systemâand not an arts-and-crafts explosionâthe 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 âfive minutesâ 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. âIâm too tired to drive anyone home,â he admits quietly.
âTheyâll be fine here,â you say, watching the girls curl closer under their blankets. âThey did great.â
âYou did great,â he counters, and the warmth in his voice catches you off guard.
The house feels different at nightâquieter, 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 itâs 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. âHey,â he murmurs, voice soft around the edges. âDonât fall asleep on me.â
âYou sound like youâre already asleep.â
âNot true. Iâm extremely awake.â
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. Itâs not planned. Not something you think through. It just happens, the same way breathing does. And he doesnât move away. If anything, he shifts a little closer. âYou comfy?â he asks, barely above a whisper.
âMaybe.â
âThatâs good,â 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 Steveâs 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 doesnât repeat itself⊠but the thought dissolves before it finishes forming. Youâre tired. Youâre warm. Youâre comfortable. And Steveâs presence feels like a blanket all on its own.
The couch dips gently as he shifts again, and before you know it, youâre 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 donât plan to fall asleep. He definitely doesnât 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, itâs to soft morning light filtering through the curtains and the warmth of an arm around youâhis arm, draped over your waist in a way that feels far too right. His nose brushes your hair. Your body is half against his. Youâre wrapped in each other again, held by an instinct neither of you meant to let slip out.
You inhale sharply, and thatâs what stirs him. Steve shifts, groggy, confused, then suddenly alert as he realizes exactly whereâand howâyou ended up. His hand flinches at your waist, and he sits up too fast, eyes wide, hair a spectacular disaster. âIâI didnât meanââ he stammers. âI wasnâtâI didnât know Iââ
You sit up too, heat crawling up your neck. âItâs okay. We were just tired.â
âRight,â he says, rubbing the back of his neck. âTired. Long night. Glue fumes, glitter poison. Makes sense.â
Youâre both doing the thing where you avoid each otherâs eyes, talking too quickly, pretending your heart isnât still racing. It would almost workâif not for the two quiet figures who suddenly stir on the floor. Max lifts her head from her blanket, squinting. âAre you kidding me?â she croaks.
Eleven blinks awake, following Maxâs gaze. âAgain?â she asks, perfectly calm.
You feel your soul disintegrate. Steve covers his face with both hands. âOh my god.â
Max sits up fully, pointing at the couch like sheâs presenting evidence. âThis is a pattern. A weird one. A very obvious one.â
Eleven nods, rubbing her eyes. âYou always sleep close.â
Max snorts. âYou donât just âaccidentallyâ cuddle twice.â Steve makes a noise somewhere between a groan and a plea for the universe to swallow him whole. You canât tell if you want to laugh or hide under a cushion. Max lies back down, pulling her blanket over her face. âWhatever. Just admit youâre into each other so I can sleep in peace next time.â
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 itâyou canât help the small, traitorous flutter in your chest at the thought that maybe, just maybe, they see something youâve been too scared to name.
The shift doesnât 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 heâs afraid heâll 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 heâs 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 doârestocking shelves that absolutely donât 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. âOkay. Explain.â
âExplain what?â he says too quickly, eyes on the register.
âWhy you look like youâre one thought away from short-circuiting every time she breathes near you.â
âI donâtââ
âSteve.â
He exhales, shoulders slumping. âI just donât want to mess things up.â
Robin blinks. âMess what up?â
âEverything,â he mutters. âWhat if she didnât 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?â
Robin stares at him, unimpressed. âBuddy. You are already making it weird.â He winces. She sighs, softer now. âYou like her. A lot. Thatâs not a crime.â 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. âYou donât panic this hard over people you donât care about.â
The words hit deeper than he wants them to. He doesnât answer. He doesnât have to.
Meanwhile, youâre spiraling in your own way. Youâre 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. âSo,â she says eventually, glancing sideways. âHow long are you and Steve planning on pretending youâre not together?â
You choke on air. âWeâre notââ
âYeah, yeah,â she interrupts. âThatâs what he says too.â
You groan, dropping your head back against the railing. âEveryone keeps saying that.â
âBecause everyone thinks that,â she replies simply. âYou act like a couple. You fall asleep like one. You fight like one without actually fighting. Itâs kind of obvious.â
You stare at the sky, heart thudding. âWhat if Iâm reading it wrong?â
Max shrugs. âThen youâll survive. But I donât think you are.â
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 youâre 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 sheâs 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 didnât hurt a little.
The kids notice too. Of course they do. Dustin squints at you across the table during lunch one day. âWhy are you both acting like divorced parents at Thanksgiving?â
Mike nods. âItâs uncomfortable.â
Lucas frowns. âDid you fight?â
âNo,â you say quickly.
Steve says, âno,â at the same time.
Max sighs loudly. âThatâs worse.â
Every interaction feels charged now. Every glance you donât 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 Steveâs arm felt around you. About how natural it was. About how careful he is now, like heâs afraid youâll break if he touches you the wrong way. Across town, Steve lies awake doing the exact same thingâonly instead of wondering if he should reach for you, heâs convinced himself that wanting you at all might be the problem.
The weather turns without warning. One minute youâre at Steveâs place helping him reorganize the basementâbecause somehow thatâs become a normal thing nowâand 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 itâs taking something personally. You pause mid-step, box balanced in your hands, heart jumping even though you tell yourself itâs just a storm.
Steve notices immediately. He always does. âHey,â he says, too quick, already moving closer. âYou good?â
âYeah,â you lie, shifting the box onto a shelf. âJust surprised.â
Another crack of thunder answers you, louder this time. The lights flicker once, twiceâthen the entire house drops into darkness. âShit,â 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 houseâmaybe a branch, maybe something worseâand your nerves snap all at once.
You donât 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 itâs the most natural thing in the world. You grab onto his shirt, fingers curling into the fabric, breath shaky as thunder crashes again overhead. âItâs okay,â he murmurs immediately, voice low and steady near your ear. âItâs just the storm. Iâve got you.â
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 heâs shielding you from the world itself.
The rain pounds harder as the wind screams. The house creaks and groans, but inside Steveâs arms, everything feels quieter, safer. You donât 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 moreâand you still donât let go. Neither does he.
His grip loosens eventually, not pulling away but easing, like heâs checking if youâre 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 scaredâfocused. Protective. His hands linger at your sides like theyâre reluctant to leave, his thumb brushing your hip once without meaning to. His eyes search your face, worried, intense, softer than youâve ever seen them. âYou okay?â he asks again, quieter now.
You nod, swallowing. âYeah. Thanks.â
âOf course,â he says quickly, stepping back like the space between you is suddenly dangerous. âAnytime. I meanâI didnât even think. I justââ
âItâs fine,â you interrupt, though your voice comes out thinner than you want. âI didnât mind.â
He nods, running a hand through his hair, clearly overthinking it already. âRight. Good. I just⊠yeah.â
Another silence settles between you, thick and awkward and heavy with everything you didnât 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. âPowerâs back.â
âYeah,â you say, though you havenât 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 youâd been wrapped in seconds ago. The storm keeps going, but the moment is gone. And neither of you knows how to bring it backâor how to pretend it didnât mean something at all.
The storm drifts farther away, thunder fading into something distant and dull, like itâs 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 donât even try.
You tug it closer around yourself, fingers curling into the fabric. It smells like him and comfort and something steady you didnât realize youâd been craving all night. Steve sits closeâclose 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. âThat was⊠intense,â you say softly.
âYeah,â Steve murmurs. âDidnât realize storms could still get to me like that.â
âMe neither.â
Another pause stretches between you, but it isnât awkward this time. Itâs 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 itâthe 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. Itâs 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 youâve 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 heâs fighting the urge. âYou donât have to,â he says quietly, almost unsure. âIf youâre uncomfortable, I mean.â
âIâm not,â you answer just as softly. âIâm⊠comfortable.â
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 heâs 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. Steveâs 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, youâre not overthinking it. Youâre just there, wrapped in his jacket, his presence steady and warm beside you, leaning into him like itâs the most natural thing in the worldâbecause maybe, finally, it is.
A few days pass, and the tension doesnât fade the way you half-expect it to. It doesnât 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 basementâagainâyou 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 itâs a personal failing that he owns so much stuff. âYou donât have to do this,â he says, already tugging open another box. âI can finish it later.â
âYouâve been saying âlaterâ for months,â you point out, kneeling beside him. âIâm here. Itâs fine.â
He smiles at that, small and grateful, and it makes your chest feel tight in a way you donât 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. âI forgot how exhausting cleaning is,â you mutter.
Steve laughs and drops down beside you, back hitting the carpet with a thump. âYeah. Itâs a scam. Someone should warn people.â
You turn your head toward him, smiling, and for a moment you just look at each other. He looks tired. Comfortable. Real. Thereâs a faint smudge of dust on his cheek you fight the urge to wipe away.
You donât lie down together at first. Not really. Thereâs a careful space between you, enough distance to pretend youâre not thinking about how easily it would disappear. You talk insteadâabout 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 canât get out of your head. You talk about how strange it feels when life is quiet after everything youâve 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 donât mean to fall asleep. Neither does he.
When you wake, itâs gradual. Warmth first. Pressure second. Awareness last. Youâre curled against him, your face tucked into his chest, his arm wrapped securely around you like itâs 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 donât pull away.
Steve stirs a second later, breath hitching slightly when he realizes youâre awake. You feel the moment he becomes aware of the position youâre in, the way his arm tightens just a fraction instead of loosening. âHey,â he murmurs, voice rough and low.
âHey,â you answer.
Neither of you moves. The silence stretches, but itâs not awkward. Itâs fragile. Honest.
Steveâs fingers shift, brushing your knuckles gently, like heâs testing whether the moment will break if he acknowledges it. When it doesnât, he threads his fingers through yours, slow and deliberate. âI donât know when this started,â he admits quietly, staring at your joined hands like they might give him answers. âI donât know when I started⊠wanting this. These moments. Being close to you like this.â
Your heart beats hard against his chest.
âI just know,â he continues, thumb brushing over your knuckles in a soft, nervous rhythm, âthat I donât want it to stop. And Iâm scared to say that out loud because I donât want to mess things up. But I think pretending nothingâs happening is worse.â
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. âIâve been wanting this too,â you say quietly. âFor a while now. I just didnât know if I was allowed to.â
His breath leaves him in a shaky exhale, relief softening his features instantly. His hand tightens around yours, grounding, certain. âYou are,â he says immediately. âYou always have been.â
You smile, small and real, and lean back into him like you belong there. This time, thereâs no pretending itâs 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 isnât a mistake.
Itâs 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.
âWeâre out of pretzels!â Lucas announces like an alarm.
âPopcornâs gone,â Mike adds, peering into the bowl like it betrayed him.
Max holds up an empty chip bag. âTragic.â
Dustin clasps his hands together. âIf someone doesnât refill the snacks in the next thirty seconds, Iâm going to pass away dramatically on this carpet.â
Eleven nods in agreement. âMore chocolate.â
You and Steve exchange a lookâone of those looks youâve been trading far more often lately, the kind thatâs half can you believe them? and half come on, letâs 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. âSee? I told you. Theyâre like⊠a domestic relay team.â
Dustin nods solemnly. âItâs disturbing how coordinated they are.â
You donât 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 doesnât 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 heâs suddenly become, though the warm flush in his cheeks says heâs feeling the moment just as intensely as you are. âYou good?â 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. âIâm good.â
âGood,â 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.
Thereâs a small pause, and then he reaches up and brushes your cheek, fingers lingering a moment too longâjust long enough to make your breath catch. You donât look away, and he doesnât 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 knowâknowâthat heâs seconds from leaning in.
Youâre seconds from meeting him halfway. Which is, of course, the exact moment the kitchen door slams open so hard it hits the wall.
âWhat the hell is taking so long?â 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.
Dustinâs eyes nearly pop out of his skull. âI knew it!â
Lucas points dramatically at both of you. âThis! This is exactly what Iâve been saying!â
Mike claps a hand over his face. âOh my god, you were about to kiss. You wereâoh my god.â
Eleven tilts her head, serene as ever. âThey like each other,â she says simply, like sheâs announcing the weather.
Will tries valiantly to stay neutral but fails, biting back a grin. âThis is kind of adorable.â
You and Steve jump apartâor 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. âWeâwe were justâsnacks,â he stammers, holding up the bowl like proof in a trial.
âYeah,â you add weakly, grabbing a bag of chips with shaking hands. âJust snacks.â
Dustin folds his arms, unimpressed. âIf thatâs what you call that, then Iâve been misusing the word âsnacksâ my entire life.â
Max squints at Steve. âAre you seriously blushing? Youâre blushing.â
âIâm not,â he lies terribly.
Eleven steps forward and gently pats your shoulder. âItâs okay,â she says sweetly. âWe wonât tell Robin.â
âOh my god,â Mike groans. âPlease, please tell Robin. Sheâll have a field day.â
Steve shoots him a murderous look. âDonât you dare.â
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 closeâcloser than before, shoulder pressed to yours in a way that feels like a decision.
Max leans toward Lucas. âTold you. They were definitely a thing.â
Lucas smirks. âIâm just glad we got to witness it.â
Dustin sighs dreamily. âIâm so proud of them.â
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, Steveâs 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, itâs over something stupid. Youâre standing outside Family Video on a quiet evening, the sky soft with fading light, waiting for Steve to lock up. Youâre wearing his jacket againâsame one, same familiar weight on your shouldersâbut this time no oneâs questioning it. No teasing. No deflecting. No internal monologue about whether youâre 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 hasnât quite gotten used to how good this feels yet. âYou stealing my clothes again?â he asks, but thereâs no edge to it. Only warmth.
âYou keep offering them,â you reply. âSounds like a you problem.â
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. âIf you two are about to do something nauseating, I want at least ten secondsâ warning.â
Steve doesnât even look at her. He tips your chin up just a little and kisses youâslow and unhurriedâright there in front of her. Itâs soft and familiar and so easy it almost makes you laugh into it.
Robin makes a gagging noise so dramatic it echoes. âI hate this. I waited years for this and I still hate it.â
Steve pulls back just enough to grin. âYouâre welcome.â
âYouâre both disgusting,â she mutters, but sheâs smiling when she turns the lights off inside.
Later, itâs movie night again. Same couch. Same blankets. Same pile of bowls that somehow always ends up empty too fast. The difference now is that thereâs no pretending you donât 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 brieflyâabout the movie choice, about snacks, about literally everythingâthen 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 itâs instinct.
Halfway through the movie, youâre 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 heâs memorizing you. âYou comfy?â he murmurs.
âVery,â you whisper back.
âGood,â he says, and the word carries more weight than it should.
You fall asleep like that. Not by accident. Not because youâre 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 didnât 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, youâre not bracing for something to go wrong.
đ¶.đ”đČđŒđœ âËàż s2!steve harrington x wheeler!reader | đđđđđ¶đđ.đ„ Ę Youâve been Steve Harringtonâs best friend since middle school before the hair, the parties, and the heartbreak. But as high school changes everything and feelings youâve buried for years refuse to stay quiet, you start to wonder if the boy youâve always stood beside might finally see you the way youâve 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 hadnât 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 hadnât just been knocked down, made you stop.
âHold still,â you said, setting your books beside you and tugging the sleeve of your denim jacket over your hand. âYouâre bleeding.â
âIâm fine,â he muttered, though he didnât pull away when you dabbed gently at his lip.
âYouâre not.â You tilted your head, assessing the damage with clinical seriousness. âTommy Hagan?â
His mouth twitched despite the sting. âHowâd you know?â
âTommy thinks heâs intimidating. Heâs just loud.â
A laugh slipped out of himâsmall, 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 didnât understand. You rolled your eyes and whispered the answer. When the other boys made comments about you being âWheelerâs weird older sister,â 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.
âWhat are you doing?â you ask, shielding your eyes from the sun.
âThinking.â
âThatâs dangerous.â
He grins. âYou think I could be good at something?â
âYou are good at things.â
âLike what?â
You donât hesitate. âYouâre good at listening. Youâre good at making people laugh. Youâre good at pretending you donât care when you actually care a lot.â
He turns his head to look at you, and for a moment the joking slips.
âYou see too much,â he says.
âSomebody has to.â
He doesnât 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 heâll 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 theyâd been waiting for him to become someone worth orbiting.
You watched it happen the way one watches a storm build over distant fieldsâaware itâs 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 wasnât 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 heâd been out or how crowded the hallway became, he still leaned against your locker before first period. Like gravity pulled him there.
Youâd be mid sentence in your notes, highlighter uncapped, when his shadow fell across the metal door. You didnât need to look up to know it was him.
âGot gum?â heâd ask, casual, like he hadnât been scanning the hall for you.
âYou donât even like gum,â youâd reply automatically.
âYeah,â heâd shrug, pushing off the locker just enough to stand closer. âBut you always have it.â
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.
Heâd grin like youâd 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. Heâd straighten, grin widening, shoulders squaring as he stepped back into the role waiting for him.
Youâd 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, sheâd move too quicklyâcomposure slipping just enough to give her away. If it didnât, sheâd 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 Tinaâs, about Carolâs, about who would be there, you noticed that too.
âDo you think Steve actually likes those things?â she asked one night, sitting cross legged at the foot of your bed.
You didnât look up from your book. âHe likes feeling like heâs supposed to.â
She frowned slightly. âThatâs not what I meant.â
You turned a page you hadnât processed. âThen what did you mean?â
She hesitated, and that hesitation said everything.
âHe seems different lately,â she murmured. âMore⊠real.â
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.
âYes,â you said evenly. âHe is.â
She smiled faintly, like sheâd 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 wasnât the look he gave youâfamiliar, unguarded, easy.
It was something sharper. Curious.
You told yourself it didnât 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 didnât 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 parentsâ bedroom door had shut hours earlier. Nancyâs 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. Nancyâs 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 heâd 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 youâd imagined the sound.
Maybe he was dropping something off. Maybe he had come to talk to your dad. Mayb-
The faint click of Nancyâs 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 wasnât, it didnât matter.
He was allowed to like your sister. Nancy was allowed to like him. You didnât 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, maybeâthat 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 hadnât come to your window. And the part of you that had always waited for him to choose you, openly, clearly, without promptingâunderstood, in that still Indiana night, that he hadnât.
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.
Youâre halfway through the lunch line when you see them.
Nancy is already seated at the long table near the center of the roomâthe one Steve usually claims with Tommy and Carol. She isnât across from him. She isnât perched awkwardly at the end. Sheâs beside him. Close enough that her shoulder brushes his arm every time she moves. Close enough that thereâs 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 isnât accidental. It isnât uncertain. Itâs settled there like it belongs. Protective. Claiming. Intimate.
Your tray suddenly feels heavier. The clatter of dishes around you grows distant, warped, like youâre underwater. You can see Tommy laughing at something across the table. Carol leaning forward eagerly. Nancyâs hair falling over her shoulder as she tilts her head toward Steve. And SteveâHeâs 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 Nancyâs 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 hadnât 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 canât look away. Youâre cataloging details without meaning to. The way his thumb moves absently against her side. The way she doesnât 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 donât 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.
âHey!â he mouths across the room.
Like yesterday didnât exist. Like the years behind the gym and at your locker and in your bedroom watching horror movies didnât 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 flickersâsurprise, then something guarded. She straightens slightly but doesnât move away from him. Doesnât remove his hand.
She offers a small wave too.
You donât know which hurts more, that she looks apologetic, or that she doesnât 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 whatâs on it.
Thereâs 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 isnât 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. Thereâs 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 youâre 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 isnât the pull in your chest.
Across the cafeteria, laughter erupts at Steveâs table. Itâs louder than usual. Or maybe youâre just listening differently now. You donât 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 donât look at them again for the rest of lunch. Not because you donât 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 wonât be able to recover from gracefully.
So you sit at the smaller table by the windows, half in shadow, and focus on details that donât 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 itâs real, he ducks his head slightly, like heâs surprised by how much something amuses him. When itâs practiced, itâs louder, sharper, meant to carry.
This one is real.
You donât 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 werenât 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 youâre 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 donât know if heâs actually watching or if your body is just trained to expect him.
You donât look. You donât 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.
Heâs 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 sheâs testing how it fits. He leans down slightly to hear her over the noise, his expression soft in a way youâve 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.
âCanât tonight,â he says one afternoon, leaning against your locker but not quite meeting your eyes. âNancy wanted to study.â
Study.
You nod like itâs reasonable. âYeah. Of course.â
He lingers a second, like he expects you to say more. To tease him. To make it light.
You donât.
He pushes off the locker with a small nod. âRain check?â
âSure.â
You go home and sit cross legged on your bedroom floor with the horror movie youâd planned to watch together queued up in the VCR. You let it play anyway, though you donât 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 youâre 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 donât need to reorganize for the third time that week, when she appears in the doorway. Her arms are crossedânot defensive exactly, but braced.
âYouâre mad,â she says from the doorway.
You donât turn around. âIâm not.â
âYou are.â
You slide a book into place a little too precisely. âYou couldâve told me.â
âI was going to,â she insists. âIt justâhappened.â
You close your eyes briefly.
Nothing ever just happened with Nancy. She analyzed. She calculated. She chose.
âYou chose it,â you say quietly.
Her jaw tightens. âSo what if I did?â
You turn then, meeting her eyes fully.
âI didnât think youâd care,â 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 wouldnât I care?
Because he was yours first, in every way that wasnât 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 canât say any of that.
Instead, you cross your arms and shrug lightly. âWhy would I?â
Nancy studies you for a long moment, as though sheâs waiting for something to crack.
When it doesnât, she nods slowly. âOkay.â
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 doesnât 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 doesnât.
When he does, thereâs a faint awkwardness to it now. A half second delay before he speaks, like heâs recalibrating the dynamic.
âGot gum?â he asks one morning, offering you a tentative smile.
You hand him a piece without meeting his eyes.
âYou okay?â he adds, more softly.
âYeah.â
Itâs automatic.
He studies you like he wants to say something else. Like heâs 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.
âIâll see you,â he says.
And then heâs 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, âNancy and I were thinkingââ 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.
Youâre in the parking lot after school when it happens. The late afternoon sun is harsh, reflecting off windshields and chrome. Youâre digging your keys out of your bag, focused on the small, mechanical task of unlocking your car.
âHey.â
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.
âYou okay?â he asks.
The question isnât casual this time. Thereâs something searching in it.
You force a small smile. âFine.â
His brows draw together. âYouâve been weird.â
You let out a quiet breath through your nose. âHave I?â
âYeah.â He shifts his weight, studying you like heâs trying to piece something together. âYou donât hang out as much. You donâtââ He gestures vaguely. âYou just feel⊠far.â
Far.
The word lands heavier than it should.
You turn back to your car, sliding the key into the lock. âYouâre busy.â
âWith Nancy,â he says, supplying the name carefully.
You glance at him then.
âYeah.â
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.
âI didnât want it to be⊠weird,â he admits.
You swallow.
The truth is that it is weird. Itâs strange and sharp and nothing like the steady rhythm you built together over years. But you canât say that. Because saying it would mean admitting why.
âItâs not,â you lie smoothly.
He watches you for a long moment, like he knows youâre not telling him everything.
âYou can tell me if it is,â 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 youâve been trying so hard to be mature about this that itâs exhausting. Instead, you shrug.
âItâs fine, Steve.â
He looks unconvinced.
âSheâs your sister,â he says after a moment, as if that explains the tension. âI just didnât want you thinking I was, I donât know⊠ditching you.â
You almost laugh at that.
Ditching.
As if this is about scheduling conflicts.
âI donât think that,â you say carefully.
But you do feel replaced. Not erased entirelyâhe still seeks you out sometimes, still asks if youâre okay but shifted. Demoted. Moved from center to perimeter.
He steps a little closer.
âYou know youâre still my best friend, right?â
The words should soothe you. Instead, they twist.
Best friend. The title feels heavier now. More limiting.
âOf course,â 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.
âSteve!â
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.
âIâll see you later?â
âYeah,â 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 theyâre 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 donât look in the rearview mirror. Youâre not sure youâre ready to see what youâre leaving behind.
The tension doesnât explode all at once. It tightens first slowly, almost invisibly like a wire being pulled too taut.
By the time Tinaâs 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 hadnât wanted to go. Nancy insisted.
âItâll be fun,â 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 someoneâs shoulder. Kissing Nancyâs temple like itâs instinct. But thereâs 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.
âHey,â he says gently at one point, leaning close so he doesnât have to shout. âMaybe slow down a little?â
âIâm fine,â 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. âNance, you donât have toââ
âStop,â she interrupts, frustration bleeding into her voice. âJust stop acting like I canât handle myself.â
Youâre 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.
âIâm not saying you canât,â he says, trying to keep his tone even. âI justââ
âYou just what?â Nancy demands, louder now. âYou just want me to be perfect?â
The music feels too loud. The room too small. You step closer without meaning to.
âThatâs not what Iââ Steve begins.
âYou think I donât see it?â she continues, words tumbling over each other. âThe way you look at me like Iâm some kind of trophy?â
The accusation hangs in the air. His face goes pale.
âThatâs not fair,â he says quietly.
Nancy laughs, but itâs brittle. âFair? You want to talk about fair?â
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.
âI thought you cared about me,â Steve says, and thereâs no performance left in his voice now. Just confusion. âI thought this wasââ
âIt is,â she cuts in, then falters. âItâs justââ
âJust what?â he presses, desperation creeping in.
She shakes her head, pushing hair out of her face with unsteady hands.
âThis is bullshit,â she mutters.
âNancy.â He says her name like a plea. And then it happens.
âbullshitâ
The words land hard and sharp, cutting through the music, through the murmurs, through everything. Silence follows.
Not total silence, the party doesnât actually stop but the space around them feels vacuum sealed. Steve doesnât move at first. Itâs like the words havenât registered. Or maybe they have, and heâs just trying to stay upright under the weight of them.
âWhat?â he asks finally, voice barely audible.
Nancyâs breathing is uneven. Her eyes are glassy not just from alcohol.
âwere bullshitâ she repeats, softer now but no less devastating.
You watch his face change. The confidence drains first. Then the defensiveness. Then whatever fragile hope heâd been clinging to. He looks younger suddenly. Smaller.
Youâve seen Steve perform a hundred emotions, charm, indifference, amusement but youâve never seen this. Raw. Unshielded. The boy from behind the gym resurfaces in an instant.
He swallows hard. âYou donât mean that.â But thereâs no conviction in it.
Nancy looks away. The silence stretches.
âI thoughtââ he starts, then stops. His throat works like heâs forcing down something sharp. âI thought we were⊠good.â
Her shoulders slump slightly, the fight draining out of her as quickly as it flared.
âI donât know what we are,â she admits.
The crowd begins to disperse, discomfort outweighing curiosity. You remain rooted in place.
Steve nods once, stiffly. Itâs the smallest movement, but it feels monumental.
âOkay,â he says.
Just that. Okay. As if heâs accepting something inevitable. He doesnât yell. He doesnât lash out. He just steps back.
For a brief second, his eyes flicker across the room and land on you.
Itâs not intentional, maybe. Or maybe it is. But in that glance, you see it all.
Shock. Humiliation. Heartbreak.
He looks like heâs been hollowed out from the inside. Youâd 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 canât 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 youâve loved quietly for years walking out into the dark alone.
It was past midnight when you heard the familiar tap against your window.
Not Nancyâs. 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 Nancyâs 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. Heâs 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.
âHey,â he says softly.
Itâs the same word he used at the party. It sounds different now. Smaller.
You donât ask why heâs here. You donât ask if heâs 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 isnât sure what heâs 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 doesnât look at you. Instead, he studies the floor.
âI didnât know where else to go,â he admits finally.
The confession lands gently between you.
You nod. âYou donât have to explain.â
His mouth twitches like he might try to smile, but it falters before it fully forms.
âshe doesnât love me,â he says.
Thereâs 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.
âShe was drunk,â you offer carefully.
He shakes his head.
âNo.â His voice cracks slightly. âShe meant it.â
Silence stretches.
You donât rush to fill it. Youâve learned over the years that Steve talks more when he doesnât feel cornered.
He exhales slowly, dragging a hand through his hair.
âI keep replaying it,â he murmurs. âTrying to figure out when it changed. Or if it was ever⊠real.â
âIt was real,â you say before you can stop yourself.
He finally looks at you.
Your chest tightens under the weight of it.
âYou think so?â he asks.
You nod.
âShe cared about you.â
He swallows. âBut not enough.â
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.
âHey,â you say softly, echoing his earlier greeting. âThis doesnât mean thereâs something wrong with you.â
A humorless breath leaves him. âFeels like it.â
You hesitate, then reach for his hand. Itâs instinct. Familiar.
His fingers lace with yours automatically, like theyâve 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.
âI tried,â he says. âI really tried to be what she wanted.â
You know he did.
You saw it in the way he bit back comments he wouldâve 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.
âI know,â you whisper.
His shoulders slump.
âI justââ He shakes his head. âI thought if I was good enough, sheâd stay.â
There it is. The fear beneath the heartbreak. You step closer without thinking.
âYou are good enough,â you say firmly.
His eyes flicker to yours again.
For a moment, the air changes. Something shifts.
He studies your face like heâs seeing it clearly for the first timeânot as Nancyâs 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. âYou can stay here tonight.â
The offer is simple. Careful.
He hesitates. âYour parentsââ
âAsleep.â
âAnd Nancyââ
Your stomach tightens at her name, but you keep your expression steady. âShe wonât come in here.â
Thatâs 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.
âSteve,â you say softly. âItâs me.â
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 streetlightâs glow.
Thereâs a careful space between you.
An inch. Maybe two.
You can feel the heat of him. His breathing is uneven.
âYou think Iâm stupid?â he asks suddenly.
âFor what?â
âFor not seeing it sooner.â
You turn onto your side, facing him. âNo.â
He exhales slowly.
âI didnât want to lose her,â he admits. âI didnât want to fail.â
âYou didnât fail,â you say again.
Heâs quiet for a long moment. Then, hesitantly, he turns onto his side too.
Now youâre facing each other fully. His eyes search yours in the dim light.
âThanks for letting me come here,â he murmurs.
âAlways,â 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 heâs 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.
Itâs 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.
âDonât go anywhere,â he mumbles, half asleep already.
Your throat tightens.
âIâm right here,â you whisper.
And you stay. Wrapped up in the quiet aftermath of someone elseâs 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 otherâs 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. Thereâs 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 youâre 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 youâve done this a thousand times, even though you havenât. 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 heâs afraid you might disappear.
You donât move. You donât want to break whatever this is. You canât 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. Heâs 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.
Itâs 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 voiceâlow and thick with sleep.
ââŠYouâre still here.â
You swallow softly. âYeah.â
Thereâs a pause. A quiet recalibration.
And then, slowly, he becomes aware of the position youâre in. Of his arm around you. Of the way youâre tucked against him.
He stills. For a second, you think he might pull away. He doesnât. Instead, his hold adjusts, not loosening. Steadier. More intentional.
âDid Iââ His voice is rough from sleep. âDid I keep you up?â
âNo,â you say honestly. âYou didnât.â
Another pause.
âI slept,â he murmurs, almost to himself. âLike⊠actually slept.â
You canât help the small smile that touches your lips. âMe too.â
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.
âYou smell like that shampoo youâve used since middle school,â he mumbles.
You huff a quiet laugh. âThatâs not creepy at all.â
âItâs familiar,â he corrects softly.
The word does something to you.
Familiar.
He finally loosens his arm enough for you to turn carefully in his hold. Itâs 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.
Heâs close. Too close.
Morning light softens his features, erases the sharp edges of last nightâs 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.
Thereâs no confusion in them. No embarrassment. Just something steady.
âYou stayed,â he says quietly.
âI said I would.â
His gaze lingers on your face longer than it usually does. Not scanning. Not distracted. Seeing.
âYou always do,â he murmurs.
Your throat tightens.
Thereâs so much you could say. So much youâve never said.
He studies you like heâs piecing something together.
âYou know,â he begins slowly, âwhen I figured⊠when i figured she didnât love meâŠâ
You brace yourself.
âIt hurt,â he continues. âBut not just because of her.â
You frown slightly. âWhat do you mean?â
He exhales.
âI think Iâve been trying to make something work because I thought I was supposed to. Like if I checked all the boxesâpretty girlfriend, parties, the whole thing then that meant I was doing high school right.â
You donât interrupt.
âI kept thinking if I was good enough, sheâd stay,â he says. âBut last night⊠when I leftâŠâ
His eyes soften.
âI didnât want to go home.â
You know.
âI wanted to come here.â
The words land carefully between you.
âBecause youâre safe,â he says simply.
Safe.
You nod slowly. âYou donât have to earn that.â
He swallows, something shifting behind his eyes.
âI think Iâve been blind,â he says quietly.
Your heart stumbles.
âBlind?â
âTo whatâs been right in front of me.â
The air in your room feels thinner.
You try to keep your voice steady. âSteveâŠâ
He lifts a hand slightly, brushing a loose strand of hair away from your face. The touch is gentle. Unhurried.
âI donât know what this is yet,â he admits. âAnd I donât want to mess it up by rushing it or saying the wrong thing.â
Your pulse pounds in your ears.
âBut I know,â he continues, voice steadier now, âthat when everything fell apart last night⊠you were the only person I wanted.â
Your breath catches. He doesnât look away.
âI donât want to lose you,â he says.
The vulnerability in that confession nearly undoes you.
âYou wonât,â you whisper.
He searches your face like heâs waiting for something more.
You take a breath. Youâve spent years swallowing it. Years convincing yourself that loving him quietly was enough. But lying here, wrapped up in the best sleep youâve had in months, with his hand still resting warm against your waist. Youâre tired of being quiet.
âIâve loved you,â you say softly.
The words are almost swallowed by the morning light.
He stills. Not recoiling. Not shocked. Just listening.
âSince we were thirteen,â you continue, voice barely above a whisper. âI just⊠never thought youâd see me that way.â
Silence fills the room.
It stretches long enough that doubt begins creeping in.
Then his thumb movesâabsently tracing the curve of your hip like heâs grounding himself.
âYou idiot,â he says gently.
Your heart drops. Then he shakes his head, a small, almost disbelieving smile touching his lips.
âNot because you loved me,â he clarifies. âBecause you thought I didnât see you.â
Your breath stutters.
âIâve always seen you.â
He leans his forehead lightly against yours.
âI just didnât know what I was looking at.â
The admission is soft. Honest.
âI donât want to jump from one thing into another,â he says carefully. âAnd I donât want to use you as some kind of rebound. You deserve better than that.â
You nod.
âI know.â
âBut I also know,â he adds, âthat whatever this is⊠itâs not new.â
It isnât. Itâs 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. Itâs history.
He squeezes your waist lightly.
âCan we just⊠start here?â he asks. âNo labels. No pressure. Just us.â
You smile softly.
âYeah,â you breathe. âJust us.â
Thereâs 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. âWeâre going to have to talk to her.â
You nod.
âI know.â
It wonât be easy. Nothing in Hawkins ever is. But for the first time in a long time, you donât 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 heâs 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 didnât 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 doesnât feel like the aftermath of something ending.
đ¶.đ”đČđŒđœ âËàż s3!soft Billy Hargrove x girlygirl!reader x coworker!Steve .đ„ Ę Billy is very much alive in this universe;)
đđđđđ¶đđ.đ„ Ę 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.
Youâve always liked things neat. Neat handwriting. Neat ponytails tied with satin ribbons. Hawkins loves you because youâre 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. âSheâs our good one,â they say, half joking, fully serious.
You donât mind it. You like being good. You like the certainty of it.
Itâs late fall, the year after Billy moves to Hawkins. The air smells like damp leaves and cold pavement, Youâre 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. Youâre waiting for your dad. You always wait exactly where youâre supposed to.
You hear the engine before you see him. Itâs 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 doesnât 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 doesnât.
The door slams. Heavy boots hit pavement. You feel his presence before he speaks, like static crawling across your skin.
âYou always sit out here alone?â
You donât look up immediately. You finish the sentence youâre 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.
âIâm not alone,â you reply calmly. âThere are at least three security cameras pointed at this field.â
One corner of his mouth lifts.
âThat so?â
âYes.â
He studies you like heâs trying to figure out if youâre 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 heâs mildly inconvenient. It unsettles him. He climbs the bleachers without asking, the metal creaking under his weight. He doesnât sit next to you. He sits one row below. Close enough to be felt. Not close enough to be invited.
âWhatâre you reading?â he asks.
You hesitate, then turn the cover slightly so he can see.
He squints at the title. âSounds boring.â
âIt isnât.â
âBet it is.â
You sigh, close it again, and look at him fully for the first time.
âYou donât have to sit here.â
âYou donât have to be here either.â
âI was here first.â That earns you a real smirk.
Thereâs 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, âYou donât seem like youâre from here.â
âI was born here.â
âYeah,â he says. âBut you donât feel like it.â
The comment catches you off guard.
Before you can respond, headlights sweep across the lot. Your fatherâs car.
You stand immediately, slipping your book into your bag. âThatâs my ride.â
Billy watches you descend the bleachers.
âYou always do what youâre supposed to?â he calls after you.
You pause at the bottom. âYes.â
âMust be nice.â
You donât 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 youâre not sure of the answer. He notices how teachers smile at you differently. He notices how you laugh softly, like youâre trying not to take up too much space.
The second time you talk is in the library.
Youâre at your usual table, index cards spread neatly in front of you. He walks in like he doesnât belong there. Because he doesnât.
He doesnât ask permission before sitting across from you.
âYou follow me in here?â you ask without looking up.
âMaybe.â
âYou donât read.â
âDonât I?â
You glance up at him then, and he holds up a random book he grabbed from the shelf. Itâs 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.
âYouâre not scared of me,â he says quietly.
âNo.â
âWhy not?â
You consider that. âYou havenât given me a reason to be.â
Itâs the first time someone in Hawkins hasnât already decided who he is. Thatâs 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. âDonât judge it till you listen.â
You do listen. In your room. Low volume. You donât hate it.
You start leaving him notes inside returned library books. Small corrections to the margins of pages you know he didnât understand. He never mentions them. But the next time he checks out a book, the difficult words are already underlined. With him, thereâs no performance. No expectations. Just⊠dangerous, careful attention.
He doesnât flirt with you the way he flirts with other girls.
With you, heâs⊠careful. But, you donât 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 doesnât 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 doesnât 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 itâs casual observation. It isnât. 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 itâs a private joke you alone share.
âVanilla,â he says one day, leaning against the counter with that insufferable smirk.
âYou donât even like vanilla,â you reply before thinking. The words are sharper than intended.
âMaybe I changed my mind,â 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, âOh my god,â before shoving a stack of cones into the freezer.
You pretend you donât hear him. You donât 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 doesnât honk. Doesnât call attention. He just waits. Like heâs been there forever, like he knows exactly how long it would take for you to panic.
âCar trouble?â he asks, hands stuffed in his jacket pockets, eyes scanning you like a question heâs not ready to answer.
âYes,â you admit. âI didnât mean for it toââ
He cuts you off with a small shake of his head. âIâll fix it.â
You want to protest. You want to tell him you donât need help, you never need help. But the engine sputters again. And then itâs silent.
He crouches under the hood, hands sure and skilled, working in silence. You watch him, noticing every movementâthe curve of his neck, the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw sets in concentration. Itâs different from the arrogance he wears on the surface. Beneath it, thereâs⊠focus. Care. Attention. And heâs giving it all to you.
âYou always do what youâre supposed to,â he says quietly, almost to himself.
âYes,â you answer. âAlways.â
âEver wanna not?â
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, itâs 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 doesnât speak for the first few minutes. The world passes by too fast to be caught in words.
âYouâre late,â he says after a stretch of silence.
âTwo minutes,â you say, breath catching in your chest.
âStill,â he says, and itâs 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 youâve never said aloud.
He listens. He always listens.
Thereâs 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. Itâs quiet, insistent, like heâs trying to memorize the way your eyes catch the light, the curve of your jaw, the delicate tremor in your lips when you realize heâs looking that closely.
You feel exposed, but not in a bad way. Not like heâs judging. Itâs 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. Youâre 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 heâs afraid you might disappear if he doesnât hold you carefully. Your breath hitches. Youâve 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, itâs nothing like the reckless, consuming kisses youâve imagined in movies or read about in novels. Thereâs no desperation. No hurry. No pressure. Itâs 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 doesnât 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 quarryâs edge.
The moonlight ripples across the lake behind him, scattering silver across the waterâs 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 thatâs so rarely reserved for anyone. And you realize, in a moment of startling clarity, that this boy, the one whoâs 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 itâs intimate in a way that words canât 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 youâve seen from him before. Vulnerable, almost unreadable, but entirely sincere.
âYou okay?â he whispers, voice low, cautious, like heâs 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 youâre 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 doesnât either. Hawkins doesnât know. Your parents couldnât understand. And you like it that way. Itâs yours.
Sometimes, heâs distant. A hand on the dashboard, jaw tight, eyes fixed on the road as if the world beyond the headlights doesnât exist. Sometimes, heâs 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 shouldnât fall for him. Everyone says itâs a bad idea. And yet, you canât 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 heâs guarding a secret heâll 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 youâre 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 Billyâs presence, every time your eyes soften like youâre seeing someone only you are allowed to see. He feels late to a fight he never signed up for, a fight for something thatâs never been his to claim, watching you slip farther and farther into someone he canât reach, someone dangerous, magnetic, and entirely yours.
Billy leans a little closer, shoulder brushing yours, and itâs 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 doesnât speak. He doesnât 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. Itâs 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, itâs a reminder that youâve chosen a world he canât step into. That youâve 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 Billyâs hand brushes yours again, deliberately slow, and itâs 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 canât stop looking, canât stop feeling, canât 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 youâdangerous, soft, infuriating, and perfect in ways youâll never admit aloud.
âËàż
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, heâs 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. Heâs 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 heâd never admit it aloud. He wants to protect you, not just because heâs possessive but because every moment without you feels like a risk. He hates knowing the world can touch you when he isnât around, hates knowing your smile could be for someone else, even if itâs only fleeting.
âYouâre quiet tonight,â 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.
âIâm⊠thinking,â you reply, voice soft, head resting against the seat. âAbout⊠us. About this.â
He reaches out, brushing a strand of hair from your face, and itâs enough to make your chest seize. âI think about you too,â he says, almost too quietly to hear, but the weight in his gaze says everything. "Every laugh, every look, every little thingâsheâs mine" he thinks. "And I canât let her forget it."
Sometimes, in the quiet of these drives, he talks. About himself, about his past, about the way heâs 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.
âDonât think I donât notice,â he murmurs. âEvery little thing. You think youâre subtle, but I see it.â
And you grin, leaning closer, heart racing. âMaybe I want you to notice,â you whisper, fingers brushing the side of his arm, sending sparks through the air.
Billy had sensed Steveâs 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. Heâs possessive, yes, but more than that heâs desperate, hungry, utterly captivated. "I canât lose her", he thinks every night, every quiet pause, every gentle brush of her fingers. "Iâve 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 doesnât need to speak, the comfort of him, the warmth radiating from every line of his body, says more than words ever could.
âI never thoughtâŠâ he murmurs, voice low, rough with emotion, ââŠI never thought Iâd find someone who gets me. Who⊠sees me. And yet, here you are.â
You turn toward him, eyes soft, heart swelling in your chest. âYouâre not impossible,â you whisper, brushing a strand of hair from his face. âYouâre just⊠you. And I⊠Iâm glad I found you, Billy.â
He swallows, jaw tightening, a rare vulnerability flickering across his expression. âIâm not gonna lie,â he admits, voice husky, âI was scared. Scared Iâd mess it up, scare you away, or that youâd pick someone safer⊠someone like Steve.â
Your heart falters, not from jealousy but from knowing just how much he cares, how much heâs willing to risk, how deeply heâs opening himself to you. âBillyâŠâ you murmur, leaning into him, âI donât care about safer. I care about you. Only you.â
A small, almost shy smile tugs at his lips, and the rare softness that only you get to see spreads across his face. âGod⊠Iâve been waiting to hear that,â he says, voice catching. âTo know itâs real. That Iâm not imagining this, or that I didnât scare you off.â
You laugh softly, a warm, light sound that makes the tension in his shoulders ease. âYou didnât scare me,â you insist, brushing your fingers across his. âYouâre⊠you. And I love you for it.â
Billyâs 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. âI love you too,â he whispers, voice low, trembling with the weight of months spent hiding it. âIâve loved you longer than I realized. Longer than I shouldâve let myself.â
You close the last distance, lips brushing his in a kiss thatâs gentle and fierce all at once. Itâs a promise, a seal on everything thatâs 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 Steveâs 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. âI promise,â he murmurs, voice low, fierce, tender, âIâll always be here. Iâll always fight for you. Always.â
You smile, heart full, chest aching in the best way possible. âI know,â you whisper, leaning in for one last kiss as the stars begin to peek out. âAnd Iâll always be yours.â
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 âĄ
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
youâve known joe keery your whole life without ever really knowing him. family friends, shared spaces, missed conversations. years later, a new yearâs 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 doesnât need to be loud to be seen.
jealous type | @piece0fgarbag
Watching Sabrina arrest Joe awakens a fierce jealousy inside youâtime to remind your boyfriend who he belongs to.
golden globesâ 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 canât help but bring up the fact that your boyfriend made a song for Charlieâ Aka âCharlieâs Gardenâ you canât 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.
IâM STARTING A RUMOR ! | @/bluetimeombre
HEâS JUST KEN ! | @/bluetimeombre
The âhatâ 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
âlets start off by adressing the elephant in the roomâ | @djx0com
WHEN a interviewer asks how you and your co-workers feel about âCharlieâs Gardenâ, not knowing who the love songs Djo wrote were about you
âWHERE IS MY HUSBAND!â | @/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 keeryâs 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
â gossip â | @svinz55
youâre a friend of the stranger things cast and following the end of the series, you find yourself closer and closer to joe â and the fans pick up on it instantly.
I dare you to try me | @liasinthemoon
itâs 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 youâd 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 youâre just âtoo basic,â Joe makes it his mission to proveâright in front of everyoneâhow extraordinary you actually are.
