Pairings: Steve Harrington x fem!reader
Summary: Getting ready for your Valentine's date, you end up waiting for your boyfriend to show up, and it's a long wait.
Warnings: Established relationship, mention of tears, kissing.
WC: 4.9k
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Valentines masterlist
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You started getting ready at six on the dot.
Not because you were nervous- okay, maybe a little, but because tonight felt important.
Valentine’s Day. A real date.
One Steve Harrington had planned, which meant there was at least a fifty percent chance it was either wildly romantic or wildly overthought. Either way, you wanted to be ready.
The bathroom filled with steam as the shower heated, fogging the mirror almost instantly.
You stepped under the spray and let out a slow breath, shoulders relaxing as the warm water hit your skin.
The day melted off you: the nerves, the waiting, the constant replaying of Steve’s grin when he’d told you, “Seven-thirty. Don’t be late.”
You smiled to yourself, tilting your face into the water.
You used the good soap. The one that smelled like strawberries. You lathered shampoo into your hair and hummed along faintly to the song drifting in from your bedroom radio, something soft and romantic, a little cheesy. Perfect.
You rinsed slowly, deliberately, like the extra time mattered. Like tonight deserved care.
By the time you stepped out of the shower, wrapped in a towel, your skin was warm and soft, your hair dripping down your back.
You caught your reflection in the fogged mirror and grinned, wiping a clear patch with your hand.
You looked…happy.
Back in your room, the radio was louder now. You turned it up another notch, letting the music fill the space as you moved around, towel tucked tight as you dug through your dresser for underwear. You sang along without really realizing you were doing it, spinning once in the middle of the room, laughing quietly at yourself.
You laid your outfit out carefully on the bed.
You’d agonized over it for days. Tried things on when you were alone, ruled them out, circled back. Eventually, you’d landed on this dress.
A soft fabric, not too fancy, not too casual. Something Steve would notice without thinking you were trying too hard. He’d once told you he liked when you wore things that moved when you walked.
You stepped into it, tugging it into place. The fabric settled perfectly, hugging you in a way that made you feel confident without feeling exposed. You checked the fit in the mirror, turning slightly, lifting your arms, making sure it sat right, then smoothed out the puffy skirt.
Your lips curved into a pleased smile.
“Yeah,” you murmured to yourself. “He’s gonna like this.”
You blow-dried your hair next, flipping it upside down the way Steve once said looked “cool as hell,” even though you knew he was just flirting. You styled it with care, not too done, not too messy. You wanted to look like yourself. Just… elevated.
Steve deserved the best for whatever he was planning for you tonight, so you need to make sure you were your prettiest.
Makeup came next. Light foundation, blended carefully. A touch of blush. Mascara that made your lashes dark and full. You hesitated over lipstick, then chose something soft, glossy. Something kissable.
You’d imagine the night ending in a lot of kisses.
You pressed your lips together, studied the result.
The clock on your dresser reading:
7:05 PM.
Your pulse fluttered.
Plenty of time.
You spritzed perfume at your wrists and neck, the scent subtle but warm, enough to smell like a bed of roses and a vanilla cake.
You slipped on your necklace, the one Steve had given you for no reason at all last fall. You’d teased him about it, asked what the occasion was.
He’d shrugged. “Didn’t need one.”
It was beautiful, a perfect heart locket, to which you kept a photo of the two of you;
It was your faviourite photo, one you had taped to your mirror, along with many others over the years you’ve been together…well, that being 2 years.
You, standing with a big grin on your face as you leaned into him, and him, right beside you with his hands around you, planting a big fat kiss to your cheek.
You fiddled with the locket, your fingertips brushing over the delicate detailing on the cold shiny metal.
It made you wonder what he would get you tonight, what gift he chose to give to you on a night he said he planned perfecty.
Grabbing your shoes, you sat on the edge of the bed, slipping them on, fixing the strap in and giving it a tap.
Your gift for Steve sat on your nightstand, wrapped neatly, a bow tied just right. You glanced at it and felt a rush of affection so sudden it almost hurt.
You pictured his face when he opened it. The way he’d try to play it cool and fail.
You checked the clock again.
7:22 PM.
Your heart fluttered.
Steve should be here any minute, he always shows up early, just so he can gawk at you and have more time with you, maybe take longer to drive there to stretch it.
You turned the radio down slightly now, listening for the sound of a car outside.
Steve’s car wasn’t subtle. You knew its engine, the way his BMW sounded when pulling up, the way the door creaked when he got out. You waited, heart thumping lightly.
Nothing yet.
It’s ok, he probably stopped by the flower shop to pick the best bouquet for you. You thought to yourself as you stood up.
You grabbed your cardigan and draped it over your arm, pacing once across the room, then back. You looked at yourself in the mirror again, tilted your head, smiled.
Looking at you, all dressed up for him made you even more excited to see him, wondering what he was adorned in, was he wearing that one button up he loved? Or those tight pants you beg him to throw out.
Maybe he bought a new pair just for tonight.
7:29 PM.
Any second now.
You moved to the window, peeking through the curtains, scanning the street. Porch lights glowed up and down the block. Somewhere nearby, a car door slammed-
But it wasn’t his. You exhaled, unbothered.
Then then clock clicked over.
7:30 PM.
You straightened instinctively, heart jumping.
Still nothing.
You waited another minute. Then another. You hummed quietly, rocking on your heels, excitement buzzing in your chest.
7:35 PM.
Your smile softened, just a touch.
You checked the street again. No headlights. No familiar car.
You told yourself it was fine. He could be late sometimes. Traffic, maybe. Or he got caught up with something stupid, like always. You moved back to your bed and sat, careful with your dress, hands folded in your lap.
7:40 PM.
Your chest tightened, just slightly.
You peeked out the window again, lingering longer this time. The street was quiet. Empty.
You checked the clock. Then the phone. Then the clock again.
Maybe something came up. Maybe he was planning a surprise. That thought made you pause, hope flaring briefly.
Maybe he wanted you waiting. Maybe this was part of it. He wanted to get you nervous so when he showed up, you’d be relieved
You laughed softly at yourself, shaking your head.
That must be it
7:55 PM.
Your excitement had dulled now, settling into something restless.
You sat on the edge of the bed again, smoothing invisible wrinkles from your dress. Your leg bounced unconsciously. You pressed it still with your hand.
“Come on, Steve,” you murmured.
You picked up the phone this time, thumb hovering over the buttons. You didn’t dial. You didn’t want to seem impatient. You didn’t want to ruin whatever he’d planned.
You set it back down.
8:03 PM.
The room felt different now. Quieter. Heavier.
You crossed your arms loosely, hugging yourself, eyes flicking to the door, the window, the clock. Every sound made your heart jump, only to fall again when it was nothing.
You tried to reason with yourself. He could be running late. He could be stuck. He could have misjudged the time. Steve did that sometimes.
But he would call.
Wouldn’t he?
Your throat tightened, confusion creeping in where excitement used to live. You looked down at yourself, the dress, the necklace, the careful makeup, and felt suddenly foolish.
8:12 PM.
You exhaled slowly, sinking back onto the bed.
The radio played on, oblivious.
Your gift for Steve sat untouched on the nightstand, ribbon perfect, waiting.
You stared at the door, then the clock again, heart sinking just a little deeper with every passing minute, the joy of getting ready now echoing hollowly in the quiet.
He should have been here a while ago.
And he wasn’t.
8:28 PM
If he waited to show up now in an act of surprise, you’d be unimpressed.
Your eyes prickled with tears as you stared out the window, drawing the curtains back with a delicate finger, your driveway as empty as it was an hour ago.
Your lip quivered as the next song on the radio played, you had paid it no mind for the last 40 or so minutes, but as Whitney Houston’s Ah’s and Whoo’s echo in your room, you slumped.
Because As Whitney says:
The clock strikes upon the hour, and the sun begins to fade, and you now have the time to figure out how to chase your blues away.
Because how long can you wait for someone to show up when they clearly won’t?
The song faded out eventually, replaced by another you didn’t recognize, but you barely noticed.
You were still standing by the window, fingers resting against the glass, staring at the empty driveway like it might suddenly apologize and fill itself.
It didn’t.
You let the curtain fall back into place and turned slowly, the movement careful, like if you moved too fast you might shatter. Your room looked the same as it had an hour ago, warm light, the faint smell of your perfume lingering in the air, but it felt wrong now. Like a stage after the audience has left.
You looked over to your bed, one you made perfectly in case he came over after, if he came over at all.
You frowned, almost laughing at the fluffed up pillows, new soft pink cases to match the occasion, the matching duvet ruffled from sitting on it for too long, rustling around on the mattress while waiting.
You crossed the room and sat on the edge of it, hands smoothing over your skirt once again without thinking, now from habit.
The fabric whispered under your fingers.
You’d chosen this dress for him. You’d imagined his eyes flicking over you, the slow grin, the inevitable “Wow.”
You swallowed hard.
The clock ticked loudly. Each second felt deliberate, mocking. You leaned forward, elbows on your knees, staring at the floor.
Maybe you should call him.
The thought came and went three times before you even reached for the phone on the table.
When you finally did, it felt heavy in your hand, like it weighed more than it should, your thumb hovering over the dials.
If you called and he didn’t answer, that would hurt worse.
If you called and he did… what would you even say?
Hey, you forgot me?Hey, it’s Valentine’s Day and I’m dressed up and alone and trying not to cry?
You set the phone back down.
“Stupid” you whispered to yourself, but your voice wobbled.
You stood again, restless, pacing the room once, twice. You checked the mirror and flinched a little at the sight of yourself. Not because you looked bad, because you didn’t. You looked lovely. Radiant, even. That almost made it worse.
You were all dolled up for someone who couldn’t bother to show up.
How pathetic was that?
You pressed your lips together, your gloss long gone after licking it anxiously, then reached up and unclasped the necklace. The heart-shaped locket felt heavier in your palm than usual. You stared at it for a second before setting it gently on the dresser, like it might bruise if you were rough with it.
The radio kept playing.
You walked over and turned it down until it was barely a murmur. The silence pressed in immediately, thick and uncomfortable. You hugged your arms around yourself and sat back down on the bed, curling slightly inward.
Your mind started spiraling.
Did he really forget?What if he changed his mind? What if tonight wasn’t important to him at all?
You shook your head, trying to banish the thoughts, but they clung stubbornly.
Two years didn’t mean immunity from being hurt. If anything, it meant there was more to lose.
Your stomach growled, almost angry at you for not eating until now.
You winced, pressing a hand over it.
“Okay, okay,” you muttered. The sound grounded you a little. Hunger was tangible. Manageable. Something you could fix.
You glanced at the clock one more time.
8:46 PM
And you felt something inside you finally give up. Not break. Just… sink.
You stood, grabbed your cardigan properly this time, and slipped out of your room. The hallway felt long as you walked it, heels clicking softly against the floor. You paused halfway down the stairs, debating going back up and changing.
You didn’t.
Downstairs, the kitchen light snapped on, harsh and unforgiving. You squinted at it, suddenly aware of how dressed up you were to be standing in your own kitchen alone. You opened the fridge first out of habit, then the freezer.
Cold air rushed out.
Your eyes skimmed over frozen peas, ice cream, forgotten popsicles, then landed on the stack of TV dinners shoved into the back. You pulled one out and read the label half-heartedly.
Chicken something.
Close enough.
You slid it into the microwave and leaned against the counter while it hummed to life. You rested your forehead briefly against the cabinet, eyes closed.
The microwave beeped, startling you. You grabbed the tray, burning your fingers slightly, and hissed under your breath. The normalcy of it almost made you laugh.
Almost.
You carried the dinner into the living room and dropped onto the couch, kicking your shoes off again. You curled your legs beneath you awkwardly, your dress riding up slightly, and didn’t bother fixing it. You ate slowly, mechanically, staring at nothing.
The food was bland, but it filled the ache in your stomach.
Not a dinner at a restaurant like you had expected.
But it was something, at least.
When the tray was half-empty, you reached for the remote and turned the TV on. The volume felt too loud, so you turned it down. Then down again. You flipped channels without really seeing them until you landed on a movie already halfway through.
A romance.
You scoffed softly. “Of course.”
You almost changed it. Instead, you let it play, staring blankly at the screen. The characters laughed. Touched. Fell into each other easily, like love was simple and timing always worked out.
You picked at your food, appetite fading again.
As the movie went on, the weight of the night settled deeper into your chest. Not sharp anymore. Just heavy. You leaned sideways against the arm of the couch, head resting there, eyes glossy.
You thought about all the little things you’d done to get ready. The careful choices. The anticipation. The way you’d believed, without question, that he would show up.
That hurt more than anything else.
Eventually, you pushed the empty tray aside and pulled the blanket over your shoulders. You curled into it, knees drawn up, cardigan bunched under your chin. The TV light flickered across the room, shadows dancing on the walls.
You stared at the screen without really watching.
At some point, your eyes burned again, and this time you didn’t fight it. Tears slid quietly down your cheek, soaking into the couch cushion. You didn’t sob. You didn’t make a sound. You just let them fall, exhausted.
The movie swelled toward its happy ending. You turned your face away from the screen and closed your eyes, listening instead to the muffled dialogue and canned laughter.
Your Valentine’s Day hadn’t been loud or dramatic in its failure. It had just… faded. Like a song turned down too low.
And you lay there, still dressed for a night that never happened, letting the hours pass, waiting for the hurt to dull enough that you could finally sleep.
And as your eyes begin to succumb to the night, the doorbell rings, then rings, then rings, and rings again aggressively.
You snap up, cuddling the cardigan closer to your chest for warmth.
Then the knocking comes, frantic and loud.
You rush up, the pounding in your head not only because of the door, but the headache coming-on.
You saw the car through the window before you heard his voice.
“Sweetheart!?” He yelled out, his fist banging on the door desperately
You stopped in front of the door, staring at the wooden plan that divided you and him.
You fought back tears as he called out your name.
He just decides to show up after almost 3 hours?
“Please! I’m sorry!”
You let him beg for a minute, his voice cracking.
“Honey! I’ll ma-”
You open the door, cutting him off. “-Go away, Steve”
His eyes go wide, his gaze drifting down your frame, wincing at the ruffled up dress, creased and gone un-used.
“Wow” he mumbled, frowning.
His hand almost trembled as he held out flowers for you, fresh and bloomed.
You would call them beautiful under any circumstance, any except this one, that is.
You watched his Adam’s apple bob in his throat, his eyes squinting in the way that you could tell he forgot his glasses, the one he kept a secret from everybody else.
“These are for you…” he whispered, almost like if he spoke louder, you’d disappear.
You looked down at the arrangement, a mix of your favourites.
You shook your head “Don’t want them”
“Please, Honey” he pleaded, holding them further out to you.
You pushed them away, shoving them out of his hands and to the ground.
He winced, gaping at the mess of flowers.
His eyebrows furrowed, his lip quivering.
If you looked hard enough, you could see the bags under his eyes, the tired look on his face.
You stayed quiet, letting him stand there to rehearse the speech he’s made up on the way here.
“I’m so sorry… I didn’t forget-”
You scoffed “-so you meant to keep me waiting? You just chose not to show up?”
He bit his lip, shaking his head “No, not at all, baby- you know I’d never do that-”
“So what’s your excuse then? You can’t say traffic, or-or whatever else excuse there is, it’s been 3 hours, Steven! 3!”
He flinched at his full name on your tongue, coming off so sour it burns his stomach.
He shook his head again “Can- can I come in?”
You chuckled, hugging your arms around you for comfort “No, but you can take those shitty flowers and go”
His nose flared, his eyes swelling up “They were your favourites…”
“I don’t care, Steven-!”
“-Steve” he spoke pointedly
“I don’t care that they’re my favourites, I don’t care that you’ve showed up after 3 hours, I’d prefer if they were my least favourite and you didn’t come at all!”
“Oh yeah?” he asked, his tone sassy as if he was being pushed to the edge “and make you believe I forgot?”
“You did forget! Steven-”
“-Steve”
“You left me waiting like an idiot! An idiot! I waited for you and you never came! Do you know how humiliating that is? I sat here all dolled up for you for nothing!”
“You look beautiful” He stated, his eyes drifting your body ones again “I love that dress on you”
You took the time to analyze him.
His hair was dishevelled, you could tell he ran his hand through it on the way.
He wore a white button up, a few lower buttons messed up like he was in a rush.
He wore fitted pants, ones you haven’t seen before.
He bought new pants.
“I don’t care what you love, because it’s clearly not me” you spat in the heat of the moment.
“What?” he gasped incredibly “Of course I love you, I love you more than anything, there- there’s nothing- I love more- Honey, please, I’ll make it up to you-”
You huffed “I don’t want a make up! I wanted it tonight! Where were you?”
He lowered his head in shame, sighing deeply “on my couch-”
“-you were on…your…couch?” you repeated skeptically.
This was bullshit, if he really cared about tonight, he would have made the effort.
“I fell asleep…-well, I took a nap- and- and- I didn’t wake up until like- uh- 25 minutes ago”
He stood there for a second after saying it, like he was waiting for you to throw something.
Or shut the door.
Or say something sharp enough to finally end the conversation.
When none of that happened, he swallowed and kept going.
“I didn’t mean to,” he said, quieter now. “I know that doesn’t fix anything, and I know it sounds stupid, but I really didn’t. I told myself I’d just close my eyes for a minute, because I was exhausted and I didn’t want to show up half-dead. And then I woke up and it was dark and I swear my stomach dropped through the floor.”
You didn’t interrupt.
You just leaned against the doorframe, arms folded, listening. Your chest still hurt, but the sharpest part of it had dulled into something heavy and tired.
“I knew I messed up, big time” He went on “didn’t know if you were going to open the door or not..”
He finally looked at you then. Not trying to charm you. Not trying to smile his way out of it. Just open and scared in a very un-Steve way.
You exhaled slowly through your nose.
“Yeah,” you said. “I didn’t want to”
That was it. No yelling. No accusations. Just the truth.
His jaw tightened. “I’m sorry.”
You nodded once, like you were acknowledging a fact rather than accepting an apology. “I was really excited tonight.”
“I know,” he said immediately. “I could tell all week, I really hyped it up”
That hit harder than you expected. Because of course he noticed. Of course he did.
You shifted your weight, suddenly aware of how long you’d been standing there. “You could’ve set an alarm, or slept earlier” you said, not angry so much as frustrated.
“I should’ve,” he agreed. No argument. “I didn’t think I’d fall asleep that hard, but that’s on me. I should’ve planned better, but I only got back from work at 6”
Another quiet stretch passed between you. You could hear the faint hum of the porch light. A car passed somewhere down the street.
“I didn’t forget you,” he added, softer. “I know that might not matter right now, but I didn’t. Tonight mattered to me. You matter to me.”
You rubbed at your arm, staring past him for a moment before looking back.
“…I know you didn’t do it on purpose,” you said.
His shoulders dropped a fraction, like he’d been holding them up waiting for you to say that.
“But it still sucked,” you added.
He nodded. “Yeah. I know, baby.”
You sighed, tired in a way that had nothing to do with sleep. “I don’t want to fight on the porch.”
“Me neither,” he said quickly, like he was desperate, maybe because he was.
You hesitated for half a second longer, then stepped back and opened the door wider.
“You can come in,” you said. “Before I change my mind.”
His eyebrows shot up. “Okay. Yeah. Okay.”
He stepped inside carefully, like he was testing the ground. You closed the door behind him and leaned against it for a moment, letting the house settle around you again. It felt quieter now, but less empty.
You walked toward the living room, heels clicking softly, and sat on the couch, pulling the blanket back over your legs. Steve followed and sat beside you, leaving a small but deliberate gap between you.
“I’m still kind of upset,” you said.
“I figured,” he replied. “That’s fair.”
“And I’m probably not done being annoyed.”
“That’s also fair.”
You glanced at him. “You’re not gonna argue with me?”
“Nope,” he said. “This is on me, you’re allowed to be upset, honey”
That earned him the faintest smile from you.
You both sat there for a moment, the TV still on low volume, neither of you really watching it.
Then his stomach growled. Loudly.
He groaned and leaned back. “Sorry”
You shook your head. “Did you eat today?”
“No,” he admitted. “I was saving it for dinner.”
You stared at him before humming, nodding to yourself.
“I’ll probably eat when I get home, it’s fine”
You stood and headed for the kitchen without another word. You could hear him moving behind you, leaning against the counter while you opened the freezer.
“You don’t have to do that,” he said.
“I know,” you replied. “But I don’t want you getting shaky or grumpy.”
“Too late for grumpy,” he muttered.
You popped the TV dinner into the microwave and leaned against the counter while it hummed. The silence wasn’t awkward anymore, just quiet, the way it gets with someone you’ve been around long enough not to fill every gap.
“I really am sorry,” he said again, from behind you. “I know I keep saying it. I just don’t want you thinking I brushed this off.”
“I don’t think that,” you said. “I just need you to not do it again.”
“I won’t,” he said without hesitation. “I promise.”
The microwave beeped after a moment and you slid the tray out and handed it to him with a fork.
“Don’t get it on the couch,” you warned.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he said, taking it like it was a gift.
You both went back to the living room. He ate, clearly starving, and you curled back up under the blanket. When he finished, he set the tray aside and wiped his hands on a napkin.
“Thank you,” he said.
“Mm-hm.”
He shifted a little closer, slow and obvious about it, giving you time to pull away if you wanted to.
You didn’t.
All you wanted was your boyfriend to comfort you, ease the pain he had been the cause of.
All you needed tonight was him, you’re stupid boyfriend.
His arm came around your shoulders, light at first. You leaned into him after a moment, resting your head against his chest.
“I forgive you,” you said quietly. “I’m still annoyed. But I forgive you.”
He let out a breath that sounded like he’d been holding it for hours. “Thank you.”
You tilted your head slightly to look at him. “Next time, set three alarms.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And if you’re tired, just call me.”
“I will.”
“And don’t make Valentine’s Day plans if you think you’re gonna pass out.”
He smiled faintly. “Noted.”
You both settled back into the couch, the TV murmuring in the background.
His fingers fiddled with the fabric of your dress, toying with the strap of your sleeve.
His breath hitched, and you tried not to notice the way he stared at you intently, his eyes boring into you like you’d disappear if he tore his gaze away.
“You look so beautiful” He stated quietly, like it was a secret you weren’t aware of.
You fought back a smile, not wanting to give in to his charm.
“Thanks” you replied under your breath, biting your tongue so you don’t say anything else.
He sighed “Will you wear this again if I take you out soon?”
You really hoped he understood that you didn’t want him to make up for tonight, he didn’t need to beg for forgiveness or prove himself, he just needed to own up and acknowledge his mistake.
You never wanted to remember the feeling of being stood up tonight, but you wanted to forget the way his eyes swelled up with tears even more, the image imprinted in your mind.
“When is soon, Steve?”
“Any day you’ll have me, tomorrow? I’m free all day Wednesday, we can go to the city-”
“-I don’t want to go to the city”
Steve bit his cheek, nodding once before blinking ideas running through his head.
“Well- the restaurant is pretty hard to get into- I was lucky I even got in so unless you want to go n-” he watched your deadpanned face finally turn to him, blinking dully at him with a raised brow.
He nodded frantically “-I can see what I can do- I’ll-I’ll call…”
It was silent for a moment, you went back to watching the movie, and Steve sat there, staring at the carpet, wondering how the hell he’s oing to make this up to you.
You deserve the best, after what he’s put you through, you always deserve the world.
He just knows he never wants to make you feel like an idiot again.
I will never not be completely and hopelessly in love with this man. 80 years from now I'm gonna be telling my great-grandkids about the love of my life, and I will 100% be talking about Steve Harrington.
