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Stranger Things Reading List (Series/One-Shots) - I (Full)

I made my reading list for “will read” and “currently reading” ST fanfics here on Tumblr. All are beautifully written by its amazing writers. Please visit their blog and check their works. Happy Reading and don’t forget to comment and reblog their works! You may also reblog this list to share this with everyone/mutuals.

Reading List - Part II

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[upsidedownwithemmy]

Steve Harrington x fem!reader

[4.4K] loosely based on the movie float, lifeguard!steve, a summer full of swim lessons. mentions of drowning, eventual smut 18+

SWIM LESSON SCHEDULE

LESSON #4

Steve made Eddie leave.

Not immediately, not in any sort of cruel way; but eventually, after twenty minutes of the longer haired boy splashing around the deep end, Steve had levelled him with a look that could only be described as long suffering.

“You know,” Steve had sighed, arms crossed over his bare chest as Eddie floated on his back, his hair like seaweed on the pool surface, “some of us are trying to work here.”

Eddie grinned, entirely unashamed. Sunlight bounced off the water in fractured lines, turning the tattoos on his chest into moving pictures. “And some of us,” he countered, “are supporting our best friend through her aquatic trauma.”

“You’re cannonballing beside her every five minutes,” Steve squinted at him.

Eddie made a huffing sound, all faux offence and mockery. “It’s called exposure therapy, Harrington. Look it up.”

Steve looked to you for backup, brows raised expectantly, but you were far too used to this behaviour by now. Besides, the two boys were chest deep in the dark blue water now, Steve subconsciously floating further from you as he tried to wrangle Eddie towards the pool steps. And you found that the distance didn’t panic you as much as you once thought it would. You were still standing waist deep, happy to see your toes wiggle on the blue pool tiles.

Eventually Eddie checked the time on the cheap silver watch hanging from his wrist and cursed loudly, remembering he’d promised Gareth he’d help move some amps before band practice. He hauled himself from the pool in a shower of water, curls dripping onto the tiles as he shoved his feet back into his boots without drying them first.

“You two have fun,” he announced too loudly, pointing between you both. “No drowning. No weird sexual tension. Behave yourselves.”

“Get out,” you and Steve snapped, looking anywhere but at each other.

Eddie barked out a laugh at that, eyes too bright with vindication before he saluted lazily and disappeared through the gate, humming a song you didn’t recognise under his breath.

Quiet settled in his wake. The low hum of the pool filter continued steadily from somewhere behind you, bugs buzzed lazily in the trees beyond the fence line. Water lapped softly against your ribs where you stood in the shallows, fingers now curled over the edge of the pool in lieu of Steve’s arm. Somewhere in the distance, a lawnmower started up.

Steve exhaled through his nose and made his way over to you, careful not to splash too much. “Fuckin’ finally,” he muttered.

You snorted, a decidedly unattractive sound and you looked down at the water to hide your grin. Steve moved a little closer, shoulder brushing yours underwater. It shouldn’t have felt like such a big thing. It was barely even a touch. But fuck, your breath still snagged somewhere in your chest all the same. It felt like the water should have rippled from your body, bones rattling, heartbeat loud enough to make waves in the water.

“You okay?” he asked softly. It wasn’t exactly pity, nothing too gentle, just quiet enough to make you far too aware that Steve cared. Like he was constantly checking the weather inside your head, making sure the skies were still clear enough to continue.

You nodded quickly. “Yeah.”

Steve’s gaze caught your own, the steadily rising sun finally catching his features. Brown eyes turning gold, hair turning honey, skin turning bronze. “You sure?”

“Mhm.” You could only mumble, head nodding.

His eyes narrowed slightly like he didn’t fully believe you but he let it go after a moment, pushing himself away from the pool wall and motioning toward the middle of the shallows. “C’mon then,” he said. “Next lesson.”

You groaned immediately. “That sounds ominous.”

Steve grinned. “Nah. You’re ready.”

You wrinkled your nose, the distaste on your features more than apart t and the motion of it let you know your face was catching the sun, skin stinging. “People tend to say that before terrible experiences.”

The boy swam backwards, arms outreached, the water practically parting for him with every measured move. He grinned at you, watching you watch him. “You survived floating,” he offered helpfully.

“Barely.”

Steve barked out a laugh at that, loud and surprised, and god—it was addictive, making him laugh like that. His whole face changed when he did it. Softer and brighter, like summer had made him just for you.

“C’mon, when have I ever let you astray?” Steve held out his hands to you, water dripping from his forearms, beckoning you with his fingers in hopes you would follow him and after only the briefest hesitation, you did.

That alone felt monumental.

You sucked in a breath, resisted the urge to hold it, but you stepped forward all the same. Slow motion movements, like dragging yourself through a dream that was maybe once a nightmare, you followed Steve to the darker side of the pool. You gasped when the water hit your chest, a new cold lapping at your breasts until they were submerged too.

Your toes burned from staying up on them but still, you stayed, you didn’t panic. Steve noticed it too as he stood a foot away from you, his eyes warm, his chin dipped into the water. You could tell by the way his expression flickered into something almost proud.

“See?” he said quietly. “Already gettin’ better.”

The praise warmed you embarrassingly fast; faster than the sun, than the summer heat that was sticking to the skin that you hadn’t submerged.

“Alright,” he started, running a hand through his wet hair, “today we’re gonna work on going underwater.”

Your stomach dropped instantly, the quiet, gnawing ache turning into an open pit. Your heart fell into it, crashing between your ribs on the way down. “Oh absolutely not.”

Steve sighed like he’d expected that exact response. “C’mon.”

“No.” You didn’t have it in you to sound polite, to even attempt to make the word sound softer, more apologetic. The steps leading out of the pool looked like an ocean away. “Steve—.”

“You trust me, remember?” The boy’s words were much gentler than your own and he took a few steps towards you, hands up and laying across the surface like he’d catch you if you fell.

You felt the world tilt a little. “That was before I knew you were going to try to drown me.”

He rolled his eyes and scoffed but you knew him well enough now to see the fondness there, the lift of his mouth that almost made a smile. “You are not gonna drown from putting your face underwater for two seconds,” he told you softly.

You wanted to be home. You wanted to be on solid ground in dry clothes. You wanted to kick Eddie’s bedroom door open and demand to know why he set this stupid thing up in the first place. Instead, you swallowed the lump in your that and gave a weak laugh. “You don’t know that.”

Steve smiled then, an awfully pretty thing that made it much harder to deny him of anything. He shrugged, slipped deeper into the water. “I literally do. It’s my job,” he grinned at you.

“Look, why don’t we just—.” Steve made his way over to you, chest rising from the water and he took your hands in his own. His gaze met yours, his expression turning serious. “Hey, look at me, yeah? I’m not gonna let you go, okay? I swear to god, I’ll be here the entire time. Nothin’ bad will happen.”

Water dripped from his nose onto his lips as he watched and waited, his words tumbling over you as you tried to separate them from the irrational fear that was making your chest too tight. You thought back to lakes and dark skies and darker water. Deep and endless with fallen branches and weeds growing from the sand you couldn’t see.

Your pulse stumbled, your breath hitched. It was easy to remember the hands that pulled you out when the same ones were holding you now. You stared at the way Steve’s fingers wrapped around your own, his big palms engulfing yours. He was warm despite the cool water, an anchor in the middle of Hawkins community pool.

“Okay,” you whispered, the word getting stuck and twisted in your throat. But still, an agreement.

Steve’s brows shot up in surprise but he hid it well, replacing his shock with a smile that rivalled the sun above. “Yeah?” He murmured, double checking as his gaze travelled over your face, searching for anything that would suggest you were going to change your mind. He found none. “Atta’ girl.”

But still, your face must’ve shown your fear, because Steve tried another approach.

“How ‘bout you just listen first?” His voice was practically honey, melted butter on a open windowsill, softer than you’d ever heard. His thumbs stroked over the backs of your hands and you forgot about the water kissing at your collarbones. “You don’t even have to fully go under today, okay? We’ll just practice until your comfortable.”

You could only nod but the moment was firm and resolute so Steve took it as a good sign. But even though you knew Steve was there to help, the deep end glimmered darkly behind him, a seemingly endless blue that stretched beneath the surface and your chest tightened instinctively at the sight of it. Steve followed your gaze immediately.

“Hey.” Gentle again, achingly so. “Eyes on me.”

You looked back, blinking quickly until you felt the prick of tears that had threatened to show themselves subside.

“There you go.” His tone dropped quieter still. “That’s all you gotta think about, alright? Not the deep end. Not the lake. Just me.”

Your heart turned traitorous and you wondered if he’d hear it the way you did when you fell into the lake, if the drumbeat you’d heard in your own ears would be loud enough for Steve to hear too. Steve seemed entirely unaware of the effect he had on people sometimes. Or maybe just on you.

He moved closer again until your knees almost bumped beneath the water and the sun was suddenly too hot. You watched the muscles in his shoulders, watched the movement of them ripple and twist as he held you closer to him that you would’ve deemed necessary. But you didn’t mention it, you didn’t move away.

“First thing,” he murmured, “you gotta learn how to breathe properly.”

You scoffed, a little offended. “I know how to breathe, Harrington.”

He grinned at you, lopsided and boyish. His hands squeezed your own and he mumbled, “well, that remains to be seen.”

You glared at him halfheartedly, a weak attempt at best considering you were still stiff with fear, clutching his hands like a lifeline.

“When your face goes underwater,” he explained, ignoring your expression, “you breathe out through your nose slowly, okay? Little bubbles. If you hold your breath too hard, you panic.”

“Little bubbles,” you repeated skeptically. You stared at the surface of the water, as if daring something sinister to appear from its depths. Instead, you saw the wiggling outline of your legs and Steve’s, your feet close to his, toes almost touching. “Little bubbles. Fuck—“

“You’ll be fine, I promise,” Steve whispered. “It’s easier than you think.”

You nodded as if you agreed with him, chest rising and falling a little faster than before and you steeled yourself, hands holding Steve’s way too tightly but he didn’t complain. He only squeezed back. But still, you couldn’t bring yourself to drop any lower into the water. Frustration crackled in you, tears pricking at your eyes again but annoyance for yourself surpassed the fear and you swore, blinking harshly at the blue sky as you tried to pull yourself together.

Then Steve let go of your hands and lifted his own carefully, giving you every opportunity to pull away before he touched you. “Can I?” he asked quietly.

Hawkins seemed too quiet then, like even the cicadas had stopped their buzzing to hear your answer. The filters and generators were merely white noise as you stared at the boy and his hands that were reaching for either side of your face.

You nodded before you could overthink it.

One hand settled lightly at the back of your neck, fingers threading gently into the damp strands at the base of your skull. The other brushed your jaw, callouses rough against your skin, a gentle scratch that sent goosebumps over your forearms, across your chest, and you hoped to god that Steve didn’t notice.

“Relax your shoulders,” Steve said softly. “Good,” he praised instantly when you did, your breath coming out in a small shudder as your body went a little limp. His thumb brushed over the spot near your ear and you wondered if it was deliberate, you wondered if he knew. “Now, tilt your chin down a little.”

You obeyed automatically, a mortifying concept that you would dissect later in bed when you were alone and too warm but Steve’s eyes stayed fixed on yours the entire time, warm and honey brown and impossibly steady.

“You’re safe,” he told you quietly. “Okay?”

Something inside your chest ached at the sincerity in his voice and now more than ever, you believed him. You could only more once, heart hammering, your hands reaching to wrap around Steve’s forearms, clutching at him as he held you, as he guided you.

“Atta girl,” he said again, his voice so quiet it sounded hoarse, a little rough.

God. Fuck.

“Now,” Steve continued, “I just want you to put your mouth underwater first. Blow bubbles. That’s it.”

“That’s it,” you echoed weakly.

“Yeah, that’s it, sweetheart,” he smiled, voice dropping to an octave that was solely for you.

“And if I die?” You tried to sound serious, but maybe Steve knew you were just trying to buy some extra time. Your hands were tight around him, your fingers barely managing to meet as they held onto his wrists and his thumbs were stroking over the spots of skin they were touching, maddening circles that made everything seem a little fuzzy.

He snorted, the sound much more attractive than when you did it. “You’re so dramatic.”

“All I’m saying is, you’ll have to be the one to break the news to Eddie,” you shrugged. God, you felt like you were babbling, panic mixing with a dry humour that felt clumsy as the words tumbled from your mouth. The water was so close to your chin, your mouth, your nose. “Besides, you’ll miss me when I’m gone.”

Steve didn’t say anything about breaking the news of your demise to your best friend but he did say: “I’ll miss you as soon as this lesson is over,” he murmured lightly. “Now, c’mon. Give it a try.”

Your heart nearly stopped functioning altogether. Because what the fuck was that supposed to mean and how were you supposed to focus on your breath now? You stared at him for a second too long before finally inhaling, careful and cautious, and then you started bending your knees.

The water crept toward your chin immediately. Every instinct screamed at you to jerk back upright, the shock of the water near any part of your face a sign of something awful to come. The bottom of the pool suddenly seemed too far down.

Steve’s hand tightened slightly against your neck. Not crushing but a gentle squeeze, his thumb rubbed over the damp hair there, his eyes fixed on your own as he bent down with you, following you the entire time. “You’re okay,” he reminded you. “Slow breaths.”

You tried. Really, you did.

The second the water touched your lips panic sparked hot beneath your ribs, but Steve stayed right there, close enough that your knees brushed his underwater.

“Blow out,” he encouraged gently. “That’s it.”

You lowered your lips beneath the surface and immediately sputtered. Chlorine filled your mouth, a too clean taste that was cold and sharp ans shocking against your tongue. You couldn’t help it, you sprung back up from the water, coughing and embarrassing amount.

Steve caught you before you could stumble backwards, hands leaving your neck and jaw to grip at your waist. “Easy,” he soothed quickly. “Easy, sweetheart, you’re alright.”

He was watching you with wide eyes, as if he was worried he’d pushed you too far. But he held on, the ripples you’d made from your dramatic exit from the water circling you both. The sun was beating down hotter now, higher in the blue sky above but mortification burned through you warmer than any Indiana summer.

“I hate this,” you croaked.

“I know.” His thumbs rubbed absentminded circles against your sides before he seemed to realise what he was doing and quickly let go. He stayed near, cheeks pink and flushed looking, from the sun or his proximity to you, you weren’t sure. But his voice was achingly gentle when he told you: “But you still did it.”

“Barely.”

“Still counts.” He smiled, lopsided and soft.

You groaned dramatically, letting your forehead thunk lightly against his shoulder and you felt how he froze underneath you before his finger poked at your ribs. “You good there?”

His voice vibrated through his chest into your skin.

You wanted to die. Honestly, it seemed like the only reasonable solution to everything that had happened that morning. You wondered if today would’ve been easier if you’d taken Steve up on his offer to walk you home last night, if it would’ve been different now. If something would’ve happened. “M’gonna drown myself voluntarily now,” you mumbled into his shoulder.

Steve let out a breath of a laugh and warm hands settled carefully at your upper arms. He guided you backwards, just an inch or two, just enough so he could find your gaze with his own.

“Hey.” Sincerity threaded through every word. “You’re doing good. Seriously.”

“Really?” You asked reluctantly, brows crinkled, cheeks and neck warm. You hated how you sounded, how you felt. Weak and scared and a little bit pitiful.

But Steve nodded and grinned, thumbs tracing down your arms, leaving droplets of water in his wake. “Yeah, really. You wanna stop for today?”

You considered it, for a second, maybe five. But the surface of the pool had stilled, blue and calm and still very clear. You saw your toes, saw Steve’s. It wasn’t that deep, the logical conclusion was right in front of you. If you went under, you could stand and come straight back up.

You could.

You should.

Fuck.

You glanced at Steve, lips twisting as you thought about what to say, heart racing at the prospect. Fuckfuckfuck. “Uh, can you hold my hands again?”

Steve didn’t question you, but his brows rose all the same as he offered you both his hands. They engulfed your own, still amazingly warm despite the cool water and he waited for your next instruction.

He didn’t expect you to say: “I’m gonna just— dunk. Do it with me.” You swallowed tightly and then remembered yourself. “Please?” You added.

Steve looked too shocked to speak. He considered telling you to hold on, to wait, to maybe take some baby steps before leaping into the literal and proverbial deep end but you looked like you’d made your mind up. Determination set in your pretty features, your hands gripping his like they were your only lifeline.

So he nodded, held onto you a little tighter and moved close enough for his toes to touch yours. “Ready?” He whispered.

You nodded, too sick to speak.

“Three, two, one…”

Fuck. You bent your knees.

The water climbed your cheeks, cool against skin that was still warm from the sun. For a split second, panic flared bright and familiar, something instinctive and sharp and awful but then Steve squeezed your hands and the world disappeared.

Everything became blue.

The sounds of summer vanished. No incessant cicadas, no distant lawnmowers, no rustling leaves. The pool filter became a distant hum, softened into something that barely existed at all underneath the surface.

Your entire world was now just water and light. And Steve.

You blinked underwater, surprised that you could, wondering when the fear would spike, when absolute horror would set in, when things would turn too murky to see. But sunlight fractured above you in ribbons of gold, breaking apart against the surface. It turned Steve into something dreamlike, his features softened by the movement of the water between you. Not that there was much.

His hair floated slightly around his forehead, a wild thing and his eyes were on yours, his lips stretched prettily into a wide smile. Tiny bubbles escaped from your nose, little, tiny bubbles, exactly like he'd told you.

The realization hit slowly, rolling over you like a summer morning; warm and lazy, like you were just waking up from a too long sleep. You were doing it.

You were underwater and you weren't drowning. Your lungs weren't burning, an unblinking darkness wasn't reaching for you. There was no lake, no too strong current and fuck, weeds weren’t wrapping around your ankle, pulling you downdowndown.

Only blue tiles beneath your feet and Steve in front of you.

His eyes widened slightly as he saw understanding settle across your face, a pretty flicker of understanding in your own gaze and pride bloomed in him, an uncontrollable thing that broke free from his ribs. He couldn’t say it, not underwater, but you could tell. It made you smile too, big enough that water kissed your teeth and you jerked slightly at the coolness of it, but Steve just held you tighter.

The water shifted between you as he drifted towards you a little more. Hands tugging at your own, knees bumping, chests impossibly closer. If you hadn’t already been holding your breath, you were sure you would’ve.

His fingers remained wrapped around yours, shifting from cupping your hand to linking between your own, a wholly intimate thing, far more so than the two of you half naked beside each other. The strangest thing happened then, a whole thirty seconds after you’d been brave enough to disappear under the surface. The fear that had occupied so much space inside your chest, that awful, burning knot that had lived in your chest for so long simply just… loosened. Like unclenching a fist you hadn't realized you'd been holding for too long.

It hadn’t disappeared, not yet. Not that quickly. But it unravelled slowly, unwound itself from the spaces between your ribs and your heart and your lungs and it gave you space to breathe. It let you feel the water on your skin, it let you blink against the chlorine and watch the way the sun danced above you.

The expression felt ridiculous underwater, but you grinned wider still, lips parting as if you could laugh, and Steve saw it. His own grin appeared instantly, bubbles leaving his lips, his nose. They popped and fizzed between you both, reaching for the surface that was only a short swim away.

God. He was beautiful. Even distorted through the rippling water, especially in the shifting light of the sun, shapes of yellow and light blue scattered themselves over his chest, his cheeks. They caught his eyes, turned them from brown to honey, his cheeks warm and sun-kissed, even under the water.

A stream of silver bubbles rose from your mouth too, racing toward the surface, floating upward between you. You waited for the water to rush into your throat, to floss your lungs but nothing happened apart from a slight burn, a reminder that you would need to breathe soon. But staying down here worn Steve, alone and in the quiet together, seemed worth the sting.

The moment into something weightless and for a beat, neither of you moved. You simply floated there, hands linked and suspended in blue. The surface shimmered above your heads like liquid glass and sunlight painted Steve in different shades of gold.

His eyelashes looked darker underwater. His freckles softer. Closer. Jesus Christ, everything felt closer and the world outside the pool seemed impossibly far away.

The party, the achingly awkward goodbye. The walk home Steve never got to give and the disappointment you'd seen him try to hide.

All of it drifted somewhere beyond the water you were floating in. And whatever you were feeling, thinking, Steve seemed to feel it too. His grin faded, not completely. It just softened into something else, the corner of his mouth relaxing as his gaze lingered on yours. Underwater, here with the boy, you found you couldn’t look away.

The sunlight moved across his face and your own, a shifting mosaic of gold and blue. Your pulse stumbled and water made everything feel too slow. Dreamlike and hazy and so not real.

Steve's eyes dropped briefly to your mouth. The motion was tiny, a barely there thing but god, you still saw it. Heat flooded through you despite the cool water surrounding your body and for one absurd second, you wondered if he could hear your heartbeat. You wondered if the water carried it, if it echoed between you.

Reality caught up with you then, a full fifty one seconds after you first sunk underneath the blue surface. You felt the burn in your lungs get too hot to ignore, reaching your throat and the panic that had lived inside of you for so long came back, a rattling thing that had you planting your feet on the pool tiles and pushing up. You burst from the surface, droplets flying as you sucked in a breath and Steve was there too, hands still holding yours, fingers intertwined.

Steve looked just as startled by the moment as you felt, his chest heaving although you were so sure he could hold his breath much longer and more comfortably than you could. He shook his head, not daring to let go of you to sweep his hair back and dark brown curls were plastered to his forehead instead.

It made him look younger, boyish. With freckles and water droplets stuck to his cheeks and you were breathing too hard as you stared at him, wide eyed and in wonder. You just weren’t sure what had you feeling more astonished: the fact that you had willingly gone underwater or that Steve Harrington looked like he wanted to kiss you.

And then the world crashed back all at once. Sunlight. Heat. Birdsong. The stupid hum of the filter. Your gasp. Steve's laugh.

Water streamed down your face as you broke through the surface beside him and you sucked in a breath so large it hurt. Steve was laughing openly now, head tipped back and the sound was a joyous, ecstatic thing that made you smile so hard your cheeks ached.

“I did it,” you breathed. The words sounded almost astonished.

Steve looked at you and his laughter softened, pride taking place over excitement and all of it was bright enough to rival the sun over your heads.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. You hadn't let go of his hand but he hadn’t let go of yours either. “Yeah, you did.”

The water lapped gently around your chest, the surface of it still moving from your exit from below, the trickle of water surrounded you both as it dripped from your soaked hair, the lobes of your ears, the tips of your noses. Steve’s eyelashes were spiked together, too pretty to look at

Neither of you moved, to be honest, neither of you seemed particularly eager to. And somewhere beneath the celebration and relief and your racing heartbeat, a different realization settled between you.

You'd gone underwater.

Somehow the part that lingered in your mind wasn't the fear or the dark or the suffocating memory of the lake. You didn’t think about the weeds and the sludge that caught you from below, ankles trapped, your shirt wrapped around your ribs, branches clawing at your feet.

All you could remember was that it was Steve who was waiting for you when you opened your eyes.

[spderjmz]

slow collapse ✦ s. harrington

- warning: pretending to handle everything better than you actually are will make you collapse!!! (literally)

- cw: reader faints

the thing nobody tells you about surviving the end of the world multiple times is that eventually your body stops understanding the difference between crisis and normal life.

after a while, panic just becomes routine. sleep becomes optional. eating becomes something you remember other people should probably do.

and grief... it settles into the walls beside you so quietly you almost stop noticing it there.

hawkins felt like that now. just heavy and wrong.

the sky split open above the town like a wound that refused to close, red lightning flickering through the cracks at night while everybody pretended they still knew how to live underneath it.

and somewhere in the middle of all that, you and steve had slowly started missing each other.

not physically but emotionally. like ships passing in fog.

because every second of every day belonged to someone else now.

max still hadn’t woken up.

lucas barely left her bedside unless somebody forced him to shower or sleep. you’d become good at sitting beside him in silence, rubbing slow circles against his back while he talked quietly to max like she could still hear him.

sometimes he read comic books out loud.

sometimes he cried.

sometimes he just stared at her unmoving hand for hours while the record that was already engraved in his head played again.

you stayed anyway.

steve was unraveling in his own quiet way.

ever since that doomed night, something inside him had changed shape.

he smiled less now. laughed less.

and every time dustin looked at him with that hollow kind of heartbreak children shouldn’t carry, steve wore this awful expression like he personally failed him somehow.

like he should’ve dragged eddie back alive with his bare hands.

you’d wake up some nights to steve gasping beside you, sheets twisted around his legs, eyes wide and disoriented from nightmares he never fully explained.

just flashes of bats, blood, and eddie.

and every time it happened, you stayed awake afterward just listening to him breathe because you were terrified he’d wake up hurting again.

which meant you stopped sleeping too.

not intentionally. it just… happened.

days blurred together after that. coffee instead of meals. catnaps in hospital chairs beside lucas pretending you were fine because everyone else seemed worse.

because how could you possibly complain about being tired when max was lying unconscious in a hospital bed and steve looked like grief was eating him alive from the inside out?

so you kept going.

and going.

and going.

until your body finally decided for you that it was done.

the WSQK building smelled faintly like dust, coffee, and overheated wires.

the station had become some weird combination of safehouse and command center over the last few weeks. maps taped to walls. radio equipment scattered across tables. half-empty soda cans everywhere because apparently nobody in hawkins knew how to clean up after themselves during the apocalypse.

robin sat cross-legged on the floor flipping through radio frequencies while nancy argued quietly with jonathan near the bulletin board.

steve leaned against the desk beside you, exhaustion carved deep into the corners of his face while dustin rambled about supply routes.

you hadn’t realized how dizzy you felt until the room tilted slightly.

you blinked hard. focused on the wall.

fine. you were fine.

“…and if we cut through kerley lane we can avoid most of the military checkpoints,” dustin continued.

steve shifted beside you.

his arm brushed yours lightly. you leaned into it for half a second without thinking. he noticed immediately. always.

you saw his eyes flick toward you briefly. concern flashing there before he looked back toward dustin.

“you okay?”

“mhm.”

a lie.

a bad one apparently because his eyebrows pulled together immediately.

before he could ask again, the room spun violently.

your stomach dropped.

then darkness rushed up too fast to stop.

voices came back first.

panicked ones.

“holy shit—”

“move, move—”

“hey! hey, sweetheart, c’mon—”

steve.

your eyes fluttered open slowly to find yourself half-curled against his chest on the floor.

his arms were locked around you so tightly it almost hurt.

good. you liked the pressure.

your head pounded.

“there she is,” robin breathed somewhere nearby.

steve looked wrecked.

actually wrecked.

his face had gone pale beneath the freckles scattered across his cheeks, panic still sitting wide-open in his eyes even after seeing you awake.

“baby,” he said immediately, voice rough. “talk to me.”

you frowned weakly. “m’fine.”

“you passed out.”

instead of replying back you just closed your eyes briefly against another wave of dizziness.

steve’s hand slid behind your neck immediately.

“hey, hey— eyes open.”

you obeyed mostly because his voice sounded so scared it made your chest ache.

nancy crouched beside the two of you.

“when’s the last time you ate?”

you hesitated.

which was apparently answer enough.

steve went very still beside you.

too still.

“today,” you answered weakly.

“what today?” robin asked suspiciously.

“…coffee?”

“oh my-,” she groaned.

nancy sighed softly. “sleep?”

your silence stretched too long.

steve looked down at you slowly.

and suddenly you knew.

he’d figured it out. all of it.

the staying awake after nightmares. the skipped meals. the way you kept quietly taking care of everybody while letting yourself disappear somewhere in the process.

his expression changed instantly.

fear melting into guilt so sharp it almost looked painful.

“jeez,” he whispered.

“i’m okay,” you tried again.

“no, you’re not.”

the words came out rough.

not angry.

worse.

upset.

robin looked between the two of you carefully now, piecing things together.

“wait,” she said slowly. “have you been sleeping at all?”

you looked away.

steve cursed quietly under his breath.

that got everyone’s attention immediately because steve rarely cursed like that unless he was genuinely overwhelmed.

he scrubbed a shaky hand over his face before looking back at you.

“why didn’t you tell me?”

“we already had enough going on.”

his face crumpled slightly at that.

like the answer physically hurt him.

nancy stood carefully.

“she probably needs actual food and rest before she tries that again.”

steve nodded immediately before helping you sit up slower this time, one arm firm around your waist.

protective to the point of ridiculousness.

not that you minded right now.

“we’re leaving,” he muttered.

robin softened instantly at the look on his face.

“hey,” she said gently. “she’s okay.”

steve nodded once.

but his grip on you tightened anyway.

the drive back was silent except for the soft hum of the heater.

you curled against the passenger seat with steve’s jacket draped over your lap while he drove one-handed, the other gripping the wheel hard enough his knuckles stayed pale the entire time.

you knew that silence.

it wasn’t anger. it was fear.

when he finally spoke, his voice came out rough around the edges.

“why didn’t you tell me?”

you stared out the window at the ruined streets sliding past.

“i told you. we already have enough going on.”

steve laughed once quietly. completely humorless.

“so your solution was to run yourself into the ground?”

“i’m fine.”

“you passed out.”

you flinched slightly at the sharpness in his voice.

his expression crumpled almost instantly afterward.

“shit,” he breathed softly. “i’m sorry. i’m not mad at you.”

you picked at the sleeve of his jacket quietly.

“kinda sounds like you are.”

“i’m mad at myself.”

that made you look at him.

his jaw tightened briefly before he spoke again.

“i didn’t even notice.”

your chest ached immediately. “steve—”

“you’ve been taking care of everybody,” he continued softly, eyes fixed on the road now. “lucas. max. me. and i just…” his throat bobbed hard. “i let you.”

the guilt in his voice felt unbearable.

you reached over instinctively, resting your hand against his arm. “you didn’t let me do anything.”

he finally glanced at you then. hurt sat so openly across his face it almost stole your breath.

“you stay awake after my nightmares.”

not a question.

your silence answered for you.

steve’s grip tightened painfully on the wheel.

“baby…”

“i didn’t want you waking up alone.”

his expression broke completely at that. because of course that was your reason.

not obligation.

love.

stupid, self-sacrificing love.

you looked down at your lap quietly. “you’ve been having a hard time.”

steve pulled into your driveway but didn’t turn the engine off. instead he just sat there staring forward for a long second before finally whispering,

“so have you.”

that hit harder than expected.

because nobody had really said it.

everyone just assumed you were handling things better because you were quieter about it.

your eyes burned instantly.

“hey.” his voice softened completely now. “c’mere.”

the second he opened his arms, you climbed across the console into him.

exhaustion hit all at once after that.

your body practically melted against his chest while steve wrapped both arms around you so tightly it bordered on desperate.

one hand slid into your hair.

the other rubbed slowly up and down your spine.

“i’m sorry,” you whispered against his shoulder.

“no.” he shook his head immediately. “none of that.”

“i just didn’t wanna make things harder for you.”

his arms tightened painfully around you.

“you passing out in front of me was definitely harder for me.”

a weak laugh escaped you.

steve kissed the side of your head immediately afterward like he needed the reassurance.

“you know you don’t have to earn taking care of yourself, right?” he murmured quietly.

your throat tightened.

because that was the problem, wasn’t it?

everyone needed something from you lately.

lucas needed comfort.

max needed hope.

steve needed someone awake beside him after nightmares.

and somewhere along the way you’d started treating your own needs like optional things you could come back to later.

except later never came.

you pressed your face closer into his neck.

“i was scared if i slept you’d have another nightmare.”

steve actually made the saddest sound at that. his hand cradled the back of your head carefully.

“baby, i’d rather wake up from a hundred nightmares than have you destroy yourself trying to protect me from them.”

tears burned behind your eyes immediately.

he pulled back just enough to look at you then, both hands warm against your face.

“you matter too,” he said softly, firmly. “not less than everybody else. not after everybody else. too.”

your lips trembled.

steve brushed his thumb beneath one of your eyes before it could fall.

“i need you taking care of yourself,” he whispered. “because i love you. because i can’t lose you too.”

too.

the word hung heavy between you both.

you finally understood then. this wasn’t just fear from today. steve had been watching people slip through his fingers for years now.

he couldn’t handle almost losing you too.

you leaned forward first, pressing your forehead against his. “you’re not gonna lose me.”

his eyes shut briefly. “then stop scaring the shit outta me.”

a watery laugh escaped you.

“okay.”

“okay?” he repeated skeptically.

“okay,” you whispered again.

steve looked at you for another long second before nodding once, satisfied enough for now.

then immediately slipping back into caretaker mode.

“alright.” he brushed your hair back gently. “here’s what’s gonna happen.”

you smiled faintly. “bossy.”

“extremely.” he kissed your forehead once. “you’re eating real food, taking a shower, and sleeping for at least twelve hours.”

“steve—”

“non-negotiable.”

you rolled your eyes weakly.

he softened instantly at the sight of it.

finally.

there she is.

he kissed your temple this time.

then your cheek.

then the corner of your mouth.

all soft and careful and lingering.

like love translated best through touch when words stopped being enough.

“i got you,” he murmured quietly against your skin.

and for the first time in months, you let yourself stop holding everything alone.

likes, reblogs, and comments are much appreciated <3

🏷️ @hesdebility

[upsidedownwithemmy]

hawkins community pool offers a range of swimming lessons, from tiny tots, to diving for beginners - and the private kind, of course. just ask for steve and don't mind eddie, he likes to lurk in the bleachers.

loosely based on the movie float, lifeguard!steve, a summer full of swimming lessons. mentions of drowning, eventual smut 18+

LESSON #1

LESSON #2

LESSON #3

LESSON #4

LESSON #5

[upsidedownwithemmy]

“And if I die?” You tried to sound serious, but maybe Steve knew you were just trying to buy some extra time. Your hands were tight around him, your fingers barely managing to meet as they held onto his wrists and his thumbs were stroking over the spots of skin they were touching, maddening circles that made everything seem a little fuzzy.

He snorted, the sound much more attractive than when you did it. “You’re so dramatic.”

“All I’m saying is, you’ll have to be the one to break the news to Eddie,” you shrugged. God, you felt like you were babbling, panic mixing with a dry humour that felt clumsy as the words tumbled from your mouth. The water was so close to your chin, your mouth, your nose. “Besides, you’ll miss me when I’m gone.”

Steve didn’t say anything about breaking the news of your demise to your best friend but he did say: “I’ll miss you as soon as this lesson is over,” he murmured lightly. “Now, c’mon. Give it a try.”

- LESSON #4 coming sometime soon(ish) (maybe) ◡̈

[keer-y]

Steve Harrington who goes a little crazy when he finds out his best friend (and crush) has a praise kink by accidentally calling her good girl or by complimenting her

just a little crazy. this was a cute idea so i wrote some cute domestic fluff

tags: domesticity, cooking lessons, praise kink (ish) &&

Things between you and Steve had always been a little… different.

Not different in a bad way—to the contrary, actually, he was attentive and kind and helpful, the way a boyfriend should be. No, wait. No. Not a boyfriend, just a boy friend. There was definitely a space between those two words.

You’d known Steve for years! He was your boy-space-friend. That’s all.

But there were moments. Moments that made you doubt the space.

Like when you would pass by him at a party at his house, and he would let his fingertips trail over your arm, smiling wide at you as you glanced back.

Or when he’d ask you for a pen to jot something down, and be sure to let his fingers close over yours, letting them linger, before he pulled away.

Or when, on the occasion that you ever hugged him for anything, he would let his hands drop down to the small of your back, holding you more than hugging you.

None of it ever amounted to anything, but there was a tension between you that had been building since you’d met, the way he doted on you and made you feel special, like the only girl he’d ever seen, even though you knew you weren’t.

&&

It was stupid, actually. It was so stupid, in fact, that when you were trying to think of someone to help you, the only person you thought you could trust not to tease you about it (at least not for too long) was Steve. But from what little you knew of his childhood and his parents, you were certain he was the one to help.

“I always burn them,” you said, which was true.

Steve laughed, though not for long enough to matter. “So what, you want me to coach you through it?”

“I need to know how to make a grilled cheese,” you said. “It’s like, a fundamental life skill.”

“It’s also not hard,” Steve said. 

“They always burn! It’s not my fault.”

“It’s kind of your fault,” Steve said. “But yes—I will teach you how to grill a cheese. Come over whenever, I’ll be here.”

“Be there in an hour?” you asked.

“I will be here in an hour,” he replied. “See you.” You could hear the smile in his voice.

“See you,” you echoed, hanging up the phone.

Steve’s house—his parent’s house, really—was usually empty except for him, which was why he was always freely offering it for hangouts or parties or even just the two of you grabbing takeout and watching a movie. Truthfully, lately you preferred not to be alone with Steve, because he’d been infiltrating your thoughts and dreams and the things you’d done with him with your eyes closed… sweet Jesus. They were definitely not boy-space-friend activities.

But him teaching you to make a grilled cheese? That was a boy-space-friend activity. It was easy, it was quick, and there was nothing inherently sexual about it. Bread and butter and cheese. It wasn’t like you were going to be dipping strawberries in chocolate to eat off each other later. This was just a simple, stupid, childhood treat.

Steve let you into his house, leading you straight to the kitchen, where he’d already laid out the essentials: fluffy white bread, Kraft singles, and a stick of butter. The frying pan was on the stove, a butter knife ready and waiting to be used.

“I got you an apron,” Steve joked, and before you could protest, he had tossed it over your head and tugged you closer to him with it, your front bumping into his in a way that felt decidedly flirty and very much making you question that damn space again.

“I don’t need an apron,” you said, but Steve only spun you around with his hands on your hips, and once you were facing away from him, you allowed yourself to tip your head forward and bite your lip and try very hard not to focus too intently on the way he ties the apron around your waist which makes his knuckles brush against your back. When he finished, he didn’t step back or move you toward the stove; he just put his hands on your hips and held you there, long enough that you looked back at him over your shoulder.

“Steve?” you asked, and he lowered his hands on your hips and even through your jeans you felt his touch like his hands were on fire. “Steve.”

He blinked, like you shocked him out of his reverie, and then he released you and turned toward the stove.

“So, show me how you fuck it up,” he said, and you scoffed, offended.

“I don’t fuck it up!”

“You said you always burn them,” Steve said. “That’s fucking them up.”

Miffed, you didn’t respond with words and just grabbed the knife, cutting into the butter and attempting to spread it onto a slice of bread, but the butter was too cold and it just started to shred the bread.

“Ok, first mistake. Here, give me that,” Steve said, taking the knife from you. He discarded the slice of bread you nearly bisected, and took a new one. “If the butter is cold just put little pats of it like this.” He did exactly what he described, not trying to spread the butter out but placing smaller pieces on the bread in various places. You watched, arms crossed over your stupid apron.

He turned on the burner, placed the bread down in the pan, and constructed the sandwich: A few slices of cheese, the top piece of bread, more butter. And after a few minutes and a few flips, he’d made the perfect grilled cheese.

“See?” he asked, cutting it in half with the spatula and offering one side to you. “I know what I’m doing.”

“Whatever,” you said, but once you finished eating, you made your attempt, following his steps exactly and—incredibly—not burning it. It came out a little darker than Steve’s, but it was absolutely cooked evenly and not burnt. You turned off the burner, flipping the sandwich a couple times to inspect both sides, and then looked to Steve, gleeful.

“Good girl,” he said, at the same moment he placed his hand on your waist, and that was the moment the space ceased to exist.

You swallowed thickly, because you’ve been called “good girl” many times in your life, by your parents or teachers or even other friends—fuck, Steve’s probably even said it to you before—but not like this. Not the way his tone darkened a little when he said it, not the way his palm was resting hot and heavy on your side.

“Oh,” you said, “thanks.” 

And you could tell that he could tell that it affected you. You watched as his eyes swept over you, as his hand pressed a little tighter to your side. As his lips quirked up into a smirk and he leaned in, and it was like all of the tension, all of the electricity that had been between you two for years coalesced into a thunderhead and was about purge a lightning strike.

“You like that, huh?” he asked, and you didn’t have it in you to pretend like you didn’t know what he meant. But that didn’t mean you were going to admit it.

“No,” you said, but he just stepped closer to you, his hand moving to your lower back.

“You know, it’s—it’s probably stupid,” Steve said, “because we’re friends. But you—I mean, it’s not… I’m not making it up, am I? That there was—is, like, this thing. Between us. Right?”

You hesitated, because you wanted it. You did. But the space between boy and friend was an impossibly huge valley to cross, and sometimes the platonic part didn’t survive the transformation into something else.

“Yeah, but,” you started to say. “What if it. Doesn’t work?”

Steve leaned in closer to you, his face so close to yours he was shifting out of focus. “It’ll work,” he said, voice low, full of intention. “We can make it work. I’m a good boyfriend now. Nothing like what I used to be in high school.” He said it with no space. You could tell. “And you’re a good girl, aren’t you?”

Your thighs clenched unconsciously, and you just nodded, looking up at him as he let his fingertips slip beneath the waist of your jeans. He pulled you closer, your body right against his.

“Your good girl,” you said, trying it on, and Steve grinned.

“That’s right. My good girl,” he said, his lips barely moving across yours.

The space between the two of you, and the space between the words, was gone.

[crappymixtape]

just my type

PART ONE • BONUS PART your co-worker insists he knows people’s types better than they do, claims he can rattle off a list of dos and don’ts faster than they can be denied and when he nails yours to a T one night after work, well, it just feels wrong to admit it when he’s so right | ( 1.6k, teasing, banter, idiots to something, co-worker!steve, steve x reader )

J U S T M Y T Y P E 🎶 wait it out, bo staloch

“Oh, for sure. Gotta be long, especially if it kinda loops at the end. You know?” Steve lifted a hand to run his fingers through the curls at the nape of his neck, tapping his pool cue on the concrete floor.

“Steve–”

“And like…a bigger nose, but not too big,” he rattled on, pinching the bridge of his own nose.

“Oh my god, Harrington, shut–”

“Oh! And definitely gotta be on the taller side, just enough you have to get up on your tiptoes when you want a ki–”

“STEVEN.”

“Hm?”

He gave you the most innocent look he could muster after three drinks, eyes twinkling playfully under the light hanging over the pool table.

“That’s not me. At all,” you insisted, brows pinched together, annoyed, irritated, a little hot and bothered – but he didn’t have to know that.

“Huh, coulda fooled me,” he wondered, faux confusion tugging at his features as he took a swig of beer.

“Didn’t your last boyfriend’s nose lean a little, you know…” Robin hooked her fingers into an L shape and held it up to her face.

“Seriously?” you deadpanned, “Not helping.”

“Oh, ho!” Steve declared, pointing at you from across the pool table with his cue in victory, “See! I knew it.”

“You don’t know it,” you snarked back, downing the last of your tequila soda in one go, “What’s it matter anyway, I already said I swore off dating till after Valentine’s.”

Your last boyfriend cheated on you with his brother’s girlfriend, and it had been the messiest, worst, most embarrassing breakup you’d ever experienced. Cuffing season was coming up, but you couldn’t care less. In fact, you were basically banging pots and pans and making a big ruckus about how being single was the best, biggest middle finger you could give to capitalism, and everyone should be doing it.

“Jesus, Princess,” Steve faux sighed through a little grin, “Not like anyone’s asking you out. We’re just goofin’, right, Robs?”

“Are we?” she shot back, eyes narrowed, more than aware that he’d been trying to piece together your type ever since you walked into Family Video a couple of months ago.

“Sure! Your type is shorter, red hair, eccentric, but very cute outfits, and freckles,” Steve said matter-of-factly, dotting his fingers across his cheeks.

“Hm. Yeah, that about sums it up,” she shrugged, and Steve pumped his fist and kept going.

“Eddie’s type is glasses, nerdy vibes, knows the lyrics to every Metallica song, and likes his weird bat obsession.”

Eddie snorted and shook his curly head of hair, “Oh, now you’re just typecasting us.”

“Hang on,” he retorted, finger pointed across the pool table. “Your type,” he started and wheeled around to look at you, making your tummy flip over, “Is exactly what I said before.”

“It is,” you said, more statement than question, trying your best to keep your expression neutral despite the way the dip of his cupid’s bow had your fingers wanting to reach out and trace the seam of his lips.

“Yup,” he confirmed, lining his pool cue up with the 8 ball and knocking it so hard, he missed. “Listen, it’s simple. There’s this guy that comes in every Friday, Jordan, I think?” he mused, and your cheeks burned.

“So what?” you asked, neutral stance cracking.

“So, you get all flustered every time he comes in, and that’s how I know. Your type is wavy hair with a sort of Roman nose and about–” he held a hand just over his head, “Yea high.”

“Fine, whatever, sounds great,” you admitted, heat licking in your chest, and he grinned.

“So, I’m your type then.”

If you thought your cheeks your red earlier, they were scarlet now, and you wanted more than anything for the floor to open up and swallow you whole.

“No–no, no, no,” you backtracked, wagging a finger at him while his grin grew wider. “You are not my type. You don’t look anything like Jordan,” he did, “And anyway, it’s not just about looks! He has to have some shred of humor, an appreciation for cult horror movies, and not subscribe to social constructs.”

“So, you hate me?” Steve teased, and you bit down on the insides of your lips in an attempt not to shove your foot in its entirety into your mouth.

“I don’t hate you,” you insisted.

“Alright, so what don’t you like about me? You know, if I’m not your type.”

“Oh, here we go. C’mon, this is gonna be a while,” Robin sighed, shoving at Eddie to go get another drink.

“Well, for one, you’re arrogant,” you started in on him, not caring even one tiny bit that your other two friends had left the conversation.

“Okay, but that’s not a bad thing. That’s basically another word for confident,” Steve swiped a finger through the air in a little check mark, “Next.”

Ever since you started working together at Family Video, you and Steve loved getting under each other’s skin. Loved needling and teasing and pushing until someone cracked or got flustered enough to want to sort returns at the end of your shift. You swore it was just because he was so annoying and never let you focus, but after you’d had more than a few racy dreams with him front and center, you didn’t think you could deny it anymore.

“And you’re the most obnoxiously entitled person I know,” you added, already scraping the bottom of the barrel.

“But you like that,” he countered, setting his pool cue on felt before walking around the pool table, “Don’t you?”

“Being entitled? No,” you insisted, shaking your head as if that’d help your case.

“Well, I think you like that about me,” he clarified, slowly walking you back. Leaning down, he pressed his hands to the edge of the table and bracketed you in, “You like that I always get what I want.”

Your heart was racing, warm breaths falling quickly in the tiny space between you, drowning in the scent of his cologne, citrus and cedar, fresh laundry, and leftover coconut sunscreen from standing out front of the store with the 2-for-1 promotion sign.

“What do you want, Steve?” you practically whispered, close enough now to see tiny flecks of gold swimming in the hazel of his eyes. Close enough, you could feel the heat from his chest pressing against you.

“Wanna guess?” he asked, voice a low rasp that had you pressing your thighs together, head fuzzy from the tequila and the way Steve was talking to you like you were the only two in the bar.

“I’m more of a visual learner,” you managed to tease, feeling yourself giving up the fight and relishing in the way your words had blown his pupils wide, wrecked already even though you hadn’t even touched him yet.

“Yeah?” he breathed, tongue chasing over his bottom lip.

“Mmhm, got any ideas?”

“Can think of a few,” he mused, lifting a hand to tuck a stray lock of hair behind your ear, the touch of his fingers trailing goosebumps over your skin.

“Are you good or…?” Robin’s voice popped the little verbal foreplay bubble you and Steve had gotten lost in, and both of you looked up at her like deer in the headlights.

“What?” Steve asked dumbly, still hovering over you, and Eddie choked on his beer.

“Will you guys just get the hell out of here already? Holy shit.”

“Yeah, you gotta go,” Robin agreed, “The bartender was about to order you a cab.”

You both looked up to see the older, grizzled man behind the bar thrust his hips once before giving you two big thumbs up.

“Oh my god,” you moaned, covering your face with your hands.

“Gross!” Steve yelled at him. “And we will go, thank you,” he turned back to Robin and Eddie, tone trending bitchy and moving to prop a hand on his hip. “C’mon.”

Holding a hand out to you, you looked at it, then back up at Steve.

“Seriously?” you asked, half-serious, half-joking, and he grinned, eyes flickering again in the low light.

“Seriously.”

You thought about what it would be like to be with Steve. Even if you weren’t ‘together’ together. What would happen at work, between your friends, around town. You thought of how awkward it might be if it didn’t work out, how you might have to avoid him for a while and hide under a rock, but then it hit you.

Nothing was worse than your boyfriend cheating on you with his brother’s girlfriend.

“Yeah, we’re gonna go,” you agreed, digging in your purse for a wad of cash to shove into Robin’s hand, “For the drinks.” Then, you grabbed Steve’s hand, tangling your fingers together and leaning into your liquid courage. “Let’s go, Harrington, you drive.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he answered so fast his words briefly overlapped yours, letting you drag him to the door.

“Have fun! Don’t be stupid!” Robin hollered after you.

“Wrap your tool!” Eddie added, and Steve flipped him off.

“I always do, Munson!”

“Point for you,” you said over your shoulder, and Steve squeezed at your hand.

“Damn right point for me.”

crappymixtape™ • steve harrington masterlist // stranger things masterlist♥️ reblogs and comments keep me going, friends! ily! ♥️'

[upsidedownwithemmy]

Steve Harrington x fem!reader [22.4k] A biggie. Best friends to lovers, summer, childhood, pining, crushes, a kiss that wasn't supposed to happen, the last cherry popsicle and three promises.

When you were both eight years old, Steve Harrington handed you the last popsicle and told you he loved you. 

It was the most innocent kind of talk, from the mouths of kids, fresh faced, summer freckles, ankles dipped in the pool and sunburn on your cheeks. 

You weren’t truly sure you both knew what those words meant back then, the depth and meaning that they held. But you said them back, lemon and sugar on your tongue and he’d beamed at you, brighter than the Indiana sun and that was that. 

And that night, when you were camped out on his bedroom floor, the first day of summer vacation and his bed sheets draped across your heads, he shared his secret stash of twizzlers with you, lips tinted red and pinkie fingers linked. 

His eyes were solemn when he whispered to you, the dulled yells of his parents downstairs acting as his backing track. His mom was slurring a little, his dad laughing mirthlessly and something smashed. You had both flinched, moved closer together between the pillows and stuffed animals.

You remember his mouth brushing up against the shell of your ear, hushed promises falling from his lips, the kind that only an eight year old could make. 

Steve Harrington promised you three things that night:

One, he’d always be your best friend. 

Two, he’d always protect you from everything bad and scary. 

And three, he’d never break your heart. 

He only kept two of those. 

Have I known you twenty seconds or twenty years?

“I think Jessica is coming over,” Steve said as he handed you a can of soda, the cold condensation on it making your fingers slip over his. 

You screwed your face up and rolled your eyes behind your sunglasses - Steve’s sunglasses - ‘cause it was a rare Saturday that you’d managed to get off work together, seventeen and desperate for time to do nothing with your best friend. 

It wasn’t meant, but you let the sound of annoyance slip from your lips, stretching yourself out on one of the Harrington’s sunloungers. Steve looked at you from where he’d sat himself down by the pool edge, exasperated and somewhat fond. You picked at the edge of your bikini bottoms, peachy orange and still damp from the water. 

You scrunched your nose, looking over at him from over the top of his old Ray Bans as he took a sip of his cola, eyes on you, waiting for you to talk. He knew you wanted to say something, could tell from your face, the way you twisted your lips and fidgeted with your swimsuit. 

“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” 

If you didn’t know the boy well enough, you’d have thought his tone was condescending, maybe even a little mocking. But when you were both fifteen, he’d stood by your side at the counter of the ice cream parlour, watching your cheeks flush a pretty shade of pink when the older guy behind the freezer had winked at you, handed you your cone and called you ‘sweetheart’.  

Steve had called you the same ever since, never getting tired of the way you lit up at it, all soft and full of affection, lips twisted to hide your smile, nose turning pink. 

“I thought it was just gonna be us hanging out today?” You asked, trying to keep your voice level, casual. 

It was silly the way your chest was hurting, an anxious creep across your bones, making your skin too warm in a way that the sun wasn’t. It wasn’t necessarily because you didn’t like Jessica, you didn’t really know, honestly. 

But you’d been in Steve’s life long enough to know that not many of his girlfriends had liked you. It made hang outs and movie nights awkward, a fresh set of eyes on you, watching the way you and Steve interacted, holding back from the way you’d normally touch him, keeping your head off his shoulder, throwing your legs over the arm of the chair instead of his lap. 

You’d go to the kitchen, the bathroom, bringing back more snacks and a drink only to hear the boy being interrogated about how long had Steve known you, didn’t she have a boyfriend and god, why was she always here?

You’d stand with your back against the hallway wall, a packet of twizzlers crushed to your chest as you listened for Steve’s response. It was always the same, sure and strong and leaving no room for argument. It made you feel warm and a little safer, like you belonged in the Harrington house just as much as him, brought up in the large home with its pool and absent parents together, barbecues in the summer, Christmas in the dining room, mom and dads by your sides. 

“She’s my best friend,” he’d always say, “where she goes, I go.”

Some girls put up with it for longer than others, dirty looks given to you out of the car window when Steve would insist on dropping you home too, a messy press of a kiss pushed to your cheek before he made sure you got in your front door okay. 

There were girls that were done after bumping into you in the school hall, a sweater on your frame, the hem almost covering your shorts and god, they’d think, that looks awfully familiar. They’d sit in whatever class they had next, eyes on the chalkboard but their minds trying to decide if they’d seen that sweater on Steve’s bedroom floor before, thrown lazily over the back of his desk chair. 

You’d find them arguing about it at his car after school, voices clipped and raised, drawing a little too much attention and you’d hear your name said like a curse. Steve would let them walk away, hands rubbing at his eyes and when he’d pull himself onto the trunk, he’d find your gaze across the parking lot and he’d smile, a little soft and a little sad. 

But he’d look at you from the driver seat when he was taking you both home, eyes flickering with something else as they dare to roam across your shoulders, your chest. You’d catch him staring, brows raised and your knowing smile would make him blush but he’d tell you, everytime:

“Looks better on you anyway.”

Steve shrugged, looking a little guilty but swung a leg into the pool, letting the water swish around his shin. 

“I know, but,” another shrug, his gaze on the blue tiles, “she’s my girlfriend.”

You sighed, pushing yourself off of the lounger and walking over to the edge of the pool, chlorine and cedar from the garden filling the warm air. You poked a toe to the boy’s side before sitting down next to him, both feet in the water and the garden slabs sun-warmed against the back of your thighs. 

You nudged a shoulder into Steve’s, fighting a smile when he did it back, shuffling closer so your arms brushed together. 

“We haven’t hung out just the two of us in ages,” you told him, trying to sound annoyed but your words came out a little mournful, huffy even. “It’s been weeks.”

You knew it wasn’t Steve’s fault. Between school and both of you working weekend jobs, it was hard to find time to see each other. And since the startling realisation of finding out there were kids with superpowers out in Hawkins, other worlds that held monsters and magic, you figured trips to the cinema were at the bottom of both of your lists. 

“M’sorry,” Steve said anyway, and you hated the way he sounded, like he really meant it, like it made him sad too. “If the kids didn’t need rides to the arcade all the damn time, maybe we’d-”

You rolled your eyes, fond. “You know it’s not the kids I mind, Harrington.”

And that was true. You and Steve had taken your unofficial babysitter roles pretty seriously, and with six twelve year olds to wrangle together, it would’ve been a hard enough job without the threat of impending doom lurking behind every corner. 

You’d grown up thinking monsters only lived under your bed, hiding behind your closet door, and they could be banished with a flashlight, a kiss from your mother, the promise of chocolate chip pancakes in the morning from your father. 

But you’d grown up too fast, seeing things that weren’t supposed to be real and you hated the way you knew how to butterfly stitch someone's skin back together, how you’d seen too much of your best friend's blood. 

He pressed his nose to your shoulder, warm skin on warm skin and he let his teeth graze you, a playful threat of a bite before he sighed, knowingly, understanding. 

“Jess said she likes you,” Steve offered, hands on the grass as he leaned back, head tilted to the sun. He was watching you from under his lashes, the length of them casting shadows over his cheekbones. “Said you had chem together and you were crazy smart.”

You scoffed, laughed mirthless, because the only reason Jessica Preston knew you had class with her was ‘cause she used you to cheat off of you before you moved seats.  

“I bet she did,” was the only answer you gave, because the garden gate was suddenly squeaking and Steve was standing up, splashing water over your thighs as he greeted the girl in question. 

“Jess, hey!” Steve called out, reaching for her and pressing a kiss to her lips. His came away glossy and a little pink as Jessica reached into her bag, pulling out a tube and quickly reapplying. He gestured to you, smiling, “you two know each other, right?”

You grimaced, holding your hand up in some sort of wave before you pushed Steve’s glasses onto your head. 

“Sure,” you said, not sounding sure at all. You stood up, brushing drops of water and small flecks of gravel from your skin. “Chemistry, Mrs Telford’s class.”

Jessica squinted at you, pretty features twisted in confusion and Steve wanted to jump head first into the pool from the awkward silence that had filled the yard. 

“Right!” The girl finally gasped out, all false smiles and white teeth. “Totally! Of course.”

And then, you were dismissed.  

“Steve, there’s a party tonight,” you heard the girl tell him, stomach twisting as you walked past them, grabbing your shorts from the lounger and dragging them up your legs. “Matt’s parents are gone and,” she tapped a finger on his chest, trailing it down his sternum. “So are mine.”

You wondered if you had too much sun, wondered if the heat was what was making your insides bubble, your chest feeling too tight. You found your way into the kitchen, the open patio door doing nothing to curb the same heat that had leaked in from outside. 

You ran the tap, waiting for it to turn freezing before filling a glass and chugging it, back pressed against the counter so you didn’t have to look out the window. 

You could still hear them though. 

“You can pick me up, right? I’ll be ready at eight and then you can stay over at mine,” Jess was practically purring and it made you slam the now empty glass down into the sink a little harder than you meant to. “We’ll have the place all to ourselves.”

“Uh, actually, we’re having a movie night later,” you froze, turning to look over your shoulder to see Steve gesture to you through the window. Jess followed his hand, lips downturned and eyes holding venom. 

“You’re kidding right?” The girl asked, disbelief spilling from her lips. “I’m offering you a night in my bed and you’re turning me down for Back To The Future with her?”

It was actually The Goonies, you’d wanted to tell her, but Steve was licking his lips nervously, eyes flickering between you and Jess and you really wish you could say something to save him. 

You stepped out the patio doors, arms crossed self consciously over your chest. “Steve, it’s okay, we-”

Steve shrugged and he didn’t look surprised when Jessica stepped out of his embrace, glossy lips twisted in shock and annoyance. 

“We’ve had it planned for a while Jess,” he explained, “movies, pizza and-”

“Well come after,” Jess demanded, like it was simple. “Or better yet, just do your stupid movie night some other time.”

Steve looked confused, staring down at the girl as if he was wondering which part she wasn’t understanding. You grimaced, eyes wanting to fall shut ‘cause you knew what the boy was going to say and god, you wished you could hide from it. 

But then he was explaining to her that you were staying over, crashing at his like you always did, like you had done for years. 

Steve said it so plainly that you almost wanted to laugh. In fact, your lip twitched, the threat of a smile pulling at it and you turned, toeing at the grass as you waited for the impending blow out. The boy had an endearing habit of stating the truth with such a sincerely soft tone, almost oblivious to the carnage his honesty could sometimes cause. 

“I’m sorry,” Jessica stated, voice climbing a little higher in volume and pitch as she took in this new information. “I could’ve sworn you just told me you had another girl staying with you tonight.”

Steve scrunched his nose, mouth parting as he wondered what he was supposed to say to that. He floundered, hands gesturing wildly as he tried to gain some control on the matter. 

“Jess, what? It’s not a big deal, it’s not like that.”

And he was right, it wasn’t. Not yet. 

Nothing had ever happened with you and Steve, not when you were pressed together at night, side by side in his bed, moving closer as you slept, pillow creases on your cheeks, hands close to places you shouldn’t have been touching. 

Nothing happened in the mornings either, when you were both soft with sleep, hair mussed and misbehaving, warm hands and toes pushing into the other's skin as you tried to find the comfort of that lazy feeling in each other. 

You’d never noticed him stare at you when you got out of the shower, skin still damp, hair pushed back from your face and a too big shirt clinging to your thighs. He never realised you held your breath when he pulled his top off at night, body warm and solid beside you, fingers desperate to trace a map of constellations across his back, freckle to freckle. 

Your realisation that your best friend wasn’t just attractive, but was pretty, was a slow burn. It came as you aged, an appreciation growing as you did, Steve too. You noticed the boys in your class as they grew taller, filling out, and you didn’t realise the same was happening to Steve until the summer you both turned fifteen. 

You’d spent school vacation at his parents lake house, watched him laze shirtless on the small motorboat, new muscles flexing, drops of water casting tiny rainbows across the tanned skin it clung to. He’d grown his hair out, chocolate brown strands out of control and messy, boyish as it was pretty. You didn’t know what to do with this new information, new feelings, and when Steve continued to throw you over his shoulder, playing in the shallows of the lake, his wide hands spanning the curves of your thighs, your hips, you ignored the burn his touch left behind. 

Jess huffed out a laugh and it sounded dangerous, a little like a threat. She found your gaze, held it until hers dropped to scan you up and down, doing her best to make you feel small. 

“Whatever, Harrington,” she shoved past Steve, shoulder edging into his chest as she headed for the gate. “Ask your little friend to suck your dick instead.”

You burned at her words, eyes wide as you stared at a crack in the patio, refusing to watch as she stormed through the gate, the hinges protesting loudly as it was slammed shut, leaving you both in silence. 

The trickle of the pool filter was the only sound for a minute, maybe two, then you heard Steve sigh, heavy and world weary. You looked at him, feeling a little guilty. 

“Shouldn’t you go after her?” You asked. 

Steve gave a half shrug, already moving to sit down on the lounger that you’d spent your morning on. You joined him, sitting on the end so you didn’t touch, like you weren’t supposed to after Jessica’s accusation. 

“Nah,” he told you, “it’s fine, it’s… whatever.”

You snorted and the sound made the corners of his mouth lift a little, eyes flitting over to you, always interested in what you were going to say. 

“That’s a new height of romance, Harrington,” you mused, foot dipping into a small puddle of pool water. You drew lines and shapes on the dry concrete with your toe, watching the sun dry them out almost instantly. “It’s whatever?”

“I dunno,” Steve sighed, reaching over to pluck his sunglasses back from the top of your head and pushing them over the bridge of his nose. He looked good with them on, you mused, too pretty, too nice. “Wasn’t like we had that much in common.“

“Then why date her in the first place?” You asked, face twisting with annoyance.

Steve had developed a habit in freshman year of dating girls who gave him nothing more than wandering hands in the back of his car, passive aggressive comments when he missed their calls and whiplash when they found out about you. 

A smirk tugged at his lips, a handsome match with his Ray Bans and messy hair and he turned to you, eyebrows raised. 

“You’re a pig,” you muttered, trying to sound disgusted but Steve was pushing his fingers into your sides, hands dragging over your ribs and you were laughing despite yourself, “get off me!”

You were ignored, unsurprisingly, and you wondered if Jessica had made it back to her car yet, if she’d driven away or if she had heard your shriek of delight when Steve suddenly stood and scooped you up. 

One arm was wrapped around your waist, a wide, rough hand pressed against the skin just under your breast, his thumb grazing the of your bikini. The other curved itself on your thigh, your body held tight to his as he ran with you, hurtling you both to the edge of the pool and you pressed your face into his neck when he jumped, bracing yourself for the cool water. 

Steve didn’t let you go until you both surfaced, his feet planted on the bottom of the pool as he pushed you both to the surface. Your hands were around his neck and you gasped, water dripping from your lashes and lips, hair a wet mess and he was laughing. That soft laugh that made any summer day feel warmer than it already was, a laugh that reminded you of fresh lemonade and bedroom sheet forts. 

He let go of your legs before you waist, letting the lower half of your body slide out of his grasp and slide against his, so you were chest to chest, your abdomens pressed together and you almost lost your footing, chin slipping under the water, eyes gazing up at him despite the way the sun made it hurt. 

Maybe it was the way you pressed a hand to his stomach to ground yourself,  feeling the muscles tense under your touch, maybe it was the way you were looking at him, maybe he just forgot he wasn’t supposed to look at you like that. But something happened and Steve cleared his throat, letting go of your waist and allowing himself to fall backwards and under the water. 

He reappeared a few feet away, hair darker and slicked back, eyes a little wild as he looked at you, like you were suddenly dangerous. 

And I'm highly suspicious that everyone who sees you wants you. 

You weren’t overly fond of Nancy Wheeler, not at first. 

You couldn’t deny that the dislike you felt for the girl stemmed from jealousy and your own inability to get a handle on your feelings but, you had to admit, she was better than most of the girls Steve had dated before. 

Pretty, smart, sharp and with a keen eye. She liked journalism, the quiet and even you. You shared the knowledge of The Upside Down, bonded over the fear you both felt for her brother and his friends and when you passed each other in the hallway, you nodded, civil and overly aware of all the things you’d both seen together. 

You weren’t joined at the hip and you didn’t love how she slid her hand into Steve’s, or how he kissed her at her locker, telling you he’d catch up with you at lunch. You’d spent months telling yourself you weren’t jealous of Nancy, just that you missed your best friend and you resented the way the girl took up all his free time. 

You missed the way he snuck in your bedroom window, a pointless task and waste of his energy, ‘cause your parents would hear him clambering up their drainpipe, eyes rolling, fond and affectionate, ‘cause it was Steve. 

He’d always told you that he did it for the fun of it, to see you smile when his head appeared over the sill and so you’d help him clamber over the window frame. He’d spend the late hours with you, whispering about nothing and laughing about everything, shoulder to shoulder in your bed until you both fell asleep, sprawled on top of the sheets, his shoes in the middle of your floor and his arm slung over your waist. 

You liked it when the sun woke you early, the curtain still opened from when you’d forgotten to close them after Steve’s sudden appearances, the light pink and peach as it leaked into your room. It painted stripes of light and shadow over your walls, over the boy’s broad shoulders and cheek, the other smushed into your mattress, hair a mess and lips parted sleepily. 

You got to admire him like that, when his eyes were still closed and he was so unaware. Steve couldn’t catch you staring, wondering if his lips were actually as soft as they looked, if he knew how pretty you thought he was, if he thought you were pretty too. 

He still picked you up for school in the morning, his BMW sat at the end of your drive but his clothes were sleep creased, hair mussed from spending the night with Nancy instead, sneaking through her bedroom window and not yours. He still smacked a kiss to your cheek when you parted for class but it wasn’t the same, he wasn’t quite just yours anymore and you hated the way it hurt. 

So yeah, you could appreciate that Nancy was a nice person and seemed to be good for Steve - at least, until she wasn’t - but you didn’t have to like her for it. 

When she broke your best friend’s heart, you’d found him sitting on the hood of his car after school, lips downturned and expression sour, nothing but worry beating in your chest ‘cause you hadn’t seen him since the morning before and no one answered your calls to his house that night. 

But then rumours started swirling around the halls, floating over tables in the cafeteria like wildfire and you couldn’t fucking find him. You saw Nancy in the library during your free period, her head bent close to Jonathan Byers as they whispered about something you couldn’t hear, their hands on the table, fingers too close to touching and Nancy had the right to look guilty when her gaze met your own. 

So you’d marched straight over to Steve and he crumbled a little when he saw it was you, slipping off the hood and letting you usher him to the front seat. He didn’t really hesitate when you held out your hand to him, silently asking him to let you take care of him. 

He placed the car keys in your palm, eyes tired, face sad and you were desperate to fix it. You hadn’t seen Steve like that before and you didn’t know what to do, his pain was yours, your heart beating hard against your chest until you felt like your bones were bruised. 

There were talks of the girl cheating on him, wandering around late with Jonathan and you knew they shared the same worries and trauma that you all did when it came to knowing things the rest of the town didn’t, but you didn’t know what was happening between the pair. 

So you drove him home, listened when Steve told you that he loved her, that he didn’t know how to fix it. But then it was and then it wasn’t, a game of on and off, yes and no, that you couldn’t really keep up with. 

It all came to a head on Halloween, after months of leaving your window open for no one. 

Steve climbed in, startling you, hands finding your bedroom floor before his feet did and when he stood, eyes meeting yours, you wanted to be mad at him. 

It had been a week since you hung out, passing in the halls and waving when you could, exams stressing you out and his time taken up by Nancy and all the parties he seemed intent on going to. He’d given up trying to get you to go with him, sick of it all after the second time, a spare part, third wheel, an audience to his kisses with Nancy. 

But he stood by your bed with the most forlorn expression on his face, features soft and watery and you simply pulled back the sheets, shuffling over to the side that had been made yours when you were both seven, so Steve could claim his. 

The boy toed off his shoes, his jacket falling to the carpet as he shrugged it off and you felt like a kid again when he crawled across your mattress, shuffling underneath the covers and pushing himself against you. 

Steve got as close to you as he could without asking for a hug, his pride already seemingly too hurt to put himself out there, even with you. But he didn’t hesitate when you turned into him, wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him into you, your nose pressed into his hair. He smelled like smoke and weed from the party, a little like Steve underneath it. 

He returned your touch instantly, seeking it out with a desperation that almost shocked you, eager to accept it when it was offered. He tugged you in by the waist, arms wrapped around you and his face pressed into the crook of your neck. 

He wished he told you then, that you smelled like summer and afternoons by the pool, like cherry popsicles and promises and home. But he didn’t feel brave enough, not then, not yet. 

“We broke up,” Steve finally mumbled, voice a little broken and muffled by your neck and hair. “She broke up w’me. Called us bullshit.”

You frowned, confused, pulling back a little in the hopes that Steve would look at you and explain but his grip on your waist only tightened and you patted at his hair, smoothed the almost curls at the nape of his neck and whispered his name. 

“Steve, hey, babe, what?” You received a groan in answer but you persisted, shuffling out of his grasp and gripping his chin with your finger, pushing at him a little pleadingly until the boy looked up and met your gaze. 

“What happened?”

Steve didn’t answer until you pulled the sheets over your heads, your own little bed fort that let the dim light of your bedside lamp filter through, soft and warm and hazy. You let go of his chin, your hand smoothing his hair back from his face and he pushed his cheek into your touch as he spoke. 

“Nancy, it’s over,” he told you, a frown pulling at his brow, “she said the whole relationship was bullshit, that I was bullshit.”

You held your breath, letting him talk as you smoothed a thumb over his cheekbone, feeling him relax into you despite the way he was letting his words tumble from his lips, mixing in with his emotions until he was stuttering over himself. 

“She, she said we were just acting like we were in love?” Steve caught your stare, his eyes confused as he looked at you, as if he could find an answer in your gaze but you just gaped at him. “Said that I only thought I was in love with her ‘cause I was too busy tryin’ to pretend I wasn’t in love with someone else, or some shit like that, I don’t fuckin’ know.”

“What?” You whispered, voice full of surprise because what the fuck? 

“Right?” He answered, indignant and wide eyed. “I don’t know what she was talkin’ about, she would answer me, just told me she wasn’t in love with me and god, fucking Byers took her home.”

“Jonathan?”

You screwed up your face, hardly even reacting when Steve groaned again, pushing himself back into you, his face comfortably pressed into your chest, just above the swell of your breast, his mouth warm through your shirt. 

It should’ve startled you, the proximity, the intimacy, especially after missing him for so long. But it was still Steve, your best friend, the boy that promised to be there until the very end. 

“Why’d Jonathan take her home?” You asked, your cheek pressed to the top of his head as you spoke, the sheets fluttering around you both as Steve shifted, arms wrapping around you more, pulling you until you were flush with his body. 

He couldn’t have been touching more of you if he tried. 

“She was drunk,” he mumbled into your chest, lips moving over your shirt, making the material shift across your skin and it lit you up, body electric and the air buzzing. “I told him to. She didn’t want me.”

You sighed, eyes closing at the pained sound in the boy’s voice and you let him hold you, your own hand taking into his hair, scratching at his scalp in a way you knew he liked. 

“Steve,” you murmured, soft and sympathetic. 

He whispered your own name back to you, his tone the same and it made you smile. You could feel his own against your chest, lips lifting, breath coming out in a small huff. 

“You could still talk to her tomorrow, y’know?” You said conversationally. You hated yourself for trying to fix it for him, for attempting to out the girl back between you both but fuck if you weren’t a good friend. “Maybe she just said all that shit ‘cause she had too much to drink.”

You twirled a length of the boy’s hair around your finger, making it curl. “Was it Jack Templeman’s punch? That dude makes rocket fuel in a bowl, she might have been absolutely wasted.”

Steve shook his head before he pulled back, falling into your pile of pillows and gazing at you.  

“Nah, I don’t wanna chase her,” he said and despite the sadness in his voice, he sounded sure. “I don’t wanna be with someone who thinks I’m bullshit. I mean, I know I’m not perfect, but damn, bullshit?”

You shook your head, gaze hard and you wanted to shake him, to make him understand how wrong Nancy was. 

“Steve, you're not bullshit.” He held your stare, lips parted. “You’re the furthest thing from that, I’m sorry I don’t know why Nancy said that, I wish I could-”

He stopped you before you could continue, a small smile lifting at his lips and he found your hands between the tangle of sheets, tugging you over to him and onto his chest. You lay your head there, protesting when Steve’s finger poked at your cheek, fond and soft. 

“I know what you’re gonna say, sweetheart, and it’s fine.” He sighed, sleepy and weighted. “You don’t need to fix everything for me, not this time, anyway.“

You fell silent, thinking about the times Steve was referring to, wondering if this was finally the year he stopped needing you. The thought made your chest hurt, your eyes blur and you sniffed. 

“My dad’ll be home from that conference soon,” he mumbled softly and you could tell without even looking at Steve that he had his eyes closed. “You can come fight my battles for me then, how’s that sound short stuff?”

It was silly, his words. The way they made you feel. Like you were needed again, important. Like he didn’t wanna face the things that scared him without you. It hurt that after all those years, he still felt like that about his own father but it calmed a part of you to know that he didn’t seem as cut up about Nancy Wheeler as he once was. 

“Are you okay?” You asked, tentative, and you made a face ‘cause god, that seemed like a stupid fucking question. “Will you be okay?” You asked instead. 

Steve hummed noncommittally and you craned your neck to look up at him, smiling when you were proven right at his closed eyes. His lashes fluttered against his cheeks as you shifted over him, tucking yourself into his side. 

“I mean yeah, sure,” he murmured, voice dropping lower and rougher as sleep pulled at him. “I’ll be fine. I’ve got you, haven’t I?” 

He turned his face to yours at that, nose nudging at your forehead as he blindly sought out your features, pressing a soft, warm kiss to your temple. 

“M’sorry,” he whispered into your hair and you stilled, swallowing the lump that had caught in your throat. “I’m so sorry I’ve not been around.“

You squeezed your eyes closed at his words, letting them burn until you were sure you weren’t going to cry. 

You wanted to say it was okay, to soothe him, to make Steve feel better but the lie got caught on your tongue and you couldn’t bring yourself to tell him something that wasn’t true. 

You shrugged instead, lips twisted to keep them from turning downwards, his words heavy on you because god, you’d missed him so much. 

“I missed you,” Steve whispered and fuck, it lit you up inside. “Like, really missed you.”

He was soft and gentle with it, words brushing against your temple, breath warm, hands twisting in the sides of your shirt, barely grazing at your skin, head butting at yours playfully. 

He was Steve, he was late nights, long days, summer rainstorms, driving lessons, flunking your test, Saturday afternoon drives, feet on the dash, music too loud, smile blinding. 

He was a little bit yours again. 

“Yeah,” you sighed, feeling a little lighter than you had before, eyes falling shut like Steve’s. “I missed you too, Harrington.”

Steve’s breath was becoming slower, chest falling heavy and lazy and you both curled into each other on instinct, sleep pulling both of you together, the same way it did when you were both ten and piled on the sofa, movie still playing. 

“You still my best friend?” His voice was a soft mumble, and you heard the worry there, hidden behind a crack of humour. 

“Yeah, I’m still your best friend.”

—————

You didn’t see Nancy until a week later, and when you did, you didn’t expect her to corner you at your locker, big eyes wide and asking if you could talk. 

You met her after school, walking to the opposite end of the parking lot from where Steve would be waiting on you, perched on the hood of his car as usual. 

Nancy saw you coming, her face a little nervous as she bid goodbye to Jonathan who’d been standing beside her and you watched as they squeezed each other's hand before he took off. 

You raised your brows as you approached, tugging your headphones to sit around your neck and you wondered what Nancy Wheeler could possibly have to say to you. 

The world wasn’t ending, the kids were all safe and she wasn’t your best friend's girl anymore. 

She squinted at you, trying to work out your mood, your emotions but you remained a little stoned faced, wondering if Steve would be pissed if had to see you here. You knew they’d spoken since Halloween, a chat that Steve had said felt too formal and stilted, but the air was cleared enough that they could cross paths when dropping Dustin, Will and Lucas at Mike’s house, an awkward wave exchanged from the front door to the car. 

“You wanna sit?” Nancy asked, gesturing to a bench that sat by the edge of the school line, shadowed by trees that provided a little coverage from the wind that was picking up now that winter was approaching. You kicked at the leaves on the ground and shoved your hands into your jacket pocket, holding it tighter to your body. 

“Sure,” you muttered, following her across the grass, leftover rain sticking to your boots. 

The sky was still blue, a crisp Fall day that turned your nose pink, numbed your fingers and had you wishing for a Hawkins summer, the smell of sunscreen and cut grass replaced with rain and the promise of snow. 

You sat on opposite ends of the bench, bodies turned to face each other and with the safety of your school bags between you both. You picked a dead leaf off the sole of your shoe, waiting for the other girl to talk. 

“Look, I don’t know what Steve’s explained to you,” Nancy said, voice cracking a little with what seemed like nerves. “You know, when we spoke the other week.”

You shrugged, “I mean, not much,” you answered, “but it’s really not my business to know.”

Nancy nodded at that, appreciative, “I guess but I just want us to be friends, you know? I wanted you to understand why I broke it off with Steve. He’s a great guy but-”

“I know he is,” you interrupted, brows pulled together in confusion ‘cause there was never any debate about that. You softened a little when Nancy smiled at you, lips pulled up and eyes a little knowing. “Sorry, that was rude.”

“It’s fine,” she told you, voice lighter than it had been before. “Like I said, Steve’s great… I guess I just didn’t love him the way I should’ve. And maybe that would’ve been a little easier if I didn’t see the way he looked at someone else.”

You frowned, staring at the girl as she looked back at you, silently willing you to catch on. 

“What?” You asked, “I thought this was about you and Jonathan? You can’t act as if you haven’t been glued to Byers hip since this happened.”

Nancy had the right to look guilty, picking at her nail before looking back up at you. “Yeah, no, you’re right. I didn’t mean for what happened with Johnathan to happen… it just did, but that doesn’t make it okay.”

She brushed a curl from her face, bringing her bag down to her feet so there was less separating her from you. The wind rushed at you both, stinging your cheeks and whipping at your clothes before it settled back down and let Nancy speak. 

“I’m not blaming this on Steve, I’m not, and I shouldn’t have said he was bullshit,” she rushed out, “maybe we were just meant for other people you know? And think that, maybe, Steve doesn’t know that he’s already found his person.”

“I genuinely don’t know what you’re talking about,” you huffed, “but whatever. I’m just glad I don’t have to hear the two of you arguing every other day.”  

Nancy nodded, smiling at the way you were avoiding her gaze, your mind suddenly racing with what she’d said. 

“For what it’s worth,” the girl murmured, foot nudging friendly against yours, “it would probably make it a lot easier on the poor guy if this girl could admit that she was in love with him too.”

“Alright, yeah,” you stood up suddenly, cheeks flushed and your head a little scattered. “I think you’ve got it twisted Wheeler, but, uh, good talk.”

The girl hid a laugh, pressing her lips together as she watched you gather your bag, eyes shining. Nancy nodded, looking up at you as you stood a little awkwardly. You raised a hand in a goodbye, a small smile lifting at your lips in what seemed like an amicable agreement. 

You stopped before you got too far, the sun in your eyes as you squinted back at the girl who was still sitting on the bench. 

“Hey, Nancy?” She looked at you, eyes surprised. 

“Yeah?”

“Are you happy?” You asked and she was taken aback at how genuine you sounded. She paused, eyes flicking over to where Jonathan’s car was parked, engine idling as he waited for her. 

She nodded, resolute. “Yeah, I am,” she answered quietly and confidently. 

You nodded too, surprised at how it warmed you to hear that. You never wished ill on the girl, you just didn’t like how she broke your best friend, leaving you to put him back together again, piece by piece. 

“I’m glad Steve’s got you, you know,” she called back before you could start to walk away again and her words made your heart stumble. You swallowed, looking at her with parted lips. “He’s lucky to have you.”

And well, wasn’t that a statement to behold?

When you finally clambered into Steve’s car, bringing the chill and some stray leaves from the outside, Steve was frowning softly, concerned by your lateness. 

He looked at your flushed cheeks, pink nose and glassy eyes from the sharp wind and cranked up the heat, pointing his vents to your side too. 

“Where’ve you been?” He asked, voice worried, “I was gonna call in the kids, start a search party.”

You laughed, a little strained after the conversation you had, rubbing your hands together for warmth and you shrugged, noncommittal. 

“I was uh, just catching up with a friend.”

Can I go where you go? 

When Steve got a job after graduation at Scoops Ahoy, it was supposed to mean free ice cream and catching a late showing at the cinema after his shifts. 

It brought you Robin Buckley, Steve in a sailors hat, a new flavour of ice cream every month and fucking Russians. 

You thought dimensions and demogorgons were about as much as you could handle but Dustin came back from camp with a new gadget he’d built, some kind of high tech radio that looked like it was held together with duct tape and paper clips but the thing actually worked. 

It worked well enough to pick up secret codes from underground labs, translated by Robin and well, fuck. Suddenly you were trapped in an elevator that wasn’t actually supposed to be an elevator and Erica Sinclair was going to miss her Uncle Jack’s party. 

You knew Steve wasn’t happy with you, you could tell by the way his jaw was set, the way that he looked at you when he thought you weren’t paying attention, and his lips twisted and his gaze dropped when you tried to catch his gaze. 

It made the air in the elevator crackle and buzz, tension on top of tension as you moved around each other, looking for a way out, hardly touching, hardly speaking. Robin twisted her lips, sympathetic, when she caught your gaze, your face flushed with annoyance. 

He’d told you not to come. 

Not out of meanness, or because you had fallen out, simply because he didn’t want you in harm's way. You’d ended up yelling at each other, a hundred feet below the mall and trapped in a metal box because why did it matter when Robin and the kids were stuck there too?

Steve, of course, cared that he had another friend, a thirteen year old and a ten year old to keep safe and he had every intention of doing so. But he couldn’t help but feel sick, his stomach rolling, at the thought of you being put in a dangerous situation. 

You’d told him that he was being stupid, that you weren’t leaving him. You thought you’d seen all the dangers Hawkins had to offer, you could handle yourself, you could help him. 

His worst fears came true when you all got split up, Dustin and Erica hopefully somewhere above you all, on their way for help, for something, anything. 

But then a man came, tall and dressed in uniform, badges adorning his chest, and he took one look at the way Steve stood in front of you when he entered and swung for the side of his head. 

The boy fell backwards, dazed, groaning at the shock and pain of it all before pulling himself off of the floor, body slow and sluggish. He lifted his head in time to see the same man gripping you by the back of your neck, hair fisted painfully in his grasp as he pulled you out of the room. Robin was yelling, swearing as she tried to get a grip on you, her hand wrapped around your ankle from where she was on the floor but you were pulled from her easily, a swift kick sent to her stomach for the audacity of her trying. 

Steve felt his heart leave his chest, plummeting to his stomach, his blood running cold and everything around him slowed down. His vision was fuzzy but he could see the panic on your face, lips parted in a gasp as you tried to get to grips with what was happening. 

Russians. A lab. Under Starcourt Mall. 

He couldn’t move fast enough and he wanted to yell out, he wanted to run. But it was like being trapped in a bad dream, body damp, sheets tangled around his limbs as he tried his best to scream, to move, but nothing fucking happened. 

The door slammed shut before the ringing in his ears could stop and he could taste blood in his tongue, metallic and horribly warm. He made his fists bleed from pounding on the door, knuckles cracked and bruised, voice wrecked from yelling your name. 

He only stopped when the man came back, pulled him from Robin's side and threw more hits to his face, his body. His skin was littered with angry bruises, almost black, skipping the shades of lavender and pink, turning inky within minutes. 

Between each punch, Steve spat out blood and asked where you were, groaning as he spoke. He was ignored, time and time again, until he lost it completely, tried to lash out, fists swinging, legs thrashing and he wasn’t sure if he was crying, or it was just blood dripping down his face but he wanted to sob, desperate for you. 

He was thrown to a chair, tied back to back with Robin as some guy in a white coat threatened him with surgical equipment that looked like it didn’t belong in a hospital and when his eyes fell shut with the weight of his injuries, he wondered if he’d ever see his best friend again. 

You were finally gathered up in what could’ve been hours later, maybe one, maybe five. A guard tugged at your wrists, taped together and red raw from where you’d tried to pull them apart and suddenly you were pushed through the same door they’d taken you from, thrown at Steve’s feet and the yelling continued. 

Who did you work for, who did you work for, who did you work for?

It didn’t end until people were dead and Starcourt Mall was on fire. 

Alarms had gone off, Dustin rushing in with an electric cattle prod of all things, weidling it like battleaxe and telling you all you had to run. You weren’t sure who was supporting who as you all tumbled back to the surface, dripping blood and tears onto the mall floor as Steve gripped your hand with a fierceness you’d never experienced from him before.

But then there were guns, El broken but still fighting, the rest of your friends, concern and confusion written on their faces ‘cause when you had all been fighting Russian Soviets, they’d been fighting Billy, the evil inside of him turning him into something different from the boy you’d seen in the school halls.

You’d held Max when he fell, body bloodied and ripped open, eyes glassy like he’d known what was coming. You left the mall that night with a new fear of loud noises, of fireworks that cracked and snapped in the sky. You knew what burning flesh smelled like, you knew that there was more to be said about monsters, more danger in the world than just the creatures that lurked in the cracks of the earth.

You knew that evil could come in the shape of a man, a familiar face, behind a uniform, a doctor's white lab coat. 

You were tired, beaten, a little bloodied and bruised and your throat was raw after you’d screamed for Steve, fists beating on the door as you went ignored. You heard him from behind the steel walls, his voice as wrecked and panicked as your own and you sobbed when you heard his yells turn to groans, sickening wet thumps of bone hitting bone, breaking up the sound of him calling out your name. 

You sat beside him in the ambulance, hands still clutching each other tightly, fear of being torn apart again ripping through you both. The medic wanted to take him to hospital, to make sure his cheekbone wasn’t shattered, that you both weren’t suffering from shock or concussion but Steve refused, just wanting to go fucking home.

The sky was angry, red and crying, plumes of black and crimson smoke billowing from the broken building and you didn’t know what to do. People were dead and the whole world seemed to be burning. 

But Steve took you by the hand, pulled you to his side as you made sure everyone was okay, as well as they could be considering the circumstances and the boy stood a little numb as he watched you drop to your knees and fold Max into a hug, tears streaking through the blood and dirt on your cheeks when you pressed a kiss to El’s forehead. 

Everyone was a little broken, barely standing, barely breathing and it didn’t seem difficult to continue the lie to your parents, calling them from a pay phone to say that you were okay, you had seen the news but it was fine, you had been at Steve’s the whole time, you’d be home in the morning.

You let Jonathan bundle you both into the back of his car, one of his old jackets thrown around your shoulders as Nancy sat in the front, Steve beside you, shoulder to shoulder, thigh to thigh. He dropped you both at Steve’s front door, little to be said between the hour of you as shock and tiredness tugged at your bodies, your heads. Hands were pressed to shoulders, squeezing softly, telling each other everything you all needed to say but couldn’t - not then, not just yet.

Thank you, I’m sorry, I’m glad you’re okay, I’m happy you’re safe.

The Harrington house was empty, as expected and the rooms felt darker and colder than they had before, empty and too big, your harsh breaths rattling too loudly and you could feel a panic building inside you, clawing at your chest. 

It grew when you looked at Steve’s face, dried blood and dark bruises making him look like he was about to fall apart and when you squeezed your eyes closed, you could hear the way he yelled your name, raw and broken.

A sob bubbled from your throat, spilling from your lips and you’d barely taken a breath before Steve was in front of you, arms pulling you into him, a hand around your neck, foreheads pressed together. It was supposed to ground you - and it did, in a way - but the cries still came, stuttered and broken, the heavy kind of sobs that made your body heave with the exertion of it all. 

Steve held you through it, both of you swaying unsteady on your feet in the middle of his hall, shoes streaking dirt across Mrs. Harrington’s white tiles. Neither of you could ask the other if they were okay, ‘cause the answer was obvious but when your tears finally stopped, your face wet and your head sore, the boy took you by the hand and led you up the stairs. 

He walked past his bedroom door, the little slice of heaven you most wanted at that moment in time, the only place in the large house that truly felt like home to you both. It was a surprise when he nudged open the door to the main bathroom, rarely used due to all the ensuites that were accessed through bedrooms but the large corner tub there suddenly looked like a gift from above. 

You felt like a spare part when Steve let go of you long enough to turn the taps, filling the bath with hot water and a mixture of his mother’s expensive soaps and bath milks, sweet smelling bubbles and steam filling the room. 

You found a first aid kit underneath the sink, pushed to the back of the cupboard, unused and when you motioned to the boy to sit on the closed toilet seat, he did without arguing. He spread his legs for you without you needing to ask, standing between his knees with a bottle of antiseptic and some cotton balls, more tears slipping down your cheeks as you mumbled out apologies, dabbing the stinging liquid into his skin.

Steve simply held onto your legs, eyes closed and his hands wrapped around the back of your knees, his thumbs stroking over the sensitive skin there as he whispered back, telling you it was okay, it’s fine, I'm fine sweetheart. 

The cuts on his face didn’t seem as angry, as severe, when you wiped away the blood that crusted around them but the dark bruises seemed mean and vicious against the pale cast of his skin, shock seeping out all the colour from his cheeks. 

He let you press a kiss to his forehead, clutching at the sides of his head, fingers buried in his damp, messy hair and the push of your lips was fierce, conveying everything you wanted to say but couldn’t, because fuck, you didn’t know how to tell your best friend that you think you were falling in love with him. Because how else could the thought of losing someone hurt so fucking much?

Steve left you alone to bathe, skin stinging as you stripped down to your underwear, your body and bones lazy as you pulled at your jeans and shirt. You gave up when you got down to your underwear, cotton pants and lacy bralette mismatching in a clash of cherry print and forest green and they both stuck to your skin as you slid into the hot water. 

You drew your knees to your chest, eyes closed and head pressed there as you let the heat nip at you, cuts and scrapes protesting but it was good to feel something when your head felt numb, your chest hollow. You weren’t sure how long you sat there for but you could've sworn someone was calling your name, a knock on the door echoing on the tiles and your mouth felt too fuzzy to answer. 

Steve could only hear the slow, steady drip of the tap and panic rose in his chest when you didn’t answer him and he had thoughts of you unconscious and slipping beneath the bubbles. 

So he knocked once more, heart racing before he turned the handle and pushed at the door a little, calling out your name. 

He heard the water splash at the sides of the tub, movement at least. But then he heard you sniff, the noise turning to soft sobs and it gripped at his heart, crushed it a little and before he knew it, he was in the bathroom, bare feet on the tiles and staring down at you, tucked into the smallest ball you could amongst the bubbles.

Neither of you spoke as Steve pulled off the shirt and cotton sweats he’d changed into, his own eyes glassey as he left his boxers on, stepping into the water with you, sitting down in the space behind you.

It felt like the most natural thing in the world when he spread his legs and pulled you into them, your back to his bare chest as he wrapped his arms around your knees too, holding you to him. He let you cry like that, head bent over yours, the two of you curled into the water together, steam licking at your skin. You think you felt a tear drop from his eye, warm as it slid through your hair and onto your cheek and the feel of it made you search for his hand, scrambling desperately under the hot water and foam so you could link your fingers through his.

Your grip on each other was as tight as it was when he’d pulled you to your feet after Dustin saved you from pliers and scalpels, the same way it had been when a six year old Steve had helped you up from the playground, knees scraped and front tooth missing after falling from the monkey bars. It was the same touch you granted him when you were twelve and he had to go to the emergency room, his arm broken after falling off of his bike. You’d begged to ride in the ambulance with him and his mom, his ink stained fingers reaching for you, not Mrs. Harrington. 

When you had no tears left to give and the water was turning lukewarm, Steve turned the tap again, let the hot water fill the room back up with steam and soothe your tired bodies. He grabbed a sponge, tapped at your knee until you turned to him, face to face and unbelievably vulnerable. 

But you let him smooth the sponge over the bare skin that he could see, up your arms, wiping away the soot from the fire, the stubborn dried blood that didn’t want to leave. He squeezed warm water over your chest, looking at your eyes and definitely not your bra, the pretty, green lace turning darker against your skin.

He pressed a kiss to your hair when you let your head fall into him, too tired to sit up and when you couldn’t hear the far away whine of sirens in the distance anymore, he helped you stand, the water that was light pink with blood swirling down the drain. He wrapped you both in towels, murmuring the whole time that you were okay, he had you, it was gonna be fine. 

You pulled your favourite shirt from underneath his pillow, tugging it on and falling into his bed, the smell of Steve and home surrounding you in the same way that the sheets did, soft and comforting. The boy clambered in beside you, body stiff and pain settling in his bones but you glued yourself to his side, hands intertwined and pressed between your chests and you couldn’t close your eyes until Steve leaned into you, breath warm and smelling of mint as he pressed his lips to your ear as he told you: “Remember when I promised you that I’d protect you from everything bad?”

You nodded, remembering that cherry flavoured popsicle and the way Steve’s pool looked so much bigger and deeper back then. “We were eight, Steve.”

He hummed in agreement, forehead rubbing fond against your own and you revelled in the fact that you both smelled like the same cotton and lemongrass body wash. 

“We were,” he agreed, voice a soft whisper, cracking a little from the yelling that had ripped his throat apart. “But the promise still stands, sweetheart.”

You opened your eyes to look at them and he looked a little fuzzy as you teared up. But Steve shook his head gently, hand tightening around your smaller one.

“No more tears, please babe,” he sniffed too, as if the entire night suddenly hit him, “I got you now, yeah? I’m never gonna let anythin’ happen to you, promise.”

You slept then, a little broken and fitful, but every time you shifted in your sleep, the boy followed, bodies traversing across the mattress and between the sheets. When you woke in the morning, you had your head on Steve’s chest, a leg thrown over his own, your thigh hitched high over his and his arms were a vice grip around you, his face pressed to the top of your head. 

The sheets were on the floor, a pillow by the door as if it had been kicked and the sun was shining through the gap in the curtain, bright and warm and mocking. The world felt a little different after that night, and so did your friendship with Steve Harrington. 

I've loved you three summers now, honey, but I want 'em all. 

Working at Family Video with both Robin and Steve meant that you got to spend a lot more time with your friends. It also meant that Robin was more privy to watching how you and Steve interacted with each other and it had the girl taking notes on your relationship with the boy like her new favourite science experiment. 

“Look, I’m just saying, he’s not really dated since Starcourt and the boy lost it over you that night.” 

You rolled your eyes, still putting away the videos that were stacked in your arms as Robin followed you up and down the aisles. The store was quiet, a Tuesday afternoon giving you little to do but you’d graduated after you fought a monster and survived the soviets, so applying for colleges wasn’t all that high on your to do list. 

Your parents had taken that news better than Steve’s, both couples perplexed at their kids' choices to stay in Hawkins and work for the summer but at least your Dad had threatened bodily harm against you when you’d told him. 

You eyed Steve who was on the other end of the store, leaning lazy against the counter as he ticked off the delivery list. He looked a little older, like you did, but the stubble on his jaw and the broadness of his shoulders made your lips part every time you chanced a look. 

He was still Steve, but he was a little taller, a little stronger. He was still late night drives and sneaking through your window, mixtapes on your birthday and cherry popsicles in his backyard during the summer. Maybe he flirted a little more with you, comments suggestive and compliments coming easier but you tried not to think about it. When you did, late at night and alone in bed, it made your head spin, your lips part, your eyes close. 

You sighed, turning to Robin to tell her with an exasperated whisper, “we’ve been best friends since pre-k, of course he was upset that I was dragged away by a fucking Russian Soviet, Robin.”

She rolled her eyes at you, stumbling over her own foot as she tried to keep up. Steve glanced up at you both at the noise, brows furrowed as you both froze, eyes a little wide and you waved, hands raised awkwardly in unison. 

“What’re you both doing?” He called out, suspicion lacing his voice and you felt heat travel from your chest to your cheeks. 

“Nothing,” Robin called out at the same time you told him you were fixing the horror section. 

Your voices piled over each other and you wanted to groan, because Robin couldn’t lie to save herself and now you both looked like idiots. But Steve just smiled, fond, and turned back to his stack of papers. 

“I'm telling you,” Robin continued, voice a little lower now, “Steve likes you, like, he likes you, likes you. Why can’t you see that?”

You stopped and turned at her last words, truly taken aback at how sincere she sounded, how confused she seemed. 

‘Cause Steve was still Steve and you were still you and nothing in the world could really change that. Steve had promised you that he’d always be your best friend, and at nineteen, that still seemed like a pretty sweet deal. 

You shrugged, pushing the last copy of Nightmare On Elm Street onto the shelf and you crossed your arms over your chest, suddenly feeling far too exposed at her interrogation. 

“It’s not like that,” you told her, whispering still, “it’s never been like that with Steve.”

She huffed, swiping a finger along the row of videos and blowing away the dust she’d collected. Robin turned, an eyebrow raised. “Would you want it to be like that? ‘Cause seriously, dude, I still can’t believe that, in like, sixteen years of friendship, you’ve never even kissed once.”

You shrugged again, holding back on telling the girl that sometimes you thought the same. 

When you were fourteen, you thought that Steve was going to be your first kiss. Looking back, you weren’t sure why, you just did. Maybe it was a feeling, maybe it was hope, maybe it was just inevitable. 

‘Cause you grew up beside the boy and never once did he feel like a brother, and that had to mean something, right? He held your hand when you watched scary movies, when you crossed the road on Main Street, when it was rush hour, just like your parents had told you to when you were seven. He never dropped your hand, he never kicked you from his side of the bed when the movies you watched together became too much. 

You went through middle school and high school still the same, joined at the hip, still sharing secrets, still holding hands when things got too hard. 

But then one summer, Hayley Collins had a birthday party and you’d been sick, too ill to attend but Steve had still stood underneath your bedroom window, features twisted with conflict as you told him it was fine, he could go without you. You remember telling him to have fun, and to bring you back some candy. 

He did. He brought you back fistfuls of sweet stuff, bags of M&M’s and pop rocks but you didn’t expect him to bring his lips to your ear and tell you a secret you never expected. 

Steve had had his first kiss. A game of spin the bottle in Hayley’s basement with her cousin who was from out of town. A girl a year older, a girl who had pretty blonde curls and a reason to wear a real bra. 

You remembered the feeling when your heart sank and the pop rocks stopped fizzing on your tongue. You wondered why the sugar tasted bitter, why your eyes were suddenly pricking with hot tears and when the boy asked if you were okay, a grin slipping from his lips, you lied and told him that you still felt sick. 

You turned to Robin, a fake smile pulling at your lips as you tried to act casual, as if her words weren’t kickstarting a feeling in your chest that you had been trying so hard to ignore for the last five years. 

You furrowed your brow, turned to the cart that was still full of videos no thanks to your friend, and picked up another pile. You stacked them until they reached your chin, until they gave you a reason to walk to the other side of the stands and take a deep breath.

“I haven’t really thought about it,” you lied, and it felt heavy on your tongue, tasting too sweet and sinful. Because of course you had. “It’s not something that’s crossed my mind.”

Robin saw right through you and you could tell by the way her brows rose and she hid her smile behind a press of her lips. 

“Sure,” she said, voice too light. “Humour me then. What do you think would happen if you did let it cross your mind?”

You stared at her, mouth agape, because what the fuck was the girl getting at. 

She grabbed some of the videos you were holding, The Exorcist close to slipping from its slot underneath your chin and she started stacking them beside you, completely out of alphabetical order, but that was a problem for another day. 

“Just listen,” she said and you hated how she sounded excited. “What do you think would happen if you asked Steve to kiss you?”

She dropped a box, cursing when the corner of it hit her toe but she bounced back up, bright eyes still brimming with all the thoughts that were swirling round her head at once. 

“Cause you know he would, right? Like the poor guy can’t say no to you, he’s never been able to.”

You made a sound of protest, heart hammering in your chest because Steve was still right there, fingers running though his hair, pen between his lips and so completely fucking oblivious. 

But Robin suddenly stopped and spun to face you. She wrapped a hand around your wrist, soft and warm and you could tell she was choosing her words carefully before she said them, a sure fire way to tell that the girl was being serious. 

“There’s a reason that none of his girlfriends have stuck around, babe,” Robin murmured, sincerity lacing every word. “It’s ‘cause he always picks you, every time.”

—————

It had been a week since Robin had cornered you at work, whispering to you about Steve and kissing and god, you couldn’t stop thinking about it. 

You thought about it when he gave you a ride home after work, sun setting, the day turning pink and casting indigo shadows over his face, the line of his jaw, the curve of his mouth. 

You thought about it when he pushed himself into you during Saturday morning shifts, his body lazy as he leant against you, his chest to your back and his head on your shoulder. It felt softer and intimate than when he’d done it before, your mind running wild with the idea that if you turned around and kissed him, right there in the middle of Family Video, he might kiss you back. 

You thought about it when you were lying by his pool, his parents gone, the kids and Dustin’s new friend Eddie starting water fights on the lawn. You’d watch the way Steve watched you, jealous eyes and lips pouted when Eddie soaked you with a water balloon, skin damp, cheeks flushed and eyes bright. You watched how he softened and lit up again, your attention on him when you shook your wet hair over his bare chest and you couldn’t help but notice how his gaze followed the movements you made when you bent to slide your shorts back up your legs. 

So maybe it was for those reasons that you turned to him one Friday night, when it was just the two of you out in his backyard, and asked him why he’d never kissed you. 

It could’ve been the joint you’d been sharing making you feel braver, or maybe the shadows that you were hiding in, the spaces that the pool lights didn’t quite reach. 

Maybe it was the way Steve had been looking at you each time you took the joint from his lips and put it between your own. Hair a little messy, eyes hooded, jaw slack. 

Maybe it was because of all of it. Maybe it was because you were nineteen and growing impatient. Maybe it was sixteen years of build up. Of wondering, wanting, waiting. 

The air smelled the same way it did when you were eight, chlorine and cedar from the trees, that afternoon's sunscreen mixing with weed and smoke. Your tongue was stained red from the popsicle you’d had, Steve’s blue and there were new freckles on both of your faces, noses a little pink from lying out in the sun all day. 

And when the afternoon faded into evening and the sky was lilac, Steve produced a joint with a grin, a wiggle of his brows and suddenly you were lying on the deck together, the pool filter trickling in the background and laughing soft as you blew smoke into the night. 

There was a buzz of insects from the forest that stood behind the house, the faint hum of someone’s music that played from a couple of yards over and you felt the warmth radiate from the boy from where he lay beside you. 

Your bare feet pointed to opposite ends of the pool, one of yours dipped into the water and your heads were touching, cheek to cheek. If you turned to look at him, you knew your lips could slip over his easily and the thought of it made your body fizz. 

He had just plucked the joint from your mouth, thumb grazing clumsy over your top lip, fitting pretty into the dip of your Cupid’s bow when you tilted your head, cheek resting on the patio, the slabs still warm from the afternoon sun. 

“Hey, Harrington,” you sounded quiet and lazy, like you didn’t have a care in the world. But god, your heart was in your throat, pulsing like a warning. “You ever thought ‘bout kissing me?”

If Steve was shocked, he didn’t show it, not really. His eyes widened slightly, joint hanging slack from his lips and he stubbed it out on the concrete before swallowing, hard. 

He turned to you, noses almost brushing and you watched the way his gaze settled on your lips. 

“Why d’you ask?” His voice was a hush, warm and rough. 

You shrugged, boldness faltering because he hadn’t answered your question but holy shit, he was still looking at your mouth, the way your tongue snuck out to wet your bottom lip before you spoke. 

“Just something Robin said,” you told him, nose scrunched. 

Your words made his lips part, nodding in understanding because of course Robin was involved and the girl had been at him too, hounding him in the stockroom at work, calling him out on his obvious crush on your over old, dusty videos. 

But all the boy could say was, “oh.”

And then there was silence, for a second, maybe two. It felt like minutes, like an hour, like the sky was suddenly crashing down on you, as if lavender clouds and the stars were going to bury you were you lay but then-

“I have,” Steve said, quietly sure. You looked over at him as he blew out a breath, “course I’ve thought about it. ‘Bout kissing you.”

“Oh,” it was your turn to keep silent, his admission washing over you like a tsunami sized wave, one that you weren’t sure you’d be able to keep your head above. 

You sat up suddenly, shocking Steve and he leaned up onto his elbows with wide eyes, watching as you turned to face him, legs crossed and knees knocking into his thighs. 

“Why haven’t we?” You asked, bemusement colouring your tone and you couldn’t help but press your hand to his where it lay on the deck. Your fingers brushed over his, a new kind of touch. “Why haven’t we ever kissed?”

You wondered if he could hear your heartbeat, if it was rattling against your ribs as loud as it seemed to be. You held your breath as Steve sat up too, mirroring your pose and crossing his legs until you were knee to knee and looking like a couple of innocent kids again. 

He shrugged, blowing out another breath and he tugged a hand through the front of his hair, making it stand on end. He looked a little wild, like you short circuited him, like you were half way to ruining him. 

The boy’s voice cracked a little when he tried to answer and you wondered if this was okay, if you should’ve asked but then Steve was speaking, his thumb drawing absentminded circles over your bare knee.  

“I’m not really sure,” he said and he spoke soft and quiet, like he was telling you a secret. “I suppose I just didn’t wanna lose my best friend.”

It was the answer you expected. Best friend first, the prospect of a girl to kiss in the background of his mind. You should’ve been happy, you should’ve felt loved, but the idea of never having Steve in the way you realised you wanted him was becoming more crushing by the day. 

“Or maybe,” he suddenly continued, “I guess… I guess I didn’t realise I was allowed to.”

Your lips parted at that, a small bomb dropped in the middle of the Harrington’s backyard. You waited for the pool to empty, for the small wave to hit your back, for the sky to light up but nothing came and Steve was watching you, waiting. 

“You’re allowed to,” you whispered and oh my god, you didn’t feel high enough for this, but you continued, tummy dropping and skin electric. “You’ve always been allowed to.”

You heard Steve’s breath hitch and it only felt natural when his hand came up to cup the back of your neck, thumb pressed to the spot behind your ear and god, he was leaning in and so were you. 

“I just don’t know if we should,” he was telling you but he was still moving into you and his hand never fell away from your face. 

“It’s just a kiss,” you told him, voice shot, lips falling apart and you could smell his aftershave, the leftover chlorine that stuck to his skin and he was summer, he was cherry and smoke and god, he was forbidden, he was yours. “Friends can kiss, doesn’t have to mean anything.”

“It’s really just curiosity, right?”

His nose was bumping against yours, both of your eyes fluttering closed at the feel of the other's breath falling across your lips and you wondered if he’d taste like his popsicle, blue raspberry, sugar and fizz. 

You nodded at his question, too gone to speak and the movement made your top lip brush against his. Sparks against your skin, electric, dangerous and it made you sigh. 

“Steve?” You whispered, eyes squeezed shut like you were seven again and making a wish beside your birthday cake, candles making your skin glow.

He hummed, thumb still pushing against that spot on your neck, “yeah sweetheart?”

“Will you kiss me?”

And fuck, maybe Robin was right because the boy didn’t say no. In fact, Steve didn’t say anything, he just moved into you until your nose was pressed into his cheek and his lips were plush against yours and oh my god you were kissing your best friend.  

He still tasted like raspberry, like you thought he would. Like summer and promises and pool days and a little smoke and Steve. 

It was a slow push of his lips to your own, mouths slanting over each other’s, soft and languid like you both knew this was your only chance. You thought you heard him moan, a soft, low noise that made your chest hurt and when the kiss lingered, you brought your hands to his cheeks, fingers splayed over his jaw as you tugged him a little closer, greedy. 

And when his tongue licked at the curve of your bottom lip, his hand travelled to tilt at your chin, asking you to open for him, you did, no questions asked. You sighed, blissed out, when his tongue slid over yours, a hand falling to fist in his t-shirt, soft cotton crumpled in your hand because you felt like you were going to float away. 

Then Steve was pulling back, chest heaving, forehead pressed to yours and eyes still slammed shut as he gave you another secret, pressed to the corner of your mouth, your jaw, the curve of your neck. 

“I always thought you were gonna be my first kiss,” he said it like a confession, like something holy. “M’sorry you weren’t.”

And then he was back on you, lips melted between your own and you knew that the pretty noises that you pulled from him would play like a record in your dreams for months on end. Steve was grasping at your hip, the material of your dress bunched under his hand, making the cotton hitch higher up your thighs. 

You were in his lap, wide hands on your sides, guiding you as you kissed him, lovesick, eyes closed, body buzzing and you fell across his knees, thighs shifting apart to cage him underneath you and oh my god. 

Fuck. 

You sat a little higher than him, knees planted on the deck and his head was tilted back to kiss you as you crowded him. One hand was on your jaw, thumb rubbing against your cheek as he kissed you deeper now, a little dirty and when he pulled a small moan from you, his hand clasped at the back of your thigh, skin on skin. 

You could feel him hard underneath you and it made your head feel fuzzy, your body pleading with you to drag yourself along the length of him, hips rolling, chest heaving. 

When you pulled back, panting, the reflections of the pool were bouncing off your faces, ripples of light dancing across the boy's features, hitting his eyes and turning them caramel. You felt golden when he touched you, skin lit up, the air around you both crackling like a storm was coming. 

Maybe it was still the weed, maybe it was a new found courage, maybe it was just teenage hormones and the thought of seeing each other naked for the first time since you were both four, but when Steve asked if he could take you inside, you didn’t hesitate to say yes. 

It felt different in his bedroom when you both tumbled in, colliding with the dresser as you kissed each other like you meant it, like you’d never do it again. The room felt smaller, darker, softer, more intimate than it had ever been for you and suddenly you felt like a girl at the end of date. 

Steve touched you like you were more than just his best friend and it made your stomach roll, your thighs rub together and you couldn’t quite get over the way his hand spanned the width of your cheek, fingertips grazing your hairline whilst his thumb managed to pull at your bottom lip, eager for more of you. 

It all got a little wild after that, loose change and bottles of aftershave cologne clattering off of the drawers, falling to the floor as Steve picked you up and slammed you on top of it, legs spreading for him to fit in between. Hands roamed up your thighs, pushing at the soft skin there until he hitched a knee up and over his hip, pressing himself into you. 

Your dress came off first, his shirt following, a mix of colours on the carpet and he pressed his lips to the skin he uncovered, mouth over lavender lace and delicate straps. 

It felt desperate, you felt desperate. And when he sucked a bruise into the column of your throat, you keened, high and needy. It made the boy groan, mouth vibrating against your chest as he kissed over the lace triangles covering you, his gaze flicking up to watch you nod at him before he was pushing one aside, tongue smoothing over a nipple. 

It made you grab at his hair, fingers delving deep, tugging in appreciation and you were prepared for the sound it pulled from him, low in the back of his throat and it made his eyes flutter shut. 

“Sweetheart,” Steve huffed out, hands skimming up and down your sides as he pressed his forehead to yours, “I’m gonna come in my pants if you keep that up.”

He sounded wild, unravelled and sharp around the edges. It made you feel full of power, pretty lips and lace and soft skin, and you pressed the softest kiss to Steve’s mouth, his breath coming in harsh pants and before you could ask, you were being manhandled again, legs around his waist and his hands on your ass. 

He sat you both on the bed like that, spread out pretty on top of him, knees pushed into the mattress as you pulled at his belt, holding yourself up as he shuffled out of his jeans. He sucked tiny bruises on your collar bones as your bra was peeled off, nothing but your underwear separating you both and you felt his hands drag down your back, a touch that was so affectionate and soft that it took your breath away. 

Then night seemed slower after that, like time paused for you both, just for you to remember every touch. Like the world stopped spinning on its axis just for you two, just so you would both remember the way the other felt, ‘cause fuck, you had a feeling this wouldn’t happen again. 

“We don’t have to go any further,” Steve gasped, lips barely leaving yours as pushed and pulled at your hips, helping you rock over him, body rolling across his lap. “We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”

But you were ready to climb him, your hands grabbing at his hair to tug him back to you, kisses swallowing his words and telling the boy that you wanted exactly the opposite. 

It was strange how natural it felt, to tug the length of him out of his boxers, the feel of him hot and hard in your hand. You shuffled in Steve’s lap as he palmed you over the lace of your underwear, breath uneven. It didn’t take long for him to tug them down your legs as he slid on a condom, your foot kicking purple lace to his bedroom floor and you suddenly felt like you were underwater; body moving lazy and slow as you lifted yourself onto your knees, Steve’s hands strong and reassuring as you took him in your hand and sunk down onto him.

Neither of you moved, bodies tangled and still as you fit perfectly in his lap, arms wrapped around each other as you panted heavy into parted lips. Steve whispered your name, like a prayer, soft and broken before he pushed his lips to yours, head tilted into you so he could catch your lips deep and slow.

He grunted in surprise when you tightened around him, body clenching on his at the touch of his tongue across your bottom lip and you whimpered, hips beginning to wiggle. This was more than you’d felt before, more than wandering hands in back seats, more than a quick and fast hook-up in a party bathroom, more than fingers under skirts in your bedroom when your parents were asleep across the hall. 

“Can I move?” You ask, quiet, your hands grappling desperately at Steve’s shoulders palming over the muscles there. “I need to move, Steve, please.” If you were begging, you didn’t care, because you felt so full, so tight around him and you couldn’t help but admire the way the boy looked underneath you. 

But Steve didn’t have you waiting long, any teasing long forgotten about ‘cause he felt like he was wound too tight and you felt like fucking heaven around him. You didn’t know your eyes were wet until his thumb smoothed over your cheekbone, breath stuttering and you both gasped and swore when you lifted yourself up, just to rock yourself back down.

He moaned your name so prettily, lips glossy from your kisses and his eyes were hooded, gaze set on you, jaw slack, hands roaming across the expanse of your back as he held you to him. 

You moved over him with purpose, Steve answering with low groans and he pulled soft whimpers from you, your hand catching his face so you could look at him, gazes heavy and hot, pinned to each other. Your thumb found the curve of his bottom lip, tugging a little and Steve moaned when the pad of it slid over the edge of his teeth. “Steve,” you gasped, hips moving messy and the boy grabbed at your ass, helping you ride him a little faster. 

“That’s it, sweetheart, tell me, tell me what you want and I’ll give you it,” he pressed his lips to yours as he spoke, words slipping over your lips, your tongue and god, they tasted sweet. “I’ll give you anything.”

“More,” was all you could manage, breath hitching, eyes slamming shut ‘cause Steve’s hand dropped between you both, skin slick and he pressed his thumb over your clit; quick, hot circles that made stars flash behind your eyelids. “Close?” Steve asked, voice rough and you nodded, moving a little wilder over him, the boy reciprocated, hands holding your hips still so he could thrust up hard into you until you were biting down on the muscle on his shoulder, thighs tensing, eyes tearing up. 

Steve whispered your name when he came, arms tight around you, head buried in the crook of your neck, eyes squeezed shut, hoping and praying that he’d always remember the way you felt around him.

He kissed you one last time that night, bodies still naked and stretched out between his sheets and you didn’t say anything to each other as you caught your breaths, eyes wide on each other. There was a part of you that wished you could have the excuse of alcohol, too messy after some party to remember. You couldn’t blame the weed either, the half smoked joint still stubbed out in the backyard, hardly enough to do anything than let you both share a buzz. 

In the morning, you pulled on your clothes, wrinkled on Steve’s bedroom floor, still smelling of smoke and the boy. You tiptoed around his room, searching for your underwear, your shoes, all while the boy lay on his bed, face down, hair mussed and the white sheets barely covering his waist.

You wish you had it in you to let yourself drop back down into bed with, to have the courage to press a kiss to the freckle on his right shoulder, smooth a soft hand down his spine. But the sun was coming in through the window and your lips were still swollen from your best friend’s kisses and everything was starting to taste like a mistake. 

You didn’t know it, but Steve was awake as you left, eyes open and face pressed into the pillow that still smelled like your shampoo, heart beating wild in his chest but he didn’t move, didn’t call out to stop you. And well, that was that. 

My heart's been borrowed and yours has been blue. 

You didn’t talk about it. 

A week passed and neither did Steve and before you knew it, you were a month down the line, the feel of your best friend's lips on your skin feeling like a fever dream and you didn’t know if you’d ever be able to forget the feel of him moving against you, inside you. 

It hurt to look at him, for a while. It got worse before it got better, stilted conversations and awkward eye contact, the taste of regret in both of your tongues and all the things you wanted to say to each other were left unsaid. 

But it was fine. 

Steve asked you round for a movie one Friday, videos stacked on the coffee table in his living room, your favourite sweater of his lying out on the arm of the sofa along with red vines and the good kinda popcorn. 

You didn’t push yourself into his side like you normally would and you didn’t know if that disappointed him or not, but when he dropped you off home later that night, the sky was a dark, rosy pink, the lingering smell of rain in the air and he smacked a messy kiss to your cheek before you climbed out of his car. 

It was fine. Until it wasn’t. 

Steve started dating again, one girl, two girls, three girls. Lucy on Saturday, Matthew David’s cousin Paula the next Friday, Cindy from last year's cheer squad the week after. 

You didn’t ask about it and he didn’t tell you, just poking an affectionate finger to the apple of your cheek when he told you he’d see you the next day. You were his best friend, again, still, only. 

It was fine until one Friday shift, when you disappeared into the back room a little earlier than the store closed. You came back out in a new dress, short and pretty, with blush on your cheeks and a gloss on your lips. Robin had wolf whistled, Steve had frowned. 

“Where are you going?”

His tone of voice cut you in half, accusatory and a little shocked. Steve leaned over the counter, a finger picking delicately at a lock of hair that you’d spent too long trying to get to sit nicely. 

“A date,” you told him, voice soft, gaze lowered as you tried to cram lip gloss tubes and perfume bottles into your bag. 

“With who?” Was the instantaneous response, that same tone of voice. 

You saw Robin’s gaze flitting between the pair of you, not privy to the events that took place a month prior, but not for a lack of trying. The girl was perfectly aware that something happened. She just didn’t know what and neither your or Steve had told her anything. 

“Nate Owens,” you told him and god, why was it so hard to meet his eye? “You know, he was on the team with you.”

Steve pulled his brows together, bewildered at your answer. “Yeah, I know him, why the fuck are you going on a date with Owens?”

You heard Robin’s sharp intake of breath and she watched as you squinted at the boy, annoyance on your features. Knowing what was to come, she grabbed the last of the returns and made her way to the other side of the empty store, leaving you two alone.

“What?” You huffed out, exasperated already. Your stomach was tumbling and you hated the way you didn’t know why. Maybe it was first date jitters, maybe it was the way Steve was looking at you, maybe it was because you knew you had absolutely no interest in dating anyone that wasn’t your bet fucking friend. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Steve grappled for something to say, stuttering over excuses until he tutted and grabbed the stapler, carelessly turning it over in his hands as he told you, “you’ve got nothing in common with him, like, at all.”

You scoffed, pulling at the hem of your dress and smoothing out imaginary creases, you were annoyed, something burning and twisting inside of you. “Sure Harrington, I forgot you choose all your dates based on compatibility and shared goals for the future.”

“He’s a douchebag,” Steve tried again, “he’s only after one thing.”

“Yeah, well, maybe I am too,” you said loftily and you didn’t look for Steve’s reaction, you didn’t want to. You moved from behind the counter, leaving a cloud of perfume in your wake and headed for the door. “Robs, I’ll call you later, ‘kay?”

Before the girl could answer, Steve was tailing you, moving across the store with that stupid stapler still in his hand and he called out your name, making you stop and turn.

“He’s just gonna hurt you,” the boy explained and you hated how his voice had turned a little softer. “You can do so much better than him.”

“Yeah?” You turned fully, chin raised and shoulders set as you locked eyes with Steve. “Who should I date then, Steve? Who’s good enough?”

The air felt electric, fully charged as the boy stared back, lips parting, chest barely moving as if he was holding his breath. If Robin was still there, you didn’t know, your mind only registering the way the boy was still silent in front of you. 

“That’s what I thought,” you eventually muttered, hot tears threatening to prick at the corner of your eyes. “Don’t wait sixteen years to start taking an interest in my love life Harrington, I’ve got by just fine without your advice.”

You’d opened the door by the time Steve replied, voice hot and clipped with anger and something else, a tone you’d never heard him use with you before. “Yeah, well, don’t come fucking crying to me when he turns out to be a dick.”

You laughed humorlessly, your back turned to him as you faced the night outside, the cool air nipping at the heat on your cheeks. You wanted to go home, to chance a look at Robin and silently ask her to clamber into bed with you, if she’d let you cry onto her shoulder as you ate pizza and watched reruns of Charlie’s Angels.

There was also a part of you that wanted to turn to Steve, glassy eyed and confused, to ask why it suddenly felt like you were fighting for the first time since middle school. 

But you didn’t.

You walked out into the night and let the door slam shut behind you. 

If you’d hung around, you would’ve heard Robin slam down the copy of Stand By Me that she was holding, eyes a little angry and disappointed as she looked at the boy and said: “You’re a fucking idiot.”

‘Yeah,’ Steve thought, ‘he knew he was.’

----------

You hated that Steve was right, you hated that Nate Owens was a pig, you hated that he did nothing but look at your chest over the dinner table, you hated that he tried to lean in for a kiss the minute you both got back into his car, you hated that he got pissy with you when you didn’t let him push his hand up your dress, you hated that he told you to put out or get out.

You hated that he left you on the side of the road, a little out of town, at a restaurant that you didn’t really know, dinner paid for with his daddy’s money.

You hated that when you finally found a payphone at the side of a dark gas station, you punched in Steve’s number. You hated that you started to cry when you heard his voice, you hated that he told you was coming to get you. 

Steve found you easily despite your awful directions, and when he asked if you were okay, voice quiet and gentle, you choked out a little sob, feeling pathetic and Steve told you to stay put, that he would be there as fast as he could.

He definitely broke some laws to get to you, flashing through amber lights faster than he was supposed to and when he pulled into the station only twenty minutes later, his heart ached at the way you leaned against the brick wall, half in shadows with your arms wrapped around you, the slight wind picking at the hem of you dress, lifting it from you thighs.

Steve got out of the car before you could move, pushing yourself off of the wall and he hated that your eyes were glassy, that you seemed embarrassed. You let him tug one of his sweatshirts over your head, one he specifically grabbed for you before rushing out of his door, ‘cause he watched you leave work without a jacket and if he’d been in a better mood when you were going on your date - if you’d have been going on a date with him - he would’ve teased you about being cold later.

Steve opened the passenger door, waiting for you to fold yourself into the front of his car and when he got back in, the only light coming from the old neon sign that was flashing red, telling customers that the store was open. 

He wrapped his hands around the steering wheel, squeezing it until his knuckles turned white and he glanced at you, expression almost unreadable.

“Did he hurt you?” he asked.

“No,” you shook your head, and it was true. You’d thrown an elbow into the Nate’s chest when he tried to push you too far, too fast, the sharp point of your arm catching him just below his throat and he’d turned on you, telling you to get the fuck out. “The only thing hurt is my pride, but I guess that’s on me, huh?”

Steve sighed at that, turning fully in his seat so he could face you, his hand coming up to press into your cheek, his thumb running gently under your eye, catching the tears there before they fell.

“Sweetheart-” Steve started, but you were overwhelmingly emotional, everything from the night and Nate and Steve suddenly becoming too much and god, you just wanted to yell with it. 

“What? Is this the part where you say I told you so?” You tried to sound biting, but the words hitched in your throat, fresh tears springing to your eyes. “Why’re you even here Steve?”

You knew why. 

“Cause you asked me,” he answered, simply and that was all there was to it, wasn’t there? “And I’m not gonna tell you shit, I’m… I’m sorry I acted like that early, I dunno what was wrong with me.”

You wanted to press further, you wanted to ask him if he truly didn’t know the reason he acted like an asshole. You wanted to ask if he was jealous, if he wanted you the way you wanted him, if he missed you, if he thought about you when he went on all these dates, if he wanted to kiss you again, if he thought about it all the time, the same way that you did. 

But Steve was still talking, fingers slipping from your face to pick at a stand of hair, playing with the end of it absentmindedly. The car felt too small, too warm and too dark, and you were sure that the last time you were both this close, you’d been in Steve's bed, wrapped around him as he made you come. 

“He didn’t deserve even an hour of your time,” he told you, brows knitted together in a frown. “And you deserve better than Nate fucking Owens, you’re too good for him,” he repeated his statement from earlier and it made you chest ache, your tummy tumble over because god, you wanted to be brave.

“Who’s good enough then, Steve?” You breathed it out, voice almost a whisper because you were so close to losing it, to grabbing the boy by his face and telling him how you felt, how’d fallen in love with him fuck knows how many years ago and you’d only recently let yourself believe it.

He started, wide eyed, lips parted and waiting, the same reaction he’d had back at Family Video. But you didn’t walk away this time, you let out a huff of laughter, no humour in it as you sat back in the seat and started out of the windscreen. The gas station was deserted, the night creeping into a new day, the clock ticking closer to midnight and the light was still flickering. 

It painted you both crimson, eyes brighter than they should’ve been, cheeks rosy. You pushed a foot to the dash, dress slipping up your thigh and gathering in the crease of your leg, showing off way too much skin but you didn’t care.

“I grew up with all the other guys in our grade knowing that I was Steve Harrington’s best friend,” you told him, voice hushed and cracking, “all of them too scared to touch me ‘cause your stupid ten year old ass always threatened to beat them up.”

He was still staring, lip twitching as if he wasn’t sure if he was supposed to laugh or not because it was true. But then he watched a tear slip down your cheek and it caught the light, a flash of ruby before it got caught on your top lip and you licked it away.

“Then in high school, I was a challenge, ‘cause I was still Steve Harrington’s best fucking friend. Boy’s would either be terrified to talk to me or treat me like the best prize they could win. They thought I was off limits, some thought I was your girlfriend and god, Steve, fuck…”

You swallowed, hard, breath catching in your chest and the car was so silent, the boy watching, listening. 

“I never thought that I wanted that, to be anything more than your friend. I didn’t,” you tried to sound convincing, but even to your own ears, your protests sounded weak. “But then you kissed me.”

You looked at him from under your lashes, hands twisted nervously in your lap, his sweater fisted between your fingers and you hated the way it smelled like him, like mint and cedar and smoke and suddenly, it was all too much.

“I know I asked you to,” you blurted out, eyes brimming with tears again, spilling over the line of your lashes and suddenly, you didn’t care about what you said anymore. “But fuck! Robin said that you never say no to me, that you’d do anything for me and god, I just wanted it once, I didn’t know it would go that far that night… I don’t regret it,” you rambled, words falling clumsily over the next and you chanced a look at him, his eyes full of shock but there was a softness behind it, familiar and fond. “I don’t regret it at all, I just-”

You sucked in a breath, let your head fall back onto the rest and let your eyes fall closed before you admitted another secret.

“I just can’t stop thinking about it.”

You kept your eyes closed as you kept talking, the words, the confessions, falling so much easier now that you’d started. The dark made you feel a little bolder, the silence of the boy encouraging you to just keep spilling your heart out, no interruptions.

“I thought that maybe you would feel the same, that you’d say something first, ‘cause you’ve always been braver but then you started dating that girl, then the other one. And maybe I was just stupid, maybe I was wrong,” you sighed, gazing to the side to catch Steve’s eye, a warmth blooming over your entire body, embarrassment, adrenaline and the feeling that you were throwing yourself off a cliff surging over you. “But there was a part of me that thought you’d maybe figure out you loved me too.”

You didn’t know what you expected, really. There was such a large part of you that still believed you were only going to ever be friends, that if Steve wanted more, he would've told you by now. That part told you you were imagining things, that sleeping together was nothing more than an experiment, a product of being high and bored with your best friend. It told you to ignore the way you thought he looked at you, the way that sometimes, you were so sure his touch lingered for longer than it needed to. 

But then there was a voice in the back of your head, a shit, it sounded a little like Robin’s and it told you that the boy before you would do anything for you, anything you asked. And wasn’t that why he was here now? It told you that friends didn’t look at each other like that, that friends didn’t have to untangle themselves from each other's arms each morning, that friends didn’t kiss like you had both done. 

Steve whispered your name then, a hand reaching out to catch yours. 

“You know I love you,” he whispered, voice a little shocked, a little awed. He sounded broken too, like he didn’t know what he was supposed to say, like he was terrified of saying the wrong thing. “I’ve always loved you, you’re my best friend.”

Your heart fell. 

“I- I don’t wanna lose you,” Steve said and he was rambling, falling over his words as his eyes searched your face for something he wasn’t going to find. The softness you’d held in your features was gone. “Babe, you’re my best friend, I can’t lose you-”

“Don’t call me that,” you choked out, your heart racing, your stomach twisting. You thought you might be sick. “Fuck, shit, take me home.”

You pulled your hand away from where the boy held it, your demand sounding harsh and too loud in the quiet of the car. You couldn’t look at him. The red light was still flashing, flickering and it suddenly felt like it was splitting your head in two, like it was pulsing to the same beat as your heart. 

Steve said your name again, pleading, his hand on your arm, silently begging you to turn, to look at him. 

“Can you let me explain? Please, god, I didn’t mean it like that, you have to understand-”

“Take me home, Steve, please.”

But he ignored you, tugging the keys out of the ignition and leaning forward, a hand tilting at your chin to try and a catch your gaze but your cheeks felt too hot and the burn at your eyes told you that you were going to start crying again and all you could think about was the list of boys who were too scared to make you theirs, too happy with a quick fuck in the back of their shitty cars and you never used to care because you were only ever happy with one boy. 

You knew you should’ve let him talk, that you owed him his chance to speak but the burning sensation of embarrassment and rejection was creeping up your spine like poison and you hated it, you couldn’t stand it. 

You panicked. 

You pulled at the door handle, fingers clumsy as you pushed the door open, clambering out with Steve’s sweater still swamping your frame and you could hear the boy calling your name even after you slammed the door shut. 

You made a start for the alleyway behind the gas station, somewhere the car couldn’t follow and by the time you made it a few streets over, you realised Steve wasn’t coming for you anyway. 

You got halfway home before the rain started falling, a pathetic spit that misted into the air and soaked you through. It made your hair stick to your cheeks, Steve’s sweater damp and hanging heavy on your body and by the time you reached home, it didn’t smell like him anymore. 

Good, you thought. 

Because when you were eight years old, Steve Harrington was the first big to tell you he loved you and then he promised you three things:

One, he’d always be your best friend. Two, he’d always protect you from everything bad and scary. And three, he’d never break your heart. 

It took almost twelve years, but shit, the boy finally broke one of them. 

Take me out, and take me home. 

It took Steve twelve years to break his promise to you, but only four days to fix it. 

Which was impressive really, when he spent the first three days agonising over what to say to you. You’d been avoiding him like the plague, worse than the plague, quite frankly. 

He expected you at work the next day, chest sore from holding his breath as he watched the door, eyes tired from staying up all night.

 He’d stayed in that gas station parking lot for too long after you’d left, eyes wide as he watched you leave, disappearing behind the alleyway almost instantly. 

Steve had slammed his hands on the dash, overwhelmed with everything you’d said, admitted to him, with glassy eyes and he fucking hated how he’d made your bottom lip tremble, your breath hitch and stutter as you tried not to cry. 

He’d panicked. 

And you’d left. 

He’d driven home slowly, trying to catch sight of you on the sidewalks that led home, rolling down the streets that looked unfamiliar to see if you were there, trying to find shortcuts. When the rain had started, he’d cursed, no sight of you anywhere and by the time he’d pulled up outside your house, he was relieved to see your bedroom light on, a sign you’d made it home safely. 

He wanted to knock on the door, to climb into your bedroom window and try to make you smile again, to stop you crying because he couldn’t fucking stand it when you cried, especially because of him. 

But the window was shut, a rare sight and he knew it was a hint, a very obvious clue for him to stay the fuck away. He watched your light flicker off, the house bathed in darkness and he’d sat, pushing the heels of his hands to his eyes and cursing himself. 

He should’ve told you, he shouldn’t have been so fucking scared. 

You didn’t show up at work and when he asked Robin if she’d heard from you, the girl had told him that you were sick, had called in early and spoke to Keith. 

“She’s put in a line for the entire week, actually, said it’s a bad bug,” Robin had told him knowingly. “Whatever you’ve done, Harrington, I suggest you fix it.”

Steve didn’t ask how Robin knew, didn’t press her for any more details, ‘cause he knew her too well, knew she wouldn’t tell him shit so he just slammed a video he was supposed to be rewinding on the desk, and sighed, heavy and tired. 

“I know.”

You didn’t answer his calls. With your parents visiting family out of town, there was no one in the house but you and you made a point of refusing to pick up the phone at all. 

Robin would visit, not bothering to knock as she slipped into your house, huffing and humming to herself as she climbed your stairs, barging into your room unannounced. 

She set a careful gaze on you, a lump underneath the duvet, as she dumped your favourite snacks at the foot of your bed. 

“You’re not sick, are you?” You hated how it didn’t even sound like a question, just an accusation. “You wanna tell me what happened?”

And you did, you told her everything from the joint, to your kiss, the entire night. You told her about Nate, about your confession, about the way Steve looked at you when you told him that you thought he loved you too. 

Robin listened, curled up by your pillows beside you, your head on her shoulder and her cheek resting on yours, a bag of Reece’s Pieces between you both. 

“I know that this probably isn’t what you wanna hear right now,” the girl began, patting your hand with her own, “you know, with you being all heart broken and what not.”

You huffed. 

“But I don’t believe for a second that Steve doesn’t love you, that he isn’t in love with you.”

“Robin, please,” you groaned, shoving your face into her arm, because she was right, you didn’t wanna hear it. You’d spent too long trying to convince yourself that she was right, Steve was in love with you, only to blurt out your feelings for him and have him look at you, sheer panic on his face, in return. 

She sighed, knowing it was useless trying to make you see her side of things, so she pushed her nose to your temple, blew a raspberry to the side of your head and stole another Reece’s Piece. 

“Have you spoken to him?” She asked, voice unusually quiet. 

You shook your head. 

“Have you let him try?” The girl said knowingly. 

You shook your head again. 

Another huff, a somewhat affectionate butt of her head to yours and then she turned, shuffling against the pillows until you were face to face. 

“He’s really broken up about this,” she told you and her words made you wanna cry again. “You need to let him explain.”

You sniffed, eyes watering and despite the ache that still lived in your chest, you nodded. 

“‘Cause I don’t think you said things right, y’know?” Robin squinted at you, trying to make sense of what you’d told her Steve had said that night. “He’s a guy, shit, he’s Steve. Communication isn’t his strong point.”

“I don’t know what’s more clearer than ‘you’re my best friend, I can’t lose you’. Idiot or not, he made it pretty obvious that we’re never gonna be anything more.”

The movie that you had both hardly been watching was over, the screen fading to black and the credits rolling. A love song started to play, soppy and too cheery and you grunted, searching for the remote between the sheets before angrily pressing the off button. Silence fell over you and Robin snorted, flinging herself over your lap and looking up at you with a small smile. 

She pressed a finger to the tip of your nose and you scowled. 

“Ever think that maybe he’s just scared?”

Your frown deepened and you stared down at your friend, lips parted at the absurdity of her question. 

“What?” You scoffed. “I’ve watched him take down a demogorgon with a baseball bat, Robin, the boy isn’t scared of much anymore-”

“He also got his heart broken by the first girl he told he loved,” Robin interrupted. “He dates girls that he isn’t really interested in, that are the complete opposite of you. His folks are never around, he’s made his own family out of his friends.”

You swallowed, throat suddenly feeling thick, your chest tight. 

“You're probably the most constant thing in his life, y’know,” she mused, voice unbearably soft. The girl brought a hand up to tuck a stand of your hair behind your ear, the gesture fond. “He’s always had you, maybe he’s just scared to fuck things up and lose you.”

You couldn’t say anything. You didn't want to. ‘Cause that stupid burn was scratching at your eyes again, at the back of your throat and you were so done with crying, you were so over pushing your face into your pillow to dry your face.

Robin sat up suddenly, stretching and bending down to pull on her shoes. She popped another piece of chocolate in her mouth before smacking a kiss to your cheek and you were still silent, bundled up between pillows and blankets in bed. 

“Talk to him, babe,” she told you, heading for the door without any other goodbye, “ I’m sure he’s got a lot to say.”

Fuck. 

You picked and put down your phone six times before you decided to pull on your shoes and start walking. It didn’t take long to walk from yours to the Harrington’s, but you moved at a snail's pace, playing tightrope along the edge of the sidewalk before you stopped at the corner of Steve’s street, heart suddenly ready to burst from your chest. The sun started to set as you waited, hesitating. The sky turned from blue to lilac, tangerine and peach and the air became still. 

You walked up his front path, hand raised, ready to knock. 

It was a sparkler between your ribs kinda feeling, jump off a cliff kind of feeling, take a shot of tequila kind of feeling, risk fucking everything kind of feeling. 

You’d walked away from the boy, his words stuck in his throat, your name dying on his lips and now you were ready to make it up to him. ‘Cause Steve was right, whatever either of you felt, you couldn’t lose him either. 

The idea of rejection hurt, but not having Steve Harrington in your life hurt even more. 

So you knocked. 

Once, twice, three times, but no one answered. His car was in the drive, no parents to be seen and you took a deep breath before you plucked up the courage to open the door like you normally could. 

Your footsteps echoed in the large hallway and the only sound you could hear came from the backyard, the tinny sound of music playing from outside. You found him there, spread out lazy by the edge of the pool, shirt off, one leg dipped into the water and his hair messy from swimming and the leftover heat from the day. 

 Shadows from the tree branches above fell over him, cutting through the gold light, streaks of pink and rose painting his skin pretty and you stood for just a second, watching through the open patio doors. 

You tugged anxiously at the tagged hem of your shorts, the T-shirt you’d tucked into it suddenly feeling too constricting and you wanted to pull at the collar, you wanted to take off running again, because the sight of him hurt. 

Before you could step out into the last patch of sun, Steve sat up, muscles flexing, pool water swirling and he froze, lips parted and staring at you. 

It had only been four days since you’d last seen him, but it felt like far too much time had passed. You hadn’t gone that long without him in years, not since your parents told you that they were taking you to Utah to spend a summer with your grandparents. They’d cut the trip short by two weeks, aggravated and done with their fifteen year old daughter who didn’t shut up about how much she kissed her best friend. 

Yearly trips to the lake house with the Harrington’s resumed the summer after that. 

The boy whispered your name as if he’d scare you off and he sounded tired, sounded a little broken, just like Robin had said. 

You lifted your hand in an awkward wave, stepping out into the yard and into the streak of sun that stretched across the patio. It warmed you, skin lit up, a golden glow slanting over both of you and even from where you stood, Steve’s eyes looked like honey. 

“Hey.”

He stood, a hand raking through his still damp hair, making it even messier than usual and he mimicked you, hand raised, wingers waggling shyly, as if you hadn’t known each other for seventeen years. 

“I was just coming to see you,” Steve admitted and he sounded as nervous as you felt. “I tried calling you. A lot.”

You nodded, feeling guilty and it burned at your chest. “I know, I’m sorry.”

Steve nodded, bare foot scuffling against the slabs and you wanted to crawl back into your bed, already feeling defeated. It wasn’t supposed to feel like this with Steve. 

“I was gonna come round, you know,” Steve started again, gesturing to you, he looked lost, a little helpless. “Before now I mean… I just- I didn’t wanna upset you and you didn’t answer the phone so I just,” he shrugged, looking at the pool instead of you. “I didn’t wanna upset you any more.”

Almost silence; the trickle of the pool filter, the buzz of insects, the sway of the wind in the tree branches. 

And then, “I’ve missed you,” Steve said, voice softer than before. “A lot.”

You let out the breath you didn’t know you’d been holding then, feet moving forward and you let yourself fall into one of the loungers, a space beside the pool that was so overly familiar. 

You looked at the boy then, and god, he was the last cherry popsicle, he was sunshine, he was summer, he was full of promises and all your secrets, he was late nights and early mornings, first crushes and last kisses. 

“I’ve missed you too,” you told him, voice hurting with sincerity. 

It seemed to be all the boy needed to surge into action, because he relaxed at your admission, moving to the other lounger so he could sit across from you, bare knees almost bumping and he was leaning forward, invading your senses and he smelled like chlorine and sunscreen, mint and cedar and boy and summer and Steve. 

“Why’d you leave?”

“I’m sorry,” you told him, eyes suddenly filling with tears because you were so embarrassed by it all. From your outburst to your storming away, leaving the boy sitting confused after he’d come to get you. “I just- I couldn’t sit there and handle the rejection, I never should have said anything, it was so stupid of me-”

You were stopped by his hand reaching out and covering your own, that familiar warmth of his fingers twisting between yours, a wide, rough palm, calloused on your own. 

You looked at him, cheeks warm with your ramblings and he sighed, affection radiating from him as he gazed at you. He didn’t look confused this time, or panicked. Maybe a little bit scared but there was something else there and it shone a little brighter. 

“Sweetheart, I never once tried to reject you,” Steve huffed out a soft laugh, “shit, I don’t think I could if my life depended on it.”  

“What?” You froze, brows knitting together as you replayed the same conversation you both had in the car and you shook your head, confused. “You literally told me I was your best friend, Steve, that you couldn’t lose me.”

“And that’s true!” He burst out, “you just never let me finish!”

He sighed, using his free hand to scrub over his face and he took a deep breath before he faced you again. 

“I panicked.” He said it so simply, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “I’m so sorry babe but I fuckin’ panicked. You don’t know how long I’ve wanted to hear those words from you, you can’t even fucking imagine how long. I just didn’t wanna mess it up, I couldn’t. I couldn’t risk not having you.” 

A sound of surprise left your lips at his words and you wanted to laugh at the irony of them, ‘cause yes, yes could imagine. But you kept quiet, letting the boy speak, making up for how you didn’t last time. You squeezed his hand instead, hoping it was reassuring enough. 

You watched him lick his lips as he thought about his next words and your brows rose when he suddenly moved, kneeling in front of you and tapping at your knee, silently asking for you to spread your legs and let him in. You did, almost embarrassed by the lack of hesitation on your par but Steve moved into the space tour created for him, suddenly too close. 

You exhaled a little slower, could count the new freckles on his nose, could see the small scar that cut through his brow, the one you gave him when you were seven and pillow fights got too boisterous. 

He smoothed his hands up and down your thighs, a touch that brought comfort and he took another deep breath, readying himself for what he wanted to tell you. 

“I’ve been in love with you since we were sixteen,” he said slowly, each word dropping like an atom bomb and you wondered if the earth was shaking. “Maybe longer, I was probably too stupid to work it out before then.”

You let out a disbelieving laugh and Steve grinned at the sound. 

“It took me a little while,” he admitted, gaze lowering as if he were suddenly shy, “I didn’t know the difference between loving you and being in love with you. You’ve been in my life for as long as I can remember.”

His fingers found the frayed hem of your shorts, twisting the strands between his fingers absentmindedly. 

“I remember Nancy telling me that, uh,” he cleared his throat, words catching on his lips with nerves and hesitation, “she uh, told me that I didn’t love her like I thought I did. That I was in love with someone else.”

You inhaled sharply, remembering the girl telling you something similar that day on the bench. You’d been confused and a little irritated at her, defensive maybe, now that you looked back on it. You remembered the way she twisted her lips to hide a grin that she didn’t want to annoy you with, eyes all too knowing. 

“I kinda realised then,” Steve nodded, eyes finding yours from under his lashes and god, you wondered when his face had moved so close to yours. “She was totally right, I just didn’t really wanna admit it.”

“Why not?” You asked, voice a little sad, ‘cause that had been years ago, and you felt overlooked, like so many missed opportunities had passed you both by and god, were the two of you really that stupid?

“I was stupid!” Steve burst out and you laughed, a little sad with watery eyes but shit, you were too. “So I kept dating random girls, anyone, really. Tried to take my mind off you, tried to forget about you in my bed.”

God, the memory made you burn. 

“I didn’t know what to do,” he whispered, still leaning into you, eyes closed like he was at confession. “Asking you out on a date seemed so ridiculous when I already know you better than anyone else.”

Your nose grazed Steve’s, and you let out a small sigh because as much as you were hurt by it all, you understood. You and Steve had seen every movie there was to see, had taken trips out of town to every concert, spent too many evenings at burger joints and ice cream parlours. You probably wouldn’t have guessed you were on a date with the boy unless he was in a tux and there was a chandelier above you. 

And that seemed like a big ask. 

“I would’ve loved to go on a date with you,” you said anyway, cause the idea of Steve pulling up outside your door with flowers in his hand gave you butterflies, tugging at your heart in a way that made you warm. 

“Yeah?” He smiled, blinding and it only widened when you nodded. 

He moved impossibly closer still, cheek to cheek so he could find your ear with his lips, hands moving to your thighs, thumbs rubbing circles on the inside. 

“I spent so long tryin’ to work up the courage to ask you to be my girlfriend,” his admission sounded like his biggest secret yet and you held your breath as he whispered it to you. “So long that years passed and we got older and suddenly the word ‘girlfriend’ didn’t seem enough.”

It was strange, but you knew what Steve meant. The word seemed too arbitrary, too normal, to describe the relationship you had with each other, how you felt about the other. 

“I know,” you told him, voice just as soft and quiet as his. “I’d still like to be yours though.”

His grin was contagious, warmer than the sun that was starting to set, brighter than the rays on the pool and you swore the world was spinning a little faster in excitement, as if the planets and the moon were just as happy as you were. 

“Yeah?” He asked, low and rough, nose pressing to your cheek, lips just brushing yours. 

You nodded, eyes fluttering closed, waiting, wanting.  

“Can we always be this close?” Steve asked, and you melted a little at the question, at that soft sincerity he always managed to give you. 

“Yeah, god, please,” you answered and your voice sounded a little husky, a little pleading because you couldn’t imagine anything else. “Can you kiss me, now?”

The boy swore under his breath, the curse mixing with a huff of laughter and he smiled against you, mouth pressing happy to your cheek and you beamed at him, lashes tickling his skin, both of you warm against the other. 

“Could never really figure out how to say no to you, y’know that?” He whispered, as if he was giving away a secret. Steve let his lips hover over yours, his hands wrapping around the small of your back, fingers playing with your belt loops, pulling you flush with him. Your hands smoothed over his bare chest and around his neck, skin hot with the sun, with being near you. 

“Can I take you on a date?” 

Something bloomed inside of you, wildflowers between your ribs, a new day of summer, a heatwave in your chest. 

“If I say yes, will you kiss me?” you asked, a little bratty, a little teasing. You’d waited so long for both, you didn’t know what you wanted first.

But then Steve was pushing into you, lips pressing down onto your own, his hand along the underside of your jaw as he used his thumb to push a little under your chin, tilting you up to his mouth so he could lick into you, adoration pouring into you. You felt the way he loved you, like the way everyone else saw it. It still felt new, his lips on yours, new in an exciting way, new in a ‘god, I could get used to this’ way.

“Lemme take you on a date,” he said again, a smile on his lips, pressing it to yours and his voice was sunshine but rougher, even warmer and it made you smile that cheek hurting kinda smile.

You nodded. 

“You still my best friend, Harrington?” 

Steve pulled back to look at you, eyes shining. “That and more, sweetheart.” And when he said that, it felt enough. ‘More’.

“You still gonna protect me from everything bad and scary?” You nudged the tip of your nose to his, voice sweet. 

“With everything I have in me,” he answered honestly, pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth, catching your laughter. “Baseball bat and all.”

“Promise you won’t break my heart?” You asked, forehead to his, eyes full of every emotion you felt. Love, excitement, fear, hope, nervousness, adoration. 

“Promise you won’t break mine?” Steve whispered back, a hand on your cheek, thumb grazing over your lip. 

“I promise,” you told him, hands gripping right at his shoulders, running across the nape of his neck, diving into his hair. 

“I promise,” he repeated, and shit, you believed him. 

-----

Ko-Fi ♡

[jinxispunk]

late night essentials

Steve Harrington x reader

Summary: Neither of you can sleep, so Steve decides the obvious solution is a 1 a.m. supermarket run.

Warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, minors DNI, no use of y/n, established relationship, domestic married life, fluff (let me know if I missed anything)

W/C: 2.7k

A/N: there's something so domestic about going to the corner shop with your partner, so i wanted to write a lil something about it. (also apologies but as a brit i couldnt bring myself to call it a 'cart' so 'trolley' will have to do pahah) hope you enjoy :)

You wake slowly to the sound of Steve swearing under his breath down the hall.

Not loudly. Not angrily, either. Just tired and deeply offended in a way that only seems to happen after midnight.

“Are you kidding me?”

There’s the dull thud of a cupboard closing. Then another quieter mutter you can’t quite make out.

For a second you stay where you are, still cocooned in warmth and half-asleep comfort. The flat is dark except for the faint glow of streetlights slipping through the curtains, and the other side of the bed is empty enough to tell you Steve’s been gone more than a minute or two.

You roll over onto your back with a sleepy sigh, pulling the sleeve of Steve’s hoodie further over your hands. It hangs oversized on you, soft from years of washing, still faintly smelling like him even after being stolen and reclaimed between the two of you so many times it barely belongs to either anymore.

In the kitchen, something clatters.

Then:

“Oh, that’s bullshit.”

You snort quietly into the pillow.

Curiosity eventually wins out over comfort. It usually does where Steve’s concerned.

By the time you shuffle down the hall, still blinking sleep from your eyes, the kitchen light is glaringly bright against the darkness of the apartment. Steve is standing in front of the open fridge in grey sweatpants and an old Hawkins High shirt, staring into it like it personally betrayed him.

You lean against the doorway, folding your arms loosely across your chest.

“What happened?”

Steve glances over his shoulder. The second he sees you, his entire expression softens automatically.

“Oh. Hey, baby.”

Sleep has roughened his voice slightly, leaving it lower and softer around the edges. You feel something warm settle low in your chest at the sound of it.

You nod toward the fridge. “Why are you fighting our appliances at one in the morning?”

“We don’t have milk.”

You blink once.

“…that’s the emergency?”

“Yes,” Steve says gravely, shutting the refrigerator door with clear disappointment. “I wanted pancakes.”

You look at the microwave clock.

1:13 AM.

Then back at him.

“Steve.”

“What?”

“You woke me up because you lost a fight with dairy products.”

“I did not wake you up,” he argues immediately. “You woke up naturally.”

“You were arguing with the fridge.”

“Yeah, because it knew what it did.”

A laugh slips out before you can stop it. Steve notices immediately, the corner of his mouth twitching upward in quiet satisfaction like making you laugh was the goal all along.

The kitchen still smells faintly like the coffee he made earlier that evening. One of your mugs sits abandoned near the sink. Steve’s keys are tossed carelessly beside the fruit bowl even though he swears every single time that he’s “starting to be more organized.”

Living together has mostly taught you that Steve means well about a lot of things.

Actually following through is another issue entirely.

You drift closer without really thinking about it, stopping directly in front of him. His hands settle on your hips instinctively, warm and familiar through the fabric of the hoodie.

“Come back to bed,” you mumble. “I’ll make pancakes tomorrow.”

Steve’s face immediately twists in mild offense. “But I want them now.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“And yet,” he says softly, tugging you a little closer between his arms, “you still signed a lease with me.”

You laugh quietly against his chest.

He smells warm. Sleepy. Comfortingly familiar. For a moment you almost let yourself melt fully into him, content to abandon the entire conversation and let him coax you back upstairs.

Then Steve says, casually:

“We can get snacks too.”

You lift your head immediately.

Steve’s mouth curls slightly. “There she is.”

“You manipulative little shit.”

“I know you.”

The way he says it is absentminded. Easy. Like it’s simply factual.

And maybe it is.

Because less than fifteen minutes later, you’re both in the car.

The supermarket feels strangely suspended from the rest of the world at this hour.

Not exactly empty, but quieter in a way that makes everything seem softened around the edges. The fluorescent lights hum faintly overhead while a tired employee stocks canned soup several aisles over with the blank expression of someone spiritually detached from their shift.

A machine beeps somewhere in the distance at slow, regular intervals.

Steve grabs a trolley with one hand and catches your wrist with the other before you can wander vaguely toward produce.

“You’re drifting,” he says, steering you gently back toward him.

“I’m tired.”

“You almost walked directly into canned vegetables.”

“I was exploring.”

“Dangerously.”

You lean into his side with a sleepy groan while he pushes the trolley further into the store. The wheels squeak slightly every few feet. Some old song plays quietly through the speakers overhead, warped faintly by the bad sound system.

Steve glances down at you after a moment. “Okay. Priorities.”

“Milk,” you say immediately.

“Correct.”

“Pancake mix.”

“Excellent.”

“Chocolate chips.”

His expression brightens instantly. “God, you’re smart.”

“I know.”

He squeezes your side once before you can dodge away. You elbow him weakly in retaliation, earning a smug grin.

“You’re annoying.”

“And yet,” he starts.

“Finish that sentence, and I’m divorcing you.”

Steve looks delighted by the threat. “You’d miss me too much.”

The worst part is that he’s completely right.

By the time you reach the cereal aisle, Steve has somehow managed to fill half the trolley with things that were definitely not on the original list.

You stop walking when you notice him staring thoughtfully at an aggressively colourful cereal box.

“No.”

Steve looks over innocently. “What?”

“You’re not buying that.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s basically just sugar.”

“It’s delicious.”

“It turns the milk neon.”

“That’s how you know it’s good.”

You take the box from him and put it firmly back on the shelf while Steve watches with visible betrayal.

“You wound me.”

“You’re twenty-seven years old.”

“And?”

“And your body physically cannot survive on marshmallow cereal anymore.”

“Watch me.”

You glance at him flatly. “Steve, I live with you. I watched you eat leftover Chinese food and ice cream for dinner three nights ago.”

“That was efficient.”

“That was concerning.”

He laughs under his breath, leaning heavily against the trolley handle while he watches you scan the shelves. His attention lingers in that familiar way it always does - steady and warm enough that you can feel it even before looking up.

It took you months after moving in together to realise how often Steve looked at you when he thought you weren’t paying attention.

Not dramatic staring. Nothing intense enough to make you self-conscious.

Just… constant little glances. Like his attention always circled back to you eventually no matter what else was happening around him.

You’re reaching for a different cereal when Steve suddenly grabs another box and drops it triumphantly into the trolley.

You narrow your eyes immediately.

“What’s that?”

“Compromise.”

You read the label.

Still sugary. Slightly less radioactive.

You sigh deeply. “Fine.”

“Yes,” Steve whispers victoriously.

“You’re acting like you won a war.”

“I did.”

“You won Honey Nut Cheerios.”

“Same thing.”

The flowers appear somewhere near the pasta aisle.

You don’t even notice them at first. One second the trolley is full of pancake mix and junk food, and the next there’s a small bundle of pale yellow flowers tucked carefully beside the milk.

You blink down at them.

“…Steve.”

“Hm?”

“When did those get there?”

He glances into the trolley. “Oh. Couple of aisles ago.”

“You bought me flowers at one-thirty in the morning?”

“You sound judgmental.”

“I’m confused.”

Steve shrugs one shoulder lightly, steering the trolley around a display of canned tomatoes. “You always stop and look at them.”

Something in your chest shifts unexpectedly.

“What?”

“The supermarket flowers,” he says. “You always look at them.”

You stare at him for a second because… you do. Every time. You pick them up, look at the colours, and smell them sometimes when no one’s around.

You just didn’t realise he’d noticed.

Steve catches your expression immediately and his own softens in response.

“What?”

“You know I do that?”

“Baby,” he says, like this is the most obvious thing in the world, “I know everything.”

It should sound cocky.

Instead it just sounds fond.

Your gaze drops back to the flowers. Tiny yellow petals beneath ugly fluorescent lighting.

Steve nudges the trolley gently with his knee. “You always pick those ones up first.”

You look back at him. “How do you know that?”

“You think I don’t pay attention?”

There’s no arrogance in it. No performance.

Just simple certainty.

And somehow that gets to you far more than it probably should.

“You’re insane,” you murmur softly.

Steve grins immediately. “Yeah. But I’m also right.”

By the frozen section, Steve has started steering the trolley badly on purpose.

You know this because he keeps bumping it lightly into the backs of your legs every few minutes.

The first time, you ignore it.

The second time, you narrow your eyes suspiciously.

The third time, you spin around fully to find him already trying - and failing - not to laugh.

“Steve.”

“What?”

“You just hit me with a shopping trolley.”

“Did I?”

“Yes.”

“Huh.”

Thirty seconds later he does it again.

You stare at him in disbelief while he finally breaks, laughing hard enough that he has to lean forward against the trolley handle.

God.

You love him so much it’s embarrassing sometimes.

“You’re literally twelve.”

“That’s not true,” he protests. “I’m extremely mature.”

The trolley bumps into you again.

You point at him accusingly. “You are proving my point in real time.”

Steve looks deeply pleased with himself.

An older woman passes by with a basket full of frozen dinners and gives the two of you a knowing smile. Steve smiles back automatically before leaning closer toward you.

“She was on my side.”

“She thought you were annoying.”

“She thought I was handsome.”

“You’re exhausting.”

“And yet-”

You point at him threateningly before he can finish.

That only makes him laugh harder.

The pancake mix argument nearly becomes your downfall.

Not because either of you actually care all that much, but because Steve is irrationally convinced one specific brand “tastes happier.”

You still don’t fully know what that means.

“What does happy taste like?”

“You know,” Steve says vaguely, turning the box over in his hands like the explanation might be written somewhere on the back.

“No. I genuinely don’t.”

“This one tastes like Saturday mornings.”

“That’s not an ingredient.”

“You have no whimsy.”

“You’re choosing pancake mix like it’s a soulmate.”

“That’s because pancakes are important.”

“You make everything emotional.”

Steve gasps softly like you’ve deeply insulted him. “That is such a lie.”

You just look at him.

His expression shifts slowly into reluctant acknowledgment.

“…okay,” he admits eventually. “Maybe not a lie.”

“Thank you.”

“But definitely true about pancakes.”

You shake your head fondly and reach for the stupid pancake mix he wants before he can argue further.

Steve goes unexpectedly quiet beside you.

You glance over.

“You’re nice to me,” he says quietly.

You laugh softly. “That sounded genuinely shocking to you.”

“A little.”

There’s something about the honesty of it that catches you off guard.

You reach for his hand automatically, threading your fingers together beside the trolley.

“Well,” you murmur, squeezing lightly, “better get used to it. We live together now.”

Steve glances down at your joined hands before looking back up at you.

And suddenly he’s smiling again.

Smaller this time. Softer.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “We do.”

By the time you check out, both of you are barely functioning.

You yawn into Steve’s shoulder while he pays. He forgets the reusable bags entirely, despite being reminded about them twice before leaving the flat.

The cashier watches the two of you with faint amusement while Steve attempts to carry every single shopping bag himself afterwards.

“Steve,” you protest.

“I got it.”

“There are like six bags.”

“And two arms,” he says confidently. “Problem solving.”

“You’re gonna drop something.”

“I absolutely will not-”

The cereal slips out immediately and smacks onto the pavement beside the car.

You laugh so hard you have to lean against the door for support while Steve stares down at the fallen box in betrayal.

“…that felt targeted.”

“You deserved it.”

“You’re being very unsupportive during my struggle.”

“You dropped Cheerios, not a newborn.”

“Still counts.”

It’s nearly two-thirty by the time you get home.

The flat feels warm after the cool night air outside, dimly lit by the small lamp beside the couch that Steve forgot to turn off earlier. Rain taps softly against the windows now, steady enough to fill the quiet spaces between your movements while you unpack groceries together in the kitchen.

Steve drops the bags dramatically onto the counter with a groan. “I’m exhausted.”

“You carried them like you were trying out for the Olympics.”

“I’m very brave.”

“You almost died carrying pancake mix.”

“That was sacrifice.”

You shake your head, smiling to yourself while you put the milk away.

A second later, Steve steps in behind you, arms sliding loosely around your waist. You lean back into him automatically, feeling his chin settle against your shoulder.

The flat smells faintly like rain drifting through cracked windows and the coffee you made earlier that evening.

For a minute, neither of you says anything.

Then Steve murmurs softly beside your ear:

“…still want pancakes?”

You glance toward the clock.

Then toward him.

“…honestly?”

“Yeah?”

You tilt your head back slightly against his shoulder. “I think I mostly just wanted to hang out with you.”

Steve goes very still.

Not tense.

Just quiet in that particular way he gets when something sincere catches him off guard.

His arms tighten slightly around your waist.

“That’s good,” he says eventually, voice softer now. “Because I always wanna hang out with you.”

Your chest aches a little at the honesty of it.

You turn in his arms enough to look at him properly. His hair is a mess from running his hands through it all night, his eyes heavy with sleep, his expression still carrying traces of smug satisfaction over winning the pancake mix argument.

And suddenly the whole evening hits you all at once.

The flowers.

The trolley fights.

The sleepy supermarket wandering.

The easy, ridiculous domesticity of all of it.

Your life together.

Steve studies your face carefully. “What?”

You shake your head softly.

“Nothing.”

“That’s never true.”

You smile and reach up automatically to smooth a piece of hair back from his forehead.

The reaction is immediate.

His expression softens so quickly it almost hurts to look at.

“You know,” you murmur, “you’re kinda ridiculously easy to love.”

That lands hard enough to visibly catch him off guard.

Steve actually blinks.

Like the words physically hit him a second late.

“…yeah?” he asks quietly.

“Yeah.”

His hands flex once against your waist before he ducks his head slightly, smiling into your shoulder like he’s embarrassed by how much that affected him.

“You can’t say stuff like that when I’m tired.”

“Why?”

“Because then I feel things.”

You laugh softly. “Oh, tragic.”

“You’re mocking me in my own home.”

“Our home,” you correct gently.

Steve stills again.

God. You keep accidentally doing that to him tonight.

“Our home,” he repeats quietly, like he’s trying the words on for size.

Then, after a second, softer:

“…I really like that.”

Your expression warms instantly.

“Me too.”

There’s a quiet pause.

Then Steve sighs dramatically against your shoulder.

“…I still kinda want pancakes.”

You burst out laughing.

“There he is.”

dividers: saradika-graphics

[morninglesss]

hawkins safari

Every so often @tinfoileddd sends me asks looking for handy!Steve, and I will never deny her. This one is for all of us who have had to endure manning tables at a school fundraiser, a church fair, fundraisers, bake sales, raffles, the whole smorgasbord of small-town Saturday mornings. May we all have a Steve at the next one. 🫡

wc: 2.2k

The Hawkins Elementary Annual Fundraiser bake sale table is your jurisdiction, and you are losing control of it.

Not catastrophically, not yet. But Mrs Kowalski has rearranged the price stickers twice while you weren’t looking, and someone has already eaten one of the display cupcakes and put the empty wrapper back on the stand like that was a normal thing to do, and it is only nine twenty-five in the morning.

You are fine. Everything is fine.

You fix the price stickers, throw away the sticky wrapper, and let your eyes drift - just briefly, and only for a moment - across the school field to where Steve Harrington is setting up his workshop station.

This is a mistake you have been making all year.

He’s got two long folding tables pushed together, covered in little pre-cut squares and rectangles of pale wood, and he’s arranged everything with a precision that is frankly alarming from a man who once spent six minutes looking for his keys while they were in his hand. Bug hotels on the left, bird boxes on the right. Tubs of glue, pots of screws, kid-safe sandpaper squares. A wooden crate of paint pots in every color, brushes sorted by size, a stack of newspaper to keep the tables clean. He’s wearing a worn blue t-shirt, one of those ones that change colour with body heat, and there is already a smear of wood stain across his left forearm and you need to focus on the bake sale and not Steve’s arms.

You look at the cupcakes. You look at the price stickers. You look at Mrs Kowalski. You will not look at Steve Harrington’s forearms again. Not until break time, at least.

The thing about Steve Harrington is that he has always been like this. Not the forearms specifically - though the forearms are, absolutely, a contributing factor - but the whole Steveness of him. The way he holds a door for anyone. The way he crouches down to a kid’s eye level without thinking about it. The way he’d spent three weeks last autumn quietly fixing all the odd jobs around the school, like the door in the boy’s change rooms that swung shut too fast, or the wobbly leg on the staffroom table that everyone else just bitched about; he’d shown up one Tuesday with a toolkit and had it fixed before the first bell.

The way he looks at you sometimes, across a meeting room or a crowded corridor, like he’s in the middle of saying something and waiting for you to catch up.

You’ve spent the better part of this school year trying to be extremely professional about Steve Harrington… and you’re failing, spectacularly.

There have been coffee breaks that ran long. Hours sat beside each other on the bus on a class trip, ignoring the motion-sick kids around you while he told you about the time he and his school friends spent a summer exploring the rumoured tunnels under the town. A conversation in the school yard in October that neither of you seemed to want to end, both of you standing in the drizzle until you were laughing about nothing. He’d looked at you in that particular way, and then the bell had rung and the moment dissolved and you’d gone back to class and told the kids it was a silent reading period while you stared at the far wall and tried not to imagine what his lips might feel like.

Nothing has happened. This is the correct state of affairs. You work together. You are colleagues. Professionals, even. “Don’t shit where you eat”, your sister had told you when you’d waxed lyrical about his “big, dumb eyes” over a bottle of wine one night.

You watch him demonstrate something to a small child with enormous glasses and feel your ovaries kick into hyperdrive.

By eleven o’clock, the field is packed full.

The choir is doing a sound check near the gym doors, twelve eight-year-olds in matching yellow t-shirts arguing about where to stand while their teacher makes the face of a woman reconsidering her career. The tombola wheel is spinning in cheerful, rickety circles. The car wash queue snakes around the side of the building, and from somewhere over there comes the periodic shriek of a child getting wetter than intended.

And Steve’s workshop is completely overrun.

He’s got ten kids at the tables right now, maybe eleven, all of them in various stages of constructing something. The boy with the enormous glasses is very seriously screwing two pieces of wood together with the cold intensity of a heart surgeon. Two girls have smuggled glitter from Mrs Henderson’s face painting table and are generously sprinkling it over their bright pink bug hotel. Steve is crouched down between them doing some kind of diplomatic negotiation that ends with both of them giggling with handfuls of gold pixie dust and only one destination - Mr Harrington’s hair. He’s gracious about it, at least.

He is very good with them. You’ve known that, professionally, in the vague way you know things about colleagues. But watching him like this, in the open, with actual sunlight on him, his sleeves short and sawdust on his jeans - it’s different. He explains things twice without being asked. He lets a kid do something the wrong way and then gently course-corrects when they get frustrated, never before. When a little girl drops her pieces and they scatter across the grass, he’s already down on one knee picking them up before her pained wail is fully formed.

You’re watching all of this unfold from behind a very large pavlova that someone’s grandmother donated to the cause. You’re aware of this ridiculous state of affairs, and you’re choosing not to judge yourself too harshly.

You’re also aware that you are not the only one watching.

The PTA moms found Steve’s table at approximately ten fifteen and they have not left. There are four of them currently arranged in a loose semicircle just beyond the workshop boundary, the way wildlife photographers position themselves near a watering hole - respectful distance, full attention, absolutely no intention of moving. One of them is holding a coffee cup she collected from the refreshments stand seven minutes ago and has not yet drunk from. Another one waves when Steve glances up, and he waves back with the easy friendliness of a man apparently oblivious to the affect he has on the women of Hawkins.

He glances across the field, drags a hand through his glittery hair, and then checks his hand in the sunlight, grinning. He looks up again and his eyes find yours, above the heads of the busy kids at his table and the eager cake-buyers at yours. The wave he gives you is different - smaller, just for you - and he’s already looking back at a kid before you can do anything embarrassing with your face.

Your colleague Diane appears at your elbow.

“The PTA moms found him,” she says.

“I saw.”

“Sandra Chen has been hovering since he set up the second table.”

“I saw that, too.”

Diane picks up a brownie and takes a considering bite. “You’ve been watching them watch him.”

“I have been monitoring the general area,” you say, “as part of my volunteer duties.”

Diane looks at you with the flat patience of someone who has known you for three years and knows when you’re full of shit. “Kowalski’s been at the price stickers again,” she says, and takes her brownie and leaves you to it.

The morning accelerates into a hot and sticky afternoon. You sell a frankly unreasonable amount of shortbread. The choir sings three songs, one of which is almost recognisable, and everybody claps. A dog gets into the tombola queue and has to be escorted out by two dads and someone's random wandering brother.

Steve’s table never quiets down. Kids cycle through in waves - finish a bird box, drift off glowing with accomplishment, get replaced by three more. He’s rigged up another fold-out table at the back and it’s filling up with paint-bright boxes and bug hotels in red and blue and green, drying quickly in the hot sun. A boy of about seven is showing his dad the bird box he made with the reverence of someone presenting a holy relic. Steve catches your eye over the kid’s head and grins, and you force yourself to look back at your table.

The PTA moms have regrouped and refuelled, now the white wine spritzer table is open. Sandra Chen is still in position on the left flank. She’s now been joined by a woman you don’t recognise who has positioned herself closest to the table under the guise of reading the instruction sheet Steve printed out and laminated, which - you checked - is six bullet-points long.

Around two, things thin out enough that you can leave the bake sale in Diane’s hands for a few minutes. You tell yourself you are doing a circuit of the event. Checking in. Volunteering a fresh pair of hands.

You end up at Steve’s table.

He’s got a lull between groups, wiping down a section of table the newspaper hadn’t been able to save, and he sees you coming. Something in his expression settles, like he’s been waiting.

“Hey.” He straightens up, and he’s close enough that you catch the faint smell of sawdust and fresh paint. “How’s baked goods?”

“Sold out of the red velvet before eleven. Two grandmas almost got into a physical fight over a fruit loaf. It’s chaos.” You look at the drying table, the fourteen colours of paint, the laminated instruction sheet. “How are you not exhausted?”

“Are you kidding? This is the best day I’ve had in months.” He means it. You can always tell when he means it. “Come here, look -” He turns you gently by the shoulder toward the drying table, his hand staying there a half-second longer than necessary, “- that purple one with the star on the roof? Kid who made that cried at the start because he thought he couldn’t do it. Absolutely refused to touch the screwdriver.”

“And?”

“And he did the whole thing himself and then asked if he could make another one for his aunt.” Steve shakes his head, and his voice has that softness in it that does things to your composure. “Kills me every time.”

You look at him looking at the drying table. His skin is taking on a tan from the sun, there’s sawdust on his shirt, glitter in his hair, and he’s happy in a way he doesn’t bother to moderate.

“You saved pieces back,” you say. “For adults. You mentioned earlier -” you hadn’t spoken to him earlier, you’d been watching from across the field, and you realise this a half-second after it’s out of your mouth.

Steve looks at you. His mouth does something. “Funny,” he says, “I don’t remember telling you that.”

“I heard it.” You pause, and wave toward Diane behind the tower of cakes. “From over there.”

“From over there.” He tilts his head, squinting into the sunshine, toward the bake sale table. The distance between here and there is considerable. “You’ve got good ears.”

“I’m very attentive. It’s a professional quality.”

“Sure.” He reaches under the table and produces a small stack of pre-cut wood pieces, sets them in front of you. His voice drops, the noise of the field making it easy, making it private. “I did save some back. I was hoping you’d come over.”

You keep your eyes on the wood pieces. “Oh yeah?”

“Been hoping since about nine thirty.” He picks up a screwdriver and holds it out, handle-first, the same way he’d hand you anything - naturally, like there’s nothing strange about the fact that his knuckles brush yours when you take it. “I’ve had a good view of you all morning.”

“You’ve had a good view of half the town. Sandra Chen has been standing over there since -”

“I know where Sandra Chen has been standing.” Still quiet, still easy. “That’s not what I said.”

You look up. He’s watching you with that expression - the one from the car park in October, the one across meeting rooms and corridors, the one that says he’s been in the middle of a sentence all year and he’s tired of waiting for you to catch up.

“Bird box or bug hotel?” he asks.

Your mouth is dry. “What’s the difference?”

“Bug hotel’s easier. Bird box has more steps, but the result’s better.” He rubs the back of his neck before he looks at you. “Worth the wait.”

Somewhere across the field, the choir launches into their final song. The tombola wheel rattles as it spins. Mrs Kowalski is almost certainly rearranging your price stickers again.

“Bird box,” you say.

Steve smiles, and pulls up a chair beside you so his shoulder is against yours as he talks you through the first step, his voice low and easy, like the two of you have all the time in the world and the rest of the school fundraiser can absolutely look after itself.

Across the field, you don’t notice Diane watching from the bake sale table, smiling at absolutely nothing in particular. You don’t notice Sandra Chen’s scowl when she spots your chairs, your proximity, the way Steve leans in to correct your grip on the screwdriver and doesn’t immediately lean back.

You’re looking at a piece of wood, and a pair of hazel eyes. You’re thinking about October school yards and long coffees and classroom walls you’ve stared at. You’re thinking that a bird box has more steps but the result is better.

Worth the wait, he’d said.

You pick up the pieces and get to work.

[teheblue]

You don’t go to parties anymore

Steve Harrington x fem!reader

Summary: You and Steve Harrington were never really anything. You were just the girl who made the last hours of his parties feel like they meant something. At least, until you stopped showing up.

A/n: fuck everyone who got this as their surprise song, anyways, as opposed to the song this has a happy ending, so enjoy!!

The music is too loud for how late it is.

Or maybe it just feels that way because everything else has started to quiet down, unnoticed, until quietness is the only thing left.

It’s 5:00 a.m., or close enough. The clock on the wall has been stuck between numbers all night. 

Steve Harrington is half-slouched, half-collapsed into the couch.

One arm hangs off the side, fingers barely grazing the floor, sticky from something he doesn’t remember spilling. His head tips back against the cushions, eyes open but unfocused, fixed somewhere above the ceiling like there’s something written there he has yet to figure out. 

There are still people in his house.

Too many, honestly.

Someone laughs in the kitchen, loud and unfamiliar. A bottle clinks against the counter. A couple disappears down the hallway like this is normal, like this is his house but not really his space.

Everyone he’s ever known.

And somehow not a single person he’s actually looking for.

The front door creaks open.

Steve’s eyes flick toward it instantly.

Hope is quick. Reflexive. Stupid.

Stupid, because It’s not you.

Just another guy-someone from school, maybe-dragging his feet in at this ungodly hour, talking too loudly about nothing. 

The door swings shut again, and with it, Steve’s brief, flickering expectation dies just as fast as it came.

He exhales through his nose, slow, reminding himself. 

Right.

You don’t come anymore.

It hadn’t been like that before. You used to show up late. Always late.

The memory hits him out of nowhere, uninvited and too clear, like everything from before somehow survived the blur of everything now.

The door opening. You stepping in, already half-smiling, half-annoyed.

“You know you could not invite half of Hawkins, right?”

He remembers your voice, teasing him with a truthful smile. And Steve—God—Steve would feel it instantly. That shift. Like the night finally made sense.

He’d push himself off whatever wall he was pretending to enjoy leaning on, weaving through people just to get to you with a grin that spread across his face like a reward. 

A reward to the hours he spent doing nothing but wait for you at every party, not even listening to anyone’s words because all he could think about was you. 

“You came.” He’d said. Like he wasn’t sure you would. Like it mattered more than it should.

You’d roll your eyes, brushing past him. “Don’t sound so surprised.”

But you’d stay. That was the thing.

You weren’t a party person. Never had been. You hated the noise, the mess, the people who got too close, too loud. You’d hover in the kitchen, or sit on the counter with a drink watching everybody mush into one another, or disappear into quieter rooms and somehow, Steve always ended up there with you.

Not hosting. The thought that it was his party completely left his mind the moment you showed up. 

Now the kitchen is full, and he doesn’t step foot in it. Now the quiet rooms stay empty. Now he doesn’t even try to look.

“Steve!”

He barely reacts when someone drops down beside him on the couch, too close, too energetic for the hour.

A girl. Familiar, but not familiar enough. Her hand lands on his arm like she’s done it before.

Maybe she has but he can’t remember, too lost in the thought of that it should’ve been you. 

It shouldn’t feel wrong. But it does.

Because it should’ve been you.

You, reaching for him like that without thinking.

You, nudging him when he drifted too far into his own head.

His brain does this cruel thing. 

It expects you. It always does.

You never even had to say his name.

You’d barely get the first sound out—“S—”—and he’d already be there, turning, stepping toward you like it was instinct, like he was tuned to you in a way he couldn’t explain.

“This party’s insane,” the girl says, laughing, leaning into him like they’re sharing something.

Steve glances at her, blinking slowly.

Her words take a second to land. He forces a smile. It’s automatic at this point. “Yeah.” He agrees. Not bothered. 

She keeps talking about someone in the backyard, something that happened earlier, something that probably would’ve been funny hours ago.

He tries to listen. But it all blurs together.

Her voice fades into the background, mixing with the music, the outside noise of people chatting. 

And all he can think about is how you would’ve reacted.

You would’ve made a face. You would’ve leaned over and whispered something sarcastic in his ear.

You would’ve pulled him away after thirty seconds because you knew he wasn’t actually listening.

His jaw tightens slightly.

The girl laughs again, nudging him. “Are you even listening right now?” Not really. 

He huffs a quiet, humorless breath.

“Yeah. Just tired.”

She doesn’t believe him, but she doesn’t push, either. Just shrugs, already half-distracted by something else.

That’s the thing about these people. No one looks twice. But you would. In fact, you wouldn’t look away the first time in the first place. 

You would’ve kept him company all through every party. 

At some point, he ends up in the bathroom. He doesn’t remember walking there. The door clicks shut behind him, muffling the noise just enough that it feels like stepping underwater.

For the first time all night, it’s quiet.

Steve grips the edge of the sink, staring at his reflection. At his messy hair due to being run through one too many times, red rimmed eyes and his hollow expression. 

One of the memories hits him again, sharper this time. 

You, sitting on the counter, legs swinging slightly, watching him with that look, half amused, half something deeper. He knows you’re about to say something that’s been bugging your mind. 

“I think you’re trying too hard.” You say, firmly, shrugging like this wasn’t the sentence that has been washing up your mind every time you get Steve in moments like these. Away from the crowd, without anyone to impress. 

“What?” He answers, obviously a little confused. 

“This,” you’d said, gesturing vaguely. “The whole…King Steve thing.”

He’d frowned.

“It’s just a party.” But you both knew it was’t. 

You shook your head, softer now.

“I like you better when you’re not like this.”

Not like this. Steve swallows, looking back at himself now. “Shit,” he mutters under his breath. Because you were right. And worse because he knows it.

He stays in there longer than he should.

Long enough that the party starts to feel distant. Long enough that the silence becomes heavier than the noise ever was.

When he finally steps back out, it hits him all over again. The mess. The people.

The version of himself he slipped back into without even realizing it.

Someone calls his name from across the room again. This time he ignores it.

Instead, his eyes drift—slow, searching—toward the front door. Like they have all night. Like they keep doing without his permission. And the door? It’s closed. Of course it is.

After everyone has left, Steve ends up back on the couch. Same position. Same spot. Like he never moved.

Except now the house actually is empty.

Cups litter the floor. Something sticky clings to his shoe when he shifts. A chair is knocked over near the kitchen. The air smells stale, heavy with everything the night dragged in and left behind as a reminder of what’s left to clean  up. 

He stares at the door again. One last time.

Again. It’s stupid, at this point. Really stupid. 

He knows you’re not coming. You haven’t in weeks. Maybe longer.

He just… didn’t want to admit it.

His throat tightens slightly, something uncomfortable settling in his chest. Because for the first time all night, there’s no distraction left. No noise to drown it out. No one to pretend in front of.

Just him.

And the quiet realization that’s been waiting for him to stop running long enough to catch up.

His gaze lingers on the door a second longer before finally dropping, his head tipping back against the couch.

A slow breath leaves him.

Another memory hits him. 

It had never been about the parties for you.

Steve knew that.

You didn’t show up for the music, or the people, or whatever reputation came with being seen at his house. Half the time, you barely spoke to anyone else.

But you always stayed for him.

That was the part he didn’t understand at first.

Not until he started noticing the way your eyes tracked him across the room. Not in a clingy way. Not like you needed him.

More like you were making sure he didn’t lose himself in it.

There were nights you’d catch his wrist as he passed, just for a second.

Not to stop him. Just to ground him a little. 

“Hey,” you’d say, softer than the rest of the room.

And that was enough.

Enough to cut through the noise. Enough to make everything else feel distant. He’d lean in without thinking, like your voice existed on a frequency meant only for him.

And you’d always notice. Always.

The second his smile stopped being real. The second his laugh went a little too loud.

You’d actually listen. 

At least when you were there.

The house is quiet.

Not the kind of quiet that feels peaceful yet—just empty. Hollow. Like something’s been taken out of it and nothing’s replaced it since.

Steve doesn’t move from the couch. He hasn’t for a while.

The clock still blinks. The floor still sticks. The air still feels too thick to breathe properly.

And the door— The door is still closed.

He lets his head fall back, eyes slipping shut for a second, exhaustion finally starting to settle into his bones now that there’s nothing left to distract him from it.

This is it. This is what’s left.

A trashed house. A quiet morning. And the realization that he spent the whole night waiting for someone who was never coming.

A knock breaks the silence. Barely there.

Steve’s eyes snap open. 

For a second, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe.

Because his brain, still stupid,hopeful and desperate—won’t let him believe it.

Not yet. The knock comes again.

Still quiet and still unsure.

He’s on his feet before he fully registers standing, crossing the room faster than he means to, heart racing something sharp and uneven in his chest.

His hand hesitates on the doorknob for half a second. Then he pulls it open.

And it’s you.

You look out of place.

Not because you don’t belong there, but because the night has already ended, and you weren’t part of it this time.

Your eyes flick past him, briefly taking in the mess behind him; the cups, the overturned chair, the remains of everything.

Then you look back to him.

There’s no smile this time.

Just something careful still settled on your face. 

“Hey.”

His throat feels dry. Unsure. Like his brain is still catching up, too much happening all at once. 

“Hey,” he echoes, quieter.

For a second, neither of you moves and it feels awkward in a way it’s never been before.

Like you don’t quite know where you stand anymore.

“I, uh—” you start, shifting your weight slightly. “I think I left my jacket here. A while ago.” 

It’s a weak excuse. You both know it. But Steve nods anyway, stepping back to let you in.

“Yeah. Yeah, it’s probably…somewhere.”

You walk past him slowly, more cautious than you used to be, like you’re not sure what version of him you’re walking into.

After all it has been weeks and you never know what to expect with Steve. Or with you. The last few weeks you’ve spent avoiding him because facing your feelings with the fact that Steve the hair Harrington could never like you.

Even if you always saw right past that persona. He didn’t.

He closes the door behind you, watching as you move through the space that used to feel familiar to you. During evening, at least. 

You don’t head for the kitchen. You don’t make yourself comfortable. You just look around taking it all in. 

“This is new,” you say quietly.

Steve huffs, but there’s no humor in it. He knows what you mean. 

 “Not really.”

He lets silence overtake everything for a quick pause, hoping that what he says next won’t mess up the moment even more. 

“I didn’t think you’d come.”

You glance at him, something flickering across your face, searching for his eyes like there’s a right answer and that’s where you’ll find it. 

“I didn’t,” you admit. “Not for that.”

Not for him. The words hang there, unspoken but understood.

Steve nods slowly, looking down at the floor for a second. “Yeah.”

He clears his throat, the sound too loud in the quiet house. “Where do you think you left it?”

Another dumb excusable question you’re both aware of. 

You shrug slightly, arms crossing, bracing yourself against a feeling you can’t explain yet.  

“I don’t know. Your room, maybe.”

His jaw tightens a little at that. You haven’t been up there in weeks. Not since the last party you came to. 

“Yeah. Okay.” He nods once, not letting another memory flood both of your minds this time, then he gestures vaguely toward the hallway with a head shake. “It could be there.”

You hesitate before moving. Just for a second,  deciding if this is a mistake, like you’re giving yourself the chance to turn around and leave.

Steve notices. Of course he does. He notices everything about you.

“I can check,” he rushes. “You don’t have to-“

“No.” You shake your head, cutting him off, softer this time. “It’s fine.”

You step past him before he can say anything else.

He follows, a step behind, like he used to, but it feels different now. Less certain. As if he’s not sure he’s allowed to be that close anymore.

You reach his bedroom door first, pushing it open slightly, surprised it wasn’t locked.

Even more surprised when you see how untouched it is compared to the rest of the house. He didn’t let anyone in here.

You scan the room again, slower this time, like you’re giving yourself something to do.

“It’s cleaner in here,” you say, glancing back at him. “That’s new.”

Steve huffs a quiet laugh from the doorway. 

“Yeah, well. People don’t usually make it this far.”

“Wow,” you deadpan. “I feel special.”, you joke, with a laugh, but the words had more weight to it. The word joke not holding it’s meaning anymore. 

He shrugs, but there’s the smallest hint of a smile tugging at his mouth. “You are.” Like he’s not even thinking about it. 

You chuckle, hoping he doesn’t take it the wrong way and look away first, stepping further into the room, crouching slightly to check the side of the bed still holding onto the story. “If I find it covered in something gross, I’m leaving it here.”

“That’s fair,” he says. “Honestly, I’d probably do the same.”

You glance up at him. “You would not.”

“I would,” he insists, pushing off the doorframe a little, stepping into the room. “I have standards.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You threw a party for half the town.”

“Hey,” he points at you, mock-offended, “those are unrelated issues.”

But you don’t know the parties aren’t for half the town. They’re not for his neighbours, for his classmates or anyone he ever knew.

They’re for you.

Why would he keep throwing them and pretend to thrive someplace that didn’t include you. Even if that place included you for the last few hours only. 

You stand back up, brushing your hands together like you actually found something, even though you didn’t.

“Still not seeing it.”

Steve nods slowly, looking around like the jacket might magically appear if he tries hard enough. “It’s probably..uh..” he gestures vaguely toward his closet. “Check there, maybe?”

You pull the closet door open, pushing aside a few hanging shirts without much hope. “I’m not digging through your entire house for one jacket.”

“Wow,” Steve says lightly from behind you.

“Didn’t realize it meant that little to you.”

You glance back at him. “It’s a jacket, Steve.”

“Cold mornings are serious,” he shrugs, looking away from you.

There’s barely anything there—just a couple of boxes, a pair of old shoes.

And then something small, half-hidden near the corner. You reach for it without thinking.

“…wait.”

Steve shifts a little. “What?”

You pick it up, turning it over in your hand, squinting at it for a second, then your expression changes.

“…no way.”

Steve already knows that tone.

“What?” he asks, a little more cautious now.

You stand up, holding it out slightly. “You still have this?”

It’s a keychain.

Cheap. Plastic. Slightly scratched. From one of those dumb arcade prizes.

Steve freezes for half a second when he sees it. “Oh,” he says quietly.

You let out a soft, disbelieving laugh. “Oh?”

“I mean-it’s just-” he gestures vaguely, already losing the point, “it was in there.”

“You won this for me,” you remind him, as if he needs any reminding, turning it between your fingers. “And then got mad when I said it was ugly.”

“It is ugly,” he defends, a small smile creeping in despite himself.

“You were so proud of it though.” you add.

“I worked hard for that,” he shoots back. “Those machines are rigged.”

You huff a quiet laugh, shaking your head slightly. “I think I said something like, ‘Wow, I’ll treasure this forever,’” you recall.

“You were lying,” he says immediately.

“Obviously.”

“Yeah,” he nods. “I knew that.”

You look at it again, “I lost it like…two days later.”

“I know.”

That makes you glance up at him. “You do?”

Steve shrugs one shoulder. “Found it in my car.”

“…and just kept it?” you ask, searching for his eyes. 

He hums, then, even quieter, “Yeah.”

“You’re weird.” You rush, before you could let your mind think too much of it. This meant nothing, you and Steve were nothing. 

“Getting that a lot today,” he mutters in response.  But he’s smiling a little.

You step out of the closet, still holding the keychain, your fingers brushing over the scratched plastic absentmindedly.

“Still not my jacket,” you scoff, dramatically, feeling less out of place now. 

“Yeah,” Steve replies. “Guess not.” With raised eyebrows and a smile spreading into a grin already. Like he knew it wasn’t there anyway as much as you did. 

Neither of you moves much after that.

You’re closer now. Not on purpose, it’s just how it ended up.

You glance down at the keychain again, then back up at him. “You kept a lot of stuff like this?”

“No,” he says. “Just…some things.”

You tilt your head slightly. “Important things?”

He lets out a quiet breath, like he didn’t expect that question. “Something like that.”

Your breath catches, taken back deciding on what you’re about to do next. 

You shift your grip on the keychain, and your hand brushes his, this touching him on purpose.

Steve’s gaze drops for a second, then back up to your face like he’s searching for what this really means and the answer is on your face.

He takes a deep breath. 

“You still think it’s ugly?” he asks softly.

You hum, pretending to think about it. “…yeah.”

He nods. “Fair.” Then you add, just as quiet: “But I’d probably keep it now.”

You don’t move away after saying it. Neither does he. There’s barely any space left between you.

Steve lets out a small breath, deciding something again, knowing he didn’t give it a second thought. Not even a first one. “You can.”

You look at him. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he confirms. “You can keep it.” He looks down at where your hands are still touching. “Was kinda yours anyway.”

You push harder against his hand, probing for one of his fingers, his hand, you don’t even know, just wanting to hold a part of him in some way as slick as you can be. 

“yeah?” You mutter, not losing your focus.

You settle on the finger closest to yours as quickly as you can, not wanting to make this more awkward than it already might be. He reaches for the keychain, both of you holding it tightly now.

But at the same time you’re scanning his eyes, scouring for any possible hint that says he doesn’t want this, blinking as a way to cue him and let him know he can still pull away. 

And instead of saying anything else, you lean your face closer, just slightly at first, giving him time to meet you there, if he wants to. 

For a second, nothing happens.

Your breath mixes with his, close enough now that you can feel the hesitation in it, not unsure but like he’s not entirely sure this is real and happening. 

His eyes flick between yours, searching, almost waiting for you to pull back, giving you every chance to.

You don’t. But you don’t get closer either, letting him decide what comes next. 

So he closes the distance.

It’s careful, barely there at first. His lips are brushing yours so lightly it almost feels accidental. 

Like a test. And you still feel his reluctance, waiting for you to make it go away and confirm that he can be resolute in this. 

And instead of stopping, you lean in just a little more. 

That’s all it takes for the kiss to settle, both his and your lips catching each other tentatively. Chasing the taste of one another.

Steve exhales quietly against your lips, like something in him finally gives in and his hand lifts, slow, almost unsure, before resting gently at your side, still grounding himself in the fact that this is happening.

You tilt your head slightly, deepening it just enough to feel real, not rushed.

His thumb shifts faintly against your arm, a small, absent movement, like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.

You try to think of how maybe this shouldn’t be happening, like your lips shouldn’t be so desperate and in seek of his the second he pulls back to breathe. 

You should be bothered by sweat building on his pinky from you gripping it so tightly, but you just want more, more and more. 

Because you know you’ve wanted this for weeks. Weeks spent away from him, the moment only living in your imagination.

When you finally pull back, it’s unhurried, neither of you moving far, both still hovering in it, wanting it to continue. Your breath is uneven.

Steve lets out a quiet, disbelieving exhale, his eyes still half on yours, like he’s afraid if he looks away it’ll disappear.

The keychain is still in his hands, pressed between his fingers.

Steve glances at it, then back at you, a faint smile pulling at his mouth. “..definitely not here for the jacket.”

You huff softly. “Don’t ruin it.”

“I’m just saying.”

“Don’t.”

“Okay,” he murmurs, still close. “Okay.” 

And he’s dropping the keychain in an instant, his hands framing for your cheeks, determined to kiss you again without any doubts. 

[firelilyfox]

summertime at midnight

Pairing: Steve Harrington x shy!reader

Summary: Your parents are getting a divorce and when your mother decides to move in with her best friend Mrs. Harrington… things start to change between you and her son Steve.

Warnings: reader being shy. having a crush. forced proximity. kissing. Steve being so soft for you. no use of y/n.

_______________

The first time you step into the Harrington house, it doesn’t feel real.

Your mom is already laughing—actually laughing—with Mrs. Harrington like the last few days never happened. Like heartbreak can be packed into boxes and left behind with the rest of your old life.

You linger by the doorway, fingers curled into the strap of your bag.

Then—

“Hey.”

You look up. And there he is. Steve Harrington.

He looks exactly like he does at school—effortless, confident, like the world just… works for him. But there’s something softer in his expression now. Less performative. More real.

“I—uh—hi,” you manage. Smooth.

He nods once, like he’s trying not to make it a big deal. “Didn’t know you were… coming to stay,” he says.

“Yeah. It’s, um… kind of sudden. You know with the ...”

“The Divorce. Yeah my mom told me,” he answers, quieter now.

There’s a pause. Not awkward—just… new.

“Well,” Steve says, rubbing the back of his neck, “if you need anything, just—y’know. I’m around.”

You nod quickly. “Okay.”

And just like that, he gives you a small smile and steps back. But as he turns away ... You swear you see him glance back.

The first few days pass like you’re watching someone else’s life. Mrs. Harrington insists you make yourself at home. Your mom starts to look lighter. Less… breakable.

And Steve?

Steve is everywhere.

Not in a loud way. Not overwhelming. Just… there.

Leaning against the kitchen counter when you sneak in for water at night. Tossing you a casual “hey” when you cross paths in the hallway. Letting you sit on the couch when his friends are over and absorbing the effortlessness of their connection, never drawing attention to you—but never ignoring you either.

It’s confusing. Because at school, he’s Steve Harrington. And you’re not one of the popular girls. Your more like a shadow, trying to avoid any sort of light or attention.

But here? Here, the lines blur.

One night, you can’t sleep. The house is quiet, your thoughts too loud. So you slip outside. The water glows faintly under the pool lights, soft and inviting.

“You always sneak out this late?”

You jump.

Steve’s sitting on one of the lounge chairs, hair damp, a towel slung over his shoulders.

“I didn’t know anyone was out here.”

He shrugs. “Couldn’t sleep.”

You hesitate. “Me neither.”

He gives you a boyish grin. Which was only a bit distracting. “You can come closer, you know,” he says. “I don’t bite.”

You roll your eyes—but you walk over anyway.

After that, it becomes a thing.

Late nights by the pool. Quiet conversations that start small—favorite movies, stupid school gossip—and somehow drift into deeper waters without either of you noticing.

Steve listens. Like, really listens. And you talk more than you usually do. More than you thought you could.

Then come the movie nights.

It’s always “just a group thing” at first—his friends sprawled across the living room, popcorn everywhere, someone arguing about which tape to pick.

But somehow you always end up next to him. Not touching. Not obvious. Just close enough that your arm brushes his when one of you moves. Close enough that your heart forgets how to act normal.

And then the parties.

“Come on,” Steve says one evening, leaning against your doorframe. “You can’t spend the whole summer hiding.”

“I’m not hiding.”

“You are absolutely hiding," he says with his arms crossed in front of his chest.

You hesitate. “I don’t know anyone.”

“You know me.”

Your heart stumbles. “That’s… different.”

He softens, just a little. “I’ll stay with you,” he says. “Promise.”

And he does. The party is loud, bright, overwhelming. But Steve never strays far.

A hand at your back guiding you through the crowd. A quiet “you okay?” when it gets too much. A grin when you finally laugh at something instead of just watching.

“You’re doing great,” he says.

You shake your head, smiling. “I’m standing in a corner.”

“Yeah, but you’re doing it confidently.”

You laugh—really laugh—and Steve looks at you like that was the goal all along.

Somewhere along the way—It changes. The glances last longer. The space between you feels smaller.

You start noticing things. The way he looks for you when he walks into a room. The way his voice softens when he says your name. The way he always, always keeps his promises.

And Steve? Steve notices everything about you.

So one night when he’s halfway down the hall, on his way to grab a glass of water—definitely not because he was thinking about stopping by your door to say goodnight—he sees it.

A sliver of night air slipping through your room. Curtains shifting. And something in his chest tightens.

Steve frowns, stepping closer. The room is dim, empty. But the window was still open.

And then he remembers. He used to climb out there all the time as a kid. When things got too loud inside. When silence felt worse than shouting.

When he needed somewhere to exist without being in the way.

And before he can overthink it ... He climbs.

The night air is cooler on the roof. Quieter. The world feels farther away up here. Steve pulls himself up carefully, steadying his footing—

And then he sees you. Sitting near the edge. Knees pulled in. Shoulders shaking. And suddenly, everything in him stills.

For a second, he doesn’t say anything. Because he knows this moment. Knows how fragile it is. Knows what it feels like to be found when you’re trying not to be.

“…Hey.”

Your head snaps up. You wipe your face too quickly, like that might erase it. “Oh—hi. I didn’t—I thought everyone was asleep.”

Steve shrugs lightly, stepping a little closer but not too close. “Yeah, I was just… uh. Water mission.”

You nod, eyes dropping again. “Right.”

There’s a pause. The kind that stretches.

Steve shifts his weight. “You wanna tell me what’s going on?” he asks gently.

“I’m fine.” It comes out automatic. Too fast.

Steve almost smiles. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “I used to say that too.”

You glance at him. Just for a second. But it’s enough. “I just…” your voice cracks, and you press your lips together like you can hold it in.

You can’t. “I don’t get how he could do that,” you whisper. “To her. To us.”

Steve’s chest tightens but he doesn’t interrupt you.

“I keep thinking maybe if I’d noticed something—if I’d said something—” your breath stutters. “Maybe it wouldn’t have happened like this.”

“Hey,” Steve says softly.

You shake your head, tears spilling again. “Everything was fine. And now it’s just… gone.”

Steve exhales slowly, stepping closer now—careful, like approaching something fragile but important. “I get it,” he says.

You laugh weakly, shaking your head. “No, you don’t—”

“I do.”

That stops you. You look up at him properly this time. And there’s nothing joking in his face now. Nothing easy. Just honesty.

“My dad?” he says quietly. “He doesn't even bother pretending anymore. He's never around at the same time as my mom. Barely around at all.”

You blink, surprised.

“I used to think it was my fault,” he admits. “Like if I was… better, or different, or less of a screw-up, maybe he'd actually want to stay.”

Your chest aches. “Steve…”

“But it’s not on you,” he continues, voice steady but softer now. “What your dad did? That’s on him. Not you. Not your mom.”

You swallow hard. “It just… hurts,” you whisper.

“I know, sweetheart.” And he does. You can hear it. That’s what breaks you.

The tears come harder this time. Not quiet. Not controlled. Just real. And for a second, you try to turn away—to hide it, like always.

But then Steve sits down next to you. Close enough. Careful. “You don’t have to do that,” he says gently.

“Do what?”

“Pretend it’s not a big deal. And to hide."

Your shoulders shake. “I don’t want to be a problem.”

Steve frowns immediately. “You’re not.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do,” he says, firmer now. “You’re not a problem. You’re just… hurting.”

The words hit something deep. Something you’ve been holding tight for too long.

“I don’t know how to make it stop,” you admit, voice breaking.

Steve’s expression softens in a way that makes your chest ache even more.

“You don’t have to make it stop,” he says quietly. “You just… don’t have to go through it alone.

He hesitates for half a second. Then opens his arms. Not pushing.Just… offering.

And something in you—Something tired and scared and aching gives in.

You lean into him. Slow at first. Then all at once. Your face presses into his chest, hands gripping the fabric of his shirt like it’s the only steady thing left.

And Steve freezes for a heartbeat. His arms come around you carefully. Then tighter. Like he’s afraid you might disappear if he doesn’t hold on properly.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs, one hand coming up to cradle the back of your head. “I’ve got you.”

Your tears soak into his shirt. He doesn’t care. Doesn’t move. Just stays.

And his heart is pounding. So loud he’s sure you can hear it. Because you’re here. This close. Trusting him with something real, something messy. Something that matters.

Steve swallows, resting his cheek lightly against your hair. “I’m not going anywhere,” he says quietly. “Okay?”

You nod against him. Just a little. But it’s enough.

Something changed between you that night. You couldn't describe it, but you felt it with absolute certainty in your heart. And so did he.

“You ever think about… before?” you ask softly, sitting at the edge of the pool, feet in the water.

“Before what?”

“Before all this. Like—if things had been different… would we have talked?”

Steve huffs a quiet laugh, sitting beside you. “I wanted to.”

You blink. “What?”

“Yeah,” he says, a little sheepish now. “You think I didn’t notice you? You were—” he stops, searching for the word. “Different.”

Your heart races. “Different how?”

“Better,” he says simply.

You don’t know what to do with that.

“I just figured you wouldn’t want anything to do with me,” he adds.

You stare at him. “I’ve had a crush on you since, like… forever.”

There’s a beat.

Then Steve laughs—soft, disbelieving. “You’re kidding.”

“I’m not.”

He shakes his head, smiling like he just found out something unbelievable. “Wow,” he murmurs. “We’re both kind of idiots, huh?”

“Yeah,” you whisper.

The laughter fades. But the closeness stays. His hand shifts—just slightly—until his fingers brush yours. You don’t pull away.

"I've been thinking about this ... you ... I've been thinking about you a lot. From the moment you moved in, I wanted to be close to you every chance I possibly get."

You smile at him, soft and a little nervous. "It's been the same for me, Steve. As a matter of fact ..." You swallowed, trying to keep you racing heart inside your chest. Be brave. Just once. "I never stopped having a crush on you."

Your cheeks flare up and Steve smiled. Adorable, he thought.

“God, you're too good to be true” he starts, then stops. And then—

He kisses you.

Soft at first. Careful. Like he’s giving you time to change your mind.

You don’t.

Your hand comes up to his shoulder, fingers curling into his shirt as you lean in just a little more. And suddenly it’s not careful anymore—it’s warm, and real, and everything.

When you pull back, you’re both smiling like you don’t know what to do with it.

“You’re—” Steve starts, then laughs. “Wow.”

You giggle—actually giggle—and cover your face. “Oh my god.”

“No, don’t hide,” he says quickly, gently pulling your hands away. “I like this.”

“Like what?”

He caresses your jaw with soft fingertips and dips your chin up just as gently. "Being with you."

You grin despite yourself. He leans in again—just a quick kiss this time, like he can’t help it.

“Okay, yeah,” he says. “Definitely worth the wait.”

You nudge him, laughing. “Shut up.”

“Never.”

Later, when you’re both lying back on the cool concrete, staring up at the stars his hand finds yours. Easy and natural.

“Hey,” he says quietly.

“Yeah?”

“I’m really glad you came here.”

You turn your head to look at him. “Me too.”

And for the first time since everything changed. It doesn’t feel like something was taken from you. It feels like something found you instead.

_______________

Thank you so so much for reading! All interactions are highly appreciated 💙

STEVE HARRINGTON MASTERLIST

[spderjmz]

summer free ༄ s. harrington

- pool party at steves !! based off this req

- cw: kissing, robin being a hater lol

steve harrington loved summer for completely pathetic reasons.

not normal reasons, either.

not because school was out. not because the weather was nice. not because robin stopped complaining quite as much when she got enough sunlight.

no.

steve loved summer because you wore tiny little outfits that made him forget how to function as a human being.

which was exactly the problem he was currently dealing with.

“you’re staring again,” robin said flatly from beside the grill.

steve blinked once. “huh?”

“your girlfriend.”

he looked back toward the pool automatically.

mistake.

huge mistake.

you were sitting at the edge of the deep end in a red bikini, legs dangling in the water while max braided little sections of your damp hair for no reason other than boredom. sunlight glowed against your skin, making the red look even brighter somehow, and every time you laughed, steve felt it physically in his chest.

it had been two years.

two entire years together.

and somehow you still walked into a room and ruined his life instantly.

robin followed his line of sight and groaned dramatically.

“jeez.”

“what?”

“you look obsessed.”

“i am obsessed.”

“yeah, but usually people hide it a little.”

steve ignored her completely.

because you had just looked up and smiled at him. that soft, automatic smile that only ever belonged to him.

his stomach flipped like an idiot.

robin looked genuinely ill now. “you know what? i hope you both get married so i never have to witness this with anyone else.”

nancy snorted from her lounge chair. “they already act married.”

“thank you,” steve said.

“that wasn’t support,” robin informed him.

before he could answer, dustin came tearing through the backyard gate holding three bags of chips.

“why does it smell burnt out here?”

“because robin’s cooking,” jonathan answered.

“rude,” robin called.

“it true,” nancy corrected redireccting robin back to food that was on the verge of turning black.

the younger kids spilled into the backyard behind dustin immediately — will carrying popsicles, lucas with a basketball under one arm for reasons nobody understood, mike already arguing about something, and eleven trailing behind them with sunglasses nearly sliding off her face.

complete chaos.

steve loved it.

mostly because for once, everybody was safe enough to be loud.

“you started without us?!” dustin yelled, horrified.

“you were late,” steve answered.

“it’s summer!”

“and? max made it here on time.”

“time isn’t real in summer!”

lucas pointed toward the pool. “shotgun first jump.”

before anyone could argue, he cannonballed directly into the deep end. water splashed everywhere.

including all over you and max.

you gasped loudly. “lucas!”

lucas surfaced laughing hysterically while steve grinned despite himself.

“that’s what you get for sitting too close.”

you turned immediately toward him, narrowing your eyes.

“you’re on his side?”

“always.”

“wow.”

“it was a solid cannonball. i respect it.”

you rolled your eyes, smiling anyway.

gosh.

that smile.

robin made another disgusted noise beside the grill. “you two flirt like you’re trying to make everyone else single on purpose.”

“you are single on purpose,” steve pointed out.

“that’s different dingus.”

the afternoon settled into easy noise after that.

music drifting through the speakers. water splashing endlessly. jonathan burning at least two hot dogs while pretending he wasn’t.

steve spent most of the time in the pool because every time he tried sitting normally, you appeared beside him somehow.

not that he minded.

currently, you were floating lazily beside him in the shallow end while the younger kids screamed through a violent game of marco polo nearby.

your foot brushed his tummy underwater in your floating state.

“you’re staring again,” you murmured.

steve didn’t even deny it. “can you blame me?”

“yes.”

“counterpoint: red bikini.”

you laughed softly, shaking your head. “you’re ridiculous.”

“you knew that already.”

“true.”

he drifted a little closer unconsciously.

or maybe consciously.

honestly, he stopped pretending with you years ago.

your fingers trailed through the water beside his.

“robin’s gonna kill you if you keep looking at me like that in front of her.”

“robin survives exclusively on hating my happiness.”

“also true.”

you tilted your head slightly then, studying him.

his wet hair. sunburn starting across his nose. that stupid relaxed smile he only wore around people he trusted completely.

your expression softened immediately.

steve noticed because steve noticed everything about you.

“what?” he asked quietly.

“nothing.”

“liar.”

you smiled a little coming up to wrap your arms around him. “i just like you.”

his chest actually ached.

it happened embarrassingly often around you.

“good,” he said softly.

your eyes flicked down toward his mouth automatically.

it nearly killed him.

before either of you could do something embarrassing in front of everybody, robin’s voice echoed across the backyard.

“absolutely not!”

you both looked over.

robin pointed her tongs at you two aggressively. “if i have to witness pool make-outs, i’m pushing both of you into traffic.”

nancy looked up from her magazine. “that feels a little extreme.”

“i’m serious.”

steve rolled his eyes. “nobody was making out.”

“yet,” dustin added helpfully.

“shut up, dustin.”

“you’re literally attached to each other.”

you snorted while steve splashed water directly at dustin’s face.

“watch it, henderson.”

“see?” robin said to nancy. “they’re disgusting.”

nancy looked entirely unbothered. “i stopped noticing months ago.”

chicken fights started an hour later because lucas claimed he could beat steve in literally anything.

which obviously escalated immediately.

“you’re all talk,” steve called from the pool.

“you’re old!”

“i’m nineteen!”

“exactly!”

teams formed quickly after that.

lucas on dustin’s shoulders. max on eleven’s.

and you climbing onto steve’s shoulders while he held onto your thighs carefully beneath the water.

“comfortable?” he asked.

“mhm.”

his hands flexed slightly against your skin.

not intentionally.

well probably...

you leaned down a little, smiling. “you okay there, harrington?”

“no, actually.”

you laughed immediately. “dramatic.”

“baby, your legs are literally around me right now. i’m fighting for my life.”

immediately as the game started and all dignity disappeared instantly. water exploded everywhere.

dustin fought dirty. max nearly drowned lucas. eleven cheated somehow, though nobody could prove it.

and through all of it, steve couldn’t stop laughing because every time you nearly lost balance, you grabbed onto him tighter.

your hands in his hair. your laugh directly above him. your thighs squeezing around his shoulders while you yelled at dustin for trying to dunk you.

it was maybe the happiest he’d ever been.

which sounded insane over a chicken fight.

eventually everyone collapsed into the water in a giant disaster of limbs and screaming.

you surfaced laughing breathlessly while steve reached for you immediately out of instinct.

his hand settled against your waist automatically.

“you good?” he asked.

“barely.”

“hm, good enough.”

you grinned at him, water dripping down your face.

and steve had the terrifying realization that if you asked him to right then, he probably would’ve married you on the spot.

robin watched the entire interaction with visible exhaustion. “i need both of you psychologically evaluated.”

by sunset, the backyard had gone soft and golden.

the younger kids were exhausted now, spread across towels and lounge chairs eating popsicles while jonathan worked the grill and nancy argued with robin over music.

string lights glowed around the patio.

the pool shimmered blue beneath them.

and steve sat beside you at the edge of the water with your legs tangled together.

your head rested against his shoulder while his fingers traced absent patterns against your knee.

for a while, neither of you spoke.

just listened to everybody else laughing nearby.

then quietly, you said, “today was nice.”

steve hummed softly. “yeah.”

“feels normal.”

that made something in him pause slightly.

because normal used to sound boring.

before everything.

before monsters and nightmares and hospitals and fear.

now normal felt precious.

he turned his head slightly, pressing a kiss into your damp hair.

“i like normal,” he admitted quietly.

you tilted your face up toward him.

soft evening light caught your features. your eyes warm and sleepy from sun and chlorine.

there genuinely wasn’t a universe where steve harrington survived you long term.

“what?” you whispered.

he smiled a little.

“nothing.”

“liar.”

“i’m serious. just…” his thumb brushed slowly against your knee. “thinking.”

“dangerous hobby.”

“yeah.”

you laughed softly.

steve looked at you for a second longer before saying quietly, “you know my favorite part of summer?”

you raised an eyebrow. “the pool?”

“you.”

your face changed instantly.

small smile and softer eyes. that look he’d spend the rest of his life chasing.

“that was smooth, you flirt,” you murmured.

“thank you.”

“still cheesy though.”

“i’m consistently cheesy. it’s part of my charm.”

“debatable.”

he gasped dramatically. “wow.”

you were still smiling when he kissed you.

slow. lazy. warm from summer heat.

the kind of kiss that felt like home now.

comfortable enough that neither of you noticed everyone else going quiet until dustin yelled—

“OH, COME ON!”

you broke apart laughing immediately while robin looked seconds away from throwing herself into traffic. (her words)

“i cannot live like this anymore.”

nancy smiled despite herself. “they’re cute.”

“they’re nauseating.”

steve pulled you closer against his side anyway, completely unashamed.

because honestly?

if everybody had to suffer through how much he loved you, that sounded like their problem.

likes, reblogs, and comments are much appreciated <3

[andvys]

The edges of your soul (I haven't seen yet) ⭐︎ S.H.

⭐︎ Warnings: 18+ mdni! post apocalypse, character death, angst, mean!steve, grumpy!steve x sunshine!reader, blood, wounds -- all the gory stuff, smut in the future chapters, hurt/comfort

⭐︎ Pairing: Grumpy!Steve Harrington x sunshine(fem)!reader

⭐︎ Summary: Everything he once knew, is gone, dead and buried, burned to the ground and turned into ash. All he has known is loss, death and pain, he despised this world, until it brought you to him -- the sunshine he had long forgotten. Light he will follow till the very end.

⭐︎ In collaboration with @hellfire--cult

⭐︎

Prologue ☀︎ When the sun hits, she'll be waiting

Chapter one ☀︎ Welcome and Goodbye

Chapter two ☀︎ Can you see right through me?

Chapter three ☀︎ You’re the greatest thing we’ve lost

Chapter four ☀︎ While I'm alone and blue as can be

Chapter five ☀︎ Watching cityscapes turn to dust

Chapter six ☀︎ The killing time. Unwillingly mine.

Chapter seven ☀︎ Fall back into place. Fall back...

Chapter eight ☀︎ Dead-eyed. Dead weight.

Chapter nine ☀︎ Pull the trigger on the gun I gave you when we met

Chapter ten ☀︎ Turn me into something tragic, just for you, I let it happen

Chapter eleven ☀︎ And I'll fear no evil because I'm blind to it all

Chapter twelve ☀︎ You’re a bandit like me. Eyes full of stars

Chapter thirteen ☀︎ Then this heart would break and fall as twice as far

Chapter fourteen ☀︎ The devil in your eyes, won't deny the lies you've sold

Chapter fifteen ☀︎ Every print I left upon the track has led me here

Chapter sixteen ☀︎ One day I am gonna grow wings...

Chapter seventeen ☀︎ Now I'm racing for what to do, all roads lead me right back to you

Chapter eighteen ☀︎ I'll give you all that I can, as long as you'll wait for me there

Chapter nineteen ☀︎ When you’re lying between my legs, it doesn’t matter

Chapter twenty ☀︎ If you can't survive, just try

Chapter twenty one ☀︎ Look into my eyes and baby, whisper

Chapter twenty two ☀︎ If anyone could’ve saved me, it would’ve been you

Chapter twenty three ☀︎ We could be safer, just for one day

Chapter twenty four ☀︎ God loves you, but not enough to save you

Chapter twenty five ☀︎ Can you, can you find me?

[prettyglad]

proximity — steve harrington

summary — moving the new york city with steve harrington has you falling into habits you never thought you would. has he always been this touchy? now he’s seeing you in your towel.

steve harrington x reader, no pronouns, friends to accidental lovers, unspoken feelings , 3.3k words

Living with Steve Harrington feels less like sharing an apartment and more like sharing a current — something low and constant that hums beneath everything. Though it never happened all at once.

It started quietly. It accumulated.

It gathered in corners and along baseboards and in the quiet, habitual choreography of two adults sharing space long enough that their movements began to overlap.

Coffee mugs drying side by side. Your jacket draped over the back of his chair because you sat there once and never stopped. Your sheets on his bed, and his on yours. Though you're unsure when the switch happened.

The apartment is small. Not cramped, just close. Close enough that the sound of him turning over in bed reaches your room through the thin walls. Close enough that you can tell which cabinet he’s opening by the hinge’s particular creak.

Close enough that touch becomes easy.

At first, it’s practical. A hand at your back while he squeezes past you in the kitchen. His fingers closing around your wrist when you’re about to walk into traffic because you weren’t looking. Your knee knocking into his beneath the table and staying there, neither of you bothering to move.

It’s easier not to comment on it. You’re grown. You’ve both survived worse than proximity.

Steve has always been tactile. He hugs too long. He throws an arm around shoulders without asking. He ruffles hair like he’s still eighteen and invincible.

But this is different. This is quieter. There’s a particular gravity to evenings.

The day burns off slowly, and the air settles. The television becomes background noise, not something watched, but something that fills silence so you don’t have to examine it.

You sit on opposite ends of the couch at first. It’s almost ceremonial. The beginning of the night still demands a little distance. Then he stretches. His thigh slides against yours. You don’t move.

Minutes pass. His arm drapes over the backrest, fingertips brushing the curve of your shoulder. He’s not looking at you. He’s looking at the screen, jaw slack in concentration, as though the contact is incidental.

But his fingers don’t withdraw. They trace idle shapes — slow arcs, unconscious patterns. The touch is light but constant. Like he needs to confirm you’re still there.

Sometimes you shift closer under the guise of comfort. You tuck your legs beneath you, and they press against his hip. Your hand finds his knee. Rests there.

It’s never dramatic.

There’s no moment where you both acknowledge it. It simply becomes the shape you sit in.

He plays with your hair a lot.

You don’t remember when it started. One night, your head is on his lap — because you’re tired, because the couch feels too small, because it feels easier than moving — and his fingers slide into your hair like they’d been waiting.

He doesn’t do it absently. That’s the thing.

There’s a focus to it. His brows draw together slightly. His mouth softens. He separates strands, lets them fall through his fingers, traces the curve behind your ear.

“You're spacing out,” you murmur once, eyes closed.

“I'm looking at you.”

"That's worse," you huff. “You get this crease,” you say, tapping his forehead without opening your eyes. “Right here.”

He sighs quietly. Smooths it out with his thumb. Then his thumb drifts down, along your temple, your cheekbone.

You let it. Because you always let it.

There are mornings when you find him already awake in the kitchen, like he’s been there awhile, long enough for the light to shift, long enough to try and catch up with the room.

He’s leaning against the counter in sweatpants, hair unruly, one hand braced beside him. The room is quiet except for the low hum of the fridge. He’s staring into nothing in particular, but it feels intentional, like he’s holding something just out of sight.

You don’t say anything.

You step up behind him carefully, not wanting to break whatever spell he’s under. The floor is cool beneath your feet. You hover for half a second — just enough to question it — then press your forehead lightly between his shoulder blades.

It’s a small touch. Almost casual. His body reacts immediately.

Not startled, not tense. Just aware. A subtle shift runs through him. His shoulders lower a fraction. His weight leans back into you without thinking, like the contact makes sense before either of you have decided what it means. It feels less like affection and more like testing gravity, like checking if something will hold.

His hand reaches back, finds your wrist without looking. His fingers close around it and he pulls you around to face him. Not roughly. Not gently either. Just deliberate.

You end up standing between his knees where he’s half perched against the counter. The light hits his face, softens the sharpness of his expression. He looks at you for a second too long.

There’s a flicker in his eyes — curiosity, maybe. Or restraint.

Then he slides an arm around your waist and draws you closer, close enough that you feel the heat of him through thin cotton and morning air. His grip is firm, steady, almost absentminded — as if he’s proving something to himself. As if he’s seeing how natural it feels.

It feels natural. That’s the dangerous part.

The contact is warm and solid, uncomplicated on the surface. You tell yourself this is harmless. Just proximity. Just bodies in a quiet kitchen. Just two people who haven’t defined anything and probably won’t.

But your pulse climbs anyway. Your breath shifts. Your hands don’t quite know where to land.

You don’t ask why something so simple feels charged, like a wire humming under the walls. You don’t ask why his thumb moves once, barely, against your side, or why neither of you pulls away.

The kettle still hasn’t boiled. The morning hasn’t decided what it is yet. And neither have you.

The bathroom is where the tension finally gathers enough weight to make a sound of its own.

Steam climbs the walls in slow spirals, blurring the mirror until your reflection looks softer, less certain. The light above the sink hums faintly. The air is thick with the clean scent of soap and heat and damp cotton left somewhere on the floor.

You’re brushing your teeth, leaning one hip against the counter, watching your own unfocused gaze in the fogging glass. The rhythm is automatic. Mindless.

The door opens behind you. You don’t turn right away. You don’t have to.

You hear the soft drag of fabric, the quiet thud of the door closing, the almost-silent shift of bare feet on tile. When you finally glance up, it’s through the mirror.

He’s there, towel slung low around his hips, skin still flushed from the shower. Damp hair pushed back carelessly, droplets clinging to the slope of his shoulders before tracing downward in unhurried lines. His skin looks warmer against the cool tile, like the room hasn’t decided whether to keep the heat or let it dissipate.

You’ve seen him like this before. That part isn’t new. It’s never been the problem.

What’s new is the way your body reacts before your thoughts can catch up, how your stomach tightens, how your grip on the toothbrush shifts just slightly.

He steps closer, reaching past you toward the cabinet above the sink. It’s a small bathroom. Intimate without trying to be. His arm lifts, his chest brushes your back.

He's a blur of hair and skin and water.

The contact is brief, just skin against the thin fabric of your shirt, but it sends a slow, electric awareness through you. It has to be accidental. There isn’t enough space for it not to be.

You freeze anyway. Behind you, he stills too.

The air feels heavier, as though the steam has thickened into something you could part with your hands. You become acutely aware of everything: the drip of water from his hair onto your shoulder, the sound of your own breathing, the way your pulse begins to beat harder in places you hadn’t noticed before.

His hand comes down on instinct, steadying you as if you might slip on the tile. It lands at your waist. His palm spans the curve there, fingers splaying naturally, thumb settling into the dip above your hip like it’s memorised the shape.

It should feel casual. It doesn’t. There’s a pause, long enough to register. Long enough to decide.

Your breathing changes first. It stutters, then deepens. His shifts a second later, slower and more deliberate, as though he’s suddenly aware of how close his mouth is to your ear.

In the mirror, your eyes meet. The glass is clouded, but not enough to hide it.

There’s something in his expression you haven’t seen directed at you so plainly before. Not surprise. Not confusion. Something steadier. Something that looks like acknowledgment.

Recognition.

Like he’s no longer pretending this undercurrent is imaginary. Like he’s allowing himself to feel the exact place where his hand rests, and noticing that he doesn’t want to move it.

“Sorry,” he murmurs.

The word sounds quieter than it should. Almost reluctant. He doesn’t step back.

Your voice feels thinner than you expect when you answer. “It’s fine.”

It isn’t fine.

His thumb shifts, barely. A slow, almost absent adjustment. Not enough to cross a line. Just enough to test where it is.

Heat unfurls low in your stomach, sudden and coiling, spreading outward in a way that makes the room feel smaller than it is. The mirror fogs further, trapping the moment inside it. Your heart is loud now, too loud, and you’re sure he can feel it through your back.

He exhales softly. The warmth of it brushes the nape of your neck, and the hand at your waist tightens almost imperceptibly, an unconscious flex, or maybe not unconscious at all.

Then he steps away. Just enough distance to cool the air between you. Just enough space to let the steam settle.

Just enough to make it possible, barely, to pretend nothing happened.

After that, everything sharpens.

The couch feels smaller than it used to.

Or maybe it’s not the couch. Maybe it’s the way his thigh is pressed between yours, the way his arm curves around your waist like it belongs there now. His hands feel larger somehow. More deliberate. And your skin, your skin feels like it’s been tuned to a higher frequency.

Outside, rain falls in a steady sheet, soft but relentless. It streaks the windows until the city beyond them dissolves into blur and shadow. The apartment is dim, washed in amber from a single lamp in the corner. Everything feels contained. Close. Suspended.

You’re sitting closer than usual.

No — that’s not true.

You’re sitting the same distance you always do. Same couch. Same blanket, half-draped over both of you. It just doesn’t feel neutral anymore.

Your legs are tangled, knees overlapping. Your palm rests flat against his chest, fingers splayed like you’re measuring something. His heart beats under your hand, quick, uneven. Not racing. But not calm either.

He’s tracing absent lines into your other palm with his fingertip. Slow. Intentional. Following the creases like they’re a map he’s trying to learn by touch.

Neither of you is watching the movie.

“Can I ask you something?” he says after a while, voice low enough that it barely rises over the rain.

You tilt your head toward him. “You just did.”

A faint breath of a smile brushes his mouth, but it fades quickly. His finger stills in your palm.

“Okay. Then — can I ask you something real?”

Your heartbeat shifts. “You can try.”

He swallows. You feel it beneath your hand. “What are we doing?”

It’s softer than you expect. Not accusing. Not joking.

You glance down at where your bodies meet, your hand on his chest, his arm tight at your waist, your legs woven together like you fell into this position and never bothered to untangle.

“Watching a movie?” you offer lightly.

He exhales through his nose. “You know that’s not what I mean.”

The rain fills the space between you for a second.

He looks down at your joined hands. “Do other people do this? And call it nothing?”

Your thumb shifts slightly against his shirt. You could laugh it off. You could make it easy.

Instead, you say, “I don’t think this is nothing.”

The words land between you, heavier than expected.

His hand leaves your palm and trails slowly up your forearm, fingers grazing the inside of your wrist, your elbow, your upper arm. It’s not rushed. It’s exploratory. Like he’s asking permission with every inch.

You feel your breath deepen.

“Steve,” you say quietly.

It isn’t a warning. It’s his name, softened. Weighted.

His eyes drop to your mouth, openly this time. No pretense. No accidental glances.

“I keep telling myself I’m just comfortable,” he admits. “That this is just…habit.”

His thumb presses gently into your side as if to contradict himself.

“But it doesn’t feel neutral,” he adds.

“No,” you whisper. “It doesn’t.”

Your hand slides from his chest to his jaw, fingers brushing along the faint stubble there. You move slowly — slow enough that he could lean away if he wanted to.

He doesn’t.

If anything, he leans into your touch, barely perceptible, but enough. The room seems to narrow around you. The rain louder. The air warmer.

“I don’t want to keep pretending this is accidental,” he says, voice rougher now. “If I kiss you…I don’t want it to be something we explain away tomorrow.”

Your pulse jumps.

“Then don’t explain it,” you answer.

The space between you narrows gradually.

There is no sudden movement, no impulsive collision of mouths that you can later blame on heat or stupidity. Instead, the shift happens in increments so subtle that you feel each one like the tick of a clock.

His hand, which had been resting at your waist, slides to the small of your back, fingers spreading slowly as if testing whether you will tense beneath his touch. You don’t. If anything, you soften, your body yielding by degrees you don’t consciously control. His thumb presses lightly against your spine, just enough to ground you there, just enough to say stay without speaking.

You're close enough now that your breaths overlap. His inhale brushes your cheek, your exhale warms the hollow of his throat. Neither of you look away.

The rain against the windows grows heavier, steady and rhythmic, filling the room with a white noise that makes the moment feel insulated from consequence. The world beyond the apartment feels distant, blurred at the edges. There is only the couch, the warmth of his body beneath your palm, the weight of his gaze.

Your fingers remain at his jaw, but they no longer move absentmindedly. You trace him with intent — the angle of bone beneath skin, the faint roughness where stubble darkens along his cheek and chin. Your thumb drifts lower, ghosting over the corner of his mouth, and his breath stutters just slightly at the contact.

He notices everything.

You can see it in the way his eyes darken, in the way his chest rises more slowly now, deliberately measured as though he’s trying to keep control of something that has already begun to unravel.

“You can tell me to stop,” he says quietly, but there is no real expectation in it. It’s an offering, not a retreat.

“If I wanted you to,” you answer, equally quiet, “I would.”

The honesty settles between you like a stone dropped into still water.

His hand tightens at your back — not enough to hurt, just enough to confirm that he heard you.

There is a moment — long, suspended — where neither of you move at all. It feels fragile, this edge you’re standing on, as though the slightest misstep might shatter the careful balance you’ve maintained for months. And yet, beneath that fragility is something steadier. Something that has been building for so long it no longer feels uncertain.

He leans forward first, but barely. A fraction of an inch. Just enough that your noses brush. The contact is soft. Accidental in sensation, deliberate in intention.

You tilt your face slightly, not closing the distance entirely but reducing it. Your lips hover close enough that you can feel the warmth of his breath against them.

He hesitates there.

Not because he doubts you, but because he understands the weight of it. Every touch before this could be explained away. Comfort. Habit. Proximity. But this — this cannot.

Your hand slips from his jaw to the back of his neck, fingers threading slowly into his hair. The motion is deliberate, unhurried, and when you apply the faintest pressure, guiding him closer, it is the clearest answer you can give.

The first brush of his mouth against yours is almost restrained to the point of feeling painful. It is a soft press, testing the shape of you, pausing as though waiting for confirmation that this is real.

You respond by deepening it. Not urgently. Not hungrily. Just enough.

Your lips part slightly beneath his, and the shift in his breathing is immediate. His hand slides fully beneath your shirt now, palm flattening against the curve of your back, warm and steady. He draws you closer by inches, and your body follows without resistance, settling more firmly against him.

The kiss lengthens. It becomes something slower, something exploratory. His mouth moves against yours with a care that feels almost reverent, as though he has thought about this too many times to rush it now that it’s real. His thumb traces small, grounding arcs against your spine, the motion steadying you both.

You can feel how controlled he’s trying to be. The restraint in the way he doesn’t grip too tightly. In the way he doesn’t tilt you back further even though he easily could.

In the way he breaks the kiss just long enough to look at you, really look at you, before leaning back in.

When he kisses you again, it is deeper. Not aggressive, not frantic, but undeniably certain. His mouth claims space with quiet confidence, and the sound that escapes you, soft and unguarded, seems to undo whatever restraint he had left.

His hand slides from your back to your waist, fingers curling there as he shifts slightly, angling you closer so that there is no longer any ambiguity about the way your bodies fit. Your legs tighten around his thigh without conscious thought, and the contact sends a slow wave of heat through you that has nothing to do with the warmth of the room.

He exhales your name against your mouth, barely audible, and it feels like a confession.

You pull back only enough to breathe, foreheads resting together, your fingers still tangled in his hair. His eyes search yours as though he’s trying to determine whether this changes everything or simply makes visible what has always been there.

“We’ve been doing this for months,” you murmur, your voice low and unsteady in a way you don’t bother to hide.

He huffs a quiet, almost disbelieving laugh, though his hands remain firmly on you. “Yeah,” he admits. “Guess we just finally stopped pretending.”

The rain continues its steady rhythm against the windows, but inside the apartment the air feels different now, charged not with uncertainty, but with clarity.

He kisses you again, slower this time, more deliberate. There is no hesitation left in it. His touch is no longer accidental, no longer something either of you can disguise as habit. It is chosen.

Every brush of his fingers along your skin. Every shift of your body closer to his. Every quiet sound exchanged between breaths.

And the strangest part is not how new it feels, but how natural. As though this is simply the next logical step in something that has been unfolding all along. As though the months of unspoken tension were never confusion, only delay.

When he finally rests his forehead against yours again, his thumb moving in slow circles at your waist, there is no need to define it.

You both know. Not just roommates. Not just comfort. Something that has been waiting patiently for you to admit it.

[elisabethwritestoo]

Baby

Pairing: Steve Harrington x fem!reader

Word count: 5.4k

Summary: You wanna play hero, and Steve can't have that.

Warnings: set somewhere between s4 and s5, angsty, reader is hurt, Steve is in agony over this, because that boy cannot live without you, mentions of blood, Dustin's Eddie-trauma—it triggered by your hurt.

Author's note: i hope you like it, this story came to me when i was watching a Tiktok, but i cannot remember for the life of me which one. i use a lot of em dashes in this, i know but i wrote it MYSELF, and i use them because i love love love em dashes. divider by: @chrisssiren

Steve Harrington had always been bad at waiting.

Not impatient in the ordinary sense, though he was that too, but bad at the specific kind of waiting that came with not knowing if someone he cared about was safe. He could handle action. He could handle blood, bruises, a bad plan that somehow became the only plan. He could handle fighting things that should not exist. But sitting still while the clock kept moving and somebody hadn’t come back when they were supposed to?

That was a special kind of torture.

And tonight, it was killing him.

The Wheeler basement was too warm, too crowded, too loud in all the wrong ways. Nobody was really talking, but the room still felt noisy with nerves. Robin paced near the couch, arms folded tight. Nancy sat at the table with a map spread out under her hands, though she hadn’t looked at it in at least five minutes. Lucas kept checking the same spot near the window like maybe if he stared hard enough, something would change. Max was trying to look calm and failing. Erica had gone unusually quiet, which was maybe the worst sign of all.

Steve stood near the stairs with his arms crossed so tightly over his chest they ached, staring at the front door like he could force it to open.

You were late.

Not five-minutes late. Not “lost track of time” late.

Wrong late.

Mission-gone-sideways late.

He checked his watch again.

“Stop doing that,” Robin said.

Steve didn’t look at her. “Doing what?”

“That.” She made a little impatient gesture. “Checking the time every thirty seconds like it’s gonna make them appear.”

“I’m not doing it every thirty seconds.”

“You are, actually.”

He exhaled hard through his nose. “Then stop counting.”

Robin looked like she wanted to say something sharper, but she didn’t. Her face softened just a little instead. “They’ll come back.”

Steve swallowed.

Maybe.

Maybe they would. Maybe he was overreacting, maybe you’d all gotten delayed, maybe one of the kids had insisted on taking a longer route back through the woods because they saw something weird and now they were all being stupidly careful.

But he knew the difference between delayed and wrong.

And this was wrong.

You had left hours ago with Mike and Dustin to check a possible route near the tree line beyond the old service road, something about movement, tracks, a place the vines had started spreading too close to the surface again. It had sounded contained. Quick. In and out.

You’d grinned at him before leaving, adjusting the strap of the bat slung over your shoulder.

“Relax, Harrington.”

He’d rolled his eyes. “I’m relaxed.”

“You’ve asked me if I have my knife four times.”

“Do you?”

You’d laughed, patting your jacket. “Yes, mom.”

He’d opened his mouth to say something back, something easy and annoyed and normal, but then you’d stepped closer and bumped your shoulder against his.

“We’ll be back before you can get all dramatic about it.”

Robin had snorted. “Too late.”

Steve had watched you go anyway.

And now you weren’t back.

The basement door banged open upstairs.

Everyone snapped toward the sound.

Fast footsteps pounded down the stairs, with each step Steve’s heart skipped a beat and then Mike appeared so suddenly it made Steve’s heart lurch into his throat.

Mike was pale.

Too pale.

Breathing hard.

There was dirt smeared across one side of his face and something dark on the sleeve of his jacket that looked a little too much like blood.

Everything in Steve went cold.

“Where is she?” he said immediately.

Mike opened his mouth but didn’t get anything out at first, sucking in air like he’d run the whole way.

Nancy stood up so fast her chair scraped violently against the floor. “Mike.”

Mike’s eyes moved around the room, wide and frantic, locking finally on Steve’s. “She’s hurt.”

The words hit like a gunshot.

Steve was already moving before anyone else could react, gripping Mike’s shoulders gently, but tight altogether. “What happened?”

“Dustin’s with her,” Mike choked out. “I— we— we got split up near the ravine, and there were demodogs, and she—” His voice broke. “Steve, she’s really hurt.”

That was it.

Steve didn’t remember crossing the room. One second he was by the stairs and the next he had embraced Mike tightly, sensing he needed his comfort more than his panic, while trying and failing to keep his own franticness from spilling over.

“Where?”

“In the woods—past the old service road, by the creek bend—Dustin was trying to get her out but he can’t—”

Steve let go of him and turned. “Robin, Nance—”

“We’re coming,” Nancy said immediately, already reaching for the shotgun propped by the wall.

Lucas was on his feet. “I’m coming too.”

“No,” Nancy snapped, sharper than usual. “You stay here.”

“The hell I am—”

“Lucas,” she said, and something in her voice made him stop. “If more of those things are moving this close, we need people here. In case they doubled back. In case anybody else comes through that door hurt.”

Max grabbed Lucas’s wrist before he could argue again.

Steve was already halfway up the stairs. “Mike, with me. Now.”

They tore out of the house in a wave of motion; Steve, Nancy, Robin, Mike. The night air hit cold and damp, smelling of wet leaves and earth and smoke from somebody’s chimney half a mile away. Steve barely felt it. He was moving too fast, every thought narrowing down to a single terrible point.

You didn’t come back.

You’re out there.

You’re hurt.

He vaulted into the driver’s seat of the BMW. Nancy climbed in beside him with the shotgun across her lap, Robin and Mike piling into the back.

“Tell me exactly what happened,” Steve said, jamming the key into the ignition so hard it scraped.

Mike braced one hand on the front seat. “We found the tracks near the service road, and at first it was fine. We thought maybe it was old movement, but then we heard them.”

“How many?”

“I don’t know. Three? Four? Maybe more.”

Steve’s grip tightened around the wheel.

Mike swallowed hard. “We ran. We got turned around near the creek because Dustin slipped, and one of them came out from the trees and she—” He took a shaky breath. “She pushed us ahead.”

Steve didn’t say anything.

Couldn’t.

Because he already knew.

He knew exactly the kind of stupid, self-sacrificing thing you would do if one of the kids was in danger. He knew because he’d seen it before, smaller risks, smaller injuries, but the same instinct every time. Put yourself between the danger and somebody younger. Don’t think. Just move.

Mike kept talking, words tumbling out too fast now. “She told us to run and I didn’t want to leave her but Dustin fell again and there were two of them and she— she had the bat and she kept yelling at us to go.”

Steve’s vision tunneled.

“She stayed behind?” Robin asked, her voice very small, full of shock.

“Just for a second,” Mike said desperately. “She was right behind us, she was supposed to be right behind us, but then we heard her scream and when we went back she was—” He sucked in a ragged breath. “She was on the ground.”

No one spoke after that.

The car flew down the dark road, tires spitting gravel when Steve took the turn too hard near the old service lane. Branches scraped the side of the BMW as he pulled off as far as he could. Before the engine had fully died, he was out.

“Which way?”

Mike pointed with a shaking hand. “Through there.”

Steve grabbed the nail bat from the trunk and ran.

The woods swallowed them fast, moonlight breaking in silver patches through the trees. Dead leaves cracked underfoot. Branches clawed at Steve’s jacket and face and he didn’t feel any of it. Behind him, he could hear Nancy and Robin crashing through the underbrush, Mike stumbling to keep up and then surging ahead again.

“Dustin!” Mike shouted.

No answer.

Steve’s chest got tighter.

“Dustin!” Robin yelled.

Then, faintly, from somewhere deeper in the trees…

“Here!”

Dustin.

Crying.

Steve broke into a sprint.

He nearly slipped on the muddy edge of the creek bend before catching himself on a tree. The small clearing opened up in front of him all at once, and for a second, his brain refused to understand what he was seeing.

Dustin was on his knees in the mud, sobbing openly, one arm wrapped under your shoulders as he tried to drag you backward through the leaves.

You were barely helping.

Not because you wouldn’t.

Because you couldn’t.

Your head lolled weakly against Dustin’s shoulder, your face wet with tears and streaked with dirt, your breathing shallow and uneven. One side of your jacket was shredded open. Blood darkened the fabric underneath. Your leg was twisted wrong beneath you…not broken, maybe, but injured enough that every tiny movement made your whole body jerk.

And the sound coming out of you…

That was what nearly stopped Steve’s heart.

Not screaming.

Not even talking.

Just these quiet, broken little sobs, like you were trying not to make any noise at all.

Like it hurt too much to cry properly.

“Steve!” Dustin choked, looking up with a face so wrecked by panic it barely looked like him. “Steve, help her, please! She won’t wake up right, she keeps…she keeps—”

Steve was at your side in an instant, dropping to his knees so hard pain shot up both legs.

“Hey,” he said, and his voice came out rougher than he meant it to. “Hey, hey, I’m here.”

Your eyes fluttered, unfocused. It took a second for them to find him.

When they did, your mouth trembled.

“Stevie,” you whispered, so faint he almost didn’t hear it.

It broke something in him.

“Yeah,” he said immediately, one hand going to your face, careful, careful. “Yeah, I got you. I got you.”

You made a small sound that might have been a laugh if it didn’t hurt so badly. “Took you long enough.”

His throat closed.

“Don’t,” he said, because if you started doing that, if you started trying to make him feel better, trying to joke through it, he was going to lose his mind.

Nancy dropped beside him, already scanning your injuries with quick, ruthless focus. Robin crouched on your other side, one hand flying to her mouth before she forced it down.

“Oh my God,” Robin breathed.

Dustin was still crying. “I tried to get her up, I tried, but every time I moved her she—she said it hurt and I didn’t know if I was making it worse—”

“You did good,” Steve said sharply, not looking away from you. “Dustin, you did good.”

He didn’t know if the kid believed him, but he needed him to. Because he did.

He did all he could.

Mike hovered behind Dustin, pale and shaking, staring at you like he still couldn’t make this real.

Nancy touched your shoulder gently. “Can you hear me?”

You nodded a fraction.

“Any trouble breathing?”

Another tiny nod.

Steve’s chest seized. “Nance…”

“I know.” Her voice was tense. “I know.”

She looked at the ripped fabric near your ribs, then at your leg, then at the blood on your side. “We need to move her now.”

You whimpered as Steve slid one arm behind your back, and he froze instantly. “Sorry. Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” you grit, though it very clearly wasn’t.

Your eyes squeezed shut again, tears slipping down into your hair. “Stevie, it hurts.”

Those words, so small, so wrecked, hit harder than anything else.

Steve pressed his palm to the back of your head. “I know, baby. I know.”

Robin and Mike exchanged a look at the endearment, but nobody said anything.

The world had narrowed too far for that.

Nancy leaned in closer. “Listen to me. We’re getting you out of here, okay? Steve’s gonna carry you. I need you to tell us if you can’t breathe or if you think you’re gonna pass out.”

You gave the tiniest nod.

Steve slid one arm carefully under your knees, the other around your back. The second he started to lift, your body arched with a strangled cry and his vision almost went white with panic.

“Stop, stop!”

“I have to get you out,” he said, voice shaking. “I know, I know, I’m sorry.”

Your hand fisted weakly in his jacket.

It was barely any strength at all.

That terrified him more than if you’d shoved him away.

He got you into his arms somehow, though every inch seemed to hurt you. You buried your face against his chest with a broken little sound, and then you just clung. Not hard. Not enough. But enough for him to feel it.

Enough to make something savage and protective rise hot under his skin.

He stood.

You were usually so alive in his arms when he touched you in passing…shoving at him, laughing with him, moving along him, leaning into him. This felt all wrong. Too limp, too light, too still except for the trembling.

Dustin scrambled to his feet. “I’m coming.”

“You’re coming,” Steve said.

They started back through the woods.

Nancy went ahead, clearing the roughest parts of the path. Robin stayed close at Steve’s elbow in case he slipped. Mike and Dustin trailed just behind, both of them wrecked quiet now.

Steve felt every shaky breath you took.

Counted them.

Every one.

You kept making those tiny sounds against his chest whenever the ground jolted under his feet, each one digging under his ribs. He kept talking to you because the alternative was listening too closely to how weak you sounded.

“Stay with me.”

A few steps.

“You hear me? Don’t fall asleep.”

A few more.

You whispered something into his shirt.

“What?”

Your lips moved again. He bent his head lower.

“Dustin okay?”

Steve nearly stumbled.

He looked back. Dustin was crying silently now, eyes red and swollen, mud all over his jeans and hands.

“He’s okay,” Steve said, and his voice cracked this time. “Because of you. He’s okay.”

You let out a breath that shivered against him.

“Good.”

Robin made a strangled sound and turned her face away for a second.

Steve wanted to scream.

At you, for doing this. At himself, for letting you go out there. At the entire nightmare world that kept taking and taking and taking from all of you.

But mostly at the fact that even half-conscious and hurting everywhere, you were still worrying about the kids first.

By the time they reached the car, Steve’s arms were burning and he didn’t care. Nancy yanked the back door open and Robin climbed in first so she could help settle you across the seat.

“Easy,” she whispered, hands trembling despite the calm in her voice. “Easy, easy.”

Steve got in beside you, pulling your upper body into his lap so your side wouldn’t slam against the door. Dustin and Mike crammed in on the other side, Dustin immediately reaching for your hand.

You didn’t open your eyes.

But your fingers twitched weakly around his.

Nancy got behind the wheel. “Hospital?”

Steve’s head snapped up.

Too dangerous, all of them thought it at once.

Too many questions. Too much exposure. Too many lies to explain.

But one look at you and the answer changed.

“Yes,” Steve said.

No hesitation.

No argument.

He would burn the entire cover story down if that’s what it took.

Nancy floored it.

The drive was chaos made of small sounds. Robin trying to keep pressure on the worst of the bleeding. Dustin whispering to you over and over that you were okay, that you were okay, like if he said it enough maybe it would become true. Mike hunched forward in the seat, shaking and silent, staring at the blood on his sleeve like he didn’t know whose it was anymore.

Steve kept one hand cupped around the back of your neck, the other gripping your wrist so he could feel your pulse.

Still there.

Still there.

Still there.

At one point your eyes opened a little and landed on him.

He leaned in immediately. “Hey.”

You looked confused for a second, dazed and glassy-eyed. “Why’s Dustin crying?”

A sound escaped Steve that was half laugh, half heartbreak.

“Because he’s Dustin.”

That got the faintest ghost of a smile from you before your face crumpled again.

“Everything hurts,” you whispered.

“I know.”

“Think m’bleeding on your shirt.”

“I don’t care.”

“You should. Nice shirt.”

He bowed his head for a second, pressing it briefly to yours because he didn’t know what else to do with how much he felt right then. “Will you stop trying to be funny for five minutes?”

“No promishes.”

The words slurred together.

His hand tightened around yours.

“Stay awake.”

You blinked slowly. “Bossy.”

“Yeah.”

Your eyes drifted shut again.

“Hey.” Panic flared instantly. “Hey, no, look at me.”

They fluttered back open.

“There you go, baby,” he said, too fast. “There you go. Keep doing that.”

Robin glanced at him, and the fear on her face mirrored his own.

The hospital lights appeared like something unreal at the end of a tunnel. Nancy screeched to a stop before the car had fully entered the emergency drop-off lane, and then everything became motion and shouting and bright fluorescent light.

Steve tried to go with you.

A nurse blocked him with both hands. “Sir, I need you to step back.”

“I’m not leaving her.”

“You are if you want us to work.”

Nancy was at his side in a second, fingers digging hard into his arm. “Steve.”

He looked at you on the gurney, saw how pale you were under the blood and dirt, how your hand slipped off the edge as they wheeled you through the double doors.

And then you were gone.

The waiting room was worse than the woods.

At least in the woods he’d had something to do.

Now there was nothing. Just the hard plastic chairs, the smell of antiseptic, the buzz of fluorescent lights, Dustin’s muffled crying finally tapering off into exhausted silence.

Steve sat bent forward with his elbows on his knees, your dried blood on his shirt and jeans, his hands clasped so tightly his knuckles had gone white.

Nobody tried to make him talk.

After a while, Dustin sat down beside him.

For a minute, neither of them said anything.

Then Dustin asked, very quietly, “Do you think she hates me?”

Steve turned so fast it almost hurt. “What?”

Dustin’s chin wobbled. He was trying so hard not to cry again. “Because I couldn’t—I couldn’t get her out. She told us to run and I did and then when I went back I couldn’t—” His voice crumpled. “It was like I was with Eddie all over again. Like I had to—, let it happen.”

Dustin shakes his head quickly, “if she dies, it’s because she had to save us, it’ll be because of me.”

Steve stared at him.

Then he reached out and hauled Dustin sideways against his shoulder in a grip that was maybe rougher than intended and definitely not casual.

“She does not hate you,” he said, fierce and immediate. “Do you hear me? None of this is your fault.”

“But—”

“No.” Steve pulled back just enough to make Dustin look at him. “No buts. You don’t get to do that to yourself, not again. She made a choice. A stupid one,” he added, voice shaking now, “but one she made because she loves you guys. That’s not on you, not on Mike, not on anyone.”

Dustin sniffed hard. “You called her stupid.”

Steve looked toward the emergency doors.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “I know.”

“You called her baby.”

Steve shrugged, staying silent.

It was over an hour before someone came out.

Too long. Not long enough. Time had stopped making sense.

The doctor was saying words…lacerations, blood loss, a cracked rib, soft tissue damage, concussion, lucky, very lucky, and Steve caught maybe half of them because the only one that mattered was stable.

Stable.

Not dying.

Stable.

He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes so hard sparks burst behind them.

Robin touched his back once, briefly.

When they finally let him see you, you were awake.

Barely.

But awake.

The room was dim except for the soft monitor glow and one ugly lamp in the corner. You looked wrecked, bruised, stitched, bandaged, an oxygen line beneath your nose, and still somehow the sight of you conscious made his knees feel weak.

He hovered in the doorway for half a second before stepping inside.

Your eyes found him.

“There he is,” you whispered.

His laugh came out broken. “Yeah.”

“You look awful.”

He dragged a hand over his face. “That’s your opener?”

You shifted, winced immediately, and stopped. “Wanted to keep it light.”

He pulled the chair close to your bed and sat down. For a second he just looked at you, because now that he’d found you, now that you were here and breathing and stitched back together, all the terror he’d been holding in had nowhere to go.

So it came out as anger.

Very quiet anger.

“What the hell were you thinking?”

Your eyes softened.

“Steve—”

“No.” He leaned forward, voice dropping. “No, because you do not get to scare me like that and then just smile at me from a hospital bed like everything’s fine.”

You looked down at the blanket.

“It wasn’t really a smile.”

He let out a rough breath. “You know what I mean.”

Silence stretched between you.

Then you said, so quietly he almost missed it, “They would’ve died.”

And there it was.

The simple truth of it.

No heroics. No dramatics. Just certainty.

Steve swallowed hard enough it hurt.

He knew. God, he knew.

You would do it again too, if it meant one of the kids made it home.

Which was exactly the problem.

He reached out before he thought about it and took your hand carefully, careful of the IV and the scrapes across your knuckles.

“You don’t get to do that alone,” he said.

Your brows pulled together faintly. “What?”

“You don’t get to decide you’re disposable because somebody else is younger or smaller or whatever. You call for help. You run. You do literally anything else before—” His voice broke and he looked away for a second. “Before that.”

When he looked back, your eyes were wet.

“Steve…”

“No, I mean it.” His thumb brushed shakily over the back of your hand. “I saw Dustin trying to drag you out of there. He thought you were dying.”

You closed your eyes.

“I know.”

“I thought you were dying.”

That made your eyes open again.

The room went very still.

Steve hadn’t meant to say it like that.

Hadn’t meant to let it out so bare.

But there it was now, hanging between you.

Your fingers tightened around his as much as they could.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered.

He laughed once, bitter and quiet. “I’m so sick of hearing that from people I care about.”

A tiny, tired smile touched your mouth. “Still a good line, though.”

He shook his head, but some of the air left the anger in him.

You looked at him for a long moment.

Then said, “Dustin okay?”

Of course that was your first real question.

Steve huffed, something close to fond exasperation burning through the leftover fear. “Yeah. He’s okay.”

“Mike?”

“Also okay.”

You nodded weakly, satisfied.

Then, after a beat, “You?”

That undid him more than anything else had.

He looked down at your joined hands and answered honestly. “No.”

Your face crumpled with guilt. “Steve—”

“But I will be,” he said quickly, because he couldn’t handle that look on top of everything else. “I will be. You just…” He swallowed. “You gotta stop doing this to me.”

A tear slipped out of one eye and tracked into your hairline. “I’ll try.”

“Yeah, you better.”

You were quiet for another second, and then, very softly: “You came for me.”

Steve stared at you.

Like that was even a question.

“Every time,” he said.

Your mouth trembled.

The monitor beeped steadily in the silence that followed. Somewhere down the hall, a cart rattled past. The world kept moving, stupidly, normally, while Steve sat there with your hand in his, feeling like he’d cracked open somewhere no one could see.

You drifted a little after that, eyelids heavy.

Before you fell fully asleep, you murmured, “Steve?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks for taking your time.”

He blinked. “What?”

A tiny, sleepy smile appeared. “Dramatic entrance. Very heroic.”

He stared at you for one incredulous second before huffing out a laugh that turned wet around the edges. “Go to sleep.”

You did.

Still holding his hand.

Steve sat there long after your breathing evened out, his chair pulled too close to the bed, your blood dried on his shirt, exhaustion finally crashing into him now that he could see your chest rise and fall with his own eyes.

Robin peeked in once, saw him there, and quietly withdrew.

He didn’t move.

Not when the nurse came to check your vitals.

Not when dawn started paling the edges of the blinds.

Not even when his back began to ache and his eyes burned.

He stayed.

Because you were here.

Because you were alive.

Because in the woods, with Dustin crying and you sobbing so quietly in his arms, Steve had realized something he probably should have known already:

There was no version of this nightmare where he could lose you and come out of it still himself.

So he sat there and kept watch.

When you woke again just after sunrise, the first thing you saw was Steve slumped awkwardly in the chair beside your bed, chin dropped to his chest, one hand still wrapped around yours like even asleep he didn’t trust the world not to take you if he let go.

You smiled despite the ache everywhere.

And when his eyes snapped open at the tiny movement, immediate panic flashing across his face before recognition settled in, you squeezed his hand the best you could.

“I’m still here,” you whispered.

Steve closed his eyes for one brief second, bowed his head over your joined hands, and let out a breath so shaky it sounded almost like a prayer.

“Yeah,” he said, looking up at you again with something raw and wrecked and relieved in his face. “You better be.”

You wake again later, slower this time.

The pain is still there…dull, heavy, everywhere, but it’s not as sharp as before. It sits under your skin instead of ripping through it, which somehow makes it easier to breathe.

The room is quieter now. Dim. Early morning light slipping in through the blinds in thin, pale lines.

And Steve—

Steve is still there.

Curled awkwardly in the chair beside your bed, his head tipped forward, one arm folded across his chest while the other is still loosely wrapped around your hand like he fell asleep mid-thought and never let go.

Your chest tightens a little at the sight.

He looks exhausted. Completely, utterly drained in a way you’ve never seen before. There’s dried blood on his shirt, your blood, and his hair is a mess like he’s run his hands through it too many times to count.

You shift slightly.

It hurts.

A soft sound slips out of you before you can stop it.

Steve wakes instantly.

Like he was never really asleep at all.

His head snaps up, eyes wide and searching, panic flashing across his face before it softens the second he sees you’re awake.

“Hey—hey,” he says quickly, leaning forward. “Easy. Don’t move too much.”

“I wasn’t planning on it,” you murmur, your voice still a little rough.

Relief washes over his face so openly it almost makes your chest ache.

“Good,” he mutters. “Good.”

There’s a moment where neither of you says anything.

Just looking.

Just… being here.

Alive.

Then, after a second, you tilt your head slightly, studying him.

“You look terrible,” you say softly.

He huffs out a quiet breath, something almost like a laugh slipping through. “Yeah, you mentioned that.”

“I mean it more now.”

“Thanks. That helps.”

You smile faintly.

Then your gaze drifts, taking him in a little more carefully this time, the way his hand is still wrapped around yours, like he doesn’t quite trust that you won’t disappear if he lets go.

Something warm settles low in your chest.

“You stayed,” you say.

It’s not really a question.

“Yeah,” he replies, just as quietly. Like there was never another option.

Your fingers shift slightly in his.

“You called me baby.”

The words slip out before you can stop them.

Steve freezes.

Actually freezes.

His entire body stills, his expression going blank for just a fraction of a second before something else flickers there, something caught, something almost guilty.

“…What?” he says, a little too quickly, because when Dustin acknowledged  it, he could ignore it,  but you…

You don’t look away.

“You did,” you repeat softly. “In the woods.”

His jaw tightens slightly, like he’s trying to figure out if he can talk his way out of this.

“I— you were hurt,” he says, like that explains it.

“It does,” you agree easily. “Still counts.”

He exhales, running a hand through his already messy hair, suddenly very aware of himself in a way he wasn’t a minute ago.

“I didn’t mean—”

“You didn’t mean what?”

His eyes flick back to yours.

And for a second—

He doesn’t answer.

Because whatever he was about to say doesn’t quite make it past his lips.

Your voice softens, just a little teasing now, but still gentle. “You don’t call everyone that, Harrington.”

“No,” he mutters.

“Just me?”

There’s that pause again.

That same quiet, fragile tension that’s always lived somewhere between you…now sharper, closer to the surface than it’s ever been before.

Steve looks at you like he’s trying to decide something.

Then, quietly—

“…Yeah.”

Your breath catches.

He doesn’t look away this time.

Doesn’t try to play it off.

Doesn’t joke.

“It just—came out,” he adds, softer now. “I wasn’t thinking.”

“Sometimes that’s when people say what they mean most,” you say.

His grip on your hand tightens slightly.

“Yeah,” he murmurs.

The room feels smaller suddenly.

Quieter.

Like everything’s narrowed down to just this.

To him.

To you.

You shift a little closer on the bed, ignoring the dull ache it causes.

“You sounded worried,” you say softly.

He lets out a quiet, almost disbelieving breath. “You think?”

You smile faintly. “A little.”

Steve shakes his head, but there’s no real annoyance in it.

“I thought you were—” he stops himself, jaw tightening again.

“Dying?” you finish gently.

He looks at you then.

Really looks.

And this time, he doesn’t hide it.

“Yeah.”

Your chest tightens.

Your fingers curl around his hand as much as they can.

“I’m still here,” you whisper.

He swallows hard.

“Yeah,” he says, voice rough. “You are.”

A beat passes.

Then, quieter—

“Don’t do that again.”

You huff a soft breath. “I’ll try.”

“That’s not reassuring.”

“It’s honest.”

That almost earns a smile from him.

Almost.

His thumb brushes lightly over the back of your hand, absent, grounding.

“You scared me,” he admits.

You meet his gaze.

“I know.”

“I don’t like that.”

“I know.”

Another pause.

But this one—

This one feels different.

Softer.

Closer.

“Baby,” you say quietly, testing it now, watching his reaction.

Steve’s head snaps up slightly at that, something in his expression shifting instantly.

“You’re not allowed to use that against me,” he mutters.

You smile, small and a little tired but real. “I think I am.”

And then, “because, I’d like for you to call me that again.”

He exhales, shaking his head, but his hand doesn’t let go of yours.

Doesn’t even loosen and presses a kiss to your knuckles.

“Okay.”

And for the first time since you woke up…

There’s something almost calm in the room.

Something warm.

Something that feels a little too much like safety.

And Steve will call you baby again.

[harringtonsdiary]

steve harrington x reader fanfiction | fratboy!steve | platonic!stobin (i promise) | mentions of cheating (but it's not real cheating) | mean!steve, playboy!steve | sort of friends to enemies to fwb to lovers | slowish burn | angst | hurt ... eventual comfort

warnings: pure purepurepurepurepureeeee flufffffffffff. suggestive stuff. kind of some exposition of where everyone is at. marriage. pregnancy... bittersweet. happy trail and armpit... totally serving myself sorry. words: 4.3k summary: Honeymoon. a/n: okay. wow. uh..... i know i was putting this off. dkat has meant so much to me and i just needed a bit to myself and really ponder where hot shot and steve would be. acknowledments: @thinkingth0ts for literally being the one to hear my random ideas in the middle of the night. @andvys oh my goddddddd. if it weren't for you... dkat would be bones. you gave me so much encouragement ily @mhoneyfieldz mary sweet mary... who might love hot shot and steve more than i do... i love you. there are so many more people i could acknowledge i love you all. dkat support gc <.3 ily masterlist | Rules/Playlist

epilogue epi luigi (not clickbait REAL I PROMISE)

The sand is warm beneath you, heated by the relentless Cabo sun that's been beating down since early morning. You're lying on a beach towel—oversized and striped in shades of blue and white, still smelling faintly of the detergent from the resort. 

Your bikini is simple. It’s black with high-waisted bottoms and a bandeau top that ties at the back. The fabric clings to your skin, slightly damp from your last dip in the ocean an hour ago, salt-crusted and smelling like sunscreen and sea water and your husband.

You lift your left hand to shield your eyes from the sun, and the movement makes your engagement ring catch the light. It glints brilliant and blinding— white gold with a small diamond that your husband saved for months to afford. The wedding band sits flush beneath it, simple and elegant, both of them slightly sandy from running your fingers through the beach.

You reach for the sunglasses your husband bought you right before the trip— designer Ray-Bans he insisted on getting despite the price, saying you deserved them— and slide them onto your face. You sigh at the immediate relief, at the feeling of the sun sinking into your skin without burning your retinas.

Then suddenly, a shadow drifts in front of the sun. It stays there, blocking the light, and you feel the temperature drop several degrees against your face.

"Is that spot taken?"

You open one eye, smirking when you see a figure standing over you, hands on hips, towering above where you're sprawled out. You prop yourself up on your elbows, tilting your head to get a better look.

The man is dripping wet, clearly just emerged from the ocean. His brown hair is soaked, curling at the temples and nape of his neck in that way that only happens when it's wet with salt water. He's wearing a gold chain that catches the light—thin and delicate against his tan skin. Black swim trunks sit low on his hips, and he's wearing sunglasses too, mirrored aviators that hide his eyes.

But you can see everything else. His love handles spilling over the waistband— just slightly, soft and perfect. His stomach hangs a little over the top of his trunks, a gentle curve that speaks of being well-fed and happy. His thighs are thick and hairy, muscular from the past year. His happy trail and chest hair cling to his skin from the water, dark and unruly and begging to be touched.

His skin is tan. It’s darker than it was a week ago when you arrived, golden from days spent in the sun.

You feel your core tighten at the sight of water dripping down his neck, between his pecs, down his navel, disappearing into the waistband of his trunks. Your mouth goes dry.

He's pointing to the empty spot next to you where another towel lays with only sandals, a backpack, and a canteen— all the things your husband insisted were necessary for a beach honeymoon despite your protests that you'd be fine with less.

"Why?" you ask, voice carefully neutral.

"Dunno." He shrugs, and the movement makes water droplets fly from his shoulders. "Just wondered why a pretty lady was over here all by herself. Wanted to see if she wanted some company."

You look up at him, holding up your left hand with your ring finger prominently displayed. You pretend to look away disinterested, but you're still watching him from the corner of your eye. "Sorry. I'm married."

He grins— all perfect white teeth that you know intimately, that you've felt against every inch of your skin. He dips his sunglasses down the bridge of his nose to get a better look at you, and even through your own shaded lenses you feel yourself swallow hard at the sight of his hazel eyes.

He lifts up his left hand, showing off his ring finger. His gold wedding band is shiny and glistening, wet from the ocean. He tilts his head, voice dropping lower. "Me too."

You bite your bottom lip, heat pooling low in your belly. "Then I guess it wouldn't hurt. Until my husband gets back."

"Oh yes, of course." He nods seriously, but there's mischief dancing in his eyes. "I'll need to go find my wife too, you know? Can't leave her waiting long."

"Right. Yes. Of course."

The man sits down next to you on the towel, close enough that you can smell him—sunscreen and ocean and that particular scent that is just like your husband’s, the one you'd recognize anywhere. 

You're immediately captured by the details of his face up close. The slope of his nose, the slight scruff on his jaw that he didn't shave this morning, the freckles scattered across his cheeks from sun exposure.

"I'm Steve," he says, holding out his hand formally like you're strangers.

You take it, feeling the familiar calluses on his palm, the way his fingers automatically intertwine with yours. "Nice to meet you, Steve."

"The pleasure's all mine." He brings your hand to his lips and kisses your knuckles, and you have to suppress a shiver. "What's a beautiful woman like you doing in Cabo all alone?"

"I'm not alone," you remind him. "I have a husband, remember?"

"Right. The husband." Steve's thumb rubs circles on the back of your hand. "What's he like?"

"Oh, he's..." You pretend to think about it. "He's wonderful. Kind, funny. Terrible at playing pool but he tries anyway. Has this annoying habit of leaving his socks everywhere."

Steve laughs, the sound warm and genuine. "Sounds like a catch. How'd you meet him?"

"College." You smile at the memory. "He was dating my roommate."

Steve's eyebrows shoot up. "Scandalous."

"It was fake," you add quickly, then pause. "The relationship with my roommate, I mean. Long story."

"I've got time." Steve leans back on his elbows, and the position makes his stomach pudge out more. You want to run your hands over it, feel the soft warmth of him. "My wife won't be back for a while."

"What about her?" you ask, playing along. "Your wife. What's she like?"

Steve's expression goes soft, genuine affection breaking through the roleplay for a moment. "She's perfect. Smart, beautiful, funny as hell. Puts up with all my bullshit, which is a miracle." He reaches out and tucks a strand of your hair behind your ear. "Got this little tattoo on her hip that drives me crazy."

"Yeah?" You shift closer. "What does it say?"

"'Hot Shot.'" Steve's fingers trail down your side to where he knows the tattoo is, tracing the letters through your bikini bottom. "It's my nickname for her."

"That's sweet." You're close enough now that your lips are almost touching. "She sounds lucky."

"I'm the lucky one." Steve's hand slides up your back, fingers playing with the tie of your bikini top. "She married me even after I fucked everything up. Even after I hurt her. Even after—"

You cut him off with a kiss, unable to maintain the distance anymore. He responds immediately, his other hand coming up to cup your face, thumb stroking your cheek.

When you pull back, you're both breathing harder. "You know what would really be scandalous?" you murmur against his lips.

"What's that?"

"If you let me put sunscreen on you. Can't have you burning on your wife's watch."

Steve grins. "I don't know. That seems pretty inappropriate."

"Probably," you agree, already reaching for the sunscreen bottle. "Turn around."

He does, sitting up and presenting his back to you. You squeeze sunscreen into your palm and start working it into his shoulders, digging your thumbs into the muscles there. Steve groans, head dropping forward.

"Feel good?" you ask.

"So good. My wife does this for me sometimes. She's got magic hands."

"Does she now?" You work your way down his spine, spreading sunscreen across the broad expanse of his back. "What else does she do for you?"

Steve's laugh is low and dirty. "Wouldn't you like to know."

You lean forward and press a kiss to the nape of his neck, right where his hair curls. "Maybe I would."

"Okay, front," you announce, and Steve turns back around.

Before he can settle back against the towel, you swing your leg over to straddle him, settling yourself right over his happy trail. Steve's hands immediately come to your hips, gripping tight.

"This seems—" His breath catches as you start smoothing sunscreen over his chest. "This seems like it's crossing a line."

"Yeah," you agree, working more into his skin in slow circles. "Should I stop?"

"God, no."

You take off his sunglasses carefully, setting them aside so you can see his face properly. The sun illuminates all the details. His freckles scattered across his nose and cheeks, the small moles you've mapped with your lips a hundred times, the little sunburn forming on the bridge of his nose. You dab sunscreen there gently, your fingers brushing his cheeks with tender care.

As you work the sunscreen into his skin, you start to grind slowly against his happy trail, feeling the coarse hair through the thin fabric of your bikini bottoms. Steve's fingers dig deeper into your hips, his breath coming faster.

"I don't think this is a good idea," you murmur, even as you continue the slow roll of your hips.

"Terrible idea," Steve agrees, his hands now kneading the flesh of your hips and ass, massaging with clear intent. "Anyone could see us."

"Mmm." You run your hands up his chest, spreading sunscreen with deliberate slowness. "Don't want you to get too excited, Mr. Harrington. Out here on the beach where anyone could come by. Including your wife. What would she think?"

Steve's hips buck up slightly, and you feel him hardening beneath you. "I could ask the same about you. What would your husband think?"

You lean down, lips brushing his ear. "He's not here, is he?"

Steve groans, and you drag your center over his happy trail again, the friction delicious even through fabric. You force his arms up, spreading your hands from his wrists down his forearms to his biceps. Then you lean in and kiss his bicep, working your way down to his armpit.

He chuckles warmly, squirming beneath you. "My wife likes to kiss me there too."

"Mmm? Yeah?" You kiss the sensitive skin again, feeling him shiver. "She has good taste, Mr. Harrington. You know, I think I might be jealous."

Steve tilts his head, eyebrow quirking. "How come?"

"Because I think your wife is very lucky to be married to you."

Steve chuckles, reaching up to brush your hair behind your ear like he's getting a better look at you. His finger loops under the necklace you're wearing—the Pike letters he gave you years ago, the ones you've worn every day since. He smiles at the sight of it.

His fingers drag down your body, back to your hip where your tattoo still sits in black ink. And although you've gotten a little older since you first got it, and parts of your body have changed in subtle ways, he smirks to himself looking at it like it's the first time all over again.

"Well, I think you're wrong," he says finally.

"Is that so?"

"Mhm." His hands settle back on your hips. "I think your husband is the luckiest man alive to be married to you. He'd be a fool to leave you here sitting by yourself."

You grind down harder, feeling him fully hard now beneath you. "He's not so bad. He'll make up for it later." There's a devilish smirk on your face. "He's very good at that."

Steve breaks first, laughing, his hands falling to your thighs before one trails up to grab your left hand where it rests on his chest. He brings it to his mouth and kisses your palm, then the back of your hand, then your ring finger where your wedding band sits.

"I think your husband loves you a lot," he says softly, all pretense dropped.

"I think your wife loves you a lot too."

You break character completely, bending down to meet Steve who's already coming up to kiss you. 

His wife. 

You want to kiss your husband— Steve Harrington.

 Steve wants to kiss his wife— you.

The kiss is deep and slow and perfect, tasting like salt water and sunscreen and the rest of your lives.

No one was surprised when you decided to get married right after graduation.

Steve had spent his last semester of school student teaching back in Hawkins, living with his parents and commuting to the high school every day. He still worked weekends at Family Video to save money, picking up extra shifts whenever Keith would let him. You barely saw each other— maybe once every two weeks if you were lucky, if Steve could make the drive up or if you could get away for a weekend. 

He would call you and write to you, anything to keep reminding you how much he loves you. 

It wasn't until an argument over the phone— something so silly you can't even remember what started it now— that everything changed.

You were woken up in the middle of the night by knocking on the door of the house you were renting with Robin. When you opened it, Steve was standing there in sweatpants and a Hawkins High Athletics t-shirt, hair a mess like he'd driven straight through without stopping, eyes wild and desperate.

You knew the moment you looked in his eyes what he was there for.

And you knew your answer would always be yes.

He'd proposed right there on the porch, ring box in his trembling hands, words tumbling out about how he couldn't wait anymore, how he needed you to be his wife, how every day apart felt like torture.

You'd said yes before he even finished asking.

And no one was surprised when you agreed to move to Hawkins after Steve was offered a full-time position coaching baseball and teaching health— ironically, sex education to rooms full of hormonal high schoolers who definitely did not want to hear Coach Harrington talk about condoms.

Steve had assured you that you could find a job too, or wait, or do whatever you wanted. It didn't matter to him as long as you were together.

But it worked out because there was an assistant librarian opening at the middle school. And somehow, the idea of you working in the same school as him, of sneaking kisses in empty hallways and meeting for lunch in his classroom, turned Steve on more than he wanted to admit.

So that was that. Two weeks after graduation, you got married in a small ceremony with your closest friends and family. Then you moved into a starter home in Hawkins— a little two-bedroom ranch that needed work but had good bones and a backyard big enough for the kids you both wanted.

And now you're here, on your honeymoon in Cabo, with your husband's hands on your body and the rest of your lives stretching out before you like the ocean. It's endless and beautiful and full of possibility.

"And what does this one say about me?" Steve's hands slide to your stomach, palms warm and gentle against your skin.

Another thing no one was really surprised about.

It wasn't like it was a total accident, getting pregnant before graduating or marriage. Not that you told anyone besides Robin, Nancy, Eddie, Jonathan, Dustin, and Max— which meant everyone knew within a week because secrets don't exist in your friend group.

It wasn't like anything had failed. The pill worked when you remembered to take it.

But honestly, looking back, you can recall maybe forgetting once. Twice. A lot.

Not on purpose. It slipped your mind. You'd get distracted by Steve showing up at your door, or studying for finals, or wedding planning, and by the time you remembered it was already the next day and you'd think well, one missed pill probably won't matter.

Except it did matter.

This time when you thought you might be pregnant, it was less scary. Steve had come in for the weekend to work on wedding planning and you'd pulled him aside and asked if he could buy you a test.

It felt like déjà vu, sitting on the bathroom floor together, both of you staring at the test resting on the edge of the bathtub. You wondered if he was praying for the same thing you were. Hoping for the same outcome.

You didn't have to ask because he saw the positive result before you did, immediately pulling you into a kiss. He kissed your engagement ring, kissed your stomach through your shirt, held you so tight you could barely breathe.

"Does this ruin our plans?" you'd asked quietly, even though you knew the answer. Even though you both knew you didn't really have concrete plans beyond get married, be together, figure out the rest as we go.

To be fair, this was always the plan. Maybe not the exact timeline, but the general direction. This is what you both wanted.

Steve had smiled against your hair, pulling you into a hug. "Hot Shot, we're ahead of the game."

You're only a few weeks along now, barely showing. But Steve can't get enough of you. His hands are constantly on your stomach, talking to the baby even though it's barely the size of a grain of rice. Telling it stories, singing to it off-key, promising to teach it how to throw a curveball.

"I think he or she loves their daddy," you giggle as Steve flashes you a goofy smile, gently flipping you onto your back against the towel and blowing a raspberry on your stomach.

"I love you first," he whispers to your belly, pressing a tender kiss there.

Then he crawls up your body, towering over you— your husband, the father of your child, the boy who became a man who became yours. He peppers kisses all over your face. To your forehead, your nose, your cheeks, your jaw, your neck.

"And I love you," he whispers against your skin.

You raise an eyebrow, waiting for him to finish. Steve likes to argue about who fell in love first, who loves more, who's luckier. It's a game you play, one with no winner because you're both all in.

"...most," he decides on, grinning.

You giggle, trying to push him off. "Okay, Steve. Okay." You laugh as he runs a hand over your ribs, the sensation tickling you. "I love you too."

You finally manage to push him off and he lands on his back in the sand, laughing breathlessly up at the sky.

You start packing up your things, putting them in the large tote bag you brought. Sunscreen, the book you've been reading, Steve's wallet and keys, the various items he insisted on bringing.

"You leaving already?" Steve pouts, propping himself up on his elbows.

The boy could live in the sun. Could stay outside forever, golden and happy and free. But you know that if you leave to go back to the hotel, he'll be right behind you. He can't stand to be apart from you for long.

"I need to go write Robin and Nancy a postcard. Eddie too."

The moment Robin graduated, she moved to Boston to live with Nancy full-time. Nancy was working her way up as a professional journalist, and Robin decided to go to law school with a focus on social justice. She was also helping her father rebuild his political campaign, hosting fundraising events for AIDS research and LGBTQ+ rights.

Robin and Steve's relationship transformed over the last year and a half of school. What started as awkward fake exes evolved into something that looks a lot like siblings— making each other's lives miserable in the way that only people who deeply love each other can.

Eddie moved in with Robin and Nancy as a third roommate, still trying to make a name for Corroded Coffin. Playing dive bars and small venues, convinced that any day now they'd get their big break. Polly and him officially called it quits after she transferred to UCLA for a better pre-med track second semester of junior year.

But you once caught Eddie writing a letter to her, along with sheet music for a song titled "Pocket Full of Pollies."

He got over it pretty fast when you caught him sneaking out of Buck's room a few weeks later.

Steve rolls his eyes, scrunching up his face, making a bleh sound from the back of his throat. "Why do you need to send them postcards from our honeymoon? They already know what we're doing." He makes a knowing face at you, waggling his eyebrows.

"Oh, they're plenty aware," you agree, standing and brushing sand off your legs. "But I promised to send them something to let them know we're having a good time."

"Oh, I'm having a good time." Steve's eyes track your movement as you bend over to pick up your towel. "Great time, even."

You look over your shoulder and catch him unashamedly staring at your ass. You wiggle it on purpose, and Steve groans dramatically, flopping back like a starfish and covering his eyes.

"Honey, you have to stop looking like that or I'm going to die of heatstroke. I'll be the one sending the postcard posthumously. 'Dear friends and family, Hot Shot has killed me with her devastating beauty. Please send flowers.'"

"You're such a doofus, Steve." You turn back around, shaking your head fondly.

Steve sighs dreamily. "Can't a man love and adore his wife? Is that a crime? I'll have a warrant out for my arrest because I'm too in love."

You laugh and Steve does too, the sound mixing with the crash of waves and distant seagull calls.

Steve stands up, immediately reaching out for you and pulling you into a hug. His arms wrap around you completely, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other spread across your lower back. He's warm and solid and smells like home.

"Don't ever stop loving me, Hot Shot," he murmurs into your hair.

You smile against his chest, pressing a small bite there just because you can. You hug him tighter, feeling his heartbeat against your cheek, steady and strong and yours. "Don't ever stop loving me, Steve Harrington."

"Wouldn't dream of it." Steve pulls back just enough to tilt your chin up, and then he's kissing you deeply, thoroughly, like you have all the time in the world.

Which you do. You have the rest of your lives.

Even though things are different now— you won't wake up to Robin's snoring anymore, won't have late-night snack runs to the dining hall, won't get Eddie to help you prank Steve at the Pike house, won't have movie nights crammed onto a couch with pizza and cheap beer—the love hasn't changed.

You think about those days sometimes, the nostalgia sweet and bittersweet. The way you'd all pile into Eddie's van to drive to the dive spot, music blaring, everyone talking over each other. The way Robin would braid your hair while you studied, her fingers gentle and familiar. The way the Pike house always smelled like cologne and beer and belonging.

You don't know what will happen five years from now. If you'll still be in Hawkins or if Steve will get a coaching offer somewhere else. How many kids you'll have by then— one, two, three? If you'll still like being a librarian or if you'll go back to school for something else. If you'll make another close friend like Robin, someone who knows the ins and outs of your life, who's seen you at your worst and loved you anyway.

Part of you says no to that last one. You can have other friends, good friends, but Robin is singular. Once in a lifetime.

But you didn't only fall in love with Steve Harrington. You fell in love with the life he had too, with the friends by his side, with the found family you built together. 

And Steve— a part of his life always had an empty spot, waiting for you to fill it. He knows that now. Knew it probably before you did.

You giggle, squeezing Steve's ass with both hands. His fingers are already sliding under the strap of your bikini top, teasing.

"Thank god we found a secluded spot," you murmur against his lips.

"Mmm," Steve agrees, kissing down your neck. "Though I wouldn't mind getting fined for public indecency."

"You'd think it was funny," you accuse.

"I would," Steve admits shamelessly. "So would you."

He's right. You absolutely would.

"Last one to the room is a rotten egg and has to give head!" you proclaim suddenly, pulling away from him.

You don't give him time to process. You throw your belongings into his arms— the tote bag, your towel, his sunglasses— and take off running. Your flip-flops are in your hands, toes sinking into the warm sand as you sprint toward the resort up the hill.

You look back briefly and see Steve laughing, jogging behind you with all your things clutched against his chest. You know for a fact that even with your head start and him carrying everything, he could catch up easily. He's faster, stronger, in better shape.

But he doesn't.

He wants you to win.

He's always wanted you to win.

You reach your room breathless and triumphant, turning to watch Steve inside behind you, grinning like you've just accomplished something extraordinary.

"Looks like you lost, Mr. Harrington," you say, still catching your breath.

Steve drops everything on a nearby chair and pulls you against him, kissing you hard. "Worth it," he murmurs against your lips. "So worth it, Mrs. Harrington."

When he pulls back, you catch his hand and intertwine your fingers with his, both of your wedding rings clinking together. His thumb automatically finds the space where your ring sits and rubs gently, a habit he's had since the day you got married.

Finally became your forever.

And you wouldn't change a single thing.

[moonstoneandmoonlight]

pretty barista

no warnings, just fluff

Travis would consider himself a pretty observant guy. He knew a ridiculous amount about his neighbours, co-workers and even knew the name of his parole officer's dog (it was Pete and Travis thought it was hilarious).

The one thing that Travis was completely unaware of? Well, it was the fact you—the pretty barista from his favourite coffee shop—was absolutely smitten with him.

You had tried to drop hints—the quickly drawn heart next to his name on his coffee cup, the fact you gave him your employee discount and the one time you had scribbled your number onto a napkin you gave him. The same one you saw him sneezing into and throwing away thirty seconds later.

You just thought he was stupidly attractive. You thought the fact he talked so much endearing. You loved the way his brain worked. You loved the way he treated others. You wanted to get to know him more. But the hints you were throwing his way? Well, they didn't seem to be working.

You were starting to lose hope.

It was busy for a Thursday. You felt rushed off your feet—you were short staffed since Matt had called in sick (even though you had a sneaking suspicion he was actually heading for Coachella this weekend) and you and the other barista Marie were struggling to keep on top of orders, cleaning and manning the till.

And it was inevitable that a customer would make things worse by snapping at you.

"Fucking hell," the middle aged man whose drinks order you had just messed up grumbles loud enough for you—and every other customer nearby—to hear. "Could the staff here be anymore fucking useless?"

The embarrassment feels hot in your stomach. It spreads, moving up to your chest and making your heart beat a little quicker before it reaches your face and burns your cheeks. You don't respond—you can't respond. But you feel the eyes of the other customers all staring at you and it makes you feel exposed in a way that makes your stomach churn.

"Hey man, don't talk to her like that. She's just doing her job."

You had been so frazzled that you didn't even know Travis had walked in. Didn't even know that he was the next customer in the line.

You look up just in time to see the rude customer glance at Travis—at his large frame, at the snake tattoo on his forearm—and seems quick to decide to not retaliate. Not when you had a guy like Travis on your side.

You look over at Travis to see him already looking at you. His hazel eyes were soft and full of concern. You feel hot again, but not from embarrassment.

You manage to fix the guy's order and though he doesn't leave a tip—he does mutter a small 'thank you' before rushing towards the exit.

"Sorry you have to deal with pricks like that," Travis says when he stands in front of the till, eyes soft and looking at you like he wanted to be sure you were okay. "You don't deserve that."

You shrug like it was nothing. People like that were part of the job, you learned not to take it to heart.

"It's nothing," you say, forcing a smile and looking at guy who had your attention for months without him even knowing. "Part of the job. You want your usual?"

You can tell Travis wants to say more—he always does—about the guy who had been rude to you but he also knew you were busy. There was a long line of people behind him and he didn't want to make you anymore stressed than you already were.

"Yeah, the usual," Travis says with a smile.

You make his coffee, wishing it wasn't so busy so you could talk to him the way you always did. You loved hearing about his job. About the strange people he had met that week. About the bad movies he had watched recently. But you knew you had to keep the line moving. And so when you hand him his cup and your fingers brush for the briefest of moments, you can't help but feel a little sad to see him go.

"Thank you," he says with that easy smile that makes you feel a little giddy. You try not to smile even more when you see him slip ten bucks into the tip jar before walking away.

You expect to hear the bell chime above the door. But you don't. You move onto the next customer, not really thinking too much about it. Until you go to grab some soy milk from the fridge and notice that Travis had sat down on a nearby empty table. The sight made you freeze for a few moments.

Because Travis had never sat down in the coffee shop. He always grabbed his coffee and left.

You quickly return to doing your job, but your mind wonders. You wondered if he was here to meet someone, a friend maybe. Your stomach dropped when wondered if he was here to meet a date. Just the thought alone was awful enough.

But as the lunchtime rush settled and that long line of customers died down, nobody sat down on the empty chair opposite Travis. He was just sat there, sipping his coffee, wired headphones in and listening intently to what you presumed was that audiobook he had told you about a few days ago.

With the shop in a much more manageable condition, you told Marie that you were going for your break. You slipped off your apron before heading for the staff room to grab a jacket and your bag.

When you return, you find Travis still sitting at that table. Your hands twitch as you fight the urge to go over. He still had his headphones in and you were pretty sure he wasn’t interested in you—his lack of reaction to your various hints over the past month had told you that much. And so, you shove down the ache building in your gut and make your way towards the exit, thinking you’ll grab a sandwich from the place down the street again—

But the sound of Travis calling your name stops you dead in your tracks.

You turn and, sure enough, Travis was scrambling out of his chair—tugging his headphones out of his ears and shoving his empty coffee cup into the nearby bin before making his way over to you.

“Hey,” he says with a smile as he stands in front of you. “I um, was waiting for you to finish. Not in a weird way—but thinking about it now it is kind of weird. Oh god, I hope you don’t think I’m weird—”

He had been waiting for you.

That’s all you could focus on.

You’re not even listening to his rambling, which had somehow transpired to something about restraining orders and you’re just looking at him with wide eyes and a barely there smile.

“—I just wanted to make sure you were okay. After that guy earlier. If you weren’t, I was going to suggest we get something to eat to cheer you up but if you are okay then um, forget I said anything—”

“Yes,” you cut in before Travis could say anymore.

“Yes?” Travis repeats, brows furrowed in an expression you find stupidly endearing. “Yes as in you’re okay or—”

“Yes as in to lunch. I’m okay about the guy. Really. But lunch sounds nice if that’s…still on the table.”

Travis looks at you for a long moment before he smiles, reaching out to open the door for you.

You try not to be too pleased about it. Try not to think about the way he’s walking beside you down the street. Try not to think about how his arm keeps brushing against yours, about whether or not the contact was purposeful or not.

“You know, I’ve been wanting to ask you out for lunch for a stupidly long time,” Travis tells you as you’re waiting to cross the street. You feel your insides turn, feel them move about in a rush of giddiness that had everything to do with the man stood beside you.

You’re so shocked by his admission that you forget to respond and of course, Travis continues talking. “I just—you’re like really pretty. Not that that’s the only reason I wanted to take you out for um, lunch. But you also make a really nice coffee. Not that um that means anything either because you’re more than your job, you know? You’re kind, funny. Did I mention pretty too?”

You have the biggest smile on your face now and when Travis finally notices, he smiles.

“You mentioned it a few times, yeah.”

“Well, it’s true. You’re really pretty.”

Warmth floods your cheeks, you look away.

“You know—you could have asked me ages ago. I’ve been dropping hints for months,” you tell him.

Travis goes back to looking like a confused puppy for a few seconds before his eyes widen comically. “Oh—shit. You—ah, fuck.”

“Yeah. Fuck.”

“Well, better late than never,” Travis says with a shrug before he reaches down to take your hand. Your heart does things in your chest that defies science. He’s doing it under the guise of tugging you safely over the road but you hope that he doesn’t let go.

He doesn’t.

He holds your hand the entire time you’re in the queue for sandwiches. He insists on paying for you. Even jokingly offers to feed you your damn sandwich (that you had been a little tempted by). And then he walks you back to work—his hand still in yours. A stupid smile on his face.

“What time do you finish?” He asks once you arrive outside the coffee shop.

“Four,” you tell him.

“Four,” Travis repeats with a small nod. “I’ll pick you up. Take you out somewhere nicer than Earl’s sandwich shop.”

You wanted to play it cool, perhaps make it seem like you were busy before inevitably agreeing. But the confidence in which he told you that he’d pick you up without really asking was incredibly hot. It made you feel as though your insides were made of goo. Any thoughts you had about playing hard to get vanished as quickly as they appeared.

“Sounds like a plan Travis,” you say with a smile.

“Call me Teacake.”

You blink. “Teacake?” You repeat with a raised brow—not judgemental, just curious.

“Long story,” Travis says by way of explanation.

“How about Tea?” You suggest, head titled to the side.

Travis does something then you didn’t expect—he flushes. A generous dusting of pink on his cheeks that doesn’t help the whole stomach feeling like goo situation.

“Tea—yeah, Tea’s um, it’s cool.”

The fact he was flustered over a damn nickname made you want to know him. Know all of him. Learn what else made him flustered.

“Okay, Tea,” you say as you step closer to the coffee shop entrance. “I’ll see you at four.”

“On the dot,” Travis calls out to you. “See you later, Gorgeous.”

dividers by @cursed-carmine

🧡 oh teacake, you will always be famous in this house

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