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Jan 13

⭑ Intertwined Souls.

Steve Harrington x Fem!reader

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Summary: When your friend finally starts dating again, you make it your personal mission to ruin it. Steve thinks you’re being weird. But what he doesn’t know is that you’re hopelessly in love with him.

Words: 8k.

Warnings & Tags: avoidant!reader. steve being oblivious. friends to lovers. jealousy. angry love confession & first kiss. this is messy on purpose. fluff. english isn't my first language (sorry for my mistakes, be kind please).

Note: Extra late, but happy new year! This is my way of starting the year by saying thank you for all the love I’ve received on my first Steve fic. It truly means more than I can put into words.

I also have to remind you all that I haven’t watched the entire show…but I do know a lot, I swear!!! I love Steve Harrington, not Stranger Things:) So please be nice with me <3

Steve Harrington was not stupid.

At least, not anymore. Not in the way people used to mean it when they said his name with a laugh and a shake of their heads, like it explained everything about him in one easy, dismissive syllable. Not since monsters had crawled out of places that shouldn’t exist and forced him to learn that instincts mattered more than reputation. Not since Dustin Henderson had looked at him like he was a hero simply because Steve showed up, bloodied and terrified and still swinging. Not since the break-up with Nancy Wheeler had hollowed something out of his chest and made him realize how many people had loved the idea of him more than the reality. Not since the Scoops Ahoy uniform, the sticky floors, the endless shifts that blended together, teaching him humility one melted cone and aching foot at a time.

He’d grown up in ways no one had really noticed.

Except…well.

Wait.

He was still stupid when it came to being your friend.

Not stupid exactly. Just…blind. Painfully, embarrassingly blind.

Because Steve did pay attention now. He really did. He noticed patterns. He noticed when people lied with their mouths but not their eyes. He noticed when something felt off in his gut, that quiet warning hum he’d learned to trust after almost dying more than once. He noticed tension in a room. He noticed fear. He noticed danger.

Except when it came to you.

Then, somehow, miraculously, Steve Harrington became catastrophically oblivious.

Because if he were actually paying attention, if he were looking instead of just seeing, he would have noticed how you always showed up just a little too early, hovering outside the store like you were afraid of missing him. How you lingered long after your ice cream was gone, spoon scraping the bottom of the cup, inventing excuses to stay. How your teasing sharpened the second another girl laughed too loud or leaned too close, how your jokes gained an edge that was almost mean but never crossed the line. He would have noticed the way your eyes followed his hands when he worked, the way your voice softened when it was just the two of you, the way your kindness was always wrapped in sarcasm sharp enough to defend yourself but never sharp enough to hurt him.

But Steve had always been terrible at noticing the things that mattered when they were quiet.

So instead, he noticed the obvious things. The loud things. The dangerous things. Monsters with teeth and claws and too many limbs, problems that announced themselves with screeches, blood, and the kind of urgency that left no room for second-guessing. Steve Harrington was exceptional with those. He knew how to react when something tried to kill him. He knew how to step in front of danger without thinking, how to swing first and ask questions later, how to protect the people he cared about even when he was terrified. Danger made sense to him. It was simple. It was honest.

He noticed girls flirting with him, too. He noticed the way their voices changed when they said his name, the way smiles lingered just a second too long. He noticed numbers scribbled on napkins, on receipts, on the backs of hands, dates penciled into his calendar like proof that he was still desirable, still normal, still someone people wanted to choose. He noticed how good that felt. How grounding it was to be wanted again after everything. How reassuring, even when it scared him, even when the thought of messing it up made his stomach knot and his palms sweat.

He noticed that.

Pretty girl. Date. Friday. Opportunity.

What he didn’t notice was the way you slowly lost your mind over it.

Because for you, the idea of Steve Harrington going on a date wasn’t just uncomfortable. It was destabilizing. It felt like someone pressing hard on a bruise you hadn’t even known existed until suddenly it hurt to breathe, until every inhale felt shallow and wrong. Every casual mention of Friday sent your thoughts spiraling into places you hated yourself for visiting. You imagined her sitting across from him, laughing at his jokes, learning the soft cadence of his voice when he talked about things he cared about, getting access to the version of him that stayed. The version you knew.

You told yourself this was fine. You told yourself you were being dramatic, selfish, ridiculous. That real friends didn’t feel this way. That you had no right to this jealousy, no claim to this ache. You repeated it like a mantra, hoping repetition would turn it into truth.

It didn’t.

So instead of confronting the feeling, you adjusted.

You learned how to live around it the way people learned to live around chronic pain. By shifting your weight, by favoring one side, by pretending the ache was manageable if you didn’t press on it too hard. You told yourself it was instinct. Survival. Something anyone would do if they cared enough. You didn’t sit him down and confess that the thought of him choosing someone else made your throat close. You didn’t admit that every mention of a date left you feeling hollow and brittle. Instead, you adapted. You shaped your fear into something palatable. Something useful. Something that sounded like concern instead of desperation.

Sabotage.

Every act of it came dressed up as care.

As humor, lightly tossed.

As familiarity, earned over time.

As worry that felt reasonable because Steve Harrington always took responsibility too seriously.

You never pushed him away from people outright. You never told him he couldn’t go, couldn’t try, couldn’t want. That would’ve made you the villain. Instead, you nudged. Redirected. Softened. You learned how to lace doubt into casual conversation, how to make it sound like an afterthought instead of a warning. You hid it in jokes, in half-serious side comments, in exaggerated concern that slid neatly into the comfortable rhythm you and Steve had built over months with melted ice cream shared with two spoons, plastic chairs scraped too close together, knees brushing under the counter, late-night conversations that drifted lazily between nothing and everything. You told yourself it didn’t count if it sounded helpful.

The ice cream shop was slow that afternoon. Sunlight spilled through the front windows, catching on dust motes and the faint smudges of fingerprints on the glass. Steve sat across from you at the small round table near the wall, legs stretched out too far, posture relaxed in that careless way that came naturally to him when he felt safe. His ice cream had melted into a sad, pastel puddle, untouched for too long, because he’d been too busy talking about nothing in particular. About work, Robin, a movie he half-remembered seeing once.

You stirred your own ice cream slowly, watching the colors blur together until they were unrecognizable, and said it like it meant nothing.

“I heard your girl might still be into her ex.”

You didn’t look up. You kept your tone deliberately casual, almost bored, like you were commenting on the weather or the state of the parking lot. “Like…really into him.”

The reaction was instant.

Steve’s head snapped up so fast his chair legs screeched faintly against the tile. “What?” His eyebrows pulled together immediately, concern carving a familiar crease into his forehead. “Seriously?”

You shrugged, finally meeting his eyes, widening yours just enough to sell the innocence. “That’s what Robin heard.”

Behind the counter, Robin froze.

She had been restocking spoons, hands moving on autopilot, when your words landed. Her body stilled like she’d hit an invisible wall. The spoon slipped from her fingers, clattering sharply against the metal tray, the sound too loud in the quiet shop.

“…Did I?” She asked slowly, turning toward you, suspicion written plainly across her face.

Your gaze met hers.

You didn’t speak. You didn’t need to. There was a silent plea there, raw and unmistakable. Please. Just this once.

Robin closed her eyes. Exhaled through her nose. The sigh she let out was heavy and resigned, the sound of someone realizing they were already complicit, whether they wanted to be or not.

“Yeah,” she said finally, voice flat. “Totally.”

Steve’s mouth twisted as if he’d bitten into something sour. “That’s…not great.”

His shoulders slumped, disappointment settling in quietly, heavily. You watched the doubt bloom behind his eyes, watched him mentally rewind conversations, reanalyze smiles, question things he’d felt excited about just minutes earlier.

Another day, another seed planted.

Later that week, you leaned across the counter while Steve rang someone up, lowering your voice conspiratorially like you were sharing classified information. The shop smelled like sugar and waffle cones and something faintly burnt from the espresso machine.

“Also,” you said, eyes darting theatrically toward the door, “fun fact?”

Steve glanced up, curious despite himself. “Yeah?”

“First dates on Fridays are cursed.”

He squinted at you, skeptical. “Cursed how.”

You didn’t hesitate. “Emotionally.”

His lips parted. “That’s not a real thing.”

You nodded gravely. “High expectations. Weekend pressure. Everyone’s tired from the week. People project. Emotions run high. Spirits are fragile.”

He frowned, chewing on that. “That still doesn’t sound real.”

Robin passed behind him with a rag slung over her shoulder and snorted. “Oh, it’s real.”

Steve turned to her so fast you thought he might sprain something. “Wait. It is?”

She shrugged, not missing a beat. “Yeah. I read it somewhere.”

“Where?” he demanded.

She waved a hand vaguely. “Psychology. Probably.”

Steve stared at her for a long second, then deflated. “Why didn’t anyone tell me this sooner?”

You reached out and patted his arm, sympathetic, grounding, the picture of gentle concern. “We’re telling you now.”

And he believed you.

Steve absorbed every warning like scripture. He filed them away carefully, added them to the mental list of things to watch out for. He asked questions. He adjusted plans. He canceled things “just to be safe.” He trusted you because you’d never given him a reason not to. Because you always framed it like you were protecting him. Because you sounded so sure.

Meanwhile, Robin watched the whole thing unravel in real time.

She watched it from behind the counter while scrubbing at the same sticky spot over and over again, pretending it bothered her more than it actually did. She watched it from the doorway when she volunteered to grab stock that didn’t need grabbing, just so she could lean against the frame and observe without being obvious. She watched it from across the shop with her arms crossed tight over her chest, weight shifting from one foot to the other, eyebrows inching higher with every passing day like the situation was daring her to comment on it.

She noticed the pattern long before Steve ever could, because Steve didn’t look for patterns when it came to people he trusted. He took words at face value. He believed tone over intent. He listened earnestly, nodded along, took mental notes like he was being given instructions to assemble something delicate. Robin saw how your concern always curved in the same direction, how your advice always seemed reasonable in isolation but damning in accumulation. How every warning, every offhand comment, every just saying gently nudged him away from somewhere else and back toward the same familiar gravity.

Back to you.

She saw it in the microexpressions Steve missed. The way your smile tightened almost imperceptibly whenever he mentioned someone new. How it didn’t quite reach your eyes, how it lingered half a second too long before fading. She noticed the way your hands fidgeted when he talked about dates, fingers picking at your sleeves, nails digging lightly into your palms like you were trying to anchor yourself in your own body. She saw how your eyes followed him constantly, tracking his movements around the shop even when you were mid-conversation, like you were bracing for impact every time he opened his mouth.

And Robin understood something Steve didn’t yet have the language for.

This wasn’t cruelty.

It wasn’t manipulation born of spite or entitlement.

It wasn’t malice.

It was fear.

Fear that had settled in your chest and learned how to speak politely. Fear that had dressed itself up as concern so well it almost believed its own disguise. Fear that whispered this is for his own good every time you redirected him, warned him, softened the ground beneath his feet until he didn’t realize he’d stopped walking forward altogether.

So one afternoon, when Steve disappeared into the back room to grab more waffle cones, calling out cheerfully over his shoulder, Robin made her move.

The door swung shut behind him with a soft thud.

Robin counted silently in her head.

One.

Two.

Three.

Then she leaned forward across the counter, forearms braced against the cool laminate, closing the distance just enough to make this feel private. Intentional. Like an ambush that had been rehearsed in her head during at least three separate closing shifts. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, reflecting off the metal tubs behind you, the air thick with sugar and freezer burn and the faint, ever-present stickiness that never fully went away no matter how often Robin wiped it down.

Her voice dropped.

No sarcasm. No theatrics. No grin.

“You know you’re actively dismantling his confidence, right?”

The words landed like a dropped tray.

You blinked, genuinely startled, breath hitching for just a second before your defenses snapped into place. “I’m not,” you said quickly, too quickly. “I’m protecting him.”

“Okay,” she said. “Then help me understand why Steve Harrington now believes Friday nights are emotionally unsafe.”

“That’s not what I said.”

“You told him his date might secretly hate men.”

“I said said possibly,” you shot back, heat creeping up your neck, voice sharpening despite yourself. “There’s a difference. I didn’t say definitely.”

Robin’s lips twitched. Not a smile. Something closer to disbelief.

“You also told him his hair looks ‘too intentional,’” she added, tone flat and precise, like she was reading from a clipboard only she could see.

“It does,” you replied immediately, arms crossing tight over your chest. “He messes with it when he’s nervous. People notice that.”

“Yes,” Robin said, dry as dust. “You notice that.”

She leaned back slightly, crossing her own arms now, weight shifting to one hip. The posture was casual. The stare was not.

“And just so we’re clear,” she continued, “Steve Harrington could show up to a date wearing a Scoops Ahoy visor, gym shorts, and emotional baggage, and people would still find him charming. You’re not protecting him. You’re slowly convincing him he’s one wrong sentence away from permanent humiliation.”

“I am not convincing him of anything,” you snapped.

Robin raised an eyebrow. “Then why does he now apologize before finishing a sentence?”

You opened your mouth.

Closed it.

She pressed on, narrowing her eyes slightly, gaze sharpening like she was finally zooming in on the problem. “You’re in love with him.”

You scoffed, the sound sharp and brittle, a laugh without humor. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

Robin didn’t react.

Didn’t blink.

Didn’t smirk.

Didn’t look away.

She just held your gaze with a patience that felt worse than accusation. Like she had all the time in the world and you were the one on a deadline.

The silence stretched, thick and heavy. The freezers hummed behind you, steady and relentless. Somewhere outside, a car passed. The shop felt suddenly too small.

“…Okay,” you muttered finally.

Your shoulders sagged just a fraction, like you’d lost a battle you’d been fighting for far too long. Your eyes dropped to the counter, tracing the worn edges, the tiny scratches and chips left by years of careless customers and overworked teenagers.

“Maybe,” you admitted, voice softer now, reluctant. “But that’s not the point.”

Robin’s tone gentled, but her words didn’t. “Then what is?”

You swallowed, throat tight. “He gets attached too fast,” you said quietly. “He overthinks everything. He wants so badly to do things right.” Your fingers curled against the laminate, nails digging in slightly. “And when it goes wrong, it destroys him. I’ve seen it.” You shook your head. “I’m just trying to make sure it doesn’t go wrong again.”

Robin exhaled slowly through her nose, like she was counting to ten.

“You know,” she said, “there is an option where you don’t emotionally bubble-wrap every interaction he has with another human.”

You let out a short, humorless laugh. “Name one.”

“You could tell him how you feel,” she said simply, like she was suggesting you switch flavors.

That did it.

You laughed again, sharper this time. “Have you seen the girl he’s going on a date with now?” Your gaze stayed fixed on the counter. “I’m not that.”

Robin didn’t hesitate. “No,” she said firmly. “You’re better.”

That made you look up.

She shrugged, suddenly a little awkward, sincerity sitting strangely on her shoulders. “And also? You two make sense. Like…painfully so. Everyone sees it. Me. Customers. That weird kid who asks for samples every day. Everyone except you.”

Your chest tightened, the words sinking into a place you’d been very carefully avoiding.

From the back room, Steve’s voice drifted out, cheerful and oblivious.

“Hey! Do we need more napkins too?”

Robin straightened immediately, her usual grin snapping back into place like armor. “Nah, Harrington! We’re good!”

She glanced back at you one last time, eyes sharp but kind, and lowered her voice. “Just think about it.”

And you did.

For five whole seconds.

Then you sighed and said, “Okay but hear me out…what if we tell him his date is a lesbian?”

Robin stared at you.

Long.

“You are unwell,” she said finally.

“Desperate times.”

She shook her head, already turning away. “I’m not aiding and abetting crimes against emotional honesty.”

And then she turned away, leaving you alone with the sound of the freezers humming and the realization that you might not be protecting Steve at all.

You might just be afraid of losing him.

And Steve trusted you.

That was the real problem. Not the excuses. Not the lies wrapped in good intentions. Not even the sabotage itself. It was the way Steve Harrington trusted you without hesitation, without suspicion, like the thought of you hurting him simply didn’t exist in his universe. He trusted you in the way people only trusted those who had already proven themselves safe. The way he trusted Robin. The kids. The way he trusted people with the fragile parts of himself.

He trusted you when you asked for his car the next morning, even though the date sat heavy in his chest like a test he hadn’t studied for. You could see it in the way he lingered by the door, keys dangling from his fingers, jaw tight, eyes unfocused. He trusted you when you said it was an emergency, your voice perfectly pitched between stressed and apologetic, practiced just enough to sound real. Trusted you when you swore you’d never ask if it wasn’t important, that you’d fill the tank, pay him back, owe him forever if needed. He waved it off immediately, told you not to worry, told you he hoped everything was okay, because of course he did.

He trusted you later too.

Worse timing. Higher stakes.

It was the afternoon of the date, the air thick with that strange, restless energy that made everything feel louder than it should have been. The sun hung low and heavy, heat pressing against your skin as you stood on his front step, heart pounding so hard you could feel it in your throat. You told yourself you were only there to grab the keys. Just a minute. In and out. You told yourself not to think about how tight your chest felt, or how your hands trembled slightly when you knocked.

Steve opened the door almost immediately, smiling when he saw you, relief flickering across his face like he was glad for the distraction. “Hey,” he said easily, already stepping aside to let you in, already trusting you with his space. “Keys are on the dresser…I think…just give me a sec!”

And you did.

You stayed.

His house smelled like clean laundry and something faintly citrusy, the kind of scent that clung to him when you stood too close, the kind that felt familiar in a way that made your chest ache. Music played softly from his bedroom, something upbeat and a little too loud, something he’d definitely put on to calm himself down. You could hear him moving around, drawers opening, hangers rattling, the low murmur of his voice as he argued with himself about shirts like this was life or death.

You perched on the edge of his bed like you belonged there.

Like you always did.

Your eyes traced the room without really seeing it, the posters, the scattered shoes, the open closet. Everything about the space screamed Steve. Chaotic but earnest. Comfortable. Yours, in a way that wasn’t supposed to be yours.

He emerged from the bathroom a moment later, hair still damp, towel slung over his shoulder, already dressed in jeans and a white button-down he was halfway through fastening. He looked…good. Unfairly good. The kind of good that made something sharp and ugly twist in your chest, jealousy flaring without your permission, without your control. He ran a hand through his hair and immediately undid it, frowning at his reflection like it had personally betrayed him.

“You’re early,” he said, distracted, eyes flicking to the mirror as he tugged at his collar.

“Emergency,” you replied lightly. “Remember?”

“Oh…right. Right.” He nodded, still not looking at you. “You can grab the keys, I just—” He paused, squinting at himself. “Is this too much? Or not enough? I can’t tell.”

You watched him fuss with the buttons, watched the way his shoulders tensed, the way his jaw clenched like he was bracing for something. Nervous. Vulnerable. Steve Harrington, former king of Hawkins High, reduced to arguing with a mirror.

“Honestly?” you said, standing slowly.

He glanced at you in the mirror. “Yeah?”

“I don’t think the shirt’s the problem.”

He turned slightly, brow furrowing. “What’s the problem then?”

You smiled.

“You’re trying too hard.”

He groaned immediately, running a hand down his face. “I knew it.”

You stepped closer, pretending to inspect him, eyes skimming over the crisp white fabric, the way it fit him too well, the way it made him look earnest and hopeful and painfully sincere. “White’s risky.”

“Why?” he asked, already doubting himself, already halfway convinced you were right just because you said it. He stopped fiddling with his collar, eyes flicking to you for confirmation like you were the authority on everything important.

“Spills,” you said easily. “Stains. Disasters.”

He scoffed, lifting his chin a fraction, trying to sound brave. “I’m not a child.”

You raised your coffee cup between you, eyebrows arching slowly, the liquid inside sloshing just enough to make your point. “Famous. Last. Words.”

He opened his mouth to argue, probably to say something charmingly defensive, probably to tease you—

And that’s when you accidentally bumped into him.

Just a misstep. Just a shoulder brushing his chest. Just enough force to jolt the cup at the worst possible angle.

The coffee surged over the rim like it had been waiting for this moment, brown liquid blooming across the front of his shirt in a dramatic, unmistakable stain that spread fast and unforgiving. It soaked in instantly, ruining the pristine white like a crime scene.

“Oh my god,” you gasped, hands flying up to your mouth with Oscar-worthy sincerity. “Steve…I’m so sorry.”

He froze.

Like, genuinely froze. Spine straight. Shoulders locked. He looked down slowly, eyes tracking the spreading mess with the stunned focus of someone watching their life choices collapse in real time. For a second, the only sound was the faint music still playing from his room and the quiet drip of coffee hitting the floor.

Then he sighed.

Long. Deep. World-weary.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

“I did warn you,” you murmured, biting the inside of your cheek, voice soft and regretful in a way that sounded almost tender. Like this was fate, not sabotage.

He glanced up at you, mouth opening, then closing again like he couldn’t even find the energy to argue. Instead, he reached for the hem of the shirt and peeled it off without thinking, tugging it over his head in one smooth, frustrated motion.

You looked away.

“Okay,” he muttered, already turning toward his closet, hands yanking hangers aside with increasing agitation. “It’s fine. I have time.” Shirts slid and clacked together like they were mocking him. “I’ll just…find another one.”

He paused, glanced back at you, and added helplessly, “You’re not allowed to be near open beverages anymore.”

You stayed where you were, pretending to busy yourself with the ruined coffee cup, pretending your hands weren’t trembling, pretending your chest wasn’t so tight it almost hurt to breathe. You could feel him behind you without looking. Feel the heat of him, the space he took up in the room, the way he always felt solid and real in a way that made everything else blur at the edges.

Steve rummaged through his closet, muttering to himself, completely unaware of what he’d just done to you by pulling that shirt over his head like it was nothing. Like he didn’t understand the power of it. Like he didn’t know that every inch of bare skin felt personal to you, sacred even, something your hands had memorized in absence.

You stole a glance.

Just one.

And it wrecked you.

His shoulders were broad, relaxed in that slightly slouched way he got when he was nervous, muscles defined but not sharp, softened by warmth and familiarity. There was a faint pink flush at the back of his neck from the shower, droplets of water tracing slow paths down his spine. He smelled like soap and something clean and unmistakably him, the scent that always lingered on your clothes when you hugged him too long.

You wanted to touch him so badly it made your fingers ache.

Not even in a reckless way. Not greedily. You wanted to smooth your palm over his shoulder, feel the warmth of his skin under your hand, ground yourself in the fact that he was right there. You wanted to step closer and fix nothing at all, just rest your hand against his back, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

But you didn’t.

Because loving Steve Harrington meant wanting everything and asking for nothing.

“I swear,” he muttered, shoving hangers aside, “I had a blue one somewhere. Or—no—okay, that one shrunk. Why do all my shirts betray me?”

You huffed a soft laugh, mostly to keep yourself together. “Maybe they’re trying to tell you something.”

He glanced over his shoulder at you, crooked smile tugging at his mouth despite the stress. “Yeah? Like what?”

That you’re already enough, you thought. That you don’t need to try so hard. That anyone would be lucky just to sit across from you.

But you said, “That you don’t have to go.”

He snorted, shaking his head, turning back to the closet. “You know, I was actually kinda proud of that shirt.”

Of course he was. Steve Harrington took pride in things that made him feel like he was doing something right. Like he was getting it right this time. Like maybe this date would be different. Like maybe he wouldn’t mess it up.

Your chest tightened.

Because you didn’t just love him. You loved the way he tried. Loved the way he cared too much. Loved the way he trusted you so completely that he never once questioned your presence here, never wondered if your concern hid something sharper underneath.

He dug through the closet with the seriousness of someone defusing a bomb, muttering to himself as hangers scraped against the rod. Finally, he pulled out another shirt, soft gray this time, worn thin in that way that meant it had survived movie nights and late drives and moments he probably didn’t remember but somehow still lived in the fabric. He held it up in front of his chest uncertainly, squinting at it like it might answer him back.

“This one okay?” he asked, glancing at you, then immediately overthinking it. “Or does it scream, like…emotionally unavailable? Because that’s not what I’m going for. I’m trying to be approachable. Like safe. But not boring. Is gray boring?”

You swallowed.

Your eyes betrayed you, tracing him without permission. The sharp line of his collarbone, the subtle rise and fall of his chest as he breathed, the way his fingers flexed nervously around the fabric like he needed something to hold onto. He always did that when he was anxious, hands never quite still, like his body didn’t know what to do with all the feeling trapped inside it. You wondered, not for the first time, what would happen if you reached out. If your hand found his skin. If he’d feel it. If he’d lean into it the way he always did, instinctively, like touch was something he trusted without question.

“It’s fine,” you said quietly, forcing your voice to behave. “It looks good.”

He visibly relaxed at that. Like, actually relaxed, his shoulders dropping, breath evening out, tension draining from him in real time. As if your approval had untied a knot he’d been carrying all afternoon.

“Yeah?” he asked, hopeful, eyes flicking back to yours.

“Yeah.”

He smiled then, and turned away to pull the shirt on, completely unaware that you stood there loving him in a way that felt almost dangerous. Loving him enough to sabotage yourself. Loving him enough to let him go, even while every part of you screamed to reach out and pull him back.

The gray shirt slid over his head, settling against him perfectly, because of course it did.

Oh, he was very handsome.

Not in a way that felt deliberate or rehearsed, not in the sharp, intimidating way he’d carried himself years ago, but in something softer now. The fabric clung just enough at his shoulders, fell loose at his waist, familiar and lived-in, like it belonged to moments that weren’t trying to impress anyone. It made him look real. Like himself. Like someone worth waiting for.

You hated that it suited him so well.

You lingered by the door while he slipped on his jacket, shoulders rolling once as if he could physically shake the nerves loose. The leather creaked softly under his hands, worn smooth at the cuffs from years of fidgeting just like this. He checked his watch again, and then stilled, lips pressing together like he’d caught himself doing it too much.

“You could still be late,” you said lightly, filling the space before it could grow teeth. “First dates are always late.”

Steve smiled, a little crooked. “That’s not really helping my anxiety.”

“Just saying,” you shrugged, tone casual, careless by design. “If you show up fifteen minutes after the reservation, it takes the pressure off. Sets expectations low.”

He hummed, actually considering it, gaze unfocusing slightly as he ran the logic through his head, because of course he did. Steve Harrington, taking your words seriously even when you tossed them out like nothing. Steve Harrington, trusting you with his nerves like they were safe in your hands.

“You know,” you added, turning the coffee cup slowly between your fingers, eyes fixed stubbornly on the rim, on the faint crack in the ceramic, on anything but him, “if tonight feels like too much…no one would blame you for canceling.”

The words hovered between you, deceptively gentle.

He didn’t answer right away.

When you finally looked up, it wasn’t to find suspicion or irritation or defensiveness. It was worse than that. He was watching you the way he did when something didn’t quite add up. Not sharply. Not accusingly. Just…carefully. Like he was trying to read something written in a language he almost understood, one he’d seen enough times to recognize the patterns but not enough to translate.

“You really think I should?” he asked.

Your smile came easily, practiced to perfection. “I think you’ve had a long week.”

He nodded without hesitation. “I have.”

“And you hate rushing,” you continued smoothly, stacking reasons like they were harmless facts, not carefully placed barriers. “And you just spilled coffee all over yourself.”

“You spilled coffee on me,” he corrected gently, automatically, the way he always softened things even when he didn’t need to.

“Details.”

That earned you a quiet huff of a laugh, breath puffing out through his nose, shoulders easing for just a second. But it didn’t last. His fingers found the cuff of his jacket instead, tugging at it absently, gaze dropping to the floor like he was grounding himself in the pattern of the wood.

“I kinda don’t want to cancel,” he admitted, almost sheepish. “I already feel bad enough.”

“For who?” you asked too fast, the question slipping out before you could sand the edges down. “Her?”

He shrugged. “For me.”

You tilted your head, deflecting. “You don’t owe anyone anything.”

“I know,” he said immediately. Then, softer, like the truth surprised him a little too, “But I owe myself a try.”

You let out a breath that was almost a scoff, almost a laugh. “God,” you muttered, shaking your head, “when did you get so emotionally mature?”

He smiled at that, genuinely this time. “I’ve been hanging out with you.”

The words landed heavier than they should have. Too sincere. Too intimate for how casually he said them. You felt them settle somewhere in your chest and refused to look at him long enough for him to notice.

“Well,” you said, brightening your voice, “maturity can wait a day.”

He didn’t laugh.

That alone was enough to make your stomach dip.

Instead, he asked, carefully, like he was stepping onto thin ice, “Do you want me to stay?”

You shrugged, shoulders lifting in a way that made it look like the answer didn’t matter. Like you didn’t. “I mean, if you want to.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

You rolled your eyes, pushing your weight back against the wall, crossing one ankle over the other, putting physical distance between you like it might help. “Steve, don’t make this a thing.”

“I’m not trying to,” he said quickly, hands lifting in a placating gesture. “I just—” He stopped, searched for the right tone, the right words, the ones least likely to make you bolt. “It kinda feels like every time I get ready to go on a date, you…pull me sideways.”

You blinked. “What does that even mean?”

He hesitated, jaw tightening slightly, like he already regretted pushing this far. “It just means I get distracted. Or something happens. Or you need me.”

“That’s called being friends,” you said lightly, too lightly.

“I know,” he said, nodding. “I know. I’m not mad.”

You laughed softly, but it came out thin. “You’re acting mad.”

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “I’m acting confused.”

That stung more than anger ever could.

You dropped your gaze, fussing with the strap of your bag, adjusting it even though it didn’t need adjusting, fingers clumsy now. Anything to avoid the look on his face, the one that said he was trying to understand without wanting to accuse.

“Maybe you’re just nervous and projecting,” you offered.

“Maybe,” he agreed easily. Then added, quieter, “But maybe you don’t want me to go.”

Time snagged.

Just for half a second, half a heartbeat, you froze. Your breath caught. Your fingers stilled mid-motion.

It was nothing. It was everything.

Steve noticed.

He always did.

But didn’t call you out on it.

That was the thing about him, he rarely did. He let silences breathe. Let people retreat if they needed to. He gave grace where others would demand answers, even when it cost him something. Especially then.

He cleared his throat instead, shifting his weight, the floorboard beneath his foot giving a soft, familiar creak.

“You don’t have to answer that,” he said, gently. Too gently. “I’m not trying to corner you.”

You nodded, grateful for the out, even as guilt curled low in your stomach. “Good. Because it was a weird question.”

He smiled a little, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Yeah. Kinda.”

Another pause. The house seemed to settle around you, like it always did in moments like this, safe, warm, heavy with the kind of history that lived in the walls. Movie nights stretched too late. Conversations that wandered into things neither of you admitted mattered. You standing in this exact doorway more times than you could count, always staying, never staying enough.

Steve glanced at his watch again, slower this time, like he was weighing the cost of every second.

“I should go,” he said, more to himself than to you.

You nodded immediately. Too quickly. “Yeah. You should.”

He took a step toward the door, then hesitated. One hand lifted, then dropped, like he’d almost reached for you without realizing it.

“You okay?” he asked, still looking at the floor.

“Fine.”

Another deflection. Clean. Automatic.

He exhaled through his nose, lips pressing together. “You say that a lot.”

You stiffened. “Because it’s true.”

“I’m not saying it isn’t,” he replied softly. “I just…sometimes I don’t know what it means.”

You crossed your arms, a barrier you’d built so many times it felt instinctual. “Not everything has to mean something.”

“Maybe not,” he said. Then, after a beat, “But this does.”

That did it.

You laughed, sharp and brittle. “Jesus, Steve, you’re really reading into this.”

“I’m really trying not to,” he shot back, then immediately softened, shaking his head. “Sorry. I didn’t mean that like—”

“It’s fine,” you cut in, stepping away from the door, putting space between you like it was oxygen. “You’re nervous. You’ve got a date. You’re spiraling. Happens to everyone.”

“That’s not what this feels like,” he said.

You grabbed your bag, slinging it over your shoulder with more force than necessary. “Then what does it feel like?”

He looked at you then. Really looked at you. And whatever he saw there made his shoulders slump just a little.

“It feels like you’re already halfway gone,” he said quietly, “and you’re trying to leave me behind before I can do it first.”

Your chest tightened, breath stuttering.

“That’s not fair,” you said.

“I know,” he replied immediately. “I’m not saying it’s on purpose.”

The kindness of that nearly undid you.

You turned away, pacing a few steps, pretending to study the framed photos on the wall: him and the kids at the arcade, him and Robin mid-laugh, moments frozen in proof that he belonged to people who loved him openly. You stopped in front of one you didn’t remember being taken, his arm slung around your shoulders, both of you laughing at something out of frame.

“You know,” he said, also looking at the pictures, “I keep telling myself I’m imagining this.”

Your spine stiffened.

“Imagining what?”

He turned slowly, careful, like sudden movement might send you running. “That every time I get close to someone, you start to act weird.”

“That’s not true,” you snapped.

“I know it is,” he said quickly. “And I’m not saying it’s intentional. I just—” He scrubbed a hand through his hair, frustration slipping through the cracks. “It feels like you’re holding the door open for me and slamming it shut at the same time.”

You laughed, sharp and defensive. “You’re being dramatic.”

“Am I?” he asked, voice steady but tight. “Because I know you don’t want me to go. You just don’t want to say why.”

You turned away, heart pounding, hands curling into fists at your sides. “You’re overthinking this.”

“Then explain it to me,” he said.

You whirled around. “Why do you need an explanation for everything?”

“Because it hurts,” he said. Not loud. Not angry. Honest. “And I don’t understand why it has to when it’s you…and you’re like my favorite person.”

That did it.

Something in your chest snapped, hot and reckless and done with pretending.

“Fine,” you said, voice rising despite yourself. “You want to know why?”

Steve stilled.

You took a step toward him. Then another.

“Because I love you,” you said, the words sharp, furious, like an accusation. “And I’m sick of swallowing it and acting just like a friend should.”

His breath caught.

“I love you,” you repeated, louder now, shaking. “I love you when you try too hard and when you think you’re failing and when you stand in front of your stupid mirror asking questions you already know the answer to. I love you when you come back from dates pretending you don’t care and when you look at me like I’m safe and constant and—”

You laughed, breathless, eyes burning. “God, you trust me like I won’t break you. Do you have any idea how unfair that is?”

Steve stared at you, stunned. “You—”

“I love you,” you snapped again, voice cracking. “And I hate that you keep giving pieces of yourself to people who don’t know you the way I do. I hate that you come back smaller every time. I hate that I’m always here picking up the pieces and pretending I don’t want more.”

Tears blurred your vision, but you didn’t stop.

“So yeah,” you said bitterly. “I sabotage your dates. I tell myself it’s for your own good, because if you fall for someone else, I lose you. And I don’t know how to survive that.”

The room was dead silent for a moment.

And then, the only thing you knew the next moment was how Steve Harrington tasted.

The kiss didn’t steal your breath the way movies promised.

It gave it back.

Steve’s hands were warm where they bracketed your waist, solid and sure, anchoring you there like he needed to make sure you were real. His mouth moved against yours with a careful certainty, like he’d already made the decision and was now committing to it fully. No hesitation. No second-guessing.

When he pulled back, it was only an inch. Foreheads touching. His breath was uneven, nose brushing yours.

“Okay,” he said quietly.

Just that.

Not what. Not why. Not are you sure.

Okay.

You laughed, breathless and a little hysterical. “That’s it? That’s all you’ve got?”

His thumbs brushed slow, grounding circles at your hips. “No,” he said. “That’s me not screwing this up by saying the wrong thing.”

You swallowed.

He waited.

God, he always waited.

“Steve—” you started, then stopped, because you didn’t know where to put everything that was shaking inside you now that it was out in the open.

He nodded once, like he understood without you having to finish. “Hey. Look at me.”

You did.

His eyes were bright, glassy, not with shock but with something steady and deep and terrifyingly sincere. The kind of emotion he usually kept locked down because it had gotten him hurt before.

“I’m not mad,” he said. “About the dates. Or the jealousy. Or any of it.”

“That’s not—” you tried.

“I know it’s weird,” he cut in gently, not harsh. “Let me finish.”

You nodded.

“I’m…kind of relieved,” he admitted, a quiet, self-conscious huff of laughter slipping out like he hadn’t meant for it to. “Which probably says something about how bad this was messing with my head.”

Your chest tightened painfully. You hadn’t known. You’d been so busy managing your own fear that you hadn’t seen the cracks forming in his certainty.

“I kept thinking I was doing something wrong,” he went on, gaze dropping briefly to the floor before finding you again. “Like maybe I was pushing you too much. Or not enough. Or reading into stuff that wasn’t there and turning it into something awkward.”

You shook your head, the motion sharp. “You weren’t.”

“I know that now,” he said softly. There was no triumph in it. Just understanding settling in. “But I didn’t want to make you feel trapped.”

His hand lifted, then stopped mid-air. You watched him hesitate, fingers flexing once like he was checking himself. Then, carefully, he cupped your cheek.

The touch was warm. Steady. Light enough that you could pull away.

Not claiming.

Asking.

“So here’s the thing,” Steve continued, thumb barely brushing your skin, more grounding than caress. “I don’t want to win you. I don’t want to corner you. And I definitely don’t want to be the reason you stay because you’re scared of losing me as a friend.”

Your throat burned.

“I want you to stay because you want to,” he said. “And I need to know that if we do this—” he gestured vaguely between you, a little awkward, very sincere “—you’re not choosing me just because it feels safer than being with someone else. Or because you think you have to.”

You let out a shaky breath, the truth pressing up against your ribs until you couldn’t hold it back anymore. “Steve…I’ve never felt safe not choosing you.”

He closed his eyes at that. Just for a second. Like the words hit somewhere tender.

“Okay,” he said again, softer now. “That helps.”

Silence settled between you, not heavy, not uncomfortable. Just full. Thick with everything that had finally been said out loud.

Then Steve took a step back.

Only one.

Enough space to prove something without needing to say it.

“You don’t have to decide anything tonight,” he said. “We can slow this way down. Or pause it. Or—” He shrugged, that familiar, self-effacing motion. “Talk it to death, if that’s what you need.”

You stared at him, searching his face for the catch. “You’re really okay with that?”

“Yeah,” he said immediately. No hesitation. “Because I care about you more than I care about being right. Or getting what I want.”

That was Steve Harrington.

The boy who’d learned too young that love wasn’t something you took with both hands. It was something you protected, even if it meant letting go first.

“I do want you,” you said, surprised by how steady your voice sounded now. “I just…don’t know how to do this without ruining it.”

He smiled then. Real this time. Soft and crooked and so familiar it hurt.

“Good news,” he said lightly. “I’m already ruined.”

You laughed, the sound breaking free of you before you could stop it, and leaned into his chest without thinking. He wrapped his arms around you slowly, giving you time, space, an out if you needed it.

When you didn’t pull away, he held on like he meant it.

After a moment, he rested his chin against the top of your head, the weight grounding, protective.

For the record,” he murmured, voice muffled in your hair, “I never felt smaller coming back from dates. I just felt…disappointed.”

You pulled back just enough to look at him. “Because of them?”

“No,” he said without hesitation. Honest as ever. “Because they weren’t you.”

Your heart stuttered.

He shrugged, sheepish now, like admitting this still embarrassed him. “I kept thinking if I tried harder, I’d figure out how to move on. Turns out I’m just really bad at lying to myself.”

You tilted your head up. “So what happens now?”

He thought about it. Of course he did.

“Now?” he said finally. “I cancel the date.”

You blinked. “Steve—”

“I’m serious,” he said, already reaching for his keys, resolve settling into his posture. “I’ll just say I’m not in the right headspace. Which is true. Because apparently I’ve been in love with my best friend and ignoring it.”

You laughed through the sting in your eyes. “You’re unbelievable.”

He grinned. “Yeah. But I’m also not walking out that door knowing this and pretending I’m okay.”

Then, more quietly: “I choose you. But only if you’re choosing me too.”

You stepped into him again, hands fisting in his jacket, grounding yourself in something solid.

“I am,” you whispered.

His arms tightened, protective but never trapping.

“I’m glad you’re a little crazy,” he murmured into your hair.

You huffed. “For sabotaging you?”

“No,” he said, pressing a gentle kiss to your temple. “For choosing me.”

strawberrystreeet

this is so CUTE ahhhhh love love love

#steve harrington fic #steve harrington x reader

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sing into my mouth.