THE MOMENT I KNEW 𑣲 steve harrington
And they're all standing around me singing "Happy birthday to you" But there was one thing missing And that was the moment I knew
Your boyfriend misses your 21st birthday and your best friend Steve is the one to wipe away your tears.
pairing: steve harrington x reader words: 6.0k. contains: fluff!! tiny bit of angst! best friends to lovers, robin has word vomit, use of y/n, steve pining (like serious pining), reader's boyfriend is a d!ck, alcohol consumption, emotional cheating i guess?? (but it's okay bc it's with steve!)
author's note: can't stop won't stop writing song fics. this one is obviously inspired by the moment i knew by taylor swift. complete honesty—this was meant to be under 3k words but i can’t stfu apparently!! i just love a build up and i hope it paid off.
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You hadn't taken your eyes off the door the moment the party started.
Steve could see it—how your smile didn't meet your eyes when you greeted him. How tense your shoulders were. How you didn't want to pose for photos, despite the fact it was your twenty first birthday and (in Steve's opinion) you looked fucking incredible in a glittering sliver dress with matching heels and your lips painted red, making you look like a damn movie star.
It didn't take a genius to figure out why. Brandon was yet to turn up.
You had met Brandon at Family Video four months ago. He had been cool, charming and asked for your number after renting Underworld. Had taken you on a date that weekend. To say you fell hard was an understatement.
Steve had watched it happen. Gritted his teeth when you stopped needing a lift from him because 'Brandon was picking me up'. Smiled when you gushed about how amazing Brandon was. Didn't say a damn word when Brandon had been rude to him.
Steve had never liked Brandon. Hated him, in fact. Robin once joked that she would going to buy Steve a Brandon shaped voodoo doll and Steve found he was a little disappointed when he realised she was joking.
The reason why Steve disliked Brandon? Well—it was mostly to do with the fact that Steve believed Brandon didn't treat you the way you deserved to be treated. He saw it on your face—the quiet disappointment when Brandon didn't compliment your new haircut, how he hadn't gotten you flowers for Valentine's Day and that day he had forgotten to take you to work to leave you to walk to Family Video in the rain.
The other reason why Steve didn't like Brandon? Well, it was because he was in love with you. Not that he would ever tell anyone that.
Despite all that, Steve was always there for you on the days (and boy, there were many) that Brandon had upset you.
But not turning up to your birthday party? Well, that was a new low, even for Brandon.
“He’ll turn up,” Steve had reassured you—not quite believing the words but not wanting to see the look on your face for even a second longer. “There’s no way he wouldn’t turn up to your birthday party.”
But apparently, Steve had been right to doubt him. Because it was now approaching midnight and there was still no sign of Brandon.
“We need to cheer her up,” Robin muttered to Steve after you had excused yourself to go to the bathroom—again.
Steve watched you go—he knew that you were going to call Brandon again. He also knew that Brandon wouldn't answer—knew you would return to the kitchen with your eyes a little red and your makeup retouched. The sight had made Steve want to pull you into his arms until you felt okay again.
Also made him want to punch Brandon repeatedly in his stupid face. Maybe hit him a few times with his nail bat.
“And how do we do that?” Steve asks as he turns back to Robin, fiddling with the label on his beer. It was lukewarm because he had been nursing the same drink for two hours. Too concerned about you to even consider drinking or partying when you were clearly upset. “You trying to make her do the robot again isn't going to cut it.”
“I was trying, okay?” Robin retorts with a roll of her eyes. “Which is a hell of a lot more than Brandon’s done. “How on earth did he forget her birthday party? She’s been talking about it for weeks!”
Steve didn’t say anything. If he was honest, he thought that Brandon just didn’t care. That knowing Brandon, he probably thought you were silly for caring so much about your twenty first birthday. Brandon was just that kind of guy—if he wasn’t interested, he couldn’t pretend to care. Not even for you. Steve wanted to punch him for it.
“Oh, I know what will make her feel better,” Robin says, her blue eyes bright as she grabs Steve’s arm—almost making him drop his beer. Not that he cared about it. But he definitely didn’t want to stain your carpet. “The cake! (y/n) loves cake—I hid it in the washing machine—”
“Hang on,” Steve interjects, torn between laughter and indignation. “The washing machine? And you thought it was a good idea? The cake was like forty five dollars. Which you still haven’t paid your half for, by the way.”
“I’ll pay you back as soon as we get paid,” Robin promises. Steve knows she would forget. He didn’t really mind—he’d spend hundreds of dollars on a cake just to make you smile. “And the washing machine is an ingenious idea! It’s not like (y/n) is going to do her laundry in the middle of a party, so she’s not going to check there!”
Steve shakes his head, deciding not to comment on Robin’s choice of hiding place for your cake.
“Do you really think the cake is a good idea?” Steve asks, a little wary. “It might upset her even more.”
“As if,” Robin scoffs, already setting down her solo cup on the kitchen countertop. “She’s going to love it.”
And before Steve could question her decision any further—Robin was already crossing the room and slipping into the laundry room quietly.
Steve hesitates. He had a feeling that this wasn’t going to go well. And so, he sets down his beer bottle so he could follow Robin but the sight of you slipping back into the kitchen makes him stop. You had definitely been crying.
You make your way quietly over to Steve—zero interest in the party raging on around you. Someone had broken a vase your mom had got you and you couldn’t care less. “Do you think he’s hurt?” You ask Steve quietly, your voice full of worry and fuck, Steve feels awful. Because despite how upset you were, you still cared about Brandon. Part of Steve wanted to shake you—make you realise Brandon didn’t deserve you. At all. “I mean—should I call the hospital? The police? What if something happened and that’s why he’s not here or answering his phone.”
Steve looks at you. He supposed you had a point—that was one explanation that could be plausible. But knowing Brandon? He was probably dodging your calls and his reason for not being here was simply because he didn’t want to be.
“(y/n),” he begins, as gently as humanely possible, “I don’t think he—”
“HAPPY BIRTHDAY!”
Robin’s yell makes both you and Steve jump. And when you turn and see the cake in Robin’s hand—heart shaped, butter yellow icing, several candles burning and twenty one written in cursive on top—Steve knows instantly by the look on your face that this was an awful idea.
“Robin—”
But it was too late. Because a crowd was already gathering, drunkenly singing Happy Birthday while your face crumbles.
Steve could see it. The way your bottom lip trembled. How your eyes got a little shinier from tears threatening to fall. How you looked down at the floor—how you didn’t even try to fake a smile at the drunken singing.
And when Robin placed the cake down in front of you for you to make a wish?
Well—that was the moment you burst into tears.
The drunken singing dies down quickly. Robin realises her error too late—she stumbles over an apology but you’re already racing out the room.
Robin looks mortified. She looks as though she’s going to cry herself and Steve finally decides that the party was over.
“Alright!” He whistles, catching the attention of the crowd. “Clearly the birthday girl had too many drinks—so let’s wrap this party up, yeah?”
It was a lie—you were stone cold sober but Steve’s priority was to protect you. Always. And so, he had no problem lying to a crowd of your friends about why you had just ran off crying.
People grumble about it, but they listen. Your apartment is vacated within ten minutes—the last few stragglers tumbling into a taxi and shouting at the driver to head to the nearest bar.
Steve didn't stick around to watch your apartment clear out. He had left Robin to start the clean up operation—picking up confetti, empty beer bottles and a few stray jackets people had left behind. He grabbed you a plate of party food—since he hadn’t seen you touch so much as a cocktail sausage all night and heads towards your room.
He pauses just outside the door just to take a deep breath—wondering if it was a bad idea to go into your room. But then he hears you quietly sobbing inside and all rational thought goes out the window. He’s pushing open your bedroom door before he could second guess himself.
The sight of you curled up in your bed, sobs shaking your body as you cried fucking gutted him. He had never hated Brandon more—because he was the reason for your tears. The reason why you were crying in your party dress, ruining the makeup you had spent so long on. Steve pictured it, you applying glittering eyeshadow and painting your lips red in the hopes that Brandon would have told you that you looked beautiful. Because you did. But Brandon hadn’t even turned up. Hadn’t seen how incredible you looked. Took you for granted again.
You look up at the sound of your bedroom door opening, instantly trying to wipe your tears. Hide the evidence of what your shitty excuse for a boyfriend had done (or hadn’t done). When you see that it’s Steve entering with a paper plate of food, you soften a little and you could fucking burst into tears all over again.
“H-hi,” you stutter out. “I’m r-really sorry about that—”
“Don’t you dare apologise,” Steve interrupts, closing the bedroom door behind him softly before making his way over to you. He sets down the plate of party food on your bedside table before sitting down quietly bedside you.
It’s quiet then—you sniffling and Steve watching you. Wanting to wipe away your tears. Pull you into his arms until you stopped crying. Wanting to run Brandon over with his Beamer.
“I just—I saw t-the cake and it-it just—it hit me. It’s m-my birthday a-and my boyfriend isn’t here,” you say quietly.
Steve doesn’t say anything. Because all he wants to do is yell from the rooftops how terrible he thought Brandon was. How he hated the way Brandon talked about you, took you for granted and how he didn’t appreciate you. Steve wanted to tell you that if you were his? Well, he would make sure that you never doubted him. That you’d never been crying in your bed in your party dress on your birthday over something he had done. How he would have showed up with the biggest bunch of sunflowers he could find (because he knew they were your favourite) and a birthday tiara and made sure you had the best night of your life. He would have told you that you looked like a goddess and would have spent the whole evening watching you fucking shine.
But he couldn’t tell you any of this. No matter how much he wanted to.
“I’m sorry he didn’t show, (y/n),” Steve finally says, reaching over to rub away from mascara from your cheek.
“It’s not your fault,” your murmur back. “He—he probably just d-didn’t want to come.”
Steve is taken aback by that. How honest you were. Usually when Brandon did something wrong—like that time he forgot to pick you up for work and you had to walk in the rain—you tended to brush it under the rug. Always believed that it was an honest mistake. Didn’t doubt Brandon’s intentions for even a second.
“What makes you think that?” Steve asks carefully, his hand dropping to your shoulder, thumb rubbing gently across your skin.
You turn to look at him then—and Steve looks back at you, his heart clenching at the sight of your tears. “Steve,” you begin quietly, “come on, you and I both know Brandon doesn’t do something unless he wants to.”
It was honest. It was true.
“You probably think I’m an idiot,” you continue, bottom lip quivering as you tried not to burst into tears (again). “F-for putting up with h-him always disappointing me.”
“I don’t think you’re an idiot,” Steve tells you, his voice as soft and as gentle as the thumb brushing over your skin. “I think you just really believed in him.”
“Yeah,” you say thickly, your eyes welling up with tears all over again. “I did.”
“Hey, hey,” Steve soothes you gently, shifting a little closer to you on your bed. “Don’t cry. Please. You’ll ruin your makeup.”
You laugh at his words despite the situation, “I think it’s a bit late for that.”
Steve tries not to laugh, he really does. But he can’t help it because yeah, your makeup was ruined. Tear stains down your cheeks, glittery eyeshadow mixing with the black smears of your mascara and yet—you were still the most beautiful thing Steve had ever seen. He doesn’t tell you that though, instead he just laughs and wraps an arm around your shoulder, pulling you in for a one armed side hug.
You don’t say it, but the hug was everything you needed and more.
“Still—he isn’t worth your tears, (y/n),” Steve tells you. “Or your patience. Or your kindness.”
“Steve—”
“I’m serious,” Steve says, ducking his head to look down at you, warm brown eyes meeting yours and making it impossible to look away. “You’re like—like sunshine and Brandon is like… this dark cloud. This cloud that—that stands in front of you and dims your light, steals your warmth.”
You’re a little speechless at his words, eyes wide and unsure of what to say. But Steve wasn’t finished.
“And—if I’m honest, he doesn’t deserve you. He’s never deserved you.”
You look back at Steve—your heart hammering in your chest and your stomach sinking as you realised that you agreed with him.
“I know,” you whisper back. “I know.”
Maybe the moment you realised Brandon wasn’t coming was your acceptance that you had been settling. That Brandon’s dismissal of the things that were important to you was something you had ignored—something you had shrugged off as not a big deal. But deep down, it had been a big deal. You had just fallen too fast for Brandon. You believed in him even when he didn’t deserve it. He had just said all the right words in those first few weeks that you couldn’t help but fall.
But now, here you were. Crying in your bedroom, your twenty first birthday party ending tears over a guy who didn’t deserve them.
“The cake looked really good,” you tell Steve with a small attempt at a smile. “Did you and Robin—”
“Bake it?” Steve interjects, smiling at you. “Yeah, I did the icing. Couldn’t you tell?”
You laugh—genuinely laugh and the room feels brighter. Steve swears his heart doubles in size. He didn’t know a better sound than your laugh.
“There’s no way,” you say through your laughter.
“You have no faith in me,” Steve says with a gentle push of your shoulder as he forces himself to pull away from you. His hands rest on his jean clad thighs, already missing your warm skin beneath his fingers. “I can ice a cake.”
“Not like that you can’t.”
“Alright,” Steve relents, putting his hands up in surrender. “You caught me. It was from that Bakery in town—”
“The one with the—”
“Yes, the one with the ridiculously overpriced macarons.”
“They’re not overpriced. They’re delicious.”
“Fine. They’re delicious and overpriced.”
You bite back a smile and reframe yourself from rolling your eyes. Steve always knew how to make you feel better. You don’t know how he did it but he seemed to possess some magical capability to make you feel better, even in moments like this. Always making you laugh. Always making everything feel lighter.
“Let me get you a piece,” Steve murmurs quietly, looking at you quickly before standing up from your bed. “The birthday girl deserves a big slice of birthday cake.”
And, before you could protest—Steve is slipping out of your bedroom to grab you a generous slice of cake.
You stay sat on your bed. Your hands fiddling with your bed covers as your eyes subconsciously moved over to the rotary phone perched on your bedside table—next to the paper plate of cocktail sausages and a slice of pizza Steve had brought you. The temptation to try calling Brandon was there—but not to ask where he was and when he would show up but instead to finally, finally put your foot down. Maybe even yell at him a little.
Steve comes back a few minutes later with two paper plates of cake in his hands.
“Let’s have a do over, shall we?” He says as he sets his plate of cake down on your desk. You try not to smile and hold out your hands for your plate but Steve shakes his head. “Let me just—”
And then he’s stuffing his free hand into his jeans pocket and pulling out a single candle and a lighter.
You swear you could have cried all over again. Not for the same reasons—but because this was so Steve. Always showing up when you needed him. Making the small moments feel big.
He stabs the candle into your slice of cake and attempts to light the thing one handed.
“Stupid fucking thing,” he mutters as he struggles.
“Let me—”
“No, it’s your birthday, your job is to sit there and look pretty,” Steve says without thinking. It came out so naturally that he didn't even register what he had said—but you do, your face burning and eyes focused on the candle he was trying to light.
He manages it, eventually. And then? He sings happy birthday to you and you swear, you had never heard a better rendition. You can't look away from him, your eyes stinging a little and your bottom lip quivering.
“Oh, no,” Steve says gently, his shoulders dropping slightly when he finishes and finally notices your unshed tears. “It wasn't supposed to make you cry again—”
“No, no,” you sniffle with a smile and shake of your head. “These are good tears. This is just—this is really sweet, Steve.”
Steve shrugs—like it was nothing. But to you? It was everything.
“Yeah well, don't go telling people about this. I got a reputation,” Steve tells you, smiling at you. Unable to look away. Wanting to capture this moment and keep it close to his chest forever.
“Sure,” you murmur back, returning his smile before your eyes drop down to the cake.
“Make a wish before I shove your face in the cake,” Steve threatens—of course he doesn't mean it but he wants to see the corner of your mouth twitch as you try (and fail) not to smile. “And make sure it's a good one.”
You hum and nod, eyes closing as you think of a wish. Steve watches you, his eyes roaming over face. Wanting to remember the way your brows scrunched together and how your nose twitched.
Finally, take a deep breath before blowing out the candles. Then, your eyes are opening and you're smiling up at Steve.
“Thank you, Steve,” you say softly to him and Steve swore that your eyes were glittering.
He almost tells you that. Almost.
“You always make me feel better,” you tell him before you could stop yourself. “Like, you just know what to say and you don't—you don't act like it's a chore.”
“'Cause it's not. I just—I can't stand the thought of you being miserable for even a second.”
You breath catches because you know he means it. Steve cared. He really fucking cared about you.
“But apparently my own boyfriend is perfectly fine with it,” you say in a shaky voice. Steve's jaw clenches at your words. You pretend not to notice. “And he doesn't care if he's the cause of it.”
It's quiet then between you and Steve's silence tells you he agreed.
“But you care,” you continue, looking at Steve and meeting his warm eyes with yours. He sees the way you're looking at him—eyes a little wide, a soft expression on your face.
Steve isn't quite sure what the do with that. He doesn't want to read too much into it. You were emotional and still had a boyfriend. Steve opens his mouth to steer the conversation back into friendly territory but the sound of your phone ringing is like a damn horn in the almost silence between you and Steve.
You blink. Steve looks down at the cake.
“Is that—”
“Yeah,” you say quietly, eyes on your rotary phone and heart in your throat. “It—it's probably Brandon.”
Steve nods, understanding that it was probably his time to leave. He hands you your plate and for a moment, your fingers touch and you a feel something deep in your gut. As though you had missed a step going downstairs.
He steps away from you, crosses your room to grab his paper plate from your desk. The phone continues to ring as he steps towards your door—
“I'm going to break up with him,” you blurt out.
That makes Steve stop in his tracks, turning around to look back at you.
“Yeah?” He asks thickly, trying not to sound too hopeful. Praying he hadn't misunderstood that look on your face.
“Yeah,” you say, quiet but determined. “I'm going to tell him I—I need someone who cares.”
It's there in the silence.
And with that, Steve nods a final time before leaving your room. His heart hammering in his chest and trying to fight back a smile.
a month later...
You had broken up with Brandon that night. He had called you to apologise—said that your birthday party had 'slipped his mind'. You didn't buy it. You had told him you were sorry too, that you didn't think it was working out between you two. Brandon's response was a stunned silence. He hadn't been expecting that. Hadn't expected you not to forgive him.
Brandon tried—he really did to get you back. He had showed up to Family Video bright and early the following Monday with a giant teddy bear strapped to the top of his car. The gifts didn't stop there—flowers, chocolates, a second giant teddy bear. You name it, Brandon had bought it. He left voicemails too. You, Steve and Robin had a good laugh listening to them.
But after nearly four weeks? Brandon got the message. The gifts stopped, the phone calls ceased and you? Well you finally felt free.
You and Steve had yet to talk about whatever that moment was between you in your bedroom. You had replayed it over and over again in your head. How you had looked at him and you saw him—finally. The guy that was always there. The one who brightened your day by just walking into a room. The way who once made you laugh so hard that you had snorted cherry soda out of your nose.
You had found yourself looking at him a lot over the past month. You weren't blind—you knew he was attractive. But now? You found yourself openly gawking at him. At his arms. At his hands. At that dark patch of hair on his chest that sometimes peaked out beneath his shirt. And his hair? You had sometimes wondered what it would be like to run your fingers through it.
And Steve? Well, he was biding his time. Giving you space to move past your breakup. Not that you seemed particularly upset—you seemed far happier out of your relationship with Brandon. Steve was just, waiting for the right moment.
“Am I being kidnapped?” You ask Robin as you follow her, blindfolded, into her house. “Why do I need to be blindfolded to see what colour your parents' painted the living room?”
“Um,” Robin replies, sounding unsure as she closes the door behind you before dragging you by the hand into her front room. “Because I like being theatrical?”
You laugh, your hands adjusting the blindfold. You catch some colourful flashing lights.
“Did your parents get a disco light?” You ask her.
“What?” Robin replies, sounding momentarily alarmed. “Oh—yeah. They um, have a lot of dinner parties.”
You let out of a snort of laughter, unable to stop yourself.
“Okay—we're good. You can take the blindfold off now.”
So you do. You lift it up off your head and—
“SURPRISE!!”
You jump out of your skin. Because you were all of a sudden surrounded by not a freshly painted room, but by all your friends.
"Robin—what the—"
"Consider it a birthday party redo."
When you look to your right and see Steve, you could have cried. And when you saw the birthday girl tiara in his hand? You swear the world could have ended around you and you still wouldn't have stopped smiling.
"My birthday was a month ago, I can't wear that—"
"Yes, you can," Steve interjects, stepping closer to you and tucking your hair behind your ears gently before placing the tiara on your head. "See? Perfect fit."
You look back up at Steve, your eyes shining and biting back a smile. Wanting to say a million things but holding back. Because you were in a room full of people and Robin was watching.
The party turned out of be considerably better than the last one. You spent most of the night laughing with Steve and dancing with Robin. Your feet hurt and you ate way too many cupcakes (also from the same bakery your cake had been from a month prior) but you didn't care.
Two hours in, you were appropriately tipsy. Giving everyone you ran into a hug and a kiss on the cheek.
“Thank you, Robbie,” you say in a lilting voice.
Robin, who was considerably more drunk than you were, lets out a genuine giggle.
“For what?”
“For the party.”
Robin laughs again, throwing her head back and grabbing your arm to steady herself.
“Oh, (y/n), sweetie. This was all Steve's idea,” she tells you. You nearly drop your drink.
“Wh-what?”
“Oh shit,” Robin exclaims, her eyes widening. “I wasn't meant to tell you that—”
You try not to react. To not start smiling. But it was hard because realising this party had been all Steve's idea? It made you feel giddy. Made you feel—
“I think I'm going to be sick.”
“Oh, Robin,” you say, setting down your cup on the kitchen countertop and grabbing her hand. “Let's get you some fresh air, yeah?”
The two of you make your way outside, Robin looking a little pale as she follows behind you.
Once outside, you help sit her down on a bench.
“Are you really going to be sick? Because I’m not great with vomit—”
“You guys okay?”
You turn at the sound of Steve's voice, your heart beating just that a little bit faster.
“Yeah,” you tell him with a half smile as he approaches you and Robin—the back door swinging shut behind him. “Robin just doesn't feel well.”
Steve looks back at you and then down at Robin, the corners of his mouth twitching. “Robin, you need to learn to drink in moderation.”
“Nuh huh,” Robin says with a shake of her head. “Not happening.”
“Well, don't throw up on the birthday girl,” Steve tells her, placing a hand on your shoulder and squeezing gently.
“Her birthday was a month ago, Steve,” Robin points out.
“Still, don't throw up on her.”
“God, you're so in love with her. It's making me want to throw up even more.”
The silence that greets those words is loud. Deafening, almost. The moment the words are out of Robin's mouth, she looks at Steve in horror. Steve looks like he was the one going to be sick now. And you? You're stunned.
“Right,” Steve mutters, glancing away from Robin and letting his hand drop from your shoulder. “Well—I'm just uh, gonna go to the store and um, get some more beers—”
And before you and Robin could even breathe, Steve was heading back inside. His ears burning, his face flushed.
“Fuck!” Robin exclaims, sobering up enough to stand. “(y/n), I didn't—it slipped out—word vomit—he told me not to—“
“I got it,” you say quickly, gently pushing her back down on the bench. “I'll go. Just—don't throw up, okay?”
Robin looks as though the last thing she wants to do is listen. But something about the look on your face makes her think twice. She looks at you for a long moment before nodding.
You don't waste a second. The back door slams behind you as you re-enter Robin's house. A few of your friends greet you with drunken hollers. You smile and wave them off before you dash through the kitchen, into the living and out the front door before anyone could even think of dragging you off for some more shots.
Already, you're a little out of breath. But you keep going—jogging up the street in search of Steve. Now, Steve was substantially more athletic than you, and so you wouldn't have been surprised you if he was a few streets over by now. But then you remember the look on his face before he left and you couldn't stop now.
Your legs hurt, thighs burn and the small amount of alcohol you had consumed was hitting you. But still, you race up Robin's street.
And when you finally spot him? You're practically sprinting to keep up with him.
He must sense you—or perhaps he heard your quick steps and your heavy breathing—because he turns around, eyes wide in surprise.
“(y/n)? What are you—”
“I’m—uh,” it was only then you realised you hadn’t rehearsed what you were going to say. That you hadn’t even stopped and thought about what to say to him. You were just looking at him blankly, out of breath and face flushed from running. “I couldn’t let you leave. It’s my birthday.”
Steve doesn’t look at you, too embarrassed—ears still pink and hands tucked into his jean pockets—but he does fight back a smile. “Well, then I guess my hands are tied.”
You swallow and take a step closer, your heart thundering in your chest now. You didn’t know if it was from the running or because Steve was right in front of you now. You supposed it was a mixture of both.
“Robin told me that the party was your idea,” you say finally.
Steve looks at you at that—jaw tense and honeyed brown eyes meeting yours. Like he was terrified of your next words but not wanting to show it.
“Yeah,” Steve says, as though it was no big deal. As though solely organising a surprise party for you was a piece of cake. “I did.”
“But you let me think it was you and Robin,” I say, watching his expression closely. “Why?”
Steve looks torn—and he was. He was torn between telling you the truth and telling a little white lie. He thought he could tell you it was because Robin was busy. That the party had been at Robin’s house so of course she had been involved. But the truth was Steve had purposefully asked Robin if they could have your party at her house because he hadn’t wanted to draw attention to the fact that it had been him who had planned the whole thing. Right down to those cupcakes and the tiara still perched on your head.
He’s scared to be honest—in case he had imagined that moment between the two of you a month prior. Perhaps he had read the situation wrong. Imagined something that wasn’t there.
“Because I didn’t want to—I dunno, make you uncomfortable,” Steve says finally.
“Why would it?”
“Because—because you’re my best friend and you just went through a break up and—”
“Steve,” you interrupt him gently as your fingers wrap around his wrist, tugging a hand out of his pocket. “I need you to know that—that you could never make me uncomfortable.”
Steve’s eyes dart down to his wrist, where your fingers were wrapped around and he swallows. He looks nervous—something Steve Harrington barely felt around women. He was a confident, sometimes cocky guy when it came to women. Always knew what to say, what to do. But you touching him? That soft look on your face? Well, he suddenly had trouble remembering basic English. Hell, he own name was suddenly hazy.
“And that party—Steve, that’s the most amazing thing anyone has ever done for me.”
Steve blushes—genuinely blushes—at that.
“Yeah, well. It was nothing—”
“No, Steve it was—it meant the world to me,” you tell him quietly. “Because it reminded me that—that no one has seen me, understands me the way that you do.”
Steve blinks. For a second, he looks dumbfounded—staring at you with those brown puppy dog eyes that looked a little lost.
“A—and if what Robin said was true,” you continue carefully, your eyes lifting to meet his. “Th—then I’m the luckiest girl in the world to have Steve Harrington love me.”
Steve looks as though he wants to run away. And he considers it for a full three seconds—even plans out a route of escape in his head. But then, your fingers brush down his wrist, over his palm before sliding your fingers between his. His breath hitches, he feels his stomach do things it hadn’t done in a long time. Because you were holding his hand. And he was trying not to lose his composure.
“Is it true?” You ask him quietly, giving his hand a gentle squeeze. “Do you love me?”
He wants to lie—to tell you no. To tell you he only loved you as a friend. But after all the lies Brandon had ever fed you, Steve found he couldn’t to you. Even if he was about to face the biggest rejection of his life.
“Yeah,” he whispers. “Of course I love you.”
He says it like it was a fact. Like it was as obvious as the sky being blue or water being wet. Like it was something scientists had come together to agree was undisputed—that Steve Harrington loved you and it was as simple as that.
“Good,” you whisper back—just for him. “Because I’m going to kiss you now and if you didn’t, that would have been embarrassing.”
“You’re going to what—”
But before Steve Harrington could even compute what you had just said—your free hand is gripping the front of his jacket and tugging him closer to you so you could press your lips against his. It takes him a whole four seconds to react. You almost worry you’ve made a mistake—almost pull away. But then, he lets out a small groan against your lips, his hand slipping out of yours before his arms—those fucking arms of his—wrap around your waist and he kissing you back.
You smile into the kiss as your hands cup his face, your lips moving together in a gentle dance of something new, something good. Something that wasn’t going to leave you crying in your bedroom on your birthday in a sparkling dress. Something that felt safe and strangely like home.
When you pull away—Steve’s lips chase yours and you both laugh as a few more, gentle kisses are shared between the two of you. You want more—of course you do, but you had time. Perhaps you even had forever.
“So, should we head back?” You ask him, your fingers fiddling with the collar of his shirt. “Give Robin a heart attack?”
“Yeah,” Steve murmurs back, unable to wipe the smile off his face. “But just need to—”
And then he’s kissing you again. Like he couldn’t get enough. Lips moving against yours, hands tugging you closer by the belt loops. Your tiara clattering to the floor as one of his hands card through your hair.
And perhaps that was the moment—the moment you knew that Steve Harrington wasn’t going to be letting you go anytime soon.
dividers by the lovely @zclhs
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